Letter
43 Pages
Transcription: Tor Martin Leknes
Translation: Francesca Nichols
Transcription
[mars 1898]
1
Gode ven.
Ja dú har ret, jeg er en meget slet brev-
skriver! Hvad skal jeg sige, og hvormed skal
jeg úndskylde mig? Nei det er nok bedst at
kaste alle úndskyldninger overbord; thi
min ven Giverholt, – hvis jeg da endnú tör kalde
ham saaledes, – tager nok ikke saadant for
"god fisk". Saadant kan gaa an ligeoverfor min
ven Peder Hoskildsen. Ja den, som bare
kúnde skrive saa godt som Giverholt! Thi
jeg frygter for hans nöieregnende kritik, skjöndt
jeg nok ved af erfaring, at han i slige til-
fælde kan holde gode miner til slet spil.
Först og fremst maa jeg takke dig saa
meget for dine <tvende> breve. Det var skam
af mig, at jeg ikke svarede paa dit förste brev,
da jeg jo dengang havde tid nok. Dú maa
undskylde skriften, det er saa længe siden
jeg har skrevet noget brev, at det nú er
mig aldeles úvant at skrive. Dú spörger
hvorledes jeg trives som magister, – nú det
er ikke saa rare skolen, den jeg holder,
det værste er at læse A-B-C med min næst
yngste bror Kristian; thi dertil udkræves
en taalmodighed, som er större end min.
Men det er jo sandt, at private ting skal kom-
me tilsidst. Et lidet vindpúst fra kúnstens
verden kommer jo ogsaa únder tiden som ved
en ren hændelse hid op til denne afkrog;
men det er jo lidet at leve paa hele
den langte triste vintertid igjennem. Saa
"Morgenposten" kalder Taúlow Norges förste
maler. Ja jeg faar sige som dú saa ofte sagde:
"De gústibús non dispútandúm est". (Det er jo bedst
at prate med det, man húsker igjen af latinen).
Ja E. Werenskjold holder jeg paa som den
förste, hvad dygtighed og tillige hvad finhed,
sikkerhed og fremfor alt stemnig i maleri
og tegning angaar; han er úovertruffen. Fritz
3
Taúlow kan være genial i enkeltheder og
kan bevare finhed i stemningsbilleder (morgen og
aftenstemninger); men hvor er "livet" eller mennesket
i dets sorg og glæde frygt eller rædsel
arbeide og hvile? Hvor er "folkelivet" med dets
fantasi og virkelighed? Hvor findes den idealis-
me, der holder sig gjennem tiderne – jo hos
E. Werenskjold. Og det er netop derfor, at jeg tror
at hans kúnst vil holde sig, og fordi han
ikke er blandt decadenternes rækker, er det
jeg holder paa ham som den förste. Der er
noget saa norskt ved ham, han er ingen
marinemaler; men han skildrer folkelivet
mellem fjeldene. Han har jo nú netop i disse
dage faaet ind paa statens kúnstúdstilling
et maleri, der heder "söstre", der og som i aviserne
stod omtalt som det bedste blandt figúr-
malerierne, især skúlde det have sin styrke
i ansigtsligshedens forhold mellem söstrene, finhed,
stil og skyggevirkning. Stakkars Gúde! nú har
han ogsaa mistet sin troe beúndrer Giverholt.
HF Gúde er stor, hvor det gjælder at skildre död
natur "klippens ensomme grú", og hans höifjelds-
billeder er storslagne og gjör mægtige indtryk.
Nú maler han jo væsentlig bare aqúareller.
Th Holmboe’s stemningsbilleder – der, hvor han da ikke
gaar for vidt – hörer til noget af det bedste, jeg
nogentid har seet, ligesaa hvad karakteransigter angaar.
Hans "Dyveke", der til júl blev trykt som júlekort
hörer til noget af bedste jeg har seet i den retning.
Ligesaa rosende, og kanske i vel saa höi grad maa jeg
údtale mig om G Múnte; thi denne sidste er den
der mest nærmer sig Werenskjold, og han staar, hvad
fantasi angaar, over Holmboe, der ofte er overdreven
fölelsesfúld. Naar vi taler om fantasi og stemning
maa jeg ikke úndlade at nævne en, der i man-
ge henseender staar langt over Holmboe, nemlig
Th. Kittelsen. Han er ikke overdreven fölelsesfúld;
men der er dog úndertiden en saadan fantasi og
fölelse i hans billeder, et saadant helhedsindtryk
5
at selv den mest fantasi-fiendtlige maa föle
med i hans tanke. Der er i hans billeder en súnd
fantasi, en kraftig og karakteristisk údförelse.
Det maa være en inteligent mand, den samme
Kittelsen, en mand, der faarstaar at sætte sig
ind i folkets fölelse og fantasi, han er jo selv
en "folkets sön", og derfor er det vel rimeligt, at
han forstaar at sætte seg ind i deres tankegang og
omgivelser (naturen). Ja han er vel kjendt med
t naturen, han er naturtro hvilket ikke altid
Holmboe er. Men han forstaar ogsaa at være
realistisk, og jeg er slet ingen fiende af den
realisme, der ligesom Kittelsens skildrer {...}den
gamle, af veir, arbeide og slid fúrede fiskers ansigt
og grove hænder, naar han udförer sin gjerning paa
det oprörte hav; ellers naar han Kittelsen skildrer lodsen,
naar denne med sit skarpe öie holder udkig
over de mægtige bölger, der trúende reiser sig
for at kaste sig over baaden. Kittelsen forstaar
at male det; thi han har selv været med paa
paa det. Hans eventyrbilleder staar fúldt
paa höide med Muntes. Han er ogsaa húmo-
rist, og det er vel kanske nærmest som
saadan, at han er bleven saavidt popúlær
som han er. Han kan være bidende vittig
overfor dem han hader, (især de rige kjöbmend i byerne og de
militære (?) ); og han forstaar at karakterisere
dem paa en aldeles storartet maade; men af
den grúnd rimeligvis falder han ikke i smag
hos de herrer kritikere; thi i saafald havde
han nok indtaget en ganske anden rang som
maler. Christian Krogh er údskeiende i sin realis-
me og sanvinsk i sin farvesammensætning udförer
enkelte ting med fotografisk nöiagtighed, (han fotograferer jo
först alt, hvad han maler) medens andre ting, der kan være lige vigtige,
blot skisseres. Baade Krogh og Hje Heyerdahl er igrunden efter-
lignere af P. Nikolai Arboe og Edv. Munch. Den sidste
kan jeg ikke lig like, alt hvad han údförer skal
ligesom være saa genialt, at det ikke behöver
andet end at skisseres. Otto Sinding har ogsaa den
7
samme feil (tildels da) i den senere tid; han ligner
forövrigt lidt HF Gúde i sine landskaber. Chr. Skredsvig har, saavidt
jeg kan forstaa, forsögt at efterligne de kinesiske
penseltegninger hvad kontyrerne angaar; thi
de údmerker sig ligesom disse ved en uhyre flot-
hed, eleganse og fart i linierne. Hans motiver
ligner ofte Holmboes. Han er forövrigt lidt af en
Werenskjoldianer og er vel snart en af Norges mest
popúlære malere. Af Bernt Grönvold har jeg seet
meget lidet kún pennetegninger; men det jeg har
seet giver et meget godt indtryk. Han skal have
malet flere altertavler og er lidt Werenskjoldsk.
Axel Ender og Eilif Pettersen ligner hinanden
meget og er ligesom den svenske malerinde Jenny Nyström noget vel
idealistiske. Olaf Krohn forsöger at efterligne
snart sagt alle norske malere, saaledes varierer
han mellem at efterabe: Holmboe, Werenskjold,
C.K. – A.B. – TK og flere andre, deriblandt Chr. Skredsvig, som
han ogsaa kan være noksaa heldig i at efterabe, ligeledes
T Holmboe, den sidste dog med den forskjel, at naar
T Holmboe springer afsted med langt skridt,
saa maa Olaf Krohn dilte efter, saa godt
han kan; thi T Holmboes fodspor er nok vel
store for han stakkars Krohn (jeg maa tænke
paa Kittelsens aqúarel "Træd altid i din faders
fodspor"). Men naar han skal efterligne EW.
gaar det rent bagvendt for ham stakkar, og
jeg tror, det ordsprog vilde passe paa ham:
"skomager bliv ved din læst!", og læsten
er nok her A. Bloch, hvem min agtelse for
som maler næsten er súnket ned til 0.
Jeg har seet hans omslag til "Júleroser"
for iaar, som jeg fik til jul, og jeg maa sige, at
det er det ynkeligste omslag, jeg har seet
paa nogen "Júleroser" fra för. Der var en alegori af
de mest skúgende farver, der måtte skjære i
öinene paa enhver, der havde sans for god
farvesammensætning. Og saa det elendige forhold:
den svære mand og den lille ponny af en hest (det
var ialfald ingen norsk hest). Bedst liker jeg hans
9
enkle tegninger for börn. Af údenlandske
malere liker jeg bedst de danske. Luis Moe
har de fleste af Th. Kittelsen gode egenskaber.
Hans tegninger for börn er noget af det bedste, jeg
har seet af den slags, det er enkle; men <Raf-
tige> tegninger med friske farver og en udmerket
farvesammensætning, der <údertiden> kan gjöre
selv en G Múnte til skamme. Blandt de yngre
malere i Norge, er der især en, som údentvivl med
tiden vil blive en störrelse. Han er fortiden
illústratör af "Barnets blad" og heder Olaf Gúll-
branson. Han har en slig fart i linierne, slig
enkelhed i údförelsen og besidder en slig
evne til at sætte sig ind i börnenes fantasi,
at "Barnets Blad" úden tvivl ikke kúnde have
faaet nogen heldigere illústratör; men det
der som gjör hans tegninger mest interessante for
mig er, at ofte nettop de samme tanker har
jeg tænkt, de samme stemninger har jeg fölt,
den samme stil og de samme ideer har jeg
har jeg önsket at kúnde före paa papiret
længe för jeg havde seet hans tegninger; men
de tekniske vanskeligheder har hindret mig.
Nú trætter jeg dig vel ligervis som för med
med mine intetsigende (!) bemerkninger, jeg
kan nú aldrig údtrykke mig som jeg vil.
