The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb by Melanie Benjamin

  In particular, I enjoyed the brisk, salty slap of wind against my face. I timed it so that I would walk out, bareheaded, stairs in hand, toward the prow of the ship just when the winds were fiercest; the sailors at first were amused, but soon enough they ignored me. I would climb my stairs—well away from the rail—and face the wind with gritted teeth and shut eyes, welcoming that first harsh sting against my soft, protected skin that had never been without a hat, bonnet, or veil. Invariably, it brought tears to my eyes—welcome tears.

  For I needed to be punished. I needed to atone for what I had done and for what I still must do, as Minnie continued her discussions of the new baby and even knitted a blanket for it. I deserved every slap in the face that the cold North Atlantic winds could give me. I deserved more, even. But I had to content myself with that.

  LANDING IN LIVERPOOL, WE SPENT THE NIGHT AT LINN’S WATERLOO Hotel, thinking that we would make a very quiet journey on to London the next day. The next day, however, was Mayor’s Day, and the city was thronged with sightseers eager to see the grand parade. So loud were the crowds that we ran to our balconies to see what was happening; in a flash, the crowd had turned toward us and was waving and shouting its welcome.

  “Well, if it isn’t Tom Thumb and his little bride!”

  “Welcome back, General!”

  “ ’Ope you ’ad a safe crossing!”

  Soon the street in front of our balcony was thoroughly blocked—and so was the mayor’s parade! We retired quickly inside our suite so that the parade could continue, although the cheering for us resounded unabated.

  This was just a glimpse of the extraordinary adoration we found waiting for us all through the rest of our trip. I had dreamed and dreamed of this moment, and was not disappointed. To see, with my own eyes, the places I had read of in my history books was an experience I will always cherish.

  From Liverpool we journeyed to London. There we were guests of the Prince and Princess of Wales at Marlborough House. The Prince and Charles shared a touching reunion, as the Prince had been a boy the time Charles visited his mother the Queen in 1847, and remembered him well. He also remembered being sent up to bed much too soon; fancy, the future King of England being sent up to bed just like any boy!

  The Princess of Wales, a stunning dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with the tiniest waist I’d ever seen, did not say a great deal; I felt she was not very confident of her English, since she was of Dutch ancestry. However, she did not have to speak; her beauty was more than enough contribution to our pleasure, Charles’s and mine. (Minnie and Commodore Nutt did not join us; they were not always invited where we were, and while Minnie never minded, I’m afraid Commodore Nutt did. His impish, elfin face could scrunch itself up into petulance so swiftly, as if it were made of rubber. Indeed, he threatened, many times, to go off by himself at night and find his own fun. This worried good Mr. Bleeker so that I’m quite sure he spent more than one night camped out before the Commodore’s door as a precaution!)

  While I truly felt bad for Minnie and the Commodore, my spirits could not be dampened, and at times I had to refrain from pinching myself. Was it possible that I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump Stratton, was having tea with the future King and Queen of England? “Mrs. General,” they both called me, with all the deference I could wish for; I addressed them as “Your Royal Highness,” and returned the favor, curtsying deeply whenever we met.

  Oh, if only that sour-faced Mrs. Putnam could see!

  After a brief stay in London, we prepared for the first real destination of our tour, Paris. In December of 1864 we took the famous ferry across the channel and landed at Calais, that cold, empty-looking city.

  Calais happened to have a charity hospital, though, and upon landing, Mrs. Bleeker went directly there, as instructed by Mr. Barnum. He had contributed enough money to ensure discretion in the matter. Mrs. Bleeker came back to our hotel with a cherubic infant girl, whom Minnie clasped to her childlike bosom immediately. But the stern English nursemaid we had engaged took the child away, saying grimly, “There’s nothing worse for a child than to be coddled and cosseted! Mrs. Stratton, Ma’am, if you please, I think I know what’s best.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I replied with relief. After that, I saw the child only during performances, although once more, both Minnie and Charles snuck into the temporary nursery whenever the maid’s back was turned.

