Jenny and Barnum

by Roderick Thorp

  By five-thirty Barnum figured he could wait no longer, and proceeded below to talk to Tom Thumb.

  He knocked on the door for five full minutes before going off to find a steward with a key. Charlie was apparently sleeping soundly. There were lots of reasons for sleeping soundly, and most of them, in Barnum’s experience, were bad.

  Barnum loved Tom Thumb. He knew that he had made the General into the son he had never had, but there was nothing wrong with that. In the twenty-two years they had known each other, they had made fortunes together, coming to the profound understandings of each other that only making fortunes together could provide. They had suffered together—seen each other’s weaknesses. Barnum knew that Tom Thumb was still young; he wondered if Tom Thumb could really grasp that Barnum was as proud of what they had accomplished together as anything else in his life.

  The steward asked if he wanted breakfast served in the stateroom. Barnum said no. He had other plans for breakfast—that is, if Jenny Lind’s late-night deck sojourn had not left her too tired for a business meeting.

  The little man lived big—that is, in the grand style. It was something Barnum had thought right for Tom Thumb, but Charlie had built his life around it, with a mansion on Long Island, a miniaturized yacht, the expensive restaurants, his cultivation of important and celebrated people. If he had grown normally, Charles Stratton might not have had Tom Thumb’s eagerness to prove himself, but he still would have aspired to success, maybe even burned for it. Barnum liked to think that Charlie Stratton might have made his way to New York and the American Museum, and hooked up with Barnum anyway.

  Of course he looked like a child when he was asleep. Tom Thumb in a full-sized bed hardly disturbed the blankets. On the night table was a plate bearing a half-eaten steak—not extraordinary, since the little General could not eat more than two ounces of meat at any one sitting.

  “Charlie. Charlie, wake up.”

  “Whazzat? Barnum?” He sat up, his face coming aglow. “Barnum!”

  After hours of tossing and turning, and then the walk around the deck, Jenny Lind did not fall asleep at all. At seven-thirty she was bathed and dressed again, in a dark cotton skirt and blouse, ready to go to breakfast, when the steward brought a note to her door. Her name on the envelope made her heart leap with alarm—for some reason, she knew at once who had written it. He was on the Great Western—Barnum was here!

  My dear Miss Lind,

  Welcome to America! The whole continent joyously awaits you! Your stay will be a milestone in our culture, for which we will be grateful always!

  I wonder if I can impose upon your time with an invitation to join Tom Thumb and me at breakfast at eight o’clock? I propose to acquaint you with the arrangements made for your welcome, your hotel accommodations, and the like—be assured, I will not tire you with needless prattle! Again, welcome! An entire nation is at your feet!

  Respectfully, I am in awe,

  P. T. Barnum

  Jenny could see right away that the man was barely under control. He had written a book? A continent awaited her, but only the nation was at her feet? What was she to make of that?

  “Tell Mr. Barnum that I will be pleased to join General Thumb and him at breakfast,” she told the steward.

  First she had to change clothes. She needed something brighter, prettier. She had to fix her hair, too. He could not be allowed to find any fault with her. At ten minutes to eight she was ready, wearing a white cotton dress embroidered with delicate pink braids, and her hair done in a crisp, neat page boy, tied with a white ribbon. Barnum almost surely expected her to exercise her prerogatives, and be late, even by as much as half an hour, but she could see how that would work against her. No, she would be early!

  The conversation in the dining room was louder and more excited than it had been since the first morning, but it hushed when she appeared at the door. That had happened in the past, too, but never so dramatically. Now she saw that the far corner was hidden from view by a series of Japanese screens. There—he was there. Men rose as she passed their tables, as if her presence created a wave before her. She could hear her name in whispers so loud that even the man behind the screens could not fail to hear it, too. She heard his name rumbling through the room as well, Barnum, the sound rolling like thunder.

