Shortly after the unsolicited visit of the colored gentlemen, and after his anger at their intrusion into his life had begun to recede, he decided to attempt to repair his relationship with Aida, who seemed to hold him personally responsible for not keeping poor George’s name in lights. He sat at the desk in his library and stared at the blank piece of paper before him. A letter seemed like a polite and convenient way to unburden himself, and he fully intended to speak freely about the many issues that seemed to have come between himself and Aida over the years. But his pen would not move. He listened intently to the silence that dominated the house, a silence that was broken only by the noise of automobilists in the street. What was he supposed to say to Aida? That he was sorry that she seemed to have decided to cut off relations with both himself and his wife? Confess to her that her behavior cast a shadow over his memories of the man with whom he had spent the greater part of his working life? He stared at the blank sheet and realized that he could neither ask nor demand anything of Aida, yet to simply unburden himself of his own private hurt seemed an uncharitable gesture. He waited and hoped that by some strange process the right words might come to him, but as the daylight began to fade he found himself looking at the still untouched piece of paper. And then he decided that it might be more appropriate if he were to make the conciliatory gesture of attending an Aida Overton Walker performance and visiting with her after the show, and in this way rekindling what had once been, if not a friendship, a harmonious professional acquaintance.
He also hoped that some of the words that he wished to set down on paper might flow more easily once they were facing each other.
He sits in the front row of the balcony and observes that she still dances well, if somewhat eccentrically and in bare feet, but he understands that this
style
is her own contribution to the world of dance. She moves with some elegance, but to his eyes the outlandish grand sweeping of the hands and arms seems to suggest that Aida is more interested in arousing attention than she is in perfecting dance as an art form. The audience is clearly somewhat mystified by what is being presented to them, and at the conclusion of the evening a good number of patrons withhold their applause, although he does not feel it proper that he should participate in this silent protest. And so he applauds enthusiastically, so much so that those around him look in his direction and immediately recognize the source of the excitement. Embarrassed that he has attracted attention to himself, and eager that his presence should not detract in any way from Aida’s evening, it occurs to him that he should leave the theater. The next morning he decides to visit with Aida at her apartment on West 132nd Street and offer his congratulations in person, but having purposefully walked the few blocks to Aida’s place, and having climbed the steps to the door and sounded the bell, he waits but nobody answers. He now knocks at the door, and then begins to worry that something might have happened to Aida, for she had looked somewhat distracted onstage, but slowly the truth begins to dawn on him. She does not wish to see him. He knocks again, but this time without passion.
Bert enters the park at Fifty-ninth Street and for a moment finds himself overwhelmed with anxiety about Mr. Ziegfeld, who he hopes will not regard his hurried exit from the Circle Bar as being indicative of any displeasure with the situation. He finds a bench
that is shaded by the heavy branches of an overhanging tree, and he sits back and draws deep breaths. He understands that a man should not rummage too closely through the early chapters of his life, for no matter how successful he thinks he is, on closer inspection these chapters will always disappoint. However, on this bright moonlit night he is tempted to look back, not just over his years with Mr. Ziegfeld, but back as far as Riverside, California, and beyond. Mercifully, before the pages begin to turn he arrests his mind for he knows that such reflection will only prove to be painful. He closes his eyes and shuts out the low-hanging branches, and he listens to the wind swelling and stripping the trees of their last remaining leaves, and to his surprise he feels tears behind his lids. Sitting alone in the darkness he begins to weep, for he understands that he has foolishly spilled his life and there is nobody he can blame beyond himself.
