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In: Children & Young Adult Reading·Adventure·Novels
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #69097.
The opening · free to read
On the snow covered stones of the Stephansplatz of Vienna, Fritzl and Tzandi danced joyously. The boy Fritzl because it was Christmas Eve. Because also in the rapid motion his little body forgot how poorly it was clad. While Tzandi, the terrier of “Schottisch” or Scottish ancestry, danced because anything his small master did was pleasing in his sight, and to be copied, if possible. Under Fritzl’s chin was tucked a violin; and as the boy danced he played snatches of melody: bits of Hungarian folk songs, and bars of the waltzes the Viennese love, which set the feet of the passers-by moving more swiftly. But not one kreutzer had been slipped into the boy’s hand, although it was Christmas Eve.
Now Fritzl and Tzandi had no home. For only that Christmas Eve, the cross old woman, of whose cellar they had made a pitiful refuge, had warned them of what they might expect, if they came within her house again. Indeed, neither Fritzl nor Tzandi could remember any home save the cellar, and before that, the attic where they had lived with the blind musician, who, dying, had left his cherished violin to the little boy, whose heart and fingers were overflowing with music. “I tell you what, Tzandi,” cried Fritzl, as toward midnight boy and dog sought shelter in one doorway after another of the Stephansplatz, only to be driven forth: “There’s a lovely corner by the Riesenthor! I forgot all about it till now. Let’s go there, it’s the very place! ’Course Santa Claus will go through that very door into the cathedral, and can hear us when we tell him we’re waiting for him. Why, just as easy, Tzandi!”
So they crept into one of the sculptured niches of the “Giant’s Gate,” where the great wings of the angels announcing the birth of the Christ Child made an insufficient shelter. Suddenly the carved portals opened, and one of the sacristans of the cathedral came forth, and looked about the now almost deserted square.
Then like two little spirits, Fritzl and Tzandi slipped into the porch, and from there into the solemn church.
Once Tzandi looked up anxiously into his master’s face, as if he feared that Santa Claus might not find them there. “Of course he will,” laughed Fritzl, answering the dog’s silent question; “Why, I’m surprised you didn’t know he’ll be sure to come in here to say ‘Merry Christmas’ to the Blessed Mother, first thing in the morning!”
Tzandi wagged his tail in relief, as if his last fear were quieted.
Like shadows, through the shadows of the vast nave passed boy and dog, straight to the statue of the Blessed Mother. And upon the pavement at her feet, safely hidden in the shelter made by the sculptures of her shrine, they nestled closely against each other.
“Now isn’t this the very beautifullest place in all the world to be in Christmas Eve?” asked Fritzl drowsily, dropping his head upon Tzandi’s shaggy hide.
And Tzandi, already half asleep, wagged his tail blissfully.
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! It’s time to get up, little master,” barked Tzandi, as the first pale gleams of the Christmas sunrise crept through the painted window above the high altar of St. Stephans.
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! So it is,” answered Fritzl sleepily; “but does your head too feel awful funny, Tzandi? All light and hot? And your feet all cold and heavy?” By a languid wag of his tail, Tzandi assured his master that all was indeed as he had said. “I tell you what it is,” said the boy; “we’re just hungry. And Santa Claus hasn’t come. I s’pose there are so many children in Vienna, he couldn’t help being late getting around to us. Oh, but don’t you wish he’d come!”
A frantic wagging of Tzandi’s tail, and the thrusting of his cold nose into his master’s hand, answered as plainly as words could have done. “Let’s go out to the Stephansplatz,” went on Fritzl, rising weakly to his feet; “and I’ll play, and you shall dance, and surely, Christmas morning, someone will give us some kreutzers. And--and--” The words trailed off drowsily.
The boy shook himself impatiently. “I never felt so sleepy as this before,” he thought; “and Christmas too!” Then after an awkward little “reverence” before the Blessed Mother, and a “Merry Christmas” whispered softly to her, Fritzl went down the broad nave to the Riesenthor, pushed open one of its portals slowly, and with his violin held closely to him, and followed by Tzandi, went without, and stood, a forlorn little figure, upon the broad stone step.
The hour for early mass had not yet come, but the Stephansplatz was already filled with people, singing Christmas carols. The booths were fringed with evergreen; every window was a blaze of color; and the people, as they walked or danced along, waved boughs of hemlock, so that the square looked almost as if the long vanished pine forests were once more growing in Old Vienna.
