“You don’t understand me!” said the duckling.
“Well, if we don’t understand you, who would? You’ll certainly never be wiser than the cat or the woman, not to mention me! Don’t make a fuss, child! And thank your creator for all the good that’s been done for you. Haven’t you come to a warm house and companions you can learn from? But you’re a fool, and it isn’t fun to hang around with you. Believe me, it’s for your own good that I tell you these unpleasant things, and it’s how you can tell your true friends. Just take care to lay eggs, or learn to purr or give off sparks!”
“I believe I’ll go into the wide world,” said the duckling.
“Yes, you just do that,” said the hen.
And so the duckling went. He floated on the water, and dove into it, but all the animals shunned him because of his ugliness.
Then autumn came. The leaves in the woods turned yellow and brown. The wind picked them up so they danced around, and the air looked cold. The clouds were heavy with hail and snowflakes, and on the fence the raven sat and cried, “Ow! Ow!” from the cold. You could really freeze if you thought about it, and the poor duckling truly was having a hard time.
One evening when there was a lovely sunset, a whole flock of beautiful big birds came out of the bushes. The duckling had never seen any more lovely. They were a quite shiny white with long supple necks. They were swans, and they uttered some really astonishing sounds, spread out their wide magnif icent wings, and flew away from the cold climes to warmer lands, to open waters. They rose so high, so high, and the little ugly duckling became so strangely happy. He turned around in the water like a wheel, stretched his neck high up in the air towards them, and uttered a cry so loud and strange that it frightened him when he heard it. Oh, he couldn’t forget the beautiful birds—the happy birds—and as soon as they were out of sight, he dove straight to the bottom. When he came up again, he was quite beside himself. He didn’t know what the birds were called, nor where they were going, but still he loved them as he had never loved anyone. He didn’t envy them. How could it occur to him to wish for such beauty? He would have been happy if only the ducks would have accepted him amongst them—the poor ugly animal!
And the winter was cold, so cold. The duckling had to swim around in the water to keep it from freezing solid, but every night the hole where he was swimming got smaller and smaller. The ice froze so it cracked. The duckling had to keep moving his legs to keep the ice from closing in. Finally he weakened, lay quite still, and froze into the ice.
Early in the morning a farmer came by, saw him, went out and kicked the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and carried him home to his wife where the duckling revived.
The children wanted to play with him, but the duckling thought they wanted to hurt him and flew in fright right up into the milk bowl so the milk splashed out into the room. The woman screamed and threw up her arms, and then he flew into the trough where the butter was and then down into the flour barrel and up again. What a sight he was! And the woman screamed and hit at him with the bellows, and the children ran here and there trying to catch the duckling, laughing and shrieking! Luckily the door stood open; out he flew through the bushes to the newly fallen snow, and there he lay in a swoon.
But it would be far too sad to tell all the suffering and misery he had to endure during that hard winter. When the sun started to warm up again, he was lying in the rushes between the reeds. The larks were singing, and it was spring, lovely springtime.
Then he lifted his wings all at once. They were stronger than before and carried him powerfully away, and before he knew it, he was in a big garden where apple trees were blooming, and where the lilacs smelled sweet and hung on long green branches right down towards the meandering canals. Oh, it was lovely there, so fresh and newly green, and right in front of him out of the thicket came three lovely white swans. They ruffled up their feathers and floated so lightly on the water. The duckling recognized the magnificent animals and was filled with a strange melancholy.
“I’ll fly over to them, those regal animals, and they’ll peck me to death because I who am so ugly dare approach them. But it doesn’t matter. Better to be killed by them than to be nipped by the ducks, pecked by the hens, kicked by the girl who watches the hen yard, and suffer in the winter.” So he flew onto the water and swam towards the splendid swans. They saw him and plunged towards him with ruffled feathers. ”Just kill me,” said the poor bird, and he bent his head down towards the surface of the water and waited for death—but what did he see in the clear water? He saw his own reflection, and he was no longer a clumsy dark grey bird, ugly and nasty. He was himself a swan.
“The newest one is the prettiest!”
You see, it doesn’t matter whether you’re born in a duck yard as long as you’ve lain in a swan’s egg!
He felt truly glad about all the distress and tribulations he had suffered. He understood his happiness now, and all the beauty that greeted him. And the big swans swam around him and stroked him with their beaks.
Some small children came into the garden. They threw bread and grain out into the water, and the smallest one cried:
“There’s a new one!”
And the other children chimed in, “yes, there’s a new one!” They clapped their hands and danced around, ran after their father and mother, and bread and cakes were thrown in the water, and they all said, “The newest one is the prettiest! So young and so lovely.” And the old swans bowed to him.
Then he felt quite bashful and stuck his head behind his wings. He didn’t himself quite know why. He was too happy, but not at all proud because a good heart is never proud. He thought about how he had been pursued and persecuted and now heard everyone say that he was the most lovely of all the beautiful birds, and the lilacs bowed down their branches right down to the water to him, and the sun shone so warm and good. He ruffled his feathers, lifted his slender neck, and from his heart he rejoiced, “I never dreamed of this much happiness when I was the ugly duckling.”
