Travelling Light

by Tove Jansson

  When they had erected their sauna under the bridge and gone away, Uncle came to have a look. It was a large square monstrosity with a metal chimney, a misshapen intrusion on the landscape. He went closer and opened the door flap. Inside it was dim, with broad wooden planks for benches, a stove filled with black stones, an iron kettle, a water bucket, and a storm lantern. A utilitarian, private place. Uncle sat down on the lowest bench. This caused the opening of the tent to frame his meadow so that suddenly it resembled a painting, very bright beyond the twilight in the tent. He almost felt he’d painted it himself.

  No one was surprised when Uncle said he would like to sleep in the sauna. They fixed it up for him and carried down every imaginable thing he might want. He listened to them tramping across the bridge and it reminded him of the visitors to the Hothouse, the ones who climbed the spiral staircase only to tramp down again and go away.

  It was nice living under the bridge, between its strong supporting pillars. The wood still smelt of tar and was full of old nails no one had taken the trouble to pull out. He hung his hat and stick on nails, also a hand towel and various other items – and remembered what it had been like sleeping in a tent when he was a child.

  Then one night at the end of July the wind rose and high water swept through the ravine, flooding the meadow and gradually invading Uncle’s tent sauna. He woke up to find himself on a wet mattress, not quite sure where he was. The tent fluttered and slapped and it was too hot, as hot and damp as the Hothouse – a storm over the lily pond... A mass of odd objects were floating about on the water. Uncle pushed them aside and waded out into the wet night, fascinated.

  Outside it was lighter; he could make out the glass cupola above the long dark swells rolling through the ravine. The cupola was much higher than usual, in fact it never stopped, and the spiral staircase had vanished. Uncle unhooked his stick from its nail and stood still, listening to the wind. The meadow billowed anxiously to and fro around him as he stumbled on. Yes, now at last he could embrace the meadow, walk straight into the lotus pond, feel soft elastic soil under his bare feet and the gentle touch of waterlilies – and he could understand the hitherto unimaginable battle of innocent flowers against an aggressive sea... No visitors today, not a single one, he was alone, free to possess what he loved, calm and untroubled.

  Gradually he made his way up to the cottage and fell asleep. So he didn’t see the tent sauna carried off at dawn, flapping away like a ragged bat. He didn’t see the bridge’s strong legs give way and bulge and break, the splintered wood tossed high in the air and swept aside by the angry sea.

  By the time the last fragments of the bridge had gone, the ravine was a torrent of raging water.

  A bit of the bridge caught fast in a crevice on the far side of the island and was chopped up for firewood. The rest, swept out to sea, eventually washed up as flotsam on other shores, where it was found and used for a shed or a dock; it would all be made useful one way or another.

  The family built a new bridge across the ravine, in Uncle’s opinion an eyesore. It wasn’t a proper bridge but looked more like a level crossing on a railway, a sort of varnished wooden platform that had nothing to do with him or the meadow. The old bridge had been weathered by sun and salt water and had taken on the colours of the hillside; it had blended with the land and become a natural part of the structure of the island. But Uncle said nothing, because they were all so proud of the mess they had made.

  The meadow did not recover from the night of the great storm but he knew that next July it would be just as beautiful as before. And they’d done battle against the sea, he and the meadow together.

  One day Uncle noticed their firewood was grey and full of nails, lumber from the old bridge. He chose some suitable pieces and found the tools he needed. Slowly, with the great care, he began making a tiny copy of the old bridge that looked just like the original.

  * * *

  When Uncle visited the Hothouse after his visit to Peaceful Haven, Josephson was back on his old perch. He put down his book and said, “Well, Vesterberg, you old hedonist, good to see you. As you see I’m still searching for some sort of logic that makes sense. But these writers are no smarter than they ever were.”

  He made room on the bench and went on reading. Uncle sat down on his own side, the left; it was nice to have Josephson back. Uncle thought about telling him about the meadow and the storm, but the time still didn’t seem right. So he just sat gazing at the beautiful lily pond, which suddenly seemed altered. He closed his eyes and tried to see farther, deeper, and was embraced once again by the dark resistance of the water and the softly billowing meadow.

  They continued coming to the Hothouse, though not so often as before. The caretaker who used to sit behind the bush with his crochet work had retired. The new one, who did not know them, preferred a table inside the main entrance and would slowly walk round the lily pond from time to time, round and round, his hands behind his back. He would pass right in front of their bench with no sign of respect or recognition.

