Not once during all the time I stayed at her daughter’s home did I meet Mrs. Barnum. She remained, indisposed, in Connecticut. Apparently this was not new, as her daughters merely sighed and rolled their eyes at the mention of “Mother’s maladies.” And I cannot say I mourned her absence, as it enabled my friendship with her husband to blossom in these dazzling weeks with the intensity of a hothouse flower.
For I found, to my great delight, that Mr. Barnum often stayed in New York with Caroline, instead of taking the late train back to Bridgeport. Every evening I would descend the stairs eagerly, looking for his gold-tipped walking stick indicating he was back from the Museum. The two of us often dined alone, as Caroline and her husband usually had a social function to attend. Naturally, we discussed my upcoming debut, all the myriad details of which Mr. Barnum oversaw with the sensitive attention of an artist. No detail was too tiny for his interest; he discussed the placement of a rosette on one of my slippers until even I was weary of the subject!
I began to notice that whenever we were together, he made a point of sitting down. This may appear to be an insignificant detail, but it was one that I greatly appreciated. This was in such contrast with Colonel Wood, who had taken every opportunity to loom over me—he had rarely sat in my presence, never offered me cushions, was fond of standing as close to me as possible so that he could literally look down upon me.
Mr. Barnum did not do this. In fact, he and I soon fell into the habit of sitting knee-to-knee, as we had done that first day, whenever we had something important to discuss. Thus situated in front of a crackling fire, a plate of cookies or walnuts, glasses of lemonade or sometimes fine Madeira, on a table within reach, we would talk for hours and hours. Not only about my plans but about the War, the political situation, his receipts from the Museum; he was soon asking my opinion about other acts and exhibits, and I felt he always weighed my answers very carefully.
Looking back, I believe this was the most satisfying time of my life. I would soon meet public figures, millionaires and monarchs, beyond anything I could have imagined. But it was this time, this sweet, anticipatory time, that I remember most fondly.
I told him all about my life on the river, not varnishing the roughness but, under his eager, hungry gaze that was always on the lookout for an anecdote or unusual story, finding the humor in my memories, as well. I came to believe he was fueled, almost alone, by words and imagination; by a hunger for knowledge and experience that paralleled my own. Never before had I felt such a kinship with anyone, not even Sylvia. It was a meeting of the minds, first and foremost.
The night before my debut, as Mr. Barnum and I sat together in Caroline’s snug parlor, I felt a trifle melancholy. My new trunks—made of the finest leather monogrammed with my initials—were packed up in the dear little bedroom that had been my first New York home. On the morrow, I would be moving into the St. Nicholas Hotel, where I would remain while I held my series of grand receptions—invitation-only, highly sought-after, Mr. Barnum reported with glee. Already I missed the warm hospitality of Caroline’s home; already I missed these quiet, conspiratorial evenings with my new friend.
“Are you all right, Vinnie?” Mr. Barnum asked as he handed me a glass of wine.
“Yes, I am. Although I admit, I’m a little nervous about tomorrow. You’ll make sure no man picks me up or kisses me without my permission, won’t you?” This old fear of mine would not leave me. Despite my elegant new wardrobe, I worried that I would be touched and picked up and squeezed as if I were a child. Or worse.
“Mr. Bleeker will be vigilant, I assure you. He’s to be considered your bodyguard. You must trust him as you trust me.” Mr. Barnum, a red silk dressing gown covering his shirt and trousers, nodded smartly. His cigar, ever-present, glowed mysteriously in the cozy darkness. Only the light from the fire illuminated us; he did not like to have the gaslights lit at night, for he enjoyed the shadows. He said it reminded him of his childhood, when he would walk long miles back to his home late at night from his grandfather’s store, where he first learned to sell things to people who did not know they wanted them.
“Then I am satisfied.” I tried to push those worries out of my mind, but others swiftly took their place. “And I’m to meet all the gentlemen of the Press, at once?”
