by Tove Jansson
14/7 –42 (THE STUDIO) 2 SHEETS. WRITTEN IN SWEDISH TO MISS EVA KONIKOFF. 114 WEST 21ST. STREET. NEW YORK CITY FROM: TOVE JANSSON. FÄNRIK STÅLSG. 3A 20. HELSINGFORS. FINLAND. TEL. 49849.
Eva dearest –
You have a new address now. Which doesn’t tell me anything except that you’re no longer looking after Hansen’s brat … Your family has had a telegram, from Philadelphia. So at least you exist! Leaving me to imagine the rest for myself. And I do, often, long stories. And they mostly end with me being there too. Goodness, if only I were! Just at the moment I’d give three exhibitions with canvas stretchers and the whole works to be able to have you nearby.
Your family is fine. Boris no longer has a dangerous post – the others are out of the army, David on holiday. He had – how incredibly generous of him – included my name in the telegram to you. He knows I’m close to you. I’m to send regards from Bärlund and Ulla Hjelt who’s had a little girl – and from Clevan. She’s finally broken it off with Wolle, who I had sitting here in my studio yesterday, subdued and bereft, but strangely calm. They all turn up here. And talk. I like it. But you’re the only person I could give some of myself to in return.
It’s bells and whistles here again, Prolle’s on two weeks’ leave, with the Freedom Cross for “calm and measured conduct in battle”. We’ve already spent a week of it in Pellinge – it was happy and enjoyable, and Lasse joined us as well, from his time of misery in Uncle Jullan’s garden in Åbo. (To which he isn’t going back. The question of camp remains open.) Faffan melts when his “Klucke” comes – however much he may go on about his “third, antisocial misfit of a child”!) One day Prolle went in his canoe to fetch his friend Stig, who stayed with us for a few days. The boys went sailing and fishing, did some target practice, and generally idled about, whistling under their breath. One time they, Ham and I went out to Tunnis and made little houses in the sand. – do you remember ours, Konikova. The war was so far away. And yet – soldiers’ leaves are like spring – eagerly awaited and delightful, but always too short, always so immensely melancholy beneath the joy.
All my postcard sets are finished, may the muse be praised. And I’m longing to start painting. Really start. Next we’ve got the gathering in of berries, leaves, roots, mushrooms and fish – but after that it’s September. And then!
Eva, I’m leaving home in September, moving out, with my ration cards and wardrobe and the whole show. I’ve told Ham and she can break it to Faffan at some suitable time. A very ordinary little scene gave me the last push. This has been growing for so many years, so much torment, guilt and duty, so many inconsiderate outbursts arising from far too much misplaced effort to be considerate, so many bridges of reconciliation, too weak to carry the everyday traffic, and all that brooding! All of a sudden I just knew I couldn’t bear it any longer, not for a single hour – I knew part of me would break, somehow. And I knew I’d never become a happy person, or a good painter, if I stayed. I’m trying not to dwell on how it is for Ham. Heart problems and Prolle and everything – I mustn’t think about it. I stare back at the happy week when I was alone at Pellinge and try to recapture some of that wonderful peace, and find I’m thinking: you’ll have that now, always. Of course it won’t be as easy as that. But it’s the right direction. Ham knows it.
I think Raff would be pleased with his “dream patient”.
You know what, my cave suddenly seemed so pointless. Perhaps I hacked my belated childhood deep into its galloping mammoths once and for all – and there it can stay, with the pirate’s gold in a glittering pile among the shells in the sand. The palisade of sun-bleached grey branches was never properly finished, and there’s a bit missing from the paved courtyard and the wall up to the totem pole. But I got the roof covered so it doesn’t rain in on my goatskin, and I managed to plant all the wild flowers. Some bones and a sun helmet that the sea threw up, a floor of sand and rounded stones, a blue lantern and fantastical negro emblems on the walls in the hut, white anemones – damnation – it’s hard after all to see some of it go. Like when I come across old Teknis drawings, wild and moody extravaganzas, and laugh and wonder: what was I thinking of? And then with a slight pang: I’ve forgotten. I’ve no access to that blossoming world of dreams any longer – I’m trying to establish myself in the real world.
