Free Will and the Hand of Ilúvatar
“Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit? You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!”
—Gandalf
Even the casual reader of J. R. R. Tolkien is likely to observe a significant difference between the narrative tone of The Hobbit and that of The Lord of the Rings. While the former is a lighthearted fairy tale that could well be labeled as children’s literature, the latter is a heroic romance more akin to an epic. The difference between The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion is even more striking, although those who knew Tolkien and his goals would not be surprised by this difference. In Tolkien’s 1951 letter to Milton Waldman of Collins—a letter of some ten thousand words, mentioned in chapter 6—he recounts his desire to “make a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story” (Letters, 144). These three works—The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion—represent three distinct parts of that range: the lighthearted fairy tale, the epic romance, and the large and cosmogonic myth.
This book has focused on the middle, in part because it is the middle (and thus provides the common ground that allows us to see something of the whole range), and in part because it is the longest. It is also a deeper and more profound work than The Hobbit, but unlike The Silmarillion it is told from the perspective of hobbits who provide modern eyes to look into Tolkien’s ancient world and heroes that are more accessible to modern readers. Nonetheless, we have seen something of both ends of Tolkien’s legendarium. We have explored The Silmarillion and found in the roots of this work some deeper and clearer answers to various questions raised in The Lord of the Rings. And we have turned to The Hobbit to see that some of the profound ideas explored in more depth in the other books are so important to Tolkien that they can be found even within the more lighthearted of his works.
As we approach the end of this book and get closer to the roots of some of the themes we have explored, we begin to draw more heavily from The Silmarillion and the roots of Middle-earth. Yet we see that hints of these deeper ideas—whether by the design of the author or not—can be found even in The Hobbit. And our starting point is to notice that even within The Hobbit there is a marked change in narrative tone between the start of the book and the end. Indeed, the change within The Hobbit is almost as significant as the change from The Hobbit to The Lord of the Rings, except that the change within The Hobbit happens gradually. If I were to pick a specific place where this change begins to be noticeable, it would be the moment the reader first meets Elrond in Rivendell. A full articulation of all aspects of this shift in tone is beyond the scope of this book, but the shift can be illustrated in a few ways.
A Deepening of Voice
One way we see the change in tone is in the songs and poetry. The first song we read in The Hobbit is that of the dwarves at the “unexpected party.” This song begins:
Chip the glasses and crack the plates!
Blunt the knives and bend the forks!
That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates—
Smash the bottles and burn the corks!
Hobbit, 42
It is a lighthearted piece—almost a child’s rhyme—with a singsong rhythm and no particularly profound meaning. It might be argued that it has, in fact, no meaning at all, which is to say that the dwarves do not mean the words they are singing, since they actually do “none of those dreadful things” (Hobbit, 43). They sing the song only to mock and tease their anxious host.
Now contrast this with the last poem of the book, found in the final chapter:
Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.
Hobbit, 359–60
The difference between the somber, contemplative tone of this poem and the mocking, humorous tone of the earlier one is striking. Indeed, not only might this later poem fit comfortably in the context of The Lord of the Rings, but a version of it is sung in the trilogy—twice, in fact! And far from being without significance, its final lines touch on those things that are most important in life, in a way reminiscent of the dying words of Thorin: “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world” (Hobbit, 348). When Bilbo finishes this poem, the wizard says, “My dear Bilbo! Something is the matter with you! You are not the hobbit that you were.” We can almost hear Tolkien’s own voice saying, “My dear me, this is not the story it once was.”
But does this contrast between songs really illustrate a change in narrative tone? One might suggest that the latter poem is intentionally given a more somber tone only to illustrate the change that comes over Bilbo from the start of the quest to the end and that it is not reflective of any overall change in narrative voice. Certainly we must acknowledge, as Gandalf does, that Bilbo has changed over the course of the book from the innocent hobbit who tries to “good morning” a wizard to the one who has lived through the deaths of Thorin, Fili, Kili, and many worthy elves. We could also point out that it is the dwarves who sing the former song, while the latter is sung by a hobbit, and thus the difference between the songs might only serve to illustrate the differences in character between two of the races of Middle-earth, not a difference between the start of the book and the end. Both of these observations would be well taken, except that the same point could also be illustrated with contrasts between several other pairs of songs and poems. Furthermore, these contrasts in poems are only a few among many examples of the dramatic change in voice, and when all of the different aspects are taken as a whole, they are hard to ignore.
Consider, for example, the song sung early on when Thorin’s company first approaches Rivendell. The song begins:
O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
Your ponies need shoeing!
The river is flowing!
O! tra-la-la-lally
here down in the valley!
Hobbit, 91
This is the third song or poem appearing in the story, and the last before we meet Elrond. Of particular importance is the fact that it is not a song sung by dwarves but by elves! To put it very plainly, this is not a song we could really imagine being sung by the elves of Rivendell in The Lord of the Rings. It is another song of teasing, with a refrain of nonsense syllables, much more akin to the early song of the dwarves than to anything we would later come to associate with the nobility, splendor, wisdom, or grace of the elven race. I don’t think I put it too strongly if I say that it is entirely out of character for those of the high House of Elrond. Of course at the time this song appears, we haven’t met Elrond yet!
By contrast, consider the first song sung after the appearance of Elrond (not counting the rhymes of goblins). This song comes after the departure of the company from Rivendell, when they are resting in the house of Beorn, and it is the dwarves who sing it. The first stanza suggests both the mood and the theme of the song.
The wind was on the withered heath,
but in the forest stirred no leaf:
there shadows lay by night and day,
and dark things silent crept beneath.
Hobbit, 177
This song has a much more serious and somber tone than the “tra-la-la-lally” rhyme, as it goes on to speak in mythic imagery of the journey of the wind. The words speak not only of shadows and dark things that creep silently beneath the forest, but also of wind that roars and rolls like a tide, of the tearing and rending of clouds, and of cool heavens and wide seas. It also has nature imagery of living and growing things: leaved forests and the branches of trees, hissing grasses, rattling reeds. These are imaginings one might associate with elves. It even ends with a reference to the stars, which are also an elven love. The point simply is this: in this contrast the more serious song is sung by the dwarves and comes after the departure from Rivendell, while the more lighthearted song is sung by the elves and occurs before the meeting with Elrond. Not surprisingly, then, the elven songs also take a more serious tone after the meeting with Elrond. Consider the striking similarity between the first line of that last dwarvish song, with its wind/heath[er] imagery, and the second line from the last elven poem to appear in the book: “The wind’s in the tree-top, the wind’s in the heather” (Hobbit, 357). The common theme in the contrasts between the poems has naught to do with races but with where the poem falls with respect to the meeting with Elrond.
Admittedly, not every poem in the book adheres strictly to this general pattern. Another “tra-la-la-lally” song, for example, is repeated at the end of the story when Bilbo returns to Rivendell. One might think that Tolkien has returned to the pre-Elrond lightheartedness. Yet even the post-Elrond “tra-la-la-lally” song is much more serious than the earlier one, and deals with ultimate values.
Though sword shall be rusted,
And throne and crown perish
With strength that men trusted
And wealth that they cherish,
Here grass is still growing,
And leaves are yet swinging,
The white water flowing,
And elves are yet singing
Come! Tra-la-la-lally!
