by Tove Jansson
In the meantime it’s been raining and blowing a gale the entire time and my poor womenfolk have started to droop, tucked up in their sofa corners, and resorted to reading art history in desperation. On the only sunny day they swarmed out onto the rocks, all of a twitter – and just then a big water taxi carrying part of the Stockmann management turned up to spoil the whole thing and shower me with extra work.
But they had their uses, even so, because while I was organising an early lunch on the beach for them and talking business, Uca borrowed the taxi and popped over to Viken.
She fetched water and post and rang Kurt to get some wigs for Abbe’s play in the village and half a dozen other things. Once the management had taken itself off home the foul weather set in again – and it’s taken until today to turn fine and blue. So I gave myself the day off and washed all the rugs in the surf, and we had lunch up on the rocks with a couple of bottles of wine that Uca had been hiding as a surprise. Then, when we were all sufficiently merry and seized by a vague need for activity, we put out to sea with five boxes of rubbish to sink in the sea. The boat had been pulled up on land for a couple of weeks and had sprung several leaks, so we almost got sunk ourselves. Tin cans and empty bottles went flying in all directions and there was much squealing and lifesaving, and in the end Nita fell in.
Now they’ve all nodded off in their various corners, and I’m drinking buckets of coffee so I can carry on working.
Kurt was here for two days, muted and mild and not much jallu at all. He’s going for an examination at the hospital now – he gets worse in the evenings and is terribly thin. We hope it isn’t his lungs but some kind of malaria-carrying mosquito the Russians allegedly left behind them in Porkala.
And now you, poor thing, shall have the traditional list of commissions that’s generally only sent once couples have been mymbling for a few years.
As far as I recall, you already had vegetables, bread, cheese, butter and potatoes on your list.
To this should now be added:
A blade for the wood saw.
Fazer’s long spaghetti.
1 box standard candles.
Sugar of each kind.
Possibly a can or two of meat.
And Bitti’s longing for:
10 30-mark stamps, 2 bottles of rum at around 900 mk plus chocolates at 500 mk. You know, the big ones in shiny paper. Here’s 5,000 mk to be going on with.
It’s not a disaster if you can’t get hold of all this, or if any of it is too heavy and awkward to bring. The only vital thing is for you to come yourself, and quickly, otherwise I shall come and carry you off!
Hugs!
Tove
women’s week: the name traditionally given to 18–25 July, seven days when all the names in Finland’s name-day calendar are female. Also refers to the week when TJ invites all her female friends to the island.
their Christmas story: the story “The Fir Tree” was published in Svenska Dagbladet’s 1956 Christmas supplement. A slightly revised version appeared in Det osynliga barnet och andra berättelser, 1962 (published in English as Tales from Moominvalley).
the Mars synopsis: “Moomin and the Martians”.
jallu: Full name jaloviina, a brandy with a certain percentage of cognac, indicated by a star rating.
TOVE JANSSON WAS AWARDED, AND RECEIVED IN STOCKHOLM, a diploma from the International Board on Books for Young People (IBBY). She was also nominated for IBBY’s prestigious children’s literature prize, the Hans Christian Andersen Award, for Farlig midsommar (Moominsummer Madness). The prize was awarded for the first time in 1956, and went to the British writer Eleanor Farjeon. Tove Jansson received the medal ten years later; see Letters to Signe Hammarsten Jansson.
UNDATED [Postmark 16.9.1956. Stockholm]
My Tootikki!
It’s a peaceful rainy Sunday, the phone is silent and at last I have a breathing space for appreciating that I’ve had a good time and been thoroughly spoilt. Ham and I have the whole approach to the Old Town laid out beneath our balcony, but it’s only now we have time to admire our expensive view.
The most momentous part of all is that I’ve taken the hand of a real princess and curtseyed to her. She looked shy, incidentally. The diploma was on ordinary paper without very much gold, but at least I’m taking home a prize to Finland as one of the best storytellers for children.
