The other representation (Her Majesty's Theatre, May 19, 1877) is fraught with sad memories and undying admiration for a courageous woman and a true artist. It had been known for some time that Theresa Tietjens was suffering from cancer; and, after much hesitation, the doctors decided to perform an operation before the end of May. “Lucrezia" was announced for the 19th, and among the prima donna's friends it was pretty well understood that this would be her last appearance before the operation was performed.

When the day arrived Tietjens was far too ill to be really fit to sing. It was distinctly against her medical advisers' wish that she insisted upon keeping faith with her manager and the public— a practice that she had persistently adhered to throughout her career. How she contrived to get through the opera I shall never understand. It can only be compared to some splendid example of martyrdom. She fainted after each of the acts, but immediately on recovering consciousness decided to proceed with the performance. Never so much as a look or gesture betrayed to her audience the mortal anguish she was suffering. Only the initiated knew how much of reality there was in the terrible scream of agony uttered by Lucrezia in the final scene—when she perceives that her son is dead. As it rang through the house the audience shuddered. Yet the brave artist would not shirk her fall at the end. What it cost her could be guessed, however, from the fact that after the curtain had been twice raised in response to rapturous plaudits, she still lay motionless upon the ground. She had once more become insensible.

In the following week the operation was performed, but the case was hopeless, and on October 3, 1877, Theresa Tietjens breathed her last. She was laid to rest at Kensal Green Cemetery, in the presence of a vast crowd, amid tokens of public grief such as no foreign artist before her had ever been vouchsafed on English soil.