Among the Wonderful

by Stacy Carlson

  “But Samuel,” Barnum countered, “I have never announced this enterprise as anything but popular entertainment. Furthermore, it is you who have forgotten an integral part of Jesus’ earthly ministry. How did word of his miraculous powers reach the multitude? He did not have newspapers at his disposal! His disciples were not journalists! No, he performed. In public spaces, he healed demoniacs, lepers, paralytics. He magically produced massive quantities of bread, of fish. He calmed the Sea of Galilee. Crowds gathered. Crowds spread the word of these spectacles, these miracles, these performances. But whenever someone approached him, he did not confirm even his own identity. And what was the effect? Word spread even faster because people wondered, Who is this man? And within the questions that swirled continuously around him, using the strength of people’s curiosity and their willingness to believe, Jesus birthed his new kingdom!”

  “Mr. Barnum, I am once again shocked at your presumption. Making a spectacle out of the primitive cultures has nothing to do with Jesus’ ministry, nor does serving brainsick children to a ravenous public appetite for grotesquerie. Indeed, capitalizing on the plight of an immigrant family who is even now imprisoned and suffering in the Tombs, of all places, is quite the opposite … Surely the audience gathered here has no trouble understanding my point.”

  I had never heard Beebe speak with such authority. He appealed to the audience with the confidence of a seasoned orator, his words unhurried, lucid. He was, indeed, buoyed by his faith. But instead of lifting my heart toward him, his performance (what else could it be?) immediately wilted my inchoate love in the bud. I suddenly saw him behind the rough-hewn podium of his own church, somewhere on the prairie. Near the front pew, I sat in a custom-built chair, my hands folded in my lap, my eyes faithfully locked on his as he expounded earnestly to his flock. But even then he looked a little ridiculous in his white rector’s robe, and people wore bemused smiles as they listened, wondering, “But how can he say such things, when his own heart holds such perversion. Just look at the size of her — “No, there was not room for that faith and me. It would be a lie anywhere, even far from this city. Enough. Lightning flashed over the prairie and a sudden gust swept the church away, and then the wild grasslands themselves dissolved in torrential rain.

  “Your hypocrisy and loose words are shameful,” Beebe continued. “What would your own family, your own uncle Phin say if he were alive and could hear you now?”

  Barnum stared at Beebe through a veil of silence that pricked the hairs on my nape, before he rent it with a guttural laugh. He threw his head back and clutched his middle. The journalists could not write fast enough.

  “Yes, yes, my dear Samuel! Of course! It was only when Jesus returned to Nazareth that the people ran him out of town! Isn’t this just the carpenter’s son? they said. Do we not have his mother and his sister here in the village with us? Isn’t this the man we knew as a boy, throwing rocks and playing in the dirt just like the rest?

  “But I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong relative to illustrate your point, Samuel. You should have invoked the name of my father, about whom I am more sensitive. Or my mother, God rest her soul. But you picked my uncle. With this choice, all you have done is provide the context for the greatest pleasure known to man, a pleasure that the author of every gospel well understood. Do you know what this pleasure is?”

  Barnum paused, but only for dramatic effect. Beebe had no chance of recovering now. “It is the pleasure of a good story,” he finished.

  Barnum stepped out from behind his podium. “I have already stated that from my earliest memory I knew the farming life was not for me. In large part I owe this conviction to my uncle Phineas, the man for whom I was named, of whom Mr. Beebe has kindly reminded me. This uncle is the recipient of my utmost love, respect, and gratitude.

  “Upon the event of my birth, my uncle presented me with a slip of paper. This paper eventually had the power to open my eyes to the infinite possibility in the world and it gave my vision a scope larger and grander than Bethel Parish. In my early years I read the writing on that piece of paper so many times that even now I know it by heart: I, Phineas Taylor of Bethel Village in Fairfield County and State of Connecticut, for the consideration of that natural affection that I have to Phineas Taylor Barnum my nephew and son of Philo and Irena Barnum, release and for ever quit-claim unto the said P. T. Barnum to his heirs and assigns for ever, all Right and Title that I have a piece of land at the Ivy Island, a place so called containing ten acres and is bounded Westerly and Northerly on East Brook, Easterly by a ditch that conveys the water from the Ivy Island into the natural stream.

