Moominsummer Madness

  ‘And how do you get him up from there?’ asked the Fillyjonk excitedly.

  ‘Oh no, no, it’s his face you see,’ explained the Snork Maiden. ‘His ghost! But first we must gather the nine kinds of flowers. One, two, three, and now if you say a word you’ll never marry!’

  *

  While the fire slowly died down to a glow and the morning breeze lazily drifted over the grass, the Snork Maiden and the Fillyjonk gathered their secret nosegays. Time and again they caught each other’s eye and laughed, because that wasn’t forbidden.

  Then they came to the well.

  The Fillyjonk waggled her ears.

  The Snork Maiden nodded, a little pale.

  They began to growl in a low voice, to stamp their feet and turn around. Five times, six times. The seventh turn took some time, because now they felt quite frightened. But once you have started a Midsummer Magic you have to go through with it, otherwise anything may happen.

  With fastly beating hearts they walked backwards to the well, and stopped.

  The Snork Maiden took a firm hold of the Fillyjonk’s paw.

  The streak of sunlight on the eastern sky was broadening, and the smoke of the bonfire was turning pink.

  Together, at the same time, they turned and looked down the well.

  They saw their own reflections, they saw the rim of the well and the reddening sky.

  They waited, trembling. Long.

  And suddenly – well, this is almost too terrible – suddenly

  they saw a large head appear beside their own reflections.

  The head of a Hemulen!

  An angry and very ugly Hemulen in a policeman’s cap.

  At the moment Moomintroll pulled his ninth flower from the ground he heard a terrible shouting. As he turned he saw a big Hemulen who was holding the Snork Maiden with one paw and the Fillyjonk with the other and shaking them, roughly.

  ‘Come along, all three of you!’ cried the Hemulen. ‘You grokely pyromaniacs! Deny it if you can that you’ve pulled down all the notices and burned them! Deny it if you can!’

  But of course they couldn’t. They had promised not to utter a word.

  CHAPTER 8

  About how to write a play

  JUST fancy if Moominmamma had known that Moomintroll was in jail when she awoke on Midsummer Day! And if anybody had been able to tell the Mymble’s daughter that her little sister was asleep in Snufkin’s spruce-twig hut, snugly curled up in angora wool!

  Now they were ignorant, but full of hope. Hadn’t they been mixed up before in stranger events than any other family they knew of, and hadn’t everything turned out for the best every time?

  ‘Little My is used to taking care of herself,’ said the Mymble’s daughter. ‘I’m more worried about the people that happen to cross her path.’

  Moominmamma looked out. It was raining.

  ‘I hope they won’t get colds,’ she thought and carefully sat up in bed. It was necessary to move with care, because since they had run aground the floor was sloping so strongly that Moominpappa had thought it best to nail all the furniture to the floor. The meals were a bother, because the plates kept sliding off the table, and nearly always cracked if you tried to nail them down. Most of the time the Moomins felt like mountaineers. As they had to walk continually with one leg a little higher up than the other, Moominpappa had begun to worry about their legs growing uneven. But Whomper was of the opinion that everything would even out if they took care to walk in both directions.

  Emma was sweeping as usual.

  She clambered laboriously up the floor, pushing the broom before her. When she was half-way all the dust went rolling back, and she had to start all over again.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more practical to sweep the other way?’ Moominmamma suggested helpfully.

  ‘Nobody’s going to teach me how to sweep floors,’ replied Emma. ‘I’ve done this floor in this direction ever since I married Mr Fillyjonk, and I’m going to do it this way till I die.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Fillyjonk?’ asked Moominmamma.

  ‘He’s dead,’ answered Emma with dignity. ‘The Iron Curtain came down on his head one day, and they both cracked.’

  ‘Oh, poor, poor Emma!’ cried Moominmamma.

  Emma dug a yellowed portrait from her pocket.

  ‘This is Mr Fillyjonk as a young man,’ she said.

  Moominmamma looked at the photograph. Mr. Fillyjonk, the stage manager, was sitting in front of a picture with palms. He had impressive whiskers. At his side stood a young person of worried appearance with a small cap on her head.

