Читать книгу Struggles amd Triumphs: or, Forty Years' Recollections of P.T. Barnum - Barnum Phineas Taylor - Страница 15

CROSSING THE FRONTIER – PROFESSOR PINTE – QUALIFICATIONS OF A GOOD SHOWMAN – “SOFT SUP” – GENEROUS DISTRIBUTION OF MEDALS – PRINCE CHARLES STRATTON – AT BRUSSELS – PRESENTATION TO KING LEOPOLD AND HIS QUEEN – THE GENERAL’S JEWELS STOLEN – THE THIEF CAUGHT – RECOVERY OF THE PROPERTY – THE FIELD OF WATERLOO – MIRACULOUSLY MULTIPLIED RELICS – CAPTAIN TIPPITIWITCHET OF THE CONNECTICUT FUSILEERS – AN ACCIDENT – GETTING BACK TO BRUSSELS IN A CART – STRATTON SWINDLED – LOSING AN EXHIBITION – TWO HOURS IN THE RAIN ON THE ROAD – THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY – A STRICT CONSTRUCTIONIST – STRATTON’S HEAD SHAVED – “BRUMMAGEM” RELICS – HOW THEY ARE PLANTED AT WATERLOO – WHAT LYONS SAUSAGES ARE MADE OF – FROM BRUSSELS TO LONDON.

IN crossing the border from France into Belgium, Professor Pinte, our interpreter and General Tom Thumb’s preceptor, discovered that he had left his passport behind him – at Lille, at Marseilles, or elsewhere in France, he could not tell where, for it was a long time since he had been called upon to present it. I was much annoyed and indignantly told him that he “would never make a good showman, because a good showman never forgot anything.” I could see that my allusion to him as a “showman” was by no means pleasant, which leads me to recount the circumstances under which I was first brought in contact with the Professor.

He was really a “Professor” and teacher of English in one of the best educational establishments in Paris. Very soon after opening my exhibitions in that city, I saw the necessity of having a translator who was qualified to act as a medium between the General and the highly cultivated audiences that daily favored us at our levees. I had begun with a not over-cultivated interpreter, who, when the General personated Cupid, for instance, would cry out “Coopeed,” to which some one would be sure to respond “Stoopeed,” to the annoyance of myself and the amusement of the audience. I accordingly determined to procure the best interpreter I could find and I was directed to call upon Professor Pinte. I saw him and briefly stated what I wanted, in what capacity I proposed to employ him, and what salary I would pay him. He was highly indignant and informed me that he was “no showman,” and had no desire to learn or engage in the business.

“But, my dear sir,” said I, “it is not as a showman that I wish to employ your valuable services, but as a preceptor to my young and interesting ward, General Tom Thumb, whom I desire to have instructed in the French language and in other accomplishments you are so competent to impart. At the same time, I should expect that you would be willing to accompany my ward and your pupil and attend his public exhibitions for the purpose of translating, as may be necessary, to the cultivated people of your own class who are the principal patrons of our entertainments.”

This seemed to put an entirely new face upon the matter, especially as I had offered the Professor a salary five times larger, probably, than he was then receiving. So he rapidly revolved the subject in his mind and said:

“Ah! while I could not possibly accept a situation as a showman, I should be most happy to accept the terms and the position as preceptor to your ward.”

He was engaged, and at once entered upon his duties, not only as preceptor to the General, but as the efficient and always excellent interpreter at our exhibitions, and wherever we needed his services on the route. As he had lost his passport, when we came to Courtrai on the Belgian frontier, I managed to procure a permit for him which enabled him to proceed with the party. This was but the beginning of difficulties, for I had all our property, including the General’s ponies and equipage, to pass through the Custom-house, and among other things there was a large box of medals, with a likeness of the General on one side and of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert on the other side, which were sold in large numbers as souvenirs at our exhibitions. They were struck off at a considerable expense in England, and commanded a ready sale.

The Custom-house officers were informed, however, that these medals were mere advertising cards, as they really were, of our exhibitions, and I begged their acceptance of as many as they pleased to put in their pockets. They were beautiful medals, and a few dozen were speedily distributed among the delighted officials, who forthwith passed our show-bills, lithographs and other property with very little trouble. They wanted, however, to charge a duty upon the General’s ponies and carriage, but when I produced a document showing that the French government had admitted them duty-free, they did the same. This superb establishment led these officials to think he must be a very distinguished man, and they asked what rank he held in his own country.

