Elizabeth Schmaeling’s personal appearance was far from striking.  She was by no means handsome, being short and insignificant, with a rather agreeable, good-natured countenance, the leading feature of which was—­terrible defect in a singer—­a set of irregular teeth, which projected, in defiance of order, out of their proper places.  Her manner, however, was prepossessing, though she was an indifferent actress.  But her voice atoned for everything:  its compass was from G to E in altissimo, which she ran with the greatest ease and force, the tones being at once powerful and sweet.  Both her portamento di voce and her volubility were declared to be unrivaled.  It was remarked that she seemed to take difficult music from choice, and she could sing fluently at sight—­rather a rare accomplishment among vocalists of that day.  Nothing taxed her powers.  Her execution was easy and neat; her shake was true, open, and liquid; and though she preferred brilliant, effective pieces, her refined taste was well known.  “Her voice, clear, sweet, and distinct, was sufficiently powerful,” remarked Lord Mount Edgcumbe afterward, “though rather thin, and its agility and flexibility rendered her a most excellent bravura singer, in which style she was unrivaled.”  “Mara’s divisions,” observes another critic, “always seemed to convey a meaning; they were vocal, not instrumental; they had light and shade, and variety of tone.”

Frederick was highly pleased with his musical acquisition, but a more potent monarch than himself soon appeared to disturb his royal complacency.  Mlle. Schmaeling, placed in a new position of ease and luxury, found time to indulge her natural bent as a woman, and fell in love with a handsome violoncellist, Jean Mara, who was in the service of the King’s brother.  Mara was a showy, shallow, selfish man, and pushed his suit with vigor, for success meant fortune and a life of luxurious ease.  The King forbade the match, so the enamored couple eloped, and, being arrested by the King’s guards, they were punished by Fritz with solitary confinement for disobedience.  At last the King relented, and sanctioned the marriage which he suspected opposition would only delay, probably fully aware that the lady would soon repent her infatuation.  Jean Mara did all in his power to effect this result, for the honeymoon had hardly ended before he began to beat his bride at small provocation with all the energy of a sturdy arm.  Poor Mme. Mara had a hard life of it thenceforward, but she never ceased to love Mara to the last; and many years afterward, when a friend was severely reprobating his brutality, she said, with a sigh of loving regret, “Ah! but you must confess he was the handsomest man you ever saw.”