  ‘What a stylish gentleman,’ said Moorninmanrima. ‘I’ve seen that picture he has behind him.’

  ‘Back-drop for Cleopatra,’ said Emma coldly.

  ‘Is the young lady’s name Cleopatra?’ asked Moominmamma.

  Emma clasped her forehead with her free paw. ‘Cleopatra is the title of a play,’ she said snappily. ‘And the young lady by Mr Fillyjonk’s side is his affected niece. A most disagreeable niece! She keeps sending us invitation cards for Midsummer every year, but I’m very careful not to reply. She just wants to get into the theatre, I’m sure.’

  ‘And why won’t you open to her?’ Moominmamma asked reproachfully.

  Emma put her broom aside.

  ‘I’ve had about enough,’ she declared. ‘You know nothing about the theatre, not the least bit. Less than nothing, and that’s that.’

  ‘But if Emma would only be so kind as to explain a little to me,’ said Moominmamma shyly.

  Emma hesitated, and then she resolved to be kind.

  She seated herself on Moominmamma’s bedside and began: ‘A theatre, that’s no drawing-room, nor is it a house on a raft. A theatre is the most important sort of house in the world, because that’s where people are shown what they could be if they wanted, and what they’d like to be if they dared to and what they really are.’

  ‘A reformatory,’ said Moominmamma, astonished.

  Emma patiently shook her head. She took a scrap of paper, and then with a trembling paw drew a picture of a theatre for Moominmamma. She explained every detail and wrote down the explanations so that Moominmamma wouldn’t forget them. (You’ll find the picture here somewhere.)

  While Emma sat drawing all the others flocked around her.

  ‘I’ll tell you about when we performed Cleopatra,’ Emma was saying. ‘The house was full (I’ll explain that if you wait), and the audience dead silent, because it was the First Night. I had turned on the footlights and floats (perhaps you’ll understand), at sundown as usual, and the moment before the curtain rose I thumped the floor thrice with my broom-handle. Like this!’

  ‘Why?’asked the Mymble’s daughter.

  ‘For effect,’ replied Emma, her small eyes gleaming. ‘Fate knocking, don’t you see. Well, then the curtain rises. There’s a red spot on Cleopatra…’

  ‘She wasn’t ill, was she?’ asked Moominmamma.

  ‘That means a red light, a spot-light,’ said Emma with hard-won composure. ‘All the people in the house catch their breath…’

  ‘Was Mr Propertius there?’ Whomper asked.

  ‘Properties are not a person, as you seem to believe,’ explained Emma quietly. ‘They are all the things you need for acting…. Well, our leading lady was really lovely, a dark-haired beauty…

  ‘Leading lady?’ Misabel interrupted her.

  ‘Yes, the most important of all the actresses. She who has the nicest part and always gets what she wants. But goodness gracious what.’

  ‘I want to be a leading lady,’ said Misabel. ‘But I’d want sad parts. With lots of shouting and crying and crying.’

  ‘In a tragedy then, a real drama,’ said Emma. ‘And you’d have to die in the final act.’

  ‘Yes,’ cried Misabel, her cheeks glowing. ‘Oh, to be someone really different! Nobody would say “Look, there’s old Misabel” any more. They’d say “Look at that pale lady in red velvet… the great actress, you know…. She must have suffered
much.”’

  ‘Are you going to play for us?’ asked Whomper.

  ‘I? Play? For you?’ whispered Misabel with tears starting to her eyes.

  ‘I want to be a leading lady, too,’ said the Mymble’s daughter.

  ‘And what play would you perforai?’ asked Emma sceptically.

  Moominmamma looked at Moominpappa. ‘I suppose you could write a play if Emma helped you,’ she said. ‘You’ve written your Memoirs, and it can’t be so very hard to put in a few rhymes.’

  ‘Dear me, I couldn’t write a play,’ replied Moominpappa, blushing.

