The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [98]
We borrowed a baby. How callous that sounds now! But Mr. Barnum persuaded me to pose with a foundling—a very small one—that he had personally selected from a charity hospital. In Mr. Mathew Brady’s studio, just across the street from the Museum, I sat holding that infant, who was beribboned and beruffled in borrowed baby finery (for the things given to us were much too small), smiling at Mr. Brady’s camera.
The child, I must say, was well behaved, although rather heavy for me; by the time we were done, the crook of my arm ached.
In our last few appearances at the Museum, in preparation for our European tour, we had introduced our “child” to the public. “Miss General Tom Thumb,” she was called, as I paraded her about the stage; no one thought to christen her with a first name. Although I suppose this made it easier to return her to the hospital, as if she were a pair of shoes that did not fit, on the eve of our sailing.
Easier for me, at any rate; not for Minnie, and not for Charles, either. They both grew quite fond of the child, who was cared for by a hired nurse when we weren’t performing. Charles had so enjoyed playing with her; he dangled his watch chain above her until she gurgled and cooed; he tickled her; he sang her songs.
And Minnie, who loved all children, who still traveled with a doll although she no longer played with it, well—she had cried and cried when we had to give the baby back, kissing the infant until I was alarmed that she might smother her.
She had tears in her eyes now, as she thought of it. “She was such a little thing. I hope someone good takes care of her. It seems so sad to give her up like that.”
“I know, but it’s much easier to get a new child when we land. Traveling on a boat would not be fun for an infant—and besides, Mr. Barnum felt that that baby was getting too big. Babies will grow, of course.”
“But Vinnie, don’t you miss her? Don’t you want a baby of your own? One you’ll never have to give back?”
I stopped in the middle of arranging some flowers that had been sent to our room by General Winfield Scott, conveying his best wishes for a safe voyage. The boat was starting to rock a bit, as we must have been heading out through the Narrows. And although I was a very good sailor, my stomach lurched at that moment, as I contemplated the notion of ever having a baby. It was still the one thing that could make me have nightmares. Always, it was a dream of blood and pain and cries and finally—nothing.
I wanted to cry out, “No! No, I never want a child, and neither do you!” But I knew it would hurt Minnie, who loved children so; I didn’t want her to think I was as coldhearted as I really was. So instead I answered, “Of course, Minnie. But wanting a baby isn’t the same as actually having one. And you know—I’ve told you, darling, remember?—that I can’t.”
“But Charles wants a baby, I know he does. He told me. Oh, poor Charles!”
“Poor Charles will be just fine. And in the meantime, we can all play with the new baby, and care for it, and I imagine it will be a very nice one, at that. Perhaps, since we’re getting it in France, it will even cry with an accent!” I smiled, coaxingly, at my sister. She looked so pretty in her new traveling dress, nearly identical to mine, which was black satin while hers was brown. We both had such lovely wardrobes for this trip, smart cloaks and fur caps and muffs, so many pairs of gloves I couldn’t imagine ever running out, but of course knew that I would. I always ran out of gloves, at an appalling rate; I simply shook far too many hands. My husband might kiss every lady he met—and he did, much to my annoyance—but I shook the hands of them all, plus their husbands. And my