Moominsummer Madness

  ‘Mother, what’s a dress rehearsal?’ asked a poor hedge-hog child in one of the boats.

  ‘It’s when they practise the play for the very last time to be quite sure that everything’s in order,’ explained the hedgehog mother. ‘Tomorrow they’ll act in real earnest, and then one has to pay to look at them. Today’s free for poor hedgehogs like us.’

  But the people behind the curtain were not at all sure that everything was in order. Moominpappa was rewriting his play. Misabel was crying.

  ‘Didn’t we tell you that we both wanted to die in the end!’ exclaimed the Mymble’s daughter. ‘Why should only she be eaten by the lion? The Lion’s Brides, we told you. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Moominpappa answered nervously. ‘The lion shall devour, first you, and lastly Misabel. Don’t disturb me, I’m trying to think in blank verse,’

  ‘Have you got the family matters right now, dear?’ Moominmamma asked worriedly. ‘Yesterday the Mymble’s daughter was married to your runaway son. Is it Misabel who’s married to him now, and am I her mother? And is the Mymble’s daughter unmarried?’

  ‘I don’t want to be unmarried,’ the Mymble’s daughter said at once.

  ‘They can be sisters,’ cried Moominpappa desperately. ‘The Mymble’s daughter is your daughter-in-law. I mean mine. Your aunt, that is.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ remarked Whomper. ‘If Moominmamma’s married to you, then it’s impossible for your daughter-in-law to be our aunt.’

  ‘It’s all the same to me,’ cried Moominpappa. ‘There’ll never be any play to perform, anyway!’

  ‘Easy now, easy now,’ said Emma with unexpected understanding. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. And anyway the audience won’t understand a word.’

  ‘Emma dear,’ said Moominmamma. ‘This dress is too narrow for me… it keeps slipping up in the back.’

  ‘Now remember,’ said Emma, her mouth full of pins, ‘you mustn’t look so happy when you come on the stage and tell him that your son has told him a pack of lies!’

  ‘No, I promise,’ said Moominmamma.

  Misabel was reading her part. Suddenly she threw the paper away and cried: ‘It’s far too lighthearted! It doesn’t suit me at all!’

  ‘Hush, Misabel,’ said Emma sternly. ‘We start now. Are the spots ready?’

  Whomper turned on the yellow spotlight.

  ‘Red! Red!’ the Mymble’s daughter shouted. ‘My entrance’s red! Why must he always take the wrong light!’

  ‘They all do,’ said Emma calmly. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I can’t remember my lines,’ mumbled Moominpappa, panic-striken. ‘Not a word!’

  Emma patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s as it should be,’ she said. ‘Everything’s exactly as it should be on a dress rehearsal.’

  She thumped the floor three times with her broomstick, and silence fell over the boats outside. With a thrill of happiness in her old body she grasped the crank handle to raise the curtain.

  Admiring whispers were heard among the sparse audience. Most of the hedgehogs had never been to the theatre before.

  They saw a landscape of wild rocks, in red light.

  To the right of the looking-glass cabinet (draped in black cloth), the Mymble’s daughter was sitting, dressed in a tulle skirt, and a wreath of paper-flowers around her hairknot.

  She studied the audience with great interest for some time and then spoke, rapidly and casually:

  If I must die tonight, in blooming youth,

  While all my innocence cries to high heav’n,

  Then into Blood may bloodily turn the sea

  And into dust the sprightliness of spring!

  A Rosebud, blushing still from childish sleep

  I’m slewn to earth by unrelenting Fate!

  Behind the scenes rose a shrill chant. It was Emma:

  O Night, O Night, O Night, O Night of Fate!

  Now Moominpappa entered from the left with a cloak carelessly draped over his shoulder, turned to the audience, and recited in a trembling voice:

  The bonds of Family and Friendship must

  Be broken at the sad command of Duty.

  Alas, shall then my crown be lifted off

  By th’sister of my daughter’s nephew?

  He felt that there was something wrong with the words, and resumed:

  Alas, shall then my crown be lifted off

  By the sister-in-law of my daughter’s son?

  Moominmamma put in her head from the wings and whispered: ‘By the sister of my daughter’s sister’s son!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Moominpappa. ‘I’ll skip that part this time.’