ZIEGFELD FOLLIES OF 1914
New York Run:
June 1 to September 5, 1914; New Amsterdam Theatre
Authors:
Book and lyrics by George V. Hobart; additional lyrics by Gene Buck; music by Raymond Hubbell; special numbers by Dave Stamper
Staging:
Leon Errol
Principals:
Herbert Clifton, Arthur Deagon, Kitty Doner, Leon Errol, Rita Gould, Kay Laurell, May Leslie, George McKay, Louise Meyers, Vera Michelena, Ann Pennington, Gertrude Vanderbilt, Bert Williams, and Ed Wynn
Notable Numbers:
Bert Williams sang “Darktown Poker Club,” which he followed with a pantomime of a poker
game. In the scene, Williams appeared alone on the darkened stage with a small spotlight shining on his head and shoulders. He held his cards close to his face and pantomimed the entire game: the draw, the study of hand, the bets, the suspicious looks, the raise, the call, the disgust of the loser. Williams also appeared as a caddie trying to teach golf to Leon Errol.
The Follies of 1914 toured more extensively than any previous season of the show. He lost count of the number of cities that they visited, and since he was the only colored performer in the production, a new city always presented him with new problems. In Cleveland, Ohio, he read the short column in the local paper. It announced the demise of Aida Overton Walker, but it said nothing about the cause of death. He knew that in the two years that had passed since he had witnessed her eccentric performance, Aida’s shows had continued to be much remarked upon, with particular reference to both their increased
originality
and the obviously frail condition that Aida displayed each time she took to the stage. However, he had heard that of late Aida had stopped performing altogether and that she had chosen to retreat from public life. Apparently she seldom ventured out of the apartment on West 132nd Street, and then suddenly Aida was an item in a newspaper in Cleveland, Ohio. Bert sought out Mr. Ziegfeld and explained that he would have to immediately return to New York for a funeral, but Mr. Ziegfeld was aware of the situation and he had already made travel arrangements for his colored star. He assured Bert that he should not worry, for his place on the bill would be adequately covered until he felt able to return.
A forlorn-looking Mother met her husband at Pennsylvania Station and informed him that word had reached her that it
might prove to be awkward should either of them attempt to attend Aida’s funeral and pay their respects. Apparently the members of her dancing circle remained somewhat biased against the Williamses, and so Mother had decided that they should simply send flowers. As they were being chauffeured from the station back uptown to 135th Street, a confused and somewhat hurt Bert realized that he could live with this decision as long as his wife would let him choose the bouquet. This way he would not feel entirely stupid for having left Cleveland. This way he could at least imagine that he had some role in the proceedings.
Aida Overton Walker, easily the foremost Afro American woman stage artist, widow of George Walker of the formerly famous team of Williams and Walker, died Sunday night (Oct. 11) at her home, 107 West 132nd Street, New York. Mrs. Walker had been confined to her bed for about two weeks with an attack of kidney trouble. Her last appearance was at Hammerstein’s in
Modern Society Dancers
, August 3rd.
VARIETY
, OCTOBER
1914
Bert set aside the newspaper and closed his eyes. The
New York Times
insisted that the cause of death was not congestion of the kidneys, as had been widely reported, but a nervous breakdown. Aida Walker was only thirty-four years old, and funeral services were to be conducted by Dr. Bishop of St. Philip’s Church, the same man who had married her and George Walker. According to the reporter, rumor had it that Aida Walker left no real estate and only $250 in personal property. Bert opened his eyes and he began to cough violently. The pains in his chest had returned, and once again his lungs felt as though they were filled with tar.
Reaching swiftly into his trouser pocket, he stifled his hacking with a handkerchief for he didn’t want Mother to hear him like this.
I knocked on Aida’s dressing room door, although I didn’t know what I might say to her about the skittish jumping about that I had just beheld. You never could tell with fiery little Aida what kind of a mood you were going to find her in. Since we lost George, Aida had become somewhat crazy both onstage and off for, having nursed him fiercely during his illness, it was as if she was now truly abandoned and free to exhibit herself however she pleased. On the night that I attended her eccentric performance the audience did not know what to make of Aida’s antics, but I applauded loudly—too loudly—then made my way backstage to her dressing room and knocked on the door of the woman the newshounds liked to call the “chocolate-hued star.” Aida opened the door and stood before me with a bottle dangling from one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her silk gown was yawning a little too much at the neck, and as George’s widow began to speak I could smell that she had already been drinking hard from the bottle.