“Yes, but don’t think of it that way. People will be introduced to you, one by one, just like any reception. You’ll simply stand and shake hands and chat—that’s all we need to do at first. And I trust that your charming powers of speech will not desert you.” Mr. Barnum winked at me, but behind his smile I detected a stern rejoinder: a reminder that I must not fail him. And I would not, I vowed silently. I would not let him down; the responsibility of this did not fall lightly upon me, but it did not completely bend me, either. I felt myself rising up to shoulder it without complaint.
“Might I not sing a little song?” I asked after a moment, as I tried to imagine what the morrow would be like. “That went over very well on the river.”
“I suppose.”
“I could sing ‘Home Sweet Home,’ ” I offered. “So everyone will know when to leave.”
“No.” He shook his head in a very decided way.
“Why not?”
“That was Jenny’s song. You must find another.”
I bit my lip, my stomach tightening in a curious way. I did not like the way he said “Jenny,” as if he had a right. I did not like the gleam that turned his eyes from gray to almost blue when he did so. I did not care for the way he stared into the fire and sighed, as if entangled in a memory.
Most of all, in some soft, womanly part of my heart—a part that I had not, until now, taken the time to explore with any frequency—I did not like the fact that no one had ever said my name in that way, that softly proprietary way.
“Fine,” I said grudgingly. “Then I’ll sing ‘Annie of the Vale.’ I’m told I sing it exceedingly well.”
Mr. Barnum smiled at me, nodding approvingly. “Good girl. I knew you’d come up with something right away. You’ve got a head on your shoulders, Vinnie. I’ve not met many your equal.”
I smiled back, basking in the glow of his approval, content to be admired for my mind.
For now.
INTERMISSION
From the New York Tribune, December 23, 1862
Yesterday we saw a very pretty and intelligent little lady at the St. Nicholas Hotel, in this city. This woman in miniature is twenty-one years of age, weighs twenty-nine pounds, thirty-two inches in height. She moves about the drawing-room with the grace and dignity of a queen, and yet she is entirely devoid of affectation, is modest and ladylike in her deportment. Her voice is soft and sweet, and she sings excellently well.
From The New York Times, December 23, 1862
We attended Miss Warren’s reception yesterday at the St. Nicholas. It was a festive gathering. All were paying court to a very beautiful, an exceedingly symmetrical, a remarkably well-developed, and an absolutely choice specimen of feminine humanity, whose silken tresses beautified and adorned a head, the top of which was not quite thirty-two inches from the floor. In other words, we saw a miniature woman—aye, and the queen of them.
[ EIGHT ]
Or, A Star Is Born
AND SO IT ALL CULMINATED IN ONE GRAND, GLORIOUS reception, successful beyond anything we could have imagined. Standing upon a small velvet-draped platform in the lovely parlor of the St. Nicholas Hotel, I softly cleared my throat, nodded to the pianist Mr. Barnum had secured for me, and began to sing.
I had shaken many hands, engaged in much conversation, discussed the myriad details of my wardrobe (at least, the details that a lady could discuss in public). I had posed for illustrators eager to sketch my likeness, I had answered questions about my family and ancestors (these, I surmised, were discreetly planted by Mr. Barnum, who was circling the edge of the crowd like a proud parent, careful not to take any attention away from me). All in all, I was an astonishing success. I knew it by the hum of approval in the room,
the admiring glances; I knew it by Mr. Barnum’s unapologetic smile of pure, boyish glee. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to sing my song.
Fixing my gaze at some spot across the room—in the sudden yellow, flickering glare of the gaslights, which seemed to have been turned up to a blaze, I could not make out anything specific. Then I began to sing. Very softly at first, for it had been a long while since I had sung in public, and my voice was a little rusty and uncertain.
“The young stars are glowing … their clear light bestowing … their radiance fills the calm clear Summer night …”
All I could see were smiles around me; smiles from these men, serious professionals, but my singing, I could tell, brought them much pleasure and delight. So I sang even louder, my eyes adjusting to the light now.
