Gloriani had possessed himself of the photograph again, and was looking at it curiously. 'It 's a happy bit of youth,' he said. 'But you can't keep it up—you can't keep it up!'
The two sculptors pursued their discussion after dinner, in the drawing-room. Rowland left them to have it out in a corner, where Roderick's Eve stood over them in the shaded lamplight, in vague white beauty, like the guardian angel of the young idealist. Singleton was listening to Madame Grandoni, and Rowland took his place on the sofa, near Miss Blanchard. They had a good deal of familiar, desultory talk. Every now and then Madame Grandoni looked round at them. Miss Blanchard at last asked Rowland certain questions about Roderick: who he was, where he came from, whether it was true, as she had heard, that Rowland had discovered him and brought him out at his own expense. Rowland answered her questions; to the last he gave a vague affirmative. Finally, after a pause, looking at him, 'You 're very generous,' Miss Blanchard said. The declaration was made with a certain richness of tone, but it brought to Rowland's sense neither delight nor confusion. He had heard the words before; he suddenly remembered the grave sincerity with which Miss Garland had uttered them as he strolled with her in the woods the day of Roderick's picnic. They had pleased him then; now he asked Miss Blanchard whether she would have some tea.
When the two ladies withdrew, he attended them to their carriage. Coming back to the drawing-room, he paused outside the open door; he was struck by the group formed by the three men. They were standing before Roderick's statue of Eve, and the young sculptor had lifted up the lamp and was showing different parts of it to his companions. He was talking ardently, and the lamplight covered his head and face. Rowland stood looking on, for the group struck him with its picturesque symbolism. Roderick, bearing the lamp and glowing in its radiant circle, seemed the beautiful image of a genius which combined sincerity with power. Gloriani, with his head on one side, pulling his long moustache and looking keenly from half-closed eyes at the lighted marble, represented art with a worldly motive, skill unleavened by faith, the mere base maximum of cleverness. Poor little Singleton, on the other side, with his hands behind him, his head thrown back, and his eyes following devoutly the course of Roderick's elucidation, might pass for an embodiment of aspiring candor, with feeble wings to rise on. In all this, Roderick's was certainly the beau role.
Gloriani turned to Rowland as he came up, and pointed back with his thumb to the statue, with a smile half sardonic, half good-natured. 'A pretty thing—a devilish pretty thing,' he said. 'It 's as fresh as the foam in the milk-pail. He can do it once, he can do it twice, he can do it at a stretch half a dozen times. But—but—'
He was returning to his former refrain, but Rowland intercepted him. 'Oh, he will keep it up,' he said, smiling, 'I will answer for him.'
Gloriani was not encouraging, but Roderick had listened smiling. He was floating unperturbed on the tide of his deep self-confidence. Now, suddenly, however, he turned with a flash of irritation in his eye, and demanded in a ringing voice, 'In a word, then, you prophesy that I am to fail?'
Gloriani answered imperturbably, patting him kindly on the shoulder. 'My dear fellow, passion burns out, inspiration runs to seed. Some fine day every artist finds himself sitting face to face with his lump of clay, with his empty canvas, with his sheet of blank paper, waiting in vain for the revelation to be made, for the Muse to descend. He must learn to do without the Muse! When the fickle jade forgets the way to your studio, don't waste any time in tearing your hair and meditating on suicide. Come round and see me, and I will show you how to console yourself.'
'If I break down,' said Roderick, passionately, 'I shall stay down. If the Muse deserts me, she shall at least have her infidelity on her conscience.'
'You have no business,' Rowland said to Gloriani, 'to talk lightly of the Muse in this company. Mr. Singleton, too, has received pledges from her which place her constancy beyond suspicion.' And he pointed out on the wall, near by, two small landscapes by the modest water-colorist.
The sculptor examined them with deference, and Singleton himself began to laugh nervously; he was trembling with hope that the great Gloriani would be pleased. 'Yes, these are fresh too,' Gloriani said; 'extraordinarily fresh! How old are you?'
'Twenty-six, sir,' said Singleton.
'For twenty-six they are famously fresh. They must have taken you a long time; you work slowly.'
'Yes, unfortunately, I work very slowly. One of them took me six weeks, the other two months.'
'Upon my word! The Muse pays you long visits.' And Gloriani turned and looked, from head to foot, at so unlikely an object of her favors. Singleton smiled and began to wipe his forehead very hard. 'Oh, you!' said the sculptor; 'you 'll keep it up!'
A week after his dinner-party, Rowland went into Roderick's studio and found him sitting before an unfinished piece of work, with a hanging head and a heavy eye. He could have fancied that the fatal hour foretold by Gloriani had struck. Roderick rose with a sombre yawn and flung down his tools. 'It 's no use,' he said, 'I give it up!'
'What is it?'
'I have struck a shallow! I have been sailing bravely, but for the last day or two my keel has been crunching the bottom.'
'A difficult place?' Rowland asked, with a sympathetic inflection, looking vaguely at the roughly modeled figure.
'Oh, it 's not the poor clay!' Roderick answered. 'The difficult place is here!' And he struck a blow on his heart. 'I don't know what 's the matter with me. Nothing comes; all of a sudden I hate things. My old things look ugly; everything looks stupid.'
Rowland was perplexed. He was in the situation of a man who has been riding a blood horse at an even, elastic gallop, and of a sudden feels him stumble and balk. As yet, he reflected, he had seen nothing but the sunshine of genius; he had forgotten that it has its storms. Of course it had! And he felt a flood of comradeship rise in his heart which would float them both safely through the worst weather. 'Why, you 're tired!' he said. 'Of course you 're tired. You have a right to be!'
'Do you think I have a right to be?' Roderick asked, looking at him.
'Unquestionably, after all you have done.'
'Well, then, right or wrong, I am tired. I certainly have done a fair winter's work. I want a change.'
Rowland declared that it was certainly high time they should be leaving Rome. They would go north and travel. They would go to Switzerland, to Germany, to Holland, to England. Roderick assented, his eye brightened, and Rowland talked of a dozen things they might do. Roderick walked up and down; he seemed to have something to
