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ETIKA A |
Robert Hugh Benson |
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92A6A1 |
Lord of the World |
22.9.2007 |
Lord of the World by Robert
Hugh Benson.
BOOK I – THE ADVENT.
CHAPTER I – DIE ANKUNFT
I Felsenburgh – God was Man
Gott war der Mensch (titles by ETIKA)
OLIVER BRAND, the new member for Croydon (4), sat in his study, looking
out of the window over the top of his typewriter.
His
house stood facing northwards at the extreme end of a spur of the Surrey Hills, now cut and tunnelled out
of all recognition; only to a Communist the view was an inspiriting one.
Immediately
below the wide windows the embanked ground fell away rapidly for perhaps a
hundred feet, ending in a high wall, and beyond that the world and works of men
were triumphant as far as eye could see.
Two
vast tracks like streaked race-courses, each not less than a quarter of a mile
in width, and sunk twenty feet below the surface of the ground, swept up to a
meeting a mile ahead at the huge junction.
Of
those, that on his left was the First Trunk road to
Each was divided lengthways
by a cement wall, on one side of which, on steel rails, ran the electric trams,
and on the other lay the motor-track itself again divided into three, on which
ran, first the Government coaches at a speed of one hundred and fifty miles an
hour, second the private motors at not more than sixty, third the cheap
Government line at thirty, with stations every
five miles.
This was
further bordered by a road confined to pedestrians, cyclists and ordinary cars
on which no vehicle was allowed to move at more than twelve miles an hour.
Beyond
these great tracks lay an immense plain of houseroofs, with short towers here
and there marking public buildings, from the Caterham district on the left to
Croydon in front, all clear and bright in smokeless air; and far away to the
west and north showed the low suburban hills against the April sky.
There
was surprisingly little sound, considering the pressure of the population; and,
with the exception of the buzz of the steel rails as a train fled north or
south, and the occasional sweet chord of the great motors as they neared or
left the junction, there was little to be heard in this study except a smooth,
soothing murmur that filled the air like the murmur of bees in a garden.
Oliver
loved every hint of human life–all busy sights and sounds–and was listening
now, smiling faintly to himself as he stared out into the clear air.
Then he
set his lips, laid his fingers on the keys once more, and went on
speechconstructing.
He was
very fortunate in the situation of his house. It stood in an angle of one of
those huge spider-webs with which the country was covered, and for his purposes
was all that he could expect.
It was close enough to
Further, since the great
For a politician of no great means, who was asked to speak at
He was a pleasant-looking man, not much over thirty
years old; black wire-haired, clean-shaven, thin, virile, magnetic, blue-eyed
and white-skinned; and he
appeared this day extremely content with himself and the world.
His lips
moved slightly as he worked, his eyes enlarged and diminished with excitement,
and more than once he paused and stared out again, smiling and flushed.
Then a
door opened; a middle-aged man came nervously in with a bundle of papers, laid
them down on the table without a word, and turned to go out. Oliver lifted his
hand for attention, snapped a lever, and spoke.
"Well, Mr. Phillips?" he said.
"There is
news from the East, sir," said
the secretary.
Oliver shot a glance sideways, and laid his hand on
the bundle.
"Any complete message?" he asked.
"No,
sir; it is interrupted again. Mr.
Felsenburgh's name is mentioned."
Oliver
did not seem to hear; he lifted the flimsy printed sheets with a sudden
movement, and began turning them.
"The fourth from the top, Mr. Brand," said
the secretary. Oliver jerked his head impatiently, and the other went out as if
at a signal.
The fourth sheet from the top, printed in red on
green, seemed to absorb Oliver's attention altogether, for he read it through
two or three times, leaning back motionless in his chair. Then he sighed, and
stared again through the window.
Then once more the door opened, and a tall girl came in.
"Well, my dear?" she observed.
Oliver shook his head, with compressed lips.
"Nothing definite," he said. "Even less than usual. Listen."
He took up
the green sheet and began to read aloud as the girl sat down in a window-seat
on his left.
She was
a very charming-looking creature, tall and slender, with serious, ardent grey
eyes, firm red lips, and a beautiful carriage of head and shoulders. She had
walked slowly across the room as Oliver took up the paper, and now sat back in
her brown dress in a very graceful and stately attitude. She seemed to listen
with a deliberate kind of patience; but her eyes flickered with interest.
