Goodreads Review: Gaudy Night by Dorothy Sayers

Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Not a mystery reader, I jumped into Gaudy Night as an introduction to Sayers, in part because a description or summary I read intrigued me, in part because several friends highly recommended it, and ultimately because the price was right for the Kindle version for a short period of time. My main complaint was that it was very, very slow-moving. A lesser complaint, because I do like smart books, is that it did rather beat me over the head with its smart-ness. It's wearying to have to look up Latin quote after Latin quote, particularly when they do lend meaning to the text and are not simply window-dressing. A friend supplied an excellent online article that provided a footnote to the text, but I only read it after-the-fact.

Most of the action of the book takes place in Oxford leading up to the Second World War. By contrast with novels simply "set" in a time period--that is, "historical" fiction--this novel was written with the assumption that readers were also living in this time. Lost British slang and social contexts abound--and especially social contexts of English university life, and women in academic spheres--that make this much more foreign than, say, Dickens, whose context is much better known. The action is slow, in part, because the protagonist Harriet, a fascinating character, has a lot of baggage that she's working through from previous books. This backstory is easily recoverable from the information given in the novel, but the social context--the norms of sexual relationships and the behavioral expectations of academic women--is less so. I believe that these contexts as well as the dilemma of whether a person could love with "both heart and head," or whether an intellectual woman could truly hope to enter into an equal marriage, or whether the vocation of marriage was incompatible with an intellectual vocation were some of the reasons I felt compelled to read the book. But though I am very familiar with early Twentieth-century British social history, the strangeness--for example, of female students being considered sloppy for picnicking on a lawn--was sometimes so inaccessible as to pull the reader right out of the text, and the dilemmas that the reader was expected to take as given are no longer "givens," which gave the book the feel of a historical artifact rather than a novel to be enjoyed. The "mystery" was bound up with these questions of the proper role of women, and because of the historical distance, was much less compelling and scandalous than it should have been. I admit that the solution gave me a bit of an eyeroll. Can we have a murder, please?

The characters made me stick through to the end--though I must say: if you read this novel, especially in eBook format, keep a list of who's who. The names are similar and the titles are used interchangeably with the names so I was often not sure if Miss So-and-so was the Bursar or the Dean or what. The characters I stayed for were Harriet Vane, the protagonist, and Lord Peter Wimsey, the title character of the series (and also his nephew, who makes a dramatic appearance). These two main characters have a long-standing friendship of sorts that began when Lord Peter managed to get Harriet acquitted of murder in a previous book, putting her at a disadvantage that she has struggled with ever since. Lord Peter only appears in the second half of the book, and while this improves the novel and provides a catalyst to the actual action, this in itself is rather dissatisfying in a book that is purportedly about female intellectuals. He provides something that Harriet lacks. He completes her. This is both nice and a bit irritating--as it has been to Harriet herself. But the reader, like Harriet, simply needs to come to terms with it. Had things not resolved as they did between Lord Peter and Harriet, I might have thrown my Kindle across the room.

Having written this, the novel, while not the most readable text, is worth reading. More so, it is worth following up. Busman's Honeymoon, the next in the series (was that a spoiler? not if the book is a mystery, methinks) is everything that Gaudy Night was not (for me) precisely (but not exclusively) because it develops the relationship between Lord Peter and Harriet that is set up so painfully in Gaudy Night.

I should add that the book is very quotable. Sayers sprinkles little intellectual gems throughout that are compelling even if you're a bit bored by what is (or isn't) happening in the moment. It is worth reading for those little gems alone.

Quick Takes - Blog Post Drafts

Piggy-backing off of Just Another Jenny's "Quick Takes-Draft Edition," I've dug up some historical blog drafts.  Some I did not pull because, well, they became articles!  But here's a sampling of widely scattered topics that have heretofore never been seen...

What is Literacy Criticism?

What does it mean to engage in literacy criticism based in literacy theory?

How does it compare to how other people discuss "literacy" with reference to literature?

Cultural literacy
Media literacy
-or- popular books as simply promoting literacy by getting kids to read

Analyzing a novel in terms of literacy theory is not simply putting it in the service of literacy education.  It is using it to identify what our ideas of literacy and literacy education really are--to examining our assumptions, and considering what we gain--and lose--by achieving a certain level of literacy, and what we maintain--or miss--by failing to achieve that level.  It takes literacy off of its pedestal, though this is perhaps to put it on a different pedestal.  It rolls our theoretical idea of literacy through the mud, beats it up, dusts it off, and sees what is left, often in order to compare it to how we are currently living our lives with literacy as a part of our personal, political, and social existence.

Wellinghall: Treebeard's Sanctuary as Locus Amoenus

This is the first of the Ent posts I have in mind.  One of the reasons The Two Towers is my favorite of the three books of Lord of the Rings is because of the Ents.  The Ents show us what is worth "getting roused" for--what is worth fighting and dying for.  And that is what was missing from the Peter Jackson film, which was all devastation and ugliness.  While Fangorn forest is not a locus amoenus--it is tense, and stuffy, rather like a version of the Old Forest that borders the Shire, but with righteous indignation instead of corruption and malice--the Ents, and particularly Treebeard, as the oldest Ent, are very closely associated with beautiful, sacred sanctuary spaces in Middle Earth.  And we are shown those places along with Merry and Pippin.

It was in fact with reference to Wellinghall--Treebeard's closest Ent House--that I first thought of the locus amoenus as central to Lord of the Rings.

Drums:  Not so Romantic in Real Life

If Voyager concerned itself to a large degree with the literary, Drums of Autumn takes great pains to separate the reality from the fantasy, or to infuse real life into what still remains a time travel fantasy--and more so with the appearance of Bree and Roger from the 1960s.  The overwhelming example of this is the emphasis on birth control.  However, the attentive reader will also find a retroactive commentary on the romance novel motif that runs throughout Voyager  in the person, and actions, of Stephen Bonnet.

"The formidable Bonnet with a love token? Could be, Roger supposed; some women might find the Captain’s air of subdued violence attractive."

What is a Good Book?

It might be a fetish, or a talisman, or a touchstone.

Books that have merit/value are books that deserve to be taken seriously (that aren't, necessarily) or books that reward rereading because they have the potential to provoke serious thought and speculation. An amusing read may be an amusing read and not be a book with merit, or a book that has value.

Notes on Widows and Widowers

I am gathering these tidbits as part of a conversation about Finwë, father of Feanor, who remarried after the death of his wife.

from The Body and Society by Peter Brown

In his discussion of the "first decades of the second century," Brown says that, "Christian marital codes were rendered yet more idiosyncratic by a few novel features, such as the relinquishment of divorce and a growing prejudice against the remarriage of widows and widowers" (60)

***

A bit of insight into Tertullian's opposition to remarriage for widowers: coming out of an ever-developing tradition that continence was, first, a sign of, and in later thought, preparation for or necessary for a prophet,

Tertullian's view of the ideal leadership of the Church was a Spiritfulled gerontocracy. Those who sat on the benches reserved for the clergy and leaders of the community were elderly widows and widowers. They had long experience of life. This experience had included the begetting and the rearing of children, in the distant, hot years of youth, before the sexual urge "fizzled out" with the approach of age. The addressee of his Exhortation to Chastity was one such widower. He was to be no charismatic wanderer. He needed to be warned against temptations no more lurid than a hankering for remarriage. Tertullian set about advising him to take in a Christian "sister," to live with him, as a companion, to keep house for him. Sexual urges that had to be sternly repressed in the young were unlikely, in Tertullian's opinion, to afflict an elderly gentleman of prophetic inclinations. (79).

Beren and Luthien and the Elephant in the Room

I have started one conference paper and its corresponding article with the observation that the couple most associated with J. R. R. Tolkien and his wife Edith is Beren and Lúthien, the name inscribed on the couple's tombstone. The remaining discussion in both versions of the paper has nothing to do with Beren and Lúthien. Why, you may ask?  Well, although it was a good hook, I find the story of Beren and Lúthien intimidating. It is the pinnacle of Tolkien for those who are so into Tolkien that they are devotees of The Silmarillion rather than Lord of the Rings. I am not one of those people because, whatever The Silmarillion meant to Tolkien, it is not a coherent story as it might have been had he finished it; it was largely a creation of other people who compiled the author's notes such as they were and made their own choices, and because Tolkien himself, in this case and only this one, might have needed an editor to direct his own choices and to make it a coherent tale. Even great writers do, sometimes, need editors.

