Letters from Tove

by Tove Jansson

  I threw together a few last-minute verses for Erna, who needed them for a song competition on the radio. I had a complete block, all summer, but today my conscience untied itself and I that’s probably why I finally felt the urge to talk without being compelled to. I think so. [ … ]

  The Penttis were here for a sunny, easygoing weekend. Reima’s lot brought us a Mexican hammock for our treeless skerry and talked Ibiza building projects with Lasse & co, (can you fathom why Janssons and Pietiläs who already have a family complex would root themselves together in Spain? But Tooti seems to like the idea) – and Salme was here on two brief return visits with son and protégé, casual and disorganised, and Uca suddenly popped up after Israel, feeling positive – and a terrible short stay with Kirsten – Hilde – and niece, during which everything went wrong in spite of bottles of vodka and other generous gestures.

  Since then we’ve had TV here and newlyweds from London, and boatloads of Kråko dwellers and locals from the village and Gyllings with champagne just when Ham was most ill, and building inspection and lots of farmers and fishermen and a few interviews and Assendelft and Börje Hielm with all the children and assorted blasters and random folk of various kinds.

  Regardless of all that, which will gradually calm down, I feel a great sense of peace in knowing that we’ve found our island, that Ham is happy here and Tooti – in a way – accepts it – and that Lasse and family have settled into the old paradise in the right way. I think we’ve pulled it off.

  Brunström and Sjöblom turn up quite often with their nets, carry potatoes and petrol and sleeping bags ashore like before and sleep trustingly on our floor. To me it seems quite natural.

  It all feels like an extremely fortunate arrangement to me, and better at any rate than the constellations of relationships one can be exposed to in town. I don’t ever want to leave, really. But will you still be in town when I get there? When are you off? You are one of the few attractions in a setting that I miss less and less. Though goodness knows this one can be awkward enough temps en temps.

  Hugs! your Tove.

  the people’s home: A common alternative name for the Swedish welfare state (folkhemmet in the original Swedish).

  Brunström: Sven Brunström. The “Midsummer” chapter in The Summer Book features the mysterious Eriksson, “who makes dreams come true”.

  the Penttis: Pentti Eistola and his partner.

  Sjöblom: Nisse Sjöblom, the other “pirate” they had hired.

  1 SEPT. 67 [Klovharun]

  Dearest Maya,

  Now the heat is over and I’m sure you feel better. What a dreadful summer it must have been for you. Maybe you’re at an editorial meeting in Stockholm just now, and seeing Jean – and I think the trip will be positive.

  How remarkable it is that the two of you persevered and came together in spite of everything, it’s quite wonderful. I don’t think the form of love you two have found is pathetic, not at all. I think it’s very strong, something finely honed and absolute that far exceeds the sort of affection one hasn’t had to fight for. And I don’t think you can hurt each other ever again – no one can damage you now, Maya, not any more.

  But you certainly can be tired by your friends, grow tired of them, that small-scale weariness which your August party exemplified so well. So unnecessary, the whole thing.

  I was so nervous about our women’s week but for once the days on Harun went well, harmoniously – and I was tremendously grateful. You all came here out of one storm and are going back to another. Of course one hasn’t exactly chosen calm-weather folk as one’s friends, I know that. But will they never simmer down?

  Says she, having barely started getting to grips with her own irrational whining … I do try very hard, and I think various elements have subsided and fallen into place. I hope it’s noticeable, sometimes. And I’m reading the new Karen Horney and trying to think my way through to what’s right. It’s very exciting and a bit lonely.

  We had the big beautiful storm and I was able to see it, with Lasse. You know he’s got a storm fixation even bigger than mine. We’ve never seen such breakers, never had to salvage so much, experience such a violently transformed landscape as ours or get so drenched through! I shall tell you our storm story sometime.

  One good thing which happened this summer was that Ham and Tooti become real friends all of a sudden. Some kind of deadlock eased for all three of us and now there’s such warmth and relief that it really doesn’t matter how it came about. Things just happen sometimes after fighting and feeling desperate, if one just leaves well alone.

