Those youthful faces...Vitelli, 24 years old...Ferrara, 33 years old...artists... good men...friends.
Perhaps there is something to be said about this remote château, this little manor house, these woodlands, paths, fields, this Loire; I should be able to put these things together and say something; when I am alone here, or alone with Francesco and Maturina, when I sit in my studio or in the library or walk in the fields or along the Loire, I hear something like wisdom: it seems to suggest greater dedication, calm, calmness, like a stag in a clearing, alert, watching.
August 15, 1518
Another summer at Cloux.
(I have not written my journal for months).
Birds—orioles and finches—are singing along the river. Willows and birds for miles. Old trees, some of them half-drowned by a heavy rain, seem determined to flourish. Where the Loire widens, meadows of water form islands.
Yesterday or the day before, Francesco and I spent most of a morning searching for a species of frog that interests me. We crossed and recrossed the river at shallow points.
Close to the château, by the tenth century bridge, I waded over slippery rock. There I fell. Old shanks!
I’ll just lie here...the pain won’t last...