The tale of Beren and Lúthien is not only mythic in Tolkien's Legendarium, it is mythic among Tolkien scholars and enthusiasts.  And yet, it needs to be pieced together from The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, and other sources--and now, from a new publication that presents its expanded, true, or draft form, who knows? And it is not a story that enchants me, except insofar as it echoes a mythical past in The Lord of the Rings, giving the reader a taste of the vast history of Middle-earth.  And yet, to talk about marriage, of the great love stories of Middle-earth, requires wrestling with the story of Beren and Lúthien.  And frankly, I want to limit my scope rather than expand it, and I'm not sure whether this will be possible with the publication of The Tale of Beren and Lúthien in book form.  So I admit that, in my re-reading and blog-note-taking, when Aragorn recites the song of Lúthien, I stopped. I put the book down and started other research. Which brings me to the present.

Beren and Lúthien are a bigger roadblock for me than Tom and Goldberry, so they have to be tackled sooner or later.  One question that came up in a recent conversation was whether or not Beren and Lúthien are actually married; I puzzled over this one without investigating (because roadblock...), but it occurred to me that Arwen is descended from the pair, which for Tolkien, would generally imply marriage. So how are they married? How does the reader come to understand the nature of their "marriage"?  There's an article somewhere about sex/consummation between Beren and Lúthien.  It was weird, but if it's part of the scholarship, I might have to deal with that as well. The story of Beren and Lúthien is also used to support the theory that elves are reincarnated, which I do also need to look into a bit more, as that element of the mythos does not seem to fit within a Christian worldview. There are many questions I have about the Legendarium. I do not have an encyclopedic knowledge.  BUT I also do not trust received wisdom on the topics.  And so, I investigate.  You have been warned.

***
The first mention of Lúthien Tinúviel is in Book I of The Lord of the Rings, in the chapter "A Knife in the Dark," after the hobbits and Strider have left Bree.  On Weathertop, as they keep vigil, Merry asks for the tale of Gil-galad, but Aragorn refuses because of the nature of the tale, involving as it does the defeat of the Enemy. Instead, he offers the "tale of Tinúviel," which he describes as "a long tale of which the end is not known; and there are none now, except Elrond, that remember it aright as it was told of old. It is a fair tale, though it is sad, as are all the tales of Middle-earth, and yet it may lift up your hearts" (I.11.191). Aragorn chants rather than sings or recites the tale, which is written in the text as nine 8-line stanzas (octaves). Each stanza has an abacbabc rhyme scheme, with a gerund as the "c" rhyme in each stanza except the last, and two of the gerund pairs--"shimmering" and "glimmering" and "glistening" and "listening" are repeated (first and eighth stanza, and third and seventh stanza, respectively); the meter is iambic tetrameter.

By way of chronicling the narrative structure of the poem:

Stanza 1: Sets the stage. The first two lines, "The leaves were long, the grass was green,/ The hemlock-umbels tall and fair," echo other poems in Middle-earth. Notably, Gimli will begin the song of Durin with the lines, "The world was young, the mountains green,/ No stain yet on the Moon was seen," which is written in 10-line rather than 8-line stanzas, setting the scene common to both--an uncorrupted vision of nature. The poem introduces Lúthien first, by her elvish name, "Tinúviel." We learn that she is dancing as if to music, or to music that only she hears, or to music that is heard, but seems to have no discernible source: "Tinúviel was dancing there/ to music of a pipe unseen" (l. 5-6). The "light of stars" in her hair and clothing is conspicuous in the last two lines of this stanza. 

Stanza 2: Enter Beren. "He walked alone and sorrowing" (l. 12). Lost and alone, he catches a glimpse of Tinúviel. Notable details include the "hemlock-leaves" through which Beren peers and the "flowers of gold" on Lúthien's garments, the former perhaps foreshadowing death (the death of mortals), the latter, (for the reader of Lord of the Rings) Lothlórien (?) (an abode of immortals). 

Stanza 3: Beren's weariness is taken away as he watches Lúthien, and he attempts to run to her, but catches only moonbeams.  She flees to what is referred to as "Elvenhome," but though this generally refers to Eldamar, the home of the Elves in the Blessed Realm of Aman, which includes Valinor, the home of the Valar, "Elvenhome" in this poem refers to a location in Middle-earth, which is not specifically disclosed in the poem, but which we know from Aragorn's exposition following the poem is the realm of Thingol, her father, who was king of Doriath, which was eventually destroyed with Beleriand, none of which is included in the poem itself.* Beren is left "lonely still to roam/ In the silent forest listening" (l. 23-24). 

Stanza 4: Beren continues to wander in the woods. He hears faint sounds of footsteps (or dancing) and music.  The seasons change.  Here again, we have the hemlocks, now withering as winter comes. 

Stanza 5: Beren continues to search for Lúthien, explicitly in this stanza, though it was only implicit in stanza 4.  He wanders deep into the woods until he finds her, dancing on a distant hilltop.  Imagery in this stanza includes moonlight and starlight, frost, and silver mist at Lúthien's feet. 

Stanza 6: Takes us beyond winter. Lúthien's song "released the sudden spring."  Beren watches and longs to dance near her.  "Spring" is ryhmed with "spring" in lines 2 and 5 of this stanza--used as a noun the first time and a verb the second. Though the first seems to refer to the season, neither use of "spring" is capitalized. This stanza has strange syntax in the last lines: "He longed by her to dance and sing/ Upon the grass untroubling." "Untroubling" seems to refer to the grass because of placement, but more likely refers to how he would dance near her--dancing near not with her, not troubling her.  Mere closeness is enough. 

Stanza 7: The climax: Lúthien tries again to flee, but beren is swift, and he calls her by name, which he has somehow learned (there's more to this that is not explained in the poem, but it is clear that this is important: "He called her by her Elvish name" (l. 51). Either his voice, or her name, or both, cause Lúthien to pause, allowing Beren to approach. First, it seems that she is entranced or intrigued to hear him speak her "Elvish name." Then, it seems to be his voice: "a spell/ His voice laid on her" (l. 53-54). His voice and his presence determine her fate ("doom fell on Tinúviel"). Our final image in this stanza is Lúthien, glistening in Beren's arms.  Joined to him, she is now doomed. We do not learn, from the poem, the nature of her doom, though Aragorn explains after finishing his poem. 

Stanza 8: Beren looks into Lúthien's eyes and sees starlight.  This stanza seems to convey his awe at having her, "immortal maiden elven-wise," for his own, in his arms. Notable details include Lúthien's eyes, "the shadows of her hair" (an image repeated twice), and her arms "like silver glimmering." Hence, we know that she is not fair-haired.  Her dark hair contrasts with her pale, silvery skin. 

Stanza 9: This stanza is the only one in which the "c" rhymes do not end in "-ing."  Instead, we are left with "morrowless" and "sorrowless."  The final stanza summarizes and projects their fate and journey:  

Long was the way that fate them bore,    

    O'er stony mountains cold and grey, 

Through halls of iron and darkling door,  

    And woods of nightshade morrowless. 

The Sundering Seas between them lay,    

    And yet at last they met once more, 

And long ago they passed away,    

    In the forest singing sorrowless. 

Striking in stanza 9 are the "morrowless" woods, an allusion, perhaps, to the destruction of Beleriand, and the "sorrowless" singers in the forest (woods).  There is both sorrow and the absence of sorrow in this final stanza.

When Aragorn is finished the poem, he fills in some of the gaps in the story for the hobbits.  First, and perhaps most importantly, he clarifies that Beren is mortal, while Lúthien the daughter of a King of Elves, Thingol. He introduces Morgoth, "of whom Sauron of Mordor was but a servant," and the Silmarils, which were the envy of all.  Conspicuously, the Elves' war upon Morgoth to regain the Silmarils is described in purely heroic terms.  There is no mention of the vast hubris of Fëanor, or even of Fëanor himself and the curse upon him and upon his kin and any who would try to possess the Silmarils. In Aragorn's telling, reclaiming the Silmarils is a just and noble pursuit, which in some ways it might be, but the entirety is infinitely more complicated than we know. We do learn that Beren and his father were aiding the Elves in this when Beren's father was killed, and that Beren was wandering away from the battle when he came upon Lúthien.

The naming of Lúthien in Aragorn's telling is curious; in the poem it seems that he has foreknowledge of her name, or that he has discovered it.  In Aragorn's account, Beren "named her Tinúviel, that is Nightingale in the language of old" (I.11.193). The first seems more Rumplestiltskin-like. The second, more like he is asserting a kind of control over Lúthien. This, for me, is a puzzle that holds some clue to their dynamic. Either way I am reading it, there is the hint that naming is important, and that Beren, in naming her, possesses a kind of power over her, or gains a kind of access to her. There is an intimate knowledge implied here, which is probably where the poem and account tend--a knowledge that is instinctive and spiritual. Nevertheless, it is hard to separate this from something more creepy or insidious to a contemporary sensibility.

