“I am not trifling with you,” he whispered hoarsely, all but afraid to look her in the eye. “At the beginning, I admit, I followed my heart—caprice, desire, passion, plain lust. For you.” He could not help recognizing how much he meant what he was saying, and it made him catch his breath and arch his back. His emotion had him twitching like a marionette, he thought—and was he not just as dumb as wood? “When I first saw you, Jenny, I felt as though I were entering an ancient, personal dream—déjà vu, the French call it. It took me days to understand myself, the source of the sensation.” He was holding her hands, hoping she would believe him, for at last the Master of Insincerity, as he had come to see himself at bad moments, was telling the truth. He had felt the things he was describing, but he had ignored them, laughed at himself, denied his heart ever deeper into the agonizing labyrinth he could have avoided so easily, earlier in the game. Every great fortune, according to Balzac, was founded on a crime. If that was so, new love contained a lie like the apple nurtured the worm. No love started without that last parting lie to one’s real self: this will not matter. He had told himself just that lie more times than he could remember and had gotten away with it always, more or less—but not now, not this time. He loved her—everything he had told the world about her he believed himself. And now, for the life of him, he did not know what he was going to do about it. “When I was six years old,” he said, “and just starting to go to school, loose from my mother’s apron strings for the first time, I met a little girl my own age and fell wildly in love. Her name was Susan. I remembered her suddenly after forty years; I followed her from school, carried her books, struggled to win her heart—”
“What does she have to do with me?”
“You look exactly like her,” he said.
She sat back and looked away. “Oh, Barnum, when you’re in trouble and you don’t know what else to do, you make up some fabulous lie.”
“I swear it’s the truth.”
She shook her head, unable to contain her derision. “What happened to her? Are you trying to tell me that some tragic twist of fate ruined both your lives?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said mildly. “Her father was offered a better position in Hartford, and the family moved away. She probably doesn’t look like you at all now.”
“Barnum, I am in agony. Why did you tell me this?”
“Because, like you, I am shaken to my shoes by the emotion I feel. I am not a superstitious man, but I am so confused by this and want so much to understand myself that I can’t help wondering if fate has taken a hand. I told you the truth—you do look like her. In one more small way, it is natural for me to love you. It may not be natural for you to love me, but in thousands of just such ways, it is very, very natural for me to love you.”
“It is natural for me to love you, too, Barnum,” she whispered. “All my life I’ve been looking for a man like you. I should have realized that you would be married. The others who came close also were married. I should have known. I should have seen where my heart was leading me long before I met you.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “And I am held up as an example to all women! I am a perfect example of the work of the devil!”
She wept again, and he went to her, held her, rocked her against him. “Don’t you say such things about yourself. I am not a superstitious man. We were set in motion toward each other long, long ago, that’s all. A series of accidents. No one could have foreseen it. There is no blame, so this can’t be the perfidy of the devil—”
“Me! Me, I’m the work of the devil—and I wonder why God doesn’t love me!”
He made her look at him. “Weren’t you taught in church to open your mind and heart to the knowledge and love of God? Do that, and you will feel God love you.”
She shook with grief and terror, and he held her, silent for a time—more than anything, he did not want to intensify her distress. “I give you my word that there will be no repetitions of last night. I do not want to hurt you in any way. Not your reputation, not your talent, not your heart. This is difficult for me. I’m being honest with you. I promise to attend to my duties as your producer more carefully, and see that your stay in America is as comfortable and happy as I can make it.”
“Does that mean I’m going to see less of you?”
“No, the opposite, in fact, if that is what you want.”
She put her head against his chest. “I think I do. Are we a scandal, Barnum?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t want to be a scandal.”
“I have always known that,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I don’t like America. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”
“I’ve always known that, too.”
Boston, Providence, Boston again, Philadelphia, and then back to New York for the long, fifteen-date engagement. She told him he was a wonderful lover, but he knew better, confusing and upsetting her with stories like the one of his first-grade sweetie. True, but Jenny did not feel better loved, more wonderfully loved. He wanted to love her. In his wilder moments alone he thought he wanted to try to love her for the rest of his life. But he would only be trying. Charlie had her number—he had always had her number. “Barnum,” he said, “you’re only the half of it. The other half is America.”
“She hates the whole country.”
“She says she does. She’s afraid. She’s got all kinds of ways of saying it, but she’s just afraid.”
Barnum fell silent. He knew what Charlie was talking about. The fear never left her eyes. To one degree or another, Jenny was always afraid.
No matter; whatever the reason, the Swedish Nightingale was not going to live in the only country in which Barnum knew he could make a living. Barnum was thinking of that even if she wasn’t. The truth was, she did not do much thinking as Barnum understood it at all. Her head was full of art, for God’s sake.
She had to see the only Watteau in New York, and then she sat very quietly in front of it “experiencing the way he discovered the tree,” she said. She had to get close to see the brush strokes that “so successfully captured the artist’s response to the mythic quality of the tree.”
