The heat in the cellar and the drink coursing through their limbs made them feel drowsy and relaxed. Lotte leaned against Dr Astel and laid her head on his shoulder, smiling a sad, resigned smile.

‘Why are you all so silent?’ cried Dr Astel. ‘A little life, gentlemen! Gurdweill, Ulrich!’

‘There’s no point in getting worked up,’ said Ulrich.

Dr Astel raised his glass and peered through the dark-red liquid at Lotte and, since he could not see anything, he drank the wine and raised the glass to his eyes again.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Ulrich, brandishing his glass, ‘that’s what I always say! Gurdweill is my witness, right, Gurdweill? The world, I say, is like a single garment for an entire family … A large family, ranging in size from the baby in the cradle to the man in his prime … And the garment is too big and long for one, ha-ha-ha! And for another too short and narrow — too short and too narrow, gentlemen!’

Before Gurdweill’s eyes flashed the picture of a hulking youth wearing a child’s green striped coat, barely reaching his waist and splitting at the seams to expose strips of white vest. He nodded, and smiled a satisfied smile.

‘An excellent metaphor,’ said Dr Astel half seriously and half jokingly. ‘I’ll make a note of it for future reference.’

Addressing himself for some reason exclusively to the Baroness and gesturing with his hands and head, Ulrich continued hoarsely: ‘And here, Fräulein, you come up against something final! Reason, will — everything evaporates! A man must be content with his lot in life, and hold his tongue! And if not, if he refuses to be satisfied — why, he is free to shake his fists and kick his legs as much as he likes, until he gets tired and stops. You may say: but look at so-and-so — he struggled and he prevailed; he succeeded in changing his life! To this, my dear Baroness, I would reply: the person in question was only a pawn obeying the secret commands of another. He only appeared to be in control of his actions — and appearances don’t count!’

‘But this’ — interrupted the Baroness — ‘is a philosophy for tired old men! If you don’t mind my saying so, young men with blood in their veins don’t concern themselves with calculations — they act! What are all these calculations good for? At the most, writing books for old maids and weak, impotent men: a miserable surrogate! Real, vibrant life wants nothing to do with calculations. What matters is passion, boldness, force!’