Paul Klee. Paul Klee

tactfulness of behaviour. But we have no closer ties, and perhaps never had. He’s a rather primitive fellow, is able to concentrate easily and be all of a piece. Can be measured. Not I. With such great differences we would never have joined had it not been for our common course of study. I’ve known him since he was six, and yet we made use of each other only when, two or three years before his graduation, he decided to become a painter. At that time he approached me and joined me in hunting for landscape motifs. Brack is valuable, and yet there are barriers between us. Unfortunately one always has to take into account the moods and manias of this eccentric. I’ll willingly renounce many perfectly good friends. My teacher Jahn is of a more paternal character. I want to have nothing more to do with feminine friendships.

      15.12.1901. Rome’s youngest museum, the National Museum in Diocletian’s Thermae. Part of it is housed in Michelangelo’s great cloister. Simply to walk here is beautiful enough. An orange grove with hundreds of fruits. The arrangement of the works of art is nowhere so carefully planned as here; they are enjoyed andante. The statues are not treated like propped-up bowling pins. Each piece occupies its proper place. My feeling for bronzes is growing. Ancient sculpture at the Vatican. I found myself more mature in my growing admiration for the Apollo Belvedere. I already loved the Muses clearly. No feeling for the Laocöon group (the thorax of one of the boys is said to be uniquely beautiful). New understanding for the Cnidian Venus. Here, in agreement with Burckhardt. I own a series of the most beautiful photos of ancient statuary… I never tire of spreading them out before me. It purifies me of certain desires. I flirt (with Muses) and I am the better for it. I no longer believe in the banishment from paradise.

      Where?, 1920. Oil and pencil on paper on cardboard, 23.5 × 29.5 cm. Pinacoteca Comunale Casa Rusca, Locarno.

      The Golden Fish, 1925. Oil and watercolour on paper on carton, 49.6 × 69.2 cm. Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

      Florentine Villa District, 1926. Oil on cardboard, 49.5 × 36.5 cm. Centre Georges Pompidou, Musée national d’art moderne, Paris.

      In January I’ll join the Association of German Artists in order to get back to drawing from nature. When I am back in Bern next winter I’ll have time and opportunity to learn anatomy very thoroughly, like a medical student. Once I know that, I’ll know everything. To be independent of these horrible models! For satirists too like to be free and independent. Now, thunder is rumbling again, most strangely, as if below the ground, faintly and intensely, making everything tremble. And this at Christmas! Earthquake atmosphere.

      Schiwago is a serious person, I don’t know why a certain tension existed between us. Wassiliew had more talent. She also made good drawings and expressive caricatures. An extremely attractive personality but, unfortunately, as poor as a church mouse. It puts a certain pressure on her. Last winter, I am told, she suffered from her breakup with Haller. She couldn’t be to him what he, as an uncomplicated person, demanded of the woman he loved. For this she still lacked the courage, which only a certain maturity provides. She had tried to be friends. But of course that never works once Eros has made his appearance, even though it is unconsummated. He wants to grow to the point where he will have his way once and for all. And so they parted (as Haller tells it).

