by Tove Jansson
Sketch of the criticised picture of the woman with the lilies.
What I like now are the stylised paintings with their emphasis on planes (e.g. Matisse, Valadon), their clean, almost brazen colours. If one can neutralise their harshness with subtle light and air effects, I think it’s possible to achieve a really beautiful result.
The other evening, despite my intentions, I went to Boudet for a chat. Calrstedt was there, Relander and a girl who was at Broban (Hageli’s mother-in-law is in town so he’s entirely tied up with her). We went to the Apache Cellar on the Boul. Mich., which was not a great success, however – Relu and his lady sulked non-stop because they had wanted to go to the music hall and then dancing afterwards. Carlstedt and I both thought that sort of programme would be far too expensive, for which of course the president’s boy and the girl (who was invited) had no sympathy. The only real bit of fun (apart from a stain on my coat and an even bigger one, blue, on my behind) was that as I made my entrée, I slipped on the mouldy stone steps and went crashing right down into the cellar, where the tourists took it as an ingredient of the entertainment and applauded enthusiastically. Afterwards, Carlstedt and I tried to liven up our whingeing companions by taking them to a cheap bar on r. de la Gaité. (We went briefly into a cheap snail eatery, too, but when I tried to tell them all what a first-rate place I thought it, they started up their tasteless banter again and spoilt the whole thing.) They were still miserable, though, because the wine seemed the same as the beer at Bronkan. (whose homely atmosphere they were longing for, by the way.) Carlstedt and I decided to enjoy ourselves in spite of them and danced the cancan along the street, which met with silent and disapproving scorn. In desperation we proposed an onion soup at the Dôme. And there, things got really heated. Politics was what had been simmering under the surface all along. The Finnishness and Swedishness question flared up, and Relu and his consort both turned out to be aitosuomalaiset. Just imagine them, a sour and angry little circle in the heart of Paris, quivering with excitement as they hunt out the most hurtful comments, dig their way down into the most small-minded drivel, quote newspapers, shower each other with phrases and insults taken from the linguistic hatred one had left behind in a country one would prefer to remember with warmth – as “home”. I didn’t say a word for an hour and a half, but then I couldn’t hold it in any longer and told them it was the curse of the world, these restrictive boundaries, this racial hatred, this linguistic baiting, this petty “you-can’t-play-in-our-yard”, this ludicrous labelling, and next time they showed any tendency to start hacking on about politics, I would just get up and leave. We paid for our onion soup in silence and parted without a goodnight. Fellow countrymen abroad! As the Germans say: “Gott behüte mich für Sturm und Wind/ und alle Deutschen die im Ausland sind.”
I shall definitely be keeping away from Boudet from now on. Although there was one day when I had a very nice time with a couple of those dreadful fellow countrymen. We haven’t rubbed shoulders enough yet, that was probably why. Collianders had found out my address and wandered by to invite me out to breakfast. Afterwards, Tito and I went to Place de la Nation, where a gigantic fairground has gone up. Despite the drizzle we had a lot of fun, went on the bumper cars and the merry-go-round, and saw the naked dancing in pink and mauve lighting, the calf with two heads and the consequences of immorality in wax, and ate candy floss with chestnuts.
I’ve promised to look after their little girl Maria one evening, so they can go out and enjoy themselves together. Ina has done some painting, mainly in the parks – and the one I was particularly taken with was a window with pink carnations against a grey courtyard. They are incredibly nice, both of them. I’ve had to revise my old opinion of Tito entirely. Can it be because he’s a Believer nowadays?
One morning I paid a visit to the Chataïns, taking bonbons for the children, but it was all very subdued and flat. Perhaps the parents had quarrelled. Next week they are heading south, so “obligations” on both sides will spontaneously lapse, thank goodness. – It has been perishing and thoroughly grey here. A cold has been nipped in the bud with a remedy I bought for 20 fr. If any of you start getting a sore, tickly throat and feeling cold and hot at the same time etc, go out and buy Gonacrine tablets and suck those – they’re very good. The nights are shockingly cold, but even during the day I wear my fur coat indoors. The first sunny day, I plan to go back to Nation and draw all the life at the fair. There should also be enough material there to give me the option of an illustrated article. Time for some painting now. A big hug to you all! I think about you all the time.
