Somewhere in Time

  What is it Mary always says? Too much for the heart?

  My sentiment exactly.

  I’ve gone walking on the beach. I’ve had a drink in the Victorian Lounge. I’ve stared at her photograph again. I’ve gone back to the beach and sat on the sand and stared at the surf.

  To no avail. I can’t escape the feeling. With fraying shreds of rationality I realize (I do!) that I’m looking for something to hold on to, that the something doesn’t even have to be real, and that Elise McKenna has become that something.

  No help to realize it. This thing is burgeoning inside me; becoming an obsession. When I was in the Hall of History before, it took all my willpower not to break the glass on that display case, snatch her photograph, and run.

  Hey! An idea! Something I can do about it. Nothing that will stop it, nothing that won’t ultimately make it worse in all likelihood but something concrete I can do instead of mooning around.

  I’ll drive to a local bookstore or, more likely, one in San Diego and locate some books about her. I’m sure there must be one or two at least. That program down there refers to her as “the famous American actress.”

  I’ll do it! Find out everything I can about my long-lost love. Lost? All right, all right. About my love who never knew she was my love because she didn’t become my love until after she was dead.

  I wonder where she’s buried. I just shuddered. The vision of her being buried chills me. That face dead?

  Impossible.

  I remember, at college, that my landlady (the local Christian Science practitioner and all of eighty-seven herself) took care of a ninety-six-year-old woman for whom she’d worked in the past. This older woman, Miss Jenny, was completely bedridden. She was paralyzed, she was deaf, she was blind, she wet her bed, she was more vegetable than animal. My roommate and I—I feel shame about it now—used to break up when she called out in her frail, quavering voice, “Hoo hoo, Miss Ada! I want to get up!” Those words only, day and night, from the lips of a woman who couldn’t possibly get up.

  One day, when I went into Miss Ada’s living room to use her telephone, I noticed a photograph of a lovely young woman in a high-neck dress, her hair long and dark and glossy; Miss Jenny when she was young. And the strangest feeling of disorientation took hold of me. Because that young woman attracted me while, at the same moment, I could hear Miss Jenny in the nearby bedroom calling out, in her ancient voice, in her blindness and her deafness and her total helplessness, that she wanted to get up. It was a moment of chilling ambivalence, one I couldn’t cope with very well at nineteen.

  I still can’t cope with it.

  The valet got my car and drove it to the front of the hotel. It’s only been parked since yesterday afternoon but it looks strange to me; more like an artifact than a possession. It seems even stranger driving it. Overnight I’ve lost the feel.

  I called a few bookstores in Coronado; they had nothing. The place to go, I was told, was Wahrenbrock’s in San Diego. The valet told me how to get there: Cross the bridge, go north on the freeway, exit at Sixth, drive down to Broadway.

  On the bridge now. I can see the city ahead; mountains in the distance. Odd sensation in me: that the farther I get from the hotel, the farther I get from Elise McKenna. She belongs to the past. So does the hotel. It’s like a sanctuary for the care and protection of yesterday.

  Not much traffic on the freeway. There’s a sign ahead: Los Angeles. They’re trying to deceive me into thinking that it still exists.

  Sixth Avenue exit up ahead.

  Later. On my way back, ready to jump clear out of my skin. Christ, I’m nervous. San Diego really got to me. The pace, the crowds, the din, the grinding pulsing presentness of it. I feel uprooted, dazed.

  Thank God I found the bookstore easily and thank God it was an oasis of peace in that desert of Now. Under any other condition, I might have stayed there for hours, browsing through its thousands upon thousands of volumes, its two floors plus basement of collected fascinations.

  I had a quest, however, and a need to get back to the hotel. So I bought whatever was available; not too much, I’m afraid. The man there said that, as far as he knew, there was no book exclusively about Elise McKenna. I guess she wasn’t that important then. Not to the public anyway, not to history. To me, she’s all-important.

  I see the hotel in the distance and a burst of longing fills me. I wish I could convey the sense of coming home I feel.

  I’m back, Elise.

  In my room now; just past three o’clock. Incredible the strong sensation I experienced when I entered the hotel. It didn’t have to build as it did yesterday; it came upon me with a rush. Instantly, I was immersed in it and comforted by it—the past embracing me. I can describe it in no other way.

  I read an article, once, about astral projection: the trips the so-called immaterial body we are said to possess makes when we’re asleep. My experience seems similar. It was as though, in driving to San Diego, I left a part of me behind, fastened to the hotel’s atmosphere, the other part connected to it by a long, thin, stretching cord. While I was in San Diego, that cord was stretched to its thinnest and least effective, making me vulnerable to the impact of the present.

  Then, as I returned, the cord began to shorten and, thickening, was able to transmit to me more of that comforting atmosphere. When I caught sight of the hotel’s towering structure looming above the distant trees, I almost cried aloud with joy. Almost, hell. I did cry out.

  Now I’m back and peace has been regained. Surrounded by this timeless castle on the sands, I most certainly will never again go to San Diego.

  Writing again, listening to Mahler’s Fifth on my headphones; Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic. Beautiful; I love it.

