by Tove Jansson
Moomintroll looked at the verandah and then at Sorry-oo’s wrinkled face.
‘Do you like jam?’ he asked gruffly.
‘I don’t know,’ Sorry-oo replied humbly.
Moomintroll sighed and said: ‘Well. Just mind that you start with the oldest jars.’
*
A few hours later a flock of small Creep came plodding over the bridge, and a confused and complaining Filly-jonk was seen to be running to and fro in the garden. Her potted plants were frozen, she said. Somebody had eaten all her winter food. And on her way to the Moomin valley she had met an insolent Gaffsie who had told her that winter was no laughing matter, and why hadn’t she prepared herself better.
At dusk there were a lot of people treading paths to the jam-cellar. Those that had a little more strength left in their legs went down to the shore and settled down in the bathing-house.
But no one was allowed in the cave. Little My said that the Mymble couldn’t be disturbed.
Before the Moominhouse some of the most miserable ones were sitting and lamenting their fate, when Moomintroll appeared on the roof with his oil-lamp. ‘You’d better come inside for the night,’ he said. ‘You never know, what with Grokes and such around.’
‘I never was one for rope-ladders,’ declared an old Whomper.
Moomintroll descended and started to dig a hole to the entrance door. He shovelled and scratched and worked away. Soon the hole was a long and narrow tunnel extending through the snow, but when he finally reached the wall there was no door to be found. Only a window, frozen fast like the others.
‘I must have dug wrong,’ Moomintroll said to himself. ‘And if I dig a new tunnel perhaps I’ll miss the house altogether.’ So he broke the window-pane as nicely as possible, and the guests soon came crawling in after him.
‘Please don’t awaken the family,’ said Moomintroll. ‘This is Mother, and that’s Father, and over there’s the Snork Maiden. My ancestor sleeps in the stove. You’ll have to roll yourself up in the carpets because most of the other things have been borrowed.’
The guests bowed to the sleeping family. Then they obligingly rolled themselves up in carpets and tablecloths, and the smallest ones went to sleep in caps, slippers and the like.
Many of them had a cold, and some of them were homesick. ‘This is terrible,’ Moomintroll thought. ‘Very soon the jam-cellar’ll be empty. And what shall I say when the family awakes in the spring, and all the pictures
are hanging wrong and the house is thronged with people?’
He crawled back through the tunnel to see if anybody had been left outside.
The moonlight was blue. Sorry-oo sat alone in the snow, howling. He put his muzzle straight up in the air and howled a long and melancholy song.
‘Why don’t you go to bed?’ asked Moomintroll.
Sorry-oo looked at him with eyes that shone green in the moonlight. One ear was pointing straight up while
the other listened to one side. His whole face was listening.
Very faintly they could hear the howl of hunting wolves. Sorry-oo nodded bleakly and pulled his woollen cap on again.
‘My great, strong brethren,’ he whispered. ‘How I long to be with them.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of them?’ asked Moomintroll.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Sorry-oo. ‘That’s the sad part.’ He slunk off along the path to the bathing-house.
Moomintroll crept back into the drawing-room.
A Little Creep had been frightened by the mirror and sat sobbing in the meerschaum tram.
Otherwise everything was silent.
‘What troubles people have,’ Moomintroll thought. ‘Perhaps the jam isn’t such an awful matter, after all. And I could always put the Sunday jar aside. The strawberry one. For the time being.’
*
At dawn the following day the valley was awakened by clear and piercing bugle notes. My sat up at once in her cave, and her feet started to beat time. Too-ticky pricked her ears, and Sorry-oo rushed under one of the benches, with his tail between his legs.
Moomintroll’s ancestor annoyedly rattled the damper, and most of the guests woke up.
Moomintroll rushed to the window and crawled out through the snow-tunnel.
The pale winter sun shone over a big Hemulen who came rushing down the nearest slope on his skis. He was holding a shining brass horn to his snout, and seemed to be having a splendid time.
‘That one’s going to eat lots of jam,’ Moomintroll thought. ‘And whatever are those things he’s got on his feet?’
The Hemulen laid his bugle on the woodshed roof and took off his skis.
