Gurdweill was sitting on a bench in the Volksgarten. The sun was entangled in the treetops, touching the upper half of the Parliament Building, which was visible above the iron fence, with an orange glow. Most of the afternoon was already over, and the little children in the park were worn out with running and playing. Flushed and hungry, they returned to their mothers and nannies and gobbled down what was left of the food they had brought with them. The avenue below was deep in shade, but the air was still warm and hazy. Not far off, the park band was playing, and the tune united with the rattling of the trams and the horns of the cars outside to form a curious medley of noises and sounds. By concentrating intently on the music it was possible to weed out the foreign elements and return it, with a strenuous effort, to its pristine state. But Gurdweill actually preferred it the way it was, with the pulse of the city’s life beating inside it. Thus, he imagined the music of a band playing on a ship at sea, and absorbing into itself the pounding of the mighty waves. Suddenly he felt a surge of great joy at being alive in this city, at being a part of all this vast, varied movement. At that moment he loved everything. All the people around him were related to him; all the children were his kin. He smiled affectionately at the children standing next to the bench, a little girl in a blue dress and two little boys with grubby knees, and he was filled with joy when they returned his smile. It would not be long before his Martin, too, would be a little rascal with flushed cheeks and bare, dusty knees. Everything was so beautiful that it would be niggardly to complain. It was true, of course, that there was a lot of sorrow in the world, but at this moment he, Gurdweill, was incapable of feeling a jot of it. It did not touch him at all. How could he help it if the cigarette he was smoking was exceptionally good today, better than he had ever tasted before? How could he help it if the carnations and the narcissi in the round flowerbed opposite him were imperceptibly invading his soul with the exquisite delicacy of their colours? And how could he help it if he now had a son, a real son, whose name was Martin and whose present address was the white cot number 26, in the General Hospital of Vienna? Perhaps at this very minute he was crying in his thin, weak voice — but that was nothing to worry about. He was only getting rid of his surplus energy. And the day itself, which was declining into evening as he sat there! Everyone who lived a single day tasted the whole of eternity; of that there could be no doubt. Happy the man who was privileged to live one single day!