PART TWO.
THE NOTION CLUB
PAPERS.
THE NOTION CLUB PAPERS.
Introduction.
On 18 December 1944, when The Lord of the Rings had reached the
end of what would become The Two Towers (and a few pages had
been written of 'Minas Tirith' and 'The Muster of Rohan' at the
beginning of Book V), my father wrote to me (Letters no. 92) that he
had seen C. S. Lewis that day: 'His fourth (or fifth?) novel is brewing,
and seems likely to clash with mine (my dimly projected third). I have
been getting a lot of new ideas about Prehistory lately (via Beowulf
and other sources of which I may have written) and want to work
them into the long shelved time-travel story I began. C. S. L. is
planning a story about the descendants of Seth and Cain.' His words
are tantalizingly difficult to interpret; but by 'clash with mine' he
surely meant that the themes of their books ran rather close.(1)
Whatever lies behind this, it is seen that he was at this time turning
his thoughts to a renewed attempt on the 'time-travel story', which
would issue a year later in The Notion Club Papers. In his letter to
Stanley Unwin of 21 July 1946 (Letters no. 105) he said that he hoped
very shortly 'actually to - write', to turn again to The Lord of the
Rings where he had left it, more than a year and a half before: 'I shall
now have to study my own work in order to get back to it,' he wrote.
But later in that same letter he said:
I have in a fortnight of comparative leisure round about last
Christmas written three parts of another book, taking up in an
entirely different frame and setting what little had any value in the
inchoate Lost Road (which I had once the impudence to show you: I
hope it is forgotten), and other things beside. I hoped to finish this in
a rush, but my health gave way after Christmas. Rather silly to
mention it, till it is finished. But I am putting The Lord of the Rings,
the Hobbit sequel, before all else, save duties that I cannot wriggle
out of.
So far as I have been able to discover there is no other reference to The
Notion Club Papers anywhere in my father's writings.
But the quantity of writing constituting The Notion Club Papers,
and the quantity of writing associated with them, cannot by any
manner of means have been the work of a fortnight. To substantiate
this, and since this is a convenient place to give this very necessary
information, I set out here the essential facts of the textual relations of
all this material, together with some brief indication of their content.
As the development of The Notion Club Papers progressed my
father divided it into two parts, the second of which was never
completed, and although he ultimately rejected this division (2) I have
found it in every way desirable to preserve it in this book. Part One
was 'The Ramblings of Michael Ramer: Out of the Talkative Planet', "
and this consists of a report in direct speech of the discussions at two
successive meetings (3) of 'the Notion Club' at Oxford far in the future
at the time of writing. On the first of these occasions the conversation
turned on the problem of the vehicle, the machine or device, by which
'space-travellers' are transported to their destination, especially in
respect of its literary credibility in itself and its effect on the story
contained within the journeys; on the second, of which the report is..
much longer, one of the members, Michael Ramer, expounded his
ideas concerning 'true dreams' and his experiences of 'space-travel' in
dream.
The earliest manuscript, here called 'A', is a complete text of Part
One. It is roughly written and hastily expressed, there is no title or
explanatory 'scene-setting', and there are no dates; but while the text
would undergo much expansion and improvement, the essential
structure and movement of the dialogue was already largely present.
The second manuscript, 'B', is also a complete text of Part One,
but is much fuller than A, and (with many changes and additions)
advances far towards the final form. Here also the two meetings, as the
text was first written, have no dates, and the numbers given to the
meetings imply a much longer history of the Club than is suggested for
it subsequently. For the elaborate title or prolegomenon to this version
see pp. 148 - 9.
The third manuscript, 'C', is written in a fine script, but is not quite
complete: it extends to Ramer's words 'So there does appear to be at
least one other star with attendant planets' (p. 207), and it is clear that
no more was written of this text (which, incidentally, it would have
taken days to write).
A typescript 'D', made by my father, is the final form of Part One. In
one section of the text, however, D seems to have preceded C, since it-
has some B readings which were then changed to those of C; but the
final form of the text is scarcely ever in doubt, and even where it is the
differences are entirely trivial. Where C ends, the typescript follows B,
the place of transition being marked on the B manuscript. (A second
typescript - not, I think, made by my father - was begun, but
abandoned after only a few pages; this has no independent value.)
Part Two, 'The Strange Case of Arundel Lowdham', records a
number of further meetings of the Notion Club, continuous with those
of Part One. This second Part is largely devoted to the intrusion of the
Matter of Numenor into the discussions of the Notion Club, but of
this there are only two texts, a manuscript ('E') and a typescript ('F').
. goth end at the same point, with the next meeting of the Club
arranged and dated, but never written.
The typescript F is a complex document, in that my father rejected a
substantial section of it ('F 1') as soon as he had typed it, replaced it
('F 2'), and then continued on to the end, the structure of the text
being thus F 1, F 1 > F 2, F 2 (see p. 237 and note 37).
For both Parts, but especially for Part Two, there is a quantity of
rough, discontinuous drafting, often scarcely legible.
While Part Two was being further developed (that is, after the
completion of the manuscript E so far as it went) the Adunaic *
language emerged (as it appears), with an abandoned but elaborate
account of the phonology, and pari passu with The Notion Club
Papers my father not only wrote a first draft of an entirely new version
of the story of Numenor but developed it through further texts: this is
The Drowning of Anadune, in which all the names are in Adunaic.
How is all this to be equated with his statement in the letter to
Stanley Unwin in July 1946 that 'three parts' of the work were written
in a fortnight at the end of 1945? Obviously it cannot be, not even on
the supposition that when he said 'a fortnight' he greatly underesti-
mated the time. Though not demonstrable, an extremely probable
explanation, as it seems to me, is that at the end of that fortnight he
stopped work in the middle of writing the manuscript E, at the point
where The Notion Club Papers end, and at which time Adunaic had
not yet arisen. Very probably Part One was at the stage of the
manuscript B.(4) On this view, the further development of what had
then been achieved of Part One, and more especially of Part Two
(closely associated with that of the Adunaic language and the writing
of The Drowning of Anadune), belongs to the following year, the
earlier part of 1946. Against this, of course, is the fact that the letter to
Stanley Unwin in which my father referred to the Papers was written
in July 1946, but that letter gives no impression of further work after
'my health gave way after Christmas'. But it is to be remembered that
The Lord of the Rings had been at a halt for more than a year and a
half, and it may well be that he was deeply torn between the
burgeoning of Adunaic and Anadune and the oppression of the
abandoned Lord of the Rings. He did not need to spell out to Stanley
Unwin what he had in fact been doing! But he said that he was 'putting
The Lord of the Rings before all else', which no doubt meant 'I am
now going to put it before all else', and that included Adunaic. To the
interrupted Notion Club Papers he never returned.
The diverse and shifting elements in all this work, not least the
complex but essential linguistic material, have made the construction
(* Adunaic is always so spelt at this time (not Adunaic), and I write it so
throughout.)
of a readily comprehensible edition extremely difficult, requiring much
experimentation among possible forms of presentation. Since The
Notion Club Papers are now published for the first time, the final
typescripts D of Part One and F of Part Two must obviously be the
text printed, and this makes for difficulties of presentation (it is of
course very much easier to begin with an original draft and to relate it
by consecutive steps to a final form that is already known). The two
Parts are separated, with notes following each Part. Following the text
of the Papers I give important sections that were rejected from or sig-
nificantly changed in the final text, earlier forms of the 'Numenorean'
fragments that 'came through' to Arundel Lowdham and of the
Old English text written by his father, and reproductions of the
'facsimiles' of that text with analysis of the tengwar.
Although the final text of Part Two of the Papers and The Drown-
ing of Anadune were intimately connected,(5) especially in respect of
Adunaic, any attempt to combine them in a single presentation makes
for inextricable confusion; the latter is therefore treated entirely separ-
ately in the third part of this book, and in my commentary on Part
Two of the Papers I have not thought it useful to make continual
reference forward to The Drowning of Anadune: the interrelations
between the two works emerge more clearly when the latter is reached.
There are some aspects of the framework of the Papers, provided
by the Foreword of the Editor, Mr. Howard Green, and the list of
members of the Notion Club, which are better discussed here than in
the commentary.
The Foreword.
The original manuscript A of Part One, as already noticed, has no
title or introductory statement of any kind, but begins with the words
'When Ramer had finished reading his latest story...' The first page of
B begins thus:
Beyond Lewis
or
Out of the Talkative Planet.
Being a fragment of an apocryphal Inklings' Saga, made
by some imitator at some time in the 1980s.
Preface to the Inklings.
While listening to this fantasia (if you do), I beg of the
present company not to look for their own faces in this
mirror. For the mirror is cracked, and at the best you
will only see your countenances distorted, and adorned
maybe with noses (and other features) that are not your
own, but belong to other members of the company -
if to anybody.
Night 251.
When Michael Ramer had finished reading his latest story...
This was heavily emended and then struck through, and was replaced
by a new, separate title-page (made when B had been completed):
Beyond Probability (6)
or
Out of the Talkative Planet.
The Ramblings of Ramer
being Nights 251 and 252 of The Notion Club Papers.
[Little is known about this rare book, except that
it appears to have been written after 1989, as an
apocryphal imitation of the Inklings' Saga Book. The
author identifies himseif with the character called in the
narrative Nicholas Guildford; but Titmouse has shown
that this is a pseudonym, and is taken from a mediaeval
dialogue, at one time read in the Schools of Oxford. His
real identity remains unknown.]
An aside to the audience. While listening to this hotch-
potch (if you do), I beg of the present company not to
look for their own faces in my mirror. For the mirror is
cracked...
This is followed by a list of the persons who appear (see p. 151). It
seems clear that at the stage when the text B was written my father's
idea was far less elaborate than it became; intending perhaps, so far
as the form was concerned, no more than a jeu d'esprit for the
entertainment of the Inklings - while the titles seem to emphasise that
it was to be, in patt, the vehicle of criticism and discussion of aspects
of Lewis's 'planetary' novels. Perhaps he called to mind the witty and
ingenious method that Lewis had devised for his criticism of The Lay
of Leithian in 1930 (see The Lays of Beleriand, p. 151). - So far as I
can see, there is no indication that at this stage he envisaged the form
that Part Two of the Papers would take, and definite evidence to the
contrary (see pp. 281 - 2).
There are several drafts for a more circumstantial account of the
Papers and of how they came to light, preceding the elaborate form in
the final text that follows. They were found at the University Press
waiting to be pulped, but no one knew how they had got there; or they
were found 'at Messrs. Whitburn and Thoms' publishing house'.(7)
The mediaeval dialogue from which the name Nicholas Guildford
is derived is The Owl and the Nightingale, a debate in verse written
between 1189 and 1216. To the Owl's question, who shall decide
between them, the Nightingale replies that Maister Nichole of Gulde-
forde is the obvious choice, since he is prudent, virtuous, and wise, and
an excellent judge of song.
The List of Members.
At the top of a page that preceded the manuscript A and is almost
certainly the first setting down of the opening passage of Night 60 of ',
the Papers (see p. 211, note 7) my father wrote these names:
Ramer Latimer Franks Loudham Dolbear
Beneath Ramer he wrote 'Self', but struck it out, then 'CSL' and 'To',
these also being struck out. Beneath Latimer he wrote 'T', beneath
Franks 'CSL', beneath Loudham 'HVD' (Hugo Dyson), and beneath
Dolbear 'Havard'.
This is the only actual identification of members of the Notion Club
with members of the Inklings that is found. The name Latimer (for
Guildford) remained that of the Club's 'reporter' in manuscript A; it is
derived from Old French latinier ('Latiner', speaker of Latin), meaning
an interpreter. Loudham (so spelt in A and B, and initially in the
manuscript E of Part Two) would obviously be Dyson even without
'HVD' written beneath (see Humphrey Carpenter, The Inklings, pp.
212 - 13); and since Franks (only becoming Frankley in the third text
C) is here Lewis, I suppose that my father felt that the name was
appropriate to his character. The other two names were presumably
'significant', but I do not know what the significance was. Dolbear is
an uncommon surname, but there was a chemist's shop in Oxford
called Dolbear & Goodall, and I recollect that my father found this
particularly engaging; it may be that he simply found in Dolbear the
chemist a comic appropriateness to Havard, or to Havard as he was
going to present him. Ramer is very puzzling; and here there is no
certain identification with one of the Inklings in the list. The various
dictionaries of English surnames that I have consulted do not give the
name. The only suggestion that I can make is that my father derived it
from the dialectal verb rame, with these meanings given in the Oxford
English Dictionary: 'to shout, cry aloud, scream; keep up the same
cry, continue repeating the same thing; obtain by persistent asking;
repeat, run over'; cf. also the English Dialect Dictionary, ed. Joseph
Wright (with which he was very familiar: he called it 'indispensable',
Letters no. 6), ream verb 3, also raim, rame, etc., which gives similar
meanings, and also 'to talk nonsense, rave'. But this seems far-fetched.
At any rate, this list is interesting as suggesting that my father
started out with the idea of a series of definite 'equivalences', distorted
no doubt but recognisable. But I think that this plan very quickly
dissolved, because he found that it would not suit his purpose; and not
even in the earliest text does there seem to be any clearer association
with individual Inklings than there is in the final form of the Papers,
with the possible exception of Lowdham. In A his interventions are
limited to jocular facetiousness, and the interest that in the later form
of part One (pp. 199 - 201) he shows in 'Old Solar' and in Ramer's names
of other worlds is in A given to Dolbear (and then in B to Guildford).
It would not suit my father's purpose, because in 'The Ramblings of
Ramer' he wished to allow his own ideas the scope, in the form of a
discussion and argument, that they would never have had in fact, in an
actual meeting of the Inklings. The professional knowledge and
intellectual interests of the members of the Notion Club are such as to
make this symposium possible. On p. 149 I have given the second
version of a title-page, in which after the author's 'aside to the
audience', warning them 'not to look for their own faces in my
mirror', there follows a list of the members of the Club. At this stage
only six members were listed (plus Cameron); and of these six, Ramer
is Professor of Finno-Ugric, Guildford is a Comparative Philologist,
and Loudham has 'special interests in Icelandic and Anglo-Saxon',
while the chemist Dolbear 'concerns himself with psychoanalysis and
related aspects of language'. At this stage Frankley is a lecturer in
French, changed to the Clarendon Reader in English Literature, 'with
a taste for the Romance literatures and a distaste for things Germanic',
while the statement of Jeremy's position and interests is much as in the
final list. Ramer, Jeremy, Guildford and Frankley all have 'a taste for
romances of travel in Space and Time.'
The enlarged list of members in the final form (pp. 159 - 60), most of
whom do not have even walk-on parts, served the purpose, I suppose,
of creating an impression of a more amorphous group surrounding the
principals. The polymathy of the monk Dom Jonathan Markison
extends to some very recondite knowledge of Germanic origins, while
Ranulph Stainer appears in Part Two as a sceptical and rather superior
onlooker at the strange proceedings. The surname of the apparently
speechless undergraduate John Jethro Rashbold is a translation of
Tolkien (Toll-kuhn: see Letters no. 165 and note 1). In Part Two
appears 'old Professor Rashbold at Pembroke', the Anglo-Saxon
scholar described by Lowdham as 'a grumpy old bear' (p. 256 and note
72). There are no doubt other hidden puns and jokes in the list of
members.
In my view it would be useless to seek even any 'intellectual equival-
ence' with historical persons, let alone portraiture (for a list of those
who came often - but not all at the same period - to the Inklings, with
brief biographies, see Humphrey Carpenter, The Inklings, Appendix
A). The fact that Lowdham is 'loud' and makes jokes often at inappro-
priate moments derives from Dyson (but he was wittier than Lowd-
ham), yet Lowdham is the very antithesis of Dyson in his learning and
interests; no doubt Frankley's horror borealis is a reminiscence of
Dyson also, though it is profoundly un-Dysonian to have read
mediaeval works on Saint Brendan (p. 265). In earlier drafts of the list
of members Dolbear has no position in the University, and with his
red hair and beard and his nickname in the Club (see Letters no. 56) he
can be seen as a sort of parody of Havard. But these things are
marginal to the ideas expounded and debated in the Papers; essen-
tially, the members of the Notion Club are fictions, and become more
obviously so in Part Two.
Scarcely a sentence remained entirely unchanged between text A
and text D of Part One, but in my notes all this development is largely
ignored when (as for the most part it is) it is a matter of improvement
in the expression or of amplification of the argument. Similarly, the
ascription of speeches to speakers underwent many changes in the
earlier texts, but in general I do not record them.
I do not enter in this book into any critical discussion of the topics
and issues raised in 'The Ramblings of Michael Ramer'. This is partly
because I am not well qualified to discuss them, but also because they
fall somewhat outside the scope and aim of The History of Middle-
earth, which is above all to present accurate texts accurately ordered
(so far as I am able) and to elucidate them comparatively, within the
context of 'Middle-earth' and the lands of the West. With very limited
time at my disposal for this book I have thought that I could better
devote it in any case to clarification of the complexities of the
'Numenorean' material. The notes are therefore very restricted in
scope and are often trivial in relation to the content of the discussion,
being mostly concerned with the elucidation of references that may be
obscure and not easily tracked down, with comparison of earlier
forms of certain passages, and with citation of other writings of my
father's. I do not suppose that many readers of this book will be
unacquainted with the novels of C. S. Lewis, Out of the Silent Planet
(1938), Perelandra (1943), and That Hideous Strength (1945), but I
have provided a few explanations and references.
Why my father abandoned The Notion Club Papers I do not know.
It may be that he felt that the work had lost all unity, that 'Atlantis'
had broken apart the frame in which it had been set (see pp. 281 - 2).
But I think also that having forced himself to return to The Lord of the
Rings, and having brought it to its end, he was then deflected into the
very elaborate further work on the legends of the Elder Days that
preceded the actual publication of The Lord of the Rings. However it
was, the Notion Club was abandoned, and with it his final attempt to
embody the riddle of AElfwine and Eadwine in a 'tale of time'. But
from its forgotten Papers and the strange figure of Arundel Lowdham
there emerged a new conception of the Downfall of Numenor,
embodied in a different tradition, which would come to constitute a
major element in the Akallabeth many years later.
NOTES.
1. In a note to this passage in my father's letter Humphrey Carpenter
remarks: 'Lewis's next published novel after That Hideous
Strength and The Great Divorce was The Lion, the Witch and the
Wardrobe. Tolkien is, however, almost certainly referring to some
other book of Lewis's that was never completed.' The Great
Divorce was published in 1946; Lewis was reading it aloud in
April and May 1944 (Letters no. 60, 69, 72).
It may be mentioned here that my father had evidently discussed
with Lewis the matter of 'true dreams': an important element in
the plot of That Hideous Strength is Jane Studdock's 'tendency to
dream real things', in the words of Miss Ironwood (Chapter 3,
$iii), and this can hardly be a mere coincidence. It is presumably
not coincidental either that there should be so many references to
'Numinor' in That Hideous Strength (published in 1945); see
p. 303 and note 15.
2. On the final text D of Part One the heading of the first page (after
Leaves from the Notion Club Papers ): Part I / The Ramblings of
Michael Ramer / Out of the Talkative Planet' was struck out. The
final text F of Part Two has no heading at the beginning. A pencilled
title page apparently accompanying the manuscript E has 'Leaves
from the Notion Club Papers / II / The Strange Case of Arundel
Lowdham'.
3. A very brief report of an earlier meeting was added at the begin-
ning of the text in the course of the development of Part One.
4. A pointer to this is the fact that in B the name is spelt Loudham
throughout; in E it begins as Loudham but becomes Lowdham in
the course of the writing of the manuscript; in C it is Lowdham
from the first. See further p. 282.
5. Cf. the close relation of the manuscript of The Lost Road and the
original text of The Fall of Numenor, V.9.
6. Beyond Probability is a pun on the title of Lewis's book Beyond
Personality, which had been published in 1944.
7. That Whitburn (and Thoms) is a play on the name Blackwell, the
Oxford bookseller and publisher, is seen from the fact that the
firm was originally Basil Blackwell and Mott.
Leaves from
THE NOTION CLUB PAPERS.
FOREWORD.
These Papers have a rather puzzling history. They were found
after the Summer Examinations of 2012 on the top of one of
a number of sacks of waste paper in the basement of the
Examination Schools at Oxford by the present editor, Mr.
Howard Green, the Clerk of the Schools. They were in a
disordered bundle, loosely tied with red string. The outer sheet,
inscribed in large Lombardic capitals:
NOTION CLUB PAPERS,
attracted the notice of Mr. Green, who removed them and
scrutinized them. Discovering them to contain much that was to
him curious and interesting, he made all possible enquiries,
without result.
The Papers, from internal evidence, clearly had no connexion
with any examinations held or lectures given in the Schools
during Mr. Green's many years of office. Neither did they
belong to any of the libraries housed in the building. Advertise-
ment has failed to find any claimant to ownership. It remains
unknown how the Papers reached the waste-paper sack. It
seems probable that they had at some time been prepared for
publication, since they are in many places provided with notes;
yet in form they are nothing more than an elaborate minute-
book of a club, devoted to conversation, debate, and the
discussion of 'papers', in verse or prose, written and read by its
members, and many of the entries have no particular interest for
non-members.
The minutes, or reports, covered probably about 100 meet-
ings or 'nights' during the years of last century, approximately
1980 to 1990. It is, however, not the least curious fact about
these Papers that no such club appears ever to have existed.
Though certain resemblances are inevitable between a group of
imaginary academic persons and their real contemporaries, no
such persons as those here depicted, either with such names, or
such offices, or such tastes and habits, can be traced in the
Oxford of the last generation, or of the present time.
The author appears in one or two passages, and in the
occasional notes, to identify himself with the character called in -':
the dialogues Nicholas Guildford. But Mr. J. R. Titmass, the
well-known historian of twentieth-century Oxford, who has
given all possible assistance to the present editor, has shown that
this is certainly a fictitious name and derived from a mediaeval
dialogue at one time read in the Schools of Oxford.
