General paresis is caused by damage to the brain by the syphilis-causing microorganism … early symptoms of general paresis may include personality changes, memory loss, speech defects, tremors, and temporary paralysis. Seizures may also occur. As the disease progresses, the patient deteriorates both physically and mentally.
For more than an hour I have listened to George talking, but I have little understanding of what George is attempting to communicate.
He remembers events that he locates in the wrong place and in the wrong sequence. Chronology appears to be irrelevant to him, and if it does have meaning there seems to be nothing that George can do to straighten things out. Whatever fame I have achieved has been gained in partnership with George Walker, and I feel guilty that this affliction should have fallen on my partner’s shoulders for him to bear this burden alone. Some days he appears to possess full recall of who I am, while on other days he simply looks at me as though I am not present. When I move, his cloudy eyes sometimes roll, while at other times they remain locked in a ferocious stare. Aida brings in two glasses and a pitcher of water and some cakes and George recognizes her, but he now appears to be incapable of speech for his tongue is flapping but to no purpose. The sun is weak, and some thin rays spill through the open window casting strange patterns of light and shadow on the uncarpeted sections of the floor, and then something seizes George’s attention. In the kitchen I can hear a man talking quietly, as though to himself, and Aida notices my alarm. The doctor, she whispers. The doctor has come to see George, but he is waiting until you have finished your visit. I nod, but Aida ignores me and pours a glass of water, which she hands to her husband. He takes it, but Aida has to gently tip it up to his lips so that he can drink, which he does without spilling any. He seems happy now and he manages to smile at his wife, which appears to lighten her heart. Aida gives him another mouthful of water, which he swallows, and I understand that this is more an attempt to elicit another smile than it is an offering to slake poor George’s thirst. I leave them alone and close in the door, and then I ease down the steps and onto the street. I look behind me knowing that George no longer needs me. It is now the turn of the doctor.
The next morning Bert eases out of bed having hardly slept a wink. His wife has been awake for some time and he can hear her
banging about downstairs in the kitchen. He rubs his eyes and realizes that he will have to make the decision today, otherwise the rumors and gossip will continue to run riot. Mother enters the bedroom carrying his favorite tray, upon which sits a pot of coffee and the newspaper. She sets the tray down on the bedside table and then stands back and waits for her husband to say something to her, but he chooses to say nothing. He stares beyond her to the door and she finally understands that she should probably leave her husband to his own company. He watches the door, and listens to the click as she pulls it in behind her. In order to preserve the dignity of everybody involved he will have to face up to their situation today.
When my old pal is alright … we will be together again.
BERT WILLIAMS, VARIETY, MAY 1909
Mr. Williams remembered that no matter what kind of statements he issued to the press the Broadway gossip remained loud, with most observers believing that Williams and Walker were finished. For a moment Mr. Williams paused and he looked at the untouched cup of tea and the piece of cake that his wife had set before me, but he stopped short of urging me to eat and drink. He could see full well that this cub reporter was too excited to do anything that would get in the way of the interview and so, with a knowing smile temporarily brightening his face, he leaned back and blew out a huge cloud of smoke and then released a perfectly formed smoke ring. He remembered that by May 1909
Bandana Land
was over and he decided to take a risk and return to vaudeville as a solo performer at Keith’s Theatre in Boston. The bill
included the popular family act the Four Keatons, who were veterans of the east-coast circuit, so it was respectful company. However, it soon became clear to Mr. Williams that he needed more practice as a solo performer for he recalled that he was received with some indifference by the Boston public and he knew that without Mr. Walker he would have to totally rework and sharpen his act. A depressed Mr. Williams left the theater and made his way to a nearby bar, having first ascertained that it was appropriate for him to enter.
When Negroes were allowed in white saloons at all, they were restricted to the end of the bar farthest from the door. Pops ignored this the night he walked into the Adams Hotel bar in Boston, which was conveniently situated, being directly behind Keith’s Theatre. Bert Williams, who was again on the bill with us, was standing, as required, far down at the other end.
“Bert,” said Pops, “come up here and have a drink with me.” Bert looked nervously from one white face at the bar to another, and replied, “Think I better stay down here, Mr. Joe.”
“All right,” said Pops, picking up his glass, “then I’ll have to come down there to you.”
BUSTER KEATON
Lying in bed, and staring out of the window at the Massachusetts moon with a light buzzing in his head, he thinks now of Mr. Joe making his point, and the looks on the faces of the men in the bar as their curling tongues licked the foamy beer from their thick mustaches. What kind of a place is this Boston? What kind of a
place is this America? His father can’t decide whether to stay on in New York or return to California, and he seems to have lost his way, and it occurs to Bert that maybe he should just take his parents back to the Bahamas. Back to a place where his father has always insisted that a man can walk tall and feel the sun on his skin, and a lightness to his step, and be free to raise his family. He thinks of Mr. Joe, and those kids of his. Mr. Joe doesn’t suffer any foolishness from them, which means that eventually they’ll do just fine, but right now they’re struggling. However, he knows that this is not his business. Never any sleep in this Boston. Without his wife. Without George, who he imagines is sitting in New York with Aida to comfort him. When he returns to New York he will go straight to George, even though Aida seems to distrust him. Although he believes that he has done nothing to offend George’s wife, he imagines that her dislike of him has its origins in her own fears that she might once again lose George, but this time not to another woman. Back in New York he will visit with his partner and rehearse his solo act. Then he will sit with Mother, and then he will rehearse his new act some more. He has original songs and perhaps his New York audience will appreciate him more than the citizens of this moonlit Boston, Massachusetts.