  “Ivy Island may have been only ten acres, but in my mind it grew to the size of Connecticut. The land itself was forty miles from Bethel, and my uncle made me wait until my tenth birthday before allowing me to visit my property. In the meantime, stories of this island permeated my childhood. Most evenings, when my family had finished its supper, Father would light his pipe and say, What’s that I hear about Ivy Island? And Uncle Phin would reply, It’s the best, most fertile land in the country! And he would describe it to me, undoubtedly delighting in my excitement. In my mind hazelnut trees dropped carpets of nuts and the soil sprouted fat-kerneled heads of corn the size of brook trout. The beets grown on Ivy Island were dense and heavy. He even said a vein of silver ran in the granite below Ivy Island.

  “My dream was not to tend this land. No, I imagined all of this great bounty turned to heavy coins in my purse. By the time I was ten, my plan was fixed: I would work the land until I had enough money to hire others to do it for me. I would then open a store, sell my bounty, and make deals with suppliers in New York City to bring new goods to Bethel. When I had enough money I would open another store, and then another, and yet another.

  “As you might imagine, I was beside myself on my tenth birthday. My father loaded me into the cart, and I was surprised that Uncle Phin was not coming with us. I shall never forget how he looked, standing in the doorway just as dawn lightened the eastern sky. You must face your destiny alone, he said. As I recall, I caught a glimpse of my young friend Beebe on the way out of town. I believe he ran alongside the cart on his little legs and tossed a stick into the air and caught it again just as we passed.

  “We rode all morning toward Ivy Island, but my imagination flew above our rough cart. The fecundity of my island would take me beyond the world of dirt tracks, hog farmers, and a livelihood bound to the seasons. I dreamed. I plotted. I knew beyond all doubt that my destiny was entangled with something far greater than ten acres.

  “When we arrived, I leapt from the cart. My father pointed to the far end of a field of uncut hay. See that stand of sassafras? Beyond that boundary lies your land. Look for the stream. Follow it until you see the island. Again I wondered that my father was not coming with me, but I was too excited to pause for long. I ran as fast as I could. In my mind I had already sown the best seeds and diverted the stream for water. I had already pulled up to the Bethel village mercantile in my own wagon with barrels of vegetables. Old Seeley the store clerk had already shaken his head, wiping his hands on his apron. You’ve done it again, Barnum. We’re going to have people coming all the way from Bridgeport for this corn.

  “I ran through the trees that divided me from my property and followed the stream for several hundred feet before I came upon the island. I had a good view of it from where I stood on the sandy bank. I tried to look everywhere at once.

  “First, I saw stunted alders leaning together like a group of bent old women. Second, I saw the dusty, hard soil. A strange feeling formed inside me. Third, I observed one sugar maple with dried-up leaves, choked by a network of green vines grown tightly around the tree’s trunk. I recognized the red-stemmed crawler. Ivy. Poison ivy. My eyes followed the network of tangles down one tree and up another, down again and across the ground. The island was a wasteland.

  “Suddenly all the years of stories made a new sense to me, especially the ricocheting glances between Phin a
nd my father. The neighbors smiling and calling out to me, saying, Here’s the Duke of Ivy Island. The deed. Now I could see my uncle at the courthouse, drawing up the papers himself, and my father with a small smile behind his pipe. I understood what they had done.”

  Barnum blinked out at us as if from a great distance. The silence in the park was profound until a clear voice came from the journalists.

  “But why did they do it?”

  Barnum shook his head. “Answering that question took many years. It was a diabolical practical joke, no question. And I thought of it in exclusively that way until my wounds had healed and time had diluted my memory. Inevitably, my feelings changed. I realized that through the hoax of Ivy Island, my uncle had given me the two most important lessons of my life: First, I would never let anyone fool me again. Second, through their trick, they gave me the opportunity to feel the exuberance of pure belief that my destiny was larger than the hay fields of Bethel Parish. Ivy Island allowed me to dream of infinite possibility. Without that dream, I would not be here today. In fact, and I mean this quite literally, if it were not for Ivy Island, none of you would be here today. The American Museum would not exist.

