Evenstar

After the foregoing posts, I was going to leave the chapter of many meetings behind forever, and press ahead to the chapter of many speakings.  But after speaking of so many other meetings, could I pass over our first sight of Arwen Undómiel in silence?  It would falsify every effect that Tolkien says she is supposed to have on us, and would embarrass the praises of the Elven troubadours.  So here is my panegyric upon Arwen, and the last one I shall make on the present chapter.

Tolkien says almost nothing about her.  Tolkien, in fact, does not let us near her.  The two times that Frodo sees her, he notices her from practically the other end of the room, and he neither speaks to her nor hears her voice.  This continues to be the case even in The Return of the King, when Arwen is queened in Gondor.  The only time that Frodo (and therefore the reader) draws near to Arwen is when that doughty Hobbit takes his last farewell before returning to the Shire.  The first and only words we hear from Arwen’s lips are those in which she surrenders her passage over the Sea to Frodo, and gives him the white crystal to ward off evil.  Beyond this, if we desire any further acquaintance with her, we must look to “The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen” in the appendix.

Without that appendix, even the glorious wedding of Arwen to Aragorn comes as nothing more than a curious surprise to the reader.  The love of Arwen and Aragorn is a hidden thing in the Tale of the Ring—hidden as Arwen herself was hidden for many an age in Lothlórien, and as she still continues to be hidden in the sense of being kept more or less at a distance from the reader.  She is there and ever present in Aragorn’s thoughts, as the reader recognizes the second time through; but she is far removed, like the star after which she is named.

Like the star, Arwen’s colours are grey and silver.  She would be an excellent subject for black-and-white photography.  Her eyes are grey, her hair is dark, and her skin is flawless white.  When Frodo sees her first, she is clad in grey with silver lace in her hair; and when he sees her last, she is once again in the same colours.  There could be no greater contrast to the other women in the book.  Eowyn, Galadriel, even Goldberry have golden hair and flourish in rich earthy colours, especially of green.  The Evenstar’s colours are grey and silver because they are less terrestrial and more celestial.  The other heroines are of the day; she is of the twilight.  And Tolkien intends it to be so.

Perhaps another post would provide more space for speculations on why Tolkien removes this heroine so far from the reader, why she is presented as the woman who waits and glimmers—like the stars wait and glimmer in the sky—and not the woman who rides to war or weaves enchantments or holds her washing-day in the rain.

For the moment, however, I wish to conclude these reflections by referring this celestial heroine to another heroine whose name enters only briefly into the Tale of the Ring (and almost always in connection with Arwen).  From the beginning, Tolkien forges a link between Arwen and Lúthien Tinúviel.  Frodo knows right away that of Arwen “it was said that the likeness of Lúthien had come on earth again”; and before the end of Frodo’s first feast in her presence, we have already received the hint that she will share not only in the likeness of Lúthien but in her doom.  Frodo receives a visual clue (and a very rare one at that) near the end of the evening, when he sees Aragorn standing beside Arwen and speaking with her—Aragorn appearing no more in the guise of a Ranger but in Elven-mail, with a star on his breast.

This briefest glimpse of the twain together is the first time that Tolkien the narrator calls Aragorn directly by his proper name.  In place of the pejorative “Strider,” the true name of Aragorn becomes predominant from this point onward through the rest of the tale.  Arwen herself will vanish like a star in the daylight; but like a star, she will continue to exert subtle influences discernible to those who know to look for them.

 

To Take a Bow

Bowing!  Here is a practice that has fallen out of the modern fashion.  I remember noticing it at the beginning of The Hobbit, when Bilbo bows to no fewer than 13 dwarves who enter his hobbit hole, exchanging the lines “At your service” and “And at yours.”  Frodo repeats this ritual somewhat more clumsily in the feasting hall of Elrond, when he meets one of those very dwarves again—Gloin, come from Dain’s kingdom under the Mountain.  Frodo discovers this venerable dwarf sitting next to him at table, and immediately proceeds to scatter the cushions on his seat by rising and bowing.

