WHERE did we get the story from？
Would you like to know that？
We got it from the barrel， the one with the old pa-
pers in it．Many good and rare books have gone to the chandler's and the greengrocer's， not as reading， but asnecessary articles． They must have paper at the grocer'sfor starch and coffee－beans，paper for salt herrings， but－ter， and cheese． Written things are also useful． Oftenthere goes into the barrel what should not go there．
I know a greengrocer's boy，the son of a chandler；he has risen from the cellar to the shop： a man of greatreading， psper－bag reading，both the printed and the written kind．He has an interesting collection，and in itseveral important documents from the waste－paper basketof one and another， absent－minded and too much occu- pied official； confidential letters from lady friends to eachother；scandal－communications，which must go no far- ther， and not be spoken of to anyone．He is a living res－cue－institution for no small part of literature， and has alarge field to work in； he has the shops of his employerand his parents， and in these he has rescued many a book， or pages of a book， which might well deserve a second reading．
He has shown me his collection of printed and writ－ ten things from the barrel，mostly from the chandler's．There were two or three leaves of a bigger copy book： itspeculiarly beautiful and distinct writing drew my attentionto it at once．
"The student has written that，"he said，"the stu－dent who lived right opposite here， and died about a month ago．One can see he has suffered severely fromtoothache． It is very amusing to read！ Here is only a littlepart of what was written ； it was a whole book and a littlemore； my parents gave half a pound of green soap for it，to the student's landlady． Here is what I rescued．"Iborrowed it，and read it， and now I communicate it． Thetitle was：
Auntie Toothache
Ⅰ
Auntie gave me sweet things when I was little． My teeth held out and were not destroyed；now I am older，and have become a student， she spoils me still with sweet things， and says that I am a poet． I have something of thepoet in me， but not sufficient． Often when I am walking inthe streets of the town， it seems to me as if I walk in a biglibrary． The houses are bookcases， every floor a shelf withbooks． There stands an everyday story， there a good old comedy， scientific works in all departments， here filthy literature and there good reading． I can both exercise my fancy and philosophize over all the literature．There is some－thing of the poet in me， but not sufficient．Many people have certainly as much in themselves as I，and yet wear neither badge nor neckband with the name"Poet"．
There is given to them and to me a gift of God， ablessing big enough for oneself，but far too small to be given out again to others． It comes like a sunbeam，and fills the soul and the thoughts． It comes as the scent of flowers，as a melody which one knows and remembers， but cannot tell from where．
The other evening I sat in my room， wanting to read， but had neither book nor paper； just then a leaf，fresh andgreen， fell from the lime tree． The wind bore it in at thewindow to me．
