There came into these silent and reverie-haunted solitudes a letter from
the distant and turbulent world without; and of a sudden Lionel felt
himself transported back into the theatre again, in the midst of all its
struggles and hopes and anxieties, its jealousies and triumphs, its
ceaseless clamor and unrest. The letter was from Nina.
"MY DEAR FRIEND LEO,--I have waited now some time that I send you
the critiques of my new part, but the great morning newspapers have
taken no notice of poor Nina, it is only some of the weekly papers
that have observed the change in the part, and you will see that
they are very kind to me. Ah, but one--I do not send it--I could
not send it to you, Leo--it has made me cry much and much that any
one should have such malignity, such meanness, such lying. I
forget all the other ones? that one stabs my heart? but Mr. Carey
he laughs and says to me You are foolish? you do not know why that
is said of you? He is a great ally of Miss Burgoyne, he does not
like to see you take her place and be well received by the public.
Perhaps it is true; but, Leo, you do not like to be told that you
make the part stupid, that there is no life in it, that you are a
_machine_, that you sing out of tune.
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