by Tove Jansson
It comes in waves, all that, periods that pass but don’t feel any easier for it. I’m sure it’s quite natural for you to feel down at present, after all the negative things that have happened. Pretty typical, I think, for your mother to feel personally hurt by your divorce.
Next day. I feel a bit more human now. I’m living in a sort of cloud, but today it isn’t a feverish one. It’s to do with not being at home any longer, but still not on a journey. In between. I’m sure I embarked on big journeys much more naturally and nonchalantly when I was 20. Am I getting old, timid and nervous? Or has our era just become bureaucratic, suspicious and complicated? I’m sure everything will be all right once we get underway …
Has your family gone barmy, expecting you to feed not only them but also all the old aunts and poor wretches in the world? I actually think they’ll manage fine, so just ignore their emotive little conceits. (That was entirely in the D.R. style!) Do you know what D.R. is? It’s a secret society Eva Wichmann and I have started, “The Rude Ones”, devoted to vigorous, straightforward freedom of action, not worrying too much about the feelings of others. We have our setbacks, of course – but it’s getting better. Society crest: a steamroller. I’ll ask Eva if you can join too. Ham is our honorary member, with the honorary title “Worst of the Lot”. She’s very proud. She reckons she’s turned hard and selfish (Hmm.) since she read Forrester’s [above the line] Foster’s? A Passage to India, in which she felt a particular affinity with “Mrs Moore”. This missus gets completely fed up in old age with consoling, feeding, marrying off or taking any kind of interest in anyone but herself, and dies an egotist, furious and quite content. Ham has now decided to become another Mrs Moore. She has my blessings for (but also my doubts about) the venture!
I’m waiting with great interest for the magazine you promised to send. The books you’ve sent have always been important, in their various ways. We all read What Makes Sammy Run. I found it perceptive, genuine and violent. Even the illustrated short stories, though built more on effect and sneaking sideways looks. And the magazine of modern American prose – great!! No, Dorothy hasn’t answered Lasse’s letter and poems, but on the other hand the paper (Viking?) he sent them to for forwarding has written him an extremely courteous letter. Explaining that D. Parker is very short of time, etc. You know what, if I was the Great Woman, and received some (really quite good) love poems from a young man in Finland (“the other side of the globe”) in my own language with an adoring dedication, I’d damn well send a few lines in reply. Don’t you think? But it could be that a much larger proportion of humanity than one might think goes in for amateur verse and sends it to poor Dorothy’s deeply understanding mind …
Yes, Trollkarlens hatt is due out from Schildts for Christmas with 40 illustrations in pure black and white, no wash drawings. A new, smaller format. I had to delete two chapters to make it cheaper to publish. It’s been a tremendous rush to get it finished before I go. While the Swedes (may lilies of peace garland their path) were staying with me, I got most of the illustrations done, so the time wasn’t entirely wasted. [ … ]
Lasse and V’s sister have found each other again. He and I were in Sibbo the other day to take a look at the houseboat. A majestic craft, 14 m. long. Now Lasse wants to start a shipping company and bring it into service! So I suppose I shall have to wait a while to paint it green and fit a figurehead to the prow. He’s also found another boat he wants to raise capital for. Would you like a share in Amalgamated Jansson & Wirtanen Houseboat Owners?
Various kinds of cloud are now descending on me, and I send you a big hug of farewell. I’m having all my post directed to Lallukka, and they’ll send it on to Italy from there. Ham sends warm wishes. She really does like you, Eva!
A big angina kiss from your friend
Tove.
Sofen: Short for “Filosofen”, the philosopher. One of TJ’s many pet names for Atos Wirtanen.
the picture: TJ had sent Eva Konikoff the portrait she had painted of her.
Photo League: Radical association of American photographers, which was fighting for its own survival after being blacklisted by the authorities.
Forrester’s: E.M. Forster.
What Makes Sammy Run: Novel by Budd Schulberg.
Trollkarlens hatt: Published in English as Finn Family Moomintroll. This was the first Moomin book to be published in English.
