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Milan, 22.10.1901. Arrival. Brera: Mantegna; Raphael not particularly well represented. Surprise: Tintoretto. Genoa, arrival by night. The sea under the moon. Wonderful breeze from the sea. Serious mood. Exhausted like a beast of burden by a thousand impressions. Saw the sea by night from a hill, for the first time. The great harbour, the gigantic ships, the emigrants and the longshoremen. The large Southern city.

I had had a rough idea of the sea, but not of the harbour life: railway cars, threatening cranes, warehouses, and people walking along reinforced piers, stepping over ropes. Fleeing from people who try to rent us boats: “The city, the harbour”, “The American warships”, “The lighthouses!”, “The sea!”. The unfamiliar climate. Steamers from Liverpool, Marseilles, Bremen, Spain, Greece, and America. Respect for the wide globe. Certainly several hundred steamers, not to speak of countless sailboats, small steamers, and tugboats. And then the people. Over there, the most outlandish figures with fezzes. Here on the dam, a crowd of emigrants from the South of Italy, piled up (like snails) in the sun, mothers giving the breast, the bigger children playing and quarrelling. A purveyor opens a path for himself through the mob with a steaming plate (frutti di mare) brought from floating kitchens. Where does the striking smell of oil come from? Then the coal-bearers, well-built figures, light-footed and swift, coming down from the coal ship half naked with loads on their backs (hair protected by a rag), climbing up to the pier along a long plank, over to the warehouse to have their load weighed. Then, unburdened, along a second plank into the ship, where a freshly-filled basket is waiting for them. Thus people in an unbroken circle, tanned by the sun, blackened by the coal, wild, contemptuous. Over there, a fisherman. The disgusting water can’t contain anything good. As everywhere else, nothing is ever caught. Fishing gear: a thick string, a stone tied to it, a chicken foot, a shellfish. On the piers stand houses and warehouses. A world in itself. This time we are the loafers in its midst. And still we are working, at least with our legs.

High houses (up to thirteen floors), extremely narrow alleys in the old town. Cool and smelly. In the evening, thickly filled with people. In the daytime, more with youngsters. Their swaddling clothes wave in the air like flags over a celebrating town. Strings hang from window to window across the street. By day, stinging sun in these alleys, the sparkling, metallic reflections of the sea; below, a flood of light from all sides: dazzling brilliance. Add to all this, the sound of a hurdy-gurdy, a picturesque trade. Children dancing all around. Theatre turned real. I have taken a certain amount of melancholy along with me over the Gotthard Pass. Dionysos doesn’t have a simple effect on me. The sea voyage was an experience. Big, nocturnal Genoa with its lights numerous as stars gradually vanished, absorbed by the light of the open sea, as one dream flows into another. We sailed at ten o’clock on the Gottardo, stayed on deck until midnight. Then into our second-class cabin.

Livorno dull. We fled as quickly as possible in a little horse and carriage. The horse guessed our thoughts. The landing had been an amusing business. The boatmen, who fought each other with their oars: una lira, of course. The staircase from the water, the customs office. Much crowding at the railway station. Haller didn’t have the courage to ask for tickets. He put his lips close to my ear and instructed me stutteringly: “1. P-P-Pisa; 2. q-quando p-parte il t-treno?” The words lay, in fact, quite clumsily on the tongue. I push boldly on. Regarding point 1, I was asked “andate o ritorno?”, which I did not understand; regarding point 2, the gruff reply was “alle mezz”, which was not so simple either. This was my first lesson in practical Italian. And the train, which runs every half hour, was ready and took us to Pisa through rather unattractive country.

Sailing Ships, 1927. Pencil and watercolour on paper on cardboard, 22.8 × 30.2 cm. Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern.

View of a Harbour at Night, 1917. Gouache and oil on paper coated with chalk and glue, 21 × 15.5 cm. Musée d’art moderne et contemporain, Strasbourg.

We stayed in Pisa from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon. Besides the Duomo, there is little to see; at a pinch the Piazza dei Cavalieri might be added. The Duomo is marvellous. How did the giant get into this burg? This spectacular display takes place quite a distance from the centre of town, like a circus putting on its show at the entrance of a village. We had to climb to the top of the leaning tower, listen to the echo in the Baptistery, etc. Afterwards our energy was exhausted. Instead of looking for a restaurant we bought some chestnuts and sat down on a bench. The train speeding toward Rome, what a sensation that was.