On examination the bundle was found to contain 205
foolscap pages, all written by one hand, in a careful and usually
legible script. The leaves were disarranged but mostly num-
bered. The bundle contains the entries for Nights 51 to 75, but
they are defective and several leaves appear to have been lost;
some of the longer entries are incomplete. It is probable that
three other bundles, containing Nights 1 - 25, 26 - 50, 76 - 100,
once existed. Of the missing sections, however, only a few
scattered sheets were found in the sack, and these, so far as can
be discerned, belonged originally to the entries 1 - 25. Among
them was a crumpled and much corrected sheet, of a different
paper, containing a list of members.
The total on this scale would have made a volume of
considerable bulk, but its size will be overestimated, if calcula-
tion is based on the length of the extracts here printed. Many
Nights are represented only by a few lines, or by short entries, of
which Nights 54 and 64 have been included as specimens. As
a rule these short items have been omitted, unless they bear
closely on the longer reports here selected and presented to
those interested in literary curiosities.
Note to the Second Edition.
Mr. W. W. Wormald of the School of Bibliopoly, and Mr.
D. N. Borrow of the Institute of Occidental Languages, found
their curiosity aroused by the published extracts, and asked Mr.
Green for permission to examine the manuscript of the Papers.
They have now sent in a joint report, which raises some
interesting points.
'Paper of this kind,' they write, 'is, of course, very difficult to
trace or to date. The sheets submitted to us are of a poor quality
much inferior to the paper now in general use for such purposes.
Without venturing on a definite opinion, we record our sus-
picion that these sheets are much older than the dates of the
supposed meetings of the Club, perhaps 40 to 50 years older,
belonging, that is, to the period during or just after the Six
Years' War. This suspicion is supported by various items of
internal evidence, notably the idiom of the dialogues, which is
old-fashioned and does not represent with any fidelity the
colloquial language either of the nineteen-eighties or of the
present time. We conclude, then, that The Notion Club Papers
were written sixty years ago, or more.
'It remains, nonetheless, on this hypothesis a puzzling fact
that the Great Explosion of 1975 is referred to, and even more
precisely, the Great Storm, which actually occurred on the night
of Thursday, June 12th, 1987;(1) though certain inaccuracies
appear in the account given of the progress and effects of the
latter event. Mr. Green has proposed to us a curious explana-
tion of this difficulty, evidently suggested to him by the contents
of the Papers: the future events were, he thinks, "foreseen". In
our opinion a less romantic but more probable solution is this:
the paper is part of a stock purchased by a man resident in
Oxford about 1940. He used the paper for his minutes (whether
fictitious or founded on fact), but he did not use all his stock.
Much later (after 1987) he copied out his matter again, using up
the old paper; and though he did not make any general revision,
he moved the dates forward and inserted the genuine references
to the Explosion and the Storm.'
Mr. Green rejoins: 'This is one of the most fantastic "prob-
able solutions" I have yet met, quite apart from the unlikelihood
of an inferior paper being stored for about fifty years and then
used for the same purpose again. The writer was not, I think, a
very young man; but the handwriting is certainly not that of an
old man. Yet if the writer was not young in 1940, he must have
been old, very old, in 2000. For it is to that date, not to 1987,
that we must look. There is a point that has escaped the notice
of Messrs. Wormald and Borrow: the old house, no. 100
Banbury Road, the last private dwelling house in that block,
was in fact the scene of "hauntings",* a remarkable display of
poltergeist activity, between the years 2000 and 2003, which
only ended when the house was demolished and a new building,
attached to the Institute of National Nutrition, erected on the
site. In the year 2003 a person possessed of the paper, the
(* See Night 61, p. 179.)
pen-habits,* and the idiom of the period of the Six Years' War
would have been an oddity that no pseudonym could conceal
from us.
'In any case, the Storm is integral to all the entries from Night
63 to Night, [sic] and is not just "inserted". Messrs. Wormald
and Borrow must either neglect their own evidence and place
the whole composition after 1987, or else stick to their own
well-founded suspicions of the paper, the hand,* and the idiom,
and admit that some person or persons in the nineteen-forties
possessed a power of "prevision".
'Mr. Titmass informs me that he cannot find any record in the
nineteen-forties of the names given in the list. If therefore, any
such club existed at that earlier period, the names remain
pseudonyms. The forward dating might have been adopted as
an additional screen. But I am now convinced that the Papers -'.
are a work of fiction; and it may well be that the predictions
(notably of the Storm), though genuine and not coincidences,
were unconscious: giving one more glimpse of the strange
processes of so-called literary "invention", with which the
Papers are largely concerned.'
MEMBERS OF THE NOTION CLUB.
The Notion Club, as depicted, was informal and vague in
outline. A number of characters appear in the dialogues, some
rarely or fitfully. For the convenience of readers the List of
Members found among the Papers is here printed, though
several of the persons named do not appear in this selection.
The order is not alphabetical and seems intended to represent
some kind of seniority: the first six names were written earlier
and larger; the rest were added at various times and in different
inks, but in the same hand. There are also later entries inserted
after some of the names, recording details of their tastes or
history. A few further details, gleaned from the Papers them-
selves, have been added in brackets.
(* Mr. Wormald himself, something of an expert in such matters,
before he proposed his 'probable solution', ventured the opinion that
the handwriting of the Papers in general character went with the
old-fashioned idiom and belonged to the same period. The use of a pen
rather than a typewriter would indeed, in itself, already have been
most unusual for a man of 1990, whatever his age.)
MICHAEL GEORGE RAMER. Jesus College. Born 1929
(in Hungary). Professor of Finno-Ugric Philology; but better
known as a writer of romances. His parents returned to England
when he was four; but he spent a good deal of time in Finland
and Hungary between 1956 and 68. [Among his interests are
Celtic languages and antiquities.]
RUPERT DOLBEAR. Wadham. Born 1929. Research Chem-
ist. Has many other interests, notably philosophy, psychoanaly-
sis, and gardening. [A close friend of Ramer. He is redhaired
and redbearded, and known to the Club as Ruthless Rufus.]
NICHOLAS GUILDFORD. Lincoln. Born 1937. Archaeol-
ogist. The Club reporter; because he likes it and knows short-
hand. [He is seldom recorded as reading anything to the Club,
and it is then not reported; but he appears to have written
several novels.]
ALWIN ARUNDEL LOWDHAM. B.N.C. Born 1938. Lec-
turer in English Language. Chiefly interested in Anglo-Saxon,
Icelandic, and Comparative Philology. Occasionally writes
comic or satirical verse. [Known as Arry.]
PHILIP FRANKLEY. Queen's. Born 1932. A poet, once
well-known as a leader of the Queer Metre movement; but now
just a poet, still publishing volumes of collected verse; suffers
from horror borealis (as he calls it) and is intolerant of all things
Northern or Germanic. [He is, all the same, a close friend of
Lowdham.]
WILFRID TREWIN JEREMY. Corpus Christi. Born 1942.
University Lecturer in English Literature. He specializes in
Escapism, and has written books on the history and criticism of
Ghost-stories, Time-travel, and Imaginary Lands.
James Jones. Born 1927. Has been a schoolmaster, journalist,
and playwright. Is now retired, living in Oxford, and divides his
time between producing plays and his hobby of private printing.
A very silent man, but assists the Reporter with his retentive
memory.
Dr. Abel Pitt. Trinity. Born 1928. Formerly Chaplain of
Trinity College; now Bishop of Buckingham. Scholar, occa-
sional poet.
Colombo Arditi. St. John's. Born 1940. Tempestosa Professor
of Italian. Is fond of (and not unskilled in) singing (basso),
swimming, and the game of bowls. Collects books and cats.
Dom Jonathan Markison, O.S.B.(2) New College, Master of St.
Cuthbert's Hall. [Polymath.]
Sir Gerard Manface. All Souls. Lawyer. Mountaineer; much
travelled. Has many children, for whom he wrote many (unpub-
lished) books and tales. [Seldom appears. A special friend of
Frankley, but not resident in Oxford.]
Ranulph Stainer. University College. Born 1936. Profes-
sionally an expert in banking and economics; privately devoted
to the history and practice of music, and has composed several
works, major and minor, including one (moderately successful)
opera: Midas.
Alexander Cameron. Exeter. Born 1935. Modern historian,
specially interested in Spanish and South American history.
Collects coins and stamps. Plays a pianola. [No one remembers
his being invited to join the Club, or knows why he comes; but
he appears from time to time.]
John Jethro Rashbold. Magdalen. Born 1965. Undergradu-
ate. Classical scholar; apprentice poet. [Introduced by Frankley,
to whom he is much attached.]
Note. It is represented as the habit of the Club for all -
members to initial the record of any meeting at which they were
present, whether they are reported as speaking or not. Presum-
ably the initialling, which in the extant Papers is in the same
hand as the text, took place after N.G.'s report has been seen
and passed, and before the fair copy was made. Mr. Cameron's
initials never appear.
Leaves from
The
NOTION CLUB PAPERS.
[PART ONE](3)
Night 54. Thursday, November 16th, 1986.(4)
A wet night. Only Frankley and Dolbear arrived (Dolbear's
house). Dolbear reports that Philip never said a word worth
recording, but read him an unintelligible poem about a Mech-
anical Nightingale (or he thought that was the subject). Frankley
reports that Rufus was drowsy and kept on chuckling to
himself. The only clearly audible remark that he made was
going off the deep end, I think. This was in reply to an enquiry
about Michael Ramer, and whether D. had seen him lately.
After F. had read a poem (later read again) called The Canticle
of Artegall they parted. R.D. P.F.(5)
[One or two minor entries, defectively preserved, are here
omitted.]
Night 60. Thursday, February 20th, 1987.(6) [Defective at the
beginning. Ramer's story is lost.]
[When Michael Ramer had finished] reading his story, we sat
in silence for a while. He had not read us anything for a long
time; in fact he had seldom appeared at meetings for a year or
more. His excuses for absence, when he gave any, had been
vague and evasive. On this occasion the Club was better
attended than usual, and no more easy to please. That hardly
accounted for Ramer's nervousness. He is one of our oldest
members, and was at one time one of our most frequent
performers; but to-night he read hastily, boggling and stumb-
ling. So much so that Frankley made him read several sentences
over again, though these interruptions, which only made mat-
ters worse, are omitted above. Now he was fidgetting.
'Well?' he said at last. 'What do you think of it? Will it do?'
A few of us stirred, but nobody spoke.
'Oh, come on! I may as well get the worst over first. What
have you got to say?' he urged, turning to Guildford in the next
chair.
'I don't know,' Guildford answered reluctantly. 'You know
how I dislike criticizing...'
'I've never noticed it before,' said Frankley.
'Go on, Nicholas!' laughed Lowdham. 'You dislike it about
as much as Philip dislikes interrupting.'
'At any rate I don't criticize unfinished sentences,' said
Guildford. 'If I'd not been interrupted, I was going to say I
dislike criticizing off-hand, and still in the heat of listening.'
'In the chill's your more usual temperature,' said Lowdham.(7)
'Most unfair! I'm a voracious reader, and I like stories.'
A chorus of incredulous shouts followed, but Guildford could
just be heard amending his words, first to I read a good many
tales and like most of them, and finally to I do like some stories,
including one or two of Ramer's. 'But it's much more difficult,'
he went on at last, 'to say anything about the liking, especially
so soon. Liking is often much more complex than dislike. And
it's less necessary to say anything about it in a hurry. The feeling
of liking has a very lasting flavour; it can wait, it's often better
for being stored for a bit. But defects stick out all hard and
painful, while one's still close at hand.'
'For those who have the knack of seeing them in every literary
landscape,' Ramer interposed.
'There are minor ones,' Guildford went on unperturbed, 'that
may, of course, get forgotten, or be overlooked by familiarity;
but they are better removed while fresh.'
'The sort that Philip corrects at once while you are reading?'
said Ramer.
'Yes,' said Guildford. 'But there are more serious faults than
his anacolutha and split infinitives that may also get passed, if
the thing's allowed to harden. It may be painful for the author
to have the blindness of paternal love removed, but it seems the
most useful thing to do on the spot. What's the good of sitting
here, hearing things before they're in print, if all we're to do is to
pat the father's back and murmur: Any child of yours is'..
welcome, Mr. Ramer. Your fiftieth, is it? Well, well! How they
do all take after their dear father, don't they?'
Lowdham laughed. 'And what you're longing to say, I
suppose, is: Why don't you wipe the brat's nose, and get its hair
cut?'
'Or strangle it!' said Ramer impatiently.
'No, seriously,' Guildford protested, 'I only objected to parts,
not to the whole of your latest infant, Michael. Only to the first
chapter and the end of the last one, really. But there! I suppose
no one has ever solved the difficulty of arriving, of getting to
another planet, no more in literature than in life. Because the
difficulty is in fact insoluble, I think. The barrier cannot and will
not ever be passed in mortal flesh. Anyway, the opening
chapters, the journey, of space-travel tales seem to me always
the weakest. Scientifiction, as a rule: and that is a base alloy. Yes
it is, Master Frankley, so don't interrupt! Just as much as the
word is an ill-made portmanteau: rotten for travelling with.
And that goes for your machine, too, Ramer. Though it's one of
the better failures, perhaps.'
'Thank you for that!' Ramer growled. 'But it's just like you,
Nicholas, to pick on the frame, which is an awkward necessity
of pictures, and easy to change anyway, and say nothing about
what's inside it. I suppose you must have seen something to
praise inside: we know how painful you find praising anything.
Isn't that the real reason why you postpone it?'
'Nonsense!' said Guildford. 'I thought what was inside was
very good, if you must have it. Though I felt there was
something very odd about it.'
'I'm sure you did! '
'I mean odd coming from you. And in its setting. For you
won't get away with that framed excuse. A picture-frame is not
a parallel. An author's way of getting to Mars (say) is part of his
story of his Mars; and of his universe, as far as that particular
tale' goes. It's part of the picture, even if it's only in a marginal
position; and it may seriously affect all that's inside.'
'Why should it?' said Frankley.
'Well, if there are space-ships at all in your imagined universe,
you'll fail to sell it to me, for one thing,' said Guildford.
'That's carrying your anti-machine mania too far,' said
Lowdham. 'Surely poor writers can include things you don't
like in their stories?'
'I'm not talking about dislike at the moment,' Guildford
returned. 'I'm talking about credibility. I don't like heroic
warriors, but I can bear stories about them. I believe they exist,
or could. I don't think space-ships do, or could. And anyway, if
you pretend that they do, and use them for space-journeys in the
flesh, they'll land you in space-ship sort of adventures. If you're
spaceship-minded and scientifictitious, or even if you let your
characters be so, it's likely enough that you'll find things of that
order in your new world, or only see sights that interest such
folk.'
'But that isn't true,' Frankley objected. 'It's not true of this
story of Ramer's.'
'It's generally true, all too ghastly true.' said Guildford. 'But
of course there is a way of escape: into inconsistency, discord.
Ramer takes that way, like Lindsay,(8) or Lewis, and the better
post-Lewis writers of this sort of thing. You can land on another
world in a space-ship and then drop that nonsense, if you've got
something better to do there than most of the earlier writers
had. But personally I dislike that acutely. It makes the scien-
tifictitious bunkum all the worse by contrast. Crystal torpedoes,
and "back-rays", and levers for full speed-ahead (faster than
light, mark you), are bad enough inside one of those hideous
magazines - Dead Sea fruit with gaudy rinds; but in, say,
A Voyage to Arcturus * they are simply shocking. All the more
so for being unnecessary. David Lindsay had at least two other
better methods up his sleeve: the seance connexion; or the
suggestion of the dark tower at the end. Thank goodness, there
was at any rate no return by crystal torpedo in that tale!'(9)
'But the trick in Out of the Silent Planet, getting the hero
kidnapped by space-ship villains, so as to explain how an
interesting man ever got inside one, was not bad,' said Frankley.
'And the stupid villainy of the space-ship folk was essential.
They behaved as such people would, and the plot depends on
that.'
'Not bad, I agree,' said Guildford. 'Still it was, as you say, a
trick. And not first rate, not if you want sheer literary credibility,
the pure thing, rather than an alloy with allegory and satire.
Ramer is not after any such Lewisite alloy; and I think his device
of letting an intelligent artist get into a contraption by accident,
not knowing what it is, is a mere trick. But what I really object
to, in any such tale, however tinged, is the pretence that these
contraptions could exist or function at all. They're indefinitely
less probable - as the carriers of living, undamaged, human
bodies and minds - than the wilder things in fairy-stories; but
they pretend to be probable on a more material mechanical
level. It's like having to take Heath-Robinsons seriously.'
'But you've got to have some kind of removal van,' said
Frankley, 'or else do without this kind of story. They may not be
(* This book had recently been rescued from oblivion by Jeremy's
book on Imaginary Lands. See the account of his reading parts of this
to the Club, above, Nights 30, 33, 40 [not preserved]. Most of the
members are fairly well-read in twentieth-century books of travel in
Space and Time. N.G.)
your sweetmeat, Nicholas, but I've got a tooth for them; and
I'm not going to be done out of them by you.'
'You can wallow in Scientifiction mags, for all I care,' said
Guildford; 'but I've got to have literary belief in my removal
van, or I won't put my furniture into it. I have never met one of
these vehicles yet that suspended my disbelief an inch off the
floor.'
'Well, your disbelief evidently needs a power-crane,' said
Frankley. 'You should look at some of the forgotten Old
Masters, like Wells, if you've ever heard of him. I admit that
what his first men found in the Moon was a bathos after the
journey. But the machine and the journey were splendid. I don't
of course, believe in a gravitation-insulator outside the story,
but inside the story it worked, and Wells made damned good
use of it. And voyages can end in grubby, vulgar, little harbours
and yet be very much worth while.'
'It wouldn't be easy to miss the name of Wells with Jeremy
always about,' said Guildford. 'And I have read The First Men
in the Moon, and The Time Machine. I confess that in The Time
Machine the landfall was so marvellous that I could have
forgiven an even more ridiculous transport - though it would be
difficult to think of one! All the same, the machine was a
blemish; and I'm quite unconvinced that it was a necessary one.
And if it had been removed - the effect on the whole thing!
Enormous enhancement even of that remarkable tale.
'No doubt authors are in as great a hurry to get there as we
are; but eagerness doesn't excuse carelessness. And anyway,
we're older. We may allow the primitives their ingenuousness:
we can't imitate it. Isn't it always so? What might do once won't
do any longer. I used to read with gusto romances in which the
hero just pushed off into the Blue, over mountains and deserts,
without water supplies. But now I feel that procedure is
slipshoddy.'
'There's no such word,' said Frankley.
'Shut up! ' said Lowdham.
'I want my man to have his adventures in the Blue, as much as
ever, but I want to be made to feel that the author has faced the
difficulties and not ignored them, or fudged them. It's usually all
the better for the tale in the long run.
'Certainly I'll admit that if I allow Wells his "cavorite",(10)
then he makes good use of it. If I'd been a boy when the tale was
new, I should have allowed it and enjoyed it. But I can't allow it
now. I'm post-Wells. And we're not criticizing him but Ramer,
for using at this much later date a rather similar device. Any one
who touches space-travel now has got to be much more con-
vincing: if indeed a convincing machine is at present possible.
Command of power has prodigiously increased, but the
problems have become more complex, and not simpler. Scien-
tists can't destroy simple faith and hope still to keep it for
themselves. A gravitation-insulator won't do. Gravity can't be
treated like that. It's fundamental. It's a statement by the
Universe of where you are in the Universe, and the Universe
can't be tricked by a surname with ite stuck on the end, nor by
any such abracadabra.
'And what of the effect on a man of being hurled out of one
gravitational field through zero into another? Even on so
elementary a journey as one to the Moon?'
'Oh! difficulties of that sort will be got over all right,' said
Frankley. 'At least that is what most of the scientists say who
are concerned with space-projects.'
'Scientists are as prone to wishful thinking (and talking) as
other men, especially when they are thinking about their own
romantic hopes and not yours,' said Guildford. 'And they like
opening vague, vast, vistas before gapers, when they are per-
forming as public soothsayers.'
'I'm not talking about that kind,' said Frankley. 'There are
quiet unpublicized people, quite scientific medicos, for instance,
who'll tell you that your heart and digestive arrangements, and
all that, would function all right, even at, say, zero gravity.'
'I dare say they will,' said Guildford. 'Though I still find it
difficult to believe that a machine like our body, made to func-
tion under definite earth-conditions, would in fact run on merrily
when those were greatly changed - and for a long time, or
permanently. Look how quickly we wilt, even on this globe, if
we're transferred to unusual heights or temperatures. And the
effect on you of greatly increased gravity is rather hushed up,
isn't it? * Yet after all that is what you'd be most likely to get at
the other end of your journey.'
'That's so,' said Lowdham. 'But people of this blessed century
think primarily of travelling and speed, not of destination, or
(* Not, of course, in Scientifiction. There it is usually exorcized by
mere abracadabra in bogus 'scientific' form. N.G.)
settling. It's better to travel "scientifically", in fact, than to get
anywhere; or the vehicle justifies the journey.'
'Yes, and it is speed that really bothers me,' said Guildford,
'more than these other difficulties. I don't doubt the possibility
of sending a rocket to the Moon. The preparations were
knocked back by the Great Explosion,(11) but they say they're
under way again. I'll even admit the eventual possibility of
landing undamaged human goods on the lunar landscape -
though what they'll do there is dubious. But the Moon is very
parochial. Rockets are so slow. Can you hope to go as fast as
light, anything like as fast?'
'I don't know,' said Frankley. 'It doesn't seem likely at
present, but I don't think that all the scientists or mathema-
ticians would answer that question with a definite no.'
'No, they're very romantic on this topic,' said Guildford. 'But
even the speed of light will only be moderately useful. Unless
you adopt a Shavian attitude and regard all these light-years and
light-centuries as lies, the magnitude of which is inartistic. If
not, you'll have to plan for a speed greater than light; much
greater, if you're to have a practical range outside the Solar
System. Otherwise you will have very few destinations. Who's
going to book a passage for a distant place, if he's sure to die of
old age on the way?'
