Then the poor soul, the woman from the embankment, pleaded for him. “His brother made and gave me all the bricks and broken bits that I slapped up my miserable little house with. That was a lot for a poor wretch like me. Can’t all those bits and broken bricks count as one brick’s worth for him? That would be an act of mercy, and he needs it, and this is the home of mercy, after all.”
“Your brother, the one you called the poorest, whose honest work you considered lowest, gives you his heavenly mite. You will not be turned away. You will be allowed to stand out here and think things over, try to promote your life down there, but you won’t get in before your good deeds have accomplished—something! ”
“I could have said that better,” thought the critic, but he didn’t say it out loud, and that was already really something.
WHAT ONE CAN THINK UP
THERE WAS A YOUNG man who was studying to be a writer. He wanted to become one by Easter, get married, and live by his writing. He knew it was just a question of hitting on something. But he couldn’t think of anything. He was born too late. Everything had been examined before he was born. Everything had been written about.
“Those lucky people who were born a thousand years ago!” he said. “They could become immortal! Even those born a hundred years ago were lucky. There was still something to write about then. Now there’s nothing in the world left to write about, so what can I write about?”
He mulled and stewed over it to the point that he became ill, the miserable fellow. No doctor could help him, but maybe the wise woman could. She lived in a little house by the gate that she opened up for those driving or riding on the road. But she was able to open much more than the gate. She was wiser than the doctor, who drove in his own coach and paid a tax because of his rank.
“I must go out and see her,” said the young man.
The house she lived in was small and neat, but drab to look at. There wasn’t a tree or a flower. There was a beehive outside the door—very useful! There was a little potato patch—very useful! There was also a ditch with blackthorn bushes that had flowered and set berries—bitter berries that purse the lips if they’re tasted before frost.
“It’s like an image of our prosaic times, I see here,” thought the young man, and that was a thought. A pearl he found by the wise woman’s door.
“Write it up!” she said. “Half a loaf is better than no bread. I know why you’re here. You can’t think of anything, but you want to be a writer by Easter.”
“Everything’s been written!” he said. “Our times aren’t like the old days.”
“No!” said the woman. “In the old days wise women were burned at the stake, and poets walked around with shrunken bellies and holes in their sleeves. Our times are good times—they’re the very best! But you aren’t looking at it the right way, nor have you sharpened your hearing. I’m sure you never say the Lord’s prayer in the evening either. There are all sorts of things to write and tell about here for those who are able. You can take stories from the earth’s plants and crops, scoop them up from the running and standing water, but you have to understand, understand how to catch a sunbeam! Now try on my glasses, put my hearing trumpet in your ear, pray to God, and stop thinking about yourself.”
The last part was very hard, and more than a wise woman could ask for.
He got the glasses and the ear trumpet and was positioned in the middle of the potato patch. She put a big potato in his hand. It was ringing. It rang out a song with words—the potato’s history—interesting. An everyday story in ten parts. Ten lines would have been enough.
And what did the potato sing about?
It sang about itself and its family—the potato’s arrival in Europe, and the lack of appreciation they had experienced and suffered before they, like now, were recognized as a bigger blessing than a nugget of gold.
“We were distributed at the city hall in all cities by order of the King. Our great importance was proclaimed, but people didn’t believe it and didn’t even understand how to plant us. One man dug a hole and threw a whole half bushel of potatoes into it. Another stuck a potato into the ground here and there and waited for them to shoot up like a tree that he could shake potatoes from. And there was growth, flowers, and watery fruit, but everything withered away. No one thought that the blessing lay under the ground—the potatoes. Well, we have had our trials and sufferings, that is to say, our ancestors—they and us, it makes no difference. What stories!”
“Well, that’s enough,” said the woman. “Look at the blackthorn! ”
“We also have close relatives in the potato’s homeland,” said the blackthorn bushes, “further north than they grew. Norwegians from Norway sailed west through fogs and storms to an unknown land where under the ice and snow, they found herbs and greenery and bushes with wine’s dark blue berries—sloeberries. They froze to ripe grapes, and so do we. And that country was called Vineland, Greenland, Sloethornland.”
“That’s a very romantic story,” said the young man.
“Come along,” said the wise woman and led him over to the beehive. He looked into it. What a hustle and bustle! There were bees in all the hallways beating their wings to bring a healthy breeze into the entire big factory. That was their job. From outside bees born with baskets on their legs came bringing flower pollen. It was shaken off, sorted, and made into honey and wax. They came and went. The Queen bee wanted to fly too, but then they would all have to fly along, and it wasn’t time for that yet. But since she wanted to fly, they bit the wings from her majesty, and then she had to stay put.
“Climb up on the embankment,” said the wise woman. “Take a look at the road, and all the folks there!”
“What a swarming throng!” said the young man, “Story upon story! Humming and buzzing! It’s too much for me! I’m going back!”
