# Hyperion (Longfellow)/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.
The Landlady's Daughter
“ALLEZ, Fuchs! allez, lustig!” cried the impatient postilion to his horses, in accents which, like the wild echo of the Lurley Felsen, came first from one side of the river and then from the other,—that is to say, in words alternately French and German. The truth is, he was tired of waiting; and when Flemming had at length resumed his seat in the post-chaise, the poor horses had to make up the time he had lost in dreams on the mountain. This is far oftener the case than most people imagine. One half of the world must sweat and groan, that the other half may dream. It would have been a difficult task for the traveller or his postilion to persuade the horses that these dreams were all for their good. The next stopping-place was the little tavern of the Star, an out-of-the-way corner in the town of Salzig. It stands on the banks ​of the Rhine; and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water’s edge, rise the mountains of Liebenstein and Sternenfels, each with its ruined castle. These are the Brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at each other face to face; and beneath them, in the valley, stands a cloister,—meet emblem of that orphan child they both so passionately loved.
In a small flat-bottomed boat did the landlady’s daughter row Flemming “over the Rhine-stream, rapid and roaring wide.” She was a beautiful girl of sixteen; with black hair, and dark, lovely eyes, and a face that had a story to tell. How different faces are in this particular! Some of them speak not. They are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date. Others are great Family Bibles, with both the Old and the New Testament written in them. Others are Mother Goose and nursery tales; others, bad tragedies, or pickle-herring farces; and others, like that of the landlady’s daughter at the Star, sweet love-anthologies, and songs of the affections. It was on that account that Flemming said to her, as they glided out into the swift stream, “My dear child! do you know the story of the Liebenstein?”
​"The story of the Liebenstein,” she answered, I knew by heart when I was a little child."
And here her large, dark, passionate eyes looked into Flemming’s, and he doubted not that she had learned the story far too soon and far too well. That story he longed to hear, as if it were unknown to him; for he knew that the girl, who had got it by heart when a child, would tell it as it should be told. So he begged her to repeat the story, which she was but too glad to do; for she loved and believed it, as if it had all been written in the Bible. But before she began, she rested a moment on her oars, and, taking the crucifix which hung suspended from her neck, kissed it, and then let it sink down into her bosom, as if it were an anchor she was dropping into her heart. Meanwhile her moist, dark eyes were turned to heaven. Perhaps her soul was walking with the souls of Cunizza, and Rahab, and Mary Magdalen. Or perhaps she was thinking of that nun, of whom St. Gregory says, in his Dialogues, that, having greedily eaten a lettuce in a garden without making the sign of the cross, she found herself soon after possessed with a devil.
​The probability, however, is, that she was looking at the ruined castles only, and not to heaven, for she soon began her story, and told Flemming how, “a great, great many years ago, an old man lived in the Liebenstein with his two sons; and how both the young men loved the Lady Geraldine, an orphan, under their father’s care; and how the elder brother went away in despair, and the younger was betrothed to the Lady Geraldine; and how they were as happy as Aschenputtel and the Prince. And then the holy Saint Bernard came and carried away all the young men to the war, just as Napoleon did afterwards; and the young lord went to the Holy Land, and the Lady Geraldine sat in her tower and wept, and waited for her lover’s return, while the old father built the Sternenfels for them to live in when they were married. And when it was finished, the old man died; and the elder brother came back and lived in the Liebenstein, and took care of the gentle lady. Erelong there came news from the Holy Land that the war was over; and the heart of the gentle lady beat with joy, till she heard that her faithless lover was coming back with a Greek wife,—the wicked man!—and then she went into a ​convent and became a holy nun. So the young lord of Sternenfels came home, and lived in his castle in great splendor with the Greek woman, who was a wicked woman, and did what she ought not to do. But the elder brother was angry for the wrong done the gentle lady, and challenged the lord of Sternenfels to single combat. And while they were fighting with their great swords in the valley of Bornhofen behind the castle, the convent bells began to ring, and the Lady Geraldine came forth with a train of nuns all dressed in white, and made the brothers friends again, and told them she was the bride of Heaven, and happier in her convent than she could have been in the Liebenstein or the Sternenfels. And when the brothers returned, they found that the false Greek wife had gone away with another knight. So they lived together in peace, and were never married. And when they died ———”
“Lisbeth! Lisbeth!” cried a sharp voice from the shore, Lisbeth! where are you taking the gentleman?”
This recalled the poor girl to her senses; and she saw how fast they were floating down stream. For, in telling the story, she had ​forgotten everything else, and the swift current had swept them down to the tall walnut-trees of Kamp. They landed in front of the Capuchin monastery. Lisbeth led the way through the little village, and, turning to the right, pointed up the romantic, lonely valley which leads to the Liebenstein, and even offered to go with him. But Flemming patted her cheek, and shook his head. He went up the valley alone.