Travelling Light

by Tove Jansson

  Arne said, “I was watching.” His voice was distant and dry.

  It was a mild, overcast day, the sort of hesitant weather when nothing seems to move. The leaves of the rosebush were on the point of opening, wrinkled and light green. Arne didn’t look at the eider but he knew she was still there, an honourable companion.

  They probably should have brought a radio with them but they’d finally decided on a long, blessed silence. That had been the plan. Towards evening a thick mist rolled in from the sea, bringing an even deeper silence. In an instant the island became unreal, diminished, as if the cottage’s four windows had blinders of thick white wool. Ideal conditions for the eider to take her chicks down to the water.

  Elsa made their evening tea. They drank it while reading their books. After tea, Arne went out on the steps – at just the right moment. The eider was making her way slowly down the slope, her chicks in a line behind her. It was unbelievable, fantastic, such a remarkable thing to see that he called to Elsa so she could see it too. And at that moment came a powerful beating of wings and a great white bird dived out of the sky and seized one of the chicks. As Arne watched in helpless horror, the eider chick disappeared down the bird’s throat bit by bit. He screamed, rushed forward, picked up a stone and threw it. Never before in his life had Arne thrown anything straight and true, but he did so now. The bird fell on the granite slope, wings outspread like an open flower, whiter than the mist, with the legs of the eider chick still sticking out of its mouth.

  “Elsa, I’ll kill you!” he cried.

  She was standing beside him. She touched his arm lightly and said, “Look, they’re marching along undisturbed.”

  The eider and her remaining chicks were heading on down to the water where they disappeared into the mist.

  He turned to her. “Don’t you see what’s happened? I’ve killed Casimir. I attacked him, took him out!” Wildly excited, he lifted the dead bird by one wing and walked down towards the water to throw it into the sea. Elsa stood and watched him go. She decided to remain silent and not tell him that this wasn’t Casimir, or even a herring gull that he was consigning to the deep. And that, of course, her own gull would never come back.

  The Hothouse

  WHEN UNCLE WAS REALLY OLD he developed an interest in botany. He’d never married, but his large and benevolent extended family always took good care of him. Now his relatives bought him expensive and beautifully illustrated books on botany. Uncle praised the books and set them aside.

  But when they’d all gone off to their jobs and their schools and whatever else they were busy with, he would go out and take the tram to the Botanical Gardens. It was a laborious and always unpleasantly chilly journey, but the awkwardness of the enterprise was more than compensated by anticipation, and by the crucial moment when he opened the door to the Hothouse and was met by the warmth and the gentle but powerful scent of the flowers. And the silence. There was rarely anyone there.

  Uncle would put off looking at the waterlily pond, that always had to come last. He would wander down the narrow passages through tropical greenery. The jungle brushed past him but he never deliberately touched the plants and did not read their names. Just occasionally he felt an irrational desire to walk straight into the flowering luxuriance in frank adoration, to feel it rather than just look at it. This dangerous desire became even stronger when he came near the waterlily, the lotus pond, a shallow pool whose clear water bubbled forth in a constant babbling stream – what would it be like to take off his shoes, roll up his trousers and stride in, wading among the broad-leaved flowers, letting them glide past him and come together again behind him as though nothing had happened? Entirely alone; warm and alone in the Hothouse.

  Near the water was a little wrought-iron bench, painted white, where Uncle liked to rest his legs and lose himself in a kind of contemplation and reflection that gradually freed him from all the concerns of the world outside.

  High above the pond rose a glass cupola, constructed so long ago that it was really beautiful to look at. The bridge beneath the cupola was a delicate tracery of light, fin-de-siècle, metal arabesques, and the spiral staircase up to it had the same playfully seductive elegance. Sometimes people clunked up the spiral staircase and crossed the bridge quickly before coming down again and disappearing; they were always in a hurry and hardly ever gave the lily pond a glance.

  Donkeys, thought Uncle. Strong legs but no brains.

  The caretaker would sit behind a large luxuriant bush, either reading the paper or crocheting. Uncle was several times on the verge of asking him what all that crocheting was for, but he let it go, preferring the restful detachment of silence. But they would acknowledge each other’s presence with a little nod of the head.

  Sometimes the caretaker would leave his bush and pass the lily pond on some errand. Once he happened to pass when Uncle was on his way home and hurried forward to hold the heavy door. Uncle’s relatives were not allowed to open doors for him at home, but in this case it was such an obvious gesture of respect that he was able to accept it. He was the Grand Old Man of the Hothouse, the only person who understood.

  One day when Uncle came he found his bench already occupied by an old gentleman with a velvet collar and a drooping moustache. Uncle walked on through the green corridors and when he felt tired came back to the pond, but the bench was still occupied. It was a very small bench with barely room for two. After waiting a little he went home.

  Next time the same man was sitting on Uncle’s bench, and now he had a book. He didn’t even glance at the waterlilies, he just read. Uncle was so annoyed that he went to the caretaker and spoke to him for the first time ever. “Who’s that? Does he come here often?”

  “Oh yes,” said the caretaker. “Recently he’s been coming every day. I’m so sorry.”

