We began to pour the metal at night, a team of sixteen men. We had metal from salvage. Our caldrons blazed as the metals combined. We had our supply of wood stacked under a thatch, another supply in a shed. As we worked the shed ignited and burned. Shouts. Orders. Warnings.
Shortly before dawn some militiamen arrived—drums, not sunrise. The commandante of the city fortresses—on the Duke’s orders—requisitioned all bronze for armament. I read the Duke’s order... I read, and stepped aside.
And the Duke lost his city, and his life. His horse.
Cloux
April 12th
Albiera Amadori—My friend Albiera was as beautiful as her name, beautiful to me, beautiful to her family, her friends—all who knew her. In my sketches she appears as an angelic one, an ideal woman. She was delicate. Always. Busy with her large family, her housework, yet stealing time for her lute. There in her garden, among her irises. There in her garden, by her fountain. Singing as she played. Dark hair, dark tint under her eyes. Her voice a little frail. Perhaps she was too good for us, although we loved her dearly.
After she died I used to visit her grave and bring or arrange flowers. Her little bronze bust had a special place in my studio.
“Albiera,” I hear Florentine voices calling.
Somewhere perhaps in the château garden—a bird sings and seems to say: “Al - bi - era.”