Come back to the valley!
Hobbit, 355
This is a song that reflects on the vanity of the mortal pursuits of power and treasure, and on the timelessness of nature. Other than the shared refrain, it is a different song entirely than the earlier one that continues on to make fun of the wagging beards of the dwarves.
Another significant difference between the tone of the book before and after Elrond’s entrance can be seen in the monsters faced by Bilbo.[58] In The Hobbit there are five significant enemies or groups of enemies that might be deemed “monsters”:[59] the trolls who appear near the start of the tale, the goblins who appear several times, Gollum, the spiders of Mirkwood, and, of course, the dragon Smaug.[60]
Of these five, only the trolls appear in the tale before Elrond, and these three trolls are as out of place in Middle-earth as the “tra-la-la-lally” song is out of place in Rivendell. They have common English names: Tom, Bert, and William. They speak with cockney voices. And they border on being silly. They come from the world of children’s nursery stories and not from the heroic landscape of Middle-earth. We see nothing of their kind in The Lord of the Rings. (The cave-trolls encountered in Moria are of another kind altogether.) Even if we did later encounter trolls like these, we could not imagine Elrohir or Elladan, the sons of Elrond, or the great warrior Glorfindel of Rivendell (who stood up to face several Ringwraiths), or for that matter any of Elrond’s folk as we know them from The Lord of the Rings, “hurrying along for fear of the trolls,” as Gandalf claims Elrond’s folk were doing (Hobbit, 83)—not if the trolls were Tom, Bert, and Bill! Tolkien, when he later realized where The Hobbit had taken him, even regretted the choice of their names.
Here it must also be pointed out that the hobbits themselves, along with their beloved Shire, are also anachronistic; they don’t fit into the heroic world created in The Silmarillion any more than Tom, Bert, and Bill do. Indeed, their presence in Middle-earth is quite by accident. But it is a wonderful accident that may be the most important ingredient in making The Lord of the Rings the successful work that it is. For part of the wonder of the hobbits’ existence in Middle-earth is precisely their anachronistic nature. Despite their diminutive size, they really do function as regular and recognizable people (like common English men and women of the late nineteenth through middle twentieth century) who are placed in heroic situations requiring heroic actions, such as the facing of monsters who are fierce enough to demand real heroism of any who would face them.[61]
Returning to the monsters, those we meet after Elrond are much more worthy enemies than the three trolls, with natures more fitting to the heroic world of Middle-earth. The goblins come first. When we first meet them, shortly after the company departs from Rivendell and gets ambushed in a cave, the goblins have not yet become the orcs described in The Lord of the Rings. They are more like the diminutive and comic goblin creatures of George MacDonald’s delightful children’s fairy tale, The Princess and the Goblin—which is to say, they have not fully become monsters worthy of a heroic age. (In a personal letter, Tolkien even acknowledges this similarity[62]—though there is indication that he later regretted this portrayal much as he regretted the portrayal of the three trolls.) But they are a step in that direction. They are more serious, less modern, and more dangerous than the three trolls. And, indeed, my argument is not that the narrative tone changes instantly when we meet Elrond but only that from the meeting in Rivendell on, when Tolkien discovers that he is actually in Middle-earth, the tale begins to change from the low and comic to the high and heroic.
Gollum is next. Though in stature and origin he is akin to hobbits, in some regards Gollum is actually a considerably more frightening “monster” than the trolls, and he appears in a more frightening situation. Like the trolls, his goal is to eat the hobbit. He is certainly more crafty and intelligent than the trolls, as he proves in the riddle game. Most importantly, perhaps, he also speaks riddles taken from a heroic age: riddles that Tolkien borrowed and adapted from Old English and Old Norse and other medieval poetry. In other words, while the three trolls belong in the nursery, Gollum belongs in a medieval heroic poem. Even his underground lake abode links him to Grendel, though he is certainly less strong and fierce than the monster from Beowulf.
And the narrative tone continues to change. After Gollum, we meet the goblins again when they trap Gandalf, Bilbo, and the company of dwarves up in the trees. This time they are darker and more sinister and come riding on wolves, more like the warg-riding orcs of The Lord of the Rings. They are not going to be fooled by a simple trick, and the company must be rescued by the great eagles.
Likewise, the spiders of Mirkwood that come next in the tale, though lesser in size and power than the great spider Shelob who appears at the end of The Two Towers, are akin to her and to Ungoliant, the horrific spider-beast that destroys the two trees of Yavanna and nearly devours the Silmarils. We could also add that the were-bear character, Beorn, though by no means a monster, also was born in medieval heroic times and belongs much more fully to the heroic world of Middle-earth than do the three trolls, or even the MacDonald-inspired goblins as they first appear in the tale. We will return to Beorn later in this chapter.
As for dragons, they are the archetypal monsters of the heroic world. Smaug is of the same type as Glaurung, the bane of Túrin. By the time Smaug appears, the shift in tone is complete, and we find that we are reading a rather different tale from the one we started (even if we didn’t notice any exact instant of change). And then the goblins appear a third time. As we discover at the end of the book, the goblins are vicious enemies, nothing less than the orcs of The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings. They are motivated by vengeance and hatred, not by the desire for a good leg of mutton. It is as if, once we meet Elrond, we have suddenly stepped into an older, larger, more heroic world including the appropriate villains. In fact, that is exactly what has happened—accidentally, as it turns out, for Tolkien did not initially set the story in Middle-earth—and the narrative tone changes to reflect that.
Even the quest itself takes on a much greater significance after the meeting with Elrond. Initially, the quest is a private affair of Thorin, centered on personal revenge on the dragon Smaug and on recapturing the treasure of Thorin’s ancestors. Gandalf’s comment at the unexpected party, regarding the possibility of a direct approach to Smaug’s front gate, gives insight into how insignificant Thorin and company are, despite the dwarf-king’s sense of self-importance: “That would be no good, not without a mighty Warrior, even a Hero. I tried to find one; but warriors are busy fighting one another in distant lands, and in this neighbourhood heroes are scarce, or simply not to be found” (Hobbit, 53). To the reader it is a humorous comment, giving a glimpse of Gandalf’s lighter side. To the characters themselves, however—Thorin especially—it is a condescending and even insulting statement. Gandalf is stating outright that none of them are great warriors or heroes in a classical or medieval tradition. Furthermore, in telling the dwarves that the real heroes and warriors are all off doing more important things, Gandalf is also letting them know that their quest is not so important: certainly not important enough to warrant the time of a hero.[63] Gandalf makes a similar comment later in the conversation with respect to the Necromancer: “Here is an enemy quite beyond the powers of all the dwarves put together, if they could all be collected again from the four corners of the world. . . . The dragon and the Mountain are more than big enough tasks for you!” (Hobbit, 58).
It is after the meeting with Elrond that this quest for dragon’s gold takes on greater significance than Gandalf hints at with the dwarves—and likely more than the author himself initially supposed. Elrond, for example, has motives much different from those of the dwarves when he gives them his help as they pass through Rivendell: “For if he did not altogether approve of dwarves and their love of gold, he hated dragons and their cruel wickedness, and he grieved to remember the ruin of the town of Dale and its merry bells, and the burned banks of the bright River Running” (Hobbit, 95).
