The Painted Record.
Four days later, Romola was on her way to the house of Piero di Cosimo,
in the Via Gualfonda. Some of the streets through which she had to pass
were lined with Frenchmen who were gazing at Florence, and with
Florentines who were gazing at the French, and the gaze was not on
either side entirely friendly and admiring. The first nation in Europe,
of necessity finding itself, when out of its own country, in the
presence of general inferiority, naturally assumed an air of conscious
pre-eminence; and the Florentines, who had taken such pains to play the
host amiably, were getting into the worst humour with their too
superior guests.
For after the first smiling compliments and festivities were over—after
wondrous Mysteries with unrivalled machinery of floating clouds and
angels had been presented in churches—after the royal guest had
honoured Florentine dames with much of his Most Christian ogling at
balls and suppers, and business had begun to be talked of—it appeared
that the new Charlemagne regarded Florence as a conquered city,
inasmuch as he had entered it with his lance in rest, talked of leaving
his viceroy behind him, and had thoughts of bringing back the Medici.
Singular logic this appeared to be on the part of an elect instrument
of God! since the policy of Piero de’ Medici, disowned by the people,
had been the only offence of Florence against the majesty of France.
And Florence was determined not to submit. The determination was being
expressed very strongly in consultations of citizens inside the Old
Palace, and it was beginning to show itself on the broad flags of the
streets and piazza wherever there was an opportunity of flouting an
insolent Frenchman. Under these circumstances the streets were not
altogether a pleasant promenade for well-born women; but Romola,
shrouded in her black veil and mantle, and with old Maso by her side,
felt secure enough from impertinent observation.
And she was impatient to visit Piero di Cosimo. A copy of her father’s
portrait as Oedipus, which he had long ago undertaken to make for her,
was not yet finished; and Piero was so uncertain in his work—sometimes,
when the demand was not peremptory, laying aside a picture for months;
sometimes thrusting it into a corner or coffer, where it was likely to
be utterly forgotten—that she felt it necessary to watch over his
progress. She was a favourite with the painter, and he was inclined to
fulfil any wish of hers, but no general inclination could be trusted as
a safeguard against his sudden whims. He had told her the week before
that the picture would perhaps be finished by this time; and Romola was
nervously anxious to have in her possession a copy of the only portrait
existing of her father in the days of his blindness, lest his image
should grow dim in her mind. The sense of defect in her devotedness to
him made her cling with all the force of compunction as well as
affection to the duties of memory. Love does not aim simply at the
conscious good of the beloved object: it is not satisfied without
perfect loyalty of heart; it aims at its own completeness.
Romola, by special favour, was allowed to intrude upon the painter
without previous notice. She lifted the iron slide and called Piero in
a flute-like tone, as the little maiden with the eggs had done in
Tito’s presence. Piero was quick in answering, but when he opened the
door he accounted for his quickness in a manner that was not
complimentary.
“Ah, Madonna Romola, is it you? I thought my eggs were come; I wanted
them.”
“I have brought you something better than hard eggs, Piero. Maso has
got a little basket full of cakes and _confetti_ for you,” said Romola,
smiling, as she put back her veil. She took the basket from Maso, and
stepping into the house, said—
“I know you like these things when you can have them without trouble.
Confess you do.”
“Yes, when they come to me as easily as the light does,” said Piero,
folding his arms and looking down at the sweetmeats as Romola uncovered
them and glanced at him archly. “And they are come along with the light
now,” he added, lifting his eyes to her face and hair with a painter’s
admiration, as her hood, dragged by the weight of her veil, fell
backward.
“But I know what the sweetmeats are for,” he went on; “they are to stop
my mouth while you scold me. Well, go on into the next room, and you
will see I’ve done something to the picture since you saw it, though
it’s not finished yet. But I didn’t promise, you know: I take care not
to promise:—
“‘Chi promette e non mantiene
L’anima sua non va mai bene.’”
The door opening on the wild garden was closed now, and the painter was
at work. Not at Romola’s picture, however. That was standing on the
floor, propped against the wall, and Piero stooped to lift it, that he
might carry it into the proper light. But in lifting away this picture,
he had disclosed another—the oil-sketch of Tito, to which he had made
an important addition within the last few days. It was so much smaller
than the other picture, that it stood far within it, and Piero, apt to
forget where he had placed anything, was not aware of what he had
revealed as, peering at some detail in the painting which he held in
his hands, he went to place it on an easel. But Romola exclaimed,
flushing with astonishment—
“That is Tito!”
Piero looked round, and gave a silent shrug. He was vexed at his own
forgetfulness.