Paa digtekunst har jeg jo liden forstand,
og hid op mellem fjeldene trænger jo ingen
trænger jo ingen nýere böger. Jeg liker
svært godt Thomas P. Krag’s fortællinger, og da
jeg aldrig hörte dig omtale ham, vilde
jeg gjerne höre din dom om ham. Hans bog
"Vesterfra" har jeg læst, ligeledes "Lo og andre
fortællinger" samt nogle smaafortællinger
hvoriblandt "Fangen". Af begivenhederne i Eúropa
er jo Dreúfús-sagen den, der mest besjæfti-
ger sindene. Den har ogsaa interesseret mig
meget, og jeg har med begjærlighed læst
alt, hvad der har staaet om den i aviserne.
Dú Giverholt og jeg havde jo som oftest
11
modstridende anskuelser, hvor det gjaldt
noget i det övrige Eúropa, saaledes holdt
jo dú med Grækerne og jeg med Tyrkerne.
Jeg haaber nú, at vore meninger ikke
kommer i conflict med hinanden. Min me-
ning er, at Dreúfús’s fangenskab og Zolás
domfældelse er en af de störste úretfær-
digheder og jústitsmord, som nogentid er
bleven begaaet. At Dreúfús er úskyldig,
det er min faste overbevisning, og en kan
bli "saa sinna", naar en læser om begi-
venhedernes gang. Det minder mig om noget
i latinen, et stykke vi havde for Pedersen
om Appiús, der fik sin client til at ærklære
jomfrúen for sin trælinde og före hende for
domstolen, hvor han selv var dommer,
fordi han mente derved at kunne vinde sagen
saa meget lettere, naar han selv baade var
anklager og dommer. – Dú tror vel, at
jeg tegner og maler meget nú; men det er
12
ikke tilfælde. Da jeg kom hjem i sommer,
begyndte jeg at male forskjellige partier
fra præstegaarden og omgivelser, og Marie Lind,
datter af lensmanden, opmúntrede mig saa me-
get, at jeg begyndte at tænke paa at faa
reise til Kristiania og lære noget, (Marie Lind
er jo selv meget flink til at tegne); men far
likte ikke, at jeg tegnede og vilde derfor
ikke lade mig faa reise. Han er saa svært
imod, at jeg tegner, saa jeg tror aldrig, at jeg med
hans gode villie faar blive maler eller noget
lignende. Saa kom konfirmationen – den úundgaa-
elige – , og jeg fandt det bedst, at böie mig. Efter
konfirmationen fik jeg liden tid til at tegne,
da jeg måtte holde skole med mine söskend,
men lidt tegnede jeg dog fremdeles; men saa
kom der noget, som betog mig modet aldeles.
Det er bedst at begynde med begyndelsen. Dú spörger
om, hvorledes det staar til med A.G., nú hvad
hendes egen person angaar, haaber jeg, at hun befinder
13
sig i bedste velgaaende; men om forholdet mellem
os, skal dú nú faa höre. Engang troede jeg nok, at hún
brydde sig lidt om mig, da jeg förstegang saa hende, vi havde
tilfældigvis únder en gjemmeleg gjemt os i det samme húl
i höiet i "Haúglands laaven". Der var mange börn
der og legte, og jeg kjendte ikke halvparten af dem og heller
ikke A.; men da jeg traf sammen med A. der oppe i höiet
i et dybt húl, som börnene havde gravet, blev jeg kjendt
med hende. Det var mörkt, saa jeg kúnde ikke se andet
end hendes profil, der saa ren og klar tegnede sig af mod
lyset, der faldt ind gjennem en glúgge i væggen; men hún
havde en saadan smúk blöd stemme, og da vi siden kom
úd, og jeg fik se hende ordentlig, blev jeg aldeles forliebt
i hende, – og har altid været det siden –, kort efter spillede
vi krocet, og da var A. og jeg paa parti. Vi vandt og, da hendes
söster foreslog ombytning af parti vilde A. ikke det, og siden
var vi to næsten altid paa parti, og vi gjemte os paa det
samme sted i laaven eller "löen", som vi her siger.
Men dette var jo bare en barneforlibelse. – Paa den tid blev
jeg kjendt men en gút, som hed Ferdinand Tranaas. Han var
flere aar ældre end mig, (har forresten – gaaet paa Throndjems
latinskole) og han var meget flink til at tegne. Vi
blev gode venner; men han reiste snart til Danmark
paa tegneskole, og jeg maatte for helbredens skyld til
presten Lúnde. – Det var mörke tider, som skúlde begynde
for mig. – Jeg var bleven friskere og skúlde faa komme
hjem. Jeg glædede mig til at faa komme hjem og se
A.; men da jeg kom, viste A. mig en saadan kúlde og
foragt, at jeg snart skjönte, at jeg intet mere havde at haabe.
Jeg húsker endnú tydelig den dag, jeg traf hende. Far
besögte doctorens, og jeg var med. Isen laa blank údover
fjorden, og en svag skodde trak sig indover fra fjorden.
Vi skúlde ned og rende paa sköiter, og jeg tilböd mig
at binde sköiterne paa hende, noget jeg ogsaa för havde
gjort, og hún afviste mig meget fornemt; men da en anden
gút (en af hendes tilbedere E.S.) kom ned paa isen og tilböd
sig at binde sköiterne paa hende, modtog hún straks
hans tilbúd. Jeg saa paa med graaden i halsen, og da jeg
saa, at hún rendte arm i arm med ham, blev jeg saa sint
at jeg spendte sp sköiterne af mig, slængte dem nedover
15
isen og gik op. Far skulde netop reise hjem igjen, og det
var paa forhaand bestemt, at jeg skúlde være over i
Förde en úges tid; men nú bad jeg far om om at faa
reise strax med ham; og en halv time senere var vi
paa veien til Jölster, úden at jeg engang havde sagt
farvel til A. Jeg længtedes bort, langt bort, – jeg havde
ikke lyst til at være hjemme heller nú, og snart
reiste jeg igjen til Lúnde. Her havde jeg liden eller
ingen skolegang, og da doktoren forböd mig anstræn-
gelser, fik jeg smag paa dovenskab, og hvad værre var,
paa sterke drikke, og ingen af delene har ganske for-
ladt mig siden; naar jeg da var i daarligt húmör
(jeg sörgede nemlig meget over at have mistet A.) eller noget
gik mig imod, tröstede jeg mig altid ved at gaa hen
til en kjending, der solgte úlovligt brændevin, og
der drak jeg mig da fuld. Hos Lúnde fik jeg fat i
Darwin, som jeg læste med begjærlighed. Senere kom
jeg til Throndhjem; men jeg blev ikke noget bedre.
Dú ved selv hvorledes jeg var der. Imidlertid kom
Tranaas hjem (ifjor vaar) og begyndte at male. Han blev
gjort sligt væsen af i Förde. Der blev holdt selskaber
for ham, og man talte om hvilken kjæk gut han var;
men de gode folk skúlde bare have vidst, hvad bön-
derne her paa Jölster vidste at fortælle, nemlig at
han paa en fjeldtúr havde forfört en sæterpige, og
og en anden gang voldtaget to piger i 12-13 aars-
alderen. Nú som sagt, man gjorde meget væsen af ham, og han
kom ogsaa til Glöersens. Her blev han strax indtagen i
A.’s skjönhed, og blev der i længere tid for at tegne
hende som det hed, og snart blev vist forliebelsen gjen-
sidig. Efter hin dag paa isen, úndgik jeg altid at
træffe A. saaledes ogsaa i sommer (saa meget mere som jeg
jeg havde faaet höre, at A. skúlde have sagt, at jeg var paa-
trængende); men úndlod jeg at komme op ned til Förde, saa
úndlod ikke A. at komme op til Jölster; thi tæt
efter konfirmationen kom hún og hendes mor op hid.
Da A. fra för af vidste, at jeg tegnede, bad hún om at
faa se mine tegninger, ligesaa gjorde og hendes frú moder,
og jeg var dúm nok til at vise dem nogle billeder
fra præstegaarden samt et lidet maleri af gjæter
gútten vor og nogle andre billeder. "Tranaas
tegnede meget bedre for flere aar siden", siger A.
"Ja han har lært noget", siger jeg. "Nei", svarede A. "han har
lært sig selv at tegne, ingen har lært ham noget
har han sagt selv". Jeg skjönte, at jeg vilde komme
til at trække det korteste straa og tiede derfor. "Ja
der er nú ikke sammenligning mellem dine og
Tranaas sine arbeider", siger hendes frú moder. "Se nú for
exempel paa den "gjætergútten". Tranaas vilde da aldrig
have været saa úsömmelig at lade ham være barbenet
og have en stor lap bag paa búksen!" Ja baade hún
og A. údtrykte sin foragt for billedet ved at kalde
det "væmmeligt". Saa begyndte "fruen" at holde en
lang moralprædiken for mig om ikke at bygge
lúftslotte, og at jeg búrde blive en almindelig væg-
ge-smörrer, da det var tydeligt, at jeg ingen anlæg
havde for at blive maler, nei da havde hendes börn
ganske anderledes anlæg i den retning; men ingen
af dem havde dog aldrig tænkt paa at blive
malere. Det var mig en pine at höre paa, skjöndt jeg
vidste, at jeg ei behövede at tage mig nogen notis
deraf, da hún jo ikke er "riktig klog", eller rettere sagt
hún er sindsvag. Herfor blev jeg glad, da lensmandens
i det samme kom ind, saa jeg slap væk. Jeg var sint og
sönderknúst, alle mine forhaabninger om at blive maler var
ligesom "sökket i jorden". I sinne gik jeg op paa, værelset
mit og brændte op det maleri, som de havde údtalt sig saa
foragtelig om, og jeg var beslúttet paa aldrig at male
noget, förend jeg havde lært noget ordentlig og ialfald
aldrig viser dem noget, thi jeg syntes der var overgaaet
mig en skjændsel, som jeg aldrig kúnde forvinde. Men det
værste ventede mig endú; thi da jeg kom ned igjen,
spúrgte A. mig i alles paahör, om hvad jeg havde
tænkt at blive. Jeg svarede ikke straks; thi det kom
saa plúdselig paa mig. Frú Lind sagde da: "Han har
vist lyst til at blive maler, er det ikke saa?" –
"Han maler", siger "frúen", "nei det var nú det
sidste, han måtte tænke paa; thi han har ikke
det mindste anlæg for den ting, ja han kan ikke
engang tegne saapas, som mine börn eller som
19
Ferdinand Tranaas kúnde for mange aar siden.
