dition that she should sing. Though tired and nervous from the fatigues of the day, she sang, but in a manner that was hardly like her normal self.
When she had finished she turned to him, saying, "Now it's your turn, Mr. Thalberg." Then a musical duel took place which we will let an eye-witness describe:—
"He had not been married that morning, and the presence of such a listener putting him on his mettle without unduly exciting him, he drew from his instrument all that wealth and suppleness of tone which made it the most harmonious of singers. As he went on, Malibran's face gradually changed, her lack lustre eyes became bright, the mouth gradually expanded, the nostrils began to quiver. When his last note had died away she said: 'Admirable! Now it's my turn.' And forthwith she intones a second piece. But this time there was no appearance of either fatigue or listlessness, and Thalberg, absolutely bewildered, sat watching the transformation without being able to believe in it. It was no longer the same woman, it was no longer the same voice, and all he could do was to say in a low voice, 'Oh, madame, madame!' She had barely finished when he said animatedly, 'Now it's my turn.'
"Only those who heard Thalberg on that evening may perhaps flatter themselves that they have known the 'whole man.' Part of Malibran's genius had communicated itself to his masterly but severe style; he had caught the feverish passion of her soul. Currents of electric fluid ran from his fingers over the keyboard. But he could not finish his piece. At the last bars Malibran burst into violent sobs, she hid her face in her hands, she shivered from head to foot, and we had to carry her into the next room. She did not remain there very long; in a few moments she reappeared, with proud uplifted head and flashing eyes, and, rushing to the piano, she exclaimed: 'Now it's my turn.' She resumed that strange duel, and sang, one after another,
