reading

Author:

Paul Klee

Layout:

Baseline Co. Ltd

61A-63A Vo Van Tan Street

4th Floor

District 3, Ho Chi Minh City

Vietnam

Image-Bar www.image-bar.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced or adapted without the permission of the copyright holder, throughout the world. Unless otherwise specified, copyright on the works reproduced lies with the respective photographers, artists, heirs or estates. Despite intensive research, it has not always been possible to establish copyright ownership. Where this is the case, we would appreciate notification.

ISBN: 978-1-78310-753-7

Paul Klee

PAUL KLEE

CONTENTS

EXTRACTS FROM KLEE’S DIARIES

Childhood, Adolescence and Early Academic Years

Munich 1881-1901

Travels in Italy

October 1901 to May 1902

The First Years of his Studies, Marriage, and Educational Trips

A Soldier in World War Two

1914-1918

THEORETICAL WRITINGS

Nature as an Example

Art as Abstraction

Basics of Form and Composition

Linear-active

Linear-medial

Linear-passive

Linguistic analogy

Perspective

Construction in three dimensions

Lengthwise gradation

The horizontal

The scales

Asymmetrical balance

Structure (dividual articulation)

The representation of measure and weight

The chess board

The concept of structure in nature

Movement as the Highest Basis

The water mill [46]

The plant [47]

Circulatory system [48]

Productive and receptive movement

Succession, or the temporal function of a picture – Symbols of the figuration of movement

The spinning top

The pendulum

The circle

The spiral

The arrow

Tonality

Contrasts in colour temperature (cold and warm colours)

Synthesis of tonality-movement and temperature contrast

The dimension of tone value

The development of movement

The infinite movement: the colour circle

Review

INDEX

Juvenile Self-Portrait - Free, 1910.

Plume, pencil and black watercolour on

linen on cardboard, 17.5 x 15.9 cm.

Private collection, Switzerland.

EXTRACTS FROM KLEE’S DIARIES

Red and White Domes, 1914. Watercolour and

gouache on paper on cardboard, 14.6 x 13.7 cm.

Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen, Düsseldorf.

Childhood, Adolescence and Early Academic Years

Munich 1881-1901

I developed very early an aesthetic sensibility. Whilst I was still wearing skirts I was made to put on underwear that was too long for me, so that even I could see the grey flannel with the wavy red trimmings. When the doorbell rang I hid to keep the visitor from seeing me in this state (two to three years old).

My grandmother, Frau Frick, taught me very early to draw with crayons. Her dead body made a deep impression on me. No resemblance could be detected. We weren’t allowed to come close. And Aunt Mathilda’s tears flowed like a quiet brook. For a long time I shuddered whenever I passed the door leading down to the cellar of the hospital, where the corpse had been kept for a while. That the dead could terrify us, I had thus learned; but shedding tears appeared to me a custom reserved for adults (five years old).

Tramps often attacked me in my dreams. But, I always managed to escape by claiming to be a tramp myself. This ruse always helped me with my fellow students (about seven years old).

In the restaurant run by my uncle, the fattest man in Switzerland, were tables topped with polished marble slabs, whose surface displayed a maze of petrified layers. In this labyrinth of lines one could pick out human grotesques and capture them with a pencil. I was fascinated with this pastime; my “bent for the bizarre” announced itself (nine years old).

“His sister consoles him,” read the illustrated passage in a poem. But I didn’t put any high value on the sister’s consolation, because she looked unaesthetic (six to eight years old).

24.4.1898. A stay in Basel, in the autumn of 1897 and 1898, with my relatives (after the completion of high-school education). Great care was taken to entertain me. A certain admiration was shown for my talents. I felt well. My puberty also produced certain timid relations with my girl-cousin D., typical things, completely unconscious.

I took a splendid walk with D. through the vine-covered hills from Weil up to Tüllingen. I can still see the fruit-laden plain spreading broadly at our feet. Many visits to the theatre. Mainly opera. An evening of ballet. I composed many a quatrain to compensate for my too meagre satisfactions. Art as authentic as it was bad.

Bern. 12.12.1897. After a time I once again picked up some of my sketchbooks and leafed through them. In the process I felt something that seemed like hope reawaken in me. By chance I saw my mirror-image in the windowpane and I thought about the man looking out at me. Quite likeable, that fellow on the chair; his head resting against a white pillow, his legs on another chair. The grey book closed, the index finger of one hand inside it.

In the Quarry, 1913. Watercolour on paper on cardboard,

22.4 x 35.3 cm. Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern.