  ‘Of course you could, dear,’ said Moominmamma. ‘And then we all learn it by heart, and everybody comes to look at us when we perform it. Lots of people, more and more every time, and they all tell their friends about it and how good it is, and in the end Moomintroll will hear about it also and find his way back to us again. Everybody comes home again and all will be well!’ Moominmamma finished and clapped her paws together.

  They looked doubtfully at each other. Then they glanced at Emma.

  She extended her paws and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I expect it’ll be gruesome,’ she said. ‘But if you absolutely want to get the raspberry, as we say on the stage, well, I can always give you a few hints about how to do it correctly. When I can find the time.’

  And Emma sat down and began to tell them more about the theatre.

  *

  In the evening Moominpappa had finished his play and proceeded to read it to the others. No one interrupted him, and when he had finished there was complete silence.

  Finally Emma said: ‘No. Nono. No and no again.’

  ‘Was it that bad,’ asked Moominpappa, downcast.

  ‘Worse,’said Emma. ‘Listen to this:

  I’m not afraid of any lion,

  be it a wild ‘un or a shy ‘un

  That’s horrid.’

  ‘I want a lion in the play, at all costs,’ Moominpappa replied sourly.

  ‘But you must write it again, in blank verse! Blank verse! Rhymes won’t do!’ said Emma.

  ‘What do you mean, blank verse,’ asked Moominpappa.

  ‘It should go like this: Ti-dum, ti-umty-um – ti-dumty-um-tum,’ explained Emma. ‘And you mustn’t express yourself so naturally.’

  Moominpappa brightened. ‘Do you mean: “I tremble not before the Desert King, be he a savage beast or not so savage”?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Emma. ‘Now go and write it all in blank verse. And remember that in all the good old tragedies most of the people are each other’s relatives.’

  ‘But how can they be angry at each other if they’re of the same family?’ Moominmamma asked cautiously. ‘And is there no princess in the play? Can’t you put in a happy end? It’s so sad when people die.’

  ‘This is a tragedy, dearest,’ said Moominpappa. ‘And because of that somebody has to die in the end. Preferably all except one of them, and perhaps that one too. Emma’s said so.’

  ‘Bags I to die in the end,’ said Misabel.

  ‘And can I be the one who fixes her?’ asked the Mymble’s daughter.

  ‘I thought Moominpappa would write a mystery,’

  Whomper said disappointedly. ‘Something with a lot of suspects and nasty clues.’

  Moominpappa arose pointedly and collected his papers. ‘If you don’t like my play, then by all means write a better one yourselves,’ he remarked.

  ‘Dearest one,’ said Moominmamma. ‘We think it’s wonderful. Don’t we?’

  ‘Of course,’ everybody said.

  ‘You hear,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Everybody likes it. If you just change the style and the plot a little. I’ll see to it that you’re not disturbed, and you can take the whole bowl of candy with you.’

  ‘All right, then,’ replied Moominpapa. ‘But there must be a lion.’

  ‘Of course there must be a lion, dear,’ said Moominmamma.

  Moominpappa worked hard. Nobody spoke or moved. As soon as one sheet of paper was filled he read it aloud amid general applause. Moominmamma refilled the bowl at regular intervals. Everybody felt excited and expectant.

  Sleep was hard to find that evening for them all.

  Emma felt her old legs come to life. She could think of nothing but the dress rehearsal.

  CHAPTER 9

  About an unhappy daddy

  ON the morning of the day Moominpappa wrote his play, and Moomintroll was jailed, Snufkin was awakened by a trickle of rain seeping through the roof of his spruce-twig hut. He looked out in the wet forest, very carefully, because he didn’t want to wake up the twenty-four little children.

  He looked out on a carpet of white flowers that shone like little stars among glistening green ferns. He wished bitterly that they had all been turnips instead.

  ‘I suppose that’s the way fathers think,’ he thought. ‘What shall I give them to eat today? Little My won’t need many beans, but all these others are going to finish off my provisions in no time.’

  He turned and glanced at the woodies asleep in the moss.

  ‘And now they’ll catch cold from the rain, I expect,’ he mumbled bleakly to himself. ‘And that won’t be the worst. I simply can’t invent anything new to amuse them. They don’t smoke. My stories scare them. And I can’t stand on my head all day, because then I won’t get to the Moomin Valley until summer’s over. What a blessing it’s going to be when Moominmamma takes care of them all!’

