The Nymph of the Fountain.

Count Konrad had not anticipated such a surprise; he was taken

aback and remained silent for a few moments. Yet the image of

the beautiful dancer soon rose before his mind’s eye again, and

the thought occurred to him that someone was attempting to cure

him of his resolve through a pious deception; however, the fact

that he had received the genuine ring back suggested that the

unknown woman must somehow be involved. He therefore

resolved to question the wench and catch her out in her speech.

"If you are the lovely maiden," he said, "to whom I pledged my hand,

then doubt not that I shall faithfully keep my word; but beware of

deceiving me. If you can resume the form you feigned before me on

two successive nights at the dance--if you can make your body as

slender and straight as a young fir, cast off that scabby skin like a

serpent, and change your hue like a chameleon--then the vow I uttered

when I parted with this ring shall stand firm and inviolable. But if you

cannot meet these conditions, I shall have you punished as an

impostor until you reveal to me how this ring came into your possession."

Thereupon, the Knight of the Cross rang for the housekeeper and gave

her this command: "Escort this maiden to her chamber so that she may

dress herself neatly; wait at the door until she emerges; I shall await

you in the reception room." Frau Gertrud took her prisoner under

close supervision, without really knowing what her master’s order

implied. As they ascended the stairs, she asked: "Do you have clothes

for adornment? Why did you keep that from me? But if you lack them,

follow me to my chamber; I will lend you whatever you need." She then

described, piece by piece, her old-fashioned wardrobe--in which she

had made conquests half a century earlier--recalling those bygone days

with fond nostalgia. Mathilde paid little heed to this, desiring only

a small piece of soap and a handful of wheat bran; she took a basin

of water, went to her chamber, and closed the door behind her, while

Frau Gertrud kept careful watch outside, just as she had been ordered.

The Knight of the Cross, full of anticipation regarding the outcome of

his romantic adventure, left his quarters, dressed himself most

elegantly, and repaired to his state room; he had to wait a long time

before his uncertainty was resolved, pacing restlessly back and forth

with quick steps. Yet when the clock on the Augsburg Town Hall

pointed to the eighteenth hour at midday, the double doors suddenly

flew open, the train of a silk gown rustled through the antechamber,

and Mathilde entered with poise and dignity, adorned just as she had

been when she appeared at the festival. "You see me here," she said,

"in my true guise." "I am the daughter of Wackermann Uhlfinger--that

knight of honorable repute whose tragic fate is surely known to you;

I narrowly escaped the collapse of my father’s house and found

shelter and safety in your dwelling, albeit in a wretched state."

Thereupon she recounted her story to him, concealing nothing--not

even the secret of the musk apple. Count Konrad was overjoyed and

gave no further thought to the fact that he had been mortally ill; he

invited back for the following day all the guests whom his melancholy

had previously driven away so early, held a public betrothal with his

bride, and when the steward had served the meal and counted the

places, he found that not a single setting was superfluous. Afterward,

the knight withdrew from the Order, left the commandery, and

celebrated his wedding with great splendor. At this remarkable...

Amidst the changes in the household, the usually bustling

Martha--Frau Gertrud--found herself completely idle; when she was

keeping watch over Fräulein Mathilde’s chamber door and a stately,

well-dressed lady emerged upon its opening, her astonishment was

so great that she fell backward off her chair, dislocated her hip, and

remained lame in the loins for the rest of her life.

The newlyweds spent their first year in Augsburg. One day, as they

sat by the open window engaged in happy conversation, the young

countess said: "My dearly beloved lord, I have no wishes left; I gladly

release my musk-apple from the obligation of granting a third wish.

Yet if you harbor any secret desire in your heart, tell me of it; I shall

make it my own, and it shall be granted to you this very hour." Count

Konrad clasped his beloved wife in his arms and solemnly declared

that, apart from the continuation of his happiness, there was nothing

on earth he desired more. Thus, the musk-apple lost all value in its

owner's eyes, and she kept it only as a grateful memento of the

water-sprite godmother.

Count Konrad still had a living mother who resided on her dower

estate at Schwabeck. His pious daughter-in-law greatly longed to

kiss her hand out of filial affection; yet the Count always declined

the journey to visit his mother on some flimsy pretext, proposing

instead a pleasure trip to a fief that had recently reverted to him,

located not far from Wackermann’s ruined castle. Mathilde readily

agreed, wishing to revisit the region where she had spent her early

youth. She visited the ruins of her father’s home, wept over her

parents’ ashes, and went to the Nixie’s Well, hoping her presence

might entice the nymph to reveal herself. Many a stone fell into

the well without the hoped-for effect; even the pomander floated

on the surface like a light bubble, and she was forced to fish it out

herself. The nymph did not appear. Upon returning home, Lady

Mathilde gave birth to a son, beautiful as a young god; the parents’

joy was so great that they nearly smothered him with their ardent

love. The mother would not let him leave her arms, watching over

every breath of the little, innocent angel, even though the Count

had hired a wise nursemaid to care for the infant. Yet on the third

night--while the entire castle lay buried in deep slumber following

the revelry of a joyous celebration--a gentle sleep overcame the

mother as well; when she awoke, the child was gone from her arms!