‘Good slopes you have hereabouts,’ he said. ‘Got any slalom here?’
‘I’ll ask,’ said Moomintroll.
He crawled back to the drawing-room and asked:
‘Is there anybody here by name of Slalom?’
‘My name’s Salome,’ whispered the Creep who had been frightened by the mirror.
Moomintroll went back out to the Hemulen and said: ‘Almost, but not quite. Here’s one Salome.’
But the Hemulen was sniffing about in Moomin-pappa’s tobacco plot and didn’t listen. ‘This is the place for a house,’ he said. ‘We’ll make an igloo here.’
‘You might move into my house,’ Moomintroll said lingeringly.
‘Thanks, never,’ replied the Hemulen. ‘Too stuffy and unhealthy. I want fresh air, and lots of it. Let’s start at once and not lose any time.’
Moomintroll’s guests were beginning to crawl outside. They stopped and stood staring.
‘Won’t he play some more?’ asked Salome the Little Creep.
‘There’s a time for everything, young lady,’ said the Hemulen briskly. ‘This is the time for a spot of work.’
A little later all the guests were busy building an igloo on Moominpappa’s tobacco plot. The Hemulen himself was enjoying a swim in the river, with a couple of chilled Creep as terrified spectators.
Moomintroll went running down to the bathing-house at top-speed.
‘Too-ticky!’ he shouted. ‘There’s a Hemulen here…
He’s going to live in an igloo, and at this moment he’s bathing in the river.’
‘Oh, that kind of Hemulen,’ Too-ticky said earnestly. ‘Then good-bye to peace and all that.’ She laid her fishing-rod aside.
On their way back they met Little My who beamed with excitement. ‘Seen what he’s got?’ she cried. ‘They’re called skis! I’m going to get myself a pair exactly like them at once!’
The igloo was already taking shape. The guests drudged for all they were worth, all the while throwing longing looks towards the jam-cellar. The Hemulen was doing gymnastics down by the river. ‘Isn’t the cold wonderful?’ he said. ‘I’m never in such good shape as in winter. Won’t you have a dip before breakfast?’
Moomintroll stared at the Hemulen’s sweater. It was black and lemon-yellow and zigzaggy. He wondered, slightly troubled, why he couldn’t find the Hemulen a jolly person. Although he had been longing and longing for somebody who wouldn’t be secretive and distant but cheery and tangible, exactly like the Hemulen.
And now he was feeling more a stranger to the Hemulen than even to the angry and incomprehensible beast under the sink.
He looked helplessly at Too-ticky. She was pouting her underlip and looking at her mitten with raised eyebrows. From this Moomintroll knew that Too-ticky didn’t like the Hemulen either. He turned to the Hemulen and said with all the kindness of a bad conscience: ‘It must be wonderful to like cold water.’
Τ love it,’ replied the Hemulen, beaming at him. ‘It puts a stop to all unnecessary thoughts and fancies. Believe me: there’s nothing more dangerous in life than to become an indoor sitter.’
‘Oh?’ said Moomintroll.
‘Yes. It gives you all kinds of ideas,’ said the Hemulen. ‘What time’s breakfast here?’
‘When I’ve caught some fish,’ Too-ticky said sullenly.
‘I never eat fish,’ said
the Hemulen. ‘Only vegetables and berries.’
‘Cranberry jam?’ Moomintroll asked hopefully. The large jar of mashed cranberries had not been popular.
But the Hemulen replied: ‘No. Preferably strawberry.’
After breakfast the Hemulen donned his skis and went up the highest of the near-by slopes, the one that started on the hill-top and passed the cave. Down in the valley stood all the guests, looking on. They were a little uncertain of what to think. They tramped about in the snow and wiped their noses now and then, because it was a very cold day.
Now the Hemulen came hurtling downhill. It looked terrifying. Halfway down the slope he swerved in a cloud of glittering snowdust and careered off in another direction. Then he gave a shout and swerved back again. Now he was rushing one way, and now another, and his black-and-yellow sweater made one’s eyes water.
Moomintroll closed his eyes and thought: ‘How very different people are.’