  And Tooti and Nita are friends again, thank goodness. So we’ve been able to enjoy a serene and peaceful summer. I’ve reworked Kometjakten [Comet in Moominland] and Moominpappa’s memoirs, completely rewriting some parts, and given the language in Trollkarlens hatt [Finn Family Moomintroll] a superficial brush-up. You know – the sort of thing one tends to do when putting together anything new proves impossible. But it’s just as well – those two first books have been embarrassing me for quite a while and now that Gebers are bringing out the whole series in paperback, I’ve a chance to revise them; they’ll have to typeset them again anyway.

  And I’ve done new covers for everything I’ve produced – except for the coloured picture books of course.

  Ham has started carving bark boats again, she makes little houses, potters in the garden, skims stones when she feels up to it, all sorts of playful activities that she can enjoy now she’s accepted herself and her age. She’s a delightful companion and friend. And I’m not so fillyjonkishly scared of catastrophes any more and don’t waste so much time on unproductive thoughts. So we’ll have to see where that takes us.

  You’ve never seen the island as it looks now, tipping over into autumn. There are no bright colours out here to signal departure, they are simply erased, a withered tangle of greys and browns, the island shrinks and is somehow absorbed into the rain and sea and the evenings are dramatic with their desolate sunsets and banks of cloud. The darkness on an island such as this is like standing at the end of the world and all the night sounds are intensified, giving an impression of utter solitude – nature no longer frames one’s existence, but hurls it to the periphery and imposes its sovereign domination. Suddenly it’s just the sea and vast, dramatic autumn skies. Oddly enough I feel less and less inclined to leave, the less benign my surroundings grow – the security of town is more menacing. At dusk I speak to Lasse on the Talky Walky, most days I can only hear him very faintly and indistinctly, sometimes not at all.

  Then we listen to the weather forecast to find out if we dare lay our nets or if we need to pull up the boat and haul in the fish cage. I bring in the flag, feed the cat and make tea. When the sun has gone down we go to bed and light candles. Ham soon drops off but I lie here reading and listen to the sea and rain. We wake very early, coffee for me, tea for Ham, roach for the cat. I tidy the house, get water and firewood, Ham waters the plants and puts the flag out. Weather forecast, slop bucket, bail out the boat, collect rainwater from the sauna roof, washing up. Then the day can start. Always the same little things in the same order and here on the island they have meaning and bring satisfaction – they are never routine as they are in town. Another nocturnal downpour has just started. Good night – and a big

  from your own Tove.

  the new Karen Horney: Most likely Our Inner Conflicts, which was published in Swedish under the title Våra inre konflikter in 1967. TJ’s book collection included a number of works by the American psychiatrist.

  the big beautiful storm: TJ gives a vivid description of this storm in her letter of 9.8.1967 to Tuulikki Pietilä.

  TOVE JANSSON AND TUULIKKI PIETILÄ’S EIGHT-MONTH-LONG round-the-world trip started in London in 1971, with business meetings and social events. TJ’s British publisher Ernest Benn marked the twentieth anniversary of their collaboration with a big party and publication of the final Moomin novel, Sent i November, as Moominvalley in November. The next leg of their t
rip took them to Japan.

  LONDON 3.11.71

  Dearest Maya, hugs from me!

  We’ve reached the end of our time in London and it all went well, even my speech thanks to Pentti’s pills – I knew over half of it of by heart and Benns were very moved. A big party in my honour with loads of people, but I ask you, why must I always be so petrified of my official obligations that I only realise afterwards what fun it was?

