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THE
LORD OF THE RINGS
THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
A Long-Expected Party
When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly
be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special
magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.
Bilbo was very rich and very peculiar, and had been the wonder of
the Shire for sixty years, ever since his remarkable disappearance
and unexpected return. The riches he had brought back from his
travels had now become a local legend, and it was popularly
believed, whatever the old folk might say, that the Hill at Bag End
was full of tunnels stuffed with treasure. And if that was not
enough for fame, there was also his prolonged vigour to marvel at.
Time wore on, but it seemed to have little effect on Mr. Baggins.
At ninety he was much the same as at fifty. At ninety-nine they
began to call him well-preserved; but unchanged would have been
nearer the mark. There were some that shook their heads and thought
this was too much of a good thing; it seemed unfair that anyone
should possess (apparently) perpetual youth as well as (reputedly)
inexhaustible wealth.
‘It will have to be paid for,’ they said. ‘It
isn’t natural, and trouble will come of it!’
But so far trouble had not come; and as Mr. Baggins was generous
with his money, most people were willing to forgive him his
oddities and his good fortune. He remained on visiting terms with
his relatives (except, of course, the Sackville-Bagginses), and he
had many devoted admirers among the hobbits of poor and unimportant
families. But he had no close friends, until some of his younger
cousins began to grow up.
The eldest of these, and Bilbo’s favourite, was young Frodo
Baggins. When Bilbo was ninety-nine he adopted Frodo as his heir,
and brought him to live at Bag End; and the hopes of the Sackville-
Bagginses were finally dashed. Bilbo and Frodo happened to have the
same birthday, September 22nd. ‘You had better come and live
here, Frodo my lad,’ said Bilbo one day; ‘and then we
can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together.’ At
that time Frodo was still in his tweens, as the hobbits called the
irresponsible twenties between childhood and coming of age at
thirty-three.
Twelve more years passed. Each year the Bagginses had given very
lively combined birthday-parties at Bag End; but now it was
understood that something quite exceptional was being planned for
that autumn. Bilbo was going to be eleventy-one, 111, a rather
curious number, and a very respectable age for a hobbit (the Old
Took himself had only reached 130); and Frodo was going to be
thirty- three, 33, an important number: the date of his
‘coming of age’.
Tongues began to wag in Hobbiton and Bywater; and rumour of the
coming event travelled all over the Shire. The history and
character of Mr. Bilbo Baggins became once again the chief topic of
conversation; and the older folk suddenly found their reminiscences
in welcome demand.
No one had a more attentive audience than old Ham Gamgee, commonly
known as the Gaffer. He held forth at The Ivy Bush, a small inn on
the Bywater road; and he spoke with some authority, for he had
tended the garden at Bag End for forty years, and had helped old
Holman in the same job before that. Now that he was himself growing
old and stiff in the joints, the job was mainly carried on by his
youngest son, Sam Gamgee. Both father and son were on very friendly
terms with Bilbo and Frodo. They lived on the Hill itself, in
Number 3 Bagshot Row just below Bag End.
‘A very nice well-spoken gentlehobbit is Mr. Bilbo, as
I’ve always said,’ the Gaffer declared. With perfect
truth: for Bilbo was very polite to him, calling him ‘Master
Hamfast’, and consulting him constantly upon the growing of
vegetables — in the matter of ‘roots’, especially
potatoes, the Gaffer was recognized as the leading authority by all
in the neighbourhood (including himself).
‘But what about this Frodo that lives with him?’ asked
Old Noakes of Bywater. ‘Baggins is his name, but he’s
more than half a Brandybuck, they say. It beats me why any Baggins
of Hobbiton should go looking for a wife away there in Buckland,
where folks are so queer.’
‘And no wonder they’re queer,’ put in Daddy
Twofoot (the Gaffer’s next-door neighbour), ‘if they
live on the wrong side of the Brandywine River, and right agin the
Old Forest. That’s a dark bad place, if half the tales be
true.’
‘You’re right, Dad!’ said the Gaffer. ‘Not
that the Brandybucks of Buckland live in the Old Forest; but
they’re a queer breed, seemingly. They fool about with boats
on that big river — and that isn’t natural. Small
wonder that trouble came of it, I say. But be that as it may, Mr.
Frodo is as nice a young hobbit as you could wish to meet. Very
much like Mr. Bilbo, and in more than looks. After all his father
was a Baggins. A decent respectable hobbit was Mr. Drogo Baggins;
there was never much to tell of him, till he was
drownded.’
‘Drownded?’ said several voices. They had heard this
and other darker rumours before, of course; but hobbits have a
passion for family history, and they were ready to hear it
again.
‘Well, so they say,’ said the Gaffer. ‘You see:
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’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.
‘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 this Mr. Frodo
left an orphan and stranded, as you might say, among those queer
Bucklanders, being brought up anyhow in Brandy Hall. A regular
warren, by all accounts. Old Master Gorbadoc never had fewer than a
couple of hundred relations in the place. Mr. Bilbo never did a
kinder deed than when he brought the lad back to live among decent
folk.
‘But I reckon it was a nasty shock for those Sackville-
Bagginses. They thought they were going to get Bag End, that time
when he went off and was thought to be dead. And then he comes back
and orders them off; and he goes on living and living, and never
looking a day older, bless him! And suddenly he produces an heir,
and has all the papers made out proper. The Sackville-Bagginses
won’t never see the inside of Bag End now, or it is to be
hoped not.’
‘There’s a tidy bit of money tucked away up there, I
hear tell,’ said a stranger, a visitor on business from
Michel Delving in the Westfarthing. ‘All the top of your hill
is full of tunnels packed with chests of gold and silver, and
jools, by what I’ve heard.’