  The voyage was over, and the screens were the signal. Her fellow passengers knew that the larking camaraderie of life at sea was finished, and that Jenny Lind had to gather up her public responsibilities again. That Barnum’s name could be heard, too, made it all as clear as a weather-change. His name had power here; Jenny could hear it. The voyagers had re-entered the world of important business, grim high finance—money-getting, as Barnum himself apparently called it. In that way America was the same as Europe. Money was everywhere, like the whispering of the devil.

  She was a dozen feet from the screens when a giant apparition swept out from behind them, his coattails flying—Barnum alive, the devil himself, the Old Deceiver. She flushed, realizing he would see the color on her cheeks, but stopped to let him come to her, and extended her hand for him to kiss. He did, graciously and very lightly, as if to the manor-born, but with a theatrical bow and flourish which made the dining room crowd cheer. He was a very big man, ruddy-faced, with large features, not as paunchy as the picture on the cover of his autobiography had shown, and older, with wild wires of gray twisting from his unkempt hair. His collar was wilted, his suit unpressed.

  “Welcome to America, Miss Lind, and thank you for taking the trouble to join Charlie and me.”

  “Charlie” confused her for a moment. “Ah, yes. You’re very kind, Mr. Barnum, but of course I understand that this is business, and I will do what I can to co-operate.”

  He paused, eying her, then he smiled. “That’s excellent, Miss Lind. Just the right attitude.” He took her arm. “We have a busy day ahead of us today,” he said as if in confidence, “but it’s all necessary, I assure you.”

  Behind the screens was one of the large round tables, set for three with the ship’s best crystal and china as if for a formal dinner instead of breakfast. No less than four waiters were in attendance, serving from carts with trays filled with fried bacon, ham, and sausage, three kinds of fish, and eggs cooked in four different styles. Tom Thumb was standing on his chair, his arms outstretched to her. He looked pale, but he beamed when he realized that she was going to kiss him hello.

  “Good morning, my dear. You’re looking beautiful as usual. Barnum! Isn’t she beautiful? What did I just tell you?”

  “You just said and I quote, ‘Jenny Lind is beautiful with a clear, fresh, sincere beauty.’ You told the truth, but I must confess, I didn’t think I would be so moved. You are very, very beautiful, Miss Lind.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” She smiled at Barnum, who was holding her chair for her. What Tom Thumb had told her long ago in Vienna about Barnum was true, too. He and the little General were copies of each other—different sizes, different ages, but copies nevertheless. It was obvious that they loved each other and were filled with shared secrets.

  As soon as she was seated, a waiter rushed to her side with a tray of the cooked breakfast meats.

  “Allow me to tell you the good news,” said Barnum, clasping his meaty hands. He leaned in over the table, shortening the distance between them; he had an unusually large and mobile face, with a round chin, bulbous nose, rosy cheeks, and many lines radiating from surprisingly blue eyes. His lips were thin and his teeth small, though very white. He was a smiling man, one who loved to laugh. Of course he was a madman, a powerful madman, but Jenny wanted to believe he was without malice—she wasn’t sure, but she wanted to believe it.

  His good news was that her first New York engagement was almost completely sold out, and sales in Boston and Philadelphia were proceeding very well indeed. Tickets for her first concert, he said, were sold at auction for a total of more than seventeen thousand dollars.

  She touched her lips with her napkin. “Oh, we can’
t possibly keep that much,” she said.

  Barnum’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well have to give some to charity.”

  Tom Thumb was holding his stomach from laughter. “You look like you just heard you’re getting liver for dinner.”

  “Pay no attention to the little lunatic, Miss Lind,” Barnum told her. “Exactly how much did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, ten thousand dollars, at least.”

  Barnum choked; he coughed, turned red, and reached for his glass of water. Tom Thumb was hysterical, rolling around on his seat. Jenny giggled. Barnum picked up a biscuit and threw it at Tom Thumb, hitting him squarely in the forehead. Jenny was startled, but she could not stop laughing. Tom Thumb crossed his eyes and slowly got to his feet, pretending to be dizzy, his hands outstretched like a sleepwalker’s. Then he started dancing, slow, bouncy, heavy steps on his pillow, the same dance Jenny had seen him do on the desk in Vienna.

