Letter
17 Pages
Transcription: Tor Martin Leknes
Transcription
[1901] julaften
Kjære Abrahamsen!
Det er júlaften i dag, og jeg
har nettop for et oieblik siden
modtaget Deres brev og Deres bog.
Mange tak for Deres opmærksom-
hed og venlighed, det er nok den
eneste júleklap, jeg faar iaar, saa
det var mig dobbelt kjært, da jeg
ogsaa fik Deres bog. Ja jeg har
har havt en storartet túr, det er
bare, som jeg synes, at jeg kanske
kom lidt fortidlig eller kanske
lidt forsent úd, det er i alle tilfæl-
de, som om det ikke var rigtig
paa det beleigligste tidspúnkt;
Thi meget af det, jeg har seet for-
stod jeg ikke helt. De spörger,
om jeg saa noget af Böklin, ja jeg
saa næsten ikke paa andet, hvor
jeg kom, efter at jeg först hadde seet
et billede af ham; men at fortæl-
le noget om dem kan jeg vist
neppe, og desúden hadde De jo
böger, hvor hans billeder var beskre-
vet rent storartet, men jeg kan jo
altid forsöge at fortælle hvad indtryk
jeg fik af dem, men jeg gjör Dem
paa forhaand opmærksom paa, at
min ortografi og skrift er únder
al kritik. Ja hvad var der nú
egentlig om Böklin, jeg faar vist
lige godt begynde at fortælle
om reisen i almindelighed saa
kommer jeg vel til ham og saa. –
Jeg kom altsaa först til Kjöben-
havn, hvor jeg kedede mig jam-
merligt. Saa kom jeg til Lybek.
Det var dit var det vakkert syntes
jeg. Vi reiste op den grúnde
floden hvor vi maate gaa med
sagte fart. Man fik en fölelse af
at være kommen til dette úrgoti-
ske eller úrgermanske, det var
vel de gammeldagse húsene, som
gjorde det, disse hoigavlede bratte
hústag med den mosgrode mörke og
saftig gronne torv, og saa var húse-
ne blaa eller röde med et eller
andet graat imellem det var jo úhy-
re malerisk, som de laa der mellem
de svære bölgende agere af modent 3
korn, som vuggede sig höit og búet
de lige ned i floden, og indenfor
dem laa de "tirende" grönne
marker af spirende korn; vinter-
rúgen var næmlig netop saaet, og saa
kronglede únderlige trær i det fjerne.
Ind i mellem agrene laa de hvide broer
der búede sig over de búgtede kanaler,
der förte op gjennem agrene til túne-
nene. Saa stod der ofte midt i agre-
ne et og andet træ, der strittede
op af den lange böiede halm som
en soplime, en og anden fiskebaad
seilede med graaskidne seil úd elven
lige únder ageren. Inde paa jorderne
holdt folk paa at saa vinterrúgen, og
ind over de sjærende grönne marker
laa sorte flekker af mög og kraaker.
Indimellem laa landskaber, der
mindede en om romantikken, borg-
lignende húse og höie og snaale med et
<lidet> vindús glúgge únder taget, og
omgivet af höie popler, og neden-
for i en fordýbning i landskabet
stod höie slanke trær, der havde
mistet lövet og nú tægnede sig
sig i rake, gronlige, blöde toner mod
den mörke granhækken ovenfor.
Saa kom jeg til Hambürg og gik
direkte op paa: "die Kunsthalle".
En masse god, gammel kjedelig
kúnst. Det eneste gode af de famle
syntes jeg var Franz Hals, hvert
penströg stod saa tydelig, som
det var indsat med slig fölelse,
ikke et úrigtig eller únödvendigt
penselströg, hvert lys, hver tone var
indsat med et eneste strög, derfor
fik det hele ogsaa saadant úal-
mindeligt liv. Saa kom jeg til
til de nye kúnstnere der; de var
endnú kjedeligere end de gamle,
men saa var det da Böklin. Jeg
synes ikke der er nogen kúnstner
jeg forstaar saa godt, som ham
nú, men kanske han ogsaa er
let forstaaelig for alle; jeg kom
til hans billede: Das Sweigen im
Valde" jeg saa paa det og for-
stod först först ingen ting, var
det virkelig en orginal af den
beromte Böklin tænkte jeg; jeg 5.
havde jo seet reprodúction af
det, men alligevel tænkt mig
det ganske anderledes; et dyr
i en skog en kvinde paa dyrets
ryg, nei jeg var træt af alt det,
jeg havde det, jeg kúnde ikke for-
staa kúnst, trodde jeg; jeg begyn
begyndte at at stirre paa skogen
paa stammerne, de mosgrodde
næsten selvlysende grönne
stammer, faar úvilkaarlig en
fölelse af den betagende grönne
dúnkelhed mellem stammerne
i skogen, skogens stillhed og ro, –
da levner der plúdselig noget i bil-
ledet, frem mellem stammerne
træder et flekket stirrende dyr,
det rörte sig tydelig, slamper med
hoven i jorden og stirrer. Det kom-
mer saa plúdselig, det er rød flek-
ket og stirrende, et levende súk
midt i den grönne ro og dúnkelhed.
Det bærer en kvinde med paa ryggen,
hún sitter der, som en liden skogtanke
med det dúnkle drömmende blik.
Der er noget eget over Böklins
billeder, det er förste gang, det
germanske blod i ós har faaet
lov til at sige noget af sig selv.
Hvor simpel blir ikke en mand
som Thorvald Eriksen ved siden af
Böklin, hos hvem alt er fölelse, og
Eriksen, hos hvem alle de brogede
farver igrúnden er theori, han
oplöser simpelthen farverne i sine
enkelte faktorer (de naturlige farver)
og saa stiller han dette regnbúe-
specter op op {...} slig, at den ene
grelle farve slaar den anden ihjæl,
saa at det endelig paa afstand
viser nogenlúnde rimeligt. Det er
analyse og matthematik med for-
hold og og proportionále forhold.
