Women like myself, who are constitutionally incapable of being devoted to more than one man in a lifetime, are either the happiest of women or the most miserable. I am both at once. That you love me and that I feel emotion for you building in me constantly imparts the happiness.
My dark imaginings inflict the misery.
Even now, I feel the strangeness of our coming together; even now, wonder, to the depth of me, where you came from. No, I promise not to ask you. When you’re ready, you will tell me—and, of course, it matters less than that you’re here. From this day forth, I am a true believer in miracles.
From this day forth, as well, I feel that my emotions are released. Yet how complex they are. One moment, I yearn to tell the world at large about my every feeling. The next, I want to guard them jealously and keep them to myself. I hope I do not drive you mad. I will try to be consistent, no longer oscillating like some planet that has lost its way. For, at long last, I have found my sun.
I must leave off now to settle down and have my fever quietly—make final preparations for the performance, then attempt to get a little rest. I have requested that an invitation be delivered to you. If it is not, please ask at the desk. I have instructed them to set aside a front-row seat for you—a mistake, I’m sure. If I catch a single sight of you, I shall, beyond all doubt, forget every line and movement in the play.
Well, the risk must be endured. I want you there as close to me as possible.
That dreadful man broke in upon us just as I was about to speak the words I never thought I’d say to any man within my lifetime. I write them now. Hold me to them always for they will always be true.
I love you.
Elise
Consider the sight of one love-dazed man sitting on his bed, oblivious to everything as he rereads that letter, then rereads it again, then again and then again—until he sits with tears in his eyes, so overwhelmed by joy that only one phrase comes to him.
Thank God for her.
It was six forty-five as I entered the Rotunda and headed for the Crown Room. Up on the second-floor balcony, the string orchestra was playing some kind of march and I felt so good I almost strutted to the rhythm of it. I smiled with delight at what I saw across the lobby—the unexpected sight of An Hour’s Catch (so read the sign) of fish caught while Trolling in Deep Water. It is odd, to say the least, to see enormous fish hanging in the lobby of a grand hotel like this.
There was no one from the company at dinner, I saw as I was seated. Doubtless, all of them were in their rooms or in the Ballroom, getting ready for the performance. I did not feel strange to be alone, though. I was beginning to feel very much a part of this environment. How different a feeling from that of last night.
I ordered some consommé, sliced chicken, bread, cheese, and wine and sat there looking around the Crown Room with enjoyment, shamelessly eavesdropping. I almost laughed aloud at the remark of a man at an adjoining table to his male companion; salesmen on the road, I decided. “She has increased, is increasing, and damn well ought to be diminished.”
Spluttering with repressed amusement, I turned my head to look at them and saw that both were short and stocky. Is it my imagination or are people of this time smaller on the average? It seems to be the case. I loom above the majority of the men I’ve seen.
More conversation from the two men, some of it amusing, some informative, some completely inexplicable. I set them down as I recall them. “The boy’s a born whip.” (A born achiever or a born driver?) “The Kaffirs are rough and raidy [not ready] but you may get a tip out of them.” (Well ensconced in the “inexplicable” category.) “Did you know they used two million shingles to roof this hotel?” (Informative.) “This is Mecca, I tell you; Mecca.” (Regarding the hotel.)
One of the men said something about the progress of civilization being at its “absolute apex” and I thought about that and the manner in which he’d said it.
What emerged was the observation that everything seems to be taken more seriously in 1896. Politics and patriotism. Home and family. Business and work. These are not mere subjects for discussion but strongly held convictions which can readily arouse passionate emotions.
In a way, I disapprove of it. Being liberal by nature and general semanticist by persuasion, I believe in the philosophy that words are not things. The fact that words can arouse fury and, at the lowest level of awareness, generate death and destruction is, to me, a grisly, frightening phenomenon.
At the same time, there is something compelling about human beings believing deeply. I do not intend to discuss, at length, that time I left. I will only say that there is memory of indifferent attitudes toward many things, among them life itself.
