by Tove Jansson
PUFFIN BOOKS
Tove Jansson was born in Helsingfors, Finland, in 1914. Her mother was a caricaturist (and designed 165 of Finland’s stamps) and her father was a sculptor. Tove Jansson studied painting in Finland, Sweden and France. She lived alone on a small island in the gulf of Finland, where most of her books were written.
Tove Jansson died in June 2001.
Books by Tove Jansson
COMET IN MOOMINLAND
FINN FAMILY MOOMINTROLL
THE EXPLOITS OF MOOMINPAPPA
MOOMINSUMMER MADNESS
MOOMINLAND MIDWINTER
TALES FROM MOOMINVALLEY
MOOMINPAPPA AT SEA
MOOMINVALLEY IN NOVEMBER
Tove Jansson
Translated by Kingsley Hart
PUFFIN BOOKS
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published in Finland as Pappan och Havet 1965
This translation published in English by Ernest Benn Ltd 1966
Published in Puffin Books 1974
Reprinted in this edition 2009
1
Copyright © Tove Jansson, 1965
English translation copyright © Ernest Benn Ltd, 1966
All rights reserved
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-14-192282-9
The Log Book
The Family in the Crystal Ball
The Lighthouse
The West Wind
The North-Easter
The Fog
The Waning Moon
The South-West Wind
The Lighthouse-Keeper
The Family in the Crystal Ball
ONE afternoon at the end of August, Moominpappa was walking about in his garden feeling at a loss. He had no idea what to do with himself, because it seemed everything there was to be done had already been done or was being done by somebody else.
Moominpappa aimlessly pottered about in his garden, his tail dragging along the ground behind him in a melancholy way. Here, down in the valley, the heat was scorching; everything was still and silent, and not a little dusty. It was the month when there could be great forest fires, the month for taking great care.
He had warned the family. Time and time again he had explained how necessary it was to be careful in August. He had described the burning valley, the roar of the flames, the white-hot tree trunks, and the fire creeping along the ground underneath the moss. Blinding columns of flame flung upwards against the night sky! Waves of fire, rushing down the sides of the valley and on towards the sea…
‘Sizzling, they throw themselves into the sea,’ finished Moominpappa with gloomy satisfaction. ‘Everything is black, everything has been burned up. A tremendous responsibility rests on the smallest creature who can lay his paws on matches.’
The family stopped what they were doing and said: ‘Yes. Of course. Yes, yes.’ Then they took no more notice of him, and got on with what they were doing.
They were always doing something. Quietly, without interruption, and with great concentration, they carried on with the hundred-and-one small things that made up their world. It was a world that was very private, and self-contained, and to which nothing could be added. Like a map where everything has been discovered, everywhere inhabited, and where there are no bare patches left any longer. And they said to each other: ‘He always talks about forest fires in August.’
Moominpappa climbed up the veranda steps. His paws got stuck in the varnish as usual, making little sucking sounds all the way up and across the floor, right up to the wicker chair. His tail got stuck, too; it felt as though someone was pulling it.
Moominpappa sat down and shut his eyes. ‘That floor ought to be revarnished,’ he thought. ‘The heat makes it like that, of course. But a good varnish shouldn’t start melting just because it’s hot. Perhaps I used the wrong sort of varnish. It’s an awful long time since I built the veranda, and it’s high time it was revarnished. But first it’ll have to be rubbed with sandpaper, a rotten job that no one will thank me for doing. But there’s something special about a new white floor, painted with a thick brush and shiny varnish. The family will have to use the back door and keep out of the way while I’m doing it. And then I’ll let them come in, saying: “There you are! Look, your new veranda!”… It’s much too hot. I’d love to be out sailing. Sailing right out to sea, as far as I can go…’
Moominpappa felt a sleepy feeling in his paws. He shook himself and lit his pipe. The match went on burning in his ash-tray, and he watched it, fascinated. Just before it went out he tore up some bits of newspaper and put them on the flame. It was a pretty little fire, hardly visible in the sunshine, but it was burning nicely. He watched it carefully.
‘It’s going out again,’ said Little My. ‘Put some more on!’ She was sitting in the shade on the veranda railings.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Moominpappa, and he shook the ash-tray until the fire went out. ‘I’m just watching the way fire burns. It’s very important.’
Little My laughed, and went on looking at him. Then he pulled his hat down over his eyes and took refuge in sleep.
*
‘Pappa,’ said Moomintroll. ‘Wake up! We’ve just put out a forest fire!’
Both Moominpappa’s paws were stuck firmly to the floor. He wrenched them loose with a strong feeling of reluctance. It wasn’t fair. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said.
