The Wild Swans

Far away, in the land to which the swallows fly when winter comes to us, there lived a king who had eleven sons and one daughter, named Eliza. The eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school with a star on his breast and a sword at his side. They wrote with diamond pencils on golden slates, and they could learn a lesson by heart as easily as they could read it aloud — anyone could tell at once that they were princes. Their sister Eliza sat on a little stool of plate glass, and she had a picture book that had cost half a kingdom to buy.

Oh, these children were wonderfully happy. But it was not to stay that way!

Their father, who was king over the whole land, married a wicked queen who did not love the poor children at all. They knew it from the very first day. There were great festivities in the palace, and the children played at "here come the guests"; but instead of being given all the cakes and roasted apples they could wish for, as usual, the queen gave them only sand in a teacup and told them to pretend it was something fine.

The week after, she sent little Eliza away into the country, to a peasant and his wife, and before long she had told the king so many untrue things about the young princes that he no longer troubled himself about them at all.

"Fly out into the world and earn your own living," said the wicked queen. "Fly like great birds that have no voice." But she could not make it turn out as badly as she wished, for they became eleven splendid wild swans. With a strange cry they flew out through the windows of the palace, away over the park and into the forest beyond.

It was still early morning when they passed the place where their sister Eliza lay asleep in the peasant's cottage. They hovered over the roof, twisted their long necks, and beat their wings; but no one heard them and no one saw them. So they were forced to fly on, high up toward the clouds and out into the wide world, until they came to a great dark wood that stretched all the way down to the seashore.

Poor little Eliza stood in the peasant's room and played with a green leaf, for she had no other plaything. She pierced a hole through the leaf and looked through it up at the sun, and it seemed to her that she saw her brothers' clear eyes; and every time the warm sunbeams shone on her cheeks, she thought of all their kisses.

One day passed just like another. When the wind blew through the great rose hedges outside the house, it would whisper to the roses, "Who can be more beautiful than you?" But the roses shook their heads and said, "Eliza is." And when the old woman sat at the door on Sundays reading her hymnbook, the wind would turn the pages and say to the book, "Who can be more pious than you?" And the hymnbook answered, "Eliza is." And what the roses and the hymnbook said was the plain truth.

When Eliza was fifteen, she was sent for to come home; and when the queen saw how beautiful she was, she hated her. Gladly she would have turned her into a wild swan like her brothers, but she did not dare to do it at once, because the king wished to see his daughter.

Early one morning the queen went into the bathing room, which was built of marble and hung with soft cushions and the most splendid draperies. She took three toads with her, kissed them, and said to the first, "When Eliza comes to bathe, sit on her head, so she may become as dull as you are." To the second she said, "Sit on her forehead, so she may become as ugly as you are, and her father may not know her." And to the third she whispered, "Rest on her heart, so she may grow wicked-minded and suffer for it." Then she set the toads into the clear water, which at once turned green, and she called Eliza, undressed her, and helped her down into the bath. As Eliza dipped under, one toad settled in her hair, another on her forehead, and the third on her breast. But she did not seem to notice them; and when she rose from the water, three red poppies floated there instead. Had the creatures not been poisonous, and had they not been kissed by the witch, they would have turned into red roses. But flowers they became all the same, because they had rested on her head and on her heart. She was too good and too innocent for witchcraft to have any power over her.

When the wicked queen saw this, she rubbed Eliza's skin with walnut juice until she was dark brown, smeared her lovely face with a foul-smelling ointment, and let her beautiful hair grow matted and tangled. It was quite impossible to know the beautiful Eliza.

When her father saw her, he was greatly frightened and declared that she was not his daughter. No one would own her but the watchdog and the swallows — and they were only poor creatures, and had nothing to say.

Then poor Eliza wept, and thought of her eleven brothers, who were all gone. Sorrowfully she stole away from the palace and walked all day over fields and moors until she came to the great forest. She did not know where she was going, but she felt endlessly unhappy and longed for her brothers, who had surely been driven out into the world just as she had been. She would seek them and find them.

She had not been long in the wood when night came on, and she strayed from every path. So she lay down on the soft moss, said her evening prayer, and leaned her head against a tree stump. All was deeply still, the air was mild, and all around in the grass and the moss shone hundreds of glowworms, like green fire; and when she touched a twig lightly with her hand, the glimmering insects fell about her like shooting stars.

