by Tove Jansson
14 FEB. –38 [written on Le Dôme’s notepaper]
Beloved! letter contd.
One always somehow ends up here after one’s wanderings round town, and it is in these environs or somewhere around Boul. Mich. or behind the Luxembourg Gardens that I shall look for a new hotel. I’ve been running around looking all day – 6 hours. I reckon they’re all more or less the same, concierges, stairs and wallpaper, and French hotels under 400 fr. are utterly depressing. Washbasin and enclosed courtyards and damp patches. I’d stay on at Glacière for March, too, but it’s so out of the way and the Finnish colony drives me up the wall. But enough of that, let’s talk about something more pleasant! Now is the holy hour of the apéritif. I can see Carlstedt out on the terrace, reminding me of yesterday’s festivities at Boul. Blanche’s negro dancing. I happened to be passing the Rotunda and caught sight of Birger, Hageli and Kræmers, some really nice Swedes. It was 11 o’clock at the time and the whole bunch seemed extremely lively after their Pernods, which created a fine effect with their milky green colour against the emerald green plates and the red table top. Hageli was making a racket you could hear from right out on the boulevard. They called me in and in no time we were all strolling along to Boul. Blanche to “take a look at Fernanda, rose of Martinique”. This wasn’t “proper” negro dancing, because you can only go to that in the company of a coloured person. But they were beautiful, putting body and soul into their dancing, laughing out loud with delight and completely caught up in what they were doing. Birger taught me what you have to do – it consisted mainly of shaking yourself in a wholly improvised way, stiff little steps, “like walking on loose desert sand”, and you really have to concentrate on the music, and follow it, to make anything of it at all. I only had one Fils gin but it cost 25 fr! So it was certainly a costly pleasure to behold Fernanda! But great fun – like nothing I have ever experienced before. And then there was art chat, of course, someone said something thoughtless and then they were all at each other’s throats. It’s always like that – just when one wants to get immersed in an atmosphere, something new and lovely – all the old Helsingfors intrigues come tumbling in again. If they could just leave painting alone for a change!
Today I went to find out about my carte d’identité – it costs 200 fr. and they want 6 photographs, all the same. I had a couple of sheets of polyphotos done and I shall send you one in due course, with violets, earrings and “the whole works”. Oh, and I got a letter of recommendation from the Finnish legation, took it to the Louvre and got a carte à demi tarif to the state art gallery.
Today from half 9 to half 12 I painted for the first time at Olie, rue Broca. I like it there – just the right number of novices taking an interest in the model’s pose and forever squabbling about bits of coloured cloth, mirrors and reflected light. The studio is in a nice inner courtyard and you get up to it by climbing a steep spiral staircase, painted blue. No need to worry here about people making off with your equipment while your back is turned, like at Chaumière, and the whole atmosphere makes me feel much more like working. I’ve more energy left for croquis in the evenings, too. But it’s incredible how quickly the days go, I don’t feel as if I’m getting anything done. I haven’t been able to write to you anywhere near as often as I’ve wanted now everybody in the world wants “illustrated letters from my travels”. Isn’t that silly. I’ve sent off at least 35 letters and cards, and then those beloved dopes go and write back straight away! But I really mustn’t grumble – it’s so nice when there’s a letter waiting in the hall. It’s 7 o’clock now and I can start to think about going to Boudet for something to eat – I want something practical and filling today because I had no breakfast and was up until 4 o’clock this morning. Ouch. (and what’s more, the cleaner was impertinent this morning.) I forgot, you see, that even the banks take a siesta between midi and 2, hadn’t a sous left from my first “withdrawal” (which I’d calculated would get me to the last of the month!), and after 2 there’s no food to be had anywhere. Let me tell you – Paris is definitely the right place to deal a blow to the final vestiges of one’s inferiority complex! One simply has to get over it to survive. If you are the least bit shy, compliant, apologetic or anxious, you end up feeling like a doormat before the day is over. All the concierges, constant little faux pas in matters of etiquette and French custom, the women with their devastating self-confidence, beauty and refinement of dress, haughty garçons, cheeky gamines, sales assistants who try to cheat you as much as possible and almost despise you if you don’t haggle, a blasé restaurant clientele always eager to find fault etc. Eugéne Sommer has taught me lots of little details that are tremendously important here, and helped me in every way. He has even written an extremely “correct” letter to Chataïn, which I shall send off this evening to request a rendezvous. But with every passing day I feel safer, happier, calmer. And I know I’ve got to become free myself if I’m to be free in my painting. You’ll understand better why I want to shake off my “compatriots” if you bear in mind that I have to be rid of all the old detritus clinging to me, everything that reminds me of the years of my “bondage”. That’s why I sometimes go out with Eugéne, his unfettered calm. – M. Champion came up for a few minutes’ chat just now. Everyone who comes here takes a quick tour of the restaurant to see if anyone they know is here. Now I’m off to eat, à bientôt!
