Letters from Tove

by Tove Jansson

  your Tove.

  piscine “en plein air”: Outdoor swimming pool.

  a Swedish Jelin: The artist Hugo Gehlin from Sweden. TJ also had contact with him later on.

  Segerstråle: Probably the artist Lennart Segerstråle.

  “Ruy Blas”: Play by Victor Hugo.

  IN JUNE, TOVE JANSSON TRAVELS TO BRITTANY, WHERE SHE paints, sketches and goes on foot from village to village. One of her best-known Brittany paintings is The Seaweed Burners. There are in fact two paintings of that title, both dated 1938.

  The Seaweed Burners, 1938.

  20 JUNE –38 L’ISLE DE SEIN.

  Beloved Papa and Mama!

  Midsummer is approaching, the second one I will be marking without you. I have never felt as far away from you as here on Ile de Sein, an island that seems isolated from the whole world, all of civilisation. And yet there’s a lot here to remind me of Pellinge. The seaweed bobs along the bases of the rocks, but with ten times more force – like strong, gleaming octopus tentacles, the surf sprays high over the ground even when the sea is calm, rough marram grass grows on the dunes, where big shells and dead crabs lie in heaps, and around the lighthouses, built into the excavated tops of high rocks. Yesterday I went on a bus to St. Tugen from Pointe de Raz to see a “pardon”, a religious procession. It advanced towards a big stone cross which was facing the sea, and the women and men took turns in singing a monotonous song. It was overcast and the dunes stretched as far as the eye could see, with not a single house or bush, just the occasional figure dressed in black. Beyond the ebb-tide beach a streak of green sea and from up in the village the sound of bells and music from the market fair swirled together strangely as the wind began to gust. It was beautiful but tremendously melancholy. – On the way home on the bus I met a woman from Ile de Sein who invited me to go out to the island with her on a fishing boat. I accepted, partly because it saved me having to get to Audierne, where I wasn’t even sure I could get hold of a boat (they run at very irregular times because of the ebb tide), partly because the tourist hordes and guides at the point detracted so much from the unspoilt natural beauty of that wild headland. So you might be sitting in a rocky cleft somewhere, looking out over the seething, eddying water or the broom-covered hills – and there would be a sudden bawl of “Anschluss” or something like that, right beside you, and a bunch of young ladies in shorts and sunglasses would scramble by, followed by gentlemen decked out in plus-fours with bulky telescopes and photographic equipment, leaving in their wake sweet wrappers, cigarette ends and the echo of over-exercised adjectives – sometimes even a potent waft of perfume. C’est ça. So without a second thought I joined the little rowing boat, packing my things in just a couple of minutes. We went down to the boat, which lay in a deep, narrow little harbour to which we descended by some almost vertical steps, and set our course straight out to sea. On the way we passed a number of lighthouses in which the keepers live for several months at a time – two of them were so glad to see people that they danced and blew us kisses. It was dusk by the time we got there and I found myself a place to stay. A little restaurant, Raz du Sein, a whitewashed, two-storey building with green shutters in a courtyard full of hens and scruffy cats – its windows looking out over the harbour: a jumble of breakwaters and boats. My room is one of the most charming I’ve ever seen, bright blue with a mountain of a bed, piled with huge bolsters and draped with lace curtains, a Baroque gilt mirror, and nothing else. This morning the sun came out again and lent an intense glow to the golden-brown beaches. I went out to hunt for a present for my female companion from Pointe du Raz. It proved harder than I thought. There are two shops here, one selling fishing tackle, the other groceries. The entire population of the island amounts to 1200 residents. The women all wear black, and are dark-haired – not beautiful exactly, but with purebred, serious faces. At first I thought I kept on meeting the same woman; they all have weathered brown skin, the 20-year-olds look as if they were 30, and they all have middle partings, clogs and those curious black veils that look roughly like this [see illustration right].

