Jenny and Barnum

by Roderick Thorp

  “Not in that muddy dress.”

  She turned around, leaning against his leg. “Unbutton. We really do have lots of time, don’t we? I’m cranky if I’m rushed out of bed, you know that. Go back to the beginning of the letter, Charlie. We can read it together.”

  “I’ll give you what I’ve already read, and you can catch up.”

  She stood and stepped out of her dress and slip. Her knickers let him see the curvy plumpness of her legs, and when she got under the quilts beside him, he could smell the rain and perfume and her warm perspiration. She kissed his cheek, took the beginning of Barnum’s letter, and rolled over so her bottom pressed against Tom Thumb’s side.

  “It got code,” she said in baby talk.

  “I’m glad,” he answered contentedly, as if he hadn’t had a bad thought at all.

  But to get back to the issue at hand, I’ve been waiting for reports from several places, including St. Petersburg—I tell you, Charlie, I’ve had so many irons in the fire lately that some slip from my mind for days at a time! Now that the reports are in, I see the problems we face and have increased confidence that we have the unique abilities to solve them straightaway.

  Tom Thumb could not help but smell a rat. Barnum talked like this when he was trying to put something over on you. If he had been standing at the foot of the bed, he’d be talking nonstop, his arms waving, making you see things that weren’t there, doing that kind of magic, until you saw what was in his head so completely that you began to suspect that you believed in it more than he did.

  Lavinia turned a page. Tom Thumb wanted to put his hand under the quilt, but then he wouldn’t be able to pass her the pages he had finished reading.

  First and foremost, as I told you last time, the press comment on the troupe’s performances is uniformly good, up to your usual high standards, and I offer my congratulations to all. Your notes about the receipts are being confirmed by the accountings of various theater managers. If my figures are correct, Charlie, you’ve already cleared enough to cover your own personal expenses for the next two years—and refit that miniature scow you call a yacht, if that is your desire.

  The Viennese notices arrived here about a week after your letter. Inasmuch as you left the city the morning after your performance before His Worthlessness Franz Josef, you doubtless did not see the special comment garnered by our Commodore Nutt at the reception afterward. The clippings are in the packet; the gist of them being that Gallagher was a bit of a bad boy at the reception, taking his exit before His Imperial Insignificance and apparently (this was learned later) committing an unspeakable rudeness on the boot of an aged and withered sleeping Count, Sultan—anyway, one of those titled types.

  Tell me at once: have there been any more incidents like that? I knew when we hired Joe Gallagher to play Commodore Nutt that we were getting an Irish tough, for all the woe-is-me talk of growing up (?) in the gutters of San Francisco. I’ve had an idea, and I need you to make a critical decision in my stead. In spite of the foregoing, is Gallagher reliable? Can he take instruction? Can he work with us?

  Originally when I had the idea for the Commodore, it was with the intention of creating a new troupe of which he would be a part, a kind of counterpart to you, exploiting your fame. Tawdry as that idea was, it would have worked, you’ll admit, made money, but it really would not have advanced our cause a whit.

  Be that as it may, all that has given way to a far better idea. If Gallagher’s naturally surly temperament is surfacing—I suspected it, I do confess—and he can be kept in line somehow, according to your best judgment (which I will accept), then I want you to explore ways to communicate Gallagher’s “Bad Dwarf” persona (as opposed to your own saintly presence) to the public. In the same way, work into the performance a confrontation between the two of you (preferably a duel) in which good General Tom Thumb triumphs over evil Commodore Nutt. This will work best, I suspect, if you maintain a light, witty, and comic touch.

  I know you don’t like it, Charlie, but the fact is that the performance has been too genteel and stylized for far too long. Like everything else, it needs a kick in the pants of its own presumptuousness, just like you kicked the country’s pants in your first tour years ago. You were an absolute scandal, Charlie, remember that. But times change—a lesson beaten into me many times over—and what shocked the people just a few years ago collects nothing but yawns today. Or tomorrow. Your receipts are wonderful now in Europe, I know, but you’re playing the same material America has seen since 1857. Give this your most careful consideration. If you decide that Gallagher is not right for the part, I will abide by that; but please bear in mind the value of his authenticity—people will pay plenty to see a truly pugnacious dwarf!

