Moominvalley in November Read online

  The duster! It had got caught in the window-frame… Fillyjonk’s heart began to pound – she could see a little bit of the corner of the duster sticking out, she took hold of it, oh so carefully, and pulled it gently… Oh, please don’t let it break, let it be my lovely new duster and not the old one… I shall never save old dusters again, I shall never save anything again, I shall be extravagant, I shall stop cleaning up, I do too much of it anyway, I’m pernickety… I shall be something quite different but not a fillyjonk… This is what Fillyjonk thought, imploringly, but hopelessly, because a fillyjonk can never, of course, be anything but a fillyjonk.

  The duster held. Slowly the window opened again and the wind banged it against the wall and Fillyjonk flung herself headlong into the safety of the room and lay on the floor and her stomach started going round and round and she felt terribly sick.

  Above her head the lamp in the ceiling swayed to and fro in the wind, all its tassels swinging at a uniform distance from one another, each with a little bead on the end. She

  looked at them attentively, quite taken by surprise by the little tassels which she didn’t remember ever having seen before. And never before had she noticed that the lampshade was red, a very beautiful red reminding her of the sunset. Even the hook in the ceiling had a new and unusual shape.

  She began to feel a little better. She began to think how strange it was that everything that hangs from a hook really goes on hanging downwards and not in any other direction, and wondered what it depended on. The whole room had changed, everything looked new. Fillyjonk went up to the mirror and looked at herself. Her nose was covered in scratches on one side and her hair was dead straight and wet through. Her eyes looked different: fancy having eyes to see with, she thought, and how does one see…?

  She began to feel cold because of the rain, and because she had tumbled all the way through her life in a single second, and she decided to make herself a cup of coffee. But when she opened the cupboard in the kitchen, she saw for the first time that she had far too much china. Such an awful lot of coffee cups. Far too many serving dishes and roasting dishes, and stacks of plates, hundreds of things to eat from and eat on, and only one fillyjonk. And who would have them all when she died?

  I’m not going to die at all, whispered Fillyjonk, and shut the cupboard door with a bang. She ran into the living-room, she staggered round among the furniture in her bedroom and out again, she dashed into the drawing-room and drew back the curtains and then went up to the attic, and it was just as quiet everywhere. She left all the doors open, she opened the wardrobe where her suitcase lay, and at last she knew what she was going to do. She would go and stay with someone. She wanted to see people. People who talked and were pleasant and went in and out and filled the whole day so that there was no time for terrible thoughts. Not the Hemulen, not Mymble, certainly not Mymble! But the Moomin family. It was about time that she went to see Moominmamma. You have to decide these things when you’re in a certain mood, and quickly, too, before the mood vanishes.

  Fillyjonk took out her suitcase and put her silver vase in it, Moominmamma must have that. She threw the water out on to the roof and closed the window. She dried her hair and put it in curlers, and then she drank her afternoon tea. The house had calmed down and was quite itself again. When Fillyjonk had washed up her tea cup she took the silver vase out of the suitcase and put a china one in instead. She lit the lamp in the ceiling because the rain had made it get dark early.

  What on earth came over me, Fillyjonk thought. That lamp-shade isn’t red at all. It’s a little brownish. But in any case, I’m going away.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rain

  IT was late in the autumn. Snufkin continued towards the south, sometimes he pitched his tent and let the time pass as best it might, he walked around and contemplated things without actually thinking or remembering anything, and he slept quite a lot. He was attentive but not in the least curious, and didn’t worry much about where he was going – he just wanted to keep moving.

  The forest was heavy with rain and the trees were absolutely motionless. Everything had withered and died, but right down on the ground the late autumn’s secret garden was growing with great vigour straight out of the mouldering earth, a strange vegetation of shiny puffed-up plants that had nothing at all to do with summer. The late blueberry sprigs were yellowish-green and the cranberries as dark as blood. Hidden lichens and mosses began to grow, and they grew like a big soft carpet until they took over the whole forest. There were strong new colours everywhere, and red rowan berries were shining all over the place. But the bracken had turned black.

