Letters from Tove

by Tove Jansson

  Today it’s really hot, which I’m enjoying after all those cloudy, windy days. I got myself a “faglio da giorno” from the piloce, who didn’t bat an eyelid even though I was supposed to go there three days after I arrived. They take everything with equanimity here. I like that. And I went for a look inside the Pantheon and climbed up the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele. I also saw the dungeon where St. Peter was incarcerated, Matti Haupt’s exhibition (there’s so much to see here that it got a bit swallowed up in all the rest) and took another stroll round Foro Romano which I think is wonderful. It’s the blend of the modern and the ancient that captivates me, and I’ve never seen that anywhere else to the same extent as here in Rome.

  I still appreciate the charm of travelling alone, except in the evenings, when the customs of the donna romana force me to retire early to bed or to look out of the window. An anschluss in the street always leaves me agitated and depressed. The museum attendants are also very energetic in following me arround, they must find their work very boring. Unfortunately they’re very boring themselves – whether their job is the cause or the effect, I can’t say. Anyway, I get out and about as much as I can and file everything I see in lots of pigeonholes in my head. Sometimes it quite wears me out – but I enjoy it. I’m very glad I moved from Patricia, I’m freer like this and it’s cheaper too. In other respects I find it pretty expensive living here, but now I’ve settled down and “set up house,” things will probably be more normal.

  Tomorrow I’m going to Karttunen’s after my Vatican tessera. Hope she’ll take me out one night as I’m stuck with being only a donna! – Every day I think of you all and every evening I hug you goodnight. – Best wishes to Impi!

  your own Noppe.

  P.S. If a parcel should arrive from here, just put it on my sleeping platform. It will either be some bits of rubbish I don’t need, or presents I’d prefer to give you when I get home, because it’s fun having “tuliaisia” the first evening.

  Do please send me Okkonen’s criticism!

  Tove.

  Send me a detailed report on how Mama is.

  fiori: Campo dei Fiori.

  “faglio da giorno”: Residence permit.

  piloce: Joke family name for the police.

  Matti Haupt’s exhibition: Finnish sculptor Matti Haupt.

  anschluss: TJ uses the word in the sense of an (inappropriate or unwelcome) approach, a proposal to keep company with someone, an erotic invitation.

  Karttunen: Liisi Karttunen, a historian and correspondent who worked at the Finnish legation in Rome.

  IN ROME, TOVE JANSSON MEETS TWO YOUNG DANES – Hans Jensen and Nils Ferlow – and they travel together for part of her trip. She goes with Jensen to Capri, where they later part company.

  17 MAY. –39 [Rome]

  Beloved Papa and Mama!

  It’s late, but I can’t possibly go to bed, the warm breeze is blowing in with the distant hum of the city and the whole sky is bright with stars above the market place. Finally the hot weather has arrived. And how! I’m enjoying it, but not galloping round at such a pace as before.

  Mama’s card arrived yesterday. I really am awfully glad Per-Olov’s taking a trip before he sets to work on the Latin. I expect the boy is in his bunk on the boat right now! – Yes, I found a very pretty necklace of turquoise beads for Emmely, which I sent off together with a letter to Ingmar. – It’s nice that you aren’t at all worried about me – the hotel, which I viewed with some mistrust at first and reserved my judgement, has turned out to be entirely honest and friendly beneath the grime. (some of which I’ve rubbed off) It opened about 100 years ago and when you scrub here and there, old paintings and finest marble emerge. In keeping with the custom here I pay my 8 l. every evening, tutto compreso. Once I suggested paying for a week, but this confused and embarrassed the proprietor, and it eventually dawned on me that he couldn’t do multiplication! (he let me pay for 3 days. He could cope with that!). I’m still seeing curly blond Jensen and a friend of his, Ferlow, who’s a doctor of dead languages, spends his days among ruins and goes to bed at ½ past 8.