  Now, as for Jenny Lind …

  “More,” Lavinia said, reaching for what Tom Thumb had finished. He saw “St. Petersburg” at the top of her first page—what business did Barnum have in the capital of the Tsars? He still hadn’t said.

  For a moment Tom Thumb’s curiosity distracted him from the larger problem, or lost opportunity: if Lavinia had not been here, exactly where he wanted her, he could have kept Barnum’s idea about Nutt, a name that suited the fellow better than Gallagher, entirely to himself. Now—the worst—Lavinia would be watching to see that he handled the situation fairly.

  … I have written to her guardian, Judge Munthe, in Stockholm, accepting her counteroffer unconditionally. My contract is now bound for our London agent, John Hall Wilton, along with a bank draft for 187,500 dollars. The lady wants her fee and expenses in escrow in Europe; as you well know, this is all the money I can lay hands on in this world—the thought of paying it out makes my bowel churn. As Wilton, has been instructed, I agree to all her other terms unconditionally as well. Charlie, you’re not to take this as some feebleminded capitulation; the competition for her has been fierce, and certain blackguards have been attempting to influence Miss Lind by slandering my reputation. Given the circumstances—and the money I believe can be made on this venture—I have no choice but to be absolutely aboveboard in my dealings with The Swedish Nightingale.

  In my letter to Judge Munthe I have asked him to travel to London at my expense to meet with you and Wilton in Wilton’s offices in Chancery Lane to sign such contracts as Wilton deems necessary. Your presence is required for several reasons, the second most important being that you have already functioned as my personal representative to Miss Lind.

  More important than that is the role you have yet to fulfill, which is that of Miss Lind’s escort on the Great Western to the United States of America. As a veteran campaigner yourself, you surely can recognize my initial strategy. She is the most famous entertainer in Europe, and you are the most famous entertainer in America. If the American public sees you introduce Jenny Lind to our country, she will be guaranteed an honest chance with it. Charlie, the more I learn of Jenny Lind—and I have learned plenty—the more I am convinced that she will make a wonderful success in our country.

  In this new aspect of our project I must beg your forbearance on two counts …

  “Oh, this is good,” Lavinia said. “Barnum was scaring me at first. He really wants to hear about what happened to Joe in Barcelona.”

  “He probably knows about it already, given the way he follows the European press.”

  She sat up. “Does that mean you aren’t going to tell him?”

  “No, what it means is that Joe’s shenanigans have already been reported in newspapers all over the Continent.” He turned back to the letter, wondering if he had said the name “Joe” with too much contempt. “I’ll tell Barnum. I’m already thinking of stunts for the show—although I’m not sure Gallagher can do them, much less listen to my instruction.”

  “You don’t give him much of a chance, you know.”

  “That’s what he tells you,” Tom Thumb said, sighing. “He’s getting the same instruction you were given.” She couldn’t or wouldn’t see how Gallagher’s effusions of gratitude had given way over the
months to this chronic complaining that had the same effect, that of generating sympathy for him. “He should give thanks. If Barnum and I hadn’t invented this way of making a living, he’d be selling newspapers in saloons in San Francisco, lucky to eke out a life, never mind a living.”

  “I suppose that last part applies to me, too!”

  He twisted his head and looked into her eyes. “Nothing applies to you. I knew that a long time ago.”

  She smiled; unlike many midgets, she had perfect teeth. “How long?”

  “Since that night in Louisville.”

  Without a word, or any other indication of how she chose to understand him, she went back to her part of Barnum’s letter. Vexed, he went back to his.

