Letter

Astrup, Nikolai to Giverholt, Arne
1898-03

Transcription:

Tor Martin Leknes

Translation:

Francesca Nichols

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Transcription
Translation

Letter

Astrup, Nikolai to Giverholt, Arne
1898-03
Brevs.295-137956, Nasjonalbiblioteket

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.

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. 

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 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 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

Arne Giverholt

         &

Nikolai Astrup

Illustrasjon

Illustrasjon

Fridtjof Nansen.

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

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

Illustration

Arne Giverholt

         &

Nikolai Astrup

Illustration

Illustration

Fridtjof Nansen.