‘A real little forest fire,’ Moomintroll told him. ‘Just behind the tobacco-patch. The moss was on fire, and Mamma says that it might have been a spark from the chimney…’
Moominpappa leaped into the air and in a flash became a determined man-of-action. His hat rolled down the steps.
‘We put it out!’ Moomintroll shouted. ‘We put it out straightaway. There’s nothing for you to worry about!’
Moominpappa stopped dead. He was feeling very angry. ‘Have you put it out without me?’ he said. ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me? You just let me go on sleeping without saying anything!’
‘But, dearest,’ said Moominmamma leaning out of the kitchen window, ‘we didn’t think it was really necessary to wake you up. It was a very small fire, and it was only smoking a little. I happened to be going by with some buckets of water,
so all I had to do was to sprinkle a few drops on it in passing…’
‘In passing,’ cried Moominpappa. ‘Just sprinkle. Sprinkle, indeed! What a word! And leaving the fire to burn under the moss unguarded! Where is it? Where is it?’
Moominmamma left what she was doing and led the way to the tobacco-patch. Moomintroll stayed on the veranda gazing after them. The black spot in the moss was a very small spot indeed.
‘Don’t imagine,’ said Moominpappa at last, very slowly, ‘that a spot like this isn’t dangerous. Far from it. It can go on burning under the moss, you see. In the ground. Hours and perhaps even days may go by, and then suddenly, whoof! The fire breaks out somewhere quite different. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Yes, dearest,’ answered Moominmamma.
‘So I’m going to stay here,’ Moominpappa went on, sulkily digging in the moss. ‘I shall stand guard over it. I’ll stay here all night if necessary.’
‘Do you really think,’ Moominmamma began. Then she just said, ‘Yes. That’s very good of you. One never knows what will happen with moss.’
Moominpappa sat all the afternoon watching the little black spot, first pulling up the moss for quite a way round it. He wouldn’t leave it to go indoors for his dinner. He really wanted the others to think he was offended.
‘Do you think he’ll stay out there all night?’ asked Moomintroll.
‘It’s quite possible,’ said Moominmamma.
‘If you’re sore, you’re sore,’ observed Little My, peeling her potatoes with her teeth. ‘You have to be angry sometimes. Every little creep has a right to be angry. But Pappa’s angry in the wrong way. He’s not letting it out, just shutting it up inside him.’
‘My dear child,’ said Moominmamma, ‘Pappa knows what he’s doing.’
‘I don’t think he does,’ said Little My simply. ‘He doesn’t know at all. Do you know?’
‘Not really,’ Moominmamma had to admit.
*
Moominpappa dug his nose in the moss and was aware of the sour smell of smoke. The ground wasn’t even warm any longer. He emptied his pipe into the hole and blew on the sparks. They glowed for a moment or two and then went out. He stamped on the fatal spot and then walked slowly down the garden to have a look in his crystal ball.
Dusk was rising from the ground, as it usually did, gathering in under the trees. Round the crystal ball there was a little more light. There it stood, reflecting the whole garden, looking very beautiful on its coral pedestal. It was Moominpappa’s very own crystal ball, his own magic ball of shining blue glass, the centre of the garden, of the valley, and of the whole world.
But Moominpappa didn’t look into it straightaway. First he looked at his grimy paws, trying to collect all his vague, scattered and troubled thoughts. When he was feeling as sad as he possibly could, he looked into the crystal ball for consolation. Every evening of that long, warm, beautiful and melancholy summer he had done the same thing.
The crystal ball was always cool. Its blue was deeper and clearer than the blue of the sea itself, and it changed the colour of the whole world so that it became cool and remote and strange. At the centre of this glass world he saw himself, his own big nose, and around him he saw the reflection of a transformed, dreamlike landscape. The blue ground was deep, deep down inside, and there where he couldn’t reach Moominpappa began to search for his family. He only had to wait a while and they always came. They were always reflected in the crystal ball.
It was only natural, because they had so much to do at dusk. They were always doing something. Sooner or later, Moominmamma would bustle over from the kitchen side of the house towards the outside cellar to fetch some sausages or some butter. Or to the potato-patch. Or to get some wood. Every time she did it, she looked as though she was walking down a completely strange and exciting path. But you could never be sure. She might just as well be out on some secret errand of her own which she thought was fun, or playing some private game, or just walking round for the sake of it.
There she came, scampering along like a busy white ball, farthest away among the bluest of blue shadows. And there was Moomintroll, aloof, and keeping himself to himself. And there was Little My, slinking up the slope more like a movement than anything else, you could see so little of her. She was just a glimpse of something determined and independent – something so independent that it had no need to show itself. But their reflections made them all seem incredibly small, and the crystal ball made all their movements seem forlorn and aimless.
Moominpappa liked this. It was his evening game. It made him feel that they all needed protection, that they were at the bottom of a deep sea that only he knew about.
