Moominvalley in November

by Tove Jansson

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Snufkin answered. ‘Have the red one.’ He felt sleepy and he didn’t want to do anything except crawl into his tent and shut himself in.

  All the way back the Hemulen talked about his boat. ‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘I feel such kinship with everybody who likes boats. Moominpappa, for example. One fine day he hoists sail and is off, just like that. Completely free. Sometimes, you know, sometimes I think that Moominpappa and I are alike. Only a little of course, but even so…’

  Snufkin made his vague noise.

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ said the Hemulen quietly. ‘And don’t you think there’s something significant in the fact that his boat is called the Adventure?’

  They separated at the tent.

  ‘It’s been a wonderful morning,’ the Hemulen said. ‘Thanks a lot for letting me talk.’

  Snufkin shut himself in. His tent was that green summery colour that makes one think the sun is shining outside.

  *

  When the Hemulen approached the house the morning was over. Now the day was beginning for the others, they didn’t know anything about what he’d been given. Fillyjonk opened her window to air the room.

  ‘Good morning!’ the Hemulen called. ‘I slept in the tent! I heard all the noises of the night!’

  ‘What noises?’ Fillyjonk asked sourly, and secured the window catch.

  ‘The noises of the night,’ the Hemulen repeated. ‘I mean the noises one can hear in the night.’

  ‘Really,’ said Fillyjonk.

  She didn’t like windows, they’re unsafe, you never know with windows, they blow open, they slam shut… It was colder in the guest room facing north than it was outside. She sat down in front of the mirror, shivered a little and took the curlers out of her hair and thought that she always lived facing north, even in her own house, just because everything is the wrong way round for a fillyjonk. Her hair hadn’t dried properly, no wonder in a damp room like this, the curls fell out like straightened pokers, everything was wrong, everything, even her morning hair-do which was so important to her, and with Mymble in the house, too. The house was damp and musty and dusty and ought to be aired, a cross-draught through all the rooms and masses of warm water and a marvellous, colossal, thorough spring-cleaning…

  Hardly had Fillyjonk thought of spring-cleaning when a wave of dizziness and nausea overcame her and for one terrifying moment she was hanging over the abyss. She knew: I shall never again be able to clean. How can I go on living if I can neither clean or prepare food? There’s nothing else worth doing.

  Fillyjonk went very slowly downstairs. The others were sitting on the veranda drinking coffee. Fillyjonk looked at them. She looked at Grandpa-Grumble’s buckled hat and Toft’s tousled head, the Hemulen’s solid neck, which was a little red from the chill morning air, there they all sat and Mymble’s hair was, oh dear, so beautiful – and suddenly Fillyjonk was overcome by a great tiredness and she thought: they don’t like me at all.

  She stood in the middle of the drawing-room and looked around. The Hemulen had wound up the clock, he had tapped the barometer. The furniture was all in place and everything that had ever happened in the room was shut away and out of sight and didn’t want to have anything to do with her.

  Suddenly, quickly, Fillyjonk went to fetch some wood from the kitchen. She wanted to make a big fire in the stove to warm up the desolate house and all those who were attempting to live in it.

  *

  ‘Listen you in there, whatever your name is,’ shouted Grandpa-Grumble outside the tent. ‘I’ve saved the Ancestor! My friend the Ancestor! She had forgotten that he lives in the stove, how could she! And now she’s lying on her bed crying.’

  ‘Who?’ Snufkin asked.

  ‘The one who wears the feather-boa, of course,’ exclaimed Grandpa-Grumble. ‘Isn’t it awful?!’

  ‘She’s calming herself down,’ Snufkin muttered from inside the tent.

  Grandpa-Grumble was taken aback, he was very disappointed. He thumped his stick on the ground and said many disgraceful things to himself, and then went down to the bridge, where Mymble was sitting combing her hair.

  ‘Did you see how I saved the Ancestor?’ he asked severely. ‘One second more and he would have burnt up.’

  ‘But he wasn’t,’ said Mymble.