  To the books, though.

  The first one is by John Fraser, called Luminaries of the American Theatre. I’m looking at a two-page entry on her.

  There is a row of photos at the top of the left-hand page which show her from childhood to old age. Already I’m disturbed to see that lovely face grow old from left to right.

  In the second row are three larger photographs: one of her quite old, one quite young; and one that’s similar to the photograph in the Hall of History—that frank, exquisite face, the long hair falling to her shoulders; the way she appeared in The Little Minister.

  In the third row of photographs, she is wearing a lovely costume, her hands folded delicately on her lap; this from a play called Quality Street. Next to that is a shot of her as Peter Pan (she did play it, then), wearing what looks like an army camouflage suit and a feathered hat, blowing those same pipes that are being blown by Pan on that wooden chair downstairs.

  In the bottom row are photographs of her as other characters she played: L’Aiglon, Portia, Juliet; my God, a rooster yet in Chanticleer.

  On the opposite page, a full-page photograph of her face in profile. I don’t like it. For that matter, I don’t care for any of these photographs. None of them possess the quality in the photograph I first saw. Which evokes a strange sensation. If that photograph had been like one of these, I would have passed by, feeling nothing.

  I might be on my way to Denver now.

  Forget it. Read.

  A brief account states that she was one of the most revered actresses on the American stage, for many years the theater’s greatest box-office draw. (How come no book about her, then?) Born in Salt Lake City on November 11, 1867, she left school when she was fourteen to become a full-time actress, coming to New York with her mother in 1888 to make an appearance in The Paymaster. She appeared with E. H. Southern, was John Drew’s leading lady for five years before she became a star. She was extremely shy and avoided social life. While delicate of frame, she was said to never have missed a performance in her entire career. She never married and she died in 1953.

  I wonder why she never married?

  Second book. Martin Ellsworth: Photographic History of the American Stage. More photographs, not on several pages though; spread out through
the book, taking her in chronological order from her first role to her last—The Wandering Boy in 1878 to The Merchant of Venice in 1931. A long career.

  Here’s a photograph of her playing Juliet with William Faversham. I bet she was good.

  The Little Minister again. Since it opened in New York City in September 1896, it must have been a tryout here.

  My God, what a torrent of hair! It looks light in color, not blonde but not auburn either. She has a robe across her shoulders and she’s looking at the camera; at me.

  Those eyes.

  Third book: Paul O’Neil: Broadway.

  It speaks about her manager, William Fawcett Robinson. She fit his standards perfectly, it says; his conception (and the era’s) of what an actress should, ideally, be. Preceding the adulation of movie stars by decades, she was the first actress to create a mystique in the public’s eye—never seen in public, never quoted by the press, apparently without an offstage life, the absolute quintessence of seclusion.

  Robinson approved of that, says O’Neil. They’d had friction up till 1897, but, from that year on, she was devoted to her work, sublimating every aspect of her life to stagecraft.

  O‘Neil says she had a magic quality as an actress. Even in her late thirties, she could play a girl or elfin boy. Her charm, said the critics, was “ethereal, lambent, lucent.” O’Neil adds, “These qualities do not always reveal themselves in her photographs.”

  Amen to that.

  “Beneath this ingenuous surface, however, was a disciplined performer, especially after 1897 when she first began to dedicate herself exclusively to her work.”

  She had no natural genius for the stage, however, O’Neil notes. In her early years, her performing was something of a failure. After Robinson became her manager, she worked at it, becoming quite successful; the public coming to adore her, though the critics regarded her as “admittedly charming but lacking in depth.”

  Then came 1897 and the critics as well as the public enveloping her in what O’Neil describes as “an endless embrace.”

  Barrie adapted his novel The Little Minister for her. Later, he wrote Quality Street for her, then Peter Pan, then What Every Woman Knows, then A Kiss for Cinderella. Peter Pan was her greatest triumph (though not her favorite; that was The Little Minister). “I never witnessed such emotional adulation in the theatre,” one critic wrote. “It was hysterical. Her devotees pelted the stage with flowers.” In response to which, O’Neil adds, she made the same brief, breathless curtain speech she was always known to speak. “I thank you. I thank you—for us all. Goodnight.”

  Despite her great success, her private life remained a mystery. Her few intimate friends were people outside the profession. One of her fellow actresses is quoted as saying, “For many years, she was perfectly charming and gay. Then, in 1897, she began to be the original ‘I want to be alone’ woman.”

  I wonder why.

  Another quote; the actor Nat Goodwin. “Elise McKenna is a household word. She stands for all that represents true and virtuous womanhood. At the zenith of her fame, she has woven her own mantle and placed it above the pedestal on which she stands alone. And yet, as I looked into those fawnlike eyes, I wondered. I noted little furrows in that piquant face and sharp vertical lines between her brows. Her skin, to me, seemed dry, her gestures tense, her speech jerky. I felt like taking one of those artistic hands in mine and saying, ‘Little woman, I fear you are unconsciously missing the greatest thing in life—romance.’”

  What do I know about her so far? Beyond the fact that I’m in love with her I mean.

