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.
