The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [31]
In this town, there were the usual newspaper office, dry goods stores, offices that took care of boating business and trading commodities, and one apothecary shop. Across the street was a candy store; Sylvia tugged at my hand and pointed, and I nodded. The Tattooed Man and Mr. Deacon had already peeled off into a tavern, as was their habit. Unescorted—but not alone, as a sizable contingent was now following us, speculating about us as if we could not hear them; one even speculated I must be Sylvia’s child, which made us both smile—we crossed the muddy street. As the crowd followed, Sylvia ducked her head and slumped her shoulders terribly, poor thing, as if she truly believed she could wish herself smaller. But she did allow herself a smile; she had a powerful sweet tooth, although I knew that later tonight she would be moaning in her bed with a toothache.
After buying some chocolate drops from an astonished shopkeeper who shouted to his wife to “Come look at these show folks, this giantess and her little friend,” we resumed our stroll until we came upon the gleaming storefront hung with a sign proclaiming Mr. Greene, Fine Practitioner of the Art of Photography, Card Printing & Phrenology.
The window was papered with photographs—some sepia-toned, others hand-tinted with traces of color—of famous personages. General Tom Thumb was chief among them. The photographs were for sale, twenty-five cents each.
“Did you ever?” I asked Sylvia, astonished.
“Did I ever what?” my dear, literal-minded companion answered.
“Did you ever see such a thing? Paying for someone’s photograph! I’ve never even had my photograph taken, have you?”
“Oh, no! No, how dreadful!”
I had to laugh; despite her deep voice, she sounded just like Minnie. “I don’t think it would be dreadful; I think it would be fun,” I replied, still looking at the photographs, the one of General Tom Thumb in particular. The caption read General Tom Thumb in Highland Dress, and indeed, he was in a traditional Scottish kilt, with a feathered hat, his features rounder, more mature, than I recalled from the few newspaper illustrations I’d seen.
“Do you really think people pay for his photograph? Let’s go inside and ask!” I tugged Sylvia’s hand, and she reluctantly pushed the door open for me. Inside the hot little room, there was another glass case that contained a few more of these fascinating portraits; I had to stand on tiptoe and lean my forehead against the cool glass, but I could see them. I recognized President Buchanan, and his golden-haired niece, Harriet, who was his pretty hostess in the White House. There were photographs of Queen Victoria; one of the famous actor Edwin Booth, dressed as Hamlet; and another of General Tom Thumb costumed as Napoléon.
There was also one photograph of him standing on a tall table, leaning his hand upon the shoulder of another man, who stood next to him.
“That’s Mr. Barnum,” Sylvia said, groaning as she knelt down so she could see the images. “The man standing. That’s Mr. Barnum.”
“Really?” I was surprised and, I confess, a little disappointed; the man in the photograph looked so very … ordinary. Curly hair parted on the side, a wide forehead, a somewhat bulbous nose, an unremarkable smile. He resembled any man I might have passed in the street; he certainly did not resemble a world-famous impresario. Colonel Wood, I had to admit, looked much more the part than did this man.
“Good God Almighty!”
Sylvia and I both looked up, she rising as hastily as she could, leaning heavily upon the glass case, which shuddered alarmingly beneath her weight. A very surprised young man, with thick spectacles and a pale complexion, stood behind the case. Wiping his hands on a long white apron, he didn’t look like a photographer; he looked like a butcher. Except instead of blood on the apron, there were inky black stains.
“Hello,” I said with a smile, since he appeared unable to do anything but gape at the two of us. “I was hoping you could help me. What are these?” And I pointed to the photographs behind