Og lige langt staar Böklin han næsten
fra denne gammeldagse <vamle>
idealisme. Jeg kom til en andet
billede af Böklin, et selv portrait
den samme ro og det samme dúnk-
le blik som hos kvinden paa dyrets
ryg den samme stemning i det hele
lige til de dybgrönne blade bag ham. 7
Saa var der et af ham som hed "den
hellige ild" Stille vand over en
græsmark, paa begge sider en ræk-
ke vældige trær, med mægtige ro-
lige lövmasser, hvor lyset lager
af dæmpet indover under de vældige
lövmasser, kroner, hvor der bræn-
der en ild paa et alter, blaa
rög stiger ret op, og paa de tyk-
ke stammer falder et mystisk
lys, man faar indtryk af at det
hele er indeslúttet af himmel-
höie múre. Under de dúnkle
kroner glider et tog af hvidklædte
skikkelser henover en sti, nogle
er naaet hen til alteret og tilbeder
kl knælende. Saa har han endel
slette portraiter i Hambúrg; thi Böklin
kan ogsaa gjöre slette ting. Men saa
har han da et storartet billede der, og
det er "Maria Magdalena", det er billede
som ikke kan beskrives, det er en
halvnögen kvinde, som helder sig bag-
over, farver saa sjære at man bare faar
8 fölelsen af graad. Haaret ligger
som en modsætning brændende
og gyldent nedover le legemet.
Saa kom jeg til Berlin, det förste
jeg lagde mærke til af malerier
var et billede fra Norge, det var
morsomt at se, hvorledes en
údenlandsk kúnstner opfattede
vor natúr. Natúrligvis höie
fjelde, med lange skygger
indhúggede i de besynderligste
former, med en mörkeblaa him-
mel, saa blaa at Italien har
den <vistelig> ikke blaaere, knald-
hvide bomúldskyer, og en sæter
med smaa hus, og og en sol-
beskinnet gúlgrön sætervold, der
endte i et stup úd for i en afgrúnd
som, man kúnde ane sig til,
gik gjennem halve jorden, der
var forresten noget godt i den sætervol-
den; men den sjultes halvt af nogle
digre stene i forgrúnden, I Berlin
havde man faaresten en masse billeder
af 9 de gamle mestere, som jeg nú har seet alt det vigtig-
ste af; men som jeg har havt vanskelig for at forstaa, för
jeg kom til Paris. I Berlin havde man en hel del af den
nylig údgravne asyriske kúnst, den var storartet vakker,
kan De tro, men det blive for vidlöftigt at skrive om. Der
var ogsaa flere billeder af Böklin "Vaar" var et deiligt billede
en saftig grön eng med smörgúle blomster langs en stille aa
ved hvis bredder der voksede höie tykstammede trær med
spirende kviste, stammernes farve gav en saa intens fölelse af vaar.
I baggrúnden saa man en marmorvilla omgiven af mörke-
grönne sypresser, der stod saa svarte og friske mod den skyflek-
kede vaarhimmel, ja Böklin kan male vaarhimmel. Ved aaen
sidder et par, og údover langs aaen gaar en mand gammel og
graahaaret, det er vinteren og nedenfor ligger havet. "Pieta".
Maria i sorg over kristi lig. At se det billede er som at staa
ved en strand, og en isende kold bölge skyller nedenfra opover
alle ens lemmer, farver som vilde bringe Werenskjold til at
rynke paa næsen. mere ærbödighed for ham! Kristi lig er den giftig kolde död i farver, en
grönfarve, som er úhyggelig lig edder, liget ligger paa en mar-
morblok af blaaligt halvt gjennemsigtigt flekket marmor,
en blomsterkrans i violette og grönne farver er búndet om blok-
ken, en himmel saa blaagrön og úveirstung, som en stormnat i
graad og regn, og saa Maria over liget svöbt i en kappe, saa
intensblaa, at man fryser ved at se den. "De helliges ö". En flod
paa hvis svart grönne flade, der svömmer hvide svaner, en centaúr
vader gjennem flodene bærende en kvinde paa sin ryg over til
de saliges ö. Mörkegrönt græs med skygger af tætte trær, únder
hvilke en mand og kvinde hviler i græsset, dansende kvinder
og en fjeldklöft med en únderlig grotte, ned for den mörke
åbning sildrer en bæk: mange flere var der og saa
af ham. Saa kom jeg til Dresden, der var bare to af ham
"Havets lunér", et stort billede. Et vældigt drönnende hav, hvor
lyset slipper blaagrönt gjennem de mægtige vandmas-
ser. I forgrunden en grinende brandflækket triton,
der favner en nereide som svömmer i en bölge-
dal. Øverst oppe i de lettere smaa bölger leger
to lystige delfin <jomfruer> "tag fat", og {...}
over en vældig bölgekam rider den svarte
vrinskende havhingst eller rettere centaúr,
som en kolos, der i sin djævelske graablan-
ke hæslighed giver et storartet indtryk
af den vældige magt, som siger frem
gjennem den höie kolde vandmasse.
