A CAGED NIGHTINGALE.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume XIV, Issue 145, 19 June 1879, Page 4

A CAGED NIGHTINGALE.

yiAWe. Nilseon, <bo gre^fc sinper feoogßtreeß if you like), in passing the winter in Paris. She ia in perfect bodily bral^, and she is dyinc; — of ennui. Her buebanrf, M. Kouzfaud, will not let her eing. She looks terribly careworn, not to say old, and the light is going out of (lose peculiarly luminous eyes, M. Roazeaud is a rather different man from the Marquis de I Caux. He is only a stockbroker in a large way of business, and so he can nffon', without nny loss of dignity, to cam his own living, and not Io mske a bliow of his wife. It is laudable, so far as it go s, but it condemns lh° poor girl to a life of what for her must be almost conventual seclusion, after the glories of a supremely successful public cerecr. She ia 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 I one of the best of men, cannot endure I 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. Ha baa again and again found it impossible to slit ' quiet in bis bos and ace another men at ber feet, though knowing hini Io b 9 only ia " a fair seeming show "of pas-~ sion. The Caux creature also used to ' leave bis bos on such occasions, bat it W6s only to go out and count ihe money in the till, Bouz and, I may add, is so afraid of the imputation of an interested affectioQ that be has 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," she will say to her friends, " but be does not sea that I am dying of too moeb quiet." Now and then tbia craving for vocal life gets tbe better of her, and in the solitude of ber drawingroom at the Continental ane poors forth her soul of song with tbe feverish energy of a bird who had just got rid of a choking pellet of wool. The eight of an old professional friend who bad known ber in her days bf triumph will have this effect. Arthur Sullivan called the other day, and after the first greetings, of course, they weht'over to the piano as naturally as some of the amphibia make for the water on sultry days. He began running bis fingera over the keys— you can bardly call it playing ; she began bumming snatches of melody and recivative— you coald hardly call it singing ; until, as though both were touched with (be same electric ppark of sympathy, he dashed off into a masterly prelude, and ahe into the mjat impassioned gong. Then suddenly she stopped, like a little girl who has been caught, or rather Who has caught herself, at the jam, and retired meekly from the instrument with downcast eyes.