Moominvalley in November

by Tove Jansson

  ‘And when the lights went on again, the last one had been eaten up,’ Mymble said under her breath.

  The Hemulen hushed her. Fillyjonk disappeared behind the sheet, shining big and white, everybody looked and waited and Snufkin started to play softly, almost in a whisper.

  Then a shadow appeared on the white sheet, a black silhouette, it was a. boat. There was somebody very small sitting in the prow who had an onion-shaped little knot on top of her head.

  It’s Little My, Mymble thought. She looks just like that. I must say this is well done.

  The boat glided slowly on across the sheet, over the sea, never before had a boat sailed so silently and so naturally, and there sat the whole family, Moomintroll and Moominmamma with her handbag leaning against the gunwale and Moominpappa with his hat on sat in the stern and steered; they were sailing home. (But the rudder didn’t look right.)

  Toft could only look at Moominmamma. He had time to take in every detail, for him the dark shadow took on colours, the silhouettes seemed to move and all the time

  Snufkin went on playing so fittingly that no one was conscious of the music until it stopped. The family had come home.

  That was a real shadow-play, Grandpa-Grumble said to himself. I have seen many shadow-plays in my time and I can remember them all, but that was the best.

  The curtain came down, the play was over. Fillyjonk blew out the kitchen lamp and the room was plunged in darkness. They all sat still in the dark, waiting, a little taken aback.

  Suddenly Fillyjonk said: ‘I can’t find the matches.’

  The darkness immediately took on a different character. They could hear the wind whistling, and it seemed as though the kitchen had expanded, the walls sliding out into the night beyond, and their legs felt cold.

  ‘I can’t find the matches!’ Fillyjonk repeated shrilly.

  There was a scraping of chair legs and something fell over on the table. They had all stood up, they bumped into each other in the dark, somebody got all tangled up in the sheet and fell over a chair. Toft raised his head, the Creature was outside now, a great heavy body rubbing along the wall by the kitchen door. There was a rumble of thunder.

  ‘They’re outside!’ Fillyjonk screamed. ‘They’re crawling in here!’

  Toft put his ear against the door and listened, he couldn’t hear anything except the wind. He raised the latch and went out, and the door closed noiselessly behind him.

  At last the lamp was alight. Snufkin had found the matches. The Hemulen gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Look!’ he said, ‘I’ve stuck my paw into the Welsh rarebit!’

  The kitchen looked normal again, but no one sat down. And no one noticed that Toft wasn’t there.

  ‘We’ll leave things just as they are,’ said Fillyjonk nervously. ‘Don’t move anything, I’ll wash up in the morning.’

  ‘But you don’t mean you’re going home?’ Grandpa-Grumble exclaimed. ‘The Ancestor has gone to bed and now the fun can begin!’

  But no one felt like going on with the party. They said good night to each other, hastily and very politely, shook paws, and in a little while all the guests had disappeared. Grandpa-Grumble stamped on the floor before he left. He said: ‘Well, I was the last to leave at any rate!’

  *

  When Toft got outside in the darkness he stood and waited on the steps. The sky was a little lighter than the mountains, whose undulating contours rose above Moomin-valley. The Creature was silent, but Toft knew that it was looking at him.

  Toft called softly: ‘Nummulite… little Radiolaria, Protozoa…’But it couldn’t recognize the strange names in the book. It was probably just bewildered and didn’t even know why it growled.

  Toft was more worried than afraid. He was uneasy about what the Nummulite might do on its own, it was too big and too angry and not used to being either big or angry. He took an uncertain step and felt that the Creature immediately moved backwards.

  ‘You needn’t go,’ Toft explained. ‘Just move a little farther away.’ He continued over the grass and the Creature retreated, a clumsy, shapeless shadow, the bushes cracked and snapped where the Creature passed.

  It has become too big, Toft thought. It’s so big that it can’t move properly.

  There were cracking sounds from the jasmine-bush. Toft stopped and whispered: ‘Take it easy, easy…’

  The Creature growled at him. He could hear the faint

  swish of the rain, the thunder was a long way away now. They went on. Toft talked softly all the time to his Creature. They arrived at the crystal ball, tonight it was clear blue and the heavy swell could be seen quite clearly in its depths.

