The general’s little daughter looked delicate and pale, like a pink leaf of an acacia flower. Now she did not sit as often under the tree; she got her fresh air riding with her mother in the general’s carriage But she always nodded to the janitor’s son, George. She even kissed her finger and threw him a kiss, until her mother, one day, told her that now she was too grown up for that sort of thing.
One morning when the boy was bringing the general’s mail upstairs—for the postman left all letters and newspapers in the janitor’s apartment—he heard a sound coming from the closet on the first landing, as if a little bird had been locked in there. He opened the door and there on the floor, in the middle of a pile of sand—the closet was used for storing the sand that was needed for scrubbing the floor—sat the general’s daughter dressed in lace and muslin.
“Don’t tell Papa and Mama, they will get angry,” she wailed.
“What is the matter, little miss?” asked George.
“It is burning! Everything is burning!” she cried.
George ran to the little girl’s room and opened the door. The curtains were already ashes and the wooden curtain rods had caught fire. Quickly George pulled them down and called for help. Without him the whole house would have burned down.
The general and his wife cross-examined little Emilie.
“I only took one match!” She was still crying. “It lighted right away, and then the curtains were on fire. I spat on them to put it out; I spat all that I could, but I didn’t have spit enough in my mouth, so I went and hid, for I knew Papa and Mama would be terribly angry.”
“Spat!” said the general. “What kind of a word is that? Have you ever heard your mother and father say spat? You have learned that downstairs.”
Still, little George got four copper pennies. He didn’t use them at the baker’s, he put them in his piggy bank. Soon he had so many pennies that he could buy a paintbox, so that he could color the drawings that he made. He had a lot of them; it was as if they came right through his fingers and out of the pencil. The first one he colored he gave to little Emilie.
“Charmant!” said the general, and even his wife admitted that one could easily recognize what the boy had meant to portray. “He has genius!” were her words; and the janitor’s wife heard them and carried the news down to the cellar.
The general and his wife were people of distinction. They had two coats of arms on their carriage, one for each of their families. The general’s wife had hers embroidered on all her clothes, even her nightgowns. Hers was a costly coat of arms; it had been bought by her father for many a shiny gold coin, for he had not had one from birth. And neither had his daughter, she had been born seven years before the coat of arms came into existence. Most people could remember that, although the family couldn’t. The general’s coat of arms was old and very grand; even alone, it would have been quite a burden to bear. The general’s wife did feel her backbone creak a little when she sat straight as a ramrod on her way to a royal ball in a carriage with a coat of arms on either side.
The general was old and gray, but he looked well on a horse and he knew it. Every day he would go for a ride, with a groom trotting a proper distance behind him. When he rode with others, it always seemed as if he were leading a regiment. He had so many medals that it was almost incredible, but that was really not his fault.
When he was young, he had been in the army and had partaken in one of the great harvest maneuvers that were held every year in time of peace. It was from that period he had his anecdote, the only one he had to tell. One of his sergeants had cut off a small group of “enemy” soldiers and taken them prisoners. Among them had been a prince! Now the prince and his fellow prisoners had had to ride behind the general into the town. It had been an unforgettable experience, and whenever the general told the story he always ended it with his own memorable words, as he handed the prince his saber: “Only one of my non-commissioned officers could have taken Your Highness prisoner, I never could have!” To which the prince had answered: “You are peerless!”
The general had never been in a real war; when that plague had swept through the country, he had chosen the road of diplomacy. It had led him through three foreign courts. He spoke French so well that he almost forgot Danish, and he danced well, and he rode well, and the decorations increased and multiplied on his chest; it was quite incomprehensible. The guards presented arms for him and stood at attention when he passed; and so did one of the prettiest girls in the town, and she became his wife. They had the sweetest little daughter. She was like an angel fallen down from heaven to them. And the janitor’s son danced for the sweet little thing, as soon as she was old enough to appreciate it, and he gave her all his little colored drawings. She looked at them, played with them, and tore them to pieces. She was so delicate and refined.
“My little rosebud,” said the general’s wife. “You were born for a prince!”
The prince was already standing outside the door, but they didn’t know it. Most people can’t see any farther than their own doorstep.
“The other day our son shared his sandwiches with her,” boasted the janitor’s wife. “They had neither cheese nor meat on them, but she ate them as if they were roast beef. If the general or his wife had seen that meal, there would have been no end of rows, but they didn’t.”
George had shared his sandwiches with little Emilie, but he would gladly have shared his heart with her if it would have made her happy. He was a good boy, clever and intelligent. He went to evening school at the art academy to learn to draw properly. Little Emilie also advanced on the path of learning; she spoke French with her governess and had a dancing master.
“George is going to be confirmed at Easter,” said the janitor’s wife.
“We shall have to find him an apprenticeship,” his father remarked. “It has got to be a good trade, and his master will have to give him room and board.”
