The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [28]
I fell to my knees in a miserable heap instead, and was sick right there, on the dirty, damp deck littered with tobacco stains and muddy footprints, while behind me people continued to make their way to and from the stage area. It was as if I was invisible to them; it was as if I was too small for anyone to notice.
And at that moment I knew, with another sick heave to my stomach, I was.
NOW THAT MY EYES WERE OPEN, MY EDUCATION TRULY BEGAN. For it was made clear to me—as it must have always been to my family, who had pleaded with me so not to leave—that my value lay only in my unusual size. I could have had a pumpkin head stuck on my tiny body, could have spoken in unintelligible sentences and drooled upon myself—it wouldn’t have mattered. People came to see me for my size alone, and naturally this caused me great humiliation and distress, feelings that seemed only to increase with every day. For it transpired that part of my contract—oh, that cursed contract! How stupid I had been not to read it more closely!—stipulated that Colonel Wood could exhibit me in any way he saw fit. And he saw fit to do it in the manner of a gross, disgusting boor with not a shred of consideration for a gentlewoman’s propriety.
Now I understood Sylvia’s constant pained expression. I also understood that I was not, despite my naïve belief, a performer just like Billy Birch, the minstrels, and the dancing girl.
No, I found myself labeled by Colonel Wood as one of his “oddities,” like the Tattooed Man, the knife swallower; like Sylvia. Even though onstage I sang and danced (courtesy of some hasty lessons between shows) as enthusiastically as any of the minstrels, before and after each performance I found, to my disgust, that I was expected to be displayed. Like an unusual seashell, or a rock resembling a toad; like the two-headed kitten that long-forgotten doctor had likened me to. It pained me to realize how prescient he had been.
I had to stand upon a table in the galley on the opposite end of the boat from the stage. I had to allow total strangers to gape at me, whisper about me, even attempt to touch and fondle me despite my protestations, my constant reminders that I was not a doll, not a child, but a young lady with all the sense and sensibilities that entailed.
It was the men who persisted in doing this. Children whispered, giggled, but merely stared; women might reach out to finger the fabric of my skirt as women are wont to do. But men wanted to pick me up, put their hands about my waist, even attempt to kiss me without my leave. I could not tell if they thought me a child, despite my desperate attempts at genteel conversation, my blushes, my thoroughly ladylike demeanor—or if they wanted to ascertain that I was, indeed, of a womanly form, only miniaturized.
All I knew is that I had to insist, over and over, that I did not grant permission to be touched; I had to refuse, always, requests for “fairy kisses” upon rough, unshaven cheeks or, worse, lips. I know Colonel Wood did not like it when I was so bold and outspoken to those who paid admission for the privilege of doing so; he loomed over me, glaring, threatening, cursing. But he could not force me, not in front of customers, and also not in front of the rest of the company. After that horrible first performance, they had banded together to protect me; Mrs. Billy Birch had helped me to clean myself up, make myself presentable for the next show. Billy and the minstrels had assisted me in coming up with some rejoinders for the audience, so that Colonel Wood had nothing to say. Sylvia had seen Colonel Wood kick at me and had since attached herself to my side, particularly whenever he was around.
I greatly appreciated their support. For Colonel Wood had done what my mother’s fears and worries had failed to do;