I
Calcraft was very noisy in his morning humors, and the banging of
windows caused his wife to raise a curious voice.
From the breakfast-room she called, "What is the matter with you this
morning, Cal? Didn't Wagner agree with you last night? Or was it the--?"
"Yes, it was _that_," replied a surly voice.
"Have you hung your wrists out of the window and given them a good
airing?"
"I have." Calcraft laughed rudely.
"Then for goodness' sake hurry in to breakfast, if you are cooled off;
the eggs are." Mrs. Calcraft sighed. It was their usual conversation;
thus the day began.... Her husband entered the room. Of a thick-set,
almost burly figure, Calcraft was an enormously muscular man. His broad
shoulders, powerful brow, black, deep-set eyes, inky black hair and
beard--the beard worn in Hunding fashion--made up a personality slightly
forbidding. The suppleness of his gait, the ready laughter and bright
expression of the eye, soon corrected this aversion; the critic was
liked, and admired,--after the critical fashion. Good temper and wit in
the evening ever are. The recurring matrimonial duel over the morning
teacups awoke him for the day's labors; he actually profited from the
verbal exercising of Tekla's temper.
"After what you promised!" she inquired in her most reproachful manner.
Calcraft smiled. "And your story in the _Watchman_. Now, Cal, aren't you
a bit ashamed? We have heard much worse Siegmunds."
"Not much," he grunted, swallowing a huge cup of tea at a draught.
"Yet you roasted the poor boy as you would never dare roast a singer
with any sort of reputation. Hinweg's Siegmund was--"
"Like himself, too thin," said her husband; "fancy a thin Siegmund!
Besides, the fellow doesn't know how to sing, and he can't act."
"But his voice; it has all the freshness of youth." ... She left the
table, and lounging to the window regarded the streets and sky with a
contemptuous expression. Tekla was very tall, rather heavy, though well
built, with hair and skin of royal blond. She looked as Scandinavian as
her name.
"My dear Tek, you are always discovering genius. You remember that young
pianist with a touch like old gold? Or was it smothered onions? I've
forgotten which." He grinned as he spilled part of an egg on his beard.
She faced him. "If the critics don't encourage youthful talent, who
will? But they never do." Her voice took on flat tones: "I wonder, Cal,
that you are not easier as you grow older, for you certainly do not
improve with age, yourself. Do you know what time you got in this
morning?"
"No, and I don't want to know." The man's demeanor was harsh; there were
deep circles under his large eyes; his cheeks were slightly puffed, and,
as he opened his newspaper, he looked like one who had not slept.
Tekla sighed again and stirred uneasily about the room. "For heaven's
sake, girl, sit down and read--or, something!"
"I don't wonder your nerves are bad this morning," she sweetly
responded; "the only wonder is that you can keep up such a wearing pace
and do your work so well."
"This isn't such a roast," said Calcraft irrelevantly. He had heard
these same remarks every morning for more than ten years. "Last night,"
he proceeded, "the new tenor--"
"Oh! Cal, please don't read your criticism aloud. I saw it hours ago,"
she implored,--her slightly protuberant, blue eyes were fixed steadily
upon him.
"Why, what time is it?"
"Long past twelve."
"Phew! And I promised to be at the office at midday! Where's my coat, my
overshoes! Magda! Magda! Hang that girl, she's always gadding with the
elevator boy when I need her." Calcraft bustled about the room, rushed
to his bedchamber, to the hall, and reappeared dressed for his trip
down-town.
"Cal, I forgot to say that Hinweg called this morning and left his card.
Foreigners are so polite in these matters. He left cards for both of
us."
"He did, did he?" answered Calcraft grimly. "Well, that won't make him
sing Wagner any better in the _Watchman_. And as a matter of
politeness--if you will quote the polite ways of foreigners--he should
have left cards here before he sang. What name is on his pasteboard?
I've heard that his real one is something like Whizzina. He's a Croat, I
believe."
She indifferently took some cards from a bronze salver and read aloud:
"Adalbert Viznina, Tenor, Royal Opera, Prague."
"So-ho! a Bohemian. Well, it's all the same. Croatia is Czech. Your Mr.
Viznina can't sing a little bit. That vile, throaty German
tone-production of his--but why in thunder does he call himself Hinweg?
Viznina is a far prettier name. Perhaps Viznina is Hinweg in German!"
Tekla shrugged her strong shoulders and gazed outdoors. "What a wretched
day, and I have so much to do. Now, Cal, do come home early. We dine at
seven. No opera to-night, you know. And come back soon. We never spend
a night home alone together. What if this young man should call again?"
"Don't stop him," her husband answered in good-humored accents as he
bade her good-by. He was prepared to meet the world now, and in a jolly
mood. "Tell your Hinweg or Whizzerina, or whatever his name is, to sing
Tristan better to-morrow night than he did Siegmund, or there will be
more trouble." He skipped off. She called after him:
"Cal, remember your promise!"
"Not a drop," and the double slamming of the street doors set Tekla
humming Hunding's motif in "Die Walküre."