The Listener by Tove Jansson Read Free Book Online

so quickly that she never had time to prepare herself to wait. There was the letter lying on the front hall rug, and it was from him. She had imagined that if he wrote – supposing he actually did write some day when he had the time or was in the right mood or had decided to get some chores out of the way – then she would take the letter to some pretty place, perhaps by the sea, and open it there. But she ripped it open right there in the hall without a thought to saving the envelope and read it quickly, breathlessly, skimmingly – a whole page, handwritten. He was chivalrous. His letter was like his books. He had taken time with it, and it was for her alone. He thanked her and assured her that his view of women would never change, that he would always see them as beautiful and pure.
    The world changed, imperceptibly but utterly. She moved differently, lingeringly. Absentmindedly, without plan or calculation, she would look at her image in mirrors or shop windows, absorbing herself in her own femininity. What a lot happens, she thought, gratefully. So many changes. I haven’t had the time to be unhappy for weeks. Her job grew unimportant – forwhat significance can a job have in these circumstances? She did it automatically, dreamily. Elegant, old-fashioned words wafted through her mind, and she amused herself with beautiful gestures or simply by sitting still with her hands in her lap. It was a happy, slow time. Once again she was using him to live a more concentrated life. She did not write to him. She partook of the uncommon happiness of delaying what she longed for. She knew that a rose lay at her feet, but she did not pick it up.
    There came a period of rain, a long spring rain that took the snow with it. The ice broke up. And finally she wrote again, at night, very quickly and better than she’d ever written before.
    He didn’t answer. Time passed and he didn’t answer. There is a difference between silence that anticipates and silence that is final.
    Only now – in a state of disappointment so great that it denied her even the comfort of grieving – only now did she feel she understood what it was she hoped for. It was nothing less than to become the person he wrote to when he was feeling low, when he couldn’t work, when he doubted himself and felt alone. It could have been a long, beautiful correspondence, whose meaning and beauty lay in the fact that they never met, not a single time until one of them died. All through history, the artist and a woman have exchanged such letters, precious, inspirational letters that have given posterity a completely new view of the artist and his work. And possibly of the woman. She had spoiled everything, and it was a realization she couldn’t bear.
    She took a taxi and ran up the stairs and rang his bell. It was eight o’clock in the evening. She had forgotten to make herself pretty, but for the moment she thought of nothing at all, just went straight in and said earnestly, “I’m the one who wrote to you.” Her gravity was almost stern and gave her a new dignity that was all her own. As she gazed at him, all the blurred newspaper portraits slid together, quick as a deck of cards, and he no longer looked like an author. He said, “It was nice of you to come and visit,” and he took her coat.
    The room was large. The blue curtains went from wall to wall and all the way down to the soft, purple floor. All the colours were deep and restrained and the lamplight was soft and flattering. It was an impersonal room, with a sense of lofty seclusion and luxury. The only thing that didn’t belong was a large, soiled tiger skin. Its mouth agape as if it were gasping for air. She walked around it to the sofa.
    “Would you like a drink?” he said.
    She sat down. “Yes, thank you,” she said. The sofa was much lower than she had estimated, and she nearly lost her balance and felt ridiculous. In the blink of an eye, she lost her dignity, the tiny but passionate dignity that