"...that is all ye need to know"

       “…And so Wimsy and I found the darkest, most sordid and disreputable pub in the entire town,” Moominpappa continued his tale, leaning back in his chair and pausing only to draw on his pipe. Steady now, no rocking on the chair; it’s a hazard to one’s health and sets a bad example for the children; and the parlour was quite full of children tonight. Moominmamma would be sure to scold him for it later, once the guests had departed. Ah, what he wouldn’t give for a proper rocking-chair, as befits a celebrated author! Should he purchase one with the royalties from his new collection of brilliant tales? Alas, that was a long time coming. Never mind! He would build one himself. He was a Moomin of many talents, builder of houses, ships, and now, surely, a he could knock a chair together… If only he had time! But alas, writer’s schedule is tighter than Inspector’s braces… Now, he’d better concentrate, or the thread of the narrative would be lost. “…The establishment was called Saboteur’s Liver, ' and inside, the slimiest blokes I have ever seen were nursing their whiskies. All in long black coats, hats pulled down over their noses, and sporting moustaches, clearly false. But which among them was Foreign Agent Number Nine? Wimsy, the innocent one, proposed bellowing from the threshold for the agent to identify himself, but I managed to restrain him. You see, Agent Number Seven had communicated with us only in whispers and insisted upon the utmost secrecy, and how could one disregard the wishes of someone to whom we owed such a thrilling adventure? So we circulated among the patrons, whispering the password’s question into each ear… Now then, remind me what it was?” Moominpappa knew it was a splendid idea to involve the audience in the tale. It made them listen all the keener. “'How much information? '” Moomin and Little My cried in unison. Sniff, lagging a second or two behind, spluttered 'incrustation' instead of 'information, ' while Nonnon, the diligent girl she was, supplied the countersign as well. Ah, was there any finer thing in a writer’s life than this? The children’s eyes ablaze, their mouths agape with excitement, their little paws clenched tight… Moomin was practically glowing, not merely enthralled by the story, but bursting with pride in his father, who had not only experienced such astonishing adventures but could paint them so vividly that even Nonnon, breathless with suspense, clutched Moomin’s elbow and pressed herself against his grey-furred side. Such a wealth of joy in a single moment. Snork, true to himself, maintained an air of dignified detachment, but the involuntary twitch of the tip of his tail betrayed his interest. “And this cabinet with the blueprints and prototype secret weapons was right there in the Town Hall, completely unguarded?” he grumbled, doing his utmost to feign indifference. An insufferable pedant, that one. Three university degrees and an aristocratic family pride did little to improve his appreciation of a good story. “Well, there was a desk in the corridor, but it was unattended,” Moominpappa explained. “Perhaps the guard had left their post for a glass of, er… lemonade.” He fixed Snork with a meaningful glare, endeavouring to convey that interrupting a storyteller was Extremely Rude. A pity Snork wouldn’t follow Sniff’s example, listening with large ears pricked, letting out little whimpers at the most suspenseful parts. A model audience, that kid. Snufkin, too, was a good listener. Seated on the floor beneath the window, he rarely looked at Moominpappa, but that was only because his attention was fixed on the neck of his guitar as he felt for chords. Yet his attention was undeniable; his unobtrusive accompaniment always matched the narrative’s mood precisely: dramatic chords for moments of tension, playful flourishes for comic relief, gentle strains for philosophical digressions. Just now, during the squabble in the audience, he had lapsed into something light and neutral. “Yes, well, where was I? Ah, on about the fifth attempt, we located the foreign agent who knew the password. He led us to a furnished backroom, then proceeded to search every cupboard, every inch of wallpaper, every floorboard, every mirror, vase, and shelf for any sign of spies or surveillance equipment. Having turned the poor room upside down, he finally accepted the sheet of paper bearing the mysterious formula and thanked us for our service to the valley. 'For the glory of Moominvalley! ' I cried. He did, however, correct me that he was acting in the interests of his own valley, but he handed us a weighty sack of gold coins and departed via the chimney. Wimsy volunteered to carry the heavy bag, and the burden was a joy to him. I, however, carried doubts, and with every step they grew heavier than gold. That slight geographical discrepancy concerning Foreign Agent Number Nine troubled me. So when I glimpsed a constable idling at his post, I approached him with a perfectly innocent enquiry: could he perhaps specify the meaning of that curious word, 'foreign agent'? He produced a tattered notebook of crib-sheets from his pocket (for he was not, I must say, the most diligent or talented of officers) and leafed through it at length before delivering a most appalling revelation: a foreign agent is none other than a spy!” Little My’s mouth fell open, her eyes fairly popping from her head. But her pesky nature would give neither her nor the company any peace. “And did