9 APRIL 49. [Helsingfors]
Dearest Eva!
It’s spring, finally, dripping and sparkling and things seeming Different, more feasible, more obliging. The last time I wrote to you was from Kotka, where I painted seven metres al secco for the children in February. And with this letter I’m enclosing the photographs Lasse took, before the work was entirely finished and touched up, I admit – plus my mug with its new look … (as captured by Peo). Since then, I’ve mainly devoted myself to oils. I’m in some kind of tiresome transition where everything I’ve done up to now seems poor and alien to me, and I’m trying to find my way to bigger, calmer planes with fewer lines.
It’s hard; hardest on the days when things grind to a halt and I feel as if I’ve never painted before. Periods like that tend to mean I’m moving forward, so I take it calmly – now.
You know; there are times of relentless “summing up” in one’s work and existence, when there’s simply a need for a good clear-out before one can be happy with one’s job and oneself. I’ve tried to discover on my own account where the root of the “pleasure – duty” problem lies, because that’s presumably where things got knotted up at some stage. I’ve shelved all the ego analysis for now, but I think it was useful to devote a few days to that kind of self-absorption. I based the whole thing on dreams, Zsondi analysis (lasts a year, 6 sessions with Dr Parland in Nickby – more like a parlour game than anything else), on going through the pretty ghastly diaries of my youth and on being as honest as possible in one’s assessments. Plus – your “Wasteland” book, which actually gave me the first hint. It all seems to hinge on a false ambition; something that ought to be natural expression and need, (work) has become a means for achieving entirely different things. So no wonder I feel like puking in my paintbox!
One thing I really was pleased about was having the opportunity to get closer to your and Peo’s work. I was selected as a (painter) member of the five-man jury set up to judge a big photographic competition in which the towns and clubs of the country are involved, to mark their sixtieth anniversary. We deliberated until 12 for the best part of a week, and I learnt more about photography than I had in my entire life before. I thought of the wisdom you’d passed on to me when you talked about your job, and though initially timid I was soon fighting like mad for anything I considered first class. The pictures were divided into groups: landscape, figures, portrait, still life, other images. Peo won first prize in the still life category. It felt like a lot of responsibility – and for weeks afterwards I saw everything in black and white and found photographic motifs everywhere. It’s a splendid art form, photography! But in my view it’s still burdened here by traditionalism and sentimental attitudes. To what extent do you think retouching, any kind of editing, faking or trickery should be allowed?
Lasse’s latest craze is book covers. It’s almost spooky: whatever he alights on it turns out pretty good – but once the initial wild enthusiasm that makes him work all night has worn off, he leaves it behind him just as casually. He’s currently taking sketching classes at the art school, and has mastered lettering better than me and been offered a job by Otava, the publishing house. Before that it was an illustrated children’s book. I’ve realised it’s not primarily ambition that drives him – he wants money, and money that will allow him to do the things he enjoys – when it suits him. There’s lamentation from all quarters that “such a gifted boy is frittering away his life – he ought to take a degree – he ought to write regularly …” I understand him, and appreciate his ambition in an area where I struggle: the ambition to be happy, rather than appreciated. He’s been
round at the studio a lot, often eating and sleeping here. He’s built a little temple from wood and plaster, with sweeping front steps, pillars and a domed roof – in which will lie the head of a rose, containing a ring.
Proposal of marriage to Erica, Vivica’s sister. She appreciated the gesture, but not him – or not sufficiently to marry. I don’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. He’d planned to take her south; he wanted them to settle in Polynesia or some other sun-drenched group of islands.
I think Erica’s too national to ever agree to go with him. The inhabitants of this country, including the Finns (though they are reluctant to admit it) are like the wolverine among his birches, his lakes and much-loved but unlovely towns, and start feeling homesick almost before they’ve left.