KISSES
your Tove.
PTO!
Monday. Holy’s studio. The model, an amusing little lady in a blue hat against a bright blue, red and yellow background, is just taking a rest. Your letter with the critics’ verdicts came this morning, I read them all the way here. Imagine Sigrittan writing so well about me – with a reproduction and everything. You bet I was happy! The thing now is to make sure I don’t go and get worse – but I’m not afraid of that any more. I think my palette could get even brighter. Here in Paris, you can’t be afraid of colour, it sparkles everywhere; every little tobacconist’s is painted in its own cheery shade and the air makes everything even more brilliant and alive. If I raise my whole palette here, there will still be plenty of time for me to tone it down and refine it back home.
Thanks for your letter! I’m over my cold today, just feeling a bit weak, that’s all. I spent Sunday evening round at the Collianders’, writing and looking after Maria while they went for a walk round town. They treated me to tea and eggs, coloured the Russian way.
It’s hardly to be wondered at, you know, that Irina’s mirror model shows the transition from the old era to something new. It was the first thing she painted at Holy’s! The model is posing again now.
Lots of love – your own Noppe.
Broban: Brobergska samskolan, a mixed school in Helsinki, attended by TJ 1923–30.
the president’s boy: The artist Ragnar Relander (Relu) was the son of Lauri Relander, president of Finland 1925–31.
aitosuomalaiset: True Finns.
Gott behüte mich für Sturm und Wind/ und alle Deutschen die im Ausland sind: God preserve me from storm and wind/ and all the Germans who are in a foreign land.
Collianders: Tito Colliander, artist and author, and his wife, the artist Ina Colliander. They converted to the Greek Orthodox faith in 1937.
Sigrittan: Art critic Sigrid Schauman, a frequent guest of the Jansson family.
VIKTOR JANSSON COMES TO PARIS ON 12 MAY. TOGETHER he and Tove visit his old Parisian haunts, many galleries and spend a lot of time socialising at bars and restaurants. But the surfeit of art takes its toll. “There were too many sculptures”, writes the sculptor after visiting the Rodin museum, “but the park was wonderful”. In his letters to Signe Hammarsten Jansson, Viktor Jansson writes of the pride he takes in his daughter and the affinity between them. And his love for his wife comes alive through their daughter: “Tove is my companion, but I often get the sense that it is you, beloved, I have at my side.”
SUN. 15 MAY –38 PARIS.
Beloved!
Here we sit, Papa and I, in my hotel room, drinking Cinzano and eating langouste, with my suitcases for a table. “It reminds me of a time in Italy with Signe,” says Papa. He is so happy to be here in Paris that it is a pleasure to hear and see him. Together we search out places he remembers from the old days, your studios, Cawan’s and his. Bistros, streets and extra-special corners and parks, and everywhere he tells me just what had happened on that spot, usually finding the setting unchanged. The first day was lovely. He arrived on the train you had said he would take, beaming, but tired after the hardships of Antwerp, which he’s probably already written to you about. We took a taxi to the hotel, and its appearance initially rather put him off – it isn’t exactly palatial! However, he liked his room, which I’d tried to make as nice as possible – it’s on the floor below mine and in
the mornings we can call to each other from our windows. After a quick bit of unpacking we looked at my paintings, which he found much better than those I’d sent home, and at my sketches and assorted other things I’ve acquired here. Then we ventured out, walked along Boulevard Saint Michel down to the Seine and dined chez les Cosmopolites, drank good wine and made quite an impression on the garçon, who is used to less reckless meals. Then we mooched through the little alleyways along the Seine from Notre Dame, where we turned and gradually made our way up to Montparnasse. Papa found it all very changed and exceedingly touristy with all its neon lights, new places of entertainment and its whole cosmopolitan air. We took a table at Dôme’s pavement café and sat there watching the stream of people flowing by, complete with all those fantastical figures only Paris can produce. It was warm and a clear, moonlit night, Papa bought me a rose and we drank café noir and Benedictine.
