# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 6

Note: le Price chéri from the fairy tale of that name by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont
CHAPTER VI.
"I love a devious path that winds askance,
And hate to keep one object still in view;
The flowers are fragrant that we find by chance—
And in both life and nature I would rather
Have those I meet than those I come to gather." The Brunswick.
"Ah, 'tis a pleasure that none can tell,
To feel you're the wild wave's master."
"Impossible! If his highness would but consider"——
"I never considered in my life, and am not going to begin now. I cross the river, if you please, before yon black cloud."
"We must put back—we cannot allow a stranger to perish."
"Gentlemen of the sail, I can assure you it is not my destiny to be drowned; fulfil your agreement or forfeit your dollars."
One of the most pertinacious of the boatmen now began to mutter something about a family at once large and small.
"I can endure no more: when a man ​begins to talk of his wife and family, I consider his designs on my purse and time to be quite desperate. Descendants of the sea-kings! I am sure I shall not drown; and if you do, I promise to increase your donation, till your widows may erect a church and belfry to ring a rejoicing peal over your memory; and thus I end the dispute."
So saying, the young Englishman rose from the deck, where. he had lain wrapped in his cloak and his thoughts—and putting the sullen steersman aside, took the helm into his own hands. A few moments saw the little vessel gallantly scudding through the waters, dashing before her a shower of foam like sudden snow—and leaving behind a silver track, like a shining serpent, called by some strange spell from its emerald palace, and yet bright with the mysterious light of its birthplace. The river, now like an allied army, swollen with the gathered rains of many weeks, was darkened on one side by an ancient forest, black as night and death, and seeming almost as eternal. It was swept, but not bowed, by a mighty wind, now loud as mountain thunder, and now low with that peculiar whisper which haunts the leaf of the pine—such as might have ​suited the oracles of old—an articulate though unknown language,—and ever and anon rushing from its depths till the slight bark was hidden by the driven waters; while overhead hung one dense mass of cloud—a gathered storm, heavy as the woods it overshadowed. The banks on the other side were as those of another world; there arose rocks covered with coloured lichens, or bare and showing the rainbow-stained granite, and between them small open spaces of long soft grass, filled with yellow flowers; and here and there slight shrubs yielding to the wind, and one or two stately trees which defied it. Still the tempest was evidently rolling away in the distance; a few large drops of rain seemed to be the melting of the light which was now breaking through its cloudy barrier; already the moon, like the little bark beneath, was visible amid surrounding darkness, and at last illuminated, encouragingly, the deck and its youthful master, whose noble and romantic style of beauty suited well a scene like this.
The excitement of the moment had given even more than its ordinary paleness to his cheek, while its character of determination redeemed, what was almost a fault, the feminine delicacy of his mouth; the moonlight above ​was not more spiritual than the depths of his large blue eyes; and the rain that had washed his hair only gave even more glossiness to the light auburn waves that shadowed a forehead whose flowing line was that of genius and of grace: it was a face and figure to which the mind gave power, and whose slight and delicate proportions had been effeminate but for the strength which is of the spirit.
Successful daring makes its own way; and when the dangerous bend of the river was passed, and the wind had gradually wailed itself to rest like a passionate child, his boatmen were as elated as if the triumph had been their own. They reached the landing-place, ruled by an old oak, beneath whose shade the sea-kings must have stood: the crew went on to the little village, whose houses were already those of promise; while Edward loitered after, languid with the luxury of exertion, and the softness of the now lulled and lovely night. The moon was yet very young—that clear diamond crescent which looks as if undimmed by the sorrows, or unsullied by the crimes, which will fill even the brief period of her reign over earth: but there was ample light to show his way across a vast field, where every step he took filled the air ​with fragrance—for the ground was covered with those fairy flowers, the lilies of the valley—their ivory bells bowed the slight stalks by thousands, and their snow was like frost-work—as if winter had given her only loveliness to summer.
As he approached the village, the wild cherry-trees surrounded it like an orchard, the boughs covered with crimson profusion, and the cottage where he stopped was crowned with flowers; for here the turf-sods, which form the roof, are the nursery of numberless blossoming plants, all fair, and most of them fragrant. The door opened, a bright hearth was glowing with its wood fire of the odoriferous young pine-branches; and the hostess was quite pretty enough to make the short scarlet petticoat, and red handkerchief which gathered up her profusion of light tresses, seem the most becoming of costumes.
The game had the perfection of wild-heath flavour; and the rich peach brandy was most exhilarating to the wet and weary. After supper they gathered round the hearth. Many a tale was told of wood and water spirit, with all the eloquent earnestness of belief. The national song Gaule Norgé was sung, as people ​always sing national songs after dinner—with all their heart, and as much voice as they have left; and Edward Lorraine went to bed, when nothing was wanting but an audience, to have made him declaim most eloquently on the excellence of unsophisticated pleasure.
