The Auburn Conference by Tom Piazza

Author:Tom Piazza
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Iowa Press
Published: 2022-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

8

I HAD FORGOTTEN about the banjo player. “Of course!” I said. “I am so sorry.”

“Henry’s standing right over there.” Twain was clearly irritated. There, indeed, was the fellow, behind the stage curtain.

The other panelists had quit the dais, and there were now a number of empty seats in the hall. Twain stepped to the front of the stage and in a loud voice announced, “Before we all go ahead and find some dinner . . .” This got the attention of the attendees, who turned to see what he was going to say. “. . . allow me to offer dessert first.”

The audience members began resuming their places, or locating new ones, to hear what Twain was up to. Lucy Comstock, I noticed, had left the stage and had accepted Forrest Taylor’s apparent invitation to take the empty seat next to his, several rows back. Walt Whitman and Mrs. Stowe both perched in the second aisle, near the lobby doors. And Frederick Douglass took a seat in the front row.

When the crowd had quieted, Twain gestured to the curtain and said, “Come on over here, Henry. I want you all to meet a pal of mine who I ran into on the way here. He and I hoboed our way out to California and back more than once, years ago, and his name was the stuff of legend from Carlsbad to Carson City.” Twain threw in a few details about the Gold Rush, and a brief episode involving horse thieves in Colorado, as his friend made his way, slowly and stoop-shouldered, across the stage, carrying his banjo. Henry had appeared entirely alert and at ease—self-possessed, intelligent, even ironically observant—at our earlier meeting. Now I was surprised to see him walking toward the front of the stage looking like a tired field hand.

I returned to my seat at the dais, from which I could observe both the performance and the audience. Moreland threw me a stern look, to which I responded with a shrug and raised eyebrows. What was I supposed to say? Olander was frowning, although his wife appeared very happy. Forrest Taylor wore an expression of delight, like that of a boy anticipating mischief; Lucy Comstock was whispering something in his ear. In the front row, Douglass’s expression was opaque, appraising—the face of a judge, I thought.

“This is Henry Sims,” Twain said, “known to all by the well-deserved appellation of Banjo Henry. I want you to give him a mighty round of applause, and when he is finished I know you will all chip in whatever you can afford right here into his cap, which he has loaned to me for this purpose.”

Twain pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and held it up for all to see, saying, “I will start the ball rolling,” and with a flourish placed it into the cap at the front edge of the stage. “All right, Henry,” he said. “Take it away.” He gestured to the audience, indicating that the time for

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