“No, go straight ahead!” said the woman. “Go right into the teeming crowd. Have an eye for them, and an ear—and yes—a heart too. Then you’ll soon think of something. But before you go, I must have my glasses and ear trumpet back.” And she took both of them.
“Now I can’t see anything,” said the young man, “and I can’t hear any longer.”
“Well, then you can’t be a writer by Easter,” said the wise woman.
“But when then?” he asked.
“Neither by Easter nor Pentecost! You can’t learn imagination.”
“But what shall I do to make my living by writing?”
“Oh, you can manage that by Shrove Tuesday! Become a critic! Knock down the poets. Knock down their writings—that’s just like knocking them. Just don’t be over-awed. Hit at them without ceremony. You’ll get enough dough to support both yourself and a wife!”
“You’ve hit upon the very thing!” said the young man, and he knocked down all the poets because he couldn’t become one himself.
We heard this from the wise woman. She knows what people can think up.
THE MOST INCREDIBLE THING
HE WHO COULD DO the most incredible thing was to have the King’s daughter and half the kingdom.
The young people—well, the old ones too—strained all their thoughts, tendons, and muscles over this. Two died from over-eating, and one drank himself to death. All trying to do the most incredible thing according to their taste, but that wasn’t how it was supposed to be done. The little street urchins practiced spitting on their own backs. They thought that was the most incredible thing.
On a pre-assigned day everyone was to produce what they had to show as the most incredible thing. The judges were children from the age of three all the way up to folks in their nineties. There was a whole exhibition of incredible things, but everyone soon agreed that the most incredible was a huge clock in a case, remarkably artistic both inside and out. At the striking of the hour, lifelike images appeared to show what time had struck. There were twelve performances in all with moving figures and song and speech.
“This is the most incredible thing!” people said.
&
nbsp; The clock struck one, and Moses was standing on a mountain writing the first commandment on a tablet: “You shall have no other gods before me.”
The clock struck two and the Garden of Eden appeared, where Adam and Eve met. They were both happy despite not owning so much as a clothes closet. They didn’t need it either.
At the stroke of three the three wise men appeared. One was as black as coal, but he couldn’t help it. The sun had blackened him. They carried incense and precious objects.
At four o’clock, the seasons of the year came out. Spring with a cuckoo on a leafed-out beech branch. Summer with a grasshopper on a ripe ear of corn. The autumn with an empty stork’s nest for the bird had flown away. And winter with an old crow that could tell stories in the stove corner, old memories.
When the clock struck five the five senses were there. Sight came as a maker of eye glasses. Hearing was a coppersmith. Smell was selling violets and woodruff. Taste was a cook, and Feeling was a funeral director with mourning crepe hanging down to his heels.
The clock struck six. A gambler was sitting there throwing dice. The die landed with the highest number up—it was six.
Then came the seven days of the week or the seven deadly sins. People couldn’t agree which they were, but of course they belong together and aren’t easy to tell apart.
Then a choir of monks sang eight o’clock matins.
The nine muses followed at the stroke of nine. One worked at the observatory, one at the historical archives, and the rest belonged to the theater.
At ten Moses came back again with the tablet of laws. Now all God’s commandments were there, ten of them.
The clock struck again and little boys and girls hopped and ran around. They were playing a game and singing along: “Four plus seven, the clock strikes eleven,” and that’s what it was.
Then twelve struck and the night watchman came out wearing his hat with ear-flaps and carrying his spiked mace. He sang the old song of the watchman: “It was at midnight that our savior was born,” and as he sang roses grew and turned into heads of angels, borne by rainbow colored wings.
It was lovely to hear and beautiful to see. The whole thing was an exceptional work of art. Everybody said it was the most incredible thing.
The artist was a young man, good-hearted and as happy as a child. He was a faithful friend and helpful to his impoverished parents. He deserved the princess and half the kingdom.
The day of decision had arrived. The whole town was decorated, and the princess sat on the throne of the land. A new curled horsehair stuffing had been added, but that didn’t make it any more comfy or classy. The judges looked around slyly at the one who was going to win. He stood there confident and happy. His happiness was assured, for he had made the most incredible thing.
Just then a tall, strong strapping fellow yelled, “No, I’m going to do that now! I’m the man to do the most incredible thing!” And then he swung a big axe at the work of art.
“Crunch, crash, smash!” There the whole thing lay. Wheels and springs were flying all over. It was completely destroyed!
“I was able to do that!” said the man. “My strikes have struck down his, and struck down all of you. I have done the most incredible thing!”
“Destroying such a work of art!” said the judges. “Yes, that really was the most incredible thing.”
All the people agreed, and so then he was to have the princess and half the kingdom, because the law’s the law, even an incredible one.
From the embankments and all the town’s towers it was proclaimed that the wedding was to take place. The princess was not at all happy about it, but she looked beautiful and was magnificently dressed. The church was ablaze with candles, late in the evening when it looks best. Young noble maidens of the town sang and attended the bride. Knights sang and attended the groom. He strutted as if he could never snap.
