CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
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 passwere lined with Frenchmen who were gazing at Florence, and withFlorentines who were gazing at the French, and the gaze was not oneither side entirely friendly and admiring. The first nation in Europe,of necessity finding itself, when out of its own country, in thepresence of general inferiority, naturally assumed an air of consciouspre-eminence; and the Florentines, who had taken such pains to play thehost amiably, were getting into the worst humour with their too superiorguests.
For after the first smiling compliments and festivities were over--afterwondrous Mysteries with unrivalled machinery of floating clouds andangels had been presented in churches--after the royal guest hadhonoured Florentine dames with much of his Most Christian ogling atballs and suppers, and business had begun to be talked of--it appearedthat the new Charlemagne regarded Florence as a conquered city, inasmuchas he had entered it with his lance in rest, talked of leaving hisviceroy behind him, and had thoughts of bringing back the Medici.Singular logic this appeared to be on the part of an elect instrument ofGod! since the policy of Piero de' Medici, disowned by the people, hadbeen the only offence of Florence against the majesty of France. AndFlorence was determined not to submit. The determination was beingexpressed very strongly in consultations of citizens inside the OldPalace, and it was beginning to show itself on the broad flags of thestreets and piazza wherever there was an opportunity of flouting aninsolent Frenchman. Under these circumstances the streets were notaltogether 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'sportrait 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 tobe utterly forgotten--that she felt it necessary to watch over hisprogress. She was a favourite with the painter, and he was inclined tofulfil any wish of hers, but no general inclination could be trusted asa safeguard against his sudden whims. He had told her the week beforethat the picture would perhaps be finished by this time; and Romola wasnervously anxious to have in her possession a copy of the only portraitexisting of her father in the days of his blindness, lest his imageshould grow dim in her mind. The sense of defect in her devotedness tohim made her cling with all the force of compunction as well asaffection to the duties of memory. Love does not aim simply at theconscious good of the beloved object: it is not satisfied withoutperfect loyalty of heart; it aims at its own completeness.
Romola, by special favour, was allowed to intrude upon the painterwithout previous notice. She lifted the iron slide and called Piero ina flute-like tone, as the little maiden with the eggs had done in Tito'spresence. Piero was quick in answering, but when he opened the door heaccounted for his quickness in a manner that was not complimentary.
"Ah, Madonna Romola, is it you? I thought my eggs were come; I wantedthem."
"I have brought you something better than hard eggs, Piero. Maso hasgot 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, andstepping 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 uncoveredthem and glanced at him archly. "And they are come along with the lightnow," he added, lifting his eyes to her face and hair with a painter'sadmiration, as her hood, dragged by the weight of her veil, fellbackward.
"But I know what the sweetmeats are for," he went on; "they are to stopmy mouth while you scold me. Well, go on into the next room, and youwill see I've done something to the picture since you saw it, thoughit's not finished yet. But I didn't promise, you know: I take care notto 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 wasat work. Not at Romola's picture, however. That was standing on thefloor, propped against the wall, and Piero stooped to lift it, that hemight 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 madean important addition within the last few days. It was so much smallerthan the other picture, that it stood far within it, and Piero, apt toforget where he had placed anything, was not aware of what he hadrevealed as, peering at some detail in the painting which he held in hishands, he went to place it on an easel. But Romola exclaimed, flushingwith astonishment--
"That is Tito!"
Piero looked round, and gave a silent shrug. He was vexed at his ownforgetfulness.
She was still looking at the sketch in astonishment; but presently sheturned 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 avoidedthe 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 withits 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 waspenetrated by this strange coincidence of things which associated Titowith 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 hisneck--I saw him--I saw you come to him in the Duomo. What was it thatmade 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 thesteps, and caught hold of your husband: I suppose he had stumbled. Ihappened to be there, and saw it, and I thought the savage-looking oldfellow was a good subject. But it's worth nothing--it's only a freakishdaub, of mine." Piero ended contemptuously, moving the sketch away withan air of decision, and putting it on a high shelf. "Come and look atthe Oedipus."
He had shown a little too much anxiety in putting the sketch out of hersight, and had produced the very impression he had sought to prevent--that there was really something unpleasant, something disadvantageous toTito, in the circumstances out of which the picture arose. But thisimpression silenced her: her pride and delicacy shrank from questioningfurther, where questions might seem to imply that she could entertaineven a slight suspicion against her husband. She merely said, in asquiet a tone as she could--
"He was a strange piteous-looking man, that prisoner. Do you knowanything 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 ofit."
Romola now gave her whole attention to her father's portrait, standingin long silence before it.
"Ah," she said at last, "you have done what I wanted. You have given itmore of the listening look. My good Piero,"--she turned towards himwith bright moist eyes--"I am very grateful to you."
"Now that's what I can't bear in you women," said Piero, turningimpatiently, and kicking aside the objects that littered the floor--"youare always pouring out feelings where there's no call for them. Whyshould you be grateful to me for a picture you pay me for, especiallywhen I make you wait for it? And if I paint a picture, I suppose it'sfor my own pleasure and credit to paint it well, eh? Are you to thank aman for not being a rogue or a noodle? It's enough if he himself thanksMesser Domeneddio, who
has made him neither the one nor the other. Butwomen think walls are held together with honey."
"You crusty Piero! I forgot how snappish you are. Here, put this nicesweetmeat in your mouth," said Romola, smiling through her tears, andtaking something very crisp and sweet from the little basket.
Piero accepted it very much as that proverbial bear that dreams of pearsmight accept an exceedingly mellow "swan-egg"--really liking the gift,but accustomed to have his pleasures and pains concealed under a shaggycoat.
"It's good, Madonna Antigone," said Piero, putting his fingers in thebasket for another. He had eaten nothing but hard eggs for a fortnight.Romola stood opposite him, feeling her new anxiety suspended for alittle while by the sight of this _naive_ enjoyment.
"Good--bye, Piero," she said, presently, setting down the basket. "Ipromise not to thank you if you finish the portrait soon and well I willtell you, you were bound to do it for your own credit."
"Good," said Piero, curtly, helping her with much deftness to fold hermantle 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 toguess that I thought her fine husband a good model for a coward. But Imade light of it; she'll not think of it again."
Piero was too sanguine, as open-hearted men are apt to be when theyattempt a little clever simulation. The thought of the picture pressedmore and more on Romola as she walked homeward. She could not helpputting together the two facts of the chain-armour and the encountermentioned by Piero between her husband and the prisoner, which hadhappened on the morning of the day when the armour was adopted. Thatlook of terror which the painter had given Tito, had he seen it? Whatcould it all mean?
"It means nothing," she tried to assure herself. "It was a merecoincidence. Shall I ask Tito about it?" Her mind said at last, "No: Iwill 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 darenot ask him."
There was a terrible flaw in the trust: she was afraid of any hastymovement, as men are who hold something precious and want to believethat it is not broken.