Sexy Art for Women.

 

The Nymph of the Fountain.

After J. K. A. Musäus. Illustrations by Ignaz Taschner.
Text edited by Hans Fraungruber.
Published by Martin Gerlach & Co. Vienna and Leipzig.
Translated 11-07-2026

 

Printed by Christoph Reißer’s Söhne, Vienna V.

 

Three miles beyond Dinkelsbühl in Swabia, there once stood an old

robber-baron’s castle belonging to a stalwart knight named Wackermann

Uhlfinger--the very flower of fist-and-mace-wielding knighthood, and

the terror of the Swabian League cities as well as of all travelers and

carters who had not purchased a letter of safe-conduct from him. When

Wackermann donned his cuirass and helmet, strapped on his sword,

and the golden spurs clinked at his heels, he was--in keeping with the

customs of his day--a rough, hard-hearted man who deemed robbery and

pillaging the prerogative of the nobility; he waged feuds against the

weak and, being himself a vigorous and martial man, recognized no law

other than the right of the strong. Whenever the cry went up, "Uhlfinger

is approaching! Wackermann is coming!" terror would grip all of Swabia;

the people fled into fortified towns, and watchmen on the ramparts

sounded their horns to herald the imminent danger. Yet at home, once

he had laid aside his armor, this dreaded man was as gentle as a lamb,

as hospitable as an Arab, a good-natured family man, and a tender husband.

His wife was a gentle, loving woman--modest and virtuous--who managed

their household with great diligence. She was also the mother of two

daughters, whom she raised with great care to be virtuous and skilled in

domestic arts. In this cloister-like seclusion, nothing disturbed her

contentment save her husband’s brigandage and his enrichment through

ill-gotten gains. She disapproved of these raids in her heart, and took no

pleasure in the magnificent fabrics--interwoven with gold and silver--that

he would gift her for splendid gowns. "What use is this rubbish to me,"

she often said to herself, "laden as it is with sighs and tears?" With a

secret aversion, she would toss these gifts into her chest and deign to

look at them no more; she took pity on the unfortunate souls who fell

into Wackermann’s clutches, often securing their release through her

intercession and providing them with a small sum for their journey.

 

At the foot of the castle hill, hidden deep within the thicket, lay a bountiful

rock spring. It welled up inside a natural grotto said--according to ancient

folklore--to be inhabited by a water nymph known as the “Nixe”; rumor

had it that she would occasionally reveal herself whenever strange events

unfolded at the castle. The noble lady would often stroll alone to this

spring whenever she wished to breathe fresh air outside the gloomy castle

walls during her husband’s absence, or to quietly perform acts of charity

unseen by others. On one occasion, Wackermann had ridden out with his

retainers to lie in wait for merchants returning from the Augsburg market,

and he stayed away longer than expected. This distressed the gentle lady;

she feared some misfortune had befallen her lord--that he had been slain

or had fallen into enemy hands. Her heart was so heavy with worry that

she could find neither rest nor peace. For days, she had been tormented

by the struggle between fear and hope, often calling out to the dwarf who

kept watch on the tower: "Kleinhänsel, look out! What rustles through the

forest? What clatters in the valley? Where does the dust swirl? Is

Wackermann trotting this way?" But Kleinhänsel would answer most

dismally: "Nothing stirs in the forest, no one rides in the valley; no dust

swirls, no plume waves in the wind." She continued this vigil into the night,

as the evening star rose and the glowing full moon peered over the eastern

mountains. Unable to bear remaining within the four walls of her chamber

any longer, She threw on her rain-cloak, stole through the small gate into the

beech grove, and made her way to her favorite spot--the Crystal Spring--so that

she might dwell upon her sorrowful thoughts undisturbed. Tears streamed

from her eyes, and her gentle mouth parted in melodic lamentations that

mingled with the sound of the brook as it murmured through the grass, flowing

away from the spring.

 

As she approached the grotto, it seemed to her that a faint shadow was

hovering near the entrance; yet, because her heart was so troubled, she

paid it little heed, and the initial sight prompted the fleeting thought that

the incoming moonlight was conjuring up an illusory shape. As she drew

nearer, the white figure seemed to stir and beckon to her with its hand. A

shudder ran through her at this, but she did not retreat; she stood her

ground to see clearly what it might be. She was well aware of the local

legend concerning the water-sprite’s well. She now recognized the white

woman as the nymph of the well, and the apparition seemed to herald a

significant event for her family. What thought could be closer to her mind

at that moment than the thought of her husband? She tore at her dark, curly

hair and raised a loud lament: "Alas, this wretched day! Wackermann!

