Letters from Tove

by Tove Jansson

  I wonder if the snow has already settled where you are? If people are buying Christmas presents as wildly as they are here? I think the most sensible thing would be for me to buy whatever presents I need when I get home, since you write that things aren’t so awfully expensive there. But even so, I’ve come to an agreement with various friends to scrap the exchange of goods. The family here being an exception, of course. I’m giving Uncle Harald a lovely bowl I bought a month or so ago – Ulla some extra bits and bobs for the train set her doting parents gave her for her 3rd birthday. I’m giving Uncle Einar and Anna-Lisa Tales of the North, which I’ve bound in dark-green leather, with claret-coloured endpapers, and taken a lot of time over. It looks pretty splendid, with lots of stitching and gold on the spine, inlays and oriental gold tooling on the front. I wanted to keep it for all of you … but.

  Teknis is a real rush. The women’s-teacher training course is due to wind up with a flourish before Christmas – in printing we’re a bit better off, though they’re working us hard, too. By some stroke of genius, we’ve got croquis 4 days a week from 5 to 7. In the lunch breaks there’s a lot of folk dancing, and the keen types stay on until 9. This evening, as it happens, I feel incredibly lazy, and can’t fathom how I shall bring myself to care about plaster painting on both Monday and Tuesday. Today Uncle Harald, KF (Svenberg senior) and I were over at the boatyard where he keeps Thalatta, looking into the possibility of finding space for a reserve motor and assorted other innovations incl. stainless steel sink. Harald is intending to take her up to the North Cape this summer and then he, plus boat, will take the train to the Gulf of Bothnia and relaunch Thalatta. Isn’t it a glorious programme, just think, the entire west coast of Norway, the fjords and mountains – it’s enough to make one’s face fall with longing to get away – somewhere.

  Uncle Einar and Anna-Lisa are always dreaming of the tropics. They recall their times in the Canaries and say if … if! This Christmas at any rate they’re getting away to Grövelsjön for some skiing on a special kind of short ski to improve their technique. Admittedly that’s hardly tropical – but still! I shall be leaving at about the same time.

  But before that, there’s the Teknis Christmas party (may it sink without trace!). A committee was set up ages ago, responsible both for the refreshments and the mental sustenance. It proceeded (as regards the latter) to squabble for weeks over the programme – then lapsed into apathy. Big meeting. At which I proposed dissolving the committee and sharing the responsibility equally between individual class members. All fine and good. But they immediately elected a new one. Nobody wanted to write anything. So in desperation I dreamt up some student-revue nonsense in the bath over 3 evenings and read it for them yesterday. The whole lot is in verse, by the way. So now I’ve an almighty task on my hands to get the wretched thing up to scratch. – Our number 2 is useless. None of us have any of the skills for this sort of entertainment. – the December sketch has been cancelled, instead we had to go to Nordiska Museet on Saturday, choose something from our subject area there and complete a study. It’s to be a kind of competition. I found a beautiful wooden saint in a murky corner, but after two hours it was deepest twilight there. The colours impossible to make out, and I’d made a right old mess of it by the time I handed it in. It was cold and raw there, too – I only just escaped a terrible cold. [ … ]

  I’ve rearranged the furniture in my room. I shifted the bed, with its sawn-off legs, away from the rheumatism-inducing outside wall, put the desk in pride of place and got rid of the atmospheric lighting. The walls are relatively bare, because just at the moment I feel in need of spartan simplicity and calm around me. – I lit my first Advent candle. And while it was burning I opened the parcel from all of you. Thank you my beloved dears! The little pigs were received with great satisfaction and gratitude when I distributed them. – I’d forgotten that Little Christmas came so early this year!

  I’ve tried to get various drawings and place cards accepted here, but it’s absolutely impossible to get anybody to take any notice. Instead I think I shall be receiving a small sum from above for my contribution to one of the H:fors daily papers, my interesting article on the surrealists! Imagine my surprise! But the whole thing is rather amusing, I must say. I hope by all the stars in the Zodiac that dear Elisabeth won’t show all my letters to editors and close relations. I suppose I shall have to be really careful what I write then. The titles of the surrealists’ paintings, for instance, were plucked out of thin air. Haha! – The young man from the College hasn’t deigned to ask me out dancing yet. If he does it now, I won’t have the time. And anyway, I shall never learn to dance properly – it is a strange gift and a manic art which not all have the privilege of mastering.

  Over Christmas it would be so nice if you could teach me a bit about etching, Mama. Then we could go to croquis together. Go skiing with Poloni. Head for Bronkan. So many possibilities, anything we like. Oh, I can hardly wait! I shall try to get my Christmas break extended – into January this time. Wouldn’t that be a good idea?

