dest 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.