Nei hvad tænker dú paa at blive, dú kan jo
ikke gaa her hjemme al din tid?" Jeg holdt paa at
sige en groved, om hvad det kom hede hende ved og om
at passe sine egne financer, (hvilke ikke altid er de bedste;
thi doktorens har altid været flotte folk til at holde
selskaber, saa at saa at de nú er nedsúnkne i gjæld).
men jeg betænkte mig og svarede: "pladsemand".
De andre lo; men jeg gik úd og op i skoven, hvor
tjenestedrengene holdt paa at húgge ved, og der
blev jeg til sent paa kvelden. Da jeg kom
hjem var A. reist med en mand, som hún kjendte.
Dagen efter maatte jeg kjöre "frúen" ned med
"Brúnen" vor. Underveis fortsatte hún med moralpræ-
dikenerne fra den foregaaende dag og fortalte, at
hún havde en bog, hvoraf man skúlde lære at
blive saa ædel, dydig o.s.v. og mente, at jeg búrde
læse den. Jeg havde nær sagt, at man búrde
trække bjelken úd af sit eget öie, förend man trækker
flisen skjeven úd af sin broders. Hendes moralprædikener
var saa modbydelige, at jeg hele veien sad med en be-
klemmende fölelse, der ikke blev bedre ved det store
rúm, som hendes úhyre corpús optog, först da vi
var fremme, åndede jeg lettere; thi nú vidste jeg da, at jeg
var fri for denne gang. Tilsidst bad hún mig da,
komme ned til Förde og besöge dem. Jeg sagde man-
ge tak; men jeg vilde nok hellere være hjemme.
Dú synes vel, at jeg nú fortæller vel údförlig; men dú bad
mig jo i dit brev derom. Mange tanker og planer har
jeg havt; men jeg forkaster dem altid lige snard som
jeg faar dem. Mit höieste önske er at kúnne faa
komme paa en tegneskole og faa lære noget og derefter
forsöge at komme paa et kúnstakademi, og det vil
jeg, og skal jeg, selv om det skal tage tid, förend
jeg faar anledning dertil; thi far vil nok sætte sig
imod til det yderste, ja han er saa forbitret over, at
jeg vil blive maler, at han siger, at han hellere
vil se mig i den simpleste haadverkerstilling, (som skomager)
end at jeg skal faa blive noget saadant. Det nytter
intet at sige, at jeg jo kúnde faa lov til at forsöge
21
et aar paa tegneskolen i Kristiania; thi da tror
han vel, at jeg (skal) vil faa mere lyst paa malningen,
og af den grúnd er det vel ogsaa, at han ikke liker
at jeg tegner nú heller. Han bliver saa sint, naar
jeg f begynder at tale om dette, at jeg for fredens
skyld helst úndgaar at tale om det. Alle her forsöger
at betage mig lysten og modet, idet de taler om den
store mængde af malere, og om at jeg ikke har de for-
nödne forúdsætninger til kunne slaa igjennom o.s.v
så at jeg ofte selv maa tro deres fornúftsgrúnde. Og det
lykkes dem ogsaa ofte at beröve mig modet, saa at jeg
bliver pessimist, om jeg ikke var det för. Men det
skal aldrig lykkes dem at beröve mig lysten,
tvertimod deres haan og fornúft-taler ægger mig
kún til at faa större lyst, og jeg brænder efter at
faa komme úd og lære noget om malning og tegning,
men jeg maa nok indtil videre smörre mig med taal-
modighed. Den eneste slags egentlige tegning, som jeg
for tiden driver paa med, er lidt monstertegning til
smettetæpper. Det er en g kúnstgren, som jeg ikke
hidtil har intereseret mig noget for af den simple
grúnd, at jeg ikke har seet noget videre af den slags
för. Her er forresten alt trist og sörgerligt. Min gamle
ven Jörgen Lind, der var reist "tilsös", er nylig kommen
hjem og har tæring, han ligger nú for döden, og da
kom bort til ham for at höre, om jeg kúnde faa tale
med ham, fik jeg den beskjed, at han var saa syg,
at han ingen anden end sine nærmeste taalte om sig sig
Trygve Sten har ogsaa faaet tæring (han er en fætter af
Jörgen). Nei nú maa jeg vist slútte, det bliver saa sent, jeg
faar hellere fortsætte imorgen. – –
Vel begyndt er ikke altid halv fúldendt, og saaledes er
det ogsaa med min brevskrivning. Det er nú idag en
úge siden, jeg begyndte at skrive, saaledes gaar det
naar man opsætter en ting, – jeg er rigtig en slusk til at
skrive. Der har været saa meget i denne uge, at det
har ikke blevet. Nú er Jörgen gaaet ind i dödsriget.
Döden den store og mörke aand, for hvem for
hvem alt blegner har bredt sine sorte vinger
over Jörgen. Ja Jörgen fik en stille död thi han döde
23
i en tro. Naar man saaledes ser döden for sine öine,
gribes man af rædsel og tænker paa, naar en selv
skal samme vei. Jeg kunde fristes til at misúnde
Jörgen, der fikk slippe saa let og med en saadan fred
næsten úden dödskamp, – han havde et haab efter
döden, vel den, der kan have et saadant. Hvor únder-
lig det er, Jörgen döde júst som vaaren skúlde bryde frem
og det förste vaarbúd naaede ham, netop idet samme
han skúlde lúkke sine öine; thi en stær kom og
satte sig ved rúgekassen lige údenfor det aabent
staaende vindú i det samme öieblik, som han
forlod denne tilværelse. Jeg fik först se ham, da
han laa der som lig. Det var saa únderligt, det
var ikke som om det jeg kúnde tænke mig, at det skúlde være et lig, det vil sige
det stöv, som er tilbage, og som skal være jord
om kort tid. Der fandtes var ikke spor af dödskamp at
merke i hans træk, et svagt smil oplyste hans ansigt
som et gjenskin fra – – hvad – maaske det han
havde seet bag döden, – jeg ved ikke hvad jeg skal
tro. Min overbevisning har jo altid været, at det ikke
kommer dommen ved, hvorledes man er paa det sid-
ste; men at man i dödsriget faar lide for hver en-
kelt synd langere eller kortere tid og paa forskjellig
maade alt efter syndens störrelse og beskaffenhed,
og naar straffetiden er forbi skal alle forenes i
"sjælenes rige", hvor den Store Gúd Aand skal lade en-
hver udföre det arbeide, som her hans <hú> stod til,
og som her var idealet for hans stræben. Jörgen ligger
nú begravet paa kirkegaarden, hvor han hviler lige
i nærheden af mine tre söskende. Tiden siger
langsom og ensformig fremover. Alt her er saa
trist og trangt, og jeg længes úd, disse fjelde
stenger, – jeg kan nú forstaa B. Björnsons "over de
höie fjelde". Men jeg holder af disse fjelde de er
mig saa kjendte, de sidder saa dybt i min erindring,
skjöndt jeg næsten synes, at de har forandret sig lidt,
de er ikke saa höie som för, synes jeg; men naar jeg
ser hen paa "Aasen", Svarthammaren og Kariham-
rene, da dúkker minder op – glade minder fúlde
af vemod og længsel mod det, der aldrig kan vende
tilbage. Der oppe ser jeg saa mange kjendte steder,
der ligger en stor sten oppe i marken, den ind-
bildte jeg mig altid som liden, at det var en
húnd, som sad og gjöede. Der ovenfor er en liden
tue hvor rart det er at se den igjen, – der staar
Bertel for min erindring. Han var vor gamle
gjætergút, og vi to var omtrent paa samme alder.
Vi tændte op baal deroppe om höst – og vaar –
saavelsom i de lyse sommer aftener og talte om
hver vor "hjertenskjær", medens vi varmede os
ved det spragende enerbaal. Dú gamle Bertel
vi var saa gode venner, som jeg vist aldrig har
været med nogen hverken för eller siden! Vi betroede
hinanden hverandres sorger og hemmeligheder vore
planer og önsker; men de svandt húrtig de dage,
og siden min gjenkomst til Jölster har jeg kún talt
ganske flygtig med ham engang, og nú-imorgen
skal han reise til Amerika og jeg faar vist aldrig –
– aldrig se ham mere. Jeg kommer netop til at
huske paa en jonsok-nat, jeg fúlgte ham op til Aal-
hús-sæteren og besögte Synneve, som var hans hjertes
úkaarne, – da vi gik opover marken hvor lykkelig var han ikke da – ja jeg
ogsaa dengang; thi A. havde nylig været paa be-
sög, og jeg gik endnú og tænkte paa den glade
fölelse, der gjennembærede mig, da hún bad mig hjælpe
hende, og jeg löftede hende ind paa "Katteloftet", et
mörkt, tomt loft, der ligesom et andet lignende
loft paa præstegaarden {... ...} kun brugtes til opp gjemmested
for kasser. Ingen af tjenerne túrde gaa der ind,
da de frygtede for "spögeri", og jeg var ogsaa som liden
meget ræd dette loft, især siden jeg engang syntes at se
to stygge grönne lysende öine inde i mörket; men
da jeg blev större, vovede jeg at krybe ind, hvilket
ikke var nogen let sag, hvis man havde skjörter,
da loftet var meget útiljangeligt. Noget af det förste, jeg
opdagede, var en hemmelig "lúge" i væggen og denne lúge tog
jeg strax af, og det blev lyst inde paa loftet, og herefter
blev dette loft mit kjæreste tilflúgtsted, naar jeg fölte
mig forúrettet eller vilde blive úopdaget. Lúgen satte
jeg altig omhyggelig ind efter mig og skjúlte den
27
med en bred fjæl. Dette loft udövede ogsaa en til-
trækkende magt over A., især da hún fik höre et
sagn om dette loft, og da jeg fortalte om den hemmelige
lúge, var det, at hún bad mig hjælpe hende didop. Da
vi kom ind til lúgen og tog denne bort, viste jeg
hende nogle navn paa en bjelke, det var tidlige presters
dötre, som havde skrevet sine navn der. Jeg kom altid
i en saadan únderlig stemning, naar jeg var derinde og
saa disse navn, det var som om der kom et púst fra
"gamle dage" fra romantikkens tider; thi det er en me-
get gammel prestegaard denne, mere en húndrede
aar. Der var saa hyggeligt derinde, naar vi sad og
fortalte historier; ingen kunde se os skjöndt "lúgen"
var oppe; thi lige údenfor húsvæggen stod et birke-
træ, der fúldstændig skjúlte húllet i væggen úden-
ifra og sendte en frisk dúft fra sine nyúdsprúngne
blade ind til os. Anna skrev ogsaa sit navn
paa bjelken – og nú efterat alt dette er for-
bi, gaar jeg ofte, naar jeg er lei og kjed af tilværel-
sen, ind paa dette loft og betragter navnet paa
28
bjelken og tænker tilbage paa de dage, da alt
var lyst, og jeg altid saa lyst paa livet. –
Som ovenfor nævnt, er der paa præstegaarden et til lof
saadant mörkt loft, der ligesom "Katte-loftet" paa
aar og dag aldrig betrædes af noget menneske. – Hin
Jonsokaften altsaa gik jeg og drömte om alt dette,
som nylig var hændt, og baade Bertel og jeg var meget
lykkelige – kanske Bertel mest; thi han skúlde jo
snart se sin flamme. Da vi kom op til sætervolden
og fik se Synneve sidde der og se nedover dalen,
vilde Bertel ikke gaa længere; men jeg mente
at havde han först narret mig op, saa vilde jeg i det
mindste ikke gaa ned igjen, för vi fik os lidt "römmeaske".
