Chapter 12

In the province, Dorothea Döderlein, 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 Döderlein 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 Döderlein’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, Döderlein 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 Döderleins found this a highly advantageous arrangement.

The state of Döderlein’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. Döderlein 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 Döderlein 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 blasé, 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 Räuber.” He played the rôles 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 employé 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 Döderlein 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 Döderlein 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 Döderlein would never voluntarily come to grief. If Dorothea was a genuine Döderlein, 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.