Therefore, while the attitudes of 1896 do have a tendency to be overblown and sometimes brutal, they at least take open cognizance of principles. Attention is paid, importance given. Care is an action, not a word in disrepute.
What I’m saying is that the other extreme is refreshing in its redress of balance. Somewhere in between its teeth-clenched rigidity of disposition and total apathy lies the motivation which can save men’s souls.
I was thinking of these things when my eyes focused on a man crossing the room toward me. I felt my legs retract spasmodically beneath the table; it was Robinson.
I stared at him with no idea whatever how to set myself physically or mentally. It was difficult to believe that he had come into a crowded dining room to assault me. Still, I wasn’t all that positive and felt my stomach muscles clamping in and, finally, put my soup spoon down and waited anxiously for whatever indication of intent he might display.
To begin with, he did not request leave to join me but, pulling out a chair, sat down across from me, his face a mask which did not tell me anything of what he meant to do. “Yes?” I said, prepared to talk or, if need be, hurl my consomme into his face should he suddenly snatch a pistol from his pocket; my, admittedly, limited view of social aggression, 1896 style.
“I am here to talk to you,” he said. “Man-to-man.”
The relief I felt in learning that I wasn’t in immediate danger of being shot at was, I hope, not too apparent on my features. “All right,” I told him—quietly and calmly, I intended. Too quietly, it turned out.
“What?” he asked.
“All right,” I repeated, my attempt at pacification undone as soon as begun.
He gazed at me intently; not as Elise had gazed at me, however; his look one of cold suspicion rather than of open curiosity. “I want to know exactly who you are,” he said. “I want to know exactly what you are after.”
“My name is Richard Collier,” I told him. “And I’m not after anything. I happen to be—”
I broke off as his lips puffed outward in a scornful sound. “Do not attempt to gull me, sir,” he said. “Your manner may seem inexplicable to a certain female party but I read it clearly enough. You are after gain.”
“Gain?” I stared at him.
“Money,” he snarled.
He caught me there; completely. Off guard, I laughed. If we’d been close enough, it would have been directly into his face. “You must be joking,” I said, knowing, of course, that he wasn’t but with no other reaction at hand.
His face grew stonelike again and my inclination to laugh vanished. “I warn you, Collier,” he rumbled; it was a rumbling sound, I swear. “There is the law and I will not hesitate to make avail of it.”
He was getting to me now. I felt my insides turning hot. “Robinson—”
“Mr. Robinson,” he interrupted.
“Yes. Of course,” I said. “Mr. Robinson. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He twitched as though I’d struck him violently across the face. Again, I felt myself grow tense. There was no doubt in my mind, in that moment, that he meant me harm and, losing control, might well attempt to inflict it.
Not that I really cared by then. I am not a brawler by nature; have had very little of that sort of thing in my life. Still,
I was certainly ready—as he would have put it—to “have a shy” at him right then; I confess to an almost overwhelming urge to punch his nose off center. Leaning forward in my chair, I said, “I’d rather not get physical, Robinson, but don’t think, for a second, that I’ll back away from it. At the moment, if you care to know, I rather relish the thought of knocking you down. I don’t like you. You’re a bully and I don’t like bullies; I don’t like them at all. Do I make myself clear?”
We came as close to clashing, in that moment, as we ever had. Like stags, we faced each other on a field of impending combat. Then a thin smile drew back his lips; as contemptuous a smile as I have ever had directed at me. “Bravery in a crowded room,” he said.
“We can go outside,” I told him. Jesus, but I yearned to hit him! I have never met a man in my entire life who brought out such hostility in me.
My waiter took the edge off slightly as he came up to the table and inquired if Robinson were dining with me. “No,” I said. “He’s not.” More coldly than necessary, I’m sure. The waiter must have thought I was angry at him. Still, it was the best I could manage under the circumstances.
When the waiter had departed, Robinson told me, “You will never take advantage of Miss McKenna, that I promise you.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I answered. “I never will take advantage of her. Which will have nothing whatever to do with you.”