Jeg gik derfor hen og hilste et "godkvæld" til hende
og fortalte, at der var en viss person, som sad údenfor
paa "Rabben" (en liden haúg over en skrænt) og vilde tale
med hende. Synneve reiste sig da og gik hen mod Bertel,
der mod min forventning ikke tog flúgten; men
reiste sig og gik hende i möde og hilste. Hún bad os
nú ind, og vi fik "römmeaske", som jeg strax gjorde ind-
29
húg i, da jeg var meget súlten, medens Bertel
fúldstændig havde tabt madlysten. Derpaa böd
hún os "Kvanne"-stilker, som hún havde plukket
inde i "Bottnen", og jeg tog med mig nogle stilker og
gik úd paa "Rabben" for at lade dem alene. –
Her gik jeg henover lyngheden, – det var sent –, únder
mig laa Jölstervandet mörkt og svart, nede i
lien kaglede orhanen, og den lette vind bragte
et og andet elskovsord hen til mig fra de to
og vakte vemodige tanker hos mig, – jeg saa ned
mod vest. Langt der nede, hvor den lysegrönne
skjærsommernats-himmel stödte sammen med
de mörke lave fjelde – dernede, – mellem de to
aasene der, hvor Jölstraelven glitrede i búgtnin-
ger, der langt nede boede A. Længe blev jeg staaender der,
lige til jeg saa, at der mod nord begyndte at
lægge sig et svagt lillafarvet skjær over "Blaani-
pen". – Det var den kommende dag, der sendte sin
forlöber hen paa den höieste fjeldtop. – Da gik
jeg hen til Bertel og sagde, at vi vist maatte
gaa ned igjen nú. Efter en for Bertel túng skils-
misse, gik vi raskt nedover mod dalen, hvor
mörket (natten) endnú rúgede med et ugjennemtrængeligt
slör, medens dagen holdt sit indtog paa fjeldet.
Vi var meget múntre i særdeleshed Bertel; thi
Synneve havde nok besvaret hans varme fölelser. –
Hvor godt húsker jeg ikke endnú Bertels skikkelse,
der han gik inde mellem de lange orrestammer
i den mörke tætte "Hans-andersskogen", som vi kaldte
den del af skogen, der var tættest. Vi talte om
fremtiden og alle de herligheder, som den skúlde
bringe. Men vi blev skúffede begge to. Jeg saale-
des som dú har hört. Bertel paa en anden maade.
(Aaret för) I fjor vinter vaaren 1896 strax efter at Marie Qúamme (Jörgens
flamme og en söster af Th. Qúamme, tante Kaias mand) var ble-
ven begravet, hún var nemlig död af tæring, saa blev
Synneve syg – det var en thorsda thorsdags morgen,
da hún vaagnede og sagde; "I nat drömte jeg, at jeg
saa mig selv "ligge lig", og dé havde pyntet mig
saa pent med gúle blomster". Hún blev snart
31
værre syg, og doktoren forböd hende at spise
næsten nogen ting. – Næste thorsdag laa hún
ogsaa virkelig "lig" pyntet med gúle paaskelilier.
Hún var bleven angreben af galoperende tæring lige-
som Mari Qúamme og Kirkesangeren... –
I morgen skal Bertel reise til Amerika, han var
her igaar og vilde sige farvel til mig; men jeg
var úheldigvis ikke hjemme, jeg var paa Hægrenes i
Jörgens begravelse, og nú faar jeg gjerne ikke se ham,
förend han reiser. Det gaar sent med, at vaaren skal
komme, skjöndt stæren er kommen, jeg saa den förste
gang et lidtet öieblik förend vi fik únderretningen om
Jörgens död. Da sad stæren oppe i Asketrærene
og flöitede, – det blev Jörgens dödsmúsik. Min
dödsmúsik bliver vist noget ganske andet og úhygge-
ligt – jeg kan ligesom úndertiden, naar jeg er alene
og sidder længe stille höre en úhyggelig lyd
(samme, hvor jeg har været) af hjúl, der rúller og ram-
ler saa únderlig úndertiden ligesom inde i væg-
gen, – standser og begynder igjen. Det er som et
maskineri, der tungt stönnende arbeider sig nærmere
og nærmere, og der paakommer mig en ængstelse,
og det bliver mig saa úhyggelig, – det er som
om dödsrigets magter rörer sig, og som om aander
skúlde være nærværende, og det er som, om jeg hörer
fjerne trommehvirvler og hæse menneskestemmer.
Er det i sövne jeg har det saaledes, synes det mig, som
om jeg hörer en lyd fra dören, – en lyd som om nogen
skrabede paa den med negle, og derpaa forekommer
det mig at dören aabnes, og jeg ser en sort gam-
mel styg hex af en kjærring med giftige grönne öine
og lange {...} hæslige arme, der ligesom griber úd
efter en; og derpaa rörer hún sig – glider langs
væggen hen únder bordet, hvor jeg kún ser de lysende
grönne öine, der stirrer lige imod mig som en ond
aand, — Derpaa er det som om öinene "vrænger",
og det blir vække, og jeg kjender tydelig i sövne,
at noget ligesom en haand griber mig i siden
og ryggen, saa jeg holder paa at miste pústen – jeg
skriger i; men faar ikke en lyd frem, för jeg endelig
33
vaagner. Kommer jeg i mörke ind paa værelset
synes jeg ofte, at jeg ser en lang böiet skikkelse, der
staar og helder sig mod væggen. – – – –
Alt er saa sörgeligt og mörkt nú, jeg ser ingen
lysning, – mine planer rýker nok jo i filler den
ene efter den anden, saa jeg tror snart, det er det
bedste at reise langt bort og blive tjenestedreng
hos en bonde og saa blive pladsemand; thi jeg skjön-
ner, at jeg aldrig faar blive noget, jeg har lyst til ligevel.
Giv mig et godt raad Giverholt; thi jeg er saa
"raalaús!" Jeg holder nú paa at lære engelsk, og jeg
vil haabe, at jeg maa lære den bedre end latinen
i Throndhjem. Jeg faar liden tid til tegning nú,
da vi har forsömt skolen saa ofte, at vi maa tage det igjen.
Om jeg har en liden stund nú og da, saa synes jeg, at
det er ikke nogen tid til at begynde paa noget, og
mine tegninger indskrænker sig derfor til nogle skisser.
I den senere tid har her været údmerket kjælke-
före, og min broder Peter og jeg har hver dag været hoit oppe
i "marken" og rendt ned (paa) over en slovei (en vei ad hvil-
ken man kjörer höi ned fra fjeldet eller slottelöerne).
Det gik med en rasende fart, saa at det var far-
ligt, vist hvis man ikke styrede godt. I den senere tid
har jeg drevet paa med forskjelligt deriblandt
ogsaa med "músejagt", og jeg har nú paa circa en
uges tid fanget 64 stykker, far giver nemlig Peter og
mig 2 a 3 öre músen. Jeg har her fúndet en bekjendt
fra Throndhjem, nemlig Sigúrd Storm, en brodersön
af den berömte "Lús-Storm" i Throndhjem. Vi er bleven
meget gode venner, og jeg har været nede og besögt
ham paa Moe landbrúgsskole, hvor hans farbroder er
bestyrer. Jeg holder bladet "Frem", dú kjender det vel,
jeg synes det er meget interesant, og jeg tvivler ikke
om, at enhver vilde kúnne lære at tegne nogen-
lúnde godt efter den i det derværende tegnekúrsús
angivne anvisning; men det er jo bare som en
slags A-B-C og saa man kan ikke hente nogen dybere
kúndskab om kunsten derifra. Nú er igjen brevskriv-
ningen bleven forsömt; thi just som jeg sad og
skrev, fik jeg beskjed om at Sigúrd Storm var nede.
35
Han var kommen op til Jölster for at besöge mig.
Det var skiföre, og vi gik bort til Nikolai Lind,
Jörgens bror og fik ham med ind i "Dalen", hvor vi
rendte paa ski. Dagen efter rendte vi paa kjælke; men saa maatte Sigúrd reise ned til
Moe igjen. Nogle dage efter kom Nikolai Lind hen
til mig og spúrgte, om jeg ikke havde lyst til
at være med paa en skitúr over fjeldet ned til
Förde og derfra til Moe; thi det var saa morsomt
at reise paa steder, hvor man aldrig havde været
för, og desúden var det jo en "snarvei" til Förde.
Jeg havde natúrligvis lyst; men jeg tvivlede paa, at jeg
fik lov hos far; men da jeg fik det, reiste vi strax.