And it is a shrivelled sort of establishment sometimes. It especially doesn’t like fine adjectives. I’m sure I used too many in one of my last letters to you. That bit about not making do with an illicit peek but actually sitting in the stalls and paying. Well, I took the illicit peek anyway – when it got too hard to be without the spectacle, and now it looks as if I’m going to have to pay after all – with a fine on top! Could be a false alarm. Or perhaps something that could be sorted out if I tried. Don’t know why I’m leaving it and just waiting. Wondering whether, if it was a girl, I’d keep her and move to some more kindly country further south – and if it was a boy, he could have the little soldier-to-be. Totally and utterly. – A kind of strange, calm “can’t be bothered” is growing in me, with a strong sense of loneliness and fear. Since I decided to leave the family, everything’s changed, choice of words, thoughts, even tastes. I played Beethoven’s violin concerto, the adagio, which I used to love best – and didn’t like it at all. And enjoyed Bach for the first time – that’s just one example. It’s as if something’s happening to me – not as if I’m the one taking the action. Sometimes I even forget my ambition. The field is open for everything, I’ve done a really thorough clean-out but not put anything back in its place. Maybe one only becomes a painter once one has – oh – I don’t know. I miss you so much, so much.
Tove.
25/8 –42. STOR-PELLINGE. FROM TOVE JANSSON. FÄNRIK STÅLSG. 3A 20.HELSINGFORS. FINLAND. TO: MISS EVA KONIKOFF. 114 WEST 21 ST. STREET. NEW YORK CITY, U.S.A.
Eva, dearest!
I’ve rowed out to a tiny island off Tunnis, with velvety smooth rocks and bright blue bugloss growing in the cracks – it’s peaceful, sunny after a long period of mist or wind. The seabirds fly screeching over the water, and away in the distance, the cannons rumble on. The storm boats are passing on their way in to the mainland. Tonight, planes are going over in steady waves and there was gunfire above Helsingfors from eleven to four. It’s hard to reconcile the war with a day like this, an island like this. I came here to pretend to be happy, on one of those achingly perfect days that summer produces at the very last minute – but instead I feel nothing but a tremendous sense of melancholy. In a few days, you see, I shall be going into town, the studio, my new independence. It’s like diving head first into unknown waters – but you do know they’re cold … To do battle with painting again, run up against people again, build that existence without the family which I’ve been fighting for, and for such an age. Of course I long to set off. But it’s a little bit like before an exam. Oh Koni, if only you were there!
I’ve toiled like mad all month to gather in food, and Impi’s preserved, salted and dried all the berries, fish, roots and leaves I’ve carted home. It’s a little gesture for the family. I enjoyed roaming about the forest, being out on the sea – but at times I felt frantic with nerves about my painting, which has been at a standstill all summer. I’ve had a panicky feeling I shall never get going again. It’s always the way – once I’ve “taken the plunge” I just find myself painting anyway. I know this. But I’m still scared. And breaks can be dangerous – they’re rarely “like the arm of the spear thrower pulled back for the throw”.
I’ve spent some of my evenings marking and folding away the linen I had from Ham for my birthday. I thought with a little chuckle of your impressive linen chest that made me tease you so much. The boys gave me a beautiful pair of touchingly pricey gold earrings with opals. “Is one of the gentlemen engaged to be married?” the shop assistant asked Ham. “No, they are for a sister.” “Are there really such brothers?” she said, and tears came to her eyes. Well yes, there are. Things are quiet in Prolle’s sector for the moment. Lass
e’s at a friend’s. The forebears are in town. One Saturday when they were coming out, “Lovisa” ran aground in the fog and they had to spend an adventurous night out in the skerries. I wonder if there’s been an air raid in town tonight. I expect I shall find out in due course. Soon I shall make my way back from this island – the last outing I shall have time for. Then I shall pack, and pick leaves for making tobacco substitute. – Thank you Eva, for a chance to talk. I’m going down for a dip now. So long!
30th.
Came to the studio straight off “Lovisa” – the town is in beautiful summer mode, and mystical in the darkness. And there are bombsites scattered around the centre. They’re wild now, the Russians. But it still feels peaceful here. And in my own studio, with my work around me. All my stuff from Lallukka has been brought over here and the place is rammed full. How am I to cook – where shall I keep my clothes? But it will come right, I’m sure. It will all come right. Oh Konikova, I’m free, free! Love
Tove
LETTER NR. 3 1943 10.2.43 TO MISS EVA KONIKOFF. 21 ST. STREET. NEW YORK CITY, U.S.A. FROM: TOVE JANSSON. FÄNRIK STÅLSG. 3A 20. HELSINGFORS. FINLAND. WRITTEN IN SWEDISH – PLEASE, PLEASE, DEAR CENSURE – LET HER RECEIVE THIS LETTER!!! THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT POLITICS.