All night long she dreamed of her brothers. They were children again, playing together, writing with their diamond pencils on the golden slates and looking at the wonderful picture book that had cost half a kingdom. But on the slates they no longer wrote lines and rows of noughts, as they used to; instead they wrote of the brave deeds they had done and all they had lived through and seen. And in the picture book everything was alive. The birds sang, and the people stepped out of the book and spoke with Eliza and her brothers; but whenever a page was turned, they sprang back into their places, so that all should stay in order.

When she woke, the sun was already high. She could not see it, for the tall trees spread their branches thick and close above her; but the beams played up there like a shimmering veil of gold. There was a sweet fragrance from the green leaves, and the birds almost perched on her shoulders. She heard water splashing — many large springs, all flowing into a lake with the finest sandy bottom. Thick bushes grew all around, but at one place the deer had made a great opening, and through it Eliza went down to the water. It was so clear that, if the wind had not stirred the branches and bushes, she would have thought them painted on the bottom of the lake, so plainly was every leaf mirrored there, whether it stood in the sunshine or the shade.

As soon as Eliza saw her own face, she was frightened, it was so brown and ugly; but when she wetted her little hand and rubbed her eyes and forehead, the white skin shone through again. Then she undressed and stepped into the cool water; and a lovelier king's daughter than she was not to be found in all the world.

When she had dressed again and braided her long hair, she went to the bubbling spring, drank from the hollow of her hand, and wandered deep into the wood, not knowing where she went. She thought of her brothers, and thought of the good God, who surely would not forsake her. It is God who makes the wild apples grow in the wood to feed the hungry, and now He showed her such a tree, its branches bending under the weight of the fruit. Here she made her noonday meal, set props under the boughs, and then went into the darkest part of the forest. It was so still that she could hear her own footsteps and the rustle of every withered leaf that bent beneath her foot. Not a bird was to be seen, not a single sunbeam could pierce the great dark branches; the tall trunks stood so close together that when she looked ahead it seemed as though she were shut in by a fence of latticed beams. Oh, here was a loneliness such as she had never known before!

The night grew very dark. Not a single glowworm glimmered in the moss. Sorrowfully she lay down to sleep. Then it seemed to her that the branches above parted, and the good God looked down on her with gentle eyes, and little angels peeped out over His head and beneath His arms.

When she woke in the morning, she did not know whether she had dreamed it or whether it had truly been so.

She had gone only a few steps forward when she met an old woman with berries in her basket, and the old woman gave her some to eat. Eliza asked whether she had seen eleven princes riding through the forest.

"No," said the old woman. "But yesterday I saw eleven swans with golden crowns on their heads, swimming down the river close by." And she led Eliza a little farther, to a slope; at the foot of it wound a little river. The trees along its banks reached their long leafy branches toward one another, and where they could not meet by their natural growth, the roots had torn themselves free of the earth and hung out over the water, their branches twined together.

Eliza said goodbye to the old woman and walked along the little river until it flowed out into the great open sea.

There before the young girl lay the whole glorious ocean, but not a single sail showed upon it, not a boat could be seen. How was she ever to go on? She looked at the countless little stones on the shore; the water had worn them all round and smooth. Glass, iron, stones — everything that lay washed up there had taken its shape from the water, which was far softer than her own delicate hand. "It rolls on and never tires, and so the hard is worn smooth. I will be just as tireless. Thank you for your lesson, you clear rolling waves; one day, my heart tells me, you will carry me to my brothers."

On the washed-up seaweed lay eleven white swan feathers, and she gathered them into a little bunch. There were drops of water on them; whether they were dewdrops or tears, no one could tell. Lonely as it was there on the shore, she did not feel it, for the sea showed endless change — more in a few hours than the sweet inland lakes can show in a whole year. When a great black cloud came up, it was as though the sea were saying, "I can look dark too," and then the wind blew and the waves turned their white sides out. But when the clouds glowed red and the winds slept, the sea was like a rose petal; now green, now white. Yet however still it lay, there was always a gentle movement along the shore, the water heaving softly, like the breast of a sleeping child.

