“Did not Gandalf tell you that the rings give power according to the measure of each possessor? Before you could use that power you would need to become far stronger, and to train your will to the domination of others.”
—Galadriel
In the context of freedom and choice, we now return to the question of the nature of Sauron’s One Ring and its particular power. If Tolkien did not view all power as necessarily evil, as I argued earlier, then what is it about the particular power of the Ring that makes it fundamentally evil and corrupting? And why is it that, in Tolkien’s work, moral victory and personal choices take on greater significance than do military victories?
Fortunately, the first of these two questions is not difficult to answer and requires little speculation. It is not only hinted at in many discussions of the Ring but answered rather explicitly by Galadriel: the power of the One Ring is the power to dominate other wills.
Why that particular power is so evil is a more intriguing question and moves well beyond Lord Acton’s claim that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Tolkien’s answer can be found, at least in part, in the significance he gives to human free will. Having seen how this reality and importance of choice is expressed throughout The Lord of the Rings, and even in The Hobbit, and understanding the nature of the One Ring as the power to dominate, we can begin to see why the Ring is so fundamentally evil that no good use of it is possible, regardless of one’s underlying motives.
The Domination of Wills
What is the particular power of the Ring that is so fundamentally evil? There are two ways we might go about answering this. The first is by looking at the Ring itself: what is said about it (by the wise) and what effect it has. The second approach is to look at the Ring’s creator, Sauron, and to try to understand his power and purpose. We will take both approaches (and find that they lead to the same answer).
Galadriel goes a long way toward describing the nature of the One Ring in her dialogue with Frodo after his encounter with her mirror. She has already explained that Sauron is always searching for her, trying to discover her thoughts. If ever he recovers the One Ring, then her ring, Nenya, and all her works done by the power of Nenya, will be laid bare to him. Frodo then wonders why he himself couldn’t see her ring and read her thoughts, since he possesses (and has worn) the One.
“I would ask one thing before we go,” said Frodo, “a thing which I often meant to ask Gandalf in Rivendell. I am permitted to wear the One Ring: why cannot I see the others and know the thoughts of those that wear them?”
“You have not tried,” she said. “Only thrice have you set the Ring upon your finger since you knew what you possessed. Do not try! It would destroy you. Did not Gandalf tell you that the rings give power according to the measure of each possessor? Before you could use that power you would need to become far stronger, and to train your will to the domination of others.” (II/vii)
Before Frodo could use that power—that is, the power of the One Ring—he would need to train his will to domination, specifically to “the domination of others.” The essential power of the One Ring, it would seem from Galadriel’s words, is thus the power to dominate other wills.
We see this also in a comment Elrond makes about the three elven-rings: “They were not made as weapons of war or conquest: that is not their power. Those who made them did not desire strength or domination or hoarded wealth, but understanding, making, and healing, to preserve all things unstained” (II/ii, emphasis added). Here, Elrond is contrasting the Three with the One. Their purpose, according to Elrond, is not conquest or domination. The implication, of course, is that the purpose of the One is conquest and domination. This, anyway, is what Saruman sees in the One when he tries to convince Gandalf to help him gain it: “Our time is at hand: the world of Men, which we must rule,” he says. “But we must have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see” (II/ii). Saruman wants to rule others. This is the central issue in the temptation of the Ring to which he has succumbed. He wants power over other wills. It is not a power whose nature is to do good for others, but rather a power to impose (or order) his will upon others. Although he uses the word good, it is not a good that anybody else can see—that is, it is not a real good that would benefit anyone else—but one that only the wise (by which he means himself) can see. In short, then, the power of the One Ring is the power to rule: the power to conquer, the power to command, the power to order—the power to enslave.
That is the simple answer, and it is consistent with the type of power we saw at work in the temptation of Boromir: “The Ring would give me power of Command,” Boromir rightly understands. “All men would flock to my banner!” It is also consistent with what is engraved on the Ring itself: “One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.” The One Ring is about ruling (exercising authority and domination over others) and about binding (forcing, compelling, enslaving). Sauron forged his Ring with the purpose of controlling the other rings and, through them, controlling and enslaving other wills.
