The Portuguese Duck by

Hans Christian Andersen (1861)

A duck once arrived from Portugal, but there were some who said she
came from Spain, which is almost the same thing. At all events, she
was called the “Portuguese,” and she laid eggs, was killed, and
cooked, and there was an end of her. But the ducklings which crept
forth from the eggs were also called “Portuguese,” and about that
there may be some question. But of all the family one only remained in
the duckyard, which may be called a farmyard, as the chickens were
admitted, and the cock strutted about in a very hostile manner. “He
annoys me with his loud crowing,” said the Portuguese duck; “but,
still, he’s a handsome bird, there’s no denying that, although he’s
not a drake. He ought to moderate his voice, like those little birds
who are singing in the lime-trees over there in our neighbor’s garden,
but that is an art only acquired in polite society. How sweetly they
sing there; it is quite a pleasure to listen to them! I call it
Portuguese singing. If I had only such a little singing-bird, I’d be
kind and good as a mother to him, for it’s in my nature, in my
Portuguese blood.”
While she was speaking, one of the little singing-birds came tumbling
head over heels from the roof into the yard. The cat was after him,
but he had escaped from her with a broken wing, and so came tumbling
into the yard. “That’s just like the cat, she’s a villain,” said the
Portuguese duck. “I remember her ways when I had children of my own.
How can such a creature be allowed to live, and wander about upon the
roofs. I don’t think they allow such things in Portugal.” She pitied
the little singing-bird, and so did all the other ducks who were not
Portuguese.
“Poor little creature!” they said, one after another, as they came up.
“We can’t sing, certainly; but we have a sounding-board, or something
of the kind, within us; we can feel that, though we don’t talk about
it.”
“But I can talk,” said the Portuguese duck; “and I’ll do something for
the little fellow; it’s my duty;” and she stepped into the
water-trough, and beat her wings upon the water so strongly that the
bird was nearly drowned by a shower-bath; but the duck meant it
kindly. “That is a good deed,” she said; “I hope the others will take
example by it.”
“Tweet, tweet!” said the little bird, for one of his wings being
broken, he found it difficult to shake himself; but he quite
understood that the bath was meant kindly, and he said, “You are very
kind-hearted, madam;” but he did not wish for a second bath.
“I have never thought about my heart,” replied the Portuguese duck,
“but I know that I love all my fellow-creatures, except the cat, and
nobody can expect me to love her, for she ate up two of my ducklings.
But pray make yourself at home; it is easy to make one’s self
comfortable. I am myself from a foreign country, as you may see by my
feathery dress. My drake is a native of these parts; he’s not of my
race; but I am not proud on that account. If any one here can
understand you, I may say positively I am that person.”
“She’s quite full of ‘Portulak,’” said a little common duck, who was
witty. All the common ducks considered the word “Portulak” a good
joke, for it sounded like Portugal. They nudged each other, and said,
“Quack! that was witty!”
Then the other ducks began to notice the little bird. “The Portuguese
had certainly a great flow of language,” they said to the little bird.
“For our part we don’t care to fill our beaks with such long words,
but we sympathize with you quite as much. If we don’t do anything
else, we can walk about with you everywhere, and we think that is the
best thing we can do.”
“You have a lovely voice,” said one of the eldest ducks; “it must be
great satisfaction to you to be able to give so much pleasure as you
do. I am certainly no judge of your singing so I keep my beak shut,
which is better than talking nonsense, as others do.”
“Don’t plague him so,” interposed the Portuguese duck; “he requires
rest and nursing. My little singing-bird do you wish me to prepare
another bath for you?”
“Oh, no! no! pray let me dry,” implored the little bird.
“The water-cure is the only remedy for me, when I am not well,” said
the Portuguese. “Amusement, too, is very beneficial. The fowls from
the neighborhood will soon be here to pay you a visit. There are two
Cochin Chinese amongst them; they wear feathers on their legs, and are
well educated. They have been brought from a great distance, and
consequently I treat them with greater respect than I do the others.”
Then the fowls arrived, and the cock was polite enough to-day to keep
from being rude. “You are a real songster,” he said, “you do as much
with your little voice as it is possible to do; but there requires
more noise and shrillness in any one who wishes it to be known who he
is.”
The two Chinese were quite enchanted with the appearance of the
singing-bird. His feathers had been much ruffled by his bath, so that
he seemed to them quite like a tiny Chinese fowl. “He’s charming,”
they said to each other, and began a conversation with him in
whispers, using the most aristocratic Chinese dialect: “We are of the
same race as yourself,” they said. “The ducks, even the Portuguese,
are all aquatic birds, as you must have noticed. You do not know us
yet,—very few know us, or give themselves the trouble to make our
acquaintance, not even any of the fowls, though we are born to occupy
a higher grade in society than most of them. But that does not disturb
us, we quietly go on in our own way among the rest, whose ideas are
certainly not ours; for we look at the bright side of things, and only
speak what is good, although that is sometimes very difficult to find
where none exists. Except ourselves and the cock there is not one in
the yard who can be called talented or polite. It cannot even be said
of the ducks, and we warn you, little bird, not to trust that one
yonder, with the short tail feathers, for she is cunning; that