Arrival on October 27, 1901, about midnight. We celebrated the event in a hotel near the railway station by a drunken bout on three bottles of Barbera (red wine). On the second day I had already rented a room in the heart of town, Via del Archetto, 20, IV, for 30 lire per month. Rome captivates the spirit rather than the senses. Genoa is a modern city, Rome a historic one; Rome is epic, Genoa dramatic. That is why it cannot be taken by storm. Impatience drove me at once to the famous sights, first to Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel and to Raphael’s “Stanze”. Michelangelo had the effect of a good beating on the student of Knirr and Stuck. He accepted it and discovered that Perugino and Botticelli fared no better. Raphael’s frescoes stood up under the test, but not without my intending them to do so. Less violent was the impression made by the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius and the statue of Saint Peter in Saint Peter’s. His toes, worn away by kisses, add to the effect. Marcus Aurelius is concentrated art; with Peter, faith also has a share. Not that I understand the believers who busy themselves about his foot. But they are there anyway. Who cares about Marcus Aurelius? The primitive stiffness of the bronze of Peter, like a piece of eternity in the whirl of the accidental (October 31st).

2.11.1901. Went out to Via Appia to become acquainted with the “environs of Rome”. As we came to the city limits the Lateran palace diverted us from our project. Also, the mother of all churches was next to it. The Byzantine mosaics in the choir: two delicious deer. After this hors d’oeuvre, we went over to the Christian museum in the Lateran. Sculptures in a naive style whose great beauty stems from the forcefulness of the expression. The effect of these works, which are after all imperfect, cannot be justified on intellectual grounds, and yet I am more receptive to them than to the most highly praised masterpieces. In music too I had already had a few similar experiences. Naturally I am not behaving like a snob. But the Pietà in Saint Peter’s left no trace on me, whilst I can stand spellbound before some old, expressive Christ. In Michelangelo’s frescos, too, something spiritual exceeds the artistic value. The movement and the hill-like musculature are not pure art, but are also more than pure art. The ability to contemplate pure form I owe to my impressions of architecture: Genoa – San Lorenzo; Pisa – the Duomo. Rome – Saint Peter’s. My feeling is often in sharp opposition to Burckhardt’s Cicerone.

My hatred for the Baroque after Michelangelo might be explained by the fact that I noticed how much I myself had been caught up in the Baroque until now. Despite my recognition that the noble style disappears with the perfection of the means (one sole point of overlapping: Leonardo), I feel drawn back to the noble style, without being convinced that I shall ever get along with it. Boldness and fancy are not called for, now that I should be, and want to be, an apprentice. Later we came upon the Via Latina instead of the Via Appia, where a good lunch was waiting for us in an inn (75 centimes, including a pint of wine). It was plentiful enough for me to feed two cats and for Haller to feed a dog; I suspect that some opposition to me was mixed up with his motives. The rustic idylls in the inns here are charming. If I am to work as I already can, then I must come out here sometime with an etching plate. Traffic of donkeys on these classic roads. Character of the suburb. Wineshops and kitchens. My horror of seeing animals tortured.

Villa R, 1919. Oil on cardboard, 26.5 × 22.4 cm. Öffentliche Kunstsammlung, Kunstmuseum, Basel.

Railway Station L112, 14 km, 1920. Watercolour and Indian ink on paper on cardboard, 12.3 × 21.8 cm. Hermann und Margrit Rupf-Stiftung, Kunstmuseum Bern, Bern.

Haller perches in a sombre studio. What dust and fleas! Once I came in whilst he was developing photographs of his Russian girlfriend Sch. in the chamber pot. He wants to push his Cycle to the Sun to completion. His energy can’t be doubted. He was fooled by a ravishing little model. She said she was not a professional model; she claimed she had overcome her scruples only to save her mother and four brothers and sisters from starvation (a letter to the Pope had brought no results). In the evening the little ones cry: Mamma, fame! The mother has almost lost her mind as a result. Too proud to beg. One day Haller wanted to pay her and sent her out to change 50 lire; she brought back only 45, which he nobly didn’t count until later. We now saw through the whole scheme. And yet she was such a splendid model. Stood undaunted on a platform of tables and chairs and ecstatically spread her arms to the sun.

This week again we conquered another piece of Rome. The Pinacotheca in the Vatican and the Galleria Borghese. In the Vatican, the utmost solidity, only few pictures. An unfinished Leonardo (“St. Jerome”), a couple of Peruginos, a priest in solemn dress by Titian. Raphael is more difficult to do justice to. Snatched away right in the middle of an overwhelming effort. The possibilities indisputable, the actual production too much that of a disciple. Burckhardt is less just toward Botticelli (only one page in the Cicerone).

