Sexy Art for Women.

Nymph of the Fountain.

 

Before daybreak, while the morning dew was still gathering in

small droplets on the grass, she continued her uncertain pilgrimage

and soon arrived at a village, where a kind-hearted peasant woman

took her in and refreshed her with a morsel of bread and a bowl of

milk. She exchanged her garments for peasant clothes with this

woman and joined a caravan of teamsters who were heading to

Augsburg. In her wretched, destitute state, she had no choice but to

seek employment as a maidservant; yet, as it was not the usual season

for hiring, she could find no master for a long time. Count Konrad von

Schwabeck--a German Knight of the Cross, as well as the secular

protector and advocate of the Diocese of Augsburg--owned a

commandery there, where he was accustomed to staying during the

winter. In his absence, a housekeeper named Frau Gertrud managed

the household. This woman was notorious throughout the city as a

shrew; no servant could endure her, for she would storm and rage

through the house like a poltergeist. The maids feared the rattling of

her keys just as children feared the bogeyman; the slightest

oversight--or even merely her foul moods--would result in blows to

heads or the smashing of pots; in short, if one wished to describe a

wicked woman, one would say she was as terrible as Frau Trude

of the commandery. One day, she exercised her disciplinary authority

so violently that all the servants fled; it was then that gentle Mathilde

arrived and offered her services. To conceal her noble bearing, she

had padded one shoulder to make herself appear deformed; a broad

headscarf hid her silky blonde hair; and she had smeared soot over her

face and hands to simulate a swarthy, Gypsy-like complexion. As she

announced her arrival and pulled the door-bell, Frau Gertrud stuck her

head out of the window; catching sight of the strange figure, she took

her for a beggar and called down: "This is no charity office; go to the

Fuggerei--that’s where they hand out alms!" and hastily slammed the

window shut. Fräulein Mathilde was not deterred; she kept ringing

until the woman in charge reappeared, intending to meet such

importunity with a torrent of scolding. But before the woman could

open her toothless mouth, the young lady explained the nature of her

request. "Who are you," asked Gertrud, "and what can you do?" The

disguised maiden replied:

 

"I am an orphan, Mathilde by name; I can press and smooth, sew and

spin, embroider and knit, chop and pound, roast and cook; I am

skilled of hand, and nimble and deft." When the housekeeper heard

this little rhyme and learned that the nut-brown girl possessed so

many fine talents, she opened the door, gave her the hiring fee, and

took her into the kitchen. She attended to her duties so faithfully that

Mistress Gertrud quite lost the habit of hurling pots at targets.

Though she remained stern and surly, finding fault with everything

and insisting she knew best, the maidservant never once argued back;

instead, through gentleness and forbearance, she deflected the outbursts

of the woman's black bile. Gertrud became more bearable and improved

more than she had in years--proof that pious servants also foster

good governance, fair weather, and masters who are both godly and

faithful. Around the time of the first snowfall, the mistress of the house

had the entire dwelling swept and cleaned, the windows washed,

the curtains hung, and everything prepared for the arrival of her

lord; he arrived at the onset of winter, surrounded by a colorful

retinue of servants and a great throng of horses and hunting dogs.

Mathilde paid little heed to the lord's arrival; her kitchen work had

increased to such an extent that she took no time to look out for him.

By chance, however, she encountered him in the courtyard one

morning as she was drawing water. His gleaming eye, his cheerful

countenance, the air of well-being and abundance about him, his wavy,

lightly curled hair--partially hidden beneath the shadowing ostrich

plumes of a hat pulled low over his brow in a masculine fashion--and

his firm stride and noble bearing pleased her greatly. For the first

time, she now felt the vast gulf between the station in life into which

an unhappy fate had cast her and the one into which she had been

born; this realization weighed upon her more heavily than the heavy

bucket of water. She returned to the kitchen, lost in thought, and for

the first time oversalted all the broths--earning herself a harsh

reprimand from the housekeeper.

 

Count Konrad seemed to live solely for pleasure; he missed no

festivity or merry banquet in the wealthy city, which trade with

the Venetians had made opulent. Now there would be a tilting

match or a joust at the lists, then a change of the town council

or some other splendid celebration; nor was there any lack of

public round dances at the town hall, in the market square, and

throughout the streets, where noblemen bestowed gold rings and

silk scarves upon the daughters of burghers and engaged in playful

banter. When the Carnival revelries began, the frenzy of joy seemed

to reach its peak. Fräulein Mathilde took no part in any of this; she

sat in the smoky kitchen, weeping until her longing eyes were sore,

and lamented the waywardness of Fortune--which showered its

favorites with the joys of life in torrents, yet begrudged the

unfortunate even a single happy moment. She still possessed the

musk-apple given to her by the Water-Nixie, which was to grant

her three wishes. She had never felt the desire to open it and test

the power within; now, however, the thought occurred to her to

make the first attempt. To honor Emperor Frederick upon the birth

of Prince Max, the citizens of Augsburg had arranged a magnificent

banquet--scheduled to last three days--to which they had invited

many prelates, counts, and lords from the surrounding region. Each

day, jousting contests were held for a prize; in the evenings, the

fairest maidens were escorted to the town hall to dance with the

noble knights, and the festivities continued until the break of dawn.