Aragorn also gives a very short account of the trials of Beren and Lúthien:

Many sorrows befell them afterwards, and they were parted long. Tinúviel rescued Beren from the dungeons of Sauron, and together they passed through great dangers, and cast down even the Great Enemy from his throne, and took from his iron crown one of the three Silmarils, brightest of all jewels, to be the bride-price of Lúthien to Thingol her father. Yet at the last Beren was slain by the Wolf that came from the gates of Angband, and he died in the arms of Tinúviel. But she chose mortality, and to die from the world, so that she might follow him; and it is sung that they met again beyond the Sundering Seas, and after a brief time walking alive once more in the green woods, together they passed, long ago, beyond the confines of this world. So it is that Lúthien Tinúvuel alone of the Elf-kindred has died indeed and left the world, and they have lost her whom they most loved. (I.11.193-194)

Aragorn concludes with an account of the lineage of Beren and Lúthien, though it is unclear at what point in their story Lúthien would have conceived a child.

So what are the important points here? There are, I believe, more insights in Aragorn's introduction and exposition than in the poem itself, with the possible exception of the last four lines, and the question of naming Lúthien, which I intend to investigate further in the Silmarillion account.  Aragorn's introduction specifies that he will be telling "a long tale of which the end is not known"; conspicuous here is that end not known.  Why?  Is it because no one quite knows what happened to Beren and Lúthien in their time together beyond the Sundering Seas, and that no one quite knows what happens to souls beyond death, particularly those that are joined in life? Or the more prosaic and likely interpretation, that the story in which the story of Beren and Lúthien is part is the same story of which the story of Frodo and the Ring is part?

In Aragorn's exposition after the poem, we learn that Beren and Lúthien were unified in their pursuits. Regardless of how we might interpret their courtship, with Beren bringing doom onto Lúthien when she hears his voice, with Beren seeming to have a hold over Lúthien, with Lúthien being "captured" (not literally), and laying passive in Beren's arms, we learn that she is an active participant in her fate and Beren's, and that we need have no fear of her willingness and consent.  She is fierce in her consent and willingness to face every trial with him.

We also learn of what becomes "the choice of Lúthien": to choose mortality to remain with her beloved, her mate. We do not learn how she was granted this choice. But it seems to be Beren's death that prompts her--that, losing him, she should not be sundered from him forever.

***
Interestingly, the second time Lúthien is mentioned in The Lord of the Rings is when Frodo resists the Black Riders in "The Flight to the Ford." On the far bank, Frodo cries out,

"By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair, [...] you shall have neither the Ring nor me!" (I.12.214)

This seems to anger the rider, who causes Frodo's tongue to cleave to his mouth. Frodo has evoked the name of Elbereth before against the Riders, but never Lúthien.  As Lúthien was born an elf-maid, but died a mortal, her inclusion with Elbereth, who is Varda, High Queen among the Valar, is conspicuous, and perhaps not entirely appropriate? Certainly the two are not equivalent, even in legend. And yet, the reader is lead to associate the two because Frodo has done so.

What is interesting about this association is that Lúthien is evoked with the revered Elbereth, but Beren, her beloved, is not.  The poem tells the story of Beren and Lúthien as though they are an inseparable unit, but Lúthien has her own importance and, presumably, her own power.

***


*This illustrates what I find a bit maddening about analysis of the story of Beren and Lúthien or some of the other half-hidden glimpses of the history of Middle-earth that we find embedded in The Lord of the Rings. I love that they are there as glimpses; following rabbit-holes to recreate the history in order to write intelligently about the glimpses is another thing, as I like my stories to be self-contained.  I see The Lord of the Rings to be complete in itself, and the allusions to the complete Legendarium add depth and the feeling of history, but I do not need to know the minutiae in order to appreciate the allusions.  This is also how I read T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land. Telling me about the tarot deck does not increase my pleasure in the poem.

Notes on Tom and Goldberry

Tom Bombadil and Goldberry have what might be the most perfect marriage.  In his letters, Tolkien expresses the importance of the "homely love" of Sam and Rosie, without explaining what "homely love" refers to.  I imagine the Maggots having a similar kind of homely love, although theirs is a "hard pastoral" to the "soft pastoral" of Sam and Rosie--the Maggots labor on the farm, while Sam's family is relatively leisured.

Tom and Goldberry fit, somehow, into the same category, but idealized. Their house is the center of their world, and they tend the land around, and their home is a place where hospitality is freely offered.  It is one of the "safe spaces" of Middle-earth--a locus amoenus, as I've mentioned before. It differs from the hobbits sharply, however (and even from the Elves) in that it is childless.  This might indicate something about the nature of Tom (and Goldberry, though we already know that she is the daughter of the River). None of the Valar procreate. Maiar can marry and have children, as in the case of Melian, who weds Thingol,  though marriage to an Elf, as Elves are inherently corporeal, might provide the difference, and the marriage of two spiritual beings, however, clothed, might simply not produce offspring.  This is speculation, as Tolkien did not provide a clear indication of why he decided and one point that the Valar would not have children.  Certainly, the absence of children from their unions is conspicuous, and might direct us to consider their other creative activities in that light (looking at you, Aulë and Yavanna).

So Tom Bombadil, who is "oldest and fatherless," is, however, not a father.

What else do we know about Tom and Goldberry?

***
I always hit somewhat of a mental block when I try to write about Tom and Goldberry.  I think it's because there's so much to say, and yet so much of it seems obvious! So I say to myself, "I won't move on in the book until I've discussed Tom and Goldberry," and 6 months later I realize that I have abandoned the project.  Thankfully, it hasn't even been 6 weeks, so let's see if perhaps I can jot down a few notes...

What is immediately conspicuous when taking a closer look at the marriage of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry is that, when the hobbits first encounter Tom, he is returning from an errand that is specifically focused on Goldberry.  He tells the hobbits after their first dinner in his house:

I had an errand there: gathering water-lillies, 

green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady, 

the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter, 

to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted. 

Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her, 

in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle; 

there they open first in spring and there they linger latest. (I.VII.124)

 He carries out his errand with very conspicuous care--first, he seems to "freeze" Sam and Frodo, or certainly stop them in their tracks, in order to avoid having his lilies crushed:

'Whoa! Whoa! steady there' cried the old man, holding up one hand, and they stopped short, as if they had been struck stiff.  'Now, my little fellows, where be you a-going to, puffing like a bellows? What's the matter here then? Do you know who I am? I'm Tom Bombadil. Tell me what's your trouble! Tom's in a hurry now. Don't you crush my lilies!' (I.VI.117)

Before he deals with Old Man Willow, the reader sees Tom "setting down his lilies carefully on the grass" (I.VI.117).  After dealing with the Willow-Man, he picks up his lilies again and heads home, hobbits following. When the reader first has a vision of Goldberry, the purpose of Tom's gift becomes apparent:

In a chair, at the far side of the room facing the outer door, sat a woman. Her long yellow hair rippled down her shoulders; her gown was green, green as young reeds, shot with silver like beads of dew; and her belt was of gold, shaped like a chain of flag-lilies set with the pale-blue eyes of forget-me-nots. About her feet in wide vessels of green and brown earthenware, white water-lilies were floating, so that she seemed to be enthroned in the midst of a pool. (I.VII.121)

***
Goldberry speaks to the hobbits--the first woman to do so, and the last until Galadriel. They have the opportunity to ask her questions, mostly about Tom, which reveal, in a way, the intimacy that the two share--an understanding that presupposes knowledge in others, and prevents real communication.

  'Fair lady!' said Frodo again after a while. 'Tell me, if my asking does not seem foolish, who is Tom Bombadil?'

  'He is,' said Goldberry, staying her swift movements and smiling.

  Frodo looked at her questioningly. 'He is, as you have seen him,' she said in answer to his look. 'He is the Master of wood, water, and hill.'

Her answer seems cryptic, perplexing, unless understood to be spoken in a tone of voice that suggests that Goldberry might slightly misunderstand the nature of the question:  he is, rather than he is.  The difference is the distinction between asking "Who is the lord of Rivendell?" and being told, with a nod at Elrond, "he is," and asking "Who is Elrond Half-elven?" and expecting that the answer will provide the lineage, background, and lordship of Elrond along with any personal details the hearer might be willing to share. Frodo asks the latter; Goldberry's brief answer seems to answer the former. The answer, to her, is so simple--Tom himself so plainly known--that another understanding does not seem possible. Eventually she reveals a bit more, but in some ways not more than Tom himself reveals:

"Tom Bombadil is the Master. No one has ever caught old Tom walking in the forest, wading in the water, leaping on the hill-tops under light and shadow. He has no fear. Tom Bombadil is the master." 

