Somewhere in Time

by Richard Matheson

  When we reached the side door, I held it open for her and we went outside. There was a little sunlight now, warming the air. As we went down the steps, I looked to my left and saw some Chinese workers sweeping up dead leaves and grass from the Paseo del Mar and carrying armloads of it down onto the beach where several others were burning it.

  When we reached the bottom of the steps, Elise said, “Shall we go this way?” gesturing toward Orange Avenue, and I had a momentary impression of a woman more accustomed to giving suggestions than receiving them. We started along the promenade which curved around the east face of the hotel.

  “How did the rehearsal go?” I asked.

  Of all the questions I might have presented to her, that was probably the least appropriate. “Abominably,” she answered.

  “That bad?”

  She sighed. “That bad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was my fault,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with the company.”

  “Or Mr. Robinson?”

  Her smile was grim. “He was not exactly a noncombatant,” she admitted.

  “Sorry again,” I told her. “I’m sure it was because of me.”

  “No, no.” She wasn’t too convincing. “He has had these moods before.”

  “It’s only concern for your career,” I said.

  “That is certainly what he keeps telling me,” she replied. “Enough times for the world to memorize.”

  The phrase made me smile. “He means it.”

  She glanced at me as though surprised to hear me speaking well of Robinson despite his treatment of me. Yet how could I do otherwise? He did regard her career as sacrosanct; I knew that better than even she. If there were personal emotions involved as well—and I could scarcely doubt that—it was another matter.

  “Oh, I suppose he does,” she said. “But he is a tyrant when he is this way. It will be a miracle if I have a manager at all by tomorrow the way we have been pegging at each other.”

  I smiled and nodded but actually felt envious of their long relationship, even if it was based more on friction than harmony. Perhaps I overemphasize what feeling may exist between them. I cannot truly visualize Elise loving him, though I can see him adoring her from a “noble” distance and converting this unspoken devotion into a kind of tyranny over her life.

  Abruptly, she squeezed my arm and smiled again, this time brightly and—did I imagine it?—affectionately. “But I’m being gloomy company,” she said. “Forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said, returning her smile.

  She stared at me intently while we walked several yards, then, with a sound of self-reproach, turned away. “There I go again,” she said.

  She looked back quickly. “Richard, I wonder if you are truly aware of how remarkable it is that I speak to you so freely,” she said. “I have never done that with a man before. I want you to know what a compliment it is to you that I can do so.”

  “And I want you to know that you can speak to me about anything,” I told her.

  That look again. She shook her head in bafflement. “What?” I asked.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said. I had to smile at the flabbergasted sound in her voice.

  “How odd,” I replied. I looked at her adoringly. “I haven’t missed you at all.”

  Her smile grew brighter and she squeezed my arm again. Then, as though her pleasure had to be released in a burst, she looked ahead and cried, “Oh, see!”

  I turned my head and saw a group of men and women riding bicycles along the hotel entry road, heading toward Orange Avenue. I had to laugh aloud because the sight was, at the same time, so amusing and so charming. All the bicycles had one wheel as wide in diameter as that of a truck tire—some in back, some in front—and another as small as the wheel on a child’s tricycle. That was the amusing part. The charm came from the couple on each bicycle, the men in knickers with caps or derbies on their heads, the women in long skirts and blouses or sweaters, caplike hats on their heads. In each instance, the woman rode in front, some copedaling, some being pedaled. Seven couples in all, they rolled in a broken line away from the hotel, chatting and laughing. “Looks like fun,” I said.

  “Have you never done it?” she asked.

  “Not on—” I stopped, about to have said: Not on bikes like that “—city streets,” I finished. “I should like to ride with you though.”

  “Perhaps we shall,” she said, and I knew the thrill of hearing, from a loved one’s lips, the hinted promise of future moments together.

  I noted that she held up her skirt and petticoats with her right hand as she walked and it came to me that, in 1896, a walking woman is a one-handed woman since one of her hands must always be occupied in keeping her hems above the dust or dirt or snow or rain or whatever. I smiled to myself. At least I thought I did it to myself, but Elise noticed and asked why I was smiling.

  I knew immediately that telling her the truth could only restore an atmosphere of differentness about me, so I said, “I was thinking about your mother’s reaction to me last night.”

  She smiled. “She never really storms,” she said, “but you know you have been blown on nonetheless.”

  I chuckled at the phrase. “Was she successful as an actress?” I asked. None of the books had mentioned that.

  Her smile grew faintly melancholy. “I know what you are thinking,” she said, “and that is part of it, I suppose. But she never forced me to act. I went into it naturally.”

  I hadn’t intended to enter the delicate zone of less successful actress-mother living vicariously through triumphs of more successful daughter but I didn’t say so, only smiling as she added, “And she was successful in her own way.”

  “I’m sure she was,” I said.

  We walked without speaking for a while. I felt no actual need for words and I believe she felt the same; perhaps even more than me, it now occurs. Fresh air, quiet, and the calming stimulus of movement on the earth, beneath the sky; that’s why she loves to walk so much. It gives her a chance to escape the tensions of her work.

