by Tove Jansson
I’ve done the washing, Ferrexed the ring bolts on the signal mast, mended the tent. Ham stitched all the verandah mats together into one, and now it stays more or less in place in the wind, cut up a few cartoon strips and sprayed the greenfly on the flowers with DDT. It’s more peaceful round the islands now, hardly any boats any longer.
Tomorrow it’s Saturday, so maybe someone will turn up and I can send this leter back with them. I do wonder what Pentti decided.
The cat has just turned up and is yowling for food. Warm wishes to our friends and a big hug. I miss you, everything’s a bit wrong without you. Apart from that we’re fine, things are companionable and serene.
I wish you well!
Tove.
Tomtebo prizes with their china plaques: TJ had won the Nils Holgersson Plaque in 1953 and the Elsa Beskow Plaque in 1958. The children of Tomtebo were characters in Beskow’s picture books.
Mayavanni phobia: TJ’s friend Maya Vanni –see Lettters to Maya Vanni, p.423..
Monica Nielsen: An actress and singer from Sweden.
9 AUG 67 [Klovharun]
Darling Tooti,
Thank you for your lovely presents – sea and psychology – very us! It’s fine, calm birthday weather, Ham is deadheading the old velvet roses that were fatally battered by Sjöberg, Nita’s washing her hair and Lasse’s down in the inlet with his daughter tied to a mooring rope, teaching her to swim. It’s as if there never was a storm. [ … ]
As soon as you had vanished in a strange direction we heaved all the boats into mummun maha, moored the little boat fore and aft with its nose into the wind in the inlet and pulled everything up from the shore. Then we tidied the cottage after all that partying, I threw a glass of water over the pelargonium but Nita shrieked oh no! and it turned out to be her discreet morning vodka, but the pelargonium’s been flowering hysterically ever since.
The storm came in fast and of course the family got all worked up and took delight in disaster as usual. Lasse and I rushed round looking at the breakers, the usual waterfalls started up and the inlet turned into a torrent. Before we knew it the water was up to the sauna and there was the usual boat business, ropes tangling in all directions until the whole ravine looked like a spider’s web. By the time it was over, the waterfalls over the eastern rocks were so violent that we couldn’t get out to the little boat. Nita was determined to jump in and rescue it and went on about it all day, and it was very hard to stop her without losing one’s temper.
Nita is strong, willing and brave but has no sense of judgement. As long as the storm was just a normal August storm, the boat just bobbed around nicely, but when we got up to force eight such huge waves were breaking over it that it filled with water and capsized.
We ran down to the inlet with a boathook but oars, duckboards and bailers were heading out on the midstream current in a dead straight line. We had already tried to haul in the fish cage but the cable had got twisted round the shackle – so off that went, too, and with it hundreds of seasick roach. I soaked the herring we had from Brunström and boiled them up, and once Pipsu had worn herself out yowling she chewed off a few tails and got some chatka as a reward. Absolutely no reward for that animal today, though, because it ate some of the yellow buntings who arrived in a big flock for a family reunion on the verandah. But the cat net is in the sea at last.
I’ve never seen such a sea on Harun before. It rose as high as the chopping block and came halfway up the sauna stove. The floor started floating away. The outer cellar was full of frantic frogs and the waves brought the full chaos of Sjöberg breaking over us, right up to the bare rock outside the cottage. The spray beat against the panes like whiplashes and ran down the windows like it used to in butcher’s shops in the old days.
We felt so sorry for you, missing out on the ghastly majesty of it all, but you wait and see, we’re bound to get even bigger and better storms on this island, you wait and see! The first day we just gave ourselves over to the experience – and then came the radio reports of all those missing at sea.
Thank goodness Reima’s family weren’t caught up in the wretched business, we heard from Abbe’s lot that they were out in their boat. But by Sunday the only remaining shadow for us was the little boat flipping over and over in the inlet, first its sides and then its keel in the air. Nita continued her slow and muddled deliberations on swimming out to get it. Ham told the story of Jonah in the belly of the whale and other Old Testament tales. The house was full of wet clothes. I sat for a while on the bench in the sauna, writing Pappa’s memoirs with the waves splashing around me, trying to brace the roof every now and then and moving the soaps higher up. But then I just sat and looked at the little boat, which had pulled free of its aft moorings and was bashing against the rocks. The whole building was vibrating.
