Jenny and Barnum (30 page)

Barnum had always thought Anna's brain as small as her body large, a good soul, but stupid, believing everything she was told, and constitutionally incapable of coming to grips with her own mammoth problem. That Jenny Lind had taken Anna into her confidence, whatever the reason, made Barnum believe he would have to think twice about getting close to Jenny Lind.

And that prospect left Barnum in a very sour frame of mind for his other problems. While it was clear that for the sake of his business he had to do something about Lavinia's complaints, just what was it that he was
supposed
to do? Bringing down to New York the big fellow who had been found in Maine would distract Anna temporarily, but that did nothing for Lavinia, who still had to live with all the other people who had been privy to Anna's gossip. Barnum did not want to lose Lavinia—or Joe Gallagher, for that matter, for the simple reason that they made money for him. On the other hand, Barnum did not want to be seen by the public as condoning something so immoral as “living in sin”—it was bad enough that millions of people believed that midgets and dwarfs were
conceived
in sin.

“Lavinia, I promise you that I will do everything in my power to see that you are not made to suffer because of this. I'll start by telling all concerned to keep their big mouths shut.”

“Does that include Jenny Lind?” she cried. “I hate her, Barnum. Charlie's been taken in by her, and I can tell by the expression on your face that you want to be a bigger fool than he is!”

Barnum studied her. For some reason her words had made him remember that last night's dream had been a sweet one, and now he felt exceedingly embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Later in the afternoon came the final shock. In a letter delivered by hand from her hotel, Jenny Lind demanded that her contract be completely renegotiated. She was now convinced that her name and reputation were so well known on this side of the Atlantic that she was entitled to half the profits. In view of the fact that as late as February this year a railroad conductor had thought her a dancer, Barnum would have paused to contemplate the irony of all his efforts, but there was more: while she was still willing to perform 150 concerts for Barnum, she wanted the option, on terms to be negotiated, of terminating the contract after 60 concerts. Why? To be able to tour on her own, and keep
all
the money!

12.

The next day, Wednesday, the crowds were even larger, choking the street so that traffic could not get through to the entrance of the hotel. An eerie roaring carried over the rooftops for more than a mile, and police on horseback were summoned to restore order. When Barnum got news of that, he sent one of his men up to the Irving House with a pocketful of cash to keep the municipal cossacks from braining too many of the paying customers.

The newspapers were full of tales and tidbits derived from Tuesday's press conference, and Barnum's broadsides and handbills were all over town, but Barnum's agents, passing through the crowd to distribute discount passes to Barnum's American Museum, learned that many people had come down to the hotel because they believed, or had heard, the most fantastic stories about Jenny Lind—that she was the most beautiful woman in the history of the world, for example. That was mild. An Irish parlormaid insisted that Jenny had been visited by the Blessed Virgin Mary. A man said that Jenny was really Victoria's illegitimate child, years younger than the age people were given, born when the Queen of England was fifteen, and smuggled into Swedish exile to protect the British Throne.

If he'd had the time, Barnum would have collected all such nonsense, for the simple reason that the LINDOMANIA of which John Hall Wilton had warned him exceeded anything Barnum could have imagined, and certainly anything he knew from history. Hannibal had crossed the Alps with thirty-eight thousand men; in the afternoon hours before her first concert on Thursday night, twice that number were lining both sides of Broadway to pay homage to Jenny Lind and her entourage proceeding to Castle Garden. By then, her triumphant arrival in the New World had pushed beyond consideration every other person and event—Lincoln, the awful political situation, even the juiciest love-triangle murder of the decade.

Barnum estimated that there was no one in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, or Washington who was not aware that Jenny Lind was now in America—and that notion alone made it the most important event of the moment.

And because of that, now the politicians were trying to elbow their way into the spotlight. Two governors and seven senators had sent notes requesting free tickets, to which Barnum had replied that his contract with Miss Lind prevented such courtesies—a lovely variant on the truth. The mayor had gotten wind of Jenny's planned charitable contributions, and His Worship, as Barnum called him, had informed Barnum that he wanted to “advise the glorious Miss Lind” on her choice of beneficiaries. Barnum could only wonder how the old grafter had been able to arrange his kickbacks so quickly. While Barnum could turn away the political moochers angling for free passes, the mayor, with his control over licenses, permits, and the rest, was in a position to cause trouble, if he did not get his share of the glory—and whatever else he wanted.