‘Then you’ve heard more than I can speak to,’
answered the Gaffer. I know nothing about jools. Mr. Bilbo is free
with his money, and there seems no lack of it; but I know of no
tunnel-making. I saw Mr. Bilbo when he came back, a matter of sixty
years ago, when I was a lad. I’d not long come prentice to
old Holman (him being my dad’s cousin), but he had me up at
Bag End helping him to keep folks from trampling and trapessing all
over the garden while the sale was on. And in the middle of it all
Mr. Bilbo comes up the Hill with a pony and some mighty big bags
and a couple of chests. I don’t doubt they were mostly full
of treasure he had picked up in foreign parts, where there be
mountains of gold, they say; but there wasn’t enough to fill
tunnels. But my lad Sam will know more about that. He’s in
and out of Bag End. Crazy about stories of the old days he is, and
he listens to all Mr. Bilbo’s tales. Mr. Bilbo has learned
him his letters — meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no
harm will come of it.
‘Elves and Dragons! I says to him. ‘Cabbages and
potatoes are better for me and you. Don’t go getting mixed up
in the business of your betters, or you’ll land in trouble
too big for you,’ I says to him. And I might say it to
others,’ he added with a look at the stranger and the
miller.
But the Gaffer did not convince his audience. The legend of
Bilbo’s wealth was now too firmly fixed in the minds of the
younger generation of hobbits.
‘Ah, but he has likely enough been adding to what he brought
at first,’ argued the miller, voicing common opinion.
‘He’s often away from home. And look at the outlandish
folk that visit him: dwarves coming at night, and that old
wandering conjuror, Gandalf, and all. You can say what you like,
Gaffer, but Bag End’s a queer place, and its folk are
queerer.’
‘And you can say what you like, about what you know no more
of than you do of boating, Mr. Sandyman,’ retorted the
Gaffer, disliking the miller even more than usual. ‘If
that’s being queer, then we could do with a bit more
queerness in these parts. There’s some not far away that
wouldn’t offer a pint of beer to a friend, if they lived in a
hole with golden walls. But they do things proper at Bag End. Our
Sam says that everyone’s going to be invited to the party,
and there’s going to be presents, mark you, presents for all
— this very month as is.’
That very month was September, and as fine as you could ask. A day
or two later a rumour (probably started by the knowledgeable Sam)
was spread about that there were going to be fireworks —
fireworks, what is more, such as had not been seen in the Shire for
nigh on a century, not indeed since the Old Took died.
Days passed and The Day drew nearer. An odd-looking waggon laden
with odd-looking packages rolled into Hobbiton one evening and
toiled up the Hill to Bag End. The startled hobbits peered out of
lamplit doors to gape at it. It was driven by outlandish folk,
singing strange songs: dwarves with long beards and deep hoods. A
few of them remained at Bag End. At the end of the second week in
September a cart came in through Bywater from the direction of the
Brandywine Bridge in broad daylight. An old man was driving it all
alone. He wore a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a
silver scarf. He had a long white beard and bushy eyebrows that
stuck out beyond the brim of his hat. Small hobbit-children ran
after the cart all through Hobbiton and right up the hill. It had a
cargo of fireworks, as they rightly guessed. At Bilbo’s front
door the old man began to unload: there were great bundles of
fireworks of all sorts and shapes, each labelled with a large red G
and the elf-rune, .
That was Gandalf’s mark, of course, and the old man was
Gandalf the Wizard, whose fame in the Shire was due mainly to his
skill with fires, smokes, and lights. His real business was far
more difficult and dangerous, but the Shire-folk knew nothing about
it. To them he was just one of the ‘attractions’ at the
Party. Hence the excitement of the hobbit-children. ‘G for
Grand!’ they shouted, and the old man smiled. They knew him
by sight, though he only appeared in Hobbiton occasionally and
never stopped long; but neither they nor any but the oldest of
their elders had seen one of his firework displays — they now
belonged to the legendary past.
When the old man, helped by Bilbo and some dwarves, had finished
unloading. Bilbo gave a few pennies away; but not a single squib or
cracker was forthcoming, to the disappointment of the
onlookers.
‘Run away now!’ said Gandalf. ‘You will get
plenty when the time comes.’ Then he disappeared inside with
Bilbo, and the door was shut. The young hobbits stared at the door
in vain for a while, and then made off, feeling that the day of the
party would never come.
Inside Bag End, Bilbo and Gandalf were sitting at the open window
of a small room looking out west on to the garden. The late
afternoon was bright and peaceful. The flowers glowed red and
golden: snap-dragons and sun-flowers, and nasturtiums trailing all
over the turf walls and peeping in at the round windows.
‘How bright your garden looks!’ said Gandalf.
‘Yes,’ said Bilbo. ‘I am very fond indeed of it,
and of all the dear old Shire; but I think I need a
holiday.’
‘You mean to go on with your plan then?’
‘I do. I made up my mind months ago, and I haven’t
changed it.’
‘Very well. It is no good saying any more. Stick to your plan
— your whole plan, mind — and I hope it will turn out
for the best, for you, and for all of us.’
‘I hope so. Anyway I mean to enjoy myself on Thursday, and
have my little joke.’
‘Who will laugh, I wonder?’ said Gandalf, shaking his
head.
‘We shall see,’ said Bilbo.
The next day more carts rolled up the Hill, and still more carts.
There might have been some grumbling about ‘dealing
locally’, but that very week orders began to pour out of Bag
End for every kind of provision, commodity, or luxury that could be
obtained in Hobbiton or Bywater or anywhere in the neighbourhood.
People became enthusiastic; and they began to tick off the days on
the calendar; and they watched eagerly for the postman, hoping for
invitations.
Before long the invitations began pouring out, and the Hobbiton
post-office was blocked, and the Bywater post-office was snowed
under, and voluntary assistant postmen were called for. There was a
constant stream of them going up the Hill, carrying hundreds of
polite variations on Thank you, I shall certainly come.
A notice appeared on the gate at Bag End: NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON
PARTY BUSINESS. Even those who had, or pretended to have Party
Business were seldom allowed inside. Bilbo was busy: writing
invitations, ticking off answers, packing up presents, and making
some private preparations of his own. From the time of
Gandalf’s arrival he remained hidden from view.
One morning the hobbits woke to find the large field, south of
Bilbo’s front door, covered with ropes and poles for tents
and pavilions. A special entrance was cut into the bank leading to
the road, and wide steps and a large white gate were built there.