“Come … come … come love, come … come ’ere the night torches pale …”
My vision cleared so that I could make out that spot on the far wall; to my surprise, it was Mr. Barnum to whom I had chosen to sing. It was Mr. Barnum whose face I now saw, a smile upon it as broad as any I had seen. Did I also detect a tear in his eye? I was too far away, but I decided that yes, I did.
“Oh, come in thy beauty, thou marvel of duty … Dear Annie, dear Annie of the vale.”
I bowed my head after the last note and accepted the applause of the room; it was different from the applause I had heard on the river. This was respectful, from men who were cultured, men who had heard Miss Jenny Lind sing.
But there was only one man whose applause fell sweetly upon my ear, all the way from across the room. It was the one man who heard the Nightingale sing, still, in his memory.
His was the admiration I truly sought. And in that moment, when I knew that I possessed it, I allowed myself to wonder, for the very first time, how it would feel to be known simply as a woman—
And not a woman in miniature.
INTERMISSION
From The New York Times, February 26, 1863
A CASE OF FURIOUS DRIVING
Mrs. E. GREEN, residing at No. 22 Watts-street, while crossing Fifth-avenue, near Tenth-street, was knocked down and run over by a horse and sleigh, which was being driven at a furious rate, by LEVI L. HUFF, the colored coachman of Mr. CHARLES GOODHUE, of Madison-avenue. Mrs. GREEN, who was severely injured, was taken to her residence by a policeman. HUFF was arrested and taken before Justice KELLY, who committed him, in default of $300 bail.
From Harper’s Weekly, March 21, 1863
FOREIGN NEWS—ENGLAND—REVULSION OF PUBLIC SENTIMENT
There was a great demonstration at the amphitheatre in Liverpool on the 19th ult., in support of President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. The Liverpool Post says that a more unanimous meeting was never witnessed on any question on which public opinion has been divided. Resolutions applauding the course of Mr. Lincoln on the slavery question, and an address to be provided to him through Mr. Adams were adopted. Some uproar and confusion occurred toward the conclusion of the meeting; but with this exception everything passed off very happily.
[ NINE ]
Or, Another Player Makes
His Long-Anticipated Entrance
MY SUCCESS WAS COMPLETE—TOO COMPLETE, PERHAPS. For Mr. Barnum decided I was so popular, it would be prudent to postpone the expensive European tour. We argued, but finally he showed me the projections for the income we could expect if I appeared at his Museum right away.
I had no reply to that—other than to show him that he could add an extra two hundred dollars a week to my salary, as compensation for my understandable disappointment. He swore mildly but in the end did not appear to mind too much as he signed the check.
Indeed, I think he admired me even more.
P. T. Barnum’s American Museum! How sad to note how little it is remembered these days! Children of this time have no memory of it. They don’t even realize how very much they have missed by not growing up while it was still standing.
I first entered it, accompanied by Mr. Barnum, through a private door that the majority of the public did not even know was there. But later, I insisted upon entering it through the front, just like any member of the public that paid, without grumbling, twenty-five cents each. For nowhere else on earth had there ever been such an assemblage of novelties, animals, music, culture, science, and entertainment all in one place.
You first approached the Museum from the corner of Broadway and Ann Street in Lower Manhattan; it was surrounded by many thriving businesses, including Mr. Mathew Brady’s daguerreotype studio, which I would come to know quite well. The street at this intersection was wide enough to accommodate the throngs of people always milling about in case one of the living exhibits might appear for a stroll or a brief, tempting display of his talent. The building itself was five stories of white stone, with the name “Barnum” prominently featured in red letters above the third-floor windows. Panels depicting the various animals and exhibits, including Tom Thumb, were painted gaudily on the face of the stone. Flags flew in a line atop the roof, and the second and third stories each had a wrought-iron fenced balcony stretching their lengths. On one of these balconies, a band in brightly festooned uniforms played; they were singular for their absolutely awful musicianship. Indeed, Mr. Barnum confessed to me that he had hired them expressly for their lack of talent! He wanted the people inside the Museum, and if they had to endure a cacophony of out-of-tune instruments, he reasoned, they would not remain long outside.