The hotel. At Boudet I collided with Birger again and after dinner we went to find Hageli and see how he was doing after yesterday. Then we took a walk to a funfair beyond Glacière, where the broad boulevard was packed with gypsy caravans along its whole length. I would rather have liked a ride on the bumper cars and the flying chairs but they claimed we were “too smartly dressed” for that. This is quite a “red” area, I understand, and one has to be careful. On that subject, I’ve had a very sweet, moving letter from Tapsa, written in Swedish. It made me really happy; it was full of his concern for me and his wish (albeit a melancholy one) that I should be well and enjoy myself. I’ve also heard from Torsten, a jolly long letter that I had to read in four or five stages. It’s rather unfortunate that I’m finding it so hard to focus on any kind of proper, polished “correspondence”, it’s just the most unliterary scribble of memories and thoughts as they flutter by, repetitions and childish drivel. All I’m doing is “talking”. But there are so many new things going on around me that I’m simply boulversé. If only you were here with me now! Then perhaps I could really bring it all alive for you. You know what, the flowers are so gorgeous here. It’s terribly hard to resist buying them from the stalls with their piles of tight little bouquets, flaming with colour. Especially after the sudden violent showers that leave the wet boulevards shimmering yellowy-white or clear violet, that’s when the flowers look loveliest!
I think your evening coat with all the little gold dots is awfully pretty. But you know what, Papa turns out to be quite right that I’ve no use for my poshest frock here. I thought I might go to an artists’ dance or masked ball but I’ve heard such disreputable things about them that I’ve decided not to. If you’re wearing “too much” they tear it off you on the way in, so most people wear nothing at all but smear paint on their bodies in a variety of extreme shades. And if the weather’s warm they turn up at Dôme the next morning all streaky after a quick dip in some fountain. Good grief, can that be true! And there are “goings on” there that so embarrassed Carlstedt he went home before 11! That was a weird Stockholm story you told me. But if we always went around thinking horrible things like that might happen, we’d scarcely dare move a muscle. We’d be as wretched as Birger with his horror of germs.
Of course I think you’ll cope with gold leather even though I’m not there! The bits of leather, gold and tools are in the medicine cupboard on my sleeping platform in a yellow wooden box Polon gave me, the oils in the old dolls’ house in the studio or in Papa’s or my wardrobe. You’ll find the preparation in a square brown book with loose-leaf pages and a white label on the spine. – that’s definitel
y in my bookshelf.
I’ve written a card and a “travel letter” to the Topsøes and also given them your thanks; I think that will do for now. But I’m sure they’d love to hear from you, as well. I’m glad your arm’s getting better, I could tell from your handwriting how bad it must have been. Dearest, sometimes – well, often, I feel quite heartbroken that I can’t be with you. I miss you all. Do you really think there’s a chance Papa won’t come? Tell him he absolutely must – to keep an eye on me, if nothing else! It would be such great fun to take my papa Faffan out for walks here – so many people have said he’s got to come. Give my love to him and the boys! Good night beloved! Tomorrow I shall really splash the paint about. A big big big KISS from
your own Noppe.
Carlstedt: The artist Birger Carlstedt.
Irina: The artist Irina Bäcksbacka, daughter of art dealer Leonard Bäcksbacka.
Ragnar: The artist Ragnar Relander.
Hageli: The artist Hjalmar Hagelstam.
Bäckens: The Bäcks; that is, artist Yngve Bäck and his wife Märta Bäck.
Tyra Lundgren: Artist from Sweden.
Chataïn: Gilbert Chataïn. He and his wife are referred to in TJ’s letter of 2 April 1938, for example.
Boul. Blanche: The Boule Blanche nightclub. The singer Moune de Rivel whom TJ got to know through Vivica Bandler after the war was one of its artistes. The club advertised a “Bal Negré”.
Olie, rue Broca: A misspelling of Holy, Atelier d’Adrien Holy.
Tapsa: The artist Tapio Tapiovaara, a fellow student at the Ateneum. See further Letters to Eva Konikoff.
boulversé: misspelling of bouleversée – overwhelmed.
the Topsøes: On her way to Paris, TJ stayed with the Topsøe family in Copenhagen.
PARIS. SATURDAY 12 MARCH –38
Dearest Per-Olov!
On a bright day of sun and wind like this, I wish I could be at home with all of you to see in the spring. She needs no “help” here because there are no streams to clear the melting snow and ice from, only water pumped up into the gutters every day so the old women can wash their rags and lettuces. One day there was a thin layer of snow covering the city in the morning – Paris Soir devoted half a column to the phenomenon. Mama’s told me about your skiing holiday and your floodlit slalom runs. How strange and far away that sounds! Today I went for a mooch along the Seine, wearing my fur for maybe the last time. “Ça va, little wolf,” said the madame who sold me an old copy of Musset on the boquinistes quai. So I sat in the Luxembourg Gardens reading about the marriage of the muse and the poet because I was so tired of looking at art. I’d spent nearly three hours walking round the Salon des Independents being surprised at what an astonishing number of people fill their days daubing paint onto a stretched canvas. Because there was little more to it than that – most of the exhibitors clearly hadn’t the faintest idea of the concept and point of all painting. A mural exhibition, on the other hand, huge works commissioned by the state from the best modern painters over the past year, made me feel very small and full of admiration. Rue de la Seine is where all the little art salons cluster, with perpetual openings of new exhibition, shops selling paints, antique dealers, here and there a greengrocer’s stall, a bistro. Here’s a map I’ve drawn of the streets I normally frequent – I’ve become almost like one of those genuine Parisians who have never been on the other side of the Seine. Rive droit – why bother to go there when one has everything in one’s own district! [ … ]
Other than that I’m really splashing the paint about. Regards to the whole family from me and give them a really hard hug!
