H
e stares helplessly at the audience as though peering at them through a pane of sharply frosted glass. He can see that out there in the auditorium it is winter, and he feels sure that it must be bitterly cold. He listens carefully to the howling wind, and he knows that night will soon fall. Here, onstage, he shivers for the imaginary window is badly fitted and a gale rattles the frame. He lifts a white-gloved hand to his face and blocks the dazzling light from his eyes, and then he reaches with his other hand, also gloved, and clasps the collar of his threadbare jacket and pulls the material tight around his exposed neck. Who are these people who are staring at this lonely Negro in the window? Clearly they recognize him. However, the bemused looks on their faces suggest that they also feel pity for him, but who are they? It is winter in America. Two bright triangular cones of light cut through the darkness above these people’s heads. He looks up and sees the frantic movement of particles that dance like insects, small microscopic objects that swirl and eddy in the bright light.
In the midst of the chilly silence this furious activity fascinates him, and he finds it difficult to tear his eyes from this drama. And then he sees his own reflection suspended in the window; a tall disheveled man stares back at him, one gloved hand to his face, the other to his collar, and he sees the true misery of his own condition and shame strikes him a quick hard blow. But this will be the last time, for never again will he be called upon to stand on the stage of the New Amsterdam Theatre and look out at these eighteen hundred fun-seeking society people. Mr. Ziegfeld has tried to persuade him otherwise, but Ziggy has finally accepted his colored star’s decision and informed the always eager press, who have in turn told the world. Next year’s offering, the Follies of 1920, will not be graced with the comic bonus of an awkward Negro entertainer who is so clumsy that he cannot walk without dragging his heavy feet; the Follies of 1920 will be deprived of a Negro whose speech is such that it appears that he possesses only the most rudimentary grasp of the English language. Sadly, there will be no colored fool who is so stupid that even the most ignorant among the audience seated in the orchestra stalls will not be able to both pity him and feel superior to him. The Follies of 1920 will be an altogether different entertainment and he feels relief, for it is time to step back and away from his own reflection and save himself. As the wind outside howls he composes himself. The ripple of applause begins to cloud and then rise, and he screws up his eyes and sees that those in the orchestra stalls, and those few in the balcony whose complexions resemble his own, are stirring themselves and climbing to their feet. He bends formally, from the waist, but he keeps his eyes focused on the shower of dancing particles in the two bright cones of light that bully their way through the darkness. Never still, always moving, unable to find peace, their dizzying itinerance fascinates him. Unbending himself at the waist, he stands tall and looks out at the
audience, and then he bows again knowing that after nine years his time with Ziggy’s Follies is finally at an end. However, he understands that in this theater there will always be motion and unrest in these cones of light, and even after he is gone from this place there will remain some form of silent activity that will always mirror the disquieted movement of his heart with particles leaping first one way, and then the next, invisible to these people’s eyes, yet dancing just above their heads. He listens until he can endure no more of the ill wind, or the storm of their approval, and he begins now to wave one gloved hand in their direction and move backward, his eyes all the while focused on his wintry view and the swirling tempest of floodlit activity. Never again will he stand on the stage of “the house beautiful” and look out through this particular window. The journey is over, and all that remains is for him now to seek a place of shelter.
With a single turn of the oversized key he unlocks the dressing room door and slumps down onto the wooden chair. There is no name on the door, only a dull yellow star, but they know to leave him alone if the door is pushed to, which it nearly always is. He dabs the white towel in the china bowl of lukewarm water that the stage manager has placed on his dresser, and he then proceeds to rub his face, discoloring the towel as he does so. There is no need for him to look in the mirror. Only when he is sure that most of the cork has been removed does he stand and peel away his jacket, kick off the oversized shoes, and then collapse back down onto the uncomfortable chair. At forty-four he can feel an ominous fatigue in the deadweight of his body.
The knock on the door startles him. He waits patiently for another knock, or voice, but there is nothing. Eventually, he rises from his chair and moves toward the door, which he opens on Mr.