Then the singing stopped, and it was so quiet that you could have heard a pin drop. In the middle of that silence the big church doors flew open with a rumbling and tumbling—“boom!” The entire clock mechanism came marching right up the church aisle and stood between the bride and the bridegroom. People who are dead can’t walk again, we know that very well, but works of art can haunt. The body was broken, but not the spirit. The spirit of art was spooking, and that was no spoofing matter.
The work of art looked just like it had when it was whole and untouched. The hours started to strike, one after the other, all the way to twelve, and the figures swarmed forth. First came Moses, and it was as if flames shone from his forehead. He threw the heavy stone laws tablets on the bridegroom’s feet which pinned them to the church floor.
“I can’t pick them up again!” Moses said. “You chopped my arms off! Stay as you are!”
Then came Adam and Eve, the three wise men from the East, and the four seasons. All of them hurled unpleasant truths at him. “Shame on you!”
But he wasn’t ashamed.
All of the figures that every hour had at its disposal stepped out of the clock, and all grew to a tremendous size. There almost wasn’t room for the real people. And when at the stroke of twelve, the watchman stepped out with his hat and spiked mace, there was a singular commotion. The watchman went right up to the bridegroom and struck him on the head with the spiked mace.
“Lie there!” he said. “Tit for tat! We are avenged, and so is our master! We’re leaving!”
And the whole great work of art disappeared. But the candles changed into big flowers of light throughout the church, and the gilded stars on the ceiling sent out long, clear rays. The organ played by itself. Everybody said that it was the most incredible thing they had ever experienced.
“Will you summon the right one?” said the princess. “The one who made the artwork—he shall be my husband and master.”
And he stood in the church with all the people as his attendants. Everyone rejoiced, and everyone blessed him. There wasn’t a person who was jealous. And that was really the most incredible thing!
AUNTIE TOOTHACHE
WHERE DID WE GET this story?
—Would you like to know?
We got it from the waste barrel in the store with all the old papers in it. Many good and rare books have ended up at the grocer’s and the greengrocer’s—not for reading, but as useful articles. They need paper to make paper cones for starch and coffee, and paper to wrap salt herring, butter, and cheese in. Handwritten materials can be used too.
Often things go into the barrel that shouldn’t go there.
I know a greengrocer’s apprentice, son of a grocer. He has advanced from the basement to the first floor store. He’s well-read, well-read in wrapping paper, both printed and handwritten. He has an interesting collection, including several important documents from the wastepaper baskets of one or another much too busy and absent-minded official, several confidential letters from girlfriend to girlfriend: scandalous stories which must not be revealed—not spoken of by anyone. He is a living salvage operation for a considerable amount of literature, and he has a large working area. He has both his parents’ and employer’s stores and has saved many a book or page of a book that probably deserve to be read twice.
He has shown me his collection of printed and written materials from the barrel, most of it from the grocer’s. There were a couple of pages of a good-sized notebook, and the especially beautiful clear handwriting drew my attention immediately.
“The student wrote this,” he said. “The student who lived across the street and died a month ago. They say he suffered a lot from toothaches. It’s quite amusing to read, but there’s only a little of it left now. There was a whole book plus some. My parents gave the student’s landlady half a pound of green soap for it. Here is what I’ve saved of it.”
I borrowed it, and read it, and now I’ll tell it. The title was:
AUNTIE TOOTHACHE
I.
—My aunt gave me candies when I was little. My teeth withstood it and weren’t ruined. Now I’m ol
der and have become a college student, and she still spoils me with sweets. She says that I’m a poet.
I have something of the poet in me, but not enough. Often when I’m walking the city streets, it seems to me like I’m in a big library. The houses are bookcases and each story a shelf with books. There stands an everyday story. There a good old fashioned comedy. There are scientific works about all kinds of subjects. Here smut and good literature. I can fantasize and philosophize about all that literature.
There’s something of the poet in me, but not enough. Many people have just as much of it as I have and yet don’t carry a sign or a collar with poet written on it.
They and I have been given a gift from God, a blessing big enough for oneself, but much too small to be parceled out to others. It comes like a sunbeam and fills your soul and mind. It comes like a waft of flowers, like a melody you know but can’t remember from where.
The other evening I was sitting in my room and felt like reading. I had no magazine or book to leaf through. Suddenly a leaf fell fresh and green from the linden tree, and the breeze blew it in the window to me.
I looked at all the many branching veins. A little bug was moving across them, as if it were making a thorough inspection of the leaf. That made me think of human wisdom. We crawl around on the leaf too and know only that. But then we deliver lectures about the entire big tree, the root, trunk, and crown. The big tree—God, the world, and immortality, and of the whole we only know a little leaf!
Just then Aunt Mille came for a visit.
I showed her the leaf with the bug and told her my thoughts about it, and her eyes lit up.
“You’re a poet!” she said. “Maybe the greatest we have! I will gladly go to my grave if I can live to see that. You’ve always amazed me by your powerful imagination, ever since brewer Rasmussen’s funeral.”