by Tove Jansson
Anyway, at the ministerial tea party I tried to remember everything he’d taught me about etiquette and went there with a whole gang of compatriots. Terribly elegant drawing rooms and piles of sandwiches and sweet things – but none of them bigger than a postage stamp. There were lots of Swedes and Finns, among them Bade and Helenius. One was expected to spend 2 hours teetering around on high heels making polite conversation about that day’s on dit. (I’d rather have gone to Pontoise for a swim.) Before I went I dropped in on Irina with the secret ration of cigarettes and nail polish. She had translated my finely honed and poetic love letter to her Spaniard and bashfully asked if she might make the ending a little more affectionate. No, I said, don’t give him false hopes. But in the end we decided to leave her a bit of room for manoeuvre after all, in case she can’t hold to her “no”, and added a couple of hopeful adjectives. As I was leaving she hugged me and gave me a Spanish brooch that I’d always admired. She is a delight, that girl, I can’t fathom how anyone could treat her badly. I so wish I could have a frank little exchange of views with that gentleman, her father. To think, for instance, that the Spanish beloved went all the way to Reval and still had his ticket for Helsingfors, wrote to Bäxbacka and asked if he could come over and see her but got a point-blank refusal and went back to Salamanca. – Yes, you see, I write about all manner of things that I probably ought to keep to myself – but I do so enjoy talking to you like this before I turn in – and of course I know I can trust you to keep quiet. I’ve never met anyone other than you who can do that – I certainly can’t! When I talk to you, at any rate, I find everything just comes spilling out of me! [ … ]
Yes, I know about the state stipendium next month. I wondered if you would kindly send in that still life with the red book and white pot of flowers against an open window, and the self-portrait with the Indian cloth in the background. And I’ll send the third canvas from here. For the exhibition this month you can submit the two works I’ve mentioned. I need a bit of time to produce something decent. A landscape, for example. Don’t know if I want to burden Irina with any extra luggage. She’d take it, of course, she so much wants to “give” me something for those miserable cigarettes. But F.Å.A. will organise it just as well. Do you think 130 fr. is too much? It’s a fair amount, of course, but at least I’ll get rid of all my winter stuff.
It’s getting late, good night dearest! This letter is just meandering drivel I’m afraid, but it’s only two days since I last wrote and not awfully much has happened in the meantime! But it’s such fun sitting down for a chat with you – it’s almost as if you were here. Bye for now! Love from
Noppe.
Friday, it’s almost 6 p.m. now, I just came from Holy where I asked permission to carry on painting after midi. Phew! First I scratched out the whole model I’ve been doing all this week, turned her to face the opposite way and gave her a dress and a new head. Three hours later I was going crazy and turned her again, and in the end I turned her to the wall and did a little sketch of the “Apache cellar” where I went yesterday. It was fresh, but just one of those bluffs, a colour-composition-scrape of a picture, you know, the kind of thing you can’t take any further, but maybe use to impress people who’ve never painted themselves. I started to feel hopeful and when the afternoon sun sent its gleaming streaks in among the easels and made the place into one big jumble of shadows, I did another sketch. Might carry on with it tomorrow, my last day at Holy’s. I’ve been there five weeks now and still have three owing to me; I shall take those later in the spring, as I’m starting at Beaux Arts on Monday. It was dearer there than I expected so it’s not worth registering just for the sake of the identity card. I’d just as soon take the plunge, it looks nice there. Incidentally, I’ve found out the name of that student with the beard who came and rescued me from the Appartement des Dames and took me to that Hungarian eating-house. Féri Gall, and a fine painter, it seems; he’s won Grand Prix in Rome, and at Beaux Arts too. Paints in Rembrandt style, huge compositions. The reproductions he showed me made me feel quite faint. Yesterday he came dashing up when I was having coffee at Dupont and asked whether he ought to shave his beard off or not. I was absolutely sure he ought to keep it, for a week at least. Then we took a stroll around the Seine and he proved a very earnest and poetic gentleman. He doesn’t approve of our century’s rush and craving for entertainment, and expressed his pleasure at having found “a young lady equally serious and, he hoped, equally romantic”, and what was more, with a Hungarian name, Marika. He was terribly kind and funny, but when he got too carried away with contemplation of the moon and talk of platonic friendship, I took him off to the Cave Apache at Boul. Mich. It’s cheap and good fun, with non-stop singing, and sometimes when the “vamp” is to perform something particularly racy they put the lights out and just leave a little stump of candle burning in their mouldy old vaults. Féri almost took fright, but in the end he had a really good time and forgot he was a solitary being. Next week we might go and paint by the Seine.