“He will have to sleep at home,” said the mother. “Not many masters have rooms for their apprentices; and his clothes we have to buy whether he is an apprentice or not. He eats very little and is happy with some boiled potatoes. I think he should stay at home and go his own way. The learning he gets at the academy is free, and the professor says that one day he will be a great comfort to us.”
The suit he was going to wear for his confirmation his mother was sewing herself, but the cloth had been cut by a tailor. True, this tailor had no workshop of his own and had to make his living by repairing the threadbare clothes of the poor, but—as the janitor’s wife said—if he had had as much good luck as he had talent, he would have been the tailor of the king.
The suit was ready, and the day of the confirmation came. From a godfather George received a big brass pocket watch. It was old and tried, and always ran a little too fast, but that was better than if it had been slow. George had several godfathers, but the giver of the watch was the richest of them. He was an old man who was a clerk in the neighborhood grocery store. It was a costly gift. The general’s family also gave George something: a hymnbook bound in morocco. The little girl to whom George had given the drawings had written on the flyleaf herself: “From a favorably disposed patroness.” That was what had been dictated by the general’s wife, and the general had read it and said, “Charmant!”
“It was very considerate of such a distinguished family to give you a gift, George,” said his mother, and sent him upstairs in his new suit, with the hymnbook tucked under his arm, to say thank you.
The general’s wife was sitting on the sofa with a shawl around her. She had her “grand headache,” which always occurred when she was bored. She spoke very kindly to George, wished him well, and added that she hoped he would never have a headache like hers. The general was wearing his dressing gown; he had a tasseled nightcap on his head and Russian red leather boots on his feet. He walked back and forth across the room, deep in his own thoughts; then he stopped in front of George and said: “Little George, now you are a Christian. Be a good and hone
st man and always respect your superiors. When you yourself are an old man, you will be able to say that the general gave you this advice.”
That was one of the longest speeches the general had ever made. He returned to his introspection and looked extremely noble. As for George, what he remembered best from his visit “above his station” was little Miss Emilie. How beautiful she was, how gentle; she did not walk, she floated. If he had drawn her, it would have been inside a soap bubble. There was a fragrance of roses from her yellow curly hair and her clothes. Once he had shared his sandwiches with her; she had eaten them with a good appetite and nodded to him at every second mouthful.
George wondered if she still remembered it. He believed that she did and that was why she had given him the hymnbook.
When the new moon rose for the first time after the New Year, George went out into the garden with a penny, a piece of bread, and the hymnbook. It was an old belief that if you opened the hymnbook at random—at that time and carrying those objects—the psalm you first saw would tell you what the New Year would bring. George’s book opened on a hymn of thanks, in praise of Our Lord Then he thought he might also try one for little Emilie, to find out what her future would be like. Though he was careful and tried to cheat so that the book would not open on one of the funeral hymns, it did! He told himself that it was nothing but superstition and that he didn’t believe in it; but it frightened him when the girl got sick, and that the very next day. For a long time afterward the doctor’s carriage could be seen in front of the house every morning for at least an hour.
“They won’t keep her, she will die!” sighed the janitor’s wife. “The Lord knows whom He wants.”
But they kept her, she didn’t die; and George sent a drawing up to her of the czar’s palace, the old Kremlin in Moscow. There it was with all its towers and cupolas that looked like green and golden cucumbers; at least, in George’s drawing they did. The sketch amused the little girl so much that during the following week George made several more. All of them were of buildings, for then Emilie could amuse herself by trying to imagine what took place behind the doors and windows.
He drew a Chinese house with sixteen stories, and every one had little bells. A Greek temple with slender pillars and marble steps; and a Norwegian church that had been built of great beams, all carved, and each of whose stories looked as if it had rockers under it like a cradle. The best drawing was one that was called “Little Emilie’s Castle.” George had designed it himself; this was to be her house. From all the buildings, he had borrowed what he considered the most beautiful: from the Norwegian church, the carved beams; from the Greek temple, its slender pillars; and from the Chinese pagoda, the little bells. The roof had cupolas, green and golden, just as the czar’s palace had. It was a real children’s castle! Under each of the windows was written what the room inside was used for: “Here little Emilie sleeps.” … “Here little Emilie dances.” … “Here little Emilie plays house.” It was wonderful to see, and everybody who came looked at it.
“Charmant!” said the general.
But the old count—there is a count in the story, too—who was much more distinguished than the general and had his own castle, he said nothing. He listened to what was told about the young artist. He learned that he was the janitor’s little son and that he wasn’t so little, for he had already been confirmed. The old count looked at the pictures, and silently he formed his own opinion of them.
One terrible gray and wet day was one of the happiest in little George’s life. The professor of the academy had called him in. “Now, my friend,” he began, “let us have a little talk. God has been kind to you and given you a talent; and maybe even kinder in that He has given you good friends. The count who lives in the house on the corner of the square has spoken to me about you. I, too, have seen your pictures, I won’t talk too much about them, there is a lot to be corrected in them. You can come to my drawing class twice a week and you will learn something. I think there is an architect in you, more than there is a painter. But that time and you yourself will have to decide. But do go to the count and thank him; and thank God, too, that He has given you such friends.”
