Marc Olden - Poe must die

Barnum was an amiable fraud, a champion hoaxer and humbug specialist who always managed to entertain and therefore offended no one. He took your twenty-five cents at the door and delivered illusions, jokes, songs, dances and the most interesting nonsense available. He had created what he called “the show business,” none of it as impressive as Phineas Taylor Barnum himself, a man who had made self advertising an art form. He was world famous, wealthy and a believer in his own maxim that “There is a sucker born every minute.” He should have added, thought Poe, that there is also a Barnum waiting outside of the womb to fleece the newborn fool.

The thirty-seven-year-old highly successful showman was 6’2”, fleshy and running to fat, with a nose the size of a potato, blue eyes, full mouth and fast disappearing curly hair. Tonight he wore a suit of bright pink squares outlined in dark green, a frilly yellow shirt, red cravat and his squeaky voice hit Poe’s ears like an icicle, particularly when the squeak was intense, as it was at this particular moment.

“The goat is shitting!” Barnum’s heated squeak was aimed at a pockmarked blond youth who cringed in the doorway of the small basement room. “I know goddam well the goat is shitting! What I summoned you down here to learn, most callow youth, is why the goat is shitting and what is being done to stem this particular tide.”

“Mr. Barnum, we have tried everything imaginable to get the goat to stop-”

“Dear Homer. Tonight on the five stories of these very premises are thousands of Americans, a goodly portion of whom will undoubtedly repair to the lecture hall where they will expect our goat to tap out a lively, though simple tune on a toy piano. Now get upstairs and do not reappear in my presence until you are able to assure me that the goat will not fail those Americans who have come to expect P. T. Barnum to deliver in full.”

As the young man turned and fled up the stairs, Poe watched Barnum give his attention to a pair of Negro men who sat at a long wooden table stuffing a dead bald eagle. The smell was horrible; the stench from the dead bird along with the elements used to preserve his carcass threatened to mangle Poe’s nostrils and leave him prostrate on the floor. Neither of the coloreds, each of whom wore a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, impressed Poe as being speedy at his task, which is what Barnum was exhorting them to be.

“Hannibal and Job, may I be allowed to inform you pair of stone-fingered Africans that you are faced with one eagle, not a flock of same. Cease handling the deceased as though it were made of porcelain. Stuff, then sew. Stuff, then sew. And you will both receive your reward in heaven, if not on this earth.”

Barnum touched a handkerchief to his nostrils. “Damn bird is more offensive in death than he ever was in life. I pay these darkies four dollars a week and it’s rare I get as much as twelve hours a day out of them, let alone more.”

He looked at Poe and Figg. “Upstairs I have on exhibition such eye-catching marvels as the wooden leg of Santa Ana, a bearded woman who stands nine feet tall and weighs four hundred and twenty pounds and I have fleas in my employ, sir, fleas who do the most astounding things. Upstairs there are jugglers, a family of pig-faced humans, lecturers on every topic know to human reason, ventriloquists and the one and only General Tom Thumb, that thirty inches of marvelous man, a midget born but a giant among giants. But tonight, tonight I am cursed with a goat who gives every indication of shitting forty days and forty nights and two fumble-figgered Ethiopians on the verge of being defeated by a dead eagle. Gentlemen, I find the odor in this room taxing. Let us retire to the stairs where we can converse and I can gaze down upon these two slackers as they rob me of a week’s salary.”

From the bottom step, Barnum watched the two Negros prepare the bald eagle for exhibition; Poe and Figg stood a few steps above him, Figg doing most of the talking, his husky voice telling Barnum in plain words of his murdered wife, of Jonathan, and of the men he had followed from London to Barnum’s American Museum. Poe noticed that no mention was made of the brutal way in which Althea Figg had died.

A frowning Barnum turned to look at Figg. “My deepest sympathies on the death of your wife, sir. I can only imagine your sorrow, though I know that should such a fate befall my darling Charity, I would be crushed. I can tell you that such men as you describe are with me now and yes, the Renaissance Players you refer to did recently join me from London, at my express invitation. Their arrival does coincide with the time you claim they departed England. I encountered them during my final year in Europe. Some four years ago, I first visited your country, dividing my time between England and the continent for more than three years.”

Poe was astounded when Figg said, “I was at Buckingham Palace the night of yer first command performance before our gracious Queen.”

Barnum’s eyebrows quickly climbed to the top of his round face. “You were present on that momentous occasion?”

“I was indeed.”

“Ah, let me say that this was a night for the ages. Charlie-what I call General Tom Thumb, for Charles S. Stratton is his Christian name-Charlie and I dressed for the occasion, him in brown silk and velvet, the both of us in knee britches. Two Yankees in the court of courts. Your indeed gracious Queen, sir, was instrumental in making my fortune, for after having been received at court, the world then became my oyster and since then I have dined well.”

A curious Poe asked Figg the reason for his being at Buckingham Palace.

“I was the guest of the Duke of Wellington and Prince Albert hisself. There was some talk about me teachin’ the Prince of Wales the use of his fists, as every gentleman should know somethin’ of this art. But the Prince he was only three at the time and it was decided that he was too young.”

Barnum said, “Mr. Poe mentioned earlier that you are acquainted with Mr. Charles Dickens, whom I also met in London. Mr. Dickens is a most successful author, a man expert at generating large sums of money for his work.”

Poe shifted uncomfortably on the steps. He saw Figg look at him, then look at Barnum and say, “’E’s ‘ad ‘is hard times, Mr. Dickens has. ’E’s been cheated more than once and some of his friends ain’t really his friends, if you know what I mean.”

Barnum nodded, silently encouraging to continue.

Figg said, “Indeed Mr. Dickens is quite successful, sir-”

“His cash register rings,” said Barnum. It was a sound dear to the showman’s ear, Poe noted.

“Here now,” said Figg. “It ain’t all that simple. You gets to be high and mighty and other people always resent it. They don’t want you lookin’ down on them. Mr. Dickens ain’t no different. He’s got those what envy him and are more than jealous besides. Mr. William Thackeray, ‘e jealous. Mr. Thomas Carlyle, ’e says Mr. Dickens ain’t nothin’ but an entertainer and both these gents, Thackeray and Carlyle, they are ‘spose to be friends of Mr. Dickens. Mr. Alfred Tennyson is a friend, leastwise I think ‘e is, but with that long face he carries ‘round with him, one can never tell. I know for a fact that Mr. Dickens has been betrayed and hurt on more than one occasion and I don’t mean just in regards to his purse. The world will harm you if it can, I figure.”

For a few seconds, Poe had the feeling that Figg was showing him some tiny bit of sympathy. But the writer quickly rejected the idea. How could someone as close to a Neanderthal as Figg was, be blessed with even a modicum of sensitivity. Yet Figg had been in the company of some of the most creative men in the English language and what’s more, he seemed to have a speck of insight into their real attitude towards Charles Dickens. Either that, or perhaps Figg was given to lying which Poe didn’t believe he was.