  And so it went. Every time Uncle came to the Hothouse, he would find the old man sitting there – right in the middle of the bench, what’s more. But even if he’d made room for Uncle they would have been forced to sit uncomfortably close together, and it would have been idiotic to sit like that without exchanging a word, so they’d probably be drawn into conversation. This individual was bound to be a talkative type, and he looked so extremely old that there could be no doubt he must be very lonely.

  The caretaker brought Uncle a chair but he didn’t want it and just stood waiting behind a palm while his legs grew more and more tired. The intruder never once got up to have a look round; he just sat as if glued to the bench, reading, ridiculous little round glasses on his nose. Uncle would wait until the last possible moment before his relatives returned from work, then catch the tram home in rage and disappointment.

  One day it was even worse. When it was time to go home, the old man got up to leave at exactly the same moment; the bench was now free but it was too late. Uncle tried to escape but the other was surprisingly quick on his legs and both gentlemen reached the double door of the main entrance at the same time. And the old devil held the door open for Uncle and stood and waited! An insufferable, humiliating situation. Neither moved or spoke. Uncle had decided not to say a single word to this interloper.

  It was the caretaker who saved the day. Being a wise man who had grown rather tired of plants, he sometimes took an interest in his few visitors and their concerns. Now he hurried over, politely opened the other half of the door and bowed. The two visitors passed out side by side and turned firmly in opposite directions. This forced Uncle to make a long detour to his tram. And next day the old devil was there again, sitting reading in the middle of the bench.

  The problem of the bench became almost an obsession. Uncle began to see the other man as a personal enemy. At night he would lie awake and wonder whether this man was older or younger than himself, if he had relations who looked after him, whether he actively disliked flowers and only sought the warmth, what it was he was always reading, whether his enormous moustache was intended as some kind of challenge...

  Finally one fine winter’s day the ben
ch was empty again. Uncle sat down quickly and gazed at the lily pond, so long absent from his meditations. But his sense of peace was gone; he could think of nothing but the other man, the trespasser. And then the door opened and in he came. His stick tapped steadily on the floor all the way to the bench, then struck the floor twice, hard. “You’re sitting on my bench.”

  It would have been childish to say, “No, it’s mine.” He must be neither hostile nor submissive. After a desperate search for words he finally said, “My dear sir, I’m as deaf as a post.”

  His enemy sighed, it seemed with relief, found room beside Uncle and opened his book, which obviously came from the public library.

  The only other sound in the Hothouse was the babbling water. The caretaker watched them for a while, then retreated behind his bush. He had many subsequent opportunities to study the two absolutely silent gentlemen. Whichever of them arrived first would sit at one end of the bench. And when the other arrived, they would exchange a quick bow, always the same.

  As soon as it was clear to Uncle that he wouldn’t have to talk, his hostility gave way to a kind of unwilling respect. He had discovered that the library book was Spinoza, and that increased his esteem. He decided to bring a book himself to make an impression, and next day opened a bulky botanical work his family had given him. But the book was too heavy and cumbersome to hold in his lap and the print was much too small. Now and then the man beside Uncle, the intruder, would repeat in an undertone some phrase that appealed to him or disturbed him in his book, or he might say to himself that it was too hot or wonder why he couldn’t ever have the bench to himself in peace... And on one occasion he said with contempt, “He knows nothing about flowers; he’s just pretending.”

  This upset Uncle so badly that he threw caution to the winds, stood up and shouted, “You’re the one who doesn’t know a damn thing about flowers! You never even look at them! You should stay at home with your stupid books!”

  “Astonishing,” said his neighbour, removing his glasses. He studied Uncle with a certain interest. “If I understand correctly, you are also a man who values silence. My name is Josephson.”

  “Vesterberg,” said Uncle crossly, retrieving his own book from the floor. He slammed it shut with a bang and sat down.

  “And now,” continued Josephson, “perhaps we can leave one another in peace. Or join one another in peace.”

  This was how their relationship began, grimly, and with few words.

  It gradually emerged that Josephson lived in a noisy place called Peaceful Haven full of tiresome old gentlemen who wanted to talk. He mentioned this in passing and without comment. Uncle stopped bringing his botanical book with him. Now the tranquillity of the Hothouse was once again a place of meditation and peace, funnily enough an even greater peace than in the days when he’d had the bench to himself.

  Then suddenly Josephson vanished; he didn’t come to the Hothouse for a whole week. Uncle spoke to the caretaker, who knew nothing.

  Maybe Josephson’s ill, thought Uncle. I must find out.

  The caretaker helped him find Peaceful Haven in the telephone catalogue. Telephoning was tiresome; Uncle kept being put through to the wrong department. In the end someone in the kitchen said Josephson was angry and didn’t want to see anybody. She sounded very angry herself.

  Peaceful Haven seemed quite dreadful to Uncle. He had never even imagined so much anxious old age gathered together in one place. At home, everyone else was much younger, so he was naturally an exception, almost unique, but here he felt himself absorbed into a compact anonymous mass. Suddenly he was no more than an insignificant part of the weary flotsam that life had washed ashore and forgotten. Someone showed him to Josephson’s room, a very small room that seemed strangely empty. Josephson was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin.