(Senere fik jeg höre, at Nikolai Lind ikke havde faaet
lov at reise over fjeldet; men vel til at fölge lande-
veien.) Vi gik opover mod "Svidalsskaret" og kom
efter megen besvær op paa fjeldet; thi sneen
var i de p bratte bakker af-fögen, saa at det var som
at gaa paa is. Det gik nú henover snesletten,
hvor kún en og anden mindre top eller aas sagede
op. Da vi kom forbi et vidje-kjær, flöi der nogle
fjeldryper op. Da vi kom frem paa "nipen", havde
vi en br eneste brakke [sic] ned hele veien, saa vidt vi
kúnde se; men da man saa höit tilfjelds i den
gjennemsigtige luft vanskelig kan skjelne distancer,
og fordybninger og forhöininger, saa maatte vi <krydse>
os nedover paa siderne. Nú kom ned i et lidet
dalföre, og skjönt vi paa forhånd havde forhört os
saa noie om veien, gik vi dog helt rúndt om en aas,
förend vi fandt rette veien. Snar bar det atter
opover mod höiden, og nú begyndte föret at blive
daarligt; thi solen havde "töiet" slig i bakkerne,
at det "klabbede". Det begyndte at lide úd paa kvel-
den, förend vi naaede toppen, og da vi naaede derop
var solen gaaet ned, og der begyndte at lægge
sig et lag med "skare" udover sneen. Vi lod det
gaa ret "únda", da vi saa nogle sætre langt
nedenfor. Det gik súsende nedover paa skaren; og men
heldigvis var sneen saa dyb, at den dækkede alle
úgjevnheder og alle smaabúsk, som maatte være
der. Farten ögede stadig, og snart gik det saa súsende,
37
at jeg fik taarer i öinene, og jeg maatte "húke"
mig ned for at holde balansen. Nikolai Lind
blev vække, og jeg turde ikke se mig tilbage af
frygt for at falde; thi jeg maatte anspænde mig
til det yderste for at staa. Da jeg kom ned paa
sætervolden, rendte jeg paa nogle hesjestaurer, som
stak op af sneen, og de sprat af, úden at jeg gjorde
mig noget. Först da jeg kom ned paa en liden flade
nedenfor slæ sæteren, <formaede> jeg at standse. Nú
maatte jeg snú mig og se efter Nikolai; men han
var ikke at opdage nogensteds, og der gik, som jeg
syntes, en hel evighed, förend jeg saa ham komme
frem paa bakken ved sætrene. Han havde, som han
selv sagde, faldt fire gange, medens jeg, allerede
g oppe paa höifjeldet, havde faldt mindst de 8.
Nú var han forúndret over, at jeg havde kúnnet staa den-
ne bakken; thi han var jo en flinkere skilöber end
jeg. Han har taget præmie oppe i Hamarfest i et skirend,
hvor han hoppede 14 meter, medens jeg, i al den tid
jeg var i Throndjem, aldrig kom paa ski. Nedenfor
os havde vi nú en svær björkeli, hvor der gik en
slags vei; men da denne var meget brat og kroget,
valgte vi at finde os vei ned gjennen skogen
paa kryds og tvers. Nikolai Lind var saa træt, at
han næsten ikke kúnde staa paa skierne, og der-
for valgte han at sætte sig paa dem og "age", me-
dens jeg af frygt for at miste skierne, om jeg
skúlde falde, beholdt dem paabúndne paa födder-
ne. Det gik meget sent med Nikolai Lind, og jeg
maatte derfor gaa i forveien for at finde vei, og som-
me tider maatte jeg vente lange sty stunder paa
ham, da der altid var noget iveien med skierne.
Det kom vel med, at jeg fik fat i en stav; thi ellers
g havde det været næsten úmúligt for mig at
rende paa ski i skogen, da man ofte maatte "braastandse"
Nikolai havde he altid údtalt saa foragteligt om
at bondegútterne brúgte stav; men siden denne
tid har han indrömmet, at staven nok er god
at have paa fjeldet, oog naar man farer paa ú-
kjendte steder. Langt om længe kom vi da ned i
39
dalen, hvor vi traf folk, som sagde os, at vi havde
vel en mil igjen til Förde endnú. Nikolai blev
rent miströstig og vilder helst slaa sig til ro
der i en hytte; men jeg mente det var en skam
ikke at komme til Förde om kvelden, og saa
klemte vi ivei igjen, det var imidlertid bleven
mörkt og jeg var ogsaa begyndt at blive træt. Nikolai
vilde – hvile ret som det var; men jeg vidste, at
begyndte man vi först at hvile, blev vi meget snarere
údtrættede. Tilsidst satte han sig da ned paa en
sten og bad om at faa hvile, jeg m kúnde naturlig-
vis ikke sige nei; og men fra nú af maatte han
sætte sig "alt i et", og det var med den störste
möie, jeg fik ham til at rise sig igjen. Men da vi
kom ned til de förste Fördegaardene, hvor vi var
kjendt blev Nikolai lidt kvikkere, og jeg skjöndte
nú, at det gjaldt at benytte sig heraf, og derfor
skyndte jeg paa af alle kræfter. Endelig kom vi da
ned til Hafstad, hvor vi pleide at tage ind, og det
var nok paa höie tid vi kom; thi folk holdt alt paa at gaa
40
til sengs. Vi var nú et par dage i Förde og besögte Sigurd.
Nú er jeg avanceret til decorationsmaler, idet jeg fik
den ære sammen med Marie Lind at decorere
æresporten i <Kirsangeren> Ole Qúammes bryllup (han er en
bror af tante Kaias mand). Vi decorerte hver vor side af
porten. Marie malte blaaklokker, der omslyngede orde-
ne "Til Lykke". Jeg malte ogsaa disse ordene med gamle norske
"norske" bog staver; noget lignende, men meget penere
end i begyndelses bogstaverne i "Húndemordet" og omtrent 20 cm. höie. Rúndt
om havde jeg malet nogle "klungergrene (eller nype-
torngrene) med en mængde lyseröde roser og knopper,
der var omgivet af grönne blade. Min decoration
med dens friske farver faldt natúrligvis mere
i smag hos Jölstringerne, som altid ynder friske
farver (fex. i kúnstvævningen) og dette havde jeg natúrlig-
vis beregnet. Dú maa fortælle mig lidt nyt fra "Kúnst-
udstillingen og beskrive lidt nöie det, dú liker bedst hvad
farver og contyrer angaar. Dú fortæller, at Klykken skal údgive en
bog, dú holder vel selv paa at skrive en, kan jeg tænke. Dú maa fortæl-
mig noget derom. Her sender jeg dig nogle tegninger, om dú ikke vil
mig noget derom. Her sender jeg dig nogle tegninger, om dú ikke vil
forsmaa dem, det er jo mine förste vaklende forsög. Du maa hilse alle,
som jeg kjender paa skolen; men dú hilses selv mest fra din altid hengivne og
oprigtige ven og skolekammerat Nikolai Astrup
Illustrasjon
Illustrasjon
Translation
[march 1898]
1
My Good friend.
Yes you are right, I am a very poor letter
writer! What shall I say, and how shall
I excuse myself? No it is best to
throw all excuses overboard; for
my friend Giverholt, – if I still dare to call
him such, – will not have anyone "pull the wool
over his eyes". This might be possible with respect to my
friend Peder Hoskildsen. Oh, to be able
to write as well as Giverholt! Yet I fear
his shrewdly calculated criticism, though
I am aware from experience, that in such cases,
he is capable of affecting an air of indifference.
First of all I must thank you so
much for your two letters. It was disgraceful
of me not to answer your first letter,
as I had sufficient time then. You must
forgive my handwriting, it has been so long
since I have written any letters, that I am now
entirely unaccustomed to writing. You ask
how I am getting along as a teacher – well it
is not much of a school, the one I am running,
the worst is teaching the A-B-C’s to my second
youngest brother Kristian; for this requires
a degree of patience that is greater than mine.
But it is true, private matters shall
come last. A little whiff of air from the art
world does reach us as if by pure chance from time
to time up here in these backwoods;
but it is not enough to survive on throughout
the long gloomy winter season. So the newspaper
"Morgenposten" calls Thaulow Norway’s leading
painter. Well let me say what you so often said yourself:
"De gustibus non disputandum est". (It is best
to show off what little one remembers of one’s Latin.)
Well in my opinion E. Werenskiold is number
one, when it comes to skill and likewise refinement,
a sure hand and most of all the atmosphere in his paintings
and drawings; he is unrivalled. Fritz
3
Thaulow can be brilliant in details,
can capture refinement in his evocative pictures (morning and
evening atmospheres); but where is "life" or the human being
with his sorrow and joy fear or torment
toil and repose? Where is "everyday life" with its
imagination and reality? Where is the ideal-
ism that endures down through the ages – precisely in
E. Werenskiold. And that is exactly why I believe
that his art will endure, and because he
is not among the ranks of the decadent,
I believe he is the leading painter. There is
something very Norwegian about him, he is no
marine painter; rather he depicts daily life
in the mountain villages. He has just now in the past
few days had a painting accepted in the Annual Autumn
Exhibition that is called "Sisters", and that was described
in the newspapers as the most accomplished among the figure
paintings, and its strength in particular was said to reside in
the likeness between the sisters, its refinement,
style and use of shadow. Poor Gude! he has now
also lost his steadfast admirer Giverholt.
H.F. Gude is great when it comes to depicting dead
nature "the rock’s gruesome solitude", and his paintings of
high mountains are magnificent and make a powerful impression.
Now he paints mostly only watercolours.
Th. Holmboe’s evocative pictures – in those, where he does not
spread himself too thin – belong among the best that I
have ever seen, likewise when it comes to characterisation in faces.
His "Dyveke", which was reproduced as a Christmas card
belongs among the best that I have seen in that genre.
I must express my opinion of G. Munthe in a similar laudatory,
and elevated tone; since this latter painter is the one
who comes closest to Werenskiold, and he ranks, as far
as imagination goes, above Holmboe, who is often excessively
emotional. While we are on the subject of imagination and atmosphere,
I must not refrain from mentioning one who, in ma-
ny respects ranks far above Holmboe, namely
Th. Kittelsen. He is not excessively emotional;
yet there is at times such imagination and
feeling in his pictures, such a unified impression
5
that even the most hostile opponents of fantasy must
agree with his way of thinking. There is a healthy
imagination in his pictures, a powerful and characteristic technique.