I have now reached the point where I can look over the great art of antiquity and its Renaissance. But, for myself, I cannot find any artistic connection with our own times. And to want to create something outside of one’s own age strikes me as suspect. Great perplexity. This is why I am again all on the side of satire. Am I to be completely absorbed by it once more? For the time being it is my only creed. Perhaps I shall never become positive? In any case, I will defend myself like a wild beast. More and more Renaissance, more and more Burckhardt. I already speak his language, for example. One doesn’t like to think, in this connection, of the Gothic garments of the Germans. This doesn’t apply to the Italian Dürer, the Munich Apostles are clothed in exemplary fashion. Similar unfairness towards Baroque. That Greece existed is no longer believed. Bernini a raven foreboding misfortune. November 15th. Important concert in the Teatro dell’Opera di Roma.

Collection of ancient art in the Palazzo degli Conservatori: “The She Wolf”, “The Remover of the Thorn” and of particular interest to the connoisseur of nudes, “The Statues of the Muses”, a rotating female figure, perfect as nature. The German turns it. His bride sits on a bench and admires him. The Italian makes silly jokes. The Englishman reads his guide, emitting noble sounds. You are never alone in museums.

Galleria Barberini. I have never liked Guido Reni, though his deeply felt “Cenci” is moving. One is involved as a human being by this portrait; it becomes a little dramatic scene. This unhappy love is felt precisely because it is a picture. The shape of the eyelids might move us to soft lamentation. The small mouth is at once the pole of suffering and the pole of bliss.

I am working on a composition. At an earlier stage there were many figures. I called it “Moralising on Stray Paths”. (Stuck calls a picture: “Sin”.) Now the approach is satirical. The figures have been concentrated into three. The way of love. Now I have left out the woman. The problem is simpler and yet no less demanding. The woman is to be expressed triply in the attitude of the three. I must concentrate on working more intimately; there is not much ammunition at hand. Then why the big gun?

22.11.1901. We wandered far out, over the Aventine (Basilica Santa Sabina, splendidly primitive, with open wooden roof supports, mosaic pavement) and down to Porta San Paolo. At some distance from it stands another mighty basilica, unfortunately renovated after several fires, cold. On the way back we followed the course of the Tiber, or more exactly, went upstream. Just before the last bridge were anchored steamers and sailboats that had been dragged this far. The nearness of the sea. Near the appealing temple of Vesta an old man fell down with a large basket of oranges and lay there, looking at the rolling fruits. But already a number of children had come running to the rescue and filled up the basket again with great speed. First I had let myself be contaminated by Haller’s unquenchable laughter, but later we thought about the nice traits of these people. Triglie are quite delicious fish (reddish). Eating and drinking. Thinking as little as possible whilst doing so, as if one were somewhere in Corsica or in Sardinia. And when, besides, a green salad, unimaginably delicate, happens to be served! O this South!

December 2nd. Today they took my cat away from me and I had to look on whilst it disappeared in a sack. I understood at last what words had not succeeded in making clear to me. It was a cat that had been borrowed to catch mice for a period of time. And I had already given away my heart.

3.12.1901. Friendship with Haller not always untroubled. Incentive to rivalry in art. Recognition that he is more advanced in the domain of colour. Realisation that a long struggle lies in store for me in this field. “But in drawing, I correct him.”

7.12.1901. Two letters and two postcards travel northward, they entail no answer. I want to know that most of the threads that bind me to the past are severed. Perhaps these are the symptoms of incipient mastery. I take leave from those who taught me. Ungratefulness to school! What is left for me now? Only the future. I violently prepare myself for it. I did not have many friends; when I ask for spiritual friendship, I am almost forsaken. I still have confidence in Bloesch, Lotmar has great possibilities, but my relationship with Haller is strange. We don’t fit together. We’ll probably always trust each other to display a certain honourable 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. Bohème. A sun that warms only superficially. No ray of sunlight reaches down to the depths of the human condition, where I am fond of sojourning. A kind of reading indulged in on the side, like a cigarette, like a daydream at sunset. But then, I do have time for leisurely reading. Aristophanes’ Acharneans, a most enjoyable play. Plautus’ Bramarbas doesn’t stand up next to it, a much poorer sort. I would also like to read Zola’s Rome here. A third person joined us: Schmoll von Eisenwert. Haller already knows him, I had only heard about him from Trappt. I am pleased that he also is an engraver. I hope to benefit from his technical experience. He draws on aluminium plates with pen or with lithographic pencil.

