_Moritz._ Did he tell you that?... I thought I was incurable. I believed I was suffering from an inward hurt.--Finally I became calm enough to begin to jot down the recollections of my life. Yes, yes, dear Melchior, the last three weeks have been a Gethsemane for me.... Truly they play a remarkable game with us. And we're expected to give thanks for it. I don't remember to have had any longing for this kind of excitement. Why didn't they let me sleep peacefully until all was still again. My dear parents might have had a hundred better children. I came here, I don't know how, and must be responsible myself for not staying away.--Haven't you often wondered, Melchior, by what means we were brought into this whirl? _Melchior._ Don't you know that yet either, Moritz? _Moritz._ How should I know it? I see how the hens lay eggs, and hear that Mamma had to carry me under her heart. But is that enough?... I have gone through Meyer's "Little Encyclopedia" from A to Z. Words--nothing but words and words! Not a single plain explanation. Oh, this feeling of shame!--What good to me is an encyclopedia that won't answer me concerning the most important question in life? Yes, of what good is an encyclopedia or the other wise books to the quivering, restless spirit of the child? No answer anywhere, least of all from your own mother, as _Wendla_ and many another like her have found out. The girl, learning that her sister has a new baby, rushes to her mother to find out how it came into the world. _Wendla._ I have a sister who has been married for two and a half years, I myself have been made an aunt for the third time, and I haven't the least idea how it all comes about--Don't be cross, Mother dear, don't be cross! Whom in the world should I ask but you! Please tell me, dear Mother! Tell me, dear Mother! I am ashamed for myself. Please, Mother, speak! Don't scold me for asking you about it. Give me an answer--How does it happen?--How does it all come about?--You cannot really deceive yourself that I, who am fourteen years old, still believe in the stork. _Frau Bergmann._ Good Lord, child, but you are peculiar!--What ideas you have!--I really can't do that! _Wendla._ But why not, Mother?--Why not?--It can't be anything ugly if everybody is delighted over it! _Fran Bergmann._ O--O God, protect me!--I deserve--Go get dressed, child, go get dressed. _Wendla._ I'll go--And suppose your child went out and asked the chimney sweep? _Fran Bergmann._ But that would be madness!--Come here, child, come here, I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything-- ... In order to have a child--one must love--the man--to whom one is married--love him, I tell you--as one can only love a man! One must love him so much with one's whole heart, so--so that one can't describe it! One must love him, Wendla, as you at your age are still unable to love--Now you know it!