RODERICK HUDSON
of the mere staring sun were the lot of every poet and what was the sculptor but the poet of the corporeal? So that the only remedy was plenty of courage and faith. And he reminded him, with a rare failure of tact perhaps, of Gloriani's having forewarned him the year before against the apparent lapse of the mere "inspired" state.
"Gloriani's a murderous mountebank!" Roderick fiercely replied. "He has got a bag of tricks and he comes with it to his studio as a conjurer comes for twenty francs to a children's party. Faugh!" He hired a horse, and began to ride with Rowland on the Campagna. This admirable exercise restored him in a measure to the appearance of felicity, but it seemed to Rowland on the whole not to stimulate his diligence. Their rides were always drawn out, and Roderick insisted on making them longer by dismounting in picturesque spots and stretching himself, in the golden air, on some mild mass of over-tangled stones. He let the Roman sky smile upon him with an intensity that his companion found more embarrassing. But in this situation he talked so much amusing nonsense that, for the sake of his company, Rowland consented to risk sunstroke and often forgot that, though in these diversions the days passed quickly, they produced neither the art of the market nor that of the temple. And yet it was perhaps by their help, after all, that Roderick secured several mornings of ardent work on his new figure and brought it forward in three or four bold jumps. One afternoon when it was practically finished Rowland went to look at it, and Roderick asked for his opinion.
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