by Tove Jansson
Moominpappa cleared his throat. ‘We’re happy to see,’ he started, ‘that we see more of Ninny today. The more we see the happier we are…’
My gave a laugh and banged the table with her spoon. ‘Fine that you’ve started talking,’ she said. ‘Hope you have anything to say. Do you know any good games?’
‘No,’ Ninny piped. ‘But I’ve heard about games.’
Moomintroll was delighted. He decided to teach Ninny all the games he knew.
After coffee all three of them went down to the river to play. Only Ninny turned out to be quite impossible. She bobbed and nodded and very seriously replied, quite, and how funny, and of course, but it was clear to all that she played only from politeness and not to have fun.
‘Run, run, can’t you!’ My cried. ‘Or can’t you even jump?’
Ninny’s thin legs dutifully ran and jumped. Then she stood still again with arms dangling. The empty dress neck over the bell was looking strangely helpless.
‘D’you think anybody likes that?’ My cried. ‘Haven’t you any life in you? D’you want a biff on the nose?’
‘Rather not,’ Ninny piped humbly.
‘She can’t play,’ mumbled Moomintroll.
‘She can’t get angry,’ little My said. ‘That’s what’s wrong with her. Listen, you,’ My continued and went
close to Ninny with a menacing look. ‘You’ll never have a face of your own until you’ve learned to fight. Believe me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Ninny replied, cautiously backing away.
*
There was no further turn for the better.
At last they stopped trying to teach Ninny to play. She didn’t like funny stories either. She never laughed at the right places. She never laughed at all, in fact. This had a depressing effect on the person who told the story. And she was left alone to herself.
Days went by, and Ninny was still without a face.
They became accustomed to seeing her pink dress marching along behind Moominmamma. As soon as Moominmamma stopped, the silver bell also stopped, and when she continued her way the bell began tinkling again. A bit above the dress a big rose-pink bow was bobbing in thin air.
Moominmamma continued to treat Ninny with Granny’s medicine, but nothing further happened. So after some time she stopped the treatment, thinking that many people had managed all right before without a head, and besides perhaps Ninny wasn’t very good-looking.
Now everyone could imagine for himself what she looked like, and this can often brighten up a relationship.
One day the family went off through the wood down to the beach. They were going to pull the boat up for winter. Ninny came tinkling behind as usual, but when they came in view of the sea she suddenly stopped. Then she lay down on her stomach in the sand and started to whine.
‘What’s come over Ninny? Is she frightened?’ asked Moominpappa.
‘Perhaps she hasn’t seen the sea before,’ Moominmamma said. She stooped and exchanged a few whispering words with Ninny. Then she straightened up again and said:
‘No, it’s the first time. Ninny thinks the sea’s too big.’
‘Of all the silly kids,’ little My started, but Moominmamma gave her a severe look and said: ‘Don’t be a silly kid yourself. Now let’s pull the boat ashore.’
They went out on the landing-stage to the bathing hut where Too-ticky lived, and knocked at the door.
‘Hullo,’ Too-ticky said, ‘how’s the invisible child?’
‘There’s only her snout left,’ Moominpappa replied. ‘At the moment she’s a bit startled but it’ll pass over. Can you lend us a hand with the boat?’
‘Certainly,’ Too-ticky said.
While the boat was pulled ashore and turned keel upwards Ninny had padded down to the water’s edge and was standing immobile on the wet sand. They left her alone.
Moominmamma sat down on the landing-stage and looked down into the water. ‘Dear me, how cold it looks,’ she said. And then she yawned a bit and added that nothing exciting had happened for weeks.
Moominpappa gave Moomintroll a wink, pulled a horrible face and started to steal up to Moominmamma from behind.
Of course he didn’t really think of pushing her in the water as he had done many times when she was young. Perhaps he didn’t even want to startle her, but just to amuse the kids a little.
But before he reached her a sharp cry was heard, a pink streak of lightning shot over the landing-stage and Moominpappa let out a scream and dropped his hat into the water. Ninny had sunk her small invisible teeth in Moominpappa’s tail, and they were sharp.
‘Good work!’ cried My. ‘I couldn’t have done it better myself!’
Ninny was standing on the landing-stage. She had a small, snub-nosed, angry face below a red tangle of hair. She was hissing at Moominpappa like a cat.
‘Don’t you dare push her into the big horrible sea!’ she cried.
‘I see her, I see her!’ shouted Moomintroll. ‘She’s sweet!’
‘Sweet my eye,’ said Moominpappa, inspecting his bitten tail. ‘She’s the silliest, nastiest, badly-brought-uppest child I’ve ever seen, with or without a head.’
He knelt down on the landing-stage and tried to fish for his hat with a stick. And in some mysterious way he managed to tip himself over, and tumbled in on his head.
He came up at once, standing safely on the bottom, with his snout above water and his ears filled with mud.
‘Oh dear!’ Ninny was shouting. ‘Oh, how great! Oh, how funny!’
The landing-stage shook with her laughter.