Distraught, the terrified Countess cried out: "Nurse, where have you

put my little one?" The nurse replied: "Noble Lady, the tender young

master is in your arms." Bed and chamber were frantically searched,

but nothing was found save for a few tiny drops of blood on the floor.

[42] When the nurse realized what had happened, she raised a great

outcry: "Alas, may God and all the saints have mercy! The werewolf

has been here and carried off the little child." The countess grew pale

and gaunt with grief over the loss of the lovely boy, and the father

was inconsolable. Although he did not harbor even a mustard seed of

belief in werewolves in his heart, he allowed himself to be swayed

by the gossip--since he could find no other explanation for the

matter--and comforted his disconsolate wife, who, out of

consideration for him (for he loathed all sadness), forced herself to

put on a cheerful face.

Time, that healer of pain, finally mended the wound in the mother’s

heart when the loss was made good by the birth of a second son.

Boundless was the joy in the count’s palace over this handsome

heir to the lineage; the count feasted in high spirits with neighbors

from a day’s journey around, and the cup of joy passed ceaselessly

from hand to hand--from host and guests down to the

doorkeeper--toasting the newborn’s health. The anxious mother

would not let the infant leave her side, resisting the call of sweet

sleep as long as her strength allowed; yet when she finally had to

yield to nature’s demands, she took the gold chain from her neck,

wrapped it around the boy’s body, and fastened the other end to

her own arm. She blessed herself and the child with the sign of the

holy cross--so that the werewolf might find no power or hold over

them--and soon after, an irresistible slumber overcame her.

When the first ray of morning light roused her--oh, the misery!--the

sweet boy had vanished from her arms. In her initial panic, she cried

out as she had before: "Nurse, where have you laid my little one?" and

the nurse replied once more: "Noble lady, the tender young master

is in your arms." She immediately looked for the little gold chain

she had wrapped around her arm, discovered that one link had been

severed clean through by sharp steel shears, and sank to the ground

in a dead faint from horror. The nurse raised an alarm in the house;

the servants rushed in, filled with consternation; and when Count

Konrad heard what had come to pass, his heart burned with rage

and fury, and he drew his knightly sword, intent on cleaving the

nurse’s head in two.

Time, that healer of pain, finally mended the wound in the mother’s

heart when the loss was made good by the birth of a second son.

Boundless was the joy in the count’s palace over this handsome

heir to the lineage; the count feasted in high spirits with neighbors

from a day’s journey around, and the cup of joy passed ceaselessly

from hand to hand--from host and guests down to the

doorkeeper--toasting the newborn’s health. The anxious mother

would not let the infant leave her side, resisting the call of sweet

sleep as long as her strength allowed; yet when she finally had to

yield to nature’s demands, she took the gold chain from her neck,

wrapped it around the boy’s body, and fastened the other end to

her own arm. She blessed herself and the child with the sign of the

holy cross--so that the werewolf might find no power or hold over

them--and soon after, an irresistible slumber overcame her. Knight

Konrad stood as if turned to stone, unable to utter a word for a long

time. Once he had composed himself, he spoke: "What need is there

for an ordeal by fire? Your words bear the stamp of truth; I feel and

believe that all is as you say. Keep this ghastly secret locked fast

within your heart and confide it to no one--not even in confession.

I shall procure a letter of indulgence for you from the Bishop of

Augsburg so that this sin shall not be laid to your account, neither

in this world nor the next. Now I shall go in to face that viper with

a feigned countenance; take great care that, while I embrace her

and offer words of comfort, you draw the box containing the dead

man's bones from beneath the bed and hand them to me unnoticed."

[46] With a slightly clouded brow and the look of a man deeply

moved yet still resolute, he entered the chamber of his wife, who

received her lord in silence, her eyes guileless though her soul was

heavy with sorrow. Her face was like that of an angel, and the sight

of it instantly extinguished the rage and fury that had inflamed his

heart. Pity and regret tempered his vengeful spirit; he clasped the

unhappy woman to him, and she bathed his garments in sorrowful

tears. He comforted her, spoke kindly to her, and hastened to leave

that scene of horror and dread. Meanwhile, the nurse had carried

out her orders and secretly handed the gruesome vessel of bones

to the Count. A fierce struggle raged in his heart before he could

decide what to do with the woman accused of sorcery. At last, he

resolved to rid himself of her without raising a stir or attracting

attention. He mounted his horse and rode toward Augsburg, but first

he gave an order to the steward: "When the Countess emerges from

her chamber after nine days to take her customary bath, have the

bathhouse heated thoroughly and bolt the door from the outside,

so that she may perish from the intense heat and not survive." The

steward heard this command with great distress and sorrow, for the

entire household staff loved Countess Mathilde as a gentle and

kind-hearted mistress; yet he dared not speak against the knight,

perceiving the grim determination and zeal with which he spoke.