She knows, too, Tom's perspective on the hobbits' assumptions, when Frodo asks, for example, whether "all this strange land belongs to him":

"No indeed!' she answered, and her smile faded. 'That would indeed be a burden,' she added in a low voice to herself. (I.VII.122)

While not superior to her husband in the way Galadriel may seem to be in the volume of Lord of the Rings, or even, perhaps, equal, as Tom's care for her seems almost to possess the care of chivalry, which elevates the position of the woman while causing her to seem frail, Goldberry seems to anticipate Galadriel in a more homely, less distant way.  She has some power, though it does not seem like "magic"; rather, she seems to orchestrate, to move or move with, the natural world around her. When the hobbits awake, we/they have a vision of Goldberry:

As they looked out of the window there came falling gently as if it was flowing down the rain out of the sky, the clear voice of Goldberry singing up above them. They could hear few words, but it seemed plain to them that the song was a rain-song, as sweet as showers on dry hills, that told the tale of a river from the spring in the highlands to the Sea far below. (I.VII.127)

We learn from Tom that "This is Goldberry's washing day," which sounds as if she is washing their corner of the world.

***
In the house of Tom Bombadil, Tom and Goldberry dwell in harmony.  They sing together--forming a literal harmony, which is an important symbol for Tolkien. They also move in complementary ways. The first night the hobbits dine in their house, they clear the table together while the guests sit quiet (I.VII.123). The next meal they have with Tom and Goldberry is set by both together:

Quickly he returned, bearing a large and laden tray. Then Tom and Goldberry set the table; and the hobbits sat half in wonder and half in laughter: so fair was the grace of Goldberry and so merry and odd the caperings of Tom. Yet in some fashion they seemed to weave a single dance, neither hindering the other, in and out of the room, and round about the table; and with great speed food and vessels and lights were set in order. The boards blazed with candles, white and yellow. Tom bowed to his guests. "Supper is ready," said Goldberry; and now the hobbits saw that she was clothed all in silver with a white girdle, and her shoes were like fishes' mail. But Tom was all in clean blue, blue as rain-washed forget-me-nots, and he had green stockings. (I.VII.129)

In a way that is similar to the Maggots, Tom and Goldberry model hospitality and spousal concern for one another. Goldberry is the agent of Tom's (and the household's) hospitality, as is Mrs. Maggot:

"Fear Nothing! For tonight you are under the roof of Tom Bombadil!" (I.VII.121)

She is, however, a gracious hostess surpassing Mrs. Maggot, by virtue of her own supernatural nature:

The hobbits sat down gladly in low rush-seated chairs, while Goldberry busied herself about the table; and their eyes followed her, for the slender grace of her movement filled them with quiet delight. (I.VII.122)

Goldberry gently reminds Tom when he neglects his responsibility to his guests:

   "Here's my pretty lady!" he said, bowing to the hobbits. "Here's my Goldberry clothed all in silver-green with flowers in her girdle! Is the table laden? I see yellow cream and honeycomb, and white bread, and butter; milk cheese, and green herbs and ripe berries gathered. Is that enough for us? Is the supper ready?"

   "It is," said Goldberry; "but the guests perhaps are not?"

   Tom clapped his hands and cried: "Tom, Tom! Your guests are tired, and you had near forgotten! Come now, my merry friends, and Tom will refresh you! You shall clean grimy hands, and wash your weary faces; cast off your muddy cloaks, and comb out your tangles!"  

Their intimacy--or his nature--is such that she can recognize and address a (perhaps typical) forgetfulness, and Tom responds with slightly self-effacing good humor.

In recounting Goldberry's role in welcoming the guests, I am reminded of Humphrey Carpenter's critique in J. R. R. Tolkien: A Biography of Edith Tolkien, that she was not the kind of hostess that would have advanced her husband's career:

Edith might have been able to make a positive contribution to his life in the University. A number of Oxford dons' wives managed to do this. A few lucky ones such as Joseph Wright's wife Lizzie were themselves expert in their husband's subjects, and could assist in their work. But a number of other wives who, like Edith, did not have university degrees could by their expert management of the household make their home into something of a social centre for their husbands' friends, and so participate in much of their lives. (157)

Carpenter goes on to explain how Edith was singularly unsuited for that role, being shy and having had a "very limited social life in childhood and adolescence" (157). This aside is just that--it does not prove that Carpenter's observation was a fair one, and it does not reveal any kind of hidden critique leveled at Edith by Tolkien; those are not things that a fictional scene of hospitality can reveal about the author, though some might be tempted to do so.  The Tolkiens did, in fact, entertain friends, though the kind of professional entertaining may have been beyond her. (I certainly would feel uncomfortable in a similar role, and couldn't blame her.)

Again like the Maggots, Tom is anxious to return to Goldberry when escorting the hobbits to the next stage of their journey.  After rescuing them from the wight, tells them that he will "not feel happy till he had seen them safe over the borders of his land," but always his thoughts return home:

"I've got things to do," he said: "my making and my singing, my talking and my walking, and my watching of the country. Tom can't be always near to open doors and willow-cracks. Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting." (I.VIII.142)

He keeps a treasure from the wight's barrow for Goldberry, a tantalizing glimpse into a distant past that Tom, and presumably Goldberry with him, still remember:

He chose for himself from the pile a brooch set with blue stones, many-shaded like flax-flowers or the wings of blue butterflies. He looked long at it, as it stirred by some memory, shaking his head, and saying at last:

   "Here is a pretty toy for Tom and for his lady! Fair was she who long ago wore it on her shoulder. Goldberry shall wear it now, and we will not forget her!" (142) 

Tom's last words to the hobbits again stress that his land and his home are complete only with his wife:

Tom's country ends here: he will not pass the borders.

Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting! (I.VIII.144) 

 

Notes on Hobbit Marriages

Tolkien was known to have had a soft spot for what he called the "simple rustic love" of Sam and Rosie.  Hobbits in general were known to marry more or less by default (though that sounds like a cavalier way to put it) and to have large families.  But what examples of Hobbit marriages do we see?  I will record them as I encounter them, starting with "A Long-Expected Party."

In the first chapter of Lord of the Rings, we encounter the rumor of a marriage before we actually encounter a marriage, and this is interesting because we see not how marriage plays out, but how it is spoken of, casually, by old (and some young) men in a pub. Anticipating Bilbo's upcoming "party of special magnificence," "[t]he history and character of Mr. Bilbo Baggins became once again the chief topic of conversation"--and by extension, the family history of his heir, Frodo.  From Ham Gamgee, we learn that

A decent respectable hobbit was Mr. Drogo Baggins; there was never much to tell of him, till he was drownded. (I.1.22)

Before this tidbit, there has been some speculation on Drogo's marriage, as Old Noakes wonders

why any Baggins of Hobbiton should go looking for a wife away there in Buckland, where folks are so queer. (I.1.22)

This shows readers that hobbit marriages tend to be local, though a reader of The Hobbit will already know that Bilbo's mother was one of the daughters of the Old Took, the "fabulous Belladonna Took."  However, rather than relocating to Tuckborough, Bungo Baggins built a marvelous hobbit hole for his Took bride in Hobbiton, suggesting that perhaps the mystery was not so much why Drogo would take a wife from Buckland, but why a hobbit from Hobbiton would relocate to Buckland.

The Gaffer gives a further account of Drogo's marriage:

 Mr. Drogo, he married poor Miss Primula Brandybuck. She was our Mr. Bilbo's first cousin on the mother's side (her mother being the youngest of the Old Took's daughters); and Mr. Drogo was his second cousin. So Mr. Frodo is his first and second cousin, once removed either way, as the saying is, if you follow me. And Mr. Drogo was staying at Brandy Hall with his father-in-law, old Master Gorbadoc, as he often did after his marriage (him being partial to his vittles, and old Gorbadoc keeping a mighty generous table); and he went out boating on the Brandywine River; and he and his wife were drownded, and poor Mr. Frodo only a child and all. (I.1.22)

Here, we learn that marriages of kin were common, and that at least in the case of the large families, in-laws would move into the family dwelling. I find it interesting how the marriage is spoken of, not by the Gaffer, but by the mocking Sandyman:

     'I've heard they went on the water after dinner in the moonlight,' said Old Noakes; 'and it was Drogo's weight as sunk the boat.'

