by Tove Jansson
Letters from Klara
AND OTHER STORIES
Tove Jansson
Translated from the Swedish by
Thomas Teal
Tove Jansson’s artwork for the original Swedish publication of Brev från Klara (Letters from Klara), Schildts/Bonniers, 1991.
Contents
Title Page
Letters from Klara
Robert
In August
The Lily Pond
The Train Trip
Party Games
Pirate Rum
About Summer
The Pictures
Premonitions
Emmelina
My Friend Karin
A Trip to the Riviera
Other Tove Janssson titles published by Sort Of Books
Copyright
Letters from Klara
Dear Matilda,
You’re hurt that I forgot your ancient birthday. You’re being unreasonable. I know you’ve always expected me to make a special fuss, simply because I’m three years younger. But it’s time you realized that the passage of years per se is no feather in anyone’s cap.
You ask for Divine Guidance, excellent. But before it’s granted, it might be a good idea to discuss certain bad habits, which, by the way, I am no stranger to myself.
Matilda, my dear, it’s important to remember not to grumble if you can possibly help it. It gives those around you an immediate advantage. I know that you enjoy amazingly good health – thank your lucky stars – but you have a singular capacity to give people a bad conscience by whining, and they pay you back by becoming jovial and treating you as if you no longer mattered. I’ve seen it. Whatever you want or don’t want, couldn’t you just shout it out? Shake them up with some strong words, ruffle their feathers or, best of all, scare them a little? I know you can do it. You never knuckled under in the old days. Far from it.
And that stuff about not being able to sleep at night. Maybe because we take catnaps eight times a day? Yes, I know. Memory works backwards at night, gnawing its way through every little thing and every last tiny detail in reverse order – the times we lost our nerve, made the wrong choice, said something tactless or insensitive, were criminally unobservant – and all the social disasters, the faux pas, the irreparably idiotic remarks that everyone else has long since forgotten! It’s so unfair to be blessed with a crystal-clear memory this late in the day! And backwards!
Dear Matilda, write and tell me what you think about these delicate matters. I promise I’ll try not to be a know-all. Now don’t deny it, I know that’s what you think, you’ve said so. But I really would like to hear what you do when, for instance, you can’t remember how many times you’ve told someone the same thing. Do you start with, “Well, as I’ve said before …” or, “As I may already have mentioned …” or what? Do you have any other suggestions? Do you just keep quiet?
And do you allow a conversation to pass right over your head? Do you try to come up with a sensible comment and realize they’ve changed the subject? Do you save face by insisting that they’re just talking stuff and nonsense? And are we genuinely interested in what they’re saying? Or curious? Please tell me that we are!
If you write to me, don’t use your antediluvian fountain pen; it makes your handwriting impossible to read and moreover it’s hopelessly old-fashioned. Make them get you a felt pen, medium point 0.5 mm. They have them everywhere.
Yours,
Klara
PS I read somewhere that anything written with a felt pen becomes illegible after about forty years. How about that? Lovely, don’t you think? Or are you contemplating writing a memoir – you know, “not to be read for fifty years”? (Hope you think that’s funny.)
♦♦♦
Dear Ewald,
Such a pleasant surprise to get your letter! Whatever gave you the idea?
Yes of course we should get together. As you say, it’s been so long. It must be nearly sixty years.
Thank you for all the kind things you wrote – maybe a bit too kind, dear friend. Don’t tell me you’ve grown sentimental?
Yes, I think growing roses is an excellent idea! Every Saturday morning on the radio they have what I’m told is a very practical programme about gardening, repeated on Sunday. You should listen to it.
Call whenever it’s convenient, and remember it can take me a while to get to the phone. Don’t forget to say whether you’re still a vegetarian as I’m planning to make us quite a special dinner.
Yes of course you must bring your photo album. I’m hoping we can get through the inevitable “Remember whens” without too much trouble and then just talk about whatever occurs to us.
Warm regards
Klara
♦♦♦
Hi Steffe!
Thank you for the bark boat, it’s very handsome, and I was so happy to get it. I tried it out in the bathtub and it balanced perfectly.
Don’t worry about that bad grade. Tell your papa and mama that sometimes it’s much more important to be able to work with your hands and make something beautiful.
I’m sorry about your cat. But if a cat gets to be seventeen years old, she’s probably pretty tired and doesn’t feel well. Your epitaph isn’t bad, but you need to take a bit more care with the rhythm. I’ll explain better when I see you.
Your godmother,
Klara
♦♦♦
Dear Mr Öhlander,
According to your letter of 27 August, you suppose me to be in wrongful possession of a picture you painted in your youth, which you now seem to require as quickly as possible for inclusion in a retrospective exhibition of your work.
I have no recollection of “wheedling” the canvas from your niece’s son in the course of a visit to his flat. What seems more likely is that he quite spontaneously pressed me to take it with me as I left.
