THE NYMPH OF THE FOUNTAIN.
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HREE miles beyond Dinkelsbuhl, in Swabia, there stood in former times an old castle, which belonged to a powerful knight called Wackerman Uhlfinger, the flower of fist and club ruling knighthood, the terror of the Swabian confederated states, as well as of all travellers and merchants, who had no letter of protection from him. Whenever Wackerman put on his cuirass and helmet, girded his sword on his loins, and buckled his golden spurs on his heels, he was, after the manner of his contemporaries, a rude hard-hearted man, who considered robbery and plunder the prerogative of nobility; he made war against the weak; and, because he himself was lusty and stout, he recognised no other law than the right of the strong. When it was rumoured, “Uhlfinger is approaching—Wackerman comes,” terror spread throughout Swabia; the people fled into the fortified cities, and the watchmen from the battlements of the walls blew their horns, and made known the approach of danger. In that rude age, however, this barbarous heroism did not make his fame so abhorred throughout the land, as would have been the case in our more civilized age.
But this dreaded man, when he had laid aside his armour at home, was as quiet as a lamb, hospitable as an Arabian, a good-tempered head of the family and a tender husband. His wife was a tender and loving woman, well-bred and virtuous; like whom there are very few, even in this day. She loved her husband with inviolable constancy, and attended industriously to her household concerns, never looked out of the lattice in search of unlawful adventures when her husband was away, but covered her distaff with flax as fine as silk, turned her spindle with an active hand, and wove a thread which the Lydian Arachne would have claimed as her own. She was the mother of two daughters, whom she brought up with the greatest care, in virtue and frugality. In this cloister-like seclusion nothing disturbed her happiness but the freebooties of her husband, who enriched himself with unrighteous wealth. In her heart she disapproved of these privileged robberies, and it gave her no joy when he presented her with lordly stuffs, embroidered with gold and silver for rich clothes. “What good is plunder to me,” she often said to herself, “on which hang sobs and tears?” She threw these gifts with secret aversion into her chests, and thought them worthy of no further notice, compassionated the unfortunate ones who fell into Wackerman’s custody, and, through her intercession, often set them at liberty, and provided them with money for their journey.
At the foot of the castled mountain, a plentiful spring, concealed among deep bushes, gushed out of a natural grotto, and, according to an old tradition, it was inhabited by a water nymph called Nixa, and the saying went that she sometimes, on particular occasions, showed herself in the castle. The noble lady often wandered alone to this spring, when, in the absence of her husband, she wished to breathe fresh air, outside the thick walls of the castle, or to perform some charitable deeds in retirement without attracting notice. She met there the poor whom the porters would not admit, and distributed, on certain days, not only the best things from her table, but carried her humble good-nature sometimes as far as the holy Landgravine Elizabeth, who, with stoical contempt of all repugnant feelings, with her royal hand, at St. Elizabeth’s well, washed the beggars’ linen.
Once Wackerman had gone with his followers to encamp and to waylay the merchants who came from Augsburg market; and stayed away longer than was his wont. This made the tender wife anxious; she fancied that her lord had met with some misfortune; that he might be slain, or have fallen into the enemy’s power. Her heart was so heavy that she could neither sleep nor rest; already many days had she fretted, wavering between fear and hope, and often she cried out to the dwarf who held watch on the tower, “Kleinhansel, look out! what rustles through the wood? What sound of trampling in the valley? In what direction does the dust blow? Does Wackerman approach?” But Kleinhansel answered very sorrowfully, “Nothing stirs in the wood. Nothing rides in the valley; no dust is blown, and no plume of feathers waves.” This went on till night, when the evening star rose, and the light of the fall moon shone over the eastern mountains. Then she could not contain herself between the four walls of her chamber; she threw on her mantle, stole through the gates into the beech-grove, and wandered to her beloved spot, the crystal spring, in order to indulge undisturbed her sorrowful thoughts. Her eyes flowed with tears, and her mouth uttered melodious wailings which mingled with the rushing of the stream, as it murmured from the spring through the grass. While she approached the grotto, it appeared as if a light shadow hovered at its entrance; but her heart was so much troubled that she recked very little of it, and, at first sight, she thought that the quivering moonlight had presented to her this ideal figure. When she came nearer, the white figure seemed to move and to motion her with the hand. Then a shuddering came over her, yet she did not retreat, but stood to see what it really was. The tradition of the spring of Nixa, which was believed in the country round, was not unknown to her. She now recognised in the white lady, the nymph of the spring, and this appearance seemed to her to foretel some important event in the family. What thought could now be nearer to her than that of her husband? She tore her black locks, and raised a loud cry. “Oh unhappy day! Wackerman! Wackerman! thou art fallen, cold and dead! Thou hast made me a widow, and thy children orphans.” Whilst she thus lamented and wrung her hands, a soft voice proceeded from the grotto: “Matilda, fear not, I announce no misfortune to thee. Approach nearer, I am thy friend and desire to converse with thee.” The noble lady saw so little cause of alarm in the figure and speech of Nixa, that she took courage to accept the invitation. She entered the grotto; the inhabitant took her hand friendlily, kissed her forehead, sat down cordially beside her, and began;—“Welcome to my dwelling, beloved mortal; thy heart is pure and clear as the water of my spring, therefore are the invisible powers favourable to thee. I will disclose to thee the fate of thy life, the only token of favour which I can grant thee. Thy husband lives, and before morning dawns he will again be in thy arms. Do not fear nor mourn for him; the spring of thy life will earlier fade than his; but before that, thou shalt kiss another daughter, who, born in an eventful hour, shall derive thereby, in a changeful uncertain manner, both good and bad fate. The stars are not unpropitious to her; but a hateful counter influence shall rob the orphan of the happiness of a mother’s care.” It grieved the noble lady very much, when she heard that her little daughter should be deprived of a mother’s care, and she burst into loud weeping. The Nymph was much moved: “Weep not,” said she, “I will take the place of a mother to thy child, when thou canst not guide her; but with this condition, that thou choose me as godmother to the tender child, that I may have an interest in her. Then remember, that if thou wilt intrust this child to my care she must bring back to me the sponsor’s gift that I will give her at her christening.” The lady Matilda acquiesced in this desire; thereupon the Nixa picked up a smooth pebble, and gave it her, saying, further, that she was to send it by a trusty maiden to throw it into the spring as a mark of invitation to the sponsorship. The lady Matilda promised faithfully to perform all, kept these words in her heart, and returned to the castle; but the nymph went back again into the spring and disappeared.
Not long after, the dwarf blew the trumpet joyfully from the tower, and Wackerman, with his followers, rode into the court laden with rich booty. After the course of a year, the lady perceived that the prophecy was about to be fulfilled; but it gave her great anxiety how she should manage about the sponsorship; her thoughts were all taken up how she should disclose to her husband her adventure at Nixa’s spring. It came to pass that Wackerman received a challenge from a knight whom he had offended, and they resolved upon a combat for life or death. He hastily prepared for his journey, and when he was on the point of setting out, and, according to custom, took leave of his wife, she inquired carefully about his designs, pressed him, contrary to her usual habit, to tell her against whom he was marching; and, when he kindly reproved her unusual curiosity, she covered her face and wept bitterly. This touched the knight to the heart, though he would not show it, but set off and hastened to the place of action, attacked his adversary, slew him after a spirited contest, and returned home triumphantly. His affectionate wife received him with open arms, conversed with him cheerfully, and left nothing untried to sound him, with smooth words and womanly arts, as to what adventure he had undertaken; but he carefully locked up his heart, fastened all its approaches with the bars of insensibility, and revealed nothing to her; nay, much more, he jested at her curiosity, and said laughingly, “Oh! mother Eve, thy daughters are not yet degenerate; curiosity and inquisitiveness are still woman’s heritage to this day; any one of these would have desired to pluck from the forbidden tree, or to lift up the lid of the prohibited dish, and would thereby have let out the little mouse that lay therein.”—“Pardon me, beloved husband,” answered the prudent lady, “men have also received their appointed share of mother Eve’s heritage; the only difference is, that a worthy woman dares keep no secret from her husband. I lay a wager that, if my heart could conceal anything from you, you would not sleep nor rest till I had disclosed to you my secret.”—“And I,” answered he, “give you my word that your secret would not concern me at all: I allow you to make the trial.”
