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I forced myself to remember that I was down South, where everything operated on Mississippi time, a slower pace than in other places. After the man’s break would be soon enough.
I hurried out to Elizabeth ’s carriage, where she sat surveying the panorama of McComb.
Half the town had burned to the ground just a few years before, but a sturdy new town had already been put up to replace it. At one end of the business district stood a fine new depot and the famous McComb Ice Plant, which iced down thousands of train cars full of southern fruits and vegetables for the trip north.
All the way at the other end of downtown, on Broadway Street, stood the only other building that really interested me-the Lyric Theatre, where Twain would perform tonight.
First we repaired to Sampson’s, where I ordered crab gumbo and Elizabeth ordered-what else?-turtle soup. We chatted and relived old times throughout the Pompano en Papillote and the Snapper Almondine, the bread pudding and the egg custard. It was the finest meal, and dining companion, I’d had since returning to the South.
With a rare sense of satisfaction, Elizabeth and I strolled down the new sidewalks of Front Street to the theater. Men in waistcoats and women in fancy crinolines were milling about the entrance, and I couldn’t wait to go in.
“You look like a child on Christmas morning,” Elizabeth said and laughed merrily.
I lifted my hat to the man I’d engaged to water our horse and keep an eye on the carriage. “It’s better than that,” I said. “Christmas comes once a year. But Mark Twain comes once in a lifetime.”
Chapter 56
LET ME PUT THIS SIMPLY. Mark Twain remains to this day the fu
By then he was an old man, over seventy, but he wore his famous white suit, smoked his famous cigar, and constantly ran his long fingers through his famously unruly hair. His voice was as raspy as an old barn door. He sounded at all times as if he were about ten seconds away from erupting in a violent rage.
“Nothing needs reforming,” he said by way of begi
The audience roared in recognition of a universal truth.
“Best forget about the animals. Man is the only one with the true religion…”
The audience waited. Sure enough, the rest of the sentence arrived with perfect timing.
“Yep… several of them.”
He was amusing, biting, sarcastic, ferocious, and bitter in his repudiation of nearly everything and everyone. Elizabeth laughed as hard as I did-harder sometimes. I kept sneaking glances at her: shoulders shaking, handkerchief pressed to her mouth. I was happy she was having such a good time.
I was no author, no satirist, no raconteur, but I did know that the humor of this man Clemens was different. Besides being fu
When he talked about his struggles with trying to give up whiskey and his beloved cigars, we all laughed because we had struggles of our own, and he helped us see that they were ridiculous.
When he read from his book Huckleberry Fi
Occasionally Twain landed with both feet in an area that made this audience a little restless, as when he said:
“We had slavery when I was a boy. There was nothing wrong with slavery. The local pulpit told us God approved of it. If there were passages in the Bible that disapproved of slavery, they were not read aloud by the pastors.”
Twain paused. He looked deadly serious. I saw men shifting in their seats.
“I wonder how they could be so dishonest…”
Another long pause. And then: “Result of practice, I guess.”
The laughter came, and I saw Elizabeth dab at her eyes.
After more than an hour of effervescent brilliance, it became clear that Twain was exhausted, clinging to the podium. A man pushed an armchair in from the wings, and Twain asked our permission to sit down.
He sat down and lit a cigar, which drew another round of applause.
He was finishing up. When he spoke this time, I felt he was speaking directly to me.
“There’s a question I’m interested in,” he said. “ You-all might have an opinion on this. Why does a crowd of people stand by, smitten to the heart and miserable, and by ostentatious outward signs pretend to enjoy a lynching?”
The room fell so quiet you could hear the nervous cough of one man at the back.
“Why does the crowd lift no hand or voice in protest?” Twain said. “Only because it would be unpopular to do it, I think. Each man is afraid of his neighbor’s disapproval-a thing which, to the general run of the race, is more dreaded than wounds and death.”
Still the audience sat rapt, unmoving.
“When there is to be a lynching, the people hitch up and come miles to see it, bringing their wives and children,” he said. “Really to see it? No-they come only because they are afraid to stay at home, lest it be noticed and offensively commented upon.
“No mob has any sand in the presence of a man known to be splendidly brave. When I was a boy, I saw a brave gentleman deride and insult a mob, and drive it away.
“This would lead one to think that perhaps the remedy for lynchings is to station a brave man in each affected community. But where shall these brave men be found? That is indeed a difficulty. There are not three hundred of them on the earth.”
That’s exactly what Mark Twain said that night. I looked around and saw almost everyone in that audience nodding their heads, as if they all agreed.
Chapter 57
APPARENTLY ELIZABETH’S CARRIAGE HORSE had never encountered an automobile before, at least not after sundown, and not in such profusion.
With all the sputtering and clanging and light-flashing and honking in the streets around the Lyric Theatre, the frightened old horse bucked and snapped at the air. It took some fancy rein work to get us safely back on the road to Eudora.
The trip home made the trouble worthwhile. The stir of a breeze in the sultry night. A fat full moon that seemed stained yellow around its edges.
“I saw Charley’s Aunt in that theater,” Elizabeth said. “I saw Maude Adams in Jackson when she came through as Peter Pan. And they were both wonderful. But they didn’t touch my heart the way Mr. Twain did. Or make me laugh until there were tears.”
“It’s a very special evening,” I said. “Couldn’t have been any better.”
I waited. She didn’t answer.
“It is,” she finally said. “It’s very special to me too.”
These last words caught in her throat. I glanced at her: even in the faint moonlight, I could see the shine of tears in her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Oh, you know what it is, Ben,” she said. “I should be riding home with Richard. I should be sharing memories of Mark Twain with him. I should be in love… with Richard.”
I knew what I wanted to do then. I wanted to tell Elizabeth my own troubles, Meg’s and mine, tell her how lonely I felt, how devastated when Meg proposed (by letter, no less!) that we put an end to our marriage.
Instead, I drove along in silence. The breeze disappeared, and the moon went behind a cloud.
“Why did you ask me to go with you tonight?” she said.
“I thought you would enjoy it,” I said. “And I guess I’ve been… lonely.”
“Oh, Ben,” she said. “Oh, Ben.” Then she took my hand in hers, and held it for a long moment.