I looked at the many spreading veins； a little insect crawled over these， as if it would make a thorough study ofthe leaf． Then I had to think of the wisdom of men； we al－so crawl about upon a leaf， know only it， and then at oncehold a discourse about the whole big tree， the root， the trunk， and the crown， the great tree—God， the world， and eternity， and know of the whole only a little leaf！
As I sat there， I had a visit of Auntie Milly． I showed her the leaf with the insect， told her my thoughts about it， and her eyes shone．
"You are a poet！"said she，"perhaps the gnatest we have！If I should live to see it， then I shall willingly go tomy grave！You have always amazed me with your powerful imagination，from the very day of Brewer Rasmussen's funeral．"
So said Auntie Milly， and kissed me．
Now who was Auntie Milly，and who was Brewer Rasmussen？ Mother's aunt was called"Auntie by us children， we had no other name for her．
She gave us jam and sugar， although it was a great destruction for our teeth， but she was weak where thesweet children were concerned，she said．It was cruel to deny them the little bit of sweetstuff they thought so much of．
And because of that we thought so much of Auntie．
She was an old maid， as far back as I can remember， always old！She stood still in the years．
In earlier years she suffered much from toothache，and always spoke about it， and so it was that her friend， Brewer Rasmussen， who was witty， called her"Auntie Toothache！"
He lived on his money， and came often to see Auntie， and was older than she． He had no teeth， only some black stumps．
As a child he had eaten too much sugar， she told us children， and so one came to look like that． Auntie had certainly never in her childhood eaten sugar； she had the most lovely white teeth．She saved them too，"and did not sleep with them at night！"said Brewer Rasmussen．
That was malicious，we children knew， but Auntie said he did not mean anything by it．
One morning， at breakfast， she told of a nastydream she had had in the night： one of her teeth had fallen out．
"That means，"said she，"that I will lose a true friend．"
"Was it a false tooth？"said Brewer Rasmussen，and laughed；"then it may only mean that you will lose a false friend！"
"You are a rude old gentleman！"said Auntie，angry as I have never seen her， before or since．
Later on she said， it was only the teasing of her old friend． He was the most noble man on earth， and whenhe died he would be one of God's little angels in heaven．
I thought much over the change，and whether she would be in a position to recognize him in the new shape：When Auntie and he were both young， he had courted her．She considered too long，sat still， remained sitting too long，and became an old maid，but always a faithful friend．And then Brewer Rasmussen died．
He was carried to the grave in the most expensive hearse，and had a great following of people with orders and uniforms．
Auntie stood in mourning at the window with all us children， with the exception of the little brother whom thestork had brought a week before． When the hearse and the company had gone past， and the street was empty，Auntie
turned to go， but not I； I waited for the angel， BrewerRasmussen； he had become a little，winged child of God，and must show himself．
"Auntie，" said I，"don't you think he will come now， or that when the stork again brings us a little brother，he will bring us Brewer Rasmussen？"
