MELCHIOR--But if it didn’t give you any pleasure, would you stop going? WENDLA--Well, can I help it if it does give me pleasure? MELCHIOR--[_Rolling over and staring straight up._] And yet it’s for that that you’ll get into heaven!--So it was true, the thought that has left me no peace for the last month!--Can the skinflint help it if it =doesn’t= give him any pleasure to go and visit sick and dirty children? WENDLA--Oh, I’m =sure= it would give =you= the =greatest= pleasure! MELCHIOR--And yet it’s for that that he’s condemned to everlasting death. [_Sits up, his back against the tree._] I’ll write it up and send it to Pastor Kahlbauch. He started me on this. Why does he drivel to us about “the joy of sacrifice”?--If he can’t answer me I won’t go to his Sunday-school any more, nor let myself be confirmed. WENDLA--Why do you want to give pain to your dear father and mother? Let yourself be confirmed! It won’t cost you your head! If it weren’t for our horrid white dresses and your baggy trousers, perhaps one could even feel enthusiastic about it. MELCHIOR--There =is= no self-sacrifice. There =is= no unselfishness.--I see the good rejoice in their goodness, and the wicked tremble and groan--I see you, Wendla Bergmann, shake your curls and laugh, and I get as glum about it as a pariah!--What did you dream about just now, Wendla, when you lay in the grass by the brookside? WENDLA--Silly things--foolishness---- MELCHIOR--With your eyes open? WENDLA--Oh, I dreamt I was a poor beggar-child, oh, awfully poor, who was shoved out on the street at five in the morning and had to beg the whole day long in wind and rain among harsh, hard-hearted people; and if I came home at night shivering with hunger and cold, and hadn’t as much money as my father wanted, then I was beaten and beaten.... MELCHIOR--Oh, I know, Wendla. You get that out of silly kid-stories. Believe me, such brutal people don’t exist any more! WENDLA--Oh, yes, they do, Melchior,--you don’t know!--Martha Bessel is beaten night after night, so that you can see the marks the next day. Oh, what she must suffer! It makes you boiling hot to hear her tell about it. I’m so terribly sorry for her, I often have to cry into my pillow in the middle of the night. For months I’ve been thinking and thinking how to help her. I’d joyfully put myself in her place for a week. MELCHIOR--Her father should simply be reported to the police. Then they’d take the child away from him. WENDLA--I, Melchior, have never been whipped in my life--not one single time. I can scarcely guess what it’s like to be beaten. I’ve tried hitting myself, to find out how it feels really, inside.--It must be a shuddery sensation. MELCHIOR--I don’t believe a child is ever made better by it. WENDLA--Better by what? MELCHIOR--Being struck. WENDLA--[_Reaching over and plucking a young shoot._] With this switch, for example.--Whew, but that’s strong and slender! MELCHIOR--That would draw blood.