  I started to indulge myself in a fantasy about my future with Elise. There was, to begin with, no reason I should not remain with her. Granted the anxiety about my hold on 1896 remained, but it was more irrational than sound, I felt. Hadn’t I slept on three separate occasions now without losing hold? Anxiety or not, all evidence denoted that, with every passing hour, I was becoming more securely rooted to this time.

  Accordingly, it was a sound assumption on my part that I would stay with her. In time, we would marry and, since I’m a writer, I would begin to study, then write stage plays. I would not expect her to help me get them produced. They would, sooner or later, be worthy of production in their own right. That she would offer to help, I had little doubt. I vowed, however, that our relationship would not proceed on such a basis. Never again would I take the risk of seeing doubt on her face.

  That all the books I’ve read about her would be different did not concern me. I felt amusement now at my concern about impinging on this new environment even to the extent of cutting away that doorjamb. History must, after all, have some kind of flexibility at lower levels, I had decided. It is hardly an impending Battle of Borodino I seek to alter.

  My attention was caught, at that moment, by the sight of a railway car standing on a siding about a hundred yards from the southeast corner of the hotel. I realized that it might belong to her and asked. She said it did. I made no comment but it gave me an odd sensation to be so graphically reminded of her wealth. No wonder she suspected me; perhaps still does, although I think not. I almost asked if I could see the car’s interior, then realized that it would hardly be the most circumspect of requests to make.

  We walked across the Carriage Drive, past a circular, floral island, and onto open ground. To our left was a long wooden bar for tying horses and, ahead, a profusion of trees and bushes. We walked through the heavy growth and came to a plank walk which extended down the stra
nd between the ocean and Glorietta Bay.

  As we started along the walk, I looked toward the ocean and saw blue skies far out, white clouds moving north with the wind. Approximately two hundred yards ahead of us were the peak-roofed Museum and the bathhouse, across the narrow strand from them the boathouse, connected to them by another plank walk. Ahead and to our right was the immense iron pier jutting blackly over the ocean on what looked like inverted Vs, a half-dozen men and one woman standing on it, fishing. The beach was very narrow—no more than thirty feet in width—and quite unkempt in appearance, covered by seaweed, shells, and what appeared to be garbage, though I found it hard to believe that it was.

  After moving about seventy yards, we stopped by the railing of the walk and looked at the heavy-running surf. The ocean wind was brisk and almost cold, blowing a delicately tingling spray into our faces.

  “Elise?” I said.

  “Richard?” Her imitation of my tone was so accurate it made me smile. “Stop that now,” I said, with mock severity. “I have something serious to say.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Well, not so serious you can’t endure it,” I assured her, weakening the assurance by adding, “I hope.”

  “I hope so too, Mr. Collier,” she said.

  “I thought about us while we were apart this morning.”

  “Oh?” Her tone was not as light now, bordering on uneasiness.

  “And I realized how thoughtless I’ve been.”

  “Why thoughtless?”

  “To expect my own commitment to force you—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Please let me say it,” I persisted. “It isn’t all that terrible.”

  She gazed at me worriedly, then sighed. “All right.”

  “All I want to say is that I know you need time to adjust to the idea of my being a part of your life and I mean to give you all the time you need.” That sounded arrogant, I realized, and added, smiling, “So long as you realize that I am a part of your life from now on.”

  Thud went the ill-timed humor. Elise looked toward the ocean, her expression harried once again. Dear God, why do I keep saying the wrong things? I thought. “I don’t mean to pressure you,” I said. “Forgive me if I do.”

  “Please let me think,” she answered. It was neither command nor plea but somewhere in between.

  The atmosphere was hardly lightened by the passage of two men discussing the wretched appearance of the beach. It was garbage, I learned. The hotel’s garbage scow repeatedly failed to go beyond something they referred to as “the ballast point.” Accordingly, all “dumped detritus” floated back to “befoul the beach.”

  I looked at Elise abruptly. “Do you have to leave tonight?” I asked.

  “We’re scheduled to be in Denver by the twenty-third,” she said. It was not exactly an answer, I thought, but it would have to do.

  Reaching out, I took her hand in mine and held it tightly. “Forgive me again,” I said. “I no sooner finish telling you that I don’t mean to pressure you than I do that very thing.” I felt a twinge of new uneasiness as it occurred to me that the phrase “pressure you” might sound foreign to her.

  My uneasiness increased as I found us starting back toward the hotel. I wanted to say something to restore the feeling we had experienced while walking in silence, but nothing came to me which might not aggravate the situation even more.

  A couple passed us, the man wearing a long black frock coat and a high hat, a cane in his hand and a cigar between his lips, the woman wearing a long, blue dress with matching bonnet. They smiled at us in passing and the man crimped the brim of his hat and said, “We are looking forward to this evening with much anticipation, Miss McKenna.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. And I felt even worse, now reminded, once again, that I had chosen to fall in love with no less than a “Famous American Actress.”

  I wracked my brain for something to say which would alleviate this sense of mounting alienation. “Do you like classical music?” I asked. When she said she did, I responded instantly, “So do I. My favorite composers are Grieg, Debussy, Chopin, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky.”

