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Updated: June 2, 2025
And it is significant that the Berlin novel of the last few years, for example Georg Hermann's Jettchen Gebert or the two most recent works of Clara Viebig, prefers for its scene of action the Berlin of the seventies, which, as yet free from the modern German "South Sea Bubble," preserved for the inordinately growing city its old established local character.
"And Hermann's not in yet, but if Lord I mean, Michael, is going to stop here till dinnertime, it won't matter whether Hermann comes in in time to dress or not, as Michael is not dressed either. Oh, there is the postman's knock! What a noise! I am not expecting any letters." The knock in question, however, proved to be Hermann, who, as was generally the case, had forgotten his latchkey.
He moved his big shoulders slightly, as if to indicate that Hermann's hand was not wanted there. Hermann kept it there. "It might be discouraging," he said, "if you were doing your best." Michael's ill-temper oozed from him. "I'm wrong," he said, turning round with the smile that made his ugly face so pleasant. "And I'm sorry both that I have been slack and that I've been sulky. Will that do?"
"I got into his carriage as the train was moving; and my luggage was left behind." "I was left behind," said Sylvia, "which was worse. But I sent Hermann's luggage." "So expeditiously that it arrived the day before we left for Munich," remarked Hermann. "And that's all the gratitude I get. But in the interval you lived upon Lord Comber."
All this last week he had scanned such items with a growing sense of amusement in the recollection of Hermann's disquiet over the Sarajevo murders, and Aunt Barbara's more detailed and vivid prognostications of coming danger, for nothing more had happened, and he supposed vaguely only, since the affair had begun to fade from his mind that Austria had made inquiries, and that since she was satisfied there was no public pronouncement to be made.
But I can't help going." Hermann's hand remained on his shoulder gently patting it. To Michael the world, life, the whole spirit of things had suddenly grown sinister, of the quality of nightmare.
I tell you he's dangerous. Even I myself am not safe from him. I know for certain he tried to poison...." "Oh, come now," I cried, revolted. "But I know for certain. The people themselves came and told me of it. He went about saying everywhere I was a worse pest to this town than the cholera. He had been talking against me ever since I opened this hotel. And he poisoned Captain Hermann's mind too.
And he did it very badly too, in a hurry, and nearly contriving to miss altogether the patch of good holding ground, because, forsooth, he had caught sight of Hermann's niece on the poop. And so did I; and probably as soon as he had seen her himself.
We rose from table. My neighbor in accepting Monsieur Hermann's arm, said to him "I suppose he was shot, was he not?" "Yes. I was present at the execution." "Oh! monsieur," she said, "how could you " "He desired it, madame. There was something really dreadful in following the funeral of a living man, a man my heart cared for, an innocent man! The poor young fellow never ceased to look at me.
During the afternoon I looked at times at the old homely ship, the faithful nurse of Hermann's progeny, or yawned towards the distant temple of Buddha, like a lonely hillock on the plain, where shaven priests cherish the thoughts of that Annihilation which is the worthy reward of us all. Unfortunate! He had been unfortunate once. Well, that was not so bad as life goes.
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