The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [14]
“Oh, but Papa—Miss Jenny Lind is not a thing! She’s an artist! And what was the humbug there?” I couldn’t help myself; I did not like to contradict my father, but on the subject of Jenny Lind, I could not keep quiet.
I was just a child when Jenny Lind came to America, back in 1850. I never heard her sing; she never came anywhere near Middleborough. But I followed her every move in the newspaper, drinking in every detail of the Swedish Nightingale—what she wore, how she did her hair, what her favorite foods were. And, of course, how she sang: like an angel, the newspapers said. With a voice of such incomparable beauty it made grown men weep, particularly when she ended her concerts with her signature song, “Home Sweet Home.” There were Jenny Lind waltzes performed in her honor, Jenny Lind polkas, ballads, clothes, dolls, figurines. I had a china likeness of her that Papa and Mama had given me on my tenth birthday; I kept it on the windowsill in my bedroom.
Mr. P. T. Barnum, the famous promoter, brought her here from Europe; he arranged her concerts and made her a household name, although they parted ways in 1852 and she had since returned to Europe. He told of all this in his recent autobiography, which had caused an uproar, for in it he admitted to several humbugs he had perpetrated upon the public, including the one involving Joice Heth, as well as the one involving General Tom Thumb. Born Charles S. Stratton, the latter had been a lad of only five when Mr. Barnum had first presented him, back in 1843, as “General Tom Thumb, a marvel of miniature perfection, eleven years of age!”
Since then, the tiny general had traveled to Europe and met with Queen Victoria herself. I admit to my curiosity being aroused by the few newspaper illustrations I had seen of him, now a young man, three years my senior. So far in my life, the only other little person I knew was my sister Minnie. The evidence that there were others incited my curiosity and made me feel slightly less alone. Knowing that General Tom Thumb had sung and danced for huge crowds and become celebrated the world over gave me a peculiar sense of pride, I must confess. Also, he was a handsome fellow in the illustrations; boasting large, mischievous eyes and a winning smile, he looked very smart in his various miniature uniforms.
He was no Miss Jenny Lind, of course, but reading about either of them was like reading about royalty, or Presidents; their lives were special, remarkable, not at all like my own or my family’s.
“Oh, Papa, you know how I longed to hear Jenny Lind sing! She’s the reason I practice so very much on my own music,” I reminded my father, who looked at me with a suddenly clenched jaw and narrowing eyes, as if he was trying silently to warn me not to speak further. But I did not heed his warning. “Do you know Mr. Barnum?” I asked Colonel Wood, unable to contain my excitement.
“Why, sure, sure,” he answered smoothly, addressing me for the first time. “Naturally! We showmen all know each other.”
“Really?” I couldn’t help but be impressed. “Did you ever see Miss Jenny Lind?”
“Certainly! Many a time did she sing for me privately, when I was in New York working for Mr. Barnum himself. I take it you sing, Miss Lavinia?”
“Oh, I’m a schoolteacher, but I do love to sing.” I returned Mama’s fond smile; my songs were much loved not only within the family circle but also in the schoolroom. From an early age, I had enjoyed soothing my classmates with ballads. Mr. Dunbar used to pick me up and place me atop his desk, so that all could hear.
“A schoolteacher?” Colonel Wood seemed momentarily stunned; his face, which had been as smooth as his talk, suddenly creased in thought. “Hmmm. I didn’t know that. I thought that you were just—well, just … at home. But I guess it don’t really matter, at that.”
“What doesn’t matter?” Mama asked anxiously. Papa remained