I briefly ran up to Hageli, who lies very close by, and left a note with our greetings when I didn’t find him in. After that we took a walk up towards rue de la Gaité, went into a bar or two that Papa knew, got to r. de Moulin de Beurre and then wrote the postcard to you. We mooched around like that until 3 o’clock and finally ended up at Dupont on Boul. Mich where we had choucroute. The hotel staff are terribly interested in Papa and especially, I think, in the fact that we always go out and come in together – it isn’t very common here for a father and daughter to so obviously enjoy each other’s company! On Friday morning (and I do believe it was the 13th, as well) we took a noir at Capoulade and walked all the way down r. St Jacques together, then I went to Holy and Papa to the Musée du Luxembourg. Then we met up a Boudet at ½ past 12 for a decent French dejeuner, took the métro to Strasbourg St Denis and worked our way slowly along the boulevarde to Place de l’Opera. We bought a few little things on the way, looked in the shop windows, went into a “1 hour’s” and generally devoted ourselves to “just being” in the sunshine. On the way home we went along the quai where there are birds, kittens and tortoises for sale, you know, and sat for a while in Parc d’Ile de la Cité which Papa had never been to before! Back at the hotel we found a message from Hageli saying he’d meet us at Boudet, and set off for Montparnasse right away. – Well now – I see this letter of mine has turned into rather a “list” – but I expect Papa, who’s sitting opposite me and writing more, will cover “general impressions,” feelings, the personal side of things! And anyway, I imagine it’s the small details that will be of particular interest to you? Alors – as Hageli still hadn’t arrived we had an apéritif in a bistro opposite Boudet. As we were sitting there, Bäcken and wife came by and joined us at our table. We immediately got into a lively debate about art and clean forgot Hageli and dinner. Suddenly Märta said: “Don’t turn round – but there he is, and he’s got another new one.” And he came up, a bit embarrassed and preoccupied, with a very pretty girl in rather a lot of make-up (which instantly put Papa off her!) on his arm. After the dinner, at which Hageli and his lady ate nothing but cheese and stared deep into each other’s eyes, we went to Dôme, and afterwards to that Scandinavian place “Nordland”. Hageli was completely lost to us and all at once he vanished, along with his young girl. Papa was a bit disappointed at not being able to talk to him as he’d hoped but consoled himself with the Bäcks and the Kræmers who happened to turn up later par hasard. Paris is a small world! (Especially in Montparnasse!) I was very aware that Papa was eager for it to be his treat, really needed it to be, and was feeling so free and happy that he wanted to take the whole world in his arms. So when everyone else insisted it was time to go home, we two went to Boul. Mich. and continued on our own, getting to bed at 3 o’clock again! The hotel is decidedly unsympathetic to the phenomenon!