Wackermann! You have fallen; you are cold and dead! You have made

me a widow and your children orphans!" While she lamented and wrung

her hands, she heard a gentle voice from within the grotto: "Mathilde, have

no fear; I bring you no tidings of misfortune. Approach with confidence;

I am your friend and long to converse with you." The noble lady found

nothing alarming in the water-sprite’s appearance or speech, so she

summoned the courage to accept the invitation; she entered the grotto,

where the inhabitant kindly offered her hand, kissed her on the forehead,

sat familiarly beside her, and spoke: "Welcome to my dwelling, dear

mortal; your heart is as pure and clear as the water of my well, and for

this reason, the invisible powers are favorably disposed toward you." I

wish to reveal the destiny of your life to you--the only favor I can grant

you. Your husband lives, and before the cock crows to herald the morning,

he will be back in your arms. Do not fear to mourn him; the spring of your

life will run dry sooner than his. Yet before that, you shall kiss a daughter

who, upon the wavering scales of fate, will experience both happiness and

misfortune. The stars are not unkind to her, but a hostile counter-influence

will rob the orphaned child of the joy of a mother’s care.

 

The noble lady was deeply saddened to hear that her little daughter

would be deprived of a mother's faithful care, and she burst into

loud weeping. The nymph was moved by this; "Do not weep," she

said, "I will act as a mother to your child when you can no longer

guide her--but on the condition that you choose me as the tender

maiden's godmother, so that I may have a share in her life. Bear in

mind, too, that if you entrust the child to my care, she must return

to me the christening coin that I shall bestow upon her." Lady

Mathilde agreed to this request; the water-nymph then took a

smooth stream-pebble and gave it to her, instructing her to have

a faithful maidservant cast it into the well at the proper time and

hour as a token of the invitation to stand as godmother. Lady

Mathilde promised faithfully to carry out all these instructions,

treasured every word in her heart, and returned to the castle; the

nymph, meanwhile, went back into the well and vanished.

 

Not long after, the dwarf trumpeted joyfully from the tower, and

Wackermann rode into the courtyard in high spirits with his retinue,

laden with rich spoils. A year later, it came to pass that Wackermann

received a challenge from a knight whom he had insulted while

drinking--a man intent on a fight to the death. He diligently prepared

himself and his armed men; yet as he was about to mount his horse and

bid his wife farewell--as was his custom--she anxiously inquired about

his plans. Contrary to her usual manner, she pressed him to reveal whom

he was setting out to fight; and when he gently chided her for this

unusual curiosity, she covered her face and wept bitterly. This touched

the noble knight deeply, yet he did not waver; he mounted his steed and

hastened to the lists, clashed fiercely with his opponent, slew him after

a valiant joust, and returned home in triumph.

 

His virtuous wife welcomed him with open arms, caressed him

affectionately, and persisted--using smooth words and sweet flattery--in

trying to draw out of him the details of the adventure he had just

undergone. Yet he quickly closed his heart, barred every avenue of

access with the bolt of unresponsiveness, and revealed nothing to her;

instead, he remarked mockingly: "Oh, Mother Eve, your daughters have

not strayed far from the mold; curiosity and meddlesomeness remain

the heritage of women to this very day." "Forgive me, dear husband,"

the clever woman replied, "but men, too, have received their fair share

of Mother Eve’s inheritance. The difference is simply that a devoted

wife has--and ought to have--no secrets from her husband. I would

wager that if my heart were to conceal something from you, you would

neither rest nor sleep until you had coaxed my secret out of me." "And I,"

he retorted, "give you my word that your secret will not concern me in the

least; you are free to put this to the test." That was precisely the opening

Mistress Mathilde had been hoping for. "Very well, then, dear sir," she

said, "allow me to choose one of the godmothers to hold my newborn babe

at the baptismal font. I have taken a friend into my heart--one unknown to

you--and it is my wish that you never press me to reveal who she is, whence

she comes, or where she dwells. If you pledge this upon your knightly honor

and keep your word, I shall concede the wager and freely admit that the male

spirit triumphs over female frailty." Wackermann gave his wife his solemn

promise, and she rejoiced deeply at the success of her cunning ruse.