The best was a 75-year-old Englishwoman, but her medal wasn’t the kind you can hang round your neck. For women in particular, they really ought to award honours that can be worn as decoration!
Even on the flight over I was already missing you and the feeling has persisted regardless of what I was doing.
What I was mainly doing was talking on the phone. For the first few hours the businessmen were queuing up to call, all with the blatant intention of duping one another, and probably me as well. One publisher swept me off to a slap-up lunch after softening me up with red roses – but I duped them! I insisted on having milk and an anchovy sandwich at the Skansen self-service cafeteria and looking at the Poppolinos. The surroundings threw them off their stride and made them incapable of talking percentages.
Then there was a big banquet with Gebers and the ice cream was lit up inside as usual and eaten in darkness. I can’t remember what food I ate but, whatever it was, my stomach didn’t seem to like it.
The remarkable thing is that Ham copes with the eating, drinking and rushing around as much as she likes – all at once she’s fit as a fiddle and almost as strong as I am. It’s terrific that I can treat her to this trip, the best part of this whole business. Her favourite brother Einar came to the banquet and the party in Bromma afterwards, and saved me by delivering one of his famous speeches of thanks. Today he’s going to drive us round the multitude of family members until he has to get back to full-time duties – not his isotope research but making apple sauce, which he seems to consider even more important.
And I spent half a day wearing a petrified smile as I wrote little Christina and little Peter in people’s books at the NK store. To one side of me I had a ludicrously enlarged picture of myself in profile, to the other a Mrs Fillyjonk with a wilting gladiolus. Little kids came filing up with plasticine Sniffs and wonderful drawings on graph paper – as did a succession of people who claimed to have known me but never said when or where.
I only dared look at the front person in the queue, nervous every time of seeing some face I didn’t want to meet. After all, it was there in the newspaper that I would be available for inspection between the hours of such and such.
Then there were more meetings, I climbed in and out of cars with various shady destinations, and once I had made my trembling curtsey to the princess and the day was over we were taken out to Drottningholm to see an Opera buffa.
It was called something like Fitti Diritti and was very much of its time with people bending at stiff angles and singing about something impenetrable for three hours. By the time we got back to the hotel after an equally impenetrable taxi conversation with an irate Japanese congress visitor, we were feeling done for – and it was only today we realised what fun we’d had.
I’m going out in search of some new environs now. I shall take the letter with me so you’ll hear that I love you as quickly as possible.
My arms are firmly around you – and best wishes to all our friends at home from your dazed and tired and terribly happy Tove.
Skansen: the open-air museum and zoo in Stockholm.
the Poppolinos: Green monkeys (Chlorocebus sabaeus). The Jansson family once had a green monkey, which they called Poppolino.
IN MARCH 1957, TOVE JANSSON WAS IN STOCKHOLM FOR A variety of launches and meetings. The trip was a present to her parents, or a “bouquet” as she puts it one of her letters. It was the only time they went on a trip together, just the three of them. In terms of work commitments there was an intensive programme of events and appearances at various venues including the NK (Nordiska Kompaniet) department store. Tove Jansson also had to make a spee
ch at the centenary of the birth of the founder of the Scout movement, Robert Baden-Powell, at Stockhom City Hall. Signe Hammarsten Jansson was spontaneously acclaimed at the event, she and two teacher colleagues having started scout groups for girls in Sweden before the Girl Scout movement was established in 1911.
22.3.57. [Stockholm]
From 1 April my address is: Howard Hotel, Norfolkstreet. It’s close to the Thames and the Strand. A quiet sort of “Family Hotel”. London W.C.2.H.
Beloved mine,
It’s evening now and so far everything has gone well – only I’m a bit concerned about Ham who is getting pains in her heart.
Faffan beamed his way through the flight and declared he would always take the aeroplane in future. Every detail fascinated him and he suddenly seemed so much younger.
We had fine, clear weather all the way to the Sea of Åland, and from there it was wet snow. We got to the hotel in a flash and the family settled in. Faffan, impressed but appalled, watched me retrieve our travel funds from my bosom, and then went straight out for a beer.