In a letter written late in 1951 to a potential publisher, Tolkien himself describes the “primary symbolism of the Ring” as “the will to mere power, seeking to make itself objective by physical force and mechanism, and so also inevitably by lies” (Letters, 160). One might be tempted to understand the reference to “mere power” as implying that power itself is evil—any power of any type. In this context, however, the phrase “mere power” suggests rather power for the sake of power—that is, power for no other reason than to be powerful and to exercise power. It is the idea of power as an end rather than a means. Contrast this type of mere power with the power of the three elven-ring bearers, Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel, whose power always has some other end, such as protecting the lives and freedom of others or preserving beauty and peace. (“The rule of no realm is mine,” says Gandalf [V/ii].)
While Tolkien’s comment about the symbolism of the One Ring does not explicitly mention domination, it does say that such power is gained through deceit and physical force—through manipulation, we might also say—which strongly suggests such domination. In any case, if we want to look outside The Lord of the Rings itself toward Tolkien’s letters, earlier in the same letter he gives a clearer picture of the power of the One Ring as well as the other great rings: “The chief power (of all the rings alike) was the prevention or slowing of decay (i.e., ‘change’ viewed as a regrettable thing), the preservation of what is desired or loved, or its semblance—this is more or less an Elvish motive. But also they enhanced the natural powers of a possessor—thus approaching ‘magic,’ a motive easily corruptible into evil, a lust for domination” (Letters, 152). This last characteristic, a lust for domination, seems especially to be the trait of the One Ring, and of those that it most influenced—namely, the Nine and the Seven, who we learn were corrupted into evil by Sauron, while the Three were not. In a personal letter (dated September 1963) Tolkien writes, “It was part of the essential deceit of the Ring to fill minds with imaginations of supreme power” (Letters, 332). An exploration of the meaning of magic (“a motive easily corruptible into evil”) in Tolkien’s writing would itself be worthwhile and might start with the words of Galadriel (this time to Sam): “For this is what your folk would call magic, I believe; though I do not understand clearly what they mean; and they seem also to use the same word of the deceits of the Enemy” (II/vii). However, a full exploration of the meaning of magic and the power of deceit in Tolkien’s writing would require at least another entire book![42] For now, the point worth noting is simply the connection, in Tolkien’s own words, between the One Ring and domination, will, and power.
The second approach to understanding the nature of the One Ring is to explore Sauron’s own power and purpose. Why? Because Sauron and the One Ring are inextricably tied together. It was Sauron’s own power that he poured into the Ring when he forged it in secret. “Sauron would not have feared the Ring! It was his own and under his will,” Tolkien writes in the 1963 letter. As Elrond says at the council, “It belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and is altogether evil” (II/ii). Or as Gandalf tells Frodo, “He made that Ring himself, it is his, and he let a great part of his own former power pass into it, so that he could rule all the others” (I/ii). And as Gandalf later tells the Captains of the West: “If it is destroyed, then he will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. For he will lose the best part of the strength that was native to him in the beginning” (V/ix). This is why Elrond tells those at the council, “If any of the Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own arts, he would then set himself on Sauron’s throne and yet another Dark Lord would appear” (II/ii). In other words, if anyone were to take up the Ring, they would not so much overthrow Sauron as they would become Sauron. Which is also why Galadriel tells Frodo that even the effort to wield the Ring himself would destroy him; it would destroy him by turning him into Sauron—or at least a smaller, weaker Sauron.