The three hobbit-families of Bagshot Row, adjoining the field, were
intensely interested and generally envied. Old Gaffer Gamgee
stopped even pretending to work in his garden.
The tents began to go up. There was a specially large pavilion, so
big that the tree that grew in the field was right inside it, and
stood proudly near one end, at the head of the chief table.
Lanterns were hung on all its branches. More promising still (to
the hobbits’ mind): an enormous open-air kitchen was erected
in the north corner of the field. A draught of cooks, from every
inn and eating-house for miles around, arrived to supplement the
dwarves and other odd folk that were quartered at Bag End.
Excitement rose to its height.
Then the weather clouded over. That was on Wednesday the eve of the
Party. Anxiety was intense. Then Thursday, September the 22nd,
actually dawned. The sun got up, the clouds vanished, flags were
unfurled and the fun began.
Bilbo Baggins called it a party, but it was really a variety of
entertainments rolled into one. Practically everybody living near
was invited. A very few were overlooked by accident, but as they
turned up all the same, that did not matter. Many people from other
parts of the Shire were also asked; and there were even a few from
outside the borders. Bilbo met the guests (and additions) at the
new white gate in person. He gave away presents to all and sundry
— the latter were those who went out again by a back way and
came in again by the gate. Hobbits give presents to other people on
their own birthdays. Not very expensive ones, as a rule, and not so
lavishly as on this occasion; but it was not a bad system. Actually
in Hobbiton and Bywater every day in the year it was
somebody’s birthday, so that every hobbit in those parts had
a fair chance of at least one present at least once a week. But
they never got tired of them.
On this occasion the presents were unusually good. The hobbit-
children were so excited that for a while they almost forgot about
eating. There were toys the like of which they had never seen
before, all beautiful and some obviously magical. Many of them had
indeed been ordered a year before, and had come all the way from
the Mountain and from Dale, and were of real dwarf-make.
When every guest had been welcomed and was finally inside the gate,
there were songs, dances, music, games, and, of course, food and
drink. There were three official meals: lunch, tea, and dinner (or
supper). But lunch and tea were marked chiefly by the fact that at
those times all the guests were sitting down and eating together.
At other times there were merely lots of people eating and drinking
— continuously from elevenses until six-thirty, when the
fireworks started.
The fireworks were by Gandalf: they were not only brought by him,
but designed and made by him; and the special effects, set pieces,
and flights of rockets were let off by him. But there was also a
generous distribution of squibs, crackers, backarappers, sparklers,
torches, dwarf-candles, elf-fountains, goblin-barkers and
thunder-claps. They were all superb. The art of Gandalf improved
with age.
There were rockets like a flight of scintillating birds singing
with sweet voices. There were green trees with trunks of dark
smoke: their leaves opened like a whole spring unfolding in a
moment, and their shining branches dropped glowing flowers down
upon the astonished hobbits, disappearing with a sweet scent just
before they touched their upturned faces. There were fountains of
butterflies that flew glittering into the trees; there were pillars
of coloured fires that rose and turned into eagles, or sailing
ships, or a phalanx of flying swans; there was a red thunderstorm
and a shower of yellow rain; there was a forest of silver spears
that sprang suddenly into the air with a yell like an embattled
army, and came down again into the Water with a hiss like a hundred
hot snakes. And there was also one last surprise, in honour of
Bilbo, and it startled the hobbits exceedingly, as Gandalf
intended. The lights went out. A great smoke went up. It shaped
itself like a mountain seen in the distance, and began to glow at
the summit. It spouted green and scarlet flames. Out flew a
red-golden dragon — not life-size, but terribly life-like:
fire came from his jaws, his eyes glared down; there was a roar,
and he whizzed three times over the heads of the crowd. They all
ducked, and many fell flat on their faces. The dragon passed like
an express train, turned a somersault, and burst over Bywater with
a deafening explosion.
‘That is the signal for supper!’ said Bilbo. The pain
and alarm vanished at once, and the prostrate hobbits leaped to
their feet. There was a splendid supper for everyone; for everyone,
that is, except those invited to the special family dinner-party.
This was held in the great pavilion with the tree. The invitations
were limited to twelve dozen (a number also called by the hobbits
one Gross, though the word was not considered proper to use of
people); and the guests were selected from all the families to
which Bilbo and Frodo were related, with the addition of a few
special unrelated friends (such as Gandalf). Many young hobbits
were included, and present by parental permission; for hobbits were
easy-going with their children in the matter of sitting up late,
especially when there was a chance of getting them a free meal.
Bringing up young hobbits took a lot of provender.
There were many Bagginses and Boffins, and also many Tooks and
Brandybucks; there were various Grubbs (relations of Bilbo
Baggins’ grandmother), and various Chubbs (connexions of his
Took grandfather); and a selection of Burrowses, Bolgers,
Bracegirdles, Brockhouses, Goodbodies, Hornblowers and Proudfoots.
Some of these were only very distantly connected with Bilbo, and
some of them had hardly ever been in Hobbiton before, as they lived
in remote corners of the Shire. The Sackville-Bagginses were not
forgotten. Otho and his wife Lobelia were present. They disliked
Bilbo and detested Frodo, but so magnificent was the invitation
card, written in golden ink, that they had felt it was impossible
to refuse. Besides, their cousin, Bilbo, had been specializing in
food for many years and his table had a high reputation.
All the one hundred and forty-four guests expected a pleasant
feast; though they rather dreaded the after-dinner speech of their
host (an inevitable item). He was liable to drag in bits of what he
called poetry; and sometimes, after a glass or two, would allude to
the absurd adventures of his mysterious journey. The guests were
not disappointed: they had a very pleasant feast, in fact an
engrossing entertainment: rich, abundant, varied, and prolonged.
The purchase of provisions fell almost to nothing throughout the
district in the ensuing weeks; but as Bilbo’s catering had
depleted the stocks of most stores, cellars and warehouses for
miles around, that did not matter much.
