The easel of time totters against invisible walls.
I grow thinner.
Maturina urges me to eat more.
"Give up your vegetarian food. Let me fix you a strong beef soup...let me casserole a chicken!"
A letter from Salai.
He is completing his house on the vineyard property. As usual, his letter is brief-painfully brief. Where is the love we once shared? I know that friendships are like old clothes, they wear out. But we were more than friends.
If we live long enough we may achieve maturity: we will have the past to guide us: we will confront the future more wisely: I write this, wondering about myself: is this something, this saying, that applies to someone else? I know that blind courage sustains me. I know that somehow we must circumvent the Cesares and Savonarolas.
December 2nd
At Vinci, winter, spring, summer, we used to attend early Mass: Mother had her favorite seat, near the altar, close to her Jesus: I remember her somber clothes, her yellow hair in a spiral. Her face was the face of a madonna, and the way she looked at me lit up my face; so, we walked, hand in hand, or with her hand on my shoulder.
Through the years I have seen us walking there, at Vinci, a hundred times: were we always alone together? It seems that way. Was the church beautiful? It seems so.
She disapproved of the sermons:
"Latin rote...I can teach you...listen to me."
I listened.
"There are three things for you to remember. One is gentleness. The other: honesty. The third: beauty.
Look...look at this sky, the clouds, the birds, our cypress trees, our church."
I looked.
December 4th
Alone, walking in the fog along the Loire, in the early morning, I saw him. Magnifico. Crossing. Splashing.
Approaching.
That night he appeared in a dream: the Christ of my mural was walking along beside him, His hand buried in Magnifico's thick mane. Christ was saying something about feeding him: plenty of grain in your stall, we must see to that.
A week or so ago, Judas visited me. In the dream he seemed to be standing at the foot of my bed: he complained about the cold, the falling snow: his face had become scarred; he appeared much older. Feeble.
Alone...I have learned there is something sacred about being alone. I was...
For next Saturday and Sunday
Write to Machiavelli-invite him again
Draw steering armature for bicycle
Collect leaf specimens along Loire
Re-sketch stairway at Romorantin
Invite the King-arrange sketches for him-show him Francesco's copy of
my Salvator
Cloux
Visiting here, the Parisian architect, Pierre Arconati, admires my canvas of Saint John and my Mona. What a genial man, a student of the masters, devoted to all of the arts, dapper, young, fluent in Italian, he brought a portfolio of exquisite architectural renderings of Parisian commissions.
I showed him my drawings for the Chambord and Romorantin chateaux. We went over them in detail and he was especially interested in my spiral staircase. He, too, is a vegetarian. We had lunch together and swapped dietary ideas. Of course he can find unique foods in Paris-things we can't obtain at Amboise.
As I showed him around the chateau and manor house, he was enthusiastic about living in the country...when the gardeners' pet fawn ate out of his hand, he turned to me:
"I find the city difficult... I hope Amboise is right for you," he said. "How did you like Rome?"
Here is my list of drawings and sketches at Cloux, work I wish retained:
Facade of a residence.
Dome of a church, with cupolas.
Lock on a canal.
Motor, with falling weight and ratchet arrangement.
Proportions of man (Vitruvius).
Star of Bethlehem plant and spurge.
Machine for grinding telescopic mirrors.
Life preserver.