It was the way of the world. A few of the widows and orphans would remain unattended, but there was some consolation in the fact that they were no worse off than they had been before. All Barnum had to do was keep that fact of American Life from the semi-innocent Miss Lind—semi-innocent, Barnum thought now, because she knew much more than she was willing to admit, about several different areas of human conduct, even if political graft wasn't one of them.

For all the publicity, nothing of the renegotiated contract between Lind and Barnum was to be breathed to the press. The oversnuffling journalists would want to know why a renegotiation had taken place, and whether they were given all the facts or not, they would surely contrive more—and more outlandish—reasons why the principals had decided on terms obviously more favorable to Miss Lind. Keeeping the presses running, the correspondents would begin hinting that there was trouble between Lind and Barnum, that tempers were flashing, each was accusing the other of greed, and so forth—none of it having anything to do with the truth. The truth was, everybody was happy, and peace reigned again in Barnum's kingdom.

Of course, that had been Barnum's first goal from the start. The appearance of tranquillity would not stand if it did not have a solid basis in fact. As an entrepreneur, Barnum had to deal with the situation as it was—or, as one of his lieutenants had inelegantly but accurately put it, he “couldn't make the bitch sing if she didn't want to.”

Precisely so. Barnum closeted himself with paper and pencil and explored the various possible options and strategies, making lists of what she wanted and what he was willing to concede, what he thought would make her happy, and what he believed was absolutely necessary to him. There was the presence of Waldo Collins to consider, a presence Barnum would just as soon see fade into nothingness. And then there was the personality of Jenny herself, struggling under the weight of her advertised immense talent as well as other, more earthly, burdens.

The solution was so simple and astounding that Barnum sat with it in his office through the gloom of Tuesday's twilight into the full black flood of the cold spring night, more than four hours, considering every element, deciding it really was the thing to do.

He sent a man around to the Irving House to see if Jenny Lind could meet with him within the hour. It was almost nine o'clock, and if it was at all possible, Barnum wanted to see her alone, without Waldo Collins around.

Barnum's man returned with a message from the maid that Miss Lind was resting, but that she would be pleased to see Mr. Barnum briefly, if he could come before nine-thirty. Barnum pushed through the crowd—reduced to about a thousand, because of the lateness of the hour—with less than a minute to spare.

The maid, Hannelore, showed him into the expensive suite. Jenny, wearing a robe, was seated on the sofa; opposite her was the awesome and faithful Miss Holobaugh, writing on a pad; and between them, on the coffee table, a great excretion of correspondence.

“Hannelore, get Mr. Barnum some coffee.”

“No, thank you,” he interjected quickly. “It sours my stomach. Some Saratoga Vichy, if you don't mind.”

Jenny laughed. “You are so full of surprises, Barnum. For a flamboyant man, you live such a modest and quiet existence. Miss Holobaugh, before you go help Hannelore, would you mind terribly getting a chair for Mr. Barnum? It may be past his bedtime and he could be tired.”

“I'm glad to see you in a happier mood, my dear,” he said genially, as if glad to play her buffoon.

“Yes, I apologize. I was very emotional this morning. But surely you understand. If you fell ill, someone could take your place and do your job, at least for a while. I have no such luxury.”

“Your work is infinitely more exacting than mine,” he said. “I am also allowed the luxury of an occasional lapse or mistake.”

“Singers make mistakes, too, but we learn at an early age that there are many ways to conceal them.”

He was still gauging her mood. “Naturally, Jenny, I've been carefully considering the letter you sent over to my museum this afternoon. It would seem that we are on the way to success with this venture, the magnitude of which no one could have foreseen. Certainly not I—and, you remember, I offered you more money for your American debut than any other producer here. Your original acceptance of my offer was wise on two counts, I think, the first being that you knew that that offer was a fair reflection of your ability to bring your many American admirers into theaters and halls to hear you sing. The second count has to do with my ability to provide you with the proper showcases, publicity, and simple know-how to facilitate the selling of every single ticket we have to offer. I'm pleased to tell you that these are now sold out, and that President Buchanan has asked if you will sing for him in the White House, which is what we call the President's residence—”

“Palace,” she said.

“Yes, although Americans carefully avoid words like that, words associated with royalty—”

“Silly.”

