One Christmas Eve, the glow of the setting sun reddened the spires and
domes of Coblentz and lit up a little window set in the upper half of
Baker Gottlieb’s door as he looked out on the narrow, snowy street.
It was lined with ugly little shops like his, with two or three tall
old houses with quaint overhanging eaves and high chimney-pots, the
only exception to the general shabbiness being the mansion of the
Herr Professor at the corner, a handsome house set well back in its
high-walled garden, as if it shrank from the poverty about it, though
its master owned most of the buildings in sight.
As the sunlight faded from the street, a last beam lingered over the
great house at the corner. “Like a glow from the comfort within,”
sighed poor Gottlieb, with envy in his heart, for his flour bin stood
nearly empty, the few pfennigs brought in by the day’s baking would
barely eke out the rent due on the morrow, and the one loaf left on his
counter would be his only Christmas feast.
Gottlieb was turning toward the end of his shop where the oven stood
when the door opened and two women came in,--the Herr Professor’s
housekeeper, a buxom young female, following a ragged, aged dame who
produced three bent and blackened coins and quaveringly asked for a
loaf.
“Nay, mother, I have but one loaf for my own needs,” answered the baker
kindly. “Besides, flour has risen in price, and it takes ten pfennigs
instead of three to buy a loaf.”
The housekeeper broke in briskly:
“My good man, I must have that loaf. There are guests at the Herr
Professor’s, and I need bread for croutons.” And she fumbled in an
ample purse hanging at her side with her keys.
“Nay, mistress, I must eat, as well as your master’s guests, and this
loaf is all I have for my Christmas dinner.”
“Then you shall have thirty pfennigs,” cried she good-naturedly. “Only
haste, Master Gottlieb, for my supper waits!”
As Gottlieb extended the loaf, the old dame exclaimed:
“Alas, I must perish! for I am too weak and old to go farther. Other
shops are sold out, and I have had naught to eat since yesterday!” And
she turned away, still gazing with longing eyes at the one loaf.
Under Gottlieb’s ragged apron beat a kind heart, and thrusting the loaf
into her hands, he bade her begone and keep her pfennigs for Christmas.
So, mumbling thanks, she shuffled away, leaving the housekeeper shaking
her fist at poor Gottlieb.
“What?” she screamed. “You insult me, housekeeper of the Herr
Professor? Refuse thirty pfennigs and give the loaf away? Oh, you shall
dearly rue this, Master Gottlieb! There will be no bakeshop here next
rent day. My brother is the Herr Professor’s agent!” And she flounced
out, banging the door behind her.
After a bite to eat, the baker lit a candle and sat a long time staring
into the embers of his oven fire, and when the room was cold and the
candle burned out, he went sadly to bed, feeling that disaster had
indeed come upon him.
In the Christmas dawning, a loud knocking at his door awakened him.
Opening it, he found his friend Hans, the shoemaker from across the way.
“A Merry Christmas!” cried he. “See, my good daughter has come in
from the country with gifts which I share with thee. Here are eggs,
milk, butter, and dried grapes. And now haste you and make a Christmas
pudding, for I must be back over ere my coffee cools.” And the jolly
shoemaker was across the street while Gottlieb was trying to thank him.
“God is good!” thought Gottlieb, “and now I can bake kuchen and sell
them, and that, at least, will buy my Christmas dinner, even if I must
pack from here to-morrow.”
As he was whistling over his dough, the agent came for the rent. “On
Christmas day, too!” thought the poor baker, as he counted it out from
a broken mug. “Surely, the Herr Professor is a hard man.”
The agent laughed. He was stout, with a wart on his nose, and wore a
blue coat.
“His agent is, baker,” he growled. “You are to be out of this
to-morrow. I shall let the shop to a bookseller, baker. The Herr
Professor will be pleased!”
Gottlieb tried to plead for time, but the agent would not stay to
listen, and taking up his tall staff, he went out, still repeating,
“The change will much please the Herr Professor. Baker, the Herr
Professor will be much pleased!”
As Gottlieb began his baking, he comforted himself with the thought
that perhaps he could go as cook’s helper at some inn or bakery, and
surely his friend, the cobbler, could lodge him for a time.
When the cakes were made, he set them, very plump and tempting, on his
tray, and, donning his worn cloak, went out in the snowy morning.
People were hurrying to church, the bells were all ringing, and every
one cried “Merry Christmas” but poor Gottlieb.
By dinner time he had sold but half his cakes, and he gladly took an
innkeeper’s offer to give him a meal for the rest. And after dining
well in the servants’ hall, he went away with such broken food as was
given him, and a much lighter heart.
As he passed down an alley way, the wretched outcasts came out of their
hovels to beg, but seeing his poor clothes, they did not stop him, and
he hurried on until he came to one hovel more wretched than the rest.
It was hardly more than a heap of stones, with no door save a gaping
hole in its toppling walls. Inside, Gottlieb saw the old woman who had
been in his shop yesterday. She was crouched on the earthen floor,
wrapped in rags, and only moaned when he called “Merry Christmas!”
Gottlieb went up to her. “What did you buy with your three pfennigs,
mother?”
“They stole my loaf and the coins, and I starve and freeze on Christmas
Day!” And she fell to moaning again.
“At least you shall not freeze,” cried Gottlieb, and he ran to a corner
shop to buy fuel, and soon had a fire blazing in her cracked iron
brazier, and his own poor coat hung over the doorway.
Then the dame, who had neither moved nor spoken, arose and shook off
her rags. She grew straight and tall, a white robe floated about her,
and her face was beautiful and bright, for on her forehead gleamed a
star which shone so brightly that Gottlieb must shade his eyes.