After the feast (more or less) came the Speech. Most of the company
were, however, now in a tolerant mood, at that delightful stage
which they called ‘filling up the corners’. They were
sipping their favourite drinks, and nibbling at their favourite
dainties, and their fears were forgotten. They were prepared to
listen to anything, and to cheer at every full stop.
My dear People, began Bilbo, rising in his place. ‘Hear!
Hear! Hear!’ they shouted, and kept on repeating it in
chorus, seeming reluctant to follow their own advice. Bilbo left
his place and went and stood on a chair under the illuminated tree.
The light of the lanterns fell on his beaming face; the golden
buttons shone on his embroidered silk waistcoat. They could all see
him standing, waving one hand in the air, the other was in his
trouser-pocket.
My dear Bagginses and Boffins, he began again; and my dear Tooks
and Brandybucks, and Grubbs, and Chubbs, and Burrowses, and
Hornblowers, and Bolgers, Bracegirdles, Goodbodies, Brockhouses and
Proudfoots. ‘ProudFEET!’ shouted an elderly hobbit from
the back of the pavilion. His name, of course, was Proudfoot, and
well merited; his feet were large, exceptionally furry, and both
were on the table.
Proudfoots, repeated Bilbo. Also my good Sackville-Bagginses that I
welcome back at last to Bag End. Today is my one hundred and
eleventh birthday: I am eleventy-one today! ‘Hurray! Hurray!
Many Happy Returns!’ they shouted, and they hammered joyously
on the tables. Bilbo was doing splendidly. This was the sort of
stuff they liked: short and obvious.
I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am. Deafening
cheers. Cries of Yes (and No). Noises of trumpets and horns, pipes
and flutes, and other musical instruments. There were, as has been
said, many young hobbits present. Hundreds of musical crackers had
been pulled. Most of them bore the mark DALE on them; which did not
convey much to most of the hobbits, but they all agreed they were
marvellous crackers. They contained instruments, small, but of
perfect make and enchanting tones. Indeed, in one corner some of
the young Tooks and Brandybucks, supposing Uncle Bilbo to have
finished (since he had plainly said all that was necessary), now
got up an impromptu orchestra, and began a merry dance-tune. Master
Everard Took and Miss Melilot Brandybuck got on a table and with
bells in their hands began to dance the Springle-ring: a pretty
dance, but rather vigorous.
But Bilbo had not finished. Seizing a horn from a youngster near
by, he blew three loud hoots. The noise subsided. I shall not keep
you long, he cried. Cheers from all the assembly. I have called you
all together for a Purpose. Something in the way that he said this
made an impression. There was almost silence, and one or two of the
Tooks pricked up their ears.
Indeed, for Three Purposes! First of all, to tell you that I am
immensely fond of you all, and that eleventy-one years is too short
a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits.
Tremendous outburst of approval.
I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I
like less than half of you half as well as you deserve. This was
unexpected and rather difficult. There was some scattered clapping,
but most of them were trying to work it out and see if it came to a
compliment.
Secondly, to celebrate my birthday. Cheers again. I should say: OUR
birthday. For it is, of course, also the birthday of my heir and
nephew, Frodo. He comes of age and into his inheritance today. Some
perfunctory clapping by the elders; and some loud shouts of
‘Frodo! Frodo! Jolly old Frodo,’ from the juniors. The
Sackville- Bagginses scowled, and wondered what was meant by
‘coming into his inheritance’.
Together we score one hundred and forty-four. Your numbers were
chosen to fit this remarkable total: One Gross, if I may use the
expression. No cheers. This was ridiculous. Many of his guests, and
especially the Sackville-Bagginses, were insulted, feeling sure
they had only been asked to fill up the required number, like goods
in a package. ‘One Gross, indeed! Vulgar
expression.’
It is also, if I may be allowed to refer to ancient history, the
anniversary of my arrival by barrel at Esgaroth on the Long Lake;
though the fact that it was my birthday slipped my memory on that
occasion. I was only fifty-one then, and birthdays did not seem so
important. The banquet was very splendid, however, though I had a
bad cold at the time, I remember, and could only say ‘thag
you very buch’. I now repeat it more correctly: Thank you
very much for coming to my little party. Obstinate silence. They
all feared that a song or some poetry was now imminent; and they
were getting bored. Why couldn’t he stop talking and let them
drink his health? But Bilbo did not sing or recite. He paused for a
moment.
Thirdly and finally, he said, I wish to make an ANNOUNCEMENT. He
spoke this last word so loudly and suddenly that everyone sat up
who still could. I regret to announce that — though, as I
said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you
— this is the END. I am going. I am leaving NOW.
GOOD-BYE!
He stepped down and vanished. There was a blinding flash of light,
and the guests all blinked. When they opened their eyes Bilbo was
nowhere to be seen. One hundred and forty-four flabbergasted
hobbits sat back speechless. Old Odo Proudfoot removed his feet
from the table and stamped. Then there was a dead silence, until
suddenly, after several deep breaths, every Baggins, Boffin, Took,
Brandybuck, Grubb, Chubb, Burrows, Bolger, Bracegirdle, Brockhouse,
Goodbody, Hornblower, and Proudfoot began to talk at once.
It was generally agreed that the joke was in very bad taste, and
more food and drink were needed to cure the guests of shock and
annoyance. ‘He’s mad. I always said so,’ was
probably the most popular comment. Even the Tooks (with a few
exceptions) thought Bilbo’s behaviour was absurd. For the
moment most of them took it for granted that his disappearance was
nothing more than a ridiculous prank.
But old Rory Brandybuck was not so sure. Neither age nor an
enormous dinner had clouded his wits, and he said to his
daughter-in- law, Esmeralda: ‘There’s something fishy
in this, my dear! I believe that mad Baggins is off again. Silly
old fool. But why worry? He hasn’t taken the vittles with
him.’ He called loudly to Frodo to send the wine round
again.
Frodo was the only one present who had said nothing. For some time
he had sat silent beside Bilbo’s empty chair, and ignored all
remarks and questions. He had enjoyed the joke, of course, even
though he had been in the know. He had difficulty in keeping from
laughter at the indignant surprise of the guests. But at the same
time he felt deeply troubled: he realized suddenly that he loved
the old hobbit dearly. Most of the guests went on eating and
drinking and discussing Bilbo Baggins’ oddities, past and
present; but the Sackville-Bagginses had already departed in wrath.
