AN EPIC FROM THE LAND OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

THE RETURN OF THE KING
By J. R. R. Tolkien
440 pp. Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Company. $22

Reviewed by Laurie Meunier Graves

It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing.
—Frodo Baggins

Before I begin this review, it seems only fair to admit that I have been a fan of The Lord of the Rings since I was eleven years old. My father bought me the boxed paperback set, which contained the entire trilogy—The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and The Return of the King—and I tore through them the way a glutton tears through a box of chocolates. My enthusiasm has not diminished with age; indeed, it has grown even stronger. No matter how many times I return to this trilogy, I am struck by the breadth and depth of the writing and the storytelling. Except for Shakespeare, whom, oddly enough, Tolkien disliked, I can’t think of another writer who so perfectly captures the essence of human nature and the resulting struggles of body and soul.

Even though this series is labeled as a fantasy, it is in fact one of the most realistic stories ever written. Yes, there are elves, wizards, orcs, and other magical creatures in The Lord of the Rings. However, the war scenes are stunning and vivid. Tolkien fought in the trenches during World War I, and the battle descriptions in the trilogy reflect the horror he must have felt as he fought.

As is the case with most fantasies, Lord of the Rings explores the nature of good and evil, but Tolkien’s approach is neither simplistic nor pat. Evil comes from without as well as from within, and even the dark lord Sauron did not start out being evil. He is merely “a servant or emissary,” a part of something larger. The same is true of good, and on a lonely, seemingly hopeless night, the trusty hobbit Sam perceives it when he sees a white star twinkle. “The beauty of it smote his heart…the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and beauty for ever beyond its reach.”

In addition, Tolkien had a keen insight into human nature—bravery, fear, love, the never-ending grasp for power, and the tendency of humans (and hobbits!) to be swayed by those who are in power. Like the other two books in the trilogy, The Return of the King is a humane book, advocating mercy and compassion rather than death and vengeance.

It seems to me that for those who are reading this review, a synopsis of The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers is unnecessary. The Return of the King is the third book in a continuing series, and it makes little sense to read this book before reading the others. Therefore, I’m going to begin where Tolkien began, in medias res, so to speak, with all the characters either in the dark kingdom of Mordor or heading in that direction, to Minis Tirith and to Gondor, both of which lie on the edge of Mordor. A world war, the final battle for Middle Earth has begun, and for the fellowship—Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn, and Gandalf—the outcome is far from certain.

In this saga, there are no lone heroes. Each member of the fellowship, split apart at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring but coming together in The Return of the King, has a crucial part to play in the war against  Sauron, who like many tyrants, is bent on world domination. It almost goes without saying that Gandalf and Aragorn, respectively a wizard and a soon-to-be mighty king, are essential. With his skill on the battlefield, his ability to heal, and his stern will, Aragorn possesses abilities that are nearly superhuman. Without hesitation or doubt, he rides “by the Paths of the Dead” and amasses a spectral army to fight against Sauron’s troops. Yet, Tolkien makes it clear that Aragorn is doing this not for glory but rather out of necessity, because it is his duty, and it is not a choice that he makes lightly. As Aragorn tells Lady Éowyn, who has fallen vainly in love with him, “Were I to go where my heart dwells… I would now be wandering in the fair valley of Rivendell.”

Gandalf, although powerful and wise, has a similar sense of duty. When it comes time to deflect Sauron’s attention away from Mordor, Gandalf does not hesitate: he counsels going to battle even though all might perish. And why does he give this advice? Because unbeknownst to Sauron, Frodo and Sam, who have the One Ring, are in Mordor and are making their way toward Mount Doom, where the ring will be destroyed. The hobbits’ success depends on Sauron’s ignorance of their progress.

However, the hobbits, small though they are, affect the outcome of the war just as surely as Gandalf and Aragorn do. In The Two Towers, Pippin inadvertently furthered Gandalf’s goal of distracting Sauron. He peeked into Saruman’s “Seeing Stone,” which was connected to Mordor. Getting a glimpse of the hobbit, Sauron mistakenly assumed Pippin was the ring bearer and that Saruman had betrayed him. Instead of looking inward, the great eye of Sauron turned outward, allowing Frodo and Sam to travel undetected through Mordor.

Merry, too, does his part to save Middle Earth. Commanded by King Théoden to stay behind in Edoras, Merry instead sneaks into battle, aided by Lady Éowyn, who in Shakespeare gender-bending fashion, is disguised as a man and passes as a warrior. On the battlefield outside Minas Tirith, the hobbit and the lady bring down and destroy the Lord of the Nazgûl. The notions of fate and circumstance and how they ripple forward to affect events also come into play during this scene. Merry uses a sword of the “Barrow-downs,” a weapon he acquired in The Fellowship of the Ring. And it’s a good thing, too, because “No other blade…would have dealt that foe a wound so bitter, cleaving the undead flesh, breaking the spell that knit his unseen sinews to his will.”

When it comes to defeating Sauron, Frodo and Sam, of course, are perhaps the most essential members of the fellowship. By going into Mordor, toward evil, they face a darkness that is almost unbearable. Betrayed by Gollum, nearly killed by a giant spider, captured by orcs, and burdened and tempted by the ring, Frodo and Sam nonetheless do not give up. They, too, know their duty, even though it is harsh and might, in the end, destroy them. As Frodo tells Sam, “when things are in danger[,] some one has to give them [what is beloved] up, lose them, so that others may keep them.”

Gimli and Legolas, as supporting characters, are less central to the story. Yet, it is impossible to imagine The Lord of the Rings without them. Their valor, steadfastness, and skill with weapons provide much-needed support for the fellowship. In addition, their personalities are opposite but complementary. Short, stocky Gimli is from the caverns and the earth, while the ethereal Legolas is from the forest. Different as they are, they come together as equals in a tight bond of friendship.

Perhaps even more fascinating and even a little troubling is the relationship between Frodo and Sam. As the two hobbits travel through Mordor, the story is told from Sam’s point of view, and readers are clearly on his side. Yet, Sam is the servant, and Frodo is the master. There is never any doubt of this, and for the modern reader this is problematic. While Sam might be brave, loyal, clever, and stouthearted, he most certainly knows his place. Indeed, it is this knowledge that prevents the ring from tempting and overpowering Sam, when, for a short time, he becomes the Ring-bearer. “In that hour of trial it was the love of his master that helped most to hold him firm; but also deep down in him lived still unconquered his plain hobbit-sense: he knew in the core of his heart that he was not large enough to bear such a burden…The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm…”

We, of course, are relieved that Sam does not succumb to temptation, but at the same time we feel uneasy. The love of his master holds him firm? Why must this be the case? Why can’t Sam be strong on his own accord? Why does he even need a master? Why shouldn’t Frodo and Sam be equals? The American reader chafes against such restrictions.

But, Tolkien was not an American; he was British, and he was born in the nineteenth century when the class system was firmly in place. This no doubt influenced his writing and thinking. When I’m tempted to become impatient with this point of view, I remember Jacques Barzun’s statement that “perfection is not a necessary characteristic of the greatest art.”

Despite the complaint about class, The Return of the King (as well as the rest of the trilogy) is indeed a work of art, an epic that is both personal and sweeping. The ending, which will not be revealed, is moving, sad, and satisfying. The Lord of the Rings has inspired many imitators, but so far no one has come close to matching Tolkien’s brilliance. It’s interesting to note how Shakespeare and Tolkien, the two masters of literature written in English, came from the same small island. Perhaps there’s something in the air or the water.

 

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