  ‘Good old Moomintroll,’ Snufkin thought with sudden devotion. ‘We’ll go for moonlight swims together again, and sit and talk in the cave afterwards…’

  At that moment one of the woodies had a bad dream and began to cry. All the others awoke and cried too, out of sympathy.

  ‘Wellwellwell,’ said Snufkin, ‘hoppityhoppityhop! Tweedledeedledeedledee!’

  It had no effect.

  ‘They didn’t think you were funny,’ Little My explained. ‘You must do as my sister does. Tell them that if they don’t shut up you’re going to whack them silly. Then you ask them to forgive you and give them candy.’

  ‘And does that help?’ Snufkin asked.

  ‘No,’said Little My.

  Snufkin raised the spruce-twig hut from the ground and threw it into the bushes.

  ‘That’s what we do with a house when we’ve slept in it,’ he said.

  The woodies fell silent at once and wrinkled their noses in the drizzle.

  ‘It’s raining,’said a small woody.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said another.

  Snufkin looked helplessly at Little My.

  ‘Scare them with the Groke!’ she suggested. ‘That’s what my sister used to do.’

  ‘Does it make you a good girl?’ asked Snufkin.

  ‘Of course not!’ said Little My and laughed so that she toppled over.

  Snufkin sighed. ‘Come along, come along,’ he said. ‘Rise up, rise up! Hurry up and I’ll show you something!’

  ‘What?’ asked the woodies.

  ‘Something…’ said Snufkin uncertainly and waved his hands.

  *

  They walked and they walked.

  And it rained and rained.

  The woodies sneezed and lost their shoes and asked why they couldn’t have some bread and butter. A few of them started a fight. One rammed his snout full of spruce needles, and another one got pricked by a hedgehog.

  Snufkin came near to feeling sorry for the Park Wardress. He was now carrying one woody on his hat, two on his shoulders, and two more under his arms. Drenched and unhappy he stumbled along through the blueberry scrub.

  At that moment, that most melancholy moment, they arrived at a glade. And in the middle of the glade was a small house with withered garlands around its chimneystack and gateposts. Snufkin staggered to the door on wobbly legs. He knocked and waited.

  Nobody opened.

  He knocked once more. Nothing. Then he pushed the door open and stepped in.

  Nobody was at home. The flowers on the table were fade
d, the clock had stopped. He put down the woodies

  and went across the floor to the cold stove. There had been a pancake once. He went to look for a pantry. The woodies silently followed him with their eyes.

  A moment of suspense followed. Then Snufkin returned with a whole keg of beans and put it on the table: ‘Now you can eat yourselves square and round again on beans,’ he said. ‘Because we’re going to stay here a little while and calm down until I’ve learned your names. Light my pipe, someone!’

  All the woodies rushed to light his pipe.

  A while later there was a good fire in the stove, and all dresses and skirts and trousers were hung up to dry. A large dish of steaming beans stood on the table, and outside the rain was gushing down from an evenly grey sky.

  They listened to the rain scuttling over the roof and the logs crackling in the stove.

  ‘Well, what about it, eh?’ Snufkin asked. ‘Who wants to go back to the sand-box?’

  The woodies looked at him and laughed. Then they started on the Fillyjonk’s brown beans.

  But the Fillyjonk was, as we know, quite unaware that she had guests, because she was already in jail for disorderly behaviour.

  CHAPTER 10

  About the dress rehearsal

  IT was the day of the dress rehearsal of Moominpappa’s play, and all the footlights were burning, although it was still only afternoon.

  The beavers had been promised free tickets for the first night the following day if they would push the theatre back on an even keel, and now it was almost right, but the stage still slanted a little which made the acting slightly strained.

  The curtain was drawn, red and mysterious, and outside on the water a small flotilla of boats was curiously bobbing. They had waited since sunrise, and the people in them had brought their own dinners with them in paper bags, because dress rehearsals always take a lot of time.