In any case, at least the unintended consequences of the quest become more important than earlier imagined. The discovery of the One Ring, the death of Smaug, and the Battle of Five Armies all turn out to be important events in the history of Middle-earth. As the narrator tells us when Bilbo departs with the elf-host, “The northern world would be merrier for many a long day. The dragon was dead, and the goblins overthrown, and [the Elves’] hearts looked forward after winter to a spring of joy” (Hobbit, 352). None of this was in the mind of Thorin—nor was it, we might guess, in the mind of Tolkien—when Thorin set out from Hobbiton with his company of fourteen.
The common theme in all of the changes we have just discussed is Elrond. Before we meet Elrond, the story seems to be one thing. After we meet Elrond, it changes to something else. Again, it is not that the change is immediate. As Tom Shippey explains, Tolkien could be quite stubborn even with his bad ideas.[64] Nor is it a complete change in direction. It is more a deepening, a sending down of roots—a movement from children’s story to something bordering on the heroic romance genre of The Lord of the Rings. The shift starts in chapter 3, “A Short Rest,” when we meet Elrond, but it takes time to really set in. It seems to be complete about two chapters later, when Bilbo acquires the Ring and meets Gollum. Thus, as noted, the goblins of chapter 4 have not yet become the goblins of the Battle of Five Armies in chapter 17. This explains why many readers associate the shift more with the appearance of Gollum or the discovery of the Ring than with the appearance of Elrond. Also, Tolkien’s revisions before the first edition and the substantial revisions between the first edition and the second edition—especially with respect to the Ring and the outcome of the game of riddles—obscure the exact moment in which the shift occurs. Nonetheless, the shift in narrative voice cannot be doubted, and the beginning of that shift can be traced to Elrond.
Attaching a Leaf
Why, then, is this meeting with Elrond so important? And why does it spawn such a significant shift in the tone and voice of the narrative? Much of the answer to this lies in the genesis and roots of The Hobbit. For many years before Tolkien began writing this story, he had been working on a deep and profound mythology for his created world of Middle-earth. Some of his surviving stories date back at least to 1916–17. Though at the time he was very private about his writing, there is evidence that he had been working on what was later to become The Silmarillion from as early as 1914. Certainly by the 1920s he had done a significant amount of work on the languages and early histories of Middle-earth. Surprisingly, however, when he began The Hobbit he didn’t realize that this story would eventually fit into the larger (and much more serious) framework to which he had already devoted so much time! The Hobbit begins with a voice much more akin to that of Tolkien’s fairy tale Farmer Giles of Ham than to that of The Silmarillion.
The situation can be explained using imagery from Tolkien’s short masterpiece “Leaf by Niggle” (see “Niggle,” 75–78). Imagine a painter who has a broad canvas on which he is painting a tree. Imagine further that he has been working on this tree for many years; it is his passion and life’s interest. Imagine also that this painter has several smaller canvases on which he paints leaves. He has quite a collection of them. Some of these leaves remain works of art in their own right. Other leaves, however, turn out to belong to the great tree. When the painter realizes this, he attaches them to that other, broader canvas. This is precisely what happened with The Hobbit. Some readers are under the impression that Tolkien began with The Hobbit and then later went back and added the histories that were to become The Silmarillion. It was the other way around: the myths and histories of Middle-earth had been around for about two decades already when Tolkien began The Hobbit, and The Hobbit merely got added on to them like a small leaf glued to the giant mural of the tree. At what exact point Tolkien “realized” that this new story involving Bilbo Baggins was part of his other canvas, I don’t know for sure, but the arguments I’ve given in this chapter suggest that it happens when the company meets Elrond at Rivendell. In any case, Elrond is the obvious connection to the preexisting myth. He is “one of those people whose fathers came into the strange stories before the beginning of History, the wars of the evil goblins and the elves and the first men in the North. In those days of our tale there were still some people who had both elves and heroes of the North for ancestors, and Elrond the master of the house was their chief” (Hobbit, 93–94). Readers of The Silmarillion will realize at once that those “people who had both elves and heroes of the North for ancestors” refers to the offspring of Beren and Lúthien, and of Tuor and Idril, from which spring not only Elrond’s line but also the line of the kings of Númenor and thus Aragorn himself. The great hidden kingdom of Gondolin—the tale of which is told in The Silmarillion—is also mentioned by name; it is from there, we learn, that Gandalf’s and Thorin’s swords come. In short, it is right here, when Bilbo meets Elrond, that we are suddenly plunged more fully into the thematic depth and importance of Middle-earth.
It is even interesting to note that the narrator’s comment “in those days of our tale” follows immediately after a reference to “the strange stories before the beginning of History.” It would seem, therefore, that the phrase “those days” refers to this earlier history, when Elrond’s forefathers were alive. If this is the case, then the phrase “our tale” encompasses both the strange stories of Elrond’s past and the current story of Bilbo’s adventure, implying that it is all one tale. And it is one, though Tolkien himself didn’t realize this when he began writing The Hobbit. We are told, for example, that Gandalf’s sword, Glamdring, belonged to the king of Gondolin, who was Turgon, the father of Idril Celebrindal, the mother of Eärendil the Mariner, the father of none other than Elrond himself. Thus the story comes full circle, and Elrond identifies the sword of his great-grandfather and begins the living connection tying us to the past.
Aragorn’s tale also comes full circle. When he sits by the fire on the edge of Weathertop near the beginning of The Lord of the Rings and sings to the four hobbits the tale of Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel, he is singing his own song about a mortal man who falls in love with an elf maiden and goes through many perils and hardships to earn the right to wed her. “Why to think of it,” Sam says to Frodo on the Stairs of Cirith Ungol, “we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on.” This is a fundamental aspect of Tolkien’s work. It is one great story. We simply keep stepping into it at different spots. Time and again Tolkien connects us with the deep past of Middle-earth’s history, and yet does so in a way that relates that history to the present situation. “Don’t the great tales never end?” Sam goes on to ask. “No,” Frodo replies, “they never end as tales” (IV/viii).
And it is as Tolkien brings Thorin and company into contact with this deeper and richer preexisting history, embodied in Elrond, that their quest—which in and of itself is not of great significance to any but themselves—suddenly takes on more importance. In fact, it is much more important than Tolkien himself realized when he began writing The Hobbit. But once this story begins to be intertwined with the existing landscape and history that was so dear to Tolkien’s heart, it naturally takes on much greater importance to the author. This later realization accounts for numerous changes Tolkien made to the book after its first edition. One can only wonder why he didn’t make more changes.
The Presence of Ilúvatar
Now if the story and characters of The Hobbit suddenly find themselves entering a world and history both deeper and more important than the one Tolkien thought they were in when he began writing the book, it should not be surprising to find that the narrative also begins to take up themes that are more important. At the start of The Hobbit, for example, the author is concerned with such things as the invention of golf. In a line that is more cute than profound, we learn that Bullroarer Took, in the Battle of the Green Fields, knocked the head of the goblin-king clean off, whereupon “it sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit-hole, and in this way the battle was won and the game of Golf invented at the same moment” (Hobbit, 48). By the end of the story, however, we have begun at least to encounter issues of much greater import: themes such as the objectivity of moral law, the importance of free will, the role of fate, the value of life and friendship, and even salvation. That is, we begin to see the moral, philosophical, and theological themes that become much more prevalent in The Lord of the Rings (and that are the focus of this book).