  “Sit down before you fall on your head, elf.”

  Jenny turned. “Why do you always call him names?”

  Barnum’s face was still red, but his eyes were merry now. “Because I love him.”

  “Oh well, I don’t know whether I want you to call me names or not, Mr. Barnum.”

  “The General told me he got drunk on you the other night,” he said without hesitation, fixing her with his gaze.

  She laughed. “Swedish girls are used to such things.”

  “Ten thousand is the limit,” he said, apparently playing a game. “This one time I’ll pay you a bonus of ten thousand dollars, every penny of which goes to charity.”

  “I will give you a list and you show me the receipts,” she said.

  “I’ll announce your gifts from the stage on Thursday night,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

  “What? No! That’s not charity, Barnum—” Her hand went up to her mouth; she had forgotten the “Mr.”

  He was still smiling. He sat back. “It’s better than charity, Miss Lind. In America, if people know that someone like you gives to a charity, then they’re encouraged to do the same—”

  “Yes, of course, but to make a spectacle of it—”

  “Exactly,” he said quietly. “I want to make a spectacle of it. I want everyone in America to know as quickly as possible that your first thought was of others less fortunate than yourself. You’re a wonderful woman, Miss Lind. You’re the very example of the Christian ideal.”

  “Mr. Barnum, I—”

  “Barnum. Trust me on this.”

  “Trust him,” Tom Thumb piped up.

  Barnum glared at him, and the little man was stifling his laughter, but he nodded to Jenny to indicate his true seriousness. She had to think. At this stage, Barnum dared not violate her trust; still, she did not like it. She did not like any of it. She folded her hands and put them in her lap, and while she spoke she looked at them.

  “I will give you a list of the charities and the amounts to be given them, and you will read it without embellishment or explanation.”

  Barnum did not answer. When she looked up, he was staring at her, as if trying to understand her the way she was trying to understand him. There was something terribly, unfathomably frantic about these Americans, she thought now, and she felt it oppressing her so intensely already that the thought passed through her mind that she would not be able to finish the tour because of it.

  “Miss Lind,” Barnum said soothingly, “be assured that the announcement will be handled exactly as you wish. The language and mode of presentation will be simple, modest, and direct.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but she did not feel relieved.

  There was to be a parade, he told her while they finished eating, a reception at the City Hall, a banquet at her hotel in the evening. Barnum would have his agents come aboard the Great Western to help her people get ashore once the parade had cleared the dock. He assured her that her accommodations here and in other cities on her route were the best America could provide.

  She could see that she had to conserve the little energy she had remaining. She was not tired now, but she would be later. This was Monday. Ahead were rehearsals, interviews, clamorings for her attention—work! Abruptly she stood up.

  “Is there more that you have to tell me? I think I would like to rest for a while.”

  Barnum was on his feet at once. He looked confused, even stunned. “No—no, my dear. The customs and immigration people will come to your staterooms, if you like. I’ll see that the intrusion is brief. Otherwise, you’ll have your privacy until noon, when we tie up at the Canal Street docks.”

  She smiled. She had acted impulsively, but now she saw that it had given her the upper hand with this roughneck Barnum, this enormous version of his own minuscule, unhappy emissary. Tom Thumb looked unhappy—again. Jenny wondered if there had been any resolution to his troubles, but she saw that the turn of events might keep her from ever finding out. In any case, it was clear that more had been exchanged between Barnum and him than they had shared with Jenny. One instinctive stroke, however, had given her the advantage. Barnum could wait and worry—not that she did not mean to fulfill her obligations.

  “Thank you so much for breakfast,” she said to Barnum. “It was good of you to come aboard to welcome me.”

  “It has been entirely my pleasure, Miss Lind,” he said, and bowed.

  When Barnum returned to the table, Tom Thumb was slumped back in his chair, his fist propped under his chin.

  “You big jerk,” he squawked, “she’s already got a ring through your nose!”