  “You see, when Mr. Scudder put the museum up for sale, I admit that I lacked funds. At the time I had many friends in this city who would attest to my entrepreneurial skill and the seriousness of my intentions. But my lack of financial resources eliminated me from the owner’s consideration. I knew I could make the museum a success, if he would only give me the chance. So when I met with Mr. Scudder, I had in my hand a slip of paper that read: As collateral, with the promise to reimburse you ten thousand dollars within two years, I present you with the deed to ten acres of Connecticut’s finest farmland, near my ancestral home.”

  Barnum raised up his arms. “You can guess the rest of that story!”

  When the applause subsided, Barnum returned to the podium. He peered over the heads of his employees and patrons. “I trust that you now understand that my relationship with this enterprise is one of unswerving belief. Mr. Beebe, have you gotten the idea?”

  “The only idea that came to mind during your delirious rant is that this place will no longer be the means of my livelihood.”

  The other ushers had moved away from him, and he reddened visibly as he spoke. You are already fading from me, Beebe.

  “I believe your exhibits are amoral, blind to human dignity, and in many cases mean-spirited. I will have nothing more to do with them, or you.” Beebe turned stiffly and walked through the crowd. There. It is done. You yourself have closed the door between us.

  “So be it,” Barnum intoned. “The museum does not ask for approval.”

  Because of my height I could follow Beebe’s route through the crowd as he left Barnum’s meeting, and his employ. He weaved between citizens. Some recognized him as the speaker and moved aside, and some ignored him so he had to push against them to gain passage. When he reached the park’s wrought-iron fence and the relative spaciousness of the street he broke into a run. Good-bye, Beebe. I kept his bobbing head in view as long as I could but soon he disappeared southward on Broadway. Godspeed.

  “And now let us turn to the matter closest at hand.” Barnum called his group to order. The journalists suddenly vied for his attention, raising their pen-tipped arms.

  “Yes, Mr. Haley.”

  “Harper shut down your museum eight days ago. In that time you have not spoken to the press at all. The mayor’s office cites numerous instances of lewd and obscene behavior, including the Martinetti family of acrobats, the Circassian Clairvoyant, and a group of Indians. What really happened?”

  “Very good. What really happened is this: Several weeks ago, Mayor Harper attended an elite luncheon cruise around New York Harbor aboard Commodore Vanderbilt’s schooner. Also attending the luncheon were the Duke and Duchess of York, as well as a pair of German aristocrats about to join a Lyceum-sponsored paleontological expedition to Dakota. Conversation during this event was dominated by accounts of my museum. All parties had made numerous visits to see as many of the exhibits as they could, and each guest sang the museum’s praise. I believe the orang-outang was a special favorite among the royalty. The mayor was understandably annoyed that our friends from across the sea were more enamored by a popular entertainment than the city’s ports, its public grounds, its civic buildings!”

  “That’s why he shut down the museum?”

  “Believe me, morality and so-called lewd behavior are fabricated reasons, merely excuses. Another question? Yes, Mr. Emmett.”

  “When will you reopen the museum?”

  “I have a team of legal assistants hard at work as we speak. Don’t quote me on this” — here Barnum winked at the newspapermen — “but if the museum isn’t open by this Wednesday I’ll dance an Irish jig in the middle of Broadway, right in front of Saint Paul’s Chapel! And I’m not even Irish!”

  The men laughed.

  “Another question? Yes.”

  “How will you counter Harper’s attack on your museum?”

