Seiobo There Below

55. IL RITORNO IN PERUGIA

For the entire day they just sorted and packed and arranged things, they just hauled and hauled things from the atelier to the cart, and then that evening he sent the Florentines home, and sat the Umbrians down around the table; four mugs and one large pitcher of wine were placed in front of them, and he told them, when the last mixing pot had been safely placed in the chests strapped down onto the carriage, we’re going home, and they all sat there with their mugs in their hands, he told them very meaningfully that well, Giannicola, well, Francesco, well, Aulista — in that way to all of them, looking at them fixedly and addressing them, so that he finally winked at Giovanni too — now it’s time to go home, but not a single one of them believed what he was saying, everything was so complicated, because there was a great on the one hand, that nobody could believe the words of such a maestro who for his entire life had been wandering between Umbria and Tuscany and Rome, who continually, ever since that long-ago day, when as a small boy he had left Castel della Pieve, had constantly been on the road, like someone who is hounded by an all-consuming demon, but really, as if deep inside some dark corner at the back of even that hidden soul, a merciless demon lay in wait, in the very innermost part of that soul, for such demons do not exist here outside; all four of them, when this topic came up, nodded their heads in agreement, there is no way that a demon, here outside, could be capable of affecting someone with such strength, chasing him here and there continuously for thirty years, because this is how the situation looked, the maestro just went and went and went, the horses collapsing beneath him, and Rome came along, and Florence and Venice and Pavia and Sienna and Assisi, and who could even name them all, and of course always and again Florence and Perugia and Rome, and Perugia and Rome and Florence, and so whoever knew him just even a little would not have been able to believe it when he said, “well then, now,” for the family was going to stay here in the house of Borgo Pinti — the beautiful Signora Vannucci and the countless children — and yet still this “well then, now,” as if anyone could have entered into the spirit of the idea of them really finally going home, they knew very well there was no question of that, the only certain thing was that tomorrow, they were going back, tomorrow: back to Perugia, home to Umbria, and this was enough reason for joy in all of them, even for Giovanni, for at least now, for a while, it wouldn’t be this insane city, but a little tranquility, he let out a sigh, although his true home, though he never spoke of it, was very far from Perugia; they took a swig from the mugs and you could see that everyone was thinking about that; since 1486 — how many years, fifteen or how many, and now again, the beloved landscape of Umbria, the tastes and the smells of home — there was that much, so, well, Giannicola, Francesco, Aulista, and Giovanni. . there was that much in the maestro’s words, that much and no more, because in the depths of his words the idea of finally and forever was never enunciated, because for him, due to that consuming devil, this finally and this forever did not exist, it would never exist, so that, well, in vain was the cart already completely packed up, in vain did they tie up the last bundle with the cords with which they had fastened the canvas the previous evening for tomorrow’s journey, in vain did the guard even stand there, to watch over it until dawn, for twenty soldi, until they set out; that they were finally returning home, that this really would be a true ritorno, as they, the Umbrian apprentices, after fifteen or how many years, may have still hoped, after the maestro had brought them here to the bottega in Florence, well, not a single one of them believed it, they just sat there, they nodded to each other, they avoided the gaze of the maestro, then after the maestro left they just sipped away at the wine, in the workshop in the Via San Gilio, a cheap piquette from last year, from the hills of Chianti to the south of here, and they said to themselves, fine, just let him talk, just let him say it, but let’s forget about this ritorno, let’s forget about this finally or that after fifteen or how many years, that there will again at last be the landscape of home; the only thing certain was that the workshop here in the Via San Gilio was being closed down, they had canceled the lease for the premises with Signor Vittorio di Lorenzo Ghiberti, and with that they were going back, and for how long would depend on the maestro’s concealed, troubled soul, on this concealed soul, and on that consuming hellish whoreson within it, the creature that never left him in peace, and never would leave him in peace, but let’s forget it, Giannicola noted, and he took a swig from the mug, and for awhile none of them even spoke, because all of them knew that all the same, there was here an even greater on the other hand, for if the whole thing was so, and if despite the temporary nature of this journey home, it was still the source of a kind of joy, if not that for which they truly yearned, there was no doubt at all among the apprentices that this so-called journey home had only been incited by the bitterness of failure, as it was occurring not at all from the maestro’s free will, as — regardless of how much it was really final, and how much the four of them were really rejoicing or not at the return to Umbria — there was a great need, for some reason, for this move, to call things by their proper name; the maestro, who had become not so long ago one of the most celebrated painters in Italy, was compelled to take leave of his Florence, and the worst of it was that it wasn’t because somebody was chasing him away, or because he had had a run-in with some authority, or because the commissions were lacking to such an extent — as they were provided after a fashion by the monasteries or the more pious families — but because for the maestro, one had to say, things, for some reason. . just weren’t going well these days, they hardly dared to speak of it among themselves, so frightened were they of this mere fact, but it was so, the maestro wanted to entrust them with more and more tasks, and he hardly even came into the workshop; when they got to the point in the preparation of a picture when they could tell him that he could come into the workshop, that everything was all ready for the painting of this or another panel, even then he didn’t come, sometimes days went by until he finally stood there in the doorway in the Via San Gilio, so silently that they didn’t even notice him when he came through the door, suddenly he was just there among them, asking why this, why that, fiddling with this or that mixing pot, addressing one of them, saying this or that was no good, or that it wouldn’t be enough, or that it was too much, there was already much too much, let’s say too much turpentine in the linseed oil; he hemmed and hawed, he muttered, and no one ever dared to mention to him the “obligations long due” to them, it was so obvious that he was in a bad mood, in a word he did everything, but he avoided the brush-rack, no, it’s not that he went over to the brushes and picked out the right one and began to work on a certain canvas, no, instead he hemmed and hawed and just kept mumbling for a while, then he tossed out the remark that he would be right back, because right now he had some business to attend to; when, however, he appeared the next time, the entire thing started all over again, the panel lay there on the painting table all ready, and everything on it had already completely dried, to find a mistake in it would have been impossible, for they themselves were not just any old assistants, it was nothing for them to prepare the most perfect gesso or imprimatura, and already no one could have even found fault with the underdrawing, only he, because it had been done by his, the maestro’s, own hand; he had already run out of ideas of how to avoid it anymore and he had to start painting, even then he tried avoiding it by saying that this or that — this cloak-hem, this eye-wrinkle, this contour of the lip in the underdrawing — is not how it should be, he could well say such things to them, because they knew very well that this was not the problem, so that on the basis of the maestro’s “instructions” one of them, without saying a word, stepped up to the panel, or someone from among the Florentines, but in most cases it was Giovanni, as he had the quickest and the cleverest hand — and he visibly repaired something on the underdrawing, of course just in such a way so that he wouldn’t ruin it, as what was there already was good, everyone knew this, including the maestro himself, as he himself had sketched out the underdrawing onto the clichés earlier, and they only had to copy it onto the prepared base in the appropriate way, and they always copied these wonderful drawings accurately and without error, in this the maestro was always amazing; that is, that they experienced the extraordinary talent of his old hand in these drawings on the fine paper, and there were really no mistakes, he outlined perfectly, with the finest of sensitivities he marked on the primed panel just what kind of wondrous Madonna, child, or saint would soon be appearing here, it was just that in recent times these figures were appearing ever less frequently, as he delayed everything; to no avail was the workshop full of the more serious disciples and assistants from both Florence and Umbria, it had nothing to do with them, but with this inexplicable impotency of the maestro, there was some spasm within him, or something, they guessed, because it decisively appeared that he did not dare to reach for the brush, sometimes the pigment, based on his own order, stood there, all ready, broken up and on the palette mixed in with the porphyry, just waiting for him to motion and then everybody would leave the workshop so that the maestro, as they put it, could “make the paints,” that is conjure up, according to his own secret recipe, in his own inimitable fashion, this crimson or blue pigment, such a hue that according to the assistants, and all of Italy, did not and would not ever exist on the painting of any other painter; but he brushed it all aside, he retracted