The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [72]
The enormous, elegantly appointed Lecture Hall took up almost the entire third floor of the building, its velvet-curtained balconies extending up to the fourth and fifth floors. I know that in these more modern times, it is difficult to conceive of the necessity of calling what was really a theater a “lecture hall.” But in those Civil War days, the word “theater” was shocking—not just shocking but amoral. It was considered a sin of the highest consequence to step foot into a “theater.”
However, a “lecture hall” was another thing entirely; why, it was a place of learning, of enlightenment! Lectures were given here: scientific lectures, magic lantern shows of foreign lands. That it was also, occasionally, a place where plays were performed, operas sung, and ballets danced was merely convenient, as well as palatable, to the good, upright citizens of this Grand Republic of ours.
January 2, 1863: this was the date I made my debut in the Lecture Hall. On that enormous stage where Miss Jenny Lind had sung and bewitched her listeners, I felt as if I had completed a very long journey. I had finally arrived where I belonged, surely.
I’m certain I went dutifully through my rehearsed program that night. I sang my songs, told more stories, enacted a graceful little dance, answered planted questions from my audience. I was a professional; my body could go through its paces, even if my mind was not fully engaged. And I don’t believe it was that night. I remember only the most serene feeling, almost one of complete detachment from this elegantly attired woman standing in the middle of this famous stage, moving about so competently, watched by hundreds of avid eyes. And even as I danced and chatted and sang, I knew, somehow, that I would long remember the details of my humiliation on Colonel Wood’s boat much more intensely than I would the details of this evening’s triumph.
I wondered why that was. I wondered if this was how it always felt when all your dreams came true. Perhaps, after living with them for so long, did you simply toss them away—and begin to dream about something else?
One of the first evenings I appeared at the Museum, I was resting in my sitting room—everything in it made to my size, down to the exquisite silver hairbrushes and mirrors on my dressing table—between levees. I had already grown to love this oasis, for I now could not stir one foot in this city without causing a sensation. I had tried to take a stroll through the footpaths of Central Park, but soon found well-meaning citizens too eager to lift me over the snow banks. The first time I entered the grand establishment of A. T. Stewart’s through the front door, simply because I wanted to look at the new bonnets, I was immediately surrounded by a crush of people who blocked my progress, some of whom earnestly tried to show me where the children’s clothing could be ordered!
And my hand, my delicate, manicured hand, throbbed so at night after shaking so many much larger hands, that I had to soak it in lavender water!
So I was enjoying my respite, intending to finally begin Lady Audley’s Secret, which I’d heard so much about, when there was a knock on my door.
“Yes?” I called out.
“Miss Warren, it’s me. Barnum.”
I leaped off the sofa, my book sliding to the floor; opening the door, I smiled and said, teasingly, “What is this ‘Miss Warren’ business? You’re not still angry with me about that extra two hundred a week?”
But Mr. Barnum did not answer; he was not alone. “Miss Warren, it is such a pleasure to meet you,” said a little boy, hat in hand, standing in front of Mr. Barnum.
But no. He was no boy. I stared at him