     'And I heard she pushed him in, and he pulled her in after him,' said Sandyman, the Hobbiton miller.  (I.1.23)

Here is the only direct evidence that we have that marital strife exists among hobbits--not because this is any kind of real testimony to the marriage of Drogo and Primula, but because the miller made this suggestion, even in cruel mockery.  This is beyond the pale for the Gaffer, who shuts Sandyman down:

'You shouldn't listen to all you hear, Sandyman,' said the Gaffer, who did not much like the miller. 'There isn't no call to go talking of pushing and pulling. Boats are quite tricky enough for those that sit still without looking further for the cause of trouble. Anyway: there was Mr. Frodo left an orphan and stranded, as you might way, among those queer Bucklanders, being brought up anyhow in Brandy Hall....' (I.1.23)

Though this passage provides a preview of Gamgee distrust of boats, which will be revisited later, and doesn't directly address the nature of the accusation--that Primula and Drogo were a volatile couple--the reprimand "There isn't no call to go talking of pushing and pulling" also seems a pointed rebuke to the kind of insult that the miller has leveled, an insult to the marriage of Frodo's parents.

The Sackville-Bagginses are mentioned in this early chapter, but though one of few hobbit marriages considered in detail, they seem to deserve separate treatment.

***

Because we see so few hobbit marriages, each one is significant.  Farmer Maggot and his wife provide sanctuary for Frodo, Sam, and Pippin on their way from Hobbiton to Crickhollow.  Though I have mentioned this pause along the way in a previous post, I did not consider how the scene gives a snapshot of the domestic lives of the Maggots.

When the three hobbits enter the farmhouse with Farmer Maggot, we see Mrs. Maggot serving them by the fire:

Mrs. Maggot brought out beer in a huge jug, and filled four large mugs.

After Maggot proposes supper and a ride to the Ferry, the household mobilizes, and we see Mrs. Maggot again:

Mrs. Maggot bustled in and out. One or two other hobbits belonging to the farm-household came in. In a short while fourteen sat down to eat.

So far, not much is revealed about the Maggots as a couple, except that each has his and her own role in the household.  Maggot speaks with the guests; Mrs. Maggot provides the more material part of the hospitality.

We learn that the Maggots have at least five children when "[t]wo of Maggot's sons and his three daughters came in" to join them for supper.

An important detail in his interaction with the guests is that Maggot seems to include his wife when he invites Frodo, Sam, and Pippin to stay for supper, using the plural first person:

 If you and Mr. Peregrin and all could stay and have a bite with us, we would be pleased!

So here, he speaks of himself and his wife as a unit, and the household hospitality belongs to and proceeds from both of them.

Though their interactions are spare, Mrs. Maggot's role in the scene as her husband leaves with the guests betrays deep knowledge of her husband and concern for his welfare:

His wife stood in the light of the open door.

     'You be careful of yourself, Maggot!' she called. 'Don't go arguing with any foreigners, and come straight back!'

     'I will!' said he, and drove out of the gate.

Finally, when Farmer Maggot prepares to return home, he expresses concern for his wife, who

'...will be worriting with the night getting thick.'

One more action of the part of Mrs. Maggot leads Frodo to designate her a 'queen among farmer's wives':

Suddenly he produced a large basket from under the seat. 'I was nearly forgetting,' he said. 'Mrs. Maggot put this up for Mr. Baggins, with her compliments.'

The basket, of course, is full of mushrooms--another gesture of hospitality!

Though understated, and very oriented around the practical existence of a farm and its division of labor, divisions which are, predictably, gendered, we see in the Maggots a portrait of an ordinary, affectionate marriage.  Each knows the other well, they work together in making the household run and offering hospitality, protect one another, and return to one another.

Frodo's remark about Mrs. Maggot, calling her 'a queen among farmer's wives' seems notable because of the tone--a 'queen among farmer's wives,' though perhaps innocent and offhanded, suggests a disconnect, either from farmers, or from wives.  This may be unremarkable for a bachelor in the company of younger, unmarried men, but it is something to think about...

***

Notes on Celibate Living in LOTR

This is not a fully-formed idea, so beware! Rather, I am continuing my notes on marriage in Middle-earth. It seems to me that the characters who do not marry are more conspicuous for not marrying, since marriage very much seems to be the default--even if some resist marriage, like Aldarion of Númenor in The Unfinished Tales.  The "Prologue: Concerning Hobbits" announces this lifestyle choice as conspicuous, at least among Hobbits, with reference to Bilbo and Frodo:

The houses and the holes of Shire-hobbits were often large, and inhabited by large families. (Bilbo and Frodo Baggins were as bachelors very exceptional, as they were also in many other ways, such as their friendship with the Elves.)

What do we learn from Frodo and Bilbo about marriage?  The first thing that comes to mind is the importance of family.  While there is no implied condemnation of a celibate life--and Frodo, in particular, has good reason to remain unmarried--what is missing for both of them is a family.  Children.  Heirs.  So much so that Frodo "adopts" Sam's family (not really), inviting them to live with him.  Sam cares for Frodo, and Frodo has the companionship of Sam's family.  Bilbo, having no children, has to adopt Frodo (really, in this case), making Frodo his heir.  Frodo is a Baggins--Bilbo's first and second cousin, once removed in either case as we learn--and so family.  He also gets along well with Bilbo, as the two seem to be of a similar temperament. And the fact that Bilbo is unmarried works well for them both--otherwise, Frodo, orphaned, lives in Buckland, where he has friends his own age, but where he seems to lack a mentor-figure.

***

Notes on the Marriages of the Valar

I remember from my undergraduate Milton course that it is actually a point of debate with reference to Paradise Lost whether or not angels have bodies, and consequently, whether they have sex.  Or perhaps it was a debate at the time of Milton, and Milton weighed in on this matter in Paradise Lost--I forget.  But I do remember that sex among angels was an issue raised in my Milton course (one of only a few things that sticks with me from that course... along with my professor's recommendation that I read Wind in the Willows, which I still have not done).

While Tolkien does not treat the matter of sex between the Valar--and really, there seems no need to do so--he addresses their occasional corporeality in The Silmarillion and grants them marriages.

Of their bodies, we learn:

Moreover their shape comes of their knowledge of the visible World, rather than of the World itself; and they need it not, save only as we use raiment, and yet may be naked and suffer no loss of our being. Therefore the Valar may walk, if they will, unclad, and then even the Eldar cannot clearly perceive them, though they be present. But when they desire to clothe themselves the Valar take upon them forms some as of male and some as of female; for that difference of temper they had even from the beginning, and it is but bodied forth in the choice of each, not made by the choice, even as with us male and female may be shown by the raiment but is not made thereby. But the shapes wherein the Great Ones array themselves are not at all times like to the shapes of the kings and queens of the Children of Ilúvatar; for at times they made may clothe themselves in their own thought, made visible in forms of majesty and dread. (21)

The Valar are inherently male and female, and though the language of "performativity" could be compared to the idea of taking on their forms and walking about in them if they choose, and to the comparison of bodies to clothing that does not determine the inherent gender identity, the "difference of temper" is inherent.  The choice of the phrasing "bodied forth in the choice" rather than "made by the choice" seems deliberately to belie the notion that gender is choice.  They do not choose the gender of their bodies, they choose to be embodied, and the resulting form reflects the identity that Tolkien calls the "difference of temper." Also interesting is the fact that "male and female may be shown by the raiment but is not made thereby." Here, we might assume that for Tolkien, the human form of each individual embodies gender ("bodies forth," which is a fantastic phrase), so that there is no conflict between biological, corporeal manifestation of gender and subjective experience of gender identity. And since that identity is fixed, clothing poses no threat: male and female are not made by our clothing; they seem not to be made by the body.  This might be a risky proposition, except that there is no narrative condemnation of Eowyn's dress when she poses as Dernhelm.

***

Divided into male and female, the Valar are also divided into pairs.  The first couple among the Valar are Manwë and Varda.  They are not named husband and wife, instead we learn that

With Manwë dwells Varda, Lady of the Stars....

An interesting feature of this description is that while it may seem impermanent, since "dwelling" does not carry an inherent promise, there seems to be an echo of the Word being with God.

We learn that

Out of the deeps of Eä she came to the aid of Manwë; for Melkor she knew from before the making of the Music and rejected him, and he hated her, and feared her more than all others whom Eru made.

...

 Manwë and Varda are seldom parted, and they remain in Valinor.

...

When Manwë there ascends his throne and looks forth, if Varda is beside him, he sees further than all other eyes, through mist, and through darkness, and over the leagues of the sea. And if Manwë is with her, Varda hears more clearly than all other ears the sound of voices that cry from east to west, from the hills and the valleys, and from the dark places that Melkor has made upon Earth. (26)

In Manwë and Varda we find a model of marriage as a partnership at the highest level. They aid and complement each other.

***

Though there are other ways to organize this discussion, for now I will follow the narrative. The next of the Valar to be described in the Valaquenta after Manwë and Varda is Ulmo:

Ulmo is the Lord of Waters. He is alone.