  … In the first instance, I want you to show Miss Jenny Lind every possible courtesy and understanding. She is to believe that America is welcoming her because it appreciates and admires her work, and her work only. I tell you, Charlie, I have indeed learned a great deal about her. You should talk to her sometime about your respective childhoods; she has stories about hers that will stand your hair on end. Aside from her phenomenal talent, the important thing to remember about her is that she is a God-fearing, Christian woman. I have it on good authority that she has been waiting for a suitable American offer so that she can commit a percentage of her proceeds to building an orphanage in her native Sweden. Charlie, need I tell you how the American public is going to react to that? Women will come hear her sing. For the first time in the history of American public entertainments, women will not be thought of as bold because they want to attend a public performance. And that is only one ramification of the impact Jenny Lind will have on America.

  As for the other aspect of your forbearance, it has to do with the time I need to prepare this great republic for Miss Lind’s arrival. You will recall that when I first mentioned her to you some years ago, it was the first you had heard of her. The situation today with the public at large is vastly better than that, I am relieved to say, but there is much public relations work that needs to be done. I need time, at least three months as of this writing. What that means to you, Charlie, is that I want you to escort Miss Lind down the gangplank of the Great Western to me on the pier on the first of May—May Day, the celebration of spring. Think of it, Charlie! In the face of the coming war, Miss Jenny Lind will be the personification of this last beautiful spring! Don’t worry, you’ll have a title, honorary something-or-other, and your share of the limelight. I’ll treat you right. Charlie, I’ll even make it interesting for you: if there are less than ten thousand New Yorkers at the pier to greet you, I’ll pay you a dollar for every one that’s missing—it can cost you nothing.

  Obviously the hardship I am really asking of you is an extension of your current European tour—another six weeks, I’m afraid. In that regard, I have been corresponding with various theater managers from Berlin eastward to St. Petersburg; while the schedule is not a heavy one, it will pay you (and all the others) as much or more than you have made on this tour so far—I will guarantee that!

  Wilton in London has been looking after many of the details in this change of plans. As soon as you are in London in the first week in March, be in touch with him. I have invited Judge Munthe, Jenny Lind’s guardian, to travel to London that first week in March to meet you and Wilton as my representatives. I expect the learned jurist to avail himself of a free holiday in Her Majesty’s capital. I also expect him to make a pest of himself, be unreasonable, and otherwise test your patience until you can figure out that he wants money, women, or both. As I say, I have a good deal of information on Miss Lind, and I have reason to take her as a naive and frightened woman; and it is not unusual to find lurking in the background of such a woman some venal suitmonger ever alert for opportunities to emulate the most nauseating excesses of the Emperor Nero, or any other drooling, self-indulgent princeling you’d care to name. Accommodate Judge Munthe, no matter what brand of son-of-a-bitch he proves to be.

  And I add this last on the assumption that you’ll keep to yourself the professionally disastrous information it contains, and because you have to share the laugh fate has handed me through the Lind matter.

  I am now broke. To meet Jenny Lind’s demands, I have had to mortgage, again, both my beloved estate of Iranistan in Connecticut and the American Museum in New York. Only the prompt payment of European receipts will give me the capital needed to finance the Jenny Lind campaign. My credit in New York is so suspect that I had to travel down to Philadelphia to find the last few thousand to clinch the deal. On the way back, I stepped out onto the observation platform of the railroad car for a breath of air. The conductor recognized me and struck up a conversation, very respectful, addressing me as “Mister Barnum,” and calling me, “Sir,” if you please. In the presence of such adoration I began to puff up visibly, like the victim of a mother-in-law’s pot roast.

  “What’s your next project, Mr. Barnum, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m bringing Jenny Lind over to America from Europe,” I said, stroking my lapel, imagining the public throwing money at my feet.

  “I’ve heard of her,” he said. “She’s a wonderful dancer.”

  Charlie, I hear the snow doesn’t melt in St. Petersburg until June, but while you’re looking at it, I want you to think of how hard I’m working to get ten thousand people to welcome you home.

  Tom Thumb cursed under his breath. Wilton in London thought—thanks to Barnum—that the troupe had been consulted about another ten weeks. With the contracts signed, there would be no backing away without penalty—and the possibility of a lawsuit if any of them ever set foot in that country again. Barnum had been planning this almost from the start. He was going to get a grand American welcome for Jenny Lind for nothing—true: he would have had to pay for the troupe’s passage home anyway! In the bargain, Barnum expected Tom Thumb to bring home a new act raising Joe Gallagher to nearly his equal. And Barnum complained about the Judge Munthes of the world.

