A CAGED NIGHTINGALE.

Kumara Times, Issue 847, 18 June 1879, Page 4

A CAGED NIGHTINGALE.

Mdlle. Nilsson, the great singer (songstress if you like), is passing the winter in Paris. She is in perfect bodily health, and she is dying-—of ennui. Her husband, M. Rouzeaud, will not let her sing. She looks terribly careworn, not to say old, and the light is going out of those peecuharly luminous eyes. M. Rouzeaud is a rather different man from Marquis de Cauz. He is only a stockbroker in a large way of business, and so he can afford, without any loss of dignity, to earn his own living, and not to make a show of his wife. It is laudable as far as it goes, but it condemns the poor girl to a life of what, for her, must be almost conventual seclusion, after the glories of a supremely seccessful public career. She is one of the best of women in every way, but life seems tasteless to her without the triumphs of the scene. Her husband, being also one of the best of men, cannot endure the thought of sharing the witchery of her society with the public, to. say nothing of her brother and sister singers—the brothers especially. It is not for the want of trying, fie haa again and again found it impossible to sit quietly in his box and enjoy the spectacle of another man at her feet, though knowing him to be only in a “fair seeming show” of passion. The Cauz creature also used sometimes to leave his box on such occasions, but it,.was only to go out and count the mqngy in the till Rouzeaud, I may add, is so afraid of the imputation of an interested affection that he haa given up every species of mild gambling and betting, lest it should be supposed that he was playing with his wife’s money. Poor Nilsson admits the force of it all and yields. “He is the kindest of men,” 1 she will say to her friends, “ but he does not see that lam dying of too much quiet.” How and then this craving for vocal life gets the better of her, and in. the solitude of her drawing-room at the Continental she pours forth her spinoff song with the feverish energy of a. bird who had jusr got nd of a pellet of wool. Th e sight of an old professional friend who bad known her in her days of triumph e ,^ ct - Arthur Sullivan called the Other day, and after the first greetings, of> course, they went over to the aa naturally as some of the ampMfo make for the water on sultry days. He began running his fingers over the xeys-you could hardly call it playmg j she began humming snatches of melody and recitative—you could hardly call it singing ; until, as though both were touched by the same electric spark of sympathy, he dashed off into a masterly prelude, and she into the most impassioned song. Then, suddenly she stopped, like a little girl who has been caught, or rather wlm has caught herself at the jam, and retired meekly from the instrument with downcast eyes.

Ci, »P»ny on Saturday £ I’Zft