‘I opened a door and was immediately greeted by such a slough of filth and fetid odors, and stupid and corrupted faces that my heart recoiled. An old man all hair and eyes and yellowed whiskers … was sitting at one of the tables, slobbing up some mess out of a plate on to his whiskers.’19 But this unlovely scene was for Wolfe an aberration that bore little relation to the real Germany.