After paying admission, families, immigrants, Society people, farmers in their finest, and a constant parade of newspapermen from all over the world mingled together as they took in the wonders to be seen. And such wonders! On the first floor, there were halls lined with display cases brimming with the most unusual artifacts, exotic animal bones and skins, minerals, the world’s largest baby tooth, horrifying medical instruments all gleaming with steel and sharp edges, a part of an asteroid that had once killed a farmer’s cow, a thread of the blanket that the Baby Jesus was swaddled in, a real live flea circus, dioramas of all sorts of scenes, even miniature naval battles on real water. There were cases and cages full of preserved animals and skeletons. In one room was the famous “Happy Family,” where, in the same cage, a lion, a tiger, a lamb, and assorted birds all lived together in apparent harmony. (Although Mr. Barnum confessed that the exhibit could continue only as long as he had a fresh supply of lambs and birds!)
On the second floor was the waxworks, where mannequins of famous personalities stood milling about companionably, as if at a silent tea party. There was George Washington, Queen Victoria, the Apostles, Napoléon, Joice Heth (the original humbug herself, the old Negro slave whom Mr. Barnum had tried to pass off as George Washington’s one-hundred-and-sixty-year-old nursemaid, until she died and was discovered to be only eighty), and Jenny Lind. Naturally, Charles Stratton was represented in this hall as well. In one corner stood a tree trunk upon which Jesus Himself had once sat—or so read the inscription. On this floor too was a picture gallery of astoundingly realistic portraits, some that even appeared to pop out of their frames, so breathtakingly lifelike were they. The famous Feejee mermaid was still on display—the crudely stitched-together torso of a monkey and a fish tail that had been the second great example of Mr. Barnum’s ability to whip a gullible public up into a frenzy. This phenomenon was safely behind glass, thank heavens, for I could well imagine how it must smell by now!
And in the middle of the second floor rose the enormous saltwater tank in which a real beluga whale lolled about, alive, but barely. I felt sorry for the poor thing, so confined, so miserable. But it was an extremely popular attraction, indeed. Rare was the person who had ever seen a whale up close, save for Captain Ahab himself!
Strategically placed at intervals were signs that promised This Way to the Egress! I bit my lip when I saw people eagerly going in the direction they pointed, and chided Mr. Barnum about it later. “That is an awful trick to play upon people,” I scolded him.
“I’m not sa
ying anything deceitful at all. It’s not my fault if the educational system in this country is so appalling, no one knows that ‘egress’ is Latin for ‘exit.’ ”
“And so you sit here and take another twenty-five cents each from these poor people who find themselves locked outside, forced to enter again through the ticket booth!”
“Yes, I do. And I need every extra twenty-five cents I can get so that I can pay your heartlessly negotiated contract, cruel woman! So if there’s anyone to blame, it is yourself.”
I had to smile at him. I always smiled at him in those days.
Of course, the noise in the place was horrendous; animals and people all chattering, heavy boots and spurs being dragged across wooden floors, the constant importunate cries of the ticket sellers and the men hired to keep the crowds moving. The smell, too, could be overwhelming: so many humans and animals in close quarters, despite the fact that there were fans everywhere, ventilation holes hidden along the walls. Every part of the Museum was illuminated by the new limelight, which was different than gaslight; it shone much brighter, not nearly so yellow, and lit up the stage of the Lecture Hall brilliantly.
The enormous, elegantly appointed Lecture Hall took up almost the entire third floor of the building, its velvet-curtained balconies extending up to the fourth and fifth floors. I know that in these more modern times, it is difficult to conceive of the necessity of calling what was really a theater a “lecture hall.” But in those Civil War days, the word “theater” was shocking—not just shocking but amoral. It was considered a sin of the highest consequence to step foot into a “theater.”