This was the point to which the lady Matilda wanted to bring her husband. “Well,” said she, “my dear lord, it is permitted me to choose one of the sponsors who shall stand godmother to my child. Now, I have a friend in my mind unknown to you, and my request is that you never press me to tell you who she is, how she comes, nor where she dwells. When you have promised me this on your knightly honour, and kept your promise, I shall have lost my wager, and will freely acknowledge that manly spirit triumphs over womanly weakness.” Wackerman unhesitatingly gave his wife this promise, and she rejoiced at the happy success of her stratagem. In a few days a little girl was born. Although the father would rather have embraced a son, he rode very cheerfully to his neighbours and friends, to invite them to the christening.
The company assembled on the appointed day; and, when the mother heard the noise of carriages, the neighing of horses, and the bustle in the courtyard, she called a trusty servant to her, and said, “Take this pebble, throw it silently behind thee, into the Nixa’s spring.” The servant did as the lady had enjoined, and, before he returned, an unknown lady entered the room where the company were assembled, bowed courteously to the lords and ladies present, and, as the child was brought in, and the priest approached the font, she took her place among the godmothers. Every one gave place to her as a stranger, and she held the child first in her arms over the font. All eyes were fixed on her, as she was so beautiful, so well-bred, and so sumptuously clothed. She had a flowing robe of sky-blue silk, open up the front, and white satin underneath; over this she was adorned with jewels and pearl ornaments as richly as our Lady at Loretto on a gala day. A glittering sapphire clasped her transparent veil, which fell in thin folds from the crown of her head over her beautifully-arranged hair, across her shoulders, and down to her feet; but the veil was wet, as if it had been dipped in water. The unexpected appearance of the strange lady had so much interrupted the assembled godmothers in their devotions, that they forgot to give the child a name; so the priest baptized it Matilda, after its mother. When the christening was over, the little Matilda was carried back to her mother, and the godfathers crowded around to wish the child happiness, and the godmothers to offer their presents. The lady Matilda seemed somewhat embarrassed at the aspect of Nixa; perhaps also surprised that she had so faithfully kept her word. She cast a stolen glance at her husband, who answered with a smile, in which she could read nothing; and, for the rest, he seemed to take no further notice of the stranger. The godmothers’ presents now gave them other occupation; a shower of gold streamed, from liberal hands, over the child. The unknown at last approached with her present, and disappointed the expectations of all the sponsors. They anticipated, from the splendidly-attired lady, a jewel or other memorial of great worth, particularly as she produced a silken pocket, which she drew out of another with great care; but my lady godmother had nothing wrapped up in it but a musk-apple, turned in wood. She laid this solemnly in the child’s cradle, kissed the mother friendlily on the forehead, and left the room. At this pitiful present, a secret whisper arose among those present, which soon broke out into a scornful laugh. There failed not to arise many malicious remarks and speculations as to how she came into the room; but, as the knight and his lady observed a profound silence, there remained nothing for the curious chatterers but to entertain their own idle conjectures. The unknown appeared no more, and none knew whither she had vanished.
Wackerman was secretly tormented with the desire to ask who the stranger might be, as nobody knew the name by which the lady with the wet veil was called; only his dislike, as a knight, to show himself guilty of woman’s weakness, and the inviolability of his plighted word, bound his tongue, when, in the hours of matrimonial intimacy, the question would rise, as it often did, to his lips, “Tell me, my dear, who was the godmother with the wet veil?” He thought, however, to gain the secret from her in time, and reckoned on the qualities of woman’s heart, which possesses in as small a degree the gift of secrecy, as a sieve the property of retaining fluid. But this time he was out in his reckoning; the Lady Matilda knew how to keep silence, and preserve the mysterious riddle as carefully in her heart, as she did the musk-apple in her jewel-box.
Before the little girl had escaped from leading-strings, the prophecy of the nymph was fulfilled on her good mother; she fell suddenly ill, and died, without having time to think of the musk-apple, or with it, according to the arrangement of Nixa, to commend the little Matilda to her care. Her husband was then present at a tournament at Augsburg, and, honoured with the approbation of the Emperor Frederic, returned home. When the dwarf, from the tower, saw his lord riding in the distance, he blew his horn, according to custom; but he did not produce from it a cheerful note, but, on the contrary, blew a mournful strain. This went through the knight’s heart, and pierced his very soul. “What sound,” said he, “strikes on my ear? Do you hear, squires, is it not a dissonant croak, a death-song? Kleinhansel announces nothing good to us.” The squires, too, were confounded; they saw their lord mournful, and said to one another, “That is the note of the bird ‘kreideweiss.’ May God avert misfortune—there is a corpse in the castle!” Wackerman spurred on his steed, and rode over the plain so swiftly, that the sparks flew from his horse’s heels. The drawbridge fell, he looked into the courtyard, and, alas! the sign of death was placed before the castle-gate—a lantern, without a light, adorned with waving crape, while all the window-shutters were closed. Then he perceived, by the sobs and lamentations of the servants, that the Lady Matilda was no more! At the head of the coffin he saw the two eldest daughters, clothed in black, who wept over their deceased mother with many tears. At the foot of the coffin sat the youngest daughter; as yet unable to comprehend her loss, pulling to pieces, with childish glee, and playing with, the flowers with which the bier was adorned. This melancholy sight overpowered Wackerman’s manly firmness; he wept and wailed aloud, threw himself on the cold body, bedewed the pale cheeks with his tears, pressed with trembling mouth the white lips, and gave way, without restraint, to all the bitter feelings of his heart. Then he hung up his weapons in the armory, sat by the coffin in a flapped hat and black mourning cloak, bewailed his departed wife, and bestowed upon her the last honours, in a magnificent funeral.