Ham sends her very best. She’s fond of you.
Don’t forget me.
Dear friend Eva!
I’ve been feeling like a potentate today. In bed with influenza, cooking my meals in a horizontal position, surrounded by tulips and books, directing my genuine French cleaning lady who’s turning the studio upside down and drying out my half-dry paintings without my having to lift a finger. She’s seizing the chance to speak French and playing rumbas and disparaging the whole of Lullukka with relish and conviction. She just found my private pipe – so I shan’t be spared in future, either. Anyway I shall send it, the pipe, to Svenka Grönwall. While he was back on leave he came up to the Guild’s anniversary celebration, a shabby affair with too many people sitting at the wrong tables and telling each other lies. Svenka and I both found the whole thing excruciating, so when the crowd was turned out at around 12 we came here and sat talking until five o’clock. It was nice to talk to someone with a bit of sense – and I was glad, too, that contrary to expectations he hadn’t taken umbrage at a letter I sent with his Christmas parcel, which was hopelessly crammed with civilian life, its little details and, well – trivialities. He ticked another colleague off roundly for a similar letter about our exhibitions etc., said we were putting on airs here at home and forgetting all those who are fighting, somewhere out there … I understand his bitterness – but he should also try to understand the oppressive anxiety and desperation underlying our little everyday concerns and squeezing the life out of our paltry socialising.
My phone’s been ringing all day, and I’ve been touched and surprised to find so many colleagues eager to bring me flowers and stuffed cabbage rolls. Especially the Jansson “academy”, Wolle, Joyce Swanljung and Andsten (a giant of a man with a large beard and small, subtle paintings), all of whom have worked here now and then, for lack of a studio. But when I’m ill I have to be alone, firstly because I’m such an unaesthetic sight, secondly because I need peace and silence beyond measure. […]
15th
I’ve still got my cold and feel like something the cat dragged in. Expect I caught it at that Grankulla party of Atos Virtanen (married to Stenman’s daughter). I was behind the bar there, concocting “explosive Manhattans” and assorted other fabulous cocktails (out of simple basic ingredients) for about 60 people, mostly literary types, musicians and actors. It was nice to get away from snooty artists and I’m planning to insinuate myself into these new circles from now on, so I don’t end up with scurvy of the mind.
There was a violent snowstorm that night so I huddled up in a corner and woke just in time to wash the glasses the next morning. How much I would enjoy talking to you about all these different people, many of whom you know, to give you a colourful picture of the incredible way the party started to unravel. But the letter would be too long. The censor … And it’s never really the same when I haven’t got your living face beside me – when all it can be is a monologue sent off into empty space.
Things were pretty lively over the city tonight, for the first time in ages. Restless little Pan is home on leave again and came round one evening – a bit drunk to help him get over “his respect for me” and bearing a bunch of yellow flowers, and he proceeded to sit on some of my gramophone records and break them. I haven’t seen him since – expect he took fright in some way. Tapsa shows up occasionally, harried by all the people trying to exploit him, holds my hand and talks shyly of dividing himself into small pieces and not having time to live.
Young Lasse is working on his book until late into the night. He had a party the evening we were all at the Guild, I provided wine and rumbas. He only invited girls. “They’re much prettier and softer. And for once I’ll be able to have them all to myself!” He’s priceless.
20.2 –43
Lasse’s finished his butterfly book now, and given it to the best entomologist in town for comment. We’ll have to see!!! I’m well again and working every day. I’m sending three canvases to the Artists’ Guild 50th anniversary exhibition after all, because it’s sure to draw huge crowds and being seen can be a good thing. My canvases are more painterly than before – this time they won’t be able to call me an illustrator!!! I’ll have to show those at my solo exhibition in the autumn, even though they’re no longer in the first flush of maidenly youth. – They’ve most likely sent Prolle on extended patrol because he’s their best distance skier, and I’m extremely worried. Ham waits expectantly for the post three times a day and is totally drained. I keep ringing home to enquire. Faffan is annoyed, cross because she’s worried (and – possibly – because he is, too) and I had a crash with him today. About my friends, as usual, and out of loyalty I defend them against his attacks. Out of loyalty? Habit, perhaps. Would I grieve for any of them – beyond you – if they disappeared? I don’t believe I would. I’m blunted – and yet so convulsively susceptible to everything. I’ve decided to call little Pan just an episode. I’ve a new lover now – you don’t know him. – I turn down all drawing jobs and seldom leave the studio. I work until it gets dark and sometimes I party with wine and dancing, all by myself. I reckon what I’m doing now is what they call “burning the candle at both ends”. That’s how it feels, Koni, Eva dearest, pray that there will be peace.
