conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a plot for a book about Roderick, Christina, Rowland entitled Roderick Hudson
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Roderick Hudson: Rowland Mallet, a wealthy Bostonian bachelor and art connoisseur, visits his cousin Cecilia in Northampton, Massachusetts, before leaving for Europe.\nThere he sees a Grecian figure he thinks is a remarkable work of art.\nCecilia introduces him to the local sculptor, Roderick Hudson, a young law student who sculpts in his spare time.\nMallet—who loves art but is without artistic talent himself—sees an opportunity to contribute: he offers to advance Roderick a sum of money against future works which will allow Roderick to join him in moving to Italy for two years.\nMallet believes that in Rome, Roderick will be exposed to the kind of artistic influences which will allow his natural talent to fully mature.\nRoderick is galvanized by the offer, but he fears his highly protective mother\'s disapproval and urges Mallet to meet with and reassure her.\nMallet does so, eventually overcoming the woman\'s doubts.\nAt the meeting, Mallet is also introduced to Mary Garland, a distant poor cousin of the Hudsons who has been living with them as a companion to mrs Hudson.\nMallet finds himself unexpectedly attracted to the young woman—to her simplicity, her lack of affectation, her honesty.\nDuring a farewell picnic attended by many of the Hudsons\' friends and family, Mallet realizes he has fallen in love for the first time in his life.\nBut, because of his natural reserve and imminent departure for two years, he fails to declare his feelings, yet still harbors hopes that something may yet come of the relationship.\nThat hope is crushed when, on the voyage across the Atlantic, Roderick reveals that just before leaving he asked Miss Garland to marry him and she accepted.\n".\nYou came and put me into such ridiculous good-humor," Roderick tells Mallet, "that I felt an extraordinary desire to tell some woman that I adored her".\nMallet listens to all this with the feeling that fortune has played an elaborately-devised trick on him; that just as he had finally found love, it had been stolen away because of his own act of generosity.\nAfter a rough start in Rome, Roderick begins to flourish in the arts community, building a reputation as an original talent and a charming, if ill-mannered, character.\nMeanwhile, Mallet attempts to suppress his feelings for Mary Garland by cultivating a relationship with Augusta Blanchard, another expatriate American artist living in Italy.\nWhen Roderick decides to visit Switzerland or Germany, Mallet travels with him part way before going on to visit friends in England.\nThere Mallet writes to Mrs Hudson to inform her of the situation.\nShe replies saying she is pleased the situation has gone so well.\nHowever, when Rowland finally hears from Roderick, he begs him for money to cover the debts he incurred while gambling at Baden-Baden.\nThe two men return to Rome where, one fateful day, Christina Light enters Roderick\'s studio to peruse his artwork.\nChristina has grown up on the Continent, tended by her ambitious mother and the mother\'s aging Italian escort, the Cavaliere.\nShe is, by general agreement, one of the most startlingly beautiful young women in Europe, and her mother is determined to marry Christina to a wealthy and titled gentleman.\nThe impoverished Roderick is nonetheless instantly infatuated with Christina, eventually obtaining approval to sculpt her bust and thereby ingratiating himself with the family.\nAlthough the prematurely world-weary Christina professes not to like Roderick, she admires his bluntness.\nMallet finds himself in a wrenching emotional bind – attempting to prevent Roderick from consummating his love with Christina so as to protect Mary Garland from emotional injury; knowing all the while that doing so will foreclose forever any possibility that he himself can marry the only woman he has ever loved.\nLater Mallet encounters Christina and Roderick at the Colisseum.\nHe saves Roderick from falling to his death attempting to catch an out-of-reach flower for Christina.\nMallet subsequently happens to meet Christina alone and urges her to give up her flirtation with Roderick, revealing to her that Roderick is engaged.\nRowland writes a letter to Cecilia about Roderick\'s fall.\nLater Roderick decides not to complete his sculpture for Mr Leavenworth, leading Rowland to be annoyed with him.\nRowland visits Madame Grandoni and meets Christina there.\nHe then decides to leave for Florence, but decides to make up with Roderick and bring his mother and his betrothed over to Italy to save him.\nWhile doing some sightseeing, Miss Garland admits to being afraid of changing.\nThey walk into Christina and Roderick says she might not marry the Prince after all.\nRoderick then does a sculpture of his mother.\nMrs Hudson thinks she owes something to Rowland for all he has done.\nUpon completing the bust, Roderick says he will not marry Miss Garland.\nRowland and Gloriani witness another of Roderick\'s tantrums.\nLater, Mrs Grandoni says Miss Blanchard is marrying Mr Leavenworth, although she is in love with Rowland.\nShe then throws a party and Christina turns up uninvited to observe Miss Garland and be vituperative.\nThe next day the latter admits she takes Christina to be fake.\nLater after the Prince has left, the Cavaliere visits Rowland and entreats him to advise Christina, as she has no father to turn to.\nAfter checking on Roderick because his mother has received a note from him saying he didn\'t want to be disturbed, he goes to the Lights\' and talks to Christina.\nShe says she doesn\'t like the Prince but likes Roderick as a friend.\nShe has however married the Prince.\nRoderick admits to his mother he is unable to work and is crippled with debts.\nUpon Rowland\'s counsel, they move to cheaper accommodation in Florence.\nWhen his morale isn\'t improving, his mother suggests moving back to Northampton, Massachusetts.\nInstead, Rowland persuades them to move to Switzerland.\nThere, he seems a little closer to Miss Garland; Rowland asks him about Christina, but he avoids the question.\nLater, they walk into Sam; then Rowland chances upon Christina and the Prince; Roderick comes along and he is stupefied with her beauty.\nHe then wants to join her in Interlaken as she has asked of him.\nHe begs Rowland, his mother, and Miss Garland for money.\nRowland admits that he is in love with Miss Garland.\nFinally, Roderick dies in a storm while on his way to Interlaken; Rowland and Sam find his dead body the next day.\nMrs Hudson and Miss Garland return to Massachusetts.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Roderick Hudson
