'My dear colleague,' answered Katz, patting him familiarly on the back, 'until the state recognizes that soldiers who are going to their death at the front don't need the blessing of God for it, the chaplaincy remains a decently paid profession, where a chap isn't overworked. It was better for me that running around on the drill-ground and going on manoeuvres. Then I used to get orders from my superiors but now I do what I like. I represent someone who doesn't exist and myself play the part of God. If I don't want to absolve anyone's sins then I don't, even if they beg me on their bended knees. But you'd find bloody few people nowadays who'd go that far.'

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In the evening they received a visit from the pious chaplain who had wanted to serve the drumhead mass for the sappers that morning. He was a fanatic who wanted to bring everyone close to God. When he had been a catechist he had developed religious feelings in children by slapping their faces and there had appeared from time to time in various journals articles about 'the sadistic catechist', 'the slapping catechist'. He was convinced that a child learns the catechism best with the help of the birch.

He limped a little on one foot, which had been caused by a visit made to him by the father of one of his pupils, whose face he had slapped for having expressed certain doubts about the Holy Trinity. He got three slaps on the face himself. One for God the Father, a second one for God the Son and a third for the Holy Ghost.

Today he had come to lead his colleague Katz on to the right path and to have a heart-to-hard talk with him. He began it with the remark: 'I'm surprised that you've got no crucifix hanging there. Where do you say your breviary prayers? And there's not a single portrait of the saints on the walls of your room. What's that hanging over your bed?'

Katz smiled: 'That's Susanna and the Elders, and that naked woman underneath is an old friend of mine. On the right there's something Japanese, depicting the sexual act between a geisha and an old Japanese Samurai. Very original, isn't it? The breviary's in the kitchen. Švejk, bring it here and open it on the third page.'

Švejk went away, and from the kitchen could be heard the sound of corks being drawn from three bottles of wine.

The pious chaplain was aghast when the three bottles made their appearance on the table.

'It's a light sacramental wine, brother,' said Katz, 'of very good quality, a Riesling. It tastes like Moselle.'

'I'm not going to drink,' said the pious chaplain stubbornly. 'I've come to have a heart-to-heart talk with you.'

'That'll dry up your throat, my dear colleague,' said Katz. 'Have a drink and I'll listen. I'm a very tolerant fellow and can listen to other views.'

The pious chaplain drank a little and rolled his eyes.

'It's a devilish good wine, my dear colleague, isn't it?'

The fanatic said sternly: 'It has not escaped me that you are swearing.'

'That's habit,' answered Katz. 'Sometimes I even catch myself blaspheming. Pour the chaplain out some more, Švejk. I can assure you that I also say: "Himmelherrgott, krucifix and sakra." I think that when you've served in the army as long as I have you'll find yourself doing it too. It isn't at all difficult or complicated and it's very familiar to us clergy - heaven, God, the cross and the holy sacrament. Doesn't that sound marvellously professional? Drink a bit more, my dear colleague.'

The former catechist sipped mechanically. It was obvious that he wanted to say something, but could not. He was collecting his thoughts.

'My dear colleague,' continued Katz, 'cheer up! Don't sit there so miserably, as though they were going to hang you in five minutes' time. I've heard about you, how once on a Friday by mistake you ate a pork cutlet in a restaurant, because you thought that it was Thursday, and how you stuck your finger down your throat in the W.C. to get rid of it, because you thought God would obliterate you. I'm not afraid of eating meat in Lent and I'm not afraid of hell-fire either. Excuse me, please go on drinking. Are you better now? Or do you have progressive views about hell and keep up with the spirit of the times and the reformists? I mean, instead of ordinary cauldrons with sulphur for poor sinners, there are Papin's pots and high-pressure boilers. The sinners are fried in margarine, there are grills driven by electricity, steam rollers roll over the sinners for millions of years, the gnashing of the teeth is produced with the help of dentists with special equipment, the howling is recorded on gramophones, and the records are sent upstairs to Paradise for the enjoyment of the just. In paradise sprays with eau de cologne operate and the Philharmonic Orchestra plays Brahms so long that you prefer hell and purgatory. The cherubs have aeroplane propellers in their behinds so as not to have to work so hard with their wings. Drink, my dear colleague! Švejk, pour him out some cognac. I don't think he's feeling well.'