– On Saturday I worked at Holy’s for the last time while Papa was at the Louvre, and then we met for something to eat at Pantagruel (my cheap etudiant place, you know) and then took the métro to the flea market. Poor Papa was tired after his journey and everything, I could tell. But he livened up considerably when I found a beautiful African knife, which he bought for Lasse (and was awfully embarrassed when I started haggling!), and a nice bowl that he immediately wanted to give to me because he found it so attractive. We looked for a necklace for you, but couldn’t find anything lovely enough, and as it got hotter we went into a little bar for a beer. And who should turn up but the Collianders! We’ve already run into all our Compatriots, it transpires, except Relander! Once we’d parted company with them we took the métro to Bäckens where we were plied with apéritifs and cakes and looked at Yngve’s paintings. He’s done a huge, colouristically magnificent piece for an exhibition here. On the subject of painting – I’m genuinely pleased that Sam got the prize He needed it. I can wait, and in fact I even think it more sensible. I found a droll card with fake lily-of-the-valley appliquéd to a sequin-studded pink bowl and a real blue ribbon round it, and sent it to him with my congratulations. We and the Bäcks dined at r. de Gaité in the evening, and then it was Dôme again! An extremely lively and fabulous night. Around 3 Märta dragged Yngve off home, and Papa and I went over to the bar side. Good grief, what oddities turn up there at night! We talked to an old woman in rags, barefoot and dirtier than anyone I’ve ever seen before, to Germans, Bolsheviks, Armenians, Swedes, Norwegians, a sailor in a ripped shirt that left his back bare, who later took his trousers off in the street outside to the amusement of the entire Dôme. I stood in a corner taking a spoonful of cough syrup de temps en temps, while Papa made the acquaintance of tout le monde. I could see that that gang of Scandinavians was more than unreliable, but thought Papa would discover that for himself, and that Dôme is something one always has to go through! Around six a brawl became an absolute necessity, among other things a Frenchman came in with a little dog that he hurled to the floor, and was almost lynched for it on the spot. I kept a careful eye on my beloved countrymen who kept trying to sneak away from their drinks and cause a fight. We finally escaped them at sunrise, with me diplomatically deflecting all their proposals of a future rendezvous. We took a taxi back to the hotel and crept up to our rooms like criminals, and slept until 2 o’clock today! Then I came down to Papa and said, “Well, how are you?” “Bloody hell,” said Papa. “That’s the last time. We’ve wasted a day – but now it’s over!” That made me awfully glad and we kissed each other and went out into the rain and drank beer. Then we decided not to bother with the galleries, bought wine and some tinned food to bring back with us, and now we’re sitting here in my room chatting to you. We’ll be going out directly to eat and then to the market at Place de la Nation. We’re so happy, so close, and perpetually talk about you. Papa tells me about the two of you in your early time here, and how he loves you, all of us. We talk about it all, everything that was left unresolved and has been festering away, and tell each other we had to meet so far away to get close to each other. May God grant it’s the same back home as well. – Mama, it’s adorable to hear how much he loves you! We write a few lines and then we talk about you. He says you and I should take a trip to Italy together. Shall we do that! – Papa’s finishing off his letter now – it’s already late and we’re going out into town. You’re always with us.
Your own happy Tove.
Cawan’s and his: The artist Alvar Cawén (d.1935) and Viktor Jansson studied in Paris at the same time and were close friends.
a “1 hour’s”: A ticket for an hour at the cinema.
SUN 5 JUNE. –38. PARIS.
Beloved Mama!
We’re having our morning coffee on the terrace at Capolades, while all around us people are already having their apéritifs. I slept for 12 hours at a stretch last night because Papa didn’t want to be woken! We were sitting with Hageli in the Whitsun bustle at Dôme, but I went home earlier. It’s cloudy today, rather nice after the past week’s sudden heat, heavy and intense with thunderstorms in the air. I expect you are out at Pellinge now, you and Lasse – and Per-Olov is off on his sailing trip. I was supposed to write to him, to you to
