Frau Pietzine’s dress tears slightly. She thrashes her legs about, waves her arms, then suddenly freezes as she feels the knife prick the side of her neck. She lies motionless, gasping, as though waiting for two different guillotines to drop. She does not begin to pray then. She thinks first of her children, then of the supper, and then of death. She feels no remorse, but that she is being punished. At the first touch of cold air on her legs, she begins to pray silently.
Lisa tears the doll in two and probes its entrails. Does it hold some hidden secret? What is it hiding? But she finds nothing of interest inside her beloved doll. Pieces of thread, cloth and cotton wool, nothing. On the other side of the door, trying to force the handle, her father is shouting her name.
In a final gesture of resistance, Frau Pietzine tenses her thighs and presses her arms to her sides — she has discovered a brute strength she didn’t know existed. The masked man gives a start. He freezes for a moment. He falters — this is the first time he has known the victim. He is on the point of letting her go. Withdrawing. But it feels too late to stop now. Besides, he is excited. Very excited. And deep down it is this unexpected element that thrills him. And so, in order to ease his struggle, the masked man finally pulls off a glove, releasing a faint smell of lard. As she lies doubled up, a shiver of panic coursing through her, Frau Pietzine thinks she recognises the hand, or that it is in some way familiar. Afterwards she thinks she is mistaken. She thinks she is hallucinating, having a terrible nightmare from which she will awake, that everything is spinning very fast, that the pain is filtering through a crack. Then she has the impression of slipping down a steep slope, and that nothing will matter to her any longer.
Herr Zeit bursts angrily into the room and remains motionless for a moment — his daughter Lisa is holding the rag doll’s torn off head, smiling absently, as if he weren’t standing there brandishing a leather strap.
As Frau Levin sat down and noticed the empty chair, she asked after Frau Pietzine. Over time she had grown to respect her, and, underneath all their differences, suspected they had much in common — Frau Pietzine’s compulsive chatter was nothing more than a manifestation of the same paralysing shyness she suffered from, and widowhood had plunged her into a state of solitude with which she, a married woman of many years, was only too familiar.
As she poured the first serving of tea, Sophie informed her guests she had received a note from Frau Pietzine, who was indisposed and excused herself from attending that Friday. When Sophie stopped next to Hans and leant over to fill his cup, she had the impression that he had raised his shoulder in order to brush against her breast. Although Rudi had his head turned and was talking to her father, Sophie decided to caution Hans by letting a few drops of tea splash into his saucer. Hans sat up with a start and whispered: Oh, never mind, Mademoiselle, never mind. Elsa and Bertold brought trays laden with bowls of consommé and fruit compote. There was a sound of scraping chairs and clinking spoons. Álvaro tried to catch Elsa’s eye, but she avoided him. Hans attempted to strike up a conversation with Rudi. He responded amiably and began regaling Hans with stories of his latest hunting expedition. Seeing them chatting together, Sophie gave a sigh of relief. Elsa left the garden. Álvaro rose to his feet and said he needed to go up to the bathroom.
After a scholarly tribute to Schiller from Professor Mietter (which earned him the praise of both Herr Levin and Herr Gottlieb), Hans said without thinking: Schiller studied for the priesthood and ended up being a doctor! For your information, young man, Professor Mietter replied sharply (at which Hans looked at him almost with gratitude, because he was bored), Schiller was one of our most eminent men, the only man equal to Goethe, he spent his life writing in defence of freedom and strove to fight disease, working until the day he died, I don’t see why you should find that amusing! I can see, said Hans with a grin, you would prefer us all to be serious. All right. Hölderlin, who was Schiller’s disciple, says that philosophy is the hospital of the poet, and I agree with him there. Schiller died ill, and still philosophising. This seems to me worthy of the greatest respect. What I don’t understand is why Schiller wrote odes to happiness in his youth, and then spent his life admonishing young poets, who, incidentally, were better than he. That is your view, protested Professor Mietter. No, said Hans, that is the view of poetry. Don’t be so conceited! Professor Mietter rebuked him, folding his arms. Sophie interceded gently: Do go on, Professor. Well, he nodded, straightening his wig, let us see. Schiller was merely pointing out the basic rules of art to the young poets, he was not censuring them, but reminding them of the need to study these rules. In doing so he was merely following the Critique of Judgement, and, if I remember rightly, Monsieur Hans has defended Kant on more than one occasion. Sophie turned to Hans, amused: Do you have anything to say, dear Hans? Hans, who had decided to remain silent to avoid generating further tension, saw the congratulatory pat Rudi gave Professor Mietter, his mocking smile, the haughty way he inhaled his snuff, and, fixing his eyes on Sophie, he replied: Our inestimable professor claims that Schiller followed Kant. True. Yet Kant was an independent critic, because he established his own norms. Thus, to obey Kant is to betray him. Do any of you truly believe we can speak of a universal judgement, an objective aesthetic, an inadequate use of beauty? What the devil does that mean? What was Schiller so afraid of? If it was the differences between the social classes then I understand, because those are imposed (Rudi, my love, Sophie distracted him, how do you find the compote?) but to say there can be no different aesthetics, to propose a consensus on taste is grotesque! Or should we create a law governing taste? Hasn’t Metternich given us enough laws already? Holding his pince-nez on his nose Professor Mietter countered: You are confusing censorship with rules. All freedom, whether in art or in society, requires order. And true fear derives from the denial of this self-evident fact. All right, replied Hans, waving his cup so that his tea spilt over into the saucer, but that order can never be permanent. As Kant said, that would be a return to infancy. The surrender of reason, the death of räsonieren. You have clearly misread Schiller, Professor Mietter concluded with a shrug. Perhaps, said Hans, and until the law takes it away from me, I assume I can still enjoy that privilege.
Calm yourselves, gentlemen, insisted Sophie, here our greatest privilege is to disagree without losing our manners. Well said, my child, Herr Gottlieb said approvingly, twirling the tip of his moustache around one finger, and incidentally, if our guests are in agreement, I would like to propose that next Friday, by way of closing this salon for the summer, we read a few passages from one of Schiller’s plays. (Rudi looked at Hans and gave a snigger.) I might add that although we are no experts, we are particularly fond of Schiller in this house, and. (Dear father-in-law, Rudi interrupted, where will you have the pleasure of taking your summer holidays?) What? Where? Ah, well, we shall find somewhere! You know what August is like, dear son-in-law, people everywhere! We are waiting to hear from various friends before we make any plans (very wise, nodded Rudi, very wise), or — who knows! — we might simply stay here and relax, when you get to my age the crowds at the spas become a bore. (Forgive me, ahem, Herr Levin picked up the conversation, and which work of his do you prefer?) Which work? Ah, yes, I beg your pardon, well, of course one perhaps hasn’t read Schiller’s entire works, I don’t know, how about William Tell? (An excellent choice in my view, father, said Sophie, if everyone else agrees …)