“He is Prince Charles Stratton, of the Dukedom of Bridgeport, in the Kingdom of Connecticut,” said Sherman.

Whereupon they all reverently raised their hats when the General entered the car. Some of the railway men who had seen the distribution of medals among the Custom-house officers came to me and begged similar “souvenirs” of their distinguished passenger, and I gave the medals very freely, till the applications became so persistent as to threaten a serious pecuniary loss. At last I handed out a final dozen in one package, and said: “There, that is the last of them; the rest are in the box, and beyond my reach.”

All this while Professor Pinte was brooding over my remark to him about the loss of his passport; the word “showman” rankled, and he asked me:

“Mr. Barnum, do you consider me a showman?”

I laughingly replied, “Why, I consider you the eminent Professor Pinte, preceptor to General Tom Thumb; but, after all, we are all showmen.”

Finding himself so classed with the rest of us, he ventured to inquire “what were the qualifications of a good showman,” to which I replied:

“He must have a decided taste for catering for the public; prominent perceptive faculties; tact; a thorough knowledge of human nature; great suavity; and plenty of ‘soft soap.’ ”

“Soft sup!” exclaimed the interested Professor, “what is ‘soft sup.’ ”

I explained, as best I could, how the literal meaning of the words had come to convey the idea of getting into the good graces of people and pleasing those with whom we are brought in contact. Pinte laughed, and as he thought of the generous medal distribution, an idea struck him:

“I think those railway officials must have very dirty hands – you are compelled to use so much ‘soft sup.’ ”

Brussels is Paris in miniature and is one of the most charming cities I ever visited. We found elegant quarters, and the day after our arrival by command we visited King Leopold and the Queen at their palace. The King and Queen had already seen the General in London, but they wished to present him to their children and to the distinguished persons whom we found assembled. After a most agreeable hour we came away – the General, as usual, receiving many fine presents.

The following day, I opened the exhibition in a beautiful hall, which on that day and on every afternoon and evening while we remained there, was crowded by throngs of the first people in the city. On the second or third day, in the midst of the exhibition, I suddenly missed the case containing the valuable presents the General had received from kings, queens, noblemen and gentlemen, and instantly gave the alarm; some thief had intruded for the express purpose of stealing these jewels, and, in the crowd, had been entirely successful in his object.

The police were notified, and I offered 2,000 francs reward for the recovery of the property. A day or two afterwards a man went into a jeweller’s shop and offered for sale, among other things, a gold snuff-box, mounted with turquoises, and presented by the Duke of Devonshire to the General. The jeweller, seeing the General’s initials on the box, sharply questioned the man, who became alarmed and ran out of the shop. An alarm was raised, and the man was caught. He made a clean breast of it, and in the course of a few hours the entire property was returned, to the great delight of the General and myself. Wherever we exhibited afterwards, no matter how respectable the audience, the case of presents was always carefully watched.

While I was in Brussels I could do no less than visit the battle-field of Waterloo, and I proposed that our party should be composed of Professor Pinte, Mr. Stratton, father of General Tom Thumb, Mr. H. G. Sherman, and myself. Going sight-seeing was a new sensation to Stratton, and as it was necessary to start by four o’clock in the morning, in order to accomplish the distance (sixteen miles) and return in time for our afternoon performance, he demurred.

“I don’t want to get up before daylight and go off on a journey for the sake of seeing a darned old field of wheat,” said Stratton.

“Sherwood, do try to be like somebody, once in your life, and go,” said his wife.