everything, he told them to do what they wanted with the broken pigments, accordingly that they should do something with them so that they would not be wasted, which of course was impossible, as within a few days, no matter how they tried, the strength of the pigments was lost, and because of that they were essentially ruined, they just didn’t talk to him about it, and he already acted as if he hadn’t noticed, he never used to be like this in the old days, things like this simply did not happen, that the expensive vermiglione, moreover the prohibitively expensive ultramarine, would simply be wasted, this would simply be impossible to even imagine in such a workshop as the maestro’s, who was renowned for detesting so-called extravagance, whereas he himself these days was the cause of exactly such extravagance, just so that he wouldn’t have to reach for the brush, this is how it went, and of course it could not go on this way for long, tomorrow they were setting off at dawn, somehow things here in Florence just weren’t going well anymore; the four of them, sitting here around the table, the mugs in their hands, knew very well what it was, that the problem was not with Florence, that is, the problem was not such that tomorrow they were leaving this rich, lively, glittering, dangerous, or as Giovanni put it, this “insane” city and later on, in Perugia, in the quiet, sleepy, dusty, peaceful little town everything would proceed very nicely again — no, this journey of tomorrow, in its manner and fashion, was a retreat, or at the very least, the beginning of a retreat, from Florence, and what made them hang their heads the most around the table now was that it was a retreat from the profession, from the profession in which the maestro, it seemed, was ever more unsure, for in the past few years, but particularly in the past few months he truly looked like someone who was certain of the fact that he no longer knew what he had once known, and in vain did they get the news that in Perugia the maestro would immediately be honored by being appointed prior, this could not help the maestro, could have no effect on their wonderful maestro, because he did not dare to take the brush into his hands, only at the price of a dreadful inner torment, and so the result. . was not at all what it used to be, and who could have seen this more clearly than they, his disciples and assistants of the past few years, from Girolamo to Marco, from Francesco to the Umbrians, but first and foremost the maestro’s most faithful disciple, Giovanni di Pietro, who had served him for years and who after his first independent works, already began to take the name Lo Spagna, referring to his place of birth, and whom the others preferred to ask when they were debating the matter of the unpaid wages with the maestro, namely, in such discussions as these, they frequently wanted him to negotiate on their behalf, just as now they expected from him more than anyone else some kind of adjustment of the situation; they watched him, Giovanni, to see what he would say to this, but it was precisely he who was the most silent, a general wordlessness fell upon them in the closed-up workshop in the Via San Gilio, and it was as if he just wanted to signal that yes, to be sure, that is how it was: the master’s luck had run out, and that is why they had to go back, that is why they could not prolong the lease on the workshop with Signor Vittorio di Lorenzo Ghiberti, and that is why they were signing another, that is to say, that they had already entered into an agreement from the first of January with the Hospital of the Brethren of Mercy on the Piazza del Sopramuro — in Perugia, so they were withdrawing from the world, because well this is what was happening, the maestro was withdrawing, and he would just withdraw more and more, Giovanni commented to the others, he would withdraw from the world, but don’t be afraid, he added, because as for work, there will be plenty of that, in particular, he winked humorously at his companions, especially if it proceeds at the accustomed pace, at which of course laughter broke out for the first time that day, they poured out the final drops from the pitcher, and raising their mugs to their “bounteous” maestro, they clinked their mugs together with a great whoop, and gave no more thought to the matter, everyone went to lie down in their lair, for the next morning they had to rise very early; and the little birds had just woken in the break of the April dawn when they were already fixing the cords onto the cart, and finding a suitable place for themselves where they would be able to bear the vicissitudes of travel, and because, well, everyone knew exactly, as it had been their experience often enough, that in the strictest sense of the word the days to come would be jolting, namely, the cart would shake the very breath out of them on the old Via Cassia, upon which they would be traveling, for they always used that route between Florence and Perugia; of course they could have gone toward Siena as well, joining in with the crowded pilgrimage route, and they could have gone that way for a while toward Rome, then turning off to the left toward Perugia, but the maestro knew the roads in Tuscany and Umbria like the palm of his hand, and he had his own reasons for not taking the crowded Siena pilgrimage route, but instead the less-traveled Via Cassia Vetus to Arezzo, and in addition to his own experiences, there were the accounts of the postal coachmen from Rome, as well as those of the Siena foot messengers, just think for a moment with the mind of a bandit, they explained to him for a few soldi, where is there bigger and better plunder to be had, on a busy road or on a less busy road, well, my lord, you can see that you have to think with their minds if you want to be well informed in the question of travel, so that this time there could be no doubt whatsoever of which way to go, the cart will set off at dawn, the maestro said to them, when he put down in front of them the large pitcher of Chianti (but no more!) and the four mugs; he himself, however, as usual, would follow after them, on horseback and with a certain retinue, perhaps on the following day, or on the third day, or on the fourth day, which meant, that there was no way they were all going to return home all at once, they should not count on that; then he began to explain the route to the coachman, that as a matter of fact they should go along the Porta alla Croce, and with this he really began to issue instructions, as they had already taken their places beneath the tightly drawn canvas, and everything was ready for departure, the maestro never entrusted anything to chance and would make sure of every single step a hundred times while he thought it over, for there could never be enough circumspection, so he himself got up at dawn’s very break and came over from the Borgo Pinti house, just to check up on everything and to see them off on their journey himself, in a word you should turn off at the Borgo de Croce here, he said — as if a coachman from Florence would not have known himself, as if they themselves had not made this journey there and back maybe twenty or how many times already in the past fifteen years — then, continued the maestro, go through the city wall at the Porta alla Croce, but be careful, he motioned toward the assistants, that there should be neither sword, nor dagger, nor knife anywhere, because of the sentry, well, Aulista, you understand, and then he gestured with a wide motion again to the coachman, straight along the road to Arezzo, straight as an arrow, and thus crossing S. Ellero and Castelfranco you should be able to reach Loro on the first day, there you should spend the night — he turned now to Giovanni, who had been entrusted with the travel expenses — but not in the Pieve, just to be made drunk by the wine of the friendly brethren of Gropina, in a word, Loro, Giovanni! and don’t spend more than two golden florins, including dinner, and go on the next morning, passing through S. Giustino, past the Castiglio Fibocchi to the Buriano, there you should cross the Arno, the bridge toll should be twelve soldi, no more, Giovanni, and that evening in Arezzo you may not give them more than three, under no circumstances whatsoever, they will ask you for four florins and forty soldi, but you give them three — food, lodgings, fodder — well, Giovanni, you understand, and then early the next morning to Passignano, and then accordingly you should stay in Passignano that evening, there once again two florins will be enough for everything, and then by the evening of the fourth day you will already be in Perugia, coachman, drive carefully, it’s not flour that you’re transporting, and don’t drive the horses too hard, feed them well and give them water, and as for you, he finally gestured toward the four assistants blinking sleepily, don’t end up getting drunk somewhere, because you will regret it if I find out and I will find out, for surely you know that nothing can remain a secret from me on that route, in other words may God’s blessing be upon you, the maestro bid farewell to them, and with that he dismissed the entire company with all of the expensive pigments and brushes and oils and turpentine and chests and frames and all of the wooden panels, half-prepared or just now begun, he turned on his heel and did not look back, he did not look back even once, but just went toward the Borgo Pinti, and then his entire bottega from Florence disappeared amidst the sleeping houses of the San Gilio; the two horses pulled at the first crack of the whip, the cart gave a great jolt, so that they nearly fell onto their backs, they turned out onto the San Gilio, then went all the way along the deserted Borgo la Croce, through the Porta alla Croce, already they had passed by the guard at the gate, and already they were outside in the open countryside; behind them was Florence, enchanting and beautiful and dangerous and insane, with its fiasco, and before them were the springtime Tuscan hills, gentle and covered in green, they were setting off on the road to Arezzo, in a word they set off, rattling greatly as they went along, tossed about here and there underneath the cart’s canvas, they watched the city slowly disappearing behind them, they watched the land slowly becoming smoother ahead, and they thought, oh, what a journey, Perugia, oh, how far away it is!