One thing we begin to get hints of in The Hobbit is something mentioned in the introduction to this book: that reality consists not only of a physical plane (a seen world) but also of a spiritual plane (an unseen world). And this unseen world is vitally important. Indeed, the spiritual and physical planes are intimately related: what happens on the spiritual plane affects what happens on the physical, and the decisions made on the physical plane have spiritual import. In a few critical places in The Hobbit, Tolkien shows the contrast between temporal (physical) values and eternal (spiritual) values and challenges his readers to begin to understand the world through the eternal values. This is seen especially in Thorin’s sad downturn, where we witness in him the destructive nature of greed. In his parting speech to Bilbo, he glimpses in the face of death the realization of what is really important: “‘Farewell, good thief,’ he said. ‘I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate’” (Hobbit, 348). First, Thorin is professing a belief that the end of his bodily life does not mean the end of his spiritual existence. His present bodily life is temporal, but his spiritual life is eternal. Of course Tolkien is not gnostic; the value of this spiritual reality does not diminish the value of the physical reality. Dwarves, like elves and men, are meant to be embodied creatures; embodiment, not an existence as disembodied souls or spirits, is the good and proper state. Thus Thorin looks forward to a renewed world. His spirit will have a time of waiting, and then (so he believes) he will be reembodied in this renewed world.
Still, the eternal nature of the spiritual reality gives weight to moral decisions and provides a different value system. Gold and silver, though they have worth in the physical plane, have no value in the spiritual plane. Friendship, by contrast, does have spiritual worth and significance. It is sad that Thorin must face death—that is, he must come face-to-face with the reality of his finite existence in the present material plane and his eternal existence in the spiritual plane—before he contrasts temporal values with eternal values and realizes the greater importance of the latter.
Another place we get hints in The Hobbit of something going on in the spiritual plane is in the long-standing battle against the evil embodied in the Necromancer. We see this at the edge of Mirkwood when Gandalf leaves Thorin’s company in order to play some role in this battle. We learn in the final chapter of the book not only that Smaug is defeated but also that the Necromancer is “at last driven . . . from his dark hold in the south of Mirkwood” and that as a result the land would “be freed from that horror for many long years.” We also learn that this is not merely a physical war against a bodily enemy but rather a battle against a spiritual evil that has gone on for many lives of men and whose end, Elrond guesses, “will not come about in this age of the world, or for many after” (Hobbit, 357).
Perhaps the most important spiritual idea that Tolkien gives a glimpse of in Bilbo’s story is the presence of some sovereign or divine hand at work in the events of the world. The hint of this is expressed by Gandalf in the penultimate paragraph of the book, a paragraph that may be the most important of The Hobbit when it comes to understanding Tolkien’s Middle-earth.
“Then the prophecies of the old songs have turned out to be true, after a fashion!” said Bilbo.
“Of course!” said Gandalf. “And why should not they prove true? Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit? You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!” (Hobbit, 362–63)
At one level, this passage could be compared with the realization that comes to Théoden when he first sees Ents: the world is much bigger than he imagined, and his own little problems are somehow less significant. Or, rather, the significance of his problems must be understood in the context of the bigger problems of the world around him. Bilbo, like Théoden, is “only quite a little fellow in a wide world.”
There is much more at work in this passage, however. We first note that Gandalf is not at all surprised that the prophecies should be fulfilled. The very fact that Tolkien includes prophecies, and that they come true, suggests that in Middle-earth some reliable foreknowledge of future events is assumed. Gandalf himself trusts the source of this foreknowledge, and he is not alone. When Boromir arrives at the Council of Elrond and shares the prophecy that came to him in a dream—“There shall be shown a token / That Doom is near at hand”—no one at the council doubts the significance of those words; the importance of prophecy is taken for granted (II/ii). Now, prophecy may spring from impersonal fate, but at least it raises the possibility that there is some sort of plan with a purpose. In the Christian worldview of Tolkien’s Catholicism, for example, prophecy does not come from an impersonal source but from the Creator of the world whose plans are communicated through the prophecy. It is out of trust in the Creator that one would also trust the prophecy. And so the presence of trustworthy prophecy may be a first piece of evidence, even within The Hobbit, that there is a divine hand at work in Middle-earth.
Admittedly, the reference to “prophecy” might be interpreted in many ways, some of which could spring from a nonmonotheistic notion of fate, such as that held in Greek mythology or in Beowulf, Tolkien’s own beloved Germanic legend. But there is more than just this one hint of the divine. For Gandalf goes on to challenge Bilbo’s belief that all his adventures and escapes were “managed by mere luck.” Throughout the story there have been many references to luck and to its importance in bringing Bilbo and the dwarves to the successful completion of his quest. Gandalf himself has spoken of luck on numerous occasions, as has the narrator. Apart from the deeper consequences of the quest—consequences the author wouldn’t know about until the quest stumbled its way into Middle-earth—luck (meaning an impersonal chance) is the appropriate word. However, here at the end of The Hobbit, after it has completed its transition from being a children’s story to being a more mature tale contributing to the broad heroic landscape of Middle-earth, Gandalf says something much more important. In one blow, with the mere use of the word mere, he lays to rest all notions that the course of events is determined by “luck”—if by the word luck we mean blind, purposeless chance. For in his appeal to prophecy, Gandalf is referring to a power behind the luck, so that however lucky (or unlucky) certain events appear, it is not “mere luck.”
More importantly, Gandalf’s reference to the events being “managed” implies the presence of a manager! In other words, there is some hand at work in all of the events of the story, leading the events (and the characters) to their prophesied (and planned or managed) conclusion. This manager, then, has both the desire to act—a care and concern for Middle-earth and its people—and the power to bring about his purposes. Although to characters within the story, who are merely experiencing something beyond their control and their ability to understand, this manager’s actions may appear as luck.
Given how powerful and wise Tolkien portrays Gandalf to be, some readers might infer that Gandalf himself is the manager hinted at by the author. (This interpretation would make this aspect of the story more palatable to Tolkien’s nontheistic readers.) After all, Gandalf certainly seems to know more than any of the others, as is evident in the final moments leading up to the Battle of Five Armies. However, it cannot be the case that Gandalf is the manager responsible for all of the supposedly “lucky” events, for not only is he absent from many of them, but he is also as surprised as any of the dwarves by Bilbo’s reappearance after his finding of the Ring, and again by Bilbo’s survival of the Battle of Five Armies. Furthermore, Gandalf is as helpless as Bilbo and the dwarves when the company is caught by the goblins in the burning trees in the chapter “Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire.” He is truly frightened and expects to die.
At this point we must note that while Gandalf affirms the presence of a managing hand at work in the events of the world, and simultaneously affirms the validity of prophecy and of certain predestined events, he also affirms the reality of free will. He admits that even little Bilbo, by his choices and actions, had a hand in bringing about the prophesied events: events that within the manager’s purposes are much more significant than any of Thorin’s company expected. In other words, Bilbo’s free will—emphasized several times and most especially in his choice to continue down the tunnel to Smaug’s lair—is not an illusion but is somehow used by the manager to bring about the very events that were fated and foretold by prophecy. If we return to The Silmarillion, we must understand this in the context of Ilúvatar’s gift of freedom. Ilúvatar can use for his own ends the good choice of Bilbo to show mercy to Gollum as well as the evil choices of Fëanor bound up in his oath, and yet in both cases the individuals are still free to act.