And a big kiss for you from sister Noppe.
WEDNESDAY 16 MARCH –38. PARIS.
Beloved Mama!
Thanks for your letter, I felt absolutely sure it would be lying here waiting for me today! So now I’ve been accepted at Beaux Arts for the rest of the spring – I shall spend the next three weeks running between there and Holy’s, and then I shall choose the one where I’m learning most. But my one lesson down at “the fine arts” certainly put me in a wickedly happy frame of mind and really gave me the urge to work. Yesterday I drew croquis 2 – 7 so I’d have something to show them. In the last two hours I really did manage to produce a some drawings that were fresher than anything I’ve done up to now, and I also took along a couple of head studies and presented myself at 10 o’clock this morning at d’Espagnan’s studio. They have four professors of painting there and this was the only one the Bäcks knew anything about. Outside the door, someone had written in charcoal “Appartement des dames”. I peered in cautiously and yes, it was true – about 50 young ladies, gesturing and chirruping in a major key. One came rushing over and started showering me in reproaches – and with this lot, you know, every fifth word rises to pianissimo: “Quoi! On n’entre comme ça dans une atelier! Qui etez vous, helas, alors! Eh bien!” I extracted myself from this horde of agitated females and took a look in Sabatte’s studio next door. Then a caretaker came flapping over, scolded me and put me up against the wall, “attendez lá, oh mon Dieu ces anglaises!” Fine, I thought, I suppose I’ll wait for this d’Espagnan, then, but I don’t care for the way they run this establishment.
After I’d spent an hour cooling my heels waiting, a bearded novice came along and asked me to show him what I had done. Eh bien, I thought, it’s better than standing here like a lump of wood while all these little red-haired beauties shrug at me en passant. He leafed through them, took me by the arm, “Vite, vite, venez!’ Out onto the staircase: “It’s Guérin you want, not here, be careful for goodness sake! Then he dragged me off to another studio where I was unceremoniously yanked in and put on a chair in the middle of the room, interrogated about my name, nationality, age, character, ideals, whether my hair was real, if I was in love, an optimist, and so on. The novices in a dense wall around me, my work spread out on the floor. “I like this better,” I thought, but I was terribly embarrassed. Then another timid applicant arrived and endured the same treatment with poorly concealed mortification. Suddenly someone cried: “Voilá le Dieu!” And in came Guerin. Oh well, I thought, I suppose I shall have to show all my work again. But no. A bearded student adorned with a monocle approached this god and bowed. ‘We have approved one of them, this one.” “Good,” said Guerin. “You will start on Monday.” He cast the briefest of glances at the croqui on the top of my pile and then vanished. The first bearded gentleman came forward: “Now you are one of us. Don’t look so stupid, you will be fine. I invite you to dejeuner, c’est l’abitude.” No sooner said than done. I found the whole thing so ridiculous and charming that I went along, to a cheap Hungarian place. Coming out, I ran into Ester Helenius who instantly abducted me and gave me a lecture on art, then pressed my hand and thanked me for not consorting with Finns. Beamed and left me.
Now I am going to dress up smartly and go to the ambassadeur (that sounds impressive), where I will meet my compatriots quand même. First I shall pin some of my croquis up on my wall, because today, illogically enough, for perhaps the first time here, I really feel I can achieve something. The atmosphere over there was so youthfully encouraging and mischievous. So long!
Later, evening. Liberated from the fear of bacteria Carlstadt managed to instil in me, I have now had a bath, which was pretty lukewarm but nice anyway, darned my socks and done some cleaning. Ever since he, Skralstedt, went off to Africa things have calmed down on all troubling fronts. Bäcks got totally silly about him, particularly when he started talking about forms of social intercourse in sophisticated diplomatic circles, riding habits and underwear. I thought he was basically a terribly nice boy. He genuinely regretted everybody thinking such horrible things about him: “If I go with a girl – then I’m a seducer. If I’m out with a boy – homosexual. If I stay at home – then they all know what illness I’ve caught.” It’s true that his wife died but that was because she took too much morphine, she’d been using it for a long time. I’m saying all this to exonerate him a little, because I c
ame to rather like him. He is quite feminine and talks far too unguardedly, but there’s nothing bad in him.