His features hardened again, eyes going narrow and steely. “Let us come to terms,” he said. “What is your price?”
He flabbergasted me. I had to laugh again no matter how it angered him. “You just won’t understand, will you?” I said, incredulous at the man.
Again he surprised me as, instead of bristling, he smiled with cold amusement. “Poorly rendered, Collier,” he said. “At least I know, now, you are not an unemployed actor seeking gain.”
I made a groaning sound of disbelief. “Here we go again,” I said. “Seeking gain.” I shook my head. “You just can’t see. You’re incapable of seeing what is right in front of you.”
Another frost-edged smile. “What I see in front of me is a blackguard,” he said.
“And a humbug, I know,” I added, recalling what Elise had said. I sighed. “Why don’t you just get up and walk away?”
“I have run across your sort a dozen times over,” he told me. “And have always dealt with them as they deserved.”
I nodded wearily. “Mm-hmm.”
Which was when it came to me once more, destroying my set of mind in an instant. Unfair, in a way; a debilitating side effect of precognition. For, recalling how the man was going to die, I felt a sudden surge of pity for him. He would drown in icy Atlantic water never having known the love of a woman he so obviously adored. How could I hate a man in such a plight?
Unexpectedly—I would not, until that moment, have thought him sensitive enough—he saw the change in my expression and it baffled him. Reactive anger he could cope with; sudden pity he could not. I think, in a way, it frightened him, for his voice was not as firm when he spoke again. “I will have her cut you soon enough, sir. You may count on that.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Robinson,” I said.
It was as though I hadn’t spoken. “Failing that,” he overlapped my voice with his, “I assure you I am more than able to compass your demise.”
I wasn’t alert enough. It took me a good fifteen seconds to realize that he had just threatened my life.
“Whatever you wish,” I told him.
With a scowl, he pushed his chair back suddenly, almost tipping it over. Standing, he turned on his heel and strode off quickly. What were his emotions in those moments, I wonder. Despite his malediction on me, I still felt sorry for the man—another writer’s curse which vitiates as simple a necessity as self-protection. There was no way of avoiding it, however. He loved Elise as much as I did and had loved her so for a much longer time.
How could I fail to empathize with that?
It was barely past seven thirty when I gave the card to a man at the ballroom door and was led to my front-row seat. Only a handful of people were there so I had an opportunity to write without being noticed. Now that I am up to this moment, I can look around at last.
The Ballroom is nowhere as spectacular-looking as I recall it being. It is rather cavernous and gloomy, the ceiling extremely high, ascending in steeply angled sections with crossbeams supporting them. The windows are high and narrow, the walls paneled with dark wood, the floor planked and barren-looking. Even the chair I’m sitting on is a folding, wooden one. Not too palatial, all in all.
The stage, too, while larger—about forty feet in width, I’d guess—is not as rich in appearance. Its proscenium is curved, with no steps leading up to it. I can’t tell how deep the stage is because the curtain is shut. I can hear a beehive of activity back there: voices, footsteps, scrapings, thuds. I wish I could go back and wish her well but know I must stay out of her way. Opening night is bad enough without the travail I’ve added. I hope she’s all right.
I’m looking at the program now. The cover has the title of the play and a photograph of Elise. A photograph? The photograph. How strange it makes me feel to see it and realize how far the impact of it took me.
At the bottom of the cover are the words Hotel del Coronado—E. S. Babcock, Manager—Coronado Beach, California. I turn the program over and see on its back an advertisement extolling the hotel’s “number and diversity of attractions.” By far the greatest of which, to this lowly scribe, is a small, slender actress named Elise.
As I open the program, I see, on the left-hand page: Mr. William Fawcett Robinson presents / MISS ELISE MCKENNA / in an Original Production of a New Comedy, in Four Acts, Entitled / The Little Minister / by J. M. BARRIE l founded on his novel of the same name. Beneath that are two lines of melody composed by Wm. Furst entitled “Lady Babbie’s Music” (tempo di valse). I am trying to pick it out in my mind from what little I recall of boyhood piano lessons.