Of course, even at the end, The Hobbit remains a more lighthearted work than its sequel, and many of these deeper matters are only suggested in a way peripheral to the story. Gandalf’s concluding words to Bilbo, though they carry the added weight of being concluding words, are really the only significant reference we see in The Hobbit to any sort of God or Creator or divine hand. Had Bilbo’s story never found its way into Middle-earth, we might not have seen even that glimpse of greater theological concerns in The Hobbit.
When we move to the deeper heroic work that is The Lord of the Rings, however, we begin to see many more examples of this managing hand at work in the history of Middle-earth: evidence of Providence, or of a Creator’s care for his creation. We see examples in how the wise of Middle-earth speak of Frodo’s role: Gandalf refers to him as having been “chosen” (I/ii); Elrond speaks of him as having been “appointed” (II/ii); and even Frodo sees himself as having been chosen, though he wonders why. But just as events being managed implies the existence of a manager, Frodo having been chosen and appointed implies that there is a chooser and appointer. And both Gandalf and Elrond make it clear that this chooser is neither of them but is instead a much higher and more powerful being. Aragorn uses a word even more laden with spiritual connotation when he says to Frodo, “It has been ordained that you should hold it for a while” (II/ii, emphasis added). The term ordination usually implies a spiritual calling from a supreme being.
Elrond also hints at this higher power when he welcomes the visitors to the council: “That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world” (II/ii). Though Elrond does not explicitly name a divine being in this passage, he suggests one in several ways. Using the passive voice, he speaks of each person present as having been “called,” but denies being the one who called them. Calling, like ordination, connotes a spiritual purpose and vocation. The phrase “by chance as it may seem” (emphasis added) is a clear implication that it is not by chance at all but by some greater intentional purpose that only seemed like chance. Then we get another reference to the strangers being “ordered” to have been there. In fact, we see a pattern here that no explicit subject is given for any of these verbs: chose, called, managed, ordained, and ordered. Yet for all of them, a higher power is suggested and implied. It is also clear that this power is actively involved in the affairs of Middle-earth.
Those who have read The Silmarillion know the name of this power: Eru Ilúvatar, the Creator of Middle-earth in Tolkien’s mythology. Or at the very least it is lesser authorities (the Valar) working on behalf of Ilúvatar. Why Tolkien did not give more explicit details in The Lord of the Rings as to the identity and nature of this manager-ordainer-chooser-caller-prophesier, but left all references to Ilúvatar vague and indirect, is an interesting and important question to which we shall return in the final chapter. But first we must explore the importance of this presence in Middle-earth and in The Lord of the Rings.
The Purpose of Ilúvatar
Though Ilúvatar is not mentioned by name in The Lord of the Rings, the evidence of his presence and of his concern for the peoples of Middle-earth is significant to the tale and to the characters within it. Among other things, awareness of the great purpose of the Creator, and of the scope of his concerns, becomes at times a source of hope in that it gives a very different perspective to some of the troubles encountered by the characters. This hope is vitally important; it is what keeps the characters from giving up and ceasing to do what they are called to do, what is necessary for the defeat of Sauron.
Not surprisingly, it is in Gandalf that we see this understanding most clearly manifested. He is able to see beyond one day and one battle, one victory or one defeat, as we saw in the passage cited earlier: “And for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, though Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in days to come” (V/i). Thus he is able to expand the vision of many of those with whom he comes into contact, such as Théoden, whose healing was discussed earlier: “For not only the little life of Men is now endangered, but the life also of those things which you deemed the matter of legend. You are not without allies, even if you know them not” (III/viii).
It is a scene in Minas Tirith, as we approach the siege, where Gandalf’s awareness of the spiritual plane is most clearly and beautifully captured: “Pippin glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been gay and merry. Yet in the wizard’s face he saw at first only lines of care and sorrow; though as he looked more intently he perceived that under all there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing, were it to gush forth” (V/i). This scene takes place at one of the most despairing moments in the story. Sauron’s darkness is coming upon the land. Frodo has been captured. The terrible siege of Minas Tirith is about to start, and there is no sign of Aragorn or the Rohirrim or Faramir. Denethor is showing signs of the evil coming upon him. And on the outside, Gandalf himself is showing the great burden on him. Yet beneath that terrible weight, there is a spiritual side to the wizard. That spiritual side shows in the incredible joy—a joy that is inexplicable from the point of view of the current physical reality of his situation. This joy can be explained in no other way than that Gandalf has a deeper understanding, one of the unseen reality beyond what is seen. Indeed, the imagery here of Gandalf’s fountain of mirth is explicitly biblical. As Jesus told the woman at the well, “But the water that I will give him shall become in him a fountain of water, springing up into life everlasting” (John 4:14).
In a personal letter quoted in chapter 3, Tolkien explains a bit more of Gandalf’s spiritual understanding and that the wizard dwells in part in the spiritual plane. Writing of Gandalf’s sacrifice at Khazad-dûm, Tolkien explains how the wizard’s understanding of Ilúvatar’s purposes enables him, or frees him, to do what he does.
For in his condition it was for him a sacrifice to perish on the Bridge in defense of his companions, less perhaps than for a mortal Man or Hobbit, since he had a far greater inner power than they; but also more, since it was a humbling and abnegation of himself in conformity to “the Rules”: for all he could know at that moment he was the only person who could direct the resistance to Sauron successfully, and all his mission was vain. He was handing over to the Authority that ordained the Rules, and giving up personal hope of success. . . .
. . . In the end before he departs for ever he sums himself up: “I was the enemy of Sauron.” He might have added: “for that purpose I was sent to Middle-earth.” But by that he would at the end have meant more than at the beginning. He was sent by a mere prudent plan of the angelic Valar or governors; but Authority had taken up this plan and enlarged it, at the moment of its failure. “Naked I was sent back—for a brief time, until my task is done.” Sent back by whom, and whence? Not by the “gods” whose business is only with this embodied world and its time; for he passed “out of thought and time.” (Letters, 202–3)
Here, Tolkien refers to the Authority—that is, the divine Creator, Ilúvatar—and to his purpose, and how it exceeds even the understanding of the Valar, the angelic beings who govern Middle-earth from Valinor. Gandalf’s return is akin to a resurrection, though it is not quite the same thing, since the wizard is not of mortal kind but is one of the Maiar, the lesser angelic beings who serve the Valar. Tolkien makes his intention clear in this letter: it is Ilúvatar and not the Valar who send Gandalf back. For it is the Authority’s purpose to rescue Middle-earth from Sauron. As mentioned earlier, Ilúvatar has both the desire and the divine power to do this. So he completes his plan by sending Gandalf back, at the very moment of Gandalf’s failure.
Yet even as we get a glimpse of Ilúvatar’s plan, we also see Gandalf’s faith in that Authority, and his understanding of the Authority’s plan—that its scope far exceeds his own personal definition of “success.” In Gandalf’s limited knowledge (limited compared to that of Ilúvatar, not to that of mortal beings of Middle-earth), there is no one else capable of doing what he, as a wise, knowledgeable, and powerful wizard, can do. It would be easy for him to believe that the entire resistance to Sauron depends on his own strength. But he knows the Authority and has faith in him, and this knowledge broadens his vision so that he can see that even he, Gandalf, is not responsible for the fate of Middle-earth. Thus, he subordinates his own mission and purposes.
