In the province, Dorothea Doederlein, fresh from the Bavarian capital,
was a phenomenon that attracted general attention. Her conduct seemed,
to be sure, a bit liberal, but then she was an artist, and her name
appeared in the newspapers every now and then, so it was only natural to
make allowances for her. When she gave her first concert, Adler Hall was
almost completely sold out.
The musical critic of the _Herold_ was captivated by her capricious
playing. He called her an extraordinary talent, and predicted a
brilliant future for her. Andreas Doederlein accepted the congratulations
in the spirit of a seasoned patron of the arts; Herr Carovius was in the
seventh heaven of joy. He who had formerly been so captious never
uttered a critical word. He had taken to worshipping the Dorothea cult,
and this had made him quite indiscriminating.
At first Dorothea never suffered from want of invitations to all manner
of clubs, dances, and family gatherings. She was much adored by the
young men, so much so that other daughters of the city of matrimonial
age could not sleep from envy. In a short while, however, the youth of
more sterling character, warned while there was yet time by their
mothers, sisters, cousins, and aunts, withdrew in fear.
Dorothea reaped the disapproval of her acquaintances by walking with her
admirers in public, unchaperoned. Moreover she could frequently be seen
in the company of officers in the Eisenbeiss pastry shop, drinking
chocolate and having a good time generally. Once she had been seen in
the society of a big blonde Swede from Schuckert's factory coming out of
the Music Hall. The rumour was spread that she had lived an irregular
life in Munich, had gadded about the streets at night, contracted a
number of bad debts, and flirted with all kinds of men.
Yet there were a few serious wooers who, duped by Andreas Doederlein's
diplomacy, fell into the habit of coming around on Sunday evenings and
taking dinner with father and daughter. Dorothea, however, always
managed to play off one against the other; and as they were all serious
and provincial, they did not know precisely what to make of it. In order
to instil patience into them, Doederlein took to delivering them lectures
on the intricate complications of the artistic temperament, or he made
mysterious allusions to the handsome legacy to which Dorothea would one
day fall heir.
It was this very fact, however, that made him exercise caution with
regard to Dorothea. Knowing her spirit of defiance, and appreciating her
youthful lack of judgment, he was afraid she might make some _faux pas_
that would offend that old fool of a Carovius. He was already giving her
a little spending money, and the Doederleins found this a highly
advantageous arrangement.
The state of Doederlein's own finances was hopeless. It was with the
greatest difficulty that he kept up the appearance of a well-to-do man.
The chief cause of his pecuniary embarrassment was his relation of
long standing with a woman by whom he had had three children. To support
this second family, of whose existence not a soul in his immediate
surroundings knew a thing, burdened him with a care that made it hard
for him to preserve his cheerful, Jove-like disposition.
He had been leading a double life for fourteen years. His regular visits
to the woman he loved--she lived very quietly out in the remote suburbs
of the city--had to be made without attracting attention. To conceal his
connection with her from the vigilant eyes of his fellow citizens made
constant dissimulation, discretion, and shrewdness a necessary part of
his character. But to practise these traits year in and year out and
suffer at the same time from economic pressure filled him with
suppressed anger and fear.
He was afraid of Dorothea. There were moments when he would have liked
to maul her; and yet he saw himself obliged to hold her in check with
kind words. He could not see through her. But she was always around,
always adding to his troubles with her plans, wishes, engagements and
intrigues. He thought he had her under control, only to discover that
she was a tyrant, lording it over him. Now she would burst out crying
because of some bagatelle, now she was laughing as though nothing had
ever happened. The roses her serious and moneyed admirers brought her
she picked to pieces in their very presence, and threw the pieces in the
waste-paper basket. Doederlein would lecture her in the kindest and most
intelligent way on good morals and gentle manners, and she would listen
as though she were a saint. Five minutes later she would be hanging out
of the window, flirting with the barber's boy across the street.
"I am an unfortunate father," said Andreas Doederlein to himself, when,
apart from all his other multifarious worries, he began to be sceptical
about Dorothea's artistic ability. Shortly after her success in
Nuremberg, she gave a concert in Frankfort, but everything was pretty
quiet. Then she toured the small towns of central Germany, and was
received everywhere with the greatest enthusiasm. But what of it? How
much critical acumen is to be found in such places?
One evening she was at the home of a certain Frau Feistelmann, a woman
whose past had some connection with nearly every scandal of the city.