  “This is interesting,” Lavinia said.

  “What?”

  “All this about Jenny Lind being such a God-fearing Christian woman.”

  “That’s what I saw,” Tom Thumb said.

  “Well, apparently it’s common knowledge that she’s a lovechild—illegitimate. Her parents weren’t married when she was born.”

  Tom Thumb sat up, thinking once again—so quickly—of his investment. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve heard it from several sources.” Lavinia giggled and grabbed the rest of the letter, including Barnum’s references to the extended tour and his present financial condition. “That’s right,” she said, as she started to read again, going into a perfect Irish brogue, “as Joe’s sainted mother would say, ‘Miss Lind was conceived in sin!’” Lavinia rolled over. “Now don’t bother me until I finish reading.”

  Tom Thumb kept still. “Joe” loved to talk of his mother, who died when he was young. Lavinia no less than any other woman was ready to shower sympathy on an “orphan.” Joe was masterful at drawing out a woman’s sympathies, even if it meant reminding her—as he apparently was doing—what her life would be like without Barnum and Tom Thumb. Joe was playing the outsider and making her see what she had in common with him. Well, it was just a matter of moments before she discovered she was spending the rest of the winter in Russia—and would have to worry about getting paid for it, too.

  II

  5.

  Tom Thumb was a natural, born-to-the-sea sailor. Whether on a day sail on Long Island Sound on his own custom-designed yawl, Shoal Draft, or surging across the Atlantic on the Great Western, General Tom Thumb, cigar in his teeth, rarely was very far from the helm. Officers and crews on both sides of the ocean knew him; indeed, he and Barnum often used his visits aboard vessels in port to get the attention of the press—favorable, too, as the journalists observed the honest admiration of the sailors for the little man’s seamanship. He was as good as any of them, and he could see in their eyes that if he had been normal-size
d, they would have been glad to have him working along with them.

  Aboard the Great Western, or the sixty-foot pilothouse ketch now slapping due west toward the Thames Estuary through an ugly North Sea chop, Tom Thumb knew he was taking advantage of his special circumstance—his deformity, or the privilege he and Barnum had fashioned of it, or both—but no matter: given the situation that obtained for people like him before Barnum had made him famous, this was better. Living in a closet, or let out only rarely, like the family exhibit, Charlie Stratton might never have seen so much as a picture of a ship. So General Tom Thumb had to be entertaining, witty, and good company, never overstepping himself, courteous to all. Often it tried his patience; often he saw too clearly into certain individuals and their lurid, cocksure speculations about little people. But this was better than his life ever could have been otherwise, and not because of the expectation of joy his presence created anywhere he went, including the deck of a ship, but because he was on the deck of a ship, sailing, which he loved as much as anything in the whole adventure he and Barnum had constructed of his life.

  Lavinia, on the other hand, was a poor sailor who needed perfect weather to feel well enough to get up and move around and perhaps take a little food. Most of the troupe was like that, from Anna Swan, confined, sometimes even strapped, out of necessity, to her bed in heavy seas, or, on a boat this size, to the settee in the main salon, to keep damage belowdecks to a minimum; to Joe Gallagher, who came up on deck often enough but usually drunk and suffering from that. It was Chang who suffered the most of all, everybody agreed. The sea didn’t bother him, but it made Eng sick. When they sailed, Chang had to spend most of the voyage watching brother Eng throw up in a bucket. Sometimes it was easy to understand why the Siamese Twins hated each other.

  Before leaving Antwerp, Tom Thumb had had a letter from John Hall Wilton, Barnum’s man in London. The meeting with Judge Munthe was arranged for Thursday, the fourth of March, in Wilton’s offices in Chancery Lane. Wilton actually sounded enthusiastic about signing the agreement papers then and there; the money was in hand, he reported, as if he could not get rid of it fast enough.