Bowing, I have recently discovered, is by no means so easy at it looks.  There is a stiffness about the modern vertebrae (or, at least, about mine) that hampers the motion and besets the attempt with a very odd if not awkward unease.  Several times now I have attempted to bow at the appropriate times in various liturgical services among the Anglicans and Eastern Orthodox.  There is certainly good reason for bowing at such moments—honoring the name of God, or of any Person of the Trinity, with a bow is hardly an objectionable act.  And yet it comes unnaturally.  I was not bred to such things.  And if it proves so unmanageable in the presence of a god, I suspect I would not attempt it in the presence of a dwarf, however venerable.

This, in conclusion, is part of my reason for loving The Lord of the Rings.  Tolkien is archaic and anachronistic even perhaps where he does not mean to be.  Whether or not bowing was still fashionable in the 50’s, it is one of those elements of foreign culture that appears so exotic and charming in the eyes of a barbarian raised in the late 90’s.  Archaism, anachronism, and all the charm of the foregoing are as much a function of the perceiver as they are of the perceived.  The Hobbits are lovable because they belong to an older culture than we.

 

Many Names

Suddenly Bilbo looked up. “Ah, there you are at last, Dúnadan!” he cried.
“Strider!” said Frodo. “You seem to have a lot of names.”
“Well, Strider is one that I haven’t heard before, anyway,” said Bilbo. “What do you call him that for?”

Why is it that things in Middle Earth have so many names? It’s as if Tolkien’s narrative landscape was tunneled through with linguistic rabbit holes, teeming with broods of playful and proliferating names. Black Riders, Ringwraiths, and Nazgul; Rivendell, the Last Homely House, Imladris; Strider, Aragorn, the Dúnadan—it seems as if being a person or place of importance in Middle Earth requires at least three different names, one of which must be in a foreign language if at all possible.

The meetings at Rivendell, and the tales told at the Council of Elrond in the chapter following, must have worked on Tolkien like so many excuses for enriching the treasure-trove of Middle-Earthling names. The character who was Tom Bombadil several chapters ago becomes Iarwain Ben-adar, Forn, and Orald during the Council of Elrond; and the sneaking culprit who bears so much of the blame for the Ring is revealed not only as Gollum but as Sméagol, who is to become Slinker and Stinker before his tale is done.

And this is not even counting the epithets. Frodo is dubbed both the Halfling and the Ring-Bearer, just as Elrond is the Half-Elven and Gandalf is the Grey. The Ring itself is variously the One Ring and Isildur’s Bane. Even Sauron, who does not seem to have another proper name—certainly not one as decorous and awe-inspiring as “Tom Riddle”—has an entourage of epithets that include “the Dark Lord,” “the Necromancer,” and “the Enemy.”

And so it seems that any being of any importance or lineage in Middle Earth bears many names, and indeed cannot avoid bearing them. Interestingly, the lone class of beings to largely escape these multiple namings is the Hobbits. They are named in our common modern way of First Name, Last Name, and that is very likely because they are neither important enough to have epithets (except in the case of a prodigy like the Old Took), nor adventurous enough to win other names. (Think of how many multiple namings arise from the same thing being named in multiple languages. That is a phenomenon that no respectable Hobbit would wander far enough to suffer.)

This fanciful proliferation of names, I believe, is ultimately not merely fanciful. If it does nothing else, it contributes its tuppence to the three-dimensional texture of Middle Earth as a world of intelligent beings. Things are named diversely because diverse languages name them, or because diverse qualities inhere in them. A name picks out what is most salient from someone’s particular angle of vision. Thus, Isildur’s Bane means nothing to Frodo until he hears the story of Isildur; but to the Heirs of Isildur, the epithet strikes closer to home than the mere noun “the Ring.” So it is with the Last Homely House and Imladris. The first conveys to us all the comfort of a chair by a fire; the last conveys all the magic and mystery of an unexplored fairy kingdom.

All this seems to be roughly what lies in the background of Bilbo and Frodo’s exchange on the names of Aragorn. It is tempting to think that Tolkien included the brief conversation just to make his linguistic point. For Aragorn explains to Bilbo that he is called Strider by a particular folk (the Bree-landers), much as he will explain to Boromir in the following chapter that travelers give the Rangers scornful names. The striding and wandering quality—“Longshanks” as Bill Ferny puts it—is what stands out about the Rangers to such a folk. But as Bilbo goes on to demonstrate in Elvish, the name of “the Dúnadan” when applied to Aragorn is fraught with import. It means “Man of the West, Numenorean,” and is not only what stands out to the Elves when they look at the weather-beaten Ranger, but is closer to the reality of who he is.

And so I say: let the names be fruitful and multiply, and replenish all of Middle Earth.

 

Many Meetings

Well, there are many of them, aren’t there?  First the missing Gandalf turns up abruptly by Frodo’s sick bed; then we meet Elrond and Arwen; then Gloin; then Bilbo; then Strider under a new name.  It is a chapter of discovering old friends and discovering new things about old friends.  It is a chapter that gives one the impression that something is afoot, and that the impending council is going to be an explosion of discoveries and strange tales.

All this takes place against the backdrop of my favourite place in all literature:  the Last Homely House east of the Sea.  I noticed during this re-reading how little Tolkien actually tells us about the appearance of this house.  Sometimes it seems more like a country manor with a garden, and sometimes more like a Gothic abbey or even an intricate medieval city.  Perhaps this ambiguity is intentional.  Tolkien indulges in very little description of Rivendell, but what he tells us is significant.  Rivendell retains the memory of good things from all the places of Middle Earth, and it reminds each person of what he loves best.  It is “a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking.”  It has nooks and crannies and Elves of every stripe.  As Pseudo-Dionysius might have put it, Rivendell is variety in unity and unity in variety.

Along with the peaceful harmony of variety, Rivendell is a place of the peaceful harmony of different orders of beings.  By this I mean Elves (themselves possessing varying degrees of greatness), Men, Hobbits, and even Dwarves.  (Surprisingly, except for occasional references, the old feud between Dwarves and Elves seems to be dropped in the Last Homely House).  There is what might be called a “cordial consent of being to being”* throughout the house of Elrond.  For it is a House and not a Court; and Elrond is a host, and not a king.  The great of the world pass through such a place and rub shoulders with the comparatively insignificant, all with the greatest amiability and enjoyment.  The Elves themselves are sometimes “like kings, terrible and splendid,” while others are “merry as children”—and they coexist with perfect amicability.

There are few incidents in the Lord of the Rings that I love as much as Bilbo, the old Hobbit, requisitioning the appearance of Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur and rightful King of most of Middle Earth, to help him work out a rhyme in a little ditty he is composing for the amusement of the Elves.  And Aragorn comes, not because Bilbo is his equal, but because the two are friends, and greatness and smallness do not matter in a such place.  In much the same way, when Frodo is seated (to his dismay!) at the table of the great during Elrond’s feast, his feelings of smallness vanish as he enters into conversation and enjoyment with his neighbors.

What I am trying to gesture at with these ramblings is something I find foreign to our world and way of thinking.  For there is a hierarchy among the intelligent beings in Middle Earth—not merely a hierarchy of position and personal qualities, such as we find in our own world, but a radical hierarchy of essences and species and internal powers.  Our own modern-day quibbles over the equality of the sexes and the races vanishes like a star in the sun in the world of Middle Earth.  For in Middle Earth, the inequalities between Hobbits and Men and Elves are greater, involving the exercise of immaterial powers over persons of lesser degree—involving even the ability to inhabit a suprasensible world in addition to the sensible one.  Yet in houses like Rivendell, this radical hierarchy does not create envy or oppression among the ranks of beings, but rather concord and mutual respect.  There is dominion without domineering, giving-of-place without fawning, and above all, merriment and good humour in putting up with both one’s betters and inferiors.

After all, at the end of the day, the setting of Rivendell gives us the chance to enjoy what some never enjoy in our own world.  In how many places could such a diversity of ranks and privileges co-exist without perversion and abuse?  Rivendell satisfies our desire that Hobbits should be Hobbits and not Elves; that Elves should be immortal and not Men; that Men too should be what they are—some Kings, some innkeepers, and some children—and that all should enjoy the best that their order offers.

 

*A phrase of Jonathan Edwards’.  Sometimes a Protestant can sound just like a Thomist.

 

Brief Meditation on a Cryptic Remark by Gandalf

Directly following Gandalf’s explanation of the Seen and the Unseen worlds to Frodo, Tolkien records for us a prophetic and mystifying rumination on the part of Gandalf.  To Gandalf’s eyes, which see in both worlds as the Elves do, Frodo appears slightly transparent.  Importantly, the word is transparent and not faded.  Gandalf does not think that Frodo will come to evil.  But, he reasons, “He may become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can.”