This description of Ulmo is striking and dramatic, particularly following the account of Manwë and Varda.  However, the next line makes clear why Ulmo is alone:

He dwells nowhere long, but moves as he will in all the deep waters about the Earth or under the Earth. (26)

Being of the sea rather than the Earth, Ulmo is not easily rooted to one place, as is necessary for a spouse.  The call of the Sea, so strong for the Elves of Middle-earth, is known to be a powerful call for those who are drawn to vocations of sailing and fishing. The call of the sea and the vocation of a sailor are notably present in The Unfinished Tales, in the tale of Aldarion and Erendis, subtitled, revealingly, "The Mariner's Wife."  In this tale, it becomes clear that devotion to sailing is, for some, so compelling, that to marry and pledge devotion to something other than that duty is not only inadvisable, but disastrous. As Ulmo is alone, those called to follow Ulmo--or Ulmo's path--have an obligation to remain unmarried.

***

In the initial telling, all that is said of the marriage of Aulë and Yavanna is this:

The spouse of Aulë is Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits. (27)

Interestingly, she is first introduced after Aulë, as his spouse.  Both of them are important to the Children of Ilúvatar.  More will be said about Aulë and Yavanna later.

***

Lesser pairs:  the brothers Námo (who dwells in Mandos) and Irmo (who dwells in Lórien) are married to Vairë and Estë, respectively.  Of the marriage of Námo and Vairë, this is said:

Vairë the Weaver is his spouse, who weaves all things that have ever been in Time into her storied webs, and the halls of Mandos that ever widen as the ages pass are clothed with them. (28)

They have, perhaps, more a similarity than the complementarity or enhancement of each other that Manwë and Varda experience, as

He forgets nothing; and he knows all things that shall be, save only those that lie still in the freedom of Ilúvatar. (28)

While Mandos (Námo) is included among the High Ones of Arda, his spouse is not one of the High Ones.

Of Irmo and Estë:

 Irmo the younger is the master of visions and dreams. In Lórien are his gardens in the land of the Valar, and they are the fairest of all places in the world, filled with many spirits. Estë the gentle, healer of hurts and of weariness, is his spouse. Grey is ger raiment; and rest is her gift. She walks not by day, but sleeps upon an island in the tree-shadowed lake of Lórellin. From the fountains of Irmo and Estë all those who dwell in Valinor draw refreshment....

Is there a kind of hospitality here?  That would seem to be a stretch. But looking at this again, Irmo and Estë are joined by common purpose, and their specialties are complementary:  the visions and dreams of Irmo and the Estë's healing of hurts and weariness are both related to sleep, though we can assume that the Valar, like the elves, have no need for sleep as we know it (because of Irmo and Estë?)

***
Nienna "dwells alone," and as with Ulmo, we immediately perceive why:

She is acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered in the Marring of Melkor. So great was her sorrow, as the Music unfolded, that her song turned to lamentation before its end, and the sound of mourning was woven in to the themes of the World before it began. But she does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope.

Interestingly, with Nienna, we get a sense of the geography of Valinor:

Her halls are west of the West, upon the borders of the world; and she comes seldom to the city of Valimar where all is glad. She goes rather to the halls of Mandos, which are near to her own; and all those who wait in Mandos cry to her, for she brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom. The windows of her house look outward from the walls of the world. 

 Now, the first thing I notice, and I'm not sure whether or where it may have been noted, is that she is a Lady of Lamentation. The dead cry to her. But her morning is for others.  And she teaches pity, endurance, strength of spirit, and wisdom.  And, of course, she "mourns for every wound."  I would be hard pressed to find a place in all of Tolkien's works where the language he uses is so explicitly connected to the language used to describe Mary, perhaps Mater Dolorosa?  Reading this, my mind turns to "Hail, Holy Queen":

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee to we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.

With her close proximity to Mandos, and her complementarity with Námo's gathering of the dead, she could have been paired with Námo.  However, her vocation to sorrow and her solitary nature (much like Ulmo's vocation to the sea and solitary nature) seem to preclude union with another.

***
Tulkas is married to Nessa, and of these we learn:

Greatest in strength and deeds of prowess is Tulkas [....] He delights in wrestling and in contests of strength; and he rides no steed for he can outrun all things that go on feed, and he is tireless. [....] His spouse is Nessa, the sister of Oromë, and she also is lithe and fleetfooted. Deer she loves, and they follow her train whenever she goes into the wild; but she can outrun them, swift as an arrow with the wind in her hair. In dancing she delights, and she dances in Valimar on lawns of never-fading green.

Of Tulkas, we further learn that in contrast to Oromë, he "laughs ever."

In Tulkas and Nessa, we seem to have another well-matched pair. I have an image of them running together against the wind, over fields of Middle-earth.  I also imagine Tulkas as the patron of Aragorn as Ranger, and watching over the Three Hunters as they track Merry and Pippin. Nessa seems to be the patroness of Lúthien.

***
The last pair to be named are Oromë and Vána, who is the younger sister of Yavanna.  More is said about Oromë than Vána, and indeed, the name of Oromë's horn takes precedence over his wife, who seems relatively unimportant. While Oromë is a hunter, a lover of trees, and dreadful in anger, Vána is grace and beauty:

The spouse of Oromë is Vána, the Ever-young; she is the younger sister of Yavanna. All flowers spring as she passes and open if she glances upon them; and all birds sing at her coming.

They seem more like opposites than complements, and it's notable that the male Ents have a particular devotion to Oromë, though the Entwives are devoted not to Vána, but Yavanna. As with Mandos (Náma), Oromë is an Aratar, while his spouse is not:

Among them Nine were of chief power and reverence; but one was removed from their number, and Eight remain, the Aratar, the High Ones of Arda: Manwë and Varda, Ulmo, Yavanna and Aulë, Mandos, Nienna, and Oromë. Though Manwë is their King and holds their alegiance under Eru, in majesty they are peers, surpassing beyond compare all others, whether of the Valar and the Maiar, or of any other order that Ilúvatar has sent into Eä.

Of the highest order of the Valar, four are married to peers, two are unmarried, and two are married to Valar of lesser power. Marriages, then, do not have to be equal, and whether or not the marriage of equals is ideal remains to be seen (though Manwë and Varda seem to represent the highest ideal, unless being of the highest power, they simply could not be paired with anyone else).

Notes from The Body and Society by Peter Brown

Brown, Peter. The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity. Columbia UP, 1988.

This book is only first on my list because it is an Interlibrary Loan book with a short deadline (now, anyway) that happened to be sitting around my office on the top of the stack while I was having computer issues.  I found it while heading down a rabbit hole that had something to do with theological discouragement or prohibition on remarriage, thinking specifically of Finwë, and the theologians Origen and Tertullian.  I am not sure how useful it will be, but it is an interesting study.

****

From the Introduction:

[According to the imperial officials who were called upon to condemn Pelagius] The Pelagians seemed not to take seriously the horror of death. They were said to have claimed that Adam and Eve had been created mortal, and they would have died a natural death whether they had disobeyed God or not. To laypeople with a healthy fear of death for themselves and a poignant sense of grief for the deaths of their wives and children (a grief that many still expressed on their tombstones), this view seemed shockingly insensitive. How could it be that God, when He was free to make humanity as gloriously as He wished, had been content to make, in Adam and Eve, two shoddy creatures who already had death in their bones? It was a "disgusting beginning to the human race, [to create] persons who would be born with nothing in store for them but death." (lxiii)  [The quote at the end is from the Imperial Edict of 418.]

What strikes me particularly about this particular objection to the Pelagians is how it resembles the treatment of mortality for the race of Men in The Silmarillion, particularly as compared to and perceived by the immortal Elves. Tolkien is know to have denied any specific theological underpinnings to his mythology, but this seems compelling to me.

**

 By the late fourth century, a new categorization of the faithful had emerged in the Latin Church. This concentrated on the body alone. Different people were held to enjoy different degrees of prominence in the Church according to whether or not (or how much) sex had touched their bodies. Virgins and celibates were top; widows were second; the married were third. (lxvi) [Jovinian and Augustine didn't approve, btw.]

I would not at all, ever, advocate seeing anything in Tolkien's works in these terms.  In fact, the first thing to occur to me is that virginity is not particularly idealized.  Case in point: who better to be virginal than Galadriel? And she is married. Sex seems to me a non-issue. Nevertheless, we do have the unmarried, some widows, and the married.  Marriage, I think, is privileged in this construct.  The two are--in the right circumstances--enriched. The celibates are limited--separating those who are presumed to marry eventually from those who will never wed--and seem limited to Frodo and Bilbo (wizards, for the moment--and perhaps forever--notwithstanding; actually, why don't the Maiar marry?  Some may... In fact, yes.  Need to confirm.)

