The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [148]
“Of course, now, you go on and fetch your little husband. But isn’t it interesting, Vinnie?”
“What is?”
“Just that—you and I ended up in the same place, after all this time! It just beats all, don’t it?” She chuckled, shaking her head, gesturing to the other two. “Here we are, all together, in Mr. P. T. Barnum’s circus!”
“Yes, isn’t that interesting? Good day, ladies.” Pressing my lips tightly together, I turned and hurried off—doing my best not to run, so very much did I want to get away. I pushed along the crowded passageway, hemmed in on all sides by booths and tents and dancers and giants and men in black vests and red-and-white striped pants yelling out, “Come see the bearded lady, freshly shaved just yesterday but already with a beard two feet long!”
And other men in black vests and red-and-white striped pants countered back with “Come see the world-famous General and Mrs. Tom Thumb, those diminutive darlings of royalty, those wee world travelers—intimate friends of Mr. P. T. Barnum himself!”
“We really are!” I wanted to cry out to the crowd, some of whom were pointing to me and smiling—laughing, even—others of whom were simply ignoring me, having already seen their share of oddities—Isaac the Living Skeleton, George the Armless Wonder. I’m sure there was a two-headed kitten around somewhere as well. “We really are world-famous! We really do know Queen Victoria! Mrs. Astor came to our wedding! We’re not like the rest of these—”
But I didn’t know what to call them. Because I didn’t know what to call myself. Dwarf? Tiny? Perfect woman in miniature? None of them, all of them; had I ever been simply Lavinia Warren Stratton? To anyone—even myself?
Oh, good heavens—I was late! We were going to be late—and where was Charles? I pushed my way through the crowds until I spied him. Clad in his top hat and frock coat, Charles was nevertheless upon his knees in front of the Punch and Judy show, playing marbles with a pack of dirty children. I hauled him up by his arm and dragged him back to our tent, brushing the dust off his clothing and scolding him. Five minutes later, we were back onstage; he was singing, I was twirling, we were dancing in front of the restless crowd as the pianist played the “Tom Thumb Polka.”
Once, I remembered, closing my eyes as if I could wish myself back in time, this very tune had been played in our honor at Royal Albert Hall. We were the guests of the Prince and Princess of Wales. We rode in the Royal carriage, accompanied by a regiment of palace guards, the Princess of Wales and Minnie both too shy to wave to the crowds.
It really had happened, I whispered to myself fiercely. It wasn’t just a dream.
“What isn’t just a dream, Vinnie?” Charles whispered back. I shook my head and allowed him to lift me up by my waist in time to the music. Someone in the audience clapped; someone else tittered.
When the season was over in November, I wrote a short letter to Mr. Barnum informing him that we would not be returning in the spring.
For once, he did not try to change my mind.
INTERMISSION
From the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, May 2, 1882
William Godfrey Krueger, the inventor of a flying machine, and who had spent many years of thought and restless toil over it committed suicide yesterday at his boarding house, No. 186 Forsyth Street, New York. He was out of money and was in daily expectation of getting the first installment of a pension due him from the Government. It came yesterday morning after he had killed himself. Krueger was a native of Prussia, and had been in this country twenty-three years. For fifteen years he has been entirely absorbed in studying out the great problem of his flying machine, and did little more than to write an occasional article for the newspapers. The secret of the flying machine died with him.
From The Century, January 1883
WOMEN’S WAGES BY JANET E. RUUTZ-REES
I have been looking for some clue to the unsatisfactory relation of women’s work to