Han er diabolsk og godmodig sam-
tidig, det er den túnge kraft. Det hele
billede er jo en storartet symbolisering
af havet <i> forskjellige former. Drag-
súget, {...} lette bölge <leg>, og den <drön-
nende> tonge masse. Pan faar være
til en anden gang. Saa kom jeg
Tekst nederst på siden "opp ned":
Du maa rigtig úndskylde
men at jeg sender Dem min
klad, men da jeg er
meget syg kan
ikke om-
skrive
nú
10. til München, der er jo Böcklins egentlige hjemsted, der saa jeg mange storartede billeder
af ham; men jeg faar kún nævne de vigtigste. "Cleopatra" var et billede
som úmúlig gjennem ord kan gives en forestilling om, det vil vist og-
saa vanskelig forstaaes af andre end malere eller billedhúggere, jeg
har kjöbt en reprodúction af det i fint lystryk, som De skal faa se. Saa var
det "Pan skræmmer en hyrde" Det er en brændende
lúmmerhed dag, (man taler om spögelser ved höi-
lys dag) men her havde man noget af denne tydelige
úhyggelighed, lyse sommerdager disig lúft med
klar himmel, (mörkeblaa som al-
tid hos Böklin) alt er intenst
og tydeligt malet, solen er
höit paa himmelen og údsender
et knaldhedt solskin,
som falder over den törre
11. falder over den törre bakke, og den steghede fjeld-
væg hvorúnder en hyrde har lagt sig til hvile med
sine faar, da dúkker plúdseligt Pan op mellem
nogle klippestykker, stilt men tydelig mod den
lúmmerhede disige himmel, man ser hyrden i ræd-
sel styrte ned over bakken, og rædselen har grebet
dyrene, man ser en væir ({…}) springe om kap med sin
herres {…}, og oppe mellem klippestykkerne stikker
Pan hodet i veiret og gliser skadefro ned paa de flygt-
ende. Hans billeder griber en mest ved sin plúdselig-
hed, et öieblik saa det "grösser" i en, og alligevel kan
man nyde synet af dem længe efter. Et af de mest
karakteristiske i den retning, er det billede, han
har malet til Göthes vers: Kjender dú klippen og dens
stier, múldyret söger sig vei gjennem skodden, og i
húler bor de gamle {...} drager. Inde i de mörke
fjeld gaar en smal spræk milevidt indigjenem med
steile klippevægge paa begge sider. Umådelig langt
oppe i höiden kan man skimte en regntung himmel
og midt i klippen har menneskerne banet sig en smal
sti, hvor et lidet fölge kravler sig frem mod en bro, som
man ahner sig til kunde gaa gjenem hele verden.
Der er en evighed til lyset ovenfor og en evighed ned til hel-
vede under. Klipperne staar klamme og vaadglindsende, der
trækker en gufs gjennem sprækker og river i klærene
paa ham, som er kommen úd paa broen med sit muldyr.
Skodden hænger i regntunge flak ned over de <steile> klipper
Den drives langsomt nedover af regn höit der oppe; plúd-
selig standser hele fölget, det húker sig sammen, en rædsel
gaar gjennem dem, de har seet noget, –
12. lige over dem hænger en vældig drage sig ú af klippen.
Den lader sig glide sleip og sjællet úd af sit uhyggelige
slidte húl i klippen, föler sig nedover den lodrette
klippevæg med sin brede flade vasne fod og gliser ned paa det
lille kryb, som kravler langs klippen. Det er som om menskerne
blir saa smaa, naar de möder urdyret, som har hersket i fjel-
dene för mensket blev skabt. Saa havde han nogle kjedelige nymfe
billeder nymfer ved kilder o.s.v. Böklin kan ogsaa gjöre kjedelige ting.
Men saa kom jeg til hans "Villa am Meer", der var to údgaver af
det samme landskab, den samme aand over dem begge, men
dog saa úendelig kontrære i stemningen. Gamle marmor pa-
ladser overskygges af vældige túnge sypresser, hvori vaarvinden en
aften súser saa sælsomt og bringer længsel údover mod
havet, dette dybe, úndelige og úendelige. Under muren nedenfor
paladset, staar en kvinde og stirrer údover havet; men der {...} farve
i billedet, det er haab og denne varme únderklang af vaar, der
dog kan gjöre en saa sorgtúng, det er længselen údover; men
saa er det dog alligevel vaar, trærene spirer ovenfor i haven, de
blomstrende syriner i de dúnkle skygger af sypresserne, og
múrværket, hvor kalken er af faldt nede ved jorden, saa man
skimter den röde múrsten únder, det gir alt en fölelse af det
zarte ved vaaren, varmen og lidenskaben, der slúmrer un-
der længselen, – denne dúggede, skyggede mark únder
de vældige, mörkegrönne, dúnkle popler, hvorover aften-
röden i vaarnatten káster et vagt sjær; Den mörke dúg-
gede dúnkelhed, men slúmrende varme i en vaar med håb.
Saa er det det andet, det samme landskab det samme vakre
marmorpalads, trappen op til det, den mosgrodde múr ned
mod havet, det er det samme men haabet er borte, kún læng-
selen er igjen hos kvinden, som staar der. Det er lys dag,
en súr höstvind jager úbarmhjertig gjennem poplerne,
bryter <greine>, fraader havet, som siger i dönninger ind over stran-
den indenfor baaerne, siger der grönlig hvid, trist og haablöst;
ja haablöst stirrer ogsaa kvinden údover havet, sammensúnken
staar hún paa samme jelet som i vaar, der er en úndergang,
noget úopfyldt af hvad vaaren gav haab om. Poplerne har
13. tabt sin friske grönne farve og alt er viet til ödelæggel-
sen, man har fölelsen af at staa foran en rúin, det er som
om selve paladset skúlde synke sammen om en liden
stund. Over det hele súser den súre höstvind, og pisker
det salte havdrev over den sortklædde kvindes hvide an-
sigt – ja det er havet, det er det, som bringer tristheden,
det graver en grotte únder paladsets múrværk, trist som
en ligkiste. Havet siger ind over stranden ikke i mæg-
tige rúllende bölger, men i sigende skúmfyldte dönninger.