“All art is performance,” she told Barnum authoritatively. “The composers see it most clearly. What Hans Christian Andersen told me about his working methods only confirmed what composers have said to me. Andersen must prepare just as I do before he can work. Once one learns his craft, only by a process of relaxing and concentrating on the matter at hand can one reach ever deeper into oneself for new understandings and solutions. Only the mode of expression is different; otherwise, everything is the same. One must have talent, of course,” she added quickly.
Art and more art. She hated Washington, which she said looked like a child’s idea of a capital city. Everything was too neatly tucked away; one missed the urgent bustle of business one felt around an Emperor’s court.
“Wait until the war starts,” Barnum said. “It will get busy then.”
“If this city is what the states have to show for having banded together,” she said, “perhaps it would be better if they went their separate ways. My dear Barnum, the red-light district is much too large!”
Now he was supposed to top her. She loved being made to laugh. “Jenny, love, the real sins here are committed in another part of town.”
“Ah, you see, that’s the virtue of royalty. In court, all this sinning is kept in one place. It’s more economical.”
That conversation ended with them kissing. In Washington they were wildly in love. For the White House reception Charlie and Lavinia came down from New York and Charlie laughed openly at them, in front of President Buchanan. Barnum introduced him to Jenny as “The President of the United States—all of them,” and Charlie grasped that Barnum was repeating a fragment of private conversation. Buchanan had no brains; when Jenny started laughing at Charlie, the President looked around as if his pants had fallen down. Everybody laughed louder—the night before, the two couples had wallowed in Washingt
on gossip, including some really ripe trash about Buchanan’s family. The idea that the President was just another citizen had horrified Jenny. “You Americans will never have an empire,” she had said, giving everybody a big laugh.
“The country is falling apart, Jenny,” Charlie explained. They were in a carriage, leaving a restaurant where the food had been just awful.
“I don’t believe in revolutions,” she said.
Charlie started giggling.
“What’s funny, mouse?”
“I thought you two had already had one of your own.”
“You’re an evil-minded midget, Charlie,” Barnum said.
But Jenny put her head on his shoulder. “It’s true, Barnum. They know I am in love with you.” And she turned her head for him to kiss her, while the two little people gaped in wonder and joy.
It was midsummer when they reached Savannah, and from there they set sail for Cuba on a ninety-foot schooner Barnum had chartered for the purpose. What had seemed like the grand gesture turned to be quite a bit less—squalls at sea made the ship seem too small, even unsafe. Jenny sailed well, and so did Barnum, but most of the others were unable to leave their cabins. And just as well: Barnum had reports of political trouble brewing in Havana, and he wanted to keep hysteria-inducing gossip and prattle-mouth to a minimum.
As his European traveling companions were about to learn, Cubans were a far cry from their lisping cousins from Iberia. After contracting to accept a fair portion of the expenses of the journey from Savannah and then to New Orleans, the swarthy little brutes were complaining about the prices they were going to have to charge their people to make any money on the venture. Having done business with the Cubans before, Barnum knew what would come next. They would go to their own newspapers and complain that it was the greed of Barnum and Lind that raised the cost of tickets. As he explained to Jenny—after going over facts and figures, producing communications and contracts; no, Barnum wasn’t going to get caught in that mess again—the Cubans clearly understood their own best interests. Barnum and Lind were here today, gone tomorrow, regardless of the contracts; what their Cuban partners understood best was that their first relationship was with their own community, with which they had to stay on good terms. Add to that the inevitable corruptibility of the press, and they had the ingredients of a very bad hoedown in Havana.
“Hoedown?” she asked.
“A rural festival. When the men are drunk enough, they punch and kick each other.”
“We have that in Sweden, but never at concerts.”
“I was speaking metaphorically, I hope.” He put his arms around her, for when she chose to play the naïve, brave princess, she was simply irresistible. “But these people are emotional, and you never know what they’re liable to do. In any event, you won’t miss it. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I love you, Jenny Lind.”
“P. T. Barnum.” She kissed him. “In Europe, you would be in a cage, on exhibit.”
She had such pink, full, beautiful lips. She had no idea how marvelously desirable she was. “Here in America I sell the tickets before I get in the cage.”
“Madman. Werewolf. Bluebeard,” she said, kissing him. “God help me, I think I would die for you.”
He held her close, her head back, so they could see each other in their desire for what was next. “Better you die after me, Jenny.” He saw her eyes darkening; their conversation soared and dove, like hawks careening before a New England thunderstorm. “Please see that I get my way in this, my Nordic priestess.”
She fell back and laughed. “Fat old stupid man, don’t you always have your way?”
“I’m a madman.”
“Bluebeard,” she whispered in his ear, finally. “Werewolf.”
“I love you, Jenny Lind,” he said, confessing.
Off the coast of Florida, with the seas running twelve feet and a full moon over his shoulder, Barnum was joined on deck by Otto the piano player. While he’d made a couple of appearances in the saloon, Otto was not doing all that well in semi-tropical seas.
“What’s that out there?”
Barnum told him. “Beaches and jungle, inhabited by savages, lizards, and giant insects. Full of fatal disease. We fought a war to get it.”
“War is on your mind, old fellow.”