  I mention this incident because it confirmed an impression of Rowland's from which he had derived a certain consolation. He knew that Mrs Hudson considered her son's ill-regulated passion for Christina Light a very regrettable affair, but he suspected that her manifest compassion had been all for Roderick, and not in the least for her companion. She was fond of the young girl, but she had valued her primarily during the last two years as a kind of assistant priestess at Roderick's shrine. Roderick had paid her the compliment of asking her to become his wife, but that poor Mary had any rights in consequence, Mrs Hudson was quite incapable of perceiving. Her sentiment on the subject was of course not rigidly formulated, but she was unprepared to regard her companion in the least as a victim. Roderick was very unhappy; that was enough, and Mary's duty was to join her patience and her prayers to those of a disinterested parent. Roderick might fall in love with whom he pleased; no doubt that women trained in the mysterious Roman arts were only too proud and too happy to make it easy for him; and it was very presuming in a plain second cousin to feel any personal resentment. Mrs Hudson's philosophy was of too narrow a scope to suggest that a mother may forgive where a mistress cannot, and she thought it a charge upon her own mortgaged charity that Mary should not accommodate herself to the position of a handmaid without wages. She was ready to hold her breath so that Roderick might sigh at his ease, and she was capable of seeing her young kinswoman gasp for air without a tremor of compassion. Mary now apparently had given some intimation of her belief that if constancy is the flower of devotion, reciprocity is the guarantee of constancy, and Mrs Hudson had denounced this as a very arrogant doctrine. That Mary had found it hard to reason with Mrs Hudson, that she suffered deeply from the elder lady's moral parsimony, and that in short he had companionship in misfortune – all this made Rowland find a certain luxury in his discomfort.
  The party at Villa Pandolfini used to sit in the garden in the evenings, which Rowland almost always spent with them. Their entertainment was in the heavily perfumed air, in the dim, far starlight, in the crenelated tower of a neighbouring villa, which loomed vaguely above them through the warm darkness, and in such conversation as depressing reflections permitted. Roderick, clad always in white, roamed about like a restless ghost, silent for the most part, but making from time to time a brief observation characterised by the most fantastic cynicism. Roderick's contributions to the conversation were indeed always so fantastic that though half the time they wearied him unspeakably Rowland made an effort to treat them humorously. With Rowland alone Roderick talked a great deal more – often about the things that had formerly interested him. 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 and 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; yet 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 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 odours of the early harvest. The hills, the vale of the Arno, the shrunken river, the domes of Florence, were not so much lighted as obscured by the dense moonshine. Rowland had found the two ladies alone at the villa, and he had sat with them for an hour. He felt hushed by the solemn splendour of the scene, but he risked the remark that whatever life might yet have in store for either of them this was a night that they would never forget.
  They were silent after this for some time, but at last Rowland addressed certain idle words to the young girl. She made no reply, and he turned to look at her. She was sitting motionless, with her head pressed to Mrs Hudson's shoulder, and the latter lady was gazing at him through the silvered dusk with a look which gave a sort of spectral solemnity to the sad weak meaning of her eyes. She had the air for the moment of a little old malevolent fairy. Mary, Rowland perceived in an instant, was not absolutely motionless; a tremor passed through her figure. She was crying, or on the point of crying, and she could not trust herself to speak. Rowland left his place and wandered to another part of the garden, wondering at the motive of her sudden tears. Of women's weeping in general he had a sovereign dread, but this somehow gave him a certain pleasure. When he returned to his place Mary had raised her head and brushed away her grief. She came away from Mrs Hudson, and they stood for a short time leaning against the parapet.
  His words had a singular aptness, for he had hardly uttered them when Roderick came out from the house, evidently in his darkest mood. He stood for a moment gazing hard at the view.
  He passed his hand through his hair and let it stay there, clasping his thick locks. 'Beautiful?' he cried; 'of course it's beautiful! Everything is beautiful; everything is insolent, defiant, atrocious with beauty. Nothing is ugly but me – me and my poor dead brain!'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: two more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Roderick answered nothing; he only looked and looked, as if she had been a statue. 'You are no less beautiful!' he presently cried.