  Grandpa-Grumble explained to Mymble: ‘None of you understands when something big happens nowadays. You all have the wrong feelings. Perhaps you don’t even admire me.’ He pulled up his fishing contraption. It was empty.

  ‘It’s in the spring that there are fish in this river,’ said Mymble.

  ‘It isn’t a river, it’s a brook,’ he shouted. ‘It’s my brook and it’s full of fish!’

  ‘Now listen, Grandpa-Grumble,’ said Mymble calmly. ‘It’s neither a river nor a brook. It’s a stream. But if the Moomin family call it a river, it’s a river. I’m the only one who can see that it’s a stream. Why do you want to make such a fuss about things that don’t exist and things that haven’t happened?’

  ‘To make things more fun,’ Grandpa-Grumble replied.

  Mymble combed and combed and the comb rustled like water on a sandy beach, wave after wave, lazily and untroubled.

  Grandpa-Grumble stood up and said with great dignity: ‘If you do see this as a stream, do you have to mention it? Horrid child, why do you want to make me feel unhappy?’

  Mymble stopped combing her hair, she was very surprised. ‘I like you,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to make you feel unhappy.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Grandpa-Grumble. ‘But you must stop telling me about the way things are and let me go on believing in nice things.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Mymble said.

  Grandpa-Grumble was very upset. He stamped off to the tent and shouted: ‘You inside there! Is this a brook or is it a river or is it a stream? Are there any fish in it or not? Why is nothing like it used to be? And when are you coming out to take an interest in things?’

  ‘Soon,’ Snufkin answered peevishly. He listened anxiously, but Grandpa-Grumble didn’t say anything else.

  I must go and join them, Snufkin thought. This is no good. Whatever did I come back here for? What have I got to do with them? They know nothing about music. He rolled over on his back, he turned on his stomach, he buried his nose in the sleeping-bag. But whatever he did, there they were in his tent, all the time, the Hemulen’s immobile eyes, and Fillyjonk lying weeping on her bed, and Toft who just kept quiet and stared at the ground and old Grandpa-Grumble all confused… they were everywhere, right inside his head, and, what’s more, the tent smelt of the Hemulen. I must go outside, Snufkin thought. Thinking about them is worse than being with them. And how different they are from the Moomin family. They were a nuisance, too, they wanted to talk. They were all over the place. But with them you could at least be on your own. How did they behave, actually? Snufkin wondered in surprise. How is it possible that I could have been with them all those long summers without ever noticing that they let me be alone?

  CHAPTER 12

  Thunder and Lightning

  TOFT read very slowly and carefully: ‘No words can describe the period of confusion that must have followed upon the non-appearance of the electricity. We have reason to suppose that this Nummulite, this isolated phenomenon which, despite everything, can still be assigned to the Protozoa group, was retarded in his development and underwent a period of stunted growth. The ability to phosphoresce ceased and the unfortunate creature led a life of concealment in the cracks and deep hollows which provided a temporary shelter from the outside world.’

  That’s it, Toft whispered. Now anybody can attack him, he’s not electric any more… he’s just shrinking and shrinking and doesn’t know where to turn… Toft curled up in the roach-net and started to describe it all for himself. He let the creature come to a valley where a toft lived who could make electric storms. The long valley was lit up by violet and white flashes, in the distance at first, then nearer and nearer…


  *

  Not a single fish had got caught in Grandpa-Grumble’s contraption. He was dozing on the bridge with his hat over his nose. Beside him Mymble lay on the mat she had taken from in front of the stove and looked down into the running water. The Hemulen was sitting next to the letter-box painting big letters on a piece of plywood. He was writing ‘Moominvalley’ in mahogany stain.

  ‘Who’s that for?’ Mymble asked. ‘If anyone has walked as far as this he knows that he’s here.’

  ‘No, it’s not for other people,’ the Hemulen explained, ‘it’s for us.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mymble.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the Hemulen answered in surprise. He painted the last letter while he was thinking and then suggested: ‘Perhaps just to make sure? There’s something rather special about names, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘No,’ said Mymble.