14.1.1902. Yesterday I saw la belle Otero in the Variété Salone Marguerita. First, a half-dozen singers, five of whom were not at all unpleasant. Then Otero; at first she sang in a rather poor voice, posing in exquisite attitudes. When she started playing the castanets she seemed unsurpassable. A short, breathless pause, and a Spanish dance began. Now at last the real Otero! She stands there, her eyes searching and challenging, every inch a woman, frightening as in the enjoyment of tragedy. After the first part of the dance she rests. And then mysteriously, as it were autonomously, a leg appears clothed in a whole new world of colours. An unsurpassably perfect leg. It has not yet abandoned its relaxed pose, when, alas, the dance begins again, even more intensely. The pleasure becomes so strange that one is no longer conscious of it as such. Apart from what is after all of an orgiastic character, the artist can learn much here. Of course there would need to be still another dancer if one is not only to feel the law of movement, but also to understand it. The point at issue is perhaps only the complication of linear relations that subsist between bodies at rest. This topic for the time being constitutes my real field of research.

Italian City, 1928. Ink and watercolour on paper on cardboard, top and bottom borders with gouache, coloured pencils and pencil, 33 × 23.4 cm. Long term loan from a private collection, Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern.

Picture of a Fish, 1925. Oil transfer drawing, pen and watercolour on plaster priming on gauze, on blue, primed cardboard; original painted frame strips, 64 × 43 cm. The Rosengart Collection, Lucerne.

Schmoll is a fine comrade. His drawings of landscapes are undertaken with the greatest love and executed with the utmost delicacy. He is a landscape painter through and through, even in character. A poet who stands in an intimate relation with nature… Haller can’t understand him. I try to feel my way into this sensibility of his, since something can be picked up from him here and there, in regard to the expressiveness of materials, for example. Nöther I only visit out of politeness, at first without my violin. First, take the time to give the place a sniffing-over. But why did God put this sweet, stupid Maria in front of us? Girls, so goes the talk, are hard to come by here. And yet they are more appetising than those in Munich. If only for their clean underwear!

Thursday, January 23rd. I drew a few queerly-shaped tree trunks in the park of the Villa Borghese. The linear principles here are similar to those of the human body, only more tightly related. What I have thus learned I at once put to use in my compositions. Every evening, regular life-drawing course from six to eight at the artists’ association. My earlier studies of the nude are more effective, my current ones are unattractive analyses of forms. Ancient Italy remains the chief thing for me even now, the main basis. There is a certain melancholy in the fact that no present lives up to this past. It is probably ironic that ruins should be admired more than what has been well preserved.

I work with tempera, using pure water, to avoid all technical difficulties. In this way everything goes slowly and well, one thing after the other. Two or three days for a head, a day for each arm and each leg, a day for the feet, the same for the waist, and every appendage a day each. Haller proceeds quite differently, because he is striving for a kind of organic colour effect. In my case the colour only decorates the plastic impression. Soon I shall make the attempt to transpose nature directly into my present creative means. Work goes more freely on an empty belly, but it easily leads to forsaking the sterner kind of morality. To put it bluntly, exactness suffers from it. In particular, I never want to reproach myself with drawing incorrectly because of ignorance.

We spent the 6th of March with Cléo de Mérode, probably the most beautiful woman alive. Her head, everyone knows. But her neck must actually be seen. Thin, rather long, smooth as bronze, not too mobile, but with delicate tendons, the two tendons close to the breastbone. This breastbone and the clavicles (inferences about the bare thorax). Her body is tightly covered, so that it harmonises well with the bare parts. The fact that the hips are hidden is more deplorable in that her virtuoso’s art of movement must reveal the effects of a peculiar logic, for instance when she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. In compensation, her leg is almost bare, as is the foot, which is very shrewdly draped. The arm is classic, only more refined, more variously alive; and then there is the play of the articulations. The proportions and mechanism of the hand reflect, in small, the beauty and wisdom of the organism as a whole. This has to be looked at with precision: here the main lines are not enough, and no substitute of a pathetic sort is available (she seems asexual). The substance of the dance is in the soft-lined evolutions of the body. No soul, no temperament, only absolute beauty. She is the same in the Spanish dance as in the gavotte of Louis XVI. Next to the gavotte, the Greek dance (Tanagra) suited her best. An Asiatic dance was not convincing. After every dance she completely changed costume. The consequence of all this is that she is more difficult to do justice to than Otero; she presupposes an understanding such as the Parisians seem to have. Here it is certainly lacking. The reception was friendly, but a little pig who followed her act was a more spectacular success.