The other thing that strikes me is that this is a "problem" that has been noted in the Twentieth Century Church as well--the promotion of a vocation to celibacy above the vocation of marriage within the Church.  It is one of the reasons that St. John Paul II's Theology of the Body talks, and his engagement with the subject of marriage as holiness [reference needed] were so revolutionary.  So hmmm--old problem.  Until the moment that someone realized that both the ideal of consecrated virginity and the Sacrament of Marriage left little theological room for single, unmarried, unconsecrated celibate individuals.  Frodo and Bilbo both live a version of the ideal bachelor's life--at least at some point.  But does their involvement with the ring change that somehow? 

Ch 1: Body and City

It's hard not to think of the Ents, here, in this description of the cultural attitude toward marriage and childbearing in the Early Christian period, when St. Paul was preaching virginity:

The inhabitants of an ancient Mediterranean community, such as the little town of Seleuci or the inland city of Iconium (modern Konya), where Thecla had been so infelicitously espoused to Thamyris, knew very well that a fertile Mediterranean landscape, dotted with ancient towns and immemorial temples, would die for lack of men. They knew that they had few resources for continuity and cohesion more dependable, and for which they were more directly responsible, than their own bodies. If their little world was not to come to an end for lack of citizens, they must reproduce it, every generation, by marriage, intercourse, and the begetting and rearing of children. (7)

Of course, to the Ents, as immortals, the urgency of procreation was removed, but this made them more able to slip into complacency with regard to their reproduction.  What I like is that, while the need to continue to maintain and build the population drives these citizens to marry and reproduce, and the need to reproduce is the chief goal of marriage, and a strong reason to oppose preservation of virginity ("even a philosopher could be challenged to 'bequeath a copy of himself' to posterity" (7)--again, something the Ents would not have understood), in Tolkien the emphasis is not on the desire to reproduce or the need to reproduce, which is only notable in the absence of reproduction (with Finwë being, perhaps, a notable exception). Marriage, in the above account, is purely understood in service of the State by way of the body. By contrast, in the story of the Ents, we see that marriage can only be maintained by attention to the needs of the individuals, which leads to the maintenance of the union for the good of the soul and, naturally and incidentally, the maintenance of the population/race.

 **

If C. S. Lewis had paid closer attention to his Plutarch, perhaps his ideas about women in The Four Loves would have been different?  Or maybe not. But at least Plutarch found value in bringing a woman into the man's intellectual sphere and having her grow with him, which C. S. Lewis rejects as being, more or less, too much trouble and too disruptive to male friendship:

Plutarch warned Pollianus that women were intractable creatures. Left to themselves, they "conceive many untoward ideas low designs and emotions."

     But he urged the conscientious young man not to give up. Pollianus could absorb Eurydice into his own, grave world. She must eat with him and his friends. Otherwise she would learn to "stuff herself when alone." She must share the same gods with him, rather than withdraw to the rustling powers that ruled the women's quarters.  (13)

...

It [a relationship with a woman] gave him the nearest that he might ever come in his life to an unmotivated friendship, based on his own talent as the moral guide of his wife. (13)

...

We meet such women on the sarcophagi of Italy and Asia Minor in the second and third centuries. In them, the wife was shown standing attentively, or sitting, in front of her husband, as he raised his right hand to make a point, while in his left hand he displayed the scroll which represented the superior literary culture on which he based his claim to outright dominance, in society at large as in his marriage. (13)

...

 She would not be left to her own devices, free to run to seed unnoticed in the women's quarters. She had been swept, by her cultivated husband, into the charmed circle of a shared excellence. (14)

The image in Brown's account of the woman in a male intellectual circle compares strikingly to C. S. Lewis's image of a woman who, having an acquaintance with one member of a circle of friends, enters it and inevitably changes the discourse because she cannot possibly understand the discourse.  Lewis was seemingly willing to leave women "to run to seed unnoticed in the women's quarters."  Apparently Plutarch's Advice on Marriage was "destined to enjoy a long future in Christian sermonizing" (14), presumably the emphasis on the intellectual and moral inferiority of women that necessitated their tutoring by husbands.

***

An unexpected intimacy/privilege in ancient marriage:

Later in life, a man would expect to find in his wife the one thing that he could not expect to find among his peers--honesty. Parrhésia, unflinching frankness with one's fellows and superiors, was an infinitely rare and precious commodity. It could be had only from the only two authoritative figures who stood to one side of political life--from a philosopher and from one's wife. We should not underestimate how heavily the need for intimacy of this kind weighed upon ancient men. A fourth-century pagan, Praetexatus, wrote of his wife Paulina:

To you I could entrust the fast-closed depths of my own mind...

And so as friends we have been joined in trust,

By long acquaintance, by shared initiations of the gods,

All in one bond of faith, one single heart, united in one mind. (15) 

This parrhésia was "the privileged freedom of speech, of a Roman wife to her husband," invoked here in an account of Theodora "berat[ing] Emperor Justinian for his loss of nerve during the Nika Riot" in the sixth century (15).  I feel like there is a kind of analogue in Arwen's final admonition to Aragorn, though her advice, in that case, is misplaced.

Ch. 2: From Apostle to Apologist: Sexual Order and Sexual Renunciation in the Early Church

As Paul cites the reasons that not marrying can be harmful in his First Letter to the Corinthians, he is speaking against the backdrop of the social disorder in Corinth that is leading some to renounce the institutions that are necessary for the continuation of that society (including marriage and slavery), and with the understanding that his own chastity was from God, a "prophetic gift of continence" (56). While repeating the common Jewish teaching that "it was better to marry than to be aflame with passion" (55), he also acknowledged that others might be called to that prophetic continence:

Certainly, in Corinth, Paul accepted the possibility of groups that included mature continent women He even envisioned some young, virgin children, committed to a future of perpetual chastity. These continent persons shared a gift on which he was prepared to speak with transparent enthusiasm:

 'The appointed time has grown very short....For the form of this world is passing away... The unmarried man is anxious [only] about the affairs of the Lord... And the unmarried woman or virgin girl is anxious about the affairs of the Lord, how to be holy in body and spirit.'

They lived better prepared than were the married for the great travail that would preceded the coming of Jesus. By contrast, marriage was not a "gift." Rather, the fact of being married betrayed an absence of God's call to continence. The married lacked the supreme quality of the undivided heart: "the married person is anxious about worldly affairs, how to please his wife, and he is divided." (56)

Marriage, like household slavery, was a "calling" devoid of glamor. It did not attract close attention as the present age slipped silently toward its end. The "shortening of the time" itself would soon sweep it away. (57) 

 St. Paul's rhetoric of division is echoed in a curious way when Frodo leaves Middle-earth. Against the backdrop of Sam's marriage to Rosie and their family, Frodo, himself fractured by the Ring and its loss, says that Sam needs to be "one and whole": "You cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and be, and to do." By implication, either Sam is torn in two by his constant worry for Frodo at Bag End, or Sam could potentially be torn in two by his longing to follow Frodo, or both. Either way, Frodo tells Sam not to be torn in two, which seems to suggest that it is not the fact of Sam's marriage that tears him in two--he is able to be whole in his marriage, and (at least for now) that is the ideal state.  But is it, then, his previous status as Ring-bearer (alluded to by Frodo in the preceding lines), or his devotion to Frodo (who is, after all, his Master) that stands to disrupt the unity of his marriage, or is it, indeed, the marriage itself that is the distraction? How comfortable is Tolkien with the idea of Sam being involved ("anxious about"?) worldly affairs?  Since I do address this in an upcoming publication, at least in part, I don't want to say too much about it here.  This is something that certainly needs to be teased out, particularly given a conclusion to Sam's part of the story that Tolkien envisioned, but that (thankfully) never actually made it into the final version of LOTR. What chiefly interests me here is whether Tolkien's vision, here, of wholeness is opposed to St. Paul's because it marriage is wholeness, or whether the ideal is the departure for the West, and marriage really is a distraction for Sam (if a temporary one)--Sam is not called to that other (higher?) vocation. Sam's marriage, as Frodo represents it, does seem to be a service to the community, as his family becomes  a prominent one, propagating and preserving wisdom.

***

The chapter goes on to state that "letters ascribed to Saint Paul were, in reality, assembled by his followers in the two generations after his death" as these followers tried to correct the scattering of "unworkable communities" across the Mediterranean as a result of Paul's preaching.  These "wished to present Paul, an apostle notably fired by the ideal of an 'undistracted' life in Christ, as a man concerned to validate the structures of the married household" (57).  Into this context, Brown situates the Letter to the Ephesians, with its use of "the relations of husband and wife as a reflection of the primal solidarity brought back by Christ to the universe and to the church" ("Husbands, love your wives....) (57). "In the church, as in the city, the concord of a married couple was made to bear the heavy weight of expressing the ideal harmony of the whole society" (57). 

