The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [25]
Blinking, safely above the glare of the flickering footlights, I tried to make out the scene before me. The upper seats, which I’d been told were for the Negroes, I could not distinguish; all was a dusky blur. But I could discern a few faces in the audience, seated on long, hard benches on the main floor. It was mostly made up of men, I realized: a few women, some children, but mostly men, dressed in rough farm clothes. The women at least had hats on, and Sunday cloaks, but the men did not appear to have donned special clothing for the occasion.
This, alone, caused my heart to slow down, the roaring in my ears to fade; I had no fear of these kinds of people, for they were just like my own folks. Even rougher and less schooled, I imagined from the dirt and the faded quality of some of the clothing, the stained spittoons at the end of every row.
Now I could hear the gasps and whispers, the creaking of the benches as people shifted and stood to get a better look at me. Colonel Wood had stopped speaking and was twirling his walking stick as he gestured to me. With a small nod, I turned to the accompanist, Mr. James, and whispered, “I’ll start with the ballad.”
He smiled and started playing the introduction. I cleared my throat, and the first tremulous notes pushed themselves out of my mouth. “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,” I warbled, and knew that my pitch was off, my tone wobbly. But the audience didn’t seem to mind; I could hear sounds of “Shh, shhh,” and one “Gol’ darn it, shut the hell up!” as I sensed the individuals lean forward as one, one great, giant ocean wave rushing toward me.
I didn’t recoil from it. Instead, I held my hand up, silencing everyone, including Mr. James.
“Excuse me, I’d like to start again,” I said. And nodded, as Mr. James played the introduction over.
“I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair.” The words were clearer now, my tone steady, and I felt my throat relax so that every note wasn’t pinched. With assurance, I lifted my head so that my voice could carry farther, even as Mr. James softened his accompaniment.
“I see her tripping where the bright streams play.” The audience seemed transfixed by my voice; the creaking had stopped now, as no one moved a muscle. In the first row, there was more than one gentleman whose mouth was hanging open, perfectly enraptured.
“Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.” This was the most difficult part of the song, and I strained a bit to hit the high notes; Mr. Jones, who wore a pained expression as we began that section, relaxed and smiled at me when it was over.
“Oh! I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.” I slowed the last notes, caressing them so they would linger. As the last note trailed off, I took a big breath and bowed my head.
There was a long silence, long enough that I almost looked up to see what was the matter—and then rapturous, thunderous applause! It fell over me like a warm embrace, tingling my skin; it was with some difficulty that I restrained myself from jumping up and down and clapping myself. I was a hit! An immediate success! Just as Miss Jenny Lind had been when Mr. Barnum first brought her to America. Perhaps, after all, I hadn’t been mistaken about Colonel Wood.
Then I started to hear the murmurs—
“She can’t be real!”
“She’s a doll! A windup toy!”
“I never saw such a thing in my life!”
“Hey, mister, how’d you teach a little baby to sing?”
A few people were standing now, making their way toward the stage. Naturally, I recoiled but realized that I was well and truly stuck up on the piano; it was only then that I remembered Billy Birch and Sylvia were backstage, ready in case “something happened.” Now I understood what that “something” was.
“It’s a doll, one of them puppets, ain’t it?” A decidedly rough-looking