Chorale and Landscape, 1921. Gouache and pencil on oil on paper on cardboard, 35 × 31 cm. Long term loan from a private collection, Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern.

Three Flowers, 1920. Oil on primed cardboard, 19.5 × 15 cm. Donation of Livia Klee, Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern.

Arrival, Sunday, March 23rd, in the morning. That evening, San Carlo: Mefistofele. Monday, the harbour; in the afternoon, Posillipo. Tuesday, San Martino-Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. German Consulate, Aquarium. In those three days I saw so much that my account cannot even remotely keep up with it. Next to Genoa, Naples is indolent, dirty, and sick. Next to Naples, Genoa is one-sided. Naples displays the greatest pomp beside the greatest misery – harbour life, rides along the Corso, sophisticated opera, even a touch of Rome: the Museo Nazionale. In addition, the matchless, paradisiacal scenery. The sea is more powerful in Genoa, but also more monotonous. Here, a real bay surrounded by singular coastal mountains and locked in by colourful islands. And I can see all this from the balcony of my room. It lies at my feet, a giant hemisphere, the magnificent city with its roaring voice. On the left, the old town with the harbours and old Vesuvius; on the right, the modern Villa Nazionale and the Posillipo. Around the house and behind it, gardens with fresh greenery, fantastic shapes and a thousand blossoms. This splendid lookout is called Salita del Petrajo, Villa de Rosa 48, Pensione Haase, Napoli. The sea is gorgeously blue and quiet. The city, an animated mixture of patches, blocks of houses in sunlight and shadow, white streets, dark green parks. The prospect is a reminder of Christ’s temptation. Sheer joy gives me wings, suspends me at the centre of spheric splendour, at the world’s navel. But there is work too, it is not always like this hour of rest. Below at the harbour, you try to make your way through an incredible world that sounds quite different from what it is in the song of “Santa Lucia”. What people they are down there! Ugly and poor, they lie about in the sun, sick, lousy, tattered, half naked. I am neutral – attracted to them without pity, with a kind of knowledge-hungry aversion. One delight of the artist is to let himself be thoroughly infected like this. I smile as I rebel against it, I know my art needs this as a basis. Its blossoms will wilt easily until the great strengthening. May the day of proof come. To be able to reconcile the opposites! To express the great manifold in a single word!

The aquarium is extremely stimulating. Especially expressive are such native creatures as octopi, starfish, and mussels. And snake-like monstrosities with poisonous eyes, huge mouths, and pocket-like gullets. Others sit in sand over their ears, like humanity sunk in its prejudice. The vulgar octopi stare out like art-dealers; one in particular eyed me with compromising familiarity, as if I were a new Böcklin and he a second Gurlitt. Niente affari! A gelatinous, angelic little creature (transparent and spiritual) swam on its back with incessant movement, swirling a delicate pennon. The ghost of a sunken steamship. Upstairs in the library the frescos of Marees. A half-year before, the subject matter would have been quite strange to me, but now I can feel my way into it. The presentation deeply and sincerely appealed to me. Certain works of Marees at Schleissheim misled me in regard to him (a judgement that was later completely reversed).

In the Museo Nazionale, I was fascinated most of all by the collection of paintings from Pompeii. When I entered I was profoundly moved. The ancient paintings were in part wonderfully well preserved. And this art is very close to me at present. I had anticipated the treatment of silhouette. The decorative colours. I take all this personally. It was painted for me and dug up for me. I feel invigorated.