you pinch the policeman’s pistol, go back to the pub, shoot the lot of them, snatch back the formula, and then go on the run from the law, the secret service, and the gangsters?” she burst out, choking with glee. Moominpappa had noted a marked taste for dramatic resolutions involving substantial casualties in her tiny but highly energetic person. It was a mercy she had no access to gunpowder and cannon, or Moominvalley would long since have been transformed from a flowering dale into a battlefield. Well, she didn’t even need gunpowder. A single box of matches had sufficed to reduce Mymble’s shed to ashes. Ah, that was what came of a child growing up without the steadying influence of a wise father. Her elder sister, while a perfectly agreeable mymble in every respect, was simply no match for this little pest and troublemaker. Besides her horrid character, she possessed a most unbridled imagination; fortunately, her notions of a gripping story differed from Moominpappa’s, which were grounded in a long and eventful life. It would have been most awkward and mortifying had she inadvertently proposed the very plot twist the author himself had planned. “No,” he declared with dignity, heightening the suspense. “My only firearm was a blazing righteous fury, with which I launched myself at the now-familiar foreign agent and butted him square in the stomach. Happily, my top hat emerged unscathed, which was more than could be said for the spy. He folded in half, and I had no trouble retrieving the formula from him. Had it been my choice, I’d have returned the ill-gotten gold as well, but Wimsy absolutely refused to part with the precious sack, declaring it compensation for moral damages. And so we took to running. Through the window, naturally, as any self-respecting adventurers would. We leapt across rooftops, scrambled over fences, slid down gutters and drainpipes, while fresh spies popped out of every alley in futile attempts to catch us. Poor Wimsy was flagging; the sack of gold hindered him dreadfully, yet he could not abandon it, and I could not abandon him, for friendship is worth more than any amount of gold.” Oh, that was well said! Moominpappa was justly proud of his knack for weaving moral lessons even into his most outlandish adventure tales. Was it not a writer’s duty to edify the younger generation? And to ensure the valuable sentiment took proper root in youthful minds, Moominpappa called for tea to wet his whistle, and with the tea Moominmamma would surely bring some cinnamon buns; the guests would indulge in the refreshments, and the paterfamilias would have leisure to plot the remainder of his course between logical inconsistencies, improbable twists, and all manner of digressions. “…and then, by great good fortune,” an hour later, he was at last approaching the denouement, “a wooden crate came drifting past us on the current. We raced to intercept it, and of course, I reached it first, unencumbered as I was by clothing. We Moomintrolls are perfect by nature—as are you Snorks, too—and have no need of multiple layers of rags like Hemulens or Fillyjonks. Besides which, I am an excellent swimmer. The crate sat low in the water and threatened to sink entirely if four fully grown gentlemen in the prime of life attempted to board it. With great difficulty, and employing various spy gadgets, we pried it open. And what do you suppose we discovered within?” Moominpappa paused for dramatic effect. He took a sip of tea before it grew entirely cold, and had just time to catch his breath when Snufkin abruptly broke off a rising, delicate guitar trill. The wanderer’s face was partly shadowed by his hat-brim, and Moominpappa caught only the flicker at one corner of his mouth, what might have been a carefully concealed smirk. Perhaps he genuinely foresaw the next plot twist? Well, at least he wouldn’t spoil the effect by sharing his mind. Moominpappa exhaled and continued his tale: “We found the crate packed to the brim with the finest contraband whisky! And straight away we set about disposing of it. But this was no mindless despair-induced drinking, no! We stoppered the empty bottles, bound them together with the spies' scarves, and fashioned ourselves improvised life preservers. Yes, we might simply have poured the alcohol into the sea, but what if it attracted sharks? Or what if the plankton drank it, became unaccustomedly tipsy, attacked us, and then suffered from hangovers next morning? No, we could only sacrifice our own health. Besides, the empty crate floated much better, supporting us all… And we might have drifted for years, ending our days upon some desert island, had it not been for—well, I have never been a pessimist. Wimsy had his spells of despondency, but your humble servant—never! To distract our involuntary companions, the spies, from their dire predicament, Wimsy and I struck up an ancient sea shanty, which I shall perform for you in full when you are somewhat older…” Snufkin abruptly shifted his melody to something softly boisterous. Moominpappa made a mental note to ask him later if he knew any suitable nautical songs, properly salty but not too raw for tender twelve-year-old ears. “The spies, heartened by our indomitable optimism, joined in on the chorus, when suddenly…” Moominpappa drew on his pipe, releasing another perfect smoke ring. A fine spot for a little, what was the term… cliffhanger, before the happy ending. “…when suddenly the waves parted, and an enormous, shaggy, scaly head, reeking of putrid seaweed, rose from the unfathomable depths. It was a sea serpent! Or rather, a sea serpentess, as I discerned traces of waterproof lipstick on the horny plates edging her mouth and sea lilies and anemones (marine ones) caught among her tangles. Terror seized the spies at the sight of this monster, but I kept my wits about me. A lady is a lady, even if she stretches the length of three football pitches. 