According to the observation of a great man, the most violent grief is always the shortest; and so this distressed widower soon forgot his sorrow, and thought seriously of repairing his loss by taking a second wife. His choice fell on an impetuous active woman, quite the reverse of the gentle Matilda. The government of the house took immediately another form; the new mistress behaved proudly and imperiously to the servants; she loved splendour and extravagance; and there was no end to the feasts and banquets which she gave. The house was soon peopled with numerous descendants of the new stock; and the daughters by the first marriage were no longer thought of. When the elder daughters grew up, the stepmother sought to rid herself of them, and sent them to board in a convent, at Dünkelsbühl; the little Matilda was placed under the care of a nurse, and was transferred to a little remote chamber, where she was out of sight of the vain lady, who did not meddle much with the cares of the family. Her extravagant expenditure increased also; so that the profits of the fist and club rights, though the knight did not slacken his former activity, were no longer sufficient; and she often saw herself compelled to make use of the property left by her predecessor, or to borrow gold from the Jews. Once she found herself in a particularly distressing position. She sought through drawers and chests for something valuable, and at last discovered a secret compartment, and a concealed press, in which, to her great joy, she found the Lady Matilda’s jewel-case. The sparkling jewels, diamond rings, earrings, bracelets, girdles, and other trinkets, delighted her charmed eyes. She examined all accurately, counted piece by piece, and calculated in her mind what profit this splendid discovery would bring her. Among these valuables the wooden musk-apple met her eyes. For a long time she did not know what to make of it; she tried to unscrew it, but it was swollen by the damp. She shook it in her hand, and found it as light as an empty nut; so she took it for an empty ring-case, and supposing it contained nothing valuable, she threw it at once out of the window. At this moment, the little Matilda was sitting in her narrow garden, playing with her doll. When she saw the wooden ball roll down on the ground, she threw the doll out of her hand, seized her new plaything with childish eagerness, and was as much delighted with her discovery as her mamma with hers. She amused herself many days with this toy, and would not let it out of her hands. One beautiful summer’s day, the nurse desired to enjoy, with her foster daughter, the fresh breeze by the rock spring; at evening-tide the child asked for her honey-roll, which her nurse had forgotten to bring. She did not wish to go back again; and to keep the child in good humour she went into the thicket to pluck for her a handful of raspberries. The child, in the meantime, played with the musk-apple, threw it here and there, like a catch-ball, till, in one of the throws, the child’s plaything fell into the spring. Immediately there stood before her a young lady, as beautiful as an angel, and as mild as one of the Graces. The child, alarmed at the sudden appearance, thought she saw her stepmother before her, who always thrust her rudely about, and beat her whenever she came under her eye. But the Nymph caressed her with soft words: “Fear not, dear little one,” said she, “I am thy godmother, come to me. See, here is thy plaything which fell into the spring.” And with these words, she took up the little Matilda in her lap, pressed her tenderly to her bosom, embraced and kissed her, and moistened her with tears. “Poor orphan,” said she, “I have promised to take a mother’s place to thee, and I will fulfil it. Visit me often, thou wilt always find me in this grotto, if thou wilt throw a stone into the spring. Examine this musk-apple carefully, and do not play with it, for fear of losing it; it will grant thee three wishes. When thou art grown up I will tell thee more; now thou canst not comprehend.” She then gave her many good admonitions, suited to the child’s age, and enjoined perfect silence as to what had happened. The nurse came back, and the Nymph disappeared.
The proverb says, “Now-a-days, no child is prudent; in olden times it was different.” The little Matilda, at least, was a wise and cautious child; she had discretion enough not to mention her lady godmother to her nurse, but, on her return home, asked for a needle and thread, and sewed up the musk-apple carefully in the lining of her dress. Her wishes and thoughts were now all directed to the Nixa’s spring; as often as the weather allowed, she obliged her nurse to take a walk; and because she could not refuse anything to the coaxing child, and this desire seemed natural to her, (for the grotto had been her mother’s favourite resting-place,) she the more willingly agreed to the wish of the little one. The child always knew how to find a pretext to send her nurse away; and as soon as she had turned her back, the stone fell into the water, and procured for her the society of the charming godmother. After a few years the little orphan bloomed into maidenhood, and her beauty opened like a bud of the hundred-blossoming rose, which, transplanted among a crowd of variegated flowers, shone forth in modest dignity. She bloomed, it is true, only in a narrow garden; she lived retired among the servants, and when her luxurious mother feasted, she was never brought in, but sat in her chamber, occupied with household work; and in the evening, after accomplishing her day’s task, she found ample compensation for the noisy joys from which she was excluded, in the society of the Nymph of the Fountain; she was not only her companion and friend, but also her teacher; she instructed the maiden in all the arts of womanly skill, and formed her mind and habits after the example of her virtuous mother. One day the Nymph seemed to redouble her tenderness towards the charming Matilda, she clasped her in her arms, drooped her head on her shoulders, and was so melancholy and sorrowful, that the maiden, too, was infected by it, and could not refrain from letting some tears fall on her godmother’s hand, as she silently kissed her. At this mutual feeling the Nymph was still more sorrowful: ”Child,” said she, with a mournful voice, “thou weepest and knowest not why, but thy tears are a presentiment of thy fate. A great change menaces thy house on the mountain; before the reaper handles the scythe, and the wind blows over the stubble of the wheat-fields, it will be deserted and waste. When the servants of the castle go out in the evening twilight to draw water from my spring, and return with empty pails, then know that misfortune is at hand. Take care of thy musk-apple, which will grant thee three wishes, and be not prodigal of them. Farewell, in this place we meet not again.” She then taught the maiden the mysterious properties of the apple, that she might make use of it in case of necessity, wept and sobbed at parting, and as soon as the maiden was fully instructed in the mystic words, she finally disappeared.
At the time of the wheat harvest, the drawers of water returned one evening with empty pitchers, pale and terrified, trembling in all their limbs, as if shaking with the cold of an intermittent fever; and they related that the White Lady had been seen sitting by the spring, with mournful gestures, wringing her hands and loudly wailing, a sign which foreboded no good. This the warriors and armour-bearers mocked at; they thought it delusion, and mere woman’s prattle. Curiosity impelled some to investigate the affair; they saw the apparition, but recovering their presence of mind, went forward to the spring. When they came there, the White Lady had disappeared, and many were the comments and discussions on the matter; nobody could understand the omen, Matilda alone knew, but she would not divulge it, because the Nymph had enjoined silence. She sat alone and sad in her chamber, in fear and expectation of the things that should happen.
Wackerman could not satisfy his extravagant wife by robbery and plunder, and when he did not go out on these predatory expeditions, she prepared for him daily a life of pleasure, called his topers together, encouraged his love of wine, and never allowed him to wake from his sleep of intoxication, and to perceive the decay of his house. When money or food were wanting, fresh supplies were always procured by the robbery of Jacob Fugger’s heavy wagon, or by the seizure of rich parcels from Venice. Tired of these extortions, the general congress of the Suabian alliance at last resolved on Uhlfinger’s destruction, since dissuasions and warnings had been tried in vain. Before he even thought it was seriously intended, the soldiers of the allied cities stood before the gate of his mountain fortress, and hemmed him in; and there remained nothing for him now but to sell his life as dearly as possible. The bombs and pieces of artillery shook the bastions, and the cross-bow men, on both sides, did their best; bolts and arrows showered thick, and one of them, in an unlucky hour, pierced the visor of Wackerman’s helmet, sunk deep into his brain, and in a few moments he lay in the cold sleep of death. At the fall of their lord, his men-at-arms fell into confusion; some of the faint-hearted ones showed the white feather, while the braver warriors rushed down again from the tower. The enemy now observed that disorder and confusion reigned within the tower, the besiegers assailed it more violently, climbed the walls, won the gate, let down the drawbridge, and put all they met with to the sword. Even the cause of all the mischief, the extravagant wife, was slain with all her children by the furious warriors, who were as furious against the plundering nobility as afterwards were the rebels in the Suabian peasants’ war. The castle was entirely pillaged, set on fire, and, at last, levelled with the ground. During the tumult of the battle, Matilda kept quite quiet in the Patmos of her little attic, locked the door, and bolted it fast inside. But as she observed that all without was confusion, and that castle and bars could give her no further security, she threw her veil over her, turned her musk-apple three times in her hand, caught it skilfully while she repeated the little sentence which the Nymph taught her: “Night behind me, day before me, so that nobody may see me.” And thus she walked unseen through the enemy’s host, and out of the paternal citadel, although with a deeply sorrowful heart, and without knowing which way to take. As long as her tender feet did not refuse her their wonted service, she hastened on from the theatre of cruelty and devastation, until, overcome by night and weariness, she resolved to lodge under a wild pear-tree in the open field. She sat down on the cool turf and gave free vent to her tears. Once more she looked round the country, and wished to bless the spot, where she had passed the years of childhood; as she raised her eyes, she saw a blood-red sign of fire rise to heaven, by which she judged that the mansion of her ancestors would soon be a prey to the flames. She turned her eyes away from this miserable spectacle, and earnestly desired that the twinkling stars might grow pale, and the morning dawn appear in the east. Before it grew light, and while the morning dew lay in drops on the grass, the uncertain pilgrim set off, and soon reached a village, where she was received by a good-natured peasant woman, and refreshed with a morsel of bread and a cup of milk. With this woman she exchanged her own dress for a peasant’s clothing, and joined a caravan of merchants, who escorted her to Augsburg. In this woful and deserted condition, no other choice remained for her than to hire herself as a servant; but, because it was out of the season, for a long time she could not find a situation.