In many ways, this discussion of Gandalf’s faith and knowledge relates to the reality behind the prophecies that we looked at earlier in this chapter. In knowing something of Ilúvatar’s purposes, Gandalf is able to have faith that the plan will be accomplished and the prophecies fulfilled. Interestingly enough, far from making Gandalf care less about the little individuals of Middle-earth (hobbits, for example!), his understanding of Ilúvatar’s bigger purposes gives him a greater care for each individual—and, we might add, for the flowers and plants and trees of Middle-earth. Or, to phrase this another way, his love for the Creator (Ilúvatar) gives him a deep love and concern for the creation (Arda and Middle-earth).
Even Sam, in his simple understanding, takes courage from the little glimpse he gets of the larger reality of Ilúvatar’s plans. In another of the most beautiful passages of the trilogy, we are shown Sam’s thoughts.
Far above the Ephel Dúath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tower high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. (VI/ii)
What exactly does Sam see? Just a single star. No more. Nor is there any deep philosophical dialogue about the meaning of that star. Rather, it is one simple thought, reaching him at a level much more intuitive and visceral than intellectual: the evil of Sauron was only a small and passing thing; light and high beauty really existed, and Sauron could never destroy it. Like Sam himself, the realization is simple, but also profound. For it tells him that even if he fails in his quest, it will not mean that evil will triumph forever. The scope of Ilúvatar’s plan is much broader than that. And in light of the greater scope, his own troubles are put in a new perspective. Like Théoden, he moves from thinking of himself to thinking of others. In other words, he moves from selfishness to unselfishness. And the less he focuses on himself, Tolkien is saying, the less his own fate troubles him. And hope returns to him.
The Power of Ilúvatar
Now it is not only the abstract notion of some broader plan of the Creator that gives hope (both to the characters within the story and to its readers); the evidence of Ilúvatar’s power at work in practical and visible ways provides an even greater hope. Again, although the power is not explicitly identified as Ilúvatar’s, evidence of the workings of the Creator’s power in The Lord of the Rings is significant even if not abundant.
Consider the finding of the One Ring. As Gandalf tells Frodo, “It was the strangest event in the whole history of the Ring so far: Bilbo’s arrival just in time, and putting his hand on it, blindly, in the dark” (II/ii). This comment alone does not necessarily point to Ilúvatar’s power at work. In the context of The Hobbit, it might be seen merely as one additional lucky event in a long chain of lucky events. In this case, however, the event—the finding of that “tiny ring of cold metal” in the midst of all the vast underground chambers and tunnels—seems rather far-fetched even for Bilbo’s luck. Suppose a whole army of hobbits was sent underground beneath the mountains and told to look for the Ring. We would still have to say their chances of finding it were rather slim. How many readers have ever dropped a ring or similar object in the safe confines of their living room and been unable to find it? Now add the fact that Bilbo isn’t even looking for the Ring at the time he discovers it. He just places his hand down in exactly the right place where it has been dropped on the hard floor of the tunnel, and not six inches to one side or another. This is so astronomically unlikely that the word luck cannot even describe it. Indeed, though the reader is told, for example, that the riddle game is won by “pure luck” (Hobbit, 125), the finding of the Ring is one place in The Hobbit where Tolkien specifically does not use the word luck (Hobbit, 115).
If not luck, then what is behind this event? It is hinted in the hindsight offered by The Lord of the Rings that this event was the result of a higher power. Gandalf explains this to Frodo.
There was more than one power at work, Frodo. The Ring was trying to get back to its master. . . .
Behind that there was something else at work, beyond any design of the Ring-maker. I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you also were meant to have it. And that may be an encouraging thought. (I/ii)
This is as close as Gandalf comes to explaining to Frodo the theology of Middle-earth. Those who have read The Silmarillion can more fully grasp what Gandalf is speaking of. Up to this point, he has been telling Frodo about the power of Sauron. Now suddenly he speaks of another power at work: one, we are led to understand, that is greater and higher than the Dark Lord. It is this other power that overrules the will of the Ring to return to its master and the will of the master to recover the Ring and instead leads the Ring to Bilbo, and thence to Frodo. For that other power has its own purpose, in which the Ring is meant to go to Frodo (and not to Sauron, its maker) and acts in power to bring this purpose to fulfillment. In fact, in part 3 of appendix A to The Lord of the Rings, it is hinted by Gandalf that the entire quest of The Hobbit was brought about by similar involvement of this Authority, at work in a seeming “chance-meeting” between Gandalf and an important dwarf named Thorin at an inn in Bree. The meeting, however, was no more “chance” than was the Council of Elrond. In any case, when the characters of Middle-earth believe that there is a caring and powerful Creator at work in the events of Middle-earth, it is indeed an encouraging thought, one that creates a sense of hope.
At times this Creator grants an apparently supernatural power to those serving him. Gandalf, as an angelic being—one of the Istari—naturally possesses some of this power. We see it manifest in a few places, most notably when he opposes evil beings of similar power, such as the winged Nazgûl attacking Faramir’s retreating forces, or the Balrog of Moria at Khazad-dûm: “‘You cannot pass,’ [Gandalf] said. . . . ‘I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass’” (II/v). This passage is interesting to note with respect to Gandalf’s power, because in it Tolkien (through Gandalf) gives his readers a hint of the source of this power. What is meant by “servant of the Secret Fire” and “wielder of the flame of Anor”? The flame of Anor may refer to Narya, the Ring of Fire, one of the three elven-rings. We learn at the end of the trilogy that Gandalf is the wielder of Narya, which had been given him earlier by Círdan. However, there is no explicit connection between Narya and Anor; the name Anor is just a derivative of Anar, the elven name for the sun. So if the flame of Anor refers to Narya, why is that particular name used for Narya here and nowhere else? Whether the flame of Anor refers to Narya or not, it is the Valar who put Anor (the sun) in the sky, and who govern its course (Silm, 98–102). This is also suggestive of the significance of the title Gandalf takes for himself, for the Valar originally set the sun above Middle-earth to help thwart Melkor’s evil deeds done in darkness. Anor is drawn on its path by Arien, a “spirit of fire whom Melkor had not deceived nor drawn to his service” (Silm, 100). Melkor feared Arien and Anor “with a great fear, but dared not come nigh her” (Silm, 101). We also might simply note that the realm of the sun is in the heavens, and so the flame of Anor would seem to be a reference to the heavens, or to heaven, or to the supernatural power of heaven set against Melkor’s own dark powers.