  Mistake. I knew from the way she looked at me that I had lost far more than I’d gained, the impression I’d given being that of a well-researched suitor rather than a genuine lover of music. “My favorite composer is Mahler though,” I added.

  Her reply failed to register at first. I stared at her for several moments before it sank in that she’d answered, “Who?”

  Confusion tumbled my mind. The book had said that Mahler was her favorite. “You’re not familiar with his work?” I asked.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” she said.

  The feeling of disorientation was returning again. How was it possible that she had not heard of Mahler when the book had stated that he was her favorite composer? Immense confusion gripped me until I got the idea that, perhaps, I am the one to introduce her to Mahler’s music. This being true, was more time between us indicated? Or had my mention of his name accomplished the introduction?

  I was enmeshed in this conflicting thought when Elise turned to me and smiled; not a smile of love by any means but one I treasured nonetheless. “I’m sorry if I became remote,” she said. “It’s simply that I’m so confused. Pulled in two directions at the same time. The circumstances of our meeting and what there is about you that I cannot comprehend yet cannot turn away from draws me one way. My … well, suspicion of men draws me in the other.

  “I must be honest with you, Richard. I’ve been dealing with approaches of men for many years now; without the least difficulty, I might add. With you—” Her smile was wan. “—it is so difficult that I scarcely believe I am the same person I have been.” She hesitated, then went on. “I know you understand that women are made to feel inferior as far as objective accomplishment is concerned.”

  That brought me up short. Not only a non sequitur but a statement of Women’s Lib in 1896?

  “Because of that,” she went on, “women are forced into a state of subjectivity; that is, into making self more important than it should be—accentuating appearance and vanity rather than mind and capability.

  “I have been spared this plight by my theatrical success—but spared at the cost of basic respectability. Females in the theater are distrusted by men. We imperil their world with our attainments. Even when they praise us for these attainments, it is in the lexicon of male acceptance of the female. Reviewers always write of actresses in terms of their charm or beauty, never of their skill in role delineation. Unless, of course, the actress under consideration is so old that the critic has nothing else left to mention.”

  As she spoke, two feelings vied in me. One was appreciation of the literal truth she spoke. The other was something akin to awe at being suddenly exposed to the depth of this woman I had fallen in love with. Clearly, I could not have seen this depth in a faded photograph and yet she possesses something I admire most in a woman—progressive individuality contained within a discreet nature. I listened to her fascinated.

  “Like all actresses,” she was saying, “I am imprisoned by this male requirement that only acceptable female attributes be displayed. I’ve played Juliet but I do not enjoy the role because I am never permitted to present her as a human being in travail, only as a pretty soubrette spouting flowery speeches.

  “What I’m trying to say is that, because of my general background as a female and, particularly, as an actress, I have developed through the years a network of emotional defenses against the male attitude. My financial success has only thickened that network, adding yet another layer of suspicion toward any male approach. So understand, please understand: that I have been with you as much as I have is, in light of past actions, a miracle of altered outlook. That I have said these things to you goes beyond the miraculous.”

  She sighed. “I have always tried to contain my predilection toward the occult because, as a female, I felt that it would have a tendency to vitiate resolve, make
gullible a mind that needed to be strong and aware; in short, to make me vulnerable.

  “Yet I can only attribute my behavior with you to that very partiality. I feel—there is no escaping it—as though I am involved in some ineffable mystery; a mystery which disturbs me more than I can say, yet one I cannot turn myself away from.” She smiled forlornly. “Have I spoken a single word of sense?” she asked.

  “It all makes sense, Elise,” I said. “I understand—and have a deep respect for—every word.”

  She made a sound as though some kind of weight were being lifted from her shoulders. “Well, there is something anyway,” she said.

  “Elise, could we sit in your railroad car and talk about this?” I asked. “We’re getting close to fundamental truths, we mustn’t stop now.”

  This time there was no hesitation on her part. I felt a surge of response from her as she said, “Yes, let us sit and talk. We must go beyond the mystery.”

  Passing through the grove of trees and high bushes, we turned toward the railroad siding. Ahead of us was a small, white frame building with a miniature cupola on its top. Beyond it were the tracks, a growth of trees on each side of them. We walked past a small, planted island and turned left to the car. Reaching it, I helped her onto its rear platform.

  As she unlocked the door, she said, not apologetically but in the nature of a simple fact stated simply, “It is more ornate than it need be. Mr. Robinson had it designed for me. I would have been as happy with a simpler decor.”

  Her comment did not prepare me for the spectacle before my eyes. I must have gaped for several moments. “Wow,” I said, thoroughly non-Victorian at that point.

  Her soft laugh made me look at her. “Wow?” she repeated.

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  I was. As she conducted me on a tour of the car, I felt as though I were in the presence of royal splendor. Paneled walls and inlaid ceiling. Thick carpeting on the floor. Richly upholstered chairs and sofas with great, puffy pillows, all in princely shades of green and gold. Ship-type lamps on gimbals, designed to burn erect whatever the sway of the car. Window shades with gold fringes on their bottoms. Money speaking in its loudest if least tasteful of tones. I was glad she’d told me that Robinson had it designed.