"Her voice, which at its best, had required ceaseless watching and practice, had been long ago given up by her. Its state of utter ruin on the night in question passes description.--She had been neglected by those who, at least, should have presented her person to the best advantage admitted by Time.--Her queenly robes (she was to sing some scenes from _Anna Bolena_) in nowise suited or disguised her figure. Her hair-dresser had done some tremendous thing or other with her head--or rather had left everything undone. A more painful and disastrous spectacle could hardly be looked on.--There were artists present, who had then, for the first time, to derive some impression of a renowned artist--perhaps, with the natural feeling that her reputation had been exaggerated.--Among these was Rachel--whose bitter ridicule of the entire sad show made itself heard throughout the whole theatre, and drew attention to the place where she sat--one might even say, sarcastically enjoying the scene. Among the audience, however, was another gifted woman, who might far more legitimately have been shocked at the utter wreck of every musical means of expression in the singer--who might have been more naturally forgiven, if some humour of self-glorification had made her severely just--not worse--to an old _prima donna_;--I mean Madame Viardot.--Then, and not till then, she was hearing Madame Pasta.--But Truth will always answer to the appeal of Truth. Dismal as was the spectacle--broken, hoarse, and destroyed as was the voice--the great style of the singer spoke to the great singer. The first scene was Ann Boleyn's duet with Jane Seymour. The old spirit was heard and seen in Madame Pasta's _Sorgi!_ and the gesture with which she signed to her penitent rival to rise. Later, she attempted the final mad scene of the opera--that most complicated and brilliant among the mad scenes on the modern musical stage--with its two _cantabile_ movements, its snatches of recitative, and its _bravura_ of despair, which may be appealed to as an example of vocal display, till then unparagoned, when turned to the account of frenzy, not frivolity--perhaps as such commissioned by the superb creative artist.--By that time, tired, unprepared, in ruin as she was, she had rallied a little. When--on Ann Boleyn's hearing the coronation music of her rival, the heroine searches for her own crown on her brow--Madame Pasta turned in the direction of the festive sounds, the old irresistible charm broke out;--nay, even in the final song, with its _roulades_, and its scales of shakes, ascending by a semi-tone, the consummate vocalist and tragedian, able to combine form with meaning--the moment of the situation, with such personal and musical display as form an integral part of operatic art--was indicated: at least to the apprehension of a younger artist.--'You are right!' was Madame Viardot's quick and heartfelt response (her eyes were full of