What is the power and nature of the Ring, then? It is the power and nature of Sauron himself, for that is what he poured into the Ring. So in order to understand the Ring’s nature, we need only to understand Sauron’s nature. This is not a difficult task. Tolkien gives illustrations of Sauron’s power everywhere. It is the power to force others to his will. We see this in the sharp contrast between the foes of Mordor and the forces of Mordor. The former fight against Sauron of their own free will. The latter are little more than slaves, driven by fear. Aragorn, Gandalf, Faramir, and even Théoden are always at the forefront of their armies, leading by their own examples of courage. Saruman, Sauron, and, later, Denethor stay in their towers and rule from afar. “He uses others as his weapons,” Denethor explains of Sauron. “So do all great lords, if they are wise, Master Halfling. Or why should I sit here in my tower and think, and watch, and wait, spending even my sons?” (V/iv). We see the contrast even in the different types of magic at work in Middle-earth. Tolkien writes in his letters about the differences between elven magic and the magic of Sauron, which are such entirely different things that two different words ought to be used. The elves’ magic “is Art, delivered from many of its human limitations: more effortless, more quick, more complete. . . . And its object is Art not Power, sub-creation not domination.” While Sauron’s magic “is always ‘naturally’ concerned with sheer Domination” (Letters, 146).
In other words, this second path to understanding the Ring—trying to understand Sauron himself—leads us to the same conclusion: the fundamental power of the Ring is the power of domination. It is the power to enslave, the power to rule over other wills. This explains why it is true, as Gandalf says on several occasions, that the Ring can have only one master, not many: many people cannot simultaneously rule over each other.
This raises yet another question about the One Ring. In Author of the Century, Tom Shippey raises the point that there are two possible understandings of the evil of the Ring; one he associates with a Boethian view of evil and the other with a Manichaean view.[43] In the Boethian view, evil is internal; the Ring has no innate power of its own to corrupt its bearer, but rather the bearer becomes corrupted by his or her own human sin and weakness, expressed as a greedy desire for the Ring. In a Manichaean understanding, evil is an outside force, and the Ring is actively at work (obeying the will of its master) to corrupt its bearer. Shippey defends the position that Tolkien is ambivalent in his presentation of the Ring’s evil, and thus of evil in general, whether it is Boethian or Manichaean. Both aspects of evil seem to be at work at various times: “One can never tell for sure, in The Lord of the Rings, whether the danger of the Ring comes from inside, and is sinful, or from outside, and is merely hostile.”[44] In this chapter I have claimed that Tolkien associates a particular power and nature with the One Ring: the power to dominate other wills. If this understanding of Tolkien is correct, does that suggest that the debate sways one way or the other, toward the Boethian view or toward the Manichaean? The answer is no. With respect to whether the Ring’s evil is internal or external, understanding that the power of the Ring is the power to dominate other wills offers an answer as ambivalent as the one Shippey claims. The corruption associated with the Ring may come entirely from the internal desire of sinful man to dominate other wills, or it may come from some external power at work through the Ring to corrupt the bearer into having a desire to dominate. Or it may be both. As Shippey concludes, “Tolkien’s double or ambiguous view of evil is not a flirtation with heresy at all, but expresses a truth about the nature of the universe”—a truth “at the absolute heart of the Christian religion itself.” By way of illustration, Shippey suggests that the ambuity can even be found in the Lord’s Prayer and the dual request, “Lead us not into temptation / But deliver us from evil,” and that there is “no doubt that the Lord’s Prayer was in Tolkien’s mind” at the very least when he wrote the scene at Sammath Naur—the Chamber of Fire that holds the Crack of Doom—in which Frodo forgives Gollum after the Ring is destroyed.[45]
The Flame Imperishable
Seeing this as the inherent power, or fundamental essence, of the One Ring—the domination of other wills—we still might ask why such a power is fundamentally evil. Why could not Gandalf or Galadriel or Aragorn, or even Boromir or Faramir, put such a power to good use? To answer this question, we must consider again the importance of free will in Tolkien’s writing, this time by turning briefly to his other masterpiece, The Silmarillion.
The Silmarillion, which recounts the story of the creation of Middle-earth and provides the historical richness that pervades and deepens so much of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, was not published until 1977, four years after Tolkien’s death. It was collected and edited (with considerable care and effort) by J. R. R. Tolkien’s son Christopher, from numerous drafts and versions in existence. Because it was published posthumously, and because it was not clear in all instances what were the “final” (or authoritative) versions of various portions of the book, some readers discount the importance and legitimacy of The Silmarillion in understanding Tolkien’s Middle-earth writing.