Frodo did not want to have any more to do with the party. He gave
orders for more wine to be served; then he got up and drained his
own glass silently to the health of Bilbo, and slipped out of the
pavilion.
As for Bilbo Baggins, even while he was making his speech, he had
been fingering the golden ring in his pocket: his magic ring that
he had kept secret for so many years. As he stepped down he slipped
it on his finger, and he was never seen by any hobbit in Hobbiton
again.
He walked briskly back to his hole, and stood for a moment
listening with a smile to the din in the pavilion and to the sounds
of merrymaking in other parts of the field. Then he went in. He
took off his party clothes, folded up and wrapped in tissue-paper
his embroidered silk waistcoat, and put it away. Then he put on
quickly some old untidy garments, and fastened round his waist a
worn leather belt. On it he hung a short sword in a battered
black-leather scabbard. From a locked drawer, smelling of
moth-balls, he took out an old cloak and hood. They had been locked
up as if they were very precious, but they were so patched and
weatherstained that their original colour could hardly be guessed:
it might have been dark green. They were rather too large for him.
He then went into his study, and from a large strong-box took out a
bundle wrapped in old cloths, and a leather-bound manuscript; and
also a large bulky envelope. The book and bundle he stuffed into
the top of a heavy bag that was standing there, already nearly
full. Into the envelope he slipped his golden ring, and its fine
chain, and then sealed it, and addressed it to Frodo. At first he
put it on the mantelpiece, but suddenly he removed it and stuck it
in his pocket. At that moment the door opened and Gandalf came
quickly in.
‘Hullo!’ said Bilbo. 'I wondered if you would turn
up.’
'I am glad to find you visible,’ replied the wizard, sitting
down in a chair. 'I wanted to catch you and have a few final words.
I suppose you feel that everything has gone off splendidly and
according to plan?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Bilbo. ‘Though that flash was
surprising: it quite startled me, let alone the others. A little
addition of your own, I suppose?’
‘It was. You have wisely kept that ring secret all these
years, and it seemed to me necessary to give your guests something
else that would seem to explain your sudden
vanishment.’
‘And would spoil my joke. You are an interfering old
busybody,’ laughed Bilbo, ‘but I expect you know best,
as usual.’
‘I do — when I know anything. But I don’t feel
too sure about this whole affair. It has now come to the final
point. You have had your joke, and alarmed or offended most of your
relations, and given the whole Shire something to talk about for
nine days, or ninety-nine more likely. Are you going any
further?’
‘Yes, I am. I feel I need a holiday, a very long holiday, as
I have told you before. Probably a permanent holiday: I don’t
expect I shall return. In fact, I don’t mean to, and I have
made all arrangements.
'I am old, Gandalf. I don’t look it, but I am beginning to
feel it in my heart of hearts. Well-preserved indeed!’ he
snorted. ‘Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you
know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much
bread. That can’t be right. I need a change, or
something.’
Gandalf looked curiously and closely at him. ‘No, it does not
seem right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No, after all I
believe your plan is probably the best.’
‘Well, I’ve made up my mind, anyway. I want to see
mountains again, Gandalf — mountains; and then find somewhere
where I can rest. In peace and quiet, without a lot of relatives
prying around, and a string of confounded visitors hanging on the
bell. I might find somewhere where I can finish my book. I have
thought of a nice ending for it: and he lived happily ever after to
the end of his days.’
Gandalf laughed. ‘I hope he will. But nobody will read the
book, however it ends.’
‘Oh, they may, in years to come. Frodo has read some already,
as far as it has gone. You’ll keep an eye on Frodo,
won’t you?’
‘Yes, I will — two eyes, as often as I can spare
them.’
‘He would come with me, of course, if I asked him. In fact he
offered to once, just before the party. But he does not really want
to, yet. I want to see the wild country again before I die, and the
Mountains; but he is still in love with the Shire, with woods and
fields and little rivers. He ought to be comfortable here. I am
leaving everything to him, of course, except a few oddments. I hope
he will be happy, when he gets used to being on his own. It’s
time he was his own master now.’
‘Everything?’ said Gandalf. ‘The ring as well?
You agreed to that, you remember.’
‘Well, er, yes, I suppose so,’ stammered Bilbo.
‘Where is it?’
‘In an envelope, if you must know,’ said Bilbo
impatiently. ‘There on the mantelpiece. Well, no! Here it is
in my pocket!’ He hesitated. ‘Isn’t that odd
now?’ he said softly to himself. ‘Yet after all, why
not? Why shouldn’t it stay there?’
Gandalf looked again very hard at Bilbo, and there was a gleam in
his eyes. ‘I think, Bilbo,’ he said quietly, ‘I
should leave it behind. Don’t you want to?’
‘Well yes — and no. Now it comes to it, I don’t
like parting with it at all, I may say. And I don’t really
see why I should. Why do you want me to?’ he asked, and a
curious change came over his voice. It was sharp with suspicion and
annoyance. ‘You are always badgering me about my ring; but
you have never bothered me about the other things that I got on my
journey.’
‘No, but I had to badger you,’ said Gandalf. ‘I
wanted the truth. It was important. Magic rings are — well,
magical; and they are rare and curious. I was professionally
interested in your ring, you may say; and I still am. I should like
to know where it is, if you go wandering again. Also I think you
have had it quite long enough. You won’t need it any more,
Bilbo, unless I am quite mistaken.’
Bilbo flushed, and there was an angry light in his eyes. His kindly
face grew hard. ‘Why not?’ he cried. ‘And what
business is it of yours, anyway, to know what I do with my own
things? It is my own. I found it. It came to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Gandalf. ‘But there is no need
to get angry.’
‘If I am it is your fault,’ said Bilbo. ‘It is
mine, I tell you. My own. My precious. Yes, my
precious.’
