by Tove Jansson
Before, all that mattered was for my pictures to live on when I was gone. That’s important now, too. But more powerful than the longing to be “great”, to be famous, is the longing for joy, for happiness. For a whole year, Eva, I haven’t been able to paint. The war nearly did for my desire to, in the end. It took me time to understand that it has to be a road, not a destination. What I want now is for my painting to be something that springs naturally from myself, preferably from my joy. And I want to be, I will be, happy. As I am now, Konikova. I’m going to make up for these lost years many times over. They’ve been so dreadful. But now I don’t want to think about them, write about them. – You know, just seeing Ham’s new, calm, shining face brings happiness. We’re caught up in the influx of autumn drawing jobs at the moment. I’m only taking on the work that interests me. The other day Samuel asked me to recommend him for a drawing job – he needed the money. It’s the first time he’s been forced to do that. He and Maya were in Stockholm for a few weeks. We meet at events now and then, and all get along very well together. Maya is a dear, wise person when you get to know her a bit better. […]
I hope to meet up with Rafael Gordin some time, once he’s a civilian doctor again; I should like to show him that his “healthy egoism” is finally starting to bear fruit. – Konikova, what a pathetic summary (of a fraction of what’s happened) but I expect I’ll be able to give you the subtle shades eventually. For the censor’s sake – goodbye. And lots of love!
Ham sends warm wishes.
from Tove
Hageli’s old studio: TJ took over the studio in August 1944 from the artist Olga Nordström, who occupied it after Hjalmar Hagelstam was killed in 1941. The tower was damaged in the intense air raids of February 1944. TJ spells the street name differently in the heading and in the body of her letter.
13.10.44 H:FORS WRITTEN IN SWEDISH. FROM TOVE JANSSON. ULRIKABORGG. 1 A. THE TOWER. HELSINGFORS. FINLAND. TO MISS EVA KONIKOFF. MR. SALETAN. 70 FIFTY AVE. NEW YORK CITY. U.S.A.
Good morning Konikova!
How lovely to be able to talk to you again – with some hope of you eventually getting my letters. You’re not quite so distant any more. World peace can’t be so far off, and the doors to the outside are opening again. First for the letters – then for us! I’ve never dreamt and planned as much as in these past few years. Not as a game – but as an absolute necessity. I’ve travelled round the world and come to a stop in Morocco at Westermarck’s villa beside the sea. Warmth, Eva, colour! Atos and I thought of setting up a colony there for artists and writerly folk and maybe only going back north for the beautiful pale summers up here. And to America, Koni!
You’d like Atos Wirtanen. He’s as sparky as you are. Full of untamed zest for life, with a dazzlingly clear mind. I’ve seen him angry, but never depressed. He’s no taller than me, a creased and rumpled little philosopher with a smile even wider than yours. Ugly, cheerful and brimming with life, thoughts and utopias. And self-esteem. He’s quietly convinced that he’s pretty much the finest brain in Finland at the moment (or maybe even all the Nordic countries, he sometimes wonders!) His great prophet is Nietzsche, on whom I’ve heard endless disquisitions, so I’m starting to get a bit tired of him. But Atos is very busy writing a book about said coryphaeus, in which he replaces Wille zur Macht with the will to form. Hopefully this – the book – will help to free him from his grand ideal so he can create more freely himself.
Atos is a Member of Parliament, a social democrat, 38 years old, and has been extremely politically active these past few years – the enfant terrible of Parliament, and taking delight in everything that smacks of plans, intrigue and mystery-making. Like a boy. But as a fully grown human being he is unswervingly honest, a genuine, “proper” person, as Raff would say. He’s generous, but loathes giving and receiving presents. Loves parties, but hates the traditional kind, never wanting to mark birthdays, Christmas and so on. His amused dismay when I came to wake him dressed as Lucia last Christmas! He has no understanding for sympathy or sacrifice or melancholy, sadness. He’s more or less the man I was longing for when I grumbled about all the “doggy eyes”, all their imploring, self-effacing, guilt-laden looks. We met at a big party out at Grankulla at his house (rented) among a host of politicians, artists, journalists, actors. It happened fast – we were so obviously suited to each other. He didn’t want to get married either – he’s been scared off by his three-month marriage to the Stenmans’ daughter Maja.
