Psyche.
"Who is that?" asked the General's lady.
"His Royal Highness," replied the General. "I am quite sure of it.
I knew him directly by the pressure of his hand."
The General's lady doubted it.
General Rubens had no doubts about it. He went up to the black
domino and wrote the royal letters in the mask's hand. These were
denied, but the mask gave him a hint.
The words that came with the saddle: "One whom you do not know,
General."
"But I do know you," said the General. "It was you who sent me the
saddle."
The domino raised his hand, and disappeared among the other
guests.
"Who is that black domino with whom you were dancing, Emily?"
asked the General's lady.
"I did not ask his name," she replied, "because you knew it. It is
the Professor. Your protege is here, Count!" she continued, turning to
that nobleman, who stood close by. "A black domino with acacia
blossoms in his cap."
"Very likely, my dear lady," replied the Count. "But one of the
Princes wears just the same costume."
"I knew the pressure of the hand," said the General. "The saddle
came from the Prince. I am so certain of it that I could invite that
domino to dinner."
"Do so. If it be the Prince he will certainly come," replied the
Count.
"And if it is the other he will not come," said the General, and
approached the black domino, who was just speaking with the King.
The General gave a very respectful invitation "that they might make
each other's acquaintance," and he smiled in his certainty
concerning the person he was inviting. He spoke loud and distinctly.
The domino raised his mask, and it was George. "Do you repeat your
invitation, General?" he asked.
The General certainly seemed to grow an inch taller, assumed a
more stately demeanor, and took two steps backward and one step
forward, as if he were dancing a minuet, and then came as much gravity
and expression into the face of the General as the General could
contrive to infuse into it; but he replied,
"I never retract my words! You are invited, Professor!" and he
bowed with a glance at the King, who must have heard the whole
dialogue.
Now, there was a company to dinner at the General's, but only
the old Count and his protege were invited.
"I have my foot under his table," thought George. "That's laying
the foundation stone."
And the foundation stone was really laid, with great ceremony,
at the house of the General and of the General's lady.
The man had come, and had spoken quite like a person in good
society, and had made himself very agreeable, so that the General
had often to repeat his "Charming!" The General talked of this dinner,
talked of it even to a court lady; and this lady, one of the most
intellectual persons about the court, asked to be invited to meet
the Professor the next time he should come. So he had to be invited
again; and he was invited, and came, and was charming again; he
could even play chess.
"He's not out of the cellar," said the General; "he's quite a
distinguished person. There are many distinguished persons of that
kind, and it's no fault of his."
The Professor, who was received in the King's palace, might very
well be received by the General; but that he could ever belong to
the house was out of the question, only the whole town was talking
of it.
He grew and grew. The dew of favor fell from above, so no one
was surprised after all that he should become a Privy Councillor,
and Emily a Privy Councillor's lady.
"Life is either a tragedy or a comedy," said the General. "In
tragedies they die, in comedies they marry one another."
In this case they married. And they had three clever boys- but not
all at once.
The sweet children rode on their hobby-horses through all the
rooms when they came to see the grandparents. And the General also
rode on his stick; he rode behind them in the character of groom to
the little Privy Councillors.
And the General's lady sat on her sofa and smiled at them, even
when she had her severest headache.
So far did George get, and much further; else it had not been
worth while to tell the story of THE PORTER'S SON.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PORTUGUESE DUCK
by Hans Christian Andersen
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