Wackermann rode out in high spirits to invite his neighbors and friends to

stand as godparents. They all gathered on the appointed day, and when the

wife heard the sound of carriages, the neighing of horses, and the commotion

of the household staff, she summoned a trusted maidservant and said: "Take

this stream-pebble, cast it silently behind you into the water-sprite’s well,

and make haste to carry out what you have been ordered to do." The maid

obeyed the command, and before she returned, an unknown lady entered the

reception room; she bowed modestly to the assembled ladies and gentlemen,

and when the infant was brought forward and the officiant stepped up to the

font, she took her place at the head of the godparents. Everyone respectfully

made way for her as a stranger, and she was the first to hold the child in her

arms over the baptismal font. All eyes were fixed upon her. She was so

beautiful, so demure, and yet so magnificently attired in a flowing gown of

water-blue silk with slashed sleeves lined with white satin; over this, she was

adorned with jewels and pearls as lavishly as the Holy Virgin of Loreto on a

high feast day. A brilliant sapphire held the sheer veil in place--a veil that

floated down in wispy clouds from the crown of her intricately coiled hair,

past her shoulders, all the way to her heels--yet the hem of the veil was wet,

as if it had been dragged through water. The unexpected appearance of the

stranger lady had so distracted the godparents during the solemn rite that

they forgot to give the child a name; consequently, the priest baptized her

Mathilde, after her mother. Once the baptismal rite was concluded, little

Mathilde was brought back to the spot, and all the godparents followed to

offer their congratulations and bestow the traditional christening gift upon

the infant. The mother appeared somewhat taken aback at the sight of the

stranger--presumably out of astonishment that the water-sprite had so

faithfully kept her word. She cast a furtive glance at her husband, who

responded with an inscrutable smile while otherwise appearing to take no

further notice of the stranger. The christening gift now claimed the

recipient's attention; a golden shower poured down from generous hands

upon the child. Finally, the unknown woman approached with her

christening gift, defying the expectations of all the other godparents.

They anticipated a jewel or a keepsake of great value from the elegant

lady--especially when she drew out a silk handkerchief and unfolded

it with great deliberation--but she had wrapped nothing inside it save

for a pomander turned from wood; she laid this solemnly upon the

child’s cradle, kissed the mother kindly on the forehead, and left the room.

A murmur of hushed whispers arose among the onlookers regarding this

paltry gift, soon erupting into derisive laughter. There was no shortage of

spiteful remarks; yet, as the knight and his lady maintained a profound

silence, the inquisitive and the gossips were left with nothing but idle

speculation to feast upon. The mysterious woman did not reappear, and

no one could say whither she had vanished. Wackermann was secretly

tormented by a desire to discover the identity of the stranger--whom

everyone called "the Lady with the Wet Veil," since no one knew her

name--but he was held back by a knightly reluctance to betray a

weakness and by the inviolability of his pledged word. He resolved to

coax the secret from her eventually. Yet in this, he miscalculated; Lady

Mathilde knew how to guard her tongue, keeping the insoluble riddle

as carefully in her heart as the pomander in her jewel box.

Before the young lady had outgrown her leading strings, the nymph’s

prophecy regarding the good mother came to pass; she fell ill suddenly

and died, having no time to think of the musk-apple or to dispose of it

for little Mathilde’s benefit as the water-sprite had directed. Her

husband was away at the time, attending a tournament in Augsburg,

and was returning home crowned with a knightly commendation from

Emperor Frederick. When the dwarf in the tower saw his master

approaching from afar, he blew his horn as was his custom to announce

his arrival to the household staff; yet he did not sound a joyful note as

usual, but instead blared a mournful melody. This pierced the knight’s

heart and troubled his soul. "What sound," he said, "rings in my ears?

Do you hear it, squires? Is that not the croak of the crow and a dirge

for the dead? Little Hansel heralds no good news." The squires were

all dismayed and looked sadly at their master; one of them spoke up,

saying: "That is the cry of the bird Kreideweiß--may God avert

misfortune--there is a corpse in the house!" Then Wackermann spurred

his stallion and galloped across the open field, sending sparks flying.