Sophia kept on counting to fifty and Nita persisted in weighing up her swimming prospects. Just before it got completely dark, the wind veered round to the north and Lasse said right, I’m going to bring the boat in now. Poor Nita wasn’t allowed to go with him so she crept under a blanket and stayed there. Ham sat at the window with Sophia who was screaming and crying my wonderful daddy, and he picked his way carefully between pools and inlets, fished the rope out with the boathook and started to tow the boat round. It was dead heavy of course, and I had to get into the water down under the rock and receive the great pudding when it arrived. We took it across the broken rocks into the maha and on up under the jetty behind the tent. So then there were more wet clothes on the breadpole.
When we got inside, something new had happened. Sophia’s tooth had come out, to general delight, and been put under Ham’s bolster so a Spanish rat could come for it in the night and give her some coins in exchange. (rats are a bit dangerous so she didn’t dare have it under her own pillow) We lay in a row across the floor and stoked up the fire. All the firewood was wet of course, but that tarry timber burnt well, anyway.
Around 2 o’clock I went out and shone a light on the boats. There was still a storm raging in the cleft and the little boat was trying to get into the sauna. The only rope I could find was the one fastened round the woodshed roof. By the time I’d fixed the problem there were even more wet clothes in the cottage. A section of the gunwale got smashed in the inlet, it was all rotten, but otherwise the boat is unharmed and more dear to us than ever.
The next day we had a normal storm, and it was the day after before we could get over to Bredskär to see what damage Sjöberg had done. We had already seen through the binoculars that the boathouse was gone. Ham stayed on Harun, voluntarily. (!?) We found the metal boat skewed across the beach (a new and perfect sandy beach) and entirely full of sand and seaweed. The door of Sophia’s playhouse had been smashed in by the wind and the boathouse was non-existent, just a few broken ends of metal piping left in the water. What a shame … Lasse worked so hard on his boathouse! Yet Sjöberg hadn’t laid a finger on a deckchair and an inflatable rubber mattress, they were still lying on the sand. Walked round the island, unmentionable debris but nothing interesting. Suddenly a helicopter came flying in low and circled the island, then rapidly came in to land on the smooth rock in front of the house, a chap leapt with the engine still roaring and the propeller shaking the rose bushes, wrote the island’s name and ours on his list and then took off again. The Abbes came in to land at the same time, alarmed because they’d seen the helicopter put down on Harun too and feared disaster. We had coffee indoors and chatted away about the storm to get it out of our systems before we parted again, and we islanders did a quick sprint round Tunnis to scout for all the gear from the little boat. But the only thing we found was the sculling seat. Perhaps the rest was hidden under the enormous banks of seaweed.
When we got back (with one blue boot, a strange machine and a broom, the rest was nothing but firewood for the next five years, but we left that) Nita had thrown out her most putrid food, found her beer and neatened up the old roses. So we pushed off to Harun, back to a dreadfully agitated Ham and a yowling ca
t.
Today I’ve had to keep restarting my writing on account of the great clear-up of all the chaos before the Viken lot arrive, and Sophia’s arithmetic exercises. Lasse’s working on his book, oblivious to it all. He’s fantastic. Ham was retching a bit – she’d aired out all the rugs while we were on Tunnis and cleaned the stove and all the copper. Just now I made 2½ litres of coffee for all the guests – and found I’d used seawater, which some kind relative had fetched in.
So it’s all a glorious muddle here, as you can tell, but a genial one. Tomorrow we’ll all have been living here together for a week, and we’ve coped well.
But I am longing to get down to work. Not play about any longer – but work.
Longing for you a little as well. Maybe you’ll turn up with Reima & co, that would be nice. Greetings to everybody who matters and lots of love to you
from Tove.
Sjöberg, Sjöberg’s chaos: Gales and storms were known by the name of Sjöberg, meaning literally “sea mountain”, but the word also sounds like a surname.
mummun maha: Finnish for “Grandmother’s belly”, i.e. a sheltered place.
The storm came in fast: A violent storm raged during the weekend of 6–8 August 1967. People caught unawares out at sea were still missing on the Monday evening.
chatka: Tinned crab.
writing Pappa’s memoirs: TJ is working on Muminpappans bravader (The Memoirs of Moominpappa).
breadpole: A pole traditionally running along under a cottage ceiling for the storage of crispbread, baked in rounds with a hole in the middle.
View from Tove Jansson’s studio in Helsinki by Tuulikki Pietilä, 1958.
18.1.68 [Helsingfors]
Hello there, Doj –
Shall I give up on this awful writing paper? Ola rang today and has read my book in its final form. He thinks it’s good and is going to send it for typesetting before long. Isn’t that great! But they’re not printing it until the summer, for publication sometime in September. Prolle’s doing the cover and will get a proper fee for it. The format won’t be standard paperback but a few mm. bigger than Pappan och havet [Mooominpappa at Sea], no pictures.
The post office returned the letter – it was lying in your hall – with the rec. for the picture of the president.
I was pleased to hear that you are working and feel comfortable and that the lilies of peace are fluttering over Cité des Arts. Maybe your etching table has arrived by now? I know how excited you must have been at the prospect of the flood and how disappointed when the water started going down again!
Of course we’ll go and buy curiosities in the Chinese shop and scoot off to the Musée de Cinema, I shall go down and buy provisions in your local quarter, and wine – oh Tooti, guess what I’ve gone and done: embarked on a teetotal spell! A complete strike. I was so fed up with myself after the Aili session that went on until 3 in the morning and was followed by such a mournful and unproductive day that I decided to give up all my sundowners and shots of schnapps while I work and dinner vodkas and see whether I felt less tired and a bit brighter in the bonce. After five days’ abstinence I honestly can’t feel a thing, except for a slight headache that wasn’t there before. Oh well, alcohol dilates the veins and nicotine contracts them. Maybe one’s vices cancel each other out, in the end. But I shall carry on now, for the sake of my self-esteem if nothing else. And who knows, it might make me more beautiful. I lugged the juicing machine over here and I gulp down a jug of the stuff daily, my throat must be crawling with vitamins.
Oh yes, I managed to get your mattress across the attic and up onto the sleeping platform, fear of Christmas lent me terrifying powers. As soon as I received the Odd Door and the new mattress I’d ordered, I took yours back (with help). I borrowed it so I’d have room for Harald and family.
I’m painting constantly now, and spend the evenings groaning over my tax return, a vast number of letters, a trademark for the Haarla company and Toffle television. All the yellows and pinks in the book have got to be repainted to make them stand out better, and they want extra pictures and text.
Today Reima turned up with a new builder and I took them to the attic to ponder the party wall, using my own keys that I’d cunningly obtained. The irate caretaker refused to give me the key to his side of the attic even though we’ve held half a dozen conferences up there, for which I had to borrow it from his wife while he was out and run like lightning to get a copy made at Högbergsgatan. This magistrate business seems pretty all encompassing. If that doesn’t work, it’ll have to be referred to the Court of Appeal. Voi maailman kaikkisuus. It worries me that Reima won’t hear of a reasonable fee. It feels wrong! Can’t you talk some sense into him next time you happen to be writing? The phasing out of Moomin products in Finland is going to plan. You can bet Kuukoskis have no objection to that! Production of figures at Oy Muumineitis has also ended, and without any awkwardness. Their trolls were silly – and of course the name of the shop made people think they originated from me.
It’s still abnormally chilly here. That Jungfrustigen cold germ is on its way back. Lasse takes Sofia to playschool in Fabriksgatan every morning before 9 and goes to fetch her at 1. She comes home with a big smile and lots of terrible little paper cut-outs and things covered in glue. An excellent establishment. They’re spending this weekend with Börje and family so Ham will come to me if she’s up to it.
21st. Ham, Lasse and family, and Penttina came round to the studio for some meat soup. They’ve all gone now. I served them schnapps, wine and whisky without drinking anything myself, it certainly feels ridiculous.
I shall eventually try a drink, it’s getting harder. Or perhaps not? What do you think? The worst of it is that without my vodkas I can’t find anything I particularly feel like orating on or telling stories about. Perhaps that’s a good thing?