While there she met an actor by the name of Edmund Hahn. Herr Hahn had
soft, blonde hair and a pale, bloated face. He was rather tall and had
long legs. Dorothea raved about long legs. There was a thoroughly
sensual atmosphere about the man; he devoured Dorothea with his impudent
eyes. His build, his bearing, his half blase, half emphatic way of
speaking made an impression on Dorothea. He sat next to her at the
table, and began to rub his feet against hers. Finally he succeeded in
getting his left foot on her slipper. She tried to pull her foot back,
but the more she tried the harder he bore down on it. She looked at him
in amazement; but he smiled cynically, and in a few minutes they were
desperately intimate. After dinner they withdrew to a hidden corner, and
you could hear Dorothea giggling.
They arranged to meet each other on a certain street corner in the dark.
He sent her free tickets to "Maria Stuart" and "Die Raeuber." He played
the roles of Mortimer and Kosinsky; he roared till you thought the roof
would fall in. He introduced Dorothea to a number of his friends, and
these brought their girl friends along, and they all sat in the Nassau
Cellar till break of day. Among them was a certain Samuelsky, an employe
of the Reutlinger Bank. He had the manners of a man about town, drank
champagne, and went mad over Dorothea. She submitted to his attention,
welcomed it in fact, and accepted presents from him, though, as it
seemed, not until she had received the permission from Edmund Hahn. Once
he tried to kiss her: she gave him a ringing box on the ears. He wiped
his cheek, and called her a siren.
She liked the expression. At times she would stand before the mirror,
and whisper: "Siren."
When Andreas Doederlein heard of what was going on, he had an attack of
mad rage. "I will put you out of the house," he exclaimed, "I will beat
you until you are a helpless, despicable cripple." But in his eyes there
was again the trace of that suppressed fear that gave the lie to his
seeming berserker rage.
"An artist does not need to adapt her morals to the code of the
Philistine," remarked Dorothea, with complete imperturbability. "Those
are all nice people with whom I am going. Every one of them is a
gentleman."
A gentleman: that was an argument against which it was futile to enter a
caveat. In her eyes that man was a gentleman who ran risks, impressed
waiters and coachmen, and wore creased trousers. "No one dares come too
close to me," she said with much pride. That was the truth; no one had
thus far awakened her deepest curiosity, and she had determined to put a
high price on herself. Edmund Hahn was the only one who had any
influence on her; and this was true of him because he was absolutely
devoid of feeling, and had a type of shamelessness that completely
disarmed and terrified her.
Andreas Doederlein had to let her have her way. If he had any consolation
at all, it lay in the belief on his part that a real Doederlein would
never voluntarily come to grief. If Dorothea was a genuine Doederlein,
she would march straight to her objective, and take by storm the good
and useful things of life. If she failed, it would be proof that there
was a flaw somewhere in her birth. This was his logic; and having
applied it, theoretically, he enshrouded himself in the clouds of his
Olympus.
Dorothea gave her uncle Carovius, however, detailed accounts of how she
was making her suitors, young and old, walk the war-path. They all had
to do it, the actor and the banker, the candle manufacturer and the
engineer. She said she was leading the whole pack of them around by the
nose. Herr Carovius's face beamed with joy when he heard her say this.
He called her his little jackanapes, and said she was the fortune of his
old age. To himself he said that she was a genuine Carovius destined to
great deeds.
"You don't have to get married," he said with the urge of a zealot of
old, and rubbed his hands. "Oh, of course, if a Count comes along with a
few millions and a castle in the background, why, you might think it
over. But just let some greasy comedian get it into his head that he is
going to steal you away from me! Or let some wabbly-hipped office-boy
imagine for a minute that he is going to drag you into his circle along
with his other unwashed acquaintances! If this ever happens, Dorothea,
give it to 'em hot and heavy! Show the wanton satyrs what kind of blood
you have in you."
"Ah, Uncle," said Dorothea, "I know you mean well by me. You are the
only one who does. But if I were only not so poor! Look at me! Look at
this dress I have on! It's a sight!" And she put her head in her
uplifted arm and sobbed.
Herr Carovius pulled at his moustaches, moved his eyebrows up and down,
went to his writing desk, opened his strong box, took out a hundred-mark
bill, and gave it to her with turned head, as if he were afraid of the
wrath of the protecting spirit of the money chest.
This was the state of affairs when Daniel met the youthful Dorothea in
Herr Carovius's home, and went away with an unforgettable,
unextinguishable picture of her in his soul.