Tristan and Isolde were in the middle of their passionate symphony of
flesh and spirit, when Tekla was ushered to the regular Calcraft seats
in the opera house. Her husband, who had been in the city all day,
returned to the house late for dinner, through which meal he dozed. He
then fell asleep on a couch. After dressing and waiting wearily until
nearly nine o'clock she had a carriage called and went to the opera
alone; not forgetting, however, to bid Magda leave a case of imported
beer where Mr. Calcraft could find it when he awoke....
Rather flustered, she watched the stage with anxious eyes. Brangaene--an
ugly, large person in a terra-cotta cheese-cloth peplum--had already
warned the desperate pair beneath the trees that dawn and danger were at
hand. But the lovers sang of death and love, and love and death; and
their sweet, despairing imagery floated on the oily waves of orchestral
passion. The eloquence became burning; Tekla had forgotten her
tribulations, Calcraft and time and space, when King Marke entered
accompanied by the blustering busybody Melot.
"Oh, these tiresome husbands!" she thought, and not listening to the
noble music of the deceived man, she presently slipped into the lobby.
The place was deserted, and as she paced up and down, she recollected
with pleasure the boyish-looking Tristan. How handsome he was! and how
his voice, husky in "Die Walküre," now rang out thrillingly! There!--she
heard it again, muffled indeed by the thick doors, but pure, free, full
of youthful fire. What a Tristan! And he had looked at her the night
before with the same ardor! A pity it was, that she, Tekla Calcraft,
born Tekla Björnsen, had not studied for the opera; had not sung
Sieglinde to his Siegmund; was not singing at this moment with such a
Tristan in the place of that fat Malska, old enough to be his mother!
and instead of being the wife of an indifferent man who-- ...
The act was over, the applause noisy. People began to press out through
the swinging doors, and Tekla, not caring to be caught alone, walked
around to the stage entrance. She met the Director, who made much of her
and took her through the archway presided over by a hoarse-voiced
keeper.
In his dressing-room Tristan welcomed her with outstretched hands.
"You are so good," and then quickly pointed to his throat.
"And you were superb," she responded unaffectedly.
"Your husband, is he here?" he asked, forgetting his throat.
"He is not here yet; he is detained down-town."
"But he will write the critique?" inquired Viznina with startled eyes.
Tekla did not at first answer him.
"I don't know," she replied thickly. He seized her hands.
"Oh, you will like my third act! I am there at my best," he declared
with all the muted vanity of a modest man. She was slightly
disappointed.
"I like everything you do," she slowly admitted. Viznina kissed her
wrists. She regarded him with maternal eyes.
As Tekla mounted the stairs her mind was made up. Fatigued as she was by
the exciting events of the past twenty-four hours, she reached the
press-room in a buoyant mood. It was smoky with the cigars and
cigarettes of a half dozen men who invented ideas, pleasant and
otherwise, about the opera, for the morning papers. Mrs. Calcraft was
greeted with warmth; like her husband she was a favorite, though an old
man grumbled out something about women abusing their privilege. Jetsam,
one of her devoted body-guard, gave her a seat, pen and paper, and told
her to go ahead; there were plenty of messenger boys in waiting. It was
not the first time Tekla had been in the press-room, the room of the
dreaded critical chain-gang, as Cal had named it. All asked after
Calcraft.
"He has gone to the Symphony Concert," replied Tekla unblushingly, and
young Jetsam winked his thin eyes at the rest. Feeling encouraged at
this he persisted:
"I thought Gardner was 'doing' the concert for Cal?"
"Oh! you know Cal!" she put a pen in her mouth, "he hates Wagner;
perhaps he thinks Mr. Gardner needs company once in a while."
"Perhaps he does," gravely soliloquized Jetsam.
"How many performances of Tristan does this make, Mr. Jetsam?"
"I'm sure I don't know--I am never much on statistics."
When she was told the correct number the scratching of pens went on and
the smoke grew denser. Messenger after messenger was dismissed with
precious critical freightage, and soon Tekla had finished, envious eyes
watching her all the while. Every man there wished that his wife were as
clever and helpful as Mrs. Calcraft.
Driving home she forgot all about the shabby cab having memories only
for the garden scene, its musical enchantments. The spell of them lay
thick upon her as she was undressed by Magda. When the lights were out,
she asked Magda if Mr. Calcraft still slept.
"No, ma'am; after drinking the beer he went out."
"Oh! he went out after all, did he?" responded Tekla in a sleepy voice
and immediately passed into happy dreams....
It was sullen afternoon when she stood in her room regarding with
instant joy a large bunch of roses. Calcraft came in without slamming
the doors as usual. She turned a shining face to him. He looked
factitiously fresh, with a Turkish bath freshness, his linen was
spotless, and in his hand he held a newspaper.
"That was a fine, dark potion you brewed for me last night, Sieglinde!"
he mournfully began. "No wonder your Tristan sang so well in the
_Watchman_ this morning!" The youthful candors of her Swedish blue eyes
with their tinted lashes evoked his sulky admiration.
"I knew, Cal, that you would do the young man justice for his
magnificent performance," she replied, her cheeks beginning to echo the
hues of the roses she held; her fingers had just closed over an angular
bit of paper buried in the heart of the flowers....
For answer, Calcraft ironically hummed the Pity motif from "Die Walküre"
and went out of the house, the doors closing gently after him to the
familiar rhythm of that sadly duped warrior, Hunding.