The count lived in an old house. It was almost a palace. Around each window were figures of camels and dromedaries cut in stone. They had been carved long ago. The old count preferred his own time; he could appreciate the good things that came out of it, whether they came from the cellar, the second floor, or the garret.
“I think,” said the janitor’s wife, “that the higher up a man is on the ladder, the less he thinks of himself. The old count is straightforward and speaks just as you and I do; and that the general can’t. George was so happy that he could hardly talk sensibly when he came from visiting the count yesterday; and today I am in the same state, after having talked to such a great and mighty man. Wasn’t it lucky that we didn’t apprentice George in a trade? He has talent.”
“Yes, but talent needs help or nothing comes out of it,” said the janitor, who always kept his feet on the ground.
“But he is getting help!” exclaimed the mother. “The count said it most plainly.”
“It all came from the general,” said the father. “We ought to thank him too.”
“Oh, it will do no harm,” replied the boy’s mother, “but I don’t think that there is that much to be grateful for. I will thank God, and I will thank Him, too, for little Emilie’s getting well.”
Things went well for Emilie and they went well for George. First he got the academy’s silver medal, and later he got the gold one.
“If we had only apprenticed him, it would have been much better,” wailed the janitor’s wife. “Then we would have kept him at home. What is he going to do in Rome? I will never live to see him again, even if he should get home to Denmark, and I don’t think he ever will. Oh, my sweet little boy!”
“But it is his good luck and a great honor,” protested the father.
“That is a fine piece of luck. You are not saying what you really mean. You are feeling just as miserable as I am.” George’s mother sniffed; for it was all too true, about both the journey to Rome and the parents’ sorrow. But for George, everybody agreed, it was a marvelous good fortune.
George said good-by, on the second floor at the general’s as well. He didn’t see Emilie’s mother, for she had her “grand headache” that day. The general told his one and only anecdote, about what he had said to the prince and what the prince had said to him—“You are peerless!” Then he shook hands with George; the general’s hand was weak and slack.
Emilie also shook hands with George and looked a little sad; but of the two George was by far the sadder.
Time passes if you work; as a matter of fact, it passes even if you don’t. It is all the same to time what you use it for, but not to you. George used it profitably and did not find it long, except sometimes when he thought of his home. How was everything going, both on the second floor and in the cellar? News of that sort is best carried in a letter, and so much can be written on a little piece of paper. Inside the envelope can be sunshine or dismal dark days. Such were in the letter George received from his mother that told of his father’s death. His mother was all alone now. “Emilie has been a comforting angel,” his mother wrote. “She comes to visit me.” The job as a janitor his mother had been allowed to keep, alone. But only a few months later she, too, was dead.
The general’s wife kept a diary. In it she wrote about every party and ball she had attended, and kept a list of all the guests who had visited her. The diary was illustrated with the visiting cards of all the most prominent diplomats and noblemen. She was very proud of her diary. It had grown with time, through periods of “grand headaches” and of “wonderful evenings,” for that is what she called the royal balls. Emilie had attended one for the first time. Her mother had been in pink with black Spanish lace, and she had been dressed all in white—so bright and delicate. Among her yellow tresses were tied green silk ribbons and her hair was crowned
with a garland of water lilies. Her eyes were so clear and blue, and her little mouth so red; she looked like a little mermaid, as beautiful as one could imagine. Three princes danced with her—that is to say, first one and then another—and her mother did not have a headache for a whole week.
The first ball was not the last, and soon it was all too much for Emilie. She was glad when summer came. The general’s family had been invited to spend some time at the castle of the old count. There she could rest and enjoy the fresh country air.
Surrounding the castle was a park that was well worth exploring. Part of it was in the style of earlier times, with hedges like green screens that had peepholes cut in them; box trees and yews that had been trimmed to look like pyramids and stars. In the center there was a grotto covered with sea shells, and here there was a fountain surrounded by stone figures. The flower beds had been planted so that they resembled a fish or a coat of arms; one of them depicted the count’s initials, another the initials of one of his ancestors. That was called the French garden. There was another area where the trees grew freely and, therefore, were large and beautiful. The lawns were like carpets and ever so pleasant to walk on. They were well taken care of and had been both cut and rolled; this was the English part of the gardens.
“The old and the new times meet here and complement each other,” said the count. “In two years the castle itself will be changed and will become both more comfortable and more beautiful. I will show you the drawings and the architect who made them, for I have invited him to dine with us tonight.”
“Charmant!” said the general.
“This place is a paradise,” said his wife. “Oh, and look, there is a little castle!”
“That,” said the count, “is my henhouse. The pigeons are in the tower and the turkeys on the first floor. Below on the ground floor old Else reigns. She has lots of guest rooms. The roosting hens and those with chicks have their own rooms; and so do the ducks, they have a view of the lake.”