Maundy Thursday (27.3) morning again at the Pompeian wall paintings. In the afternoon busy with entries in my journal, then at the German Consulate around four o’clock to ask whether I could get aboard a warship. But there’s none in the harbour. Afterwards I walked along the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele to the Posillipo without any special plan. On reaching the tunnel, I suddenly felt enterprising and went through to the other side, looked at the village called Fuorigrotta, whose entire population was in the street and stared back at me. Then I followed the perfectly straight road for three quarters of an hour, to Bagnoli. From there (pestered by a cabman who kept trailing me) along the superbly foaming sea, back toward the Posillipo (twenty minutes), and then home in two and a half hours by way of the long ridge of the Posillipo, whilst a wondrously clear night was falling. The perspectives of the nocturnal sea are a tonic for sense and soul. No other coast is so interesting. Bold islands (Nisida) and the large and lofty island of Ischia, the dangerously steep, mountainous Capo Miseno, Capo Coroglio, and Capo di Posillipo; in the distance, the picturesque town of Pozzuoli, the Phlegraean fields. Finally Naples again, now like a quiet harvest of lights at my feet. Oh, the overflowing jumble, the displacements, the bloody sun, the deep sea filled with tilted sailboats. Theme upon theme, until you could lose yourself in it. To be human, to be ancient, naive and nothing, and yet happy. It is good to be so for once, as an exception, a holiday.

The Tree of Houses, 1918. Watercolour, gouache and India ink on chalk-primed gauze on wove papers, on cardboard, 23.4/22.1 × 18.4/18.7 cm. The Blue Four Galka Scheyer Collection, Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena.

Plan for a Garden Architecture, 1920. Watercolour, oil and chalk on canvas on cardboard, 35.6 × 42.9 cm. Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern.

Emacht, 1932. Oil on cotton canvas on frame, 50 × 64 cm. Private collection.

Flower Myth, 1918. Watercolour on canvas with mashed chalk on newspaper on cardboard, 29 × 15.8 cm. Sprengel Museum, Hanover.

Yesterday, to the museum for the third time, with my Burckhardt. The walk there along the broadly curving Corso, which gradually slopes downward, is very attractive. The ancient statuary, particularly the bronzes. The disclosures made to us by statuettes with their colouring partially preserved. The eyes, which one must imagine painted. Three of us (Haller, Schmoll and I) made an excursion to Tivoli. The waterfalls have been reproduced in pictures and described often enough. In the afternoon we visited the Villa d’Este and towards evening the Villa Hadriana, an absolutely heavenly corner of the earth. In the evening there were subdued and serious colour effects of a sombreness and subtlety that one would never believe possible in Italy, which is unjustly regarded as a garish land. There is a moral strength in such colour. I see it just as much as others do, I too shall be able to create it some day. When? Leaving Rome like this is not without its emotion. On the way to the Villa Hadriana we had an amusing experience. A cab caught up with us as we were walking along. The occupant, a lean, professorial German with a grey goatee, was so enamoured of his honeymoon partner next to him that he must have imagined himself alone in the world with her and the horse and the driver’s back. Right behind us he launched a barrage of faunlike kisses at the thin, rather faded lady. We made a stand, yelled like a bunch of Hurons, lined up on both sides of the road and had the frightened pair run the gauntlet. The incident kept us amused for quite some time, until the carriage was nearly out of sight. We rehashed, analysed, mimicked. “Oh, he was pleased with his morsel of flesh.” – Haller couldn’t get over it… I would hate to be caught this way between fifty and sixty.

Rome is as melancholy as I am; it shrouds itself in dark veils and weeps with me. Anyway, I have a great deal to do and to think about, especially how I am going to pack all my things. But I shall be able to leave only when I have the money. And when the money arrives I must be ready to leave. Old Rome, with its eyes full of rain. I have already rented a room in Florence and know where to eat. I expect to meet Jean de Castella there; for some weeks he has been visiting Florentine pawn shops. A great rascal and a big child. How he mimicked the frightful ape and mauled his pretty sister! How overfed I am and insatiable, and how hungry for the novelties of Florence. The after-dinner nap in Bern. Then perhaps the dreadful awakening, the reversal of direction: instead of penetrating into myself, a going out of myself! I have already dreamed about it, and clearly.

Yesterday (12.4.) I saw the Roman Salon, the annual exhibition in the Galleria d’Arte Moderna. The only good displays are the drawings, etchings, and lithographs by the French. Above all, Rodin’s caricatures of nudes! – caricatures! – a genre unknown before him. The greatest I have seen were among them, a stupendously gifted man. Contours are drawn with a few lines of the pencil, a brush filled with watercolour contributes the flesh tone, and another dipped in a greenish colour say, may indicate clothing. That is all, and its effect is simply monumental. Someone else exhibits caricatures of the theatre and the music hall, among them Sarah Bernhardt as Hamlet, and a stiffly motionless chanteuse. There is also Forain, who with a few hard lines characterises his subject to the last detail. The others differ from this little band by trying to outdo themselves. These people struggle, the Germans especially, and nobody can make any sense of them. By contrast, how honest the charming Parisians are, with their borrowed Latin inspiration, who keep their temper and their whores and their wit! Who could be repelled by this, it is so seductive! The lag-end of ancient culture. Paris, the image of imperial Rome and no less in decline. What is it that Zola wants: the Republican! France is clever, but no longer on the rise.