Before the Town, 1915. Watercolour on paper on cardboard,

22.5 x 29.8 cm. The Berggruen Klee Collection,

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

He remained completely motionless, bathed in soft lamplight. Before this I had often observed him searchingly. Not always with success. But today I understood him.

Bern. 27.4.1898. “Sit down and learn it better!” So it went in the mathematics course; but all that is past and forgotten. Just now the year’s first thunderstorm is raging outside. A fresh wind from the west grazes me, carrying the odour of thyme and the sound of train whistles, playing with my moist hair. Nature does love me! She consoles me and makes promises to me. On such days I am invulnerable.

Outwardly smiling, inwardly laughing more freely, a song in my soul, a twittering whistle on my lips, I cast myself on the bed, stretch, and keep watch over my slumbering strength. Westward, northward, let it drive me wherever it wishes: I have faith!

I wrote a few short stories, but destroyed them all. Anno 1898. Nonetheless, I took myself under my own protection again. The fact that the results are no good is still no proof of ungodly descent. In such a “classical” environment there is no reality to lean on. What nourishment does an elemental drive find in pallid humanism? One is referred exclusively to the clouds. Drive without substance. Exceedingly high mountains with no base.

Retrospective. At first I was a child. Then I wrote nice essays and was also able to do sums (until about my eleventh or twelfth year). Then I developed a passion for girls. Then came the time when I wore my school cap tilted back on my head and only buttoned the lowest button of my coat (fifteen). Then I began to consider myself a landscapist and cursed humanism. I would gladly have left school before the penultimate year, but my parents’ wishes prevented it. I now felt like a martyr. Only what was forbidden pleased me. Drawings and writing. After having barely passed my final examination, I began to paint in Munich.

After I had achieved success as a Knirr student, drawing nudes began to lose some of its glamour, and other matters, problems of existence, became more important than glory in Knirr’s school (a private drawing school run by Heinrich Knirr). Occasionally I even played hooky. Then too, I didn’t in the least see (and I was right) how art could ever come from diligent studies of the nude. This insight, however, was an unconscious one.

Life, of which I knew so little, attracted me more than anything else. Still, I regarded this as a kind of scampishness on my part. It seemed to me that I had no strength of character whenever I heeded the inner voice more than orders from the outside.

In short, I had first of all to become a man: art would then inevitably follow. And, naturally, relations with women were part of it. One of my first acquaintances was Fraulein N., from Halle an der Saale. I considered her – by mistake, to be sure – free and fit to introduce me to those mysteries around which the world, “life”, for better or worse revolves. Much later, when she was no longer important to me, I learned about her unhappy love for a singer. Perhaps this was a good thing for me: this way, the lady couldn’t get her hooks into me.

I had met her in a (mixed) evening course in nude drawing. A daughter of Professor V. in Bern, who knew me by sight from there, suddenly spoke to me. I went over into the ladies’ camp, where the nude model, a mulatto who was sexually very excitable, could be seen from the back. The Swiss girl introduced me to a girl from East Prussia. I pondered whether she was the right subject for me to study. But the stimulus was too weak. The right one was to be introduced to me on the following evening; it was the N. previously mentioned. A blonde, blue-eyed thing, with a soprano voice and more elegance. I stayed near her without further ado and walked next to her on the way home. We admired the wintery beauty of the Leopoldstrasse, whose trees were heavy with snow, glittering in the light cast by magic arc lamps.

Untitled, 1914. Watercolour and plume

on paper on cardboard, 17.1 x 15.8 cm.

Kupferstichkabinett, Kunstmuseum, Basel.

Homage to Picasso, 1914.

Oil on cardboard, 38 x 30 cm. Private collection.

Haller now also came to Munich; he had his way, instead of becoming an architect in Stuttgart. He entered Knirr’s school, and when I arrived, he already felt very much at home there. As a matter of fact, his friendship with “the best student in ten years” had been quite useful to him; he made good use of it when he introduced himself. Besides this, there was his fresh, enterprising nature, which even then could be quite irresistible. His laughter made the studio all the more congenial. Now a group of talented young people, including some Swiss, formed around us. They felt free to take every liberty, particularly that of venting their sarcasm and irony on outsiders.

Retrospective. Inspection of my complete self, said goodbye to literature and music. My efforts to attain more refined sexual experience: abandoned in that one single instance. I hardly think about art, I only want to work at my personality. In this I must be consistent and avoid all public attention. That I’ll eventually express myself through the medium of art is still the most likely outcome.

