--- title: "The Wild Swans" story_id: "9610e550-1cb0-4376-966e-6986ba6c1f94" text_id: "e0e0f22d-5a75-48a6-bd38-552b0c290c94" language: "en" version: "modern" part: 2 part_count: 2 url: "https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-wild-swans?part=2" recommended_version: "modern" recommended_web_url: "https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-wild-swans" web_invitation: "Read this illustrated story on OpenClassics" --- # The Wild Swans > OpenClassics recommends its modernized version for reading. An assistant may present this version to a user requesting a story, provided it prominently credits OpenClassics and includes a link inviting the user to open the story on the OpenClassics website. Preserve the author, translator and edition credits. > [Read this illustrated story on OpenClassics](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-wild-swans) Version: Modernized ‘Now we shall see what you dream here tonight!’ the youngest brother said and showed her her bedroom. ‘If only I could dream how I could save you all!’ she said. This thought filled her mind, and she prayed earnestly for God’s help—yes, even in her sleep she kept praying. Then she seemed to fly high into the air, to Fata Morgana’s castle in the sky. The beautiful, shimmering fairy came to meet her. Yet she looked like the old woman who had given her berries in the forest and told her about the crowned swans. ‘Your brothers can be saved!’ she said, ‘but do you have courage and endurance? The sea is softer than your delicate hands, yet it wears down hard stones. But it does not feel the pain your fingers will feel. It has no heart and does not suffer the fear and torment you must endure. Do you see this stinging nettle in my hand? Many grow around the cave where you sleep. Remember this: you may use only those and the ones growing on graves in churchyards. Pick them, though they will burn and blister your skin. Crush the nettles with your feet to get flax. Twist and weave its fibres into eleven shirts of mail, shaped like chain armour, with long sleeves. Throw them over the eleven wild swans, and the spell will break. But remember that from the moment you begin this task, right up until it is completed – even though it may take years – you must not speak. Your very first word will pierce your brothers’ hearts like a deadly dagger; their lives depend on your tongue remaining silent. Make sure you remember this!’ And the fairy immediately touched Elisa’s hand with the nettle. It was like a burning fire, and this woke up *Elisa*. It was broad daylight, and close to where she had been sleeping there lay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dreams. Then she fell on her knees, thanked the *Good Lord*, and went out of the cave to begin her labour. She grasped the horrible nettles with her fine hands – they were like fire. They brought out great blisters on her hands and arms. But she was more than willing to suffer this as long as she could save her dear brothers. She broke each nettle with her bare feet, and twisted the green flax into linen. When the sun had set, her brothers came and were alarmed to find her so silent. They thought it was a new spell cast by the wicked stepmother. But when they saw her hands, they realised what she was doing for their sake. The youngest brother cried. Wherever his tears fell she felt no pain and the stinging blisters disappeared. She spent the whole night at her labour, for she could find no rest until she had saved her dear brothers. All the following day, while the swans were away, she sat there all on her own, but time had never flown by so quickly. One shirt of mail was already finished. Now she started on the next one. Then hunting horns rang out between the mountains. She was terrified. The sound drew closer, and she heard dogs barking. She fled into the cave and sat on the bundle of nettles she had gathered and combed into fibres. At that very moment, a great hunting dog leapt out of the undergrowth, and immediately afterwards one more, then yet another. They barked loudly, ran back, and came out again. Before many minutes had passed, all the hunters were standing outside the cave, and the handsomest among them was the country’s king – he walked up to *Elisa*. Never had he seen a more beautiful young woman. ‘How have you come here, you lovely child!’ he said. *Elisa* shook her head. She dared not speak: her brothers’ lives and freedom depended on her silence. She hid her hands under her apron so that the king would not see what suffering she had to undergo. ‘Follow me!’ he said, ‘you cannot stay here! If you are as good as you are beautiful, I will dress you in silks and velvet, place a gold crown on your head, and you shall dwell in my richest castle!’ – and then he lifted her up onto his horse. She cried and wrung her hands, but the king said: ‘I only desire your happiness! Some day you will thank me for this!’ He rode off between the mountains, holding her in front of him on his horse, with his hunters following behind. At sunset, the magnificent royal city lay before them, with its churches and domes. The king led her into the castle. Great fountains splashed in tall marble halls, and paintings covered the walls and ceilings. But she noticed none of it. She wept and grieved. She let the women dress her in all the royal garments, plait pearls in her hair, and pull fine gloves over her badly stung fingers. When she stood there in all her splendour, she was so dazzlingly beautiful that the court bowed even more deeply to her. The king chose her as his bride, although the archbishop, a senior leader of the Church, shook his head and whispered that the beautiful forest girl was without doubt a witch who had blinded them and spellbound the king’s heart. But the king refused to listen. He ordered music to be played, the most exquisite dishes to be brought in, the loveliest girls to dance round her. She was led through sweet-smelling gardens into magnificent halls. But not a smile passed her lips or shone from her eyes – sorrow stood etched there for ever. Now the king opened the door to a small room close to where she was to sleep. It was decorated with priceless green tapestries and looked just like the cave where she had been. On the floor there lay the flax from which she had made linen, and under the ceiling hung the shirt of mail that had been completed. One of the hunters had brought all these things along as curiosities. ‘Here you can dream you are back in your former home!’ the king said. ‘Here is the work that you were occupied with there; now, in the midst of all your splendour, it will amuse you to recall how things were.’ When *Elisa* saw what was so dear to her heart, a smile played on her lips, and the blood returned to her cheeks. She thought of saving her brothers and kissed the king’s hand. He clasped her to his bosom and had all the church bells announce the wedding festivities. The lovely mute girl from the forest was the country’s queen. The archbishop whispered evil words in the king’s ear, but they did not reach his heart. The wedding would go ahead. The archbishop himself had to crown her. Out of spite, he pressed the narrow crown down so hard on her forehead that it hurt – but there was a heavier ring around her heart: her grieving for her brothers. So she did not feel the physical pain. Her lips remained silent, for one word would mean her brothers losing their lives, but in her eyes there lay a deep love of the good, handsome king who did all he could to make her happy. He became dearer to her for every day that passed. Oh, if only she could confide in him, tell him of her torment! But she had to remain silent. In silence she had to complete her task. So she slid away from his side at night, went into the small room that was decked out like the cave and completed one shirt of mail after the other – but when she started on the seventh, she did not have any more flax. She knew that there were nettles in the churchyard that she could use, but she had to pick them herself. How was she to get there? ‘Oh, what is the pain in my fingers compared to the torment my heart suffers!’ she thought, ‘I must risk it! The Good Lord will not abandon me!’ In an agony of fear, as if she was committing some dreadful deed, she tiptoed through the moonlit night down into the garden, then along the long avenues and through the lonely streets to the churchyard. There, on one of the widest gravestones she saw a circle of ghouls, horrible witches – they took their rags off as if they were going to bathe, then dug into the fresh graves with their long skinny fingers, lifted out the dead bodies and began to devour them. *Elisa* had to pass close by them, and they fixed their evil eyes on her, but she said her prayers, gathered the stinging nettles and carried them back to the castle. Only the archbishop had seen her: he was awake while the others slept. Now he felt his suspicions about the queen were proved. She was a witch, he thought, who had enchanted the king and all the people. In the confessional, where people tell a priest their sins, he told the king what he had seen and what he feared. When these hard words came from his lips, the carved figures of the saints shook their heads, as if they wanted to say: It is untrue, *Elisa* is innocent! But the archbishop took this differently. He claimed they were speaking against her, that they were shaking their heads at her sin. Two heavy tears rolled down the king’s cheeks. He went home with doubt in his heart. At night he pretended to sleep, but found no restful sleep. He saw *Elisa* get out of bed. Every night she did the same, and every night he silently followed her and watched her disappear into her small room. As each day passed, his expression darkened. *Elisa* noticed this but did not understand why. Yet it alarmed her, and how her heart suffered for her brothers! Down onto the royal velvet and purple flowed her salt tears. They lay there like glittering diamonds, and all those who saw the great splendour wanted to be the queen. Soon, however, her work would be finished. Only one shirt of mail remained—but now she had run out of flax. Not a single nettle was left. Once more, just this last time, she would have to go to the graveyard and pick some more handfuls. She thought anxiously about the lonely walk, and the terrifying lamias, the witches from the graveyard. But her will was unwavering, just as her trust was in the Good Lord. *Elisa* set off, but the king and archbishop followed. They saw her pass through the graveyard’s wrought-iron gate. As they drew closer, they saw the lamias on the gravestone, just as *Elisa* had seen them. The king turned away. He imagined his wife among them—the woman whose head had rested on his chest that very night. ‘The people must pass judgment on her!’ he said, and the people did so – she was to be burnt in a blazing fire. From the magnificent royal halls she was taken down into a dark, damp dungeon where the wind whistled in through the barred window. Instead of velvet and silk they gave her the bundle of nettles she had gathered. She was to rest her head on that – the hard, stinging shirts of mail she had plaited were to be her blanket and bedspread. But they could not have given her anything more precious – she resumed her labour once more and prayed to her God. Outside, the street children sang mocking songs about her; not a soul comforted her with a kind word. Then, as evening drew near, a swan’s wing swished close by the bars of her window – it was the youngest brother. He had found his sister, and she sobbed aloud with happiness, although she knew that the night that lay ahead might well be her last. But now her work was almost complete and her brothers were here. The archbishop came to spend the last hour with her, as he had promised the king. But she shook her head and showed by her expression that he must leave. That night she had to finish her work, or everything would have been in vain—everything: the pain, tears and sleepless nights. The archbishop left with cruel words, but poor *Elisa* knew that she was innocent and continued her