When the sun was about to set, Eliza saw eleven wild swans with golden crowns on their heads come flying toward the land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon. Then Eliza climbed up the slope and hid behind a bush; the swans settled close beside her and beat their great white wings.

As soon as the sun sank beneath the water, the swan feathers suddenly fell away, and eleven handsome princes, Eliza's brothers, stood there. She gave a loud cry, for though they were greatly changed, she knew that it was they, she felt that it must be. And she sprang into their arms and called them each by name; and the princes were overjoyed to see their little sister, and knew her too, now that she was grown tall and beautiful. They laughed and they wept, and soon they had told each other how cruelly their stepmother had treated them all.

"We brothers," said the eldest, "fly as wild swans as long as the sun is in the sky; but the moment it sets, we take our human shape again. That is why we must always take care to have some resting place for our feet by sunset; for if at that moment we were flying up among the clouds, we should fall as men into the deep. We do not live here. There lies a land just as fair as this beyond the sea, but the way there is long. We must cross the great ocean, and there is no island on our path where we could spend the night — only a lonely rock that juts up in the middle of it, just large enough for us to rest on if we crowd close together. When the sea runs high, the spray dashes over us; and yet we thank God for that rock. There we spend the night in our human shape, for without it we could never visit our dear homeland, since our flight takes two of the longest days of the year. Only once a year are we allowed to come home, and we may stay eleven days, flying over the great wood from which we can see the palace where we were born and where our father lives, and the tall church tower where our mother lies buried. Here the very trees and bushes seem like kin to us; here the wild horses gallop over the plains as we saw them in our childhood; here the charcoal burner sings the old songs we danced to as children; here is our homeland, and here we are drawn, and here we have found you, dear little sister. Two more days we may stay, and then we must fly away over the sea to a beautiful land that is not our home. How can we take you with us? We have neither ship nor boat."

"How can I set you free?" asked their sister. And they talked of it nearly the whole night, sleeping only a few hours.

Eliza was woken by the rushing beat of the swans' wings above her; her brothers had changed again, and they flew in great circles and at last far away. But one of them, the youngest, stayed behind; and the swan laid his head in her lap while she stroked his wings, and all day long they were together. Toward evening the others came back, and when the sun had set they stood there in their human forms.

"Tomorrow we must fly from here, and we cannot come back before a whole year has passed. But we cannot leave you like this. Have you the courage to come with us? My arm is strong enough to carry you through the wood; will not all our wings together be strong enough to fly you across the sea?"

"Yes, take me with you," said Eliza.

They spent the whole night weaving a net out of pliant willow bark and tough rushes, and it grew large and strong. On this net Eliza lay down; and when the sun rose and the brothers changed into wild swans, they seized the net in their beaks and flew high toward the clouds with their beloved sister, who still slept. The sunbeams fell straight on her face, so one of the swans flew over her head, that his broad wings might shade her.

They were far from land when Eliza woke. She thought she must still be dreaming, so strange it felt to be carried high through the air, over the sea. Beside her lay a branch of ripe, beautiful berries and a bundle of sweet roots; the youngest of her brothers had gathered them and set them at her side. She smiled her thanks up at him, for she knew it was he who had flown above her and shaded her with his wings.

They were so high that the largest ship they saw below them looked like a white seagull resting on the water. A great cloud stood behind them like a mountain, and upon it Eliza saw her own shadow and the shadows of the eleven swans, flying there gigantic in size. It was a more splendid picture than she had ever seen; but as the sun rose higher and the cloud fell away behind, the floating shadow-picture faded.

All day they flew on, like a whistling arrow through the air, though slower than usual, for now they had their sister to carry. Bad weather was gathering; evening came on; anxiously Eliza watched the sun sink, and still the lonely rock in the sea was nowhere in sight. It seemed to her that the swans were beating their wings harder. Alas, it was her fault that they went so slowly. When the sun set, they would become men, fall into the sea, and drown. Then from the very depths of her heart she prayed to God; but still she saw no rock. The black cloud came nearer; the clouds rose in one great, threatening wave that shot forward almost like lead; flash followed flash of lightning.