saa har han et billede af en hyrde, som klager sin kjærlighed for
den sjönne úangribelige i húlen. En sval saftigrön skog med knald-
röde blomster over en nögen yngling, der spiller flöite, medens en kvin-
de lytter i en grotte med et blaagrönlig dúnkelt lys. Saa er det et
billede af en morder, som nettop skal reise sig efter fúlbragt
gjerning; da staar der plúdselig for ham tre hvidklædte kvinder
og hindrer ham fra at forlade stedet, det kolde údtryk i deres
ansigter er en samme fölelse som den regnfyldte mark med
det lange vaade græs. Saa var det atter et vaarlandskab. En vaar-
himmel, som kún Böklin kan male den. Skydottet {…} {…}
nettop. Lidt af regnen sidder endnú igjen, og de spirende trær staar
friske efter regnen, et par vandrer sammen únder de höie trær. Bort
<over> den <dybrönne> <eng> spirer de smörgúle blomster, hvor nogle
nögne barn leger og rúller sig i græsset ved en brönd. Over er et
lidet palads, der stikker frem, halvt sjult af blomstrende syri-
ner paa altanen og sprættende trær alt er fúgtig som efter en nylig
regn. Endnú et vaarlanskab. Paa en höi staar et gammelt palads
omgivet af svarte cypresser mod en klar vaarhimmel. I forgrúnden
en saftig grön med kraftige livsgrönne farver, som en hæk med gamle
trær, mellem hvis dúnkle stammer en blaaklæd kvinde gaar og drömmer
"Vandringen til Emaús", et landskab saa stormende og regnfúldt, som
graad hele billedet, over en <fden> <klop> gaar de tre og over höien skimtes
ruiner og húse. "Döden <rider> gjennem hösten" er det mest storar-
tede i farve. Et höstlandskab, hvor stormen hylende og kastende
vrænger alle trær, en himmel dækket af svarte skyer, så lyset
kún slipper gjennem en glyt og kaster et skarpt úhyggelig glimt
henover veien, hvor döden rider vigende sin svarte hingst ind únder et
skyggende træ, der er noge húse, og om man bare saa farven paa muren,
14. vilde man straks have fölelsen af den hylende höststorm. –
Nei nú faar det være nok om Böklin. De spöger om jeg
föler mig beslægtet med B., nei det synes jeg ikke, jeg kan sige;
men jeg forstaar ham. Nú begynder mörket, saa smaat at sive
ind gjennem gardinerne, det er jo júlaften i kveld, jeg maa hen til
vindúet og faa det op, en varm vind blafrer ind fra byen, det er
júleveir i Paris, ikke med snefald og blaalig vinterstemning, nei
med en varm taaget himmel og fint dúschregn; mörket begynder
at samle sig i de trange smågader, – nú tændes lysene i Paris.
De store cafeer straaler, folk strömmer ind i massevis; thi Pari-
serne feirer sin júl i cafeer; men jeg gaar ikke paa cafe i aften.
Jeg tænder en cigaret og böier mig úd vindúet, saadan dei-
lig varm vind, jeg stryger cigaret asken af paa den tykke bly-
rende únder vindúet og ser ned i gaden. – Hústagene staar
saa mörke, og himmelen er varm fra alt lyset i Paris. Hele
himmelen er som en vældig mat lampekúppel, det
blafrer i den af et lys, som holder paa at slukne. Nede
paa garden gaar, piger med lyse forklæder, og mörke vogne
hvoraf man kún skimter de gúle hjúl. Paa de vaade
hústag flakker spelingen af en svart skorsten, og langt
borte i rækken af de mörke hústag, lyser et lidet tag-
vindú, det er vel en, som sidder hjemme ligesom
jeg; og langt bortover strækker sig den lange vakre linie
af hústagene, som staar saa skarpe mod himmelen.
Úden denne evindelighed af telefontraade, som i Xania
Ja i Xania skúlde det været hyggeligt at være i julen,
men det er alligevel saa rart med det, det er ligesom
jeg er kommen i júlestemning lige vel, jeg kan le af den
mindste ting, der er noget mildt og varmt i luften,
som smitter, jeg har været doven i dag, har bare gaaet
paa cafeer, men jeg kan aligevel ligesom ikke være
rigtig <sindt> paa mig selv heller, herregúd, det er jo
júlaften i kveld har dú ingen at gaa úd til
15. eller tale med, saa faar dú jammen være lidt snild
mod mig ogsaa, jeg vil tænde begge lysene, i de höie lyse-
stagerne paa ovnene, ogsaa fyrer jeg for en gangs skyld
i ovnen, de ovenene er aabne her i Paris, saa jeg kan til nöd ind-
bilde mig, at det er en peis; saa vil jeg tage frem Ab-
rahamsens bog og lese i, eller kanske jeg skúlde lede op
salmebogen og synge en júlesalme for at komme rigtig
i júlestemning, det kúnde vel trænges, thi jeg har ikke
hört noget af det slaget, siden jeg var i Jölster, og det var i oct.
Nei jeg vælger alligevel Abrahamsens bog. Her blir
alligevel ikke júlestemning her i Paris, ikke norsk da.
Nú har jeg læst alle Deres digte gjennem Abrahamsen.