  It was in France that I came to rely upon Charles for the first time in our marriage. So far in our life together, I had felt it natural to assume some kind of position of direction, and indeed, Charles seemed relieved to rely upon my judgment and good sense. He was a seasoned performer, yes—far more seasoned than I. But regarding the ways of the world, I felt my life upon the river equipped me to deal with them in a far more practical way than he could. After all, he had been sheltered by Mr. Barnum from the time he was five until the time of our marriage.

  Charles, however, was the only one of our party who spoke French. And so, faced with that slippery language that would not stay upon my tongue no matter how much I tried, I found myself turning, more and more, to him for direction. He made all our travel arrangements to Paris, with the assistance of Mr. Bleeker; he ordered for us all the few times we ventured out into restaurants. Every morning when we gathered for breakfast in Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker’s hotel suite, Charles translated out loud all the newspaper accounts of our visit. Some mornings he had to read to us for what seemed like hours, so numerous were our notices! Accounts of my wardrobe, Charles’s cigars, our every stroll and dinner—each detail was devoured by our French admirers.

  The notices were even more numerous when we were summoned to appear at court, for this was before the Republic; the Emperor Napoléon III and his exquisite wife, the Empress Eugénie, were on the throne. And while I was delighted by the pageantry—the beautiful Worth gowns on every attending lady, the glittering jewels adorning the Empress’s scandalously low-cut neckline—all I could do was smile and nod. I had to rely on Charles to speak for me, for the very first time.

  I must admit that I was proud of him. The manners and courtliness that he had learned, even before his letters, as a child traveling on the Continent served him well; that mind that had absorbed everything that Mr. Barnum had taught him when only a child of five was on display. Reader, I’ll not pretend that I ever felt Charles to be my intellectual equal. I’ll even go so far as to admit to some feelings of frustration over my husband’s immature ways—his habit of simply repeating what others said while conversing about politics or music or art, rather than forming his own opinion; his eagerness to introduce himself with a full recitation of the places he’d seen and the people he’d met; his gullibility, for my husband would believe every tall tale ever told to him, every pipe dream sold, every pot of gold promised.

  But in Paris, I was finally able to find more things to appreciate about him. After our invitation to the palace, our success was assured in that gray city (for that was how I remembered it; we were there in winter, and every building, sidewalk, street, and even the sky all seemed the same gunmetal gray to me). I may not have been able to understand the language, but there was no mistaking the interest in the throngs and throngs that we encountered whenever we attempted to leave our hotel. It grew tiresome; it was much too difficult to navigate the narrow Paris streets hemmed in on every side, ears assaulted by the excitable Gallic language. I was quite accustomed to being stared at and pointed to, but hearing myself discussed in a language I could not understand began to wear on my nerves.

  The crowds were so pressing that when we tried to go see Napoléon I’s tomb, we had to turn around after just a few blocks and return to our hotel. So it was that Charles and I found ourselves spending long, lonely afternoons together. Minnie was usually with the infant, and Nutt was usually off with one of his conquests—one of his many conquests, if his boasts were to be believed—so it was just the two of us. One of my talents long being an aptitude for fine embroidery, I began to teach Charles. To my surprise,
he took it up very quickly and soon proved himself even superior to me—and he did not mind Nutt’s teasing about it, or even Mr. Bleeker’s gentle jokes. Charles retorted that a man had to occupy himself somehow, and this way he’d have something useful to show for it. And indeed, he embroidered many seat covers and pillows and fireplace screens that I still use to this day.

  It touched me to see him so intent upon choosing thread of the right hue or a perfect needle. His head bent over his work, his tongue sticking out between his teeth, he was the very picture of virtuous industry. He tugged at that reluctant heart of mine, almost as if he had embroidered himself to a very small, remote corner of it. I don’t believe I ever liked my husband as much as I did during our time in Paris.

  Yet most of our marriage was still spent upon the stage; whether or not they could understand us, the enthusiastic Paris audiences always applauded ecstatically. Our act was the same as it had been at home, except that we no longer reenacted our wedding. Our wedding clothes were on display before the performance, but now I ended the show by bringing out the child (whose name I still had not learned), doing my best to smile maternally, while in reality, I trembled with fear.