Count Conrad of Schwabeck, a German knight of the cross, and also governor and protector of the bishopric of Augsburg, possessed there a sort of court, where he was accustomed to spend the winter. In his absence a housekeeper dwelt there, called Dame Gertrude, who conducted the domestic affairs. This woman was considered a perfect Zantippe, by the whole city; no servant could remain with her, for she brawled and blustered about the house like a noisy ghost. The servants feared the rattle of her keys as children do the bugbear Rupert; the least neglect, or even only her own wicked tempers, cups and pots must compensate for; or she would arm her robust hands with a bunch of keys, and beat the servants on the back and loins black and blue; in short, if anybody wanted to describe a wicked woman, he said, she is as mischievous as Dame Trube at the county court. One day she had carried her punishments to such a violent height, that all her servants ran away; and just at this time the gentle Matilda arrived and offered herself for service. To conceal her elegant shape, she had padded one shoulder as if she were deformed; a broad headcloth concealed her beautiful silken hair, and she had spread over her hands and face with soot, to affect a gipsyish skin. When she rang the door-bell, and announced herself, Dame Gertrude put her head out of the window, and perceiving this odd figure, she thought it was a beggar, and called out, “This is no almonry, go to Jacob Fugger’s almshouses, there farthings are distributed,” and then she hastily shut the window. Miss Matilda would not let this deter her; she rang long, till the housekeeper again appeared, intending to requite her importunity with a torrent of scoldings. But before she could open her toothless mouth, the maiden made known to her her wishes. “Who art thou,” asked Dame Gertrude, “and what canst thou do?” The pretended servant answered,—
“A poor young orphan maid am I,
Matilda named in infancy.
I can iron, crimp, and sew,
Spin and weave each varied hue,
Knit and net, and cut, and pound,
Roast and boil, and salt the round;
A skilful hand in every art,
Alert and active as a hart.”
When the housekeeper heard these words, and perceived that the nut-brown maiden possessed so many useful talents, she opened the door, gave her the fee penny, and led her into the kitchen. She managed her employments so well that Dame Gertrude quite lost her habit of throwing pots at her servants. Although she always continued severe and sulky, and would blame everything, and wish it better done; still she never met with opposition or retort from the maiden, who defended herself only by meekness and patience against her bitterness. She was better and more bearable than she had been for many years;—a proof that good servants and good management, as well as good weather, make good and well-conducted governors. At the time of the first snow, the housekeeper had the house cleaned and swept, the windows washed, the curtains put up, and everything prepared for the reception of her lord, who arrived with a numerous train of servants, and a multitude of horses and hunting hounds, at the beginning of the winter.
It happened one morning when Matilda drew water in the court, that the Count met her, and his appearance produced feelings in her heart, quite new and strange to her; the most beautiful young man she had ever seen stood before her; the cheerful fire of his sparkling eyes, his waving light hair, half concealed under the shadow of the ostrich feather in his hat, and his firm walk and noble manner, operated so powerfully on the maiden, that her heart beat quicker, and her blood rushed faster through her veins. She now perceived, for the first time, the great difference of her present station from that in which she was born, and this feeling oppressed her more than the heavy bucket; very sorrowful she went back into the kitchen, and for the first time failed in her functions, and spoiled the soup, which procured for her, from the housekeeper, a sharp reproof. By night and day the handsome knight hovered before her eyes, it pleased her to see him often, and when he went across the courtyard, and she heard his spurs jingle, she always perceived a want of water in the kitchen, and hastened with a pail to the spring; if only she might obtain a sight of the handsome young nobleman.
Count Conrad seemed to live only for enjoyment, he missed no kind of diversion and no festivity in the rich city, which intercourse with Venice had made luxurious. When Shrove-Tuesday’s mummeries began, the intoxication of joy seemed at its height. Matilda had no share in any of the sports, but sat in the smoky kitchen, and wept her languishing eyes almost sore, mourned over the caprice of fortune, which overwhelmed her favourites with the joys of life, and cast away from her despised devotees every happy moment. Her heart was sorrowful, without her properly knowing why; she was quite ignorant that love had nestled in her heart. This troublesome guest, who makes confusion in every house where he takes shelter, in the daytime whispered to her a thousand romantic thoughts, and entertained her at night with waggish dreams. Soon she wandered with the lord in a flower-garden—soon she was confined between the holy walls of a cloister, and the Count stood outside the grating, desiring to converse with her, and the strict Abbess would not allow it; soon again she was dancing with him at a ball. This delightful dream was often destroyed suddenly by the sound of Gertrude’s bunch of keys, with which in the morning she summoned the servants to their work. Still the ideas which this fantasy had excited during the night-season proved a source of enjoyment to her by day. Love shuns no danger, climbs mountains and rocks, jumps down precipices, finds ways and paths through the Libyan desert, and swims on the back of the white bull over the stormy sea. The loving Matilda mourned and philosophised long till she found a means to realize her most beautiful dream. She had the musk-apple of her godmother Nixa, which would procure her the fulfilment of three wishes. It had not occurred to her hitherto to open it and prove its properties; and now she wished to make the first trial.
The citizens of Augsburg, on the birth of Prince Marcus, prepared a magnificent banquet in honour of the Emperor Frederic, and this feasting was to last three days, and many Prelates, Counts, and Lords were invited from the neighbourhood. Every day was set apart for a prize, and every evening the most beautiful maidens were invited to the town-hall, to dance with the noble knights, and this was to last till morning. Knight Conrad did not fail to be present at these festivities, and in the dance was the great hero and favourite of all the ladies and young maidens. Matilda had resolved on this occasion to undertake an adventure. After she had arranged the kitchen, and all was quiet in the house, she went to her chamber, washed with fine soap the sooty paint from her skin, and let the natural lilies and roses shine forth. Then she took the musk-apple in her hand, and wished for a box with a new dress, as beautiful and splendid as possible, with proper trimmings. She opened the lid, and drew forth a piece of silk, which lengthened and widened itself, rushed like a stream of water down to her lap, and became a perfect dress, with all the little ornaments pertaining to it, and it fitted her body as if it had been poured on it. She now delayed not to put her design into execution;—she turned the apple three times in her hand and said,—
“Let all eyes close,
And all repose.”