  Do you know if Aava plans to spend Christmas with us? Is Jenny still there? Has Polon had his grades yet? There are so many things I want to know. Here, it’s all much the same as ever, but everyone’s so tired, wherever you look. It seems to me that the world ought to stop for a while, and everything in it – and just breathe, in and out, for a long time. I’m sure nobody would have time for that, though. – One thing is worrying me. It’s possible that Carin Cleve won’t have the money to stay on at Teknis this spring. That would make me really unhappy, because there’s nobody else I care about. – She sends you her best wishes. Everybody here does, lots of best wishes. I might not write to you any more now except 1 telegram about when I arrive. Just think, 1 Sunday to go! It makes me want to start packing right away!

  With lots of love and hugs from your Noppe. Kisses to the boys!

  Croquis: Life drawing in which the models change position after only a few minutes.

  Thalatta: Uncle Harald’s boat.

  my interesting article: The notice “Impressions from the Surrealist Exhibition in Stockholm” (art review section of the Helsinki periodical Svenska Pressen, 27.11.1932) includes a quotation from letter written by TJ to Elisabeth Wolff in November 1932. TJ is not named; the letter is said to be from “a young art novice in Stockholm”.

  dear Elisabeth: TJ’s friend Elisabeth Wolff.

  Poloni: Per Olov Jansson. He is also referred to as Polon and later as Peo and Prolle.

  Bronkan: Better known as Bronda, a popular café (and restaurant) in Helsinki, very popular with artists in the 1920s and 1930s.

  Carin Cleve: A fellow student on the course at Teknis (the Technical School). She became a good friend of TJ and later spent several periods living in Finland, while she was keeping company with Wolle Weiner. See Letters to Eva Konikoff.

  SATURDAY [Postmark 7.3.1933]

  Beloved Mama!

  Thank you, dearest, for your last letter! I was in raptures as I took it with me to Teknis and Carin was delighted, as you can imagine! We’ve been planning that trip to Pellinge for her for so long. Goodness, how nice that could be! With her love of solitude, and being a swimmer and in the same line of work, yet still not the troublesome kind of guest: Maud-Smedberg-entertainment-please-ooh-how-dull-it-is-here! I’m not in the least worried about anything like that, you see. After all, the walking tour is not really going to work – it seems pointless for you to have to travel over to Sweden and back like that, just for fun. But even so, don’t you think it could be difficult finding room for her, food and so on? Answer truthfully, please, because nothing could be more hateful to me than causing you unnecessary financial worries. – Next week Carin and I plan to start a month’s course at the Welamson private school for half price (15kr.) I’ve thought the matter over and it seems a wise move. So two evenings a week we’ll have teaching and figure drawing – clothed models, from various parts of town and, I hope, a lot of fun. Last time I did Carin in pastels in her green
ballet skirt. We’ve also decided to set aside one day a week, Thursday, for Croquis, because otherwise we’ll never get away in the evenings.

  In your little green letter (I love getting pale green letters from you) I’m just reading your question about my grant. That’s funny, didn’t I write and say it was 300 kr? A goodly little sum. Now don’t you go sending anything back – it would really upset me, and besides, I’d only lose some of it when I changed the money! – I see you’re also concerned about Einar. Blood clot gone, just like that – didn’t I tell you? As for what they did – took out his gastric ulcer, about 10cm of intestine and sewed him up again. He’s not going to behave himself at all – so he claims, full of optimism. No more nasty surprises as a result of the operation. Reading on, I find Papa’s work, Polon’s planned skiing trip, Jenny handing in her notice, the big party, and all that.

  I hope Papa had a good birthday and that my letter and parcel got there in time. This letter probably won’t be as long – I mainly just wanted to say thank you for letting Carin come. She’ll probably write, too – I think.

  The plan of Lalukka is up on my wall. I can sit and look at it and imagine us strolling in and out of the rooms like little dots. Just think how dependent we are on our surroundings, and how much they can influence us. I do so wonder about the future. Well anyway, wondering is about all I’m fit for this Saturday evening. I haven’t anything particularly amusing to tell you – so it’s probably best if I have a bath now – and go to bed. Perhaps something of note will happen tomorrow. Goodnight – dearest.