  He took a step towards the Mymble’s daughter, who hid herself behind the cabinet, and continued:

  Then tremble, treacherous Mymble, tremble now

  And listen to the beastly lion’s roar

  As hungrily he stamps about his cage

  Ululating at the moon!

  A long silence followed.

  ‘Ululating at the moon!’ repeated Moominpappa, louder.

  Nothing happened.

  He turned to the left and asked: ‘Why doesn’t the lion ululate?’

  ‘I wasn’t to ululate until Whomper hoisted the moon,’ replied Emma.

  Whomper put out his head. ‘Misabel promised to make a moon, and she hasn’t,’ he said.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Moominpappa hastily. ‘We’ll try Misabel’s entrance now, because I’m not in the right mood anyway.’

  Slowly Misabel glided on to the stage in her red velvet robe. For a long time she remained motionless with her paw over her eyes, feeling what it felt like to be a leading lady. It felt wonderful.

  ‘O happiness,’ prompted Moominmamma who thought she had forgotten her opening lines.

  ‘I know, I’m just holding them spellbound!’ Misabel hissed back. She staggered towards the footlights and reached out her arms to the audience. There was a click as Whomper started the wind machine behind the scenes.

  ‘Is that a vacuum-cleaner?’ asked the hedgehog child.

  ‘Hush!’ said the hedgehog mother.

  Misabel started on her first great monologue:

  O happiness and joy when I behold

  Yourself beheaded at my own behest…

  She took a rapid step, stumbled on the velvet trail and fell over the footlights straight down in the nearest hedgehog’s boat.

  The audience cheered and jointly lifted Misabel back up on the stage.

  ‘Take my advice, miss,’ said a middle-aged beaver, ‘better cut off her head at once!’

  ‘Whose head?’ Misabel asked, wonderingly.

  ‘Your son-in-law’s niece’s, of course,’ replied the beaver encouragingly.

  ‘They’ve misunderstood the whole thing,’ whispered Moominpappa to Moominmamma. ‘Come on at once, please.’

  Moominmamma hastily gathered her skirts and appeared on the stage with a friendly and slightly shy smile.

  Now hide your face, I bring black tidings hither!

  Your son has told you but a pack of fibs!

  she said happily.

  Moominpappa stared nervously at her.

  ‘Where is the lion,’ she prompted helpfully.

  ‘Where is the lion,’ repeated Moominpappa. ‘Where is the lion,’ he said uncertainly once more. Finally, he shouted: ‘Well, where is it?’

  A great stamping could be heard behind the scenes. Then the lion entered. It consisted of a beaver in the forelegs and another in the hind legs. The audience shouted with delight.

  The lion hesitated. Then it walked up to the footlights and took a bow, and broke in the middle.

  The audience clapped and began to row home.

  ‘It isn’t finished!’ shouted Moominpappa.

  ‘Dearest, they’ll come back tomorrow,’ said Moominmamma. ‘And Emma says that the first night never succeeds if the dress rehearsal hasn’t been a little so-so.’

  ‘Does she really,’ replied M
oominpappa, reassured. ‘Well, anyway they laughed several times!’ he added happily.

  But Misabel turned her back to the others for a while to quieten her thumping heart.

  ‘They clapped!’ she whispered to herself. ‘Oh, how happy I am! I’ll always, always feel happy after this!’

  CHAPTER 11

  About tricking jailers

  NEXT morning the playbills were sent out. All kinds of birds flew along the inlet and dropped them. The bills (written and coloured by Whomper and the Mymble’s daughter), fluttered down over the forest and the shore and the meadows, in the water, on housetops and in gardens.

  One of the playbills was dropped over the jail and landed at the feet of the Hemulen who was sitting half asleep in the sunshine with his policeman’s cap over his snout.

  He picked it up, feeling very excited, and suspecting a secret message intended for his prisoners.

  At the moment he had not less than three prisoners, the most he had ever had since he took his jailer’s degree. It was nearly two years since the last time he had locked anybody up, so naturally he took no chances now.

  The Hemulen adjusted his glasses and read the bill aloud to himself:

  First Night!!!

  THE LION’S BRIDES or BLOOD WILL OUT

  A Tragedy in One Act by Moominpappa

  Performed by

  Moominpappa, Moominmamma, The Mymble’s Daughter, Misabel, and Whomper.

