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!