Little My was already standing at the top of the hill, shouting from joy and admiration. She had broken a barrel and fastened two of the staves under her boots.
‘Here I come,’ she cried. Without a moment’s hesitation Little My set out, straight down the hill. Moomintroll looked up with one eye and saw that she would manage it. Her ferocious little face bore the mark of happy confidence and her legs were stiff as pegs.
Suddenly Moomintroll felt very proud. Little My never shied, she hurtled at breakneck speed close to a pine-bole, wobbled, caught her balance again, and with a roar of laughter threw herself down in the snow beside Moomintroll.
‘She’s one of my oldest friends,’ he explained to the Fillyjonk.
‘I believe you,’ replied the Fillyjonk sourly. ‘What time are elevenses here?’
The Hemulen came plodding over to them. He had taken off his skis, and his snout was glistening from friendliness and warmth. ‘Now let’s teach Moomin how to ski,’ he said.
‘I’d prefer not, thanks,’ Moomintroll mumbled and shrank back a little. He looked around for Too-ticky. But she had gone, perhaps to catch another kettle of fish.
‘The main thing’s to keep cool, whatever happens,’ the Hemulen was saying encouragingly and already fastening the skis to Moomintroll’s paws.
‘But I don’t want to…’ Moomintroll began miserably.
Little My was looking at him with raised eyebrows.
‘Oh, well,’ he said bleakly. ‘But no high hill.’
‘No, no, just the slope down to the bridge,’ the Hemulen said. ‘Bend your knees. Lean forward. Don’t let the skis slip apart. Keep a straight back. Arms close to body. Can you remember what I’ve told you?’
‘No,’ said Moomintroll.
He felt a push in the back, closed his eyes and started off. First his skis ran as far away as possible from each other. Then they came together again and mixed themselves up with his ski-sticks. On top of the mixture lay Moomintroll in a strange position. The guests cheered up.
‘Patience is very necessary,’ said the Hemulen. ‘Oops-a-daisy, and let’s do it again.’
‘Legs feel a bit shaky,’ muttered Moomintroll. This was almost worse than the lonely kind of winter. Even the sun, the so-much-longed-for, was shining straight down into the valley, looking at his humiliation.
Now the bridge came rushing at him up the hill. Moomintroll stuck out one leg to save his balance. The other leg went skiing on. The guests gave a cheer and were beginning to find some fun in life again.
Nothing was up any more, and nothing was down. Nothing existed but snow and misery and disaster everywhere.
Then, finally, Moomintroll found himself hanging in the willow-bushes by the river. His tail was trailing in the icy water, and the water was filled with skis and sticks and new, hostile perspectives.
‘Won’t do to lose your pluck,’ the Hemulen kindly remarked. ‘Next time does it!’
But there was no next time, because Moomintroll lost his pluck. Yes, he really did it, and many times much later he had a dream about how he’d felt that third, triumphant time. He’d have swerved up to the bridge in a sweeping curve, and then stopped and turned round towards the others with a smile. And they’d have shouted in admiration. But now things didn’t go that way at all.
Instead Moomintroll said: ‘I’m going home. Ski all you care to, but I’m going home.’
And without looking at anybody he crawled into the snow-tunnel and into his warm drawing-room, and farthest into his nest under the rocking chair.
He could hear the Hemulen’s whoops from the hill. Moomintroll put his head inside the stove and whispered: ‘I don’t like him either.’
The ancestor threw down a flake of soot, perhaps to show his sympathy. Moomintroll took a piece of coal and began peacefully to draw on the back of the sofa. He drew a Hemulen standing on his head in a snowdrift. And inside the stove stood a large jar of strawberry jam.
*
During the following week Too-ticky sat doggedly under the ice with her fishing-rod. Beside her under the green ceiling sat a row of guests, also angling. Those were the guests that disliked the Hemulen. Inside the Moomin-house, by and by, gathered all who didn’t care to, weren’t able to or didn’t dare to remonstrate.
Early in the mornings the Hemulen used to put in his head, and a burning torch, at the broken window. He liked torches and camp-fires – and who doesn’t? – but he always put them in the wrong place, as it were.