"’Irkutsk – April fourteen – Yesterday – as –
usual – But – rumoured – defection – from – Sufi – party – Troops – continue –
gathering – Felsenburgh – addressed – Buddhist – crowd – Attempt – on – Llama –
last – Friday – work – of – Anarchists – Felsenburgh – leaving – for – Moscow –
as – arranged – he .... ' There–that
is absolutely all," ended Oliver dispiritedly. "It's interrupted as
usual."
The girl began to swing a foot.
"I
don't understand in the least," she said. "Who is Felsenburgh, after all?"
"My dear
child, that is what all the world is asking.
Nothing is known except that he was included in the American deputation at the
last moment. The Herald published his life last week; but it has been contradicted. It is
certain that he is quite a young man,
and that he has been quite obscure until
now."
"Well, he is not obscure now," observed the
girl.
"I know; it
seems as if he were running the whole thing. One never hears a word of the
others. It's lucky he's on the right side."
"And what do you think?"
Oliver turned vacant eyes again out of the window.
"I
think it is touch and go," he said. "The only remarkable thing is
that here hardly anybody seems to realise it. It's too big for the imagination,
I suppose. There is no doubt that the
East has been preparing for a descent on
"Has he any other name?"
"Julian, I believe. One message said
so." "How did this come through?"
Oliver shook his head.
"Private
enterprise," he said. "The European agencies have stopped work. Every
telegraph station is guarded night and day. There are lines of volors strung
out on every frontier. The Empire means to settle this business without
us."
"And if it goes wrong?"
"My dear Mabel–if hell breaks loose–" he
threw out his hands deprecatingly.
"And what is the Government doing?"
"Working night and day; so is the rest of
"What chance do you see?"
"I see two chances," said Oliver slowly:
"one, that they may be afraid of
America, and may hold their hands from sheer fear; the other that they may
be induced to hold their hands from charity; if only they can be made to
understand that co-operation is the one
hope of the world. But those damned
religions of theirs––"
The girl sighed, and looked out again on to the wide
plain of house-roofs below the window.
The situation was indeed as serious as it could be. That huge Empire, consisting of a
federalism of States under the Son of Heaven (made possible by the merging of
the Japanese and Chinese dynasties and the fall of Russia), had been
consolidating its forces and learning its own power during the
last·thirty-five years, ever since, in fact, it had laid its lean yellow hands upon Australia and India.
While the rest of the world had learned the folly of
war, ever since the fall of the Russian
republic under the combined attack of the yellow races, the last had
grasped its possibilities.
It seemed now
as if the civilisation of the last century was to be swept back once more into
chaos.
It was not that the mob of the East cared very
greatly; it was their rulers who had begun to stretch themselves after an
almost eternal lethargy, and it was hard to imagine how they could be checked
at this point.
There was a touch of grimness too in the rumour that religious fanaticism was behind the movement, and that the patient East proposed at last to
proselytise by the modern equivalents of
fire and sword those who had laid
aside for the most part all religious beliefs except that in Humanity.
To Oliver it was simply maddening. As he looked from
his window and saw that vast limit of London
laid peaceably before him, as his imagination ran out over Europe and saw
everywhere that steady triumph of common sense and fact over the wild fairy-stories of Christianity, it
seemed intolerable that there should be even a possibility that all this should
be swept back again into the barbarous
turmoil of sects and dogmas; for no less than this would be the result if
the East laid hands on Europe.
Even Catholicism
would revive, he told himself, that strange faith that had blazed so often
as persecution had been dashed to
quench it; and, of all forms of faith, to Oliver's mind Catholicism was the
most grotesque and enslaving.
And the prospect of all this honestly troubled him,
far more than the thought of the physical catastrophe
and bloodshed that would fall on
There was but
one hope on the religious side, as he had told Mabel a dozen times, and
that was that the Quietistic Pantheism
which for the last century had made such giant strides in East and West alike, among Mohammedans, Buddhists, Hindus,
Confucianists and the rest, should avail to check the supernatural frenzy
that inspired their exoteric brethren.
Pantheism, he understood, was what he held himself;
for him "God" was the developing sum of created life, and impersonal
Unity was the essence of His being; competition then was the great heresy that
set men one against
another and delayed all progress; for, to his mind, progress lay in
the merging of the individual in the
family, of the family in the commonwealth, of the commonwealth in the
continent, and of the continent in the world.
