| Spexxvet |
12-08-2012 09:07 AM |
Here's the entire Rivendell stay
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Quote:
Hrnmm! it smells like elves!” thought Bilbo, and he looked up at
the stars. They were burning bright and blue. Just then there came a
burst of song like laughter in the trees:
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(song)
So they laughed and sang in the trees; and pretty fair nonsense I
daresay you think it. Not that they would care they would only laugh all
the more if you told them so. They were elves of course. Soon Bilbo
caught glimpses of them as the darkness deepened. He loved elves, though
he seldom met them; but he was a little frightened of them too. Dwarves
don’t get on well with them. Even decent enough dwarves like Thorin and
his friends think them foolish (which is a very foolish thing to think), or
get annoyed with them. For some elves tease them and laugh at them,
and most of all at their beards.
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“Well, well!” said a voice. “Just look! Bilbo the hobbit on a pony, my
dear! Isn’t it delicious!”
“Most astonishing wonderful!”
Then off they went into another song as ridiculous as the one I
have written down in full. At last one, a tall young fellow, came out from
the trees and bowed to Gandalf and to Thorin.
“Welcome to the valley!” he said.
“Thank you!” said Thorin a bit gruffly; but Gandalf was already off
his horse and among the elves, talking merrily with them.
“You are a little out of your way,” said the elf: “that is, if you are
making for the only path across the water and to the house beyond. We
will set you right, but you had best get on foot, until you are over the
bridge. Are you going to stay a bit and sing with us, or will you go straight
on? Supper is preparing over there,” he said. “I can smell the Wood-fires
for the cooking.”
Tired as he was, Bilbo would have liked to stay awhile. Elvish singing
is not a thing to miss, in June under the stars, not if you care for such
things. Also he would have liked to have a few private words with these
people that seemed to know his name and all about him, although he had
never been them before. He thought their opinion of his adventure might
be interesting. Elves know a lot and are wondrous folk for news, and
know what is going on among the peoples of the land, as quick as water
flows, or quicker. But the dwarves were all for supper as soon ‘as possible
just then, and would not stay. On they all went, leading their ponies, till
they were brought to a good path and so at last to the very brink of the
river. It was flowing fast and noisily, as mountain-streams do of a summer
evening, when sun has been all day on the snow far up above. There was
only a narrow bridge of stone without a parapet, as narrow as a pony
could well walk on; and over that they had to go, slow and careful, one by
one, each leading his pony by the bridle. The elves had brought bright
lanterns to the shore, and they sang a merry song as the party went
across.
“Don’t dip your beard in the foam, father!” they cried to Thorin,
who was bent almost on to his hands and knees. “It is long enough
without watering it.”
“Mind Bilbo doesn’t eat all the cakes!” they called. “He is too fat to
get through key-holes yet!”
“Hush, hush! Good People! and good night!” said Gandalf, who
came last. “Valleys have ears, and some elves have over merry tongues.
Good night!”
And so at last they all came to the Last Homely House, and found
its doors flung wide.
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Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days
that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to;
while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may
make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway. They stayed long in
that good house, fourteen days at least, and they found it hard to leave.
Bilbo would gladly have stopped there for ever and ever-even supposing
a wish would have taken him right back to his hobbit-hole without trouble.
Yet there is little to tell about their stay.
The master of the house was an elf-friend-one of those people
whose fathers came into the strange stories before the beginning of History,
the wars of the evil goblins and the elves and the first men in the North.
In those days of our tale there were still some people who had both elves
and heroes of the North for ancestors, and Elrond the master of the house
was their chief. He was as noble and as fair in face as an elf-lord, as
strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves,
and as kind as summer. He comes into. many tales, but his part in the
story of Bilbo’s great adventure is only a small one, though important, as
you will see, if we ever get to the end of it. His house was perfect, whether
you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting
and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Evil things did not
come into that valley.
I wish I had time to tell you even a few of the tales or one or two of
the songs that they heard in that house. All of them, the ponies as well,
grew refreshed and strong in a few days there. Their clothes were mended
as well as their bruises, their tempers and their hopes. Their bags were
filled with food and provisions light to carry but strong to bring them over
the mountain passes. Their plans were improved with the best advice. So
the time came to mid- summer eve, and they were to go on again with the
early sun on midsummer morning.
Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at
the swords they had brought from the trolls’ lair, and he said: “These are
not troll-make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of
the West, my kin. They were made in Gondolin for the Goblin-wars. They
must have come from a dragon’s hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and
goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes name
Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a
famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foe-hammer that the king
of Gondolin once wore. Keep them well!”
“Whence did the trolls get them, I wonder?” said Thorin looking at
his sword with new interest.
“I could not say,” said Elrond, “but one may guess that your trolls
had plundered other plunderers, or come on the remnants of old robberies
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in some hold in the mountains of the North. I have heard that there are
still forgotten treasures of old to be found in the deserted caverns of the
mines of Moria, since the dwarf and goblin war.”
Thorin pondered these words. “I will keep this sword in honour,” he
said. “May it soon cleave goblins once again!”
“A wish that is likely to be granted soon enough in the mountains!”
said Elrond. “But show me now your map!” He took it and gazed long at
it, and he shook his head; for if he did not altogether approve of dwarves
and their love of gold, he hated dragons and their cruel wickedness, and
he grieved to remember the ruin of the town of Dale and its merry bells,
and the burned banks of the bright River Running. The moon was shining
in a broad silver crescent. He held up the map and the white light shone
through it. “What is this?” he said. “There are moon-letters here, beside
the plain runes which say ‘five feet high the door and three may walk
abreast.’ “
“What are moon-letters?” asked the hobbit full of excitement. He
loved maps, as I have told you before; and he also liked runes and letters
and cunning handwriting, though when he wrote himself it was a bit thin
and spidery.
“Moon-letters are rune-letters, but you cannot see them,” said Elrond,
“not when you look straight at them. They can only be seen when the
moon shines behind them, and what is more, with the more cunning sort
it must be a moon of the same shape and season as the day when they
were written. The dwarves invented them and wrote them with silver
pens, as your friends could tell you. These must have been written on a
midsummer’s eve in a crescent moon, a long while ago.”
“What do they say?” asked Gandalf and Thorin together, a bit vexed
perhaps that even Elrond should have found this out first, though really
there had not been a chance before, and there would not have been
another until goodness knows when.
“Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks,” read Elrond,
“and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the
key-hole.”
“Durin, Durin!” said Thorin. “He was the father of the fathers of the
eldest race of Dwarves, the Longbeards, and my first ancestor: I am his
heir.”
“Then what is Durin’s Day?” asked Elrond.
“The first day of the dwarves’ New Year,” said Thorin, “is as all
should know the first, day of the last moon of Autumn on the threshold of
Winter. We still call it Durin’s Day when the last moon of Autumn and the
sun are in the sky together. But this will not help us much, I fear, for it
passes our skill in these days to guess when such a time will come again.”
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“That remains to be seen,” said Gandalf. “Is there any more writing?”
“None to be seen by this moon,” said Elrond, and he gave the map
back to Thorin; and then they went down to the water to see the elves
dance and sing upon the midsummer’s eve.
The next morning was a midsummer’s morning as fair and fresh as
could be dreamed: blue sky and never a cloud, and the sun dancing on
the water. Now they rode away amid songs of farewell and good speed,
with their hearts ready for more adventure, and with a knowledge of the
road they must follow over the Misty Mountains to the land beyond.
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