A little “Leporello catalogue” of all the sweethearts whom I didn’t possess provides an ironical reminder of the great sexual question. The list ends on the initial of the name “Lily” with the remark “wait and see”. I met the lady who was to become my wife in the autumn of 1899, whilst I was playing music.

The conviction that painting is the right profession grows stronger and stronger in me. Writing is the only other thing I still feel attracted to. Perhaps when I am mature I shall go back to it. My relationship to Fräulein Schiwago was very peculiar. I admired her greatly, but without losing control of myself. I probably already had within me too close an attachment to Lily to do so, without guarantees, without risk, just I myself. Moreover, Schiwago at first seemed to be unattainable because it looked as if something existed, or was going on, between Haller and her. (I only learned in 1909 that she didn’t approve of this reticence on my part.)

Often I am possessed by the devil; my bad luck in the sexual realm, so fraught with problems, did not make me better. In Burghausen I had teased large snails in various ways. Now, in the Thun region, lovelier still if that is possible, I am exposed to similar temptations. Innocence irritates me. The birds’ song gets on my nerves. I feel like trampling every worm.

I drew up the outline of a last will. In it I asked that all existing proofs of my artistic endeavours be destroyed. I well knew how meagre and inconsequential it all was in comparison to the possibilities I sensed.

From time to time I collapsed completely into modesty, wished to produce illustrations for humour magazines. Later I might still find occasion to illustrate my own thoughts. The results of such modesty were more or less sophisticated technical-graphic experiments. It is convenient to define a thwarted act of will as a crazy mistake.

This summer leaves me too much time for thinking. I have not got far enough to work without a model and school. Finally evening came, and autumn. As if numbed by the day and its cares I awake and notice that leaves are already falling. And on this soil must I now sow? In winter am I to hope? It is going to be gloomy work. But work, anyway. The comparison of my soul with the various moods of the countryside frequently returns as a motif. My poetic-personal idea of landscape lies at the root of this. “Autumn is here. The current of my soul is followed by stealthy fogs.”

Religious thoughts begin to appear. The natural is the power that maintains. The individual, which destructively rises above the general, falls into sin. There exists, however, something higher yet, which stands above the positive and the negative. It is the almighty power that contemplates and leads this struggle. Before this almighty power I might stand the test, and to stand it ethically was my wish.

Completely drunk one night, I filled my diary with fancies on the subject of Lily. How deeply everything that came from her sank into me. There was even a variation about jealousy in it. Sensuality ran amok. In the final variation words that we had exchanged appeared for the cantus firmus.

Ash Wednesday. The drunkenness is gone, but stronger than my misery is the power of your image, a charming face among masks. Once again the English Garden is the scene of my feelings and confused emotions. I swear, on my not-altogether stainless honour, that I shall soon grow tired. Lily and again Lily. Once more I feel strengthened in my feelings toward her and, shortly thereafter, again shaken. Neither path nor bridge.

As for the effects on my studies, I shall say nothing. She tells me, somewhat formally, that we will continue our duo-playing, the gracious young lady. Nonetheless, I think only of the woman. Nothing else can elicit a reaction from me.

My restless life left a passing trace in my body. Nervous pains in the heart bothered me, especially during my sleep. The heart became the theme of my compositional exercises. Still, I did everything I could to rid myself of this condition, and my future father-in-law achieved a medical triumph with me.

Thoughts about the art of portraiture. Some will not recognise the truthfulness of my mirror. Let them remember that I am not here to reflect the surface (this can be done by the photographic plate), but must penetrate inside. My mirror probes down to the heart. I write words on the forehead and around the corners of the mouth. My human faces are truer than the real ones.

In the spring of 1901 I drew up the following programme: first of all, the art of life; then, as ideal profession, poetry and philosophy; as real profession, the plastic arts; and finally, for lack of an income, drawing illustrations.

I have started a new life. And this time I’ll succeed. I lay low on the ground. All was permitted me I believed, my strength could be savoured to the utmost. I went to the fools’ dance, a dirty knave. The maiden’s love has freed me from such a figure. I recognised my misery, and that half expelled it. Fright pulled me together. I want to become serious and better. The kiss of the dearest woman has taken all distress from me. I will work. I will become a good artist. Learn to sculpt. My aptitude is primarily formal in nature. I carry this recognition with me.

Stuck thought he could advise me to turn to sculpture; should I wish to paint again later, I would find good use for what I had learned. Proof of the fact that he understands nothing about the realm of colour. And he advised me to go to Rümann. As a student of Stuck, I expected to be admitted there without difficulty. However, the old man asked me to pass an entrance examination. I begged to be exempted from it, for the very fact that I should be asked to take one was tantamount in my eyes – and rightly so – to having flunked. But my request got him all excited: “I myself once had to pass an entrance examination.” This had a royal sound. Then he submitted my drawing to sharp criticism; still, to a few of them he granted some merit. Finally I went away without accepting his position on the matter of the examination. Perhaps I did impress him a little after all. Maybe he expected to see me again?