  Sunday evening. The something of note was a long skate on Erstaviken Bay. I was able to borrow an ice prod and spikes from Harald, Maria’s gloves – and with Torsten’s skates and Uncle Einar’s lunch bag off I went, all the way out to Kalvholmen. It was gorgeous, I can tell you! Now I feel horribly tired, yet somehow thoroughly rested. Knutte’s here, and the Wollins. We’ve just had a cup of tea and everyone’s very animated. Harald’s just pulled off the trick of spiking Knutte’s “Three Stars” with mosquito repellent while K. was out in the kitchen pinching jam. Einar’s playing Beethoven and Aunt Anna-Lisa’s worked the conversation round to the servant problem. The baby’s asleep. The yard outside my window is in full moonlight. Very beautiful. I shall paint it in pastels some time. I think I’ll go and do a bit of washing up, Maria will like that. She’s in a pretty grumpy mood with the whole household at present. Harald finds it almost impossible to calm her down. Then I shall wash some gloves – and go back to join the conversation. Farewell beloved, and write to me soon!

  your Tove.

  PS Uncle Einar sends best regards and says Professor Henchel would very much like to have a plaster statuette like the one he, Einar, has got. He wonders how much it would cost. Do write and let us know! That little one with the babe in arms.

  Maud Smedberg: one of Tove Jansson’s classmates at Broberg School.

  Lalukka: misspelling of Lalluka, the new artists’ house in Tölö, to which the Jansson family moved in 1933.

  UNDATED [Postmark 8.5.1933]

  My beloved Mama!

  It’s Sunday, I just got your letter. Baby Ulla’s got a cold and a bit of a temperature; that’s keeping her parents busy. Harald’s out at the boatyard putting the final touches to the boat. It’s pouring with rain outside, yesterday a blue spring rain, but now grey and sometimes sleety. I’m painting a little thing for Cleve, it’s her birthday tomorrow, and I’ve got plenty of time to think and have complete peace and quiet.

  You’ve sent me a lot of money, but have said nothing about coming over. You wish me all the best, and are trying to make sure Elisabeth has as much to fill her stay here as possible, while you’re fed up with Helsingfors and having a totally hellish time. – You tell me to enjoy myself and that it’s important to dress nicely – but what about you?

  I am a part of you, more so than the boys – regardless of how I turn out later, your distress is mine – how can I care one jot about Sweden when you’re not here? I’m coming home, and soon. I’m coming home, just the way I was when I left, as soon as I sort some things out, a bit of work, a few friends, a few relations, and come to terms with myself. But it may well be that I can now understand you better, help you better, and painstakingly start to appreciate how lucky I am to have you and the rest.

  Do write and thank them, Einar et al. Write to Olov and family – and Torsten and family. I’ve been to pay my respects to them all, though the final solemn leave-taking is still to come. Torsten & co. will be moving from 18 Kvarngatan at Whitsun. Einar says their house looks like a farm labourer’s hovel. I can believe it. They’re growing ever more bitter, and by constantly harping on the same theme they’re going to find themselves sinking into the isolation they currently pretend their indifferent family has consigned them to. Also at Whitsun Olov is due to have an operation for gastric ulcers. Einar and family will be moving at about that time, out to Ängsmarn, which they don’t like any more, to work. Harald will be setting off on his sailing trip. He’s on his own and leads, at least as far as outsiders can see, the ideal bachelor life, independent and in a position to indulge his own hobbies to a large extent. And yet it’s all just a cover for what is basically loneliness. Thalatta, his skiing expeditions, planned months in advance, are they enough? His friends are getting married and separating again, going their different ways, and perhaps he can’t yet see, or won’t, how solitary he is growing.

  No, enough – they all have their own lives to get on with.

  So do write and thank them.

  This is a time of great difficulty and doubt, but I believe, though I’ve no grounds for my conviction, that everything will be so much better, very soon. I’m looking forward to coming home. Why shouldn’t I? It isn’t hard to leave a temporary environment, and people with whom one is such good friends that one sheds a parting tear but six months later recalls them only hazily, as if they weren’t real. But one can take up one’s profession again at any time, that’s the main thing, and all the little people one has met, be and been helped or annoyed by, ultimately amount to no more than a couple of blurred pencil lines in an old, old sketchbook. Berga has become one of those. Sometimes I think about it, sometimes I miss it, but mostly that Easter feels as unreal as a dream.

  You are always close to me. One night, I knew you were weeping about something. Even if at times a lot of things seem to be what I want, and have always longed for, they are drawn backwards through time and I grow indifferent to them, while you, and all of you at home, stand out even more clearly.

  Write and tell me, just once, whether you will come over if I send money. I’m going to make a withdrawal, on Manne’s advice. Give Papa and the boys a big hug.

  Your Noppe, always.

  “I think about you all the time”

  LETTERS TO THE FAMILY 1938–1939

  Tove Jansson painting at the Ateneum, Stockholm.