Auntie was quite overpowered with my fantasy， and said，"The child will become a great poet！"And she re－ peated it during the whole of my school－time， even after myconfirmation， and now in my student years． She was， andis， to me the most sympathetic friend both in poetic acheand toothache． I have attacks of both．
"Write all your thoughts down，"said she，"and put them in the table-drawer；Jean Paul did that； he became a great poet，whom I really don't think much of： he dosen'texcite one！[You must excite，and you will excite！"] The night after this conversation， I lay in longing andpain， in vehement desire to become the great poet Auntie saw and perceived in me ：I lay in poetic ache，but there isa worse ache－toothache！ It crushed and pulverized me；Ibecame a writhing worm， with a herb bag and Spanish flies．
"I know what that is！" said Auntie．
There was a sorrowful smile about her mouth； herteeth shone so white．
But I must begin a new section in Auntie's historyand mine．
Ⅱ
I had removed to new lodgings， and had been there a month， and I was talking to Auntie about it． I stay with a very quiet family； they do not think about me，even if I ring three times．For the rest it is truly a rack－ety house， with noise of wind and weather and people． Istay right over the gate； every cart which drives out orin，makes the pictures shake on the walls． The gate bangs， and the house shakes as if there was an earth- quake．If I lie in bed， the shock goes through all my limbs， but that is said to be good for the nerves． If itblows， and it is always blowing here in this country， then the window－catch swings back and forward and knocks against the wall． The neighbour's door-bellrings with every gust of wind．
The people in our house come home in detach－ ments， late in the evening， and far on in the night； thelodger right above me， who in the daytime gives lessons on the bassoon， comes home latest， and does not go to bed until he has gone for a little midnight walk， with heavy steps and iron－nailed boots．
There are not double windows， but there is a bro-ken pane， over which the landlady has pasted paper．
The wind blows through the crack and makes a noise like the buzzing of a hornet． It is a lullaby．
When I do fall asleep at last， I am soon wakened by a cock． Cocks and hens from the cellar－man's hen-runannounce that it will soon be morning．The little Norwe- gian ponies（they have no stable， but are tethered in thesand－hole under the stair） kick against the door in turningthemselves． The day dawns； the porter， who with his family sleeps in the garret，rattles down the stair；the wooden shoes clatter， the door bangs， the house shakes ；and when that is finished， the lodger upstairs begins toexercise his gymnastics，lifts in each hand a heavy iron ball， which he cannot hold： it falls and falls again； whilstat the same time the young people of the house， who aregoing to school， come tearing downstairs shrieking．I go to the window，open it to get fresh air， and it is refreshing when I can get it．
For the rest it is a rare house， and I live with a quiet family．That is the report I gave Auntie of my lodgings， but I gave it in a more lively way； verbal narration has a fresh－er effect than the written．