No matter how much they were jolted, for a while it was not the terrible bumpiness of the road that made them suffer, but that contrary to expectations they only reached, before Pontassieve, the hills of Valdarno very slowly, which also meant that they did not hesitate even for a second when they glimpsed the first vineyard; they immediately instructed the coachman to head that way, and they were already turning down to the left off the main road, and so they left the Cassia Vetus as if they had never even been on it, they turned off, they stopped the cart in the shadow of a large olive grove, and leaving the coachman there to watch over the cart and get water for the horses to drink, they immediately climbed up the gently sloping hill, looking for the first cellar entrance; they knocked back the vintner’s wine so impetuously, that it was as if they were not coming from Florence, but rather from some Arabian desert, already completely tortured by thirst, with leathery tongues and bone-dry throats; they simply dashed back the young wine from the tiny glasses, tastier with every sip, and for a good few minutes they didn’t even ask the price, they just poured it down their throats, one after the other, they just panted and sipped and swallowed, and the vintner watched them, wondering what madhouse they had come from, and just where they had gotten so thirsty, and, well, what kind of master it was who, as he found out, locked away his own assistants, so that they could only drink just a little bit on occasion, ah, he doesn’t let us do anything, they told him, lying nonsensically, just a tiny little drop of wine and he kicks you out of the workshop, once they had caught their breath, they went on saying things like that, and they went on to tell him just who they were, where they had come from, and where they were trying to get to, by God, Francesco fixed his gaze on the vintner, their master was so dreadfully strict that one little drop was too much, he never even permitted that much ever, just because he himself refrained from drinking any sort of liquor, like someone who had taken a vow, although none of them would have been able to say why they were babbling so much nonsense, namely things that were not true, namely, that the maestro really didn’t like it if his assistants drank, moreover strictly regulating, as long as they were within view of him, just how much they could drink; accordingly they themselves didn’t even understand why they were babbling such idiocies to this total stranger, maybe because the speed with which they were drinking compelled them to make up some kind of explanation, in any event they drank for about one half hour continuously, all the while just talking and talking, the words flowed out of them, just as the wine flowed down their throats, but by that point all four of them were so drunk, that the vintner just pointed at the entrance of the cellar, where a few sheepskins were spread out on the hard-packed earth, and already they were falling over in a row, and already they were snoring; the coachman was still waiting for them down there below in the shade of the olive grove, that is, he waited for as long as he could stand it, because as the sun began to rise and it became warmer and warmer, he had no desire to miss out on anything good, so, well, he tied up the two horses, and reassuring himself that there was not a single soul anywhere nearby — he could leave the carriage for a little while — he set off in the direction he had seen them going earlier, but by the time he, too, found the cool cellar, they were already snoring deeply and regularly so that he just pointed at them, indicating that the gentlemen would pay, and ordered a jug of wine for himself, and began to chat with the vintner, and time passed very pleasantly, but, however, it also really passed in actuality, the coachman kept looking with ever growing disquiet at the four figures sleeping on the sheepskins, because he remembered the unattended carriage and the unattended horses, as well as the warnings the maestro had issued at dawn, and what was going to happen if there would be a problem, and what would happen if he found out somehow — the thought arose within him — which was anyway altogether unlikely, but still, who knows, and he began to awaken the assistants, who awoke with great difficulty, but only so that they could order some more jugs from the vintner, well, the coachman couldn’t really understand how they could be so bold, because this maestro, or whatever they call him, he explained to the vintner, seemed like a great lord, so, he convinced them to fill up a few flasks to take along on the road, for now the best thing would be, he said very uncertainly, crumpling up his cap, the best thing would be. . because, well, even these assistants were kind of gentlemen-like themselves, to go now, because the maestro had said that they had to be in Loro by the evening, of course we’ll get there, they shrugged their shoulders, don’t be afraid, just you have one last glass with us, and they drank one last glass, and then one more, and then one really last one, after which they made their way down the hill toward the grove, all four of them were black and blue by the time they got to the cart, because they either kept tripping over their own legs, or they fell on top of each other laughing, or they tripped over a stone or the stump of some old grapevine stuck in the ground, so that when they were finally able with great difficulty to climb up onto the cart, and settle down there again, and the coachman, just to make sure that they were all hanging on properly, as they had up till now, looked back and he saw that the entire illustrious company in the bed of the cart looked like they had been attacked, or had gotten a good thrashing by a band of marauders — well, how the gentlemen looked there behind him was the least of his concerns, he muttered to the horses, snapping the reins, and already he had turned back onto the main road and there on the Via Cassia they continued their journey where they had left off, just that, well, the coachman looked up and to be sure the sun was already very high, so high, that to be sure he could tell that there was no way that they would get to Loro in time, so that as they left Pontassieve, every time it came into his head, he cracked his whip for the horses to move along, the result being that the illustrious company in the bed of the cart were only jolted around all the more, and how could it have been otherwise; they were continually being startled awake from their drunken stupor, and they upbraided him not to drive those poor horses so hard, didn’t he see that the sweat was pouring off of them, did he not remember that the maestro had said to drive carefully and not hound them, and mainly Giannicola raised his voice, he really shouldn’t be shaking the breath out of the travelers like this and shouldn’t be so worried, they’ll get there when they get there, Loro was not the most important thing, the most important thing was that they be in Perugia by the fourth day, and to be sure that was true, the coachman said to the horses, as it really turned out to be, he decided that tomorrow he would speed up a bit, there were hardly any other travelers and as he recalled, from Loro onward, things would be a bit better for a while, but he did not remember well, or he was just deluding himself, because to be sure, after they arrived, late that evening, at Loro, installed themselves at the inn, unloaded the chests, washed themselves off, gave the horses water and provisions, and then started off again, that accursed Via Cassia, to be sure, was not even a tiny bit better, so that just as before they could only make progress at the price of painful tortures, the cart was jolting and rattling and getting stuck and coming to a dead halt so many times, and those four were constantly yelling at the coachman that they couldn’t sleep because there was so much jolting and rattling and getting stuck and coming to a dead halt and what was true was true, it was jolting and rattling and getting stuck and coming to a dead halt, the coachman acknowledged to the horses, well, but Arezzo is still far away, namely Arezzo was his goal for that evening, as the day after tomorrow, in the evening they had to be in Perugia, this maestro, back there in Florence, when he bargained with him, seemed to be a very strict person, all he needed now was to know that they were late, under no circumstances whatsoever, said the coachman to the horses, and he cracked the whip over their haunches, upon which of course they again jumped, the four assistants at this began to yell again, and that is how they went, how the cart went along the Via Cassia; sometimes the coachman had to turn off the road if a horseman or another carriage was coming from the opposite direction, and sometimes just gently prodding on the two horses, the assistants were jolted awake, and began to yell at him again, at which point he once again slowed down the cart, then the road began to get a bit better, the assistants fell into a deep sleep, so that with Loro behind them they passed Terranuova, and even crossed the famous Ponte Buriano and reached the opposite bank of the fairly wide Arno, he didn’t have to wake them up, because most likely due to the unusually small amount of travelers, nobody was standing there at the bridgehead, so there was no question of a toll, the assistants were completely still, they didn’t even take the slightest notice of this crossing, indeed, the road after the bridge remained smoother, and so they proceeded onward in a more tranquil fashion, of course just for a while, because then afterward, once again, came all the bumps and potholes, the large stones half turned over on their sides, the treacherous ditches of the hollowed out wheel tracks; the assistants woke up irritated, and began to yell, but they had to slow down anyway, as the two horses couldn’t really take it anymore, in consequence of which the coachman was forced to acknowledge that they were proceeding toward Arezzo too slowly, so that in the middle of that afternoon even the four assistants, who were coming back to their senses somewhat, realized that it would look better if they did not stop at every single turn to attend to their personal needs, or to rest the horses and let them drink at every single watering place, namely they too began to restrain themselves, and as for eating and drinking, they ate and drank on the road, and it was only in this way that they were able, on the second day — although it was already late in the evening — to reach Arezzo; they bargained for lodgings at the postal station, they unloaded the chests, they got water and fodder again, and they ordered something for themselves as well, they consumed a warm meal, but they were so tired, all five of them were so exhausted that they didn’t even really know what they were eating, they just chewed and swallowed, then the five of them were already asleep, the four assistants inside, the coachman in the shed next to the horses, so that when on the morning of the third day they set off yet again they could not imagine how they would be able to withstand this all the way to Passignano, because that was the third goal in their journey, the northwestern tip of Lake Trasimeno, if the horses could bear all of this — the degree to which the journey was wearing the horses out was quite visible, as well as how much the coachman was worried about them, although of course he did not only have just these two horses, he explained as he kept turning his head back toward Aulista, who was just then watching him — but look at them, the coachman motioned with his head, look at the light in the eyes of these two, he would not be separated from them for any money in the world, no matter how much anyone might offer him, he would not just give them over to any human being whatsoever, he knew every single one of their movements, he could tell just from their gait if it was going to rain in the next half-hour, or which one’s tooth was hurting just at that moment, he knew everything, just everything that you could know about them, of course he wouldn’t deny it, part of it was that these two also knew him, the gentleman assistant won’t believe me, said the coachman, but if he was in a bad mood, these two just hung their heads as if they understood exactly what the problem was, there were no two horses like them in all of Florence, yes, he nodded toward them, turning toward the horses now, and looking at the road, yes, they’re getting on, you can’t deny that, but well, as for him, wasn’t he too? — he’d passed his forty-ninth, too, after Carnival, although he knew that he didn’t look it, in a word the three of them here were just made for each other, the gentleman could see it for himself, that maestro there in the city had a good eye to pick him out from all the other drivers, because he had a sharp eye — the coachman turned again for a moment to Aulista — and he immediately knew that he could trust him and that he could trust these two horses, but at that point the coachman had to leave off because although the landscape had become more even, another very difficult section of the journey came, where the old Roman stones were nearly completely turned out of the surface of the road, he had to watch very closely if he did not want the cart’s axle to snap in two, or some other huge problem to develop, he turned here, he turned there, and now not a living soul was coming from the other direction, or from behind — no nobleman, noted the coachman to the horses, or courier, delegation, or anyone, either from Arezzo or Trasimeno, as if everyone, he muttered to the horses, wanted to bypass this section of the road, but the horses said nothing in reply, they just suffered on with the whip cracking above their backs and the wheels always getting stuck, they tried to haul them out before the whip lashed yet more strongly, and nothing meant anything to any one of them in this continual torture, not to the horses, nor to the apprentices, nor to the coachman; and it was perhaps just some obscure mitigation that above them the sun shone, that the warm April breeze played up and down across the land, that the gently sloping hillsides of the Val di Chiana, and the general dominion of all things fresh and green in the entire springtime realm of Tuscany radiated such peace and tranquility, that nothing at all was lacking, in which already nothing else was necessary for someone to become conscious of this, a profound peacefulness, and a kind of unperturbedness that was not of this world: in this peacefulness and unperturbedness stood immersed the olive groves and the vineyards, the hills and the roads winding among the hills, even the undulating flocks of starlings — as again and again they furrowed through the rows of the grapevines amid the playful breezes — they were refined into an entrancing motionlessness, as if they had just stopped in midair in utter silence, or as if everything — the dense fragrance of the noble rot of the grapes, the silvery green of the olive groves and the vegetable gardens, the shimmerings and shadows of the gently sloping hills of the Val di Chiana — as if everything were just watching the silence, the silence created precisely by this attention — and all the while a weak little noise was a part of the silence too, bumping along in the little full-laden canvas-covered cart with its iron-girded wheels clattering on the stones, as slowly, with difficulty, past the villages of L’Olmo, Puliciano, Rigutino, toward Passignano, it proceeds.