  Josephson seemed perfectly happy to be left in silence, occasionally exchanging the odd word, stretching his legs, underlining a sentence in his book. Every time Uncle let the silence stretch out, he grew more uneasy and annoyed. He had begun to bring the model bridge with him every day but it became harder and harder to show it and tell the story of the night of the storm; he simply couldn’t do it. The night when he embraced the meadow was slipping away from him, and Josephson was no help at all.

  Then one day as they were sitting in the Hothouse as usual, a furious thunderstorm blew in over the city. Day turned to twilight, rain pelted the glass cupola, and in the thunder and lightning Josephson, his book held close under his nose, could hardly see to read. A heavy squall threw open the Hothouse doors; there was a crash of glass and the storm burst in, making waves in the lily pond – tiny waves, but waves nonetheless. Uncle stood up, walked forward and waded straight into the pool, shoving aside leaves and lilies regardless, then turned and called out, “Josephson! Do you see what I’m doing?”

  “Good,” said Josephson, putting down his book. “Keep at it. Very stimulating.”

  Later they sat together till closing time. The storm had gradually subsided and the caretaker calmed down. Uncle talked about the meadow and talked very well. Josephson was a better listener than he could have expected. Uncle showed him the little bridge. He looked at Uncle and said, “Yes, yes, I understand. The essence of the meadow. See, admire, experience, all that. And the bridge – what’s the point of a bridge that doesn’t lead anywhere?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” said Uncle angrily. “A bridge is a bridge is a bridge, just a bridge. Here you are again trying to find meaning in something that’s just obvious. Where it goes and where it comes from doesn’t matter. You just go over it, and that’s all there is to it!”

  The caretaker came over and suggested that Uncle go home before he caught cold.

  “We’re having a conversation,” said Uncle. “Josephson, have you reached any conclusion? Have you found anything important in those books?”

  “This and that,” said Josephson, smiling. “It takes time, but I always knew it would. It looks as if neither of us will ever convince the other. But do we need to?”

  “No,” said Uncle. “The other person only needs to listen and understand.”

  “I can accept that,” said Josephson. “I liked that part about the meadow.”

  Uncle said, “Yes, I do think I told it rather well.”

  They stood up together and went out through the Hothouse’s storm-shattered doors, and after a friendly word separated and each made his own way home.

  Correspondence

  Dear Jansson san

  I’m a girl from Japan.

  I’m thirteen years old and two months.

  On the eighth of January I’ll be fourteen.

  I have a mother and two little sisters.

  I’ve read everything you’ve written.

  When
I’ve read something I read it one more time.

  Then I think about snow and how to be alone.

  Tokyo’s a very big city.

  I’m learning English and studying very seriously.

  I love you.

  I dream one day I’ll be as old as you and as clever as you.

  I have many dreams.

  There’s a Japanese kind of poem called haiku.

  I’m sending you a haiku in Japanese

  It’s about cherry flowers.

  Do you live in a big forest?

  Forgive me for writing to you.

  I wish you good health and a long life.

  Tamiko Atsumi

  Dear Jansson san

  My new birthday today is very important.

  Your present is very important to me.

  Everyone admires your present and the picture of the little island where you live.

  It’s hanging above my bed.

  How many lonely islands are there in Finland?

  Can anyone live there who wants to?

  I want to live on an island.

  I love lonely islands and I love flowers and snow.

  But I can’t write how they are.

  I’m studying very seriously.

  I read your books in English.

  Your books aren’t the same in Japanese.

  Why are they different?

  I think you are happy.

  Look after your health very carefully.

  I wish you a long life.

  Tamiko Atsumi

  Dear Jansson san

  It’s been a long time, for five months and nine days you haven’t written to me.

  Did you get my letters?

  Did you get the presents?

  I long for you.

  You must understand that I’m studying very seriously.

  Now I’ll tell you about my dream.

  My dream is to travel to other countries and learn their languages and learn to understand.

  I want to be able to talk with you.

  I want you to talk with me.

  You must tell me how you describe things without seeing other houses and with no one getting in the way.

  I want to know how to write about snow.

  I want to sit at your feet and learn.

  I’m collecting money so I can travel.

  Now I’m sending you a new haiku.