"You are a poet！"cried Auntie．"Write your thoughts down and you will be as good as Dickens！Yes， you inter- est me much more！ You paint，when you talk！You de－ scribe your house so that one can see it！ One shud－ ders！—Compose further！Put something living into it， people， delightful people， especially unhappy people！"
I really did write about the house， with all its sounds and lack of soundness， but with only myself in it， withoutany action； that came later．
Ⅲ
It was in winter， late in the evening， after the the－ atre， frightful weather， a snow-storm， so that one could hardly force oneself forward．
Auntie was at the theatre， and I was there to take her home， but one had difficulty in walking alone， to say noth－ing of taking another． The cabs were all seized upon ：Aun－tie lived a long way out in the town； my lodging was， onthe contrary，close to the theatre；had that not been the case， we must have stood in the sentry－box until further notice． We stumbled forward in the deep snow， surrounded by the whirling snow－flakes． I lifted her， I held her，I pushed her forward． We only fell twice， but we fell softly．
We approached my gate，where we shook ourselves；
we also shook ourselves on the stair，and had still enough snow on us to fill the floor of the lobby． We got off our overcoats and goloshes， and everything which could be thrown off．The landlady lent Auntie dry stockings， and a dressing－gown；it was necessary， the landlady said， andadded，which was true， that Auntie could not possibly gohome that night， and invited her to use her sitting－room，where she would make a bed on the sofa， in front of thedoor into my room， which was always locked． And so it happened．
The fire burned in my stove， the tea－things stood onthe table， it was comfortable in the little room， althoughnot so comfortable as at Auntie's， where in winter thereare thick curtains on the doors， thick curtains on the win－dows， double carpets， with three layers of paper under－ neath； one sits there as if in a well－corked bottle with warm air．Yet， as I said， it was also comfortable in my room； the wind whistled outside．
Auntie talked and talked． Youth returned， BrewerRasmussen returned， and old memories．
She could remember when I cut my first tooth and the family joy over it．
The first tooth！The tooth of innocence， shining like a little white drop of milk，—the milk tooth． There came one， there came several， a whole row．Side by side， above and below， the most lovely children's teeth， andstill only the advance troops， not the real ones which should be for the whole life．They came and also the wis－ dom teeth with them， the men at the wings，born with pain and great difficulty． They go again， every single one！ They go before their time of service is over， even thelast tooth goes， and it is not a festival day， it is a day ofsadness．
Then one is old， even although the honour is young．
Such thoughts and conversation are not pleasant， and yet we talked about all that， we came back to childhood' syears， talked and talked； the clock struck twelve before Auntie retired to rest in the room close to mine．
"Good night，my sweet child，"she called，"now I sleep as if I lay in my own clothes－chest！"
And she went to rest， but rest there was none， nei-ther in the house nor outside． The storm shook the win-dows，knocked with the long hanging window－catches， rang the neighbour's bell in the backyard． The lodger up－stairs had come home．