Little Painting of Fir-Trees, 1922.

Oil on cotton on cardboard, 31.6 x 20.2 cm.

Donation of Richard Doetsch-Benziger,

Kunstmuseum Basel, Basel.

Warning of the Ships, 1917. Pen, black ink,

and watercolour on raw white paper,

on rose-dyed handmade paper, 24.2 x 15.6 cm.

Graphische Sammlung, Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart.

Automated Astronauts, 1918.

Watercolour on paper, 22.5 x 20.3 cm.

Beyeler Foundation, Riehen/Basel.

Angel Serving a Light Breakfast, 1920.

Lithograph, 19.8 x 14.6 cm.

Sprengel Museum, Hanover.

The seven prophetic words of Rümann:

I. I shall let no one tell me what to do;

II. You are not, as I see, a draftsman of the very first rank;

III. This is drawn quite nicely;

IV. This head, however, deserves the adjective “bad”;

V. Only those people are dispensed from a test who have modelled figures for years;

VI. I myself once had to pass a test. (This is where I left.)

VII. Good day, Herr Klee.

Often I said that I served Beauty by drawing her enemies (caricature, satire). But that is not enough. I must shape her directly with the full strength of my conviction. A distant, noble aim. Half asleep, I already set out on that path. When I am awake, it will have to be accomplished. Perhaps the road is longer than my life. He who strives will never enjoy this life peacefully. The first re-formations (mouldings of the newly experienced world) offer a constant contrast with the fullness and freshness of impressions.

Forward, towards mature works. Childhood was a dream, some day all would be accomplished. The period of learning, a time for searching into everything, into the smallest, into the most hidden, into the good and the bad. Then a light is lit somewhere, and a single direction is followed (that stage I now enter; let us call it the time of wandering).

June 1901. Misgivings arise. What had I to offer to Lily? Art did not even feed one man. And so the time came again to think of parting. On the ideal plane a great feeling of strength filled me, because of the victory or because of love. But of what use was it in life? What perfection we reach through love! What an intensification of all things. What a touchstone it is! What a key! Each of these days is a lifetime. If I had to end now, no better end might be imagined.

Retrospect on the artistic beginnings of the past three years. Whatever in these diaries is unclear, confused, and undeveloped seems hardly as repellent, or as ridiculous even, as the first attempts to translate these circumstances into art. A diary is simply not art, but a temporal accomplishment. One thing, however, I must grant myself: the will to attain the authentic was there. Else I might have been content, as a tolerable sketcher of nudes, to turn out compositions depicting Cain and Abel. But for this I was too sceptical. I wanted to render things that could be controlled, and clung only to what I carried within me. The more complicated it seemed to me, as time passed, the madder the compositions. Sexual helplessness bears monsters of perversion. Symposia of Amazons, and other horrible themes.

Before Italy (Summer 1901). The consciousness of strength endured. At first the separation was not overwhelmingly hard to bear. I derived a certain tranquillity from the fact that I had now become a moral person, even on a sexual level. As such, this problem could no longer disturb me. I did not concern myself directly with the fact that there would be no practical solution soon. My spirit was free of such turmoil. I could now devote myself with full concentration to some course of study. The three years in Munich had been necessary to bring me to this point. I now staked everything on Italy. I envisaged the possibility of realising the humanist ideal only outside the field of special study.

I shall look for my God beyond the stars. Whilst I struggled for earthly love, I sought no God. Now that I have it, I must find Him who wrought good upon me whilst I had turned away from Him. How can I recognise Him? He must be smiling over the fool, hence the cooling of gentle winds in the summer night. Mute bliss in thankfulness to Him and a glance toward these mountain tops!

Movement of Vaulted Chambers, 1915.

Watercolour on paper on cardboard, 20 x 25.2 cm.

The Berggruen Klee Collection,

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Winter Day Just Before Noon, 1922.

Oil on paper on cardboard, 29.8 x 45.9 cm.

Kunsthalle Bremen, Bremen.

Versunkene Landschaft (Engulfed Landscape), 1918.

Watercolour, gouache, and ink on paper, top and bottom

borders in satiny paper, on cardboard, 17.6 x 16.3 cm.

Museum Folkwang, Essen.

Travels in Italy

October 1901 to May 1902

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 x 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 x 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.