  France 1938

  TOVE JANSSON SPENDS THE SPRING OF 1938 IN PARIS. She had been awarded a scholarship and travelled to Paris in mid-January via Denmark and Germany, arriving there on the 27th. She writes many letters home, giving her account of assorted milieux, art schools and “compatriots”. She commences her art studies at the Académie de la Grande Chaumière, where both her parents once studied, but applies to transfer to Atelier d’Adrien Holy, which has fewer students. Adrien Holy is a Swiss artist who had established himself in Paris in the 1920s. Tove Jansson is later accepted at the eminent École des Beaux-Arts, which she attends for two weeks. But she dislikes the atmosphere at the school and returns to Holy’s studio at the end of March. It is to remain her favourite among all the art schools in Paris. In May her father comes to visit, and stays for three weeks. In June she goes to Brittany, where she paints, and travels from village to village on foot. Tove Jansson’s journey home took her via Germany, Stockholm and the Hammarstens’ summer house, Ängsmarn. She reaches Helsinki on 12 July after almost exactly six months abroad.

  * * *

&nbs
p; SATURDAY 12 FEB. –38 [Paris]

  Beloved Mama!

  Tomorrow is Sunday – these days I appreciate as much as you do the chance to sleep in on a Sunday! I have had a shower and washed my mop of hair and feel nice and warm. Carlstedt (who is petrified of germs by the way) claims it is lethal to use the bathtub here. This evening I “cooked” for the first time, i.e. a salad with lots of herbs and spices, and enjoyed a dinner for one with vin blanc, cheese and pancake. And violets on the table. Irina has been down here a couple of times – during the day I secretly abducted her and we went to Le Dôme and took a couple of turns on Montparnasse. The girl was in a quiver of delight. But I am starting to have my suspicions, there are strange goings-on here and there in this Nordic hotel. I have never known such intrigue on all fronts, I think I shall try my hardest to get out of this hornet’s nest. They come to me one and all with their lamentations about each other, pledges of secrecy, accusations, explanations. Ouf! – Oh well. Ça va, as long as I just listen with a stupid, sympathetic look.

  – I so enjoyed getting your letter. Whenever I am passing through the hotel lobby, even if it isn’t post time, my eyes are irresistibly drawn to pigeonhole 13. And I feel an absurd rush of joy if I see a flash of white in the gloom. Just imagine your following me on the map! Hôtel des Terrasses is right on the corner of Boul. St. Jacques which I go along every morning as far as the beautiful lion sculpture and then carry on to Chaumière along Raspail. I generally walk home via Port Royal because there’s sometimes such a lively and colourful market there. That way takes twenty minutes, if I walk briskly enough. Opposite my window there is a property with a tall, empty façade. When the wind blows, a broken gutter keeps knocking against the wall, and in the evenings I can see the Métro trains with their lights go thundering by. This is a quiet district, with no real noise in the streets. The hotel itself is ideal – the room too, though I’d like to move the whole lot a bit closer to the centre – preferably leaving the Finnish colony behind! You needn’t worry about me being lonely – that’s the last thing I am! One evening Carlstedt dragged me out for a Dubonnet, and then we had dinner, followed by coffee at Dôme, a lecture on astrology, a stroll along the Seine, and I got to bed at 1 o’clock. Another day Ragnar wanted me to come to some exhibitions, Vlaminck, Vuillard, Bonnard, Dufy, Brayer (my professeur). We encountered one Gert Markus from the Ateneum who dragged me to the Rotonde to listen to Helsingfors gossip while Ragnar went off to hunt for a “proper” Baltic herring bake. And Marcus is threatening to ring, soon. One tends to run into Hageli all over the place, at least if one frequents that dive Boudet on Raspail. He’s promised to show me some Negro dancing. Irina pops in now and then, glowing with conspiratorial fervour, and I gather Bäckens have asked why they never see me? Tyra Lundgren has written (I had no idea she was still in London!) to ask me to keep her clay damp and get in touch to tell her how things are going, and I would certainly be made welcome at Champions. And then there’s Chataïn who I haven’t found time to see! And the Rumanian from Pontoise and Gabriel Berthout who doesn’t want to dine alone. So you see, gentle Pausanias, I am far from lonely! Almost wish – well …! – I’m still going round in my fur – sometimes a raincoat with a warm dress underneath, but there’s absolutely no need for muff and galoshes. The ladies are wearing leather and thin spring coats; people wear pretty much what they like, and I am glad of my Russian cat. The temperature shoots up and down like crazy and it’s always windy here, and damp.