'Good evening, madam! ' I pronounced in my most courteous tone, raising my top hat in salute. The spies snatched at their bowlers as well; only Wimsy could not let go of the crate that served as our life raft. Not that one could doff a fur cap with any elegance. 'Madam, ' I continued, 'would you be so kind as to transport us to the nearest shore, preferably inhabited, preferably on the continent, and best of all, directly to Moominvalley? ' Mark my words, children: courtesy touches every heart. 'With pleasure, ' the sea serpentess replied, 'but only if you continue singing. You warble off-key precisely as my late husband did; it brings on such a sweet melancholy… I weep every night, you know, and my tears have raised the sea level by a full three centimetres. Scientists complain about global warming, but it’s all me, a lonely creature with a broken heart.' As a gentleman, I could not but assure her that any true man would count it an honour to be her companion—excluding, of course, married men such as myself.” Moominpappa paused to blow a kiss to the most beautiful moominmamma in all the world. “Wimsy, too, was deeply moved and presented her with nearly his entire sack of gold coins. He kept but one for himself, to celebrate our miraculous deliverance. And so, with song, we clambered atop her head and sped off faster than any motor launch, until, besides her own whiskers, the serpentess sported a fine set of sea-spray moustaches, and her wake reached the far shore of the sea. Shortly before dawn, we landed on the beach of our beloved valley, just where the pier with its bathing pavilion has yet to be built…” “How can you possibly know about its wake,” Snork could not refrain from pointing out, “when you were on this shore and not that one? That is the first point. Secondly, sea serpents do not exist; there are only sea snakes, and their dimensions do not exceed that of an ordinary belt with a buckle. Thirdly, I have not enough fingers and toes to enumerate all the inconsistencies…” But his younger sister shushed him, Sniff glared disapprovingly, and Little My gave his tail a sharp tug. To silence him definitively, Moominmamma refilled his teacup and slid towards him a plate of biscuits that had materialised from goodness knows where (no doubt she had been concealing them from Sniff, who had a habit of eating everything around him when agitated). “Pappa never lies!” Moomin sprang to his father’s defence, and Moominpappa’s heart swelled with gratitude and pride at such filial trust. “Mamma, isn’t it true? You had already met Pappa when all this happened, hadn’t you?” “Oh, my dear…” Moominmamma hid her hands beneath her apron, as she often did in moments of confusion. Moominpappa understood perfectly: she would have liked to protect him, but she was not adept at, well, not at lying, precisely, but at presenting events in a favourable light. “Yes, we were already together, and the first floor of the house was finished. Nearly. A-and… Oh yes, of course I remember that morning when I went to the kitchen to make myself some coffee, and I was passing through the parlour when suddenly I saw you, my dear,” she glanced briefly at Moominpappa and immediately averted her eyes, “asleep on the table, and Wimsy under it. Both soaking wet, both smelling of seaweed and whisky. So I daresay the rest is perfectly true.” “A poor sort of proof,” Snork grumbled, though with lesser fervour. He turned to the window. “Snufkin, what say you? Do sea serpents of such size exist, or are they merely hallucinations of sailors who have overindulged in rum?” Snufkin finished his musical phrase before lifting his serene gaze. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” And he lowered his head once more, attending to his fingers upon the fretboard, shielded by his hat-brim. Snork was thoroughly discomfited. “I respect Shakespeare, no doubt, but in matters of the motions and mysteries of the soul, in the dramatic arts, and not in marine zoology…” “This isn’t one of your university lectures!” Little My growled, fixing her predatory grin upon his tail once more. Snork tucked his tail between his legs, glanced about for support, and found it upon the wall-clock. “Oh dear, is it nine o’clock already? Pray excuse us, my sister and I must return home. I have a ballistics experiment planned for the morning; should it prove successful, you shall all witness the result. And if not…” He sighed beneath the twofold burden of uncertainty and a heavy supper. “If not, you shall hear it.” “Aha! We’ll come with buckets to put out the fire, as usual!” As usual, Little My’s notion of tact was somewhat wanting, and the two such dissimilar creatures continued their bickering all the way to the door. Behind them, Moomin took his sweetheart by the paw and set off to escort her to the Snorks' automobile. Moominpappa smiled to himself: what a charming couple they made! His son clearly possessed the same impeccable taste as his father. Snufkin, as was his custom, prepared to slip away unnoticed, without farewell. But Moominpappa intercepted him in