He must be an intelligent man, this
Kittelsen, a man who knows how to
empathise with people’s feelings and imagination, he is himself
a "son of the people", and therefore it is reasonable that
he understands how to put himself in their frame of mind and
surroundings (nature). Yes, he must be familiar with
nature, his depictions of nature are lifelike, which
Holmboe’s sometimes are not. But he also understands how to be
realistic, and I am certainly no enemy of that kind of
realism, as when Kittelsen depicts the
old fisherman’s furrowed face and
coarse hands worn by weather, work
and toil, as he carries out his tasks on
the rough sea; or when he Kittelsen depicts the ship’s pilot,
as he keeps a lookout with his sharp gaze
across the mighty waves that threaten to rise
and crash over the boat. Kittelsen knows how
to paint this; for he has experienced
it himself. His folk tale illustrations are completely
on a par with Munthe’s. He also has a sense of
humour, and it is perhaps for this
reason he has become as popular
as he has. He can be bitingly witty
regarding those he hates, (in particular wealthy city merchants and the
military); and he knows how to characterise
them in an utterly splendid manner; but perhaps for
that reason he does not find favour
with those gentleman critics; for in that case he
would have attained quite a different position as
a painter. Christian Krohg is indulgent in his real-
ism and sanguine in his colour composition, executes
certain things with photographic precision, (he first photographs
everything, before he paints), while other things,
which can be equally important,
are merely sketched. Both Krohg and Heyerdahl are basically imi-
tators of P. Nicolai Arbo and Edv. Munch. The latter
I cannot abide, everything that he does is
supposed to be so brilliant, that it doesn’t have to be more
than merely sketched. Otto Sinding has the
7
same failing lately (well, partially); for that matter he
resembles H.F. Gude a little in his landscapes. Chr. Skredsvig has, as far
as I can tell, endeavoured to imitate the Chinese
brush drawings when it comes to contours; for
like these they stand out with exceptional aplomb,
elegance and vitality in the lines. His motifs
often resemble Holmboe’s. He is moreover a bit of a
Werenskiold man and on his way to becoming one of Norway’s most
popular painters. Of Bernt Grønvold’s works I have seen
very little, only pen and ink drawings; but what I have
seen gives a very good impression. He is supposed
to have painted several altarpieces and is a little like Werenskiold.
Axel Ender and Eilif Peterssen resemble one another
a lot and like the Swedish painter Jenny Nyström are a bit
too idealistic. Olaf Krohn attempts to imitate
just about every Norwegian painter, and as such
vacillates between imitating: Holmboe, Werenskiold,
C.K. – A.B. – TK and several others, among them Chr. Skredsvig, whom
he can be quite good at imitating, as well as
T. Holmboe, albeit the latter with the difference, that when
T. Holmboe takes off with long strides,
then Olaf Krohn must tag along as best
he can; for T. Holmboe’s footprints are rather
too large for poor Krohn (Kittelsen’s
watercolour "Tread always in your father’s footsteps"
comes inevitably to mind). But when he imitates E.W.
it has quite the reverse effect, poor man, and
I believe this adage suits him:
"cobbler, stick to your last!", and the last
is surely in this case A. Bloch, for whom as a
painter my esteem has nearly sunk to 0.
I have seen his cover for this year’s
issue of "Juleroser" [Christmas magazine] which I
received as a Christmas gift, and I must say, that
it is the most pathetic cover I have seen
on any "Juleroser". It was an allegory composed
of the most screeching colours, that must hurt the
eyes of anyone, who has a sense of good
colour composition. And then the terrible proportions:
the enormous man and the little pony of a horse (it
was not a Norwegian horse, in any case). What I like best are his
9
simple drawings for children. Among the foreign
painters I like the Danish best. Louis Moe
has most of Th. Kittelsen’s good attributes.
His drawings for children are among the best I
have seen of the kind, they are simple; yet Power-
ful drawings with bright colours and an excellent
colour composition, which at times can put
even a G. Munthe to shame. Among the younger
painters in Norway, there is one in particular, who in time
will undoubtedly become a leading figure. He is presently
illustrator of the "Barnets blad" [children’s magazine] and his name is Olaf Gul-
bransson. He has such vitality in his lines, such
simplicity in the execution and such a unique
ability to place himself inside the minds of children,
that "Barnets Blad" without a doubt could not have
had a more fortuitous illustrator; yet
what makes his drawings most interesting for
me, is that I have often had the same thoughts
myself, I have felt the same moods, and I have
wished to put on paper the same style,
and the same ideas
long before I had seen his drawings; but
the technical difficulties have hindered me.
Now I am surely boring you as I have before
with my inane (!) remarks; I
never seem to be able to express myself as I wish.
I have little knowledge of the art of writing,
and none of the more recent books make their way
up here to the mountains. I like
Thomas P. Krag’s stories very much, and since
I never heard you mention him, I would
very much like to hear your opinion of him. I have
read his book "Vesterfra" [“From Out West”], likewise "Lo og andre
fortællinger" ["Lo and other stories"] and some short stories,
among them "Fangen" ["The Captive"]. Among the events in Europe,
the Dreyfus case is, of course, the one that is foremost
in the minds of people. It has greatly interested me
as well, and I have avidly read everything
that has been written about it in the papers.
You Giverholt and I had more often than not
11
opposing views, when it came to
events in the rest of Europe, as when you
supported the Greeks and I the Turks.
It is my hope, that our opinions are not in
conflict with one another now. It is my
opinion, that the imprisonment of Dreyfus and Zola's
judgement is one of the greatest injust-
ices and miscarriages of justice that have ever
been committed. That Dreyfus is innocent,
that is my firm belief, and one can
become "outright angry", when reading about
the course of events. It reminds me of something
from Latin class, a piece we studied with Pedersen
about Appius, who coerced his client to declare
the virgin to be his slave and took her to
court, where he himself was the judge,
because he believed that he could thereby win the case
much more easily, when he himself was both
prosecutor and judge. – You may think that
I am drawing and painting a great deal now; but that is
12
not the case. When I came home this summer,
I began to paint various scenes
from the vicarage and the surroundings, and Marie Lind,
daughter of the bailiff, encouraged me to such a de-
gree that I began to think of travelling
to Kristiania [Oslo] to learn something, (Marie Lind
is very good at drawing herself); but father
did not like the fact that I was drawing and would therefore
not allow me to travel. He is so immensely
against my drawing that I don’t believe that I will ever
receive his blessing to become a painter or anything
of the kind. Then it was time for my Confirmation – the inevit-
able – , and I found it best to submit to it. After my
Confirmation I had little time to draw,
as I had to tutor my siblings,
though I did continue to draw a little; but then
something occurred that completely robbed me of all courage.
It is best to begin at the beginning. You ask
how things are going with A.G., well as far as
her own person is concerned, I hope that she is
13
in the best of health; as for the relationship between
us, I will tell you the story now. At one time I believed, that she
cared a little for me, the first time I saw her, we had
by chance during a game of hide-and-seek hidden in the same hole
in the hay in "Haugland’s barn". There were many children
playing there, and I did not know half of them and nor
did A.; but when I ran into A. up there in the hay
in a deep hole that the children had dug, I became acquainted
with her. It was dark, so I could not see anything
but her profile, that was so cleanly and clearly delineated against
the light that fell in through an opening in the wall; but she
had such a pretty soft voice, and when we later came out of
hiding, and I could see her properly, I became totally infatuated
with her, – and have been ever since –, not long after we played
croquet, and A. and I were on the same team. We even won, and when her
sister suggested changing partners A. refused to, and after that
we two were nearly always on the same team, and we hid in the
same place in the barn or "byre", as we say here.
But this was just a childhood infatuation. – Around that time I
became acquainted with a boy, whose name was Ferdinand Tranaas. He was
several years older than me, (has, by the way, attended Trondheim’s
Latin school) and he was very good at drawing. We
became good friends, but he soon left for Denmark
to go to drawing school, and I was forced to stay with pastor Lunde
for the sake of my health. – It was the beginning of dark times
for me. – My health had improved and I would be allowed to come
home. I looked forward to coming home to see
A.; but when I arrived, A. treated me with such coldness and
contempt that I soon understood that there was nothing more to hope for.
I still remember clearly, the day I met her. Father was going to
visit the doctor and I went along. The ice lay shimmering across
the fjord, and a slight mist drifted in from the fjord.
We were going to go down there to go skating, and I offered
to fasten her skates, something I had done
before, and she turned me down very haughtily; but when another
boy (one of her admirers E.S.) came down to the ice and offered
to fasten her skates, she immediately accepted
his offer. I looked on with a lump in my throat, and when I
saw her skating arm in arm with him, I became so angry
that I unfastened my skates, threw them down
15
on the ice and left. Father was just about to leave for home, and it
was arranged ahead of time that I would remain in
Førde for a week’s time; but I now asked father if I could
leave with him immediately; and half an hour later we were
on our way to Jølster, without having even said
farewell to A. I longed to get away, far away, – I now had
no desire to stay at home either, and I soon
went to stay with Lunde again. Here I had little or
no schooling, and when the doctor forbade me to exert
myself, I developed a taste for indolence, and what was worse,
for strong drink, and neither of them have totally aban-
doned me since; when I was in a bad temper
(for I grieved greatly over the loss of A.) or something did
not go my way, I comforted myself by going to
visit an acquaintance, who sold contraband liquor, and
there I drank until I was drunk. At Lunde’s I got hold of
Darwin, which I read eagerly. Later I came
to Trondheim; but I did not improve much.
You know yourself how I behaved there. In the meantime,
Tranaas came home (in the spring of last year) and began painting. Such a fuss
has been made over him in Førde. Parties were given
for him, and everyone talked about what a fine young man he was;
but these good people should have heard, what the far-
mers here at Jølster could say about him, how
on a hike in the mountains he had seduced a dairy maid,
and another time raped two girls that were 12–13 years
old. Well as mentioned, a great fuss was made over him, and he
also visited the Gløersen’s. Here he immediately became captivated
by A.’s beauty, and remained there for some time in order to draw
her so to speak, and the infatuation evidently soon became mu-
tual. After that day on the ice, I have always avoided
meeting A. as I also did this summer (all the more strange
to hear, that A. supposedly claimed that I was in-
trusive); yet while I refrained from coming down to Førde,
A. did not refrain from coming up to Jølster; for soon
after my Confirmation she and her mother arrived up here.
Since A. knew from before that I drew, she asked to
see my drawings, and her mother did likewise,
and I was dumb enough to show them some pictures
from the vicarage, as well as a little painting of our shepherd
boy and some other pictures. "Tranaas
could draw far better many years ago", proclaims A.
