It was during her London engagement of the same year that Mme. Malibran became acquainted with the greatest of bassos, Lablache, who made his debut before an English public in the role of Geronimo, in “Il Matrimonio Segreto.”  The friendship between these two distinguished artists became a very warm one, that only terminated with Malibran’s death.  Lablache, who had sung with all the greatest artists of the age, lamented her early taking off as one of the greatest misfortunes of the lyric stage.  One strong tie between them was their mutual benevolence.  On one occasion an unfortunate Italian importuned Lablache for assistance to return to his native land.  The next day, when all the company were assembled for rehearsal, Lablache requested them to join in succoring their unhappy compatriot; all responded to the call, Mme. Lalande and Donzelli each contributing fifty francs.  Malibran gave the same as the others; but, the following day, seizing the opportunity of being alone with Lablache, she desired him to add to her subscription of fifty francs two hundred and fifty more; she had not liked to appear to bestow more than her friends, so she had remained silent the preceding day.  Lablache hastened to seek his protege, who, however, profiting by the help afforded him, had already embarked; but, not discouraged, Lablache hurried after him, and arrived just as the steamer was leaving the Thames.  Entering a boat, however, he reached the vessel, went on board, and gave the money to the emigre, whose expressions of gratitude amply repaid the trouble of the kind-hearted basso.  Another time Malibran aided a poor Italian who was destitute, telling him to say nothing about it.  “Ah, madame,” he cried, “you have saved me for ever!” “Hush!” she interrupted; “do not say that; only the Almighty could do so.  Pray to him.”

The feverish activity of Mme. Malibran was shown at this time in a profusion of labors and an ardor in amusement which alarmed all her friends.  When not engaged in opera, she was incessant in concert-giving, for which her terms were eighty guineas per night.  She would fly to Calais and sing there, hurry back to England, thence hasten to Brussels, where she would give a concert, and then cross the Channel again, giving herself no rest.  Night after night she would dance and sing at private parties till dawn, and thus waste the precious candle of her life at both ends.  She was haunted by a fancy that, when she ceased to live thus, she would suddenly die, for she was full of the superstition of her Spanish race.  Mme. Malibran about this time essayed the same experiment which Pasta had tried, that of singing the role of the Moor in “Otello.”  It was not very successful, though she sang the music and acted the part with fire.  The delicate figure of a woman was not fitted for the strong and masculine personality of the Moorish warrior, and the charm of her expression was completely veiled by the swarthy mask of paint.  Her versatility was so daring that she wished even to out-leap the limits of nature.