It was almost dark now. Suddenly something different happened in the crystal ball: a light appeared. Moominmamma had lit a lamp on the veranda, something she hadn’t done all the summer. It was the oil lamp. All of a sudden the feeling of safety was concentrated on a single point, on the veranda and nowhere else; and on the veranda Moominmamma was sitting, waiting for her family to come home so that she could give them all their evening tea.
The crystal ball became dim and the blue all turned to black; the lamp was the only thing that could be seen.
Moominpappa stood there for a while without really knowing what he was thinking about, and then turned and walked towards the house.
*
‘Well,’ said Moominpappa, ‘now I think we can sleep in peace. The danger should be over. But just to make sure, I’ll go and check once more at dawn.’
‘Huh!’ said Little My.
‘Pappa,’ cried Moomintroll, ‘haven’t you noticed anything? We’ve got a lamp!’
‘Yes, I thought it was about time we started having a lamp now that the evenings are drawing in. At least I felt so this evening,’ said Moominmamma.
Moominpappa said: ‘You’ve put an end to the summer. No lamps should be lit until summer is really over.’
‘Well, it’ll have to be autumn then,’ said Moominmamma in her quiet way.
The lamp sizzled as it burned. It made everything seem close and safe, a little family circle they all knew and trusted. Outside this circle lay everything that was strange and frightening, and the darkness seemed to reach higher and higher and further and further away, right to the end of the world.
‘In some families it’s the father who decides when it’s time to light the lamp,’ muttered Moominpappa into his tea.
Moomintroll had arranged his sandwiches in a row in front of him in the usual way: the cheese sandwich first, then two with sausage meat, one with cold potato and sardines, and last of all one with marmalade on it. He was completely happy. Little My was eating only sardines because she had a feeling that it was somehow an unusual evening. She gazed thoughtfully out into the dark of the garden, and her eyes became blacker the more she thought, and the more she ate.
The light from the lamp shone on the grass and on the lilac bush. But where it crept in among the shadows, where the Groke sat all on her own, it was much weaker.
The Groke had been sitting for so long on the same spot that the ground had frozen beneath her. When she stood up and shuffled a little nearer the light, the grass crackled like splintering glass. A whisper of fright rustled through the leaves, and a few curled up and fell with a shudder from a maple tree on to her shoulders. The asters leaned over as far as they could to get out of her way, and the grasshoppers were silent.
‘Why aren’t you eating?’ asked Moominmamma.
‘I don’t know,’ said Moomintroll. ‘Have we any Venetian blinds?’
‘They’re in the attic. We shan’t need them until we hibernate for the winter,’ Moominmamma turned to Moominpappa and said: ‘Wouldn’t you like to do some work on your model lighthouse for a while, now that the lamp is lit?’
‘Huh!’ said Moominpappa. ‘It’s too childish. It isn’t real.’
*
The Groke shuffled a little nearer. She stared at the lamp and softly shook her big, clumsy head. A freezing white
mist hung round her feet as she started to glide towards the light, an enormous, lonely grey shadow. The windows rattled a little as if there were distant thunder, and the whole garden seemed to be holding its breath. The Groke came close to the veranda and stood quite still just outside the circle of light that shone on the darkened ground.
Then she took a quick stride up to the window and the lamplight fell right on her face.
Inside, the quiet room was suddenly filled with screams and panic-stricken movement, chairs fell over and someone carried the lamp away. In a few seconds the veranda lay in darkness. Everyone had rushed inside the house, right inside where it was safe, and hidden themselves, and their lamp.
The Groke stood still for a while, breathing frost on the window-pane of the deserted room. As she slid away she merged into the darkness; the grass crackled and snapped under her feet as she passed, and slowly she moved farther and farther away. With a shudder the garden dropped its leaves, and then breathed again: the Groke’s passed.
*
‘But it’s quite unnecessary to barricade ourselves in and stay awake all night,’ said Moominmamma. ‘She’s probably ruined something out there in the garden again, but she isn’t dangerous. You know she isn’t, even though she may be frightful.’
‘Of course she’s dangerous,’ Moominpappa shouted. ‘Even you were frightened. You were terribly frightened actually – but you needn’t be as long as I am in the house.’
‘But Pappa, dear,’ said Moominmamma, ‘we’re afraid of the Groke because she’s just cold all over. And because she doesn’t like anybody. But she’s never done any harm. Well, I think it’s time we all went to bed.’
‘All right!’ said Moominpappa, putting the poker back in its corner. ‘All right. If she’s not the slightest bit dangerous, you won’t want me to look after you then. That’s just fine by me!’ And with that parting shot, he went on to the veranda, grabbing some cheese and a sausage in passing, and stamped off into the darkness alone.