Fantastic Flora, 1922. Pen and ink, pencil, oil, and watercolour on paper, bordered with gouache on cardboard, 43.7 × 35 cm. Stiftung Moritzburg, Kunstmuseum des Landes Sachsen-Anhalt, Halle an de Saale.

Castle in the Sky, 1922. Oil and watercolour on gauze on cardboard, 62.6 × 40.7 cm. Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern.

18.4. In the Galleria Antica e Moderna, to see Botticelli’s “Primavera”. Of course it surprised me at first, because I had imagined it wrongly, from the point of view of quality as well. Colourlessness partially due to wear. This is what contributes the historic element to a picture and becomes part of it. It is quite a different matter to try to produce new pictures with worn-out colours, like Lenbach. If one loves the patina brought by the centuries, who knows whether one wouldn’t reject the pictures in their original state. I once saw the “Birth of Venus” suddenly appear in the distance like a fata morgana. I then tried to see it as it was in actuality, but without the slightest success. Her colours are rarely spiritual.

Then I wandered over to the Pitti Palace, a very large gallery. From its riches I first singled out Titian’s famous portrait of “La Bella” and a small portrait of a woman by Botticelli (the simplest and most consummate bit of painting). On the whole, I didn’t feel drawn to Titian’s colour; it is more sensual than spiritual. Botticelli is a better colourist, better also than Mantegna. Paolo Veronese is also very much superior to Titian in this respect, even though he isn’t a very appealing master otherwise. But to represent a beautiful Venetian woman, a spirituality obtained by the play of colours is less necessary than a voluptuous tonal twilight. And that Titian possesses as almost no one else does; he is the golden twilight of a southern evening. But this man knows how to lose and control himself at the same time. Some lines around the chest and shoulders have the fire that comes from this kind of strength.

In his small work Botticelli has known how to reduce his colour pattern to such a limited set of contrasts that a kind of colourlessness ensues, which is not offset by a sensual tonality, but which itself functions as an expression of chaste love. This type of feminine beauty, moreover, really has no aggressiveness. The pose in profile harmonises with it remarkably well. After I had looked through it, I followed the connecting gallery to the Uffizi. In about ten minutes it leads you over houses, roofs, across the Arno (Ponte Vecchio), sometimes affording a view. Having reached the end, I sat down in front of the tribuna, and looking at a surprising portrait of a woman by Raphael, I meditated intensely on the personality of this Proteus of painting. I also considerably improved my opinion of Lucas Cranach by looking at his “Eve”, particularly by observing the creative treatment of the legs. Jean accompanies me without a jarring note, in harmony. He doesn’t think much and yet is always in the right place. It was good to have found him.

24.4. Associating with my young ladies gave me a certain rounding off, after I had dealt solely with young men all during the winter. As a result, my exterior life acquired a certain polish which is not to be confused with perfection of the inner man. Only my feeling for my fiancée (I didn’t use the term myself, for it was all still a secret) raised me to a certain pitch of feeling for life. A milieu like Florence could easily nourish pleasant illusions. I devoted the morning of the 24th to the church of Santa Croce. From four in the afternoon to eleven at night, I was with the two girls.

The morning of the 25th at the Museo Nazionale (Bargello), after I had already taken a hasty walk through its chambers with Jean; this time, alone and more seriously. Donatello was the main point of attraction. The stylistic perfection of his Saint John the Baptist. I did not yet realise very clearly that it was the Gothic that stirred me so much more intensely than the Ancient and the Baroque. A personality like Michelangelo should have baroquised the Gothic – that was what underlay my yes-and-no attitude toward Michelangelo. His importance as a transformer of styles was completely clear to me. Actually such a transformer of the Gothic is lacking. Otherwise Rodin would not be driven in that direction (Klee 1915).

The ravishing Carrand collection; I was particularly fascinated by the cupboard with the ivory carvings. The incredible amount of art lavished on a comb! The spaciousness of the building! The courtyard! The women who sit around, painting. In the afternoon, made an excursion with the young ladies from the Porta Romana to the Certosa. This area is a part of paradise.

