The Lord of the Rings. J. R. R. Tolkien

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СКАЧАТЬ slept the Ring had been hung about his neck on a new chain, light but strong. Slowly he drew it out. Bilbo put out his hand. But Frodo quickly drew back the Ring. To his distress and amazement he found that he was no longer looking at Bilbo; a shadow seemed to have fallen between them, and through it he found himself eyeing a little wrinkled creature with a hungry face and bony groping hands. He felt a desire to strike him.

      The music and singing round them seemed to falter, and a silence fell. Bilbo looked quickly at Frodo’s face and passed his hand across his eyes. ‘I understand now,’ he said. ‘Put it away! I am sorry: sorry you have come in for this burden; sorry about everything. Don’t adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on the story. Well, it can’t be helped. I wonder if it’s any good trying to finish my book? But don’t let’s worry about it now – let’s have some real News! Tell me all about the Shire!’

      Frodo hid the Ring away, and the shadow passed leaving hardly a shred of memory. The light and music of Rivendell was about him again. Bilbo smiled and laughed happily. Every item of news from the Shire that Frodo could tell – aided and corrected now and again by Sam – was of the greatest interest to him, from the felling of the least tree to the pranks of the smallest child in Hobbiton. They were so deep in the doings of the Four Farthings that they did not notice the arrival of a man clad in dark green cloth. For many minutes he stood looking down at them with a smile.

      Suddenly Bilbo looked up. ‘Ah, there you are at last, Dúnadan!’ he cried.

      ‘Strider!’ said Frodo. ‘You seem to have a lot of names.’

      ‘Well, Strider is one that I haven’t heard before, anyway,’ said Bilbo. ‘What do you call him that for?’

      ‘They call me that in Bree,’ said Strider laughing, ‘and that is how I was introduced to him.’

      ‘And why do you call him Dúnadan?’ asked Frodo.

      ‘The Dúnadan,’ said Bilbo. ‘He is often called that here. But I thought you knew enough Elvish at least to know dún-adan: Man of the West, Númenórean. But this is not the time for lessons!’ He turned to Strider. ‘Where have you been, my friend? Why weren’t you at the feast? The Lady Arwen was there.’

      Strider looked down at Bilbo gravely. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But often I must put mirth aside. Elladan and Elrohir have returned out of the Wild unlooked-for, and they had tidings that I wished to hear at once.’

      ‘Well, my dear fellow,’ said Bilbo, ‘now you’ve heard the news, can’t you spare me a moment? I want your help in something urgent. Elrond says this song of mine is to be finished before the end of the evening, and I am stuck. Let’s go off into a corner and polish it up!’

      Strider smiled. ‘Come then!’ he said. ‘Let me hear it!’

      Frodo was left to himself for a while, for Sam had fallen asleep. He was alone and felt rather forlorn, although all about him the folk of Rivendell were gathered. But those near him were silent, intent upon the music of the voices and the instruments, and they gave no heed to anything else. Frodo began to listen.

      At first the beauty of the melodies and of the interwoven words in elven-tongues, even though he understood them little, held him in a spell, as soon as he began to attend to them. Almost it seemed that the words took shape, and visions of far lands and bright things that he had never yet imagined opened out before him; and the firelit hall became like a golden mist above seas of foam that sighed upon the margins of the world. Then the enchantment became more and more dreamlike, until he felt that an endless river of swelling gold and silver was flowing over him, too multitudinous for its pattern to be comprehended; it became part of the throbbing air about him, and it drenched and drowned him. Swiftly he sank under its shining weight into a deep realm of sleep.

      There he wandered long in a dream of music that turned into running water, and then suddenly into a voice. It seemed to be the voice of Bilbo chanting verses. Faint at first and then clearer ran the words.

       Eärendil was a mariner

       that tarried in Arvernien;

       he built a boat of timber felled

       in Nimbrethil to journey in;

       her sails he wove of silver fair,

       of silver were her lanterns made,

       her prow he fashioned like a swan,

       and light upon her banners laid.

       In panoply of ancient kings,

       in chainéd rings he armoured him;

       his shining shield was scored with runes

       to ward all wounds and harm from him;

       his bow was made of dragon-horn,

       his arrows shorn of ebony,

       of silver was his habergeon,

       his scabbard of chalcedony;

       his sword of steel was valiant,

       of adamant his helmet tall,

       an eagle-plume upon his crest,

       upon his breast an emerald.

       Beneath the Moon and under star

       he wandered far from northern strands,

       bewildered on enchanted ways

       beyond the days of mortal lands.

       From gnashing of the Narrow Ice

       where shadow lies on frozen hills,

       from nether heats and burning waste

       he turned in haste, and roving still

       on starless waters far astray

       at last he came to Night of Naught,

       and passed, and never sight he saw

       of shining shore nor light he sought.

       The winds of wrath came driving him,

       and blindly in the foam he fled

       from west to east, and errandless,

       unheralded he homeward sped.

       There flying Elwing came to him,

       and flame was in the darkness lit;

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