'They still take tickets on the State Railways,' said Lowdham.
'But there's still at least a chance of arriving before death by
coach or train,' said Guildford. 'I don't ask for any greater
degree of probability from my author: just a possibility not
wholly at variance with what we know.'
'Or think we know,' Frankley murmured.
'Quite so,' Guildford agreed. 'And the speed of light, or
certainly anything exceeding it, is on that basis incredible:
if you're going to be "scientific", or more properly speaking
"mechanical". At any rate for anyone writing now. I admit the
criteria of credibility may change; though as far as I can see,
genuine Science, as distinct from mechanical romance, narrows
the possibilities rather than expands them. But 1 still stick to my
original point: the "machine" used sets the tone. I found
space-ships sufficiently credible for a raw taste, until I grew up
and wanted to find something more useful on Mars than
ray-guns and faster vehicles. Space-ships will take you to that
kind of country, no doubt. But I don't want to go there. There's
no need now to travel to find it.'
'No, but there is an attraction in its being far away, even if it's
nasty and stupid,' said Frankley. 'Even if it's the same! You
could make a good story - inevitably satirical in effect, perhaps,
but not really primarily so - out of a journey to find a replica of
Earth and its denizens.'
'I daresay! But aren't we getting a bit mixed?' said Lowdham.
'Nick's real point, which he seems to have forgotten as well as
the rest of us, was incoherence - discord. That was really quite
distinct from his dislike, or his disbelief in mechanical vehicles;
though actually he dislikes them, credible or not. But then he
began confusing scientific probability with literary credibility.'
'No, I didn't and I don't,' said Guildford. 'Scientific probabil-
ity need not be concerned at all. But it has to be, if you make
your vehicle mechanical. You cannot make a piece of mechan-
ism even sufficiently credible in a tale, if it seems outrageously
incredible as a machine to your contemporaries - those whose
critical faculties are not stunned by the mere mention of a
machine.'
'All right, all right,' said Lowdham. 'But let's get back to the
incoherence. It's the discord between the objects and the findings
of the better tales and their machines that upsets you. And I
think you have something there. Lewis, for instance, used a
space-ship, but he kept it for his villains, and packed his hero
the second time in a crystal coffin without machinery.'
'Half-hearted,' said Guildford. 'Personally, I found the com-
promise very unconvincing. It was wilfully inefficient, too: poor
Ransom (12) got half toasted, for no sound reason that I could see.
The power that could hurl the coffin to Venus could (one would
have thought) have devised a material that let in light without
excessive heat. I found the coffin much less credible than the
Eldils,(13) and granted the Eldils, unnecessary. There was a page
or two of smoke-screen about the outward journey to Perelan-
dra, but it was not thick enough to hide the fact that this
semi-transparent coffin was after all only a material packing-
case, a special one-man space-ship of unknown motive power.
It was necessary to the tale, of course, to have safe delivery of
Ransom's living terrestrial body in Venus: but this impossible
sort of parcel-post did not appeal to me as a solution of the
problem. As I say, I doubt if there is a solution. But I should
prefer an old-fashioned wave of a wizard's wand. Or a word of
power in Old Solar (14) from an Eldil. Nothing less would suffice:
a miracle.'
'Why have anything at all?' little Jeremy asked suddenly. So
far he had sat curled up on the floor, as near to the fire as he
could get, and he had said nothing, though his black birdlike
eyes had hopped to and fro from speaker to speaker. 'The best
stories I know about imaginary times and lands are just stories
about them. Why a wizard? At least, why a wizard, outside the
real story, just to waft you into it? Why not apply the Once-
upon-a-time method to Space? Do you need more than author's
magic? Even old Nick won't deny authors the power of seeing
more than their eyes can. In his novels he lets himself look into
other people's heads. Why not into distant parts of Space? It's
what the author has really got to do, so why conceal it?'
'No, of course I don't deny authors their right of invention,
seeing, if you like to call it that,' said Guildford.
At that point Dolbear stirred and seemed about to wake up;
but he only settled more comfortably into his chair, and his loud
breathing went on, as it had since the early part of Ramer's
story.
'But that's a different kind of story, Jeremy,' objected Frank-
ley. 'Quite good in its way. But I want to travel in Space and
' Time myself; and so, failing that, I want people in stories to do
it. I want contact of worlds, confrontation of the alien. You say,
Nick, that people cannot leave this world and live, at least not
beyond the orbit of the Moon?'
'Yes, I believe they could not, cannot, and never will.'
'Very well then, all the more reason for having stories about
they could or they will. Anybody would think you'd gone back
to all that old-fashioned stuff about escapism. Do you object to
fairy-tales? '
'No, I don't. But they make their own worlds, with their own
laws.'
'Then why can't I make mine, and let its laws allow space-
ships?'
'Because it won't then be your private world, of course,' said
Guildford. 'Surely that is the main point of that kind of story, at
an intelligent level? The Mars in such a story is Mars: the Mars
that is. And the story is (as you've just admitted) a substitute for
satisfaction of our insatiable curiosity about the Universe as it
is. So a space-travel story ought to be made to fit, as far as we
can see, the Universe as it is. If it doesn't or doesn't try to, then it
does become a fairy-story - of a debased kind. But there is no
need to travel by rocket to find Faerie. It can be anywhere, or
nowhere.'
'But supposing you did travel, and did find Fairyland?' asked
Ramer, suddenly. For some time now he had been staring at the
fire, and had seemed to take very little interest in the battle that
had been going on about him. Jeremy gaped at him, and jumped
to his feet.
'But not by space-ship surely!' he cried. 'That would be as
depressingly vulgar as the other way about: like an awful story I
came across once, about some men who used a magic carpet for
cheap power to drive a bus.'
'I'm glad to get you as an ally!' laughed Guildford. 'For
you're a hardened sinner: you read that bastard stuff, scientific-
tion, not as a casual vice, but actually as a professional interest.'
'The stuff is extremely interesting,' said Jeremy. 'Seldom as
art. Its art level is as a rule very low. But literature may have a
pathological side - still you've heard me on all that often
enough. On this point I'm with you. Real fairy-stories don't
pretend to produce impossible mechanical effects by bogus
machines.'
'No. And if Frankley wants fairy-tales with mechanized
dragons, and quack formulas for producing power-swords, or
anti-dragon gas, or scientifictitious explanations of invisibility,
well, he can have 'em and keep 'em. No! For landing on a new
planet, you've got your choice: miracle; magic; or sticking to
normal probability, the only known or likely way in which any
one has ever landed on a world.'
'Oh! So you've got a private recipe all the time, have you?'
said Ramer sharply.
'No, it's not private, though I've used it once.'
'Well? Come on! What is it?'
'Incarnation. By being born, said Guildford.(15)
At that point Dolbear woke up. He yawned loudly, lifted his
heavy lids, and his blue-bright eyes opened wide under his red
brows. He had been audibly sleeping for a long while,* but we
(* He often slept loudly, during a long reading or discussion. But he
would rouse up in the middle of a debate, and show that he had the
odd faculty of both sleeping and listening. He said that it was a
time-saving habit that long membership of the Club had forced him to
acquire. N.G.)
were used to the noise, and it disturbed us no more than the
sound of a kettle simmering on the fire.
'What have you got to say to that, Ramer?' he asked. He shot
a sharp glance at him, but Ramer made no reply. Dolbear
yawned again. 'I'm rather on Nick's side,' he said. 'Certainly
about the first chapter in this case.'
'Well, that was read at the beginning, before you settled down
for your nap,' said Lowdham.
Dolbear grinned. 'But it was not that chapter in itself that
interested me,' he said. 'I think most of the discussion has been
off the point, off the immediately interesting point. The hottest
trail that Nicholas got on to was the discord, as you said
yourself, Arry.(16) That's what you should follow up now. I
should feel it strongly, even if space-ships were as regrettably
possible as the Transatlantic Bus-service. Michael! Your real
story is wholly out of keeping with what you called the frame.
And that's odd in you. I've never felt such a jar before, not in
any of your work. I find it hard to believe that the machine and
the tale were made by the same man. Indeed, I don't think they
were. You wrote the first chapter, the space-voyage, and also
the homecoming (rather slipshod that, and my attention wan-
dered): you made it up, as they say. And as you've not tried your
hand at that sort of thing before, it was not much above the
average. But I don't think you wrote the story inside. I wonder
what you've been up to?'
'What are you driving at?' said Jeremy. 'It was typical Ramer
all through, nearly every sentence was hall-marked. And even if
he wanted to put us off with borrowed goods, where could he
get them from?'
'You know his itch to re-write other people's bungled tales,'
said Lowdham. 'Though certainly he's never tried one on us
before, without telling us.'
'I know all that,' said Jeremy, hopping about angrily. 'I mean:
where could he get this tale from? If he has found any printed
space-travel story that I don't know, then he's been doing some
pretty hot research. I've never met anything like it at all.'
'You're missing my point,' said Dolbear. 'I shouldn't have
said wrote. I should have said made up, invented. I say again: I
wonder what you've been up to, Ramer?'
'Telling a story,' answered Ramer glumly, staring at the fire.
'Yes,' said Dolbear. 'But don't try to do that in the nursery
sense, or we'll have to roast you.' He got up and looked round
at us all. His eyes looked very bright under bristling brows. He
turned them sharply on Ramer. 'Come!' he said. 'Come clean!
Where's this place? And how did you get there?'
'I don't know where it is,' said Ramer quietly, still staring at
the fire. 'But you're quite right. I went there. At least... well, I
don't think our language fits the case. But there is such a world,
and I saw it - once.' He sighed.
We looked at him for a long while. All of us - except Dolbear,
I think - felt some alarm, and pity. And on the surface of our
minds blank incredulity, of course. Yet it was not quite that: we
did not feel the underlying emotion of incredulity. For appar-
ently all of us, in some degree, had sensed something odd about
that story, and now recognized that it differed from the norm
like seeing does from imagining. I felt that it was like the
difference between a bright glimpse of a distant landscape:
threadlike waters really falling; wind ruffling the small green
leaves and blowing up the feathers of birds on the branches, as
that can be seen through a telescope: limited but clear and
coloured; flattened and remote, but moving and real - between
that and any picture. Not, it seemed to me, an effect to be
explained simply by art. And yet - the explanation offered was
nonsense outside the pages of a romance; or so I found that
most of us felt at that moment.
We tried a few 'more questions, but Ramer would not say any
more that night. He seemed disgruntled, or tired; though we
had not scoffed. To relieve the tension, Frankley read us a short
poem he had recently written. It was generous of him, for it was
a good piece; but inevitably it fell rather flat. It is, however,
pretty well-known now, as it appeared as the opening poem of
his 1989 volume: Experiments in Pterodactylics.
We broke up soon after he had read it.
'Ramer,' I said at the door, 'we must hear some more about
this, if you can bear it. Can't you come next week?'
'Well, I don't know,' he began.
'0 don't go off to New Erewhon again just yet!' cried
Lowdham, a bit too jocularly. [I don't think so. A.A.L.] 'We
want more News from Nowhere.'(17)
'I did not say it was Nowhere,' said Ramer gravely. 'Only that
it was Somewhere. Well, yes, I'll come.'
I walked part of the way home with him. We did not talk. It
was a starry night. He stopped several times and looked up at
the sky. His face, pale in the night, had a curious expression, I
thought: like a man in a strange country trying to get the points
of the compass, and wondering which way his home lies.
In the Turl (18) we parted. I think what the Club really needs is
not more stories - yet,' I said. 'They need, I specially want, some
description of the method, if you could manage it.' Ramer said
nothing. 'Well, good night!' I said. 'This has been one of the
great Club evenings, indeed! Who'd have thought that in
starting up that literary hare about the most credible way of
opening a space-tale I'd blunder on the lair of a real winged
dragon, a veritable way of travelling!'
'Then you do believe me?' said Ramer. 'I thought that all of
you but Dolbear thought I was spoofing, or else going batty.
You in particular, Nick.'
'Certainly not spoof, Michael. As for battiness: well, in a
sense, your claim is a batty one, even if genuine, isn't it? At least,
it is, if I've any inkling of it. Though I've nothing to go on but
impressions, and such hints as I've managed to get out of Rufus
about your recent doings. He's the only one of us that has seen
much of you for quite a time; but I rather fancy that even he
does not know a great deal?'
Ramer laughed quietly. 'You're a hound, I mean a sleuth-
hound, by nature, Nicholas. But I am not going to lay down any
more trail tonight. Wait till next week! You can then have a
look at my belfry and count all the bats. I'm tired.'
'Sleep well! ' I said.
'I do,' said Ramer. 'Very well indeed. Good night! '
MGR. NG. AAL. PF. WTJ. RD. JJ.
Night 61. Thursday, February 27th, 1987.(19)
A week later we were all together again, in Frankley's rooms
this time; and even Cameron had come. As will be seen, he
actually made a remark on this occasion, more than his stock
'Thanks for a very enterrtaining evening.' It was generally
understood that Ramer was going to read a paper on Real
Space-travel.
He was the last to arrive, and we were pleasantly surprised to
see that he looked quite well, quite normal, and had not even
the rather haggard look he used to have after writing a paper.
He spends a frightful lot of late hours on such things, and burns
more paper than he keeps.
Arry Lowdham (20) tapped him all over and pretended to be
disappointed by the result. 'No models!' he cried. 'No plans of
cylinders, spheres, or anything! Not even a Skidbladnir for a
pocket-handkerchief!'(21)
'Now, none of that Nordic stuff, please!' groaned Frankley,
who regards knowledge of his own language at any period
before the Battle of Bosworth as a misdemeanour, and Norse as
a felony.(22)
'No, not even a paper,' said Ramer.
'Why not?' we all cried.
'Because I haven't written one.'
'Oh I say! ' we protested. 'Then you were spoofing all the
time?' said Lowdham.
'No,' said Ramer. 'But I'm not going to read a paper. I didn't
write one, because it would have been a great sweat; and I
wasn't sure that you'ld really want to hear any more about it all.
But if you do, I'm ready to talk.'
'Come on!' we said. Frankley shoved him down into a chair,
and gave him a tankard of beer, and a box of matches - for him
to strike, hold over a dead pipe, and throw away, as usual.
'Well,' he said after a short silence. 'It begins some way back.
And the threads may seem a bit disconnected at first. The
origins were literary, of course, like the discussion last week.
I've always wanted to try a space-travel story, and have never
dared. It was one of my earliest ambitions, ever since Out of the
Silent Planet appeared, when I was a small boy. That puts it
back a bit.'
'Yes, 1938,' said Cameron,(23) whose memory is like that. I
doubt if he has ever read the book. The memoirs of minor
modern diplomats are more in his line. The remark was his sole
contribution.
'I never did write one,' said Ramer, 'because I was always
bothered by the machinery, in a literary sense: the way of
getting there. I didn't necessarily object to machines; but I never
met and couldn't think of any credible vehicle for the purpose. I
really agree very much with Nicholas on that point.'
'Well, you tried a pretty ordinary machine on us in that tale,'
said Frankley.
'And seemed pretty disgruntled with me for objecting to it,'
said Guildford.
'I was not really disgruntled,' said Ramer. 'A bit put out,
perhaps, as one is when one's disguise is pierced too quickly.
Actually I was interested in the way you all felt the discord: no
more than I did myself. But I felt that I had to tell that story to
somebody, to communicate it. I wanted to get it out. And yet,
and yet now I'm rather sorry. Anyway, I put it in that quickly-
made cheap frame, because I didn't want to discuss the way I
came by it - at least not yet. But Ruthless Rufus with his <third
degree" has landed me here.'
'Yes, he has!' said Dolbear. 'So get on with your confession!'
Ramer paused and considered. 'Well, thinking about methods
of getting across Space, I was later rather attracted by what you
may call the telepathic notion - merely as a literary device, to
begin with. I expect I got the idea from that old book you lent
me, Jeremy: Last Men in London, or some name like that.(24) I
thought it worked pretty well, though it was too vague about
the how. If I remember rightly, the Neptunians could lie in a
trance and let their minds travel. Very good, but how does the
mind travel through Space or Time, while the body is static?
And there was another weakness, as far as I was concerned: the
method seemed to need rational creatures with minds at the
other end. But I did not myself particularly want to see - or I
should say at that stage, perhaps, write about - what Lewis
called hnau.(25) I wanted to see things and places on a grand
scale. That was one thread.
'Another thread was dreams. And that had a literary origin,
too, partly. Because Rufus and I have long been interested in
dreams, especially in their story-and-scene-making, and in their
relation to waking fiction. But as far as I could judge such
things, it did seem to me that a pretty good case had been made
out for the view that in dream a mind can, and sometimes does,
move in Time: I mean, can observe a time other than that
occupied by the sleeping body during the dream.'
'But of course it can, and without sleeping,' said Frankley. 'If
we were confined to the present, we couldn't think at all, even if
we could perceive or feel.'
'But I mean moving not by memory, or by calculation, or by
invention, as the waking mind can be said to move; but as a
perceiver of the external, of something new that is not yet in the
mind. For if you can see, in other times than the time of
dreaming, what you never saw in waking life, so that it is not in
your memory - seeing the future, for instance, would be a clear
case, and it cannot reasonably be doubted that that occurs -
then obviously there is a possibility of real first-hand seeing of
what is "not there", not where your body is.'
'Not even your eyes?' said Frankley.
'Ah,' said Ramer, 'that is of course a point. I shall come to
that later. It is probably a case of "translation"; but leave it for
a bit. I was thinking of dreaming chiefly, though I don't suppose
the possibility is really limited to that state. Only, if you live in a
never-ending racket of sense-impressions, other more distant
noises have to be very loud to be heard. And this movement, or
transference of observation: it is clearly not limited to Other
Time; it can occur in Other Space, or in both. A dreamer is not
confined to the events of Other Time occurring in his bedroom.'
'But wouldn't you expect to be limited to the places where
you yourself have been, or will be, in Other Time?' asked
Guildford.
'That's not the general human tradition about visions,' said
Ramer. 'Nor is it borne out by authenticated modern instances.
And it is not my experience, as you will see. But naturally I
thought about that point. I think, actually, that it is clear that
the mind can be in two places at one time: two or more; once
you have made it more than one, the figure is, perhaps, not very
important. For I suppose, as far as the mind goes, you can't get
nearer to saying where it is than to say where its attention is.
And that, of course, may be decided by various causes, internal
and external.
'You can get a sort of literary parallel. I think it is a pertinent
one, actually; for I don't think literary invention, or fancy, is
mixed up in all this by accident. When you are writing a story,
for instance, you can (if you're a vivid visualizer, as I am, and
are clearly visualizing a scene) see two places at once. You can
see (say) a field with a tree and sheep sheltering from the sun
under it, and be looking round your room. You are really seeing
both scenes, because you can recollect details later. Details of
the waking scene not attended to, because you were abstracted:
there's no doubt of that. I should as certainly add: details of the
inner scene, blurred because you were to some extent distracted.
'As far as my own visualizing goes, I've always been impres-
sed by how often it seems independent of my will or planning
mind (at the moment). Often there is no trace of composing a
scene or building it up. It comes before the mind's eye, as we
say, in a way that is very similar to opening closed eyes on a
complete waking view.* (26) I find it difficult, usually quite
impossible, to alter these pictures to suit myself, that is my
waking purpose. As a rule I find it better, and in the end more
right, to alter the story I'm trying to tell to suit the pictures. If
the two really belong together - they don't always, of course.
But in any case, on such occasions you are really seeing double,
or simultaneously. You tend to associate the two views, inner
and outer, though the juxtaposition of them may be, usually is,
their only connexion. I still associate a view of a study I no
longer possess and a pile of blue-and-yellow-covered exam-
scripts (long burnt, I hope) with the opening scene of a book I
wrote years ago: a great morain high up in the barren moun-
tains.'
'I know', said Jeremy, 'the foot of the Glacier in The Stone-
eaters.'(27)
'I think a connexion could be made out between those two
scenes,' said Frankley.
'It's very difficult to find any two things that the story-
making faculty cannot connect,' said Ramer. 'But in this case
the story-scene came into my head, as it is called, long before the
examination reality. The two are connected only because I was
re-visualizing, revisiting, the Glacier-foot very strongly that
day.'
'That doesn't quite get rid of some connexion other than
coinciding in time,' said Frankley.
'Well, never mind. They did coincide,' said Ramer. 'And that
is my point at the moment. The mind can be in more than one
place at a given time; but it is more properly said to be where its
attention is. And that, I suppose, is in one place only: for most
human minds, or at any rate for my mind.
'But I'm afraid this is a digression. To go back to dreams. Of
course, the memory of such true dreams, or free dreams, is
notoriously rarish and chancy, and also scrappy as a rule. But it
is not legitimate, it is pretty plainly wrong, to assume that what
is ordinarily remembered by ordinary people of their dreaming
is either most of the total, or the most important part of it. And
the will to remember can be strengthened, and the memory can
(* Ramer said later: 'It is still more like re-viewing in memory a place
that one has really been to; it is like memory in its quality as compared
with sightseeing, but on the first occasion of its arising in the mind it
does not seem to be "remembering".' N.G.)
be enlarged. Rufus has had a good deal of experience in that
direction, and he has helped me from time to time.'
Dolbear stirred and opened his eyes. 'So his suspicion was not
due to pure literary criticism of discords?' said Frankley.
'Well, I haven't the faintest idea of what Michael is driving at,
yet - if that's what you mean,' said Dolbear. 'Or rather, I
understand what he's saying and more or less agree with it, but
what it has to do with that vision of, of what was it?'
'Emberu,' said Ramer. 'I don't yet see,' Dolbear ended.(28)
'Well, here is a third thread,' Ramer went on. 'I had the
notion, as others probably have too, that for movement or
travelling the mind (when abstracted from the flood of sense)
might use the memory of the past and the foreshadowing of the
future that reside in all things, including what we call "inani-
mate matter". Those are not the right words, but they'll have to
do: I mean, perhaps, the causal descent from the past, and the
casual probability in the present, that are implicit in everything.