      29.12.1901. Today I informed Haller that I had dreamt about Fräulein Wassiliew, whereupon he claimed that he had dreamt about “You”. A funny moment, provided he was not just parrying. After that, he remained silent for some time; evidently he was still preoccupied, not by this incident, but by the affair it alluded to. In the Palazzo degli Conservatori he noted that he was not sufficiently receptive. Whilst we ate he spoke again of Wassiliew and confided in me in a way he never had before. He too had already known her in Bern (I, since childhood); they painted landscapes together in the neighbouring countryside. In Munich he brought her to Knirr’s and followed her everywhere. For a time they both lived in the same boarding house, until it went broke; that is probably where they saw the most of each other. Occasionally they also came to my studio on Amalienstrasse; I was the right person to play the third man because I was having an affair, and indeed it was always very cosy and pleasant. Later Schiwago joined us and the four of us were often together, and a fine clearness and candour reigned among us. But only temporarily. Haller became secretive and sullen. The cause of it, I suppose, is to be found in the confession he made to me today. During the summer of 1900 he wrote passionate letters to Wassiliew, then in Basel. One of them went: “If you wish to remain a virgin, you must not see me any more”. She was such a good daughter that she asked Father Wassiliew for advice! Naturally he didn’t want to send her back to Munich. But then she promised not to see Haller anymore and was allowed to return to Munich. An attempt in Munich to be “friends” failed of course, and now Wassiliew herself asked that they separate, because of her promise. Haller now moved closer to Schiwago. Probably Wassiliew had told her about their anguish, and Schiwago felt called upon to act the motherly adviser; such a role surely appealed to her great goodness. This got her quite intimately acquainted with Haller. Perhaps he hoped to find a substitute in her. At any rate, he withdrew from us in the process and also drew Schiwago away from me. Without causing me harm, for I myself was going my own separate way. Only Brack was terribly furious about the stealthy ways of his friend Mändu.

      Today Haller claims that he had no love relationship with Schiwago but only friendship, or at most a love relationship without any sensuality. Because Schiwago, he says, has no sensual leanings whatsoever. Can such a thing be? Now his hopes are fixed on Wassiliew again, because Schiwago has returned to Russia. I believe he would be capable of marrying Wassiliew if he could afford to. In short, the prospect for him is not really very splendid. Haller drew closer to me in the last year of high school and I responded. At that time I was richer and more mature. In Munich I still was, at first. That kept him in check and made him respect me. But suddenly he became a man; he managed it abruptly and joltingly, because he had to conquer his difficult nature. A sharp mind helped him in the process. I remained copious and confused, which created disharmony. He became impossible in a hundred little ways and upset many good elements in our friendship. I still want to do my best for him, as long as it is within my own interests. However, the sharp eye that watches over the limits of these interests sours friendship disturbingly.

      On January 1st, for the first time I again drew from nature: a foot. The Association of German Artists has a comfortable place, only somewhat narrow. A handsome and well-knit male model was posing. I have progressed after all while not working from nature. Life-drawing is almost a pleasant distraction. It became my best foot, not life-size, far from it. Haller worked on a large scale; his attention was drawn to the fact that his way of shaping forms was Baroque, and he was urged to overcome this tendency by observing the good and bad examples of it in Rome.

      Sunday, January 5th, we went up for the first time to the Palatine, the crown of the seven hills. A brilliant day. Vegetation grows and blooms there the year round, as if this hill had a privileged climate. Pines with thick crowns grow there, and fairylike palm trees, and grotesque cactuses looking like strange immigrants. I understand the emperors who swaggered up here. The view of the Forum must be one of the most splendid in the world. Nowadays this ruinous mass could have a shattering effect on us, if fabulous light didn’t atone for it, as happened yesterday. Domus Livia has beautiful murals, a foretaste of Pompeii. The vessels for oil and wine are still in the kitchen. The wine-jugs are pointed at the bottom, so they can be buried in the earth easily. The expanse of the palace of Augustus! Or just the race track! Around this gigantic ruin the laughing splendour of modern Rome lies like a huge wreath. St. Peter’s, in the distance, whose dome would be a triumph over decay, if the eternal sky didn’t spread its vault above it. All things have their time; this marvel will suffer a catastrophe too. And it’s useless that the individual’s fame survives. Caught up in these thoughts, I begin to feel downcast. Wouldn’t it be wise to enjoy your little bit of life naively, somewhat as the seemingly impervious modern Roman does who strolls this ground with a tune on his lips. I don’t hate him from envy, but today there is some envy in my feelings. (Better to sleep, best not to have been born.) These are, not my best, but amongst my most lucid moments. And now I ought to have “You”, to forget it all.

      The Tolstoy and Murger books arrived.