Jeg vil ikke öve nogen kritik over den, jeg vil bare
sige, at jeg syntes, de var deilige og gav mig et púst
fra Norge. Det er blit sent paa kvelden kl. er 1, skal tro-
de tegner oppe paa attelieret nú, kanske jeg skúlde gaa
did op ogsaa, jeg trænger godt tegne mest múligt –
Nú gaar franskmændene og synger gjennem gaderne
jeg er nettop hjemkommen fra attelieret, jeg var
saa forfærdelig fornöiet med mig selv idag, at jeg
er ræd for, at jeg tegned frygtelig slet, jeg kjender
til det fra för af, naar jeg er fornoiet med mig
selv. Jeg har kjöbt mig lidt júlekort og nú skal jeg
<feire> júl alene, jeg har en flaske champagne og brændte
kastanjer og sardeller, nei det er sent, jeg faar vel
slútte for i aften. Saa langt var jeg kommen paa
brevet da der hændte mig noget uhyggeligt
i dag har vi den 29de, gúd veed, hvor dagene er gaat
hen. Jeg sidder paa værlset og var törst, bad saa
garsonene skaffe mig rent vand paa karaffelen,
og saa drak jeg af den og faar pludeslig saa
ondt i halsen, det gaar opover til hodet
og jeg trodde næsten jeg skúlde falde over, men
fik krabbet mig bort i sengen og fik det vigtigste
af klæder af mig og sovnet i samme minutten.
Det var en dös, som var rent úhyggelig, jeg
saa at det blev lyst, og det blev mörkt, og
syntes jeg saa en mand inde i værelset, han
stod foran sengen. Jeg vaagner, og det var nat
igjen og laa vaat i de frygteligste smerter i
hoved og hals, det blev lyst, og jeg döset af igjen,
jeg vågned, og det var nat igjen, laa saa halv-
vågen til det blev lyst og saa pludselig en
mand staa foran sengen; det var opvarteren
"De har sovet længe" sa han paa fransk "önsker
De noget?", "nei" sa jeg, og han gik. Det begyndte
at gaa op for mig at jeg maatte have sovet
i flere dager og <saa> <begyndte> jeg at spekulere
paa hvordan opvarteren var kommen ind paa værel-
set, da erindrede jeg, at dören ikke var laast, syg,
som jeg var, for jeg op og úndersögte mine lommer
ganske rigitg en liden pose, som jeg altid havde
gúldmynt i var forsvúnden; der var omkring en 80
kroner i den, men jeg var saa elendig, at jeg bare
krabbede i seng igjen og var næsten ligeglad om
pengene; i dag er jeg lidt bedre, men har endnú
frygtelige smerter i hode og halsen. Jeg synes <her>
begynder at blive úhyggelig i Paris, og jeg vil
iallefald flytte til et andet hotel, naar jeg nú
bare blir frisk, jeg har ikke smagt mad siden
júlaften, jeg er ikke istand til at spise noget. –
Jeg faar slige uhyggelige mistanker til opvarteren
og hottelet, det kan hænde jeg tar feil, men jeg
tror næsten, de vil forgive mig, jeg skal ialfald
ikke smage deres vand ofere, nú længes jeg til
Norge N. Astrup
Translation
[1901] Christmas Eve
Dear Abrahamsen!
It is the eve of Christmas today, and I
have just a second ago
received Your letter and Your book.
Many thanks for Your atten-
tion and kindness, it is certainly the
only Christmas gift I will receive this year, so
I treasured it twice as much, when I
also received Your book. Yes I have
had a wonderful trip, it is
just that I feel that I was perhaps
a little too early or perhaps a little
too late in going, in any case it
feels as though it was not
the most convenient timing;
For much of what I have seen I
did not quite understand. Everyone asks
whether I saw any of Böklin’s works, well I
practically did not see anything else, wherever
I went, after first having seen
one picture by him; but I seem
hardly able to say anything
about them, and in addition there were
books, in which his pictures were des-
cribed quite eloquently, I can of
course attempt to describe the impression
I got of them, but I would like to
warn you ahead of time that
my orthography and handwriting leaves
much to be desired. Well what is it
about Böklin, I might just
as well begin by telling
about the trip in general and then
I will come to him as well. –
I arrived first at Copen-
hagen, where I was bored to
death. Then I arrived at Lybek.
I found it much more beautiful
there. We travelled up the shallow
river where we were forced to advance at
a slow pace. One had the feeling of
having arrived at the cradle of Gothic
culture or Germanic culture, perhaps
it was the old-fashioned houses that
created this effect, those tall-gabled steep
roofs with moss-covered dark and
lush green turf, and then the houses
were blue or red with something or
other grey in between. it was un-
believably painterly, the way they stood there between
the enormous wavy fields of ripe 3
grain, that undulated high and [then] bowed
straight down to the river, in between
them were "titillating" green
fields of budding grain; the winter
rye had just been sown you see, and
strange crooked trees in the distance.
In-between the fields there were white bridges
that arched over the meandering canals,
which ran up through the fields to the farm-
yards. And then in the middle of the
fields an occasional tree stood, which protruded
up from the bowed straw like
a broom, an occasional fishing boat
glided with dirtied sails down the river
just below the field. In the fields
people were sowing the winter rye, and
distributed across the dazzling green fields
were black specks of dung and crows.
Now and again one could see landscapes, that
reminded one of Romanticism, castle-
like houses and tall and peculiar [ones] with a
<little> peep-hole window beneath the roof, and
surrounded by tall poplars, and be-
low in a depression in the landscape
was a stand of slender trees, which had
lost their foliage and were now sketched
in vertical, translucent green tones against
the dark pine hedge above them.
Then I arrived at Hamburg and went
directly up to: "die Kunsthalle".
Lots of good, old dreary
art. The only good one among the old
in my opinion was Franz Hals, each
brushstroke was so articulated, as though
it was applied with great emotion,
not one false or superfluous
brushstroke, each light, each tone was
applied with one single stroke, that is also
why the whole thing was filled with such un-
common vitality. Then I came
to the new artists there; they were
even more tedious than the old,
but then there was Böklin. I
do not believe that there is any other artist
I understand so well, as him
today, but perhaps he is also
easily understood by everyone; I walked up
to his picture: ["]Silence of
the Forest" I looked at it and under-
stood nothing at first first, was
it really an original of the
famous Böklin I thought; I 5.
had of course seen a reproduction of
it, but I had nevertheless imagined
it to be quite different; a creature
in a forest, a woman on the creature’s
back, no I was tired of all that,
I had it, I could not under-
stand art, I thought; I began
began to stare at the forest,
at the tree trunks, the moss-covered
almost iridescent green
trunks, [when I] was involuntarily gripped by a
sense of the poignant green
murkiness between the tree trunks
in the forest, the silence and serenity of the forest, –
then something in the picture suddenly
stirs, a speckled gazing creature steps
out from between the tree trunks,
it moved perceptibly, stamps the ground
with its hoof and glares. It hap-
pens so suddenly, it is simply spec-
kled and glaring, an incarnate sigh
in the midst of the green silence and murkiness.