IN THE DUCKYARD
THERE WAS A DUCK who came from Portugal. Some said she came from Spain, but it doesn’t matter because she was called the Portuguese. She laid eggs, was butchered and eaten—that was her life. All those who came from her eggs were called the Portuguese, and that really means something. Now there was only one remaining member of the family left in the duckyard, a yard where the hens also had access, and where the rooster strutted around with immense arrogance.
“He offends me with his violent crowing!” said the Portuguese. “But he is handsome—you can’t deny that, notwithstanding that he’s not a drake. He should learn to modulate himself, but modulation is an art. It shows higher culture, which the little songbirds in the neighbor’s linden tree have. How delightfully they sing! There is something so touching in their song. I call it Portugal! If I had a little songbird like that, I would be such a good and loving mother to him. It’s in my blood, my Portuguese blood.”
Just as she was talking a little songbird fell headfirst from the roof. The cat was after it, but the bird escaped with a broken wing and fell into the duckyard.
“That’s just like the cat, that scoundrel!” said the Portuguese. “I know him from when I had ducklings myself. That such a creature is allowed to live and walk around on roofs! I’m sure something like this would never be allowed in Portugal!”
And she felt sorry for the little songbird, and the other ducks, who weren’t Portuguese, felt sorry for him too.
“Poor little thing!” they said, and one after another came. “It’s true we don’t sing ourselves,” they said, “but we have some kind of inner sensitivity to it or something. We feel it even if we never talk about it.”
“Well, I will talk about it!” said the Portuguese, “and I’m going to do something for the little thing, because that’s one’s duty.” Then she went into the watering trough and splashed in the water so that she almost drowned the little songbird with the drenching he received, but she meant well. “Th
at was a good deed,” she said. “The others can take an example from it.”
“Peep!” said the little bird. Since his one wing was broken, it was hard for him to shake himself dry, but he understood very well that the shower was well meant. “You have a kind heart, m’am,” he said, but did not ask for more.
“I have never given a thought to being kind-hearted,” said the Portuguese, “but I do know that I love all my fellow creatures except the cat. But no one can expect me to love the cat. He has eaten two of my own. But make yourself at home here. I myself am from a foreign country, as you can probably tell by my bearing and my plumage. My drake is a native and doesn’t have my bloodlines, but I’m not at all arrogant because of that. If anyone here can understand you, then I dare say it’s me.”
“She has porta-gall stones in her gullet!” said a little ordinary duckling, who was witty, and the other ordinary ducks thought the “porta-gall stones” were hilarious. It sounded like “Portugal.” They nudged and quacked at each other. He was so extremely witty! And then they gathered in and started talking to the little songbird.
“The Portuguese is a gifted speaker,” they said. “We don’t use such great big words, though our sympathy for you is as great. But if we don’t do anything for you, we’ll be quiet about it. We find that the noblest.”
“You have a lovely voice,” said one of the oldest. “It must be wonderful to know that you bring joy to so many. I don’t know anything about it at all, and so I keep my mouth shut. That’s always better than saying something dumb, as so many others do.”
“Don’t pester him,” said the Portuguese. “He needs rest and care. Shall I give you another shower, little songbird?”
“Oh no, let me stay dry,” he begged.
“Hydrotherapy is the only thing that ever helps me,” said the Portuguese. “But diversion is also good. Soon the neighbor hens will come visiting. There are two Chinese chickens that wear pantalettes. They are very cultured and were imported, which raises my respect for them.”
And the hens came, and the rooster came too. Today he was very polite in that he wasn’t as crude as usual.
“You are a real songbird,” he said, “and you make the most of your little voice. But you have to have more power in your voice to be recognized as a member of the male sex.”
The two Chinese hens went into raptures over the sight of the songbird. He looked so disheveled from the shower he had had that they thought he looked like a Chinese chick. “He’s lovely!” they said, and started talking to him. They spoke in whispers and with the “P” sound of aristocratic Chinese.
“We are of your kind. The ducks, even the Portuguese, are web-footed, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. You don’t know us yet, but who does know us, or has taken the trouble to? No one, even among the hens, although we were born to a higher perch than most of the others. But it doesn’t matter. We mind our own business amongst the others, who don’t have the same principles we have. But we always look for the good in everyone and talk about the good things, although it’s hard to find where there isn’t any. But with the exception of us two and the rooster, there is no one in the henhouse who is intelligent. But they are respectable. That’s more than you can say for the residents of the duckyard. Here’s a warning, little songbird. Don’t trust the one over there with the short tail! She is treacherous. That speckled one there with the crooked wing pattern is crazy about debating and never lets anyone else get the last word, and she’s always wrong. That fat duck talks ill of everyone, and that’s contrary to our nature. If you can’t say something nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. The Portuguese is the only one who has a little breeding, and with whom you can associate, but she’s pretty passionate and talks too much about Portugal !”