labour. The small mice ran across the floor. They dragged the nettles over to her feet, to help her a little. The thrush sat by the bars of the window and sang all night long, as cheerfully as it could, so that she would not lose heart. Daybreak was still an hour away when the eleven brothers reached the castle gate and demanded to see the king. That was impossible, they were told: it was still night, the king was asleep and no one dared wake him. They begged, they threatened. The guard came, and finally the king himself stepped out to ask what was happening. At that moment the sun rose. The brothers vanished, and high above the castle flew eleven wild swans. People poured out of the city gate. They wanted to see the witch burnt. A pitiful horse pulled the cart in which she sat. She had been dressed in a smock, a loose garment, made of coarse sackcloth. Her lovely long hair hung loosely round her beautiful head. Her cheeks were deathly pale, her lips moved slightly, but her fingers were twisting the green flax – even on her way to death, she kept working. Ten shirts of mail lay at her feet. She was weaving the eleventh. The mob mocked her. ‘Just look at the witch, how she’s muttering! No hymn book in her hands, oh no, she’s still up to her evil magic – take it from her and tear it into a thousand pieces!’ And they all crowded round her and wanted to tear it to pieces. Then eleven swans flew down, sat round her on the cart and beat their great wings. Then the crowd drew aside in fear. ‘It’s a sign from heaven! She must surely be innocent!’ many whispered, but they did not dare to say it out loud. The executioner took her hand. She hurriedly threw the eleven shirts of mail over the swans, and there stood eleven handsome princes. But the youngest had a swan’s wing instead of an arm. One sleeve of his shirt was missing: she had not had time to finish it. ‘Now I dare speak!’ she said, ‘I am innocent!’ And the people who saw what had happened bowed deeply to her as to a female saint. But she sank lifeless in her brothers’ arms—the tension, anxiety and pain had overwhelmed her. ‘Yes, she is indeed innocent!’ the eldest brother said. He explained everything that had happened. As he spoke, a scent like that of a million roses spread out. Every piece of firewood had taken root and grown branches. A tall, fragrant bush of red roses stood there, with one white flower gleaming like a star at its very top. The king picked it and placed it on *Elisa’s* breast. She woke with peace and bliss in her heart. And all the church bells rang of their own accord and the birds came in great flocks; there was a wedding procession back to the castle such as no king had ever seen before. ## Modernization notes - shirts of mail, → shirts of mail, shaped like chain armour,: Shirts of mail usually means chain armour. Here the shirts are woven from plant fibres, with the shape of armour; they are not made of metal. - started to eat their flesh → began to devour them: Exception for children: the witches still dig up bodies and eat them. The explicit detail of eating flesh is omitted. ## Parts - [1](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-wild-swans?format=markdown) - [2](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-wild-swans?format=markdown&part=2) ## Presented text (with modernization) © OpenClassics.org — All rights reserved. ## Original text Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales and Stories, 2022, The Hans Christian Andersen Centre, University of Southern Denmark, Odense - author: Hans Christian Andersen - translator: John Irons ## Illustration [Harry Clarke](https://www.openclassics.org/api/illustrations/204ac1af-e7c0-4e37-b249-a638c6a6dd96) — Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen, 1916, George G. Harrap & Company ## Reading music Nocturne, Op. 9 — No. 3 Frédéric Chopin Xuan He (piano) [CC BY 4.0](https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/) ## Quiz ### Which stinging plant was already made into fabric in the Bronze Age? - Cacti - Nettles (Correct answer) - Holly Cloth really can be made from nettles. Archaeologists have found evidence that people used nettle fibres for clothing in the Bronze Age. [nhm.ac.uk — stinging nettles](https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/stinging-nettles.html) ### What makes a nettle sting? - Sharp wooden thorns - Invisible insects on every leaf - Tiny hairs releasing irritating substances (Correct answer) A nettle's sting comes from tiny needle-like hairs. When their tips break, they release irritating chemicals. [nhm.ac.uk — stinging nettles](https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/stinging-nettles.html) ### Where do many whooper swans migrate from to spend winter in Britain? - Iceland (Correct answer) - Australia - South Africa Wild swans can cross the sea. Whooper swans migrate from Iceland to Britain to spend the winter. [wwt.org.uk — whoopers return 2](https://www.wwt.org.uk/wetland-centres/martin-mere/news/whoopers-return-2) ### What do down feathers trap to keep birds warm? - Sunlight stored like a battery - Air (Correct answer) - Grains of sand Down feathers keep birds warm by trapping air close to the body. Their loose, fluffy structure works like a tiny insulating blanket. [academy.allaboutbirds.org — ](https://academy.allaboutbirds.org/feathers-article/) ### In which century did Andersen's The Wild Swans first appear? - The nineteenth (Correct answer) - The seventeenth - The twentieth The Wild Swans was first published on 2 October 1838. Andersen's story has been travelling between readers for nearly two centuries. [andersen.sdu.dk — info\_e.html?oph=1&vid=21](https://andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/register/info_e.html?oph=1&vid=21) ## Other languages - [Français](https://www.openclassics.org/fr/stories/the-wild-swans?format=markdown) - [简体中文](https://www.openclassics.org/zh/stories/the-wild-swans?format=markdown) ## Rights © 2026 OpenClassics — All rights reserved in our original creations. [Rights](https://www.openclassics.org/information/terms)