I have now made a close study of the signatures on the art works in my home and have managed with difficulty to identify one that might possibly be yours. The painting seems to depict something halfway between an interior and a landscape, with leanings towards the semi-abstract.
The dimensions, which you didn’t mention, are the classic French, 50 cm x 61 cm.
I will send you your picture at once and hope that in future it will enjoy a permanent place in your collection.
Klara Nygård
Dear Niklas,
You’ve only just come back from your “undisclosed destination” (which I strongly suspect was Mallorca). Be that as it may, I’ve been thinking about making another small alteration to my will. Don’t groan. I know that deep down you’re rather amused by all this toing and froing.
So, in short, I’m considering giving an annuity to the Retirement Home whose services I will eventually require. But please note, they get it only as long as I’m alive. I’m talking here about bank and bond interest and whatever else I can live without – which you know better than I. They can use the money any way they like.
The idea – as I’m sure you understand, cunning as you are – is that, with this income in mind, the Home will try to keep me alive as long as possible. I will be their mascot and will be allowed certain obvious liberties. Whatever is left when I die will be distributed exactly as specified earlier.
I will only add that I am at the moment in excellent health and hope you are the same.
Klara
♦♦♦
My dear Cecilia,
How nice of you to send my old letters, a dreadfully big box. Did you at least get help carrying it to the post office? I’m quite touched that you saved them (and even numbered the letters), but my dear, the thought of reading through them all! You know what I mean? The stamps were cut off for some child’s collection I suppose. If you
have other correspondence from the turn of the century, remember to save the whole envelope – much more desirable to philatelists. And remember to take extra care with blocks of four.
I assume you’re getting rid of stuff, a perfectly natural and commendable activity. I’ve been doing it myself and have gradually learned a thing or two. One of them is that the little treasures you try to give young people just make them uncomfortable – more and more polite and more and more uncomfortable. Have you noticed that?
You know what? There’s now a flea market on Sandvik Square every Sat and Sun. What do you think of that? People can wander around and find stuff for themselves and no one has to feel ill at ease or grateful. Brilliant idea.
You write that you’ve grown melancholy, but Cecilia, that’s just part of getting old, it’s nothing to worry about. I read somewhere that it’s a physiological phenomenon, doesn’t that sound comforting? Okay, you get sad, so you just sit down and tell yourself, aha, this doesn’t count, it’s not my fault, it just happens. See what I mean?
What else do I have to tell you? Oh yes, I have freed myself from my houseplants and I’m trying to learn some French. You know, I’ve always admired the way you speak it so perfectly. How do you put it, that elegant thing at the end of a letter – Chère madame, I enclose you, no, myself, in your – oh, you know how it goes.
I’m only a beginner.
Chère petite madame, I do miss you sometimes …
Your Klara
♦♦♦
Dear Sven Roger,
I noted with gratitude that the tile stove is working again. If those bureaucrats come back and insist that it’s illegal, I intend to consult my solicitor. As we all know, that stove is Historic.
When you come back from your holiday you will find that Mrs Fagerholm one flight up has cleaned out her attic storage space – long overdue – but she placed her unspeakable possessions right in front of my locker, so I quite naturally moved everything out into the corridor.
I remember you said once that you’d like to have some houseplants for your summer cottage, so I have set out my collection in a row beside the bins. Take whatever you like and throw the rest in with the rubbish. In the meantime, I’ll continue to water them every evening just to be on the safe side. As an explanation of my apparently heartless behaviour, I’d just like to say that these houseplants have weighed on my conscience for years. I always seem to water them too much or too little, and I never know which.
By the way, I think we can wait to wash the windows. At the moment, they’re covered with what looks like a light mist. It has a lovely effect, which we shouldn’t disturb.
With friendly summer greetings,
K. Nygård
PS Don’t say anything to old lady Fagerholm. I really enjoyed throwing out all her old junk.
♦♦♦
Camilla Alleén
“Just Between Us Women”
Dear Miss Alleén,
Thank you for your kind letter. But I’m afraid that I find myself unable to take part in your survey of, as you put it, the problems and pleasures of old age.
Of course I could always write that old age is difficult yet quite interesting. But why dwell on the obvious drawbacks? And the interesting part seems to me a very private matter, unsuited to generalization.
My dear Miss Alleén, I’m afraid that you will not get particularly honest answers to your questionnaire.
Yours sincerely
Klara Nygård
Robert
AT THE ART ACADEMY, we had a classmate named Robert. Robert was tall and thin and held his large head a little to one side, as if weary or lost in thought. He was very quiet and, as far as I could tell, had no friends in our class.
Robert painted very slowly. He almost never finished his canvases. Instead, he’d cover them with white and start over – and then do the same thing again.
