The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [105]
Mama and Papa, however, had come to view my marriage most favorably. Papa especially doted upon Charles. He made him a complete set of miniature hand tools, such as any industrious Middleborough man would need. They were beautiful, hand-carved, and he made an equally handsome miniature toolbox in which to store them.
As disturbed as Mama was by the baby business, she never blamed Charles for it. She took to referring to Mr. Barnum as “that Barnum” once more, and sent back every present he ever gave her until finally he got the message. It bothered him, for he respected my mother immensely, often saying she was of “good, reliable New England stock.” But Mama could not forgive him—even if she could not help herself from loving me in spite of my own guilt, and trying, over and over, to find an excuse for my behavior.
“I suppose that man left you no choice,” she said one day soon after we returned from Europe. We were in the kitchen, knitting companionably. I was wearing a simple country gown without hoops, and my hair was parted plainly and loosely in the middle, gathered in a knot at the base of my neck. My feet were clad in those flat child’s slippers I used to find so tiresome but which now brought me sweet relief. It was such a blessing not to have to dress fashionably, mindful of hoops and trains; not to have my hair done up elaborately, anchored with heavy jeweled combs that caused my head to ache; not to have to converse nonstop with total strangers. Rocking with my mother in her cozy kitchen full of freshly preserved vegetables and fruits, jugs full of orange bittersweet branches with their red berries, the scent of apples in the brisk New England autumn air—it was utter bliss.
“I suppose he just put up handbills declaring it a fact, and you could do nothing but go along with him,” my mother said with a sniff.
“Mama, it wasn’t exactly that way.”
“Do you know how many people here in Middleborough wanted to see your daughter after they read about her in the newspapers? Do you know how many times I have had to make excuses to my own neighbors? Vinnie, that Barnum simply doesn’t consider other people in anything he does. I don’t know why you admire him so.”
“There are more sides to this story than you know” was all I could tell my dear mother. But I refused to continue this line of talk about Mr. Barnum; the man had sorrows of his own to bear. For he was still feeling, keenly, the loss of the American Museum in a horrific fire that occurred in 1865.
Oh, to think of that grand building and all that was in it, going up in flames! To imagine the horror, the spectacle, the heartbreaking screams of the animals panicking and running into the street only to be shot by police, fearful for the public’s safety; the sickening stench of burning flesh and feathers; the heat of the conflagration as it spread greedily from floor to floor. Mr. Barnum was not present at the time, thank Providence! But many a brave employee endeavored to save what they could; miraculously, none lost his life.
Mr. Barnum soon opened another museum, farther uptown, but I never thought his heart was fully in it; so much of his own history—as well as mine—had gone up in flames on Ann Street.
“Mr. Barnum has suffered such terrible losses,” I reminded my mother. “And his wife is no helpmeet for him.”
“Have you ever met her?”
“Once, in Bridgeport, while we were visiting Charles’s parents.”
“What is she like?”
I laid my knitting down for a moment and frowned, remembering. “She was as I had pictured her—thin, sallow, with graying hair, sunken eyes. A sour set to her mouth. She carried smelling salts with her everywhere she went, and retired at least four times a day to her room to nap. Poor Mr. Barnum!”
“ ‘Poor Mr. Barnum’?” Mama snorted.