Mother: (Brings tea and biscuits; delivers it on the table.) It is not much, though I ask you to take it to heart.
(Pastor answers with a kind bow; mother leaves.)
Pastor. I do not wish to arouse your memories; I said certain things . . . The mainframe was clear – pardon my comparison – let serf remain a serf and let them listen to the overlord.
Jerman. I came to accept your command as it suits us.
Pastor. The collation with the serf is neat, yet to the people of ours it may be too hot-blooded; they hear the wording, do not know the thought.
Jerman. The word is clear; turn it around and examine it as you wish; it remains the same.
Pastor. Word is to human like a personal name – void. It may be a name of a saint, or of a heathen. It is as well like a coin by the street: riches to the wise one; temptation and sin to the wasteful.
Jerman. I pledge I did not touch such sciences.
Pastor. When I named you a serf, you took it as an insult. You pictured my blackened cloak, the Rosary, processions and brotherhoods. You heard a command I did not voice. The comparison is clear: when the serf finishes their workday, they are free to roam to the pub; make sure only not to set the wheat they harvested ablaze.
Jerman. If I sense what is correct I would rather it was false.
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