On the ninth day, Mathilde ordered the bath to be heated. As she

stepped into the chamber, the air around her shimmered with the

intense heat; She tried to retreat, but a strong arm shoved her forcibly

down into the bath-chamber, and the door was immediately bolted and

locked from the outside. She cried out for help in vain; no one heard,

and the fire was stoked ever more fiercely until the stove glowed a

deep red, like a potter's kiln.

From these circumstances, the Countess easily divined what was

happening; she resigned herself to death, yet the shameful suspicion

she sensed tormented her soul more than the ignominious end itself.

Seizing her final moments of lucidity, she drew a silver pin from her

hair and used it to write these words upon the chamber’s white wall:

"Farewell, Konrad; I die willingly at your command, yet innocent."

She then cast herself down upon a small couch to meet her end. Yet

when that dreaded hour arrives, nature instinctively strives to avert its

own destruction. In the suffocating heat and anguish, the unfortunate

woman tossed and turned, causing the pomander she always carried

to fall to the floor. Instantly, she snatched it up and cried out: "O

Godmother Nixie, if it lies within your power, deliver me from a

shameful death and vindicate my innocence!" She hastily unscrewed

the lid; a dense mist rose from the pomander, spreading throughout the

chamber and bathing the Countess in a soothing coolness that banished

all fear and heat. The vapor coalesced into a figure, and

Mathilde--no longer facing death--beheld with unspeakable bliss

the loving nymph standing before her: in her arms, the delicate infant

clad in a simple christening shift, and by her hand, the older child,

dressed in a white gown with winged sleeves and adorned with

rose-colored ribbons.

"Welcome, beloved Mathilde!" the nymph addressed her. "Happy

are you that you did not squander the third wish--which the musk

apple was to grant you--as recklessly as you did the first two! Here

are the two living witnesses to your innocence; they shall enable you

to triumph over the vile slander that nearly destroyed you. The evil

star of your life has set; the musk apple will grant you no further

wishes, for from this moment on, you have nothing left to desire.

Yet I shall unravel the mystery of your sorrowful fate. Know that

your husband’s mother is the author of all this misfortune. To that

proud woman, her son’s marriage was a dagger-thrust to the heart;

she believed--wrongly--that Count Konrad had disgraced his noble

lineage through a lowly union. She heaped curses and imprecations

upon him and disowned him as her son. All her thoughts and

schemes were bent on your ruin, though your husband’s vigilance

constantly thwarted her malicious designs. Nevertheless, she

succeeded in outwitting even him by means of a deceitful wet-nurse.

With lavish promises, she induced the woman to snatch your firstborn

son from your arms while you slept and cast him into the water like a

puppy. Fortunately, she chose the basin of my rocky spring for this

heinous deed; I received the boy in loving arms and cared for him as

a mother would. She entrusted my beloved Mathilde’s second son to

me as well. That treacherous nurse became your accuser; she

persuaded the Count that you were a sorceress; "...a flame from the

pomander--whose secret you should have guarded more

carefully--consumed the boys, in order to brew a magic potion

from their ashes. She placed a vessel filled with pigeon and chicken

bones into your husband’s hand; he mistook them for the remains

of his children and ordered that you be suffocated in your bath during

his absence. Filled with remorse and a desire to rescind that cruel

order--if it were still possible--he is now hastening from Augsburg,

even though he still believes you guilty. In a few hours, you will be

vindicated." When the nymph had finished speaking, she bent over

the Countess’s face, kissed her on the forehead, and--without waiting

for a reply--wrapped herself in her thick veil of mist and vanished.

Meanwhile, the Count’s servants were busy trying to rekindle the

extinguished fire. They kept fancying they heard human voices from

within, leading them to believe the Countess was still alive. Yet all

their efforts and bellows proved futile; the wood refused to catch fire,

as if the stove had been fueled with snowballs. Soon after, Count

Konrad rode up and anxiously asked after his wife’s condition. The

servants reported how they had indeed heated the bath, but the fire

had suddenly gone out, and--by all accounts--the Countess was still

alive. This gladdened his heart immensely; he stepped to the door and

called through the keyhole: "Are you alive, Mathilde?" The Countess

heard her husband’s voice and replied: "Beloved lord, I am alive, and

my little ones are alive too!" Overjoyed by these words--and with the

keys not immediately at hand--the impatient Count had the door

broken down; he rushed into the bath-chamber to his pious wife’s

feet, bathed her spotless hands with a thousand tears of remorse,

and--amidst the jubilation and rejoicing of the entire

household--escorted her and the lovely little ones from that dreadful

death-chamber back to her own quarters, where he heard from her lips

the full account of the vile slander and the abduction of the children.

He immediately ordered the wicked nurse to be seized and locked

inside the bath-chamber. There, the fire in the stove began to blaze

merrily, the flames swirled high, and the diabolical woman promptly

sweated out her black soul.

The End.

The Nymph of the Fountain.