Lasse turned up the other day burdened with maps, facts and figures about currencies, steamer tickets, etc., and lots of information about the archipelago to the south west of South America. He’d found out who the consul of Tonga is and sent him a letter to ask whether it would be possible to settle down over there. He asked me if I wanted to go with him. Why not. The only thing binding me to Finland is Ham. It’s a strong tie, but when the day comes for it to break, I’m ready to leave. After her, Lasse is the person I’m most fond of. Nobody apart from her is directly dependent on me, sofen and I are drifting quietly and calmly apart. As for my work I can, like Lasse, take it with me – and maybe over there I shall finally realise it doesn’t matter in the least whether the Artists’ Guild in Finland appreciates me. In five years’ time I shall be forty (unless a new war has reduced us all to a pulp by then) and it’s time for me to secure myself against the greatest sin of omission I shall have to regret when I die.
We’d travel via New York. Quite a few years might go by before it happens – but then we need time to save up half a million. And now we’re wondering whether you’d be terribly kind and go to a travel agent to ask:
1. The cheapest price for New York—San Francisco
2. — " — San Francisco—Honolulu
3. If foreigners are allowed on — " — and to visit
But as far as I understand it, Lasse imagines us spending the rest of our lives there. And why not? By the way – Konikova, didn’t you, too, have southerly plans? I feel as if no disappointments can ever really hurt me now I’ve got this wider horizon.
In a few days, Kerstin will be coming to spend Easter here. Then I’ll write to you again. My very warmest wishes.
Tove.
Kotka: TJ painted a mural with fairytale motifs in a kindergarten in Kotka.
Zsondi analysis: The Szondi test, developed by Hungarian psychiatrist Léopold Szondi. It is a non-verbal personality test, based on pictures and photographs.
Dr Parland: Psychiatrist and author Oscar Parland.
your “Wasteland” book: TJ is presumably referring to T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land.
Tonga: The Polynesian plans came to nothing. The governor of Tonga sent a letter politely explaining that they could not take any more new settlers, partly because of lack of homes and materials.
Kerstin: TJ’s cousin, Kerstin Hammarsten
THAT AUTUMN EVA KONIKOFF WAS IN FINLAND. She visited Helsinki where she and Tove Jansson met up.
30 NOV 1949 [HELSINGFORS]
Dearest Eva!
I wonder if my letter was there to receive you in New York – my idea was for it to get there first. I’m sure that in due course you’ll tell me about the crossing and everything, and how you found your house and friends when you got back – and yourself! I currently have the peace and quiet in which to tell you about everything here, having been laid up for three days with an insufferable cold, bursting its banks in all directions. Isn’t it dreadful, Eva, when you’ve been dashing around and working away for a long time and everything’s settled quite nicely – and then you have to lie on your back and reflect for a few days and all the gloomy notions you thought you were rid of come over you again! I was so aghast at myself that I staged a cure for one evening from sheer force of will and went to the Authors’ Union comedy revue and dinner to which I’d been invited. I was so hoarse I could only whisper, but the next second I was on the phone to the hairdresser, speaking clearly and distinctly! You know?
Today I feel worse than ever, but “mentally” all right. Lasse acquitted himself well on stage, we gave him some freesias, and he was very perky with Elisabeth as his partner at dinner. Ham came to the performance but was too tired to stay for the party. They gave me a terrifically good seat among the guests of honour, which was deeply touching. I don’t normally care about such things but it was an act of kindness that did me good. Atos turned up too, sporting a beard and a jacket, he and Amos, (Andersson) sat there larking about together, and Putte Fock looked so beautiful it took your breath away.
One evening when I was really missing you I went out to Munksnäs to see Putte. There’s something the matter with her, she has dangerous, lonely thoughts and I’m worried about her. I’m sure we can become fine friends, but I’m so nervous about the possibility that I approach her very cautiously – and rarely.
Carin Cleve finally wrote me a letter – from a nerve clinic where she seems to be having an extremely nice time; free from her manic husband and her mother, who is now discharged but hooked on morphine, and still entitled to practise as a doctor.