But once in a while he’d sign one. When Robert signed a painting, we were all very aware of it. We didn’t look his way, but we knew what he was doing. He signed his name with the same meticulous attention to detail, mixing the colours for the letters again and again and wiping them away. His picture was not to be sullied by anything that was not an organic part of the work, of its perfection. When Robert had finally managed to achieve the effect he wanted, we could all start working again. At that time, we did not sign our paintings.
One day I got a letter from Robert. He’d left it on my easel. It was very formal.
You are a happy person, with a happiness that seems lighthearted. As far as I can see you prefer to like people because it’s easier than disliking them. I have observed you. You soar above things rather than climb over them or tunnel through – or wait.
I wish you no ill, on the contrary. Please believe in my sincerity. But I must inform you that for a variety of reasons, which are entirely private, I feel compelled to end our acquaintance.
With greatest respect,
Robert
♦♦♦
I didn’t understand. The letter made me uneasy. I wasn’t worried for him, no, I was more hurt than concerned. Had I ever even spoken to him? Scarcely.
Then one day as we were all crossing the courtyard to our art history lecture, he caught up to me and said, “Did you understand?” And I said, “Maybe not completely …” I was embarrassed. Robert walked on past me across the courtyard.
What was I supposed to say? If he had tried to explain, if he’d even wanted … I mean, that’s no way to behave! But I suppose I could have asked him.
It came out gradually that Robert had written to everyone in our painting class and that every letter concluded with a very polite severance of relations. We didn’t show the letters to each other, and we didn’t discuss it. Maybe we thought it was a little odd to renounce something that hadn’t actually existed, but we didn‘t say so. Everything went on as before, exactly as before.
Then came the time when we began to sign our canvases. And very soon after that came the war.
♦♦♦
One day years later, after the war, I happened to run into a classmate from art school, and we went to a café. After chatting for a while I found myself asking about Robert. “Do you know where he is these days?”
“No one knows. He got lost during the war. Walked over the border.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was so like him,” he went on. “You know, he just went the wrong way. It was that in-between time when nothing was happening. We just waited, whittled stuff out of wood, or whatever it was we did to kill time. Robert was filling a sketch pad, walking around in the woods and coming back to the canteen with his sketches. I think he was headed for the canteen that day too – they set a pretty good table. But he went the wrong way. He had no sense of direction.”
I’ve thought about Robert a great deal, perhaps most of all about his farewell letter. I think I understand, now, that those letters were written from a deep need, and that they left behind an enormous sense of relief and liberation. Did he write the same kind of letter to other people, outside of school? Did he write to his parents? Yes, definitely to his parents.
Imagine having the nerve to push everyone away – whether they’re unreachable or you’ve allowed them to come too close: “… for a variety of reasons, which are entirely private, I feel compelled …”
But of course you just can’t.
In August
ONE EVENING IN AUGUST, Aunt Ada and Aunt Ina sat on the enclosed veranda of their villa, catching their breath. The last of their relatives had driven away and now the only sound was the wind in their garden. It was a very warm evening, but they couldn’t open the windows. The moths would fly at the lamp, and killing them as they lay there beside it, trembling wings above a great hairy body, was nasty.
“Did it go well?” Ina asked. “There were too many of them. And why did they bring the younger children? I mean, it was a memorial service. We forgot the salad.”
Ada didn’t answer, and her
sister went on. “Why do we have to do it every year, right on the anniversary of her death? Let them do it, it’s easier in town. What was it that went wrong?”
“Nothing,” Ada said. “Nothing at all except that you made them all uncomfortable. You talked too much about Mama. Why do you try to give them a bad conscience? Let them forget. She was terribly old, and she went quickly.”
A moth had managed to get in and burn its wings on the lamp.
“Let me,” said Ada quickly, and she crushed the insect with a coffee cup.
“Blow out the lamp!” Ina said.
When it was dark on the veranda, the garden came closer, silhouettes of trees moving in the night breeze.
“But I don’t want them to forget,” Ina said. “Why should I be the only one who remembers!”
“How do you know what they remember?” Ada said. “Anyway, they mostly saw her on the weekends. That business with the bathroom ceiling upsets them.”
“And it serves them right, Ada, it serves them right! There she was, all by herself …”
“Yes, yes, I know. Wilful, independent, and, as usual, secretive. She didn’t trust anyone but herself, so she climbed up on a stepladder to paint the bathroom ceiling and fell off and broke her neck. She was over eighty. A good exit. And now you give me a sermon about how we should have done God knows what to give her another ten years! Ina, you know yourself that deep down she was very, well … very …”
“Not at all,” Ina said. “Not a bit of it!” She jumped up and started pacing up and down the veranda. “She wasn’t a tyrant!”
“But I never said she was.”
“But that’s what you meant!”
