With Rowland alone Roderick talked a
great deal more; often about things related to his own work, or about
artistic and aesthetic matters in general. He talked as well as ever,
or even better; but his talk always ended in a torrent of groans and
curses. When this current set in, Rowland straightway turned his back
or stopped his ears, and Roderick now witnessed these movements with
perfect indifference. When the latter was absent from the star-lit
circle in the garden, as often happened, Rowland knew nothing of his
whereabouts; he supposed him to be in Florence, but he never learned
what he did there. All this was not enlivening, but with an even,
muffled tread the days followed each other, and brought the month
of August to a close. One particular evening at this time was most
enchanting; there was a perfect moon, looking so extraordinarily large
that it made everything its light fell upon seem small; the heat was
tempered by a soft west wind, and the wind was laden with the odors of
the early harvest. The hills, the vale of the Arno, the shrunken river,
the domes of Florence, were vaguely effaced by the dense moonshine; they
looked as if they were melting out of sight like an exorcised vision.
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