“Yes, I know you would,” cried Marie, tenderly, as she rested her head on Trude’s shoulder.
“Fortunately, however, it is not necessary,” continued the old nurse. “Marie will live and be happy without old Trude’s assistance. Professor Philip Moritz will make us healthy and happy.”
“You, too?” asked Marie, a happy smile lighting up her countenance.—“Really, Trude, I believe you love him too, and I suppose I ought to be jealous of you for daring to love my Philip.”
“Yes, I not only love him, but am completely bewitched by him,” rejoined Trude, laughing. “I long for him, day and night, because I desire to see my child happy. Like a good, sensible girl, you must endeavor to recover your health and strength, in order that your Philip may rejoice when he arrives, and not suppose you to be still unwell.”
“You are right, Trude, Philip will be alarmed if I am not looking well and strong. But then I really am well; all that I want is a little more strength. But that will soon come, as I intend to guard against all agitation and sad thoughts. These thoughts, however, return, again and again, particularly at night, when I am lying awake and feel feverish; they sit around my bed like ghosts, and not only tell me sad legends of the past but also make gloomy prophecies for the future. At night I seem to hear a cricket chirping in my heart in shrill, wailing tones: ‘Marie, you must die, you have made many roses for others, but life has no roses for you, and’—but this is nonsense, and we will speak of it no longer.”
“We will laugh at it,” said Trude, “that will be still better.” She stooped down to pick up the flowers Marie had trodden under foot, and availed herself of this opportunity to wipe the tears from her eyes. “The poor things! look, Marie, you have completely crushed the poor little violets!”
“There is a beautiful and touching poem about a crushed violet,” said Marie, regarding the flowers thoughtfully. “Philip loved it, because his adored friend, Goethe, had written it. One day when I showed him the first violets I had made, he smiled, pressed the little flowers to his lips and repeated the last lines of this poem. It seems to me that I still hear the dear voice that always sounded like sweet music in my ear. ‘And if I die, ’tis she who takes my life; through her I die, beneath her feet!’”
“There you have commenced again,” sighed Trude. “No more sad words, Marie, it is not right!”
“You are right, nurse,” cried Marie, throwing the flowers on the table. “What care we for crushed violets! We will have nothing to do with them! We will be gay! See, I am ascending my throne again,” she continued, with mock gravity, as she seated herself in the arm-chair. “Now I am the princess in the fairy-tale, and you are the old housekeeper whose duty it is to see that her mistress is never troubled with ennui. Begin, madame; relate some story, or the princess will become angry and threaten you with her bunch of lilies.”
“I am not at all afraid,” said Trude, “I have a large supply of pretty stories on hand. I learned a great deal while attending to your commissions yesterday, Marie.”