Your friend Tove.
Svenka Grönwall: The artist Sven Grönvall.
Joyce Swanljung: Fellow student at the Ateneum.
Andsten: Ricki Andsten.
Atos Virtanen: See Letters to Atos Wirtanen (p.257).
10. 44. H:FORS SENDER TOVE JANSSON. ULRIKABORGG. 1. A THE TOWER. HELSINGFORS. FINLAND. TO: MISS EVA KONIKOFF. MR. SALETAN. 70 FIFTY AVENY. NEW YORK CITY. U.S.A. WRITTEN IN SWEDISH.
Dearest Eva!
I can’t help writing to you again – we have peace, so perhaps we’ll be able to send letters to America before too long. Next year, maybe. I shall hold on to the letter until then; it still shows that I was thinking of you. Oddly enough, Konikova, you felt more alive to me all these years than any of my other friends. I talked to you, often. And your smiling Polyfoto cheered and consoled me and shared my good fortune when nice things happened. I remembered your warmth, your vitality and friendship, and was glad! At first I wrote often, every week – but after about a year, most of the mail was sent back to me. Carried on writing even after that, but they were often such dejected letters that I didn’t bother saving them. Now there’s such an impossible number of things I want to tell you that I don’t know where to start. Koni, if only I had you here in my grand new studio and could give you a hug. There’s no one I’ve longed for as much as you these past few years.
It’s magnificent here, don’t you agree? A tower room, as lofty as a church, nearly eight metres square, with six arched windows and above them some little r
ectangular ones like eyebrows, up near the ceiling. Piles of mortar and cracks here and there, because it’s still not fully repaired after the bombing, and in the midst of all the debris, an easel. A huge Art Nouveau fireplace with ornate scrolling and a comical old door with red and green glazed panels.
A studio one could spend a whole life beautifying if one wanted to. And next to it an asymmetrical, whitewashed room where I can keep all my female clutter, all my soft, playful, showy, personal stuff – with two windows up near the ceiling. 1, Ulrikaborgsgatan. The Tower. Hageli’s old studio. Some part of his cheery, adventurous soul is still lingering here, I can sense it. Slightly melancholy. – I’m glad and grateful that my grand Studio Utopia has become reality. And I feel the urge to paint again. Wake up in the mornings and remember – first that the boys are alive – and then that I’ve got the Studio. (and then Atos!)
Lasse came home from the military academy a few days ago, demobbed – tomorrow he turns 18. Oh Koni, to think that he never had to go to the front! Now he dashes about the house, whistling, has lots of irons in the fire: he’s writing a book, studying Spanish, doing scarily big business in postage stamps, practising taxidermy on caterpillars and devising new systems for the examination of butterflies. And he’s incredibly proud of his uniform, dear child. He passed his university matriculation last spring, on special study leave, along with the queen of his heart, Erica von Frenckell.
Peo’s at a field guard post somewhere in a bog, and we’re still a bit worried they might send him up north to scour Germans out of the country. If only I could write about politics – but it’s important that you receive the letter in one piece! Maybe a time will come when the dam is allowed to burst and we can say whatever we want to one another about our thoughts and opinions. Peo is a lieutenant now and has been wounded twice; the first time by a piece of shrapnel from a mine in his leg, the second by a splinter of a grenade in his arm. Thanks to the grenade we were able to enjoy a bright and happy summer month at Pellinge together, just as the fiercest fighting broke out along his front. When he went back, he didn’t find many of his comrades left. It must have felt appalling. – He’s engaged now to a very sweet, lovely, feminine little creature called Saga Jonsson. Her father runs a building business. She’s tremendously like Peo in her quiet, kindly discretion. Peo might take a job teaching English at the girls’ school just opposite Lallukka. If he wants to. A year ago he declared it was too late for studying, he just wanted to get away from here – travel, sail, live. Write about what he saw, take photographs. I understand him. Five years of his youth have been taken from him. But I still thought – well. Back then he could have got that scholarship to Oxford. He wanted to study philosophy. But, Konikova – the only vital thing is for him to be happy! These years have shifted so much of what I thought was fundamental in my attitude to life.