Knight Konrad did not fail to attend this celebration. Mathilde

resolved to embark upon an adventure on this occasion. After she had

finished her work in the kitchen and all was quiet in the house,

she went to her room, washed the sooty grime from her skin with fine

soap, and let lilies and roses bloom upon her complexion. Then she

took the musk-apple in her hand and wished for a new

dress--the most magnificent and splendid one imaginable--complete

with every accessory. She opened the lid, and out poured a length of

silk fabric; it stretched and spread, cascading down into her lap like

a rushing stream. When she examined it closely, she found a

complete outfit with all the matching trimmings, and the dress fit

her body to perfection. Filled with heartfelt joy, she turned the

magic apple three times in her hand and said: "Eyes shut tight,

stay still for the night!"

 

Before long, a deep sleep fell upon the entire household staff, from

the vigilant housekeeper down to the doorkeeper. In a flash, Fräulein

Mathilde slipped out the door, walked unseen through the streets,

and entered the ballroom with the poise of a Grace. Everyone

marveled at the lovely maiden’s figure, and a whispering sound arose

from the high gallery encircling the hall--like the murmur when

a preacher says "Amen" from the pulpit. Some admired the stranger’s

beautiful form, others the tastefulness of her attire, while others still

sought to know who she was and whence she came--though no one

could enlighten his neighbor on the matter. Among the noble knights

and gentlemen crowding forward to gaze at the unknown maiden, the

Knight of the Cross was not the last. He approached her and invited

her to dance; she modestly offered her hand and danced with

breathtaking grace. Her light foot seemed scarcely to touch the

ground, while the movement of her body was so noble and unforced

that she delighted every eye. Knight Konrad stayed constantly by

her side, whispering many a charming compliment; he was eager

to discover the stranger’s identity and where she lived, so that he

might pursue her. Yet all his inquiries were in vain; she parried

every question, and only with great effort did he extract a promise

that she would return to the dance the following day. He resolved

to outwit her should she fail to keep her word, and stationed servants

to lie in wait and discover her lodging--for he took her for a native of

Augsburg, whereas the other guests believed she belonged to the

Count’s circle of friends. Morning had already dawned before she

found an opportunity to slip away from the knight and leave the

ballroom. As soon as she stepped out of the hall, she turned the

musk-apple three times in her hand and recited her little rhyme:

"Night behind me, day before, May no one see me anymore;"

 

And so she reached her chamber without the Count’s twilight

birds--which fluttered up and down every street--noticing her.

Upon her return, she locked the silk dress away in the chest, put on

her dirty kitchen clothes again, and set about her work; she rose

earlier than the rest of the household staff--whom Mistress Gertrude

roused from their beds by jingling her bunch of keys--and earned

a word of praise from the housekeeper.

 

 

Every hour seemed like a year to him. At vesper-time, he prepared for

the ball, dressing more carefully than the day before; this time, the

three golden rings--ancient symbols of nobility--sparkled with

diamonds at the edge of his ruff. He was the first to arrive at the

scene of revelry, scanning every newcomer with the keen gaze of

an eagle and waiting impatiently for the appearance of his ball queen.

The evening star had already risen high on the horizon before the

young lady found a moment to go to her chamber. She wished for

a different gown--one of pink satin--along with jewels as beautiful

and magnificent as those worn by the daughters of kings. The obliging

pomander provided whatever lay within its power, and the attire

surpassed even her own expectations. She dressed herself with high

spirits, and with the talisman’s aid, she arrived--unseen by any mortal

eye--at the place where she was so eagerly awaited. She was more

beautiful than the day before; when the Knight of the Cross caught

sight of her, he once again led her out to dance, and the other couples

stepped aside to watch the magnificent pair waltz.

 

When the dance had ended, Count Konrad led the weary lady into a

side chamber under the pretext of seeking refreshment; there, with

the polished speech of a courtier, he uttered many flattering

words--such as a suitor might use when wooing a bride. The maiden

listened to the knight with bashful delight, then spoke with great

modesty: "Noble knight, what you have said to me today and

yesterday pleases my heart well, for I do not believe you speak

with deceitful words. Yet how can I become your wife, seeing that

you are a Knight of the Cross and have sworn a vow to remain unwed

all the days of your life?" The knight answered earnestly and

forthrightly: "You speak as a virtuous and wise maiden; therefore,

I shall now answer your honest question and resolve your doubt.