Immediately a deep sleep fell on all the servants, from the vigilant housekeeper to the porter. Miss Matilda was quickly outside the gate, wandered invisible through the streets, and entered with the demeanour of a goddess into the dancing-hall. Each and all wondered at the charming form of the maiden, and in the balcony which ran round the hall arose a whispering noise, as when the preacher says “Amen” from the pulpit. Some wondered at the beauty of the form of the unknown, others at the taste of her dress, whilst some desired to know who she was, and from whence she came, although no neighbour could give another a satisfactory answer. Among the knights and nobles who pressed around to view the stranger maiden, the Count was not the last; he thought he had never seen a more happy physiognomy, nor a more charming form. He approached her, and asked her to dance; she modestly offered her hand, and danced beautifully to the admiration of all. Her light foot seemed scarcely to touch the ground; but the movements of her body were so noble and easy, that she charmed every eye. Knight Conrad enjoyed the dance with all his heart; he was quite smitten with his beautiful partner, and never left her side,—said all the fine things he could think of to her, and pressed his love-suit with earnestness and passion. Miss Matilda was as little mistress of her heart; she conquered and was conquered; her first essay in love flattered her with agreeable consequences, and it was impossible to her to conceal her feelings under the veil of womanly reserve, so that the knight might not remark that he was not a hopeless lover. It only remained for him now to know who the beautiful unknown was, and where she dwelt, that he might pursue his fortune. All inquiries were in vain; she evaded every question, and with much trouble he obtained from her the promise to attend the dance on the following evening. He intended to outwit her, lest perchance she should not keep her word; and he despatched all his servants to lie in wait, in order to discover her dwelling when she should go home.
The morning was scarcely dawned ere Matilda found an opportunity to escape from the knight and to leave the dancing-hall. As soon as she was out of the hall, she turned her musk-apple three times in her hand, and repeated the little charm,—“Night behind me, day before me, so that nobody may see me,”—and so she reached her chamber without the Count’s twilight birds, who were fluttering up and down every street, being able to perceive her. With her usual skill, she locked up her silken clothes in her chest, put on again her dirty kitchen-dress; set about her business; was earlier up than the rest of the servants, whom Dame Gertrude roused from their beds by the bunch of keys, and thus Miss Matilda earned a little praise from the housekeeper. Never had a day appeared so long to the knight as that after the ball; every hour seemed to him a year; the earnest desire and longing, the annoying doubts and cares, lest the inscrutable beauty should disappoint him, all disquieted his heart: suspicion is a consequence of love, and this now ran through his head as fast as the greyhounds through the court. In the evening he prepared for the ball, dressed himself more carefully than the previous day, and the three golden rings, the high distinction of nobility, set with diamonds, sparkled now on the edge of his ruff. He was the first at the place of the joyous meeting, examined every comer with the keen glance of his noble eyes, and awaited with impatience the appearance of the queen of the ball. The evening star had risen high above the horizon before the maiden found time to go to her chamber, and to think of what she would do; whether she should ask the second wish of the musk-apple, or reserve it for a more important event in her life. The faithful counsellor Reason advised her to adopt the latter course; but Love demanded the first with such impetuosity, that Dame Reason could not get in a word, and at last was not at all listened to. Matilda wished for another dress of rose-coloured satin, with a set of jewels as beautiful and splendid as a king’s daughter was accustomed to wear. The good-natured musk-apple gave her what was in its power, and the dress excelled her expectation. Cheerfully she made her toilet, and, by the help of the talisman, arrived, unperceived by any mortal eyes, where she was so anxiously expected. She was much more charming than the preceding day, and when the knight perceived her, his heart leaped for joy, and a power as irresistible as the gravitation of the earth impelled him towards her, through the vortex of dancers, there to stammer out his feelings. His heart beat, and his limbs shook; for he had already given up all hopes of again seeing the maiden. To recover himself again, and to hide his confusion, he asked her to dance, and all parties drew aside to look at this noble pair. The beautiful unknown floated delightfully round on the arm of the agile knight, as the goddess of flowers in spring, borne on the wings of the zephyr.
At the conclusion of the dance Count Conrad at last led the tired dancer, under pretext of seeking refreshment, into a side apartment; told her, in the language of a fine courtier, how charming he had found the previous day; but imperceptibly the cold court language changed into the language of the heart, and he ended with a declaration of love, as tender and sincere as a wooer is accustomed to use who seeks a bride. The maiden listened to the knight with bashful joy, and after her beating heart and glowing cheeks had plainly manifested her feelings, and a declaration of her sentiments was demanded, she said very modestly, “What you have told me, noble knight, both yesterday and to-day, of your tender love, pleases me well, for I cannot believe that you are talking to me with deceitful words; but how am I to share your married love, since you are a knight of Malta and have taken a vow to remain in singleness all your life? If your meaning were only mischief and gallantry, you have spoken all your smooth words to the winds; therefore, explain the riddle, and tell me how you can arrange it so that we may be wedded according to the rules of holy Church, and our union be indissoluble before God and man?” The knight answered earnestly and honourably, “You speak like a prudent and virtuous maiden, and I will, therefore, to your honest question give a candid answer, and free you from your doubts. At the time when I was admitted into the order of the Cross, my brother William, the heir of the family, was still alive; but since his death, I have obtained a dispensation, as the last of my race, to be married, and to renounce the order, when it pleases me. But love for woman had never fettered my heart until the day I saw you. From that moment I was convinced that you, and no other, was destined by Heaven to become my wife. If you refuse me not your hand, nothing but death shall ever sever us.”—“Reflect well,” answered Matilda, “that you do not afterwards repent; acting first and reflecting afterwards has brought much mischief into the world. You know not whether I am worthy of you, nor of what station and rank I am; whether I am your equal in birth and fortune, or whether only a borrowed glitter dazzles before your eyes. It becomes not a man of your station to promise anything thoughtlessly; but sacredly to fulfil his promise according to the usage of noble hearts.”
Knight Conrad seized her quickly by the hand, pressed her to his bosom, and fondly exclaimed, “That I promise you, upon my honour and salvation! If you,” continued he, “were the child of the lowest man; only a pure and innocent maiden; I will honourably make you my wife, and promote you to wealth and honour.” Then he took a diamond ring, of great worth, from his finger, gave it into her hand as a pledge of fidelity, took the first kiss from her pure lips, and said, “That you may not mistrust my promise, I invite you to my house in three days, where I will appoint my friends, the prelates and lords, and other noblemen, to witness our marriage.” Matilda, however, resolutely declined this, because the quick current of the knight’s love did not altogether satisfy her, and she wished first to prove the constancy of his affection. He did not cease to press her for her consent; but she would neither say yes nor no. As on the previous day, the company separated at morning dawn; Matilda disappeared; and the knight, from whose eyes sleep had fled, called his housekeeper very early, and gave her orders to prepare a splendid feast. As death, that dreaded skeleton, wanders with its scythe through palaces and thatched cottages, and unrelentingly mows down and kills all it meets; so Dame Gertrude, the evening before the feast, armed her inexorable hand with the slaughtering knife, to the destruction of chickens and ducks, and bore in her hand, like the fates, the life or death of the tenantry of the poultry-yard. By her polished and murderous steel, the careless inhabitants fell by dozens; for the last time their wings fluttered mournfully, and chickens, and pigeons, and foolish capons, and even turkey-cocks yielded up their lives. Miss Matilda had so many to pick, to scald, and to cook, that she was obliged to be up the whole night; still she cared not for the trouble, for she knew that the grand banquet was all on her account.
