LotR -- Book 3 - Chapter 06 - The King of the Golden Hall

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Late have I come. May that not prove ill.

I'm currently re-reading LotR, and I reached this chapter last night. A few thoughts occurred at the time, and hopefully I can address a couple of the issues that have been raised in this conclave. Please forgive the lack of quotes: I'm stealing time from work and my books are elsewhere.

The ‘House of Éorl’ is mentioned, which I assume is the basis for the word ‘Eorlingas’.

In Old English, the suffix ...ingas means 'people or descendents of' (the singular form is ...ing). Therefore 'Sons of Éorl' or 'People of Éorl' are both possible interpretations. 'Éorl' is a word derived from Old Norse Jarl, 'Lord, nobleman', from which derives the modern English title 'Earl'. Tolkien amused himself with his names for the Lords of the Mark, calling most of them by titles applied to kings or simply words for 'King' in Old English. Goldwine, for example, literally means 'gold-friend': it is often applied to kings in verse, and implies wealth and generosity. Thengel and Théoden just mean 'king'. 'prince', 'ruler'. Éorl was not a king when first he rode out of the North, so his name is the lesser title. Théoden's hall is also named for its purpose: Meduseld means 'mead-hall', a common poetic term for such a structure. Where mead is drunk, rather than ale or wine, it seems to carry especially heroic overtones.

I enjoyed Bêthberry's analysis of the language in this chapter. I remember that we've discussed in the past Tolkien's opinion that archaic English is able to convey certain archaic attitudes and thoughts better than its modern equivalent; in fact, he uses Theoden's speech in this chapter as an example in one of his letters, translating it into a modern idiom as well as one so archaic as to be almost late Middle English. More than anything, the language in this chapter evokes for me Victorian and Edwardian translations of Old English poetry and prose, which were usually as close to transliteration as scholars could manage. Nowadays this approach is frowned upon, and the translator is expected to render the original into an entirely modern idiom (reflecting that to Anglo-Saxons the diction was not dusty and old-fashioned), but I prefer the old method's closeness in literal meaning, rhythm and word order. Here, for example, are some lines of Old English rendered in both styles; the quotation is long because it's relevant to this chapter:

Originally Posted by The Wanderer, ll. 88-96

Se þonne þisne wealsteal wise geþohte
ond þis deorce lif deope geondþenceð,

frod in ferðe, feor oft gemon
wælsleahta worn, ond þas word acwið:
"Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago? Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu? Hwær sindon seledreamas?
Eala beorht bune! Eala byrnwiga!

Eala þeodnes þrym! Hu seo þrag gewat,
genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære.

Originally Posted by Translations

He who then this wall-place [place where buildings stand (Bosworth-Toller)] wisely has considered
and this gloomy life thoughtfully contemplates,

wise in heart, far back often recalls
a multitude of battle-slaughters, and these words utters:
"Where went the horse? Where went the kinsman? Where went the treasure-giver?
Where went the places of banquets? Where are the hall-pleasures?
Alas the bright cup! Alas the mail-clad warrior!
Alas the prince's majesty! How the time departed,
Darkened under night's helm, as though it never was.

***

Then he who has considered wisely this place of buildings
and thoughfully contemplates this gloomy life,
wise at heart, often recalls far back
a multitude of battle-slaughters, and speaks these words...

The unusual word order serves two purposes, both concerned with emphasis: firstly it allows certain syllables to fall in the correct places for proper alliteration, but secondly it allows those words to be placed first which are most important, and associates particular alliterating words and phrases, often across lines. This technique, only fully viable in an inflected language, is one that Tolkien attempts to apply to modern English, and for similar reasons. The phrase 'helms too they chose', for example, has been reversed to remove the emphasis from the personal pronoun and place it instead on the nature of the objects being chosen. It also refers back to the previous sentence, in which Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli are being armed by Théoden. It is a brave effort to revive an ancient metrical device in prose, and it lends to this chapter an epic quality, in keeping with the stature of its protagonists.

Returning briefly to The Wanderer, do those lines look familiar to anyone? Old English elegiac poetry often dwells on the fading and departure of old joys and glories, and this poem is about exile, separation from a lord, companions and the joys of the feasting hall. It also concerns itself with the consolation to be found in Christ, but the main body of the work describes the old warrior, doomed to wander the world friendless, bereft of comradeship and leadership. The poem lament for the Rohirrim picks up the emphasis on a fallen people, the lost joys of the past, and recounts it with much the same rhetorical device. One might even say that the whole theme of loss and fading that runs through LotR, not to mention the traditional English love of nostalgia, are the direct descendents of the Old English elegies.

On a completely different note, the revival of Théoden, although he seems rather too quick to abandon his former mistrust of Gandalf, is beautifully structured. If this chapter is about anyone, it is about the Lord of the Mark, about whom all of its events revolve; and his recovery is central to the narrative. The old, bent king is first shorn of his poor counsellor; then he is asked to trust Gandalf and to turn his mind away from despair. As he begins to come to himself, he moves physically from the dim hall to the fresh air, where Gandalf takes charge of him and relieves Éowyn of her spiritual burden. Already he begins to notice that the world is brighter outside Meduseld, both literally (a hall has no windows) and figuratively: now that he sees the world for himself it is no longer so dark as he had been led to believe. Gandalf's next prompting is that he should abandon his stick and stand unaided, at which he does so and stands upright, revealing the strength and stature of his youth. Finally he is told to take his sword, but before he can hold one he performs the kingly act of judging an errant subject, in this case Éomer. Having judged both wisely and fairly, he accepts Éomer's renewed service by taking his sword, and at this moment, as his authority as king is restored, so his hands regain the strength to wield a king's weapon. Finally he calls his people to arms like the hero of some verse epic. Théoden grows physically, mentally and spiritually, and his authority recovers, all in this one sequence. More importantly, while we may suspect that Gandalf is helping him with more than an arm to lean on and some good advice, the wizard does nothing obvious. To Théoden's men it seems that their king has recovered without assistance.

Perhaps Tolkien was trying to demonstrate how powerful confidence and positive thinking can be. Gríma has exercised no obvious magical powers, but he has repeatedly worked on Theoden's mood, prompting him to sit brooding in his hall rather than walking among his people, quietly and determinedly fostering a spirit of defeatism and misery, and eroding the king's self-confidence just as he gradually undermines his authority. Gandalf acts here as the kindler of spirits that Círdan predicts that he will be in the Silmarillion. Observe how he withdraws, from supporting Théoden physically to sitting on a step beneath him. Gandalf is demonstrating how a good advisor should behave, but also showing that ability to persuade and guide others in sensible directions. Théoden's confidence and stature grow in each scene from this point until his final, triumphant exit on the Pelennor Fields, and it is easy to believe that he will 'sleep better' for it. At the beginning of the chapter, its title seems to contrast the glorious hall with its decrepit occupant; by the end, Théoden more than lives up to his grand and heroic residence.

That's about all I have time for on this subject. May I be forgiven my laggardly entrance.