Ziegfeld, who stands by himself. “I’m sorry, Bert,” he begins, “but perhaps you might care to join us in the Circle Bar as we’d like to raise a glass to you.” Mr. Ziegfeld does not say who the “we” are that he is referring to, but Bert imagines that Mr. Ziegfeld means his business friends and colleagues, and so he slowly nods (“Thank you”) and after his boss has turned smartly on his heels he closes in the door. There is a debt of gratitude to be paid to this man who fought against convention, and many of his established stars, in order that he might include Bert in the Follies of 1910 as the first colored man to appear onstage with the most important performers in the country. Those who had any objection to appearing with a colored man were invited by Mr. Ziegfeld to join another company, but all the members of the Follies company promptly discovered that they did not, after all, have any difficulty playing alongside a colored man, and so Bert found himself onstage and staring out at Mr. Ziegfeld’s audience, sometimes singing, sometimes dancing, sometimes telling an anecdote, but always the only tanned player among the Irish, and the Australians, and the Jews, and the Germans, and the Italians, who were the constituent parts in Ziegfeld’s new and conspicuously lavish entertainment. In 1910 his nigger face shocked Ziegfeld’s patrons with its elastic elegance, while his colored body made them laugh with its alarming, but perfectly choreographed, eccentric grace. And now the Follies of 1919 has reached its conclusion, and Mr. Ziegfeld has asked to see him. He takes the soiled towel and once again rubs it anxiously against his face, and he reminds himself that not all journeys leave footprints that are visible to others. He cannot expect the man who has summoned him to the Circle Bar to know from where he has come or to where he is going. His journey, with all its difficulties, is nobody’s business but his own. The continual sucking of his shoes into a muddy path, and the supreme effort that it has taken to consistently dislodge
his feet and keep moving on his way, makes him admirable to nobody. After nine years Mr. Ziegfeld and his fellow players see nothing, only the image of a somewhat reticent and grateful man that they wish to see. He puts down the towel and stares unhappily into the mirror, conscious that too much life has flown from this one body in too short a space of time. A pulse still beats within him, that much he is sure of, but the rhythm is weaker now. Death’s wings are brushing close by and their touch occasionally startles him, and of late the heaviness of his body has begun to convince him that he may have already entered the final season of his life. He stands and proceeds to change into his street clothes. As he does so his eyes scan the desolate and uncluttered dressing room and they eventually alight upon the solitary whiskey bottle and tumbler.
Up in the Circle Bar the whole cast and crew are gathered around Mr. Ziegfeld, and as Bert enters the room they applaud enthusiastically. He smiles and takes the glass of champagne that is presented to him on a silver tray, and he listens now as Mr. Ziegfeld lists the colored man’s achievements and then offers a generous toast, gently tipping his glass in Bert’s direction as he reaches his conclusion. There are cheers and all eyes are upon him, for Bert is not only a member of the cast, he is their unacknowledged leader and a beaming Ziegfeld has, from the beginning, suspected that this would be the case. But Mr. Ziegfeld, with his raised glass, still knows nothing of the nature of this colored man’s journey. Mr. Ziegfeld does not understand the place that Bert Williams has arrived at today.
I liked the man as well as any man I ever met and better than most men, for he had so many fine qualities. I admired him as an artist tremendously because he was a
great artist. In fact, he was so great that it was impossible for him to do anything badly. He played down-and-out boarders, porters, cabdrivers, crap shooters, poker players. Any role that called for the downtrodden was Williams’s meat. He was a consummate artist in a sea of banality; technically perfect, timing immaculate, his portrayal of his people the only flaw on his otherwise perfect diamond.
FLORENZ ZIEGFELD
And then Miss Fanny Brice edges her way around to greet him personally, as he knew she would, with an already empty champagne glass in her hand and a broad smile on her face, and her eyebrows plucked neatly into the familiar dark arches. To begin with she was one of those who would have preferred that Mr. Ziegfeld not employ a colored man, even if that colored man happened to be Mr. Bert Williams, but she quickly grew to admire his manners and his modesty, and she came to understand that of all the techniques on display on Ziegfeld’s stage, his was the one from which she might learn. So, Mr. Williams, you ready to tell me what’s next for you, or you planning on keeping a poor girl guessing? She touches glasses with him and then threads her arm through his and leans softly against the stiff formality of his body. Well, well, well, Mr. Williams, has your silvery tongue left that noble head of yours? Here, in the private space of the theater, he finds it possible to tolerate Fanny’s behavior, but he knows that beyond the Circle Bar this degree of intimacy is not befitting. But she too understands this, and despite her bluster and bravado, and her origins in burlesque, this is a woman who knows the meaning of the word “decorum.” But he cannot tell her what next, for as yet he has no plans, except to sit out the rest of 1919. He says
nothing to Miss Fanny Brice and he simply casts her that warm smile of his that he knows makes most folks feel easy around him.
His carefully constructed smile never fooled Eva, who knew full well that he did not approve of her antics either on or offstage. This being the case, it surprised him that a few months after George’s passing, Eva should approach him in the wings of the theater as he was leaving the stage of the Follies of 1911. He was embarrassed that he was still in his makeup, but he could see in Eva’s eyes that she was desperate to talk and her unkempt hair, and sunken cheeks, and bare legs suggested that all was not well with George’s friend. It was already something of a humiliation for her to sneak into the theater in this manner, for people knew full well who she was, but he nevertheless had no choice but to ask her to wait in the crowded corridor outside his dressing room until he had removed his face. Her eyes began to dart like mice, and he could see that she was disconcerted by his request, but this was too private a process for him to undertake with an audience and he assured her that he would be lively. Eventually he opened the door, begrimed towel in hand, and Eva passed into his dressing room, but he chose not to fully close in the door behind her. For a few moments they sat and faced each other in silence, and then he broke the tension and told her that as far as he was able to ascertain, George had passed on peacefully. He told her that while life had not been easy for George at the end, Aida had made him as comfortable as possible. He noticed Eva flinch at the mention of Aida’s name, and he watched as George’s friend lowered her eyes. For a few moments she appeared to be deep in thought, and then she looked up and the words came tumbling out. There was a child, nearly three years ago, but I didn’t tell George, I just found out where to get myself fixed and I got rid of it as I didn’t see how it was going to help anybody. Eva now had
Bert’s full attention, but once again she paused and lowered her eyes as though encouraging him to ask a question, or make a statement, but he could think of nothing that he might immediately say and so he remained silent. They sat together for what seemed like an age until Eva abruptly climbed to her feet and forced a smile. I just thought that you should know. He watched as a dejected Eva turned and, with a barely perceptible movement of her hips, left his dressing room and closed in the door behind her.