Of equal or greater interest is the reference to the “Secret Fire.” Again, readers of The Lord of the Rings might guess that this also is a reference to Narya, which, as mentioned, is the Ring of Fire. Narya certainly gives Gandalf power. However, it doesn’t quite make sense for Gandalf to claim that he is a servant of a ring; Narya would have been something he wielded rather than served. It is more likely that the Secret Fire is another name for the Flame Imperishable. In the fourth paragraph of the Ainulindalë, the tale of the creation and the Music of the Ainur, which is the opening part of The Silmarillion, there is a reference to the “secret fire” (though as here, with lowercase s and f ); and again in the first paragraph of the Valaquenta, the second part of The Silmarillion, there is another reference to the “Secret Fire” (this time capitalized). In both cases it seems to be another name or description for the Flame Imperishable (which is also referred to in the Ainulindalë as the Imperishable Flame). But the Secret Fire, or Flame Imperishable, is with Ilúvatar (Silm, 16)—that is, in heaven. Thus, this is another reference to the power of heaven.
In fact, the imagery of the Secret Fire may be even more specific than this. Clyde Kilby, who spent the summer of 1966 working with Tolkien at Oxford, helping him prepare The Silmarillion for publication, wrote: “Professor Tolkien talked to me at some length about the use of the word ‘holy’ in The Silmarillion. Very specifically he told me that the ‘Secret Fire sent to burn at the heart of the World’ in the beginning was the Holy Spirit.”[65] Thus, the creation passage in The Silmarillion with its reference to the “Secret Fire” is akin to Genesis 1:2: “And the earth was void and empty, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the spirit of God moved over the waters.” This makes the words of Gandalf even more telling. They may mean, quite plainly: “I am a servant of the Holy Spirit.”
Udûn, by contrast, is not only a region of Mordor but is more importantly a name that means the “un-west”[66] and is used by the elves as a synonym for hell. (See the index at the end of The Lord of the Rings.) Thus Gandalf makes it clear that the battle between himself and the Balrog is in reality a battle between heaven and hell—or specifically, between a servant of Ilúvatar and a servant of Morgoth, Ilúvatar’s enemy. Furthermore, as Gandalf indicates, since Ilúvatar is the more powerful, he has the confidence to face this enemy. Readers of this passage who are familiar with the biblical narrative will recognize his words as not unlike those spoken by David to Goliath: “And David said to the Philistine: Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, which thou hast defied” (1 Sam. 17:45). As with David, whose confidence comes from his trust in God, Gandalf’s confidence, or hope, comes from his hope in Ilúvatar’s power. In any case, from the letter we quoted earlier we see that the power given to Gandalf after his return is a supernatural power enhanced by Ilúvatar so that he can do the work that Ilúvatar sent him to do. This is a message of hope for Sauron’s enemies: such a power is being used on their behalf against their enemy.
It is more surprising, perhaps, to see supernatural power at work not through a wizard but through the hobbit Sam, a lowly gardener from the Shire. Yet this seems to be what happens when he faces Shelob.
“Galadriel!” he said faintly, and then he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the Elves as they walked under the stars in the beloved shadows of the Shire, and the music of the Elves as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Elrond.
Gilthoniel A Elbereth!
And then his tongue was loosed and his voice cried in a language which he did not know:
A Elbereth Gilthoniel!
o menel palan-diriel
le nallon sí di’nguruthos!
A tiro nin, Fanuilos! . . .
As if his indomitable spirit had set its potency in motion, the glass blazed suddenly like a white torch in his hand. It flamed like a star that leaping from the firmament sears the dark air with intolerable light. (IV/ix)
One might be tempted to see this display of power merely as Sam’s unconscious memory recalling words he heard months earlier in the Shire, or as the potency of Galadriel herself at work through her star-glass, given as a gift to Frodo, or even as some latent power at work in Sam’s “indomitable spirit.” All these ideas are present in the passage, but there are two additional things suggesting this miraculous display of power is of a supernatural source, coming from a higher power—perhaps from Ilúvatar himself—at a time of great need. Some readers may recognize this passage as resonating with the New Testament narrative of the coming of the Holy Spirit on the apostles at the day of Pentecost (see Acts 2:1–4). When the Holy Spirit comes—not insignificantly, in the visible form of a flame—Jesus’s apostles receive the supernatural power to speak in languages they do not know. Many other miraculous powers also follow in the coming days, including the power to heal, and even power to drive out evil spirits. This is precisely the manifestation of power we see in Sam. First he speaks words he does not understand in a language he does not know. They are, of course, words of great power! Then he drives out Shelob, the evil being. It is probably not coincidental that the passage speaks of Sam’s indomitable spirit rather than his body or even his will, for with such a reference Tolkien leads the readers at least to be thinking about the spiritual reality rather than the physical.
Additionally, we must consider the name on which Sam now calls for help. It is not Galadriel, the powerful elven queen whom he has met and would have reason to recall but who is nonetheless a being of flesh more akin to him than to the Valar. Rather, it is the Vala Elbereth. Elbereth, which means “Star-Queen,” is another name for Varda, the queen of the Valar and spouse of Manwë the king. Of her we read: “The light of Ilúvatar lives still in her face. . . . Elbereth [the Elves] name her . . . and they call upon her name out of the shadows of Middle-earth, and uplift it in song at the rising of the stars” (Silm, 26). She is also called Gilthoniel, meaning “Star-Kindler,” a title of praise and adoration used only of Elbereth, who made the stars. When Frodo strikes the Black Rider at Weathertop, Aragorn comments, “More deadly to him was the name of Elbereth” (I/xii). Indeed, in the light of Tolkien’s Catholicism, we cannot help but see in the honoring of Elbereth some reflection of the veneration of Mary. Thus, though he does not understand it himself, Sam is praising the Queen of Angels and calling on her for aid. So his vague memory, the potency of the star-glass, and his indomitable spirit are not sources of this power but rather vehicles through which the greater power is at work.
Thus, Tolkien lets his readers see both Gandalf and Sam as instruments through whom the Creator demonstrates his power in The Lord of the Rings. However, the most important demonstration of the power of Ilúvatar does not involve any physical being within Middle-earth at all. Rather, it is the battle of the winds that takes place high above Middle-earth in The Return of the King. This battle is the turning point in the siege of Minas Tirith, for the reversal of winds blows back the black clouds of Mordor and lets the sun shine once again. So important is it that it is noticed in all of the separate threads of the narrative going on at this point, and it is used to tie all the threads together. Merry notices it as he travels with Théoden and Éowyn: “Then suddenly Merry felt it at last, beyond doubt: a change. Wind was in his face! Light was glimmering. Far, far away, in the South the clouds could be dimly seen as remote grey shapes, rolling up, drifting: morning lay beyond them” (V/v). It is noticed by Pippin and Gandalf as they make their way back from Gandalf’s confrontation at the gate: “They felt the wind blowing in their faces, and they caught the glimmer of morning far away, a light growing in the southern sky” (V/vii). Gimli recalls it as he and Legolas recount to Merry in the House of Healing something of their strange tale with Aragorn: “Hope was indeed born anew, . . . a change coming with a fresh wind from the Sea. . . . And so it was, as you know, that we came in the third hour of the morning with a fair wind and the Sun unveiled” (V/viii).
Perhaps the clearest expression of the spiritual significance of the wind change can be seen in Sam and Frodo’s part of the story.
There was battle far above in the high spaces of the air. The billowing clouds of Mordor were being driven back, their edges tattering as a wind out of the living world came up and swept the fumes and smokes towards the dark land of their home. Under the lifting skirts of the dreary canopy dim light leaked into Mordor like pale morning through the grimed window of a prison.