  One evening when Jensen and I were mooching about we found a funny trattoria in a cellar and went down for a mezzo. We were drawn to an inner room by the tones of a haidar and were utterly charmed when we went in. The owner was standing in the centre, beating time, and the others were dancing ring dances and waltzes by turns, changing ladies when it came to the chorus and laughing and shouting with delight. It was like a children’s Christmas party. Jensen and I were so taken with the atmosphere that we danced kasatschka in the middle of the floor. The owner beamed and gave us wine. There were old men and women, and little children of about 6–7, and they all carried on in the same high spirits until the clock struck 2. I thought the whole thing much more fun than going to a palace of dance or a variety show. Jensen was in seventh heaven – the poor chap has been feeling very gloomy here in Rome, and lonely. He was meant to be coming here on his honeymoon but it was all called off at the last minute, so he came on his own anyway. We’ve been swimming at the Foro Mussolini and we saw a completely ghastly gymnastic display on the sports field, went to the art gallery at Pincio and with Ferlow to the Vatican again. We’ve also sniffed the historic air of the place where Constantine fought his mighty battle, at Ponte Milvio, but there were so many modern shops there that I felt no sensation at all. Ferlow, on the other hand, was genuinely excited.

  Now I shall sleep – Buona notte!

  Next day.

  Letters from Mama and Per-Olov, both lovely, made me so happy! But right now I’m fuming; can you imagine: I was going to make “dinner” with flowers and wine, a cold buffet, candles, fruit and cheese for Jensen and Ferlow and had already invited them – and then I find out that no being of the male sex is allowed to enter the rooms of a signorina here, not even a family member who comes at twelve noon! What fine imaginations they have. I always feel as if I’ve been pelted with dirt after something like that happens – but we’re going to console ourselves with a trip to Tivoli instead. – Yes, wasn’t “the co-op social” a bright idea! To be honest, I knew in advance it would be as dry as dust but I went there to see if I could find someone as all alone as me to see Rome with. We shouldn’t rely on others but take action ourselves, openly and frankly, and that’s what I did when I just went over and introduced myself to Jensen, who looked the friendliest, and started to chat to him. Before that I just sat at home some evenings waiting for L.K. or Haupt to ring. At any rate, Karttunen sent a card with a very nice invitation to the Järnefelts’ for tea – I’m off there in an hour.

  It was such a relief that Mama’s angina was so short-lived – they can be hellish sometimes. So no more stomach trouble, then? – Well, I have the address of the Thesleffs’ seaside resort, it’s called dei Marmi. I plan to stay here another fortnight, I can afford it – and somehow the city’s assumed a new charm now I can discuss what I see with someone else and am not left cursing to myself about its shortcomings. So it’s probably best (though this isn’t definite) to start addressing things to the main post office again at the end of the month – or maybe Naples? Because I’m going there first, with detours to Capri and Pompeii. Then I’ll have to see how things go. Over time I’ve grown more and more wary of planning too far in advance, someone or something generally turns up and draws a big black line through it all. – No, I don’t put myself under such pressure any more. After 10 days or so I always tend to calm down and then “see” less, but more clearly and rewardingly. But try as I might, I can’t get away from that initial sense of the trip being a gift that mustn’t go to waste but I have to exploit with energy and ambition to prove myself “worthy”. Is that stupid?

  As regards the grant, didn’t I already write to say I only need the first instalment? I still don’t know if it will be best to send it to Naples or here to Rome so I can pick it up on my way back. I’d prefer it in lira, maybe as cheques? I thought I’d come home at the start of July – or around the 15th. Unless the �
�grant period” is 3 months? I’d very much like to know. I shall enjoy going in Polon’s smart new canoe – I’m really glad he was able to buy it. And very much so, to judge by his letter.

  I think that, for the moment at least, I would rather show what I’ve done in my own country than in Sweden. If the Young Artists’ exhibition happens this autumn, that is – and I can definitely exhibit at least 8 or so pictures. Fed up with twos and threes. Whether they’ll manage to send back my stuff from Gothenburg in time for the autumn show is another matter, of course. (I’ve always prefered both–and to either–or!) – Today the Pope blessed the whole nation for the first time. Including Jensen and me. We went out to S. Giovanni in Laterano where the crowds had already been waiting for hours, sitting on the grass in the shade of the trees with the bread and wine they’d brought. The place was swarming with servicemen in swanky uniforms of a dozen different kinds and monks in black, white, rusty brown and crimson. After endless splendid and symbolic preparations, music and prayers, the Pope came swaying along on his throne under a fluttering canopy, and stopped on the middle balcony which, like all the surrounding buildings, was decorated with banners in the colours of Rome and the papacy – yellow and purple, white and yellow. The people shouted and clapped and held their children up to the Pope, who rose majestically to his feet and blessed everyone. Most of them fell to their knees. Hundreds of doves were released from their cages on the roof of the church, the monks cheered and threw their skullcaps in the air and the musicians played la Giovanezza. It was very festive and joyous – but quite solemn too, we thought. Now I must get along to the “ministerial tea” rooms!