When the pious chaplain came round he started to whisper: 'Religion is a matter of rational reasoning. Whoever does not believe in the existence of the Holy Trinity...'

'Švejk,' Katz interrupted him, 'pour out one more cognac for the chaplain, so as to bring him round! Tell him something, Švejk!' 'Humbly report, sir,' said Švejk, 'near Vlašim there was a dean who had a charwoman, when his old housekeeper ran away from him with the boy and the money. And this dean in his declining years started studying St Augustine, who is said to be one of the Holy Fathers, and he read there that whoever believes in the Antipodes will be damned. And so he called his charwoman and said to her: "Listen, you once told me that your son was a fitter and that he went to Australia. That would be in the Antipodes and according to St Augustine's instructions everyone who believes in the Antipodes is damned." "Reverend sir," the woman answered, "after all my son sends me letters and money from Australia." "That's a snare of the devil," replied the dean. "According to St Augustine the devil doesn't exist and you are just being seduced by the Anti-Christ." On Sunday he anathematized her publicly and shouted out that Australia didn't exist. So they took him out of straight out of the church into the lunatic asylum. More people like him ought to be put there. In the Convent of the Sisters of St Ursula they have a bottle of the Holy Virgin's milk with which she suckled the baby Jesus, and in the orphanage at Benešov, after they'd brought them water from Lourdes, the orphans got diarrhea the like of which the world has never seen.'

Black spots were dancing in front of the pious chaplain's eyes and he only came to himself after another cognac, which went to his head.

Blinking his eyes he asked Katz: 'Don't you believe in the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary? Don't you believe that the thumb of St John the Baptist, which is preserved in the Piarists' monastery, is genuine? Do you believe in the Lord at all? And if you don't, why are you a chaplain?'

'My dear colleague,' answered Katz, patting him familiarly on the back, 'until the state recognizes that soldiers who are going to their death at the front don't need the blessing of God for it, the chaplaincy remains a decently paid profession, where a chap isn't overworked. It was better for me that running around on the drill-ground and going on manoeuvres. Then I used to get orders from my superiors but now I do what I like. I represent someone who doesn't exist and myself play the part of God. If I don't want to absolve anyone's sins then I don't, even if they beg me on their bended knees. But you'd find bloody few people nowadays who'd go that far.'

'I love God,' declared the pious chaplain, beginning to hiccough. 'I love him very much. Give me a little wine. I respect God,' he continued. I respect and honour him very much. I respect no one as much as I respect him.'

He struck the table with his fist until the bottles jumped. 'God is an exalted being, something unearthly. He's honourable in his dealings. He's a radiant revelation, and no one's going to convince me of the contrary. I respect St Joseph too, I respect all the saints, except St Serapion. He's got such an ugly name.'

'He ought to apply to have it changed,' observed Švejk.

'I love St Ludmila and St Bernard,' continued the former catechist. 'He saved many pilgrims in St Gothard. He carries a bottle of cognac around his neck and looks for people caught in snow drifts.'

The conversation took a new turn. The pious chaplain started getting completely muddled. 'I honour the Innocents. They have their Saints' day on the twenty-eighth of December. I hate Herod. When the hens sleep, you can't get any new-laid eggs.'

He gave a guffaw and began to sing 'Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Sabaoth.'

He broke off at once, and turning to Katz and getting up asked him sharply: 'You don't believe that the fifteenth of August is the day of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary?'

The fun was in full swing. More bottles appeared, and from time to time Katz could be heard saying: 'Say that you don't believe in God, otherwise I won't let you have a drop!' It was as though the times of the persecution of the early Christians had returned. The former catechist sang a song of the martyrs of the Roman arena and yelled out: 'I believe in God. I won't forswear him. You can keep your wine. I can send for some myself.'

Finally they put him to bed. Before he fell asleep he proclaimed, raising his right hand in a solemn oath: 'I believe in God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Bring me the breviary.'

Švejk put into his hand a book which was lying on the night table. The pious chaplain then fell asleep with Boccaccio's Decameron in his hand.