Now the sun was just at the edge of the sea. Eliza's heart trembled; then the swans darted down so fast that she thought she was falling — but at once they were flying level again. The sun was half beneath the water when she first saw the little rock below them. It looked no bigger than a seal poking its head above the waves. The sun sank swiftly; now it was only like a star — and then her foot touched firm ground. The sun went out like the last spark on a piece of burning paper, and she saw her brothers standing arm in arm around her; but there was just room enough for them and for her, and no more. The sea beat against the rock and washed over them like driving spray; the sky blazed with unbroken fire, and clap after clap of thunder rolled. But sister and brothers held one another's hands and sang hymns, and from them they drew comfort and courage.

At dawn the air was clear and still, and as soon as the sun rose the swans flew away with Eliza from the rock. The sea still ran high, and from up in the air the white foam on the dark green waves looked like millions of swans swimming on the water.

As the sun rose higher, Eliza saw before her, floating half in the air, a range of mountains with gleaming masses of ice on their crags; and in their midst rose a castle a good mile long, with one bold colonnade above another, while below it swayed palm forests and flowers as large as mill wheels. She asked whether this was the land they were bound for, but the swans shook their heads, for what she saw was the wonderful, ever-changing cloud-castle of the Fata Morgana, into which no mortal may be brought. Eliza stared at it, and then mountains, forests, and castle tumbled together, and in their place stood twenty proud churches, all alike, with high towers and pointed windows. She thought she heard the organ playing, but it was the sea she heard. Now she was quite near the churches, and they turned into a whole fleet sailing beneath her; but when she looked down, it was only sea mist gliding over the water. So an endless change passed before her eyes, until at last she saw the real land they were making for, where the loveliest blue mountains rose with their cedar forests, their cities and their palaces. Long before the sun went down, she sat on a rock before a great cave overgrown with delicate green creepers, so that it looked hung with embroidered carpets.

"Now let us see what you dream here tonight," said the youngest brother, and he showed her the little chamber where she was to sleep.

"Heaven grant that I may dream how to set you free," she said. And that thought filled her mind; she prayed fervently to God for His help, and even in her sleep she went on praying. Then it seemed to her that she flew high into the air, to the cloud-castle of the Fata Morgana, and the fairy came out to meet her, beautiful and shining; and yet she looked exactly like the old woman who had given her berries in the wood and told her of the swans with golden crowns.

"Your brothers can be set free," she said, "but have you courage and endurance? The water is softer than your delicate hands, and yet it shapes the stones; but it does not feel the pain that your fingers will feel; it has no heart, and does not suffer the dread and anguish that you must bear. Do you see this stinging nettle I hold in my hand? Many of the same kind grow around the cave where you sleep; but only these, and the nettles that grow on the graves in the churchyard, will serve — mark that well. You must pick them, though they raise blisters on your hands. Break the nettles with your feet, and you will get flax; from it you must weave and knot eleven coats of mail with long sleeves; throw these over the eleven swans, and the spell is broken. But remember: from the moment you begin this work until it is done, though years should pass, you may not speak. The first word you utter will strike like a deadly dagger into your brothers' hearts. Their lives hang upon your tongue. Remember all of this."

And at the same moment she touched Eliza's hand with the nettle; it was like a burning fire, and Eliza woke.

It was broad daylight, and close beside where she had slept lay a nettle, just like the one she had seen in her dream. Then she fell on her knees, gave thanks to God, and went out of the cave to begin her work.

With her delicate hands she reached down among the ugly nettles; they were like fire, and burned great blisters into her hands and arms; but gladly would she bear it, if only she could set her dear brothers free. She broke every nettle with her bare feet and wove the green flax.

When the sun had set, the brothers came, and they were frightened to find her silent; they thought it was some new spell of their wicked stepmother's. But when they saw her hands, they understood what she was doing for their sake. The youngest brother wept, and wherever his tears fell she felt no more pain, and the burning blisters vanished.

She spent the night at her work, for she had no rest until she had freed her dear brothers. All the next day, while the swans were gone, she sat in her solitude; but never had the time flown so quickly. One coat of mail was already finished, and now she began the second.

Then a hunting horn sounded among the mountains, and fear seized her. The sound came nearer; she heard dogs barking; frightened, she fled into the cave, bound the nettles she had gathered and combed into a bundle, and sat down upon it.