  That, up until 1897, she was outgoing, successful, proficient at acting, and fought with her manager.

  That, after 1897, she became: one, a recluse; two, a total star; and, three, her manager’s conception of a total star.

  The transition play, if it can be called that, was The Little Minister, the one she tried out in this hotel approximately a year before it opened in New York.

  What happened during that year?

  A brief selection from the final book: volume two of The Story of American Theatre by V. A. Bentley.

  “Her rise to critical acclaim, after 1896, was rapid, almost phenomenal. Although before that she had, despite her success and adulation, manifested no truly outstanding thespic gift, there was not a role she essayed after that that was not done magnificently.”

  Mention is made that her portrayal of Juliet represents a symbol of this change. She performed it to minor critical reception in 1893. When she did it again in 1899, it was to general acclaim.

  A few words are expended on her manager. “A man of overly forceful nature, William Fawcett Robinson was disliked by most who knew him. Never having had the advantage of a good education, he, nonetheless, displayed daring and boldness in his many enterprises.”

  Good God. He died on the Lusitania.

  I wonder if he loved her. He must have. I can almost sense his feelings toward her. Uneducated, crude perhaps, he probably never told her of his feelings in their entire relationship, regarding her as too high above himself, and devoting all his efforts to keeping her elevated, thus making certain she was unavailable to anyone else as well.

  That’s the last of the books.

  Sitting by the window, dictating again. Getting close to five, the sun descending. Another day.

  I feel a terrible restlessness inside with no way of resolving it. Why have I let myself become involved this way? She’s dead. She’s in her grave. She’s moldering bone and dust.

  She’s not!

  The people in the next room, who were chatting, have gone deathly still. My shouted words must have startled them. Charlie, there’s a madman in the next room, call the desk.

  But … God, oh, God, I hate myself for having said that. She isn’t dead. Not the Elise McKenna I love. That Elise McKenna is alive.

  Better lie down, close my eyes. Take it easy now, you’re letting things get out of hand.

  Lying in the darkness, haunted by the mystery of her.

  Shall I turn detective, try to solve it?

  Can I turn detective? Or is it all lost, buried underneath the sands of time?

  I’ve got to get out of this room.

  I’m walking along the fifth-floor corridor—a narrow passageway, the ceiling just a few inches above my head.

  Did she ever walk this corridor? I doubt it; she was too successful. She’d have stayed on the first floor, facing the ocean. A big room with a sitting room adjoining.

  I’ve stopped. I stand here, eyes shut, feeling the hotel’s atmosphere seep into me.

  The past is here; no doubt of it.

  I don’t think ghosts could walk here though. Too many guests have been in and out; they’d dissipate an individual spirit.

  The past, on the other hand, like some immense, collective ghost is present here beyond all possibility of exorcism.

  I’m standing on a fifth-floor outside balcony, looking at the stars.

  To the human eye, stars move very slowly. Considering their relative motion, at this moment she and I might be looking up at virtually the same sight.

  She in 1896, me in 1971.

  I’m sitting in the Ballroom. Some affair was held here earlier; tablecloths are flung across the floor, chairs strewn everywhere. I’m looking at the stage on which Elise McKenna acted. Less than fifty feet away from me.

  I’m standing now and walking toward the stage. The six gigantic chandeliers are darkened. The only light comes from wall lamps on the outer edges of the room. My shoes move soundlessly across the parquet flooring.

  I’m standing on the stage now. Wonder if they’ve changed the size or shape of it since then? I suppose they must have. Even so, at some point in The Little Minister she had to walk across this very spot. Perhaps she paused here, even stood.

  Science tells us that nothing can be destroyed. In a real sense, then, some part of her must remain here. Some essence she exuded during her performance. Here. Now. On this spot. Her presence mingling
with mine.

  Elise.

  Why am I so drawn to her and what am I to do about it? I’m not a boy. A boy could cry “I love you!” sigh, groan, roll eyes, relish the catharsis openly. I can’t. Awareness of the insanity of what I feel parallels the feeling.

  I wish I were a boy again—unquestioning, with no need to analyze the moment. I had that feeling when I first stared at her photograph; I was emotionally overwhelmed. Now reality impinges. I’m pulled in two directions simultaneously—toward yearning and toward reason. It’s at times like this I hate the brain. It always builds more barriers than it can topple.

  Sitting on the bed, writing, the headphones on again; the Sixth this time. Its somber feeling reflects my own.

  By the time I got around to hunger, the Coronet Room was closed. So I bought a bag of Fritos, some beef jerky, a small bottle of Mateus, and some soda water. Munching now and drinking a Mateus spritzer, the ice ordered from room service. Can’t say the crunching noises in my head do Mahler any good.

  I’m going through the books again, searching for something more about her.

  There is no more, however. I feel frustrated. There has to be some more written about her. Where do I find it though?

  Christ Almighty, Collier. You get dumber every day Ever hear of the public library?

  Poor Elise. An idiot has fallen in love with you.

  November 16, 1971

  Just got back from the main library in San Diego. It turned out to be within a block or so of the bookstore I went to yesterday. I was there when it opened.