There’s a lot of talk about us, of course. And Faffan is angry. Ham understands me. And Eva – what an enormous relief; she’s made it clear to me that she understands the nature of our relationship and doesn’t think it wrong. For the first time I’m not bothering to conceal things and sneak away – I’m so proud of him! And of course I shall have to pay the price – but I can afford it. (What miserable little hyenas people can be – some of them.)
Atos Wirtanen hails from Åland, and his 9 brothers and 3 sisters are all quite simple people. Sailors, navvies – a wild clan, getting into fights and stealing each other’s women.
Wonder how he happened to be the only one to get the special intelligence chromosomes. His books of aphorisms are good – and his poems too. But I don’t think he can give himself free rein in a really comprehensive philosophical work until he gets out of politics.
This summer I had a wonderful week on Pellinge – the only purely sunny one, in all senses. The parents came too, and Atos, Peo and Saga. Every day was like a blissful dream. Uncomplicated, happy. Crawling out of the tent with Saga and rowing to fetch the philosopher from Sanskär. The others stayed in Kalle’s little summer cabin – we’ve had to move out of the bigger house. That’s now occupied by the young master, Albert, and his wife and little boy. Every day we made long, adventurous forays to the outer islands (we ignored the mines), bathed in clear green rock basins, in the surf, in the moonlight, in a gale. We rambled in the forest and around the inlets along the coast. Atos was enchanted and stopped in wonderment at every step to lose himself in endless philosophical musings on a crevice in the cliff, a spider’s web he couldn’t mend, a lichen on the mossy rocks, a bird’s egg. It was like discovering Pellinge all over again. Peo and Saga went round quietly, holding hands. Any expression of sentiment is inimical to Atos. He’s never told me he’s fond of me – and I’m sorry about that. But the important thing is what I myself am capable of feeling. –
[ … ] It’s late – I shall get off to bed. They way things are now, in eager anticipation of the next day, not yearning to be away from it all for a night. I embrace you in great friendship. All the best to you.
Tove.
Westermarck’s villa: Philosopher and sociologist Edvard Westermarck’s villa near Tangier. See Letters to Atos Wirtanen.
4 MARCH –45 FROM TOVE JANSSON. ULRIKABORGSG. 1 THE TOWER HELSINGFORS. FINLAND. WRITTEN IN SWEDISH. 3 PAGES TO MISS EVA KONIKOFF. MR SALETAN. 70 FIFTY AVE. NEW YORK CITY. U.S.A.
Dear Eva!
Now the door to America is opening, maybe in a couple of weeks. I wonder whether all my letters will find you. I shan’t send you a bundle of melancholy wartime letters. That time is past. – Here, spring is arriving, very gradually. In the sunshine there’s dripping on all my fourteen windowsills and reflections of the sun are dancing around the whole tower and making it hard to paint. The rain comes straight through the plasterwork of the ceiling and streaks the walls, and in the mornings it’s not +1˚ in the studio any longer, but + 6˚, and 9 in My Room.
It’s so nice here now, a profusion of colours and objects. I shall draw it all for you some time. (Once the censor stops suspecting it might be a camouflaged war map!)
At present I’m busy with a collection for the spring exhibition at the Artists’ Guild – those last nervous weeks when the canvases fly up onto the easel and down again, looking wilder with every passing day – as do I.
