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!”