Three new songs and “Nobody,” with a bit of talk worked in between tunes, make up Williams’ single speciality. Both songs and talk were highly amusing. Williams was never funnier. “That’s Plenty” made a capital opening song. There followed a few minutes of talk adapted from his part of “Skunton” in “Bandana Land.” Even without a foil in his partner, George Walker, Williams’ stupid darkey was a scream. His second song failed to keep up the fast pace, but he picked up speed with a song about a
dispute as to the naming of a baby, Williams’ suggestion being something like George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Booker T., and a lot more, until it was learned that the baby was a girl. The discussion ends when the mother announces Carrie Jones as the name. “Nobody” served admirably as an encore, and Williams had to repeat his inimitable “loose dance” several times before they would let him go.
VARIETY, MAY 1909
Aida tells me that my husband must be having a gay old time up there on stage by himself, milking all the applause, never a thought in his head for poor George, never a mention of him in his newspaper interviews and articles. But somewhere inside of her she knows that this is false. My husband is the type of man who has respect for everybody, and he carries a deep love for his partner. George does not truly understand what is going on about him, but Aida says that he is hurt. She claims that she can see it in his eyes. An embittered Aida snaps that it is bad enough George knowing that he is not out there onstage with Bert, but to hear that his partner is having a fine time without him is paining her husband’s soul. Aida says she
knows
that this is how poor George feels, even though George has not actually said anything to her. The truth is George has not actually said anything to anybody for quite some time.
In July 1909, the
New York Age
announced the unthinkable. The Williams and Walker Company, having
temporarily
lost Mr. Walker to illness, had apparently now lost Mrs. Aida Walker. Mr. Williams sighed deeply as he recalled Aida’s less than harmonious departure.
According to the press reports, Mrs. Walker and the management had not been able to agree on several items in her contract. However, it was evident to everybody that this was only half the story.
My George tried all his life to maintain some dignity and I’m not about to let him down. Not at this stage of his life, when he needs my help. I don’t see none of his gentleman friends around here paying him no attention, now that he isn’t fun-loving, happy-go-lucky, champagne-drinking, cigar-smoking George. My George isn’t a saint, and in his time he’s done me wrong and hurt me like all men seem to feel it’s their God-given right to hurt a woman who loves them. Don’t make no sense, we know that, but sometimes men don’t make sense. But look at George now. Things are not sitting too well with my George, but he ain’t complaining, he’s just doing his best to get to the next day with a little dignity, and I’m doing my best to help him. Bert is sending over money, and he’s being fair in this respect, but there’s something about the way in which he’s polishing up his career that doesn’t sit right with me, so I say let him be the famous Negro headliner if that’s what he wants to be. I’m happy to let him have his name in lights, happy to let him be the biggest colored star in America, and I will stay here and look after my George, who, Bert aside, nobody else chooses to visit. Rumor has it that Bert’s new show,
Mr. Lode of Koal
, is nearly ready to open, but who ever thinks about George Walker anymore? George Walker? Why that man’s just fallen clean off the map. No Frogs meetings, no Marshall’s, no theater, no gallivanting around, just George and myself in 107 West 132nd Street keeping each other company. Just George and myself, and nobody else.
Every morning I wake up and stare at my George and I want to cry. At sunrise I watch him open his eyes like a newborn infant.
Why should a man suffer the indignity of beginning to drift over to the other side when all else about him still seems fine and whole? The doctor says he should go to a sanitarium, where they can take proper care of him and give him treatments, whatever the hell that might mean, but the problem is the doctor doesn’t seem to understand that this is George Walker, not some half-drunk, gone crazy, low-billing comedian. This is George Walker facing another day locked up in the prison of himself. My George isn’t going anywhere. His career isn’t going anywhere. I know this new day that’s just broken must look better for Bert, and I just wish I could find it in my being to be happy for him.
During the nights George sometimes finds it difficult to breathe. I don’t get much sleep for I have to make sure that everything is comfortable for my husband, and I often try and transfer warmth into his body by pushing up tight against him and this way I can at least feel as though I am passing back some of my own life into him. In the morning I strip off his clothes and gently bathe him, and then I towel him dry, delicately dabbing the droplets of water from his skin. He stares at me as though begging me to explain just what is happening to him.
In August 1909, Mr. Williams’s new production,
Mr. Lode of Koal
, was announced, a show over which Mr. Williams was to have equal shares and “exclusive control of the stage management” of the play together with an unreliable producer called F. Ray Comstock. A suddenly animated Mr. Williams recalled that from the beginning this Mr. Comstock seemed to have some financial and communication difficulties, and as a result the rehearsal period turned out to be one of great stress for everybody concerned, particularly Mr. Williams, who, already a
prodigious consumer, admitted that he sought solace by drinking and smoking even more than usual.
Even though the old contract had not yet expired …I would agree [to Mr. Bert Williams’s demands] that in case the said George W. Walker became well again, that he could come into the play and could take part in the contract as though he were a party thereto.
F. RAY COMSTOCK, 1909
People tell me that in his new show, Bert takes out time to poke fun at my Salome dance in
Bandana Land
, but I don’t believe Bert would do something like this. Especially not with George ailing so badly. Bert would never put “comic business” before decency and respect.
Bert Williams dances that Williams comedy dance as only Bert Williams can dance it. He danced with three or four girls looking for Hoola. All girls are veiled.… Big Smoke unveils the last girl he dances with and finds to his disgust that it is a
man
.
INDIANAPOLIS FREEMAN