“Now what did I tell you, Tzandi,” Fritzl cried triumphantly, if somewhat shakily. “Just look at all those boys and girls! ’Course Santa Claus hasn’t forgotten us, but he couldn’t help being a bit late, Tzandi dear. Any minute now, he may come!”
Suddenly, from the direction of the Graben, came the sound of cheering. The crowd opened, like great waves parted by some mighty wind, and into the Stephansplatz came a closed carriage drawn by two black horses. Slowly it passed along, the white-haired man within bowing kindly to right and left, straight to where Fritzl and Tzandi waited, at the Riesenthor. At the foot of the steps, the carriage stopped. A groom in quiet livery opened the door. And wrapped in furs from head to feet, the white-haired man stepped out. Beneath his bushy eyebrows, eyes as clear and blue as those of a child looked forth. And the lips under the heavy white moustache were smiling, as he mounted the steps.
Fritzl gave a little gasp of pure delight. Deaf to the words the crowd were crying, of the identity of the white-haired, fur-wrapped figure, he had no doubt.
It must be Santa Claus.
The relaxed little figure straightened; the thin little hands were outstretched; and lifting his happy eyes to the friendly ones looking straight into them, Fritzl cried:
“Tzandi, Tzandi, he’s come!”
And fell, a limp little heap, at the feet of “Unser Franz.”
Just about the time when Fritzl and Tzandi waked, that Christmas morning, two little children within the palace at Schönbrunn were welcoming the Christ Child’s Day.
One, a boy of eleven, known throughout Austria-Hungary as “the little lame Prince,” was the Archduke Maximilian. The other, a girl of nine, was the Archduchess Elizabeth. But to each other, and the imperial family at Vienna, they were known as “Max” and “Betty.”
Max had been the first to waken; but for a time he laid very still, cuddled within the soft blankets of his bed, his young heart beating happily, at the thought of what the day was to bring to him. Ever since he was born, the little Prince had been crippled. But for nearly two years, the famous surgeon of the Kinderspitzel of Vienna had been treating him; and this Christmas Day he was to walk, for the first time in his life. And all the great empire of Austria-Hungary was waiting for the test, almost as eagerly as he. For when the good Emperor, his grandfather, should cease to reign, Max would be “Unser Kaiser” to millions of people.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door.
“Merry Christmas, and come in, Betty!” called Max excitedly.
And a small girl, crying as excitedly, “Merry Christmas, Maxchen, and I knew perfectly well you’d say it first!” pushed open the door, and running across the room, threw herself down by Maxchen’s bed, flinging her soft arms around her brother’s neck.
“Oh, Betty, Betty,” he cried, as he nestled against her, “it seems almost too good to be true! Only it must come true, mustn’t it, Christmas Day?”
“’Course it must,” agreed Betty stoutly; “why, didn’t the Herr Doctor tell you it would come true, this very day?”
“Yes,” breathed Max softly.
“And there’s nothing in the world, the Herr Doctor doesn’t know,” declared Betty; “and I love him.”
“So do I,” cried Max; “almost as much as Grandpapa Franzchen!” For by that name, born of affection, was the august Emperor of Austria-Hungary known to his grandchildren.
“Betty,” the boy cried abruptly, “the very first race we’ll run will be from there,” pointing to the “Gloriette,” shining like a jewel in the sunrise light,--“straight to the edge of the lily pond. And--and--I’ll beat you, you little girl!”
“Can’t!” answered Betty, stretching out her slim straight legs, and looking at them with confidence.
“Can!” Max cried delightedly. And then they both laughed, and cuddled together more closely.
“Do you remember,” Max went on, “that boy we watched, in the rose garden, running races with his dog, one day last summer? The boy with a violin under his arm?”
Yes, Betty remembered.
“My, how he ran!” sighed Max, “and we called and called to him, and finally made ‘Goggles’” (this the most dignified of the tutors of the Prince) “go after him. But of course he couldn’t run fast enough, and the boy got quite away. I wish I could find that boy. Betty,” rising on one elbow, “when I walk, I will! I do so want that boy and that dog!”
“Why,” laughed matter-of-fact Betty, “you’ve heaps of boys to play with, and heaps of dogs!”
“But not one boy who can play the violin. And not one dog that can dance.”
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