The appeal was irresistible, and he consented. We engaged a coach and horses the night previous, and started punctually at the hour appointed. We stopped at the neat little church in the village of Waterloo, for the purpose of examining the tablets erected to the memory of some of the English who fell in the contest. Thence we passed to the house in which the leg of Lord Uxbridge (Marquis of Anglesey) was amputated. A neat little monument in the garden designates the spot where the shattered member had been interred. In the house is shown a part of the boot which is said to have once covered the unlucky leg. The visitor feels it but considerate to hand a franc or two to the female who exhibits the monument and limb. I did so, and Stratton, though he felt that he had not received the worth of his money, still did not like to be considered penurious, so he handed over a piece of silver coin to the attendant. I expressed a desire to have a small piece of the boot to exhibit in my Museum; the lady cut off, without hesitation, a slip three inches long by one in width. I handed her a couple more francs, and Stratton desiring, as he said, to “show a piece of the boot in old Bridgeport,” received a similar slip, and paid a similar amount. I could not help thinking that if the lady was thus liberal in dispensing pieces of the “identical boot” to all visitors, this must have been about the ninety-nine thousandth boot that had been cut as the “Simon pure” since 1815.

With the consoling reflection that the female purchased all the cast-off boots in Brussels and its vicinity, and rejoicing that somebody was making a trifle out of that accident besides the inventor of the celebrated “Anglesey leg,” we passed on towards the battle-field, lying about a mile distant.

Arriving at Mont Saint Jean, a quarter of a mile from the ground, we were beset by some eighteen or twenty persons, who offered their services as guides, to indicate the most important localities. Each applicant professed to know the exact spot where every man had been placed who had taken part in the battle, and each, of course, claimed to have been engaged in that sanguinary contest, although it had occurred thirty years before, and some of these fellows were only, it seemed, from twenty-five to twenty-eight years of age! We accepted an old man, who, at first declared that he was killed in the battle, but perceiving our looks of incredulity, consented to modify his statement so far as to assert that he was horribly wounded, and lay upon the ground three days before receiving assistance.

Once upon the ground, our guide, with much gravity, pointed out the place where the Duke of Wellington took his station during a great part of the action; the locality where the reserve of the British army was stationed; the spot where Napoleon placed his favorite guard; the little mound on which was erected a temporary observatory for his use during the battle; the portion of the field at which Blucher entered with the Prussian army; the precise location of the Scotch Greys; the spot where fell Sir Alexander Gordon, Lieut. Col. Canning, and many others of celebrity. I asked him if he could tell me where Captain Tippitiwichet, of the Connecticut Fusileers, was killed. “Oui, Monsieur,” he replied, with perfect confidence, for he felt bound to know, or to pretend to know, every particular. He then proceeded to point out exactly the spot where my unfortunate Connecticut friend had breathed his last. After indicating the locations where some twenty more fictitious friends from Coney Island, New Jersey, Cape Cod and Saratoga Springs, had given up the ghost, we handed him his commission and declined to give him further trouble. Stratton grumbled at the imposition as he handed out a couple of francs for the information received.

Upon quitting the battle-field we were accosted by a dozen persons of both sexes with baskets on their arms or bags in their hands, containing relics of the battle for sale. These consisted of a great variety of implements of war, pistols, bullets, etc., besides brass French eagles, buttons, etc. I purchased a number of them for the Museum, and Stratton was equally liberal in obtaining a supply for his friends in “Old Bridgeport.” We also purchased maps of the battle-ground, pictures of the triumphal mound surmounted by the colossal Belgic Lion in bronze, etc., etc. These frequent and renewed taxations annoyed Stratton very much, and as he handed out a five franc piece for a “complete guide-book,” he remarked, that “he guessed the battle of Waterloo had cost a darned sight more since it was fought than it did before!”

But his misfortunes did not terminate here. When we had proceeded four or five miles upon our road home, crash went the carriage. We alighted, and found that the axle-tree was broken. It was now a quarter past one o’clock. The little General’s exhibition was advertised to commence in Brussels at two o’clock, and could not take place without us. We were unable to walk the distance in double the time at our disposal, and as no carriage was to be got in that part of the country, I concluded to take the matter easy, and forego all idea of exhibiting before evening. Stratton, however, could not bear the thought of losing the chance of taking in six or eight hundred francs, and he determined to take matters in hand, in order, if possible, to get our party into Brussels in time to save the afternoon exhibition. He hastened to a farm-house, accompanied by the interpreter, Professor Pinte, Sherman and myself leisurely bringing up the rear. Stratton asked the old farmer if he had a carriage. He had not. “Have you no vehicle?” he inquired.

“Yes, I have that vehicle,” he replied, pointing to an old cart filled with manure, and standing in his barnyard.