There can be no doubt, however, that Tolkien desired The Silmarillion to be published (in some form). He sought hard and frequently (though unsuccessfully) to get The Silmarillion published during his lifetime. In fact, his original goal was that The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings should be published together! One of the letters from which we quoted earlier in this chapter was actually some ten thousand words long, written to Milton Waldman of Collins publishing company, “with the intention of demonstrating that [the two works] were interdependent and indivisible” (Letters, 143). Tolkien had also earlier written a letter to Stanley Unwin (of the publishers Allen & Unwin, who had published The Hobbit), in which he had (in his own words) “made a strong point that the Silmarillion etc. and The Lord of the Rings went together as one long Saga of the Jewels and the Rings” (Letters, 139).
Unfortunately, Tolkien’s efforts failed, and so we will never know exactly what final form The Silmarillion would have taken had the decisions been placed in his hands. (Indications are that even Tolkien himself would have had a difficult time deciding the exact final form, although it is clear from his notes that a certain body of material was part of his canon.) What we do know is that it was his life’s work and his life’s blood. It was not a piece added on to The Hobbit as an afterthought but rather the other way around. The rest of the history of Tolkien’s efforts at completing the mythology of Middle-earth (which has been given elsewhere) is not critical to this chapter other than to say that work on The Silmarillion began literally decades before The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings and continued long after. As his son Christopher wrote in his foreword to the first edition, the “old legends (‘old’ now not only in their derivation from the remote First Age, but also in terms of my father’s life) became the vehicle and depository of his profoundest reflections” (Silm, 7). At the very least, Sandra Miesel’s remark about Tolkien’s old legends should be taken seriously: “Yet, knowing whence his world came and whither it is going greatly enhances the patient reader’s pleasure in The Lord of the Rings. Indeed, the full scope of Tolkien’s achievement cannot be appreciated otherwise.”[46]
It is in the Ainulindalë—the opening book of The Silmarillion, which recounts the Music of the Ainur and the creation of Middle-earth—that we are introduced to both the source and importance of free will in Tolkien’s writing. Middle-earth was created by Eru, whose name means “the One” and who is also called Ilúvatar, “Father of All.” But before Middle-earth was brought into being, Eru created first the Ainur, or “Holy Ones.” These were the first beings, other than Eru Ilúvatar himself, to have wills and selves of their own. We read in the Ainulindalë: “Then Ilúvatar said to them: ‘Of the theme that I have declared to you, I will now that ye make in harmony together a Great Music. And since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, ye shall show forth your powers in adorning this theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will’” (Silm, 15).
For those who have not (yet) read The Silmarillion, a little background may be helpful. The Ainur are spiritual beings, most closely akin to angels in the biblical concept of Tolkien’s Christian faith. When Eru creates Eä, the physical or material universe, and Arda, the earth itself, he gives the Ainur the opportunity to enter into this created order in order to assist Ilúvatar in creation. Many choose to do so, and those who make that choice have the ability to take incarnate forms like the stuff of Arda, and make them into the image of the coming Children of Ilúvatar (that of elves in particular). Greatest among those who go to Arda are the Valar, or the Powers of Arda. Manwë is their King, and Varda, also called Elbereth, is their queen. These Valar, and lesser spirits known as the Maiar, take up their residence in Valinor in the far West of Arda. Gandalf, in fact, is one of the Maiar, known originally as Olórin.
Of critical importance here is the idea of the Flame Imperishable, with which Eru “kindled” the Ainur. What is this Flame Imperishable? It is closely associated with the gift of existence itself—that is, the gift of a separate existence, with a separate will, an awareness of self, and the freedom to act.[47] Thus, each of the Ainur has “his own thoughts.” Even more, Ilúvatar gives each the choice of whether or not even to participate in this Music of the Ainur. Each may do so, not under compulsion, but “if he will” (emphasis added). That one of the Ainur, namely, Melkor, soon rebels against Eru, seeking to “increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself,” shows us quickly just how real this freedom is (Silm, 15–16). Creation now has beings who, though dependent on Eru for their existence, have wills of their own to choose and to act and even to rebel. (One cannot miss the echoes, in Tolkien’s creation account, of Genesis 1–3 as well as of Milton’s Paradise Lost.)