The next day he rose early to join in the chase of an elk, an animal rarely seen even in that remote part. The band of hunters were young and bold, and there was just enough of danger for excitement. Many a deep valley and dark ravine did they pass, when a loud shout told that their prey was at hand. Fronting them, on a barren and steep height, stood the stately creature, his size thrown out in bold relief by the clear blue sky behind: he tossed his proud antlers defyingly, as if he were conscious of the approaching enemy—when suddenly he turned, and dashed down the opposite side. Their game was now secure; gradually they narrowed their circle, till they quite hemmed in the little dell where it had taken refuge. Their noiseless steps might have defied even an Indian ear, and a few scattered trees concealed them. The stag was lying amid the grass; his horns, in forcing a passage through the woods, had borne away their spoil; and a creeping plant, ​with large green leaves and small bright blue flowers, had wound round them, as if the victim were bound with wreaths for sacrifice. Another moment, and the hunters rushed forward; five spears were in its side at once. Awakened more than injured, the elk sprang up. One incautious youth was thrown on the ground in a moment, while it made for the thicket where Edward was hid.
He had meant to have witnessed rather than have joined in the attack; but the danger was imminent—his life was on a chance—the shot rang from his pistol—and the next moment he felt the large dark eye of the dying animal fix on his, and it lay in the death agony at his feet, for the bullet had entered its forehead. His comrades gathered round, received the reward he had promised, and prepared for supper in the woods, while Edward stood gazing on the gallant stag.
It was fifteen years since one of the kind had been seen in the district. A few hours and a few dollars finished his brief reign in the woods; and Lorraine thought a little sadly on the bold and the lonely which had fallen to gratify his curiosity.
Your moralising is, after all, but a zest to ​pleasure; and his remorse was more than mitigated by the applause bestowed on his address and presence of mind,—till the horns of the elk came to be viewed with very self-satisfactory feelings. Active pleasures, however, had their day; and Edward soon began to prefer wandering amid the mighty forests, till he half believed in the spirits of which they were the home; or he would lie for hours embedded in some little nook of wild flowers, amid the rocks that looked down on the river—a wild soaring bird the sole interruption to his solitude. But one cannot practise poetry for ever; and he soon found he was declining rapidly from the golden age of innocent pleasure to the silver one of insipidity. So one fine morning saw him bribing his driver, and urging the pretty little brown horses of the country to their utmost speed, on his way to England. The sea-port was gained—the wind as favourable as if that had been bribed too—and in a fortnight he was at Hull, quite as pleased to return to his native land as he had been to leave it.
This journey to Norway may be considered the specimen brick of Edward Lorraine's life and character; for the season before, he had been ​le Prince chéri of the Park and Pall Mall—his dressing-room was one mirror—his sofas pink satin—his taste was as perfect in beauty as it was in perfume—his box at the Opera exhaled every evening a varying atmosphere; it was not the night of Medea or Otello, but that of the heliotrope or the esprit des violettes;—he talked of building a rival Regent Street with his invitation cards—and actually took a cottage "all of lilies and roses" at Richmond, as fitting warehouse for his pink and blue notes, "sweets to the sweet,"—and drove even Mr. Delawarr out of his patience and politeness, by asking who was prime minister.
But, alas, for the vanity of human enjoyment! we grow weary of even our own perfection. About July, fashion took a shade of philosophy—friends became weary, we mean wearisome—pleasures stale—pursuits unprofitable—and Lorraine decided on change; he was resolved to be natural, nay, a little picturesque; all that remained was the how, when, and where. He thought of the lakes—but they are given up to new married couples, poets, and painters; next, of the Highlands—but a steam-boat had profaned Loch Lomond, and pic-nics Ben Nevis; of Greece he had already ​had a campaign, in which he had been robbed of every thing, from his slippers to his cimeter—and had returned home, leaving behind his classical enthusiasm, and bringing back with him an ague. He took up the Gazetteer in desperation for a Sortes, and laid it down delighted and decided: next day he set off for Norway.
In his mind the imagination was as yet the most prominent feature; it made him impetuous—for the unknown is ever coloured by the most attractive hues; it made him versatile—for those very hues, from their falsehood, are fleeting, and pass easily from one object to another; it made him melancholy—for the imagination, which lives on excitement, most powerfully exaggerates the reaction; but, like a fairy gift, it threw its own nameless charm over all he did—and a touch, as it were, of poetry, spiritualised all the common-places of life. His was a character full of great and glorious elements, but dangerous; so alive to external impressions, so full of self-deceit—for what deceives us as we deceive ourselves? To what might not some dazzling dream of honour or of love lead? It was one that required to be subdued by time, checked by obstacles, and ​softened by sorrow; afterwards to be acted upon by some high and sufficient motive to call its energies into action—and then, of such stuff Nature makes her noblest and best. As yet his life had, like that of the cuckoo, known
"No sorrow in its song.
No winter in its year."
His beauty had charmed even his stately lady-mother into softness; and he was the only being now on earth whom his brother loved. Young, noble, rich, gifted with that indefinable grace which, like the fascination of the serpent, draws all within its circle, but not for such fatal purpose—with a temper almost womanly in its affectionate sweetness—with those bold buoyant spirits that make their own eagle-wings,—what did Edward de Lorraine want in this world but a few difficulties and a little misfortune?