Finally, the world itself at any moment was no more than
the mood of impersonal life.
It was, in fact, the
Catholic idea with the supernatural left out, a union of earthly fortunes,
an abandonment of individualism on the one side, and
of supernaturalism on the other.
It was treason to appeal from God Immanent to God
Transcendent; there was no God transcendent; God, so far as He could be known, was man.
Yet
these two, husband and wife after a fashion–for they had entered into that
terminable contract now recognised explicitly by the State–these two were very far
from sharing in the usual heavy dulness of mere materialists.
The
world, for them, beat with one ardent life blossoming in flower and beast and
man, a torrent of beautiful vigour flowing from a deep source and irrigating
all that moved or felt.
Its romance
was the more appreciable because it was comprehensible to the minds that sprang
from it; there were mysteries in it, but mysteries that enticed rather than
baffled, for they unfolded new glories with every discovery that man could
make; even inanimate objects, the fossil, the electric current, the far-off
stars, these were dust thrown off by the Spirit of the World-fragrant with His
Presence and eloquent of His Nature.
For
example, the announcement made by Klein, the astronomer, twenty years before,
that the inhabitation of certain planets had become a certified fact–how vastly
this had altered men's views of themselves.
But the
one condition of progress and the
building of Jerusalem, on the planet that happened to be men's dwelling place,
was peace, not the sword which Christ brought or that
which Mahomet wielded; but peace
that arose from, not passed, understanding; the peace that sprang from a
knowledge that man was all and was able to develop himself only by sympathy
with his fellows.
To
Oliver and his wife, then, the last century seemed like a revelation; little by
little the old superstitions had died, and the new light broadened; the Spirit of the World had roused Himself,
the sun had dawned in the west; and now with horror and loathing they had seen
the clouds gather once more in the quarter whence all superstition had had its birth.
Mabel
got up presently and came across to her husband.
"My
dear," she said, "you must not be downhearted. It all may pass as it
passed before. It is a great thing that they are listening to
Oliver
took her hand and kissed it.
II Christianity – Superstition - The ministers of
Euthanasia
Das Christentum – Aberglaube - Die Diener
Euthanasias
OLIVER seemed altogether
depressed at breakfast, half an hour later. His mother, an old lady of nearly eighty, who never appeared till
noon, seemed to see it at once, for after a look or two at him and a word, she
subsided into silence behind her plate.
It was a pleasant little room in which
they sat, immediately behind Oliver's own, and was furnished, according to
universal custom, in light green. Its windows looked out upon a strip of garden
at the back, and the high creeper-grown wall
that separated that domain from the next. The furniture, too, was of the usual
sort; a sensible round table stood in the middle, with three tall arm-chairs,
with the proper angles and rests, drawn up to it; and the centre of it, resting
apparently on a broad round column, held the dishes. It was thirty years now
since the practice of placing the dining-room above the kitchen, and of raising
and lowering the courses by hydraulic power into the centre of the
dining-table, had become universal in the houses of the well-to-do. The floor
consisted entirely of the asbestos cork preparation invented in
Mabel broke the silence.
"And your speech to-morrow?" she asked, taking up her fork.
Oliver brightened a little, and began to discourse.
It
seemed that
It was useless, he proposed to tell them, to agitate until the
Eastern business was settled: they must not bother the Government with such
details just now. He was to tell them, too, that the Government was wholly on
their side; that it was bound to come soon.
"They
are pig-headed," he added fiercely; "pig-headed and selfish; they are
like children who cry for food ten minutes before dinner-time: it is bound to
come if they will wait a little."
"And you will tell them so?"
"That they are pig-headed? Certainly."
Mabel
looked at her husband with a pleased twinkle in her eyes. She knew perfectly
well that his popularity rested largely on his outspokenness: folks liked to be scolded and abused by a
genial bold man who danced and gesticulated in a magnetic fury; she liked
it herself.
"How
shall you go?" she asked.
"Volar. I shall catch
the eighteen o'clock at Blackfriars; the meeting is at nineteen, and I shall be
back at twenty-one."
He addressed himself
vigorously to his entrée, and his mother looked up with a patient,
old-woman smile.