Beneath the music are names of the characters such as Gavin Dishart, Lord Rintoul, and Capt. Halliwell. The fourth name is Lady Babbie, Lord Rintoul’s Daughter, and across the dotted line from that, Elise McKenna. I thrill—it is the only applicable word—at the thought of seeing her act.
If I were anticipating that alone, it would be a thrilling moment: to witness the performance of an immortal of the American stage. Even if she has not achieved the peak of her career yet, she must be marvelous to behold on the stage. That this very woman wrote that tender note to me which concludes I love you fills me with such joy that I want to shout. My emotion is a parallel of hers: On the one hand, I would like to collar every passer-by and tell them everything; on the other hand, I want to keep it all to myself, guarding it jealously.
I just had to close my eyes and let it all rush through me in a spasm of joy. Is it possible to be so happy? It must be, for I am. Even Robinson’s threat means nothing to me.
I am looking around the Ballroom now as the audience begins to gather. There, I see a woman looking, through a pair of opera glasses, at the narrow and apparently unused balcony above the top of the stage. There, I see (and smile at) a man taking a surreptitious nip from a flask. He slips it back into his pocket, flicks nervous fingers at his beard. I think I’ll stop writing now.
The show is about to begin. The lights are darkening; the orchestra stops playing. I feel my heart suspended on a string, a slowly beaten tympany. Now I can barely see to write.
There! The curtain parts. The orchestra starts playing again; the program calls it “A Moonlit Evening in April.” In addition to Speedwriting, I will go to shorter phrases so I can write my impressions as I view.
A patch of woods. Moonlight. There’s the fake fire Robinson mentioned—not too convincing. Two men sitting by it, asleep. A third man patrols. A fourth man now, descending a tree. They are talking of “the little minister.” “No temptation that is of the earth earthly will draw Gavin—“Lost the rest. Lord, what thick accents!
> They go on and on. How long before she comes on stage? I’m seething—
The minister arrives. He wants them to leave. They counter with complaints about the manufacturers. The plot thickens. (Where is Elise?!)
Thrums swarming with constables, Lord Rintoul with them, Capt. Halliwell. Quick look at program. Lord Rintoul, her father. Capt. Halliwell wants to marry her. Hence his working with Lord Rintoul to catch the ringleaders of the revolt. The men onstage plan to give the alarm when the troops show up so the ringleaders can flee. Got it now despite accents thick enough to slice.
A woman singing offstage. Is it her? She sings too? What a lovely voice. God, I love her so. I tremble, waiting for her.
She’s on! Dancing! Lord, how beautiful she is, how graceful. Dressed as a Gypsy no less. Hair worn long, a white blouse, long, fringed shawl over her left shoulder that hangs to the bottom of her dark skirt. A long, fringed scarf worn like an apron, a string of dark beads at her neck. What were those words I read? Ethereal? Lambent? Oh, yes.
Her feet are bare! (I never use exclamation points! They betray my excitement.) How can the sight of her feet excite me? I’ve seen women at beaches, almost naked. Nothing. But those unclothed feet—her feet. It’s incredible. I’m watching her, enchanted. I’ve lost track of the play.
She’s danced off stage, throwing a kiss to the minister. Is that all? No, of course not, she’s the star. But what a letdown. The stage is empty without her.
Now it’s really empty, everyone gone. A man comes in and starts to climb a tree. There! She’s back.
They talk. Her voice is marvelous: an instrument of quality. What are they saying? Ah. He knows who she is—saw her at Rintoul Castle when he was—mole catching? I must have gotten that wrong.
She asks him not to tell—came to warn them of the soldiers coming—heard her father and Halliwell talking—decided to outwit them. But Redcoats block the way. Only way to warn the ringleaders is with a horn the man has; blow it three times. The man is afraid. Redcoats will “nab” him if he does.