At once a great dog came bounding out of the ravine, and then another, and another; they barked loudly, ran back, and came again. In a few minutes all the hunters stood before the cave, and the handsomest of them was the king of the land. He stepped up to Eliza; never had he seen a lovelier maiden.

"How did you come here, you beautiful child?" he asked. Eliza shook her head — she dared not speak, for her brothers' rescue and their lives depended on it. And she hid her hands under her apron, so that the king should not see how she suffered.

"Come with me," he said. "Here you cannot stay. If you are as good as you are beautiful, I will dress you in silk and velvet, set a golden crown upon your head, and you shall live and reign in my richest castle." And he lifted her onto his horse. She wept and wrung her hands, but the king said, "I wish only for your happiness. One day you will thank me for this." And with that he galloped off through the mountains, holding her before him on the horse, and the hunters rode after.

As the sun went down, the fair royal city lay before them, with its churches and domes; and the king led her into the castle, where great fountains splashed in marble halls, and the walls and ceilings shone with paintings. But she had no eyes for it; she wept and grieved. Patiently she let the women dress her in royal robes, weave pearls into her hair, and draw soft gloves over her burned fingers.

As she stood there in all her splendor, she was so dazzlingly beautiful that the whole court bowed low. And the king chose her for his bride, though the archbishop shook his head and whispered that surely this beautiful girl of the wood was a witch, who had blinded the king's eyes and bewitched his heart.

But the king would not listen. He had the music play, the finest dishes set before her, the loveliest maidens dance around her. She was led through fragrant gardens and splendid halls, but not a smile came to her lips or her eyes; she stood there like a picture of grief. Then the king opened a little chamber close by, where she was to sleep; it was hung with rich green tapestries and looked just like the cave where she had been. On the floor lay the bundle of flax she had spun from the nettles, and under the ceiling hung the coat of mail she had finished. One of the hunters had brought all these things away as curiosities.

"Here you can dream yourself back to your old home," said the king. "Here is the work that busied you there; now, in the midst of all this splendor, it will amuse you to look back on that time."

When Eliza saw these things, which lay so near her heart, a smile played about her mouth, and the color came back to her cheeks. She thought of setting her brothers free, and she kissed the king's hand; and he pressed her to his heart and had all the church bells ring out the marriage feast. The beautiful, silent girl from the wood became queen of the land.

Then the archbishop whispered wicked words into the king's ear, but they did not reach his heart. The wedding was held, and the archbishop himself had to set the crown upon her head; and out of his spite he pressed the narrow band down hard upon her brow, so that it hurt. But a heavier band lay about her heart — her grief for her brothers. She did not feel the bodily pain. Her mouth was silent, for a single word would cost her brothers their lives; but in her eyes shone a tender love for the good, handsome king, who did everything to make her glad. With all her heart she came to love him more from day to day. Oh, if only she might confide in him and pour out her sorrow! But silent she had to be, silent she had to finish her work. So at night she would slip from his side into the little chamber decked out like the cave, and knot one coat of mail after another. But when she began the seventh, she had no more flax.

She knew that in the churchyard grew the nettles she needed; but she must pick them herself — and how was she to get out there?

"Oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the anguish in my heart?" she thought. "I must dare it! The Lord will not take His hand from me." With her heart aching as though she were about to do some wicked deed, she crept down into the garden in the moonlight, went through the avenues and the empty streets, and out to the churchyard. There, on one of the broadest gravestones, she saw a ring of ghouls sitting. These hideous hags pulled off their rags as if they meant to bathe, and then with their long, skinny fingers they dug open the fresh graves, dragged out the bodies, and devoured the flesh. Eliza had to pass close beside them, and they fixed their evil eyes upon her; but she prayed silently, gathered the burning nettles, and carried them home to the castle.

Only one person had seen her — the archbishop, who was awake while the others slept. Now, he thought, he was proved right: all was not as it should be with the queen; she was a witch, and so she had bewitched the king and the people.

In the confessional he told the king what he had seen and what he feared. And as the hard words came from his tongue, the carved images of the saints shook their heads, as if to say, "It is not so! Eliza is innocent!" But the archbishop read it otherwise; he thought they were bearing witness against her, shaking their heads at her sin. Then two heavy tears rolled down the king's cheeks, and he went home with doubt in his heart, and at night he pretended to sleep. But no quiet sleep came to his eyes; he noticed how Eliza rose and slipped away. Every night she did the same, and every night he followed her softly and saw her disappear into her chamber.

