I scribbled a hasty note in which I told her of
my arrival, my love, and my impatience; that I proposed to witness the
performance that evening, and to meet her immediately afterwards at the
stage-door. This, addressed to the Professorin Anastasius Papadopoulos,
I despatched by special messenger to the Winter Garten. After a hasty
toilet and a more hurried meal, I went out, and, too impatient to walk,
I hailed a droschky, and drove through the wide, cheery streets of
Berlin. It was a balmy June evening. The pavements were thronged.
Through the vast open fronts of the cafes one saw agglutinated masses
of people just cleft here and there by white-jacketed waiters darting
to and fro with high-poised trays of beer and coffee. Save these and the
folks in theatres all Berlin was in the streets, taking the air. A sense
of gaiety pervaded the place, organised and recognised, as though it
were as much part of a Berliner's duty to himself, the Fatherland, and
the Almighty to be gay when the labours of the day are over as to be
serious during business hours.
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