  Chorus: Emma.

  Tickets against anything eatable.

  The Tragedy begins at sunset if the weather keeps good, and will end at ordinary bedtime. Performed in the middle of Spruce Creek. Boats for hire from the Hemulens.

  The Management

  ‘A play?’ said the Hemulen thoughtfully and took off his glasses again. Deep in his heart stirred a faint, unhemulic memory of his childhood. Quite, his aunt had taken him to the theatre once. That was something about a princess who went to sleep in a rosebush. It had been very beautiful. The Hemulen had rather liked it.

  Suddenly he knew that he wanted to go to the theatre again.

  But who would guard his prisoners?

  He knew of no Hemulen who could possibly find the time. The poor jailer racked his hemulic brain. He pressed his snout against the iron bars of the cage that stood in the shadow beside his chair, and said: ‘I’d like so much to go to the theatre tonight.’

  ‘The theatre?’ said Moomintroll, pointing his ears.

  ‘Yes, The Lion’s Brides’ explained the Hemulen and pushed the playbill between the bars. ‘And now I can’t imagine whom I could get to watch you in the meantime.’

  Moomintroll and the Snork Maiden read the playbill. They looked at each other.

  ‘I suppose it’s about some princess or other,’ said the Hemulen plaintively. It’s ages since I saw a little princess.’

  ‘Of course you’ll have to go,’ said the Snork Maiden. ‘Is there really no one who could watch us?’

  ‘Well, there’s my cousin,’ replied the Hemulen. ‘But she’s too kindhearted. Perhaps she’d let you out.’

  ‘When are we going to be beheaded,’ the Fillyjonk suddenly asked.

  ‘Oh, dear me, nobody’s going to behead you,’ replied the Hemulen, quite embarrassedly. ‘You’ll just have to sit there until you confess. Then you’ll be sentenced to painting new notices and writing out “Strictly forbidden” five thousand times each.’

  ‘But we’re innocent,’ began the Fillyjonk.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the Hemulen. ‘I’ve heard it before. They all say that.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Moomintroll. ‘You’ll be sorry for the rest of your life if you don’t go to that play. I’m certain there are princesses in it. The Lion’s Brides.’

  The Hemulen shrugged his shoulders with a sigh.

  ‘Now don’t be foolish,’ said the Snork Maiden entreatingly. ‘Let’s have a look at your cousin. I suppose a kindhearted jailer is better than none, anyway!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied the Hemulen sourly. He rose and shuffled off through the bushes.

  ‘There you are!’ said Moomintroll. ‘Remember out dream on Midsummer Night? About lions! A big lion that was bitten in the leg by Little My! But I wonder what they are up to at home!’

  ‘I dreamed that I had a lot of new relatives,’ said the Fillyjonk. ‘Wasn’t that horrid? Now, when I’m rid of the old ones.’

  The Hemulen returned. He was accompanied by a very small and thin Hemulen with a timid look.

  ‘Do you think you can watch these for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Do they bite?’ the small Hemulen whispered. She was evidently quite a failure (from a hemulic point of view). The Hemulen snorted and gave her the key.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘They’ll bite your head off, snip-snop, if you let them out. Cheerio, I’m off to dress for the first night.’

  As soon as he had disappeared, the little Hemulen seated herself and began crocheting. Now and then she glanced at the cage. She looked frightened.

  ‘What are you making?’ the Snork Maiden asked kindly.

  The small Hemulen gave a start. ‘I don’t know, really,’ she whispered anxiously. ‘I just feel a bit more secure with my crocheting.’

  ‘Couldn’t you make it into slippers, it’s such a nice slipper colour,’ suggested the Snork Maiden.

  The small Hemulen examined her crocheting and thought for a while.

  ‘Don’t you know anybody who has cold feet?’ asked the Fillyjonk.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a girl friend,’ said the little Hemulen.

  ‘I know one too,’ the Fillyjonk continued in a friendly tone. ‘My aunt. She’s working at a theatre. There’s such a cross-draught they say. Must be an unpleasant place.’

  ‘Here’s quite a draught, too,’ said Moomintroll.

  ‘My cousin, ought to have thought of that,’ said the little Hemulen shyly. ‘If you wait a bit I’ll crochet slippers for you.’