Old fellow? As second-best, Otto could call him anything he wanted, Barnum supposed. “It’s a new continent, Otto, a new experience. Until now, war hasn’t amounted to much here. A few shots fired, a mule killed, and everyone hides under the covers. Our problem this time, I’m afraid, is that we have white men facing white men, just as in Europe. We’re a dangerous breed, Otto. We have no sense of humor. Take it from an American who has had his fair share of contact with the other races. We white people don’t know how to laugh at ourselves.”
“And from that you deduce that the war will be long and bloody? Barnum, I must say, you’re a man of original opinions.”
“I could explain to you how I arrived at this one, Otto, but it would take too long. Suffice it to say, whatever the appearance, whatever conclusion you may jump to, I did not waste my time in the process of getting to be forty-six years old.”
“Ah. Well. From your tone with me, I can see that you’ve come to your conclusion, although I haven’t come to mine—I mean our conclusions about each other, Barnum. I’m not really a man to mince words—”
Barnum looked over to him and grinned. “Otto, do I deserve this?”
“You may be shrouded in mystery, Barnum, but enough has been revealed to allow me to reach a conclusion on that question.” He smiled. “Of course you deserve it. You deserve every bit of it.”
A rogue wave, and Barnum had to grab the rail. “I don’t think the reasons for your conclusion are any of your business, Otto.”
“I love her. I have always loved her. Long after she’s forgotten you, I will love her, and I will be there.”
Barnum put his back against the rail so he could look at Otto directly. “Tell me, Otto, do you take me seriously?”
“I’m not sure. You’re a buffoon, of course—but you choose to play the clown. I freely admit, I do not understand you. If you mean, do I think you love Jenny, how can I tell? Barnum, I do know she’s not strong, and this is taking a toll on her. Even if the lunatics working on recording machines are ever successful, they will not be in time to record her voice—!”
Another one for art—just the thought of it, and he was steered away from the most important business of his life. Jenny said he was a brilliant musician, which merely added to Barnum’s own despair. Music was at the center of Jenny’s life, and there was no place for him in it. “Otto, if it’s any consolation to you, I am suffering grievously with this.”
“It’s no consolation. Everybody is suffering grievously—” Now another rogue wave, more violent than the one that struck the schooner before. Barnum’s legs went out from under him, and he felt his weight going over the rail. Otto grabbed his vest and pulled him back aboard.
“Thank you,” Barnum said. “I think you just saved my life.”
“Don’t mention it—please. I don’t want the responsibility.”
Barnum stared. “Be assured, I won’t put the moral burden on you again.”
Otto brushed at Barnum’s vest. “Just as well. Now that I’ve had a chance to think, I’m not sure I’ll act the same way again.”
Barnum bowed. He’d been bested, and while it made him like Otto more, it made him feel profoundly uneasy, too. He’d been telling himself right along that Otto was some kind of weak sister, but patently that was not true. Time, traditions, and talent all were on Otto’s side and he knew it. He knew what he was doing. He was an intelligent, educated, cultivated man. And he was handsome enough, in a frail, unhealthy sort of way. Jenny liked good-looking men, no matter how she laughed the subject off. Not a handsome man by any means, Barnum had never had trouble attracting the ladies. But now he was forty-six, balder, fatter,
shorter of breath and weaker of limb—symptoms of a disease that held no hope of remission. Barnum was thinking—he was thinking all the time.
On the other side of the balance was the sole fact that he was more in love with her than he would have thought possible, and that one fact alone outweighed all the others—when he allowed it.
Havana was in turmoil when they arrived. Civil unrest outside the city, a fire burning down a slum—these events were in progress as the company marched up the dock to the carriages waiting to take them to their hotel. By nightfall gunfire was to be heard in nearby streets, and Barnum listened to the glass breaking, as well as an occasional scream. And Americans wanted war. Barnum was thinking that he would lock the doors of the American Museum and spend the duration in Europe. Even if people wanted his brand of entertainment when the bodies started coming home, he might not be in the mood to give it to them. He had to think of Europe anyway. If he started over and succeeded there, what did it mean? And just as he didn’t know if the public would want entertainment in wartime, he didn’t know how the public would react to a divorce and marriage to a woman who ranked, in people’s hearts, with Joan of Arc and the Virgin Mary. He knew what some people thought of him. The worst possibility made him laugh aloud: some people wouldn’t want him to live past the first sundown.…
It seemed that most of them had bought tickets to Jenny’s first Havana concert. They booed Otto, they booed Minelli. They were booing the price of the tickets, which cost five times what Havana’s citizens were accustomed to paying. Barnum was getting all of the blame, in spite of the fact that his gross, from which he had to deduct the thousand he had already paid Jenny, was less than thirty-five hundred dollars! He had come down to this pestilential hellhole for less than two thousand dollars a night—and they were complaining!
They were terrifying. Jenny was trembling before she stepped out on stage. He did not tell her not to do it, nor did she so much as hint she was unwilling—if she did not appear on stage at all, a deadly riot would certainly ensue. All the same, Barnum moved to the edge of the stage, where he could be seen by the audience on the other side of the house, and he had the attention of Otto, who was prepared to move quickly if the situation turned even uglier.
Jenny and Barnum Page 32
