New Year's Eve Fairy Tales Read online

"They won't be able to keep her," said the Porter's wife. "Our Lord knows very well whom He wants."

  But they kept her, and George sent her pictures he drew. He drew the Czar's palace, the ancient Kremlin in Moscow, exactly as it was, with turrets and cupolas; in George's drawing they looked like big green and gilt cucumbers. Little Emilie was so pleased that during the week George sent her several more pictures, all of buildings, because that would give her plenty to think about, wondering what went on inside the doors and windows.

  He drew a Chinese house, with bells hanging on all the sixteen stories. He drew two Greek temples, with steps around slender marble pillars. He drew a Norwegian church; you could see it was made entirely of timbers, deeply carved and curiously put together; every story looked as if it had rockers. But the most beautiful design of all was a castle, which he called "Little Emilie's." This was to be her own home, so George had made it all up from his imagination and selected for it whatever seemed prettiest in each of the other buildings. It had the carved beams of the Norwegian church, the marble pillars of the Greek temples, bells on every story, and green and gilded cupolas on the top, like those on the Czar's Kremlin. It was a true child's castle! And under every window was written what took place in that hall or that room: "Here Emilie sleeps": "Here Emilie dances"; and "Here she is to play 'visitors coming.'" It was amusing to look at, and you may be sure it was looked at. "Charmant!" said the General.

  But the old Count - for there was an old count, of even greater distinction than the General, with a castle and a mansion of his own - said nothing. They had told him that all this had been imagined and drawn by the little son of the Porter. Not that the boy was so very little now; indeed, he had been confirmed. The old Count looked carefully at the pictures and had his own long, quiet thoughts about them.

  One gray, damp, and dismal morning proved one of the brightest and best days for little George. The professor at the art academy sent for him.

  "Listen, my friend," he said. "Let's have a little talk together. Our Lord has favored you with good talent; now He's favoring you with good friends. The old Count in the corner house has spoken to me about you. I have seen your pictures, too; frankly, those we can cross out, for there would be too much to correct in them. From now on you may come twice a week to my drawing school, and so in time you'll learn to do better. I believe there is more of the architect in you than of the painter. You will have time to think about this, but now go up right away to the old Count on the corner and thank the good Lord for such a friend."

  It was a great mansion, that corner house! Carved figures of elephants and camels of the olden days were around the windows, but the Count was fonder of modern times, and anything good they brought, whether from drawing room, cellar, or garret.

  "I believe," said the Porter's wife, "that the grander folks really are the less stuck-up they are. How kind and plain the old Count is! And he can talk just like you and me! You won't find that at the General's. There was George yesterday, head over heels with delight, because the Count treated him so graciously; and I'm much the same way today, after talking with that great man. Wasn't it lucky now that we didn't have George serve and apprenticeship? That boy has talent."

  "But he must have outside help," said the father.

  "Well, he's got that help now," said the mother. "The Count spoke right out, plain and honest."

  "But it was at the General's that it was all started," said the father. "We must thank them, too."

  "We can do that, too, " said the mother, "though there's not much to thank them for, in my opinion. I'll thank our Lord first of all, and thank Him all the more now that Little Emilie is getting better again."

  Emilie kept getting better, and George kept getting better; inside of a year he won the small silver medal, and later the large one.

  "It would have been better, after all, if he had learned a trade!" said the Porter's wife, and cried. "We would have kept him here then. Why does he have to go off to Rome? I shall never see him any more, even if he comes home again, and that he'll never do, the sweet child!"

  "But it's to his good fortune and glory," said the father.

  "An, it's all very well to talk that way, my friend!" said the mother. "You talk, but you don't mean a word of it. You're just as heartbroken as I am!"

  And it was all true, both about the sorrow and the departure. It was, however, a great piece of luck for the young man, said everyone.

  And then there was a round of farewells, also at the General's. His wife did not appear, for she had one of her bad headaches. At parting the General related his only anecdote - what he had said to the prince, and how the prince had replied to him, "You are incomparable!" Then he gave George his hand, a flabby old hand.

  Emilie gave George her hand, too, and looked almost sad; but George was the saddest.

  Time passes, when one is busy, but it also passes when one is idle. The time is equally long, though not equally profitable. It was profitable to George, and never seemed long, except when he thought of those at home and how they were getting along, in the drawing room and in the cellar. Yes, he had news of them, and a great deal may be folded up in a letter - bright sunshine and dark, heavy days. One letter told that his father had died, and so his mother was alone now. Emilie had been an angel of comfort at the time, having come down to her, wrote his mother. And as for herself, she added, she had received permission to keep her husband's job.

  The General's wife kept a diary; in it were entered every ball, every party, she had attended, every visit she had paid or received. The diary was illustrated with the cards of diplomats and other noblemen. She was very proud of her diary; it increased in size season after season, through many great headaches, but also through many bright evenings - that is, court balls.

  Emilie went to her first court ball. Her mother wore pink, with black Spanish lace, while Emilie's dress was white, so fine and pure! Green ribbons fluttered like leaves in her curly blonde locks, and she was crowned with a wreath of white water lilies. Her eyes were so blue and clear, her mouth so beautiful and red; she looked like a little mermaid, as beautiful as you could imagine. Three princes danced with her; that is, one after the other. Her mother had no headache for a week.