Then he blithely headed for the off-licence and bought a whole cellar of wine, which is out on the balcony, along with some camembert and prawns and sausage. We got caught up in the Slussen intersection when Faffan came to a definitive halt to watch the ducks at Strömmen, and after that we thought we’d never get across the flow of traffic, but we finally made it to the Old Town where Faffan, enchanted, poked his nose down every narrow street and alley.
So I had to gallop off alone to Nk. where the old men were conferring about their events. Then I found the family at the soda fountain, wilting rather after all that wandering around.
It feels strange, being here en famille, great fun but with a slight sense of responsibility. But simultaneously, I’m with you all the time. And how am I to get through the coming night in such a lonely and unwelcoming bed.
Saturday.
I kept waking up, not in gentle warmth but in sticky heat – it really is too unnatural and unnecessary to sleep alone. And the hotel’s elegant breakfast tray paled in comparison with our week-old loaf and sludgy coffee in the last two yellow cups! But I did like coming into the parental sitting room to find them smiling broadly in the sunlight from the balcony doors, with Ham now restored to vigour again. I was afraid last night’s underwater film might be too much for her on top of a strenuous day – but they were so keen.
It’s late evening now, I’m writing with my new memoir pen which has had to draw so many shaky My figures in little children’s books at Nk. My tiny room is full of flowers and I’m drinking airline cognac to celebrate yet another small step in the tricky evolution of my self-confidence. May the Gentle Muse be thanked that no one told me how big the Blue Hall in Stockholm City Hall is! I had a fit when I entered that tabernacle, it’s simply vast! There were millions of little scouts milling around, and not even the consoling fact that most of the scout leaders looked like ghosts was enough to calm me down. Ham was reticent and a bit tired after lunching with the Nk. directors, going to see the huge hole behind Hötorget with Faffan, and having dinner at her brother Einar’s.
The programme dragged on, my mouth felt dry and my hands were damp as I tried to convince myself that my wishy-washy comments really would be forgotten a hundred years from now. Faffan had escaped to the hotel for a nice quiet time over beer and newspapers. (Incidentally, all his bottles froze to the balcony, so we had to pour warm water over them very carefully, drop by drop.)
At the start nobody could hear a peep of what I said, but then they set up a microphone right in front of my face, so my voice sounded like an agitated elephant. After I’d almost died a couple of times, the audience (hopefully) realised I was trying to say something about a hemulen and settled into a rather surprised sense of goodwill.
I gradually started to sound more natural, and now, looking back, I’m trying to believe I didn’t dishonour my family.
Then they hauled poor Ham up on stage and announced that one of the three founders of the girl scouts in Sweden had come to Powell’s centenary celebrations. They didn’t insist on any contribution from her, thank goodness, she just stood there looking sweet, beaming as she handed out raffle prizes (for the Centre for the Handicapped). Then they gave her a huge bunch of red carnations, and all of a sudden the jamboree seemed wonderful.
There were massed standards and torchlit processions everywhere in the darkness, and even up at roof level there were little scouts with flaming torches, boys’ choirs sang patriotic songs and I was terribly moved and thought I really ought to have become a scout leader. Once I’d simmered down and the lights were back on, I sneaked behind a pillar for a cigarette, but Ham didn’t dare.
When we got home Faffan was asleep, already worn out by the wild Stockholm life, but we sawed some beer and sausage out of the snow on the balcony and had a nice gossip in my room.
Tomorrow I have to work, then we’re having dinner at Ham’s brother Harald’s. On Monday it’s Gebers and Bulls, and the drawing on the wall at Nk. which is the thing I’m dreading most. But I’ll cope. I intend to get through it and, what’s more, to stay cheerful and calm and enjoy myself. I’d cut a pitiful figure otherwise, wouldn’t I. Tonight my Too-tikki is out partying. I hope you’re having a good time! And that sometimes when you raise your glass you do as I do, toast your beloved friend and embrace her in your thoughts.