  Evening. Lots of delicacies. Tea like flowers, Turkish cigarettes and Greek nuts and sandwiches like postage stamps with cheese that you had to hold in place with your thumb to stop it sneaking off. The minister and family very amiable and surprisingly trim, given all the entertaining they are called on to do. They knew vast amounts about all the unfamiliar people coming in, none of them sure what to do with their hands, even knew that I had exhibited at the Society of lllustrators, and made elegant and polished conversation with each and every guest for a set number of minutes. Matti Haupt and his impresario of about 25, sporting side-whiskers and 1890s-style starched collar, were also there. They were so full-blooded and bursting with confidence, and illustrated their art criticism and philosophical flummery with such wild gesticulations, that the back fell off a fine old gilt chair. They said life was composed of divine follies and that what made an artist was simply knowing everything, working and not asking anyone’s advice. Matti Haupt has never sought advice from anyone. Rome is the only place to live, surtout la notte, but Greece isn’t bad either, as long as you know what you want and understand. I understood nothing but still enjoyed myself no end. Then I went to the Spanish Steps and looked at the sunset, and home through the balmy blue twilight. On the way I came across a Cine Variety and went in. It was hard to hear with all the screaming babies and people cheering whenever the baddie got thrashed. Ah, madonna mia, what a city! Now they’ve laid out long tables down in the piazza for several dozen laughing and singing signore, the womenfolk are hanging out of the windows scolding, the cats are fighting and the bats are skimming past my windows.

  Buona notte carissime – hugs to the boys and good wishes to Impi.

  your own Noppe.

  tones of a haidar: Tones of an accordion.

  “the co-op social”: In an earlier letter, TJ writes that “the Swedish church’s social gathering” with recitations and music sounds like “Pellinge co-operative society, but perhaps it will be all right.”

  the Järnefelts: Minister Eero Järnefelt and his wife

  la giovanezza: Giovinezza, the unofficial Italian national anthem 1924–43.

  POMPEII 4 JUNE –39

  Beloved everybody!

  I’m lying in bed drinking Cognac Medicinal as the Pompeian moon tips over the mountain ridge beyond the garden and the tsetse flies come swarming in along with other creepy crawlies (Hr. Beck found a “bedbug” yesterday), high-spirited after the flaming-hot day. Even as we were driving up to Vesuvius yesterday there was something wrong with my insides and now I’ve diagnosed it as a slight dose of gastric flu. The kindly Danish couple who arrived recently (del Sole is a Scandinavian boarding house) have piled up half a medicine cupboard on my bedside table, so tomorrow I ought to be able to launch myself at the ruins with fresh enthusiasm. But after that I suspect I shall have had enough of them, and will go back into Naples. Jensen and Ferlow make a detailed study of every single inscription and potsherd, lugging a whole library along with them, and they’re so learned and energetic it makes my head ache as I run after them like a little dog and always have to take everything “in order”. – and then I long for a letter from you.

  Of all I’ve seen, Vesuvius is certainly the highlight. We set off at 6 in the evening and drove up the new autostrada, which was only finished two months ago. It zigzags almost all the way up to the summit, and then you walk the rest of the way with a guide. Way down in the valley you could see the lava from the 1906 eruption towering up round burnt-out houses and, the higher you went, the wilder and gloomier everything got, the villages and Capri and the sea disappearing in the heat haze until everything was just a confusion of gravel and fabulously intertwining streams of lava, like a snakes’ wedding (they were able to set a piece of paper on fire by putting it on lava that was 15 months old!).