  But the first ball wasn't the last of the season. The pace became too much for Emilie, and so it was well that summer brought rest and a change of air. The family was invited to the old Count's castle.

  The garden of this castle was worth seeing. A part of it was quite old-fashioned, with stiff green hedges, where one seemed to be walking between green screens pierced with peepholes. Box trees and yew trees were clipped into stars and pyramids; water sprang from fountains set with cockleshells; on all sides stood figures made of the heaviest stone, as one could plainly tell from both the clothes and the faces; each flower bed had its own device - a fish, a heraldic shield, or a monogram. This was the French part of the garden. From this section one seemed to emerge into the free, natural woods, where the trees could grow as they wished, and therefore, grew great and splendid. The grass was green and could be walked on; it was mowed, rolled, and well cared for. This was the English half of the garden.

  "Old times and modern times," said the Count. "They meet here with loving embraces! In a couple of years the house itself will take on its proper importance. It will be a complete change into something handsomer and better. I'll show you the plans, and I'll even show you the architect; he is coming to dinner."

  "Charmant!" said the General.

  "This garden is paradise!" said the General's wife. "And over there you have a baronial castle!"

  "Oh, that's my henhouse," replied the Count. "The pigeons live in the tower, and the turkeys on the first floor, but old Else reigns in the parlor. She has guest rooms all around her, one for the sitting hens, one for the hens and chickens, while the ducks have their own outlet to the water."

  "Charmant!" repeated the General, and they all went to see this fine place.

  Old Else stood in t
he middle of the parlor, and beside her stood the architect - George! After so many years, he and Little Emilie met again - in the henhouse! Yes, there he stood, and he was a handsome figure to look at, his face frank and firm, his hair black and shiny, and in the corners of his mouth a little smile that said, "There's a little imp behind my ear who knows all about you, outside and inside!" Old Else had taken off her wooden shoes and stood in her stocking feet, out of respect for her illustrious visitors. And the hens clucked, and the cock crowed, while the ducks waddled along, tap, tap, tap.

  But the pale, slender girl, his childhood friend, the General's daughter, stood before George with her otherwise pallid cheeks now blushing like the rose, her eyes wide, and her lips speaking without uttering a syllable. Such was his greeting - the sweetest that any young man could hope for from a young lady, unless they were of the same family or had often danced together; she and the architect had never danced together.

  The Count took his hand and presented him, saying, "He's not a perfect stranger, our young friend, Mr. George."

  The General's wife curtsied; her daughter was about to offer her hand, but drew it back.

  "Our little Mr. George!" said the General. "We're old housefriends; charmant!"

  "You have become quite and Italian," said his wife, and I presume you speak the language now like a native."

  The General's wife could sing in Italian but not speak it, said the General.

  At the dinner table George sat at Emilie's right side. The General had escorted her, while the Count had escorted the General's wife. George talked, and told anecdotes, which he could tell well. He was the life of the party, though the old Count could have been, too, had he wanted to be.

  Emilie sat silently; her ears listened, her eyes sparkled - but she said nothing.

  Then she and George stood among the flowers, behind a screen of roses on the veranda, and again it was left to him to begin speaking.

  "Thank you for your kindness to my old mother," he said. "I know that on the night of my father's death you went down and stayed with her till his eyes had closed. Thank you!" Then he raised her hand and kissed it, as was proper on such an occasion. She blushed, becoming rosy red, but pressed his hand in return and gazed at him with tender blue eyes.

  "Your mother was a loving soul, and she was so fond of you. She let me read all your letters, so I almost feel I know you. And I remember how kind you were to me when I was little. You gave me pictures - -"

  "Which you tore to pieces," said George.

  "No, I still have my own castle left - I mean the drawing of it."

  "And now I must really build it!" said George, and grew quite excited himself as he said it.

  In their own rooms the General and his wife talked about the Porter's son. Why, he knew how to carry himself and to speak with knowledge and refinement. "He could be a tutor," said the General.

  "Genius!" said the General's wife, and that was all she did say.

  Often during those fine summer days George came to the castle of the Count. They missed him when he didn't come.

  "How much more our Lord has given to you than to us ordinary beings!" Emilie said to him. "Are you grateful for it now?"

  George was flattered that this beautiful young girl should look up to him. He found her very gifted.

  And the General was more and more convinced that Mr. George could hardly have been a real child of the cellar. "However, his mother was a mighty fine woman," he said; "I owe her that sentence as an epitaph!"

  Summer passed, winter came, and there was still more to tell about Mr. George. He had received attention and favor in the highest of all highest places. The General had met him at the court ball!

  And now there was a ball planned at home for Little Emilie. Could Mr. George be invited?

  "Whom the King invites, the General can invite!" said the General, drawing himself up a good inch higher.

  So Mr. George was invited, and he came. And princes and counts came, and each danced better than the other. But Emilie danced only the first dance, for during that she strained her ankle, not seriously but painfully, so she had to stop dancing and watch the others. And there she sat, looking on, while the architect stood beside her.