They could not have said if they reached Passignano that evening, because if the first two days had rattled their bodies, the third, between Arezzo and Passignano, destroyed their souls, that is to say, first they became insensible, then later they revolted, namely, that with the cart continuously throwing them around here and there, at first they were despondent, then they announced things could not go on like this, this was not travel, but inhuman torture, and was strictly prohibited in letter and in spirit by the Republic of Florence: these two feelings alternated for hours on end, as all the while the road, without pause, tossed them about mercilessly, beat them, thrashed them, crushing their willpower completely, but then they rebelled again, and then again just resigned themselves to the whole thing, and gave themselves over to fate, because it was one and the same, for if rebellion was followed by acquiescence, then acquiescence was again followed by rebellion, so that at such times they stopped the coachman, but all they accomplished was that the cart stopped, which meant however that it did not move, namely that in a carriage that is not moving, there is no end of suffering, all four of them knew this, and the coachman kept repeating it too, so that then the whole thing just started again from the beginning, they piled back into the cart, got back into place moaning and groaning, hanging on, and let themselves be shaken, thrown, beaten again — until the next spell of acquiescence — but then after a while they couldn’t stand it anymore, and once again mutiny reared its head; the next time, they did not clamber down, but in the strictest sense of the word they fell off the cart, every bone in their bodies ached so much already, they couldn’t move a single limb, they lay in the fragrant grass like the dead, enumerating the wildest ideas, that they would proceed from now on by foot, that each one would sit upon the back of a bird, that altogether they would not go any further and stay here in the grass alongside the road, and they would all just die, but at this the coachman began to urge them on, really, stop this already, there’s just a little way left, they would be there right away, look at the horses, they are also properly worn out and they’re not lying down in the grass, so stop this already, really you’re all like children, get up right away, climb back into the cart and take the rest of the trip like men, later on in Passignano you can have a rest, so that Passignano became a variation of Paradise in their minds, Passignano, Passignano, they repeated before every turn in the road so that when the turn in the road did not reveal Passignano, they were thoroughly embittered, and they began to curse the coachman, then the two horses, then this rotten road, then the Romans who had built it, and then all the travelers of the past millennium who with their wheels had carved such deep ditches into the road, then the rains, the winters, and the sunshine, in a word everything and everyone that had ruined the Via Cassia to such a degree; finally, just as much as they could, they cursed the maestro, so that when evening came, and darkness descended upon them, and they were ready to nail the coachman up onto a cross — where the hell was this damned Passignano already — but just at that moment when the horses were being driven very quietly, and back there in the bed of the cart they had begun to talk in undertones about how Giannicola would now stab the coachman with a dagger, the coachman said, well, there’s Passignano already, but he said it so softly, that they really almost stabbed him by mistake, what’s that, they yelled out from behind, Passignano, I’m telling you, gentlemen, it’s Passignano, the coachman shouted out in a rage now too, because he had noticed the knife, and he gestured forward into the pitch-dark blackness, the knife was returned to its place, and they just stared fixedly ahead so they could finally see the end to this torture, to see that they had finally arrived just as the coachman had said, that they were in Passignano, and when the cart turned in they just motioned to the innkeeper, they motioned something, which could have meant anything, somehow they were led to their lodgings, there they collapsed, and immediately within the blink of an eye all four were asleep, so that when Aulista was startled awake after one hour, every molecule in his entire body was hurting so much, he was so exhausted, that he simply couldn’t bear to sleep, and after he had first seen Saint Bernard and Saint Francis, the maestro immediately appeared somewhere above his pallet, and that made him come to his senses somewhat, and he looked at the maestro above his pallet, and he tried somehow to fall back asleep, but couldn’t, then he was able to, but not even for a half hour, because his eyes sprung open again as if it were already dawn, it was, however, not dawn but still late evening and in addition he was starting to come back to normal consciousness, that is after the maestro, Saint Bernard, and Saint Francis had began to vanish, and the pallets had begun to regain their own true dimensions and form, there inside was one tiny little window, out of which Aulista watched the heavens playing into dark blue, he sensed a gentle breeze that occasionally blew across him toward the sleepers, and there suddenly came into his mind one of the panels under preparation, which, fastened to the back of the cart, was now being transported, that altarpiece, commissioned by the clerk of Perugia, Bernardino di ser Angelo Tezi, and which they had begun perhaps six years ago, and that inasmuch as it would be finished one day, would be placed in the church of Saint Augustine in Perugia in the Tezi family chapel named after Saint Nicolas of Tolentino, the commission of course had been arranged years ago, but they had gotten nearly nowhere with the picture, only the gesso and the imprimatura were ready, and they had finished the underdrawing a long time ago, that is the sketched-out composition of the painting was already recognizable, a predella below, above it in the middle of the picture a little ciborium, and as a matter of fact in the middle of the picture, above, was the Virgin Mother in the heavens as She was being held by three cherubinos, with little Jesus in her lap, and beside her to the left was San Nicola da Tolentino, to her right was Bernardino da Siena, and all those who were seeing this as a vision: down below, to the left of the ciborium, Saint Jerome was kneeling, and on the other side, Saint Sebastian, this picture now flashed through Aulista’s mind, as did that afternoon, when in the still sufficient light the maestro painted the lower garments of the Virgin Mother with ultramarine, but then suddenly stopped painting, and flung out the comment that they should daub a deep blue spot with azurite onto the edge of the sleeve, which was still just sketched out but not painted, and they should finely inscribe there MCCCCC, namely that according to the desire of the family this picture would be placed in the chapel exactly at the turning point of the quattrocento and the cinquecento — which of course did not occur, Aulista now thought — and with that the maestro left the workshop, and since then hadn’t even touched the picture, and here he was now lying awake from exhaustion, and instead of resting he was seeing the blue of the garments of the Virgin Mother, that glimmering, that wondrous, that inimitable blue, the likes of which he had never seen in any painting by any other Italian painter and this blue, now, as he lay almost completely awake in the sleeping quarters of the inn, made him think, and made all the maestro’s colors come into his mind, as the green and blue and crimson blinded him, indeed, in the strict sense of the word, what blinded him was the dreadful strength of these colors, as each picture was finished, and they stood around the panel, or the fresco, so as to look at it, to view it as a completed masterpiece, with a fresh eye, so that the entire workshop could look at it together, just to see if as a whole the work truly was satisfactory, and it could be said that it was final, that it could now be delivered, really, Aulista now remembered, he was nearly blinded by this extraordinary ability of the maestro to work with colors, because this was the secret focal point of his work and his talent, he now added to himself, and he looked through that narrow little window slit at the evening heavens above Passignano — the astonishing sharpness of the colors, he thought, and with what overpowering strength, the green and the yellow and blue and crimson, placed next to each other, for example, on four draperies loosely thrown upon each other, the viewer was raised into the heavens, that is, Aulista noted to himself, the maestro ravished people with his colors, well, but the maestro can still create these colors even today, the thought wracked him, and sleep finally deserted him, for surely that unfinished picture back there, tied up there to the back shaft of the cart, that blue piece of fabric in it, as it spilled across the knee of the Virgin Mary, that was the same blue, that was the same color that was in the Santa Maddalena and Madonna della Consolazione and the altarpiece in Pavia and on the Madonna painted for the Pala dei Decemviri, and in the Lamentation over the Dead Christ for the Order of the Poor Clares and all the other innumerable depictions of the Christ and the Madonna and Jerome, but if that’s where things stand, Aulista thought amid his snoring colleagues, if the problem is not with the proof of the greatest ornament of the maestro’s talent, with his colors, then with what, that is the question, he said to himself, speaking aloud now, because although he wasn’t conscious of it, he clasped his hands underneath his head, and fixed his gaze onto the ceiling, then in a single moment complete wakefulness was succeeded by the deepest sleep, although even the next morning he had not forgotten his nighttime thoughts, so when after a mutual attempt on the part of the coachman and the innkeeper to awanen them — lengthy yet in the end yielding results — and the assistants finally succeeded in shaking themselves into their pantaloons, and had consumed some warm panada and climbed back up onto the readied cart, like martyrs onto their stakes, starting off for Perugia, Aulista even brought up the topic; however, there wasn’t really anyone to mention it to, for the others were still so badly off from the trials of yesterday and the day before, that they shouted him down just as much as they could, just as rudely as they could, only much later on, when after a while the road became somewhat better on the bank of the lake, and the last flask was brought out, which made them a bit more cheerful, they thought of Aulista and immediately began pestering him, what is it, Aulista, are you delirious, are you so worn out, that you can no longer bear the tortures, and you spend all night thinking about the maestro’s colors? — you’re looking kind of feeble, pretty boy, Francesco said to him sneering maliciously, and he took a swig from the flask, I don’t even know how the maestro let you leave his side, and why you didn’t travel on horseback with him, he should have made an exception for you, and