At any rate, I thought that might be one of the mind's vehicles.(29)
But an incarnate mind seemed rather a problem to me.'
'Not a very new one! ' said Guildford.
Ramer laughed. 'Don't be too hard on me,' he said. 'I'm not
at all original. And anyway my problem was practical rather i
than philosophical. I was puzzled about jumping. I didn't see
how it could be done. I'm not a philosopher, but an experimen-
ter, a man driven by desires - if not very fleshly ones, still very
incarnate ones. Being an incarnate mind, I am conditioned by
Time and Space, even in my curiosities; though being a mind, I
want to get beyond the range of my own body's senses and
history.
'Of course, you might imagine the mind, by some special
effort of its own, doing something analogous to the body's
leaping from place to place, especially in a less trammelled state
like sleep, or trance. But I thought the analogy probably false -
for a living man, anchored even in trance to the body, however
long and thin the rope. The mind may be neither in Time nor
Space, except in so far as it is specially associated with a body;
but while you're alive the bond holds, I thought. Mind-body:
they jump together, or neither jumps at all.
'I hardly need to say again that by jump I do not mean the
movement of thought to objects already in its grasp, or mem-
ory: shifting instantaneously from, say, considering the peculiar
configuration of Rufus's face to thinking of Table Mountain
(which I once saw). I wanted to observe new things far off in
Time and Space beyond the compass of a terrestrial animal.'
'And so,' said Lowdham, 'like the Pig on the Ruined Pump,
day and night you made your moan, because you could not
jump?'(30)
'Exactly,' said Ramer; 'for of course by this time I was really
thinking more about travelling myself than writing a travel-
story. But I didn't want to die. And I thought that all I could do
was to refine my observation of other things that have moved
and will move: to inspect the history of things whose paths
have, at some point of time and space, crossed the path of my
body.
'The mind uses the memory of its body. Could it use other
memories, or rather, records? What kind of record of past
events and forms could there be? In the time-sequence the
disintegration of a form destroys the memory - or the special
record - of the history of that form, unless it has got into a mind
first. The fragments, right down to the smallest units, no doubt
preserve the record of their own particular history, and that
may include some of the history of the combinations that
they've entered into. But take a haunted house, for instance.'
'Take a house! ' interrupted Jeremy. 'All houses are haunted.'
'I agree,' said Ramer. 'But I'm using the words, as they're
commonly used, to mean a house where some particular detail
of the haunting has become specially perceptible; how or why
that occurs is another question.'
'But haunting, and atmosphere (which I suppose is what
Jeremy means), are something added by accident of history,'
objected Frankley. 'They're not part of the house itself, qua
house.'
'I'm not sure I understand you,' said Ramer. 'But I'm quite
sure that I personally am not interested in 'housiness' in itself,
but in this or that thing which you may class as a house, part of
which (the most interesting part to me) is its history. If I say No.
100 Banbury Road,(31) I mean the shape which you call house
and all that you call the accidents of its history: what it is at
present. So do you. And if you destroy an actual house qua
house, you also destroy, or dissipate, the special haunting. If a
haunted house were pulled to pieces, it would stop being
haunted, even if it were built up as accurately as possible again.
Or so I think, and so-called 'psychical' research seems to bear
me out. In a way analogous to life in a body. If all the king's
horses and all his men had put Humpty Dumpty together again,
they'ld have got, well, an egg-shell.'
'But you can go a long way, short of destruction, without
wholly banishing atmosphere or quite laying ghosts,' said
Jeremy. 'Bricking up windows, changing staircases, and things
like that.'
'Quite right,' said Lowdham. 'There was one poor ghost I
heard of, and when they raised the floor of his favourite
corridor, he went on walking on the old level. So people in the
passage below could see the old fellow's feet trudging along
under the ceiling. That's how they discovered he had holes in his
soles. Don't laugh!' he said indignantly. 'It's a most melancholy
case, and well authenticated.'
'I dare say!' said Ramer. 'But quite apart from such forlorn
ghosts, and Arry's authorities (whoever they may be), I expect
there are in fact lots of neglected chances of historical research,
with proper training; especially among old houses and things
more or less shaped by man. But that was not my chief interest. I
wanted to travel a long way.
'So I tried various experiments, on myself; various forms of
training. It's difficult to concentrate, chiefly because it's difficult
to get quiet enough. The body makes such a noise itself, quite
apart from the din of sensations coming from outside. I wanted
to discover if my mind had any power, any trainable latent
power, to inspect and become aware of the memory or record
in other things, that would be in them anyway, even if not
inspectable by me. For, I suppose, what we call memory, human
memory, is both the power to inspect and be aware of the
record within us, and the record that would be there anyway.
The power of inspection and awareness is always there; and so
is the material and record, I suppose, unless it is smashed up.
Though the inspector cannot always get at the records. We
aren't in full control of ourselves, even, so obviously it wouldn't
be easy to deal with other things.'
'But the mind seems also to have its own storehouses, as well
as keys of inspection, doesn't it?' said Guildford. 'I mean, it can
remember past inspections, and retains what it has noted.'
'Yes, I think so,' said Ramer; 'but it is difficult, of course,
when you're dealing with a mind-body, an association in which
neither can do anything without having some effect on the
other. I don't think an incarnate mind ever gets really free of its
body, wherever it strays, until a man dies, if then. However, I
went on trying to train myself for this kind of, well, historical
inspection and awareness. I don't think I have any special talent
for it. I don't know, for so few people seem to have tried it. But I
fancy that Jeremy, for instance, has more of a bent in this
direction than I have.
'It is difficult, and it's also frightfully slow. Less slow, of
course, with things that have organic life, or any kind of human
associations: but they don't carry you very far. It's slow, and it's
faint. In inorganic things too faint to surmount the blare of
waking sense, even with eyes shut and ears stopped.
'But here the threads begin to join. Remember, I was also
training my memory on dreams at the same time. And that is
how I discovered that the other experiments affected them.
Though they were blurred, blurred by the waking senses beyond
recognition, I found that these other perceptions were not
wholly unnoted; they were like things that are passed over when
one is abstracted or distracted, but that are really "taken in".
And, asleep, the mind, rootling about, as it does, in the day's
leavings (or the week's), would inspect them again with far less
distraction, and all the force of its original desire. I dare say it
enjoyed it.
'But it couldn't make much of it. By which I suppose I mean
that I couldn't remember much about such inspections, although
I was now becoming pretty good at remembering large passages
of more vivid and pictorial dreams. And that means I suppose
also, that my mind was not able (at least not without more
practice) to translate the notes into the terms of the senses
which I can handle when awake. All the same, I used to get at
that time very extraordinary geometric patterns presented to
me, shifting kaleidoscopically but not blurred; and queer webs
and tissues, too. And other non-visual impressions also, very
difficult to describe; some like rhythms, almost like music; and
throbs and stresses.
'But all the time, of course, I wanted to get off the Earth.
That's how I got the notion of studying a meteorite, instead of
mooning about with houses, ruins, trees, boulders, and all sorts
of other things. There is a very large meteorite in a park,
Gunthorpe Park in Matfield,(32) where I lived as a boy, after we
came back from abroad; even then it had a strange fascination
for me. I wondered if it could have come from Malacandra. I
took to hobnobbing with it again, in the vacs. Indeed, I made
myself ridiculous and an object of suspicion. I wanted to visit
the stone alone at night - to lessen the distractions; but I was
not allowed to: closing hours were closing hours. So I gave that
up. It seemed to be quite without results.'
'So the poor old stone was left all alone?' said Lowdham.
'Yes,' said Ramer. 'It was. It is a very long way indeed from
home, and it is very lonely. That is, there is a great loneliness in
it, for a perceiver to perceive. And I got a very heavy dose of it.
In fact I can't bear to look at such things now. For I found,
about the end of the long vac. two years ago, after my final visit,
that there had been results. It had evidently taken some time to
digest them, and even partially translate them. But that is how I
first got away, out beyond the sphere of the Moon, and very
much further.'
'Travelling on a dream-meteor!' said Frankley. 'Hm! So that's
your method, is it?'
'No,' said Ramer. 'Not if you mean how I got the news of
Emberu that I put into my tale.(33) But I did work back into the
meteorite's history, I think; though that sort of vehicle does not
readily give any place or time references that can be related to
our waking point. I did get, all the rest of that term, and I still do
get occasionally, some very odd dreams or sleep-experiences:
painful often, and alarming. Some were quite unpictorial, and
those were the worst. Weight, for instance. Just Weight with
a capital W: very horrible. But it was not a weight that was
pressing on me, you understand; it was a perception of, or
sympathy in, an experience of almost illimitable weight.(34) And
Speed too. Heavens! waking up from that one was like hitting a
wall, though only a wall of light and air in my bedroom, at a
hundred miles a second - or rather, like knowing about it.
'And Fire! I can't describe that. Elemental Fire: fire that is,
and does not consume, but is a mode or condition of physical
being. But I caught sight of blazing fire, too: some real pictures.
One, I think, must have been a glimpse of the meteorite hitting
our air. A mountain corroded into a boulder in a few seconds of
agonizing flame. But above, or between, or perhaps through all
the rest, I knew endlessness. That's perhaps emotional and
inaccurate. I mean Length with a capital L, applied to Time;
unendurable length to mortal flesh. In that kind of dream you
can know about the feeling of aeons of constricted waiting.
'Being part of the foundations of a continent, and upholding
immeasurable tons of rock for countless ages, waiting for an
explosion or a world-shattering shock, is quite a common
situation in parts of this universe. In many regions there is little
or no "free will" as we conceive it. Also, though they are large
and terrific, events may be relatively simple in plan, so that
catastrophes (as we might call them), sudden changes as the end
of long repeated series of small motions, are "inevitable": the
present holds the future more completely. A perceiving but
passive mind could see a collapse coming from an immense
distance of time.
'I found it all very disturbing. Not what I wanted, or at least
not what I had hoped for. I saw, anyway, that it would take far
too much of a mortal human life to get so accustomed to this
kind of vehicle that one could use it properly, or selectively, at
will. I gave it up. No doubt, when any degree of control was
achieved, my mind would no longer have been limited to that
particular vehicle or chunk of matter. The waking mind is not
confined to the memories, heredity, or senses, of its own normal
vehicle, its body: it can use that as a platform to survey the
surroundings from. So, probably, it could, if it ever mastered
another vehicle: it could survey, in some fashion, other things
where the meteorite (say) came from, or things it had passed in
its historical journey. But that second transference of observa-
tion would certainly be much more difficult than the first, and
much more uncertain and inefficient.
'So I turned more than ever to dream-inspection, trying to get
"deeper down". I attended to dreams in general, but more and
more to those least connected with the immediate irritations of
the body's senses. Of course, I had at times experienced, as most
people have, parts of more or less rationally connected dreams,
and even one or two serial or repeating dreams. And I have had
also the not uncommon experience of remembering fragments
of dreams that seemed to possess a "significance" or emotion
that the waking mind could not discern in the remembered
scene.(35) I was not at all convinced that this significance> was
due to obscured symbols, or mythical values, in the dream-
scenes; or at least I didn't and don't think that that is true of
most of such dream-passages. Many of these "significant
patches" seemed to me much more like random pages torn out
of a book.'
'But you didn't wriggle out of Rufus's clutches that way, did
you?' said Guildford. 'He'll analyse a whole book as cheerfully
as a page.'
'It depends on the contents,' said Ramer. 'But I'll come back
to that. For at about that time something decisive happened. It
seemed to sweep away all other trials and experiments; but I
don't think they were really wasted. I think they had a good deal
to do with precipitating the, well, catastrophe.'
'Come on, come on! What was it?' said Dolbear. He stopped
snoring and sat up.
'It was most like a violent awakening,' said Ramer. He was
silent for almost a minute, staring at the ceiling as he lay back in
his chair.
At last he went on. 'Imagine an enormously long, vivid, and
absorbing dream being shattered - say, simultaneously by an
explosion in the house, a blow on your body, and the sudden
flinging back of dark curtains, letting in a dazzling light: with
the result that you come back with a rush to your waking life,
and have to recapture it and its connexions, feeling for some
time a shock and the colour of dream-emotions: like falling out
of one world into another where you had once been but had
forgotten it. Well, that was what it was like in reverse; only
recapturing the connexions was slower.
'I was awake in bed, and I fell wide asleep: as suddenly and
violently as the waker in my illustration. I dived slap through
several levels and a whirl of shapes and scenes into a connected
and remembered sequence. I could remember all the dreams I
had ever had, of that sequence. At least, I remember that I could
remember them while I was still "there", better than I can
"here" remember a long sequence of events in waking life. And
the memory did not vanish when I woke up, and it hasn't
vanished. It has dimmed down to normal, to about the same
degree as memory of waking life: it's edited: blanks indicating
lack of interest, some transitions cut, and so on. But my dream-
memories are no longer fragments, no longer like pictures, about
the size of my circle of vision with fixed eyes, surrounded with
dark, as they used to be, nearly always. They are wide and long
and deep. I have visited many other sequences since then, and I
can now remember a very great number of serious, free, dreams,
my deep dreams, since I first had any.'
'What a lumber-room! ' said Lowdham.
'I said my serious dreams,' said Ramer. 'Of course, I can't,
don't want to, and haven't tried to remember all the jumble of
marginal stuff - the rubbish the analysts mostly muck about
with, because it's practically all they've got - no more than you
try to recollect all the scribbling on blotting-paper, the small
talk, or the idle fancies of your days.'
'How far have you gone back?' Lowdham asked.
'To the beginning,' Ramer answered.
'When was that?'
'Ah! That depends on what you mean by when,' said Ramer.
'There are seldom any data for cross-timing as between waking
and dreaming. Many dreams are in, or are concerned with,
times remote from the standpoint of the body. One of those
dreams might be said to occur before it started; or after. I've no
idea how far I've gone back in that sense, backward in the
history of the universe, you might say. But sticking to the
waking time, then I suppose I cannot have begun dreaming until
I had begun to be: that is, until the creation of my mind, or soul.
But I doubt if any ordinary time-reference has any real meaning
with regard to that event considered in itself; and the word
dreaming ought to be limited to the ... er ... spare-time,
off-duty, activities of an incarnate mind. So I should say my
dreaming began with the entry of my mind into body and time:
somewhere in the year 1929. But that fifty-odd years of our time
could contain various indefinite lengths of experience, or opera-
tion, or journeying. My earlier experiments were not necessary,
except perhaps to help in the precipitation of memory, as I said.
My mind "asleep" had long done that sort of thing very much
better.'
He paused, and we looked at him, some of us a bit queerly.
He laughed. 'Don't imagine me walking about "in a dream", as
people say. The two modes are no more confused than before. If
you had two homes in quite different places, say in Africa and
Norway, you'ld not usually be in doubt which one you were
staying in at any given time, even if you could not remember the
transition. No, at the worst my situation is only like that of a
man who has been reading a deeply interesting book, and has it
"on his mind", as he goes about his affairs. But the impression
can pass off, or be put aside, as in the case of a book. I need not
think about my dreams, if I don't wish to, no more than I need
think about any book or re-read it.'
'You say re-read. Can you will, now when awake, to go back
to any particular dream, to repeat it or go on with it?' asked
Frankley. 'And can you remember your waking life while in a
dream?'
'As to the last question,' Ramer replied, 'the answer is: in a
sense yes. As clearly as you can remember it while writing a
story, or deeply engrossed in a book. Only you can't give direct
attention to it. If you do, you wake up, of course.
'The other question's more difficult. Dreams are no more all
of one sort than the experiences of waking life; less so in fact.
They contain sensations as different as tasting butter and
understanding a logical argument; stories as different in length
and quality as one of Arry's lower anecdotes and the Iliad; and
pictures as unlike as a study of a flower-petal and those
photographs of the explosion in the Atomic Reservation in the
seventies,(36) which blew the Black Hole in the States. Dreams
happen, or are made, in all sorts of ways. Those that people
mostly remember, and remember most of, are marginal ones, of
course, or on the upper levels...'
'Margins? Upper levels? What d'you mean?' snapped Jones,(37)
breaking in, to our surprise. 'Just now you spoke of diving.
When do we get to the bottom?'
'Never,' Ramer laughed. 'Don't take my words too literally,
at any rate no more literally than I suppose you take the sub in
subconscious. I'm afraid I haven't thought out my terminology
very carefully, James; but then I didn't mean to talk about these
things to you, not yet. I've been put on the mat. I think I meant
deep as in deeply interested; and down, lower, upper, and all the
rest have crept in afterwards, and are misleading. Of course
there isn't any distance between dreams and waking, or one
kind of dream and another; only an increase or decrease of
abstraction and concentration. In some dreams there's no dis-
traction at all, some are confused by distractions, some just
are distractions. You can lie "deep" and sodden in body-made
dreams, and receive clear visions in "light" sleep (which might
seem on the very margin of waking). But if I use "deep" again
you'll know that I mean dreams as remote as may be from
disturbance, dreams in which the mind is seriously engaged.
'By the marginal ones I meant those that are produced when
the mind is playing, idling, or fooling, as it often is, mooning
aimlessly about among the memories of the senses - because it's
tired, or bored, or out of mental sorts, or worried by sense-
messages when its desires or attention are elsewhere; the devil's
tattoo of dreaming as compared with the piano-playing. Some
minds, perhaps, are hardly capable of anything else, sleeping or
waking.
'And the machinery may go on ticking over, even when the
mind is not attending. You know how you've only got to do
something steadily for hours - like picking blackberries, say -
and even before you're asleep the manufacture of intricate
trellises of briars and berries goes on in the dark, even if you're
thinking of something else. When you begin to dream you may
start by using some of those patterns. I should call that
"marginal". And anything else that is largely due to what is
actually going on, in and around the body: distraction com-
plexes in which such things as "noises off", indigestion, or a
leaking hot-water-bottle play a part.
'Asking if you can re-visit that stuff is like asking me if I can
will to see (not make) rain tomorrow, or will to be waked up
again by two black cats fighting on the lawn. But if you're
talking about serious dreams, or visions, then it's like asking if I
shall walk back up the road again last Tuesday. The dreams are
for your mind events. You can, or might - waking desire has
some effect, but not much - go back to the same "places" and
"times", as a spectator; but the spectator will be the you of
now, a later you, still anchored as you are, however remotely, to
your body time-clock here. But there are various complications:
you can re-inspect your memories of previous inspections, for
one thing; and that is as near to dreaming the same dream over
again as you can get (the closest parallel is reading a book for a
second time). For another thing, thought and "invention" goes
on in dreams, a lot of it; and of course you can go back to your
own work and take it up again - go on with the story-making, if
that is what you were doing.'
'What a busy time we all seem to have been having without
knowing it,' said Lowdham. 'Even old Rufus may not be quite
such a sloth as he looks. Anyway you've given him a jolly good
excuse to fall back on. "Goodbye all! I'm off to my dream-lab to
see if the retorts are bubbling," says he, and he's snoring in two
ticks.'
'I leave the bubbling retorts to you,' said Dolbear, opening his
eyes. 'I am afraid I've not yet got down to such high levels as
Michael, and I muck about still with the marginal stuff, as he
calls it. Tonight at any rate I've been having a bit of a dream: in
the rootling stage, I suppose, owing to the distraction of this
discussion going on round my body. I got a picture of Ramer,
equipped with Frankley's long nose, trying to extract whiskey
out of a bottle; he couldn't pour it out, as he had no arms, only
a pair of black wings, like a devil in a stuffed M.A. gown.'
'The whiskey-bottle was not derived from the sense-data in
this room,' said Lowdham.
'Now I can sympathize with the psychoanalysts,' said Frank-
ley, rising and getting a bottle out of the cupboard. 'The
difficulty they must have in sorting out dreams from the
malicious inventions of the patient's waking mind!'
'No difficulty with Rufus,' said Lowdham. 'The drink-urge
explains most of him. And I don't think he's got a Censor,
sleeping or waking.'
'Hm! I'm glad I'm so transparent,' said Dolbear. 'Not
everyone is so simple, Arry. You walk in disguises, even when
awake. But they'll slip, my lad, one day. I shouldn't wonder if it
was fairly soon.'(38)
'Lor!' said Lowdham. 'Have I come out in a false beard and
forgotten it, or something?' But at that moment he caught a
glint in Dolbear's eye, and stopped suddenly.
'Go on, Michael, and don't take any notice of them!' said
Jeremy.
'Shall I?' he asked, absentmindedly drinking the whiskey that
Frankley had put at Dolbear's elbow.
'Of course!' we said. 'We are fortified now.'
'Well, seriously,' he went on, 'I don't think the marginal stuff
is very interesting in normal people: it's so ravelled, and more
bother to unravel than it's worth. It's very much like the idleness
and foolery of the waking mind. The chief distinction is, I think,
that when a man's awake he's attending more to the foolery;
and when he's asleep his attention is probably already far away:
so the foolery is less good of its kind. But as for his mind being
busy, Arry: I only said, if you remember, that your life could
contain a lot of dream-work or events. I don't think it usually
does. Minds can be lazy on their own account. Even for the
energetic ones sleep is largely a rest. But of course, for a mind
rest is not oblivion, which is impossible for it. The nearest it can
get to that is passivity: the mind can be very nearly passive,
contemplating something worthy of it, or what seems worthy-
Or it can take the kind of holiday we call "a change", doing
something different to the work imposed on it by needs or
duties when it is awake. If it has by nature, or has acquired,
some dominant interest - like history, or languages,
mathematics - it may at times work away at such things, while
the old body is recuperating. It can then construct dreams, by no
means always pictorial. It can plan and calculate.
'My mind, like many others, I imagine, makes up stories,
composes verse, or designs pictures out of what it has got
already, when for some reason it hasn't at the moment a thirst
to acquire more. I fancy that all waking art draws a good deal
on this sort of activity.(39) Those scenes that come up complete
and fixed that I spoke of before, for instance; though some of
them, I believe, are visions of real places.