  ‘It’s no good,’ said Toft. ‘We can’t hit back. Neither of us will ever learn to hit back. You must believe me.’

  The Nummulite listened, perhaps it was only listening to Toft’s voice. He was cold and his shoes were wet, he grew impatient and said: ‘Make yourself tiny and hide yourself! You’ll never get through this!’

  And suddenly the crystal ball became overshadowed. A dizzy vortex opened in the heavy blue swell and then closed itself again, the Creature of the Protozoa group had made itself tiny and returned to its proper element. Moomin-pappa’s crystal ball, which gathered everything and took care of everything, had opened up for the bewildered Nummulite.

  Toft went back to the house and crept up to his box-room. He curled up in the roach-net and went to sleep straight away.

  *

  After the others had all left, Fillyjonk remained standing in the middle of the floor, lost in thought. Everything was upside down, the streamers had been trodden on, the chairs overturned and the lanterns had dripped candlewax over everything. She picked up a Welsh rarebit off the floor, bit a piece off distractedly and threw the rest in the rubbish bucket. A successful party, she said to herself.

  It was raining outside. She listened carefully but could hear only the rain. They had disappeared.

  Actually, Fillyjonk was neither happy nor upset and not a little bit tired. It was as though everything had come to a standstill, and she went on listening. Snufkin had left his mouth-organ on the table, she picked it up, held it in her paw and waited. There was only the rain outside. She raised the mouth-organ and blew into it, she moved it backwards and forwards listening to the sound. She sat down at the kitchen table. How did it go? Toodledi, toodledoo… It was difficult to get it right, she tried and tried again, moved very carefully from one note to the next and found the right one, the next came of its own accord. The tune slipped past her, but then came back. Obviously one had to feel for it, not search here and there. Toodledoo, toodledi, a whole string of notes came, each undeniably in the right place.

  Hour after hour Fillyjonk sat at the kitchen table playing the mouth-organ, tentatively but with great devotion. The notes began to resemble tunes and the tunes became music. She played Snufkin’s songs and she played her own; she couldn’t be got at, nothing could make her feel unsafe now. She didn’t worry whether the others could hear her or not. Outside in the garden all was quiet, all the creepy-crawly things had disappeared, and it was an ordinary dark autumn night with a rising wind.

  Fillyjonk went to sleep at the kitchen table with her arms under her head. She slept very well until half past eight in the morning, and when she woke up she looked round and said to herself: what a mess! Today we’re going to have a thorough clean-up!

  CHAPTER 19

  First Snow

  AT eight thirty-five, with the morning still quite shrouded in darkness, all the windows were flung open one after the other, mattresses, bedcovers and blankets poured out over every window-sill and a wonderful draught rushed through the house and raised the dust in thick clouds.

  Fillyjonk was cleaning. Every single pan was on the stove heating water, brushes and rags and bowls were dancing out of their cupboards and the veranda railings were decorated with carpets. It was an enormous cleaning up, the most enormous that anyone had ever seen. The others stood on the slope outside in amazement, watching
Fillyjonk going in and out, backwards and forwards, with a scarf round her head and Moominmamma’s apron on, which was so big that it went round her three times.

  Snufkin went into the kitchen looking for his mouth-organ.

  ‘It’s on the shelf above the stove,’ said Fillyjonk as she went past. ‘I have been very careful with it.’

  ‘You can keep it a little longer if you want,’ said Snufkin uncertainly.

  Fillyjonk answered in a matter-of-fact way: ‘Take it. I’ll get one of my own. And watch out, you’re treading in the sweepings.’

  It was wonderful to be cleaning again. She knew exactly where the dust had hidden itself; soft and grey and self-satisfied it had made itself comfortable in the corners; she searched out every single bit of fluff which had rolled itself into big fat balls full of hairs and thought it was safe, ha ha! Moth-larvae, spiders, centipedes, all kinds of creepy-crawlies were routed out by Fillyjonk’s big broom, and lovely streams of hot water and soapy lather washed everything away, and it was by no means an inconsiderable amount of mess that went out of the door, bucketful after bucketful; it was really fun to be alive!

