Moominland Midwinter by Tove Jansson
‘First take a nap,’ Moominmamma said and wound the flannel around his throat.
‘Just one thing,’ Moomintroll mumbled sleepily. ‘Promise not to have a fire in the porcelain stove, because our ancestor’s living there now.’
‘Of course not,’ said Moominmamma.
All at once Moomintroll felt warm and calm and free of responsibility. He sighed a little and burrowed his snout in the pillow. Then he fell asleep, away from it all.
*
Moominmamma sat on the verandah burning a strip of film with a magnifying glass. The film smoked and glowed, and a nice pungent smell was tickling her snout.
The sun was so warm that the wet verandah steps were steaming, but the shadow beside them was ice-cold.
‘One really ought to get up a little earlier in the spring,’ remarked Moominmamma.
‘You’re very right,’ said Too-ticky. ‘Is he still asleep?’ Moominmamma nodded.
‘You ought to have seen him jump the ice-floes!’ Little My said proudly. ‘And he had sat half the winter just whining and pasting transfers on the walls.’
‘I know, I’ve seen them,’ said Moominmamma. ‘He must have felt very lonely.’
‘Then he went and found some kind of an old ancestor of yours,’ Little My continued.
‘Let him tell the story himself when he awakes,’ said Moominmamma. ‘I can see that lots of things have happened while I slept.’
The film was finished, and she managed to burn a round, black hole in the verandah flooring as well.
‘I must get up before the others next spring,’ Moominmamma said. ‘How nice to be on your own for a bit and do what you like.’
*
When Moomintroll finally awoke, his throat wasn’t sore any longer.
He noticed that Moominmamma had taken the gauze off the chandelier and put up the window curtains. The furniture was moved back to its usual places, and the broken pane had been repaired with a piece of cardboard. Not a dust-wad was in sight.
Only the ancestor’s rubbish in front of the porcelain stove was untouched. Moominmamma had put up a tidy placard on it:
From the kitchen came the cosy sounds of dishes being washed.
‘Shall I tell her about the Dweller Under the Sink?’ Moomintroll thought. ‘Perhaps I’d better not…’ He lay for a while wondering whether he’d be ill a little longer and have Moominmamma nurse him a little more. But then he decided that it would be nicer still to take care of Moominmamma himself. He went out to the kitchen and said:
‘Let me show you the snow!’
Moominmamma at once stopped washing dishes and they walked out into the sunlight together.
‘There’s not so much left of it now,’ Moomintroll explained.
‘But you should have seen it in winter! The snowdrifts reached up to the roof! You could hardly take a step without sinking up to your snout! Do you know, when the snow comes it falls down from the sky like tiny and very cold stars. And up there in the black sky you can see fluttering blue and green curtains.’
‘That sounds nice,’ replied Moominmamma.
‘Yes, and even if you can’t walk on the snow you can slide along on it,’ continued Moomintroll. ‘It’s called skiing. It makes you rush ahead fast, like lightning, in a cloud of whirling snow, and you’ve got to look sharp, or else.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Is that where you use trays?’
‘No, they’re better on the ice,’ her son mumbled, a little taken aback.
‘Really, really,’ said Moominmamma, squinting at the sun. ‘Life is very charming, I must say. Here one has believed all one’s life that there’s just one use for a silver tray, and then it appears to be still better for quite another purpose. And every year people are telling me that I give myself far too much trouble making such lots of jam – and then all of a sudden it’s all gone!’
Moomintroll blushed. ‘Has Little My told you about…?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Thank goodness that you took care of the people so I wasn’t put to shame. And do
you know, I really believe that the house’ll be a lot airier without such a lot of carpets and odds and ends. Besides, it makes cleaning very much simpler.’
Moominmamma scooped up a handful of snow and made a snowball. She threw it clumsily as mothers do, and it plopped to the ground not very far away.
‘I’m no good at that,’ said Moominmamma with a laugh. ‘Even Sorry-oo would have made a better throw.’
‘Mother, I love you terribly,’ said Moomintroll.
They went strolling slowly down to the bridge, but no mail had come yet. The evening sun threw long shadows through the valley, and all was calm with a wonderful peace.
Moominmamma seated herself on the bridge parapet and said:
‘And now I’d like to hear something about our ancestor.’
*
The following morning the whole family awoke at the same time. They were awakened in exactly the right way: by a merrily tinkling barrel-organ.
Too-ticky was turning the crank, standing under the dripping roof-edge in her sky-blue cap that was turned inside out. The sky itself was no lighter blue. The silver mountings on her barrel-organ glinted in the sun.
At her side sat Little My, half-proud and half-embarrassed, because she had tried with her own paws to repair the tea-cosy, and she had scoured the silver tray with sand. Neither article had fared quite well from it, but, very probably, intentions are more important than results.
At some distance the sleepy Mymble was seen to approach, dragging after her the drawing-room carpet in which she had slept through the winter.
This day the spring had decided not to be poetical but simply cheerful. It had spread flocks of small scatterbrained clouds in the sky, it swept down the last specks of snow from every roof, it made new little brooks run everywhere and was playing at April the best it could.
‘I’m awake!’ cried the Snork Maiden expectantly. Moomintroll kindly brushed his snout against hers and said: ‘Happy spring!’ At the same time he wondered whether he would ever be able to tell her about his winter so that she’d understand it.
He saw her run straight to the cupboard to take out her green spring bonnet.
He saw his Daddy eagerly collect wind-gauge and spade and step out on the verandah.
All the time Too-ticky’s barrel-organ was playing and the sunlight streaming down into the valley, as if the elements were sorry for having shown their own subjects such unfriendliness in the past.
‘Snufkin’ll be here today,’ thought Moomintroll. ‘It’s exactly the right kind of day for him to arrive.’
He stood on the verandah and looked at the family. They were hopping around in the garden plot, dizzy with merriment, as at every spring.
He caught Too-ticky’s eye. She cranked the waltz to an end, laughed and said: ‘Now the bathing-house is vacant again!’
‘I’m of the opinion that the only one who can live in the bathing-house after this is Too-ticky herself,’ said Moominmamma. ‘To have a bathing-house is a bit coddling, really. One can just as well step into one’s trunks on the shore.’
‘Thanks,’ said Too-ticky. ‘I’ll think about it.’
And she went on her way down the valley to awaken all the other sleeping Creeps and beasts with her barrel-organ.
But the Snork Maiden had come across the first brave nose-tip of a crocus. It was pushing through the warm spot under the south window, but wasn’t even green yet.
‘Let’s put a glass over it,’ said the Snork Maiden. ‘It’ll be better off in the night if there’s a frost.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Moomintroll. ‘Let it fight it out. I believe it’s going to do still better if things aren’t so easy.’
Suddenly he felt so happy that he had to be alone. He strolled off towards the woodshed.
And when nobody could see him any longer he broke into a run. He ran through the melting snow, with the sun warming his back. H
He ran on down to the shore and out on the landing-stage and straight through the empty, aired bathing-house.
Then he seated himself on the bathing-house steps, with the spring sea at his feet.
He could only just hear the barrel-organ playing in the farthest corner of the valley, if he listened very closely.
Moomintroll looked down in the water and tried to remember the time when the ice had stretched away and melted into the darkness of the horizon.
THE END AND
THE BEGINNING
*A displaced hedgehog is a hedgehog that has been removed from its home against its will and not even had the time to pack its toothbrush – Author’s Note.
*In case the reader feels like having a cry, please take a quick look at page 126. Author’s Note.
Tove Jansson, Moominland Midwinter