  ‘I suppose we’re dead before they’re finished,’ Moomintroll replied bleakly.

  The little Hemulen looked quite alarmed and came nearer to the cage. ‘Suppose I put a blanket over it?’ she suggested.

  Moomintroll and the Snork Maiden shrugged their shoulders and huddled shivering close to each other.

  ‘Do you really feel such a draught?’ asked the little Hemulen worriedly.

  The Snork Maiden coughed hollowly. ‘Perhaps a cup of tea with blackcurrant jam would save me,’ she said. ‘Possibly.’

  The little Hemulen hesitated. She was pressing her crocheting to her snout and staring at them. ‘If you’d die…’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘If you’d die, then there wouldn’t be any fun left for my cousin when he comes home.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said the Fillyjonk. ‘And anyway I have to measure your feet for the slippers.’

  They nodded convincingly.

  Then the little Hemulen opened the cage and said, shyly: ‘Perhaps you’ll give me the pleasure of accepting a nice cup of hot tea? With blackcurrant jam. And of course you shall have the slippers as soon as I can crochet them. So kind of you to hit upon that slipper idea! It’ll make my crocheting so purposeful, if you see what I mean.’

  They walked to the little Hemulen’s house and had some tea. She insisted on baking several sorts of cake, so that it was already dusk when the Snork Maiden rose and said: ‘Now I’m afraid we’ll have to go. Thank you ever so much for the nice party!’

  ‘It’s really terrible to have to put you back in jail again,’ the little Hemulen said apologetically and lifted down the key from its nail.

  ‘But we don’t intend to go back there,’ replied Moomintroll. ‘We’re going home to the theatre.’

  The little Hemulen had tears in her eyes. ‘That’ll make my cousin terribly, terribly disappointed,’ she said.

  ‘But we’re absolutely innocent!’ the Fillyjonk exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, why didn’t you tell me that at once,’ said the little Hemulen, relieved. ‘Then of course you must go home. But perhaps
I’d better come along with you and explain it all to my cousin.’

  CHAPTER 12

  About a dramatic First Night

  WHILE the little Hemulen entertained her guests at tea, more and more of the playbills kept fluttering down over the forest. One of them drifted down in a small glade and landed and stuck on a newly-tarred roof.

  Twenty-four small woodies immediately swarmed up on the roof to bring down the bill. Every one of them wanted to be the one who gave it to Snufkin and as the paper was rather thin it was quickly transformed into twenty-four very small playbills (of which a few fell down the chimney and caught fire).

  ‘A letter for your!’ shouted the woodies, gliding, scuttling and rolling down from the roof.

  ‘Oh, you grokelings!’ said Snufkin who was busy washing socks by the porch. ‘Have you forgotten that we tarred the roof this morning? Do you want me to go away and leave you, throw myself in the sea or box your ears?’

  ‘No!’ shouted the woodies, pulling at his coat. ‘We want you to read your letter!’

  ‘My letters, you mean,’ replied Snufkin and brushed off the soap-suds from his hands in the hair of the nearest little child. ‘Well, well. Looks like it might have been an interesting one.’

  He smoothed out the crumpled scraps on the lawn and tried to piece them together.

  ‘Aloud!’ cried the woodies.

  ‘Tragedy in One Act,’ Snufkin read. ‘The Lion’s Brides or… (here’s a piece missing) Tickets against anything eatable… (mphm)… begins at suns… (sunset)… if the weather keeps good (that’s quite clear)… nary bedt… (no, I can’t make that out)… middle of Spruce Creek.’

  ‘Mphm,’ said Snufkin ‘This, dear little beasts, is no letter at all – it’s a playbill. Somebody seems to be producing a play tonight in Spruce Creek. Why it has to be in the water goodness knows, but perhaps it’s needed for the plot.’

  ‘Are children allowed?’ asked the smallest of the woodies.

  ‘Are there real lions?’ cried the others. ‘When do we go?’

  ‘Snufkin looked at them and understood that it was necessary to take them to the play.

  ‘Perhaps I can pay for the tickets with the keg of beans,’ he thought worriedly. ‘If it’s enough. We’ve eaten quite a lot… I hope people won’t think that all twenty-four are my own… I’d feel embarrassed. And what shall I give them to eat tomorrow?’