Papa’s box of sugared cranberries has arrived, though unfortunately I wasn’t at home when Uhra Simberg brought it round. I might go and find her at rue de la Santé tomorrow. Give my love to Papa and a big thank you, it’s so nice to have treats like that to enjoy in the evenings. All the “eating” here takes on such significance, it gets raised to the status of an event, almost a ritual. Me, just think!
Saturday. Oh yes, I forgot to tell you – last Sunday I saw my first butterfly and he was a brownish yellow. There he was on the asphalt, quivering, and since I had a flower in my buttonhole I let him crawl up onto it and come with me all the way down the boulevarde. Today I saw my second one, he was whitish-yellow. – Do you remember I had three art books for Christmas, I think they were on Cézanne, Matisse and Gauguin (or Manet?). Can you write and tell me what they were and how much they cost, because I’ve seen the same series here and I’d like to add to my set if they’re cheaper here. – And I’ll be immensely grateful for as many shoe, shirt, glove and stocking sizes as possible whenever you feel like letting me have them. I often see things of that kind I’d like to buy for you all, as gifts if nothing else. (Damn! There goes another of Sivén’s fillings, a huge one. He won’t get any discount on his painting if this carries on!). Today I went to Holy an hour early and popped in on madame Krok on the way with flowers for Uhra, who still wasn’t up. She’d be out in town later, I knew that. She was glad I’d come but didn’t think we ought to make any particular arrangements to meet. (And I’m not all that keen on playing cicerone, either – she’s not the only one who’s busy.) I gave her lots of tips on the subjects of art – sights worth seeing – food and places of entertainment. She’ll probably be at Boudet like the others, if one feels like meeting up with her. Gunvor Grönvik is in Italy and will be coming later in the spring, - Féri told me that in April we have to paint a naked model for a week with no critique, and if it’s no good they chuck you out of Beaux Arts straight away. That sounds ghastly. My hand is going to shake so much I shall produce nothing but pointillism. Irina’s gloomy because I won’t be at Holy’s the last week she’s here – but que faire? I’ve already given her poetry, cigarettes and encouragement to last her for the next few days. She’s scared of going home, that father of hers must be quite a … Now I shall go on with an interior while the light lasts. Lots of love to everybody – and a particular hug for Papa for his parcel.
A big
your own Noppe.
P.S. Had a letter from Karin F. who is keeping very busy with children’s homes again. The work there is too much for her, her stomach doesn’t like it. Elsa went down to Switzerland after her nervous breakdown, and stayed with Ingmar’s Emy, but caught influenza there and was confined to bed for 10 days. But now, writes Karin, we’ve forgotten all those tedious things, we’re so overjoyed about Austria. (!)
Sunday evening P.S. Another kiss just before this goes to press! Today I was at the Louvre and slept terribly late this morning. NOW I really feel it’s Sunday
! Just think, Beaux Arts starts at 8! I’m awfully nervous – they apparently like to play some kind of trick on newcomers. We’ll have to see! Goodnight dearest!
Ester Helenius: Artist.
Skralstedt: TJ’s nickname for Carlstedt.
Reval: the old name for Tallinn, capital of Estonia.
F.Å.A.: The shipping firm Finska Ångfartygs Ab (The Finnish Steamboat Company).
Féri Gall: This Hungarian artist colleague was the inspiration for the protagonist in TJ’s short story ‘Skägget” (The Beard).
Marika: TJ’s middle name.
Cave Apache: A variety of nightclub featuring ‘apache artistes’ and ‘apache dancing’.
Uhra Simberg: A textile artist.
Sivén: TJ’s dentist in Helsinki.
Karin F.: Karin Flemming, TJ’s cousin.
Ingmar: Ingmar Flemming, TJ’s cousin.
Emy: Ingmar Flemming’s wife, also known as Emmely.