  I may have been able to face down a crowd of Rebels to get passageway home from the South, but when called upon to care for an actual infant, I admit to some cowardice. It, or rather, she, proved to be very wiggly indeed; squirming, waving clenched fists in the air, so close to my face they almost hit my nose, blinking her eyes against the bright gaslights. Automatically I tightened my grasp about her; this wriggling, live thing in my arms reminding me of the time I had dressed up a baby pig in doll clothes, back when I was a girl. The pig had shot out of my arm like it was greased, landing with a sickening thump on the floor, where it lay for a moment, stunned, before it shook its head and ran squealing off, dragging its clothing behind. I was most afraid the same thing would happen now.

  After what seemed an interminable amount of time walking the perimeter of the stage with this fussing child in my arms, holding it up, laying my cheek against it, while the audience oohed and ahhed, I very gratefully handed it off to Minnie, who was standing in the wings with her arms greedily outstretched. Then Charles joined me onstage and together we danced around to the strains of “The Tom Thumb Polka,” one of the many songs that had been written in honor of our marriage.

  Finally, the curtain came down; we repeated this at least three times a day.

  Our notices were rapturous; we were the “crème de la crème.” Soon there were dolls, songs, greeting cards featuring “M. et Mme. Tom Pouce” all over the city.

  Mr. Barnum sent us huge bouquets and cabled us his congratulations—ending with what almost seemed an afterthought. Queen Victoria had asked, once we returned to London, he wrote, if we would come to tea. The Queen was quite fond of babies, of course; would we mind bringing our precious daughter with us, so that Her Majesty could see her and give her a gift?

  I stared at the telegram, paralyzed. When I had agreed to this humbug, it was onstage only—or posing for photographs. I had never imagined that I might have to play the part of mother up close, where others could see how ill equipped, how terrified, I was.

  “Minnie! Oh, Minnie, you must help me!” I ran to find my sister; Charles said she was in the child’s bedroom while the nursemaid was having her dinner. Then I had to ask him where the child’s bedroom was; he pointed down the hall, and I burst into the room. “Minnie, I need your—oh!”

  Minnie, who was kneeling on the floor next to the cradle, rocking it gently with a beautiful smile upon her face, looked up. “What is it, Vinnie? What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t know—why, it’s so pretty in here! Who did all this?”

  For this room, unlike the other stuffy rooms in our suite, was utterly lovely. Scattered around were dolls—several that I recognized as Minnie’s—and watercolors of animals and cherubs. Pastel scarves were draped over the lamps, softening the light. Simple vases of posies graced the tables and mantel, and a stuffed white lamb perched on a rocking chair. The whole effect was one of peace and security—exactly how a nursery should feel. It had never once occurred to me to make sure that the infant had appropriate surroundings; it had never occurred to me to buy any toys for it, or to check to make sure the nurse wasn’t harming it in some way.

  “I did,” replied Minnie. “I hope you don’t mind, Vinnie, but Mrs. Bleeker took me shopping one afternoon when you were out, and I picked everything out for Cosette. That’s what we named her—Cosette—because the poor thing didn’t have a real name. And everyone deserves a name, don’t you think?”

  Minnie looked at me so anxiously, wanting to be right. And, of course, she was. Everyone deserves a name.

  Even a foundling child who was beginning life as a stage prop.

  “Yes, darling, of course. And Cosette is a beautiful name. Now, could you help me, please, dear? I need to—that is, I want to—learn how to hold her better, how to care for her, just a little, just enough to pretend—I think it would be good for me to learn, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, Vinnie! You do hold her awfully strangely. You never did play with dolls when you were little, did you?”

  “No,” I admitted ruefully, gathering up my hoopskirt and joining Minnie on the floor. The fire in the hearth, just behind us, crackled and popped. The room was scented with lavender and powder. The child in the cradle was sleeping peacefully, her little eyes scrunched up; she had long black eyelashes and black curling hair. She could have easily passed for Minnie’s child, so identically sweet and untroubled were their countenances.