The drawbridge was lowered; he gazed anxiously into the castle

courtyard and, to his sorrow, beheld the sign of death displayed before

his door--an unlit lantern adorned with a fluttering black veil, and all

the window shutters closed. From within, he heard the sobbing and

wailing of the servants, for Lady Mathilde had just been laid out for

burial. At the head of the coffin sat the two elder daughters, draped

in mourning cloth and veils, weeping countless tears for their

departed mother. At the foot of the coffin sat the youngest, the darling

daughter; As yet unable to comprehend her loss, she playfully and with

childish unconcern plucked apart the remnants of the flowers adorning

the corpse. This poignant sight overcame Wackermann’s manly

fortitude; he wept and lamented aloud, threw himself upon the ice-cold

body, bathed the pale cheeks with his tears, pressed his trembling mouth

against the lifeless lips, and gave free rein to all the anguish in his heart.

Afterward, he hung up his weapons in the armory, sat by the coffin--clad

in a broad-brimmed hat and a black mourning cloak--mourning his

departed wife and paying her his final respects with solemn funeral rites.

 

[14] Yet, since--as a great man once remarked--the most intense pains

are always the briefest, the deeply grieving widower soon forgot his

heartache and replaced his lost spouse with a second wife, who was

the very antithesis of the pious, modest Mathilde. Consequently,

the management of the household took on a different character; the

young woman loved splendor and extravagance, and behaved haughtily

and imperiously toward the servants; there was no end to the feasting

and banqueting. Little Mathilde was placed under the care of a nursemaid

and moved to a remote little room, where she was kept well out of sight

of the vain woman, who had no desire to concern herself with domestic

cares. Her lavish spending grew to such an extent that the proceeds from

the knight’s practice of "fist-law"--tireless though he was in this

pursuit--no longer sufficed to cover the costs; she often found herself

compelled to plunder the estate of her predecessor, turning the rich

fabrics into cash or borrowing money against them. One day, while

rummaging through drawers and chests in search of something valuable,

she stumbled upon a secret compartment in a vanity cabinet and, to her

great delight, discovered Lady Mathilde’s jewel box. The sparkling

gems--diamond rings, earrings, bracelets, apron clasps, and other

ornaments--captivated her greedy eyes. She examined everything

closely, inspecting piece by piece, and calculated in her mind the

profit this magnificent find would yield. Among these treasures, her

eye fell upon the wooden pomander. For a long time, she did not know

what to make of it; she tried to unscrew it, but the wood had swollen

shut. She weighed it in her hand and found it as light as a hollow nut;

That is why she thought it was just some spare ring case, and since

she didn't know what to do with it, she threw it out the window as an

object of no value whatsoever.

 

As it happened, little Mathilde was sitting down in the kennel garden,

playing with her doll. When she saw the wooden ball rolling along the

sand, she dropped her doll and reached for the new toy with childish

eagerness, taking just as much delight in this find as her mother had

in hers. She amused herself with the plaything for many days, never

letting it out of her hands. One fine summer day, the nursemaid felt

a desire to enjoy the cool freshness of the rock spring with her young

charge. Around vesper time, the child asked for her honey-roll, which

the nursemaid had forgotten to bring along. Not yet wishing to return,

and wanting to keep the little girl happy, she went into the bushes to

pick a handful of raspberries. Meanwhile, the child played with the

pomander, tossing it back and forth like a ball, until one throw went

awry and--quite literally--her childish joy fell into the well. Instantly,

a young lady appeared, as beautiful as an angel and as gracious as a

Grace. Startled, the child thought she was seeing her stepmother, who

always scolded and beat her whenever she came into sight. But the

nymph caressed her with gentle words: "Fear nothing, dear little one;

I am your godmother--come to me. Look, here is the toy that fell into

the well." With this, she coaxed the child to her, took her onto her lap,

pressed her tenderly to her bosom, cuddled and kissed little Mathilde,

and moistened the child's face with tears. "Poor orphan," she said,

"I promised to take a mother's place for you, and I shall keep that promise.

Visit me often; you will always find me at this grotto whenever you drop a

stone into the well." "Keep this pomander safe and do not play with it again,

lest you lose it; one day it will grant you three wishes. When you grow

older, I will tell you more; for now, you cannot grasp it." She gave her

further good counsel befitting the child's age and bade her keep silent; the

nurse returned, and the nymph vanished.

Little Mathilde had the good sense not to mention anything about

her godmother to the nurse; upon returning home, she asked for a

needle and thread and carefully sewed the musk-apple into the

lining of her dress. Her thoughts were fixed entirely on the

Mermaid’s Well; whenever the weather permitted, she would

suggest a walk there to her guardian. Since the guardian could

deny the charming girl nothing--and perhaps because this

inclination seemed innate, given that the grotto had been her

mother’s favorite haunt--she readily granted the child’s wish.