The guests loved their long, somewhat slovenly forenoons, when the new day was allowed to break later, while everybody discussed the dreams of the night and listened to Moomintroll making coffee in the kitchen.
The Hemulen interrupted all that. He always began by telling them that the drawing-room was stuffy, and described the fresh cold weather outside.
Then he chatted about what could be done this fine new day. He did his utmost to find some amusements for them all, and he was never hurt when they refused his proposals. He only patted them on the back and said: ‘Well, well. You’ll see for yourself by and by how right I am.’
The only one who followed him everywhere was Little My. He generously taught her everything he knew about skiing, beaming over her progress.
‘Little Miss My,’ said the Hemulen. ‘You’re born on skis. You’ll beat me at my own game soon.’
‘That’s exactly what I figure to do,’ replied Little My sincerely. But as soon as she was fully trained, she disappeared to her own hills that nobody knew about, and didn’t care much for the Hemulen any more.
As time passed, more and more of the guests became anglers under the ice, and finally the Hemulen’s black-and-yellow sweater was the only blob of colour left on the hillside.
The guests didn’t like to be involved in new and troublesome things. They liked to sit together talking about old times, before the Lady of the Cold came and they ran out of food. They told each other how they had furnished their homes, and whom they were related to and used to visit, and how terrible the coming of the Great Cold had been, when everything changed.
They shifted closer to the stove, listening to each other and patiently waiting for their own turn to speak.
Moomintroll saw that the Hemulen was left more and more to himself. ‘I must get him to leave before he notices it and feels hurt,’ Moomintroll thought. ‘And before he finishes all the jam.’
But it wasn’t easy to find a pretext that would be both believable and tactful.
Sometimes the Hemulen went skiing down to the shore and tried to coax Sorry-oo from the bathing-house. But neither dog-sledge nor even ski-jumping could interest Sorry-oo. He used to sit out all the nights, howling at the moon, and in daytime he was sleepy and wanted to be left alone.
Finally one day the Hemulen thrust his sticks in the snow and said imploringly: ‘Don’t you see, I like little dogs so terribly much. I’ve always thought that one day I’d have a dog of my own who would like me too. Why won’t you play with me?’
‘I really don’t know,’ Sorry-oo mumbled, blushing. As so
on as he had the chance, he slunk back to the bathing-house, and there he continued to dream about the wolves.
It was the wolves he wanted to play with. What boundless happiness, he thought, to hunt with them, to follow them everywhere, to do everything they did and everything they wanted one to do. Then, by and by, he himself would change and become as free and wild as they were.
Every night, when the moonlight glittered in the ice-ferns on the windows, Sorry-oo awoke in the bathing-house and rose to listen. Every night he pulled his woollen cap over his ears and padded softly out.
He took the same path every time, across the sloping shore and into the wood. He continued on his way until the wood became more open and he could see the Lonely Mountains. There Sorry-oo sat down in the snow and waited for the howling of the wolves. Sometimes they were very far away, sometimes nearer. But he heard them neatly every night.
And each time Sorry-oo heard them he put up his muzzle and answered.
Towards morning he crept back again and went to sleep in the bathing-house cupboard.
Too-ticky once looked at him and said: ‘You’ll never forget them that way.’
‘I don’t want to forget them,’ replied Sorry-oo. ‘I want to think of them always.’
*
Strangely enough it was the most timid of them all, Salome the Little Creep, who really liked the Hemulen. She longed to hear him play the horn. But alas! the Hemulen was so big and always in such a hurry that he never noticed her.
No matter how fast she ran he always left her far behind, on his skis, and when she at last overtook the music, it ceased and the Hemulen began doing something else.
A couple of times Salome the Little Creep tried to explain how much she admired him. But she was far too shy and ceremonious, and the Hemulen never had been a good listener.
So nothing of any consequence was said.
One night Salome the Little Creep awoke in the meerschaum tram, where she had settled down on the back gangway. It was no comfortable sleeping-place because of the many buttons and safety-pins the Moomins, in the course of time, had collected in their magnificent drawing-room decoration. And Salome the Little Creep of course was much too considerate to remove them.