  We went up the rim of the old crater and down into the cavity from the centre of which Vesuvius hurled red-hot rocks high into the air, and huge plumes of fire at regular intervals. Everywhere you could see it smouldering in the cracks, yellow-green with sulphur, there was a rumble beneath your feet and it grew hotter and hotter. A little newborn crater, 4 days old, was sending out streams of lava right up to our feet, and behind it all the sun was setting amidst the brown vapour. We were allowed to light cigarettes on the lava, the guide holding it up to us with a metal rod, and we sat and looked at the splendid sight until it got dark and the whole thing looked the very picture of Dante’s inferno.

  Down below, lights came on round the bay like strings of pearls, and on the lower slopes, in the villages – but ancient Pompeii lay there like a black stain. The curious figure (as grimy and picturesque as the most dedicated tourist could wish) sitting by the crater making ash trays out of lava with a soldo coin in the middle came down with us in the car afterwards, a few others hanging on the side. It was the last trip of the day, you see. They bellowed O Sole mio all the way down, making the car shake, and told us in a terrific mixture of five languages about their families, sweethearts and exploits – past and future. The driver attempted to make an arrangement for the next day and, on failing, tried to sell me Vesuvius wine instead, or extract a promise that I’d go to a hairdressing grandmother of his for a perm.

  Monday. Today I’m fit and healthy again, perhaps thanks to the cognac, which tasted ten times worse than castor oil, now one’s become a meek drinker of wine. I was up by ½ 6, left the Danes to their ruins and took a long walk along tracks between the fields, down to the sea. After an hour I came to a flat, sandy beach where the expanse of the sea was spread out in front of me, with Capri silhouetted on the horizon. On the way, incidentally, I had a proposal of marriage. A bearded farmer invited me to sit up on the back of his rattling cart, pulled by a horse with red velvet ear-cosies and a pink silk bow on its forehead. The usual questions followed: Signora or signorina? Travelling solo? German or student? and once I had given honest answers, the conclusion was clear, as usual, though he got to work a bit more suddenly than I was used to. (disregarding the hairdresser who tried to kiss me in Rome when I shut my eyes so as not to get hair in them!!!) The farmer took out his wallet and showed me its bulging, grubby contents and innocently asked if I wanted to stay with him in Naples forever. I laughed so much I could scarcely get down off his waggon.

  – The water was so salty I could almost lie there with my legs in the air, and warme
r than August in Pellinge. As I was the only donna taking a bathe, a lots of boys gathered round me, all singing sole mio and asking if we had bikes in Finlandia, and if I was travelling solo etc. I got so tired of it I said my husband lived in Pestum and I was travelling with a lady’s companion, studying Etruscan vases and ethnology. That calmed them down a bit, but sole mio accompanied me all the way home, where I arrived burnt as red as a lobster and feeling as if I’d been soaking in brine. Tomorrow I’m off to Napoli if the bedbugs haven’t eaten me up by then.

  – 6 June.

  Napoli. A letter and a card from home! I’m sitting on a balcony with the whole Bay of Naples below me, on the fourth floor – and watching the twilight come sweeping in over Vesuvius. It’s so beautiful it’s positively alarming to think of all the lovely things that come to us undeserved.

  Napoli has not been a disappointment to me. I think it’s magnificent. I made the journey this morning with Mr and Mrs Beck, who brought me to their boarding house. Otherwise I don’t think I would have got a room anywhere, because the town’s full of Spanish troops, tens and thousands of soldiers, and there’s a huge parade here in the morning.

  Mrs Beck and I immediately dashed to the National Museum, but they whisked us out after an hour, so we went to the Duomo and strolled up and down the narrow alleys of Napoli, where a new Italy came alive for me, motley, shrieking, dirty and wretched beyond description, but captivatingly charming at the same time. We bumped into a procession in which a giant-sized saint was being carried round on a litter adorned with roses and Madonna lilies, followed by a brass band playing a – military march! Semi-naked, gutter-grimed urchins by the hundred, priests with candles and standards, barefoot women and shouting soldiers. Now and then the procession would stop and a man would climb up a ladder and pin a 10 lira note onto the saint’s garment – and along with the gift a folded note on which the donor had written their request. And then the saint would sway off again beneath the washing lines, accompanied by brass music, whooping and laughter. It was glorious.