The Mouse and His Child

EXTRA! SEASON’S GREETINGS, FEELINGS OF INTENSE GOOD WILL EXPRESSED BY ALL.

My first exposure to Russell Hoban would have been through his Frances books, about a domestic badger, when I was quite small. I didn’t realize The Mouse and His Child was by the same author; the book came highly recommended. The New York Times makes the obvious parallels with the works of Tolkien and E.B. White, and that’s what this is: a children’s book with layers of meaning for adults.

I found the beginning, in a toy shop after dark, quite reminiscent of another children’s book, The Story of Holly and Ivy. Like that book, there is a definite, hostile toy hierarchy, where toys are allowed to speak before dawn. The book opens and closes at Christmas, and I’m reminded how very many children’s stories revolve around toys. Think of Ralphie’s childish awe at the department store, with all its requisite toys, in A Christmas Story. Or the strange Isle of the Misfit Toys in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or considerably earlier, Les Contes d’Hoffmann, transformed into The Nutcracker.

In The Story of Holly and Ivy, Holly was a doll. The protagonists of The Mouse and His Child are the eponymous pair, wind up toys who dance in an interminable circle (at least until misfortune befalls them). The book cover blurb mentions the strange endurance of the images from the book, aided no doubt by the both gritty and charming illustrations by David Small: the tin mouse pair in their velveteen suits, the wise and foolish Frog wearing an old glove, a rather Fagin-like rat named Manny in paisley silk, and the tramp and his little dog Bonzo, hovering over the entire tale with a hint of not-altogether-beneficent omnipotence. Even with animals and toys as its principal players, the satire and worldliness of adulthood is rarely far from the text. The dolls in the department store dollhouse are vapid and can only spout stories from their newspaper components: “Bucket seats,” remarked the gentleman next to her. “Power steering optional. GOVERNMENT FALLS.”

At first, the Mouse and Child’s existence is that of a typical toy’s, until they are thrown out “into the world.” This is when the adventure becomes rather Tolkien-like, with their narrative driven by survival and a quest: in their case, to find the dollhouse, elephant, and seal from the toy shop. There is such an uncompromising look at the randomness of violence—I was a bit shocked, to be honest, that the Mouse and Child laugh at the death of a stupid, mean rat named Ralphie, even though his death gets them closer to their goal. The height of this grim outlook occurs during the savage battle of the shrews, which says much on the nature of war and futility of territory: “This is a nice territory,” said the female [weasel]. . . . their heads were so close together that when the horned owl swooped down out of the moonlight his talons pierced both brains at once.
“My land,” wheezed the owl . . .

A rather less interesting section of the book is a somewhat trite indictment of actors, audiences, and critics. This is quickly followed by an eccentric Muskrat, pond adventures with a tiresome turtle and an engaging, Ugly Duckling figure named Miss Mudd. It is here that the Mouse and Child take the initiative in determining their own fates (even though they are “only wind ups”): “If I’m big enough to stand in the mud all this time and contemplate infinity,” said the child, “I’m big enough to look at the other side of nothing.”

The Mouse and Child’s journey develops them beyond the scope of your ordinary toy. After they’ve literally hit bottom, former uneasy allies who considered betrayal are there to help the mice topple Manny Rat’s reign over the junkyard. So, despite an unpromising beginning their story actually ends happily. Manny Rat’s defeat and rehabilitation are as miraculous as that of the Bumble in Rudolph, in more than one way, though I like that it’s less than permanent, in Manny Rat’s case.

I like, too, that the snobbish toys of the dollhouse, particularly the elephant, learn through hardship to be less self-important. The elephant, indeed, consents to be the Child’s mother: “He has come to admire—more than that, to love—someone so far above him that he dare not hope she will reciprocate his feelings,” says the Mouse to the elephant.
“Ah!” said the elephant. “Though perhaps a little taller, she has never really been above him.” (In this magical world, elephants and mice are at the same scale.)

Of course, toy awareness even in Hoban’s world is different than ours—sitting without speaking in a box for four years is tedious but endurable and one’s parts being undone results in fainting, not death. (I suppose a little like when Data’s deactivated in Star Trek?) I have to tell you I hated Animal Farm, but this anthropomorphizing of animals and toys has profound things to tell us. “We aren’t toys anymore,” said the father. “Toys are to be played with, and we aren’t We have endured all that Frog foretold—the painful spring, the shattering fall, and more.” To my relief, the Mouse and Child remain father and son throughout their tribulations: “Our motor is in me,” says the Mouse. “He fills the empty space inside himself with foolish dreams that cannot possibly come true.” I suppose I feel like that sometimes!

On the whole, an entertaining, profound book for children and adults alike.