He greeted me with that fake smile like he’d bought it cheap someplace, and I looked him up and down and then threw back my head and laughed out loud. I didn’t think it was possible, child, but these days you’re looking more than ever like a smoked white man. You coming in, or what? I moved to one side and he passed me by, clearly smelling the liquor as he did so, but no doubt hoping that this meant that there would be no need for him to say anything about the performance that he had just witnessed. I knew full well that he didn’t have no respect for my dancing. I pointed. Sit down, sit down, man, or you too high and
mighty to spend time with dark-toned colored folks? He sat and as I bent to pour him a glass of whiskey my gown parted and I exposed a breast. I turned suddenly and caught him looking hard at my body. You think I ain’t much better than a dance hall harlot, is that it? He opened his mouth to speak but I held up a solitary finger. Hush. You ain’t no diamond-decked lover like George, but you got something down there, don’t you? Well, don’t you, or is that why George had to take care of Lottie too? I watched him and could see something in his stomach fall, but George’s thing for Lottie wasn’t news to nobody. Well, what you looking at, Mr. Corkface? You think George only had a keen eye for a white ankle, is that it? What’s the matter, Mr. Celebrity? You waiting for the white man to tell you it’s okay to take some of this hot chocolate? Tell me, you ever had a colored girl? For I know you sure as hell never laid a thing on Lottie, which is why I don’t blame my George for giving the poor woman a little something to warm her up. I mean, Mr. Williams, just what kind of rustycolored gangling man are you anyway? You ever had a woman, period? Come on, man, don’t look at me like that, making that bottom lip all fat and ugly. Baby, I’m just gonna cock my foot right here and if you want some of this then you better take that thing out of your pants and come and get some. Or maybe that ain’t why you’ve come a-visiting. You come back here to tell me about my dancing, or to shoot off about the $50,000 a year they say you’re making, or to convince me how it ain’t no disgrace to be colored but it sure can be inconvenient? I mean really, why you say all that shit to people anyway? You know it ain’t right to be talking so, but it’s like you got those damn fool newspapermen playing you like a tin whistle, making you look dumb and making us look dumber. Come on, be a man, you came back here for some of this, ain’t it, for I see the way you been looking at me over the years, Mr. High and Mighty Stage Coon, wondering if George really
did make your woman holler, and wondering what it would be like to take a sweet little piece of George’s world. Well come on, nigger, take that long thing out of your pants and show Aida what you got. It’s okay, man, I’m ready for you. But even as I tried to coax some heat into him I watched as he began to back away toward the door. Or maybe you don’t want to do it here. You want to come by the apartment tomorrow morning? Come knock on my door, Mr. Corkface, and I’ll be waiting all hot and ready to take care of you. You come by tomorrow morning, you hear? He nodded quickly as he opened the door, and I listened to the echo of it slamming long after he had passed from view. This damn fool know-it-all West Indian, with his white heart, who deserted our colored stage just when we needed him most. I knew full well that in the morning he would come by and visit with widow Aida, but I wasn’t giving nothing up for this white man’s fool. Not for his coon ass. I knew he would come by, but I was fixing to make him look foolish for everything he’d already done to me and to George and to all of us. I’d already decided to stand his stupid black ass up in the street and see how he liked to be played.
Sitting by himself beneath the overhanging branches of a tree in a moonlit Central Park, he weeps silently. It is true, journeys don’t always leave footprints. His poor father understood this. Tomorrow he will write Mr. Ziegfeld a letter and make everything all right. Surely, Mr. Ziegfeld will understand his sudden departure was not meant to suggest any unhappiness or discomfort, and the letter will, of course, contain no mention of anything beyond gratitude.