The image of a glass filled with light instantly recalls the Phial of Galadriel, which will come to Frodo’s aid so often through his later adventures.  The implication of Gandalf’s rumination is clear.  Frodo too has begun to live in the world of both the Seen and the Unseen, and to those like Gandalf who can see the Unseen, he is already being transformed into a vessel or medium of invisible virtues.  As the Phial of Galadriel brings light to dark places, Frodo himself will presumably come to exude (for lack of a better word) a “spiritual” light in the darkness.

Perhaps it would not be too much of a stretch to take a cue from the Catholics on this point.  If Frodo’s sufferings transform him into a phial of light to his world—a vehicle of divine grace, as it were—then this lowly Hobbit of the Shire is destined to become a Saint of Middle Earth.

 

Two Worlds: The Problem of Evil, continued

At last!  The hour has come for the answering of many questions, the probing of many mysteries left veiled and inscrutable.  For as Book II of The Fellowship of the Ring opens, Frodo is awakening in Rivendell to a new measure of life and health, as if he were coming to life again and being reborn to a higher order of knowledge and duty.  His convalescence takes place under the watchful eyes of Gandalf and Elrond, who are shortly to hold a council.  Many things hitherto unexplained are to be made plain, and the thoughts of many hearts are to be laid bare.

Within his first hour of waking in Rivendell, Frodo and the reader learn several things from Gandalf about the part Frodo has been playing in the cosmopolitan game against Mordor.  Foremost among the revelations is something that the reader already knew:  that the Ringwraiths inhabit a world different from the every-day mortal one, and that Frodo was teetering on the brink of this world until Elrond came to his rescue.  The surprising piece of news, however, is that Ringwraiths are not the only beings to inhabit this “otherworldly” parallel universe.

“Here in Rivendell,” Gandalf tells Frodo, “there live still some of [the Enemy’s] chief foes:  the Elven-wise, lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest seas.  They do not fear the Ringwraiths, for those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power.”

The Seen and the Unseen.  Are these, then, the proper names by which to call the Two Worlds?  It’s as if the first world were primarily material, subjected to the five senses, while the second was somehow beyond the material and subject to other modes of perception.  We are reminded of what Strider said before the attack on Weathertop:  “Senses, too, there are other than sight and smell.  We can feel their presence… they feel ours more keenly.”

Yet Gandalf and the Elves perceive the Ringwraiths very differently than Frodo does, even though at the last even Frodo entered the world of the Unseen.  Frodo, on the brink of the Ringwraiths’ world, experiences the wraiths as powerful substances.  Gandalf, however, continues to speak of the wraiths as if they were literally nothing.  “The black robes,” he says, “are real robes that they wear to give shape to their nothingness when they have dealings with the living.”  How can Frodo and Gandalf, both seeing the Unseen, see it so differently?

Here, I believe, is another clue to that tangle called “the Problem of Evil” in Middle Earth.  The clue is that we must cast this problem in terms of two different worlds and two different orders of being.  For the Unseen world comprises a higher order than the Seen, and beings who can operate in the Unseen world have, de facto, a sort of power over the Seen world as well.

Let us imagine that certain beings in the Unseen World have become corrupt and evil.  Relative to the uncorrupted beings—good Elves like Glorfindel, Half-Elves like Elrond, wizards like Gandalf—these evil beings seem to have lost something, to have degenerated to the level of shadows and nothingness.  That is why Gandalf can speak of the Wraiths as nothing, and why Glorfindel has no fear of them.  However, relative to the Seen world, these corrupted beings retain their powers.  In fact, their power over the Seen world may still be great, even though they themselves have degenerated as beings within the Unseen world.

That is why Frodo, encountering the Ringwraiths from the vantage point of the Seen, is so easily subject to their mastery; while Glorfindel, revealing himself to them in his otherworldly wrath by the Ford of Bruinen, wreaks fear and havoc on them.  We cannot compare a pea and an apple.  Glorfindel is by all rights the peer of the Ringwraiths in their own world.  Frodo is not.  By the wraiths’ degeneracy into evil, they have made themselves lesser than Glorfindel.  By their nature as great beings, they are still greater than Frodo.