“The two Chinese sure have a lot to whisper about,” said a couple of the ducks. “But they bore me, so I’ve never talked to them.”
Then the drake came over! He thought that the songbird was a grey sparrow. “Well, I can’t tell the difference,” he said, “and it’s all the same to me. He’s a musician, and if you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all.”
“Don’t bother about what he says,” whispered the Portuguese. “He’s great in business matters, and that’s all that matters to him. But now I’m going to take a little nap. I owe it to myself to be nice and fat when I’m embalmed with apples and prunes.”
And she lay down in the sun and blinked with one eye. She was a good duck, and she lay well and slept well. The little songbird plucked at his broken wing and cuddled up close to his protector. The sun was shining so good and warm, and it was a good place to be.
The neighbor hens went about scratching the ground. They had actually only come over looking for food. The Chinese left first, and then the others. The witty duckling said of the Portuguese that the old thing would soon be in her second chickhood, and the other ducks roared with laughter, “Chickhood! Chickhood! How wonderfully witty he is!” and then they repeated the former joke, “porta-gall stones!” They had a lot of fun, and then they went to bed.
They had been resting for a while when suddenly someone threw some slop into the duckyard. It splashed so that all the sleeping ducks jumped up and flapped their wings. The Portuguese woke up too, shifted about, and squeezed the little songbird terribly.
“Peep!” it said. “You squeezed me so hard, m’am!”
“Why are you lying in the way?” she said. “You shouldn’t be so touchy! I have nerves too, but you never hear me saying ‘Peep’.”
“Don’t be mad at me,” said the little bird. “That ‘peep’ just popped from my beak.”
The Portuguese wasn’t listening, but had run off to the slops and made a good meal out of it. When she had finished and lay down again, the little songbird wanted to be kind and sang:
“Tra ling-a-ling!
Of your heart I’ll sing.
Oft and long
I’ll raise my song. ”
“I have to rest after my meal,” said the duck. “You have to learn the customs here. I’m going to sleep now.”
The little songbird was quite taken aback, for he had hoped to please her. Later when the Portuguese woke up, he was standing in front of her with a little grain of wheat he had found. He laid it in front of her, but she hadn’t slept well so naturally she was grumpy.
“You can give that to a chicken!” she said. “And don’t hang over me all the time!”
“But you’re mad at me,” he said. “What did I do?”
“Du?”1 said the Portuguese. “You can’t speak to me like that!”
“Yesterday the sun was shining here,” said the little bird. “Today it’s dark and grey. I’m so terribly sad.”
“You must not be able to tell time,” said the Portuguese. “The day isn’t over yet. Don’t stand there and make a fool out of yourself.”
“You’re looking at me as angrily as those two bad eyes did when I fell down here into the yard.”
“The impertinence!” said the Portuguese. “Comparing me with a cat—that carnivore! I who don’t have a mean bone in my body! I’ve taken good care of you, and now I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
And then she bit the head off the songbird, and he lay there dead.
“What’s this?” she said, “Couldn’t he take that? Well, then he really wasn’t meant for this world. I know I’ve been like a mother to him. It’s because of my good heart!”
The neighbor’s rooster stuck his head into the duckyard and crowed powerfully.
“You’ll be the death of someone with that crowing,” said the duck. “It’s all your fault. He lost his head, and I am close to losing mine.
“He doesn’t look very impressive lying there,” said the rooster.
“Speak of him with respect!” said the Portuguese. “He had a beautiful tone and song and was highly cultured. He was loving and sensitive, as is fitting for all animals as well as for so-called human beings.”
And all the ducks gathered around the littl
e dead songbird. Ducks have strong feelings, either with envy or with pity, and since they didn’t envy the songbird, they pitied him. So did the two Chinese hens.
“There’ll never be another songbird like him! He was almost Chinese,” and they cried so they gurgled, and all the hens clucked, but the ducks had the reddest eyes.
“We have heart,” they said. “Nobody can deny that.”
“Heart!” said the Portuguese. “Indeed, we have! We have nearly as much as they have in Portugal!”
“Now let’s think about getting something to eat,” said the drake. “That’s more important. If one musician’s voice is stilled, there are still plenty more, after all.”
NOTE
1 A wordplay on the Danish informal form of address that does not appear in the original. In Danish, “you” can be spoken or written either formally (using the word de in this case) or informally (du).
THE STORKS
ON THE LAST HOUSE in a little town there was a stork’s nest. The stork mother sat in the nest with her four little children, who stuck their heads out with their little black beaks that hadn’t turned red yet. A little distance away on the top of the roof, stork father was standing straight and stiff. He had pulled one leg up under him in order to take a few pains while he was standing sentry. You would think he was carved from wood, that’s how still he stood. “It must look pretty impressive that my wife has a sentry by the nest,” he thought. “They can’t know I’m her husband. They probably think I’ve been commanded to stand here. It looks very impressive!” and he continued to stand on one leg.
Down on the street a whole gang of children were playing, and when they saw the storks, first the boldest boy and then the others sang the old ditty about the storks, but they sang it the way they remembered it: