by Tove Jansson
Well, and then I went to the ferma. I saved the letter right until I got home and read it here on the balcony.
I can’t say how happy I am that Einar is coming to see us. Mama, beloved, isn’t it wonderful? Of course I want to be home for that. I’d intended coming in the middle of July in any case, but perhaps it will be earlier now? Naturally I’d be contentissimo if they could come after the 15th, but am happy to travel a little faster if they can’t. Here’s the route I thought of taking. (not confirmed, I admit – but broadly correct) The day after tomorrow, Thursday, I shall go to Pestum early, and if the Danes have had enough of their ancient remains they will jump on my train In Pompeii and come with me. We’ll come back from there that evening because they say the malaria and typhus run riot there after 5 o’clock (!) and then continue our journey, with shortish stops in Salerno, Ravello, Amalfi and Positano to Sorrento, where Ferlow will probably peel off and Jensen and I go on to Capri. My new address is ferme in posta, Positano, and I’ve given that to the main post office here, as well.
If Hans’s money lasts, he’ll stay a few days on Capri, and we’ll go back to Napoli together – if not, we’ll part company there. I only expect to stay a couple of days in Napoli, then I’ll go to Rome to pick up my luggage and potter on to Orvieto. From there, after a day or so, to Siena and S. Guiminiano with rather longer stops, and then a day in Pisa. After that it’s possible I may have a slightly more extended stay in Forte dei Marmi which is a little way up the coast from Viareggio and finally try to do a bit of proper painting. (The Thesleffs’ address) After that, if I still have the time, urge and money to see Nizza, which has always held an allure for me, I shall go there for a while – if not, then straight up through Germany and home. Don’t you reckon that’s a good itinerary? I think it would be too much to go to some “cooler country” as Mama suggests – I can’t digest more than Italy in one go – that alone is pretty strong fare!
It was terrific to hear about Per-Olov’s “Big Day” in such detail. As you can imagine, I was with the boy on the day and would have loved to hop over from Rome for that and Mama’s birthday! Those marks are splendid. Lasse’s are very good too. Hugs to them both from me, and tell them how proud of them I am!!! – I’ll gladly send the three canvases to Gothenburg if you want the bother of them – how nice to go there in Papa’s company! Thank you for Soc. of Illus. criticism, pleased with the reproduction. Good night all my loves – I kiss you in my thoughts.
Your own happy Noppe.
TOVE JANSSON WROTE SHORT STORIES ON HER TRIP TO ITALY. One is set in Verona, one on Capri. The story “Aldrig mera Capri” (Never Again Capri), describing a donkey ride up to the village of Anacapri, was published in the magazine Julen (Christmas) in 1939.
11 JUNE –39. POSITANO
Beloved Mama and Papa!
It seems so long since I wrote – in Napoli, yet only a few days have passed. But they have been so intense that I feel I’ve lived here on the south coast for ages. When I took the train from Naples I was quite tired of museums, had wandered around M. Nationale from opening time in the morning until four o’clock when they kicked me out. I ate my packed chicken and cheese from the boarding house behind a Venus, a very difficult operation as I had no tools and was obliged to gnaw away every time the visitors turned their backs!
On the way to Pestum I missed the Danes, but they turned up in the temple from a different direction a bit later, so we strolled around the deserted landscape all day. Pestum isn’t exactly attractive, an empty plain with bare ridges of mountains on the horizon, stark, silent and scorched, and just a few clutches of whitewashed dwellings – but the temples lend beauty and stature to the scene. They were built in 600 BC and are so well preserved that as you approach them from a distance, their warm ochre hues standing out against a bright blue sky, you feel it wouldn’t be all that strange for people from that time to suddenly step out from between the pillars or come walking along the paved roads which they themselves built and which run from the wild meadows right down to the sea. – But the coastal stretch from Salerno to Positano is still the most magnificent of the whole trip. We took the bus to Amalfi because Ferlow’s leg hurt, as a result of tripping on a bone at Pompeii and falling over, or so he said. It wouldn’t surprise me, the way he kept rushing about with his nose in his “führer” and ferreting in the most unlikely places. He looks like this – and here’s Jensen. [The illustration is lost]. There was minor squabbling between them the whole way because Jensen had wanted to go on foot, but then we all got bus-sick and went quiet. The road was stunning. It followed the gigantic cliffs into every cleft and round every projection, almost tying itself in knots. Below a stone barrier about half a metre high it was a sheer drop to a sparkling sea, bright green along the shoreline and paler in the shallows, with brown patches of the seaweed visible far out in the water and the sails looking like bark boats. On the other side of the road, the mountain rose just as steeply, dotted here and there with clumps of olives, figs and unfamiliar flowering trees, until it was cloaked in ragged clouds and heat haze. Darkness fell very quickly, and down below, in an expanse of soft cobalt that blurred the horizon, legions of lights were lit in the fishing fleets.
As we passed we glimpsed walls of buildings, the occasional woman carrying a sack of cement (!) on her head, her legs braced like two rigid pegs, a barking dog, a heavy-set man on a miniature donkey, almost obscured by panniers of vegetables, a brightly lit trattoria with youths hanging about the doorway – and all at once Amalfi lay before us, just round a bend, a collection of lights straggling up a mountainside bisected by the river’s fall, the majolica-tiled dome of the church gleaming in the lamplight. The young people of the town strolled to and fro along the short seafront promenade in a steadily flowing throng, a group of men on the piazza, and the sand of the little strip of harbour covered in brightly coloured fishing boats and bathing huts on stilts.
Capri.
So silly that when it’s one thing straight after another, each new impression overlays and disturbs the other before I’ve had time to compile a reasonable letter.
Now I’m so full of Capri that Amalfi, which was closely followed by Positano’s even more remarkable scenery – has been pushed back as no longer current. In fact, they’re all very alike each other in vegetation, terrain and colour, the only difference being that Capri is entirely occupied by tourists who lend the whole place an artificial but dazzling sheen. A chunk of typical Italian landscape is in the grip of north European customs, spaghetti and formaggio make way for “egg and baken” and “gefüllte mælle speise”, dark suits for shorts and espadrillos, trattorias for bars, “Sole mio” for the latest popular song from Berlin. The women boldly wear trousers and merrily practise their Italian on beautiful if dirty fisher-boys from Marina Grande, and the men dress as robber barons with red sashes round their middles, Viva Villa sombreros and sandals with thick cork soles. The local population displays no surprise. It picks its way unperturbed across the fashionable kitchen midden of the noisy piazza with its gypsy chapel, drooping palms and stacks of souvenirs, just as it did in Amalfi and Positano; with bags of cement and enormous bundles of grass on its heads, baskets of fish and huge amounts of wine. Cheating the tourists wherever they can. And they seem to do it very well. Luxury hotels everywhere “mit schöner Aussicht, am Meer”, Aussichtspunkt, 3 lira, Eselfahrt 20 lira, 5 o’clock tea, Andenken, dernier cri de Paris – vero frascati – “wild, romantisch” – nur 50 lira!
I am pretty flabbergasted but accept it all. I’ve ended up in a newly built Germania hotel that smells of fresh distemper, thickened soups and sauces, and Aryan cleanliness. My room is white and brass with razor-sharp lighting, its window looking out over an unbroken line of sea beyond a bare, roughcast terrace. Way down there, the funicular crawls upwards like some kind of straggly red beetle, bringing more tourists, always more. They swarm out onto the piazza, jostle on the terraces to see the lights of Napoli and the vague outline of Vesuvius, spill over the bath
ing beach and go jolting off with cries of delight in a plumed coach pulled by miniature donkeys. (Wild romantisch!)
13th.
Now Jensen and I have paid our dues to romanticism, too – we rode on donkeys up to Anacapri to see a religious procession! My donkey was called Michel Angelo and Hans’s was Tiberius. Both had occasional bouts of joie de vivre (the donkeys, that is) and set off at a wild gallop with hoarse bellows of aaa–ii–aaaa, leaving the donkey driver to run after them, dragging on their tails! The local people had a good time and so did we. Then we went round the Certosa monastery, and after that I waved farewell to Hans Jensen in Marina Grande as the tourists frantically snapped up their last souvenirs and the radio of the coastal steamer played “Non si scorda mai”.