'And that strong feeling of hidden significance in remembered
fragments: my experience now, though it is still very imperfect,
certainly bears out my guess, as far as my own dreams go. My
significant fragments were actually often pages out of stories,
made up in quieter dream-levels, and by some chance remem-
bered. Occasionally they were bits of long visions of things not
invented.
'If long ago you'd either read or written a story and forgotten
it, and then in an old drawer you came on a few torn pages of it,
containing a passage that had some special function in the
whole, even if it had no obvious point in isolation, I think you'ld
get very similar feelings: of hidden significance, of lost con-
nexions eluding you, and often of regret.'
'Could you give us any examples?' asked Jeremy.
Ramer thought for a moment. 'Well,' he said, 'I could have
done so. I've placed several of my fragments in their proper
setting now. But the difficulty is that when once you've got the
whole story, you tend very soon to forget which part of it was
the bit you used to remember torn out. But there are a couple
that I still remember, for I only placed them recently; and I still
remember my disappointment. The whole stories are often not
particularly good or interesting, you know; and the charm of
the fragments is often largely in being unfinished, as sometimes
happens in waking art. The sleeping mind is no cleverer than
itself; only it can be less distracted and more collected, more set
on using what it has.
'Here's one case: it's only interesting as an illustration.
A row of dark houses on the right, going up a slight slope.
Their backs had little gardens or yards fenced with hedges,
and a narrow path behind them. It was miserably dark and
gloomy. Not a light in the houses, not a star, no moon. He
was going up the path for no particular reason, in a heavy
aimless mood. Near the top of the slope he heard a noise: a
door had opened at the back of one of the houses, or it had
closed. He was startled and apprehensive. He stood still. End,
of fragment.
What would you expect the emotion to be that this aroused?'
'Like going round to the back-door after closing-time and
hearing that just being shut as well?' suggested Lowdham.
'It sounds reasonable enough,' agreed Ramer with a laugh.
'Actually it was a happiness that brings tears, like the thrill of
the sudden turn for good in a dangerous tale; and a kind of dew
of happiness was distilled that spilled over into waking, lasted
for hours, and for years was renewed (though diminishingly) on
recollection.
'All my waking mind could make of it was that the picture
was sombre. It did rather remind me of - or rather, I identified
it, in spite of some misfit, with a row of cottages near where I
lived as a small boy. But that did not explain the joy. And, by
the way, if it had really been a picture of that row, there should
have been a pump just at the top of the slope. I put it in. I see it
now in dark silhouette. But it was not there in my earliest
recollection, not in the original version. Also, I was only the he
of the scene in the way one does (or I do) identify oneself
variably with this or that character in a tale, especially with
regard to the point of vision. The scene was observed more or
less from his point of view, though I (the producer) was just
behind (and a little above) him - until he stopped. At the
emotion-point I took his place.
'The story that scene came out of is known to me now; and
it's not very interesting. Apparently it's one I made up years
ago,(40) somewhere in the fifties, at a time when, while awake, I
wrote lots of things of the sort. I won't bother you with it all: it
had a long and complicated plot,(41) mainly dealing with the Six
Years' War; but it wasn't very original, nor very good of its
kind. All that matters at the moment is that this scene came just
before a lovers' reunion, beyond the hope of either the man or
the woman. On hearing the noise he halted, with a premonition
that something was going to happen. The woman came out of
the door, but he did not recognize her till she spoke to him at the
gate. If he hadn't halted, they would have missed one another,
probably for ever. The plot, of course, explained how they both
came to be there, where neither of them had been before; but
that doesn't matter now. The interesting thing is that the
remembered fragment, for some reason, ended with the sound
of the door and the halting; but the emotion left over was due to
part of the story immediately following, which was not remem-
bered pictorially at all. But there was no trace of the emotions of
still later parts of the story, which did not finally have a happy
: ending.
'Well, there it is. Not very exciting, but suggestive, perhaps.
Do you want the other case?'
Dolbear gave a loud snore. 'Hark at him!' said Lowdham. 'I
expect he's analysed you enough already, and doesn't want any
more of your juvenilia to interrupt his slumber.'
'Oh go on, Ramer!' said Jeremy. 'Let's have it!'
'It's your evening, and we asked for it,' said Guildford. 'Carry
on!'
'Well, here's another picture,' said Ramer.
A pleasant small room: a pre, a lot of books, a large desk; a
golden light from a lamp. He is sitting at the desk. The
dreamer's attention, from slightly above his head, is concen-
trated on the circle of light, but is vaguely aware of dim
figures away in front, moving about, taking books from
shelves, reading in corners. He is looking at an open book at
his left hand, and making notes on a paper. General air of
cheerfulness and quiet. He pauses and looks up as if thinking,
knocking his pipe-stem between his teeth. He turns a leaf of
the book - and sees a new light, makes a discovery; but the
fragment ends.
What do you make of that?'
'He'd solved the acrostic with the aid of a dictionary?' said
Frankley.
'Emotion: Jack-Hornerism, quiet bibliophilous gloating?'
said Lowdham.
'No!' said Ramer. 'Though you're getting warm, Arry. But
the emotion associated was worry, with a heavy hang-over into
waking hours of a dull sense of loss, as heavy as anything you
felt in childhood when something precious was broken or lost.'
'Well, New Readers now go back to Chapter One,' said
Lowdham. 'What is it?'
'Rather more unusual than the first case, so I'll tell it more
fully,' said Ramer. 'He was the librarian in a small university.
The room was his office-study: quite comfortable, but it had a
glass wall on one side, through which he could overlook the
main hall of the library. He was feeling cheerful, for a few years
back a local magnate had left the university a splendid book-
collection, and most of his money for the enlargement and
upkeep of the library. The library had become important; so
had he, and his salary as curator of the endowed collection was
generous. And after a lot of delay a new wing had been built,
and the books transferred. For some time he'd been carefully
re-examining the more interesting items. The book to his left
was a volume made up of various manuscript-fragments bound
together, probably in the sixteenth century, by some collector or
pilferer.
'In the remembered bit of the dream I knew I had been able to
read the page before he turned over, and that it was not English;
but I could remember no more than that - except that I was
delighted, or he was. Actually it was a leaf, a unique fragment of
a MS. in very early Welsh, before Geoffrey,(42) about the death of
Arthur.
'He turned to look at the back of the leaf - and he found,
stuck between it and the next, a document. It turned out to be a
will made by the Donor. This book of fragments was one of the
last things the magnate had acquired, just before his death. The
will was later than the proved and executed will by nearly two
years. It was in form, and witnessed, and it did not mention the
university, but directed that the books should be dispersed and
sold, and the proceeds should go to found a Chair of Basic
English in London; while the rest of the estate should go to a
nephew, previously passed over.
'The librarian had known the magnate, and had often been to
his house: he had helped in cataloguing his collection. He saw
that the witnesses were two old servants that had died soon
after their master. The emotions are easy to understand: the
librarian was proud of his library, a scholar, a lover of real
English, and the father of a family; but he was also an honest
man. He knew that the Donor had disliked the new Vice-
Chancellor very much; also that the nephew was the Donor's
next of kin, and poor.'
'Well, what did he do with the will?' said Jeremy.
'On second thoughts he thought it best to stuff it in the old
oak chest?' said Lowdham.
'I don't know,' said Ramer. 'Of course it would have been
easy and probably quite safe to suppress the will. But I found I
had never finished the tale properly, though plenty of sequels
could be invented. I found one or two ideas, not worked out,
floating at the end. One was that the librarian went to the
Vice-Chancellor, who begged him to keep his discovery quiet;
he gave way, and was later blackmailed by the Vice-Chancellor
himself. But evidently that hadn't seemed satisfactory, or I'd lost
interest in the whole thing beyond the recorded situation. I left a
good many such yarns incomplete at that time.
'There's little merit in these stories, as you see. But they do
illustrate one or two points about fragmentary memory, and
about dream-storywriting. For it is not, of course, writing, but a
sort of realized drama.'
'Elvish Drama,'(43) Jeremy interposed; 'there's something ab-
out it ...' But we had heard him on that topic before. 'Ramer
has the floor! ' we cried.
'Well anyway,' Ramer went on: 'the whole story as it is told
becomes visible and audible, and the composer is inside it -
though he can take his stand in some odd positions (often high
up), unless he puts himself into the play, as he can at any moment.
The scenes look real, but are feigned; and the composition is not
complete like a "slice of life": it can be given in selected scenes,
and compressed (like a drama). Also it can, when you're
working over it again or merely re-inspecting it, be reviewed in
any order and at varying speeds (like re-reading or reconsider-
ing a book). I think that is one, though only one, of the reasons
why the memory of such dreams, when any survives at all, is so
often dissolving or jumbled. The dreamer is aware, of course,
that he is author and producer, at any rate while he is at work
asleep; but he can get far more absorbed by his work than a
waking man is by any book or play that he is either writing or
reading; and he can feel the emotions very strongly - excessively
sometimes, because they are heightened by the excitement of
combining authorship with an acting part; and in memory they
may be exaggerated still more through getting dislocated,
abstracted from the sounds and scenes that would explain them.
'The cases I've cited are without any symbolism. Just plain
emotional situations. I can't say much about symbolic or
mythical significances. Of course they exist. And really I can
only put them back one stage. For the dreamer can work on
myth, and on fairy-tale, quite as much as on novelette. I did. I
do. And with a more complete text, so to speak, the excerpted
scenes are often much easier to understand, and the functions of
the symbols are plainer - but their final solution recedes.
'There are good dreams, apparently of the sort I mean,
quoted in books. My own were not so good: the ones I used to
remember when awake, that is; they were only significant
fragments, more statically pictorial, seldom dramatic, and
usually without figures of humane shape.(44) Though I sometimes
retained the memory of significant words or sentences without
any scenery: such as I am full of sovereign remedies. That
seemed a wise and satisfactory utterance. I have never yet found
out why.
'Here are some of my fragments of this kind. There is the
empty throne on the top of a mountain. There is a Green Wave,
whitecrested, fluted and scallop-shaped but vast, towering
above green fields, often with a wood of trees, too; that has
constantly appeared.(45) I saw several times a scene in which a
wide plain lay before the feet of a steep ridge on which I stood;
the opposing sky was immense, rising as a vertical wall, not
bending to a vault, ablaze with stars strewn almost regularly
over all its expanse. That is an omen or presage of catastrophe.
A dark shape sometimes passes across the sky, only seen by
blotting out the stars as it goes. Then there is the tall, grey,
round tower on the sheer end of the land. The Sea cannot be
seen, for it is too far below, too immeasurably far; but it can be
smelt. And over and over again, in many stages of growth and
many different lights and shadows, three tall trees, slender, foot
to foot on a green mound, and crowned with an embracing halo
of blue and gold.'
'And what do you think they all mean?' asked Frankley.
'It took me quite a time, far too long, to explain the very
minor story of the librarian,' said Ramer. 'I could not embark
tonight on even one of the immense and ramified legends and
cosmogonies that these belong to.'
'Not even on the Green Wave?' said Lowdham;(46) but Ramer
did not answer him.
'Are the Blessed Trees religious symbolism?' asked Jeremy.
'No, not more than all things mythical are; not directly. But
one does sometimes see and use symbols directly religious, and
more than symbols. One can pray in dreams, or adore. I think I
do sometimes, but there is no memory of such states or acts, one
does not revisit such things. They're not really dreams. They're
a third thing. They belong somewhere else, to the other
anchorage, which is not to the Body, and differ from dreams
more than Dream from Waking.
'Dreaming is not Death. The mind is still, as I say, anchored
to the body. It is all the time inhabiting the body, so far as it is in
anywhere. And it is therefore in Time and Space: attending to
them. It is meant to be so. But most of you will agree that there
has probably been a change of plan; and it looks as if the cure is
to give us a dose of something higher and more difficult. Mind
you, I'm only talking of the seeing and learning side, not for
instance of morality. But it would feel terribly loose without the
anchor. Maybe with the support of the stronger and wiser it
could be celestial; but without them it could be bitter, and
lonely. A spiritual meteorite in the dark looking for a world to
land on. I daresay many of us are in for some lonely Cold before
we get back.
'But out of some place beyond the region of dreams, now and
again there comes a blessedness, and it soaks through all the
levels, and illumines all the scenes through which the mind
passes out back into waking, and so it flows out into this life.
There it lasts long, but not for ever in this world, and memory
cannot reach its source. Often we ascribe it to the pictures seen
on the margin radiant in its light, as we pass by and out. But a
mountain far in the North caught in a slow sunset is not the
Sun.
'But, as I said, it is largely a rest-time, Sleep. As often as not
the mind is inactive, not making things up (for instance). It then
just inspects what is presented to it, from various sources - with
very varying degrees of interest, I may say. It's not really
frightfully interested in the digestion and sex items sent in by the
body.'
'What is presented to it, you say?' said Frankley. 'Do you
mean that some of the presentments come from outside, are
shown to it?'
'Yes. For instance: in a halting kind of way I had managed to
get on to other vehicles; and in dream I did it better and more
often. So other minds do that occasionally to me. Their resting
on me need not be noticed, I think, or hardly at all; I mean, it
need not affect me or interfere with me at all; but when they are
doing so, and are in contact, then my mind can use them. The
two minds don't tell stories to one another, even if they're aware
of the contact. They just are in contact and can learn.*(47) After
(* See the further discussion of this point on the following Night
62. N.G. [Only a fragment of that meeting is preserved, and the
only part that could correspond to this note is as follows. ' "How can
the dreamer distinguish them?" said Ramer. "Well, it seems to me that)
all, a wandering mind (if it's at all like mine) will be much more '
interested in having a look at what the other knows than in
trying to explain to the stranger the things that are familiar to
itself.'
'Evidently if the Notion Club could all meet in sleep, they'ld
find things pretty topsy-turvy,' said Lowdham.
'What kind of minds visit you?' asked Jeremy. 'Ghosts?'
'Well, yes of course, ghosts,' said Ramer. 'Not departed
human spirits, though; not in my case, as far as I can tell..'."
Beyond that what shall I say? Except that some of them seem to
know about things a very long way indeed from here. It is not a
common experience with me, at least my awareness of any
contact is not.'
'Aren't some of the visitors malicious?' said Jeremy. 'Don't
evil minds attack you ever in sleep?'
'I expect so,' said Ramer. 'They're always on the watch,
asleep or awake. But they work more by deceit than attack. I
don't think they are specially active in sleep. Less so, probably.
I fancy they find it easier to get at us awake, distracted and not
so aware. The body's a wonderful lever for an indirect influence
on the mind, and deep dreams can be very remote from its
disturbance. Anyway, I've very little experience of that kind -
thank God! But there does come sometimes a frightening... a
sort of knocking at the door: it doesn't describe it, but that'll
(the chief divisions are Perceiving (free dreams), Composing and
Working, and Reading. Each has a distinctive quality, and confusion is
not as a rule likely to occur, while it is going on; though the waking
mind may make mistakes about disjointed memories. The divisions
can be subdivided, of course. Perceiving can be, for instance, either
inspections and visits to real scenes; or apparitions, in which one may
be deliberately visited by another mind or spirit. Reading can be
simply going over the records of any experiences, messing about in the
mind's library; or it can be perceiving at second hand, using minds,
inspecting their records. There's a danger there, of course. You might
inspect a mind and think you were looking at a record (true in its own
terms of things external to you both), when it was really the other
mind's composition, fiction. There's lying in the universe, some very
clever lying. I mean, some very potent fiction is specially composed to
be inspected by others and to deceive, to pass as record; but it is made
for the malefit of Men. If men already lean to lies, or have thrust aside
the guardians, they may read some very maleficial stuff. It seems that
they do." '])
have to do. I think that is one of the ways in which that horrible
sense of fear arises: a fear that doesn't seem to reside in the
remembered dream-situation at all, or wildly exceeds it.
'I'm not much better off than anyone else on this point, for
when that fear comes, it usually produces a kind of dream-
concussion, and a passage is erased round the true fear-point.
But there are some dreams that can't be fully translated into
sight and sound. I can only describe them as resembling such a
situation as this: working alone, late at night, withdrawn
wholly into yourself; a noise, or even a nothing sensible, startles
- you; you get prickles all over, become acutely self-conscious,
uneasy, aware of isolation: how thin the walls are between you
and the Night.
'That situation may have various explanations here. But out
(or down) there sometimes the mind is suddenly aware that
' there is a Night outside, and enemies walk in it: one is trying to
get in. But there are no walls,' said Ramer sombrely. 'The soul is
dreadfully naked when it notices it, when that is pointed out to
it by something alien. It has no armour on it, it has only its
being. But there is a guardian.
'He seems to command precipitate retreat. You could, if you
were a fool, disobey, I suppose. You could push him away. You
could have got into a state in which you were attracted by the
Fear. But I can't imagine it. I'ld rather talk about something
else.'
'Oh!' said Jeremy. 'Don't stop there! It's been mostly digres-
sions since the meteorite. My fault largely. Won't you go on?'
'I should like to, if the Club can bear it. A little longer. I only
meant: I'ld rather get back to the visions and the journeys. Well,
apart from such dangers - which I've not experienced often or
thought much about - I think that what one calls "interests" are
sometimes actually stimulated, or even implanted by contacts.
As you might get a special interest in China, through being
visited by a Chinaman, especially if you got to know him and
something of his mind.'
'Have you gone to any Celestial China?' asked Frankley. 'Or
anywhere more interesting than your invented tales: something
more like Emberu?'
'I've never gone anywhere,' said Ramer, 'as I've tried to
explain. But I suppose I could say that I've been in places, and
I'm still busy trying to sort out my observations. If you mean
places off the Earth, other heavenly bodies: yes, I've seen several
besides Emberu, either through other minds, or by vehicles and ':
records; possibly by using light.* Yes, I've been to several
strange places.
'The one I told you about, Green Emberu,(48) where there was
a kind of organic life, rich but wholesome and longeval: that was
where I landed when I first fell wide asleep. It seems a long while
ago now. It is still very vivid to me, or was until last week.' He
sighed.
'I cannot remember the original again now, somehow; not
when awake. I've an idea that writing these memories up,
re-telling them in waking life and terms, blurs or erases them in -
waking memory; overlays them into palimpsests. One can't
have it both ways. Either one must bear the pains of not '.
communicating what one greatly desires to share, or one must,
remain content with the translation. I wrote that account for
you, and all I'll have now is that, and stirrings and faint traces of
what lies beneath: the vision of Emberu!
'It's the same with Ellor. Ellor!' he murmured. 'Ellor Eshur-
izel! I drew it once in words as best I could, and now it is words.
That immense plain with its silver floor all delicately patterned;
the shapely cliffs and convoluted hills. The whole world was
designed with such loveliness, not of one thought, but of many:
in harmony; though in all its shapes there was nowhere any to
recall what we call organic life. There "inanimate nature" was
orderly, symmetrical, unconfused, yet intricate, beyond my
mind's unravelling, in its flowing modulations and recollections:
a garden, a paradise of water, metal, stone, like the interwoven
variations of vast natural orders of flowers. Eshurizel! Blue,
white, silver, grey, blushing to rich purples were its themes, in
which a glint of red was like an apocalyptic vision of essential
Redness, and a gleam of gold was like the glory of the Sun. And
there was music, too. For there were many streams, water abun-
dant - or some fairer counterpart, less wayward, more skilled in
(* Jones says that Ramer explained: 'I think that as the seeing in free
dream is not done with eyes, it is not subject to optical laws. But light
can be used, like any other mode of being. The mind can, as it were,
travel back up-stream, as it can go back into the historical record of
other things. But it seems tiring: it requires a great energy and desire.
One can't do it often; nor can one go to an indefinite distance of Time
and Space.' N.G.)
the enchantment of light and in the making of innumerable
sounds. There the great waterfall of Oshul-kullosh fell down its
three hundred steps in a sequence of notes and chords of which I
can only hear faint echoes now. I think the En-keladim dwell
there.'(49)
'The En-keladim?' asked Jeremy softly. 'Who are they?'
Ramer did not answer. He was staring at the fire. After a
pause he went on. 'And there was another world, further away,
that I came to later. I won't say very much. I hope to look on it
again, and longer: on Minal-zidar the golden, absolutely silent
and quiescent, a whole small world of one single perfect form,
complete, imperishable in Time, finished, at peace, a jewel, a
visible word, a realization in material form of contemplation
and adoration, made by what adoring mind I cannot tell.'
'Where is Minal-zidar?' asked Jeremy quietly.
Ramer looked up. 'I don't know where or when,' he
answered. 'The travelling mind does not seem very interested in
such points, or forgets to try and find out in the absorption of
beholding. So I have very little to go on. I did not look at the sky
of Minal-zidar. You know, if you were looking at the face of
somebody radiant with the contemplation of a great beauty or a
holiness, you'ld be held by the face for a very long time, even if
you were great enough (or presumptuous enough) to suppose
that you could see for yourself. Reflected beauty like reflected
light has a special loveliness of its own - or we shouldn't, I
suppose, have been created.
'But in Ellor there seemed to be lights in the sky, what we
should call stars, not suns or moons, and yet many were much
larger and brighter than any star is here. I am no astronomer, so
I don't know what that may imply. But I suppose it was
somewhere far away, beyond the Fields of Arbol.'(50)
'Fields of Arbol?' said Lowdham. 'I seem to have heard that
before. Where do you get these names from? Whose language
are they? Now that would really interest me, rather than
geometry and landscape. I should use my chances, if ever I got
into such a state, for language-history.'(51)
'Arbol is "Old Solar" for the Sun,' said Jeremy.(52) 'Do you
mean, Ramer, that you can get back to Old Solar, and that
Lewis' did not merely invent those words?'
{* Referring to Out of the Silent Planet and Perelandra, which we
had all read some time ago, under pressure from Jeremy (while he was}
'Old Solar?' said Ramer. 'Well, no. But of course I was
quoting Lewis, in saying Fields of Arbol. As to the other names,
that's another matter. They're as firmly associated with the
places and visions in my mind as bread is with Bread in your
minds, and mine. But I think they're my names in a sense in
which bread is not.*
'I daresay it depends on personal tastes and talents, but
although I'm a philologist, I think I should find it difficult to
learn strange languages in a free dream or vision. You can learn
in dreams, of course; but in the case of real visions of new things
you don't talk, or don't need to: you get the meaning of minds
(if you meet any) more directly. If I had a vision of some alien
people, even if I heard them talking, their sense would drown or
blur my reception of their sounds; and when I woke up, if I
remembered what had been said, and tried to relate it, it would
come out in English.'