the doorway, hesitated, gathered his courage. No, this would not do. His son might return at any moment, or Moominmamma might finish washing the dishes… “Thank you, Snufkin,” Moominpappa finally ventured. Snufkin glanced up from beneath his hat, one eyebrow raised, though without surprise. “Not at all.” “For indulging an elderly fantast in his favourite occupation.” “Oh, please.” A shadow of a smile, now utterly devoid of irony, flickered across his weathered features. “As one poet observed, 'Beauty is truth—that’s all ye need to know.' Your stories are beautiful, for they warm hearts and stir the imagination; therefore they are true.” “A poet?” Moominpappa was taken aback, quickly masking a flicker of jealousy with a hearty laugh. “Not yourself, by any chance?” “No, a British one.” And adjusting his guitar upon his shoulder, he stepped out into the cool, blue twilight. The Snorks' automobile had just departed, and Moomin promptly shifted his full attention to his friend; he appeared to be intending to accompany Snufkin all the way to his tent. Chuckling to himself, Moominpappa released an exceptionally perfect smoke-ring and returned to the warmth of the house, to the mingled scents of baking and sun-warmed timber, to the clink of plates and cups from the kitchen. A fine house he had built, for all that. A fine son he had raised. Now he had only to live up, in some small measure, to this ideal. He ascended to his study. Lit the lamp, cast a wary glance at the stack of blank paper upon his desk. No, a typewriter would never do, the whole house would hear whether the head of the family was working or merely idling. As now. Ignoring the guilt at this waste of time, Moominpappa turned to his bookshelves, running fingers along the spines. Oh, that sweet dolce far niente, that irritating, hateful procrastination! But he must discover which poet Snufkin had quoted (his ability to deploy classical quotations, sparingly but always to a point, had never ceased to astonish Moominpappa). Now then, an anthology of human poets from the Misty Isles… Leafing through a few volumes, he found the lines. Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn. Well, well. Snufkin had not lied. Though why should he?.. He had merely shortened the quotation. Forgotten, perhaps, that the complete sentence ran: “'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, '—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” Or else… Or else it had been no error, and the wanderer, in his tactful way, had omitted the part that might have distressed the master of the house? Yes, Snufkin could be direct and uncompromising when expressing his opinions, but only in exceptional circumstances—and that had been long ago, when he first appeared in the valley. And this evening he had already taken the side of imaginative fancy in that contest between truth and beauty, had he not? Reassured, Moominpappa returned the volume to its shelf and heaved a heavy sigh. No further obstacles remained between him and his desk. The paper awaited; ink was to hand, and pens likewise—metal nibs requiring no sharpening. He had no desire for drink, nor for sleep; his pipe need not be knocked out just yet. With an effort, he took up his pen. “One morning my friend Wimsy, my comrade in many a stirring adventure, and I awoke to a profound sense of the emptiness and futility of our existences, as though we had been bitten by the Muskrat…” Or should it be 'existence'? And where to insert a description of Wimsy’s appearance, character, and peculiarities? At the beginning, before the reader could mistakenly suppose Wimsy also to be a Moomintroll rather than a Hemulen? Or later, once the plot had gathered momentum, to prevent that same reader from growing bored? Or perhaps omit the description entirely, reserving the portrait for another book, recounting the author’s first meeting with one of his earliest and dearest friends? The words lay upon the page in neat, lifeless rows, utterly refusing to arrange themselves into that truth which he felt within. The crumpled, violated sheet joined its dozen elder brethren in the waste-paper basket, fruits of equally unproductive evenings when Moominpappa had found no excuse to avoid his desk, no escape from confronting the facts: He was no writer. And Snork had been perfectly right when he had once (behind his back, to be sure) called him the refuse of society. Snufkin, too, had been perfectly right in his quiet, inward smirk. Anyone could invent tall tales, pile improbability upon absurdity. Why, the children of Moominvalley had once briskly concocted Moominpappa’s memoirs for him! He had only to supply the key themes and circumstances. Since then, even Snork had forgotten that within the weighty volume entitled “The Memoirs of Moominpappa,” every single page remained blank. A pity that in this age, unlike prehistoric times or classical antiquity, the profession of oral taleteller was held in no esteem whatsoever. What he truly desired was that his son should be proud of him. Even if in reality there was nothing to be proud of. The Moominpappa of those adventure narratives (alas, only oral ones) never surrendered. A fine image. But where was the truth in it? Gritting his teeth, Moominpappa took out a fresh sheet of paper. He must at least make that image true. He must fight, again and again, the curse of the blank page, until the letters began to obey their composer, until he became a writer in earnest. If only for his son’s sake.