"Yes he has studied a bit", I reply. "No", answered A. "he has
taught himself to draw, no one has taught him anything,
he has said so himself". I understood, that I would end
up picking the shortest straw and therefore kept quiet. "It’s true,
there is no comparison between your works and
Tranaas’ works", says her mother. "Look at the
"shepherd boy", for example. Tranaas would never
have been so indecent as to depict him barefoot and
with a large patch on the back of his trousers!" Both she
and A. expressed their contempt for the picture by calling
it "dreadful". Thereupon the "Mrs." began a
long moral sermon warning me not to build
a castle in the air and that I should become a common
wall decorator, as I obviously lacked the talent
to become a painter, no in that respect her children had
far greater talent in that realm;
yet they had never thought of becoming
painters. It was painful for me to listen to, although I
knew, that I need not take any notice,
since she is not "right in the head", or more precisely
she is insane. That is why I was happy when the bailiff
suddenly came into the room, so I could get away. I was angry and
crushed, all of my hopes of becoming a painter had
veritably "turned to dust". In anger I went upstairs to my
room and burned up the painting that they had spoken so
contemptuously of, and I was determined to never paint
anything, until I had learned something substantial, and in any case
never show them anything, for I felt as though I had
been debased in a way that I could never overcome. Yet the
worst was yet to come; for when I came down again,
A. asked me in the earshot of everyone what I had
planned to be. I did not answer immediately; as the
question was posed so abruptly. Mrs. Lind then said: "He
wants to become a painter, isn’t that so?" –
"He paints", says the "Mrs.", "but that is the
last thing he should think of; for he does not have
the least talent for it, in fact he cannot
even draw as well as my children or as
19
Ferdinand Tranaas could years ago.
Well what have you thought of becoming, you can-
not hang out here at home forever?" I nearly uttered
an obscenity, asked what it had to do with her and that she
should mind her own finances, (which are not always the best;
for the doctor’s folks have always been good at hosting
parties, so that they are now buried in debt).
But I reconsidered and answered: "a cotter".
The others laughed, but I went outside and up into the woods, where
the farmhands were chopping wood, and I
remained there until late into the evening. When I returned
home, A. had left with a man whom she knew.
The following day I had to drive the "Mrs." down with
our brown mare "Brunen". During the ride she continued with her moral
sermon from the previous day and told me, that
she had a book, from which one could learn how to
become noble, virtuous, etc. and was of the opinion that I should
read it. I had almost said why not remove
the beam that is in thine own eye, before you pull
out the mote that is in thy brother’s eye. Her moral sermon
was so loathsome that I sat the whole time with an op-
pressive feeling, which was not made any better by the great
space her immense body took up, it was not until we
had arrived that I breathed more easily; for I knew then that I
was free for the time being. Finally she invited me to
come down to Førde to visit them. I said many
thanks, but I would rather remain at home.
You may think, that my account is rather too detailed; yet you asked
me to in your letter. I have had many thoughts
and plans; but I always discard them as soon as
they occur to me. My greatest wish is to be allowed
to go to art school and to learn something and then
to try to get into an art academy, and I
will, and I shall, even if it will take time before
I get the opportunity to do it; for father will no doubt
oppose it fiercely, in fact he is so bitter about the fact
that I wish to become a painter that he says, that he would
rather see me as the simplest craftsman, (as a shoemaker),
than see me become something of the kind. There is no
point asking him to just let me try out
21
one year at the Royal School of Design in Kristiania; for
he will then think, that I will just want to paint even more,
and that is most likely also why he does not like
me to draw now either. He becomes so angry, when
I begin to talk about this matter, that to keep the
peace I prefer to avoid talking about it. Everyone here attempts
to rob me of my desire and courage, by talking about the
great number of painters, and about how I do not have the
necessary requirements to succeed, etc.
so that I myself am often forced to believe the logic of their arguments. And
they often succeed in robbing me of my courage, so that I
become pessimistic, if I was not so already. But they
will never succeed in robbing me of my desire,
on the contrary their disdain and sensible speeches only
serve to increase my desire, and I am burning to
get away and to learn something about painting and drawing,
but for the time being I must be
patient. The only real drawing I am doing
at the moment is drawing patterns for
tapestries. It is a field of art that I have not
been interested in until now for the simple
reason, that I have not seen anything of the kind
before. As for the rest, everything here is sad and depressing. My old
friend Jørgen Lind, who had been "at sea", has recently
returned home and has consumption, he is on his deathbed now,
and when I went to visit him to hear if I could speak
with him, I was told that he was so ill that he could
not bear to have anyone besides his closest family around him.
Tryggve Steen has also fallen ill with consumption (he is a cousin of
Jørgen’s). But now I must stop, it is getting late, I
will continue tomorrow instead. – –
A job well begun is not always half done, and such is the
case with my letter writing as well. It is now, today, a
week ago since I began to write, that is how it goes
when one delays something, – I am truly a slacker when it comes
to writing. So much has occurred this week, that
nothing came of it. Jørgen has now passed into the realm of the dead.
Death the great dark spirit, for whom
all things pale, has spread its black wings
over Jørgen. Yes Jørgen had a peaceful death for he died
23
in faith. When one looks death in the eye like this,
one is gripped with terror and imagines the day one
will follow the same path. I might be tempted to envy
Jørgen, who managed to get by so easily and with such serenity
almost without a death struggle, – he had hope in the after-
life, blessed is the one, who can have such hope. How strange
it is, Jørgen died just as spring was about to break out
and the first messenger of spring reached him just as
he was about to shut his eyes; for a starling came and
settled in the birdhouse right outside the window
that stood open in the same instant that he
departed from this existence. I first saw him when
he lay there as a corpse. It was so strange, it
was not like I would imagine a corpse should be; that is,
the dust that remains, which will shortly turn to
earth. There was no sign of a death struggle
visible in his features, a faint smile illuminated his face
like a reflection from – – what – perhaps what he
had glimpsed beyond death, – I do not know what to
believe. My conviction has always been, that
the final judgement is not based on how one behaves at the
end; but that in the realm of the dead one suffers for each and
every sin for longer or shorter periods and in various
ways all based on the magnitude and nature of the sin, and
when the period of suffering has passed everyone will be united
in the "realm of the souls", and here the Mighty Spirit God will direct
everyone to carry on the work that his soul desired,
and that was the object of his strivings. Jørgen now
lies buried in the cemetery, where he rests in
close proximity to my three siblings. Time creeps
slowly and drearily along. Everything here is so
depressing and constricted, and I long to get away, these mountains
hem one in, – I can now understand B. Bjørnson’s "beyond the
high mountains". Yet I am fond of these mountains they are
so familiar to me, they sit embedded in my memory,
though I almost feel that they have been somewhat transformed,
they are not as high as before, I feel, but when I
gaze over at the mountains "Aasen", Svarthammaren and Kariham-
rene, the memories come – pleasant memories full
of melancholy and longing for that which shall never
return. I can see so many familiar places up there,
that large rock in the field is up there, when I was little
I always imagined that it was a
dog that sat barking. There is a little
mound up there, how strange to see it again, – I can see
Bertel in my mind’s eye. He was our shepherd
boy then, and we were about the same age.
We would build a bonfire up there in the autumn – and spring –
as well as during the light summer evenings, and spoke of
our "sweethearts", while we warmed ourselves
by the crackling fire made of juniper. Good old Bertel
we were such good friends, the likes of which I have never
experienced either before or since! We confided
our sorrows and secrets to one another, our
plans and dreams; but those days soon vanished,
and since my return to Jølster I have only spoken
briefly with him once, and now – tomorrow
he will leave for America and I will never –
– never see him again. The memory of a Midsummer
night just came to me, I accompanied him up to the Aal-
hus mountain grazing farm to visit Synneve, who was his
sweetheart, – how happy he was then as we made our way up the hill – and I
too at that time, for A. had recently visited
us, and I continued to dwell on the joyful
feeling that permeated me, when she asked me to help
her, and I lifted her up into the "Cat’s loft", a
dark, empty loft, which like another similar
loft at the vicarage was only used as storage space
for crates. None of the servants dared to go in there,
as they were afraid of "ghosts", and as a little boy I was also
very frightened of this loft, especially since I had once seen
two evil luminous green eyes in the dark; but
when I grew older, I dared to crawl in, which
was no easy feat if one were wearing skirts,
as the loft was quite inaccessible. One of the first things I
discovered was a secret "hatch" in the wall and I removed
this hatch at once, and the loft became lit, and after that
this loft became my most precious hiding place, when I felt
mistreated or wanted to be left alone. I always made
sure to replace the hatch before leaving and concealed it
27
behind a broad plank. This loft had an alluring power
over A. as well, especially when she heard a
legend about this loft, and when I told her about the secret
hatch, that is when she asked me to help her up there. When
we came close to the hatch and removed it, I showed
her some names on the beam; it was the daughters
of previous pastors, who had written their names there. I always fell
into a strange mood when I was in there and
saw those names, it was as though one sensed a gust from the
"the old days" from the time of romanticism; for it is a ve-
ry old vicarage this one, more than a hundred
years old. It was so cosy in there, when we sat and
told stories; no one could see us even when "the hatch"
was open; for right beside the house wall was a birch
tree that completely covered the hole in the wall from the
outside, and sent a fresh scent of its newly sprouted
leaves in to us. Anna wrote her name on the beam
as well – and now after all this is in the past,
I often go into this loft when I am fed up with exis-
tence, and peer at the name on the
28
beam and reminisce about those days when everything
was bright, and I had a positive outlook on life. –
As mentioned above, there is another similar dark loft
at the vicarage, which like the "Cat’s loft" no human
being had ever entered for years and years. – That
Midsummer’s Eve I walked along dreaming about all of these
recent events, and both Bertel and I were very
happy – Bertel perhaps most of all; for he was soon going
to meet his flame. When we arrived at the mountain meadow
and saw Synneve sitting there gazing down into the valley,
Bertel refused to go any further; but I felt
that since he had lured me up here, I would not go
down again until we had eaten a little "rømmeaske".
I therefore went over to her and said "good evening"
and told her, that there was a certain somebody, who was sitting over
on "Rabben" (a little hill overlooking a steep slope) who wished to speak
to her. Synneve stood up and walked over towards Bertel,
who contrary to my expectations did not take flight; but
stood up and went to meet her and say hello. She invited us in
then, and we were served "rømmeaske", which I immediately tucked
29
into, as I was very hungry, whereas Bertel
had completely lost his appetite. After that she
offered us "Angelica" stalks, which she had picked
down in the ravine "Bottnen", and I took a few stalks with me and
went out on "Rabben" to leave them alone. –
I strolled across the heath, – it was late –, below
me lay the lake Jølstravatnet murky and black, at the bottom of the
slope a black grouse cackled, and a light breeze carried
a word or two of lovemaking over to me from those two
and stirred melancholic thoughts in me. – I looked down
towards the west. Way down there, where the pale
green-tinged summer sky collided with the
dark low-lying mountains – down there, – between those two
hills there, where the river Jølstra glittered in meandering
curves, so far below lived A. I remained standing there for some time
until I noticed, up towards the north, a faint
violet-coloured glow had begun to accumulate above "Blaani-
pen’s" peak. – It was the new day, that had sent its
messenger ahead to the highest mountain peak. – Then I
went back to Bertel and said that it was probably
time we descended again. After a difficult separation
for Bertel, we walked quickly down towards the valley, where
the night still brooded with its impenetrable
veil, while the day continued its advance onto the mountain.
