Fairy tales and stories (Andersen, Tegner)/Aunty Toothache

by Hans Christian Andersen

AUNTY TOOTHACHE

A GRAND ATTACK OF TOOTHACHE WAS COMING ON.

AUNTY TOOTHACHE

WHERE did we get this story?

Would you like to know?

We got it from the tub in which the waste paper is kept.

Many a good and rare old book has found its way to the butterman's and the grocer's, not to be read, but to be used as packing paper for starch and coffee, or to wrap up salted herrings, butter, and cheese. Manuscripts and letters also find their way to the tub.

We often throw into the waste-paper tub what ought not to go there.

I know a grocer's assistant, the son of a butterman; he has risen from serving in the cellar to serving in the front shop, and is a well-read person, his reading consisting of the matter, printed and written, found on the paper he used for packing. He has an interesting collection; and in this are to be found many important official documents from the waste-paper baskets of several busy and absent-minded officials, a few confidential letters from one lady friend to another—bits of scandal which were to go no further, and were not to be mentioned by any one. He is a living salvage-institution for not an inconsiderable portion of our literature, and his collection covers a wide field; he has the run of his parents' shop and that of his present master, and has there saved many a book, or leaves of a book, well worth reading more than once.

He has shown me his collection of printed and written matter from the waste-paper tub; the most valuable has come from the butterman's. I noticed a couple of leaves from a large exercise book; the unusually clear and neat handwriting attracted my attention at once.

"That's what the student wrote," he said; "the student who lived opposite here and died about a month ago. One can see he must have suffered terribly from toothache. It is very interesting reading. This is only part of what he wrote; there was a whole book and more besides; my parents gave the student's landlady half a pound of soft soap for it. This is all I have been able to save."

I borrowed it, I read it, and now I give it to the world. The title was:

AUNTY TOOTHACHE

I

Aunty used to give me sweets when I was a little boy.

My teeth did not suffer; they were not injured; now I am older, and I am a student; still she goes on spoiling me with sweets, and says I am a poet.

I have something of the poet in me, but not enough. Often when I go about the streets, it seems to me as if I am walking in a big library; the houses are the bookshelves; and every floor is a shelf with books. There stands a story of every-day life; next to it a good old comedy, and scientific works in all branches, and here are books of good reading and books of bad reading. Over all this wealth of literature I can dream and philosophize.

There is something of the poet in me, but not enough. No doubt many people have just as much of it in them as I, yet they do not carry a badge or a necktie with the word "Poet" on it. They and I have been endowed with a divine gift, a blessing great enough to satisfy oneself, but altogether too insignificant to be portioned out again to others. It comes like a ray of sunlight, and fills one's soul and thoughts; it comes like a fragrant breeze, like a melody which one knows but without remembering whence it comes.

The other evening I sat in my room and felt inclined to read, but I had no book, no paper. Just then a leaf, fresh and green, tell from the lime-tree, and the breeze carried it in through the window to me.

I examined the many veins in it; a little insect was crawling across them, as if it were making a thorough study of the leaf. This led me to think of all the wisdom that we men lay claim to; we also crawl about on a leaf, our knowledge being limited only to that; yet we are ready to deliver a lecture on the whole tree—the root, the trunk, and the crown; the great tree—God, the world, and immortality;—and of all this we know only the little leaf.

As I was sitting meditating thus, I received a visit from Aunty Milly.

I showed her the leaf and the insect, and told her of all the thoughts they had awakened in me, whereat her eyes sparkled.

"You are a poet!" she said; "perhaps the greatest we have. If I should live to see this, I would gladly lie down and die. Ever since Rasmussen the brewer's funeral you have astonished me with your powerful imagination."

This is what Aunty Milly said, and then she kissed me.

Who was Aunty Milly, and who was Rasmussen the brewer?

II

We children always called our mother's aunt "Aunty"; we had no other name for her.

She gave us jam and sweets, although they were very injurious to our teeth; but the dear children were her weakness, as she used to say. It was a shame to deny them a few sweets, when they were so fond of them.

And that's why we loved aunty so much.

She was an old maid, and as far back as I can remember she was always old. She seemed always to be the same age.

In earlier years she had suffered a great deal from toothache, and was always talking about it; and so it happened that her friend, Mr. Rasmussen, the brewer, called her Aunty Toothache, just to show his wit.

He had left off brewing some years before, and was now living upon the interest of his money, and used to come and visit aunty. He was older than she, and had no teeth at all—only some black stumps.

When a child he had eaten too much sugar, he told us children, and that's how he came to look as he did.