Atos spends most of his time on campaign trips, or holed up in meetings half the night. I really do feel like a politician’s
wife when he gets home at 4.30 in the morning or I have to go down to the station with coffee and sandwiches! That impertinent Sigrid Schauman has taken each of us aside in confidence and asked us “what we’re waiting for” and why we don’t “do something about it”. The muse be thanked that Atos has a sense of humour! But there’s no doubt that people in general are getting used to it, accepting the state of affairs and always inviting us jointly to things. Though some rascal’s giving people my number and getting them to ring early in the morning and ask for Atos. It’s stopped annoying me now: I’m far too proud of him for that. – Samu’s been laid up with jaundice for six weeks but he’ll gradually take on his teaching duties at the Free Art School. He had an exhibition of drawings that attracted some attention. – Tapsa got the sack as a prison warder because he kept treating his charges to trips to the cinema. Recently he’s been putting on the Russians’ exhibitions, going to their parties and generally spending his time in circles I have no contact with. We came across each other on one occasion, at the Guild’s Runeberg party, and we danced a waltz. If we ever meet in heaven I’m quite sure the first thing we’ll do is ask the angels to strike up a Viennese waltz! The lady of his heart nowadays is a ceramic artist – a pretty, dainty little creature. He isn’t in employment any more, but is his own lord and master as he always wanted to be.
Carin Cleve writes in a rather melancholy way that “one’s thoughts just go round in circles, somehow” when everything is just a dreary cycle of housekeeping and cooking, looking after her baby son, washing and cleaning. They have no social life and her husband gets home very late. What’s more, their finances are in a wretched state – sometimes she can’t even afford to send me letters. Even so – I think she’s happy. Mostly about her little boy, whose development I find described in detail whenever I get a letter from her after a gap of many months.
Wolle Weiner has signed a contract for another year as a theatrical scene painter in Vasa and is as gloomy as the night.
Peo got the English-teaching job as soon as he was home from the front. He’s also been giving private lessons and going to Uni. Lasse changed course and gave up his biology; now he’s doing the same as Peo: philosophy, history of literature, and English. Peo has written a collection of short stories, which Söderströms will publish this autumn. I think it’s good, though it has the subjectivity and melancholy of youth. It’s probably going to be called “Young Man Walks Alone”. The main idea running through the book seems to me to be a development from proclaiming of the importance of self-sufficiency and solitude to gaining an insight that one does still have to live with, and for, another person.
Lasse is also going to try to get his Stone Age dictatorship book into print – and I shall be publishing a story, which I’m currently illustrating! I shall send you the Janssons’ combined literary efforts when the time comes! And, by the way, wouldn’t you like your box of books sent in due course? Lasse’s been a little sober because the Frenckell girl went and got engaged in Stockholm – but his friendship with the Hjelm lad seems to have helped him over it. They’re writing a crime-fiction novel together – like the brothers Goncourt – and it’s going to pay for their round-the-world trip! Peo’s trying to get hold of a boat for a honeymoon sailing trip with Saga this summer. (20 March. He got the boat, it cost him all his army pay plus the money he’s scraped together from teaching.) My own plans, now that they can be put into practice, extend further than that: down to Morocco, Tangier, where Atos and I hope to rent Westermarck’s villa. Maybe we can set up an artists’ colony there. We also dream of buying Äggskär at Stor-Pellinge and renovating the abandoned pilot’s cottage. You remember, where we found the dead baby seabirds and myriads of swallows’ nests in the lookout tower.
I scarcely dare believe it could happen – but we’ve already made enquiries at the Maritime Pilot Administration. I suppose it will eventually become rather impractical, us not being married, but until we’re forced into matrimony we’ll just try to stick together anyway. I know now how Atos feels about me – that’s important. A couple of months ago I told him about my match (well, spiritual mismatch) (P.S.: the seascape painter) in the last years of the war, and for a while after I’d met him. To my immense surprise he was far from philosophical, quite jealous and wild in fact, and for a few days I thought I’d lost him.
But he came closer to me after that – oddly enough. I’m glad, though.
