The General's wife had a number of compresses on her head, for she had one of her bad headaches, which always came when she was bored. She looked very kindly at George and wished him the best of luck and none of her headaches.
The General was wearing his dressing gown, with a tasseled cap and red- legged Russian boots. He paced up and down the floor three times, engrossed in his own thoughts and memories. Then he stood still and said, "So now little George is a Christian man! Let him be also and honest man, paying due respect to his government! Someday, when you are old, you can say the General taught you that sentence." That was a much longer speech than the General usually made; and he returned to his inner thoughts and looked impressive.
But George heard and saw little of all that up there; nothing remained fixed in his memory so firmly as little Miss Emilie. How lovely she was, and how gentle; how she flitted about, and how delicate she was! If one should draw her portrait it would have to be in a soap bubble. There was a fragrance about her clothing and her curly blonde hair as if she were a rosebush that had just burst into bloom. And he had once shared his bread and butter with her, and she had eaten it with a huge appetite and smiled at him with every second mouthful. Could she possibly still remember it? Surely she did; it was in memory of this that she had given him the beautiful hymnbook.
And so, on New Year's Day, just as the new moon of the new year rose, he went out-of-doors with a loaf and a shilling and opened the book at random to see what hymn should appear. It was a song of praise and thanksgiving. Then he opened it again to see what should come forth for Little Emilie. He tried very hard not to dip into the part of the book containing the funeral hymns, but in spite of his care he did dip in between death and the grave. You couldn't believe in that sort of thing - not in the least! And yet he was terribly frightened when soon afterward the dainty little girl was laid up with sickness and the doctor's carriage came to the street door daily.
"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."