University of Virginia Library

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 lost in dreams on the mountain.
This is far oftener the case, than most people
imagine. One half of the world has to 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,—meek 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 all the Old and 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 got 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 letting down 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
up to 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. Ere long 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 every
thing else, and the swift current had swept them
down to the tall walnut trees of Kamp. They
landed in front of the Capucin 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 up. But Flemming patted her
cheek and shook his head. He went up the
valley alone.