curiously marked one, with the crooked stripes on her wings, is a
mischief-maker, and never lets any one have the last word, though she
is always in the wrong. That fat duck yonder speaks evil of every one,
and that is against our principles. If we have nothing good to tell,
we close our beaks. The Portuguese is the only one who has had any
education, and with whom we can associate, but she is passionate, and
talks too much about ‘Portugal.’”
“I wonder what those two Chinese are whispering about,” whispered one
duck to another; “they are always doing it, and it annoys me. We never
speak to them.”
Now the drake came up, and he thought the little singing-bird was a
sparrow. “Well, I don’t understand the difference,” he said; “it
appears to me all the same. He’s only a plaything, and if people will
have playthings, why let them, I say.”
“Don’t take any notice of what he says,” whispered the Portuguese;
“he’s very well in matters of business, and with him business is
placed before everything. But now I shall lie down and have a little
rest. It is a duty we owe to ourselves that we may be nice and fat
when we come to be embalmed with sage and onions and apples.” So she
laid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye; she had a very
comfortable place, and felt so comfortable that she fell asleep. The
little singing-bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing,
and at last he lay down, too, quite close to his protectress. The sun
shone warm and bright, and he found out that it was a very good place.
But the fowls of the neighborhood were all awake, and, to tell the
truth, they had paid a visit to the duckyard, simply and solely to
find food for themselves. The Chinese were the first to leave, and the
other fowls soon followed them.
The witty little duck said of the Portuguese, that the old lady was
getting quite a “doting ducky,” All the other ducks laughed at this.
“Doting ducky,” they whispered. “Oh, that’s too ‘witty!’” And then
they repeated the former joke about “Portulak,” and declared it was
most amusing. Then they all lay down to have a nap.
They had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly something was
thrown into the yard for them to eat. It came down with such a bang,
that the whole company started up and clapped their wings. The
Portuguese awoke too, and rushed over to the other side: in so doing
she trod upon the little singing-bird.
“Tweet,” he cried; “you trod very hard upon me, madam.”
“Well, then, why do you lie in my way?” she retorted, “you must not be
so touchy. I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry ‘tweet.’”
“Don’t be angry,” said the little bird; “the ‘tweet’ slipped out of my
beak unawares.”
The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she
could, and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay down
again, and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to sing,—
“Chirp and twitter,
The dew-drops glitter,
In the hours of sunny spring,
I’ll sing my best,
Till I go to rest,
With my head behind my wing.”
“Now I want rest after my dinner,” said the Portuguese; “you must
conform to the rules of the house while you are here. I want to sleep
now.”
The little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly. When
madam awoke afterwards, there he stood before her with a little corn
he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had not slept well,
she was naturally in a bad temper. “Give that to a chicken,” she said,
“and don’t be always standing in my way.”
“Why are you angry with me?” replied the little singing-bird, “what
have I done?”
“Done!” repeated the Portuguese duck, “your mode of expressing
yourself is not very polite. I must call your attention to that fact.”
“It was sunshine here yesterday,” said the little bird, “but to-day it
is cloudy and the air is close.”
“You know very little about the weather, I fancy,” she retorted, “the
day is not over yet. Don’t stand there, looking so stupid.”
“But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I fell
into the yard yesterday.”
“Impertinent creature!” exclaimed the Portuguese duck: “would you
compare me with the cat—that beast of prey? There’s not a drop of
malicious blood in me. I’ve taken your part, and now I’ll teach you
better manners.” So saying, she made a bite at the little
singing-bird’s head, and he fell dead on the ground. “Now whatever is
the meaning of this?” she said; “could he not bear even such a little
peck as I gave him? Then certainly he was not made for this world.
I’ve been like a mother to him, I know that, for I’ve a good heart.”
Then the cock from the neighboring yard stuck his head in, and crowed
with steam-engine power.
“You’ll kill me with your crowing,” she cried, “it’s all your fault.
He’s lost his life, and I’m very near losing mine.”
“There’s not much of him lying there,” observed the cock.
“Speak of him with respect,” said the Portuguese duck, “for he had
manners and education, and he could sing. He was affectionate and
gentle, and that is as rare a quality in animals as in those who call
themselves human beings.”
Then all the ducks came crowding round the little dead bird. Ducks
have strong passions, whether they feel envy or pity. There was
nothing to envy here, so they all showed a great deal of pity, even
the two Chinese. “We shall never have another singing-bird again
amongst us; he was almost a Chinese,” they whispered, and then they
wept with such a noisy, clucking sound, that all the other fowls
clucked too, but the ducks went about with redder eyes afterwards. “We
have hearts of our own,” they said, “nobody can deny that.”
“Hearts!” repeated the Portuguese, “indeed you have, almost as tender
as the ducks in Portugal.”
“Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger,” said the
drake, “that’s the most important business. If one of our toys is
broken, why we have plenty more.”

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