Day by day his face grew darker. Eliza saw it and did not understand why; but it frightened her, and how her heart ached for her brothers! Her hot tears fell upon the royal velvet and purple, lying there like shining diamonds; and all who saw such wealth and splendor wished they might be queen. Meanwhile her work was nearly done; only one coat of mail was still wanting — but she had no flax left, and not a single nettle. Once more, this one last time, she had to go to the churchyard and pluck a few handfuls. She thought with dread of that lonely walk and of the terrible ghouls; but her will stood firm, and so did her trust in the Lord.

Eliza went; but the king and the archbishop followed her. They saw her vanish through the wicket gate into the churchyard, and when they came nearer, there sat the ghouls on the gravestone, just as Eliza had seen them; and the king turned away, for he pictured among them the one whose head had rested against his breast that very evening.

"The people must condemn her," he said. And the people condemned her: she was to die by fire.

Out of the splendid royal halls she was led into a dark, damp cell, where the wind whistled in through the iron grating. Instead of velvet and silk they gave her the bundle of nettles she had gathered, to lay her head on; and the hard, burning coats of mail she had woven were to be her blankets. But they could have given her nothing dearer; she took up her work again and prayed to God. Outside, the street boys sang mocking songs about her, and not a soul comforted her with a kind word.

Then, toward evening, close by the grating, there came the whir of a swan's wing — it was the youngest of her brothers. He had found his sister; and she sobbed aloud with joy, though she knew that the coming night was likely the last she had to live. But now her work was almost done, and her brothers were here.

The archbishop came, to be with her in her last hour, as he had promised the king. But she shook her head, and with looks and gestures begged him to go. This very night she had to finish her work, or else all would be for nothing — all the pain, the tears, the sleepless nights. The archbishop went away with harsh words against her; but poor Eliza knew she was innocent, and went on with her work.

The little mice ran about the floor and dragged the nettles to her feet, to help her as best they could; and a thrush perched on the grating of the window and sang all night long, as cheerily as it could, so that Eliza should not lose heart.

It was still gray dawn — the sun would not rise for an hour yet — when the eleven brothers stood at the castle gate and demanded to be brought before the king. It could not be done, they were told; it was still night, the king was asleep and must not be woken. They begged, they threatened; the guard came out, and even the king himself, asking what all this meant. At that moment the sun rose, and there were no brothers to be seen; but over the castle flew eleven wild swans.

Out through the city gate streamed all the people, come to see the witch burned. A wretched old horse drew the cart on which she sat. They had dressed her in a smock of coarse sackcloth; her lovely hair hung loose about her fair head; her cheeks were deathly pale, her lips moved softly, while her fingers still worked the green flax. Even on the way to her death she would not lay aside the work she had begun; the ten coats of mail lay at her feet, and she was toiling at the eleventh. The mob jeered at her.

"See the witch, how she mutters! No hymnbook in her hands — no, she sits there with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear it into a thousand pieces!"

And they all pressed toward her and would have torn the coats of mail apart — when eleven wild swans came flying down and settled around her on the cart, beating their great wings. At that the crowd fell back in fright.

"It is a sign from heaven! Surely she is innocent!" many whispered. But they did not dare to say it aloud.

Now the executioner seized her by the hand; but she quickly threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans. And at once there stood eleven handsome princes. Only the youngest had a swan's wing in place of one arm, for one sleeve of his coat was missing — that she had not been able to finish.

"Now I may speak!" she cried. "I am innocent!"

And the people, seeing what had happened, bowed before her as before a saint; but she sank lifeless into her brothers' arms, so had the strain and dread and pain worn her down.

"Yes, she is innocent," said the eldest brother, and then he told everything that had happened. And while he spoke, a fragrance spread abroad as of a million roses, for every stick of firewood in the pile had taken root and put out branches; there stood a sweet-smelling hedge, tall and wide, covered with red roses, and at the top bloomed a single flower, white and shining like a star. The king plucked it and laid it on Eliza's breast, and she woke with peace and happiness in her heart.

And all the church bells rang of themselves, and the birds came in great flocks; and back to the castle went such a wedding procession as no king had ever seen.