so on, right up until the old injurious accusation, with which his colleagues had badgered him ever since he had shown up at the workshop, that namely he was the maestro’s particular, very own favorite, and only because he was the one who posed as a model of Saint Sebastian for the maestro one time back then, and this crude banter, as so many times already, if they wanted to get out of some kind of difficult rut, led to their just not being able to stop, and the jeering just went on and on; the cart, however, shook and tumbled and swerved just like before, but their attention was absorbed by the subject of Aulista’s relationship with the maestro, so that this time too he wasn’t spared, they just kept on talking, the jibes, each one more malicious, more crude than the last, just kept on coming and there was nothing that could stop them, they were simply not capable of getting off this topic; he however was aching all over just as they were, he was just as eviscerated as they were by the sufferings of the last three days, so that he asked them, just asked them, and in the end weeping he asked them to leave him alone already, well but it was exactly this, the sight of a man bursting into tears that threw more oil onto the fire, and they attacked him, causing even deeper wounds, calling him a feeble woman, and the only help for Aulista, as always in such cases, was that he suddenly closed himself off, sunk into himself to such an extent as to become unapproachable, he spoke not a single word to them, he no longer took any notice of them, he wedged himself between two rolled-up carpets, and just waited for them to stop already, as eventually happened, because after a while there was no more pleasure in the thing, and Francesco, pointing at the Trasimeno, told the tale, related already at least a hundred times, about his adventure with some whore from Florence, who sometimes was called Pantassilea, and sometimes Pomona, and sometimes Antea, thus they went along the northern shore of the Trasimeno, and as they passed beyond it, everything began to be a little more easy, because they knew that now Perugia would follow, that there in the distance Perugia was waiting for them and the coachman said to the horses that surely it was very good, and if the gentleman assistants were finally in such a good mood, but that it would be good for them to conserve some energy for the last stretch as well, and he was really right, because in the falling twilight when they truly had reached the base of Perugia, perhaps the most difficult part of the journey followed, namely that they had to somehow get the cart up to the Porta Trasimeno on the notoriously steep route, accordingly they all had to get down, the coachman held and jerked the reins from the ground, while the others, putting their shoulders to the sides of the cart pushed the entire thing up, because this upward route toward the gate was not only very difficult for the two horses, who were nearly totally enervated, but even going on foot alone would have worked up a proper sweat in the travelers returning home; the coachman was worried about the horses, and the assistants were worried about the load on the cart, which until now had escaped damage; then their strength gave out, and it became increasingly obvious that they were hardly pushing the cart, the coachman yelled, because he was afraid, with good reason, that the exhausted company and the weakened animals would suddenly just give up, and then the entire thing would plummet back down, back down to the foot of the city, and then not only would the cart burst apart into matchsticks, not only the load, but his two beloved horses would be finished off as well, which he would not be able to bear; so he just yelled at the assistants to start pushing already, for God’s sake, they were already almost halfway up, but it seemed nearly a hopeless task for these five and the two horses to get the cart up to the gate, so the coachman could do nothing else then to commandeer the company with some incredible luck up to the big turn in the road, where he then wedged stones behind the wheels of the cart, and ordered them to take a rest, the assistants, gasping for breath, collapsed onto their knees, the horses’ legs trembled, no one spoke a single word, there they rested for perhaps a quarter of an hour, until the assistants looked at each other, and then at the coachman, then at the horses, and as if in some mute pantomime, they agreed all at once, fine, the last stretch would somehow have to be made in one go; the coachman positioned the four assistants next to the supporting stones, then he cracked the whip above the two horses just as much as he could, he tugged at the reins, and at the same time the assistants grabbed the stones from underneath the wheels, so that the wheels would turn more easily in the right direction; the horses just pulled the cart, the coachman yelled, the whip cracked, although the coachman was very careful to make sure that the strap didn’t even touch the haunches of the two horses, and in that way they finally reached the gates of Perugia, and they finally stepped through the Porta Trasimeno, and when at last, gasping for breath they stood, beyond the gate, on the beautifully paved Via dei Priori, Francesco simply could not stop, he just kept saying, just saying, well, my friends, I wouldn’t have believed it possible, I wouldn’t have believed it at all.

Everything begins with the commission, with the patron, in this case Signor Bernardino di ser Angelo Tezi, the notary of Perugia who, representing the Tezi family, registers before the appropriate authorities all of the requirements relating to the commissioned picture, usually — as on this occasion as well — with the stipulation that the Virgin Mother and the two visionary saints be painted by the maestro himself, that the very best ultramarine and the very best vermiglione be used, and so on, including precisely designating the composition of the desired scene and the portrayal of the desired figures in the picture, and of course the price and the time are also registered, saying — that is writing — that for the preparation of the altarpiece the aforementioned maestro will be owed one hundred and fifty golden florins by the patron, in such and such installments, the maestro for his part consents to prepare this altarpiece in the propitious year of the turn of the century, and the delivery will be arranged by the patron, as the altarpiece is to be placed in the family chapel, Chiesa di Sant’ Agostino, and with that the entire operation began, precisely, it began with the maestro going to his own carpenter — this happened already in Perugia — and he said to him, look, Stefano, I need it from poplar, but from the very highest quality poplar, you know what kind, the dolce, moreover, the dolcissimo, that’s what I need, but cutting it so that no part of the edge of the trunk is inside it, saw it along the grain, in a word, it has to be six feet long and four and a half feet wide, yes, master Stefano replied in the carpentry workshop, so one piece, six feet wide and four and a half feet long; no, said the maestro, six feet long and four and a half feet wide, yes, the slightly thick-witted carpenter interrupted, nodding vigorously, accordingly six feet long and four and a half feet wide; yes, said the maestro, a poplar panel of those dimensions, I will be painting an altarpiece on it, in brief how much do you want, asked the maestro, so that the back will be smeared with minium to protect it from insects, and the painting side will be smoothly planed, but then go over it a little bit with the toothed plane, you understand, Stefano, that there should be completely fine little ridges running through it, so that the whole painting side will be able to absorb the size, go over the back though with the rough planer, because you know, Stefano, that then it will be easier to press in the cross-lathes, those, too, will be necessary, of course, of course, echoed the carpenter standing before the famous painter and bowing his head slightly, from oak wood however, oak, nodded master Stefano, you know, continued the maestro, it needs dovetailed grooves, or what do you call it, that’s what we call it, approved Stefano, which you can then press the cross-lathes into, but you know, the maestro admonished him, the cross-lathes should always be placed crosswise to the grain, Stefano, yes, of course, maestro Vannucci, the carpenter nodded again, everything will be just as you wish, and when do you need it by, well, by when can you have it ready, that is the question, answered the maestro, if it were ready by next Saturday, would that be good, the carpenter asked, smiling, because he knew that nobody else could complete the order as quickly, because well, if it was for him, the greatly esteemed Pietro di Vannucci — so for how much, the maestro grew impatient, six by four and a half feet, asked the carpenter, and relying on his old habit, if the talk was about money, he continually rubbed the tips of his fingers together behind his back, as if he were rummaging around in a money pouch; from poplar, mused master Stefano, and the maestro nodded at every sentence, but he didn’t say a word, and so, muttered the carpenter, with cross-lathes, Signor Vannucci appeared once again to grow impatient, and when he finally heard the price, he was completely crestfallen, and stared intently at master Stefano as if he had just cursed the Holy Mother Church, and he simply could not catch his breath — the maestro was a master of performance as well, and was capable of bargaining for a single soldo — or even one single caldera — for an entire hour, or even longer, as the situation required, so that on this occasion as well, a good half-hour went by, as they continued to bargain, and they enumerated the specifications again and again, and then the maestro stepped out of the carpenter’s workshop, having quickly concluded the deal, and having got the price down to one quarter of the original stated amount, and next Saturday quickly came around, and the panel was there with all the agreed-upon measurements and requirements, so that work could begin, the maestro entrusted Francesco — not the Francesco Bachielli, who was still working in the maestro’s workshop around the year 1495, but Francesco Bettini, who still counted as among the most inexperienced — with the initial preparatory operations, informing him to proceed with a large degree of circumspection, because from this point onward each individual phase of the work carried great significance, there were no tasks that were any less important or more important, he had to treat the tavola in such a way that if any phase of the work was completed badly, negligently, or in a heedless fashion, it would render the subsequent work meaningless, and the panel worthless, because the panel would be unusable, and the picture would be unpaintable, that is, even just the slightest negligence or lack of attention would be enough, and the commission would be gone, and that also would entail repercussions for Francesco, the withdrawal of wages, and other reprisals left unexpressed, so he should not disregard his, the maestro’s, orders, he should begin by placing the panel in a perpendicular position, so that he could have access to both the