Mabel began to drum her
fingers softly on the damask. "Please make haste, my dear," she said;
"I have to be at
Oliver gulped his last
mouthful, pushed his plate over the line, glanced to see if all plates were
there, and then put his hand beneath the table.
Instantly, without a sound,
the centre-piece vanished, and the three waited unconcernedly while the clink
of dishes came from beneath.
Old Mrs. Brand was a
hale-looking old lady, rosy and wrinkled, with the mantilla head-dress of fifty
years ago; but she, too, looked a little depressed this morning. The entrée was
not very successful, she thought; the new food-stuff was not up to the old, it
was a trifle gritty: she would see about it afterwards. There was a clink, a
soft sound like a push, and the centre-piece snapped into its place, bearing an
admirable imitation of a roasted fowl.
Oliver and his wife were
alone again for a minute or two after breakfast before Mabel started down the
path to catch the 14½ h o'clock
4th grade sub-trunk line to the junction.
"What's
the matter with mother?" he said.
"Oh!
it's the food-stuff again: she's never got accustomed
to it; she says it doesn't suit her."
"Nothing else?"
"No,
my dear, I am sure of it. She hasn't said a word lately."
Oliver watched
his wife go down the path, reassured. He had been a little troubled once or
twice lately by an odd word or two that his mother had let fall. She had been
brought up a Christian for a few years, and it seemed to him sometimes as if it
had left a taint.
There
was an old "Garden of the Soul"
that she liked to keep by her, though she always protested with an appearance
of scorn that it was nothing but nonsense. Still, Oliver would have preferred
that she had burned it: superstition
was a desperate thing for retaining life, and, as the brain weakened, might
conceivably reassert itself.
Christianity was both wild and dull, he told himself, wild because of its obvious
grotesqueness and impossibility, and dull because it was so utterly apart from
the exhilarating stream of human life; it crept dustily about still, he knew, in little dark churches here and there;
it screamed with hysterical sentimentality in Westminster Cathedral which he had once entered and looked upon
with a kind of disgusted fury; it gabbled strange, false words to the
incompetent and the old and the halfwitted. But it would be too dreadful if his own mother ever looked upon it again with favour.
Oliver himself, ever since he could remember, had been
violently opposed to the concessions to
It was intolerable that these two places should be
definitely yielded up to this foolish, treacherous nonsense: they were hot-beds
of sedition; plague-spots on the face of humanity.
He had never agreed with those who said that it was better
that all the poison of the West should
be gathered rather than dispersed. But, at any rate, there it was.
All kinds of funny
things were happening there: Oliver had read with a bitter amusement of new
appearances there, of a Woman in Blue
and shrines raised where her feet had rested; but he was scarcely amused at
Rome, for the movement to Turin of the
Italian Government had deprived the Republic of quite a quantity of
sentimental prestige, and had haloed the old religious nonsense with all the
meretriciousness of historical association.
However, it obviously could not last much longer: the
world was beginning to understand at last.
He stood a moment or two at the door after his wife had gone, drinking
in reassurance from that glorious vision of solid sense that spread itself
before his eyes: the endless house-roofs; the high glass vaults of the public
baths and gymnasiums; the pinnacled schools
where Citizenship was taught each morning; the spider-like cranes and
scaffoldings that rose here and there; and even the few pricking spires did not
disconcert him. There it stretched away into the grey haze of
Then he
went back once more to his speech-constructing.
Mabel, too, was a little thoughtful as she sat with her paper on her lap,
spinning down the broad line to
She sat
very quiet, glancing once or twice at the meagre little scrap of news, and read
the leading article upon it: that too seemed significant of dismay. A couple of
men were talking in the half-compartment beyond on the same subject; one
described the Government engineering works that he had visited, the breathless
haste that dominated them; the other put in interrogations and questions.
There
was not much comfort there. There were no windows through which she could look;
on the main lines the speed was too great for the eyes; the long compartment
flooded with soft light bounded her horizon. She stared at the
moulded white ceiling, the delicious oak-framed paintings, the deep
spring-seats, the mellow globes overhead that poured out radiance, at a mother
and child diagonally opposite her.
Then the great chord
sounded; the faint vibration increased ever so slightly; and an instant later
the automatic doors ran back, and she stepped out on to the platform of
As she went down the steps
leading to the station square she
noticed a priest going before her. He seemed a very upright and sturdy old
man, for though his hair was white he walked steadily and strongly. At the foot
of the steps he stopped and half turned, and then, to her surprise, she saw
that his face was that of a young man, fine-featured and strong, with black
eyebrows and very bright grey eyes. Then she passed on and began to cross the
square in the direction of her aunt's house.