o, long since, but I’ve been too tired in the evenings. Papa wrote yesterday while I went to a piscine “en plein air” (contd. at home) in Auteuil. I ought not to have left him alone, of course. When I got back he started to cry, he’d been scouring the district for a postbox and a shirt for Lasse and hadn’t found either, and was jumpy and upset and sick of everything. I understand him. He’s really missing you now. Some bother over his ticket home, little vexations, fatigue, they’ve all piled up in these final days – not helped, I sense, by his worrying that he ought to be cheerful and keen to arrange our itinerary. Anyway – this is an entirely natural reaction – and I now know for certain that the relationship between Papa and me has changed. I’ve often felt that we were both so nervy we might burst into tears if anyone provoked us even slightly, but quand même we’ve stayed good friends throughout – never annoyed or brusque. So I’m not too upset that these last days aren’t exactly the happiest and, for Papa, dominated by homesickness – for me our time here has been a lovely, rounded experience in which even sources of irritation and the Dôme have played particular, even important, roles. I do so love Papa. – Just now he came dashing up from his room, where he’s busy packing, for a drop of the vermouth we’ve parked with me and to offload a Stefan Zweig book it would be risky to take to Germany. (He’s told you about the revised route for his journey, I assume?). While he was here he sheepishly handed over your present – the earrings and the little heart he’d overlooked in a corner of his suitcase. So sweet of you! Thank you so much. They’re just the earrings I’ve been looking for here, to go with my red necklace. And I’ve got a few little presents for all of you – I wanted to hunt out lots, lots more – like at the flea market – but our browsing in the big stores has mainly, as you’ll appreciate, consisted of finding presents for Papa to buy, and I didn’t want to take up any time for myself – you know he doesn’t like going round the shops. (I realise I’m writing this terribly sloppily, but I’m a bit stupid after a whole spring, tired.) He wants to take half of Paris home to you and the family! – And, well, I’m a bit sad and disappointed myself at the moment, too – on a private level. Among the Swedes here, you see, there was a certain Birger – awfully nice, attractive, and he made me fall in love with him. Everybody would spend all night at Dôme and when I was hanging about in the bar there, we used to talk – he wasn’t drunk like the others and could talk sense and be fun. Now I’ve found out he’s married – his family is arriving today. I can’t help feeling it’s a low trick to take off your wedding ring when you’re abroad. I don’t have much luck, do I? I’m starting to see the humorous side to it all, though. And I’m not angry with him. We had a lovely couple of days (at Dôme, that is). Alors. Now what did I want to say? Oh yes. When Papa’s gone I shall shut myself away for two days and sew. More fool me, I’ve decided quand même to go, well-masked, to Beaux Arts’ big masquerade on the 10th. Everybody’s dressing up á là epoque François I and I’ll be able to make a really lovely costume if I have a bit of time. I’ve already bought the fabrics, at the flea market – the dress itself is to be a stiff, shimmering satin, a lovely bright blue with pale yellow roses (20 fr.!). Gold tulle, floral (2 fr. m), white glass beads and golden net in my hair, woven with curtain tassels. I couldn’t help deciding to go – wanted to leave Paris “dans la gloire” – not exhausted and tepid, but with a bang the morning after a happy evening with other young people. Don’t worry that I’ll very likely see Féri there, after spending time with the Swedes I find his beard, his romanticism, his jalousie and southern exaggeration positively disagreeable. – Today we met Hageli in the street, went for dinner with him, and later we sat talking at Dôme. Then we went to the Pantheon and looked at the great men’s graves. That will, I’m sure, be our last “sightseeing”, there was some talk of going to the cathedral in Chartres with a Swedish Jelin (who knows Segerstråle very well) but now we’ve decided to take our last days very easily. And that’s for the best. Yesterday we were at Bobino again, the variety theatre on rue de la Gaité. It’s a street Papa always makes for. And then I know he’s missing you more than ever. We bought him a suit and a smart hat – in green. I think it bucked him up enormously, though he was a bundle of nerves until we finally found something he liked. One day we took a walk in brilliant sunshine all the way along the Champs Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe, looked at the grave of the unknown soldier and then spent the evening at the Comedie Français – “Ruy Blas”, a dreadfully overblown verse piece with lots of falling on one knee and vibrating voices. Nothing much new has happened otherwise. One especially lovely memory for me is a morning after Dôme when Birger and I went to Les Halles and revelled in the barbaric profusion and all the colours, along the Seine, into Notre Dame and then to an indoor swimming pool. There’s so much more I can tell you, and much better when we see each other. For now, I kiss you in spirit. Say hello to Lasse. It’s splendid that he’s going to have a friend. And those grades were good. Take the greatest care of yourself.