Moominpappa at Sea

PUFFIN BOOKS

Tove Jansson was born in Helsingfors, Finland, in 1914. Her mother was a caricaturist (and designed 165 of Finland’s stamps) and her father was a sculptor. Tove Jansson studied painting in Finland, Sweden and France. She lived alone on a small island in the gulf of Finland, where most of her books were written.

Tove Jansson died in June 2001.

COMET IN MOOMINLAND

FINN FAMILY MOOMINTROLL

THE EXPLOITS OF MOOMINPAPPA

MOOMINSUMMER MADNESS

MOOMINLAND MIDWINTER

TALES FROM MOOMINVALLEY

MOOMINPAPPA AT SEA

MOOMINVALLEY IN NOVEMBER

PUFFIN BOOKS

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First published in Finland as Pappan och Havet 1965

This translation published in English by Ernest Benn Ltd 1966

Published in Puffin Books 1974

Reprinted in this edition 2009

1

Copyright © Tove Jansson, 1965
English translation copyright © Ernest Benn Ltd, 1966

All rights reserved

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-14-192282-9

The Family in the Crystal Ball

The Lighthouse

The West Wind

The North-Easter

The Fog

The Waning Moon

The South-West Wind

The Lighthouse-Keeper

ONE afternoon at the end of August, Moominpappa was walking about in his garden feeling at a loss. He had no idea what to do with himself, because it seemed everything there was to be done had already been done or was being done by somebody else.

Moominpappa aimlessly pottered about in his garden, his tail dragging along the ground behind him in a melancholy way. Here, down in the valley, the heat was scorching; everything was still and silent, and not a little dusty. It was the month when there could be great forest fires, the month for taking great care.

He had warned the family. Time and time again he had explained how necessary it was to be careful in August. He had described the burning valley, the roar of the flames, the white-hot tree trunks, and the fire
creeping along the ground underneath the moss. Blinding columns of flame flung upwards against the night sky! Waves of fire, rushing down the sides of the valley and on towards the sea…

‘Sizzling, they throw themselves into the sea,’ finished Moominpappa with gloomy satisfaction. ‘Everything is black, everything has been burned up. A tremendous responsibility rests on the smallest creature who can lay his paws on matches.’

The family stopped what they were doing and said: ‘Yes. Of course. Yes, yes.’ Then they took no more notice of him, and got on with what they were doing.

They were always doing something. Quietly, without interruption, and with great concentration, they carried on with the hundred-and-one small things that made up their world. It was a world that was very private, and self-contained, and to which nothing could be added. Like a map where everything has been discovered, everywhere inhabited, and where there are no bare patches left any longer. And they said to each other: ‘He always talks about forest fires in August.’

Moominpappa climbed up the veranda steps. His paws got stuck in the varnish as usual, making little sucking sounds all the way up and across the floor, right up to the wicker chair. His tail got stuck, too; it felt as though someone was pulling it.

Moominpappa sat down and shut his eyes. ‘That floor ought to be revarnished,’ he thought. ‘The heat makes it like that, of course. But a good varnish shouldn’t start melting just because it’s hot. Perhaps I
used the wrong sort of varnish. It’s an awful long time since I built the veranda, and it’s high time it was revarnished. But first it’ll have to be rubbed with sandpaper, a rotten job that no one will thank me for doing. But there’s something special about a new white floor, painted with a thick brush and shiny varnish. The family will have to use the back door and keep out of the way while I’m doing it. And then I’ll let them come in, saying: “There you are! Look, your new veranda!”… It’s much too hot. I’d love to be out sailing. Sailing right out to sea, as far as I can go…’

Moominpappa felt a sleepy feeling in his paws. He shook himself and lit his pipe. The match went on burning in his ash-tray, and he watched it, fascinated. Just before it went out he tore up some bits of newspaper and put them on the flame. It was a pretty little fire, hardly visible in the sunshine, but it was burning nicely. He watched it carefully.