The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [67]
Most of all, I was eager to see the American Museum, where Miss Jenny Lind had sung, where Charles Stratton, as General Tom Thumb, had performed. Soon, Miss Lavinia Warren would grace the very same stage. Oh! I could scarcely believe it; I had to hug myself, pinch myself, to know it was all real. I was here! It was truly happening! I was going to be famous; my photograph would be sold along with those of Queens and Kings.
For the first time, I really and truly allowed myself to believe that I would not be forgotten after all. No weeds would cover my name; it would be known in every household in the land.
And with this reassuring thought to sing me to sleep, I prepared for bed. I did so want to be refreshed and ready for Mr. Barnum, on the morrow.
THE WEEKS BETWEEN MY ARRIVAL AND MY DEBUT PASSED IN A frenzy of fittings and finery; I was Cinderella, and Mr. Barnum was a most unusual fairy godmother. I would not have been surprised to find out that he could turn a pumpkin into a coach!
Standing patiently, hour after hour, while being fitted for a custom-designed wardrobe was hard work, I soon discovered. Naturally, my proportions gave the designer some difficulty; Madame Demorest did not have a dressmaker’s dummy in anything near the right size, so everything had to be pinned directly upon my person!
In addition to the fittings for my wardrobe, I had numerous appointments with Mr. Charles Tiffany and Messrs. Ball and Black for my jewels; there were endless trips to A. T. Stewart’s store for gloves and accessories, most of which had to be custom-ordered. All conducted, per Mr. Barnum’s orders, in the utmost secrecy, under cover of night. I did not enter a single building through the front door during the first three weeks I was in New York; I felt rather like a Confederate spy!
During those weeks, I came to know Mr. Barnum’s daughters very well: sturdy, reliable Caroline, my hostess; the slightly bad-tempered Helen, also married, whose mouth was always pursed in disapproval of some perceived slight; and the charming Pauline, the only unmarried daughter, obviously her father’s favorite. These three fussed over me as if I were a pet or a doll, Pauline pronouncing every single item of my accumulating finery more cunning than the last.
I must pause here to admit to my feeling of utter bliss upon being laced, by Pauline Barnum herself, into my very first custom-made corset. She giggled at my delight; Pauline was always bubbling over with giggles, being only sixteen at the time. But, oh, how that corset felt against the silk undergarment, smooth and cool as a flower petal against my skin! It fit exquisitely, not a gap, not a wrinkle. When I was laced into it, I stood for almost a quarter of an hour before a looking glass, just gazing at myself, at my womanly figure, how my breasts were pushed up perfectly, my waist fashionably narrow, my hips rounded and utterly feminine. The corset itself, in a fine buff silk, the whalebones delicate yet sturdy, was so beautiful I truly hated to cover it up.
Not once during all the time I stayed at her daughter’s home did I meet Mrs. Barnum. She remained, indisposed, in Connecticut. Apparently this was not new, as her daughters merely sighed and rolled their eyes at the mention of “Mother’s maladies.” And I cannot say I mourned her absence, as it enabled my friendship with her husband to blossom in these dazzling weeks with the intensity of a hothouse flower.
For I found, to my great delight, that Mr. Barnum often stayed in New York with Caroline, instead of taking the late train back to Bridgeport. Every evening I would descend the stairs eagerly, looking for his gold-tipped walking stick indicating he was back from the Museum. The two of us often dined alone, as Caroline and her husband usually had a social function to attend. Naturally, we discussed my upcoming debut, all the myriad details of which Mr. Barnum oversaw with the sensitive attention of an artist. No detail was too tiny for his interest; he discussed the placement of a rosette