  It’s about a very old woman who sees blue mountains far away.

  When she was young she didn’t see them.

  Now she can’t reach them.

  That’s a beautiful haiku.

  I beg you please be careful.

  Tamiko

  Dear Jansson san

  You were going to go on a great long journey, now you’ve been travelling more than six months.

  I think you’ve come back again.

  Where did you go, my Jansson san, and what did you learn on your journey?

  Perhaps you took with you a kimono.

  In autumn colours and autumn is the time to travel.

  But you’ve said so often that time is short.

  My time grows long when I think of you.

  I want to become old like you and have only big clever thoughts.

  I keep your letters in a very beautiful box in a secret place.

  I read them again at sundown.

  Tamiko

  Dear Jansson san

  Once you wrote to me when it was summer in Finland and you were living on the lonely island.

  You’ve told me that post hardly ever comes to your island.

  Then do you get many letters from me at once?

  You say it feels nice when the ships go by and don’t stop.

  But now it’s winter in Finland.

  You’ve written a book about winter, you’ve described my dream.

  I’ll write a story to help everyone understand and recognise their own dream.

  How old must you be to write a story?

  But I can’t write my story without you.

  Every day is a day of waiting.

  You’ve said you’re so tired.

  You work and there are too many people.

  But I want to be the one who comforts you and protects your solitude.

  This is a sad haiku about someone who waited too long for the one they loved.

  You see how it went!

  But it’s not so good in translation.

  Has my English got any better?

  Always

  Tamiko

  Much loved Jansson san, thank you!

  Yes, that’s how it is, you don’t have to be a certain age,

  you just begin writing a story because you have

  to, about what you know or also about what you long

  for, about your dream, the unknown. O much loved

  Jansson san. One mustn’t worry about others and

  what they think and understand, because while you’re

  telling a story you’re only concerned with the story and

  yourself. Then you really are on your own. At

  this moment I know all about what it’s like to love

  someone far away and I will hurry to write about it

  before she comes nearer. I send you a haiku again, it’s

  about a little stream which becomes happy in spring so

  everyone listens and feels delight. I can’t translate it.

  Listen to me Jansson san and write to say when I can

  come. I’ve collected money and I think I’ll get a travel

  scholarship. What month would be best and most

  beautiful for our meeting?

  Tamiko

  Dear Jansson san

  Thank you for your very wise letter.

  I understand the forest’s big in Finland and the sea too but your house is very small.

  It’s a beautiful thought, to meet a writer only in her books.

  I’m learning all the time.

  I wish you good health and a long life.

  Your Tamiko Atsumi

  My Jansson san

  It’s been snowing all day.

  I’m learning to write about snow.

  Today my mother died.

  When you’re the eldest in your family in Japan, you can’t leave home and don’t want to.

  I hope you understand me.

  I thank you.

  The poem is by Lang Shih Yiian, who was once a great poet in China.

  It has been translated into your language by Hwang Tsu-Yii and Alf Henrikson.

  “Wild geese scream shrilly on muffled winds.

  The morning snow is heavy, weather cloudy and cold.

  Poor, I can give you nothing in parting

  but the blue mountains and they’ll always be with you.”

  Tamiko

  Other Tove Jansson titles published as eBooks by Sort Of Books

  The Summer Book

  A Winter Book

  Fair Play

  The True Deceiver

  Copyright

  Travelling Light (Resa Med Lätt Bagage) © Tove Jansson 1987 First published by Schildts Förlags Ab, Finland. All rights reserved English translation © Silvester Mazzarella and Sort Of Books 2010 Introduction © Ali Smith 2010

  Ali Smith and Thomas Teal provided generous help with the translation.

  Thanks to Sofia Jansson for her encouragement and advice.

  The illustrations on p.1 and p.208 are © Tove Jansson, 1987; the photo on p.17 is © Tove Jansson family archive.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher except for the quotation of brief passages in reviews.

  This English translation first published in 2010 by Sort Of Books, PO Box 18678, London NW3 2FL.

  Typeset in Goudy and GillSans to a design by Henry Iles.

  Printed in Italy by Legoprint.

  Sort of Books gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of FILI – Finnish Literature Exchange

  208pp.

  A catalog
ue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Print ISBN 978–0-9548995–8–5

  ePub ISBN 978–1–908745–21–7