"I found it hard as a wife," she continued, "to bear another name."
"Excuse me, my dear lady," replied Sonnenkamp courteously; "you had to take a citizen's name; it is much easier to assume a noble one."
He exhorted her, urged his request upon her more earnestly, enforcing it by the warmly expressed wish of the countess Bella.
The Professorin insisted that no one, even though admitted to the closest friendship, could decide upon the life she should lead; she was resolved never to return to society.
Sonnenkamp was driven to extremity. He believed that the Professorin's only objection was to appearing as a dependant, and that she would no longer refuse, if a free and independent position were assured her. In a manner, therefore, at once unassuming and emphatic, he told her that he should here, and now, put into her hands a sum of money sufficient to maintain her in an establishment of her own for the rest of her life. He put his hand in his breast-pocket as he spoke, and drew out his pocketbook.
"No, sir, I beg of you," answered the Professorin, coloring deeply and fixing her eyes upon his fingers,—just so did the Pharisee hold the piece of money. "It's not that, I assure you. I am ashamed of no position, since I have the true honor within myself; neither do I fear, as you possibly imagine, being too deeply moved by contact with any of the relations of society. I have voluntarily resigned all connection with it. I have made no outward vow, but I beg you to respect my decision as the vow of a nun, as you would if it were the decision of your daughter. I regret that I must beg you to urge me no further, as no inducements could have any influence upon me."
It was hard for Sonnenkamp to control his anger, and restore the pocket-book to its place.
He rose and went to the window.
For some time he gazed fixedly out, then turning round with a smile, he said,—
"There in the river are floating the blocks of ice; a soft breath bursts the icy covering; why might not also, my honored friend—you will allow me so to call you—every one has in his life a something—I know not how to call it, an action, a purpose—you understand what I mean—that ought not to fetter all our future."