Elisabeth von Bernburg seemed to have no idea of all these childish, unchildlike ideas and questions that surrounded her. She was there, silent, orderly, strict and kind. She walked through the children's days with her quiet, beautiful gait, she taught, she commanded, she listened, she counselled, but she remained distant, withdrawn and alone. For just one moment, Manuela was allowed a glimpse into her heart. It was a Sunday evening, and Fräulein von Bernburg had gone through the dormitory as she did every day, kissing each child goodnight and answering a question here and there, giving a brief instruction.
She was also stopped by Manuela.
"Fräulein von Bernburg," she said hesitantly. "I don't know, I something must've happened to me; I think I'm ill." And it came out hesitantly that she had been feeling bad all day. Pain in the abdomen, nausea, headache, and now, just now, she had noticed that she was bleeding.
Fräulein von Bernburg did not smile.
She sat down gravely on the edge of the child's bed.
"It's not an illness, Manuela," she said quietly. "That's nothing but a sign that you've grown up and have almost stopped being a child. If it weren't for this blood, you wouldn't be able to have children when you grow up. All women have this bleeding every four weeks. And now I have probably to take a place of Mother and tell you what to do when this happens."
"Thank you, Fräulein von Bernburg," Manuela said.
She lay pale and beautiful on her pillow, listening more to the sound of the voice that instructed her than to the words themselves. When Fräulein von Bernburg tried to get up, Manuela held her firmly. "Fräulein von Bernburg . . ."
"Well, what else, Manuela?"
"You said—all women. But there are women who never have children anyway?"
Fräulein von Bernburg didn't look at her.
"Yes, child, certainly, all those who don't have a husband."
"Fräulein von Bernburg," Manuela gasped, and her hot hand grabbed the hand of the woman leaning over her. "I—I must ask you something—I think about it so often—are you happy?"
Elisabeth von Bernburg raised her head. Without the slightest astonishment, as if she had been asked the most natural question in the world, she looked in Manuela's eyes.
"Yes, child," she replied. "I have you all."
Maybe she should have said, "I have you."
But this daughter and granddaughter of soldiers, who had been accustomed all her life to be sparing with feelings and to despise emotional outbursts, this girl, brought up by a Puritan mother in fear of God, this young woman who had sworn to herself to fulfil her duty purely and justly by the children entrusted to her, would not have uttered such words. There was only "the children" for her; there was no single child she could set her heart on. And now that she had done so, from the first time that this child's eyes and hers had met, there could be nothing else for her but self-discipline and renunciation.
She felt love of this child like a blessing, like a completely undeserved, unprecedented happiness, which was so much more genuine than the touching affection and idolisation of the other children around her. This love emanated from Manuela's every action, every awkward word. But she wouldn't have been Elisabeth von Bernburg if she hadn't punished herself for being happy because of this child and for loving her in reply gratuitously, with all the strength of her heart.