  Snufkin got a feeling that he wanted to write songs. He waited until he was quite sure of the feeling and one evening he got out his mouth-organ from the bottom of his rucksack. In August, somewhere in Moominvalley, he had hit upon five bars which would undoubtedly provide a marvellous beginning for a tune. They had come completely naturally as notes do when they have been left in peace. Now the time had come to take them out again and let them become a song about rain.

  Snufkin listened and waited. The five bars didn’t come. He went on waiting without getting impatient because he knew what tunes were like. But the only things he could hear were the faint sounds of rain and running water. It gradually got quite dark. Snufkin took out his pipe but put it away again. He knew that the five bars must be somewhere in Moominvalley and that he wouldn’t find them until he went back again.

  There are millions of tunes that are easy to find and there will always be new ones. But Snufkin let them alone, they were summer songs which would do for just anybody. He crept into his tent and into his sleeping-bag and pulled it over his head. The faint whisper of rain and running water was still there and it had the same tender note of solitude and perfection. But what did the rain mean to him as long as he couldn’t write a song about it?

  CHAPTER 5

  Hemulen

  THE Hemulen woke up slowly and recognized himself and wished he had been someone he didn’t know. He felt even tireder than when he went to bed, and here it was – another day which would go on until evening and then there would be another one and another one which would be the same as all days are when they are lived by a hemulen.

  He crept under the bedcover and buried his nose in the pillow, then he shifted his stomach to the edge of the bed where the sheets were cool. He took possession of the whole bed with outstretched arms and legs, he was waiting for a nice dream that wouldn’t come. He curled up and made himself small but it didn’t help a bit. He tried being the hemulen that everybody liked, he tried being the hemulen that no one liked. But however hard he tried he remained a hemulen doing his best without anything really coming off. In the end he got up and pulled on his trousers.

  The Hemulen didn’t like getting dressed and undressed, it gave him a feeling that the days passed without anything of importance happening. Even so, he spent the whole day arranging, organizing and directing things from morning till night! All around him there were people living slipshod and aimless lives, wherever he looked there was something to be put to rights and he worked his fingers to the bone trying to get them to see how they ought to live.

  It’s as though they don’t want to live well, the Hemulen thought sadly as he brushed his teeth. He looked at the photograph of himself with his boat which had been taken when the boat was launched. It was a beautiful picture but it made him feel even sadder.

  I ought to learn how to sail, the Hemulen thought. But I’ve never got enough time…

  Suddenly the Hemulen thought that all he ever did was to move things from one place to another or talk about where they should be put, and in a moment of insight he wondered what would happen if he let things alone.

  Actually, nothing, somebody else would look after everything, the Hemulen said to himself and put his toothbrush back in its glass. He was surprised and a little frightened by what he had said and a chill went down his spine as it did when the clock struck twelve on New Year’s
Eve, and he immediately thought but then I must go sailing… Then he felt really sick and went and sat down on the bed.

  Now I don’t understand anything, thought the poor old Hemulen. What on earth did I say anything like that for? There are certain things one shouldn’t think about, one shouldn’t go into things too deeply. He tried to find something pleasant to think about that would drive away his morning melancholy, he tried and tried and gradually a friendly and distant memory of summer came to him. The

  Hemulen remembered Moominvalley. It was a terribly long time since he had been there, but there was one thing he remembered quite clearly. It was the guest room facing south, and he recalled how nice it was to wake up there in the morning. The window was open and a gentle summer breeze stirred the white curtains, the window-catch rattled softly in the wind… And the fly that buzzed on the ceiling. And that there was no hurry to do anything. Morning coffee was waiting on the veranda, everything would arrange itself and go of its own accord.

  There was a family there, too, but he didn’t remember them very clearly, they pottered to and fro and went about their business in a friendly and vague sort of way – a family, in other words. Moominpappa he could remember a little more clearly, and perhaps Moominpappa’s boat. And the jetty, too. But best of all he remembered what it felt like to wake up in the morning and feel happy.

  The Hemulen got up, went to get his toothbrush and stuffed it in his pocket. He no longer felt sick, he felt like a completely new hemulen.

  No one saw the Hemulen leave, without a suitcase, without an umbrella and without saying good-bye to a single one of his neighbours.

  The Hemulen wasn’t used to walking in the countryside. He lost his way several times, but that didn’t make him feel either uneasy or angry.

  I’ve never got lost before, he thought bravely. And I’ve never been wet-through before! He waved his arms about and felt like the man in the song who walked alone in the rain a thousand miles from home and was wild and free. The Hemulen felt so happy! And soon he would be drinking hot coffee on the veranda.

  Less than a mile east of the valley the Hemulen came down to the river, looked thoughtfully at the dark running water and the thought occurred to him that life was like a river. Some people sailed on it slowly, some quickly, and some capsized. I’ll tell that to Moominpappa, the Hemulen thought gravely. I think it must be a completely new thought. Just fancy, thoughts come easily today, and everything has become so straightforward. All you have to do is

  to walk out of the door with your hat on at a jaunty angle! Perhaps I’ll take the boat out. I’ll sail out to sea. I can feel the firm pressure of the rudder on my paw… The firm pressure of the rudder on my paw, the Hemulen repeated, and now he felt so happy that it almost hurt. He tightened his belt round his fat stomach and walked on along the river.

  When the Hemulen got to the valley it was filled with a fine, drizzling rain. He walked straight into the garden and stopped, with a puzzled look on his face. Something wasn’t right. Everything was the same but somehow not the same. A withered leaf floated down and landed on his nose.

  How silly, the Hemulen exclaimed. It’s not summer at all. It’s autumn! In some way or another he had always thought of Moominvalley in summer. He went up to the house, stopped in front of the veranda steps and tried to yodel. He couldn’t. Then he shouted: ‘Hallo there, you inside! Put the coffee on!’

  Nothing happened. The Hemulen shouted again and waited a while.

  Now I’ll play a trick on them, he thought. He pulled up his collar and dragged his hat down over his nose, then he found a rake by the water-butt and lifted it threateningly above his head. Then he yelled: ‘Open in the name of the Law!’

  He stood still and waited, shaking with laughter. The house was silent. It rained more heavily, falling and falling over the Hemulen as he waited, and nothing could be heard in the valley except the swish of falling rain.

  CHAPTER 6

  First Encounter

  TOFT had never been in Moominvalley, but he didn’t get lost. It was a very long way there and Toft’s legs were short. Everywhere there were deep pools and swamps and great trees that had fallen down with age or been blown over by a storm. Their torn roots lifted huge lumps of earth into the air and underneath them pools of black water glistened. Toft walked round them, he walked round every single swamp and every single pool and didn’t get lost once. He felt very happy because he knew exactly what he wanted. The forest smelt good, even better than the Hemulen’s boat.

  The Hemulen himself smelt of old paper and worry. Toft knew it. Once the Hemulen had stood outside his boat and sighed and tugged at the tarpaulin a bit and then gone away,

  It wasn’t raining at the moment but the forest was covered in mist and looked very beautiful, and it got thicker and thicker where the hills went down into Moominvalley, and little by little the pools became rivulets, more and more of them, and Toft walked between hundreds of streams and waterfalls, and all of them were going in the same direction as he was.

  Moominvalley was very near now, he was there. He recognized the birch-trees because their trunks were paler than in any other valley. Everything light was lighter and everything dark was darker. Toft walked as quietly as he could and very slowly. He listened. Someone was chopping wood in the valley. It was Moominpappa chopping wood for the winter. Toft walked even more quietly, his paws hardly touching the mossy ground. The river came towards him, and there was the bridge and there was the road. Moominpappa had stopped chopping, and now there was only the sound of the river where all the rivulets and streams came together and went down to the sea.