We were in very good spirits, in particular Bertel; for
Synneve had evidently returned his warm feelings. –
How well I still remember the sight of Bertel’s figure,
as he walked in among the tall alder trunks
in the murky and dense "Hans-Anders’s-woods", as we called
the section of the forest that was most dense. We talked
about the future and all the delights that it would
bring. But the two of us became disappointed. I in
the way that you have heard. Bertel in a different way.
In the spring of 1896 immediately after Marie Quamme (Jørgen’s
flame and a sister of Th. Quamme, aunt Kaia’s husband) had been
buried, she had died of consumption,
Synneve became ill – it was a Thursday morning,
when she awoke and said; "Last night I dreamed that I
saw myself "laid out as a corpse", and they had decorated me
so beautifully with yellow flowers". She soon became
31
very ill, and the doctor forbade her to eat
nearly anything. – And the following Thursday she
actually lay like a "corpse" decorated with yellow daffodils.
She had been struck with an aggressive case of consumption just
like Mari Quamme and the Cantor... –
Tomorrow Bertel will depart for America, he was
here yesterday wanting to say farewell to me; but I
was not at home unfortunately, I was in Hegrenes at
Jørgen’s funeral, and now I probably will not see him,
before he departs. The spring is slow in
coming, though the starlings have arrived, I saw the first
one a slight second before we were informed of
Jørgen’s death. The starling was sitting up among the ash trees
whistling, – it became Jørgen’s death music. My
death music will surely be something quite different and ma-
cabre – at times when I am alone or sitting
still for a long while I can hear the macabre sound
(no matter where I have been) of wheels that roll and rum-
ble so strangely at times apparently behind the
wall, – it ceases and then begins again. It is like
machinery that makes its way closer and closer
groaning deeply, and I am overcome by angst,
and I become terrified, – it is as though the
powers from the realm of the dead are set in motion, as though spirits
were nearby, and it is as though I can hear
distant drumbeats and the hoarse voices of humans.
If I experience this while sleeping, it seems to me as
though I can hear a sound from the door, – a sound as though someone
was scraping it with a nail, and then it appears
to me that the door opens, and I see a black
ugly old hag with noxious green eyes
and long hideous arms that seem to grasp
at me; and then she begins to move – glides along
the wall under the table, where I can only see the luminous
green eyes that stare straight at me like an evil
spirit, – Then it is as though the eyes "turn inside out",
and it is gone, and I can clearly feel as I sleep
that something resembling a hand grabs my side
and back so that I nearly lose my breath – I
scream loudly; but no sound comes out, until I finally
33
awaken. If I walk into a dark room
I often feel that I can see a long stooped apparition, which
stands leaning against the wall. – – – –
Everything is so gloomy and dreary now, I see no
light ahead, – my plans will be torn to shreds
one after the other, so I think that soon the best
thing would be to go far away and become a hired hand
for a farmer and then become a cotter; for I know,
that in any case I will never become anything that I wish to be.
Give me some good advice Giverholt; for I feel so
"helpless!" I am learning English now, and I
do hope that I learn it better than the Latin
in Trondheim. I have little time to draw now, since we
have neglected the lessons so often, we must make them up.
If I have a free moment now and then, I feel that
there is not enough time to begin something, and
my drawings are thus reduced to a few sketches.
In recent weeks we have had perfect conditions for
sledding, and my brother Peter and I have been high up
in the "field" every day and have run down (on) over a forest path
(a mountain path used to transport hay down from the mountains or [highlying] hay sheds).
The speed was so fast that it would have been dan-
gerous, had one not been good at steering. Recently I have
been occupied with this and that, among other things
"mouse hunting", and have now in the course of about
a week captured 64 of them, father gives Peter and
me 2 or 3 øre [centesimal subdivision for Norwegian krones] per mouse. I have found an acquaintance
from Trondheim, namely Sigurd Storm, a nephew
of the famous "Louse-Storm" in Trondheim. We have become
very good friends, and I have been down to visit
him at Mo agricultural school [in Førde], where his uncle is
headmaster. I subscribe to the weekly magazine "Frem", I’m sure you know it,
I think it is very interesting, and I have no doubt,
that anyone would be able to learn to draw reason-
ably well from the instructions given in the drawing
course that it contains; but it is only a sort
of A-B-C therefore one cannot gain any deeper
knowledge about art from it. Once again my letter
writing has been neglected; for just as I sat down
to write, I was told that Sigurd Storm was downstairs.
35
He had come up to Jølster to visit me.
The skiing conditions were good, and we went over to Nikolai Lind,
Jørgen’s brother, and took him with us into "Dalen" valley, where we
went skiing. The following day we went sledding; but then Sigurd had to return back down
to Moe. A few days later Nikolai Lind came over
to my house and asked if I wanted to
join him on a ski trip across the mountains and down to
Førde and from there to Mo; since it was fun
to travel to places where one has never been
before, and besides it was a "shortcut" to Førde.
I wanted to go of course; but I doubted that I
would get my father’s permission; but when I did, we left immediately.
(I later learned that Nikolai Lind did not have
permission to travel across the mountains; but only to follow the country
road.) We climbed up towards the "Svidalsskaret" mountain pass and arrived
at the summit after much difficulty; for the snow
on the steep slopes had blown away, so that it was like
skiing on ice. Then we continued across a snow-covered plain,
where only one or two smaller summits or hills rose
up. When we passed a willow bog, a few
partridges flew up. When we arrived at the "summit", as
far as we could see, we had only one single slope the entire
way down; but as one has difficulty in the transparent
atmosphere distinguishing distances, depressions and
elevations so high up in the mountains we had to criss-cross
our way down the sides. When we arrived down in a little
vale, and despite the fact that we had made sure to get detailed
directions ahead of time, we still managed to go around an entire hill,
before we found the right direction. We soon had to climb
up another rise, and now the conditions began to
worsen; for the sun had "melted" the slopes to such an extent,
that the snow began to "stick". It was well into the even-
ing, before we reached the top, and when we arrived up there
the sun had gone down, and a layer of "crust"
had begun to form on top of the snow. We threw all
caution "to the wind", when we caught sight of some mountain grazing farms
below. We raced down the slope on the icy crust; but
fortunately the snow was so deep, that it covered all the
bumps and all the small shrubs that might have been
there. We steadily picked up speed, and soon we were rushing so fast
37
that I had tears in my eyes, and I had to "hunch"
down in order to keep my balance. Nikolai Lind
disappeared, and I dared not look back for
fear of falling; for I had to exert myself
to the utmost to remain upright. When I arrived down at
the mountain meadow, I ran over some haystacks, that
stuck up through the snow, and they rebounded, without
my getting hurt. I did not manage to stop until I
came down to a level spot below the mountain dairy farm. Now
I had to turn around and look for Nikolai; but he
was nowhere to be seen, and a whole eternity passed,
it seemed to me, before I saw him appear
on the hill near the mountain grazing farms. He had, as he
said himself, fallen four times, while I, already
up in the high mountains, had fallen at least 8.
Now he was amazed to learn that I had been able to remain
standing on this slope; since he was a better skier than
I. He has won prizes up at Hammerfest in a ski jump competition,
where he jumped 14 metres, while I, all that time
I was in Trondheim, never once went skiing. Below
us we now had an enormous slope full of birch trees, where there was
a road of sorts; but since it was very steep and crooked,
we decided to find a way down by crisscrossing
through the woods. Nikolai Lind was so exhausted that
he could hardly stand upright on his skis, and he
therefore decided to sit on them and "slide" down, while
I for fear of losing my skis, in case I
should fall, kept them fastened to my fe-
et. Nikolai Lind was making very slow progress, and I
was thus obliged to go ahead to find a path, and at
times I had to wait for him for long
stretches, as he continued to have difficulties with his skis.
It was a great help, when I found a stick for otherwise
it would have been nearly impossible for me to
ski in the woods, as one often had to stop "abruptly".
Nikolai had always expressed his contempt for
farm boys who used sticks; but after this
experience he has admitted that a stick was a good thing
to have in the mountains; and when one is wandering about un-
familiar places. At long last we arrived down in the
39
valley, where we met people who told us that we still
had more than ten kilometres before we reached Førde. Nikolai became
terribly discouraged and wanted to settle down for
the night in a cottage there; but I felt it would be a disgrace
not to reach Førde by the evening, and so
we forced ourselves to continue, in the meantime it had
become dark and I was also beginning to feel tired. Nikolai
wanted – to rest right then and there; but I knew that
if we first began to rest, we would become frightfully
exhausted. In the end he sat down on a
rock and begged to have a rest, naturally I could
not say no; but from then on he would have
to rest "once and for all", and it took the greatest
effort to get him to stand up again. But when we
reached the first Førde farms, where we knew our
way about, Nikolai perked up a bit, and I understood,
that I had to take advantage of this, and I therefore
hurried on as fast as I could. We finally arrived
down at Hafstad hotel, where we were used to finding accommodation,
and we arrived just in time; for the people were preparing to go
40
to bed. We then spent a couple of days in Førde and visited Sigurd.
I have now advanced to becoming a decorative painter, as I have
the honour together with Marie Lind to decorate the
ceremonial arch for Cantor Ole Quamme’s wedding (he is a
brother of aunt Kaia’s husband). We each decorated one side of the
arch. Marie painted bluebells that encircled the
words "Congratulations". I painted these words as well with old
"Norwegian" letters; something similar, but much more beautiful
than in the capital letters in "The Dog Killing" and around 20 cm. high. Around
this I had painted some "climbing vines" (or rosehip
branches) with a cluster of pink roses and buds,
that were surrounded by green foliage. My decoration
with its bright colours naturally found favour
with the people of Jølster, who have always been fond of bright
colours (as in artistic tapestries) and this I had of
course calculated. You must give me a little news from the "Art
exhibition" and describe in detail, what you like best when it comes to
colours and contours. You write, that Klykken is publishing a
book, my guess is, that you are writing one yourself. You must tell
me all about it. I am sending some drawings, if you do not
disdain them, they are my first faltering attempts. You must say hello to all
of my acquaintances at school; but greetings are extended most of all to you from your
ever devoted and sincere friend and schoolmate Nikolai Astrup
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