The wizard’s face remained grave and attentive, and only a
flicker in his deep eyes showed that he was startled and indeed
alarmed. ‘It has been called that before,’ he said,
‘but not by you.’
‘But I say it now. And why not? Even if Gollum said the same
once. It’s not his now, but mine. And I shall keep it, I
say.’
Gandalf stood up. He spoke sternly. ‘You will be a fool if
you do, Bilbo,’ he said. ‘You make that clearer with
every word you say. It has got far too much hold on you. Let it go!
And then you can go yourself, and be free.’
‘I’ll do as I choose and go as I please,’ said
Bilbo obstinately.
‘Now, now, my dear hobbit!’ said Gandalf. ‘All
your long life we have been friends, and you owe me something.
Come! Do as you promised: give it up!’
‘Well, if you want my ring yourself, say so!’ cried
Bilbo. ‘But you won’t get it. I won’t give my
precious away, I tell you.’ His hand strayed to the hilt of
his small sword.
Gandalf’s eyes flashed. ‘It will be my turn to get
angry soon,’ he said. ‘If you say that again, I shall.
Then you will see Gandalf the Grey uncloaked.’ He took a step
towards the hobbit, and he seemed to grow tall and menacing; his
shadow filled the little room.
Bilbo backed away to the wall, breathing hard, his hand clutching
at his pocket. They stood for a while facing one another, and the
air of the room tingled. Gandalf’s eyes remained bent on the
hobbit. Slowly his hands relaxed, and he began to tremble.
‘I don’t know what has come over you, Gandalf,’
he said. ‘You have never been like this before. What is it
all about? It is mine isn’t it? I found it, and Gollum would
have killed me, if I hadn’t kept it. I’m not a thief,
whatever he said.’
‘I have never called you one,’ Gandalf answered.
‘And I am not one either. I am not trying to rob you, but to
help you. I wish you would trust me, as you used.’ He turned
away, and the shadow passed. He seemed to dwindle again to an old
grey man, bent and troubled.
Bilbo drew his hand over his eyes. ‘I am sorry,’ he
said. ‘But I felt so queer. And yet it would be a relief in a
way not to be bothered with it any more. It has been so growing on
my mind lately. Sometimes I have felt it was like an eye looking at
me. And I am always wanting to put it on and disappear, don’t
you know; or wondering if it is safe, and pulling it out to make
sure. I tried locking it up, but I found I couldn’t rest
without it in my pocket. I don’t know why. And I don’t
seem able to make up my mind.’
‘Then trust mine,’ said Gandalf. ‘It is quite
made up. Go away and leave it behind. Stop possessing it. Give it
to Frodo, and I will look after him.’
Bilbo stood for a moment tense and undecided. Presently he sighed.
‘All right,’ he said with an effort. ‘I
will.’ Then he shrugged his shoulders, and smiled rather
ruefully. ‘After all that’s what this party business
was all about, really: to give away lots of birthday presents, and
somehow make it easier to give it away at the same time. It
hasn’t made it any easier in the end, but it would be a pity
to waste all my preparations. It would quite spoil the
joke.’
‘Indeed it would take away the only point I ever saw in the
affair,’ said Gandalf.
‘Very well,’ said Bilbo, ‘it goes to Frodo with
all the rest.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘And now I really
must be starting, or somebody else will catch me. I have said
good-bye, and I couldn’t bear to do it all over again.’
He picked up his bag and moved to the door.
‘You have still got the ring in your pocket,’ said the
wizard.
‘Well, so I have!’ cried Bilbo. ‘And my will and
all the other documents too. You had better take it and deliver it
for me. That will be safest.’
‘No, don’t give the ring to me,’ said Gandalf.
‘Put it on the mantelpiece. It will be safe enough there,
till Frodo comes. I shall wait for him.’
Bilbo took out the envelope, but just as he was about to set it by
the clock, his hand jerked back, and the packet fell on the floor.
Before he could pick it up, the wizard stooped and seized it and
set it in its place. A spasm of anger passed swiftly over the
hobbit’s face again. Suddenly it gave way to a look of relief
and a laugh.
‘Well, that’s that,’ he said. ‘Now
I’m off!’
They went out into the hall. Bilbo chose his favourite stick from
the stand; then he whistled. Three dwarves came out of different
rooms where they had been busy.
‘Is everything ready?’ asked Bilbo. ‘Everything
packed and labelled?’
‘Everything,’ they answered.
‘Well, let’s start then!’ He stepped out of the
front-door.
It was a fine night, and the black sky was dotted with stars. He
looked up, sniffing the air. ‘What fun! What fun to be off
again, off on the Road with dwarves! This is what I have really
been longing for, for years! Good-bye!’ he said, looking at
his old home and bowing to the door. ‘Good-bye,
Gandalf!’
‘Good-bye, for the present, Bilbo. Take care of yourself! You
are old enough, and perhaps wise enough.’
‘Take care! I don’t care. Don’t you worry about
me! I am as happy now as I have ever been, and that is saying a
great deal. But the time has come. I am being swept off my feet at
last,’ he added, and then in a low voice, as if to himself,
he sang softly in the dark: The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it
joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And
whither then? I cannot say.
He paused, silent for a moment. Then without another word he turned
away from the lights and voices in the fields and tents, and
followed by his three companions went round into his garden, and
trotted down the long sloping path. He jumped over a low place in
the hedge at the bottom, and took to the meadows, passing into the
night like a rustle of wind in the grass.
Gandalf remained for a while staring after him into the darkness.
‘Goodbye, my dear Bilbo — until our next
meeting!’ he said softly and went back indoors.
Frodo came in soon afterwards, and found him sitting in the dark,
deep in thought. ‘Has he gone?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ answered Gandalf, ‘he has gone at
last.’
‘I wish — I mean, I hoped until this evening that it
was only a joke,’ said Frodo. ‘But I knew in my heart
that he really meant to go. He always used to joke about serious
things. I wish I had come back sooner, just to see him
off.’
‘I think really he preferred slipping off quietly in the
end,’ said Gandalf. ‘Don’t be too troubled.
He’ll be all right — now. He left a packet for you.
There it is!’