It is also important to realize that this Flame Imperishable is a gift—indeed, it is the great gift—given by Eru Ilúvatar to his created beings. It is this freedom that enables them to participate in Ilúvatar’s Music and to assist in sub-creating new beauty. In fact, so great a gift is it that none other than Eru Ilúvatar himself can give it. Not even Manwë can create beings having their own free will. Both Melkor and Aulë try, and both fail. As we read in the Ainulindalë, Melkor “had gone often alone into the void places seeking the Imperishable Flame; for desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own. . . . Yet he found not the Fire, for it is with Ilúvatar” (Silm, 16). We later learn that this Flame Imperishable is also the gift given to elves and men (the Children of Ilúvatar): “For the Children of Ilúvatar were conceived by him alone. . . . Therefore when [the Ainur] beheld them, the more did they love them, being things other than themselves, strange and free” (Silm, 18, emphasis added). In other words, elves and men are also beings of free will. This, then, is the source of their nature, which we discussed in the context of The Lord of the Rings in chapter 5. This is the significance of the “doom of choice” that Aragorn has.
We see more of the significance and meaning of this great gift of freedom when it is bestowed on the dwarves also. It is the Vala Aulë who first creates the dwarves (in form, at least). But Aulë, though he has as a gift his own free will—which is exhibited in his choice to attempt such a thing on his own without the command of Ilúvatar—has neither the authority nor the power to complete his task and give these creatures their own independent being. That is, though Aulë creates the form and features of the dwarves, he cannot give them free will. They are simply his puppets, moving when he thinks to move them and sitting idle when his thought is elsewhere. In repentance, therefore, he prepares to destroy his own creation. But Ilúvatar, in his mercy, bestows on the dwarves the same gift of free will that he has designed for his other Children: elves and men.
Then Aulë took up a great hammer to smite the Dwarves; and he wept. But Ilúvatar had compassion upon Aulë and his desire, because of his humility; and the Dwarves shrank from the hammer and were afraid, and they bowed down their heads and begged for mercy. And the voice of Ilúvatar said to Aulë: “Thy offer I accepted even as it was made. Dost thou not see that these things have now a life of their own, and speak with their own voices? Else they would not have flinched from thy blow, nor from any command of thy will.” (Silm, 43–44)
What it means for beings to have this gift of freedom—their own free will—is that they can shrink even from the hand of their Creator. Ilúvatar’s created beings can choose to participate in the Music in keeping with their part in the Theme of Ilúvatar, or they can choose to rebel and bring about discord. As we saw in chapter 5 in our discussion of Aragorn, it is the destiny of beings with free will that they must make choices. But we also see that this freedom, in Tolkien’s writing, is a gift as well as a doom: a gift that even Melkor and Sauron envy.
The importance of the gift of freedom can be seen even in the relationship between the Children of Ilúvatar (especially the elves) and the Valar. “For Elves and Men are the Children of Ilúvatar. . . . For which reason the Valar are to these kindreds rather their elders and their chieftains than their masters; and if ever in their dealings with Elves and Men the Ainur have endeavored to force them when they would not be guided, seldom has this turned to good, howsoever good the intent” (Silm, 41). The Valar, though older and more powerful than elves, men, or dwarves, are not given the right to take away this gift of freedom given to the Children. They are allowed to advise the Children, and to teach them, and to share wisdom with them, but any attempt made at compelling the Children to some course of action, no matter what the intention, leads to an evil result.
The clearest example of this in The Silmarillion is the summons the Valar issue to the elves (who call themselves the Quendi, in their own tongue), that they should come to Valinor.
