Deception is a slow restlessness: several days after finishing this novel, I’m left to ponder, in a measured manner, what it is that is the heart of this book. By the very nature of the book’s ghost-marking, it’s true to say that, in The True Deceiver, Jansson has delivered something — if not overwhelmingly beautiful, as The Summer Book is, then at least — significant in some way. That she’s able to stretch out the small disturbances of a tiny snowbound community, one winter, waiting for the spring to return, and still make each page, each short and sweet chapter, engaging is commendable. However, it is to the question, once again, that is ‘what is it that is the heart (not at the heart) of this book?’ that some small restlessness is focused.
Jansson’s two principal characters are, in their own ways, engaged in forms of deception: Katri Kling (‘little witch’ as one of the other characters calls her) is cold and calculating; Anna Aemelin, an illustrator, the old woman who lives — in what the villagers call the ‘rabbit house’ — in a state of some seclusion, is painted as someone who deceives herself in her naivety. In the gradual interactions between the two women, what Jansson does is to bring each towards the other: Katri softens from her position of ice hardness; Anna tends the other way. The concern here though is that, even in this slow and careful movement which Jansson successfully unfolds, there is little love that can be shown to either character by the reader.
Indeed, it isn’t until we’re offered the insight into Katri’s true devotion to her brother, Mats (who is the loving reason for all her machinations amongst the villagers), that we see anything resembling something ‘true’. Katri schemes her way through the book: good at accountancy and in her advice to the villagers in lieu of a lawyer, calculating, cynical and ice-hard Katri ploughs all her focus into ways in which she can collect sufficient funds in order to commission a boat for Mats (whom she has looked after since his childhood, and for whom a boat is the dream). Mats volunteers his time, or is underpaid and taken advantage of to some extent, by the Liljeberg brothers, the boat builders in the small village of Västerby. It is Anna’s eventual affection for Mats — through their mutual love of adventure books — that, in part, leads her to offer to buy the boat that the Liljebergs are building (via the anonymous patronage of Katri, and until she can come up with the funds): Anna offers to buy the boat for Mats, unbeknownst to Katri.
These two insights are the moments in which Katri and Anna can be seen to shine in any way, but it is — to a certain extent — Mats who glues the story into place: without him, Katri has no reason for being, no focus, no devotion; without Mats, Anna’s reclusive lifestyle cannot be unsettled by Anna. Mats is the pivot, and Jansson has successfully sketched him in the neutrality that is required in order for Katri Kling and Anna Aemelin to be as shaded as they are.
The True Deceiver (Sort Of Books, English translation, from the Swedish by Thomas Teal, 2009; originally published as Den ärliga bedragaran, 1982), is certainly readable and, in places, sprinkled with the beautiful description that can be found in Jansson’s The Summer Book. In one scene, for example, Mats takes Katri into the Liljebergs’ boat shed, where everything is described as immaculately clean and looked after and in its place; Jansson describes the instant of dark gold light, and the moment described and the writing itself are fleeting yet lingering. What Jansson also creates, however, perhaps with full intention, is the overwhelming feel of something cold, winterstruck, and crisp yet troubling.
Katri Kling, in her hardness, and Anna Aemelin, in her softness, have perfect names for their characters. Whenever the reader comes across the word ‘Katri’ there is the icy crispness of its consonants upon the tongue, just as Katri Kling is etched as. ‘Anna Aemelin’, in a similar respect, is a whisper on the lips, as the character herself is in her waiting for the snow to melt, in her waiting for the soft moss below to show so she can paint it. The True Deceiver’s cold winterstruckness of being though is evident in all manner of difficult details: Katri, we’re told, has yellow eyes; the village of Västerby is only lightly sketched; Anna’s demeanour is unsettling in its oscillations between softness and tartness and in her annoying (to Katri, at least) habit of gently whistling. All of these elements, and more, leave the reader just a little askew in trying to keep hold of something that might resemble the ‘truth’ of any given character or place.
Perhaps Jansson has this in mind all along: ‘deception’, after all, is her eponymous focus, and perhaps there is a subtle intentional layer of trying to make the reader wonder what might and what might not be true in the formation of this written reality and these characters. There is certainly the element of uncertainty sewn, throughout, into the idle gossip of the villagers (regarding matters of what is true), the motives of the principal characters, the veracity of the ‘truths’ that Katri feeds Anna as a means of achieving her aim of providing for Mats’ dream. There are only a few characters who come out of the whole with any degree of consistent integrity though: Mats, in his neutrality, is one; the other is wise old Madame Nygård, who offers Anna Aemelin her occasional counsel; Edvard Liljeberg, the eldest and only named Liljeberg brother, can — despite Jansson’s efforts at unsettling his integrity here and there via minor slights — hold his head up too, perhaps because Jansson has the skill to make us believe (or even slightly deceive us into believing) the way of things from Katri’s perspective. She writes, for example:
Later that day, Liljeberg was standing outside the boat shed smoking when Katri came by on the road. ‘Hi, little witch,’ he said. ‘So things are starting to fall into place.’
Katri and the dog stopped. She liked Liljeberg.
The dog has no name. It is another of Jansson’s unsettling techniques. Anna later calls the dog Teddy, after Katri and Mats have moved into the ‘rabbit house’ with her, nominally as protection after Katri engineers a burglary in order to gain this outcome. It transpires though that Jansson creates the dog as a symbol of Katri’s belief that we’re more comfortable in quiet obedience of others (as she tries to engineer Anna to be towards herself). Anna ‘corrupts’ the dog, inciting it to ‘Fetch! Play!’ (Katri, she says, doesn’t play at anything; everything is ‘serious’ to her). The dog, of course, becomes confused and turns somewhat feral.
There are layers that Jansson has, undoubtedly, deliberately stitched into this book. She has created with as much loving care as Anna Aemelin paints her forest-floor-scapes (albeit paintings which she then corrupts with seemingly incomprehensible flowered rabbits — another aspect which can be read, eventually, as metaphor); Jansson writes with the care the villagers exhibit in the crocheting of coverlets in the long winter quietnesses of Västerby, with the care Mats takes in his boat sketch designs, with the care in which Mats and Anna open the regular book deliveries, and with the care which Katri takes in the accuracy of her accountancy. All of this is crisply evident.
What we are left with is something that lingers, certainly, yet there is also a slow restlessness: that is, what is it that is the heart of this book?