Rowland began to think of the Baden episode as a bad dream, or at the worst as a mere sporadic piece of disorder, without roots in his companion's character.
They passed a fortnight looking at pictures and exploring for out the way bits of fresco and carving, and Roderick recovered all his earlier fervor of appreciation and comment.
In Rome he went eagerly to work again, and finished in a month two or three small things he had left standing on his departure.
He talked the most joyous nonsense about finding himself back in his old quarters.On the first Sunday afternoon following their return, on their going together to Saint Peter's, he delivered himself of a lyrical greeting to the great church and to the city in general, in a tone of voice so irrepressibly elevated that it rang through the nave in rather a scandalous fashion, and almost arrested a procession of canons who were marching across to the choir.He began to model a new statue--a female figure, of which he had said nothing to Rowland.
It represented a woman, leaning lazily back in her chair, with her head drooping as if she were listening, a vague smile on her lips, and a pair of remarkably beautiful arms folded in her lap.With rather less softness of contour, it would have resembled the noble statue of Agrippina in the Capitol.
Rowland looked at it and was not sure he liked it.
"Who is it? what does it mean?" he asked.
"Anything you please!" said Roderick, with a certain petulance.
"I call it A Reminiscence."
Rowland then remembered that one of the Baden ladies had been "statuesque," and asked no more questions.This, after all, was a way of profiting by experience.A few days later he took his first ride of the season on the Campagna, and as, on his homeward way, he was passing across the long shadow of a ruined tower, he perceived a small figure at a short distance, bent over a sketch-book.As he drew near, he recognized his friend Singleton.
The honest little painter's face was scorched to flame-color by the light of southern suns, and borrowed an even deeper crimson from his gleeful greeting of his most appreciative patron.
He was making a careful and charming little sketch.
On Rowland's asking him how he had spent his summer, he gave an account of his wanderings which made poor Mallet sigh with a sense of more contrasts than one.He had not been out of Italy, but he had been delving deep into the picturesque heart of the lovely land, and gathering a wonderful store of subjects.
He had rambled about among the unvisited villages of the Apennines, pencil in hand and knapsack on back, sleeping on straw and eating black bread and beans, but feasting on local color, rioting, as it were, on chiaroscuro, and laying up a treasure of pictorial observations.
He took a devout satisfaction in his hard-earned wisdom and his happy frugality.Rowland went the next day, by appointment, to look at his sketches, and spent a whole morning turning them over.
Singleton talked more than he had ever done before, explained them all, and told some quaintly humorous anecdote about the production of each.
"Dear me, how I have chattered!" he said at last."I am afraid you had rather have looked at the things in peace and quiet.
I did n't know I could talk so much.But somehow, I feel very happy;I feel as if I had improved."
"That you have," said Rowland."I doubt whether an artist ever passed a more profitable three months.You must feel much more sure of yourself."Singleton looked for a long time with great intentness at a knot in the floor."Yes," he said at last, in a fluttered tone, "I feel much more sure of myself.I have got more facility!" And he lowered his voice as if he were communicating a secret which it took some courage to impart.
"I hardly like to say it, for fear I should after all be mistaken.
But since it strikes you, perhaps it 's true.It 's a great happiness;I would not exchange it for a great deal of money.""Yes, I suppose it 's a great happiness," said Rowland.
"I shall really think of you as living here in a state of scandalous bliss.I don't believe it 's good for an artist to be in such brutally high spirits."Singleton stared for a moment, as if he thought Rowland was in earnest;then suddenly fathoming the kindly jest, he walked about the room, scratching his head and laughing intensely to himself."And Mr.Hudson?"he said, as Rowland was going; "I hope he is well and happy.""He is very well," said Rowland."He is back at work again.""Ah, there 's a man," cried Singleton, "who has taken his start once for all, and does n't need to stop and ask himself in fear and trembling every month or two whether he is advancing or not.When he stops, it 's to rest!
And where did he spend his summer?"
"The greater part of it at Baden-Baden."
"Ah, that 's in the Black Forest," cried Singleton, with profound simplicity.
"They say you can make capital studies of trees there.""No doubt," said Rowland, with a smile, laying an almost paternal hand on the little painter's yellow head.
"Unfortunately trees are not Roderick's line.Nevertheless, he tells me that at Baden he made some studies.Come when you can, by the way," he added after a moment, "to his studio, and tell me what you think of something he has lately begun."Singleton declared that he would come delightedly, and Rowland left him to his work.
He met a number of his last winter's friends again, and called upon Madame Grandoni, upon Miss Blanchard, and upon Gloriani, shortly after their return.The ladies gave an excellent account of themselves.
Madame Grandoni had been taking sea-baths at Rimini, and Miss Blanchard painting wild flowers in the Tyrol.Her complexion was somewhat browned, which was very becoming, and her flowers were uncommonly pretty.
Gloriani had been in Paris and had come away in high good-humor, finding no one there, in the artist-world, cleverer than himself.