“Thunder! is that all the conveyance you have got?” asked Stratton. Being assured that it was, Stratton concluded that it was better to ride in a manure cart than not get to Brussels in time.

“What will you ask to drive us to Brussels in three-quarters of an hour?” demanded Stratton.

“It is impossible,” replied the farmer; “I should want two hours for my horse to do it in.”

“But ours is a very pressing case, and if we are not there in time we lose more than five hundred francs,” said Stratton.

The old farmer pricked up his ears at this, and agreed to get us to Brussels in an hour, for eighty francs. Stratton tried to beat him down, but it was of no use.

“Oh, go it, Stratton,” said Sherman; “eighty francs you know is only sixteen dollars, and you will probably save a hundred by it, for I expect a full house at our afternoon exhibition to-day.”

“But I have already spent about ten dollars for nonsense,” said Stratton, “and we shall have to pay for the broken carriage besides.”

“But what can you do better?” chimed in Professor Pinte.

“It is an outrageous extortion to charge sixteen dollars for an old horse and cart to go ten miles. Why, in old Bridgeport I could get it done for three dollars,” replied Stratton, in a tone of vexation.

“It is the custom of the country,” said Professor Pinte, “and we must submit to it.”

By the way, this was a favorite expression of the Professor’s. Whenever we were imposed upon, or felt that we were not used right, Pinte would always endeavor to smooth it over by informing us it was “the custom of the country.”

“Well, it’s a thundering mean custom, any how,” said Stratton, “and I wont stand such an imposition.”

“But what shall we do?” earnestly inquired Mr. Pinte. “It may be a high price, but it is better to pay that than to lose our afternoon performance and five or six hundred francs.”

This appeal to the pocket touched Stratton’s feelings; so submitting to the extortion, he replied to our interpreter, “Well, tell the old robber to dump his dung-cart as soon as possible, or we shall lose half an hour in starting.”

The cart was “dumped” and a large, lazy-looking Flemish horse was attached to it with a rope harness. Some boards were laid across the cart for seats, the party tumbled into the rustic vehicle, a red-haired boy, son of the old farmer, mounted the horse, and Stratton gave orders to “get along.” “Wait a moment,” said the farmer, “you have not paid me yet,” “I’ll pay your boy when we get to Brussels, provided he gets there within the hour,” replied Stratton.

“Oh, he is sure to get there in an hour,” said the farmer, “but I can’t let him go unless you pay in advance.” The minutes were flying rapidly, the anticipated loss of the day exhibition of General Tom Thumb flitted before his eyes, and Stratton, in very desperation, thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth sixteen five-franc pieces, which he dropped, one at a time, into the hand of the farmer, and then called out to the boy, “There now, do try to see if you can go ahead.”

The boy did go ahead, but it was with such a snail’s pace that it would have puzzled a man of tolerable eyesight to have determined whether the horse was moving or standing still. To make it still more interesting, it commenced raining furiously. As we had left Brussels in a coach, and the morning had promised us a pleasant day, we had omitted our umbrellas. We were soon soaked to the skin. We “grinned and bore it” awhile without grumbling. At length Stratton, who was almost too angry to speak, desired Mr. Pinte to ask the red-haired boy if he expected to walk his horse all the way to Brussels.

“Certainly,” replied the boy; “he is too big and fat to do any thing but walk. We never trot him.”

Stratton was terrified as he thought of the loss of the day exhibition; and he cursed the boy, the cart, the rain, the luck, and even the battle of Waterloo itself. But it was all of no use, the horse would not run, but the rain did – down our backs.

At two o’clock, the time appointed for our exhibition, we were yet some seven miles from Brussels. The horse walked slowly and philosophically through the pitiless storm, the steam majestically rising from the old manure-cart, to the no small disturbance of our unfortunate olfactories. “It will take two hours to get to Brussels at this rate,” growled Stratton. “Oh, no,” replied the boy, “it will only take about two hours from the time we started.”

“But your father agreed to get us there in an hour,” answered Stratton.

“I know it,” responded the boy, “but he knew it would take more than two.”

“I’ll sue him for damage, by thunder,” said Stratton.

“Oh, there would be no use in that,” chimed in Mr. Pinte, “for you could get no satisfaction in this country.”

“But I shall lose more than a hundred dollars by being two hours instead of one,” said Stratton.