The feast began; the host moved quickly about to every comer in the hall, and, whenever the bell rang, he expected his unknown beloved to enter the door; but, when it was opened, only a prelate entered, or a solemn matron, or a venerable bailiff. The guests had been long assembled, and the server had not yet served up the meats. Knight Conrad still tarried for his beautiful bride; but as she delayed so long, with secret vexation he directed the server to arrange the table. They sat down and found one extra dish; but nobody could guess who it was that had slighted the invitation of their host. Every moment the knight’s cheerfulness diminished, he could no longer banish the look of dejection from his forehead, although he exerted himself by a forced serenity to keep up the good humour of his guests. This moody temper of their host soon soured the sweetness of social joy among the guests, and the feasting chamber became as still and quiet as a funeral assembly. The instruments which should have played to the expected dances were sent away; and thus ended the feast at Count Conrad’s house, once the abode of mirth. The dejected guests disappeared earlier than usual, and the knight longed for the solitude of his own chamber, to give himself up to his melancholy grief, and to reflect, undisturbed, on the disappointments of love. He tossed impatiently in his bed, and knew not what interpretation to put on his deceived hopes. His blood boiled in his veins; morning came before he had closed his eyes, the servants entered and found their lord struggling with wild fantasies, and, to all appearance, in a high fever. Then the whole house was thrown into confusion, physicians ran up and down stairs, wrote prescriptions a yard long, and in the apothecaries’ shops all the mortars were at work, as if they were sounding for matins. But the little herb, Eyebright, which alone softens the longings of love, no physician had prescribed; therefore, the sick man abused the restorative balsam, and pearl tincture, refused to subject himself to any regimen, and desired the physicians no longer to trouble him with their follies, but to let the sand gradually cease to flow in his hour-glass, without shaking it with their helping hands.
Seven days had Count Conrad wasted away in secret sorrow, so that the rose faded from his cheeks, the fire of his eyes disappeared, and life and breath only hovered between his lips, like a light morning fog in the valley, which only needs the least breath of wind to dissipate it entirely. Miss Matilda had accurate knowledge of all that passed in the house; it was not caprice nor prudish affectation, that she had not accepted the invitation; it cost her a hard struggle between head and heart, between reason and passion, before she could resolve not to listen to the voice of her beloved. Partly she wished to prove the constancy of his vehement protestations, partly she felt some hesitation in employing the third wish of the musk-apple; for though she thought that, as a bride, a new dress would become her, yet her godmother had enjoined her to use her three wishes prudently. But on the day of the feast her heart was very heavy: she sat in a corner and wept bitterly. The illness of the knight, of which she easily divined the cause, troubled her still more, and when she heard the danger he was in she was inconsolable. On the seventh day, according to the prognostications of the physicians, life or death was to be determined. It is easy to judge that Matilda voted for the life of her beloved; and that she could most probably effect this recovery was not unknown to her; only she found great difficulty as to the manner in which she should behave. Still, among the thousand faculties which love awakens and discloses, one is always that of invention. When Matilda went, according to custom, early in the morning, to the housekeeper, to take counsel with her about the affairs of the kitchen, Dame Gertrude was so unnerved that she could not fix her thoughts on common things, nor attend to the choice of meats; great tears, like droppings from a roof, rolled down her leathern cheeks. “Alas, Matilda!” sobbed she, “I shall soon cease to be housekeeper here; our poor master cannot live out the day.” This was very mournful news! The maiden thought she should sink with terror; but she recovered courage, and said, “Do not despair for the life of our lord, he will not die, but will recover: last night I had a good dream.” The old woman was a living dream-book; hunted up every dream of the servants, whenever she could catch one; always explained it so that the fulfilment came to her liking—for the most agreeable dreams with her always alluded to quarrels, contentions, and scoldings. “Tell thy dream,” said she, “that I may explain it.”—“It seemed to me,” began Matilda, “as if I were at home with my dear mother, who took me aside, and taught me to cook a broth from nine different kinds of herbs, which would cure any sickness, if only three spoonfuls of it are swallowed. ‘Prepare this for thy lord,’ said she, ‘and he will recover from that hour.’” Dame Gertrude was much astonished at this dream, and abstained this time from her customary interpretations. “Thy dream is wonderful,” said she, “and not accidental. Prepare thy broth at once, for breakfast; I will see if I can prevail on our lord to taste it.”
Count Conrad lay in silent meditation, faint and powerless; he felt that he was on his last journey, and wished to receive the last consolations of the Church; when Dame Gertrude went in to him, drew him away by her voluble tongue from his meditations, and tormented him with well-intentioned talkativeness, so that he, to get rid of her, promised what she desired. In the mean while Matilda prepared her broth, put into it different kitchen herbs, and costly spices, and laid in it the diamond ring which the knight had given her as a pledge of fidelity, and called the servants to take it in. The sick man feared the loud eloquence of the housekeeper, which still rang in his ears so loudly, that he compelled himself to take a spoonful of the soup. As he touched the bottom, he observed a strange substance, which he fished up, and found it, to his astonishment, a diamond ring. His eye immediately shone full of life and youthful fire, the sickliness of his appearance was gone, and he emptied the whole cup with a decided appetite, to the great joy of Dame Gertrude and the expecting servants. All ascribed the extraordinary recovery to the soup, for the knight had not let any of them perceive the ring. Then he turned to Dame Gertrude, and said, “Who prepared this food which has done me so much good, restored my strength, and recalled me to life?” The careful old woman wished that the invalid would keep quiet, and not talk so much; she therefore said, “Do not distress yourself, my lord, as to who prepared the broth; it is well for you and for us that it has worked the healthful effect which we hoped from it.” But the knight was not to be put off with this answer; he demanded a reply to his question, to which the housekeeper at last responded;—that there was a servant in the kitchen, called the little gipsy, who was skilful in the knowledge of all herbs and plants, and that it was she who had prepared the broth that had made the knight so well. “Bring her to me,” said the knight, “that I may thank her for this panacea of life.”—“Hold,” answered the housekeeper, “her look would disgust you: in form she is like a hooded owl, she has a hump on her back, is dressed in dirty clothes, and her face and hands are smeared with dirt and soot.”—“Do my commands,” said the Count, “and without a moment’s delay.” Dame Gertrude obeyed, called Matilda quickly out of the kitchen, threw a cloak over her which she was accustomed to wear at church, and led her, thus adorned, to the sick-chamber. The knight commanded her to retire, and when he had closed the door he said, “Little girl, confess to me freely, how didst thou become possessed of the ring which I found in the bowl in which you prepared my breakfast?”—“Noble knight,” answered the maiden, modestly and respectfully, “I had the ring from you; you adorned me with it on the second evening of the dance, when you swore your love to me; see now, if my form and origin deserve that you should pine away and sink into the grave. Your condition grieved me, therefore I have no longer delayed to show you your error.” Count Conrad had not expected such an antidote to love; for a moment he was confounded and silent. But the form of the charming dancer soon hovered before his eyes, and he could not make it agree with the antitype now before him. He thought, that perhaps his passion had been discovered, and that they wished to cure him by an innocent deceit; still the true ring which he had received back, made him think that the beautiful unknown was in some manner connected with the scheme; then he thought he would question the servant, and try to entangle her in her talk. “If you are that gentle maiden,” said he, “who pleased me so much, and to whom I plighted my troth, do not doubt that I will truly keep my promise; but beware of deceiving me. Can you again take the form which appeared to me two successive nights in the dancing-hall? can you make your body as slender and even as a young fir-tree? can you change your dingy skin like a snake, and show different colours like a chameleon; so shall the word that I spoke when I gave away the ring, be ‘yea and amen.’ But if you cannot perform the conditions of this stipulation, I will have you scourged as a mischievous deceiver, till you tell me how you became possessed of this ring.” Matilda siahed; “Ah, is it only the glitter of the form, noble knight, that pleased your eyes? Woe is me! if time or circumstances should destroy these fleeting charms; if old age bends my slender shape and crooks my back; if my roses and lilies fade, my fine skin wrinkles and dries; if my deceitful figure, in which I now stand before you, really belonged to me, what would become of your plighted faith?” Knight Conrad wondered at this discourse, which seemed too wise and reflecting for a kitchen-maid. “Know,” was his answer, “beauty commands a man’s love, but virtue knows how to keep fast the soft bands of love.”—“Well,” answered she, “I go to fulfil your conditions, prepare your heart to decide my fate.”
