The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [139]
The only light in the room was from two oil lamps on either side of the bed upon which Minnie was lying, her eyes closed, her skin already turning waxen.
“I’ve never known such courage,” Dr. Feinway said softly.
Someone had brushed her curls so that they were no longer tangled and damp; miraculously, they looked like they used to, silky black, no longer that dull, coarse texture of these last months. She almost appeared as if she were sleeping, and perhaps she would to someone who did not know her. But I—who had slept with her so many nights, held her close, watched her dream—knew she was not. I knew it because her red rosebud lips, usually slightly parted, the tip of her pink tongue between them, were blue. Her chest, which always rose and fell so trustingly, was still. Everything about her was so still, so empty; there was no life in this room.
And in her arms was a doll, just as there had been so many times. But it wasn’t a doll; it was her child, her daughter—“Pauline,” I said, christening her. She was cleaned up, bathed by the nurse, I presumed, but there were bruises and cuts about her pale, lifeless face; no rosy cheeks and lips, only scrunched-up eyes that had never opened, making her look angry, frustrated. But she had black hair, just like Minnie’s.
My little wooden steps—now so worn, so distressed, from being bumped, dragged, and dropped across continents and oceans—were still by her bed. I could have climbed them, had I wished, to touch her, kiss her once more. But I did not. I felt almost in awe. This was not my sister; this was a holy shrine, an icon apart from the horror and pain of the earthly world, the deception, the dishonesty—the sin.
And I wondered, in that moment, if the enormity of my guilt was in inverse proportion to my size. Had I been bigger, would my sins on this earth be less significant—just like my hopes and dreams?
“I imagine so,” I whispered, although Minnie could not hear. “I dreamed too big, dearest, for you and me. And you were the one who had to pay. Forgive me, oh, forgive me!”
And then I backed out of the room, unable to look away until I closed the door softly, as if afraid to wake her up. Leaving Mama sobbing quietly in her chair, I ran down the stairs, out the door, and toward the old homestead, pausing in the middle of the road to catch my breath, surprised to feel the night air sweet and refreshing upon my aching brow. Then I gathered up my skirts, as well as my courage, and continued across the road.
I knew I would find Papa in the barn; he didn’t turn around as I came in. He simply continued to work, planing a soft pine log, sanding it to the smoothest surface; smooth enough for a cradle, smooth enough for a coffin.
Tears rolled down his craggy face as he began, for the last time, to craft something beautiful, something practical, something that would ease life’s journey, for one of his two little girls.
INTERMISSION
A Song and Chorus dedicated to the worldwide friends and
admirers of Minnie Warren, entitled “Rock Me Sister,” composed
by Horatio C. King (published 1878 for voice and piano)
Summer echoes gently stealing Oe’r the meadow, through the grove, Bore the sighs of loved ones kneeling, By the death bed of their love, There with face of pearly whiteness, Failing pulse and fainting breath, With a gaze of heavenly brightness, Minnie Warren smiled on death (Chorus)
“I am going, rock me, sister,” so the little mother sigh’d,
Then as tearfully they kissed her, Fairy Minnie smiled and died.
Set the chimes of elf land ringing, Let each tiny fairy bell,
On the air sweet music flinging,
Whisper gentle Minnie’s knell.
From The Popular Science Monthly, April 1878
ON EDISON’S TALKING-MACHINE, BY ALFRED M. MAYER
Mr. Thomas A. Edison has recently invented an instrument which is undoubtedly the acoustic marvel of the century. It is called the “Speaking Phonograph,” or, adopting the Indian idiom, one may call it “The Sound-Writer who talks.”
[ SIXTEEN ]
The Curtain Falls, Between Acts
AT FIRST, I DID NOT