Gurdweill first polished his shoes. They were no longer new, the patent leather was wrinkled and had fine cracks in it, but after an energetic polishing their appearance was somewhat improved. Then he washed his face and the upper half of his body and put on the white shirt his brother-in-law Poldy had lent him for the occasion, a shirt with a front and cuffs as stiff as steel. A stiffly starched collar, of course, and a black bowtie: the day demanded a black bowtie, and fortunately he had one, old but black, in his possession, and did not have to borrow one. A black suit, needless to say, was obligatory for the occasion, and Gurdweill wore one: the jacket was his own (ancient and shiny, but never mind!), and the trousers also borrowed from his brother-in-law, and accordingly far too long for Gurdweill since the former was as tall as a telegraph pole. But the problem had been solved: the night before he had turned up the hems about eight centimetres, stitched them up roughly, wet them, and left them all night long under a heavy weight of thick volumes to press them flat. But when the trousers were on him, and he went for some reason to look out of the window, Ulrich, who was sitting on the edge of the sofa opposite him, discovered a hole in an immodest place, exposing a shining white circle the size of a button — to Gurdweill’s dismay, but also to his great relief. For imagine if the hole had only been discovered later, when he was already there! And in front of strangers! Now, at least, the damage could still be repaired. Gurdweill quickly pulled off the trousers, took a needle and thread out of the desk drawer, and sat down to mend the hole. Which was easier said than done: his fingers were clumsy; the starched collar cut mercilessly into his neck and chin; the shirt-front was as unyielding as armour; the sweat poured down his tomato-red face and trickled under his shirt and over his chest in slightly chilly rivulets, like crawling columns of loathsome insects. At last the job was done and Gurdweill completed his toilet with no further mishaps. He placed a stiff bowler hat (it, too, the property of his brother-in-law), the likes of which he had never worn before, on his head. The hat was too small for him and perched on the top of his head as if it did not belong there, giving him an extremely ridiculous air. When he looked into the mirror Gurdweill could not restrain himself and burst into loud laughter. Ulrich laughed too, rolling his eyes grotesquely. Then they hurried off. They strode rapidly down the street. In his finery Gurdweill felt as if he had been confined in a narrow barrel, boiling hot, sweating and panting, frequently wiping his face with the handkerchief he kept clasped in his white-gloved hand, skipping every now and then in his haste. The sun blazed as if it were the middle of July, although it was only May; the asphalt on the pavements was melting in places, revealing black spots and giving off invisible steam, and it felt soft beneath their feet. They seemed to be pushing through the dense air, as if they had to cleave their way by force. It did not occur to either of them that they could have taken a tram, as if the invention of this form of transport had completely slipped their minds. In the end, after a very strenuous walk, they reached their destination on time.