Frodo took the envelope from the mantelpiece, and glanced at it,
but did not open it.
‘You’ll find his will and all the other documents in
there, I think,’ said the wizard. ‘You are the master
of Bag End now. And also, I fancy, you’ll find a golden
ring.’
‘The ring!’ exclaimed Frodo. ‘Has he left me
that? I wonder why. Still, it may be useful.’
‘It may, and it may not,’ said Gandalf. ‘I should
not make use of it, if I were you. But keep it secret, and keep it
safe! Now I am going to bed.’
As master of Bag End Frodo felt it his painful duty to say good-bye
to the guests. Rumours of strange events had by now spread all over
the field, but Frodo would only say no doubt everything will be
cleared up in the morning. About midnight carriages came for the
important folk. One by one they rolled away, filled with full but
very unsatisfied hobbits. Gardeners came by arrangement, and
removed in wheel-barrows those that had inadvertently remained
behind.
Night slowly passed. The sun rose. The hobbits rose rather later.
Morning went on. People came and began (by orders) to clear away
the pavilions and the tables and the chairs, and the spoons and
knives and bottles and plates, and the lanterns, and the flowering
shrubs in boxes, and the crumbs and cracker-paper, the forgotten
bags and gloves and handkerchiefs, and the uneaten food (a very
small item). Then a number of other people came (without orders):
Bagginses, and Boffins, and Bolgers, and Tooks, and other guests
that lived or were staying near. By mid-day, when even the best-fed
were out and about again, there was a large crowd at Bag End,
uninvited but not unexpected.
Frodo was waiting on the step, smiling, but looking rather tired
and worried. He welcomed all the callers, but he had not much more
to say than before. His reply to all inquiries was simply this:
‘Mr. Bilbo Baggins has gone away; as far as I know, for
good.’ Some of the visitors he invited to come inside, as
Bilbo had left ‘messages’ for them.
Inside in the hall there was piled a large assortment of packages
and parcels and small articles of furniture. On every item there
was a label tied. There were several labels of this sort:
For ADELARD TOOK, for his VERY OWN, from Bilbo; on an umbrella.
Adelard had carried off many unlabelled ones.
For DORA BAGGINS in memory of a LONG correspondence, with love from
Bilbo; on a large waste-paper basket. Dora was Drogo’s sister
and the eldest surviving female relative of Bilbo and Frodo; she
was ninety-nine, and had written reams of good advice for more than
half a century.
For MILO BURROWS, hoping it will be useful, from B.B; on a gold pen
and ink-bottle. Milo never answered letters.
For ANGELICA’S use, from Uncle Bilbo; on a round convex
mirror. She was a young Baggins, and too obviously considered her
face shapely.
For the collection of HUGO BRACEGIRDLE, from a contributor; on an
(empty) book-case. Hugo was a great borrower of books, and worse
than usual at returning them.
For LOBELIA SACKVILLE-BAGGINS, as a PRESENT; on a case of silver
spoons. Bilbo believed that she had acquired a good many of his
spoons, while he was away on his former journey. Lobelia knew that
quite well. When she arrived later in the day, she took the point
at once, but she also took the spoons.
This is only a small selection of the assembled presents.
Bilbo’s residence had got rather cluttered up with things in
the course of his long life. It was a tendency of hobbit-holes to
get cluttered up: for which the custom of giving so many birthday-
presents was largely responsible. Not, of course, that the
birthday- presents were always new; there were one or two old
mathoms of forgotten uses that had circulated all around the
district; but Bilbo had usually given new presents, and kept those
that he received. The old hole was now being cleared a
little.
Every one of the various parting gifts had labels, written out
personally by Bilbo, and several had some point, or some joke. But,
of course, most of the things were given where they would be wanted
and welcome. The poorer hobbits, and especially those of Bagshot
Row, did very well. Old Gaffer Gamgee got two sacks of potatoes, a
new spade, a woollen waistcoat, and a bottle of ointment for
creaking joints. Old Rory Brandybuck, in return for much
hospitality, got a dozen bottles of Old Winyards: a strong red wine
from the Southfarthing, and now quite mature, as it had been laid
down by Bilbo’s father. Rory quite forgave Bilbo, and voted
him a capital fellow after the first bottle.
There was plenty of everything left for Frodo. And, of course, all
the chief treasures, as well as the books, pictures, and more than
enough furniture, were left in his possession. There was, however,
no sign nor mention of money or jewellery: not a penny-piece or a
glass bead was given away.
Frodo had a very trying time that afternoon. A false rumour that
the whole household was being distributed free spread like
wildfire; and before long the place was packed with people who had
no business there, but could not be kept out. Labels got torn off
and mixed, and quarrels broke out. Some people tried to do swaps
and deals in the hall; and others tried to make off with minor
items not addressed to them, or with anything that seemed unwanted
or unwatched. The road to the gate was blocked with barrows and
handcarts.
In the middle of the commotion the Sackville-Bagginses arrived.
Frodo had retired for a while and left his friend Merry Brandybuck
to keep an eye on things. When Otho loudly demanded to see Frodo,
Merry bowed politely.
‘He is indisposed,’ he said. ‘He is
resting.’
‘Hiding, you mean,’ said Lobelia. ‘Anyway we want
to see him and we mean to see him. Just go and tell him
so!’
Merry left them a long while in the hall, and they had time to
discover their parting gift of spoons. It did not improve their
tempers. Eventually they were shown into the study. Frodo was
sitting at a table with a lot of papers in front of him. He looked
indisposed — to see Sackville-Bagginses at any rate; and he
stood up, fidgeting with something in his pocket. But he spoke
quite politely.
The Sackville-Bagginses were rather offensive. They began by
offering him bad bargain-prices (as between friends) for various
valuable and unlabelled things. When Frodo replied that only the
things specially directed by Bilbo were being given away, they said
the whole affair was very fishy.
‘Only one thing is clear to me,’ said Otho, ‘and
that is that you are doing exceedingly well out of it. I insist on
seeing the will.’