  ON the homeward walk that evening Roderick preserved an ominous silence, and early on the morrow, saying nothing of his intentions, he started off alone; Rowland saw him striding with light elastic steps along the rugged path to Engelberg. He was absent all day and gave no account of himself on his return. He said he was deadly tired, and he went to bed early. When he had left the room Mary Garland drew near to Rowland.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When he had left the room Mary Garland drew near to Rowland.. He said he was deadly tired, and he went to bed early. He was absent all day and gave no account of himself on his return.
  ON the homeward walk that evening Roderick preserved an ominous silence, and early on the morrow, saying nothing of his intentions, he started off alone; Rowland saw him striding with light elastic steps along the rugged path to Engelberg. 'You are no less beautiful!' he presently cried.Roderick answered nothing; he only looked and looked, as if she had been a statue
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last three paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They looked up through their horror at the cliff from which he had apparently fallen, and which lifted its blank and stony face above him, with no care now but to drink the sunshine on which his eyes were closed; and then Rowland had an immense outbreak of pity and anguish. At last they spoke of carrying him back to the inn. 'There must be three or four men,' Rowland said, 'and they must be brought here quickly. I have not the least idea where we are.'
  He went off, and Rowland stayed there alone. He watched for seven long hours, and his vigil was for ever memorable. The most rational of men was for an hour the most passionate. He reviled himself with transcendent bitterness, he accused himself of cruelty and injustice, he would have lain down there in Roderick's place to unsay the words that had yesterday driven him forth on his lonely ramble. Roderick had been fond of saying that there are such things as necessary follies, and Rowland was now proving it. At last he grew almost used to the dumb exultation of the cliff above him, and he tried to understand what had happened. Not that it helped him; before the absoluteness of the fact one hypothesis after another lost its interest. Roderick's passionate walk had carried him farther and higher than he knew; he had outstayed supposedly the first menace of the storm and perhaps even found a defiant entertainment in watching it. The tempest had overtaken him and when he tried to return it was too late. He had attempted to descend the cliff in the darkness, he had made the inevitable slip, and whether he had fallen fifty feet or three hundred little mattered now. The condition of his body indicated the shorter fall. Now that all was over Rowland understood how exclusively, for two years, Roderick had filled his life. His occupation was gone.
  That cry still lives in Rowland's ears. It interposes persistently against the reflection that when he sometimes – very rarely – sees her, she is unreservedly kind to him; against the memory that during the dreary journey back to America, made of course with his assistance, there was a great frankness in her gratitude, a great gratitude in her frankness. Mary Garland lives with Mrs Hudson, at Northampton, where Rowland visits his cousin Cecilia more frequently than of old. When he calls upon Mary he never sees Mrs Hudson. Cecilia, who having her shrewd impression that he comes to see the young lady at the other house as much as to see herself, does not feel obliged to seem unduly flattered, calls him whenever he reappears the most restless of mortals. But he always says to her in answer, 'No, I assure you I am the most patient!'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Perhaps.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They looked up through their horror at the cliff from which he had apparently fallen, and which lifted its blank and stony face above him, with no care now but to drink the sunshine on which his eyes were closed; and then Rowland had an immense outbreak of pity and anguish. At last they spoke of carrying him back to the inn. 'There must be three or four men,' Rowland said, 'and they must be brought here quickly. I have not the least idea where we are. '
  He went off, and Rowland stayed there alone. He watched for seven long hours, and his vigil was for ever memorable. The most rational of men was for an hour the most passionate. He reviled himself with transcendent bitterness, he accused himself of cruelty and injustice, he would have lain down there in Roderick's place to unsay the words that had yesterday driven him forth on his lonely ramble. Roderick had been fond of saying that there are such things as necessary follies, and Rowland was now proving it. At last he grew almost used to the dumb exultation of the cliff above him, and he tried to understand what had happened. Not that it helped him; before the absoluteness of the fact one hypothesis after another lost its interest. Roderick's passionate walk had carried him farther and higher than he knew; he had outstayed supposedly the first menace of the storm and perhaps even found a defiant entertainment in watching it. Perhaps he had simply lost himself. The tempest had overtaken him and when he tried to return it was too late. He had attempted to descend the cliff in the darkness, he had made the inevitable slip, and whether he had fallen fifty feet or three hundred little mattered now. The condition of his body indicated the shorter fall. Now that all was over Rowland understood how exclusively, for two years, Roderick had filled his life. His occupation was gone. 
  That cry still lives in Rowland's ears. It interposes persistently against the reflection that when he sometimes – very rarely – sees her, she is unreservedly kind to him; against the memory that during the dreary journey back to America, made of course with his assistance, there was a great frankness in her gratitude, a great gratitude in her frankness. Mary Garland lives with Mrs Hudson, at Northampton, where Rowland visits his cousin Cecilia more frequently than of old. When he calls upon Mary he never sees Mrs Hudson. Cecilia, who having her shrewd impression that he comes to see the young lady at the other house as much as to see herself, does not feel obliged to seem unduly flattered, calls him whenever he reappears the most restless of mortals. But he always says to her in answer, 'No, I assure you I am the most patient!'