It carries a woman on its back,
she sits there, like a little notion of the forest
with her dark dreamy gaze.
There is something special about Böklin’s
pictures, it is the first time the
Germanic blood in us has been
allowed to say something about itself.
How simple a man like
Thorvald Eriksen becomes next to
Böklin, in whom everything is emotion, and
Eriksen, in whom all the motley
colours are theory when it comes down to it, he
merely dissolves the colours into their
individual elements (the natural colours)
and then he arranges this rainbow
spectrum in such a way, that one
screeching colour obliterates the other,
so that at a distance it finally
appears somewhat believable. It represents
analysis and mathematics in
a proportional relationship.
And like Böklin he stands nearly as distant
from this old-fashioned <nauseating>
idealism. I came to another
picture of Böklin, a self-portrait,
the same serenity and the same murk-
y gaze as in the woman on the creature’s
back, altogether the same atmosphere
even including the deep-green foliage behind him. 7
Then there was one by him that was called "the
sacred wood" Still water covering a
grassy glade, on both sides a row
of massive trees, with voluminous tran-
quil masses of leaves, where the suffused
light illuminates inward beneath the voluminous
mass of leaves crowns, where a fire
is burning on an altar, blue
smoke rises straight up, and onto the
broad tree trunks, a mystical light
falls, one has the impression that it
is all enclosed by a sky-
high wall. Under the dark
canopies a procession of white-clad
figures glide along a path, a few
have reached as far as the altar and are worshipping
on their knees. Then he has a number of
poor portraits in Hamburg; for Böklin
can also do poor work. But then again
he also has a magnificent picture there, and
that is "Maria Magdalene", it is [a] picture
that cannot be described, it is a
semi-nude woman, who is reclining back-
ward, [the] colours so delicate that one actually gets
8 the feeling of lament. Her hair falls
in contrast, blazing
and golden down her body.
Then I arrived in Berlin, the first thing
I took notice of among the paintings
was a picture of Norway, it was
amusing to see, how a
foreign artist perceived
our nature. High mountains
naturally, with long shadows
carved into the most peculiar
shapes, with a dark blue
sky, so blue that Italy <evidently>
cannot boast of anything bluer, pristine
white cotton clouds, and a mountain grazing farm
with small cabins, and and sun-
drenched yellow-green mountain pasture, which
ends at a cliff at the brink of a chasm
that, if one uses ones imagination, presumably
plunged down through half the earth, there
was in fact something accomplished about the pas-
ture; but it was half-hidden by some
huge boulders in the foreground, In Berlin
there were by the way a lot of pictures
by 9 the old masters, of which I have now seen the most
important; but which I have had difficulty in understanding, until
I arrived in Paris. In Berlin there was a lot of the
newly excavated Assyrian art, it was magnificently beautiful,
I assure You, but it would require too much effusion to write about it. There
were also several pictures by Böklin. "Spring" was a lovely picture
a lush green meadow with butter-yellow flowers by a quiet stream
along whose banks tall trees grew with broad trunks and
budding branches, the colour of the trunks produced such an intense feeling of spring.
In the background one could see a marble villa surrounded by dark
green cypresses, which stood so black and lush against the cloud-
spattered spring sky, yes Böklin can paint a spring sky. By the stream
a couple sits, and a man, old and grey-haired, walks
towards the horizon along the stream, he represents winter and the sea lies below. "Pieta".
Maria mourning over the dead body of Christ. To look at that picture is like standing
by the shore, and an ice cold wave washes over one’s limbs
from the bottom upwards, colours that would prompt Werenskjold to
wrinkle his nose more reverence for him! Christ’s body is the epitome of pestilential cold death in colour, a
green shade that is appallingly similar to venom, the corpse is laid out on a mar-
ble slab of bluish semi-transparent veined marble,
a garland of flowers in violets and greens is arranged around the
slab, a sky so blue-green and heavy with storm, like a stormy night in
grey and rain, and then Maria lying over the corpse shrouded in a cape, of
such an intense blue, that one freezes when looking at it. "The Isle of Life". A river
on whose black-green surface, white swans swim, a centaur
wades through the river carrying a woman on his back over to
the island of the redeemed. Dark green grass with the shadows of dense trees, under
which a man and woman rest in the grass, dancing women
and a cleft in the rock with a peculiar grotto, down from the dark
opening a brook runs: many more were there to see
his work. Then I arrived at Dresden, there were only two of his [works] there.
"The whims of the sea", a large picture. An enormous thunderous ocean, where
the light slips blue-green through the great mass of
water. In the foreground a grinning sun-blistered triton
captures a nymph who is swimming in the trough of the
wave. Above in the lighter smaller waves two
merry dolphins <maidens> are playing "tag", and {...}
on the crest of a wave a black
whinnying seahorse or more precisely a centaur,
rides like a colossus, which in its diabolical glistening grey
hideousness makes a magnificent impression
of the mighty force that seeps forth
through the towering cold mass of water.