At the time I was admitted to the Order of the Cross, my brother

Wilhelm--the heir to our line--was still alive; but since he has

passed away, I have obtained a dispensation allowing me, as the

last of my lineage, to marry and renounce the Order should I so

choose. I firmly believe that Heaven has ordained you, and no other,

to be my wife. If, then, you do not refuse me your hand, nothing

shall sever our union but bitter death." "Reflect well," replied

Mathilde, "lest regret overtake you; for hasty action followed by

afterthought has brought much woe into the world. I am a stranger

to you; you know not my rank or station, nor whether I match you

in birth and fortune, or if it is but a borrowed luster that dazzles

your eyes." "It befits a man of your station to make no promise

lightly, yet to fulfill his pledge inviolably, in accordance with the

code of nobility." Knight Konrad hastily grasped her hand, pressed

it firmly to his heart, and spoke with warm affection: "I swear it upon

my soul and salvation! Were you," he continued, "the child of the

humblest man, I would still honorably take you as my wife and raise

you to high station." Thereupon, he drew a diamond ring of great

value from his finger, placed it on her hand as a pledge of his fidelity,

and continued: "To ensure you harbor no doubts regarding my

promise, I invite you to my home in three days' time; there, I shall

gather my friends--prelates and noblemen, as well as other men

of honor--to witness the formalizing of our union." Mathilde resisted

this with all her might, wishing first to test the constancy of his

intentions. He would not be dissuaded from seeking her consent,

however, and she gave neither a yes nor a no in response. As on the

previous day, the company parted at the break of dawn; Mathilde

vanished, and the knight--unable to find a moment’s sleep--summoned

the alert housekeeper at an early hour and ordered the preparation of

a magnificent banquet.

 

Just as Grim Death--that fearsome skeleton with the scythe--wanders

through palaces and straw huts alike, relentlessly mowing down and

strangling all he encounters, so too did Mistress Gertrud roam the

chicken and duck coops on the eve of the banquet; armed with a

slaughtering knife in her unyielding fist, she held the lives and deaths

of the poultry in her grasp. By the dozens, the unsuspecting

inhabitants fell to her gleaming blade, beating their wings in panic

one last time; chickens, pigeons, and foolish capons bled out their

lives beside the lecherous tom-turkey. Fräulein Mathilde had so

much plucking, scalding, and trussing to do that she was forced to

forgo her precious sleep all night long; yet she minded none of the

toil, knowing the grand feast was being prepared for her sake. The

banquet began; the jovial host hastened to greet the arrivals, and

whenever the doorkeeper rang the bell, he imagined the unknown

bride stood at the threshold--only to see a prelate, a solemn matron,

or a dignified official step inside. The guests had long since

gathered, yet the steward hesitated to serve the meal. Knight Konrad

was still awaiting the beautiful bride; but when she delayed too long,

he signaled the steward--with a touch of secret vexation--to lay out

the feast. They took their seats and discovered there was one place

setting too many; yet no one could guess who had spurned the

invitation to the banquet. From moment to moment, the host’s

cheerfulness visibly waned; he could no longer banish the gloom

from his brow, try as he might to keep his guests in good spirits

through forced gaiety. A sour leaven soon soured the sweet dough

of convivial joy, and the atmosphere in the banquet hall grew as hushed

and solemn as at a funeral feast. The fiddles intended to play for the

evening’s dancing were sent away, and thus the celebration at the

Komterhof ended this time without song or music.

 

The disgruntled guests dispersed earlier than usual, and the knight

longed for the solitude of his chamber. He tossed restlessly upon his

bed, unable to fathom how to interpret his dashed hopes. Morning

came before he had closed his eyes; the servants entered to find their

master wrestling with feverish delusions, seemingly gripped by a

violent fever. The entire household was thrown into consternation;

physicians rushed up and down stairs, scribbling interminable

prescriptions, while in the apothecary’s shop, every mortar was

clattering away as if ringing for early matins. For seven days, Count

Konrad wasted away from secret sorrow; the roses faded from his

cheeks, the fire in his eyes died out, and his life and breath hovered

upon his lips like a light morning mist in the valley, waiting for the

slightest gust of wind to sweep it entirely away. Fräulein Mathilde

was kept fully informed of all that transpired in the house. It was not

out of obstinacy that she had declined the invitation. In part, she

wished to test the knight’s steadfastness; in part, she hesitated to

demand the fulfillment of her final wish--for she felt that, as a bride,

she required a new gown, and her godmother had advised her to be

prudent with her requests. Nevertheless, on the day of the banquet,

her heart was heavy; she sat in a corner and wept bitterly. The

knight’s illness distressed her even more, and upon learning of the

danger he was in, she was inconsolable.

