A nut, carried by a raven to the top of a tall campanile, fell into a chink. As it lay there, it asked the wall, by the grace of God and the fine bells in the tower, to help it survive since it had fallen into a chink without any soil. The wall was sympathetic and was glad to help the nut roll into a place where there was soil. After a time, the nut began to split and send out roots. Soon the roots worked their way between the stones of the tower. As it grew stronger it began to destroy the campanile.
The old tower bewailed its destruction, but it was too late!
Tonight, Francesco and I have been working for hours: he sits at his big desk with two water-lamps close to his bearded face, his silhouette on the wall. He is only twenty-two, but appears to be older in the lamplight.
He will be a great painter, when he is free of my influence. He should set up an atelier of his own in Florence or Milan. He comes alive in Milan. He endures this exile out of respect for me: for him I am both maestro and father (in his own father’s eyes the world of art is unimportant). In his patient, almost ecclesiastical voice, Francesco repeated the outline we have prepared; here are items we have sorted out for further evaluation:
1 - The inequality in the concavity of a ship.
2 - Inequalities in the curves of the sides of ships.
3 - Investigations as to the best positions of the tiller.
4 - The meetings and unions of water coming from different directions.
5 - A study of shoals formed under river sluices.