'But that wouldn't apply to pure names, proper nouns, would
it?' said Lowdham.
'Yes, it would,' said Ramer. 'The voice might say Ellor, but I
should get a glimpse of the other mind's vision of the place.
Even if a voice said bread or water, using <common nouns>, I
should be likely to get, as the core of a vague cloud (including
tastes and smells), some particular glimpse of a shaped loaf, or a
running spring, or a glass filled with transparent liquid.
'I daresay that you, Arry, are more phonetical, and more
sound-sensitive than I am, but I think even you would find it
difficult to keep your ear-memory of the alien words unblurred
{writing his book on Imaginary Lands). See note to Night 60, p. 164.
Jeremy was an admirer of the Public-house School (as he himself had
dubbed them), and soon after he became a Lecturer he gave a series of
lectures with that title. Old Professor Jonathan Gow had puffed and
boggled at the title; and J. had offered to change it to Lewis and
Carolus, or the Oxford Looking-glass, or Jack and the Beanstalk;
which did not smooth matters. Outside the Club J. had not had much
success in reviving interest in these people; though the little book of
anonymous memoirs In the Thirsty Forties, or the Inns and Outs of
Oxford attracted some notice when it came out in 1980. N.G.}
(* Lowdham says that Ramer told him after the meeting that he
thought Minal-zidar meant Poise in Heaven; but Emberu and Ellor
were just names. Eshurizel was a title, signifying in an untranslatable
way some blend or scheme of colours; but Oshul-kullosh meant
simply Falling Water. N.G.)
by the impact of the direct meaning in such dreams. If you did,
then very likely it would be only the sounds and not the sense
that you'ld remember.
'And yet... especially far away outside this world of Speech,
where no voices are heard, and other naming has not reached
... I seem to hear fragments of language and names that are not
of this country.'
'Yes, yes,' said Lowdham. 'That's just what I want to hear
about. What language is it? You say not Old Solar?'
'No,' said Ramer, 'because there isn't any such tongue. I'm
sorry to disagree with your authorities, Jeremy; but that is my
opinion. And by the way, speaking as a philologist, I should say
that the treatment of language, intercommunication, in tales of
travel through Space or Time is a worse blemish, as a rule, than
the cheap vehicles that we were discussing last week. Very little
thought or attention is ever given to it.(53) I think Arry will agree
with me there.'
'I do,' said Lowdham, 'and that's why I'm still waiting to hear
where and how you got your names.'
'Well, if you really want to know what these names are,' said
Ramer, 'I think they're my native language.'
'But that is English, surely?' said Lowdham. 'Though you
were born in Madagascar, or some strange place.'
'No, you ass! Magyarorszag, that is Hungary,' said Ramer.
'But anyway, English is not my native language. Nor yours
either. We each have a native language of our own - at least
potentially. In working-dreams people who have a bent that
way may work on it, develop it. Some, many more than you'ld
think, try to do the same in waking hours - with varying degrees
of awareness. It may be no more than giving a personal twist to
the shape of old words; it may be the invention of new words
(on received models, as a rule); or it may come to the elabora-
tion of beautiful languages of their own in private: in private
only because other people are naturally not very interested.
'But the inherited, first-learned, language - what is usually
mis-called "native" - bites in early and deep. It is hardly possible
to escape from its influence. And later-learned languages also
affect the natural style, colouring a man's linguistic taste; the
earlier learned the more so. As Magyar does mine, strongly -
but all the more strongly, I think, because it is in many ways
closer to my own native predilections than English is. In
language-invention, though you may seem to build only out of
material taken from other acquired tongues, it is those elements ]
most near to your native style that you select.
'In such rare dreams as I was thinking about, far away by
oneself in voiceless countries, then your own native language
bubbles up, and makes new names for strange new things.'
'Voiceless countries?' said Jeremy. 'You mean regions where
there is nothing like our human language?'
'Yes,' said Ramer. 'Language properly so called, as we know
it on Earth - token (perceived by sense) plus significance (for the
mind) - that is peculiar to an embodied mind; an essential
characteristic, the prime characteristic of the fusion of incarna-
tion. Only hnau, to use Jeremy's Lewisian word again, would
have language. The irrational couldn't, and the unembodied
couldn't or wouldn't.'
'But spirits are often recorded as speaking,' said Frankley.
'I know,' Ramer answered. 'But I wonder if they really do, or
if they make you hear them, just as they can also make you see
them in some appropriate form, by producing a direct impress-
ion on the mind. The clothing of this naked impression in terms
intelligible to your incarnate mind is, I imagine, often left to
you, the receiver. Though no doubt they can cause you to hear
words and to see shapes of their own choosing, if they will. But
in any case the process would be the reverse of the normal in a
way, outwards, a translation from meaning into symbol. The
audible and visible results might be hardly distinguishable from
the normal, even so, except for some inner emotion; though
there is, in fact, sometimes a perceptible difference of sequence.'
'I don't know what spirits can do,' said Lowdham; 'but I
don't see why they cannot make actual sounds (like the Eldil in
Perelandra): cause the air to vibrate appropriately, if they wish.
They seem able to affect "matter" directly.'
'I dare say they can,' said Ramer. 'But I doubt if they would
wish to, for such a purpose. Communication with another mind
is simpler otherwise. And the direct attack seems to me to
account better for the feelings human beings often have on such
occasions. There is often a shock, a sense of being touched in the
quick. There is movement from within outwards, even if one
feels that the cause is outside, something other, not you. It is
quite different in quality from the reception of sound inwards,
even though it may well happen that the thing communicated
directly is not strange or alarming, while many things said in the
ordinary incarnate fashion are tremendous.'
'You speak as if you knew,' said Jeremy. 'How do you know
all this?'
'No, I don't claim to know anything about such things, and
I'm not laying down the law. But I feel it. I have been visited, or
spoken to,' Ramer said gravely. 'Then, I think, the meaning was
direct, immediate, and the imperfect translation perceptibly
later: but it was audible. In many accounts of other such events I
seem to recognize experiences similar, even when far greater.'
'You make it all sound like hallucination,' said Frankley.
'But of course,' said Ramer. 'They work in a similar way. If
you are thinking of diseased conditions, then you may believe
that the cause is nothing external; and all the same something
(even if it is only some department of the body) must be
affecting the mind and making it translate outwards. If you
believe in possession or the attack of evil spirits, then there is no
difference in process, only the difference between malice and
good-will, lying and truth. There is Disease and Lying in the
world, and not only among men.'
There was a pause. 'We've got rather away from Old Solar,
haven't we?' said Guildford at last.
'No, I think what has been said is very much to the point,'
said Ramer. 'Anyway, if there is, or even was, any Old Solar,
then either Lewis or I or both of us are wrong about it. For I
don't get any such names as Arbol or Perelandra or Glund.(54)
I get names much more consonant with the forms I devise, if
I make up words or names for a story composed when awake.
'I think there might be an Old Human, or Primitive Adamic -
certainly was one, though it's not so certain that all our
languages derive from it in unbroken continuity; the only
undoubted common inheritance is the aptitude for making
words, the compelling need to make them. But the Old Human
could not possibly be the same as the Prime Language of other
differently constituted rational animals, such as Lewis's
Hrossa.(55) Because those two embodiments, Men and Hrossa,
are quite different, and the physical basis, which conditions the
symbol-forms, would be ab origine different. The mind-body
blends would have quite different expressive flavours. The
expression might not take vocal, or even audible form at all.
Without symbols you have no language; and language begins
only with incarnation and not before it. But, of course, if you're
going to confuse language with forms of thought, then you can
perhaps talk about Old Solar. But why not Old Universal in that
case?(56)
'However, I don't think the question of Old Solar arises. I
don't think there are any other hnau but ourselves in the whole
solar system.'
'How can you possibly know that?' asked Frankley.
'I think I know it by looking,' Ramer answered. 'I only once
anywhere saw what I took to be traces of such creatures, but I'll
tell you about that in a minute.
'I'll grant you that there is a chance of error. I have never been
very interested in people. That's why when I first began to write,
and tried to write about people (because that seemed to be the
thing done, and the only thing that was much read), my efforts
were so footling, as you see, even in dream. I'm now abnormally
little interested in people in general, though I can be deeply
interested in this or that unique individual; and the fewer I see
the better I'm pleased. I haven't scoured the Fields of Arbol
seeking for them! I suppose in dream I might have ignored or
overlooked them. But I don't think it's at all likely. Because I
like solitude in a forest and trees not manhandled, it does not
follow that I shall overlook the evidence of men's work in a
wood, or never notice any men I meet there. Much the reverse!
'It's true that I've not seen the solar planets often, nor
explored them thoroughly: that's hardly necessary in most
cases, if you're looking for any conceivable organic life resemb-
ling what we know. But what I have seen convinces me that the
whole system, save Earth, is altogether barren (in our sense).
Mars is a horrible network of deserts and chasms; Venus a
boiling whirl of wind and steam above a storm-racked twilit
core. But if you want to know what it looks and sounds like: a
smoking black Sea, rising like Everest, raging in the dusk over
dim drowned mountains, and sucking back with a roar of
cataracts like the end of Atlantis - then go there! It is magni-
ficent, but it isn't Peace. To me indeed very refreshing - though
that's too small a word. I can't describe the invigoration, the
acceleration of intellectual interest, in getting away from all this
tangle of ant-hill history! I am not a misanthrope. To me it's a
more inspiring and exacting, a much more responsible, perilous,
lonely venture: that Men are in fact alone in EN. In EN.(57) For
that is the name to me of this sunlit archipelago in the midst of
the Great Seas.
'We can cast our own shadows out on to the other islands, if
we like. It's a good and lawful form of invention; but an
invention it is and proceeds out of Earth, the Talkative Planet.
The only hnau ever to dwell in red Gormok or in cloud-bright
Zingil (58) will be put there by us.'
'What reason have you for thinking that you've seen them at
all, and not other places in remoter Space? asked Frankley.(59)
'Well, I went to them in a more questioning mood,' said
Ramer, 'and I looked for such signs as I could understand. They
were planets. They went round the Sun, or a sun, in more or less
the ways and times the books say, so far as I could observe. And
the further heavens had much the same pattern, just the same
to my little knowledge, as they have here. And old Enekol,
Saturn,(60) is unmistakable,. though I suppose it is not quite
impossible that he has his counterpart elsewhere.'
'Won't you describe what you saw there?' said Frankley.
'I once tried to describe a Saturnian landscape myself,*(61) and I
should like to know if you support me.'
'I do, more or less,' said Ramer. 'I thought so at once when I
landed there, and I wondered if you had been there too, or had
heard some reliable news - though you may not remember it
when awake. But it is getting late. I am tired, and I am sure you
all are.'
'Well, something to wind up with!' Jeremy begged. 'You
haven't really told us very much news yourself yet.'
'I'll try,' said Ramer. 'Give me another drink, and I'll do my
best. As I haven't had time, when awake, either to name or to
translate half of the shapes and sensations, it is impossible for
me to do more than suggest the thing. But I'll try and tell you
about one adventure among my deep dreams: or high ones, for
this occurred on one of the longest journeys I have ever had the
opportunity or the courage for. It illustrates several curious
things about this sort of venture.
'Remember that dream-sequences dealing with astronomical
exploration or space-travel are not very frequent in my collec-
tion. Nor in any one's, I should think. The chances of making
such voyages are not frequent; and they're... well, they take a
bit of daring. I should guess that most people never get the
chance and never dare. It is related in some way to desire, no
(* In The Cronic Star. This appeared in his volume Feet of Lead
(1980). One of the critics said that this title, taken with the author's
name, said all that was necessary. N.G.)
doubt; though which comes first, chance or wish, is hard to say
- if there's any real question of priority in such matters. I mean:
my ancient attraction to waking stories about space-travel, was
it a sign that I was really already engaged on exploration, or a
cause of it?
'In any case I have only made a few journeys, as far as I yet
know; few, that is, compared with other activities. My mind
"adream" is perhaps not daring enough to fit waking desire; or
perhaps the interests I'm most conscious of awake are not really
fundamentally so dominant. My mind actually seems fonder of
mythical romances, its own and others'. I could tell you a great
deal about Atlantis, for instance; though that is not its name to
me.'
'What is its name?' asked Lowdham sharply, leaning forward
with a curious eagerness; but Ramer did not answer the
question.
'It's connected with that Fluted Wave,'(62) he said., 'and with
another symbol: the Great Door, shaped like a Greek TT with
sloping sides.(63) And I've seen the En-keladim, my En-keladim,
playing one of their Keladian plays: the Drama of the Silver
Tree:(64) sitting round in a circle and singing in that strange, long,
long, but never-wearying, uncloying music, endlessly unfolding
out of itself, while the song takes visible life among them. The
Green Sea flowers in foam, and the Isle rises and opens like a
rose in the midst of it. There the Tree opens the starred turf like
a silver spear, and grows, and there is a New Light; and the
leaves unfold and there is Full Light; and the leaves fall and
there is a Rain of Light. Then the Door opens - but no! I have
no words for that Fear.'
He stopped suddenly. 'That's the only thing I've ever seen,' he
said, 'that I'm not sure whether it's invented or not.(65) I expect
it's a composition - out of desire, fancy, waking experience, and
"reading" (asleep and awake). But there is another ingredient.
Somewhere, in some place or places, something like it really
happens, and I have seen it, far off perhaps or faintly.
'My En-keladim I see in humane forms of surpassing and
marvellously varied beauty. But I guess that their true types, if
such there be, are invisible, unless they embody themselves by
their own will, entering into their own works because of their
love for them. That is, they are elvish. But very different from
Men's garbled tales of them; for they are not lofty indeed, yet
they are not fallen.' i
'But wouldn't you reckon them as hnau?' asked Jeremy.
'Don't they have language?'
'Yes, I suppose so. Many tongues,' said Ramer. 'I had
forgotten them. But they are not hnau; they are not bound to a
given body, but make their own, or take their own, or walk
silent and unclad without sense of nakedness. And their lan-
guages shift and change as light on the water or wind in the
trees. But yes, perhaps Ellor Eshurizel - its meaning I cannot
seize, so swift and fleeting is it - perhaps that is an echo of their
voices. Yes, I think Ellor is one of their worlds: where the
governance, the making and ordering, is wholly in the charge of
minds, relatively small, that are not embodied in it, but are
devoted to what we call matter, and especially to its beauty.
Even here on Earth they may have had, may have still, some
habitation and some work to do.
'But I'm still wandering. I must go back to the adventure that
I promised to tell. Among my few travel-sequences I recall one
that seemed to be a long inspection (on several occasions) of a
different solar system. So there does appear to be at least one
other star with attendant planets.(66) I thought that as I wandered
there I came to a little world, of our Earth's size more or less -
though, as you'll see, size is very difficult to judge; and it was lit
by a sun, rather larger than ours, but dimmed. The stars too
were faint, but they seemed to be quite differently arranged; and
there was a cloud or white whorl in the sky with small stars in
its folds: a nebula perhaps, but much larger than the one we can
see in Andromeda. Tekel-Mirim (67) it was, a land of crystals.
'Whether the crystals were really of such great size - the
greatest were like the Egyptian pyramids - it is hard to say.
Once away from Earth it is not easy to judge such things
without at least your body to refer to. For there is no scale; and
what you do, I suppose, is to focus your attention, up or down,
according to what aspect you wish to note. And so it is with
speed. Anyway, there on Tekel-Mirim it was the inanimate
matter, as we should say, that was moving and growing: into
countless crystalline formations. Whether what I took for the
air of the planet was really air, or water, or some other liquid, I
am not able to say; though perhaps the dimming of sun and
stars suggests that it was not air. I may have been on the floor of
a wide shallow sea, cool and still. And there I could observe
what was going on: to me absorbingly interesting.
'Pyramids and polyhedrons of manifold forms and sym-
metries were growing like ... like geometric mushrooms, and
growing from simplicity to complexity; from single beauty
amalgamating into architectural harmonies of countless facets
and reflected lights. And the speed of growth seemed very swift.
On the summit of some tower of conjoined solids a great
steeple, like a spike of greenish ice, would shoot out: it was not
there and then it was there; and hardly was it set before it was
encrusted with spikelets in bristling lines of many pale colours.
In places forms were achieved like snowflakes under a micro-
scope, but enormously larger: tall as trees some were. In other
places there were forms severe, majestic, vast and simple.
'For a time I could not count I watched the "matter" on 'j
Tekel-Mirim working out its harmonies of inherent design with
speed and precision, spreading, interlocking, towering, on facet
and angle building frets and arabesques and frosted laces, jewels
on which arrows of pale fire glanced and splintered. But there
was a limit to growth, to building and annexation. Suddenly
disintegration would set in - no, not that, but reversal: it was
not ugly or regrettable. A whole epic of construction would
recede, going back through shapeliness, by stages as beautiful as
those through which it had grown, but wholly different, till it
ceased. Indeed it was difficult to choose whether to fix one's
attention on some marvellous evolution, or some graceful
devolving into - nothing visible.
'Only part of the matter on Tekel-Mirim was doing these
things (for "doing" seems our only word for it): the matter that
was specially endowed; a scientist would say (I suppose) that
was of a certain chemical nature and condition. There were
floors, and walls, and mighty circles of smooth cliff, valleys and
vast abysses, that did not change their shape nor move. Time
stood still for them, and for the crystals waxed and waned.
'I don't know why I visited this strange scene, for awake I
have never studied crystallography, not even though the vision
of Tekel-Mirim has often suggested that I should. Whether
things go in Tekel-Mirim exactly as they do here, I cannot say.
All the same I wonder still what on earth or in the universe can
be meant by saying, as was said a hundred years ago (by
Huxley, I believe) that a crystal is a "symmetrical solid shape
assumed spontaneously by lifeless matter".(68) The free will of
the lifeless is a dark saying. But it may have some meaning: who
can tell? For we have little understanding of either term. I leave
it there. I merely record, or try to record, the events I saw, and
they were too marvellous while I could see them in far
Tekel-Mirim for speculation. I'm afraid I've given you no
glimpse of them.
'It was on one occasion, returning - or should I say "back-
dreaming"? - from Tekel-Mirim, that I had the adventure that
I'll close with. Speed, as I said, like size is very difficult to judge
with no measure but vague memories of earth-events far away.
Maybe I had been speeding up, that is moving quickly down
Time in Tekel-Mirim, so as to get as long a story or sequence as
I could. In Tekel-Mirim I must have been not only far away in
Space but in a time somewhat before my earth-time, or I should
have overrun the point for my withdrawal. For I had to
withdraw on that visit earlier than my body usually summons
me. A determination of my own will, set before I went to sleep,
had fixed a time of waking, for an appointment. And the hour
was coming near.
'It is no good harking back, when you do not want to repeat
but to see on; and so I withdrew, with my mind still so filled
with the wonder of Tekel-Mirim that I could not even adream,
and still less awake, recall the transitions or the modes of
travelling, until my attention was loosened from my recollec-
tions and I found that I was looking at a twinkling sphere. I
knew that I had seen it, or something like it, on one of my other
journeys; and I was tempted to examine it again. But time was
running on, and dimly, like a remote shred of a dream (to one
awake) I was aware of my body beginning to stir unwillingly,
feeling the returning will. So there and then I "harked back"
suddenly with as great an effort as I could manage; and at the
same time I closed in to look for a while at this strange ball.
'I found a horrible disorderly shifting scene: a shocking
contrast to Tekel-Mirim, and after Emberu and Ellor intoler-
able. Dark and light flickered to and fro over it. Winds were
whirling and eddying, and vapours were rising, gathering,
flashing by and vanishing too quick for anything to be discerned
but a general ragged swirl. The land, if that is what it was, was
shifting too, like sands in a tide, crumbling and expanding, as
the sea galloped in and out among the unsteady edges of the
coast. There were wild growths, woods you could hardly say;
trees springing up like mushrooms, and crashing and dying
before you could determine their shapes. Everything was in an
abominable flux.
'I came still closer. The effort to attend carefully seemed to
steady things. The flicker of light and dark became much
slower; and I saw something that was definitely a small river,
though it waggled a little, and broadened and narrowed as I
looked at it. The trees and woods in its valley held their shapes
now for some time. Then "Hnau at last!" I said to myself; for in
the vale, down by the river among the trees I saw shapes,
unmistakable shapes of houses. At first I had thought that they
were some kind of quick-growing fungus, until I looked more
steadily. But now I saw that they were buildings, but still
fungus-buildings, appearing and then falling to pieces; and yet
their agglomeration was spreading.
'I was still rather high above it all, higher than a man in a very
tall tower; but I could see that the place was crawling or rather
boiling with hnau of some sort - if they were not very large
ant-creatures, endowed with amazing speed: darting about,
alone or in bunches, bewilderingly; always more and more of
them. Often they went shooting in or out like bullets along the
tracks that led to the horrible, crumbling, outgrowing sore of
house-shapes.
' "This really is frightful!" I thought. "Is this a diseased world,
or is it a planet really inhabited by may-fly men in a sort of
tumultuous mess? What's come to the land? It's losing most of
its hair, going bald, and the house-ringworm goes on spreading,
and starting up in fresh patches. There's no design, or reason, or
pattern in it." And yet, even as I said this, I began to see, as I
looked still more carefully, that there were in fact some shapes
that did suggest crude design, and a few now held together for
quite a long while.
'Soon I noticed down by the river, near the heart of the
agglomeration, where I had observed it beginning, several
constructions that endured. Two or three had some real form,
not without an echo of beauty even to one fresh from Tekel-
Mirim. They continued standing, while the ringworm ate its
way further and further around them.
