Somewhere in Time (4 page)

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?

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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.

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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.

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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.' "

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

I got up at five and walked the beach for three hours, getting rid of the headache. By half-past eight it was letting up so I downed a cup of coffee and some toast, had the valet get my car and impart instructions to me, and took off for the library.

Thought at first I was in for trouble. A young girl at the front desk said I couldn't take out books with a Los Angeles library card. I knew I couldn't possibly spend the day there reading - I was, already, getting nervous. Then an older and a wiser head prevailed. With proper identification and the key tag from my room, she allowed that I could get a temporary card and borrow books. I almost kissed her cheek.

Twenty minutes later I was out; thank God for file-card systems. Drove back fast, experiencing that same sensation as I got closer to the Coronado; as though this great, white, wooden castle has become my home. Gave my car to the valet and plunged into the hotel's quiet embrace. Had to sit down on the patio and close my eyes, let it all seep back into my veins. The patio a good place for it; like the heart of the hotel. Sitting there, I was surrounded by its past. Peace rilled me and I took a deep breath, opened my eyes and stood, walked to the back elevator, rode it to the fifth floor, and regained my room, carrying the books I'd gotten.

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There is a book about her entitled Elise McKenna: An Intimate Biography by Gladys Roberts. I'm going to save it for last because, despite the feeling of anticipation I feel right now, I know that, once I've finished the biography, it'll all be gone and I want to savor this excitement for as long as possible.

Writing this and listening to the Fourth; the easiest one, I think, the least demanding one. I want to concentrate on her.

The first book is by John Drew, called My Years On Stage.

He wrote that his first impression of Elise McKenna was that she was too fragile. Big women in the theater were the vogue in those days, I gather from the photographs I've seen. Yet he repeats what I've already read, that she never missed a performance.

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Her mother appeared in plays with her at first-playing Mme. Bergomat to her daughter's Susan Blondet in The Masked Ball; Mrs. Ossian to her daughter's Miriam in Butterflies. It says they went to California with this latter play. I guess acting companies toured the West Coast regularly, explaining the tryout here.

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Even though I've written almost everything down, I still feel as though I've rushed through this book too rapidly en route to the biography-like a starving man who cannot derive satisfaction from hors d'ouevres but craves to reach the main course.

I'll force myself to slow down.

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The next book is Well-known Actors and Actresses, published in 1903. The section opens "Elise McKenna sells wood, pigs, and poultry" and goes on to state that she cares more for her farm at Ronkonkoma, Long Island, than for anything else but the stage. If she weren't an actress, the section continues, she would be a farmer. Every moment she can spare from the theater is spent in retreat at her two-hundred-acre farm, her private railroad car carrying her there whenever she has time. "There she can roam around at will, away from curiosity seekers." Always that seclusion.

More on that. "Less is known of her personally than any other prominent person on the stage. To the majority of people, their knowledge of her stops at the footlights. To preserve this privacy, she has placed everything pertaining to publication about her in the hands of her manager. If a writer applies for an interview, she refers him to Mr. Robinson, who straightway says 'No,' this partly from regard for her own desire for privacy, partly from a well-defined policy which he adopted as soon as he became her manager about ten years ago."