  Tooti is cheery and agreeable, and sometimes comes out with surprising things in English (in a cockney accent) and sorts out almost everything with reassuring efficiency. And plays Finnish music or Moomin music for them on her magnetic tape recorder (I think that amazes them more than anything)

  We’ve met enough people to last us five years and I’ve talked enough to last me ten. After it was all over I lost my voice as usual but it came back once we’d been left in peace to wander round the streets for a few hours. I drew and gave talks in schools, and did the embassy children’ party, radio recording, lunches and cocktail parties, and whenever we got a chance we went out into town. London is swarming with the most incredible visions, people dress however they like and the city centre always looks like one big fancy-dress ball. Fascinating.

  I took Kenneth Green and consort to “Hair”, which was a grand glorification of psychedelic hippiedom. It made Tooti’s ears ache – but she coped well with the flight, even so. We also went to The Trials of Oscar Wilde, an incredibly powerful film that is very unlikely to come to Finland, unfortunately, and Canterbury Tales, a racy musical with fabulous stage sets.

  The hotel is dead posh and impersonal, it bucked us up no end to find they’ve got mice in their chests of drawers, judging by the state of parcel of reindeer meat we were given for the journey. Half our luggage is taken up with presents. When left to our own devices, we’ve been eating on the King’s Road in cheap, jolly student cafés, and we’ve got our very own pub. Pubs aren’t at all just for the men any longer. We’ve stopped looking for ghost places – but you never know, we might have a try in Amsterdam. Assuming we get away at all, there are strikes at the airport, the staff are refusing to carry the luggage and the passengers aren’t allowed to lug their own things on board. It’s making us a bit anxious.

  Tooti and I also wandered round various strange, outlying parts of town hunting for graphic designers so she could pick up tips to give her own graphic designer, the one she was so angry with that she was never going to offer help again. And British Mus. of course. Fine weather the whole time.

  In Helsingfors the whole Reima family drove us out to catch the plane, and we arrived to be welcomed by Benns, flowers at the hotel – and at the party, all the gentlemen wore Moomin ties!

  I’ve been practising my Japan speech off and on and trying to prepare for the TV interview. This London spell has been a kind of dress rehearsal, which is probably a good thing. And after that, just think – Maya – we’ll really be travelling, and free!

  Tooti sends her regards! All my best wishes –

  Tove.

  P.S. We did get away and now we’re somewhere over the North Sea. The airport was teeming with baffled people, poor things, some of whom had been waiting there for three days! We were able to take off because we were booked on a Dutch plane but boarding was utter chaos; an hour before we were scheduled to leave, the last call for Amsterdam came bellowing through their loudspeaker horns and we pelted like crazy up and down steps and along corridors until we found the right place and scrambled onto the plane just before take-off. My worst ever. But we did get away.

  4th. And just walked round the town all evening, it’s beautiful here, and the people are friendly. On to Tokyo today. Tooti asks if you’d mind popping the enclosed cutting in an envelope and sending it to Raili? Laivurinrinne 1A.

  Kisses!

  Tove.

  TOVE JANSSON AND TUULIKKI PIETILÄ SPENT THE SPRING OF 1975 in a studio in the Cité des Arts artists’ house in Paris. Tove Jansson tried her hand at writing for the theatre. She painted a self-portrait and began a painting of Tuulikki Pietilä which, however, turned out looking more like Tuulikki’s mother. In Paris she also did the painting of Tuulikki Pietilä entitled The Graphic Artist.

  PARIS APRIL –75

  Dearest Maya,

  How lovely to get a letter from you. It’s as if we are further from home here than we were on our “round the world trip”, however that can be. Maybe because Paris (more a concept than a place – and obscured by memories) has acquired a touch of reality from the fact that we’re only working here – a regular home life that’s entirely in order … but the enormous metropolis no longer feels as if it’s outside waiting to be discovered. And there’s no urge to seek contact with other people, as there was when one was young.

  I don’t at all mean that sort of “Paris isn’t like it was”, I see the city as the same miracle as ever and I’m sure it’s not the Parisians who have changed, but me. –

  Reading back over this page, it seems muddle-headed and should be skipped – but I suppose I’ll let it stand as an unfinished train of thought that we can continue later, I’d really like to talk about this.

  Of course we’ll see each other before Harun.