He went for a little evening walk up and down，threw his boots down， went to bed and to rest， but he snored soloud that one with good hearing could hear him through the roof．
I found no rest，the weather did not go to rest either， it was lively in an unmannerly degree．The wind whistled and blew in its own manner， my teeth also began to be lively， they whistled and sang in their own way． It turned into a great attack of toothache．
There was a draught from the window． The moon shone in on the floor． The light went and came as clouds came and went in the storm． There was restlessness in thelight and shade； I looked at the movement，and I felt an icy-cold blast．
On the floor sat a figure， long and thin， as when achild draws on a slate with a pencil， something which shallrepresent a man： a single thin stroke is the body， twostrokes are arms， the legs are also two strokes， the head is many-cornered．
Soon the figure became more distinct； it got a kind ofcloak，very thin， very fine，but it showed that it was a woman．
I heard a buzzing． Was it she， or the wind buzzinglike a hornet in the window crack． No， it was herself， Mrs． Toothache！ Her terrible Satanic Majesty， God pre－serve and save us from her visit！
"It is good to be here，"she buzzed，"here are good quarters，boggy ground，mossy ground． Mosquitoes have buzzed here with poison in their sting， now I have thesting． It must be sharpened on human teeth． They shine so white as he lies here in bed． They have defied sweet and sour， hot and cold， nutshells and plum stones！ But I shallshake them， feed the root with draughts，give them cold in their feet．" That was frightful talk， and a terrible guest．
"So you are a poet！"said she；"I shall make poems about you in all the metres of pain！ I shall put iron and steel in your body， put strings in all your nerves．"
It seemed as if a glowing awl was pushed into the cheekbone． I writhed and turned myself．
"An excellent toothache！ "said she，"an organ to play on． A magnificent concert on the Jew's－harp， withkettledrums and trumpets， flutes， and the bassoon in the wisdom tooth． Great poet，great music！"
She played up， and she looked horrible， even if onesaw no more of her than the hand， the shadowy grey， icycold hand with the long thin fingers； each of them was an instrument of torture． The thumb and the forefinger had a knife-blade and a screw， the middle finger ended in a pointed awl， the next one was a gimlet，and the little fin- ger squirted mosquito venom．
"I shall teach you metres，"said she．"Great poets shall have great toothaches； little poets， littletoothaches！"
"Oh， let me be little，" I begged．"Let me not be at all！And I am not a poet， I have only attacks of compos－ ing， attacks as of toothache； go away， go away！"
"Do you recognize， then， that I am mightier than poetry， philosophy， mathematics， and music？"said she．
"Mightier than all these painted and craved marble con－ ceptions！ I am older than all of them together． I was born close by the garden of Paradise，outside where the wind blew， and the damp toad－stools grew． I got Eve to clothe myself in the cold weather，and Adam too．You can believe that there was strength in the first toothache．"
"I believe everything！"said I；"go away， go away！"