WHEN TOVE JANSSON STARTED AT ÉCOLE DES BEAUX-ARTS in March, she describes what she was forced to undergo in the initiation tests and her first days as a student there. She leaves the school after about two weeks, giving an account of her exit in the short story “Quatz’ Arts”, which also depicts the carnivalesque throng at the art school. The story was published in Svenska Pressen on 30 July 1938. She wrote a number of short stories during her Parisian stay in 1938.
SUNDAY 27 MARCH 38. PARIS.
My own beloved Papa!
Your letter is in my bag, it made me feel all warm and happy. I most definitely realise that you care about me and are thinking of me even though you don’t write very often. – Correspondence generally comes via Mama, of course, but I know you all speak through her letters and I often treat them as “from the family”, just as most of my letters are intended for all of you.
When I went into the hotel bureau on Annunciation Day, Madame looked very important and curious and the entire staff stood there watching as I took the bundle of letters out of my pigeonhole. “Tout ça, c’est pour moi?” “Oui-oui-oui-oui”, said Madame generously. “Just take them, you can have them all.” (We always have to thank her when letters arrive for us!) Just imagine, you’d all remembered me! I felt twice as happy as usual as I set off to walk to Hotel Lutetia to dance that evening, it was as if I had you all with me. – Of course I shall send something in for the state competition. It’s turned pretty warm now; I can do a landscape painting, for instance. But I don’t want to send anything in until I can see for sure that it’s better than anything I’ve produced before. And now let me tell you a bit about Beaux Arts, which is currently hogging all my interest.
My first days there were quite trying. The main problem was that I happened to come in on a male model week, and that’s the worst thing I know (presumably because it’s the hardest), painting a mustachioed muscle man sturdily planted on both feet. And matters weren’t helped by my dreading every repos, in case the students decided it was time to make me pay my “boir” in the restaurant next door. In a moment of weakness one of them, a certain Hungarian called Gáll who I’ve already mentioned, let slip the secret of boir. The victim, the new arrival, buys everyone (about 40 in all) a drink and then you have to get up on a table and sings songs from your homeland, then two youths grab your skirt and yank it over your head. That’s the very least you can expect. Most people have to pose “au poils”, tout a fait nue. That’s what happened to Féri Gáll two years ago, for example. Alors – if they demand that, I shall give up on Beaux Arts altogether. I’ve been going around all week in my best black silk stockings and the yellow pants Mama made me just before I came away, with stomach ache from sheer nerves. It isn’t easy being new. On se moque tout le temps, par example – coming over and giving my poor model study green hair and a Hitler leg band, pouring turpentine in my shoes, sending me running off for essence, expecting me to supply them with painters’ rags and cigarettes, and one’s expected to be as meek as a lamb, smiling indulgently and appreciatively at it all, c’est l’habitude. Young men can expect to get their tie or their fringe chopped off. It’s le petit Patron, keeper of the “corbeille”, and mediator of all “le Dieu’s” orders (le Patron, our professeur), who leads this traditional initiation of the newcomers. In the old days you undressed “au poils” to be branded, it was considered a very great and fine thing to be accepted as a student at Beaux Arts. That’s stopped now, but the stripping persists. Le Dieu, C. Guérin, is a Great Painter (in both senses). Whenever he comes in, they all stop shouting, “singing”, throwing water at each other and charging round among the easels, and start quaking instead. (I’m quaking constantly, of course, because a notice on the wall in letters ½ a metre high says: “Le nouveaux ne parlent pas qu’a leur tour, et leur tour ne vient JAMAIS” – written a metre high.) And then the thunderclaps start.
