‘A bottle of beer, Johann, and the evening papers!’ The blond waiter, who was standing not far off with his back to him, a dirty napkin under his arm, hurried off to bring his order.

It was nine at night. One by one the habitués of the little café near the university assembled: students and minor officials who sat in the same chairs night after night, and ordered their coffee as if they were finishing off their evening meal at home. These customers were as much a part of the café and its particular atmosphere as the ragged, threadbare velvet sofas around the walls and the dark, dirty marble tables. It was rare for a ‘stranger’ to appear here.

Perczik attacked his veal cutlet in its dark-brown gravy with gusto, using his blunt knife to cut piece after piece off the whitish meat surrounded by a rim of transparent yellow fat, and swallowing them avidly. His short, plump fingers worked diligently, and his lips were red and shining with grease. From time to time he took a sip of the foaming beer. He was in an expansive mood, as always when a hearty meal was set before him, and ready to discuss all kinds of lofty questions: even his heart seemed to soften, and he spoke without stopping as he chewed, his eyes darting to and fro under the thick eyebrows that met over his nose.

‘It’s completely superfluous, I tell you, and any sensible person would say the same, unless he were a liar. What good does it do, for example, to a man with toothache? Or someone who hasn’t eaten for two days? Will you give him Madame Bovary to read? Or show him pictures by Rembrandt, et cetera? The truth is that art only interests the rich, the snobs who want something to decorate their houses along with the rest of their unnecessary possessions … nobody else needs it at all.’

And Perczik jabbed his fork in the air to emphasise his words.

Gurdweill sat with his head down, mechanically drawing floral patterns on the tabletop and rubbing them out with his finger. Perczik’s roast veal did not interest him in the least; he had eaten two full meals today — hearty meals, you could even say, in comparison to other days. But the latter’s good mood and concern for the fate of art and for the sufferings of humanity provoked him.

‘What are you going on about, Perczik? Why should it concern you? If anyone’s got a toothache, let him go to the dentist. And art will get along fine without you too. You’d do better to give me a cigarette.’

‘A cigarette?’ Perczik’s voice dropped. ‘In a minute.’

He took the leather case out of his pocket, opened it, and offered it to Gurdweill. There was only one cigarette in it, and that was half empty of tobacco.

‘Here you are! It’s my last one,’ he said pleadingly.