  “A-ha! You’re my kind of man, Mr. Whitman. As Mayor Harper should know by now, depriving the people of New York the entertainments they most enjoy will do nothing but fan their appetite for those very entertainments. In the time the museum has been closed, the attendance recorded at Vauxhall Gardens, the Park Theater, and Niblo’s have increased threefold. Each day a line forms outside these museum walls, even though the sign reads SHUT! It was an ill-advised strategy. I don’t mean to give you gentlemen any ideas, now, but he would have been much more successful plotting an assault on my personal character instead of that of my employees.” Here the newspapermen erupted in laughter. “If the good people of this city truly thought me a scoundrel, I guarantee they wouldn’t flock as they do to my enterprise.

  “I was going to wait until the museum reopened its doors to make my plans public. However, because of your interest and your willingness to listen to all I have said today, I will let you in on some tremendous news. James Harper is under the backward notion that the citizens of New York City prefer to be kept apart from the diversity of human races that populate the globe. Exposure to exotic costumes and ways of life is not education in his mind. Instead, he views such exposure as unchristian. I do not understand it, and from the public outcry I have heard, I trust you do not understand it, either. It is the Sioux Indians who draw the largest crowds to the museum. It is our collection of African weaponry and ceremonial relics. We are a generation fascinated by the diversity of our world as we see it vicariously through the eyes of our national expeditions and glimpse it, however dimly, through the silver eyes of Daguerre.

  “And so it is with the aim of augmenting this fascination and contributing to the education of my countrymen that I announce what will become known as the largest and most comprehensive gathering of disparate, uncivilized races ever seen on American soil; no diplomatic agency or scientific institution has ever done what I am about to do, either here or abroad. It is a veritable human menagerie and my greatest gift to the world thus far! It is the Grand Ethnological Congress of Nations! In just a few days time, my American Museum will become home to members of every primitive race of man now living on the globe. As we speak, representatives of the Zulu, Hindoo, Afghan, Nubian, even Esquimaux from the polar North are aboard vessels bound for New York Harbor. And that is just the tiniest hint of what will come. Prepare yourselves for this tide of humanity, for this cavalcade of Orientals. Get out your dictionaries, my good fellows, because you will need entirely new vocabularies to describe this event in your papers.

  “Mayor Harper thinks the people of New York City do not want to open their eyes to the diversity of human cultures. He believes they would rather pay admission to stroll in a dull municipal park filled with man-made ponds, landscaped gardens, and footpaths designed to take them in circles. And he wants his citizens to pay for the park’s construction! I know better. I have no doubt in my mind. But you can decide for yourself. Every one of you is
perfectly equipped to decide for yourself. It is upon that simple fact that all my endeavors hinge.”

  As we speak, they are aboard vessels bound for New York Harbor. As we speak, Zulu, Hindoo, Nubian, Esquimaux. I watched Barnum gesticulating and waving his arms, but what I saw were lines of fur- and hide-clad exotics marching up Broadway from the port and pouring into the museum. What I heard was myriad languages spoken at once. Chaos and thousands of dollars in revenue. Barnum described torchlight parades to Welcome Manhattanites to A New Age of Diversity. The audience cheered. The Congress was a brilliant, devious plan. It would draw the biggest crowds the museum had yet seen. And we would use it for leverage.

  Forty-nine

  The evening after Barnum’s performance, every door in the apartments of the Wonderful was open and an incredible cacophony of voices and music met me as I came in.

  Maud’s room was bright and jumbled. The white-haired albino twins were at the far end against a backdrop of purple and red rugs; the boy jerked in time with his fiddle’s tune and his sister perched on a stool with her concertina on her knee and one small foot tapping. Around them in a loose half circle sat the rest, some clapping, most cheeks flushed with liquor. An abandoned game of whist and the detritus of supper littered the table, where Maud sat talking with Clarissa, whose massive girth spilled over both sides of the chair. I was surprised to see the Aztec Children, Susan with Maud and Henry almost lost in the great landscape of Clarissa’s lap. Susan clung to Maud’s skirt, her eyes fixed on her brother, who had fallen asleep despite the terrific hubbub.

  In the eight days that the museum had been shut down, Maud’s apartment had become the official parlor of the fifth floor. People brought the chairs and couches from their own rooms and some of them spent most of their time there, like the conjoined twins, who occupied their usual bench in the middle of everything.