  The Hemulen took a large nail out of his pocket and began to nail the plywood to the parapet of the bridge. Grandpa-Grumble roused himself and muttered: ‘Save the Ancestor…’ And Snufkin came out of his tent and shouted: ‘What are you doing? Stop at once!’

  They had never seen Snufkin lose his self-control before, it scared and embarrassed them. Nobody looked at him. The Hemulen took the nail out.

  ‘There’s no need to feel hurt!’ Snufkin called out petulantly. ‘You know what I’m like!’

  Even a hemulen should learn that a snufkin loathes notices, everything that reminds him of private property, No entry, Off limits, Keep out – if one is the least bit interested in a snufkin one knows that notices are the only things that can make him angry, vulnerable and at the mercy of others. And now he felt ashamed! He had shouted and carried on and it was not to be forgiven, even if one took out all the nails in the world!

  The Hemulen let the piece of plywood slide down into the river. The letters quickly darkened and became unreadable and the notice was carried away by the current down to the sea.

  ‘Look,’ the Hemulen said, ‘there it goes. Perhaps it wasn’t as important as I imagined.’

  The Hemulen’s voice had changed just a little. There was a little less respect in it, he had come closer to someone, and he had a right to. Snufkin didn’t say anything, but stood quite still. Suddenly he ran up to the letter-box by the parapet, lifted the lid and looked inside, then ran on to the maple-tree and shoved his arm in a hole in the trunk.

  Grandpa-Grumble stood up and shouted: ‘Are you expecting a letter?’

  Snufkin had reached the woodshed. He turned the chopping-block upside down. He went inside the woodshed and searched behind the little window-shelf above the carpenter’s bench.

  ‘Are you looking for your glasses?’ asked Grandpa-Grumble with interest.

  Snufkin walked on. He said: ‘I want to look in peace.’

  ‘Do you really!’ exclaimed Grandpa-Grumble and followed as fast as he could. ‘You’re quite right. There was a time when I used to search for things and words and names the whole day long and the worst thing was when other people tried to help.’ He grabbed Snufkin’s coat and held on tight and said: ‘Do you know what it was like all day? Like this: when did you see it last? Try and remember. When did it happen? Where did it happen? Ha ha, all that’s over and done with. I’ll forget what I like and lose just what I like. Now, I can tell you…

  ‘Grandpa-Grumble,’ said Snufkin, ‘the fish swim along the bank in the autumn. There aren’t any fish in the middle of the river.’

  ‘The brook,’ corrected Grandpa-Grumble cheerfully. ‘That was the first sensible thing I’ve heard today.’ He went off immediately. Snufkin went on with his search. He was hunting for Moomintroll’s good-bye letter, which had to be somewhere because a moomintroll never forgets to say good-bye. But all their hiding-places were empty.

  Moomintroll was the only one who knew how to write to a snufkin. Brief and to the point. Nothing about promises and longings and sad things. And a joke to finish up with.

  Snufkin went into the house and up to the second floor. He forced out the big knot in the banisters and that was empty, too.

  ‘Empty!’ said Fillyjonk behind him. ‘If you’re hunting for their valuables they’re not in there. They’re in the clothes-cupboard and it’s locked.’ She sat in the doorway of her room with blankets round her legs and her feather-boa right up round her nose.

  ‘They never lock anything,’ said Snufkin.

  ‘It’s cold!’ Fillyjonk cried. ‘Why don’t you like me? Why can’t you find something for me to do?’

  ‘You could go down into the kitchen,’ Snufkin muttered, ‘it’s warmer there.’

  Fillyjonk didn’t answer. A very faint rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.

  ‘They never lock anything,’ Snufkin said again. He went over to the clothes-cupboard and opened the door. The cupboard was empty. He went downstairs without looking behind him.