One evening I went out to the Vannis to look at Samu’s abstract paintings. He’s got a portrait commission in Paris – from Helo, and was delighted he’d be able to spend a couple of months there (that’s a secret for now). My portrait will have to wait for a while, because Sommarschield is off to the Canary Islands all of a sudden. At least I can order Ham’s coat; my fee, any day now – then I shall have to sort out the picture as best I can in the spring. Wolle thought quite well of it when he was here, though, and I made various changes that really improved it a lot.
You’ll never guess what, the Society of Illustrators has bought three drawings from me for a total of 9000 marks. For its collections. I was so pleased I paid them three years’ subscription in arrears and, while I was at it, the August tax bill I found in my pocket last week, to my horror. So now I’ve paid off all my debts! What’s more, the state has developed a (belated) guilty conscience and sent me 4000 they had overcharged me. Fantastic!!? So that’ll cover December’s rent. Hurrah! And how are you managing with yours????
Kenneth turned up yesterday, presented me with bedside bacon and flowers and was noble and concerned. I feel unbelievably ridiculous and cross with myself whenever he pops up, and wish he wouldn’t do it. I’m still a little in love with him, and it makes me dejected, seeing him. He now plans to stay in town until Christmas, dam’it! At any event, I’ve asked him to relieve me of all his stuff when he goes to Kairo, on the pretext that I’ve got to move out of the studio. Because I don’t think I shall find it particularly cheering to trip over his painting things, underpants and dressing gowns around the place on a daily basis. He’s coming back in May to exhibit at Hörhammer’s.
One evening I was invited by the Frenckells to the Olympic Committee’s tea party at the City Hall restaurant. The frescoes hadn’t changed much, but I had; I could look at them without distaste. (One day in the not too distant future I shall be able to view Green’s underpants with the same lofty composure!!) 30 women journalists from America were on the guest list and various interesting cultural figures. No cocktails, worse luck, just tea and buns. Vivica brought me together with a minister’s wife and a female author (Windslow?), who with an incredibly metallic sparkle of teeth, shiny jewellery and bits of mirror glass in their hats expounded on their leopards and Pekineses and were generally extremely bewildering. Windslow knew Al Capp, so I shall now amuse myself by sending him my Moomin book, via her – and he’ll see there’s a sort of Schmoo in Finland, too!
They wanted to go to the theatre, so Vivica got us into Nicken’s box for the last act of Taming the schrew and asked me to see the bigwigs home in the Frenckells’ car. But they stopp
ed off at Kämp for cognac on the way and kept the car waiting so long it drove off. We had to take a taxi to the American legation but the driver refused to take their traveller’s cheque. Luckily I had enough money but then had to walk home, hence the influenza.
Apart from that, nothing very exciting has happened. Oh, yes! An old friend I hadn’t seen since the winter war came up one evening, filled with gloom about his job in an advertising agency, and having no studio. We sat talking and drinking whisky, both of us equally morose and frozen, and he didn’t leave until the following morning. I felt happy and liberated afterwards. He was tender and intense. We’re scarcely likely to meet again. – At the theatre they’ve had their first on-stage rehearsal, and I thought it went well. (Touch wood.) I’ve been hard at it 9–4 in the scenery workshop for nearly two weeks now and the wing flats will be finished before long. Tomorrow I must crawl out of bed and go over to see what they’ve been up to. Welche has been reassuring, whereas angry Agnes in the costume workshop is in the grip of violent loathing for me, so I never dare go there in person to say what I want done. Whether I survive the premiere or not, it’s been a stimulating and enjoyable project.
And I’m rewriting the Moomin memoirs, by the way, and finding it almost as onerous as writing a whole new book. Trollkarlens hatt has apparently been surprisingly successful in Sweden – so I must make sure the sequel isn’t a let-down.
The snow’s arrived – with blizzards – and the whole city is white and cold and the lights are on almost all day. You escaped from the winter in the nick of time! I wonder if it was very rough for your crossing? Boris said you looked awfully tired when you set out.
