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.