  The menfolk here don’t wear those cheerful red trousers, and their boats have brown sails. – Then I finally found two jolly china bowls, which I popped through the window of my lodgings – like all the other women, my landlady was out burning seaweed for the production of iodine. I made a tour of the village – it didn’t take many minutes. The houses are solidly built of light-coloured stone and enclosed by lots of walls winding unpredictably this way and that. The streets, if those crooked, metre-wide passages can be termed as such, barely run straight for more than ten steps – and all the doors are turned out towards the sea. Then I came to the dunes beyond the village, where thick, billowing smoke from vast numbers of fires was carried on the wind. I went up to one of the fires, watched them working for a while and then asked if I could help. They let me, but I could see they were thinking: “crazy tourist! She’ll tire of the novelty within half an hour”. (I’m the only “etrange” here.) But I proved them wrong, because I kept at it right up to midi, and carried on after dejeuner until 3 o’clock when it was all done. And I shall go there tomorrow, too, because I’ve seldom had such fun. – The seaweed’s piled up in huge rectangular heaps where it’s been stewing all winter, taking on a leathery consistency that the Bretons call “teil”. I stood up there in my swimming togs in the brilliant sunshine, throwing down the seaweed, which was sometimes so compacted you could scarcely prize off a single alga, and then the whole lot is carried to the fire, which is laid over six square compartments in a row, penned in by flat stones. It has to be tended non-stop – i.e. anywhere you see the red of the fire you have to cover it over with the algae. Once the burning is done, you’re left with a sticky black mass that cools and hardens – the stuff one used to find on the beach as a child and call coke. This is the most important industry here apart from crab fishing, which I’m going to try tomorrow afternoon – the solid iodine is expensive, costs about 60 fr. a kilo. I enjoyed running around in the smoke and “covering”, and it was a beautiful sight: the women in black, the piles of gleaming seaweed against the intensely blue sea with the sailing boats constantly whooshing past. I shall do a painting of it later – I’ve so many subjects for pictures in mind, for when I get home! We were soon good friends and ate bread and crabs together. When it got too hot I waded into the sea and floated on my back, to their extreme amazement. The algae were so long (just the stems) that I could wind them round me several times and tie a nice bow on my front. There are some nasty little plants here that grab onto your toes if they get within reach, loads of strange algae, molluscs and other damn things lurking in the water, and I have great respect for them all. The jellyfish, on the other hand, are only where there’s sand, and the octopuses only turn up in winter.

  Oh, and I climbed up onto the warm boulders that are strewn around the eastern end of the island. There was one exactly like my image of the rock Victor Hugo calls “L’homme” in his “Toilers of the Sea,” with a hollow at the top where you can lie curled up and scan the sky. The whole morning was one of the loveliest things I’ve experienced, not least because I got to use my muscles for once. It was so nice to feel one was “doing” something – I’m sure you know what I mean? – But then it was the end of the school day, all the island children came swarming out, and the pleasure was over. They’d never seen a woman in a bathing suit, and the bellowing horde of them pursued me eagerly pelting me with stones, to a chorus of barking mutts. In the end I was so furious that I produced an even louder bellow and chased after them. Panic broke out. Now they see me as some primeval wild woman, likely to gobble them up at the very least. If they only knew I was more scared of them than they of me. I’ve placated half a dozen of them in various ways, but they’re like little dogs that yap at anything they don’t know and can sense when you don’t like them. Eh bien, I shall keep away from the horde after four and work at home. And there was another episode that did nothing to cheer me up. Someone had cau
ght an albatross, tied up its beak and given it to the kids to play with. The wretched creature could barely walk, the children dragged it along with them by its mighty wings and of course found the bird’s clumsy attempts to save itself hilarious. Rien à faire. My attempt to intervene was dismissed as completely idiotic. In the end I walked away, feeling sad. – It’s getting dark now, the wind is rising. The light from the lighthouse flickers over my roof and there’s a constant roar of surf. I miss you all this evening, though I know a wonderful new day lies ahead of me. I dream terrible things about you all at nights and have already started making enquiries about the availability of boats to Brest. Maybe there I’ll be able to get some news of everyone. The postal service out here seems pretty primitive but perhaps this letter will reach you anyway, eventually. For midsummer I shall burn “teil” and think of you all. “Kina vo!” (au revoir). Hugs to Lasse. Best wishes to Impi! Grandmother’s already in Åbo, I expect?

  A kiss from your own Noppe.

  Impi: Impi Hahl. She joined the Janssons as their housekeeper at about the time they moved to Lallukka and lived with them for several decades.

  26/6 –38. BREST. [Postcard]

  Beloved Mama.

  It is evening, I am just back from Ile d’Ouessant, a brilliant, warm sea crossing, on which I saw flying fish for the first time. And tomorrow I’m off to Mont Michel, the little island rising directly out of the sea, a vast single rock with a castle on top. I still have a bit of time, and after a brief spell of fatigue and dejection I’ve regained my wanderlust, my longing to see as many things of beauty as possible. I had two delightful days on Ouessant – bathed in crystal green water and took walks across endless desolate stretches of land with grazing sheep, old ruins and immense, weirdly shaped boulders. There were four great lighthouses there, the Ile being “la clef entre l’Ocean et la Manche”. It’s an island without men, as they are all away at sea. It was wonderful at night, with the beams from the four lighthouses sweeping over the island. A feeling of boundless solitude. Greetings to Papa & Lasse! Love,

  your own Noppe.