Town-Like Construction, 1917. Watercolour and pencil on cardboard, 34 × 23.3 cm. Museum Berggruen, Nationalgalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Berlin.

Park Landscape, 1920. Watercolour, pen, and ink on paper on cardboard, 14.5 × 29.8 cm. Private collection, unknown location.

Bird Garden Wildlife, 1924. Watercolour on brown distemper on newsprint, top and bottom borders with gouache and pencil on cardboard, 27 × 39 cm. Pinakothek der Moderne, Bayerische Gemäldesammlungen, Munich.

Departure of the Ships, 1927. Oil on canvas, original frame: 51 × 65.5 cm. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie, Berlin.

26.4. Spent the morning in the Cappella Medici; but here too I didn’t manage to get into any warmer contact with Michelangelo. Respect, highest respect! Yet there is nothing colder than this princely crypt. Intentionally? Hardly. The afternoon in the medieval Museo S. Marco. The fresco by Perugino on Via Colonna, beautiful, harmonious impression; natural, uncontrived monumentality. Then the Convent dello Scaleo. Andrea del Sarto’s “Baptism” is more in the manner of the old masters than his murals. The execution in yellow is very instructive.

Sunday, 27.4, it rained hard. In the morning, went to the wonderful Cathedral-Museum S. Maria del Fiore. Organ railings, Donatello after a Delia Robbia. A “Magdalen” by Giovanni della Robbia is still more magnificent (also more Gothic). But I simply don’t like the technique used by these worthies. Photographs ennoble their works. How the figure and the rocky landscape blend, a masterpiece is created.

We loafed through town; I completely yielded to the leadership of the two Bohemians and entered a real bordello for the first time. Bold curiosity drove us up the stairway, past a couple of polyglot streetwalkers to the open door of the salon. A perplexing solemnity prevailed here. There was little conversation. The padrona was knitting. The damsels, perfectly decent, standing along the wall. Only their dress revealed that we hadn’t entered the wrong house. After our eyes had quickly taken in these impressions, we turned around. Now the streetwalkers came to life, the German-speaking one said to us: “What’s the matter with you? Ashamed? Why are you leaving?” These words put me to flight and the others followed. Outside we laughed heartily. It really had been comical.

We consoled ourselves with wine, too much wine, and ended up in the demimondaine cafe on the Piazza Signoria. Soon the company we had been wishing for was sitting at our table. A pleasant, dark creature and a real whore, painted and prettied up and yet unattractive. When we left, we were two couples plus a single, and the single was myself. I understood Wadel, I wouldn’t have been completely incapable of acting the same way. But that good soul Jean, how could he! His face, as we left, clearly showed that he was very much aware of the questionable side of his project, in spite of the wine. But one had gotten into this debauch and the joke was so good that it had to be carried through. And after all, who knows which of the two had more pleasures to offer, the young wanton or the old sow? Deep in thought, I walked slowly home.

The following day proved me right. I felt well. The sky was brilliant, as it has to be in Florence.

30.4. In the morning, returned once again to the Uffizi. This time looked at the Germans. Dürer well represented; Holbein, less well. But Lucas Cranach shows so much the better for it: besides “Adam and Eve”, I particularly noted a miniature diptych portraying Luther and Melanchthon, particularly Melanchthon. On May 1st the money for the trip arrived. I still visited the Boboli Gardens and the Uffizi’s graphic collection: Mantegna, Dürer, Rembrandt, and others – superb! The stained glass windows in Sta. Maria Novella were the last thing to delight me in Florence.

On May 2nd, at 9.10 pm, I took the train to Bern, via Milan and Lucerne. Jean de Castella and Hiihnerwadel from Lenzburg brought me to the station. I slept very soundly until Milan. Here I met the waiter Lips, who had left the Grand Hotel in Rome with a few pullets. Thus I also got to have a slight taste of that establishment’s cuisine. And their Marsala wine is thoroughly palatable. From Fliielen to Lucerne by steamer.The tender green of the beeches produces a new world. O chaste, German spring, so utterly devoid of perfume, only the pure, strong scent of life! The only real and true spring! At home I found everything in order, a good bed, meals without tips, two ravishing cats, Miezchen and Nuggi, grey on grey.

Garden in the Rocks, 1925. Watercolour on paper, 17.3 × 17 cm. Private collection.

Harbour and Sailing Boats, 1937. Oil on canvas, 80 × 60.5 cm. Gift of André Lefèvre, Centre Georges Pompidou, Musée national d’art moderne, Paris.