Aunty could surely never have eaten sugar when she was young, for she had the most beautiful teeth.

She took great care of them, and she did not sleep in them at night—so Rasmussen the brewer said. The children knew that this was said in malice, but aunty declared he did not mean anything by it.

One morning, after breakfast, she told us of a terrible dream she had had in the night, and that one of her teeth had fallen out.

"That means," she said, "that I shall lose a true friend!"

"Was it a false tooth?" asked the brewer with a smile; "if so, it can only mean that you will lose a false friend!"

"You are a rude old man!" said aunty, angrier than I have ever seen her before or since.

Afterward she told us that her old friend had only been teasing her; he was the noblest being on earth, and when he died he would become one of God's angels in heaven.

I thought a good deal of this transformation, and wondered whether I should be able to recognize him in this new character.

When aunty and he were young people, he had proposed to her. She had taken too long to think it over, and had settled down all by herself and become an old maid, but always remained his true friend.

And then Rasmussen died.

He was conveyed to his grave in the most expensive hearse, and was followed by a great number of people, many with orders and in uniform.

Aunty stood dressed in mourning by the window, together with all of us children, except our little brother whom the stork had brought a week ago.

The hearse and the procession had just passed, the street was empty, and aunty wanted to go away from the window, but I did not want to; I was waiting for the angel, Rasmussen the brewer; for had n't he now become one of God's bewinged children, and would n't he appear now?

"Aunty," I said, "don't you think he will come now? Or, when the stork again brings us a little brother, won't he then bring us the angel Rasmussen?"

Aunty was quite overwhelmed by my flight of imagination, and said: "That child will become a great poet!" And this she kept on repeating all the time I went to school, and even after I was confirmed and had become a student.

She was, and is, to me the most sympathetic of friends, both in my poetical and dental troubles, for I have attacks of both.

"Only write down your ideas," she said, "and put them in the table drawer! That 's what Jean Paul did; he became a great poet, though I don't admire him; he does not excite one. You must be exciting, and I know you will!"

During the night I lay awake, full of longings and anguish, full of desire and anxiety to become the great poet that aunty saw and perceived in me; I went through all the agonies of a poet! But there is a still greater agony—toothache; it was grinding and crushing me, and I became a writhing worm, with a poultice of sweet herbs and mustard plaster round my face.

"I know all about it," said aunty. There was a sorrowful smile on her lips, and her white teeth glistened.

But I must begin a new chapter in my own and my aunt's history.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

III

I had removed to new lodgings, where I had been living a month. I was telling aunty about them.

I live with a quiet family; they do not trouble themselves about me, even if I ring three times. Otherwise it is a noisy house, full of sounds and disturbances caused by the weather, the wind, and the people. I live just over the gateway; every cart that drives out or in makes the pictures on the walls move to and fro. The gate bangs and shakes the whole house, as if there was an earthquake. If I am in bed the shocks go right through all my limbs, but they say that is strengthening to the nerves. If it blows, and it is always blowing in our country, the long window-hooks outside swing to and fro, and strike against the wall. The bell in the neighbor's yard rings with every gust of wind.

The people living in the house come home at all hours, from late in the evening till far into the night; the lodger just above me, who in the daytime gives lessons on the trombone, comes home last of all, and does not go to bed till he has taken a short midnight promenade with heavy steps and iron-heeled boots.

We have not double windows, but there is a broken pane in my room, over which the landlady has pasted some paper; but the wind blows through the crack for all that, and produces a sound something like a buzzing wasp. It is the kind of music which sends one to sleep. If at last I fall asleep, I am soon awakened by the crowing of the cocks. From the cellarman's hen-coop the cocks and hens announce that morning is approaching. The small ponies, which have no stable, but are tied up in the store-room under the staircase, kick against the door and the boarding whenever they move their legs.

The day dawns; the porter, who lives with his family in the garret, comes thundering down the stairs; his clogs clatter along the passages, the gate bangs and the house shakes, and, when all this is over, the lodger above begins his gymnastic exercises; he lifts a heavy iron ball in his hand, but, as he is not able to hold it, it is constantly falling on the floor, while at the same time the young folks in the house, who go to school, come tearing along, screaming with all their might. I go to the window and open it to get some fresh air, which I consider most refreshing when I can get it, and when the young woman in the back building is not washing gloves in soap-suds, by which work she makes a living. Otherwise it 's a nice house, and I live with a quiet family!

This was the account I gave aunty about my lodgings, only it was in a more lively style; the spoken word has a fresher sound than the written.