"Yes， if you will give up being a poet， never set verse on paper， slate， or any kind of writing material；
then I shall let you go， but I will come again if you make verses．"
"I swear！" said I．"Let me only never see or think of you again．"
"See me you shall， but in a fuller，and to you a dearer shape than I am now！ You shall see me as Auntie Milly； and I will say，' Versify， my sweet boy！ You are agreat poet—the greatest， perhaps， that we have ！' butbelieve me， and begin to make poetry， then I will set your verse to music， and play it on the mouth－harp！ You sweet child！Remember me， when you see Auntie Milly．"
Then she vanished．
I got a glowing awl－prick in the jawbone as a parting shot；but it soon subsided， I seemed to glide on the softwater， saw the white water－lilies with the broad green leaves bend themselves and sink down under me， witherand decay， and I sank with them， was dissolved in rest andpeace．
"Die，melt like the snow！" it sang and sounded in the water，"evaporate in the cloud，disappear like the cloud．"Down to me， through the water， shone great，illu－minating names， inscriptions on waving banners， the patentof immortality written on the wings of ephemeral flies．
The sleep was deep， sleep without dreams． I neitherheard the whistling wind， the banging gate， the neighbour'sdoorbells nor the lodger's heavy gymnastics．
Blessedness！Happiness！
Then there came a gust of wind and the unlocked door into Auntie's room burst open．Auntie sprang up and came in to me．
"You slept like an angel of God，" she said， and shehad not the heart to waken me．
I woke of myself， opened my eyes， had quite forgot- ten that Auntie was here in the house， but soon remembered it， and remembered my toothache apparition． Dreamand reality were mixed up together．
"You have written nothing last night，after we said Good-night？" she asked ；"I would like if you had！ You aremy poet， and that you will remain！"
I thought that she smiled so cunningly． I knew not if it was the real Auntie Milly who loved me， or the terribleone I had made a promise to in the night．
"Have you composed， sweet child？"
"No，no！"I cried；"you are really Auntie Milly？"
"Who else？"said she，and it was Auntie Milly；she kissed me， got into a cab， and drove home．
I wrote down what is written here． It is not in verseand shall never be printed…．
Here the manuscript stopped．
My young friend，the future grocer's assistant，could not discover the rest； it had gone out into the world as pa－per for smoked herring，butter， and green soap． It had ful－filled its destiny．
The brewer is dead， Auntie is dead， the student isdead， he from whom the sparks of thought came into thebarrel： that is the end of the story—the story of AuntieToothache．
牙痛姑妈
这个故事我们是从哪儿搜集来的呢？
你想知道吗？
我们是从一个装着许多旧纸的桶里搜集来的。有许多珍贵的好书都跑到熟菜店和杂货店里去了；它们不是作为读物，而是作为必需品待在那儿的。杂货店包淀粉和咖啡豆需要用纸，包咸鲱鱼、黄油和干酪也需要用纸。写着字的纸也是可以有用的。
有些不应该待在桶里的东西也都跑到桶里去了。
我认识一个杂货店里的学徒——他是一个熟莱店老板的儿子。他是一个从地下储藏室里升到店面上来的人。他阅读过许多东西——杂货纸包上印的和写的那类东西。他收藏了一大堆有趣的物件，其中包括一些忙碌和粗心大意的公务员扔到字纸篓里去的重要文件，这个女朋友写给那个女朋友的秘密信，造谣中伤的报告——这是不能流传、而且任何人也不能谈论的东西。他是一个活的废物收集机构；他收集的作品不能算少，而且他的工作范围也很广。他既管理他父母的店，也管理他主人的店。他收集了许多值得一读再读的书或书中的散页。
他曾经把他从桶里——大部分是熟菜店的桶里——收集得来的抄本和印刷物拿给我看。有两三张散页是从一个较大的作文本子上扯下来的。写在它们上面的那些非常美丽和清秀的字体立刻引起我的注意。
“这是一个大学生写的！”他说。“这个学生住在对面，是一个多月以前死去的。人们可以看出，他曾经害过很厉害的牙痛病。读读这篇文章倒是蛮有趣的！这里不过是他所写的一小部分。它原来是整整一本，还要多一点。那是我父母花了半磅绿肥皂的代价从这学生的房东太太那里换来的。这就是我救出来的几页。”