Otho would have been Bilbo’s heir, but for the adoption of
Frodo. He read the will carefully and snorted. It was,
unfortunately, very clear and correct (according to the legal
customs of hobbits, which demand among other things seven
signatures of witnesses in red ink).
‘Foiled again!’ he said to his wife. ‘And after
waiting sixty years. Spoons? Fiddlesticks!’ He snapped his
fingers under Frodo’s nose and stumped off. But Lobelia was
not so easily got rid of. A little later Frodo came out of the
study to see how things were going on and found her still about the
place, investigating nooks and corners and tapping the floors. He
escorted her firmly off the premises, after he had relieved her of
several small (but rather valuable) articles that had somehow
fallen inside her umbrella. Her face looked as if she was in the
throes of thinking out a really crushing parting remark; but all
she found to say, turning round on the step, was:
‘You’ll live to regret it, young fellow! Why
didn’t you go too? You don’t belong here; you’re
no Baggins — you — you’re a
Brandybuck!’
‘Did you hear that, Merry? That was an insult, if you
like,’ said Frodo as he shut the door on her.
‘It was a compliment,’ said Merry Brandybuck,
‘and so, of course, not true.’
Then they went round the hole, and evicted three young hobbits (two
Boffins and a Bolger) who were knocking holes in the walls of one
of the cellars. Frodo also had a tussle with young Sancho Proudfoot
(old Odo Proudfoot’s grandson), who had begun an excavation
in the larger pantry, where he thought there was an echo. The
legend of Bilbo’s gold excited both curiosity and hope; for
legendary gold (mysteriously obtained, if not positively
ill-gotten) is, as every one knows, any one’s for the finding
— unless the search is interrupted.
When he had overcome Sancho and pushed him out, Frodo collapsed on
a chair in the hall. ‘It’s time to close the shop,
Merry,’ he said. ‘Lock the door, and don’t open
it to anyone today, not even if they bring a battering ram.’
Then he went to revive himself with a belated cup of tea.
He had hardly sat down, when there came a soft knock at the
front-door. ‘Lobelia again most likely,’ he thought.
‘She must have thought of something really nasty, and have
come back again to say it. It can wait.’
He went on with his tea. The knock was repeated, much louder, but
he took no notice. Suddenly the wizard’s head appeared at the
window.
‘If you don’t let me in, Frodo, I shall blow your door
right down your hole and out through the hill,’ he
said.
‘My dear Gandalf! Half a minute!’ cried Frodo, running
out of the room to the door. ‘Come in! Come in! I thought it
was Lobelia.’
‘Then I forgive you. But I saw her some time ago, driving a
pony-trap towards Bywater with a face that would have curdled new
milk.’
‘She had already nearly curdled me. Honestly, I nearly tried
on Bilbo’s ring. I longed to disappear.’
‘Don’t do that!’ said Gandalf, sitting down.
‘Do be careful of that ring, Frodo! In fact, it is partly
about that that I have come to say a last word.’
‘Well, what about it?’
‘What do you know already?’
‘Only what Bilbo told me. I have heard his story: how he
found it, and how he used it: on his journey, I mean.’
‘Which story, I wonder,’ said Gandalf.
‘Oh, not what he told the dwarves and put in his book,’
said Frodo. ‘He told me the true story soon after I came to
live here. He said you had pestered him till he told you, so I had
better know too. “No secrets between us, Frodo,” he
said; “but they are not to go any further. It’s mine
anyway.”’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Gandalf. ‘Well,
what did you think of it all?’
‘If you mean, inventing all that about a
“present”, well, I thought the true story much more
likely, and I couldn’t see the point of altering it at all.
It was very unlike Bilbo to do so, anyway; and I thought it rather
odd.’
‘So did I. But odd things may happen to people that have such
treasures — if they use them. Let it be a warning to you to
be very careful with it. It may have other powers than just making
you vanish when you wish to.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Frodo.
‘Neither do I,’ answered the wizard. ‘I have
merely begun to wonder about the ring, especially since last night.
No need to worry. But if you take my advice you will use it very
seldom, or not at all. At least I beg you not to use it in any way
that will cause talk or rouse suspicion. I say again: keep it safe,
and keep it secret!’
‘You are very mysterious! What are you afraid
of?’
‘I am not certain, so I will say no more. I may be able to
tell you something when I come back. I am going off at once: so
this is good-bye for the present.’ He got up.
‘At once!’ cried Frodo. ‘Why, I thought you were
staying on for at least a week. I was looking forward to your
help.’
‘I did mean to — but I have had to change my mind. I
may be away for a good while; but I’ll come and see you
again, as soon as I can. Expect me when you see me! I shall slip in
quietly. I shan’t often be visiting the Shire openly again. I
find that I have become rather unpopular. They say I am a nuisance
and a disturber of the peace. Some people are actually accusing me
of spiriting Bilbo away, or worse. If you want to know, there is
supposed to be a plot between you and me to get hold of his
wealth.’
‘Some people!’ exclaimed Frodo. ‘You mean Otho
and Lobelia. How abominable! I would give them Bag End and
everything else, if I could get Bilbo back and go off tramping in
the country with him. I love the Shire. But I begin to wish,
somehow, that I had gone too. I wonder if I shall ever see him
again.’
‘So do I,’ said Gandalf. ‘And I wonder many other
things. Good-bye now! Take care of yourself! Look out for me,
especially at unlikely times! Good-bye!’
Frodo saw him to the door. He gave a final wave of his hand, and
walked off at a surprising pace; but Frodo thought the old wizard
looked unusually bent, almost as if he was carrying a great weight.
The evening was closing in, and his cloaked figure quickly vanished
into the twilight. Frodo did not see him again for a long
time.
Copyright © 1954, 1965, 1966 by J.R.R. Tolkien; 1954
edition copyright © renewed 1982 by Christopher R. Tolkien,
Michael H.R. Tolkien, John F.R. Tolkien and Priscilla M.A.R.
Tolkien; 1965/1966 editions copyright © renewed 1993, 1994 by
Christopher R. Tolkien, John F.R. Tolkien and Priscilla M.A.R.
Tolkien. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Houghton
Mifflin Company.
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