  But that was absurd, of course. My baby sister could not have a baby. I suppressed a laugh at the very idea.

  “Now, watch what I do,” Minnie instructed me, and then I did have to smile. She had never instructed me in anything before; it was such an odd reversal of roles. I led, she followed; that was the way it had always been. Since when had she become such a serious little grown-up?

  Minnie reached into the cradle, placing one tiny hand—much tinier than mine; Minnie was so petite and delicate, her hoop-skirts often threatened to swallow her whole—beneath the child’s head, the other beneath her back. Then she gently scooped it—her—Cosette—up from the cradle, and clasped her, reverently, to her chest. The motion was so fluid, so instinctive, that it looked like part of a dance. The child, small as she was, really was too big for Minnie, but my sister did not appear to notice; she simply rocked the child, easily, naturally, against her chest. As if the weight of the child in her arms had triggered some hidden switch, Minnie began to sing softly, to murmur words and phrases that I could not completely understand, but they were soothing and melodious, like the echoing fragments of songs long after they were finished.

  “How do you do that?” I whispered, truly in awe; it was almost as if I was in church, with a real life Madonna and child before me. Minnie’s face, with her halo of tangled curls, was lit up from behind by the glow of the fire, so that the only thing you could see was her cameo profile as she bent her head toward Cosette’s.

  “I don’t know, I just do. I don’t even think about it. Oh, Vinnie, can’t we keep her? Can’t we?” Despite her passion, Minnie’s voice never rose above a whisper as she continued to rock the infant.

  “Minnie, I just don’t see how. I would love to, truly, but arrangements are arrangements, and it’s for the best. This is no life for a baby.”

  “It could be. I’d help, you know! I’d do everything; I wouldn’t mind a bit. I don’t need to be before the public like you. I’d much prefer to stay behind stage and take care of Cosette—you wouldn’t even have to pay the nursemaid!”

  “Oh, Minnie.” It was not in my nature to deny my sister anything, and I struggled against it, trying to sort out the thorny details. The child had no papers, not with our name on them. But would an actual child of ours? I didn’t even know. I supposed there would be a baptismal record at least; I knew that Mama kept all of ours in her family Bible. So that
would have to be created, somehow. If we actually adopted it, would someone find that out? Or could Mr. Barnum cover it up? But what about later—when the child grew big? We couldn’t use her in the act then, could we? I couldn’t imagine how. But then, that wasn’t the point; Minnie was talking about real life: raising a child, caring for her, kissing her scraped knees, soothing her cries at night, worrying about her schooling, her future—all the things my own parents had done so well.

  I couldn’t imagine it. Minnie couldn’t do it all by herself; I would have to be involved somehow, and I did not wish to be. That was it, pure and simple; my life was onstage, next to my husband, either reenacting a pretend wedding ceremony or holding a pretend infant.

  I had no room for big love, big decisions, big messes, big happiness; not in this miniature life, spent under the magnifying glare of so many eyes, that I had made for myself.

  “See how sweetly she’s sleeping, Vinnie?” Minnie whispered, bending closer to me; she leaned in to hand me the child, careful not to wake her up.

  “No,” I said, recoiling, as if the child was a hex or a bad omen—something I did not want to touch for fear of how it might affect my future. Hastily I scrambled up from the floor, hiding my trembling hands behind my skirts. “No, no, I’m sorry but we’ll just have to take very good care of Cosette now.” I avoided Minnie’s surprised, hurt gaze. “And when the time comes, we must return her and trust that she will find a good family who will love her just as much.”

  Minnie didn’t speak at first; she merely bent her head down to Cosette and kissed her on the tip of her snub nose. Then she looked up at me, so that I could not help but see the single tear rolling down her cheek; it continued to fall until it landed upon Cosette’s smooth, untroubled brow. “I don’t see how,” Minnie whispered, careful not to wake the child. “I don’t see how anyone can love her just as much as me. I don’t see how I can ever love any other baby just as much as Cosette.”