我把这几页借来读了一下。现在我把它发表出来。它的标题是：
牙痛姑妈
1
小时候，姑妈给我糖果吃，我的牙齿应付得了，没有烂掉。现在我长大了，成为一个学生。她还用甜东西来惯坏我，并且说我是一个诗人。
我有点诗人气质，但是还不够。当我在街上走的时候，我常常觉得好像是在一个大图书馆里散步。房子就像是书架，每一层楼就好像放着书的格子。这儿有日常的故事，有一部好的老喜剧，关于各种学科的科学著作；那儿有黄色书刊和优良的读物。这些作品引起我的幻想，使我作富于哲学意味的沉思。
我有点诗人气质，但是还不够。许多人无疑也会像我一样，具有同等程度的诗人气质；但他们并没有戴上写着“诗人”这个称号的徽章或领带。
他们和我都得到了上帝的一件礼物——一个祝福。这对一个人自己是很够了，但是再要转送给别人却又不足。它来时像阳光，具有灵魂和思想。它来时像花香，像一支歌；我们知道和记得起它，但是却不知道它来自什么地方。
前天晚上，我坐在我的房间里，渴望读点什么东西，但是我既没有书，也没有报纸。这时有一片新鲜的绿叶从菩提树上落下来了。风把它从窗口吹到我身边来。我望着散布在那上面的许多叶脉。一只小虫在上面爬，好像要对这片叶子作深入的研究似的。这时我就不得不想起人类的智慧。我们也在叶子上爬，而且也只知道这叶子，但是却喜欢谈论整棵大树、根子、树干、树顶。这整棵大树包括上帝、世界和永恒，而在这一切之中我们只知道这一小片叶子！
当我正在坐着的时候，米勒姑妈来看我。
我把这片叶子和上面的爬虫指给她看，同时把我的感想告诉她。她的眼睛马上就亮起来了。
“你是一个诗人！”她说，“可能是我们最伟大的一个诗人！如果我能活着看到，我死也瞑目。自从造酒人拉斯木生入葬以后，我老是被你的丰富的想象所震惊。”
米勒姑妈说完这话，就吻了我一下。
米勒姑妈是谁呢？造酒人拉斯木生是谁呢？
2
我们小孩子把妈妈的姑妈也叫做“姑妈”；我们没有别的称呼喊她。
她给我们果子酱和糖吃，虽然这对我们的牙齿是有害的。不过她说，在可爱的孩子面前，她的心是很软的。孩子是那么心爱糖果，一点也不给他们吃是很残酷的。
我们就为了这事喜欢姑妈。
她是一个老小姐；据我的记忆，她永远是那么老！她的年纪是不变的。
早年，她常常吃牙痛的苦头；她常常谈起这件事，因此她的朋友造酒人拉斯木生就幽默地把她叫做“牙痛姑妈”。
[最后几年他没有酿酒；]他靠利息过日子。他常常来看姑妈；他的年纪比她大一点，他没有牙齿，只有几根黑黑的牙根。
他对我们孩子说，他小时候吃糖太多，因此现在变成这个样子。
姑妈小时候倒是没有吃过糖，所以她有非常可爱的白牙齿。
她把这些牙齿保养得非常好。造酒人拉斯木生说，她从不把牙齿带着一起去睡觉！
我们孩子们都知道，这话说得太不厚道；不过姑妈说他并没有什么别的用意。
有一天上午吃早饭的时候，她谈起晚上做的一个噩梦：她有一颗牙齿落了。
“这就是说，”她说，“我要失去一个真正的朋友。”
“那是不是一颗假牙齿？”造酒人说，同时微笑起来。“要是这样的话，那么这只能说你失去了一个假朋友！”
“你真是一个没有礼貌的老头儿！”姑妈生气地说——我以前没有看到过她像这样，以后也没有。
后来她说，这不过是她的老朋友开的一个玩笑罢了。他是世界上一个最高尚的人；他死去以后，一定会变成上帝的一个小安琪儿。
这种改变使我想了很久；我还想，他变成了安琪儿以后，她会不会再认识他。
那时姑妈很年轻，他也很年轻，他曾向她求过婚。她考虑得太久了，她坐着不动，坐得也太久了，结果她成了一个老小姐，不过她永远是一个忠实的朋友。
不久造酒人拉斯木生就死了。
他被装在一辆最华贵的柩车上运到墓地上去，有许多戴着徽章和穿着制服的人为他送葬。
姑妈和我们孩子们站在窗口哀悼，只有鹳鸟在一星期以前送来的那个小弟弟没有在场。
柩车和送葬人已经走过去了，街道也空了，姑妈要走，但是我却不走。我等待造酒人拉斯木生变成安琪儿。他既然变成了上帝的一个有翅膀的孩子，他一定会现出来的。
“姑妈！”我说。“你想他现在会来吗？当鹳鸟再送给我们一个小弟弟的时候，它也许会把安琪儿拉斯木生带给我们吧？”
姑妈被我的幻想所震动；她说：“这个孩子将来要成为一个伟大的诗人！”当我在小学读书的整个期间，她重复地说这句话，甚至当我受了坚信礼以后，进了大学，她还说这句话。
过去和现在，无论在“诗痛”方面或在牙痛方面，她总是最同情我的朋友。这两种病我都有。
“你只须把你的思想写下来，”她说，“放在抽屉里。让·保尔曾经这样做过；他成了一个伟大的诗人，虽然我并不怎样喜欢他，因为他并不使人感到兴奋！”
跟她做了一番谈话以后，有一天夜里，我在苦痛中和渴望中躺着，迫不及待地希望成为姑妈在我身上发现的那个伟大诗人。我现在躺着害“诗痛”病，不过比这更糟糕的是牙痛。它简直把我摧毁了。我成为一条痛得打滚的蠕虫，脸上贴着一包草药和一张芥子膏药。
“我知道这味道！”姑妈说。
她的嘴边上现出一个悲哀的微笑；她的牙齿白得发亮。不过我要在姑妈和我的故事中开始新的一页。
3
我搬进一个新的住处，在那儿住了一个月。我跟姑妈谈起这事情。
“我是住在一个安静的人家里。即使我把铃按三次，他们也不理我，除此以外，这倒真是一个热闹的房子，充满了风雨声和人的闹声。我是住在门楼上的一个房间里。每次车子进来或者出去，墙上挂着的画就要震动起来。门也响起来，房子也摇起来，好像发生了地震似的。假如我是躺在床上的话，震动就透过我的四肢，不过据说这可以锻炼我的神经。当风吹起的时候——这地方老是有风的——窗钩就摆来摆去，在墙上敲打。风吹来一次，邻居的门铃就响一下。
“我们屋子里的人是分批回来的，而且总是晚间很晚的时候，直到夜深以后很久。住在这上面一层楼的一个房客白天在外面教低音管；他回来得最迟。他在睡觉以前总要作一次半夜的散步；他的步子很沉重，而且穿着一双有钉的靴子。
“这儿没有双层的窗子，但是却有破碎的窗玻璃，房东太太在它上面糊一层纸。风从隙缝里吹进来，像牛虻的嗡嗡声一样。这是一首催眠曲。等我最后睡下了，马上一只公鸡就把我吵醒了。关在鸡埘里的公鸡和母鸡在喊：住在地下室里的人，天快要亮了。小矮马因为没有马厩，是系在楼梯底下的储藏室里的。它们一转动就碰着门和门玻璃。
“天亮了。门房跟他一家人一起睡在顶楼上；现在他咯噔咯噔走下楼梯来。他的木鞋发出呱达呱达的响声，门也在响，屋子在震动。这一切完了以后，楼上的房客就开始做早操。他每只手举起一个铁球，但是他又拿不稳。球一次又一次地滚下来。在这同时，屋子里的小家伙要出去上学校；他们又叫又跳地跑下楼来。我走到窗前，把窗子打开，希望呼吸到一点新鲜空气。当我能呼吸到一点的时候，[当屋子里的少妇们没有在肥皂泡里洗手套的时候（她们靠这过生活）]，我是感到很愉快的。此外，这是一座可爱的房子，我是跟一个安静的家庭住在一起。”
这就是我对姑妈所作的关于我的住房的报告。我把它描写得比较生动；口头的叙述比书面的叙述能够产生更新鲜的效果。
“你是一个诗人！”姑妈大声说。“你只须把这话写下来，就会跟狄更斯一样有名！是的，你真使我感到兴趣！你讲的话就像绘出来的画！你把房子描写得好像人们亲眼看见过似的！这叫人发抖！请把诗再写下去吧！请放一点有生命的东西进去吧——人，可爱的人，特别是不幸的人！”
我真的把这座房子描绘了出来，描绘出它的响声和闹声，不过文章里只有我一个人，而且没有任何行动——这一点到后来才有。
4
这正是冬天，夜戏散场以后。天气坏得可怕，大风雪使人几乎没有办法向前走一步。
姑妈在戏院里，我要把她送回家去。不过单独一人行路都很困难，当然更不用说陪伴别人。出租马车大家一下就抢光了。姑妈住得离城很远，而我却住在戏院附近。要不是因为这个缘故，我们倒可以待在一个岗亭里，等等再说。
我们蹒跚地在深雪里前进，四周全是乱舞的雪花。我搀着她，扶着她，推着她前进。我们只跌下两次，每次都跌得很轻。
