Before the latter arrived from Strasburg (where she had been under the
care of her aunt the canoness, Countess Ottilia of Kartoffeldstadt, to
whom I here beg to offer my humblest respects), Dorothea had passed for
a bel esprit in the little court circle, and her little simple stock
of accomplishments had amused us all very well. She used to sing "Herz,
mein Herz" and "T'en souviens-tu," in a decent manner (ONCE, before
heaven, I thought her singing better than Grisi's), and then she had a
little album in which she drew flowers, and used to embroider slippers
wonderfully, and was very merry at a game of loto or forfeits, and had
a hundred small agremens de societe! which rendered her an acceptable
member of it.

But when Ottilia arrived, poor Dolly's reputation was crushed in a
month. The former wrote poems both in French and German; she painted
landscapes and portraits in real oil; and she twanged off a rattling
piece of Listz or Kalkbrenner in such a brilliant way, that Dora
scarcely dared to touch the instrument after her, or ventured, after
Ottilia had trilled and gurgled through "Una voce," or "Di piacer"
(Rossini was in fashion then), to lift up her little modest pipe in a
ballad. What was the use of the poor thing going to sit in the park,
where so many of the young officers used ever to gather round her? Whir!
Ottilia went by galloping on a chestnut mare with a groom after her, and
presently all the young fellows who could buy or hire horseflesh were
prancing in her train.

When they met, Ottilia would bounce towards her soul's darling, and
put her hands round her waist, and call her by a thousand affectionate
names, and then talk of her as only ladies or authors can talk of one
another. How tenderly she would hint at Dora's little imperfections of
education!--how cleverly she would insinuate that the poor girl had no