That previous contact flared up when he was on leave, one week when there was intensive bombing, and then I grew strangely dependent on the man. Because, I think, he was someone who for the first time in my life allowed me to experience the body at rest and satisfied. In spiritual terms we were poles apart. I found it hard to leave him and didn’t want to, though I could sense the balancing act between his domain and Atos’s making me feel frayed and tense. In the end I had to choose, of course. Bringing on a nervous collapse or some such bloody nuisance. And infernally enough, it timed itself to coincide with my studio-warming party for 35 people, and settled in my stomach. It put me very much in mind of that wretched thing you once got – do you remember, when you were beside yourself about Samuel and rang for Raff in the middle of the night. I was given morphine, and now there’s a story going round town that I’ve turned into a morphine addict and was so drunk that I couldn’t stand up at my own party!! Well, they enjoyed themselves anyway, thank goodness – they were still drifting out at six in the morning, taking what was left of the booze. They’re sombre memories, all these. Now I want nothing else but this new, serene affection I feel. Just occasionally, increasingly seldom, I experience a strong yearning for those dark, dangerous years, which glides swiftly over me like a black cloud.
I must finish now – this letter’s getting too long. I send you a big hug, Eva. Perhaps a letter from you will eventually find its way here? How happy that would make me. Ham sends lots of good wishes. All my best!
Tove.
the Janssons’ combined literary efforts: Besides Per Olov Jansson’s collection of short stories, the other publications were Lars Jansson’s adventure book Härskaren (The Master) and TJ’s Småtrollen och den stora översvämningen (The Moomins and the Great Flood).
the Frenckell girl: Erica von Frenckell.
the Hjelm lad: Börje Hjelm.
studio-warming party: The party had been held some time before, in December 1944; TJ gave an account of it in her letter of 10.12.44 to Atos Wirtanen, who was away on Åland at the time.
IN JULY 1945, TOVE JANSSON GOES TO ÅLAND TO VISIT ATOS Wirtanen’s family and the area where he grew up, round Saltvik north of Mariehamn. They are intending to discover Åland together, although she initially travels there alone. Atos Wirtanen arrives ten days later. But another motivation for her trip is the need for solitude. When Wirtanen leaves Åland at the start of August, Tove Jansson stays on for several weeks. She is hard at work on her second Moomin book, Kometjakten (Comet in Moominland).
12.8.45 WRITTEN IN SWEDISH. FROM TOVE JANSSON. ULRIKABORGSG. 1. HELSINGFORS. FINLAND. TO MISS EVA KONIKOFF. 46 WEST. 17 STREET. NEW YORK CITY. U.S.A.
Eva, dearest friend!
Your first letter, dated March, was like having you very close – I felt happy, sad, full of longing and warmth. To think that you, too, missed me so much these past years. To think that you, too, wrote letters that were never sent when you felt lonely! The war years were certainly wretched, I hope never again to go through that terror of waiting to hear from the boys. But things must have been just as hard for you, of course – feeling lonely and homesick, and struggling with the language, with work.
I’m so happy, Eva, that you feel you’ve found a new homeland, where you’ve got friends – and I know you’ll make those wherever you go – and that you’re not missing your old home any more. I do hope Boris will be able to come and see you. Now he’s on his own, I’m sure he’d like that. I’ve thought about you all the time, about how hard and desolate it must have felt when you got the news about your father.
/> I received your letter of 2nd May and a card a few weeks before that, and they complement each other to give me a more complete picture of you. You may well have changed, and be standing with both feet on the ground – but you’re still the same. How could whatever lies deepest within us, our essence, be peeled away! Ever since you were a little child you’ve had to go through more than it takes to create a 100% cynic and realist, but you’re still as I love to remember you. More realistic, yes – but not materialistic, less sentimental but still idealistic. I’ve changed too, in the course of these years, grown more mistrustful and self-assured. It does no harm.
This evening I’m sitting here in Åland in my little room next to the sauna, burning the last candle stump I’ve saved, with the crickets holding a concert out there in the August night. I really miss you right now! I’ve lots of male friends, but none of them could even half-fill your place, and Carin’s slipping further and further away into her family life. I’ve already written to you about our friends, Tapsa’s marriage, Samuel’s teaching job at the school of painting and the child they didn’t have, the Renwalls’ divorce, Lönnberg turning into a complete negativist and falling out with everybody. Arno and Raffo Gordin have entirely disappeared from view.