  Italy 1939

  IN THE SPRING OF 1939, TOVE JANSSON LEAVES FOR HER second extended visit abroad, this time to Italy. She feels the lure of Rome and masterpieces of Renaissance art. War is on its way, so there is no time to lose. In mid-April she makes the ferry crossing to Tallinn and travels on via Berlin and Munich to Verona, where she arrives on 18 April. She makes a brief detour to Lake Garda, and from there her itinerary is as follows: Venice – Padua – Florence – Assisi – Rome – Naples – Pompeii – Naples – Pestum – Amalfi – Positano – Capri – Naples – Rome (to which she takes a flight) – Orvieto – Siena – San Gimignano – Pisa – Forte dei Marmi. She spends over three weeks in Rome (5 May–1 June), but is otherwise constantly on the move. At the end of June, Tove Jansson travels on to Paris, where she stays for about a fortnight. On 17 July she sets off for home, travelling via Cologne, Berlin and Stettin, and rejoins her family at their summer place in Pellinge.

  As previously, Tove Jansson writes to her family frequently and at length. She documents her travels by means of descriptions of settings and scenery, people and art. She addresses her letters alternately to “Sculptor Viktor Jansson” or “Artist Signe Hammarsten Jansson”, but with only a few exceptions they are intended for the whole family. They are written in an easy, natural style with typical curiosity and frankness, the young woman wielding the pen never fighting shy of a challenge. She is indignant about the limits on freedom of movement for a woman on her own, but what matters to her most is following her own travel plans and travelling light.

  26. APRIL –39. FIRENZE

  Dearest everybody,

  My letters seem to be coming thick and fast, but it’s as if I want you with me all the time, moving from place to place. And I’m not writing to lots of other people at the same time, as I used to. I don’t know how to adequately describe the sensation of happy liberation that’s come over me down in Italy, liberation from the self-scrutiny, the sense of guilt, and I don’t know what. Another trip and perhaps I shall entirely break free from the persistent “Baedecker frenzy”. Travelling in the right way is a real art, and I am going to master it. You mustn’t rush round to everything you “have to see” until you turn into a sopping sponge that very quickly feels “wrung out”, sated and exhausted – and you experience nothing but aversion and emptiness. What I mean is – in a church, say, don’t go systematically round the walls, casting an eye on every relief, madonna or crucifix and then, back in the open air, find you remember none of them, don’t just cross off yet another “chiesa seen”, but just stand where it’s at its most beautiful and drink in the atmosphere, the character and feeling of the church – or in an art gallery, don’t pause for a certain number of seconds in front of every picture but, ignoring the travel guide’s star rating and the nameplates under the paintings, spend longer in front of what instantly and instinctively appeals to you, and pass swiftly by the others. One simply doesn’t have the stamina for too much! Backberg – for example, came back here today after taking an express-train tour of Rome and Naples and was just tired and jaded. The Enckells gave me her telephone number and I arranged to meet her at Piazza Signoria. Then we went up to Fiesole with a Swedish textile designer, Miss Geijer, and walked around there as the urge took us, in a leisurely way without a map. Backberg declared it to be the best day of her whole trip – and why? WE completely unwound, dispensed with any kind of “programme” and were barely tourists any more. We found a trattoria high up on the hill where we could see out over the whole valley and Florence was spread before us, shimmering in the heat haze. Around us the orange trees (yes, finally!), heavy, luxuriant clusters of violet-coloured flowers, irises and little yellow roses growing like trees.

  There we drank Chianti and merrily indulged in idle chatter about anything that occurred to us, without a care for yesterday or tomorrow. Then we went into the little monastery up there, where the monk spoke Swedish (“pretty little cells, please to look”).

  The Schaumans have left now, and send you greetings galore. It was nice to meet them, they were cheery and kind to me. Yesterday I went for a long night-time walk through the town with Elisabeth and we had such a good time together. Sigrid seemed very tired after the journey. Some well-meaning but misguided acquaintance had sent them prophesies of war when they were in Rome, so to Elisabeth’s great disappointment they didn’t dare go to Naples. To judge what we hear being passed round by word of mouth, things are likely to be calm for a while. The Thesleffs seemed in very low spirits last time I saw them and said very little. Now they’ve crept away to be by themselves and are already getting ready for the journey home. The Enckells are staying until Friday. – This morning I got myself a tessera for 5 days and went round some of the Uffizi galleries. Then I got carried away at the shops. I’ve bought a straw hat, a sort of “Viva Villa” sombrero, for 10 lira and a new and bigger bag, plus some gloves for 20. It’s simply fatal, getting too absorbed in the shops – they have such wickedly gorgeous stuff. In Naples I’m going to buy white corals for Mama and me – they’re cheaper there. If anyone’s got any special requests, do write and tell me! The bits and pieces Sigrittan’s bringing with her are just a little hello from me. For tonight I’ve got a new room, which looks out over the Arno. It costs 3 l. day more but is ten times nicer than the other one, which had a wall outside, 1½ m from the window and was bare and dreary. In here, the high ceiling has goddesses and flowers painted all over it, the tiled stove is lavishly ornamented and the bed the same only more so. The whole casa used to be a palace and parts of it are still reminiscent of one.