Because he’s strict; Holy is like a mild westerly breeze compared to Guerin. He bellows and scolds and gets sarcastic “– – – C’est Beaux Arts, ça, pas un Bal de nuit! De quel age avez Vous? Eh bien? Vous voulez devenir peintre, eh? Vraimaent – c’est formidable ça. Alors, il faut travailler, travailler, travailler, tous les jours, les nuits, toujours! Compris?” Guerin’s a naturalist, or at any rate demands strict academic studies from us. So your terrible dream about my surrealist metamorphosis was entirely unfounded! Each week we get 2 sujets pour choisir, this time for instance it’s “Moses strikes the rock” and “People waiting for a bus”. We have four days to get it done, so it’s a rather more pressured sommittelu than at the Ateneum. I’ve chosen Moses but I haven’t a clue how I’m going to fit him in. I expect things will go better once I start getting into the work and don’t feel so nervous and awkward any more. The big Rome prize was awarded two days ago and everybody made straight for the restaurant to celebrate the event. What we drink on such occasions is covered by the 200 fr. we have to pay the Petit Patron when we join. In the bureau we have to pay 100 fr., so the whole affair turned out 3 times dearer than I’d counted on. At least the Carte d’identité was reduced to 60, but of course they made me pay 65 fr. extra for a stamp. It’s so French, all these little supplements and additions. E.g. I once went to a cheap eatery with a sign in the window boldly advertising “5 fr. 75”! Inside, it turned out the cover charge was 1.50 and the bread 1.75, plus 75 for oil with the salad. Wine 2 fr. Voilà! Oh well. Before I knew it, one of the students started shouting Bois! and my cook was goosed. They promised me this was just a “preparatory” boir and I would “only” have to sing. So I plucked up my courage and sang “There was a Little Young Man”, ‘The Crow Song” and “Cuckoo, cuckoo, faraway cuckoo.’ The last of these drew more attention that our Arab’s surprising solo turn. – Today the weather’s grey and cold. I’ve been to Irina’s with a parcel for you, a few little things I hope she’ll be able to take with her in her muff. She’s supposed to be leaving on Wednesday morning, Mrs Bäck is taking her as far as Antwerp and putting her on the boat going directly to Helsingfors. If she comes to see us, be careful not to talk too much about her stay in Paris. She’s had quite a tricky time of it, poor little thing, with her father leaving her no freedom of movement and Bäck misunderstanding – and mistrusting – her. She’s immensely kind, and a good friend to me. A big big kiss to you, dearest!
your own Noppe.
“Tout ça, c’est pour moi?”: “Is all this for me?”
repos: Rest break.
“boir”: Drink.
“au poils”, tout à fait nue: Completely naked.
On se moque tout le temps: They are always teasing.
C’est l’habitude: That’s usual.
corbeille: (Wastepaper) basket.
C. Guérin: Presumably the painter Charles Guérin.
Le nouveaux ne parlent pas qu’a leur tour, et leur tour ne vient JAMAIS: New students do not speak until it is their turn, and their turn NEVER comes.
C’est Beaux Arts, ça, pas un Bal de nuit! De quel age avez Vous? Eh bien? Vous voulez devenir peintre, eh? Vraimaent – c’est form
idable ça. Alors, il faut travailler, travailler, travailler, tous les jours, les nuits, toujours! Compris?: This is Beaux Arts, not a dancing party! How old are you? Well, so you want to be a painter? That’s wonderful. In that case you must work, work, work, all day and all night, always! Understood?
sujets pour choisir: Subjects to choose between.
sommittelu: Composition.
TOVE JANSSON RETURNS TO ATELIER D’ADRIEN HOLY AT the end of March. In a letter dated 24.4, she describes Holy’s approach to teaching and his critiquing of her pictures.
SAT. 2 APRIL –38. PARIS.
Beloved Mama!
I’ve stretched and pinned about ten decent-sized new canvases, scraped my palettes clean, written a letter to Torsten, washed my gloves, eaten a pain blanc with haricot and am now sitting here feeling I’ve been a good and clever girl all round. Phew, what a lively time I’ve had! I just found another little cry for help from Féri down with the concierge, que faire. He’s bound to be frantic when he doesn’t find me at Beaux Arts on Monday and I expect Guerin will bring the roof down. I wonder if one can have the grippe for three weeks? Anyway, that’s going to be my excuse when I go back after using up all the sessions I paid Adrien Holy for at the beginning of March. It will be nice and quiet working there with the six young ladies who wait until the breaks to shyly relate that week’s experiences for the only young man, who makes little speeches about the meaning of art in return. Holy flits between the easels and calls us “his children”, the Armenian girl’s pug is asleep by the stove, it’s all a perfect idyll, and at the foot of the winding blue stairs a little studio alley full of daffodils and fragments of sculpture. It might be a bit more –tedious, but I shall be able to work in peace. In three weeks I shall know whether I want to stay here or move back to Beaux Arts.