front and the back surfaces, and wash them down, rubbing thoroughly everywhere, he should wash it down, but on the back side of the panel with only a damp sponge; with this, however, Francesco — the other Francesco — could help for a while, so that in a word as he thoroughly scrubbed the back surface with the damp rag, the other at the same time would be smearing boiling vinegar onto the painting side, but they had to be very careful to do it at once, truly at the same time, for the entire thing to occur simultaneously, otherwise the panel would begin to warp toward the back, and it would be like a barrel, and that would be the end, he hoped that Francesco understood, the maestro raised his index finger warningly, and with that work could begin, so that the two Francescos did everything exactly as had been prescribed, the back surface of the panel with a damp sponge, on the painting side with warm vinegar, to open up the pores of the wood, so that then the size would be absorbed more easily into the surface of the wood, and they really did all of this at the same time, so that there was no problem at all, they could continue with the following phase, but only the next morning; the two Francescos put the tavola aside for that day to let it dry, and the next morning, when, according to custom, they placed it horizontally onto the two trestles that were set up obliquely, they looked to see if they had the right kind of bristles, and what was most important, the surface smeared with vinegar had to be completely dry, and since it was, the unpleasant operation of sizing the panel could truly commence: because even expressing it as delicately as possible, it was unpleasant due to the unmistakable stench, for if here, in the maestro’s workshop, the assistants weren’t obligated to cook it up themselves from parchment, but rather got the size from the glove-makers’, they still had to boil it, to warm it up on a so-called gentle fire, and keep it there while the work continued: and already from the mere fact that somebody brought it in from the courtyard and put it onto the fire, an infernal stink arose, there was always a great contest to see who could escape this particular task, but in this the maestro divided the work evenly among them, so that sometimes the Francescos, sometimes Aulista, sometimes Giovanni, sometimes Giannicola, sometimes the others — in the beginning the assistant who worked in the workshop in Perugia completed the task — in any event, this time the honor of applying the boiling size onto the tavola had been conferred upon the Francescos, that is to say in accordance with the instructions: employing a short hard brush of pig-bristles, and not dipping, but dabbing it into the size from above perpendicularly, so that just the tip of the brush would touch the size, then drawing it across the edge of the basin; they began to apply it to the surface of the panel, sprinkling it in circles, rubbing it in as much as they could, very thoroughly, not a single corner, detail, the tiniest little spot could not be left out, and when it was ready, when the first part had dried enough that a second nice fine layer could be applied to it, well, then it was ready, but before they got to that point they had to keep thinning the size so that it would not get too thick, and the maestro was always coming in, as he was always the one to check on things, to see if it was diluted enough, or if it was already too thick, he stuck two fingers into it, then holding them up slowly spread them apart, and if a nice film was formed, then everything was fine, and it wasn’t at all bad for the maestro to continually supervise every movement, but for the fact of the stench, namely he, Francesco, and everything around him stank dreadfully; the assistants approached him plugging up their noses, and if they came toward him, they of course repeatedly bombarded him whose turn it was — this time Francesco — asking what it was that made him stink so much, and what would his sweetheart say if he were to embrace her right now in one of the back rooms of a nearby tavern on the Borgo la Croce, because it was like that to be sure, not only around the wooden panel, but wherever he worked in the workshop became suffused with an unbearable stench, and he himself as well, or perhaps he himself the most of all, and to be sure he could only get rid of this smell with great difficulty, it remained on his hands for days, he washed them, washed them in vain, it just wouldn’t come off properly with water, in short at least a week would go by until he could somehow get rid of the stench; work went on however, and when the size was completely dry, which in this case was in two days, because just then the weather was very rainy, they began to work on the panel again, only that now this work was not for them — that is for the Francescos — but rather was entrusted to Giannicola, as the maestro said, look here, Giannicola, I know that you are already a great master in this, still it won’t hurt for you to hear one more time what you have to do, so that well, first rub down what Francesco has made very finely with the pumice stone, only then can you put on the gesso; use the cauldron for this plaster, fill it with clean water from the brook, and warm it up, warm it up, and then you start to sprinkle the plaster into it nice and slow, and with your other hand all the while mixing it and mixing it, and put in enough water so that there will be enough for it not to start to harden, in a word put in enough for it to dissolve and stay liquid, and do it nicely, sprinkle a little more water onto it, cover it well, and when you see that already the plaster doesn’t want any more water, then it’s good, but make sure that it remains at boiling point until you begin to apply the first rough layer onto the tavola. . well, you understand, Giannicola, but in the meantime don’t forget that you have to keep working on the back surface of the panel properly with a moistened rag, and when however it is dry, in other words, the first layer of gesso grosso, then you know what you have to do: take up the drawing knife, and apply the next layer, be very careful for it to be even, over the entire surface, and really even, but I will be here for that, the maestro reassured the assistant, who of course was not reassured, but became nervous, because to have to work with the maestro standing behind his back, after so many years, would be like having to listen patiently all over again about what he had already done a hundred times, and he had already listened a hundred times, but really, why was the maestro saying this again and again, neither Giannicola nor the other assistants could ever really understand, they suspected that it was because he was dreadfully anxious about the plaster, the size, the panel, and maybe even the water in the rag with which they rubbed the back surface of the panel continuously and perhaps his boundless miserliness was the reason that he never tired of repeating the same thing one hundred times, he so was lacking in trust in them just as he never trusted anyone at all almost like a sick man, whose illness consists of an unconditional lack of trust, and maybe that was the source of everything bad in him; because he was not lacking in that either, he was not exactly considered to be an easy master, indeed, he was thought of as notorious, but still better to have him there behind one’s back, thought Giannicola, than to be without him — because that also meant that he was not coming into the workshop and that was always and unconditionally bad — in any event now here he was, and everyone was happy that the work on the Pala Tezi was proceeding and it really did look as if it would be ready in MCCCCC, and so Giannicola applied the two layers of gesso grosso, and then he began the gesso sottile, but here the plaster should only be lukewarm, Giannicola continued from here so he could show to the maestro standing behind him that he understood things, that he did not have to be taught — but one of the brand-new assistants should be instructed, you know, just be very careful, but very careful, that there are no bubbles; everything depends on how clever you are when you apply the gesso, the best is if we ask for a drop of spirits from the maestro — and the maestro was already holding out the flask — and from this, Giannicola continued, you pour out a glass and then you pour out this entire little glass into the bottom of the basin, yes, like that Giannicola praised the assistant, who completed the task quickly, the spirits, Giannicola explained to the assistant, get rid of the bubbles, but the main thing is that when you are mixing it you should almost not be mixing it, but rather let it sit for a day, for it to settle, and then you mix it again without hardly mixing it; you sprinkle the plaster until it sinks into it, then however when a little hill begins to form in the middle, you have to stop immediately and then mix it again one more time very carefully, and make sure that it remains lukewarm, the whole thing depends on this as well, you understand, Domenico, or whatever your name is, because the base of the panel must be smooth, perfectly smooth, and that depends on whether or not you end up making bubbles, so it all depends on you, take note, Domenico, Giannicola said threateningly; then, he added, you know the rest, you know that you have to apply it with your flat heavy brush, at first rub on the initial layer, but then you should smear on the next layer right after it, don’t worry, I’ll tell you later how many layers there should be, don’t worry, I’ll be here; I’m sure about that, thought this Domenico and you could see this is what he was thinking — because Giannicola, standing behind his back with the sarcastically smiling maestro, looked at him for a moment fairly strangely, but then he let it pass — and he continued by pointing out that when the entire surface was being brushed, he should make sure not to forget that we do not begin at the edge, and at this word Giannicola strongly raised his voice, but from the inside, and first we stroke inward and only after that outward, because otherwise a spot will remain there which you will be unable to get out, well you understand, Domenico, I don’t have to explain so much to you, you’ve done it and you’ve seen it before since you’ve been here, and you’ve proven already that after you’ve finished we don’t have to go over the whole thing with the hake brush, because if you do what I say, then your gesso will be as smooth as a copper mirror, and that’s what we need here, said Giannicola, exactly, the maestro said, taking up the thread behind him, and looking directly at Giannicola, he said to him, yes, a perfectly smooth surface, but take note, that if by any chance I find even just one single bump, one single furrow, one single spot, then you’ll get such a slap in the face, Giannicola that you will rue it for the rest of your life, you understand, at which point, to Domenico’s greatest delight, Giannicola turned completely red from the chagrin of desperately wanting to somehow reply to the maestro, but not doing so, he just continued to listen to the maestro’s words in silence, who however only now noted: don’t be afraid, there won’t be any problems, I’ll be right here, and if I’m not, then call for