I, half concerned and half intrigued by my new solitude, took a walk in the drizzle along a narrow winding track that hugged the steep side of the mountain and then descended through the vineyards to a deep green bowl between the cliffs – Bagno Tiberia. The gaudy bathing huts and canoes, the tables with their flowers, the palms, the sun terraces – in the rain and utter silence they all seem strangely out of place. The Capri built up by the tourists loses its life and meaning when they abandon it – the closed bars are more dismal than a populated graveyard! Here I sit in lonely majesty in a deckchair, writing to you. Behind Vesuvius the skies are clearing, perhaps we’ll have nice weather tomorrow. [ … ]
I shall potter along the beach a bit. Hugs to the boys, my darlings! I’m sending you all kisses in my thoughts.
Your own Noppe.
Best wishes to Impi! Address: Ferme in posta. Siena.
S. GIMIGNANO 20 JUNE –39
Beloved everybody,
P.S. 23rd card from you!
It’s pouring in San Gimignano. Beneath my window, the whole valley is wrapped in thickening grey gloom and rain is spouting from the gutters of legions of tiled roofs. I’m sitting in bed with a quarter of white wine (which I brought with me from the dinner table, against all the rules) plus 4 pairs of holey stockings. Tomorrow I shall go on to Pisa, determined to make time to lean at an angle in the tower, and then to Marmi. There I shall rest my legs, do a lot of laundry, get my finances and correspondence in order, finish off my sketch books and, as the saying goes, gather my impressions. My impression of this rocky little eyrie is of magnificence. Everything in the town is exactly the same as when Dante, Savonarola and Boccaccio lived here – from a distance it looks like a fairytale castle with its seventeen towers. Rich families here would show off once upon a time by building high towers – each one a metre or so higher than its neighbour. There are said to have been around thirty before the most distinguished family lost its temper and pulled down most of the others’. I arrived last night on the bus from Poggibonsi, a terribly drab, boiling hot, silent little town where people and dogs were asleep in every street. I booked myself into “Cisterna”, one of the town’s two hotels. It was extremely difficult getting into the museum, a door had rusted shut and the attendant couldn’t find his uniform cap, which he absolutely had to have on. He spoke with regret of the old times before 1928 when there were still tourists, especially the English – who spent money. “And now, politics keeps them away. Well, we’ve got the Germans instead. Sisisisisi, they’re fine. But they don’t pay for anything.” (His comment explained why it is that if you leave a shop without buying anything, you get a politely sarcastic “auf wiedersehen” as you go!) Lingering by the iron doors as I came out, he told his whole life story, before slowly closing them at last and taking off his cap.
In St Agostino I was shown around by a melancholy old “padre” who also sat for me. He described the content of every picture in great detail and his language (the best Italian is spoken here in Toscana) was so beautiful that I often forgot to pay heed to what he said simply because I was listening to the music of his language. Everyone seems very friendly and calm here. No trains, cinemas, cars or shops. But the “dolce far niente” atmosphere is more tangible and makes me want to protest.
And then – moving on at 5 in the morning on the bus to Poggibonsi – a train to Emboli, another to Pisa. There I had another proposal of marriage, from a young winegrower – well, you can see for yourselves what he looks like! [A photo enclosed with the letter has been lost].