  Goodness knows how moving out there will go this year, I’ve got to go to Stockholm first because Vivica is directing a TV play that I’ve put together while I’ve been here, a Swedish Radio commission on the subject “Vision of the Future” which will be recorded in June. I assume Tooti and I will take all the baggage out as soon as we can and get things vaguely in order before I leave and then Annukka will have to help Tooti with laying nets for the cat and we’ll just hope there are no gales while I’m away. It takes two out there – and you know what, I’m starting to think even that’s not enough sometimes. But that’s a long way off. Or is it? You wrote that the concept of time has changed. That’s another thing I’d like to talk about – but I haven’t finished thinking it through. Perhaps it feels like that to you because of those short, intense weeks in Israel, more and more often but never for long, the quick hours on the plane, the stark contrast between happy relaxation untroubled by conscience and then Helsingfors: your job, the cold weather, the exhaustion.

  Tove Jansson’s portrait of Tuulikki, The Graphic Artist, painted in the Paris studio.

  I can well understand how terribly tired you are of a job where they overburden you in that inhuman way, and that you are seriously tempted to leave despite the pension. In fact the whole idea of a pension is pretty cruel, calculating, the anxiety …

  We had a letter from Salme and she was deeply depressed for the same reason. She wanted to leave, didn’t dare, didn’t know … She had planned to come here for a while but suddenly decided it was too expensive.

  Maya, my spontaneous reaction, off the top of my head, is that you ought to give it up and go freelance instead. Eight years, that’s awful, if one’s not enjoying the work any longer. There must be loads of jobs available for someone of your ability? But I can understand you agonising.

  Wizo is a rather remarkable set-up. You give such a clear picture of the whole thing! I’m sure you were right to accept. And how often does one get to meet the devotees?

  I’m so sad about Svenska. Backberg (some kind of distant relation) told me over the winter how dreadfully tired he was, melancholy, backache, completely done in by all the competition judging and exhibition work he took on. You’re right, one loses touch with the people one was fond of, puts things off, doesn’t get round to it …

  When we first came here I spent a long time trying to write, but produced nothing decent. Tooti instantly set to work on her graphic art and has been working solidly ever since – no filming except at the Flea Market and a few other incidentals. She’s got almost thirty items now and they’re good. Not a trace of abstraction …

  And then in desperation I had a go at that vision-of-the-future play for TV, which I’d resisted for so long, and you won’t be surprised to hear it turned out pretty doom-laden. I extermi
nated virtually the whole planet and it only struck me afterwards that perhaps the future might be quite pleasant after all? Or at any rate, that they might be expecting something positive from me? But they don’t know how much Bradbury I’ve read … Then I got the block again and was left with no other option but to start painting, after a break of five years.

  It made me feel so helpless. Now I’ve painted some innocuous leeks and apples and a landscape and a self-portrait and an interior, they don’t look that great but at least I’ve tried – and was allowed a share in the studio so I could paint?

  One canvas, a big one, is diverting me. I started with Tooti as my model but she keeps jumping up like an impatient cork all the time so I carried on without her and the woman just grew and grew and started to look more and more like Mamu, an angry Mamu. God forbid she should ever see my “Mother-in-law”. Hommage à Minkku …

  Then I was offered another TV commission – subject: “death”. I wasn’t keen. But I had a go anyway – we went out to the Chaplets’, the French translators, and Pierre, who is a PE teacher, told us about a colleague who had hanged himself because he kept failing one part of his exam: climbing up a rope. He tried year after year but he couldn’t do it …

  By the way, I’ve been plagued by a Frenchwoman who went and translated The Invisible Child without permission, found her own publisher and is trying to prove that Chaplets’ transl. is bad. Unpleasant, but I’m staying as hard as stone. (though she is utterly beautiful)

  After that an adoring Japanese girl turned up from London, where she’d been learning English so I could teach her to be a children’s writer, and that was a worse saga but I did my best for three days. (she was utterly beautiful too)