“They care nothing about that; all they care for is your eighty francs,” remarked Pinte.

“But they have lied and swindled me,” replied Stratton.

“Oh, you must not mind that, it is the custom of the country.”

Stratton gave “the country,” and its “customs,” another cursing.

All things will finally have an end, and our party did at length actually arrive in Brussels, cart and all, in precisely two hours and a half from the time we left the farmers house. Of course we were too late to exhibit the little General. Hundreds of visitors had gone away disappointed.

With feelings of utter desperation, Stratton started for a barber’s shop. He had a fine, black, bushy head of hair, of which he was a little proud, and every morning he submitted it to the curling-tongs of the barber. His hair had not been cut for several weeks, and after being shaved, he desired the barber to trim his flowing locks a little. The barber clipped off the ends of the hair, and asked Stratton if that was sufficient. “No,” he replied, “I want it trimmed a little shorter; cut away, and I will tell you when to stop.”

Stratton had risen from bed at an unusual hour, and after having passed through the troubles and excitements of the unlucky morning, he began to feel a little drowsy. This feeling was augmented by the soothing sensations of the tonsorial process, and while the barber quietly pursued his avocation, Stratton as quietly fell asleep. The barber went entirely over his head, cutting off a couple of inches of hair with every clip of his scissors. He then rested for a moment; expecting his customer would tell him that it was sufficient; but the unconscious Stratton uttered not a word, and the barber, thinking he had not cut the hair close enough, went over the head again. Again did he wait for an answer, little thinking that his patron was asleep. Remembering that Stratton had told him to “cut away, and he would tell him when to stop,” the innocent barber went over the head the third time, cutting the hair nearly as close as if he had shaved it with a razor! Having finished, he again waited for orders from his customer, but he uttered not a word. The barber was surprised, and that surprise was increased when he heard a noise which seemed very like a snore coming from the nasal organ of his unconscious victim.

The poor barber saw the error that he had committed, and in dismay, as if by mistake, he hit Stratton on the side of the head with his scissors, and woke him. He started to his feet, looked in the glass, and to his utter horror saw that he was unfit to appear in public without a wig! He swore like a trooper, but he could not swear the hair back on to his head, and putting on his hat, which dropped loosely over his eyes, he started for the hotel. His despair and indignation were so great that it was some time before he could give utterance to words of explanation. His feelings were not allayed by the deafening burst of laughter which ensued. He said it was the first time that he ever went a sight-seeing, and he guessed it would be the last!

Several months subsequent to our visit to Waterloo, I was in Birmingham, and there made the acquaintance of a firm who manufactured to order, and sent to Waterloo, barrels of “relics” every year. At Waterloo these “relics” are planted, and in due time dug up, and sold at large prices as precious remembrances of the great battle. Our Waterloo purchases looked rather cheap after this discovery.

While we were in Brussels, Mrs. Stratton, the mother of the General, tasted some sausages which she declared the best things she had eaten in France or Belgium; in fact, she said “she had found little that was fit to eat in this country, for every thing was so Frenchified and covered in gravy, she dared not eat it; but there was something that tasted natural about these sausages; she had never eaten any as good, even in America.” She sent to the landlady to inquire the name of them, for she meant to buy some to take along with her. The answer came that they were called “saucisse de Lyon,” (Lyons sausages,) and straightway Mrs. Stratton went out and purchased half a dozen pounds. Mr. Sherman soon came in, and, on learning what she had in her package, he remarked: “Mrs. Stratton, do you know what Lyons sausages are made of?”

“No,” she replied; “but I know that they are first-rate!”

“Well,” replied Sherman, “they may be good, but they are made from donkeys!” which is said to be the fact. Mrs. Stratton said she was not to be fooled so easily – that she knew better, and that she should stick to the sausages.

Presently Professor Pinte entered the room. “Mr. Pinte,” said Sherman, “you are a Frenchman, and know every thing about edibles; pray tell me what Lyons sausages are made of.”

“Of asses,” replied the inoffensive professor.

Mrs. Stratton seized the package, the street window was open, and, in less than a minute, a large brindle dog was bearing the “Lyons sausages” triumphantly away.

There were many other amusing incidents during our brief stay at Brussels, but I have no space to record them. After a very pleasant and successful week, we returned to London.