The Knight still wavered between hope and fear of a new deception; he rang for the housekeeper, and commanded her to “escort the maiden to her chamber, that she may clothe herself neatly; remain at the door till she comes out—I await you in the reception-room.” Dame Gertrude took her prisoner with strict care, not knowing what her lord’s command might mean. In going up she said, “Hast thou clothes to adorn thyself? why hast thou concealed them from me? If thou wantest any, follow me to my chamber, I will lend thee as many as thou needest.” Hereupon she described her old-fashioned wardrobe (in which she had dressed herself for half a century) piece by piece, with eager remembrance of former times. Matilda had little need of any, she only desired a small piece of soap, and a handful of bran, took a washing-basin full of water, went into her chamber and fastened the bolt, while Dame Gertrude stood outside the door with great anxiety, expecting what would happen. The knight, full of expectation as to the issue of his love adventure, forsook his couch, clothed himself in elegant attire, and went into his state room, pacing the room with quick, uneven strides. Just as the clock on the Augsburg town-hall, and eighteen other clocks, told the hour of noon, a train of a silken robe rustled through the antechamber, and Miss Matilda entered, with hesitation and dignity, adorned as a bride, and beautiful as the Goddess of Love when she returned to Paphos from the council of the Gods on Mount Olympus. With the rapture of a delighted lover, the knight Conrad cried, “Goddess or mortal, whoever you may be, behold me here at your feet, ready to renew the vow that I have made you, if you will accept my heart and hand.” The maiden modestly raised the knight: “Softly, noble knight,” said she, “do not be in a hurry with your vow; you see me here in my proper form, though still unknown to you: a smooth face has betrayed many men. The ring is still in your hands.” Immediately the knight took it from his finger; the maiden relinquished her hand to the charming knight, and he placed the ring upon her finger. “You are now my chosen,” said she; “I can no longer conceal myself; I am the daughter of Wackerman Uhlfinger, the stout old knight, whose unhappy fate is, without doubt, not unknown to you; sorrowfully, I escaped from the ruin of my father’s house, and have in your dwelling, though in a mean condition, found shelter and security.” Then she related to him her history, and did not conceal from him the secret of the musk-apple.
Count Conrad no more remembered that he had been at the point of death, but on the following day again invited the guests, whom his dejection had previously scared away so easily, and when the server served up, and counted around, no extra cover was found. Then the knight quitted the order, left the court, and solemnized his marriage with great splendour. The newly-married couple passed the first year of their union at Augsburg, in joy and innocent mirth. Impressed with feelings of delightful emotion, the youthful wife, leaning on the bosom of her wedded lord, confided to him the happy feelings of her heart, which overflowed with joy. “My heart, beloved lord,” said she once, “in possessing you is at rest; no other wish remains to me; I give up the third wish of my musk-apple; if you have any concealed desire in your heart, make it known to me; I will make it mine, and from that hour it shall be accomplished.” Count Conrad pressed his beloved wife heartily in his arms, and protested that no wish remained to him on earth but the continuance of their happiness. The musk-apple thus lost all its value in the eyes of its possessor, and she only preserved it in thankful remembrance of her godmother Nixa. Count Conrad had still a mother alive, who lived on her jointure at Schwabeck, whose hand the innocent daughter-in-law had a great desire to kiss, and to thank her for her valiant son; still the Count, under various pretences, declined the journey to his mother; but showed an inclination to visit a fief which had fallen to him, and which was not far from Wackerman’s ruined castle. Matilda was very willing to visit once more the land where she had passed the days of her first youth. She sought out the ruins of her father’s house, wept over the ashes of her parents, went to the Nixa’s spring, and hoped that her presence would again invite the Nymph to make herself visible. Many stones dropped into the spring without the hoped-for effect, even the musk-apple swam like a bubble on the water, and she had the trouble of fishing it out for herself. The Nymph no more appeared, although another sponsorship was impending, for Lady Matilda was on the point of presenting her husband with a marriage blessing. She gave birth to a son as beautiful as Cupid, and the joy of the parents was so great that they nearly hugged him to death; the mother would not put him out of her arms, and watched every breath of the innocent little angel, although the Count had hired a cunning nurse to take care of the little child. But on the third night, when all in the castle lay buried in sleep, after the noise and bustle of a feast, the mother awoke from a sweet slumber, and when she awoke the baby was gone from her arms! Astonished, the terrified Countess cried out, “Nurse, where have you laid my baby?” The nurse answered, “Noble lady, the dear little boy is in your arms.” Bed and chamber were anxiously searched, but nothing was found except some drops of blood on the floor of the chamber. When the nurse perceived this, she raised a loud cry, “Oh, God and the Saints have pity on us! the man-wolf has been here and carried the child away!” The mother wept herself pale and thin for the loss of her noble boy, and the father was inconsolable. Although the knight had not, in reality, a mustard-grain of belief in the man-wolf, but treated it as woman’s prattle, yet he could in no way clear up the mystery. He consoled his sorrowful wife as he best could; and she, to please him, compelled herself to assume a more cheerful mien. That anodyne of pain, beneficent time, at last healed the mother’s heart-wound, and the loss was repaired by a second son. Boundless was the joy in the palace over the beautiful heir; the Count feasted with great mirth with all his neighbours within a day’s journey round, the cup of joy passed unceasingly from hand to hand, from the host and guests to the door-keeper; all drank to the health of the new-born. The apprehensive mother would not have the child out of her sight, and watched its sweet sleep as long as her strength permitted; but when at last the demands of nature must be obeyed, she took the golden chain from her neck, passed it round the baby’s body, and fastened the other end to her arm, signed herself and the child with the cross, that the man-wolf might have no power nor influence over it, and she soon fell into an irresistible slumber. When she awoke with the first dawn of morning, oh misery! the sweet boy had disappeared from her arms. In the utmost alarm she cried as before, “Nurse, where have you laid my baby?” and the nurse answered likewise, “Noble lady, the dear little boy is in your arms.” Immediately she looked for the golden chain which she had fastened to her arm, and found that a link had been cut through by a sharp steel instrument, and she fainted away with terror. The nurse alarmed the house, the servants hastened in, full of consternation, and when Count Conrad heard what had happened, his heart burned with anger and indignation, he drew his knightly sword, intending to cleave the nurse’s head. “Wicked woman!” thundered he with furious voice, “did I not give you strict orders to remain awake all night, that, if this monster came to rob the sleeping mother, you, by your screams, might alarm the house? Sleep now, indolent one, the sleep of death!” The woman fell on her knees before him: “Worshipful lord,” said she, “by God’s mercy, I conjure you to grant me some moments, that I may not take the crime which mine eyes have seen into the grave with me, and which should not have been extorted from me if it were not for the torture.” The Count was astonished. “What crime,” asked he. “have your eyes seen, so black that your tongue refuses to mention it? Freely declare to me, without torture, what is known to you, like a true maiden.”—“My lord,” sobbed the servant, “what moves you to hear your misfortune? It is better that the frightful secret should be buried with my corpse in the cold grave.”
