RODERICK HUDSON
— every inch of whom quaked at an open window. These had been drawbacks to selfish ease, but Rowland hardly cared whether or how he was lodged, for his place of preference and of main abode was under the sky, on the crest of a slope that looked at the Jungfrau. He remembered all this on leaving Florence with his friends, and he reflected that, as the midseason was over, accommodations would be more ample and charges more modest. He communicated with his old friend the landlord, and while September was yet young his companions established themselves under his guidance in this hollow of the hills.
He had crossed the Saint-Gotthard Pass with them in the same vehicle. During the journey from Florence, and especially during this portion of it, the cloud that hung over the little party had almost cleared, and they had looked at each other, in the close intimacy of train and vettura, without either the retributive or the argumentative glare. It was impossible not to hang upon the perpetual rich picture of Apennine and Alp, and there was a tacit agreement among the travellers to sink every other consciousness. The effect of this discretion was of the best; it made of them shipwrecked swimmers who had clambered upon a raft. Roderick sat with a fascinated far-reaching stare and a perfect docility of attitude. He concerned himself not a particle about the itinerary or the wayside arrangements; but if he took no trouble he also gave quite touchingly little. His friend tacitly compared him to some noble young émigré of the French Terror, seized before reaching the frontier and showing, while brought
463