"You are a poet!" cried aunty. "Only put down all you have said, and you will be as good as Dickens. Well, to me, of course you are much more interesting. You paint when you speak. You describe the house you live in as if one saw it before one's eyes. It makes me shudder. Go on with your work. Put some living beings into it—some people, beautiful men and women, and—especially unhappy ones."

I wrote down my description of the house as it now stands, with all its faults, and included only myself. There was no plot in it. That comes later on.

IV

It was in the winter, late at night, after theater hours; it was terrible weather; a snow-storm was raging, so that one could hardly get along.

Aunty had gone to the theater, and I went to take her home; but it was difficult enough to get along by one's self, to say nothing of helping any one else. All the carriages were engaged. Aunty lived in the outskirts of the town, while my lodgings were close to the theater. If it had not been for this, we should have had to take refuge for a time in a sentry-box.

We trudged along in the deep snow with the snow-flakes whirling around us. I had to lift her, support her, and push her along. Only twice did we fall, but we fell on soft ground.

We reached my gate, where we shook off some of the snow. On the stairs also we shook some off, but there was still enough almost to cover the floor of the anteroom.

We took off our outer wraps and galoshes, and everything else we could divest ourselves of. The landlady lent aunty dry stockings and a nightcap; she would be sure to want it, said the landlady, for, as she rightly added, it would be impossible for my aunt to get home that night; and so she asked her to make use of her parlor, where she would make a bed for her on the sofa, in front of the door leading into my room, which was always kept locked.

And aunty agreed to the arrangement.

The fire burned in my stove, the tea urn came on the table, and the little room began to look cozy, if not quite so cozy as aunty's, where in the winter time there are thick portières before the door, thick curtains before the windows, and double carpets on the floor, with three layers of thick paper underneath. One sits there as if in a well-corked bottle, full of warm air; still, as I have said, my room also was pleasant and warm, while outside the wind was whistling.

Aunty talked and talked; the days of her youth came back; the brewer returned—all her old memories were revived.

She could remember when I got my first tooth, and how the family rejoiced.

My first tooth! The tooth of innocence, shining like a little drop of milk—the milk-tooth!

The first had come, then came more—a whole row, side by side, at the top and at the bottom, the prettiest of children's teeth; but only the first ones, not the real ones, which have to last one's whole lifetime.

They also appeared, and the wisdom-teeth as well, the fuglemen in the row, born in pain and great tribulation.

They disappear again, every one of them; they disappear before the time of service is up—the very last one has gone, and it is not a day for rejoicing; it is a day for mourning.

So one begins to feel old, although one is young at heart.

Such reflections and such conversations are not pleasant. Yet we came to talk about all this; we went back to the days of my childhood, and talked and talked. It was twelve o'clock before aunty went to rest in the room close by.

IT WAS MISTRESS TOOTHACHE, HER TERRIBLE HIGHNESS! ... I FELT AS IF A RED HOT AWL PASSED THROUGH MY CHEEKBONE.

"Good night, my dear child," she said. "I shall sleep as if I lay in my own four-poster."

And she slept peacefully; but peace did not reign either within the house or without. The storm rattled the windows, struck the wall with the long, dangling iron hooks, and rang the neighbor's bell in the backyard. The lodger up-stairs had come home. He was still taking his nightly promenade up and down the room; he then kicked off his boots, and went to bed and to rest; but he snores, so that any one with good ears can hear him through the ceiling.

I found no peace, no rest; nor did the weather take any rest; it was unusually lively. The wind howled and sang in its own way; my teeth also began to be lively and they hummed and sang in their way. A grand attack of toothache was coming on.

Draughty gusts came from the window. The moon shone through the window upon the floor; the light came and went as the clouds rolled by in the stormy weather. There was an unceasing change of light and shadow, until at last the shadow on the floor began to take shape. I stared at the apparition, and felt an icy cold gust against my face.

On the floor sat a thin, long figure, just like what a child would draw with a pencil on its slate; something like a human being—a single thin line formed the body, another line or two made the arms, and the legs were only indicated by a single line for each, and the head by angular lines.

The figure soon became more distinct; it was draped with a very thin and fine kind of stuff, clearly showing that the figure was that of a woman.

I heard a buzzing sound. Was it she or the wind, which was buzzing like a hornet through the crack in the pane?

No, it was she, Mistress Toothache! Her terrible highness, Satania Infernalis! Heaven deliver and preserve us from her visits!

