No sooner had Elsa stepped into the kitchen than Bertold began asking her what she had been talking about to Herr Gottlieb. Nothing in particular, she replied. Don’t give me that, Bertold said, grabbing her arm, do you take me for fool? You said it, Elsa retorted, pulling her arm free, and if you don’t believe me, then don’t ask. Oh, pardon me! he exclaimed, Miss Elsa doesn’t like to be questioned! Especially because it would mean an end to her strolls and outings to the countryside! What’s coming to an end is my patience, so leave me in peace, Bertold, I have to go out to do the shopping. Did you hear that, Petra! he said, turning to the cook. Do you think it’s fair her gallivanting all over the place with Fräulein Gottlieb while we rot away indoors all day? On the other side of the marble-topped table, beneath the five service bells connected to the five rooms their employers could ring from, Petra raised her head, stopped chopping tomatoes, and said: I couldn’t care less what anyone does, this isn’t my family, it’s my job. Yes, Petra, Bertold replied, but it’s still unjust! The only justice, Petra said, slicing through another tomato, would be if my daughter didn’t have to peel potatoes for a living.
Elsa and Bertold carried on bickering as they descended the stairs. Why all the secrecy? he insisted, don’t you trust me any more? I trust you as much as you trust me, she snapped. But Elsa, my sweet, he whispered, don’t you remember when we used to spend the whole night together, what’s the matter, why won’t you tell me things any more? Yes, I remember perfectly, she replied, and that’s why I prefer not to talk to you, because I know what you’re like. And are they good those memories of yours? he said, clasping her waist. No worse and no better than any others, Elsa said, wriggling free. Bitch! he cried. Lackey! she retorted. I’m a lackey, said Bertold, furious, you call me a lackey when all you do is obey your mistress! You daren’t even breathe without her permission! You’re mistaken, as usual, she said, pausing before the front door. No, he said, I’m not mistaken — you should be loyal to Herr Gottlieb, but instead you trot around after your little friend even though she doesn’t pay our wages. I’m paid to wait on her, said Elsa, and besides, Fräulein Gottlieb isn’t my friend, and she never will be. In that case why do her bidding? said Bertold. Why accompany her to that inn when you know it could bring dishonour on the Wilderhaus family and leave us all in the street? What do you do at the inn, Elsa? Why won’t you tell me what Herr Gottlieb said to you? Aha, she chuckled, so that’s it, you’re worried about the honour of the Wilderhaus family! I can see where your loyalties lie! What are you hoping for, you fool, that he’ll give you a job as butler, or present you with a carriage, perhaps? I’m saving up, said Bertold, what’s wrong with that? Nothing, said Elsa, I’m saving up, too. Look, he said, try to understand, Elsa, I need more money, and if the wedding falls through then I’m off, I want a better life, I don’t know, to open my own shop. I understand perfectly, she said, you’re the one who doesn’t understand, I also want to do better for myself, to get married. Is that what you’re saving up for? he asked, narrowing his eyes, displaying his scar. Maybe I am and maybe I’m not, Elsa said opening the front door. Who is he, tell me? demanded Bertold. No one, she said stepping outside. Wait, Elsa! he shouted after her, Wait, come back here! You never tell me anything! Bitch! And for your information, I don’t remember our nights together either!
The sacristan found Father Pigherzog eating a leg of cold chicken and drinking the altar wine. Father, he said awkwardly, it’s nearly time. Yes, yes, the priest said with his mouth full, I’ll be with you in a minute. Forgive me, Father, the sacristan said hesitantly, shouldn’t we be fasting? Ha! Father Pigherzog licked his lips. You still have much to learn about doctrine! Tell me, didn’t the apostles receive Communion from Christ himself after a big supper? Hadn’t they sated themselves with food and wine? Do you believe a genuinely pure spirit is determined by a mouthful more or less of food? Do we not partake of Christ’s flesh when we eat the bread at any feast? The sacristan stammered an apology and began laying out the alb and the amice. Wait, my son, said Father Pigherzog, come here and wash my fingers, please.
Frau Pietzine leant forward and put her lips close to the grille in the confessional. Her rosary swung out from her chest and rattled against the partition.
Beloved Father, she murmured, it’s a good thing you received me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, it’s been too long since my last confession and I have to commune tomorrow, immediately, as soon as possible. Daughter, Father Pigherzog’s voice said on the other side of the grille, I’m not the only priest to whom you can confess, if you were in such a hurry there is always Father Kleist. Oh no, Father, never! Frau Pietzine insisted. Very well, daughter, very well, Father Pigherzog said, trying not to sound smug, I am at your service.
Frau Pietzine confessed for twenty minutes, continually gasping and covering her mouth with her fan. Father Pigherzog remained silent, although from time to time he could be heard fidgeting in his seat and breathing in a slightly laboured manner. When Frau Pietzine had finished, the priest took a deep breath and said: I can see how greatly you suffer, daughter. And you are of course right to confess with such fervour, for it calms the soul. However, we must endeavour not to fall into immoderation when confessing. It is also necessary to make room for atonement, in order to arouse our feeling of guilt and to offer our tears to Jesus. (I will, I will, I will, Frau Pietzine said contritely.) I absolve you, daughter — follow this instruction and say ten Our Fathers and six Hail Marys. (Amen, amen, amen, she agreed.) Now listen, daughter, there is another small matter to which I wish to draw your attention (I’m all ears, Father), and this is nothing other than the somewhat ostentatious dresses you have begun to wear, even though you ought still to be in semi-mourning. (Father, Frau Pietzine said, pulling up her décolletage, my husband passed away more than five years ago!) Five years ago, indeed, and what is five years, daughter, compared to a whole marriage? Compared to the vicissitudes of eternal life your deceased husband is currently experiencing? Five years, you say — is not death eternally present in our lives? (You are right, you are right, you are right, but, please, try to understand, I implore you — it may sound frivolous, but clothes are a solace to me, one of my few amusements, I purchase fabrics, choose colours and styles, yet I am constantly grieving, if not I wouldn’t need to distract myself with such trifles.) I understand, daughter, but that doesn’t mean I approve, these dresses, are, well, they are … (Tell me, Father, with all due respect to your holy condition, have you never been tempted to try on new clothes? A suit? The odd overcoat?) Me? Never, daughter. What fancies. I was very young when I was ordained and have always felt quite at home in a humble habit.