me, always call for me if you are not certain of something, you may ask anything you want, just don’t make any mistakes, this is not painting, this is the gesso, it cannot be repaired, you yourself know best, you’ve already been working for me long enough, the maestro said this in 1495, and although actually it not had been so long ago that Giannicola di Paolo came into the maestro’s studio, he remained silent, and he would have been very pleased to take out all of his chagrin on Domenico, but instead set about to work, which, however for some unknown reason the maestro only permitted them to begin the following day, and Giannicola, instructing Domenico, prepared the gesso with him that same day, the gesso dried quickly, so that was it already possible to sand the whole thing down, and to draw a moist rag over it, very gently, but really just barely, as delicately as a breath, and the priming was completed, then came the application of the alum solution with the hake brush, as the maestro considered it to be extremely important for the base not to absorb the colors to such a degree, and there was the perfectly smooth, matte surface, and the underdrawing could begin — it’s just that it did not begin, because from that point on the maestro stood the sized tavola up against the wall, and the Tezi family was forgotten, he simply took no notice of the picture, as if he had given up on it, he was not at all interested in the fact that it was there, as if it had ceased to exist for him; sometimes still they mentioned it to him, either Aulista or Giovanni, but he just pushed the whole thing aside with an incomprehensible gesture, and just continued with what he had been saying and doing at that moment, so that accordingly the prepared panel just sat there, and then — perhaps two years or maybe a year and half later — when everyone had forgotten about it already, the maestro came into the workshop one day, but this was already in Florence, where in the meantime it had been delivered with a large shipment, saying that now the time had come for the underdrawing, and at first of course they had no idea what he was talking about, because they had forgotten about it themselves, it was only when, in the bottega in Florence, the maestro pointed to the panel leaning up against the wall that they realized that he was talking about the picture for the Sant’Agostino, but at that time there were already two who could be entrusted with the commission from the maestro, that is, Giovanni and Aulista, who had already gained serious reputations outside of the workshop as well, but in the workshop ultimately, if the maestro wanted to be fair, then he had to divide the task up between the two of them, and contrary to their expectations, since he always made capricious and erratic decisions, this time he really was just, giving one part of the underdrawing to Aulista and the other to Giovanni, and so it happened that Aulista began, the maestro entrusted the drawing to his hand, and everyone who was in the workshop immediately gathered there, and watched in great wonder over Aulista’s shoulder, because the drawing, as always, now too was wonderful, they were dazzled, especially the newly arrived apprentices — foremost among them Domenico — all would have liked to know immediately how the maestro prepared the drawing, so that as Aulista began, the maestro said to the apprentices, who were gathered in a circle, that in a good painting the drawing is of extraordinary importance, which always begins first by having to render the paper transparent, this can be acheived by using linseed oil diluted with turpentine, that is you must rub it onto the paper until it becomes translucent, transparent, and then after that you have to dry it, and then bring it out when it is time for the underdrawing, as is the case now, he motioned toward Aulista, the underdrawing, he repeated, which means that from among the previously prepared drawings you need to choose precisely the right one, just as I did at home one half-hour ago, and you place the transparent paper onto this drawing, and with a sharpened piece of charcoal, you trace it nicely, carefully, your drawing is now on the transparent paper, and then you lay some kind of carpet or a thicker piece of felt underneath it; then following the contours nicely you pierce through the paper, puncturing, densely with pinpricks, the maestro motioned to the assistants, along all of the contours of the drawing, and now all you have to do is smooth down your punctured drawing, because otherwise nothing will permeate through the tiny pinpricks; then you place it on the painting surface, and you put charcoal dust ground very fine into a fine rag so that the dust can pass through, you form the rag into a little ball, and tie it up with something, then with this tool, with the charcoal dust you transfer, through all of the tiny little pinpricks onto the panel — or onto the canvas, it depends on what you are painting — the original drawing, well then, so you understand, don’t you; the master looked around at the assistants, then he watched for a while to make sure that everything was all right with the silently working Aulista, then stating that from this point on they should watch him, and then tomorrow they themselves could give it a try to see if they could do it; he left the workshop; the precise, faint underdrawing had been ready on the tavola for a long time, but the maestro had not come in to begin painting, they didn’t dare to take the tavola down from the trestles, but they couldn’t just leave it there, they had to keep walking around it, because well, they still needed to use the trestles, and when it had became obvious that for now the work had proceeded thus far and the maestro had lost interest in it again, instead of putting it back on the painting easel, Aulista traced the lines with a fine brush, and the panel was taken down, thus freeing up the trestles; then cautiously, the entire thing was sprayed with a mixture of milk and honey so that the drawing would not be damaged, and finally they put it back against the wall facing inward, so that life could go on in the bottega in Florence, and for a good long while even the maestro himself never mentioned the Tezi altarpiece, and didn’t even ask Aulista, and chiefly did not look to see if the underdrawing was ready, or if it was, what the result was like; even then, and, when one day a half-year later — not in the morning but in the middle of the afternoon — he arrived, and there was still light in the workshop, he did not speak to anyone, but just put the long untouched panel back onto the easel, and instructed one of the Francescos to immediately take out one of the painting pots with some ultramarine prepared earlier for something else, and to break it up with the pumice stone; Francesco, of course, was greatly amazed when the master took up his cloak, wondering what the maestro could want with the ultramarine so late in the day, but he began to break up the exorbitantly expensive pigment without a word, all the while measuring out so cautiously, almost drop by drop, the egg yolk, already separated and mixed with linseed oil, and to prevent spoiling, disinfected with the juice of fresh fig buds, so that he even held his breath, and as in the case of ultramarine, the color is always best if the crystals of the pigment are left coarse, he, too, broke them up coarsely, and was ready with it relatively quickly, he poured it into a seashell, and was already giving it to the maestro, who took it without a word and began to paint with it the wondrous material of the lower garments of the Virgin Mary, their ethereal lightness, in that color at which Aulista had marveled already so many times when on occasion — if he was alone in the workshop — he turned the picture away from the wall so he could make sure that it had not been damaged by mold or something else; only Bastiano, Domenico, one of the Francescos, and he, Aulista, were in the workshop, the maestro painted, everyone went about their business silently, but so carefully as to not make a single sound, and as a matter of fact, the maestro was quickly finished with this blue, then he painted in, with a black that happened to be at hand, but originally prepared for something else, the folds and the waves, to the point of perceptibility, then he called for Aulista to come over, and for a while they looked at how the blue glimmered, then the maestro gestured for Aulista to come completely close to the picture, and pointing at the lowermost edge of the blue garment on the left side of the picture, he allowed him to paint there, onto that surface, a little more dark color, and to write there, with the finest brush — but you know, he grabbed Aulista’s shoulder, just in such a way that it almost can’t be seen, and with gold — MCCCCC, then he turned away from the easel, he took off his cloak, he handed his brushes to Bastiano so that he could wash them out with soap, and then he wasn’t even there, he left the workshop and from that point on all that happened was that the next day, or the day after that, when he came over again from the Borgo Pinti, he took the picture down from the easel, placed it again next to the wall with the colors facing inward, and no longer bothered with it, as if he had forgotten that it was there, so that in Perugia a completely new story began, not the continuation of the old one, as the whole thing started with the arrival of the four assistants, who had somehow collected themselves after the fatal exhaustion on the Via dei Priori, then in a complete state of despair they directed the coachman to the door of the leased workshop on the Piazza del Sopramura, and there to their greatest alarm the maestro himself awaited them, like some kind of ghost, but it was not a ghost, it was he himself, as for some reason, he was not willing to say more than that, essentially he himself had started off toward home on horseback on the same morning as they, with some kind of paid accompaniment, when he had sent them off on their journey in the cart, only that he went by a different route, and of course reached Perugia much more quickly than their cart, in brief, the whole thing began with him seeing the state that the assistants were in, he let them have a proper rest, and when they were rested they should come to his house in the Via Deliziosa, and report that they were ready for work, and that is how it happened, the maestro left them and they immediately collapsed onto the floor of the new bottega, and already the four of them were asleep, the locals, Girolamo, Raffaello, Sinibaldo, and Bartolomeo, together with the coachman, brought in the contents of the cart — the coachman was not in such a bad state as the others, he was cut from somewhat harder wood, as he kept saying to the local assistants — so that after the cart-load had been brought in, they led the horses to the nearby postal station and handed them over to a stable boy, then they went back into the workshop, and the coachman got something to eat and drink, and finally they let him sleep as well, and they left silently so as to come back the next day, when the coachman was already awake, but the others were still snoring like horses, so getting some work out of them, because they lay strewn across the workshop, was not really