  I’ve arrived, Toft thought. He crossed the bridge and entered the garden and it was just as he had described it to himself, it couldn’t possibly have been different. The trees

  stood leafless in the November mist but for a moment they were all clothed in green, the little spots of sunlight danced in the grass and Toft could feel the sweet, comforting smell of lilac.

  He ran all the way to the woodshed, but there a different smell came towards him, a smell of old paper and worry. The Hemulen was sitting on the steps of the woodshed with the axe in his lap. It had several nicks in the blade where he had struck nails. Toft stopped. That’s the Hemulen, he thought. So that’s what he looks like.

  The Hemulen looked up. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘I thought you were Moominpappa. Do you know where they’ve all gone to, eh?’

  ‘No,’ answered Toft.

  ‘Their wood is full of nails,’ the Hemulen explained and held up the axe. Old planks and bits of wood full of nails! It felt good to have someone to talk to. ‘I came here just for fun,’ the Hemulen continued. ‘I just popped in to see old friends!’ He laughed and put the axe away in the woodshed. ‘Listen, Toft,’ he said. ‘Carry all this into the kitchen so that it can dry, and pile it up so that it faces first this way and then that way. Meanwhile I’ll go and make some coffee. The kitchen is at the back of the house to the right.’

  ‘I know,’ answered Toft.

  The Hemulen went towards the house and Toft began to gather the wood together. He could tell that the Hemulen wasn’t used to chopping wood, but he had probably enjoyed himself. The wood smelt good.

  *

  The Hemulen carried the coffee-tray into the drawing-room and placed it on the oval mahogany table. ‘The family have their coffee in the morning on the veranda usually,’ he said. ‘But coffee for visitors is served in the drawing-room, particularly when there’s someone who has never been here before.’

  The chairs were covered in dark red velvet, and there was a lace cloth on the back of each of them. Toft gazed timidly round the beautiful but awe-inspiring room. He didn’t dare sit down, the furniture was much too grand. The tiled stove went right up to the ceiling and was painted with a pine-cone design, it had a damper-cord decorated with beads and shiny brass doors. The desk was also shiny and there was a gilded handle on every drawer.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to sit down?’ the Hem
ulen said.

  Toft sat right on the edge of a chair and stared at the portrait hanging above the desk, which portrayed somebody with shaggy grey hair, close-set eyes and a tail. The nose was unusually large.

  ‘That’s their Ancestor,’ the Hemulen explained. ‘He’s from the time when they lived behind stoves.’

  Toft’s glance moved to the staircase, which disappeared into the darkness of the attic floor. He shivered and said: ‘Wouldn’t it be warmer in the kitchen?’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ the Hemulen said. ‘It might be nicer in the kitchen.’ He picked up the tray and they left the deserted drawing-room.

  *

  All day they didn’t mention the family that had gone away. The Hemulen walked about the garden raking leaves and talking about anything that came into his head, and Toft followed on behind and collected the leaves in a basket and said very little.

  At one point the Hemulen stood looking at Moominpappa’s blue crystal ball. ‘Garden ornaments,’ he said. ‘When I was young they used to be silver-plated,’ and then he went on raking.

  Toft didn’t look at the crystal ball. He didn’t want to look at it until he was alone. The crystal ball was the focal point of the whole valley and it always mirrored those who lived there. If there was anything left of the Moomin family then one ought to be able to see them in the deep-blue crystal ball.

  *

  At dusk the Hemulen went into the drawing-room and wound up Moominpappa’s grandfather clock. It started off by striking like something possessed, rapidly and unevenly, and then it began to work. The clock was ticking again, steadily and quite calmly, and the drawing-room had come to life again. The Hemulen went up to the barometer, a large dark mahogany barometer covered with ornamental work, tapped it and saw that it said: Unsettled. After that he went into the kitchen and said: ‘Things are getting organized now! We can have another fire and a little more coffee, what?’ He lit the kitchen lamp and found some cinnamon biscuits in the cupboard.