A Poet?

It was the middle of February, and it was almost midnight.

Quiet had finally, for a short while, settled upon the Zeitungspalast, the proud seat of Vienna’s main newspapers situated close to the Ringstrasse. The lively bustle of the day, with its boisterous and fitful waves of movement, had gone silent. A lonely light from the windows on the third floor, where the editorial offices were located, shone into the fog and down onto the deserted street. Then it went out. The arcs of the electric streetlights over the driveway poured their light, white and almost as garish as a flash, over a waiting carriage and pair of horses. On the box, the coachman sat nodding his head; he was bundled up beyond recognition, in order to protect himself from the restless wind that staggered and lunged across the metropolis. The building’s portal stood open, but only rarely did someone scurry in or step out. Anyone needing to leave would pause for a bit, shivering and catching their breath, before venturing into the wintry night that was buffeted by frosty, formless exhalations. A few steps farther on and the darkness swallowed them.

All the lights were still burning in the night editor’s offices. Just now the compositor had left with some copy; now the issue existed, and the machines celebrated, although they were prepared for the last news items that a belated messenger or a dilatory telegram might yet bring. The stale...