  Fillyjonk got up slowly. She could see that the cupboard was empty. But out of the dusty darkness came a ghastly, Strange smell – it was the suffocating sweet smell of decay. Inside the cupboard there was nothing except a moth-eaten kettle-holder made of wool, and a soft layer of grey dust. Fillyjonk put her head inside, shivering as she did so. Weren’t those straggly little footmarks in the dust, quite tiny ones, almost invisible…? Something had been living in the cupboard and had been let out. The kind of thing that crawls out when you turn a stone over, that crawls under rotting plants, she knew, and now they were loose! They had come out with scratching legs, with rattling backs and fumbling feelers or crawling on soft white stomachs… She screamed: ‘Toft! Come here!’ And Toft came out of the box-room, he was all crumpled up and confused and looked at her as though he didn’t recognize her. He opened his nostrils, there was a very strong smell of electricity here, keen and pungent.

  ‘They’ve got out!’ Fillyjonk shouted. ‘They have been living in there and now they’ve got out!’

  The door of the clothes-cupboard swung open and Fillyjonk saw a movement, a glimpse of danger – she screamed! But it was only the mirror on the inside of the door. The cupboard was still empty. Toft came closer with his paws over his mouth, his eyes were round and jet black. The smell of electricity got stronger and stronger.

  ‘I let it out,’ he whispered. ‘It does exist, and now I’ve let it out.’

  ‘What have you let out?’ Fillyjonk asked anxiously.

  Toft shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘But you must have seen them,’ said Fillyjonk. ‘Think carefully. What did they look like?’

  But Toft ran back to the box-room and shut himself in. His heart was pounding furiously. So it was really true. The Creature had come. It was in the valley. He opened the book at the right place and spelt out the words as fast as he could: ‘According to what we have reason to suppose, its constitution gradually adapted itself to these new surroundings and the necessity to master them little by little formed the conditions under which survival seemed possible. This existence, which we dare only characterize as a pure assumption, an hypothesis, continued its obscure development for an indeterminable period without its behaviour pattern in any way aligning itself with the course of events which we are accustomed to construe as normal…’

  But I don’t understand a thing, Toft whispered. It’s all words, words… If they don’t hurry up, everything will go wrong! He slumped over the book with his paws clutching his hair and went on describing things to himself, desperately and in a disordered fashion, for he knew that the Creature was getting smaller and smaller the whole time and couldn’t really fend for itself.

  The thunderstorm was getting closer and closer! The lightning was coming from all directions! The electric sparks flew all over the place and the Creature sensed it – now! And it grew and grew… and now there was more lightning, white and violet! The Creature became bigger and bigger. It became so big that it almost didn’t need any family…

  Then Toft felt better. He lay on his back and looked up at the skylight, which
was full of grey clouds. He could hear the thunder rumbling in the distance. It sounded just like the growling noise you make in your throat just before you get really angry.

  *

  Step by step Fillyjonk went down the stairs. She supposed that the ghastly little things had not crawled off in different directions. It was more likely that they were all huddled together, a coherent mass waiting in some murky, damp corner. There they sat, quite silently, in one of the hidden and rotting holes of autumn. But perhaps not! Perhaps they were under the beds, in the desk drawers, in one’s own shoes – they might be anywhere!

  It isn’t fair, Fillyjonk thought. Nothing like this happens to anyone in my circle of acquaintances, only to me! She ran down to the tent with long, anxious strides and fumbled desperately with the closed flaps, whispering

  hoarsely: ‘Open up open up for me… it’s me, Fillyjonk!’

  She felt safer inside the tent, sank down on the sleeping-bag and put her arms round her knees. She said: ‘They’ve got out. Someone let them out of the clothes-cupboard and they may be anywhere… millions of horrid insects sitting and waiting…’

  ‘Has anybody else seen them?’ Snufkin asked cautiously.

  ‘Of course not,’ Fillyjonk replied impatiently. ‘It’s me they’re waiting for!’

  Snufkin knocked out his pipe and tried to think of something to say. There was more thunder.

  ‘Now don’t start saying there’s going to be a thunderstorm,’ said Fillyjonk threateningly. ‘And don’t say that my insects have gone away or that they don’t exist or that they’re too small or too kind, for it won’t help me one bit.’

  Snufkin looked straight at her and said: ‘There’s one place where they’ll never come. The kitchen. They never come into the kitchen.’