The White Bear by Henrik Pontoppidan

Author:Henrik Pontoppidan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2025-06-10T00:00:00+00:00

3

Rome, January 4th

GREETINGS, oh “Clandestine Quill”!

My report to the group is indeed, as you say, overdue. And anyway, it is of course the wont of our exalted Danish artistes down here to send home reports of their “Grand Tour” impressions from the Holy Grail of all art itself—Rome. Probably more to the point, it’s a rotten rainy day here and as I am, for a change, just in the mood for some quiet occupation at my desk, I have now lifted an implement mostly foreign to me—otherwise called a pen—so as to fulfill your command. Your clearly considerate request to be spared from all lyrical outbursts, of the artistic or Great Outdoors variety, does also help—ditto your request for accurate information on relevant individuals, events, and conditions here, which may be of use to you on the Home Front. Understood, comrade. We are of one mind, old schemer! Have at them . . . thrust and slash to your heart’s content!

And by the way (this will not surprise you) you could have spared yourself the warnings about gilding the writerly lily. For my artistic impressions from these nether regions can be well summarized by a marvelous outburst I happened to overhear at the Vatican from a blunt-speaking Swede who was standing in front of a Renaissance sculpture of three stark-naked women. As you might know, these are called the Bacchae by posh people, but our good Swedish cousin was having none of that—“Well, here we have some fine saucy strumpets!” says he. I had the greatest urge to hail that fellow and embrace him heartily. For he displayed a truer and healthier view of art than that whole gang of fey beauty worshippers put together. Ah yes! A blast from the horn of truth can do a man good, even if it does come from a rednecked Swede. Because we are otherwise up to our necks in blind idolatry down here! The other day I got to thinking of what posterity would make of us and those who were here before us. I mean if God decided to extirpate all our creative and created objects, except for those of the so-called fine arts. If, that is, people in the future would only be able to gain an understanding of the past and its people through prancing goddesses, bathing nymphs, coquettish Madonnas, and naked ponces (called discoboluses or some such), and all the other brothel and pederast art, which from time immemorial has been the subject of our hysterical worship. By my red beard, man, I swear . . .you can walk through a hundred galleries down here without seeing a single reference to ordinary life and the struggles of the common people. Not to mention the human urge for freedom. In fact . . . nothing. Nothing at all that depicts the constant stir and will to work within the breasts of people—the real dynamic that has kept our world in motion and the driving force of all creation. At

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