She was still looking at the sketch in astonishment; but presently she
turned towards the painter, and said with puzzled alarm—
“What a strange picture! When did you paint it? What does it mean?”
“A mere fancy of mine,” said Piero, lifting off his skull-cap,
scratching his head, and making the usual grimace by which he avoided
the betrayal of any feeling. “I wanted a handsome young face for it,
and your husband’s was just the thing.”
He went forward, stooped down to the picture, and lifting it away with
its back to Romola, pretended to be giving it a passing examination,
before putting it aside as a thing not good enough to show.
But Romola, who had the fact of the armour in her mind, and was
penetrated by this strange coincidence of things which associated Tito
with the idea of fear, went to his elbow and said—
“Don’t put it away; let me look again. That man with the rope round his
neck—I saw him—I saw you come to him in the Duomo. What was it that
made you put him into a picture with Tito?”
Piero saw no better resource than to tell part of the truth.
“It was a mere accident. The man was running away—running up the steps,
and caught hold of your husband: I suppose he had stumbled. I happened
to be there, and saw it, and I thought the savage-looking old fellow
was a good subject. But it’s worth nothing—it’s only a freakish daub of
mine.” Piero ended contemptuously, moving the sketch away with an air
of decision, and putting it on a high shelf. “Come and look at the
Oedipus.”
He had shown a little too much anxiety in putting the sketch out of her
sight, and had produced the very impression he had sought to
prevent—that there was really something unpleasant, something
disadvantageous to Tito, in the circumstances out of which the picture
arose. But this impression silenced her: her pride and delicacy shrank
from questioning further, where questions might seem to imply that she
could entertain even a slight suspicion against her husband. She merely
said, in as quiet a tone as she could—
“He was a strange piteous-looking man, that prisoner. Do you know
anything more of him?”
“No more: I showed him the way to the hospital, that’s all. See, now,
the face of Oedipus is pretty nearly finished; tell me what you think
of it.”
Romola now gave her whole attention to her father’s portrait, standing
in long silence before it.
“Ah,” she said at last, “you have done what I wanted. You have given it
more of the listening look. My good Piero,”—she turned towards him with
bright moist eyes—“I am very grateful to you.”
“Now that’s what I can’t bear in you women,” said Piero, turning
impatiently, and kicking aside the objects that littered the floor—“you
are always pouring out feelings where there’s no call for them. Why
should you be grateful to me for a picture you pay me for, especially
when I make you wait for it? And if I paint a picture, I suppose it’s
for my own pleasure and credit to paint it well, eh? Are you to thank a
man for not being a rogue or a noodle? It’s enough if he himself thanks
Messer Domeneddio, who has made him neither the one nor the other. But
women think walls are held together with honey.”
“You crusty Piero! I forgot how snappish you are. Here, put this nice
sweetmeat in your mouth,” said Romola, smiling through her tears, and
taking something very crisp and sweet from the little basket.
Piero accepted it very much as that proverbial bear that dreams of
pears might accept an exceedingly mellow “swan-egg”—really liking the
gift, but accustomed to have his pleasures and pains concealed under a
shaggy coat.
“It’s good, Madonna Antigone,” said Piero, putting his fingers in the
basket for another. He had eaten nothing but hard eggs for a fortnight.
Romola stood opposite him, feeling her new anxiety suspended for a
little while by the sight of this _naïve_ enjoyment.
“Good-bye, Piero,” she said, presently, setting down the basket. “I
promise not to thank you if you finish the portrait soon and well I
will tell you, you were bound to do it for your own credit.”
“Good,” said Piero, curtly, helping her with much deftness to fold her
mantle and veil round her.
“I’m glad she asked no more questions about that sketch,” he thought,
when he had closed the door behind her. “I should be sorry for her to
guess that I thought her fine husband a good model for a coward. But I
made light of it; she’ll not think of it again.”
Piero was too sanguine, as open-hearted men are apt to be when they
attempt a little clever simulation. The thought of the picture pressed
more and more on Romola as she walked homeward. She could not help
putting together the two facts of the chain-armour and the encounter
mentioned by Piero between her husband and the prisoner, which had
happened on the morning of the day when the armour was adopted. That
look of terror which the painter had given Tito, had he seen it? What
could it all mean?
“It means nothing,” she tried to assure herself. “It was a mere
coincidence. Shall I ask Tito about it?” Her mind said at last, “No: I
will not question him about anything he did not tell me spontaneously.
It is an offence against the trust I owe him.” Her heart said, “I dare
not ask him.”
There was a terrible flaw in the trust: she was afraid of any hasty
movement, as men are who hold something precious and want to believe
that it is not broken.