  "You're giving her the whole of St. Peter's Church at Rome!"

  said the General as he passed, smiling like good humor itself.

  A few days later he received Mr. George with the same smile of good humor. The young man had come to thank him for the ball, of course, and had he anything else to say? Yes - and the most surprising, astonishing, insane words were uttered by him. The General could hardly believe his ears. A preposterous declamation, an unbelievable proposition! Mr. George actually asked for Emilie as his wife!

  "Man!" said the General as he began to boil. "I cannot understand you! What are you saying? What do you want? I don't know you! Sir! Fellow! You come and break into my house! Am I to remain here or am I not?" And then he backed into his bedroom, turned the key, and let Mr George stand alone. He stood there for a few moments, then turned around and left.

  In the hallway he met Emilie. "What did my father say?" she asked in a trembling voice.

  George pressed her hand. "He ran away from me - a better time will come."

  There were tears in Emilie's eyes, while in the young man's were courage and confidence; the sun shone in upon them both and blessed them.

  In his bedroom the General sat boiling; yes, still boiling - and then he boiled over and spluttered, "Lunacy! Porter madness!"

  Inside of an hour the General's wife had heard it all from the General himself, and she sent for Emilie, to be alone with her. "Poor girl," she said. "To think of his insulting you like that, insulting all of us! I see there are tears in yours eyes; they're quite becoming to you. You really look charming in tears; you remind me of myself on my wedding day. Go ahead, cry, Little Emilie."

  "Yes, that I certainly shall," said Emilie, "unless you and Papa say 'yes'!"

  "Child!" cried the General's wife. "You're ill! You're delirious, and I'm getting one of my dreadful headaches! Oh, the miseries, that are descending upon our house! Don't let you mother die, Emilie, because then you'll have no mother!" And her eyes filled with tears; she couldn't bear to consider her own death.

  Among the notices of appointments to be read in the news paper was the following: "Mr. George has been appointed Professor, 5th Class, No. 8."

  "What a shame his father and mother are dead and can't read that!" said the new porters who now lived in the cellar under the General. They knew that the Professor had been born and brought up within those four walls.

  "Now he'll have to pay the title tax!" said the man.

  "Now, isn't that a lot for a poor child!" said the wife.

  "Eighteen rix-dollars a year!" said the man. "Yes, that's a lot of money."

  "No, I'm talking about the title!" said the wife. "You don't suppose having to pay the tax will worry him! He can earn that money many times over, and he'll probably marry a rich wife as well. If we had children, husband, a child of ours would also be an architect and a professor!"

  Thus George was well spoken of in the cellar. He was well spoken of on the first floor, too; the old Count took good care of that.

  It was the old drawings from his childhood days that presented an occasion for speaking about him. But how did these come to be mentioned? There was talk of Russia and Moscow, and so, of course, this

  brought one right to the Kremlin, of which little George had made that drawing for little Miss Emilie. How many pictures he used to draw! There was one the Count especially remembered - "Little Emilie's Castle," with signs showing where she slept, where she danced, and where she played "visitors coming." Yes, the Professor had great talent. He might someday become an old privy councilor - that wasn't at all unlikely - and build a real castle for the young lady before he died; why not?

  "That was a strange form of gaiety," said the General's wife after the Count had gone. The General nodded thoughtfully, and
then went out riding, with the groom a respectful distance behind him, and he sat prouder than ever on his high horse.

  Little Emilie's birthday brought cards and notes, books and flowers. The General Kissed her on the brow, and his wife kissed her on the lips. They were loving parents, and both they and Emilie were honored with noble visitors - even two of the princes. Then there was much talk about balls and theaters, about diplomatic embassies, and the governments of kingdoms and empires. Then the talk turned on rising young men, and native talent, and this brought the name of the young Professor into the conversation - Mr. Architect George.

  "He is building for immortality," someone said. "And meanwhile he is building himself into one of the first families!"

  "One of the first families!" repeated the General when he was alone with his wife. "Which one of our first families!"

  "I can guess which was meant," said the General's wife. "But I won't speak of it or even think about it. God may have ordained it so, but I will be very surprised if He has!"

  "Let me be surprised, too!" said the General. "I haven't an idea in my head!" Then he sank into a reverie, waiting for an idea to come.

  There is a power, an unspeakable power, granted to a man by a few drops of grace from above - the grace of kings, the grace of God - and both of these were granted to little George.

  But we are forgetting the birthday.

  Emilie's room was fragrant with flowers from her friends and playmates. On her table lay fine presents, tokens of greeting and remembrance, but not one came from George. A gift from him would not have reached her, but it was not needed, for the whole house was a souvenir of him. A memorial flower peeped out from the broom closet under the stairs, where Emilie had peeped out when the curtain was burning and George had rushed up as first fireman. When she glanced from the window the acacia tree reminded her of childhood days. The blossoms and leaves were gone, but the tree stood shrouded in frost, like a great branch of coral, and the moon shone big and clear through the branches,

  unchanged though ever changing, just as it was when George shared his bread and butter with Little Emilie.