I think this is true in Sam's marriage, even more so in Aragorn's marriage to Arwen (though I can't get over the death of Aragorn and how it is depicted), and in Eowyn and Faramir's marriage. Perhaps it is true of marriage more generally in LOTR?   

Trying something new...

As I take notes for a potential book on Tolkien, I want to, perhaps, make some of these notes public (or relatively so) by posting them on the blog.  These would be in the manner of Facebook posts--brief musings, connections, things that I see as I go.  The benefit of having them here rather than on Facebook is that they will be easier to find and have a unity and coherence, in all of their fragmentation.  I also hope that knowing that I have this note-taking venture declared, and presented publicly, I will maintain it.  We shall see.  This is by way of explanation for the next post, which will surely get a little weird. My plan is to create one blog post for each book that seems useful or intersting, and to update it as I move through the book.

The Meaning of Communion in “A Painful Case” and “The Dead”

A throwback to graduate school.  Hope it holds up.  It was just sitting on the hard drive collecting virtual dust, and I was reminded of it by our associate pastor's review of what Epiphany means and how we use the term 'epiphany' (with no reference to Joyce, regrettably...):

Throughout Joyce’s Dubliners, the characters’ lives and their experience of reality are informed by the Sacraments of Catholicism, particularly the Sacrament of Eucharist, or Holy Communion.  Here, it is perhaps more useful to use the term “Communion,” which stresses the connection between the individuals partaking of the sacrament as well as their connection to the “Communion of Saints”—living and deceased—rather than the term “Eucharist,” or “thanksgiving,” which seems to have little connection to the themes expressed in the stories.  The chalice, a concrete symbol of Communion, figures prominently in “Two Sisters” and “Araby.”  However, the Eucharistic imagery combines with the plot and interaction of characters to capture the concept of “Communion” as a sacrament—sometimes defined as a physical manifestation of spiritual truth—in “A Painful Case” and “The Dead.”

Taken as individual stories, outside of the context of the work as a whole, both “A Painful Case” and “The Dead” may be read productively without any knowledge or consideration of Holy Communion.  In the context of Dubliners, however, which is peopled with priests and Catholic school boys, and littered with chalices and sacramental symbols, certain aspects of these stories take on additional meaning.  In “A Painful Case,” Holy Communion is suggested, first of all, by constant references to another sacrament—Confession (also Penance or Reconciliation).  This sacrament is considered necessary for the purification of the sinful individual—the individual who is out of communion with the Church—to allow for the reception of Holy Communion.  In the context of the story, Mr. Duffy, who “lived his spiritual life without any communion with others” (71*) becomes enamoured of a Mrs. Sinico, who “be[comes] his confessor” (72).  Their “union,” which may be read as a (comm)union resulting from the connection of their minds, “exalt[s] him,” and he expects that “he would ascend to an angelic stature” because of it (73).  When he suspects a physical attraction on her part, he refers to the scene of their meeting as a “ruined confessional” (73), making reference to the actual locus in a church in which confessions are made/heard.  His spiritual elation, made possible by the union with Mrs. Sinico—in essence, a spiritual communion—is ended, he believes, by her physical response to him;  however, the reader may conclude that he pulls back from the necessary physicality of the communion. 

Here, the image of Holy Communion, and Communion as a sacrament, becomes particularly important.  The spiritual communion within the plot is clear;  its physical implications are less so.  However, as a sacrament must have some physical sign, and since, according to Catholic belief, one makes physical connection to the Body of Christ through Holy Communion, the physical, corporeal nature of Mrs. Sinico is vital for the success of their spiritual communion.  By rejecting this, Mr. Duffy denies the reality of the sacrament, which is emphasized by his reading of Nietzsche.  The result is eventual self-annihilation.

When Duffy reads the news story of Mrs. Sinico’s death, his complex reaction is further defined in terms of the Sacrament of Communion.  When he rereads the newspaper story, he does so silently, “moving his lips as a priest does when he reads the prayers Secreto” (74).  In the Catholic Liturgy as it is celebrated today, the priest says prayers Secreto in preparation for the consecration of the host—the transformation of the physical by way of the spiritual that allows for the validity of the sacrament.  Though in the Latin Liturgy of the Catholic Church, with which Joyce would have been familiar, prayers are read in Secreto more frequently, a key moment is during the introductory Eucharistic prayer.  Upon reading of her death, then, he remembers his incomplete sacrament, which may be seen as ironic, as it is Christ’s death that allows, in Catholic belief, for the Sacrament of Communion.

His reaction to her death is defined first, perhaps, by shock, followed by disgust and realization.  When Duffy does begin to revisit Mrs. Sinico’s memory in more sympathetic terms, it is again in terms of a communion.  He senses his connection with her in spiritual and physical terms—feeling her touch and hearing her voice and her name, but also recognizing their common situation, including loneliness and the finality of death that joins all of humanity in a kind of communion (this communion of all humanity in the inevitability of death is related, though negatively, to the Catholic concept of the Communion of Saints).  Significantly, this loneliness is represented in terms of estrangement from a communal meal:  “He gnawed the rectitude of his life;  he felt that he had been outcast from life’s feast” and “No one wanted him;  he was outcast from life’s feast” (77).  This repetition, which also resonates with other themes and scenes from Dubliners, draws attention to the phrasing, which echoes the language of the Catholic Mass—the Eucharist is described as a “feast,” a “supper,” while the altar is a “table.”

The insistence of the imagery in a story that is, on the surface, so far removed from religiosity as to imply an adulterous (if platonic) affair leads to the question of how Joyce, presumably subversive of Catholicism, is using this fundamentally Catholic imagery.  In “A Painful Case,” as elsewhere in Dubliners, Joyce emphasizes the sacramental nature of life—a fact that his characters can not escape even when the seek to deny it, as does Mr. Duffy.  Thus, physical existence always reaches toward the elucidation of some non-physical truth.  However, Joyce is not dealing in divine absolutes.  While the sacraments of Catholicism put humans in physical contact with divine truths, allowing for spiritual development, Joyce’s sacraments put humans in touch with purely human truths that are nevertheless hidden from humanity, due in part to the mundane operations of daily life.  However divorced from religious belief, the “sacramental imagination,” a term used by Andrew Greeley, is a fundamentally Catholic way of understanding the world.  Joyce draws from this rich source to inform his exploration of the human condition, almost celebrating the Catholic heritage of Ireland as he does so.  He certainly does not cancel out Catholicism by his appropriation of its imagery, and nowhere in Dubliners does his representation of Catholicism cancel or subvert its practice, however this position may have modulated in later works.

It is in “The Dead” that the image of the Communion of Saints comes to its fruition in Dubliners.  Gabriel, though comparable to Mr. Duffy in the sense that he feels alienated from the life around him—which, significantly, culminates in a communal meal—nevertheless seeks to understand his place among the living, especially his relation to his wife, as well as his communion with the dead.  Though the feast in “The Dead” can be read at face value, as an example of holiday cheer and hospitality, the Eucharistic themes in Dubliners, combined with the religious discussions and religiosity of the aunts, suggest that the feast be read in terms of an alternate, human communion feast.  Gabriel presides over the table—not preparing the meal, but carving it as an offering to the Three Graces—and later offers a thanksgiving—a sort of Eucharistic “nod”—to his aunts as representatives of a generation that has passed, with clear references to other generations that have died.  While the struggles of the main character in this story point to an alienation, even though he is not excluded from the feast, it is presumably the fault of the individual and not the sacrament.  Gabriel seems alienated from the living—most notably, from women—and from the dead, whom he fears, though life continues around him with its welcoming warmth.  Those around him carry on sacramentally, demonstrating to each other, through their physical presence and partaking of the meal, certain truths about hope and human connectedness, while Gabriel, who has somewhat ironically played the part of the Presider over a Mass, struggles with his relationships to others, which have been modulated by his education and emotional restraint.  Through his “epiphany,” Gabriel is able to enter into a fuller understanding of his communion with the living—his wife—and the dead, though his attempt at physical demonstration toward his wife was ill-timed and selfish in nature.  Nevertheless, he begins to understand the common humanity represented by (c/C)ommunion in the presence of snow, which becomes (like water) the physical sign of the sacrament:  “His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead” (152).  Though the specific truth is not easy to identify, the sacramental presence of the snow, it is presumed, causes development in Gabriel’s soul and leaves the reader with a glimpse of a higher spiritual plane.

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* My page numbers refer to the Dover Thrift Edition of Dubliners.