  ‘I’ve never liked it when the womenfolk clean up,’ said Grandpa-Grumble. ‘Has anyone told her not to touch the Ancestor’s clothes-cupboard?’

  But the clothes-cupboard was cleaned, too, it had twice as big a cleaning as all the rest. The only thing that Fillyjonk didn’t touch was the mirror inside the cupboard, she let that stay misty.

  After a while, the fun of cleaning became contagious, and everybody except Grandpa-Grumble joined in. They carried water and shook carpets, they scrubbed a bit of floor here and there, they each had a window to clean and when they felt hungry they went into the pantry and looked for what was left over from the party. Fillyjonk didn’t eat anything and she didn’t talk, how on earth should she have time or inclination for things like that! Sometimes she whistled a little, she was light on her feet and moved like the wind – one moment here another there, she made up

  for all her desolation and fright and thought casually: whatever took possession of me? I have been nothing better than a great big ball of fluff… and why? But she couldn’t remember.

  And so the wonderful day of the great cleaning came to a close, and, thank goodness, without rain. When dusk came everything was straight again, everything was clean, polished, aired and the house stared in surprise in all directions through its freshly-cleaned windows. Fillyjonk took off her scarf and hung Moominmamma’s apron on its Peg.

  ‘That’s that,’ she said. ‘And now I’m going home to clean my own place. It needs it.’

  They sat on the veranda steps together, it was very cold in the evenings now, but a feeling of approaching change and departure kept them sitting there.

  ‘Thanks for cleaning the house,’ said the Hemulen in a voice filled with sincere admiration.

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Fillyjonk answered. ‘I couldn’t stop myself! You ought to do the same. Mymble, I mean.’

  ‘There’s one thing that’s funny,’ said the Hemulen. ‘Sometimes I feel that everything we say and do and everything

  that happens has happened once before, eh? If you understand what I mean. Everything is the same.’

  ‘And why should it be different?’ Mymble asked. ‘A hemulen is always a hemulen and the same things happen to him all the time. With mymbles it sometimes happens that they run away in order to get out of the cleaning!’ She laughed loudly and slapped her knees.

  ‘Will you always be the same?’ Fillyjonk asked her out of curiosity.

  ‘I certainly hope so!’ Mymble answered.

  Grandpa-Grumble looked from one to the other, he was very tired of their cleaning and their talk about things which didn’t make anything seem more real. ‘It’s cold here,’ he said. He got up stiffly and went into the house.

  ‘It’s going to snow,’ Snufkin said.

  *

  It snowed for the first time the next morning, small, hard flakes, and it was horribly cold. Fillyjonk and Mymble stood on the bridge and said good-bye. Grandpa-Grumble had still not yet woken up.

  *

  ‘This has been a very rewarding time,’ said the Hemulen. ‘I hope we shall meet again with the family.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Fillyjonk absently. ‘In any case, say that the china vase is from me. What’s the name of that mouth-organ?’

  ‘Harmonium Two,’ said Snufkin.

  ‘Have a nice journey,’ Toft mumbled. And Mymble said: ‘Give Grandpa-Grumble a kiss on the nose from me. And remember that he likes gherkins and that the river is a brook!’

  Fillyjonk picked up her suitcase. ‘See that he takes his medicine,’ she said severely. ‘Whether he wants to or not. A hundred years aren’t to be taken lightly. And you can have a party now and then if you want.’ She went on across the bridge without turning round. They disappeared in the swirling snow, lost in that mixed feeling of melancholy and relief that usually accompanies good-byes.

  *

  It snowed all day and got even colder. The snow-covered ground, the departure, the clean house – all gave the day a feeling of immobility and reflection. The Hemulen stood looking up at his tree, sawed off a bit of plank but let it lie on the ground. Then he stood and just looked. Sometimes he went and tapped the barometer.