Then without the slightest
warning, except one shrill hoot from overhead, a number of things happened.
A great shadow whirled across the sunlight at her feet,
a sound of rending tore the air, and a noise
like a giant's sigh; and, as she stopped bewildered, with a noise like ten
thousand smashed kettles, a huge thing crashed on the rubber pavement before
her, where it lay, filling half the square, writhing long wings on its upper
side that beat and whirled like the flappers of some ghastly extinct monster,
pouring out human screams, and beginning almost instantly to crawl with broken
life.
Mabel
scarcely knew what happened next; but she found herself a moment later forced
forward by some violent pressure from behind, till she stood shaking from head
to foot, with some kind of smashed body of a man moaning and
stretching at her feet.
There was a sort of articulate language coming from
it; she caught distinctly the names of
Jesus and Mary; then a voice hissed suddenly in her ears:
"Let me through. I am a priest."
She
stood there a moment longer, dazed by the suddenness of the whole affair, and
watched almost unintelligently the grey-haired young priest on his knees, with
his coat torn open, and a crucifix out; she saw him bend close, wave his hand
in a swift sign, and heard a murmur of a language she did not know.
Then he
was up again, holding the crucifix before him, and she saw him begin to move
forward into the midst of the red-flooded pavement, looking this way and that
as if for a signal.
Down the
steps of the great hospital on her right came figures running now, hatless,
each carrying what looked like an old-fashioned camera. She knew what those men
were, and her heart leaped in relief. They were the ministers of euthanasia.
Then she
felt herself taken by the shoulder and pulled back, and immediately found
herself in the front rank of a crowd that was swaying and crying out, and
behind a line of police and civilians who had formed themselves into a cordon
to keep the pressure back.
III "Oliver,
what do you say to people when they are dying?"
Oliver, was sagst du zu Menschen, wenn
sie sterben?
Oliver was in a panic of terror as his mother, half an
hour later, ran in with the news that one
of the Government volors had fallen in the station square at
He knew quite well
what that meant, for he remembered one such accident ten years before, just
after the law forbidding private volors had been passed.
It meant that every living creature in it was killed
and probably many more in the place where it fell–and what then? The message
was clear enough; she would certainly be in the square at that time.
He sent
a desperate wire to her aunt asking for news; and sat, shaking in his chair,
awaiting the answer. His mother sat by him.
"Please
God–" she sobbed out once, and stopped confounded as he turned on her.
But Fate
was merciful, and three minutes before Mr. Phillips toiled up the path with the
answer, Mabel herself came into the room, rather pale and smiling.
"Christ!"
cried Oliver, and gave one huge sob as he sprang up.
She had
not a great deal to tell him. There was no explanation of the disaster
published as yet; it seemed that the wings on one side had simply ceased to
work.
She
described the shadow, the hiss of sound, and the crash.
Then she
stopped.
"Well,
my dear?" said her husband, still rather white beneath the eyes as he sat
close to her patting her hand.
"There
was a priest there," said Mabel. "I saw him before, at the
station."
Oliver
gave a little hysterical snort of laughter.
"He
was on his knees at once," she said, "with his crucifix, even before
the doctors came. My dear, do people really believe all that?"
"Why,
they think they do," said her husband.
"It
was all so–so sudden; and there he was, just as if he had been expecting it
all. Oliver, how can they?"
"Why,
people will believe anything if they begin early enough."
"And
the man seemed to believe it, too–the dying man, I mean. I saw his eyes."
She
stopped.
"Well,
my dear?"
"Oliver, what do you say to people when they
are dying?"
"Say!
Why, nothing! What can I say? But I don't think I've ever seen anyone
die."
"Nor
have I till to-day," said the girl, and shivered a little. "The
euthanasia people were soon at work."
Oliver
took her hand gently.
"My
darling, it must have been frightful. Why, you're trembling still."
"No; but listen ....
You know, if I had had anything to say I could have
said it too. They were all just in front of me: I wondered; then I knew I
hadn't. I couldn't possibly have talked about Humanity."
"My
dear, it's all very sad; but you know it doesn't really matter. It's all
over."