He is diabolical and good-natured at
the same time, he represents the mighty force. The entire
picture is of course a magnificent symbolic representation
of the sea <in> its various forms. The under-
tow, {...} light waves {...}, and the <thun-
dering> mighty mass. Pan can wait
for another time. Then I arrived
Text at the bottom of the page "upside down":
You must truly pardon me
but for sending You my
draft, but since I am
very ill [I] can-
not re-
write
now
at Munich, which is Böcklin’s actual home, there I saw many magnificent pictures
by him; yet I will only mention the most significant. "Cleopatra" was a picture
that is impossible to describe in words, it would presumably al-
so be difficult for anyone but painters or sculptors to understand, I
have purchased a reproduction of it in a photo emulsion print, which I will show You. Then there
was "Pan frightening a shepherd". It is a sweltering
sultry day, (we are talking of ghosts in bright
daylight) yet here one had something of that visible
eeriness, the hazy air of a summer day with a
clear sky, (dark blue as al-
ways with Böklin) everything is intensely
and distinctly painted, the sun is
high in the sky and radiates
a scorching sunlight,
that falls on the dry
11. falls on the dry ground and the scorching
cliff under which a shepherd has laid down to rest with
his sheep, that is when Pan suddenly appears in-between
some boulders, inaudibly yet clearly [visible] against the
sultry hazy sky, one sees the shepherd dashing
down the slope in terror, and the terror has gripped
the animals, one saw a {...} racing against his
masters {...}, and from between the rocks Pan
sticks his head up and grins maliciously down at those who
are fleeing. His pictures grip one most of all with their unfore-
seenness so that one "shudders" inside, yet nevertheless one
can enjoy the sight of them for a long time afterwards. One of the most
characteristic in this sense is the picture he
has painted to illustrate Göthe’s verse: Do you know the mountain and its
paths, the mule makes its way through the mist, and in
the caves the old dragons live. Within the dark
mountains a narrow crevice runs for miles in-between with
steep cliffs on both sides. Far far
above at the summit one can glimpse a sky heavy with rain
and in-between the cliffs humans have built a narrow
road, where a little group makes its way with difficulty towards a bridge, which
one can imagine might span the entire world.
An eternity separates them from the light above and an eternity from perdition
below. The cliffs are clammy and glistening with moisture, a
draft seeps through the crevices and tugs at the clothes
of the one, who has arrived halfway across the bridge with his mule.
The mist hangs in rainy sheets down the <steep> cliffs
It is driven slowly downward by the rain way up there; all of
a sudden the entire group stops, huddles together, panic
races through them, they have caught sight of something, –
12. immediately above them a giant dragon hangs over the edge of the cliff.
It glides slithering and scaly out of its hideous
weather-beaten cave in the cliff, makes its way down the vertical
rock face with its broad flat drenched foot grinning down at the
little creatures that are crawling past the cliff. It is as though the humans
become small, when they encounter the beast that has ruled in the mount-
ains [since] before mankind was created. Then he had some dreary pictures
of nymphs by a spring, etc. Böklin can also make dreary things.
But then I came upon his "Villa by the Sea", there were two versions of
the same landscape, the same spirit over them both, but
nevertheless so enormously contrary in mood. Old marble pal-
aces are overshadowed by massive dense cypresses, through which a spring breeze
rustles so mysteriously one evening, carrying the yearning out to
sea, these infinite fathomless depths. Beneath the bulwark below
the palace, a woman stands gazing out to sea; but there {...} colour
in the picture, there is hope and this warm undercurrent of spring, which
can nevertheless make one mournful, it represents the yearning to be out there: but
it is spring nonetheless, trees are budding in the garden,
lilacs blossoming in the murky shadows of the cypresses, and the
masonry, where the mortar has fallen to the ground, so that
one can glimpse the red brick beneath it, imbues it all with the feeling of how
delicate spring is, the heat and the passion, that slumbers be-
neath the yearning, – this misty, shadowy ground beneath
the enormous, dark-green, murky poplars, over which the even-
ing red of a spring night casts a faint glow; The dark hu-
mid murkiness, with the dormant heat of a spring filled with hope.
Then there is the other one, the same landscape the same handsome
marble palace, the stairway leading up to it, the moss-covered bulwark down
to the sea, facing the sea, it is the same yet the hope is gone, yearn-
ing is all that remains for the woman standing there. It is daylight,
a bitter autumn wind chases mercilessly through the poplars,
breaks <branches>, causes the sea to foam, and its swells to surge in over the
shore past the reefs, [they] surge greenish white, sombre and without hope;
yes even the woman gazes out to sea without hope, drooping now she
stands in the same ravine as in the spring, it represents decline,
the unfulfilled promise of spring. The poplars have
13. lost their vibrant green colour and everything is dedicated to de-
cay, one has the feeling of standing in front of a ruin, it is as
though the villa itself might soon
collapse. Above it all a bitter autumn wind blows, and whips
the salty sea mist into the white countenance of the woman dressed
in black – yes it is the sea, that is what brings on the melancholy,
it digs a grotto under the villa foundation, sombre as
a tomb. The sea seeps in over the shore not in mighty
rolling waves, but in surging foam-crested swells.
Then he has a picture of a shepherd, who laments his love for
the unassailable beauty in the cave. A cool lavish green forest with vibrant
red flowers above a naked youth, who is playing a flute, while a wom-
an listens in a grotto with a bluish green murky light. Then there is a
picture of a murderer, who has just stood up after committing
the deed; then three white-clad woman suddenly appear before him
and prevent him from leaving the scene, the cold expression in their
faces has something of the same feeling as the rain-soaked field with
the long wet grass. Then there is yet another spring landscape. A spring
sky, as only Böklin can paint it. Spotted with clouds, {...} {...} just
now. A bit of rain still remains, and the budding trees are
fresh after the rain, a couple sit together under the tall trees. Dispersed
<across> the <deep green> {...} butter-yellow flowers are budding, a group of
naked children is playing and frolicking in the grass by a well. Above them is
a little mansion, which protrudes, half-hidden by flowering li-
lacs on the balcony and verdant trees, everything moist as after a recent
rainfall. Yet another spring landscape. On a hill an old villa stands
surrounded by black cypresses against a clear spring sky. In the foreground
a lush green with vibrant living green colours, like a stand of old
trees, between the trunks of which a woman in blue wanders dreamily.