我们走进我屋子的大门。在门口我们把身上的雪拍了几下，到了楼梯上我们又拍了几下；不过我们身上还有足够的雪把前房的地板盖满。
我们脱下大衣和“套鞋”以及一切可以脱掉的东西。房东太太借了一双干净的袜子和一件睡衣给姑妈穿。房东太太说这是必须的；她还说——而且说得很对——这天晚上姑妈不可能回到家里去，所以请她在客厅里住下来。她可以把沙发当作床睡觉。这沙发就在通向我的房间的门口，而这门是经常锁着的。
事情就这样办了。
我的炉子里烧着火，桌子上摆着茶具。这个小小的房间是很舒服的——虽然不像姑妈的房间那样舒服，因为在她的房间里，冬天门上总是挂着很厚的帘子，窗子上也挂着很厚的帘子，地毯是双层的，下面还垫着三层纸。人坐在这里面就好像坐在盛满了新鲜空气的、塞得紧紧的瓶子里一样。刚才说过了的，我的房间也很舒服。风在外面呼啸。
姑妈很健谈。关于青年时代、造酒人拉斯木生和一些旧时的记忆，现在都涌现出来了。
她还记得我什么时候长第一颗牙齿，家里的人是怎样的快乐。
第一颗牙齿！这是天真的牙齿，亮得像一滴白牛奶——它叫做乳齿。
一颗出来了，接着好几颗，最后一整排都出来了。一颗挨一颗，上下各一排——这是最可爱的童齿，但还“只是”前哨，还不是真正可以使用一生的牙齿。
它们都生出来了。接着智齿也生出来了——它们是守在两翼的人，而且是在痛苦和困难中出生的。
它们又落掉了，一颗一颗地落掉了！它们的服务期没有满就落掉了，甚至最后一颗也落掉了。这并不是节日，而是悲哀的日子。
于是一个人老了——即使他在心情上还是年轻的。
这种思想和谈话是不愉快的，然而我们却还是谈论着这些事情，我们回到儿童时代，谈论着，谈论着……钟敲了12下，姑妈还没有回到隔壁的那个房间里去睡觉。
“我的甜蜜的孩子，晚安！”她高声说。“我现在要去睡觉了，好像我是睡在我自己的床上一样！”
于是她就去休息了，但是屋里屋外却没有休息。狂风把窗子吹得乱摇乱动，打着垂下的长窗钩，接着邻家后院的门铃响起来了。楼上的房客也回来了。
他来来回回地做了一番夜半的散步，然后扔下靴子，爬到床上去睡觉。不过他的鼾声很大，耳朵尖的人隔着楼板可以听见。
我没有办法睡着，我不能安静下来。风暴也不愿意安静下来；它是非常地活跃。风用它的那套老办法吹着和唱着；我的牙齿也开始活跃起来；它们也用它们的那套老办法吹着和唱着。这带来一阵牙痛。
一股阴风从窗子那儿飘进来。月光照在地板上。随着风暴中的云块一隐一现，月光也一隐一现。月光和阴影也是不安静的。不过最后阴影在地板上形成一件东西。我望着这种动着的东西，感到有一阵冰冷的风袭来。
地板上坐着一个瘦长的人形，很像小孩子用石笔在石板上画出的那种东西。一条瘦长的线代表身体；两条线代表两条手臂，每条腿也是一划，头是多角形的。
这形状马上就变得更清楚了。它穿着一件长礼服，很瘦，很秀气。不过这说明它是属于女性的。
我听到一种嘘嘘声。这是她呢，还是窗缝里发出嗡嗡声的牛虻呢？
不，这是她自己——牙痛太太——发出来的！这位可怕的魔王皇后，愿上帝保佑，请她不要来拜访我们吧！
“这儿很好！”她做出嗡嗡声说。“这儿是一块很好的地方——潮湿的地带，长满了青苔的地带！蚊子长着有毒的针，在这儿嗡嗡地叫；现在我也有这针了。这种针需要拿人的牙齿来磨快。牙齿在床上睡着的这个人的嘴里发出白光。它们既不怕甜，也不怕酸；不怕热，也不怕冷；也不怕硬果壳和梅子核！但是我却要摇撼它们，用阴风灌进它们的根里去，叫它们得着脚冻病！”
这真是骇人听闻的话，这真是一个可怕的客人。
“哎，你是一个诗人！”她说。“我将用痛苦的节奏为你写出诗来！我将在你的身体里放进铁和钢，在你的神经里安上线！”
这好像是一根火热的锥子在向我的颧骨里钻进去。我痛得直打滚。
“一次杰出的牙痛！”她说，“简直像奏着乐的风琴，像堂皇的口琴合奏曲，其中有铜鼓、喇叭、高音笛和智齿里的低音大箫。伟大的诗人，伟大的音乐！”
她弹奏起来了，她的样子十分可怕——虽然人们只能看见她的手：阴暗和冰冷的手；它长着瘦长的指头，而每个指头都是一件酷刑的器具。拇指和食指有一个刀片和螺丝刀；中指头上是一个尖锥子，无名指是一个钻子，小指上有蚊子的毒液。
“我教给你诗的韵律吧！”她说。“大诗人应该有大牙痛；小诗人应该有小牙痛！”
“啊，请让我做一个小诗人吧！”我要求着。“请让我什么也不是吧！而且我也不是一个诗人。我只不过是有做诗的阵痛，正如我有牙齿的阵痛一样。请走开吧！请走开吧！”
“我比诗、哲学、数学和所有的音乐都有力量，你知道吗？”她说。“比一切画出的形象和用大理石雕出的形象都有力量！我比这一切都古老。我是生在天国的外边——风在这儿吹，毒菌在这儿生长。我叫夏娃在天冷时替我穿衣服，亚当也是这样。你可以相信，最初的牙痛可是威力不小呀！”
“我什么都相信！”我说。“请走开吧！请走开吧！”
“可以的，只要你不再写诗，永远不要再写在纸上、石板上、或者任何可以写字的东西上，我就可以放松你。但是假如你再写诗，我就又会回来的。”
“我发誓！”我说，“请让我永远不要再看见你和想起你吧！”
“看是会看见我的，不过比我现在的样子更丰满、更亲热些罢了！你将看见我是米勒姑妈，而我一定说：‘可爱的孩子，做诗吧。你是一个伟大的诗人——也许是我们所有的诗人之中一个最伟大的诗人！’不过请相信我，假如你做诗，我将把你的诗配上音乐，同时在口琴上吹奏出来！你这个可爱的孩子，当你看见米勒姑妈的时候，请记住我！”
于是她就不见了。
在我们分手的时候，我的颧骨上挨了一锥，好像给一个火热的锥子钻了一下似的。不过这一忽儿就过去了。我好像是飘在柔和的水上；我看见长着宽大的绿叶子的白睡莲在我下面弯下去，沉下去了，萎谢和消逝了。我和它们一起下沉，在安静和平中消逝了。
“死去吧，像雪一样地融化吧！”水里发出歌声和响声，“蒸发成为云块，像云块一样地飘走吧！”
伟大和显赫的名字，飘扬着的胜利的旗子，写在蜉蝣翅上的不朽的专利证，都在水里映到我的眼前来。
昏沉的睡眠，没有梦的睡眠。我既没有听到呼啸的风，砰砰响的门，邻居的铃声，也没有听见房客做重体操的声音。
多么幸福啊！
这时一阵风吹来了，姑妈没有上锁的房门敞开了。姑妈跳起来，[穿上衣服，扣上鞋子，]跑过来找我。
她说，我睡得像上帝的安琪儿，她不忍心把我喊醒。
我自动地醒了，把眼睛睁开。我完全忘记了姑妈就在这屋子里。不过我马上就记起来了，我记起了牙痛的幽灵。梦境和现实混成一片。
“我们昨夜道别以后，你没有写一点什么东西吗？”她问。“我倒希望你写点呢！你是我的诗人——你永远是这样！”
我觉得她在暗暗地微笑。我不知道，这是爱我的那个好姑妈呢，还是那位在夜里得到了我的诺言的可怕的姑妈。
“亲爱的孩子，你写诗没有？”
“没有！没有！”我大声说。“你真是米勒姑妈吗？”
“还有什么别的姑妈呢？”她说。
这真是米勒姑妈。
她吻了我一下，坐进一辆马车，回家去了。
我把这儿所写的东西都写下来了。这不是用诗写的，而且这永远不能印出来……
稿子到这儿就中断了。
我的年轻朋友——这位未来的杂货店员——没有办法找到遗失的部分。它包着熏鲱鱼、黄油和绿肥皂在世界上失踪了。它已经完成了它的任务。
造酒人死了，姑妈也死了，学生也死了——
他的才华都到桶里去了：这就是故事的结尾——关于牙痛姑妈的故事的结尾。
这篇故事于 1870年6月开始动笔，完成于 1872年6月 11日，发表于 1872年在哥本哈根出版的《新的童话和故事集》第3卷第2部。这是一篇象征性的略具讽刺意味的作品，还有一点“现代派”的味道。一般人总免不了有点诗人的气质，青春发动期的小知识分子尤其如此——如中学生，不少还自作多情，会写出几首诗。有的因此就认为自己是“诗人”，有些天真的人还会陶醉于无偿赠予他们的“诗人”的称号。这事实上也是一种“病”。这种病需要有“牙痛姑妈”来动点小手术才能治好。于是“牙痛姑妈”就果然来了——当然是在梦中来的，而这整个的事儿确也是一场梦。