It’s a hopeless problem for me, the way they manage to fall in love in half an hour and never tire of wearing out their adjectives. The worst thing is that I simply can’t take them (at least not the ones I’ve come into contact with) seriously. I get the impression we mean more when we say “it’s a shame you’re leaving” than they do by proclaiming that their hopeless, undying adoration will kill them piano, piano, in an abyss of nostalgia. We had our pictures taken in front of the leaning tower. Unique shot. Completamente a la maniera turistico. Slightly dazed and with a pleased but embarrassed grin. Campo Santo is splendid, especially the “Triumph of Death”. The whole piazza with the cathedral, campanile and baptisterium are among the loveliest things I’ve seen, by the way. At four o’clock I went on to Viareggio and then by tram to Forte dei Marmi. It’s so nice to finally unpack all my things and not have the faintest idea when the next train leaves. This is a pretty place. A plage about ten kilometres long, fringed with villas and hotels, and a tiny little town. Not too many tourists and no inflated prices. When I got here I went into a bar and asked if they knew of a relatively cheap albergo. The entire clientele instantly gathered round, vastly interested and gesticulating wildly. They agreed on a private casa and took me to its door, jabbering away. And now here I am, renting, initially for four days = 30 lira (cheaper than Campo dei Fiori!) a little blue room from which you can see out over the sea above the treetops. It’s wonderful to be free of those pre-journey nerves, and all those stockings, and Grieben!
Next day. I’ve consoled myself for your continuing silence by lazing on the sand all morning, like a person of independent means enjoying some recreation. There are no sharks here, they say. But I’m afraid to leave the shallow water even so, because in Capri they grinned at my unease too, and then I found out four children had been eaten up a short time before, not far out from the beach. – (The Duce sometimes graces Marmi with his presence, so it is a very distinguished place.) On midsummer’s eve I shall hire a boat and set to sea with wine and cheese. Missing you so much.
A big, big hug from your own Noppe.
P.S. Have my parcels arrived? There should be 2, plus Mama’s paints. When are Einar & co. coming? You haven’t gone and sent letters to ferme other than those I told you to??? Say hello to Impi. How goes it with Polon’s Latin and Lasse’s swimming?
Midsummer’s eve
Thanks for the card!!!
It made everything twice as nice and bright. Stupid to worry of course, but you know the sort of wild fantasies one falls prey to when there’s no word for a few weeks! I’m very happy to hear that Papa is entering the fountain competition – there’s no one who makes them more graceful and beautiful. I hope it won’t eat up too much of your Pellinge stay!
It’s blazing hot – today a heat haze and between twelve and three you feel completely feeble. Lovely to be beside the sea, so I’ve escaped to the right place just in time! I was out in a “boat” yesterday and hunted for a shark but didn’t find one. I did however find a very pleasant gentleman, more sympathetic than the mosaic workers and winegrowers I’ve had contact with so far, and I went for dinner with him. Sign. Lucio also likes “lazing on the sand” and hails from Rome. So this evening I can mark midsummer in company, which I’m very glad about. La nostalgia, veda. I’ve paid for a room for a whole week, because I really like it here. No need to send any scholarship money because I’ve still got loads of money – 2,200 lira and the trip home from Stettin is already paid for. And I’m not spending much here! But I’d very much like to have those 100 marks in francs, if I decide to fit in that trip to Nizza. Do you think I can, or is it insane? But I’ll have to see. For now I’m doing little sketches and swimming – and am very tanned, with
bleached hair, and have shed my entire skin twice over! Terribly happy though I miss you all, all the time.
Just think if Ingmar and Emmely came to see us too! What fun! Pellinge is wonderful when there are a few more people around to come along on outings and go swimming. Now I wish you all a bellissima midsummer and send my very biggest
your own Noppe.
Best wishes to Impi!
And Kalle and family.
Sign. Lucio: He and TJ met again in 1948 when she was visiting Florence with Sam and Maya Vanni.
Kalle: Kalle Gustafsson from whom the Janssons rented their summer cottage.
TOVE JANSSON’S LAST LETTER FROM ITALY IS DATED 28.6.1939. It consists of three pages; the fourth and final page is missing. From Italy, she went on to Paris, before returning home via Germany and Stettin.
VIARREGGIO 28/6 –39
Beloved Mama!
I’m sitting on the sand – in a fresh breeze and sunshine, writing to you. I’ve come in to Viareggio, partly to sort out tickets and money, partly to escape Lucio’s imploring doggy eyes over breakfast. It is as you say, five days is the maximum – then you wish you’d preferred your solitary spaghetti! Ah well – I shan’t be in this country for much longer. How lovely it’s going to be to hug each other again!