No comrade helped him pass away an evening in the chimney-corner, pipe in hand and good cheer in the mug.

This isolation was not accidental, it was Hermann's own selection.

He was a man of brooding moods, and there was no laughter in his withered heart, though the false sound of it crossed his lips at infrequent intervals.
He adjusted his heavy spectacles and held the note slantingly toward the candle.

A note or a letter was a singular event in Hermann's life.
Not that he looked forward with eagerness to receive them, but that there was no one existing who cared enough about him to write.

This note left by the porter of the Grand Hotel moved him with surprise.