She stood up in the boat. The old man exclaimed:
"Sit down! there's danger if you stir one way or the other."
"I shall not move," said Irma, and she really stood erect in the unsteady little boat.
"By your leave, the beautiful young lady surely doesn't mean to enter the convent?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I'd be sorry."
"Why would you be sorry? Don't the nuns lead a pleasant, peaceful life?"
"Oh, yes, they do; but it is a life in which nothing happens."
As if obeying a higher summons, Irma sat down and immediately stood up again. The boat reeled.
"A life in which nothing happens"--the words touched a chord in her own heart. With her, the pride and strength of youth rebelled against sacrificing one's life in such a manner. It is a life in which nothing happens: whether it be, like her father's, spent in solitary thought, or, like that of the nun's, in common devotion. Are we not placed upon earth so that we may call all our own--come joy, come grief; come mirth, come sadness--a life in which nothing happens is not for me.