Fanny Brice squeezes his arm. You ready to go now, Bert? Fanny knows her fellow performer well. He has taken just two sips of his champagne, for this is not his drink of choice. Maybe you should just say something to Ziggy, then I reckon you can be on your way, don’t you? He looks over, but Mr. Ziegfeld is surrounded by a press of people and he understands that should he approach he will merely elicit from these men a few conversational volleys before they return to their
real
business. He decides instead to gracefully retreat into the evening. Tomorrow he will compose a letter to Mr. Ziegfeld thanking him for his generosity and support over the years, but right now he will quietly collect a few things from his dressing room and slip through the stage door of the New Amsterdam Theatre for the final time.
He decides to walk back a part of the way home, and as he sets out in the direction of the park he remembers the group of affluent colored men who some years ago, shortly after he began to perform for Mr. Ziegfeld, requested an audience with him. He was familiar with the name of only one of the three men who signed the elegantly worded request, and although he could not be exactly sure why they wished to visit with him, he imagined that it most likely related to potential investment in his future
productions. He wrote back and invited them to present themselves at 2309 Seventh Avenue the Sunday after next, and he asked his wife to prepare tea. However, when Mother opened the door on the appointed Sunday afternoon, instead of the three men that she was expecting there were, standing before her, six finely dressed colored men, who she politely ushered into the library, where her husband was waiting. There were not enough chairs to accommodate them all, and so his wife went to find more, and once everybody was settled, and once Mother had poured tea for the men, she left her husband alone with his delegation. Mr. Charles Wilson, a prominent banker, began first, speaking at some length about the importance of Bert to the Negro community, and generally laying the groundwork for what was to come. But by now Bert already knew what was to come, yet he listened patiently, and when their conversation finally corroded into admonition
(Why, Mr. Williams, do you choose to play the shambling, pathetic dupe?)
, albeit carefully dealt, he sat forward and began to speak in a low voice, the words falling softly from his mouth. The Negro I portray is not any man in this room so there is no need for any among you to behave defensively. In fact, I have to believe that my public is sophisticated enough to understand that I am impersonating a particular type who does not exist except in my imagination. Mr. Nail interrupted: And in their imagination, Mr. Williams. We exist in
their
imagination as you portray us, and you reinforce their low judgment of us as dull and pitiable. An exasperated Bert opened his arms wide. Am I responsible for the coarse imagination of some few among my audience? Am I responsible for how the Negro is viewed in America? I am an entertainer, what would you have me do? Stop performing? At this point everyone began to speak at once, assuring him no, of course not. He must not abandon the American stage. Mr. Williams, said Mr. Nail, his voice soaring now above
the others, I would, first, have you perform in theaters that neither bar nor Jim Crow Negroes, and second, I would have you perform in the guise of somebody whose persona and demeanor is closer to that of the new, twentieth-century Negro, as opposed to a low type who is a deliberate travesty of our race. We do not know, and have never known, this
man
who you impersonate. Right now we need colored thespians who are prepared to drag your troubled profession toward dignity, for it would appear that the Negro is only acceptable on the American stage as long as he is singing idle coon songs and dancing foolishly. In other words, as long as he is a close approximation to the white man’s
idea
of a nigger. Players who indulge in this so-called art are wounding the race, and we are here today to implore you to risk offending your white admirers by simply casting aside this nigger coon for such an impersonation has long been out of respectable commission. Mr. Nail paused before concluding. We sincerely believe that a man of your talent is fitted for higher things than singing idle coon songs and dancing foolishly, and surely you must believe so too. Silence fell in the room and Bert felt resentment begin to rise like sap inside of him. He looked from one well-groomed colored face to another, unable to comprehend why these six supposedly intelligent men could not understand that he was merely playing a character. His darky was clearly not representative of them or their worlds. His coon was a very particular American coon as seen by a man from the outside. In the end, his frustration was such that he knew he could no longer find any polished words or phrases to share with these six gentlemen and so he remained silent and simply let his feverish thoughts run loose in his mind. Gentlemen, be fair. I am merely trying to give this low-bred colored man some humanity. My colored man may be interpreted by some as a gin-guzzling, crap-shooting, chicken-stealing, no-good nigger, but there is more to him than this. He suffers. Our compassion goes out to him. He shuffles a little, and he may be slow
witted, but we surely recognize this poor man. The essence of my performance is that we know and sympathize with this unfortunate creature. Eventually his feverish thoughts stopped racing around his mind, but he could still find no polished words or phrases to share with this delegation, and so he calmly finished his tea and looked from one handsome face to the next.