But Count Conrad only became more desirous to know the secret; he took the woman aside into a private room, and, overcome by threats and promises, she disclosed to him what he had been so very desirous to know:—“Your wife,” said she, “you must know, my lord, is an enchantress; but she loves you above measure, and her love goes so far, that she spares not her own children, thereby to procure the means of preserving your favour, and her beauty unchangeable. In the night, when all were asleep in great security, she placed herself as if she also slumbered. I did the same, I know not why. Soon she called me by my name, but I answered not, but pretended to snore and make a rattling in my throat. As she thought that I was fast asleep, she sat up in bed, took the baby, pressed it to her bosom, kissed it heartily, and whispered these words, which I clearly heard:—‘Son of my love, be a means to preserve to me thy father’s love; go now to thy little brother, thou innocent, that I may prepare with nine different herbs and thy little bones a strengthening drink, which shall preserve my beauty and thy father’s favour.’ When she had thus said, she drew forth a diamond needle, as sharp as a dagger, out of her hair, and pierced the baby to the heart, let it bleed a few drops, and, when it no longer struggled, she laid it before her, took the musk-apple, muttered some words, and when she lifted the lid, a light flame of fire blazed from it, as from a pitch-barrel, which consumed the corpse in a few moments; the ashes and little bones she collected carefully into a little box, and pushed it under the bedstead. Then she cried with an anxious voice, as if she had suddenly awoke from sleep—‘Nurse, where have you laid my baby?’ and I answered, with fear and trembling, in dread of her enchantments, ‘Noble lady, the dear little lord is in your arms.’ Then she began to behave as if she were very sorrowful, and I ran out of the chamber for the purpose of calling help. Behold, worshipful lord, these are the details of the shameful deed which you have obliged me to disclose to you; I am ready to prove the truth of my report by a red-hot iron bar, which I will carry with my naked hands three times up and down the castle-yard.”
Count Conrad stood as if petrified; for a long time he could not utter a word. When he had collected himself, he said, “What need is there of the fiery ordeal? your words bear the impress of truth; I feel and believe that all is as you have said: keep this frightful secret fast in your heart; tell it to no man, not even to the priest when you make confession. I will procure for you a letter of pardon from the Bishop of Augsburg, that this sin shall not be imputed to you either in this world or in the next. I will now go with a dissembling visage to this viper; take care that you, when I embrace her, and pretend to console her grief, draw forth the box of bones from under the bed unperceived, this will be more than proof to me. With a slightly clouded forehead, and a somewhat sorrowful look, but still like a determined man, he entered his wife’s apartment, who received her lord with innocent eyes, but with a silent, mournful soul. Her face was like an angel’s, and this extinguished the rage and fury with which his heart burned. The spirit of revenge softened into compassion and pity, he pressed the unfortunate lady tenderly to his bosom, and she poured tears of heartfelt anguish over his garments. He comforted her, talked kindly to her, and hastened soon to leave the theatre of cruelty and horror. The nurse had in the mean time prepared what she had been ordered; and delivered to the Count, in secret, the horrible receptacle of bones. It cost him a severe struggle in his heart before he could resolve what he should do with the supposed enchantress. At last he was of opinion that he would get rid of her without creating noise and wonder. He set off, and rode to Augsburg, and gave the steward these orders:—“When the Countess goes out of her chamber, after nine days, to bathe as usual, have the bath-room well heated, and bolt firmly the doors, that she may faint in the bath from the great heat, and may at last expire.” The steward received this command with heartfelt sorrow, for all the servants loved the Countess Matilda, as a gentle and amiable mistress; still he did not dare open his mouth against his lord, because he perceived his great earnestness and impatience.
On the ninth day Matilda ordered the bath to be heated; she thought her husband would not remain long in Augsburg, and she wished that, on his return, all traces of their misfortune should be wiped away. When she entered the bath-room the air around her was greatly heated. She wished to draw back, but a strong hand pushed her violently into the chamber, and immediately all the doors were bolted and locked. She cried in vain for help; nobody listened; the fire was only stirred up hotter, so that the stove glowed red-hot, like a potter’s oven. At this circumstance, the Countess easily guessed what was to happen; she resigned herself to her fate; only the shameful suspicion for which she was being punished tormented her soul more than this ignominious death. She employed the last moments of recollection in taking a silver needle out of her hair, and writing these words on the white wall of the room: “Farewell, Conrad; I die willingly at thy command; but I die innocent.” Then she threw herself on a little couch, to begin her death-struggle, but nature involuntarily strove, for a little moment of time, to prevent her destruction. In the anguish of the stifling heat, the unhappy dying one threw herself here and there; the musk-apple, which she always carried about with her, fell to the ground, she picked it up immediately, and cried, “Oh! Godmother Nixa, if it be in your power, free me from an ignominious death, and make my innocence clear.” She hastily took the lid off, there arose from the musk-apple a thick mist, which spread itself through the whole chamber, and the Countess immediately perceived that there arose a coolness, so that she felt no more anguish and heat. The cloud of vapour at last collected into a tall figure, and the lady Matilda, who now no longer thought of dying, saw, with unspeakable delight, the lovely Nymph before her, the dear little baby in her arms, wrapped up in a little chrism-cloth, and in her hand the other little boy, in white robes, with rose-coloured borders. “Welcome, beloved Matilda,” said the Nymph. “Well for thee that thou didst not use the third wish of the musk-apple so thoughtlessly as thou didst the two first. Here are two living witnesses of thine innocence, with which thou wilt triumph over the black calumny under which thou wast almost slain. The evil star of thy life has now declined to its fall, henceforth the musk-apple will not grant any more wishes, because nothing now remains for thee to wish more; but I will explain to thee the riddle of thy mournful lot. Know that the mother of thy husband is the author of all thy misfortunes. To this proud woman her son’s marriage was as a poniard stab in her heart; she believed that Count Conrad had disgraced the nobility of his house by marrying a kitchen-maid; she immediately uttered curses and execrations against him, and would no longer acknowledge him as her son. All her thoughts and meditations were directed to destroy thee, although the vigilance of thy husband always prevented this wicked design. Still she contrived at last to deceive him by the hypocritical nurse. By great promises, she prevailed on this woman to take thy firstborn son in sleep from thy arms, and to throw it, like a dog, into the water. Luckily she selected the spring from my grotto for this crime; I received the boy with loving arms, and watched over him as a mother. Thus too she confided to me the second son of my beloved Matilda. This deceitful nurse was thy accuser; she persuaded the Count that thou wert a magician; that a salamander flame came out of the musk-apple (whose secret thou shouldst have carefully preserved) and destroyed the boy, whose ashes thou preparedst into a love-drink. She showed thy husband a small vessel, filled with pigeon and chicken bones, which he believed to be the remains of his child, and he gave orders to smother thee in the bath during his absence. In a few hours thou wilt again lean upon his friendly bosom.” When the Nymph had thus spoken, she bent over the Countess’s face, kissed her forehead, and, without waiting for an answer, wrapped herself in her thick veil of vapour, and vanished away.
The servants of the Count were in the meanwhile busy, to kindle again the extinguished fire; it seemed to them as if they heard human voices inside, whence they supposed that the Countess was still alive. But all their trouble was in vain; the wood caught as little fire as if the stove had been heated with snow-balls. Soon Count Conrad rode home, and anxiously asked how it was with his wife. The servants informed him, how they had well heated the bath, but that the fire was suddenly extinguished; and that they believed the Countess was still alive. This very much rejoiced his heart; he went to the door, and cried through the keyhole, “Dost thou live, Matilda?” and the Countess recognised her husband’s voice, and answered, “Beloved lord, I live and my children live also.” Enraptured at this speech, the impatient Count had the door broken open, because the key was not ready at hand, rushed into the bath-room to the feet of his innocent wife, bedewed her pure hands with a thousand tears of repentance, brought her and her pledges of love, to the joy and delight of the whole house, out of the frightful death-chamber back into her apartment, and heard from her mouth the whole particulars of the shameful slander, and the robbery of the children. Immediately he gave the command to seize the malicious nurse, and to shut her up in the bath-room. The fire in the stove began to burn merrily, the flames ascended on high, and speedily this devilish woman died a miserable and deserved death.
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