Mathilde would then always find a pretext to send the nurse

away; the moment the woman turned her back, the stone would

drop into the water, bringing the clever girl the company of her

lovely godmother. After a few years, the little orphan blossomed

into young womanhood; she lived quietly among the household

staff, sitting in her chamber and attending to domestic chores,

yet--once the day’s work was done--she found ample compensation

for the lively pleasures she lacked in the company of the nymph at

the well. The nymph was not merely her companion and friend but

also her teacher, instructing the young lady in all manner of feminine

arts and molding her character entirely after the example of her

virtuous mother.

One day, the nymph seemed to redouble her affection for the

charming Mathilde; she clasped her in her arms, let her head

rest upon the young lady’s shoulders, and was so filled with

melancholy and sorrow that the maiden joined in her mood

and could not refrain from letting a few tears fall upon the hand

of her godmother--a hand she was, at that moment, silently

pressing to her lips. This gentle sympathy made the nymph

even more sorrowful; "Child," she said in a mournful voice,

"you weep without knowing why, yet your tears are a premonition

of your destiny. A great change awaits the house upon the hill;

before the reaper whets his scythe and the wind blows across the

wheat-stubble, it will stand desolate and waste. When the castle

maidens go out at dusk to draw water from my well and return with

empty buckets, know that misfortune is approaching. Guard the

musk-apple well--it shall grant you three wishes--and do not

squander them! Fare you well; we shall not meet again in this place."

Thereupon, she instructed the maiden in certain magical properties

of the apple--to be used in times of need--and wept and sobbed so

bitterly as she departed that words failed her, and she was never

seen again.

 

Around the time of the wheat harvest, the water-bearers returned to the

castle one evening with empty pitchers--pale, terrified, and trembling

in every limb as if shaken by the chills of a fever--reporting that the

White Lady was sitting by the well, wringing her hands and wailing

in a manner that boded ill. The soldiers and men-at-arms mocked this,

dismissing it as an illusion and old wives' tales. Driven by curiosity,

some ventured out to investigate the truth of the matter; they saw the

apparition themselves, yet mustered the courage to approach the well.

By the time they arrived, the figure had vanished, giving rise to all

manner of speculation and interpretation; yet no one hit upon the true

meaning--known only to Fräulein Mathilde, though she kept it to

herself, for the nymph had sworn her to silence. She sat alone and

despondent in her chamber, filled with dread and anticipation of what

was to come.

 

[19] Wackermann Uhlfinger could never rob and plunder enough to

satisfy his extravagant wife; when he was not out waylaying travelers,

she ensured he lived in luxury day after day, summoning his drinking

companions and keeping him in a whirl of pleasure so that he never

roused himself to notice the ruin of his household. Whenever

ready cash or provisions ran low, the wagons of Jakob Fugger

or the rich shipments of Venetian merchants provided fresh spoils.

Weary of these depredations--and since admonitions and warnings

had proved fruitless--the General Congress of the Swabian League

resolved upon Uhlfinger’s downfall. Before he realized the gravity

of the threat, the banners of the League’s cities were already flying

before the gates of his mountain stronghold, leaving him no choice

but to sell his life dearly. Bombards and blunderbusses shook the

ramparts, and crossbowmen on both sides did their utmost; a hail of

bolts and arrows filled the air, and one of them--loosed in an ill-fated

moment when Wackermann’s guardian spirit had forsaken

him--pierced the visor of his helmet and drove deep into his brain,

causing him to reel and collapse instantly into the cold slumber of

death. The fall of their commander threw the garrison into great

consternation; the faint-hearted hoisted a white flag, only for the

brave to tear it down from the tower again. Perceiving the disorder

and confusion reigning within the castle, the besiegers launched an

assault, scaled the walls, seized the gate, lowered the drawbridge,

and put everyone they encountered to the sword. Even the woman

who had caused the calamity--that spendthrift creature--was slain

along with all her children by the furious soldiery, who were as

embittered against the predatory nobility as the insurgents in the

Swabian Peasants' War would later be. The castle was thoroughly

looted, set ablaze, and razed to the ground.

 

The Nymph of the Fountain.

Continued on the bottom of the next page.