Then she smiled on him and said, in a voice like the sweetest music:
“I am the Christmas Fairy, born when Bethlehem’s star first rose. I
shall never die nor the star’s light cease to shine as long as men love
and are merciful. You have given all that you have, and my reward is
three wishes; but remember, wealth, fame, nor power can give happiness,
nor plenty a contented heart.” And so saying, she laid a sprig of
fir-tree in his hand and vanished.
Gottlieb looked around the empty firelit hut and rubbed his eyes. Could
he be dreaming? No; there burned the fire he had kindled, there lay the
old crone’s rags, and in his hand was the fir sprig. He sniffed its
spicy fragrance as he went from the alley way into the street, passing
the Herr Professor’s house.
The street was dark, save for the pale gleam of the starlight; but
lights shone here and there behind holly-wreathed lattices, and the
Herr Professor’s house was all aglow with warmth and welcome, for the
counsellor would sup there to-night. Servants hurried to and fro with
steaming platters, and the Herr Professor and his family stood at the
great open door to welcome the great guest.
“Ah,” sighed Gottlieb as he passed, “if I were the Herr Professor,
how happy I should be!” Then he felt his form grow stout and robust,
his hair curly and long. In the twinkling of an eye, the gift of the
Christmas Fairy had worked, and he, Gottlieb, was the Herr Professor,
and his tall, thin wife was bowing, too, and his children clapped their
hands and chorused shrilly, “You are welcome, Herr Professor!”
The great counsellor walked proudly into the velvet-hung room, and
when he had been unrolled from his many fur wraps and shawls, and the
housekeeper, now very meek and attentive, had carried them away, they
went in to the table, all set out in fine array with all manner of good
things, and a man servant to help the housekeeper serve them.
But the supper was a failure. The counsellor felt it a condescension
that he should dine with a plain professor, and showed this by his
patronizing ways and the rude manner in which he contradicted his host.
Gottlieb, the professor, was wretched,--vexed that his gold plate had
not been put on the table, envious that his old schoolmate should be so
high above him in rank, and furious at his sneering manner.
“As if I, a Breneke, was not as good as a Schollenbergh!” he fumed to
himself. “Why should he be counsellor and I only a professor? Oh, I
wish I were he! I should--”
But before he could think another thought, Gottlieb felt his jaws grow
long, his body lean, his head rather bald, his good stuff coat changed
to velvet, and--he was seated in the counsellor’s chair, Counsellor
Schollenbergh himself!
“The wine was bad,” he thought, “and the heavy pastry gave me
stomach-ache. How stupid are these Brenekes! Why did I ever come to
sup with such inferior persons?” And the counsellor arose and said
haughtily that he wished his carriage called, as he desired to take
leave of them. “Matters of state, good Herr Professor; I must away.”
And he was speedily stalking out to his carriage, after a cold farewell
which left the poor Herr Professor very sore at heart.
Yet as he wrapped himself warmly and settled back into the handsome
coach, the counsellor sighed. He thought of his own great, cold,
mansion, where no little children welcomed the Christ-child’s
birthday; of his baby’s name carved on his family tomb, and of his
fair, proud wife who cared only for his wealth and name, and was now
dancing, with no thought of him, you may be sure, at the count’s ball.
Tears of loneliness wet the counsellor’s eyes as he gazed out on the
dark street, and by the light from the cobbler’s window he read, above
a tiny shop-door, “Gottlieb the Baker,” and said aloud, “Ah, within
there sleeps an honest fellow, with not a worry or a care, no doubt. I
wish I were as care-free as Gottlieb the baker,--nay, I wish I were he!”
Bang--bang! Pound--pound! Pushing his yellow nightcap back, Gottlieb
sat up in bed. It was the morning after Christmas, and as the gray
light came through the frosted window at which he stared, he finally
decided that the noise of pounding came from his shop door below.
Running down in his shirt, he found Hans the cobbler lifting a great
bundle from the step. Beside it lay a branch of fir, which Gottlieb
picked up ere he closed the door on Hans, who laid the bundle on the
counter and laughed at the baker’s dress.
“Run for your trousers, man,” he cried, “you are still asleep! This
bundle is yours, left by the Herr Professor’s housekeeper an hour ago.
And as you did not open your door, I was afraid of thievery and waked
you.”
By the time Gottlieb was dressed, the cobbler had made up a roaring
fire, and together they opened the parcel. It contained a warm cloak, a
box of sweets, a stuffed goose from Strasburg, a goodly leather purse
with five silver thalers therein, and a letter sealed with a red wafer
and addressed to “Master Gottlieb the Baker.” And this was the letter:
“MASTER GOTTLIEB:
“My housekeeper was angry on Christmas Eve, but in proof that
she repents, sends the goose, and begs that you continue in
your shop, serving my household. My family join me in the other
gifts. Your act of charity has taught us a lesson in the spirit
of Christmas giving, and at your unselfish conduct we are most
edified and pleased.
“GUSTAVE BRENEKE.”
When Hans had been told the story of the two women (though Gottlieb
said no word of his later meeting with the old dame), he shook hands
heartily and said, “That is well, friend Gottlieb,” and went away,
after accepting an invitation to dine off the goose that very evening.
Once alone, Gottlieb stood looking at the gifts, and turning the sprig
of fir in his hands, said:
“I wonder did I dream it all,--what part of my Christmas day was real,
and what part a dream. Here is the fir branch the Christmas Fairy gave
me, and I am sure I had those three wishes.”
Smiling gently, with a great peace in his heart, he set about preparing
the goose for the oven, and as it began to send up a savory smell, he
laid the fir branch on the fire and, still shaking his head dubiously,
said:
“At least part of it is real, for, as the agent said, the Herr
Professor was pleased.”