' "I must have a really close look," I thought; "for if there are
hnau here, it is important, however nasty they may be; and I
must take some notes. Just a look, and then I must be off. Now,
what is that thing like a great fluted mushroom with an odd
top? It hasn't been here as long as some of the other larger
things." With that I came right down.
'Of course, if one really concentrates on things - especially to
observe their static forms, not their changes, as I'd been doing in
Tekel-Mirim - then they tend to halt, as it were. The speed is in
you, when you're not tied to a time-clock of a body. So as I bent
my attention, I lost all the acceleration that the excitement of
Tekel-Mirim had induced. Things stood still for a moment,
rock-hard.
'I was gazing at the Camera.(69) I was about thirty feet above
the ground in Radcliffe Square. I suppose I had at first been
seeing the Thames Valley, at a huge speed; and then, slower and
slower, Oxford since I don't know when, since the beginning of
the University probably.
'The clock on Saint Mary's struck 7 a.m. - and I woke up for
my appointment. To go to Mass. It was the morning of the feast
of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, June 29th 1986, by our reckoning.
That's all for tonight! I must go to bed.'
'Well, I must be off too,' said Cameron. 'Thanks for a very
enterrtaining evening!'
MGR. NC. PF. AAL. RD. WTJ. RS. JJ. JJR.
NOTES.
1. The Great Storm of June 12th, 1987: my father's 'prevision' was
only out by four months. The greatest storm in living memory
struck southern England, causing vast damage, on October 16th,
1987. It is curious in the light of this to read Mr. Green's remarks
(p. 158): 'it may well be that the predictions (notably of the
Storm), though genuine and not coincidences, were unconscious:
giving one more glimpse of the strange processes of so-called
literary "invention", with which the Papers are largely con-
cerned.'
2. O.S.B.: 'Order of Saint Benedict'.
3. For the title as typed in the final text D, but subsequently rejected,
see p. 153 note 2.
4. In A and B the report of Night 54 is absent (cf. Mr. Green's
Foreword, p. 156: Many Nights are represented only by a few
lines, or by short entries, of which Nights 54 and 64 have been
included as specimens').
5. I cannot explain The Canticle of Artegall. Irish arteagal =
'article'; and an isolated note of my father's reads: 'My/The
Canticle of Night in Ale', 'Artegall', 'article Artegall'. But this
does not help very much.
6. In B Night 60 is Night 251, without date (see p. 149).
7. I have mentioned (p. 150) a page that preceded text A and carries
the identifications of members of the Notion Club with members
of the Inklings. On this page are found two brief, abandoned
openings for The Notion Club Papers. In the first Ramer asks
Latimer (predecessor of Guildford) for his opinion of his story.
With ' "Yes, I suppose it'll do," I answered' this opening breaks
off, and is followed by:
When I had finished reading my story, we sat in silence for a
while. 'Well?' I said. 'What do you think of it? Will it do?'
Nobody answered, and I felt the air charged with disapproval,
as it often is in our circle, though on this occasion the critical
interruptions had been fewer than usual. 'Oh, come on. What
have you got to say? I may as well get the worst over,' I urged
turning to Latimer. He is not a flatterer.
'Oh yes, it'll do, I suppose so,' he answered reluctantly. 'But
why pick on me? You know I hate criticizing offhand and still
in the heat of listening - or the chill.'
Here this second opening was abandoned. It is presumably to be
connected with the word 'Self' written under Ramer at the head
of the page (p. 150).
8. David Lindsay, author of A Voyage to Arcturus, published in
1920, to which Guildford refers subsequently (see note 9).
9. Cf. my father's letter to Stanley Unwin of 4 March 1938,
concerning Out of the Silent Planet (Letters no. 26):
I read 'Voyage to Arcturus' with avidity - the most comparable
work, though it is both more powerful and more mythical (and
less rational, and also less of a story - no one could read it
merely as a thriller and without interest in philosophy religion
and morals).
10. Cavorite was the substance 'opaque to gravitation' devised by the
scientist Cavor in H. G. Wells's The First Men in the Moon
(1901).
11. For 'the Great Explosion' see Mr. Green's Foreword, p. 157, and
p. 186.
12. Ransom: Dr. Elwin Ransom was the Cambridge philologist who
in Out of the Silent Planet went under duress to Mars (Malacan-
dra), and in Perelandra went to Venus by the mediation of the
Oyarsa of Malacandra (see next note).
13. At the beginning of Perelandra the Eldils are described thus:
For Ransom had met other things in Mars besides the Mar-
tians. He had met the creatures called eldila, and specially that
great eldil who is the ruler of Mars or, in their speech, the
Oyarsa of Malacandra. The eldila are very different from any
planatary creatures. Their physical organism, if organism it can
be called, is quite unlike either the human or the Martian. They
do not eat, breed, breathe, or suffer natural death, and to that
extent resemble thinking minerals more than they resemble
anything we should recognise as an animal. Though they
appear on planets and may even seem to our senses to be
sometimes resident in them, the precise spatial location of an
eldil at any moment presents great problems. They themselves
regard space (or 'Deep Heaven') as their true habitat, and the
planets are to them not closed but merely moving points -
perhaps even interruptions - in what we know as the Solar
System and they as the Field of Arbol.
14. Old Solar: cf. Perelandra Chapter 2, in which Ransom speaks to
Lewis before his journey to Venus begins:
'... I rather fancy I am being sent because those two black-
guards who kidnapped me and took me to Malacandra, did
something which they never intended: namely, gave a human
being a chance to learn that language.'
'What language do you mean?'
'Hressa-Hlab, of course. The language I learned in Mala-
candra.'
'But surely you don't imagine they will speak the same
language on Venus?'
'Didn't I tell you about that?' said Ransom... 'I'm surprised
I didn't, for I found out two or three months ago, and
scientifically it is one of the most interesting things about the
whole affair. It appears we were quite mistaken in thinking
Hressa-Hlab the peculiar speech of Mars. It is really what may
be called Old Solar, Hlab-Eribol-ef-Cordi.'
'What on earth do you mean?'
'I mean that there was originally a common speech for all
rational creatures inhabiting the planets of our system: those
that were ever inhabited, I mean - what the eldils call the Low
Worlds.... That original speech was lost on Thulcandra, our
own world, when our whole tragedy took place. No human
language now known in the world is descended from it.'
For Ramer's observations on this subject see p. 203 and note 55.
15. In the original text A (still followed in B) Dolbear, waking up,
says with reference to these words of Guildford's ('Incarnation.
By being born'): 'Then try reincarnation, or perhaps transcarna-
tion without loss of memory. What do you say, Ramer?'
16. Arry, for Arundel, became the name by which Lowdham was
known in text C; in the earliest lists of members of the Notion
Club he was simply Harry Loudham. For the significance of this
see pp. 233 - 4, 281 - 2.
17. New Erewhon: Erewhon (= 'Nowhere') is the title of a satire by
Samuel Butler (1872). News from Nowhere: a fantasy of the
future by William Morris (1890).
18. Turl Street or the Turl is a narrow street running between High
Street and Broad Street in Oxford, onto which open the gates of
Ramer's college Jesus, Guildford's college Lincoln, and Exeter
College.
19. In B Night 61 is Night 252, without date (see p. 149).
20. B has Harry Loudham: see note 16.
21. In the 'Prose Edda' the Icelander Snorri Sturluson tells of
Skidbladnir:
'Skihblahnir is the best of ships and made with great skill ...
Certain dwarves, the sons of Ivaldi, made Skihblahnir and gave
the ship to Freyr; it is so large that all the AEsir [gods] can man
it with their weapons and equipment of war, and it has a
favourable wind so soon as the sail is set, wherever it is bound;
but when it is not going to sea it is made of so many pieces and
with such great cunning that it can be folded up like a napkin
and kept in one's pouch' (Snorra Edda, Gylfaginning $42).
22. The Battle of Bosworth Field (1485), in which King Richard III
was defeated and slain by Henry Tudor (Henry VII). A has here
'at any period before the accession of Richard II' (1377). On
Frankley's horror borealis see pp. 151 - 2, 159.
23. 'Yes, 1938,' said Cameron: in A this observation is given to
Loudham, and rather surprisingly Latimer's comment is much as
Guildford's in the final text: 'whose memory is like that. I doubt
if he ever read the book. Memoirs of the courts of minor 18th
century monarchs are his natural browsing-ground.' Yet at this
earliest stage Loudham's interest in Norse was perhaps already
present, since it is he who makes the joke about Skidbladnir
immediately before. As B was written the remark was still
attributed to Loudham, and Guildford's comment remains the
same as in A; later Loudham was changed to Franks (the earlier
name of Frankley) and then to Cameron. See pp. 281 - 2.
24. Last Men in London by Olaf Stapledon (1932).
25. hnau: rational embodied beings.
26. I have added the footnote from the third manuscript C; it
is not in the final typescript D, but was perhaps omitted in-
advertently.
27. In A there is no reference to the Glacier or any mention of what
the scene in the book was; but a later addition in the margin runs:
and the chief difference (since both were now inner) is that
the one is tinged with sadness for it is past, but the other,
the Glacier, is not so tinged, has only its own proper flavour,
because it is not past or present with reference to the world.
28. In A Dolbear does not speak at this point; Ramer says: 'And the
will to remember can be strengthened; and the memory enlarged.
(Dolbear helped me in that: I suppose that is what made him so
suspicious.) Now here comes another thread.' Thus neither
Emberu nor any other name appear here in A; in 8 the name is
Gyonyoru, changed subsequently to Emberu.
29. Following this, the text of Ramer's remarks in A and B is different
from that in the final form. I give the B version:
A living body can move in space, but not without an effort (as
in a leap), or a vehicle. A mind can move more freely and very
much quicker than a living body, but not without effort of its
own kind, or without a vehicle. [Added: This is distinct from
the instantaneous movement of thought to objects already in its
grasp as memory.] And Space and Time do exist as conditions
for it, especially while it is incarnate, and certainly if it is
(largely for that reason) interested in them and studying them.
How and how far in either dimension can it jump, without a
vehicle? I asked myself. It probably cannot travel in empty
Space, or eventless Time (which is the duration of empty
Space): it would not be aware of it, if it did, anyway. How far
can it jump over it? How can it jump at all?
The mind uses the memory of its body...
30. For the source of Lowdham's allusion to the Pig on the Ruined
Pump see the Foreword.
31. The Banbury Road leads north out of the centre of Oxford. I do
not think that there was any special reason for the choice of this
particular late Victorian house (the reference to it only enters in
C, where my father first wrote 'No. x Banbury Road', changing
this subsequently to 'No. 100'). Mr. Green, the putative editor of
the Papers refers in his Foreword (p. 157) to poltergeist activity
at this house in the early years of the twenty-first century.
32. Gunthorpe Park in Matfield: so far as I car. discover, the only
Matfield in England is in Kent, but there is no Gunthorpe Park in
its vicinity.
33. Emberu: A has here: 'Not if you mean for getting such news as I
put into that tale you've heard', and no name appears; 8 has, as
at the previous occurrence (note 28) Cyonyoru ) Emberu.
34. My father once described to me his dream of 'pure Weight', but I
do not remember when that was: probably before this time.
35. Of this experience also my father spoke to me, suggesting, as does
Ramer here, that the significance did not lie in the remembered
passage itself. See Ramer's subsequent remarks on this topic, pp.
189 ff.
36. See pp. 157, 167. A has here: 'pictures as unlike as seeing a small
flower growing and a whole world shattered'; B places the great
explosion 'in the sixties'.
37. The intervention of James Jones (see p. 159) first appears in C.
In B Ramer's explanation of what he meant by deep dreams is
given in a footnote by Guildford ('Ramer said later...').
38. In B Dolbear replies differently to Lowdham ('If I was to reveal
some of the situations I've seen you in, Harry my lad'). His
pregnant remarks 'You walk in disguises, even when awake. But
they'll slip, my lad, one day. I shouldn't wonder if it was fairly
soon' entered in the C text.
39. A. continues from this point:
on this sort of activity - the best bits and passages,
especially, those that seem to come suddenly when you're in the
heat of making. They sometimes fit with an odd perfection; and
sometimes good in themselves don't really fit.
B. has here:
... on this sort of activity. Those scenes that come up complete
and fixed, that I spoke of before, for instance. I think that those
really good passages that arise, as it were, suddenly when
you're abstracted, in the heat of making, are often long-
prepared impromptus.
40. it's one I made up years ago: i.e., made up in dream.
41. In A, and (at first) in B, Ramer interpreted the first of his
'fragments' far more elaborately, giving the entire plot of the
story. This is, as Ramer admitted, 'not very interesting'; and as B
was first written Loudham says (in answer to Ramer's 'Do you
want another case?') 'Not particularly, unless it's better than the
last, which I don't expect.'
42. Geoffrey of Monmouth (died in 1155), author of The History of
the Kings of Britain, a chief contribution to the popularity,
outside the Celtic lands, of King Arthur and 'the Matter of
Britain'. Such a manuscript leaf as this in Ramer's dream-
narrative would be of superlative importance in the study of the
Arthurian legend.
43. Elvish Drama. In A it is Ramer himself who speaks of 'elf-drama'
('it is not writing but elf-drama'), and again in B, which has:
'... For it is not of course writing, but a sort of realized drama.
The Elvish Drama that Lewis speaks of somewhere.'
'Not Lewis, said Jeremy. 'It comes in one of those essays of
the circle, but it was by one of the minor members.'
The passage in question comes from the essay On Fairy-Stories,
which my father had delivered at the University of St. Andrews in
1939, but which was not published until two years after the
writing of The Notion Club Papers, in the memorial volume
Essays Presented to Charles Williams (Oxford 1947). The pas-
sage is interesting in relation to Ramer's discourse and I cite a
part of it:
Now 'Faerian Drama' - those plays which according to
abundant records the elves have often presented to men - can
produce Fantasy with a realism and immediacy beyond the
compass of any human mechanism. As a result their usual
effect (upon a man) is to go beyond Secondary Belief. If you are
present at a Faerian drama you yourself are, or think that you
are, bodily inside its Secondary World. The experience may be
very similar to Dreaming and has (it would seem) sometimes
(by men) been confounded with it. But in Faerian drama you
are in a dream that some other mind is weaving, and the
knowledge of that alarming fact may slip from your grasp.
To experience directly a Secondary World: the potion is too
strong, and you give to it Primary Belief, however marvellous
the events. You are deluded - whether that is the intention of
the elves (always or at any time) is another question. They at
any rate are not themselves deluded. This is for them a form of
Art, and distinct from Wizardry or Magic, properly so called.
J. R. R. Tolkien, The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays,
1983, p. 142; cf. also p. 116 in that edition of the essay ('In
dreams strange powers of the mind may be unlocked...').
44. of humane shape: texts B, C, and D all have humane; cf. p. 206
('humane forms') and note 55 below.
45. Cf. my father's letter to W. H. Auden of 7 June 1955 (Letters no.
163):
... the terrible recurrent dream (beginning with memory) of the
Great Wave, towering up, and coming in ineluctably over the
trees and green fields. (I bequeathed it to Faramir.) I don't think
I have had it since I wrote the 'Downfall of Numenor' as the
last of the legends of the First and Second Age.
By 'beginning with memory' I believe that my father meant that
the recurrence of the dream went as far back in his life as his
memory reached. - Faramir told Eowyn of his recurrent dream of
the Great Wave coming upon Numenor as they stood on the
walls of Minas Tirith when the Ring was destroyed ('The Steward
and the King', in The Return of the King, p. 240).
46. This remark of Lowdham's is absent from B and first enters in C;
cf. note 38.
47. In B the footnote at this point does not derive as in the final text
largely from Mr. Green but entirely from Nicholas Guildford,
citing Ramer: 'Later Ramer enlarged on this point, in the course
of a discussion of the various kinds of "deep dreams", and how '
the dreamer could distinguish them. He divided them ...' What
follows is closely similar to the later version of the note, but it
ends thus: ' "Made for the Malefit of Men," he said. "To judge by
the ideas men propagate now, their curious unanimity, and
obsession, I should say that a terrible lot of men have thrust aside
the Guardians, and are reading very maleficial stuff." N.G.'
There was thus at this stage no reference to 'Night 62' (see p. 222
and note 2).
The word maleficial is occasionally recorded, but malefit,
occuring in both versions of this note, is a coinage echoing
benefit, as if ultimately derived from Latin malefactum 'evil deed,
injury'.
48. The world Emberu has not been named in A (see notes 28, 33),
but at this point Ramer says in A: 'The one I told you about,
Menelkemen' (Quenya, 'Sky-earth'). In this original text the
description of Menelkemen is (though briefer) that given in the
final text of Ellor Eshurizel, 'that immense plain with its floor of
silver', ending with the account of the great waterfall, here called
Dalud dimran (or perhaps dimron), with Eshil dimzor written
above and Eshil kulu () kulo) in the margin. There is no mention
here of the En-keladim. At the end of the description of Menelke-
men Jeremy asks 'Where is it, do you think?', which in the final
text he asks after Ramer's description of the third world,
Minal-zidar (p. 199).
In B (as originally written) Ramer says 'The one I told you
about, Emberu the golden', and here the description of Emberu is
that of Minal-zidar in the final version:
'... I wrote that account (not the frame) some time ago, and all
I'll have now is that, and stirrings and faint traces of what lies
beneath: the first vision of Emberu: golden, absolutely silent
and quiescent, a whole small world of perfect form, imperish-
able in Time...'
This description of Emberu ends, as does that of Minal-zidar in
the final text, with 'made by what adoring mind I cannot tell';
then follows: 'And there was Menel-kemen.'
At this point in B my father stopped, struck out what he had
written about 'the first vision of Emberu', and wrote instead: 'the
first vision of Emberu: that immense plain with its silver Hoor all
delicately patterned...' - which in the final text is the description
of Ellor Eshurizel. Here the great waterfall is called Oshul-kulo,
and Ramer says: I think the Enkeladim dwell there. My father
then inserted in B, after 'the first vision of Emberu', the words
'"It is the same with Ellor. Ellor!" he murmured. "Ellor Eshur-
izel! I drew it once in words as best I could, and now it is words.
That immense plain with its silver floor ...'; and (all these
changes being made at the time of composition) introduced at the
end of the description of Ellor the third world, 'Minal-zidar the
golden'.
Thus the images were developed and separated into distinct
'world-entities' in rapid succession. In A Menelkemen is the only
world that Ramer describes, the world of the story that he had
read to the Notion Club, the inorganic, harmonious world of
metal, stone, and water, with the great waterfall. In B the world
that Ramer described in his story is Emberu (replacing Gyonyoru
of the earlier parts of the manuscript), the silent 'golden' world;
but this was changed immediately (reverting to A) to make
Emberu 'that immense plain with its silver floor', and then
changed again to make this description that of a second world,
Ellor Eshurizel, while the 'golden' world becomes a third scene,
Minal-zidar. The final stage was to call the first world Green
Emberu, 'where there was a kind of organic life, rich but
wholesome and longeval.'
49. On the En-keladim see p. 206 and notes 64, 65, and pp. 397,
400.
50. the Fields of Arbol: the Solar System in Lewis's novels (see note
13).
51. In A it is Dolbear, not Loudham, who asks: 'Where do you get all
these names from? Who told you them? That [would] interest me
more really than the geometry and landscape. I should, of course
as you know, use my chance if I got into such a state for
language-research.' In B this was still said by Dolbear, changed to
Guildford and then to Loudham. See p. 151.
52. At this point both A and B continue with an account of Jeremy's
attempt to arouse interest in the works of Lewis and Williams,
which in the final text is put into a footnote of Guildford's here. I
give the text of B, which follows that of A very closely but is
clearer.
'Arbol is "Old Solar" for the Sun,' said Jeremy. 'Do you
mean that you can get back to Old Solar, [struck out: or Old
Universal,] and that Lewis was right?'
Jeremy was our Lewis-expert, and knew all his works,
almost by heart. Many in Oxford will still remember how he
had, a year or two before, given some remarkable lectures on
Lewis and Williams. People had laughed at the title, because
Lewis and all that circle had dropped badly out of fashion. Old
Bell-Tinker, who was still Chairman of the English Board then,
had boggled and puffed at it. 'If you must touch such a subject,'
he snorted, 'call it Lewis and cut it Short.'
Jeremy had retorted by offering to change the title to 'Lewis
and Carolus or the Oxford Looking-glass'. 'Or "Jack and the
Beanstalk", if you like,' he added, but that was too recondite a
joke for the English Board. I believe, before Jeremy spoke up,
few even of the Twentieth Century experts could have named
any work of Williams, except perhaps The Octopus. That was
still occasionally played, because of the great revival of mis-
sionary interest after the Far-eastern martyrdoms in the sixties.
The Allegory of Love was all of Lewis that the academicians
ever mentioned (as a rule unread and slightingly). The other
minor lights were only known by the few who read old C. R.
Tolkien's little books of memoirs: In the Roaring Forties, and
The Inns and Outs of Oxford. But Jeremy had made most of
our club read some of those people (the Public-house School as
it was called); though beside Jeremy only Ramer and Dolbear
bothered with Tolkien pere and all the elvish stuff.
' "Old Solar"?' said Ramer. 'Well, no....
'Old Bell-Tinker' derives his name from a book of translations of
Anglo-Saxon literature by Bell and Tinker. His very bad joke 'call
it Lewis and cut it Short' refers to the Latin Dictionary by Lewis
and Short. The title of Jeremy's lectures, which aroused laughter,
is omitted, but was presumably the same as in the final text, The
Public-house School (because the Inklings met in pubs). 'Few
bothered with Tolkien pere and all the elvish stuff' was doubtless
no more than a self-deprecating joke - but implies that the 'elvish
stuff' had at least been published! (cf. p. 303 and note 14). In the
Roaring Forties is a pun on the name of the regions of the
southern oceans, between forty and fifty degrees south, where
there are great winds.
53. Since Ramer's criticism of the standard of linguistic invention
characteristic of tales of space-travel and time-travel follows
immediately on his denial that there could be any such language
as Old Solar, he appears to be including Lewis in his criticism.