  Grandpa-Grumble lay on the drawing-room sofa and meditated upon the way things had changed. Mymble was right. Quite suddenly he had discovered that the brook was a stream, a brown stream curving past snowy banks and quite simply a brown stream. Now there was no point in fishing any longer. He put the velvet cushion over his head and recalled his own happy brook, he remembered more and more about it, and how the days passed long, long ago when there were lots of fish and nights were warm and light, and things happened all the time. One ran oneself off one’s legs so as not to miss anything that happened, sometimes taking a little nap as an afterthought, and laughing at everything… He went to talk to the Ancestor. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘It’s snowing. Why do only little things happen nowadays? Why are they so trivial? Where is my brook?’ Grandpa-Grumble was silent. He was tired of talking to a friend who never answered. ‘You are too old,’ he said, and thumped on the floor with his stick. ‘And now that the

  winter has come you’ll get even older. One gets terribly old in the winter.’ Grandpa-Grumble looked at his friend and waited. All the doors were open and the rooms were bare and clean, all the cheerful sloppiness had gone, the carpets lay fair and square in their rectangles, and it was cold and the snowy winter light fell on everything, Grandpa-Grumble suddenly felt angry and forlorn and shouted: ‘What? Say something!’ But the Ancestor didn’t answer, but stood there gaping in his dressing-gown, which was too long for him, and didn’t say a word.

  ‘Come out of your cupboard,’ said Grandpa-Grumble sharply. ‘Come out and have a look. They’ve changed everything and we’re the only two who know what things were like at the beginning.’ Then Grandpa-Grumble poked the Ancestor in the stomach with his stick rather violently. There was a tinkling sound and the old mirror fell apart and crashed to the floor, a single long narrow splinter pausing momentarily on the Ancestor’s bewildered face – and it fell, too, and Grandpa-Grumble stood face to face with a sheet of brown cardboard that meant absolutely nothing to him.

  ‘Oh, indeed, it’s like that is it?’ said Grandpa-Grumble. ‘He’s gone. He got angry and left.’

  *

  Grandpa-Grumble sat in front of the kitchen stove thinking. The Hemulen was sitting at the table with a lot of drawings spread out in front of him. ‘Something’s not right about the walls,’ he said. ‘They’re crooked in the wrong way and you just fall through them. It’s absolutely impossible to get them to fit the branches.’

  Perhaps he went into hibernation, Grandpa-Grumble thought.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ the Hemulen went on, ‘walls just shut one in. If you sit in a tree perhaps it’s nicer after all to see what’s going on around you, what?’

  Perha
ps the important things happen in the spring, Grandpa-Grumble said to himself.

  ‘What do you think?’ the Hemulen asked. ‘Is it nicer?’

  ‘No,’ Grandpa-Grumble said. He hadn’t been listening. At last he knew what he would do, it was quite simple! He would skip over the whole winter and with a single leap find himself in April. There was nothing worth bothering about, absolutely nothing! All he had to do was make a nice hole to sleep in for himself and let the world go by. When he woke up again everything would be as it should be. Grandpa-Grumble went into the pantry and took down the bowl with the spruce-needles, he was very happy and suddenly terribly sleepy. He walked past the brooding Hemulen and said: ‘Bye-bye, I’m going to hibernate.’

  *

  That night the sky was completely clear. The thin ice crunched beneath Toft’s paws as he walked through the garden. The valley was full of the silence of the cold and the snow shone on the hill slopes. The crystal ball was empty. It was nothing more than a pretty crystal ball. But the black sky was full of stars, millions of sparkling glittering diamonds, winter stars shimmering with the cold.

  ‘It’s winter now,’ said Toft as he came into the kitchen.

  The Hemulen had decided that the house would be nicer without walls, just a floor, and he bundled his papers together with a feeling of relief and said: ‘Grandpa-Grumble has hibernated.’

  ‘Has he got all his things with him?’ Toft asked.

  ‘What does he need them for?’ the Hemulen said in surprise.

  Of course, when you hibernate you’re much younger when you wake up, and you don’t need anything but to be left in peace. But Toft imagined that when one wakes up it’s important to know that someone had thought about one while one has been sleeping. So he looked for Grandpa-Grumble’s things and put them outside the clothes-cupboard. He covered Grandpa-Grumble with the eiderdown and tucked him up properly, the winter might be cold. The clothes-cupboard smelt faintly of spices. There was just enough brandy left for a refreshing thimbleful in April.