Nk.: The NK department store.
the huge hole behind Hötorget: A district of older buildings had been demolished to make way for new, high-rise blocks.
25.3.57. [Stockholm]
Darling,
Now the horrible day is over, and it went much better than I expected. Of course my drawing was all shaky to start with, but then it got steadier – and a bevy of children and balloons around one does lighten the mood.
Some kindly person came and gave me some Bellergal pills instead of the cognac I’d brought with me in desperation – and they really did have a soothing effect. So I drew with one hand while holding a microphone in the other. Quite a show.
Tomorrow I shall do it all over again. Couldn’t care less. It does no one any harm to perform circus tricks for once in their life if it helps them be more confident. And confidence when faced with people you know nothing about is a defensive bastion that in other, more important contexts can save a lot of time and energy for more essential things.
So I realise now that this is a study visit. Not in painting but in the art of protecting my privacy. The art of shrugging my shoulders, giving them their doodles, discreetly turning my back and sinking into myself. Into my painting.
But this trip is also a bouquet for my parents. We went out to dinner at Bulls this evening, all three of us. Luxury, liquor, words and sudden flashes of authenticity if you could be bothered to listen.
Even the most hard-boiled, self-assured individuals can turn out to be pathetically insecure sometimes, you discover with astonishment that the hard-scaled director has weak and fearful chinks in his armour. And you aren’t scared or impressed any more – and like him more and work better with him. Faffan was terribly sweet tonight. I was a bit apprehensive, because he’d been tippling all day – and he was pretty drunk at Bulls. But he restrained himself splendidly and even made a delightful speech of thanks for the meal. I told him afterwards how proud I was of him – and he was pleased. As for me, I behaved myself tolerably well.
Tomorrow I’d like to go and look at dresses before I have to draw “freehand” again. Need to let off steam. But I fear it will be Vällingby and the Historical Museum instead! […]
I also went to Gebers to deliver the book and the calendar. I practised “freehand” drawing at Nk.’s decoration workshop for a few hours. Business meeting in Bulls’ office. More books to sign. Family, intensive.
But the spring sun is shining over it all at last, there’s dripping and melting and I’ve put my woollen drawers in a cupboard. At nights I dream uneasily and longingly of you. It’s strange to have such an a
wful number of unfamiliar people around me but to yearn only for a single one. I behave as I should, do what is expected of me – yet at the same time live an inner life of recollection and longing that no one but you can understand.
The remarkable thing is that whatever I do, even the facial contortions of this commercial farce, it’s with a sense of not wanting to disgrace myself – in your eyes. The same with my efforts to be cheerful and self-composed, and not to lose face in an alien world. I want to emerge from this trip with credit, to do what I have to and then come home at last and make the journey to the island, to you, to my desire, to all that’s natural. I’m very tired and slipping into your arms, goodnight.
Tove.
P.S. How lovely to get your letter! I carry it with me everywhere. Yes, I’d like to sit on the hill at Brunsan and get a cold backside and a red nose and eat an awkward orange that makes a mess of my gloves and step in a deep puddle and then go home to our balls of fluff and tumble into your arms and fall asleep with my whole head full of spring!
I love you!
to deliver the book: Trollvinter (later published in English as Moominland Midwinter) came out in the autumn of 1957.
Brunsan: Brunnsparken in Helsinki.
TOVE JANSSON WAS ACCUSED BY A SWEDISH ART PROFESSOR of stealing the idea for Moomintroll from the artist Verner Molin’s ‘Dark Sow’ illustrations. This was pure invention, but in an article in Expressen on 31 March 1957 the professor claimed that Tove Jansson should pay Molin financial compensation. Tove Jansson’s response was published the next day and that was the end of the matter. From Stockholm, Tove Jansson and her mother travelled on to England to meet Charles Sutton and discuss contracts for the Moomin comic strip.
UNDATED [1957, Stockholm. The second part of the letter is dated “2nd April”, London]