‘I believe she’s never laughed before,’ Too-ticky said wonderingly. ‘You seem to have changed her, she’s even worse than little My. But the main thing is that one can see her, of course.’
‘It’s all thanks to Granny,’ Moominmamma said.
The Secret of the Hattifatteners
ONCE upon a time, rather long ago, it so happened that Moominpappa went away from home without the least explanation and without even himself understanding why he had to go.
Moominmamma said afterwards that he had seemed odd for quite a time, but probably he hadn’t been odder than usual. That was just one of those things one thinks up afterwards when one’s bewildered and sad and wants the comfort of an explanation.
No one was quite certain of the moment Moominpappa had left.
Snufkin said that he had intended to row out with the hemulen to catch some alburn, but according to the hemulen Moominpappa had only sat on the verandah as usual and suddenly remarked that the weather was hot and boring and that the landing-stage needed a bit of repair. In any case Moominpappa hadn’t repaired it, because it was as lop-sided as before. Also the boat was still there.
So Moominpappa had set out on foot, and as he could have chosen several directions there was no point in looking for him.
‘He’ll be back in due time,’ Moominmamma said. ‘That’s what he used to tell me from the beginning, and he always came back, so I suppose he’ll return this time too.’
No one felt worried, and that was a good thing. They had decided never to feel worried about each other; in this way everybody was helped to a good conscience and as much freedom as possible.
So Moominmamma started some new knitting without making any fuss, and somewhere to the west Moominpappa was wandering along with a dim idea firmly in his head.
It had to do with a cape he once had seen on one of the family picnics. The cape had pointed straight out to sea, the sky had been yellow and a bit of wind had sprung up towards night. He had never been able to go out there to see what was on the other side. The family wanted to turn home for tea. They always wanted to go home at the wrong time. But Moominpappa had stood on the beach for a while, looking out over the water. And
at that very moment a row of small white boats with sprit sails had come into sight under land, putting straight out to sea.
‘That’s hattifatteners,’ the hemulen had said, and in those words everything was expressed. A
little slightingly, a little cautiously and quite clearly with repudiation. Those were the outsiders, half-dangerous, different.
And then an overpowering longing and melancholy had gripped Moominpappa, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he didn’t want any tea on the verandah. Not that evening, nor any other evening.
This had been quite a time ago, but the picture never left him. And so one afternoon he went away.
The day was hot, and he walked at random.
He didn’t dare to think about it, nor to feel anything, he simply went on walking towards the sunset, screwing up his eyes under the hatbrim and whistling to himself, but no special tune. There were uphills and downhills,
the trees came wandering towards and past him, and their shadows were beginning to lengthen.
At the moment when the sun clipped down into the sea Moominpappa came out on to the long gravel shore where no ways ever stopped and no one ever thought of going for a picnic.
He hadn’t seen it before; it was a grey and dreary beach that told him nothing except that land ended and sea started here. Moominpappa stepped down to the water and looked outward.
And naturally – what else could indeed have happened? – at that very moment a little white boat came slowly gliding before the wind along the shore.
‘Here they are,’ Moominpappa said calmly and started to wave.
There were only three hattifatteners aboard the boat. They were quite as white as the boat and the sail. One was sitting at the helm and two with their backs to the mast. All three were staring out to sea and looking as if they had been quarrelling. But Moominpappa had heard that hattifatteners never quarrel, they are very silent and interested only in travelling onwards, as far as possible. All the way to the horizon, or to the world’s end, which is probably the same thing. Or so people said. It was also said that a hattifattener cared for nothing but himself, and further that they all became electric in a thunderstorm. Also that they were dangerous company to all who lived in drawing-rooms and verandahs and were used to doing certain things at certain times.
All this had greatly interested Moominpappa for as long as he could remember, but as it isn’t considered quite nice to talk about hattifatteners, except indirectly, he still didn’t know whether all those things were true.
Now he felt a shiver from head to tail and in great excitement saw the boat draw nearer. The hattifatteners did not signal to him in reply – one couldn’t even imagine them making such large and everyday gestures – but it was quite clear that they were coming for him. With a faint rustling their boat ploughed into the gravel and lay still.
The hattifatteners turned their round, pale eyes to Moominpappa. He tipped his hat and started to explain. While he spoke the hattifatteners’ paws started to wave about in time to his words, and this made Moominpappa perplexed. He suddenly found himself hopelessly tangled up in a long sentence about horizons, verandahs, freedom and drinking tea when one doesn’t want any tea. At last he stopped in embarrassment, and the hattifatteners’ paws stopped also.
Why don’t they say anything? Moominpappa thought nervously. Can’t they hear me, or do they think I’m silly?
He offered his paw and made a friendly, interrogatory noise, but the hattifatteners didn’t move. Only their eyes slowly changed colour and became yellow as the evening sky.
Moominpappa drew his paw back and made a clumsy bow.
The hattifatteners at once rose and bowed in reply, very solemnly, all three at the same time.
‘A pleasure,’ Moominpappa said.
He made no other effort to explain things, but clambered aboard and thrust off. The sky was burning yellow, exactly as it had been that other time. The boat started on a slow outward tack.