“Look at it, Mr. Frodo!” said Sam. “Look at it! The wind’s changed. Something’s happening. He’s not having it all his own way. His darkness is breaking up out in the world there. I wish I could see what is going on!” (VI/ii)
It is significant that Tolkien uses the word battle to describe what is happening. The first thing he shows us here is that the change in winds is not just a coincidence, or good luck, but yet another part of the great war going on in Middle-earth. The imagery that follows is equally significant. Though the winds certainly are a part of the physical universe, the phrase “far above in the high spaces of the air” carries the suggestion of heaven. That is, this is a war going on in heaven or in the spiritual realm. Certainly no physical being within Middle-earth accomplishes this; these are the winds of Manwë or of Ilúvatar himself. Ilúvatar’s power is at work to rescue the people of Middle-earth. Sauron may be powerful, and his power brings terrible despair to his enemies, but there is one who is infinitely more powerful than Sauron. Thus, Sauron does not have it all his own way. His darkness does not go unopposed. Tolkien shows his reader that the power that is against Sauron is the power that controls the winds and the air. This, as is evident in Sam’s words, is a source of tremendous hope to the people of Middle-earth.
Free Will and the Hand of Ilúvatar
That the hand of Ilúvatar intervenes in the affairs of Middle-earth on behalf of those who serve him—whether through Gandalf, through Galadriel’s glass, through battles in the heavens, or through what appear to be lucky events—can be, as we saw, a source of hope. Ilúvatar’s intervention does not remove the significance of the choices made by the Children of Ilúvatar, but in many ways it can redeem those choices. Or, to put it another way, the characters are responsible only for their own choices and not for the outcome of those choices; they are responsible for the means, while the ends are in Ilúvatar’s hands.
We see this principle at work in countless ways throughout The Lord of the Rings. Earlier in this book, we saw that many choices made by the wise and noble are not aimed at military victory. We now observe that by the power of Ilúvatar many of these choices result in a greater good than was imagined by those making the choices. Among these, one of the best examples is Aragorn’s choice to pursue the orcs across Rohan to rescue Merry and Pippin. As we noted in chapter 4, of the three courses of action considered by Aragorn, this one makes the least sense from a strategic standpoint. The fate of Middle-earth lies with the actions unfolding to the east, as Frodo and Sam make their way toward Mordor. Gondor lies to the south, and there, it seems to Aragorn at the time, also lies the hope of Middle-earth as well as Aragorn’s own heart. To the west are only two seemingly insignificant hobbits. Aragorn, however, feels a moral duty to go west and rescue the hobbits rather than let them suffer torture. In doing so, he guesses (wrongly, as it turns out) that he may be taking himself out of the battle for Middle-earth. Yet this choice proves pivotal, as Gandalf explains: “You chose amid doubts the path that seemed right: the choice was just, and it has been rewarded. For so we have met in time, who otherwise might have met too late. But the quest of your companions is over. Your next journey is marked by your given word” (III/v). Gandalf does not say that Aragorn’s choice was strategic, or even wise, but rather that it was right and just—words in which the idea of moral goodness is implicit. Likewise, Aragorn’s next choice is not determined by strategic planning or military foresight but is determined morally, by his “given word,” meaning that holding to the virtue of faithfulness is more important than good strategy—a point made several times in the fourth chapter of this book. Yet Ilúvatar is able to take these choices and reward them, making them bear fruit that may be unintended but that is good. Indeed, had Aragorn not followed Merry and Pippin, his help might never have come to Rohan, in which case King Théoden might never have been healed. And had Rohan fallen, then its help would not have reached Minas Tirith but instead a whole new host of enemies. Nor would Aragorn have followed the Paths of the Dead. In short, it is likely that Gondor would have fallen had Aragorn chosen to go directly to Minas Tirith to try to rescue it. If Gondor had fallen, the diversionary assault on the Black Gates would never have taken place, and it is most likely that Frodo would also have failed.
The same may be said of the decision to include Merry and Pippin in the Fellowship—another decision made, at least on the surface of things, on the basis of friendship and not for any demonstrable strategic advantage or military wisdom. “I think, Elrond,” Gandalf advises as they are planning the membership of the Fellowship, “that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom” (II/iii, emphasis added). Yet as Gandalf discovers in hindsight, much later in the story: “It was not in vain that the young hobbits came with us, if only for Boromir’s sake. But that is not the only part they have to play. They were brought to Fangorn, and their coming was like the falling of small stones that starts an avalanche in the mountains” (III/v). Of course, what looks like hindsight may well have been foresight on Gandalf’s part, but if so, he was able to offer no concrete reasoning for that foresight other than the value of friendship. Yet as we see, even the downfall of Isengard is brought about because of the presence of the hobbits.
Indeed, even the work of the enemy can be used by Ilúvatar to accomplish something good. This is one of the central themes of The Silmarillion. Ilúvatar says to Melkor: “And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined” (Silm, 17). Later he says of the race of men: “These too in their time shall find that all that they do redounds at the end only to the glory of my work” (Silm, 42). This theme might be seen as reflecting a Christian principle that the apostle Paul expresses in 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.” It is a principle illustrated wonderfully in The Lord of the Rings in the story of Merry and Pippin, for it is important not only that these two hobbits are a part of the Quest—a decision of their own and of Elrond’s—but that their enemies the orcs capture them. They do not go to Fangorn of their own will; they are brought there. Brought by whom? By the orcs, yes. But if we carry over our understanding from The Silmarillion, the hand of Ilúvatar is also involved. That is, Ilúvatar takes something that was intended for the harm of those who are doing good, namely the imprisonment and ill-treatment of Merry and Pippin, and uses it to accomplish good and to help those who seek good.
Now for most of the characters in the story, there is no indication of any knowledge of or faith in Ilúvatar. In the wisest of the wise, however—especially Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel, and at times Aragorn, Faramir, and a few others—there is often seen an explicit faith in a divine power. It is faith in the power and purpose of the Creator that enables them to do what is morally right rather than what appears to hold the most promise. It is faith that enables Gandalf to be full of joy even when all is dark. And from Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel, this vision of faith often passes to others, whether it is Gandalf (and later Aragorn) trying to comfort Frodo with the thought that he was meant to find the Ring, or Elrond telling the strangers at the council that they were called, or Galadriel speaking to the companions toward the end of their stay in Lothlórien: “Sleep in peace! Do not trouble your hearts overmuch with thought of the road tonight. Maybe the paths that you each shall tread are already laid before your feet, though you do not see them. Good night!” (II/viii). The message in each case is similar: there is a good and powerful hand at work in the world, guiding the events and preparing the paths so that his purposes are fulfilled. Those who follow him need concern themselves only with doing what is right and not with the results of those decisions. “It is not their part to master all the tides of the world,” Gandalf tells them, “but to do what is in them for the succor of those years wherein they are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that they know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather that will be is not theirs to rule.”
What better example is there than the final success of Frodo’s Quest? The list is long of those who, somewhere along the way, show mercy to Gollum and spare his life, doing what they think is right even though it seems to be a risky thing. And their mercy is rewarded, despite the failure of Frodo at the very end. One word for this is grace. Another—a word coined by Tolkien—is eucatastrophe: a “good catastrophe,” a “sudden joyous ‘turn,’” or “sudden and miraculous grace”; a “fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief” (“Fairy,” 62).