“Perhaps. I daresay your appearance in the White House will be the high point of Buchanan's administration—he hasn't done anything else.”

She had drawn her mouth up small, her lips almost blue, all through his recitation. She was frightened of him, frightened of this. On her own, she wouldn't have had the nerve to try to break a contract. Wilton had told him that she had done it once before, when the terms had been distinctly unfavorable to her, and the London impresario had sued her, kept her out of the United Kingdom for years, and finally had recovered handsomely from her. This attempt to renegotiate was Waldo Collins' idea, but that no longer mattered. The seed was planted, and the change in her attitude was proof enough that it had taken root. The truth was, Barnum had never known anyone like her before. Under the faith and charity was an emotional, wary, and high-strung creature like a thoroughbred horse.

Barnum moved forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You cannot work unless you are content. I recognize that. Anything less is intolerable—impossible. So let us meet each other in the true, positive, productive spirit of partnership, one working to help the other. After the receipts have met my fees and expenses, which my figures say amount to $5,500 per concert, we will divide the profits evenly, right down the line.”

Jenny gasped; her cheeks colored: understanding had come upon her so suddenly that she was now blushing. He wanted to press on and drive the point home.

“Our second concert will apparently net some fourteen thousand dollars. After my expenses, we will divide slightly less than nine thousand. Since you've already received one thousand in your advance, another three thousand will be deposited to the escrow account in London, where your legal guardian, Judge Munthe, will be able to take proper care, and confirm via the bank's statements that your interests are being served as I have promised.” He paused for effect, but she looked so flushed and happy that he could not be sure if what he was saying was registering with her at all.

Barnum added, “In return—and I think this is fair—I must insist that you perform a minimum of one hundred concerts under my sponsorship. Anything less, and a few poorly attended evenings, or the luck of bad weather, and I could wind up losing money on the whole venture.”

She blinked. “Yes, I can see how that would be possible.”

He knew he was not going to be able to settle the matter at this meeting. She was too unsure of herself, too dependent on Collins' connection to Munthe and what she thought it meant. Barnum said, “I'm sure you have no doubt that I'm working very hard to come to a happy resolution to our problems—”

“Oh yes.” She stood up, as if she suddenly felt she had to show her enthusiasm, lest he would not believe her. “Yes!” she cried. “I see! You are the most wonderful man, Barnum, so generous, honest, and kind! But please, let me consider! Let me talk to Mr. Collins.”

Barnum did not move, and only looked up at her. “The offer is all of a piece. I cannot give one side without the promise of the other.”

She clasped her hands. “Yes, I know! My response tomorrow will make you happy, believe that!” Her eyes were radiant. “You
are
a wonderful man, Barnum.”

He stood up, and reached to untangle her hands. She was so agitated that he felt responsible for her. His impulse, he realized even at the moment, was rooted in vanity and stupidity, for he had not forgotten that she was an artist, one of the rare human beings capable of creating anything at all, and a nervous, unhappy woman besides. She took his hands and pressed them against her cheek. He was startled—and aroused: she was a passionate woman, too, as he had known. One of his lieutenants had taken it upon himself to bribe the hotel staff, and had ungallantly reported the 3
A.M
. departure of the piano player, Otto the Pale, from the lady's suite. Oh, Barnum was aroused: he had been a desperate sinner in years past, and—he was discovering again—still had a taste for a well-wrought intrigue. Subtly, ah, slyly, he could feel her pressing warmly against him. The odor of her skin was warm, embracing. It buckled his knees. He put his lips to her forehead, seemingly chaste, in a rush of lascivious intent. Charlie had told him about the stray hair on the nape of her neck—that had been Monday morning, when Barnum had taken the pilot boat out to the
Great Western
. Poor Charlie: he was in love with this one, too, along with Lavinia. Charlie wanted to stay in New York for Jenny's concert the way heroes faced death. Jenny kissed Barnum now; she kissed him, put her soft, full lips on his lips, invited him to taste her moisture on the opening inner edges of her lips. She was breathless suddenly, and he was holding her in his arms as Hannelore and Miss Holobaugh re-entered the room. Barnum loved moments like this. The ladies-in-waiting were shocked, flustered—but there
were
social covenants, even for moments like this. He was supposed to feign embarrassment, since he was too old to feel it. But why bother? He kissed this woman again, kissed her chastely, but so lingeringly—that the spell between lasted a few seconds more.