  Barnum smiled benignly. “I’m grateful to you, squirrel. She’s everything I hoped for, the first princess of the working class. When New York hears of her ten-thousand-dollar gift to charity, it’ll be worth a hundred thousand at the box office.”

  “You hope.”

  Barnum smiled. “Trust me.”

  Tom Thumb pursed his lips and made a rude noise.

  Later, minutes after the castoff from Ellis Island, Barnum found her on the empty deck, standing alone at the rail, staring across the expanse of the bay at their distant, approaching destination. It was a clear day, the sun turning the air mild even out here on the blue water, pierced occasionally by a darting fish, or a low-swooping gull.

  He kept back from her, wanting to give her her privacy, almost afraid to intrude on it. She had changed her dress; she was wearing a pale blue-gray silk that matched Barnum’s recollection of the color of her eyes. Timid eyes. The sun brightened her hair. She had her own beauty, much as he had said, but she was not pretty. Barnum thought he saw something heartbreakingly fragile, even transitory, about her appeal.

  Now boats were coming out to meet the Great Western, little skiffs and dories, sails tiny against the low gray jumble of the city. Barnum could see the Canal Street docks, fresh white paint down to the water’s edge, the two floral arches all but invisible. From so far away all the effort didn’t seem to amount to much. Of course he was forgetting that the welcome and parade were not for Jenny Lind, but to sell tickets to her concerts.

  “Come stand by me, Barnum,” she suddenly commanded.

  “I was told you didn’t sleep well last night,” he said. “I’m going to do everything I can to preserve your energies.”

  “Thank you. From here your city seems to be mostly churches.”

  “On almost every corner.” He pointed out Trinity Church spire, the tallest structure in the city.

  She said she knew nothing of America. Her tutors had hardly mentioned it years ago, and the only stories in the European newspapers had to do with slavery and savages. For a fleeting moment he saw the drama unfolding before her with her eyes: she was alone, on the edge of a continent still largely undiscovered; she could not help feeling apprehensive. Still—he thought; he could only hope she thought—she had almost all of a lifetime of achievement behind her, a mighty assertion of talent, will, and self-belief, and she was surely up to a matter as simple as conquering a new con
tinent. She had done it before. But she was a tiny thing, and really timid, and he could see that nothing she had ever done had been easy for her.

  In minutes the little skiffs were alongside, tacking and cresting the bow wave of the Great Western, their occupants pointing and shouting her name, shouting “Hello!” and “Hurrah!” She smiled and waved in return, and squealed with laughter when a sailor fell out of his boat and someone threw him a line.

  “Welcome to America,” Barnum murmured.

  “You are all mad!” She poked his vest with her forefinger. “And you, Barnum, you are the maddest of all!”

  “I am abashed, Miss Lind, that you should understand me so quickly and so well.”

  “Jenny!” she cried. “Call me Jenny!”

  The sailor in the water had been an omen, for as the Great Western reversed its engine at the foot of Canal Street, the spectators, thousands upon thousands of them, on the piers on three sides, surged forward so that men and boys, first in twos and threes, then by the dozens, fell into the river like apples tumbling into a press. Great shouts and whoops of laughter went up, drowning the sound of the welcoming band. The noise seemed to make the city tremble. People screamed her name, over and over, chaotically at first, then rhythmically: “Jen-ny Lind! Jen-ny Lind!” At the end of the whitewashed pier the two triumphal floral arches vividly displayed their messages; first:

  WELCOME

  JENNY LIND

  and then

  WELCOME TO

  AMERICA

  So far, so good, Barnum thought, attempting to contain himself. What was unfolding was one of the great victories of his life, surely the greatest spectacle—and just as important, inside the pilothouse, out of sight of the crowd, she seemed pleased. She was fairly accustomed to such outpourings anyway. Parades, rerouted traffic, riot-sized throngs of admirers outside her hotel windows, were still commonplace in Europe, where her singing had been heard for more than a decade. The human reality inside so much hullaballoo was always disconcertingly smaller than the grandiose constructs of the imagination, but Barnum was satisfied with her.