 

According to the doctors' pronouncement, the seventh day would decide

between life and death. Early in the morning, Mathilde went to the

housekeeper as usual to consult on the day's menu; but Frau Gertrud

was so distraught that she could not bring the simplest matters to mind

or organize the choice of dishes; large tears, like drops from the eaves,

rolled down her leathery cheeks. "Oh, Mathilde!" she sobbed. "Our

work here will soon be at an end; our good master will not survive

the day." That was truly sad news! The young lady felt faint with

terror, yet she soon gathered her courage and said, "Do not despair

for our master's life; he will not die, but recover; I had a good dream

last night." The old woman was a living dream-book; she would hunt

down every dream the household staff had, and whenever she got hold

of one, she always interpreted it in a way that suited her--for even

the most delightful dreams, in her view, foreshadowed strife, quarreling,

and harsh words. "Tell me your dream," she said, "so that I may interpret

it." "It seemed to me," Mathilde replied, "that I was back home with my

dear mother; she took me aside and taught me how to brew a broth from

nine different herbs--a remedy for any illness, provided one consumes

but three spoonfuls. 'Prepare this for your master,' she said, 'and he will

not die, but recover from that very moment.'" Frau Gertrud marveled

greatly at this dream and, for once, refrained from any symbolic

interpretation: "Your dream is strange," she said, "and not without

significance." "Make haste and prepare a little broth for breakfast; I

want to see if I can prevail upon our master to partake of it." Knight

Konrad lay lost in quiet contemplation, weak and listless; he was

preparing for his journey home and wished to receive the sacrament

of extreme unction. Then Lady Gertrud approached him; with her glib

tongue, she roused him from his meditation on the Four Last Things

and tormented him with such well-intentioned chatter that, simply

to be rid of her, he promised to do as she asked. Meanwhile, Mathilde

prepared a magnificent, nourishing broth, adding various kitchen herbs

and exquisite spices; when she served it, she placed the diamond

ring--which the knight had given her as a token of his fidelity--into

the bowl and bade the servant carry it in.

 

The sick man dreaded the housekeeper’s loud, voluble manner--her

voice still ringing in his ears--so intensely that he forced himself to

take a spoonful of soup. As his spoon dipped to the bottom of the

bowl, he noticed an object; he fished it out and, to his astonishment,

discovered the diamond ring. Instantly, his eyes gleamed once more

with life and youthful fire, and he emptied the entire bowl with a

hearty appetite--to the great delight of Frau Gertrud and the attending

servants. Everyone attributed this extraordinary restorative power to

the soup; the knight, however, had let none of the bystanders notice

the ring. He then turned to Frau Gertrud and asked, "Who prepared

this meal that does me such good, revives my strength, and calls me

back to life?" The solicitous old woman wished for the recovering

patient to remain quiet and not overexert himself by talking too

much; thus, she replied, "Do not trouble yourself, noble sir, with

who prepared the broth; it is a blessing for us both that it has

wrought the healing effect we had hoped for." This answer did

not satisfy the knight, however; he earnestly insisted on a reply

to his question, prompting the woman in charge of the provisions

to explain: "A young wench serves in the kitchen--known as

'the Gypsy' and well-versed in the virtues of herbs and plants--she

is the one who prepared the broth that is doing you so much good."

"Bring her to me at once," said the knight, "so that I may thank her

for this life-giving panacea." "Forgive me," the housekeeper replied,

"but the sight of her would displease you; in appearance she resembles

a barn owl, she has a hump on her back, wears filthy rags, and her

face and hands are covered in soot and ash." "Do as I command," the

Count decided, "and do not hesitate for a moment." Frau Gertrud

obeyed; she hastily summoned Mathilde from the kitchen, threw over

her the shawl she was accustomed to wearing when attending Mass,

and led her, thus attired, into the sickroom. The knight requested that

everyone else withdraw, and once the door was closed, he spoke:

"Maiden, confess to me freely: how did you come by the ring I found

in the bowl where you had prepared my breakfast?" "Noble knight,"

the young woman answered modestly and decorously, "the ring came

from you; you bestowed it upon me on the second evening of the

festivities. Judge now whether my person and station warrant the deep

anguish that has brought you to the brink of the grave. Your

condition pained me; that is why I delayed no longer in dispelling your error."

The Nymph of the Fountain. Continued on the bottom of the next page.