Then again the Valar were gathered in council, and they were divided in debate. For some, and of those Ulmo was the chief, held that the Quendi should be left free to walk as they would in Middle-earth, and with their gifts of skill to order all the lands and heal their hurts. But the most part feared for the Quendi in the dangerous world amid the deceits of the starlit dusk; and they were filled moreover with the love of the beauty of the Elves and desired their fellowship. At the last, therefore, the Valar summoned the Quendi to Valinor, there to be gathered at the knees of the Powers in the light of the Trees for ever; and Mandos broke his silence, saying: “So it is doomed.” From this summons came many woes that afterwards befell. (Silm, 52)
The choice here is between being “left free,” though in a “dangerous world,” and being safe, but with a loss of freedom. Freedom is held the higher gift than safety! And the desire of the Valar, even if phrased in terms of “love” and “fellowship,” still involves the elves at their knees, which is a place of subservience. For this very reason, Ulmo, ever one of the wisest of the Valar, argues against such a summons, and Mandos foretells what doom will come of the Valar exercising authority over the Children. We see this same principle behind the refusal of the wise of Middle-earth to wield the Ring. The power of the Ring is the power to compel other wills to one’s own will. There is never a good use for such a power.
Now, much more could be said about this freedom and about what it really means under the authority of Eru Ilúvatar, who promises that “no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source” in him, nor can any “alter the music in [his] despite” (Silm, 17). Again, there are strong biblical echoes, this time of passages such as Romans 8:28: “And we know that to them that love God, all things work together unto good, to such as, according to his purpose, are called to be saints.” The depth of this theology could be (and has been) pondered for centuries, and we will return to it in the last chapters of this book. In regard to the specific topic of freedom as a gift of Ilúvatar to his Children, men and elves, there are two concerns worth exploring before concluding this chapter.
The Firstborn and the Followers
The first issue pertains to the differences between the two Children of Ilúvatar: elves, who are called the Firstborn, and men, who are called the Followers.[48] Or, as elves and men are known in the elven tongue: the Quendi, meaning “those who speak with voices,” and the Atani, meaning “the second people.” The following passage is one of the longest cited in this book, but it is included because it lays much of the foundation for understanding the races:
For it is said that after the departure of the Valar there was silence, and for an age Ilúvatar sat alone in thought. Then he spoke and said: “Behold I love the Earth, which shall be a mansion for the Quendi and the Atani! But the Quendi shall be the fairest of all earthly creatures, and they shall have and shall conceive and bring forth more beauty than all my Children; and they shall have the greater bliss in this world. But to the Atani I will give a new gift.” Therefore he willed that the hearts of Men should seek beyond the world and should find no rest therein; but they should have a virtue to shape their life, amid the powers and chances of the world, beyond the Music of the Ainur, which is as fate to all things else. . . .
But Ilúvatar knew that Men, being set amid the turmoils of the powers of the world, would stray often, and would not use their gifts in harmony; and he said: “These too in their time shall find that all that they do redounds at the end only to the glory of my work.” . . .
It is one with this gift of freedom that the children of Men dwell only a short space in the world alive, and are not bound to it, and depart soon whither the Elves know not. Whereas the Elves remain until the end of days, and their love of the Earth and all the world is more single and more poignant therefore, and as the years lengthen ever more sorrowful. For the Elves die not till the world dies, unless they are slain or waste in grief. . . . But the sons of Men die indeed, and leave the world; wherefore they are called the Guests, or the Strangers. Death is their fate, the gift of Ilúvatar, which as Time wears even the Powers shall envy. But Melkor has cast his shadow upon it, and confounded it with darkness, and brought forth evil out of good, and fear out of hope. Yet of old the Valar declared to the Elves in Valinor that Men shall join in the Second Music of the Ainur; whereas Ilúvatar has not revealed what he purposes for the Elves after the World’s end, and Melkor has not discovered it. (Silm, 41–42)
Some things are clear in this passage, but many others are less so. What is clear is that elves and men are different. The obvious difference—one that could be understood even from a quick reading of The Lord of the Rings without the additional understanding to be gained from The Silmarillion—is that elves are given immortality, whereas men die of old age. Interestingly enough, it is also stated that mortality and immortality, as well as freedom, are all gifts. That is, they are all meant as good things; the ability of men to “shape their life” is a “virtue,” not a vice. As stated, however, Melkor seeks to turn men (and elves) away from Ilúvatar by making the gifts look bad or by making each envious of the gifts of the others. Yet the very fact that he must use deceit to make the gifts appear evil is a demonstration that they are indeed good. In any case, this reinforces the earlier observation that freedom is a good gift from Ilúvatar to his Children.