possible, they left the coachman with his wages as sent by the maestro, and they waited, they waited for these four to finally wake up, but well they just weren’t waking up, only on the following day; altogether they slept through an entire night, and an entire day, and an entire night again, however when they did wake up, all those who knew some of the others already were glad, for example, Bartolomeo knew nearly everyone from the workshop in Florence, but Aulista also knew Sinibaldo from somewhere, it was only Raffaello whom no one really knew, he was a fairly new assistant even for the Perugians, they had just heard of him of course from the maestro in Florence, he was wholly exempted from priming and the preparatory work in Perugia, because the maestro was teaching this Raffeallo exclusively how to paint, that is how to make the paints, how to take care of the brushes, and how to paint this or that — an arm, a head, a mouth, a Madonna, a Jerome, or a landscape — but frankly speaking, said the maestro, I really don’t know what to teach this Raffaello, because he already knows how to draw very well, and he learns everything that he sees me do so quickly, that he could even already be entrusted with a picture, even though he is only, I don’t know, how many years old, maybe sixteen, or seventeen, I have no idea, said the maestro and, well, that’s all that they knew about him, and here in the workshop they did not find out much more, only that he came from Urbino, and that was all, and that he was good at drawing and painting, that was it, and so they didn’t really take much notice of him, he somehow always worked apart, and the maestro always treated him differently, in a special way, not the way he treated them, which could have been a cause for anger, but it wasn’t, because this assistant from Urbino charmed everyone with his amiability, maybe he was even too gentle for such a workshop as this, one thing was certain, he had no wish to push himself forward just because he was granted such exceptional treatment on the part of the maestro, he did not want to, nor did he stand in the forefront, in that forefront stood Bartolomeo, he was the center, the workshop was entrusted to him, so that everything somehow happened around him; Raffaello became friends with Aulista, who was also fairly quiet; the whole thing began with the arrival of the Florentines, who had a good sleep, gorged themselves, and became thoroughly drunk, then they went across to Via Deliziosa 17 to report that they were ready for work, and then the next day the maestro came over from the Ospedale della Misericordia to the newly leased bottega, and to everyone’s great surprise, extorting them to continue with the work underway, took out at the very first the Pala Tezi picture, and put it on the easel, and that now this panel would be at the center of the activities of the workshop, and no one really understood why it was exactly this one, because work on it had begun and then had been left off so many times, maybe because since returning to Perugia the Tezi family was urging him to finish it; of course this was just a guess, no one but he knew anything about it, and the maestro actually never spoke of such things as patrons and commissions and honorariums and family and friends and suchlike, not even to Bartolomeo, or if he did so, then it was always with the order that the matter remain strictly between the two of them, in any event the tavola intended for Sant’Agostino turned up on the painting easel, and from that point on the fate of the panel changed, because no longer did it only happen that the maestro would paint another fold or figure onto the picture and then put it back against the wall, as he had done until now, but that from this point on the picture wasn’t even taken down from the easel, the maestro was occupied with it continually, which of course did not mean that at times Aulista, or Giannicola, or even the young Raffaello would not work on it a bit, but really, the fact was that the maestro basically took the work into his own hands, and kept it there, maybe, really, one of the Francescos noted one evening, the esteemed notary and his family had reminded the maestro that the picture was supposed to have been ready one year ago, in 1500, the entire altar must surely be ready in the family chapel, only this picture was still missing, they reflected, but they didn’t know for certain why this picture had suddenly become so urgent, one thing was certain, it was urgent, and the maestro was working, already this counted as something very new, he was working continuously, coming into the workshop every single day, and picking up where he had left off before, and the approaching event of his appointment as prior visibly did not seem to interest him, he just painted every day for at least two or three hours, and at his age — for surely he must have been at least fifty years old — this was not very common, old people, particularly in the case of the maestros who were renowned all across Italy, usually just visited their workshops once a week, and usually just taught a little, instructed the disciples, they themselves worked only very infrequently, and that was how their maestro had lived as well — in Florence, but not here in Perugia, here somehow, after the great fiasco, his fervor was renewed, or maybe he really needed the money from the Tezis, who knows, in any event he was painting, only this much was obvious: the lower garments of the Madonna were already done, with the upper part of the cloak in the gentle shading of the medium dark malachite green; the bodies were ready, the face of the Madonna, the entire figure of the little baby Jesus, the head and arms of the four saints, just as the landscape in the background was ready, in which everyone joyfully recognized a detail from Perugia with the Palazzo dei Priori, but he finished as well the ciborium and the garments of the saints, with the exception — and this was very striking, especially to Aulista, who had been watching the maestro with special attention since this feverish work had begun — with the exception of: the book in the hands of Santo Nicola da Tolentino of the Lily, the upper garments of broadcloth of the Madonna, the cloak covering the body of Saint Sebastian, and Jerome’s renowned bishop’s mitre on the ground, at the bottom of the picture, next to the saint and in front of the lion; no one knew why these parts were never painted, especially not Aulista, Raffaello was visibly uninterested as to why, or why these parts were to be painted at the end, before the completion of the entire picture, Aulista didn’t know why, he just waited for the day, the hour, the minute for the time to come, and he did not wait in vain, because the day did come when every element of the Pala Tezi picture really was painted, already the yellow shone there, the blue glimmered, the green swelled, the brown appeared gently, and all across the border of the sky was a strong glaze of whitish blue, but it was already obvious that it was the painting of the red that the maestro had left for the very end, and Aulista simply could not wait for that day and that hour and that minute when he would say to him to begin breaking up the pigment, because he truly hoped that he would be the one to whom the maestro entrusted this task, and he was not disappointed — not that the maestro selected him himself, but Aulista positioned himself in such a way so that if there was even the tiniest chance of breaking up the vermiglione, it was he who had something to do right there, accordingly the maestro spoke to him one day, Aulista, please be so kind and break up the vermiglione, I ask you, and Aulista flew, already there he was with a tiny sack of fragments of vermiglione from the monastery of the Jesuit order in Florence — San Giusta alle Mura — directly from brother Bernado di Francesco, from whom the maestro ordered the pigments personally, regularly, and in great quantities, he was not willing to order from anywhere else, he only ordered this kind of pigment, even if it was a little more expensive than at the apothecary’s, there was something in these paints, first and foremost in the vermiglione, due to which the maestro never used, under any circumstances, any other kind, only this and exclusively this, the breaking up of which Aulista was now preparing for, and really there was something special in it, which an experienced disciple such as Aulista, noticed immediately, this time as well, something extraordinary, this kind of vermiglione was different from every other kind, because as he broke it up now, he saw once again how the crystals in it glittered, and how something else was glittering too, just that Aulista did not know, and no one knew, only the brothers and the maestro; whatever it was, in any event, it was truly unique among pigments, not a single property of which the maestro’s assistants and disciples in any workshops could ever discuss, because it was a secret, in addition to that, it was a secret, the meaning and essence of which the assistants and the disciples of the maestro’s workshop did not know too much about; beyond the fact that through its mere use a most wondrous light could be made to appear, with this ultramarine that came from the brothers of Florence, with these malachites and azures and golds that they got from them, but especially with this vermiglione, something was happening here, when after the paints were prepared and according to custom everyone had to leave the workshop, accordingly it was some kind of thing about which they, the assistants and the disciples, could not know anything, and they did not dare ask what it was, because when following custom, after a few minutes they were allowed back in and they found the maestro already at work, who would have had the courage to disturb him in the midst of work with such questions, one thing however was sure, the maestro had a secret with these paints, in these paints there was some kind of secret, and Aulista knew that it was with these that the maestro dazzled all of the patrons who bought his pictures, but at the same time he dazzled the assistants as well, Aulista just broke up the vermiglione on the pumice stone, and he was not thinking now about what the secret could be, he was just thinking that for two or three hours he would be breaking up the vermiglione, then he would hand it in the seashell to the maestro, who then would send them out, and do something with the paints; then he sets to the upper garments of the Madonna, then the folds of the cloak on the tortured body of Saint Sebastian, and the mitre on the ground next to Jerome, and when he is ready, and they can all look at it, they are dazzled by the eternal light of this red, as it nearly shines out between the green and the yellow and the blue, then finally it becomes hopeless to them, as it does to his most trusted follower, Aulista, to answer the question as to what could have happened in Florence, in what accordingly did this fiasco consist of, why they had to return to Perugia, and why he felt that it was the end for his adored master, to answer the question of whether the maestro, Pietro di Vannucci, born in Castel della Pieve, and renowned as Il Perugino, had simply outlived his talent, or whether he had merely lost all interest in painting.