The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [66]
“Do you like Mr. Barnum very much?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Oh, years and years now. Got my start working at the Museum, and now I do pretty much what Mr. Barnum tells me to. I manage some of the acts, did a tour with the General last time he went to Europe—that kind of thing.” This lengthy speech appeared to surprise Mr. Bleeker, for he slumped back against his seat and swiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
I left him to his silence and continued to stare out the window, up at the tops of the passing buildings, the only things I could see while seated. At one point we drove by a very long expanse of trees, which Mr. Bleeker kindly pointed out as “the new Central Park; they’re always working on it, but it’s just as nice as Hyde Park or Versailles.”
“Oh.” I was very impressed, not only by the park but by the offhand way Mr. Bleeker said “Hyde Park” and “Versailles,” as if he was very familiar with them. And I supposed he must be, if he had accompanied General Tom Thumb to Europe. I smiled and shivered in delicious anticipation; soon I would be visiting Europe’s grand capitals! First Europe, then the American Museum, just as Mr. Barnum had promised. I could hardly wait.
Finally the carriage rumbled to a halt; it had been a rough ride over the cobblestones. Mr. Bleeker unspooled himself from the carriage—he was a very tall man indeed, although not nearly as tall as Sylvia!—and swung me down. Then he helped me up some imposing marble stairs to the front door of a narrow home, which was part of a row of similar homes, all joined together, constructed of a muddy-colored brown stone. I’d never seen so many houses so close together, no grass or trees between them.
“Miss Warren!” A robust-looking young woman greeted us as a maid let us inside. She was obviously Mr. Barnum’s daughter, for she shared his same round nose and chin, and curly black hair. “I’m Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Barnum’s daughter, but please, call me Caroline. Come, let me show you to your room, for you must be exhausted.”
I followed her gratefully up a narrow set of stairs, which were not as shallow as the ones at home, so it took me some effort and time. This was one of the inconveniences I had to put up with as I aged; when I was a child, I had simply scampered up stairs using my hands to propel me. Now, as a proper young lady in a corset, I could not do that. And there were so many stairs in this house! We went up two flights until finally Caroline opened a door and showed me to my room; I gathered this was to be my home for the next few weeks.
I thanked Caroline, who discreetly left me alone to freshen up. The bed was tall but not taller than my wooden steps, which were soon deposited in my room along with my trunk. A very pretty Irish maid unpacked that with alarming efficiency, pausing only now and then to exclaim over the diminutive nature of my clothing.
When she was done, I pulled my steps over to the window and looked out; my view was of another row of houses exactly like this one, all in that same dull stone. The street was very narrow, but I saw a procession of nurses with infants in tow strolling along the sidewalks, and the only carriages that turned down it were beautifully maintained. Mr. Barnum’s daughter obviously lived in Society.
Beyond the houses, I could not see. But out there was the great city of New York! I itched to explore every nook of it, the rich parts and the poor parts, both. I wanted to see the immigrants in the Five Points; I wanted to attend a musical performance at the famous Academy of Music, where all the Society people gathered.
Even through the windows, I could hear the rhythm of New York; it was in the constant, staccato punctuation of steel carriage wheels upon cobblestone, a sound that I would soon discover never abated, no matter the time of day or night. Already it was ringing in my ears—I knew I would sleep well tonight;