"The Pilgrims of Emmaús", a landscape so stormy and full of rain, as though
the entire picture wept, over a {...} {...} three pilgrims walk and above on a hill
one can glimpse ruins and houses. "The <ride> of Death" the most magni-
ficent in colour. An autumn landscape, where the storm howling and thrashing
twists all the trees, a sky covered in black clouds, so that the light
only slips through a small gap and casts a sharp eerie flash
on the road, where death rides its black stallion retreating under a
protective tree, there are some houses, and if one merely saw the colour of the wall,
one would instantly experience the feeling of a howling autumn storm. –
Well, enough said about Böklin. You ask me if I
feel related to B., no I don’t think I could say that;
but I understand him. Darkness has just now barely begun to seep
in through the curtains, it is Christmas Eve, I must go over to the
window and open it, a warm wind is wafting in from the city, this is
Christmas weather in Paris, no snowfalls or blue-tinted winter atmospheres, but
a warm foggy sky and fine misty rain; darkness has begun
to gather in the narrow alleys, – the lights are being turned on in Paris now.
The large cafés are aglow, large crowds of people are streaming into them; for Pari-
sians celebrate their Christmas in cafés; but I am not going to spend my evening in a café.
I light a cigarette and lean out of my window, such a love-
ly warm wind, I sweep the cigarette ash into the thick lead
trough under the window and look down at the street. – The roofs of the buildings
lie in darkness, and the sky is warm from all the lights in Paris. The entire
sky is like the muted dome of a lamp, it
flickers from a light, which is about to expire. Down
in the courtyard young girls pass by wearing white pinafores, and dark carriages
of which one can only glimpse their yellow wheels. On the wet
rooftops the flickering reflection of black chimneys, and far
off along the line of dark rooftops a little skylight
window glows, most likely someone, who is staying at home like
me; and the long lovely line of rooftops stretches far into
the distance, which creates such a sharp contrast against the sky.
Without this infinity of telephone wires, as in Xania [Oslo].
Well it would have been nice to be in Xania for Christmas,
yet it is strange nevertheless, it is as though
I have gotten into the Christmas spirit after all, and I can laugh at the
smallest things. there is something balmy and warm in the air,
which is contagious, I have been indolent today, have done nothing but
frequent cafés, yet I cannot be
so very <angry> with myself either, good lord, it is
Christmas Eve after all. this evening you have no one to visit
15. or converse with, so by golly you’d better be a little kind
towards me too, I will light both candles, in the tall candle-
sticks, and I will also start a fire in the stove
for once, the stoves here in Paris are open, so I can at least pre-
tend that it is a fireplace; and then I will pull out Abra-
hamsen’s book and read it, or perhaps I should look for
my psalm book and sing a Christmas psalm in order to really get
into the Christmas spirit, for I have not
heard anything of that kind, since I was in Jölster, and that was in Oct.
No I’ll choose Abrahamsen’s book just the same. There won’t be
any Christmas spirit here in Paris in any case, at least not Norwegian.
Now I have read through all of Your poems Abrahamsen.
I will not conduct any critique of it, I merely wish
to say that I think they are lovely and gave me a taste
of Norway. It has become late in the evening, it is 1 o’clock, I ima-
gine they are drawing now up in the studio, perhaps I should go
up there too, it would be good for me to draw as much as possible –
Now the French are walking through the streets singing
I have just returned from the studio, I was
so terribly satisfied with myself today, that I
am afraid that I made some terrible drawings, I have
experienced that before, when I have been satisfied with
myself. I have purchased a few Christmas cards and now I shall
<celebrate> Christmas alone, I have a bottle of champagne and roasted
chestnuts and anchovies, well it is late, so I should
end it for this evening. I had come so far in
the letter when something terrible happened to me.
today is the 29th, god knows how the days
have passed. I was sitting in my room and was thirsty, so I asked
the garçon to fetch me clean water in a carafe,
and then I drank from it and suddenly felt a
pain in my throat, it travelled up to my head
and I thought I would nearly collapse, but
managed to crawl over to my bed and took off most
of my clothes and fell asleep instantly.
I was in a daze that was absolutely horrifying, I
could see that it was light out, and then dark, and
I thought I saw a man in my room, he
stood in front of my bed. I awoke, and it was night
again and [I] had wet the most horrible pain in
my head and throat, there was daylight, and I dozed off again,
I awoke and it was night again, lay there half
awake until daylight and suddenly saw a
man standing in front of my bed; it was the waiter
"You have slept a long time" he said in French "do You
wish for anything?", "no" I said, and he left. It began
to dawn on me that I must have slept
for several days and <then> I <began> to speculate
about how the waiter had got into the
room, then I remembered that the door was not locked, ill
as I was, I quickly got up and examined my pockets
just as I thought, the little string purse, which I always kept
gold coins in was gone; there had been around 80
kroner in it, but I was in such a miserable state that I merely
crawled back into bed and was almost indifferent about
the money; today I am a little better, but still have a
terrible pain in my head and throat. I feel that <here> things
are beginning to get unpleasant in Paris, and I will
at least move to another hotel, as soon as
I am well, I have not tasted food since
Christmas Eve, I am not able to eat anything. –
I am beginning to suspect the waiter of sinister things
and the hotel too, I may be mistaken, but I
almost believe that they wish to poison me, I shall in any case
never taste their water again, now I long to return to
Norway N. Astrup