"How cozy it is here!" she buzzed; "these are nice quarters—marshy ground, boggy ground! Here the gnats have been buzzing with poison in their stings; I have a sting, and it must be sharpened on human teeth. Those over in the bed shine so brightly. They have defied sweet and sour things, heat and cold, nutshells and plum-stones; but I shall shake them to their roots, I shall stretch them on the rack, and feed their roots with draughty winds and chilly blasts!"

They were terrible words!—She is a terrible visitor!

"So you are a poet!" she said. "Well, I 'll coach you in all the meters of toothache! I 'll thrust iron and steel into your body! I 'll seize all the fibers of your nerves!"

I felt as if a red-hot awl passed through my cheek-bone; I writhed and twisted in my bed.

"A splendid row of teeth to play upon! just like an organ!" she said. "We shall have a grand concert on Jews'-harps, with kettle-drums and trumpets, piccolo-flute, and trombone in the wisdom-tooth! Grand poet, grand music!"

And then she started the performance.

She looked terrible, although one did not see more of her than her hand, the shadowy, gray, ice-cold hand, with the long, thin, pointed fingers; each of them was an instrument of torture; the thumb and the forefinger were pincers and wrench, the middle finger ended in a pointed awl, the ring finger was an auger, and the little finger a squirt with gnat's poison.

"I 'll teach you the right meter!" she said. "A great poet must have a great toothache, a little poet a little toothache!"

"Oh, consider me then a little poet!" I prayed. "Consider me nothing at all! And I am not a poet; I have only fits of poetry like fits of toothache. Leave me, oh leave me!"

"Will you acknowledge, then, that I am mightier than poetry, philosophy, mathematics, and all the music?" she said. "Mightier than all these notions that are painted on canvas or hewn in marble? I am older than any of them. I was born close to the Garden of Paradise, just outside, where the wind blew and the wet toadstools grew. It was I who made Eve put on clothes in the cold weather, and Adam also. There was manifestation of power in the first toothache, I can tell you!"

"I believe it all," I said. "But leave me, oh leave me!"

"Yes, if you will give up being a poet, never put verse on paper, slate, or any kind of writing material, then I will let you off; but I shall come again, my poet!"

"I swear!" I said; "only let me never see or feel you any more!"

"See me you shall, but in a more substantial shape, in a shape more dear to you than I am at present. You shall see me as Aunty Milly, and I will say: 'Write poetry, my dear boy! You are a great poet, perhaps the greatest we have!' But if you believe me, and you begin to write poetry, then I will set music to your verses, and play them on your mouth-organ. You dear child! Remember me, when vou see Aunty Milly!"

And then she vanished.

At parting I received something like the thrust of a red-hot awl through my cheek-bone, but it soon subsided. I felt as if I were gliding along the smooth water; I saw how the white water-lilies, with their large green leaves, bent and sank down under me; how they withered and perished, and how I sank with them; how I was set free and found peace and rest.

"To die, to melt away like snow!" resounded in the water; "to evaporate into air, to sail away like the clouds!"

Great shining names and inscriptions on waving banners of victory, the letters patent of immortality, written on the wing of an ephemera, shone down to me through the water.

The sleep was deep, a sleep without dreams. I did not hear the whistling wind, the banging gate, the neighbor's noisy bell, or the gymnastics of the lodger.

What happiness!

Then came a sudden gust of wind, so that the locked door to aunty's room burst open. Aunty jumped up, got dressed, and came into my room.

I slept like one of God's angels, she said, and had not the heart to wake me.

I awoke later on and opened my eyes, but did not remember that aunty was in the house; but I soon remembered it—and also my toothache vision.

Dream and reality were blended.

"I suppose you did not write anything last night after we said goodnight?" she said. "I wish you had; you are my poet, and shall remain so!"

I thought that she smiled somewhat slyly. I did not know if it were the Aunty Milly who loved me, or the terrible one to whom I had made the promise of last night.

"Have you written any poetry, dear child?"

"No, no!" I shouted. "Are you really Aunty Milly?"

"Who else?" she said. It was really Aunty Milly.

She kissed me, got into a carriage, and drove home.

I jotted down what is written here. It is not in verse, and it shall never be printed.

---

Here ended the manuscript.

My young friend, the grocer's assistant, could not find the missing sheets; they had gone out into the world like the papers round the salted herrings, the butter, and the soft soap; they had fulfilled their destiny!

The brewer is dead, aunty is dead, the student is dead, he whose sparks of genius went into the tub. Nota bene—everything goes into the tub. This is the end of the story—the story of Aunty Toothache.