Uca was here for a few days again, a dejected couple of hours together. Nice and cheerful to begin with, but then the whole bundle of regrets comes out, Kirsten and middle age and Villagatan and the lack of interest here at home – no offers. At least she likes the theatre job in Oslo, that’s hugely important. Then I went and put my foot in it, of course. There were the usual lamentations about how cruel Kerstin was – and then I expressed my fervent hope that Uca might get away from “that horrible Kirsten” at last! It was really awful. First an interminable black silence – and then! But I stuck to my argument that since Kirsten obviously says and does horrible things all the time, one is allowed to call her horrible, and that a touch more brutal honesty can only do us both good.
Then the roof fell in and Vivica said accusingly that in that case I hadn’t been honest but untruthful up to now. Well, you can imagine. She was never going to mention Kirsten again. Which would be jolly nice, of course. I felt very tired and downcast on the way home.
I really don’t know if it would be any fun ending our trip in Oslo. What’s more it doesn’t seem at all definite that Vivica will be there in May. Sometimes I wonder whether I should make the Uca visit sometime in February to get the wretched thing out of the way. And a couple of days with Bitti on the way back. They’ve been asking for so long. One could of course start the Paris expedition with them – but then I wouldn’t get my boat trip!!!???
There’s been a great rumpus about the art commission, cuttings enclosed. But it’s very obvious, thank goodness, that you had no appetite whatsoever for the whole thing and are away anyway. An invitation from Oittinen, the Minister of Education, was lying in your hall today but doesn’t need an answer. No other post of any importance.
Valovirta, the dentist on your staircase, has bought 2 pictures from me, one big and one little. And one night the temperature shot up from –17˚ to 0. Peculiar climate.
Did I tell you Ham has given me a new Little Boat, which is standing ready in Abbe’s shed? A birthday present. Shall we let Sophia have the old one so she can learn to row?
Now I’m going to bed with Pipsu round my neck. All the very best, my darling. And guess what,
I’ve finally found the bill of sale for my studio. What a relief.
Tove.
Ola: Ola Zweygbergk, head of the publishing house Holger Schildts Förlags.
my book: Bildhuggarens dotter (The Sculptor’s Daughter).
the Haarla company: A papermill that had commissioned a logo from TJ.
Toffle television: In 1968, TJ was doing illustrations for a new TV version of Vem ska trösta knyttet? (Who Will Comfort Toffle?).
Voi maailman kaikkisuus: These Finnish words rather poetically express the sentiment “Oh what a world”. TJ was perhaps quoting an expression favoured by Tuulikki Pietilä.
TOVE JANSSON HAD PLANNED TO VISIT VIVICA BANDLER IN Oslo and Bitti Fock in Stockholm before she went to see Tuulikki Pietilä in Paris. Then she found she had a further reason to make the journey: her uncle Einar Hammarsten’s funeral. As the letter reveals, it proved a trip full of contrasts.
ILMATAR 23.2.68
Darling Tooti,
Your letter came just before I had to catch the train to Åbo and I only just had time to find your French CV and send it off (how I love proper instructions and matter-of-fact women!)
Your letter cheered me up, and was a comfort. No one’s said as much about Einar as you. Us Finnish mussels and Janssons, you know how it is. Ten years together shows – at moments like this, when one can step off the edge of everyday understatement, you know.
By the way, I’m completely French these days. Nothing but Simenon, and the language is slowly coming back to me. There are Les abimes abominables, though, which you’ll have to help me fill in Paris. In London I’m the boss! It’s a great idea, going home by direct boat from London – and then to the island!!
I’m glad you could understand my urge to undertake “le voyage féminine” tout seule. Before I left I had the usual panic, the fear of setting off that has been making itself felt these last 15 years, intense enough to make me feel physically sick – but on the train all was peace and quiet and Simenon, who came with me to dinner on the boat and stayed with me through the whole affair with its prawns and schnapps and all the other delicacies. I took childish pleasure in having a single cabin, in the luxury on board, in the rarity of having money and spending it, in working some magic to get a vodka as a cocktail in the bar (it was touch and go, even with Vivica eyebrows) and in sitting in the café with a cognac (as you can see, my abstinence didn’t last) right beside the dance floor as they play for me, and writing to you. I took the smallest table to be in peace but was joined by another middle-aged solitary who has arrayed herself in all the finery she owns and clearly feels a burning desire for something to “happen”. I can tell by the bobbing tip of her toe, eager to dance, by a green chartreuse and by her hands.