The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [30]
“I would have loved to remain in Wilton,” Sylvia said with a heavy sigh. “But there wasn’t anyone left. And then Mr. Barnum came.”
“Why did you leave him? What brought you—here?” I gestured about the shabby street, the heads poking out of windows to stare as we continued our progress. Oh, how bitterly I recalled strolling the quiet streets of Middleborough, where everyone knew me and no one thought to exclaim about my size or my fairy voice, where people conversed with me, not above me, as if my ears were too small to hear their ridiculous comments.
“Ma, lookit that!” a boy yelled out a window, right above our heads. “That tiny little person—reckon it can talk?”
“Yes, it can,” I retorted loudly; away from Colonel Wood, I felt free to indulge myself and be rude to those who were rude to me. “And it knows better than to say ‘reckon.’ What year are you at school?”
The boy turned white and ducked his head back inside his house.
“Vinnie, you do beat all!” Sylvia chuckled in admiration. “How you talk! I can never think of anything to say.”
“I just get so angry, I can’t help myself. So back to Mr. Barnum—why ever did you leave his employ?”
“I didn’t want to, but he sold my contract,” she replied, slowing so I could catch up. She was patience itself, for shortening her stride was not easy on joints that ached with every movement.
“He sold it? To Colonel Wood? Then the Colonel does know Barnum?”
“No, Mr. Barnum sold it to a Mr. Peabody, who sold it to Colonel Wood.”
“They can do that? Buy and sell us? Like slaves?”
“If you sign a long contract like I did, they can.”
“Why—why did Mr. Barnum sell your contract?” I asked hesitantly, for I did not wish to cause Sylvia distress.
“He said I bored the audience. He said that’s the kiss of death—boredom—and while he wished me every kindness, he had to sell my contract because he found another giantess, one who recited Shakespeare.”
“Really? Shakespeare?” I was astonished. Imagine—a giantess reciting Shakespeare! I would pay to see that, myself! “Was he—was he nice to you? Nicer than Colonel Wood?”
“Oh, yes!” Sylvia stopped, and her heavily lidded eyes shone with fondness. “Mr. Barnum was the nicest man I ever met! He treated me like a lady, and nobody had ever done that before. After Mother died, it was like I was invisible, or worse. Mother was the last person to hug me, even touch me, until Mr. Barnum came up to visit. Why, Vinnie, he treated me just as if I was the daintiest little lady—just as dainty as you! He held chairs out for me, he opened doors, he brought me flowers! He’s a good man. It’s not his fault I’m not cut out for this life.”
“No, you’re not. I’m not, either. This wasn’t the life I thought I’d be living now.”
“Oh, yes, you are! Maybe not here on the boat, but Vinnie, the way you talk to people! The way you never forget you’re a lady! And the way you light up when you’re onstage! You’re wonderful. I don’t know how you do it. I just know Mr. Barnum will find you someday.” My friend’s admiration was honest and heartfelt, and I must admit I needed to hear it. I placed my tiny hand in her great one, and we walked along in silence for a bit, studiously ignoring all others. Davenport was a typical river town, something I could now identify with confidence, and I supposed that was one useful thing I’d learned since leaving home. River towns on the Mississippi were all somewhat the same; all had streets leading uphill from the riverfront, churches and schools dotting the ends