Never in his life had Moominpappa felt so at ease and pleased with everything. He found it splendid for a change not to have to say anything or explain anything, to himself or to others. He could simply sit looking at the horizon listening to the cluck of the water.
When the coast had disappeared a full moon rose, round and yellow over the sea. Never before had Moominpappa seen such a large and lonely moon. And never before had he grasped that the sea could be as absolute and enormous as he saw it now.
All at once he had a feeling, that the only real and convincing things in existence were the moon and the sea and the boat, with the three silent hattifatteners.
And the horizon, of course – the horizon in the distance where splendid adventures and nameless secrets were waiting for him, now that he was free at last.
He decided to become silent and mysterious, like a hattifattener. People respected one if one didn’t talk. They believed that one knew a great many things and led a very exciting life.
Moominpappa looked at the hattifatteners at the helm. He felt like saying something chummy, something to show he understood. But then he let it alone. Anyway, he didn’t find any words that – well, that would have sounded right.
What was it the Mymble had said about hattifatteners? Last spring, at dinner one day. That they led a wicked life. And Moominmamma had said: That’s just talk: but My became enormously interested and wanted to know what it meant. As far as Moominpappa could remember no one had been really able to describe what people did when they led a wicked life. Probably they behaved wildly and freely in a general way.
Moominmamma had said that she didn’t even believe that a wicked life was any fun, but Moominpappa hadn’t been quite sure. It’s got something to do with electricity, the Mymble had said, cocksurely. And they’re able to read people’s thoughts, and that’s not allowed. Then the talk had turned to other things.
Moominpappa gave the hattifatteners a quick look. They were waving their paws again. Oh, how horrible, he thought. Can it be that they’re sitting there reading my thoughts with their paws? And now they’re hurt, of course… He tried desperately to smooth out all his thoughts, clear them out of the way, forget all he had ever heard about hattifatteners, but it wasn’t easy. At the moment nothing else interested him. If he could only talk to them. It was such a good way to keep one from thinking.
And it was no use to leave the great dangerous thoughts aside and concentrate on the small and friendly sort. Because then the hattifatteners might think that they were mistaken and that he was only an ordinary verandah Moominpappa…
Moominpappa strained his eyes looking out over the sea towards a small black cliff that showed in the moonlight.
He tried to think quite simple thoughts: there’s an island in the sea, the moon’s directly above it, the moon’s
swimming in the water – coal-black, yellow, dark blue. At last he calmed down again, and the hattifatteners stopped their waving.
The island was very steep, although small.
Knobbly and dark it rose from the water, not very unlike the head of one of the larger sea-serpents.
‘Do we land?’ Moominpappa asked.
The hattifatteners didn’t reply. They stepped ashore with the painter and made fast in a crevice. Without giving him a glance they started to climb up the shore. He could see them sniffing against the wind, and then bowing and waving in some deep conspiracy that left him outside.
‘Never mind me,’ Moominpappa exclaimed in a hurt voice and clambered ashore. ‘But if I ask you if we’re going to land, even if I see that we are, you might still
give me a civil answer. Just a word or two, so I feel I’ve company.’
But he said this only under his breath, and strictly to himself.
The cliff was steep and slippery. It was an unfriendly island that told everyone quite clearly to keep out. It had no flowers, no moss, nothing – it just thrust itself out of the water with an angry look.
All at once Moominpappa made a very strange and disagreeable discovery. The island was full of red spiders. They were quite small but innumerable, swarming over the black cliff like a live red carpet.
Not one of them was sitting still, everyone was rushing about for all his worth. The whole island s
eemed to be crawling in the moonlight.
It made Moominpappa feel quite weak.
He lifted his legs, he quickly rescued his tail and shook it thoroughly, he stared about him for a single spot empty of red spiders, but there was none.
‘I don’t want to tread on you,’ Moominpappa mumbled. ‘Dear me, why didn’t I remain in the boat… They’re too many, it’s unnatural to be so many of the same kind… all of them exactly alike.’
He looked helplessly for the hattifatteners and caught sight of their silhouettes against the moon, high up on the cliff. One of them had found something. Moominpappa couldn’t see what it was.
No difference to him, anyway. He went back to the boat, shaking his paws like a cat. Some of the spiders had crawled on to him, and he thought it very unpleasant.
They soon found the painter also and started to crawl along it in a thin red procession, and from there further along the gunwale.
Moominpappa seated himself as far astern as possible.
This is something one dreams, he thought. And then one awakens with a jerk to tell Moominmamma: ‘You can’t imagine how horrible, dearest, such a lot of spiders, you never…’
And she awakens too and replies: ‘Oh, poor Pappa – that was a dream, there aren’t any spiders here…’
The hattifatteners were slowly returning.
Immediately every spider jumped high with fright, turned and ran back ashore along the painter.
The hattifatteners came aboard and pushed off. The boat glided out from the black shadow of the island, into the moonlight.
‘Glory be that you’re back! Moominpappa cried with great relief. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve never liked spiders that are too small to talk with. Did you find anything interesting?’