"And–and they've just stopped?"
"Why, yes."
Mabel compressed
her lips a little; then she sighed. She had an agitated sort of meditation in
the train. She knew perfectly that it was sheer nerves; but she could not just
yet shake them off. As she had said, it was the first time she had seen death.
"And
that priest–that priest doesn't think so?"
"My
dear, I'll tell you what he believes. He believes that that man whom he showed the crucifix to, and said those words over, is alive somewhere, in spite of his
brain being dead: he is not quite sure where; but he is either in a kind of
smelting works being slowly burned; or, if he is very lucky, and that piece of
wood took effect, he is somewhere beyond the clouds, before Three Persons who
are only One although They are Three; that there are quantities of other people
there, a Woman in Blue, a great many others in white with their heads under
their arms, and still more with their heads on one side; and that they've all
got harps and go on singing for ever and ever, and walking about on the clouds, and liking it very much indeed. He
thinks, too, that all these nice people are perpetually looking down upon the
aforesaid smelting-works, and praising the Three Great Persons for making them.
That's what the priest believes. Now
you know it's not likely; that kind of thing may be very nice, but it isn't
true."
Mabel
smiled pleasantly. She had never heard it put so well.
"No,
my dear, you're quite right. That sort of thing isn't true. How can he believe
it? He looked quite intelligent!"
"My
dear girl, if I had told you in your cradle that the moon was green cheese, and
had hammered at you ever since, every day and all day, that it was, you'd very
nearly believe it by now. Why, you know in your heart that the euthanatisers are the real priests.
Of course you do."
Mabel sighed with satisfaction and stood up.
"Oliver, you're a most comforting person. I do like you! There! I
must go to my room: I'm all shaky still."
Half across the room she stopped and put out a shoe.
"Why–" she began faintly.
There
was a curious rusty-looking splash upon it; and her husband saw her turn white.
He rose abruptly.
"My dear," he said, "don't be foolish."
She
looked at him, smiled bravely, and went out.
When she was gone, he still sat on a moment where she
had left him. Dear me! how pleased he was! He did not
like to think of what life would have been without her. He had known her since
she was twelve–that was seven years ago–and last year they had gone together to
the district official to make their contract.
She had really become very necessary to him. Of course
the world could get on without her, and he supposed that he could too; but he
did not want to have to try. He knew perfectly well, for it was his creed of
human love, that there was between them a double
affection, of mind as well as body; and there was absolutely nothing else:
but he loved her quick intuitions, and to hear his own thought echoed so
perfectly. It was like two flames added together to make a third taller than
either: of course one flame could burn without the other–in fact, one would
have to, one day–but meantime the warmth and light were exhilarating. Yes, he
was delighted that she happened to be clear of the falling volor.
He gave no more thought to his exposition of the Christian creed; it was a mere commonplace
to him that Catholics believed that
kind of thing; it was no more blasphemous to his mind so to describe it, than
it would be to laugh at a Fijian idol
with mother-of-pearl eyes, and a horse-hair wig; it was simply impossible to
treat it seriously.
He, too, had wondered once or twice in his life how
human beings could believe such rubbish; but psychology had helped him, and he knew now well enough that
suggestion will do almost anything. And it was this hateful thing that had so
long restrained the euthanasia movement with all its splendid mercy.
His
brows wrinkled a little as he remembered his mother's exclamation, "Please
God"; then he smiled at the poor old thing and her pathetic childishness,
and turned once more to his table, thinking in spite of himself of his wife's
hesitation as she had seen the splash of blood on her shoe. Blood
! Yes; that was as much a fact as
anything else. How was it to be dealt with? Why, by the glorious creed of Humanity–that splendid God who
died and rose again ten thousand times a day, who had died daily like the old
cracked fanatic Saul of Tarsus, ever
since the world began, and who rose again, not once like the Carpenter's Son,
but with every child that came into the world. That was the answer; and was it
not overwhelmingly sufficient?
Mr.
Phillips came in an hour later with another bundle of papers.
"No
more news from the East, sir," he said.
Am liebsten würden wir die deutsche Übersetzung beifügen, aber wir
konnten nicht in Erfahrung bringen, ob der Übersetzer unserer Ausgabe von 1920,
H. M. von Lama – er lebte in Füssen – schon 70 Jahre tot ist (wegen des
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