What is less clear, but is nonetheless hinted at, is that men somehow have a greater or more meaningful freedom than do elves. It is what Ilúvatar calls “a new gift.” To the elves, the Music of the Ainur is fate; no choices of elves have the power to change what has already been foreseen (and foresung) in this Music. Men, by contrast, have the power to “shape their life” beyond the Music. In fact, free will goes hand in hand with mortality: “It is one with the gift of freedom that the children of Men dwell only a short space in the world alive.”
Does this mean the elves do not have free will? How are men more free? What does this “new gift” really mean? Tolkien does not spell out the answers to these questions. He was, after all, writing story and history, not theology or philosophy. So we can only guess or infer the answers from other passages. What I think becomes clear from the rest of The Silmarillion is that the elves do indeed have free will, even though all their choices will ultimately lead to the fulfillment of what has already been seen. If this were not the case, then the debate of the Ainur about whether to summon the elves to Valinor or to leave them free to wander Middle-earth would be meaningless. In particular, the elves are responsible for their choices. We see this especially in the case of Fëanor, “mightiest in all parts of body and mind, in valour, in endurance, in beauty, in understanding, in skill, in strength and in subtlety alike, of all the Children of Ilúvatar,” who finally rebels against the Valar and against Ilúvatar himself. When his rebellion and haughty words are made known to the Valar, Manwë weeps in sadness but then proclaims that some good will still be brought into the world through Fëanor’s evil. To this statement Mandos, the judge of spirits, replies, “And yet [that evil of Fëanor will] remain evil” (Silm, 98). That Fëanor rebels at all shows that he, like men, has freedom. That he and his evil will be judged shows not only that he is free but also that he is responsible for his freedom.
Free Will and Creativity
A second issue that relates to the Flame Imperishable and the gift of free will is the possibility of real creativity. Although puppet masters and computer programmers may be creative, neither the puppets controlled by the masters nor computer programs written by the programmers are themselves creative. When Eru Ilúvatar gives the gift of freedom to the Ainur, the Quendi, and the Atani (as well as to the dwarves), enabling them to have thoughts of their own and to act of their own initiative, he gives them the gift of creativity. The Ainur were to “adorn” the Theme of Ilúvatar. Adorn is a word that is full of artistic and creative connotations. Moreover, each is to do so with “his own thoughts and devices.” And the elves are to “conceive and bring forth more beauty than all [Ilúvatar’s] Children.”
There can be no doubt that creativity, and more specifically creative art, plays a very important role in Tolkien’s writing. Throughout The Silmarillion we are moved by story after story of one of the great of Middle-earth pouring thought and effort into some creative work of beauty. The whole history of the First Age of Middle-earth, told in The Silmarillion, revolves around two great creative acts. The first is that of Yavanna, the Vala who creates Telperion and Laurelin, the Two Trees of Valinor. The second is that of Fëanor, the elf who creates the Silmarils, the living jewels in which dwells the mingled light of Telperion and Laurelin. So important are these two creative acts that it is written of the Two Trees, “Of all things which Yavanna made they have most renown, and about their fate all the tales of the Elder Days are woven” (Silm, 38). The importance of Fëanor’s jewels can likewise be understood from what is said about them, that they were “most renowned of all the works of the Elves.” We learn that “Varda hallowed the Silmarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them” (Silm, 67). Indeed the book itself gets its title from these jewels. And these, though the most important in the history of the elves, are merely two of many creative labors we read about in The Silmarillion. We could also speak of the white ships of the Teleri elves; of the Nauglamír, the great necklace of the dwarves; of Iluin and Ormal, the mighty lamps of the Valar; of the fountains of Gondolin; and so on. The great among men, dwarves, elves, and Valar are often known by what they create. In other words, what we begin to see here and elsewhere is that creativity is a great and highly prized gift.