  “Ah,” said Josephson. “Vesterberg. I’m so grateful that you haven’t brought flowers. In any case, I’m not ill, just bored stiff. Do sit down. Well, how’s life with the lotus lover?”

  “The caretaker sends his greetings,” said Uncle, looking for somewhere to sit. Both chairs in the room were piled high with books.

  “Just put them on the floor,” said Josephson impatiently. “I’m tired of them. Nothing but words, all of them, words and words and words. They don’t help. They’re not enough.” After a pause he continued, almost to himself. “Vesterberg, you let yourself be spoiled. And you don’t understand what a great gift you’ve been given. Go on gazing at your blessed lotus blossoms; go on looking at them so long as there’s time to look, and be grateful you’ve never felt any need to struggle towards an idea, I mean, search for something worth believing in and defending.”

  “I did once defend a meadow,” Uncle began, but Josephson wasn’t listening; he climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom.

  My meadow, Uncle thought, the meadow I saved... But perhaps I shouldn’t talk about that just now.

  Josephson came back with two toothbrush glasses and a small bottle of cognac. He sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “Add water from the tap if you like. I prefer it neat.”

  “Are you coming back to the Hothouse?” said Uncle. “What excellent cognac!”

  “This is the only brand worth drinking.”

  A bell rang in the corridor.

  “Food,” said Josephson with contempt. “What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing much. But why are you tired of your books?”

  “They break everything up. You know, Vesterberg, they drive me to despair by dividing things into tiny little trains of thought that lead nowhere. Nowhere for me, at any rate. They don’t lead to what I need to know in order to understand. So I’m tired of them.”

  “Perhaps,” said Uncle carefully. “Perhaps you should just let them be for a bit and try another way.”

  “What do you mean? What way?”

  Uncle looked at Josephson and made a gesture which really could have meant anything at all, principally unavailing interest.

  “In this place,” said Josephson, “time is just something that passes; it is no longer alive. Any more than it is in those books. What I need is a clear picture and I haven’t much time, a clear picture of what I’ve wanted and tried to do and what came of it all and what really matters. It’s important. Searching out something that might have real meaning, some sort of answer. An ultimate, valid conclusion. Do you know what I mean?”

  Uncle said, “Not really... But in the end does all that really matter? If all it does is upset you. And surely it’s no more urgent now than it was before.”

  Josephson started to laugh. “Vesterberg,” he said, “there’s something very likeable about you. But you really are a great big donkey, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Uncle. “But you will come back to the Hothouse, won’t you?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll come when I come. But for the moment I shan’t say another word, not a single sensible word.”

  On his way home on the tram, Uncle did not think much about what had been said in this undoubtedly very meaningful if somewhat incomprehensible conversation. He thought only about Josephson himself and about his own meadow. Clearest was the image of the meadow, the meadow he had saved.

  I must tell him about that meadow sometime, he thought.

  * * *

  The year before Uncle met Josephson, his relatives had hired a summer cottage on a skerry near the coast. Since the little island was covered with steep and difficult terrain, they worried about Uncle and spent a long time discussing whether it would be better to take him with them or leave him behind in the city. Uncle wasn’t as deaf as he led them to believe and heard most of their discussions. In the end he laid out a game of patience as he sometimes did when faced with an important but difficult decision. If the patience came out it would mean stay, and if not it would mean go. It was a kind of patience that practically never came out.

  The most characteristic feature of the island was a deep ravine cutting across it from west
to east. The fisherman from whom they rented it had bridged the ravine with scrap wood so he wouldn’t have to climb down to the meadow by the shore if he wanted to get from the dock to the cottage. The bridge was a ramshackle structure, but it did save a great deal of time.

  The first time Uncle climbed the hill he suddenly stopped abruptly. The others thought he must be afraid of venturing out onto the bridge, but that wasn’t it at all. He had caught sight of the meadow, which now in July was in full bloom, lightly and airily fluttering with the colours of all the different flowers that blossom in unison but last only a short time. He could see that no one had crossed the meadow; it was as untouched as on that first morning in paradise, and he thought it even more beautiful than the Hothouse. He decreed that no one should disturb the meadow. It was only to be seen.

  Every day just before dawn Uncle slithered down the hillside to sit in a corner of his meadow. It was at its most beautiful at the moment when the sun rose above the horizon. Then, just for a short time, the colours would glow with an almost unearthly translucence. And the mild July winds would set the flower carpet billowing as if in a dance. What a sight! Uncle was not being unfaithful to the Hothouse; it was just that what is constantly changing is superior to what is static, and the meadow was full of life. Sometimes he felt the same dangerous desire he experienced in the Hothouse, as if his sense of wonder entitled him to walk right in and feel the meadow close around him, embrace it – but he held back.

  Then one fine day the family decided to erect a tent sauna. Of course. Even the smallest cottage in Finland has its sauna. Now, a tent sauna must be set up on level ground, and the only level ground on the island was Uncle’s meadow. Some difficult days followed, with strong words and long silences. But, as so often happens in families, a compromise was reached: the sauna would be built under the bridge, very discreetly and with the least possible disturbance to the meadow.