# Fairy tales and stories (Andersen, Tegner)/The Shirt Collar

Illustrator: Hans Tegner
THE SHIRT COLLAR
THE SHIRT COLLAR
THERE was once upon a time a stylish gentleman whose only goods and chattels were a boot-jack and a comb; but he had the finest shirt collar in the world, and it is about this collar I am now going to tell you a story. The collar was now old enough to think about getting married, and then it happened that he and a garter met one day in the same wash-tub.
"Well," said the collar, "I have never seen any one so slender and elegant, so soft and neat, before. May I be permitted to ask your name?"
"I shall not tell you," said the garter.
"Where do you come from?" asked the collar.
But the garter was very shy, and thought it was a very strange question.
"You are a waistband, I presume," said the collar; "a kind of inside waistband. I can see you are both useful and ornamental, my little lady."
"You mustn't speak to me," said the garter; "I do not think I have given you any encouragement."
"Oh, when one is as beautiful as you," said the collar, "that is encouragement enough."
"Don't come so near to me said the garter. "You look so masculine."
"Yes, I am quite a gentleman," said the collar. "I possess a boot-jack and a comb" (which, of course, was not true, as they belonged to his master; but he was very fond of boasting).
"Do not come near me," said the garter; "I am not used to it."
"What a prude!" said the collar, just as he was being taken out of the wash-tub. He was next starched and hung across the chair in the sunshine, ​and was then put on the ironing-board, when the hot iron was passed over him.
"Madam," said the collar, "little widow, I begin to feel quite warm. I feel a change coming over me; I am quite losing my head; you are burning a hole right through me! Ah! Will you be mine?"
"Rag!" said the iron, and passed proudly over the collar. She imagined that she was a steam-engine going along the railway, dragging carriages after her.
"Rag!" she repeated.
The collar was a little frayed at the edges, and so the scissors were brought out to cut off the ragged ends.
"Oh," said the collar, "you are a première-danseuse, I presume. How you can stretch your legs! I have never seen anything so beautiful! No human being could do that."
"I know that!" said the scissors.
"You deserve to be a countess," said the collar. "I am a gentleman, and all I possess is a boot-jack and a comb. If only I were a count!"
"Is that meant as a proposal?" said the scissors angrily, and gave the collar such a nasty cut that he was ruined forever.
"I must propose to the comb," said the collar. "It is really wonderful how well your teeth are preserved, my little lady. Have you never thought of getting engaged?"
"Yes, of course!" said the comb. "I am engaged to the boot-jack."
"Engaged!" exclaimed the collar. Now there was no one left to propose to, and so he looked with contempt upon courting and such like.
​A long time passed, and then the collar came into a bag and was sent to the paper-mill. There was a grand company of rags, the fine ones in a heap by themselves, and the common ones in another, as was only right. They had all a lot to say, especially the collar; he was a regular braggart!
"I have had a terrible lot of sweethearts," said the collar; "I was never left in peace. But I was quite a gentleman, you must know, starched up to the nines! I kept both a boot-jack and a comb, which I never used. You should have seen me at the time when I was turned down! I shall never forget my first sweetheart; she was a waistband, so fine, so soft, so beautiful; she threw herself into a wash-tub for my sake. Then there was a widow, who was head and ears over in love with me, but I left her to herself to remain in her weeds. Then there was a première-danseuse; she gave me the gash you see me with—she was a fury! My own comb was in love with me; she lost all her teeth through disappointed love. Yes, I have gone through a lot of such experiences. But I am most sorry for the garter—the waistband I mean, who jumped into the wash-tub. I have a great deal on my conscience; it is really time I was made into white paper!"
And all the rags were made into paper; the collar became the very piece of white paper before me, on which this story is printed—all in punishment for having boasted so dreadfully of what had never happened. We ought to take warning by this, and try to behave better, for one never knows what may happen; we might find ourselves one day in the bag with rags, and be made into white paper, and then have the whole story of our life, even the most secret part of it, printed upon the paper, and have to run about and tell it, just like the shirt collar.