One of the most moving acts of creation is the making of dwarves by Aulë, alluded to earlier. When Tolkien writes of Aulë picking up his great hammer to smite the dwarves, one should picture Tolkien sitting beside the huge pile of papers comprising the manuscripts of his unfinished work and holding a lit match to it. Both Aulë and Tolkien deeply loved their work, and both sought to give their work a life of its own. (By the grace of Ilúvatar, Aulë succeeded beyond what he could have imagined. Those reading this book might agree that Tolkien succeeded, perhaps by the same grace.) And Tolkien, like Aulë, often doubted whether he had the power and authority to do what it was he was trying to do in his creative work. You can see this expressed both in his tale of Aulë and Yavanna and in his very personal and deeply moving short fairy tale “Leaf by Niggle.” In the same letter to Milton Waldman quoted earlier, Tolkien writes:
Do not laugh! But once upon a time (my crest has long since fallen) I had a mind to make a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story—the larger founded on the lesser in contact with the earth, the lesser drawing splendour from the vast backcloths—which I could dedicate simply: to England; to my country. . . . I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama. Absurd. (Letters, 144–45)
So we picture Tolkien, crestfallen, looking at his unpublished work, thinking it absurd, and lighting a match. “And he wept.”
But we must also picture Tolkien defending what he had done, as Aulë does before Ilúvatar.
Then Aulë answered: “I did not desire such lordship. I desired things other than I am, to love and to teach them, so that they too might perceive the beauty of Eä, which thou has caused to be. . . . And in my impatience I have fallen into folly. Yet the making of things is in my heart from my own making by thee; and the child of little understanding that makes a play of the deeds of his father may do so without thought of mockery, but because he is the son of his father.” (Silm, 43)
In this one little speech by Aulë, Tolkien answers (with considerable profundity) one of the most important philosophical questions of history: why are we creative? Or, put another way, where does our creativity come from? This is, of course, part and parcel of the question, from whence comes our free will? Tolkien not only affirms both free will and creativity but tells us from whence they came. Unlike a rock or mountain, men (and also elves and dwarves and the Ainur) have from Ilúvatar the gift of the Flame Imperishable. Indeed, the first task of the Ainur after hearing the Theme of Ilúvatar’s Music is to create music of their own. To broaden the answer from Ainur to man, the making of things is in our hearts because of the way in which the Maker made us as making-creatures. We are children of a Father—Ilúvatar, the “Father of All”—who is a Creator. As his children, it is only natural that we also create. A message similar to that found in the story of Aulë and Yavanna can also be found in Tolkien’s essay “On Fairy-Stories”: “We make in our measure and in our derivative mode, because we are made: and not only made, but made in the image and likeness of a Maker” (“Fairy,” 145). Tolkien’s powerful short story “Leaf by Niggle” has some equally wonderful meditations on the value of human art and creativity.
And this relates to our earlier discussion of why the Ring is so fundamentally evil. Its power, like the power of Sauron himself, is the power to dominate other wills. It is the power to take away freedom. Sauron is no different from his master, Melkor, in whose image both Sauron and the Ring take their shape. Of Melkor we read, “But he desired rather to subdue to his will both Elves and Men, envying the gifts with which Ilúvatar promised to endow them; and he wished himself to have subjects and servants, and to be called Lord, and to be a master over other wills” (Silm, 18). The essence of the desire and power of the Ring is to master other wills: to have subjects and servants, to subdue others and ultimately remove their freedom. This is a fundamentally evil desire. Why? Because the gift of Ilúvatar—this gift of freedom, and the creativity that goes with it—is such a great gift.
And this, finally, is our answer to the second question posed at the start of the chapter. If the greatest gift to the race of men is that of freedom, and with it the gift of creativity, then the greatest evil—the evil of Melkor, his servant Sauron, and Sauron’s One Ring—is the taking away of that gift of freedom.