Some years before, however, in his letter to Stanley Unwin of
4 March 1938 (Letters no. 26), my father had said of Out of the
Silent Planet:
The author holds to items of linguistic invention that do not
appeal to me ...; but this is a matter of taste. After all your
reader found my invented names, made with cherished care,
eye-splitting. But the linguistic inventions and the philology on
the whole are more than good enough. All the part about
language and poetry - the glimpses of its Malacandrian nature
and form - is very well done, and extremely interesting, far
superior to what one usually gets from travellers in untravelled
regions. The language difficulty is usually slid over or fudged.
Here it not only has verisimilitude, but also underlying thought.
54. Glund: the name of Jupiter in Old Solar (also Glundandra).
55. I think there might be an Old Human, or Primitive Adamic...: A
has here: 'But I think there might be, certainly was, an Old
Humane or Adamic. But it could not possibly be the same as the
Prime Language of Hrossa, Hressa-hlab.' This was retained in B
(with Old Human for Old Humane: see note 44). The Hrossa
were one of the three totally distinct kinds of hnau found on
Malacandra; the language of the Hrossa was Hressa-hlab, which
is 'Old Solar': see note 14.
56. Old Universal: see the beginning of the passage given in note 52.
57. En: this name appears already in A, with various predecessors,
An, Nor, El, all struck out immediately.
58. Gormok, Zingil: in A Ramer's name for Mars is the Elvish word
Karan ('red'); Venus was Zingil in A, though immediately
replacing another name that cannot be read.
59. In A it is Jeremy who speaks at this point, asking: 'How do you
know you've been there?' And Ramer replies: 'I don't: I have seen
the places, not been there. My body's never travelled. I have seen
the places either indirectly through other records, as you could
say you'd seen Hongkong if you'd looked at many long accurate
coloured films of it; or directly by using light. But how I know
what the places are is another matter.'
60. Saturn is not mentioned in A. B has: 'And Gyuruchill, Saturn, is
unmistakable'. Gyuruchill was changed to Shomori, and then to
old Enekol.
61. The Cronic Star (in the footnote by Guildford at this point):
Saturn (in astrology the leaden planet). Cronic is derived from
Kronos, the Greek god (father of Zeus) identified by the Romans
with Saturn; wholly distinct etymologically from chronic, derived
from Greek chronos 'time'.
62. On the 'Fluted Wave' see p. 194.
63. In A Ramer says here: 'I could tell you about Atlantis (though
that's not its name to me, nor Numenor): it is connected with that
Fluted Wave. And the Door TT [which is connected with the
Meg(alithic) >] of the Megalithic is too.' In B he speaks as in the
final text, but says again 'though that's not its name to me, nor
Numenor' - the last two words being later strongly struck out,
and Loudham's question (asked with 'a curious eagerness') 'What
is its name?' inserted (when the peculiar association of Lowdham
with Numenor had entered: see notes 38, 46). In the final text of
the Papers the emergence of the name Numenor is postponed
until Part Two (p. 231).
64. A has here: 'But I've seen my Marim [changed probably at once
to Albarim] playing one of their Albar-plays: the drama of the
Silver Tree.' In A the name En-keladim has not occurred (see note
48). With 'the Drama of the Silver Tree' cf. the citation from On
Fairy-Stories given in note 43.
65. In A Ramer says: 'I don't think that's invented: not by me
anyway. It seems to take place on this earth in some time or mode
or [?place].' In A he goes straight on from 'Atlantis' to his final
story.
In B Ramer comments on the Drama of the Silver Tree as in the
final text, as far as 'something like it really happens, and I have
seen it, far off perhaps or faintly.' Then follows:
I guess that the true types of my Enkeladim are invisible, unless
they turn their attention to you. That is, they are Eldilic in
Lewis's terms, in some lesser rank [added: or perhaps like
Tolkien's Unfallen Elves, only they were embodied].
All this was struck out, and replaced on a rider by the final text,
as far as 'entering as it were into their own works because of their
love for them.' Then follows: 'that is, that they are of a kind other
than Lewis's Eldila (even of lesser rank); and yet not the same as
Tolkien's Unfallen Elves, for those were embodied.'
The original B text continues with 'I think [Emberu >] Ellor is
one of their worlds ...', as in the final form. Against Ellor is a
footnote:
Ramer said that it was queer how the syllable cropped up: first
in Tolkien's Eldar, Eldalie, then in Lewis's Eldil, and then in his
Ellor. He thought it might be an 'elvish' or Keladian word. The
Enkeladim are language-makers. NG.
66. Here the fair copy manuscript C ends, and the typescript D from
here on follows B (see p. 146).
67. In A the name was Tekel-Ishtar, becoming Tekel-Mirim before
the manuscript was completed.
68. Thomas Huxley, Physiography, 1877, cited in the Oxford
English Dictionary.
69. The Radcliffe Camera, a great circular domed building standing
in Radcliffe Square, Oxford, on the south side of which stands
St. Mary's church and on the north side the Bodleian Library.
Camera is used in the Latin sense 'arched or vaulted roof or
chamber' (Latin camera ) French chambre, English chamber).
[PART TWO].(1)
Night 62.(2) Thursday, March 6th, 1987. [Of this meeting only
half a torn sheet is preserved. The relevant part will be found in
the note to Night 61, p. 195. There appears to have been further
discussion of Ramer's views and adventures.]
Night 63. Thursday, March 13th, 1987. [Only the last page of
the record of this meeting is preserved. The discussion seems to
have proceeded to legendary voyages of discovery in general.
For the reference to the imram see Night (69).](3)
[Good] night Frankley!'
Lowdham seemed to feel a bit guilty about his ragging; and
when the meeting finally broke up, he walked up the High with
Ramer and myself. We turned into Radcliffe Square.(4)
'Played the ass as usual, Ramer,' said Lowdham. 'Sorry! I
felt all strung up: wanted a fight, or a carouse, or something.
But really I was very interested, especially about the imram.(5)
Underneath we Nordics (6) have some feelings, as long as the
Dago-fanciers will only be reasonably polite.' He hesitated. 'I've
had some rather odd experiences - well, perhaps we'll talk
about it some other time. It's late. But in the vac. perhaps?'
'I shall be going away,' said Ramer, a trifle coldly, 'till after
Easter.'
'Oh well. But do come to the meetings next term! You must
have lots more to tell us. I'll try and be good.'
It was a cool clear night after a windy day. It was starry in the
west, but the moon was already climbing. At B.N.C.(7) gate
Lowdham turned. The Camera looked vast and dark against the
moonlit sky. Wisps of long white cloud were passing on an
easterly breeze. For a moment one of them seemed to take the
shape of a plume of smoke issuing from the lantern of the dome.
Lowdham looked up, and his face altered. His tall powerful
figure appeared taller and broader as he stood there, gazing,
with his dark brows drawn down. His face seemed pale and
angry, and his eyes glittered.
'Curse him! May the Darkness take him!' he said bitterly.
'May the earth open - ' The cloud passed away. He drew his
hand over his brow. 'I was going to say,' he said. 'Well, I don't
remember. Something about the Camera, I think. Doesn't
matter. Good night, chaps!' He knocked, and passed in through
the door.
We turned up along the lane. 'Very odd!' I said. 'What a queer
fellow he is sometimes! A strange mixture.'
'He is,' said Ramer. 'Most of what we see is a tortoise-shell:
armourplate. He doesn't talk much about what he really cares
for.'
'For some reason the last two or three meetings seem to have
stirred him up, unsettled him,' I said. 'I can't think why.'
'I wonder,' said Ramer. 'Well, good night, Nick. I'll see you
again next term. I hope to start attending regularly again.' We
parted at the Turl end of the lane.
PF. RD. AAL. MGR. WTJ. JJR. NG.
Night 64. Thursday, March 27th, 1987.(8)
There was only one meeting in the vacation. Guildford's
rooms. Neither Ramer nor Lowdham were present (it was a
quiet evening). Guildford read a paper on Jutland in antiquity;
but there was not much discussion. [No record of the paper is
found in the minutes.]
PF. WTJ. JM. RS. JJ. RD. NG.
Night 65. Thursday, May 8th, 1987.(9)
This was the first meeting of Trinity term. We met in
Frankley's rooms in Queen's. Jeremy and Guildford arrived first
(in time); others arrived one by one at intervals (late). There was
nothing definite on for the evening, though we had hoped for
some more talk from Ramer; but he seemed disinclined to say
anything further. Conversation hopped about during the first
hour, but was not notable.
Lowdham was restless, and would not sit down; at intervals
he burst into a song (with which he had, in fact, entered at
about half past nine). It began:
I've got a very Briny Notion
To drink myself to sleep.
It seldom progressed further, and never got beyond:
Bring me my bowl, my magic potion!
Tonight I'm diving deep.
down! down! down!
Down where the dream-fish go.
It was not well received, least of all by Ramer. But Lowdham
subsided eventually, into a moody silence - for a while.
About ten o'clock the talk turned to neologisms; and Lowd-
ham re-entered in their defence, chiefly because Frankley was
taking the other side. (No. Pure love of truth and justice. AAL)
Lowdham to Frankley: 'You say you object to panting, which
all the younger people use now for desire or wish?'
'Yes, I do. And especially to having a great pant for anything;
' or worse having great pants for it.'
'Well, I don't think you've got any good grounds for your
objection: nothing better than novelty or unfamiliarity. New
words are always objected to, like new art.'
'Nonsense! Double nonsense, Arry!' said Ramer.(10) 'Frankley
is complaining precisely because new words are not objected to.
And anyway, I personally object to lots of old words, but I have
to go on using 'em, because they're current, and people won't
accept my substitutes. I dislike many products of old art. I like
many new things but not all. There is such a thing as merit,
without reference to age or to familiarity. I took to doink at
once: a very good onomatopoeia for some purposes.'
'Yes, doink has come on a lot lately,' said Lowdham. 'But it's
not brand-new, of course. I think it's first recorded, in the Third
Supplement to the N.E.D.,(11) in the fifties, in the form doing:
seems to have started in the Air Force in the Six Years' War.'(12)
'And it's an onomatopoeia, mark you,' said Frankley. 'It's
easy to appraise the merits of that kind of word, if you can call it
a real word. Anyway, adopting that is not at all on all fours with
misusing an established word, robbing Peter to relieve the
poverty of Paul: lexicographical socialism, which would end by
reducing the whole vocabulary to one flat drab Unmeaning, if
there were no reactionaries.'
'And won't anybody give poor Peter his pants back?' Lowd-
ham laughed. 'He's got some more pairs in the cupboard, you'll
see. He'll just have to take to wearing modern whaffing and
whooshing. And why not? Do you object to Language, root and
branch, Pip? I'm surprised at you, and you a poet and all.'
'Of course I don't! But I object to ruining it.'
'But are you ruining it? Is it any worse off with panting:
whaffing than with longing: panting? This is not only the way
language is changed, it is how it was made. Essentially it
consists in the contemplation of a relationship "sound: sense;
symbol: meaning". It's not only when this is new (to you at any
rate) that you can appraise it. At inspired moments you can
catch it, get the thrill of it, in familiar words. I grant that an
onomatopoeia is a relatively simple case: whaff. But "to pant for
equals to long for" contains the same element: new phonetic
form for a meaning. Only here a second thing comes in: the
interest, pleasure, excitement, what you will, of the relation of
old sense to new. Both are illumined, for a time, at any rate.
Language could never have come into existence without the one
process, and never have extended its grasp without the other.
Both must go on! They will, too.'
'Well, I don't like this example of the activity,' said Frankley.
'And I detest it, when philologues talk about Language (with a
capital L) with that peculiarly odious unction usually reserved
for capitalized Life. That we are told "must go on" - if we
complain of any debased manifestations, such as Arry in his
cups. He talks about Language as if it was not only a Jungle but
a Sacred Jungle, a beastly grove dedicated to Vita Fera,(13) in
which nothing must be touched by impious hands. Cankers,
fungi, parasites: let 'em alone!
'Languages are not jungles. They are gardens, in which
sounds selected from the savage wilderness of Brute Noise are
turned into words, grown, trained, and endued with the scents
of significance. You talk as if I could not pull up a weed that
stinks!'
'I do not!' said Lowdham. 'But, first of all, you have to
remember that it's not your garden - if you must have this
groggy allegory: it belongs to a lot of other people as well, and
to them your stinking weed may be an object of delight. More
important: your allegory is misapplied. What you are objecting
to is not a weed, but the soil, and also any manifestations of
growth and spread. All the other words in your refined garden
have come into being (and got their scent) in the same way.
You're like a man who is fond of flowers and fruit, but thinks
loam is dirty, and dung disgusting; and the uprising and the
withering just too, too sad. You want a sterilized garden of
immortelles, no, paper-flowers. In fact, to leave allegory, you
won't learn anything about the history of your own language,
and hate to be reminded that it has one.'(14)
'Slay me with pontifical thunder-bolts!' cried Frankley. 'But
I'll die saying I don't like pants for longings.'
'That's the stuff!' laughed Lowdham. 'And you're right of
course, Pip. Both are right: the Thunder and the Rebel. For the
One Speaker, all alone, is the final court of doom for words, to
bless or to condemn. It's the agreement only of the separate
judges that seems to make the laws. If your distaste is shared by
an effective number of the others, then pants will prove - a
weed, and be thrust in the oven.
'Though, of course, many people - more and more, I
sometimes feel, as Time goes on and even language stales - do
not judge any longer, they only echo. Their native language, as
Ramer would call it, dies almost at their birth.
'It's not so with you, Philip my lad; you're ignorant, but you
have a heart. I dare say pants just doesn't fit your native style. So
it has always been with full men: they have had their hatreds
among the words, and their loves.'
'You talk almost as if you'd seen or heard Language since its
beginning, Arry,' said Ramer, looking at him with some sur-
prise. It was a long time since Lowdham had let himself go at
such length.
'No! Not since its beginning,' said Lowdham, while a strange
expression came over his face. 'Only since - but ... Oh well!'
He broke off and went to the window. It was dark but clear as
glass in the sky, and there were many white stars.
The conversation drifted again. Starting from the beginnings
of Language, we began to talk about legends of origins and
cultural myths. Guildford and Markison began to have an
argument about Corn-gods and the coming of divine kings or
heroes over the sea, in spite of various frivolous interjections
from Lowdham, who seemed curiously averse to the turn of the
talk.
'The Sheaf personified,'* said Guild[ford. Here unfortunately
one leaf is missing.)......
[Jeremy].... 'as you said. But I don't think one can be so sure.
Sometimes I have a queer feeling that, if one could go back, one
would find not myth dissolving into history, but rather the
reverse: real history becoming more mythical - more shapely,
simple, discernibly significant, even seen at close quarters. More
poetical, and less prosaic, if you like.
'In any case, these ancient accounts, legends, myths, about the
far Past, about the origins of kings, laws, and the fundamental
crafts, are not all made of the same ingredients. They're not
wholly inventions. And even what is invented is different from
mere fiction; it has more roots.'
'Roots in what?' said Frankley.
'In Being, I think I should say,' Jeremy answered; 'and in
human Being; and coming down the scale, in the springs of
History and in the designs of Geography - I mean, well, in the
pattern of our world as it uniquely is, and of the events in it as
seen from a distance. A sort of parallel to the fact that from far
away the Earth would be seen as a revolving sunlit globe; and
that is a remote truth of enormous effect on us and all we do,
though not immediately discernible on earth, where practical
men are quite right in regarding the surface as flat and
immovable for practical purposes.
'Of course, the pictures presented by the legends may be
partly symbolical, they may be arranged in designs that com-
press, expand, foreshorten, combine, and are not at all realistic
or photographic, yet they may tell you something true about the
Past.
'And mind you, there are also real details, what are called
facts, accidents of land-shape and sea-shape, of individual men
and their actions, that are caught up: the grains on which the
stories crystallize like snowflakes. There was a man called
Arthur at the centre of the cycle.'
(* [See Night 66, p. 236.])
'Perhaps!' said Frankley. 'But that doesn't make such things
as the Arthurian romances real in the same way as true past
events are real.'
'I didn't say in the same way,' said Jeremy. 'There are
secondary planes or degrees.'
'And what do you know about "true past events", Philip?'
asked Ramer. 'Have you ever seen one, when once it was past?
They are all stories or tales now, aren't they, if you try to bring
them back into the present? Even your idea of what you did
yesterday - if you try to share it with anyone else? Unless, of
course, you can go back, or at least see back.'
'Well, I think there's a difference between what really hap-
pened at our meetings and Nicholas's record,' said Frankley. 'I
don't think his reports erase the true history, whether they're
true in their fashion to the events or not. And didn't you claim
to be able sometimes to re-view the past as a present thing?
Could you go back into Guildford's minutes?'
'Hmm,' Ramer muttered, considering. 'Yes and no,' he said.
'Nicholas could, especially into the scenes that he's pictured or
re-pictured fairly solidly and put some mental work into. We
could, if we did the same. People of the future, if they only knew
the records and studied them, and let their imagination work on
them, till the Notion Club became a sort of secondary world set
in the Past: they could.'
'Yes, Frankley,' said Jeremy, 'you've got to make a distinction
between lies, or casual fiction, or the mere verbal trick of
projecting sentences back by putting the verbs into the past
tense, between all that and construction. Especially of the major
kind that has acquired a secondary life of its own and passes
from mind to mind.'
'Quite so!' said Ramer. 'I don't think you realize, I don't
think any of us realize, the force, the daimonic force that
the great myths and legends have. From the profundity of
the emotions and perceptions that begot them, and from the
multiplication of them in many minds - and each mind, mark
you, an engine of obscured but unmeasured energy. They are
like an explosive: it may slowly yield a steady warmth to living
minds, but if suddenly detonated, it might go off with a crash:
yes: might produce a disturbance in the real primary world.'
'What sort of thing are you thinking of?' said Dolbear, lifting
his beard off his chest, and opening his eyes with a gleam of
passing interest.
'I wasn't thinking of any particular legend,' said Ramer. 'But,
well, for instance, think of the emotional force generated all
down the west rim of Europe by the men that came at last to the
end, and looked on the Shoreless Sea, unharvested, untraversed,
unplumbed! And against that background what a prodigious
stature other events would acquire! Say, the coming, apparently
out of that Sea, riding a storm, [of] strange men of superior
knowledge, steering yet unimagined ships. And if they bore tales
of catastrophe far away: battles, burned cities, or the whelming
of lands in some tumult of the earth - it shakes me to think of
such things in such terms, even now.'
'Yes, I'm moved by that,' said Frankley. 'But it's large and
vague. I'm still stuck a good deal nearer home, in Jeremy's
casual reference to King Arthur. There you have a sort of
legendary land, but it's quite unreal.'
'But you'll allow, won't you,' said Ramer, 'that the Britain of
Arthur, as now imagined, even in a debased when-knights-were-
bold sort of form, has some kind of force and life?'
'Some kind of literary attraction,' said Frankley. 'But could
you go back to King Arthur's Camelot, even on your system? Of
which, by the way, I'm not yet convinced: I mean, what you've
told us seems to me very likely no more than an exceptionally
elaborate, and exceptionally well-remembered form of what
I call "dreaming" simply: picture-and-story-spinning while
asleep.'
'And anyway: if legend (significant on its own plane) has
gathered about history (with its own importance), which would
you go back to? Which would you see, if you saw back?' asked
Guildford.
'It depends on what you yourself are like, and on what you
are looking for, I imagine,' Ramer answered. 'If you were
seeking the story that has most power and significance for
human minds, then probably that is the version that you'ld find.
'Anyway, I think you could - I think I could go back to
Camelot, if the conditions of my mind and the chances of travel
were favourable. The chances are not, as I told you, more than
very slightly affected by waking desire. An adventure of that
sort would not be the same thing as re-viewing what you'ld call
Fifth-century Britain. Neither would it be like making a dream-
drama of my own. It would be more like the first, but it would
be more active. It would be much less free than the second. It
would probably be more difficult than either. I fancy it might be
the sort of thing best done by one or two people in concert.'
'I don't see how that would help,' said Frankley.
'Because different people have different views, or have indi-
vidual contributions to make: is that what you mean?' asked
Guildford. 'But that would be just as true of historical research
or "backsight".'
'No, it wouldn't,' said Jeremy. 'You're mixing up history in
the sense of a story made up out of the intelligible surviving
evidence (which is not necessarily truer to the facts than legend)
and "the true story", the real Past. If you really had a look back
at the Past as it was, then everything would be there to see, if
you had eyes for it, or time to observe it in. And the most
difficult thing to see would be, as it always is "at present", the
pattern, the significance, yes, the moral of it all, if you like. At
least that would be the case, the nearer you come to our time. As
I said before, I'm not so sure about that, as you pass backward
to the beginnings. But in such a thing as a great story-cycle the
situation would be different: much would be vividly real and at
the same time ... er... portentous; but there might be, would
be, uncompleted passages, weak joints, gaps. You'ld have to
consolidate. You might need help.'
'You might indeed!' said Frankley. 'Riding down from Came-
lot (when you had discovered just where that was) to most other
places on the legendary map, you'ld find the road pretty vague.
Most of the time you'ld be lost in a fog! And you'ld meet some
pretty sketchy characters about the court, too.'
'Of course! And so you would about the present court,' said
Markison, 'or in any Oxford quadrangle. Why should that
worry you? Sketchy characters are more true to life than fully
studied ones. There are precious few people in real life that you
know as well as a good writer knows his heroes and villains.'
'Riding down to Camelot. Riding out from Camelot,' mur-
mured Lowdham. 'And there was a dark shadow over that too.
I wonder, I wonder. But it is still only a tale to me. Not all
legends are like that. No, unfortunately. Some seem to have
come to life on their own, and they will not rest. I should hate to
be cast back into some of those lands. It would be worse than
the vision of poor Norman Keeps.'
'What on earth is he talking about now?' said Guildford.
'The cork's coming out pretty soon, I think,' grunted Dolbear
without opening his eyes.
Oh, Norman Keeps is our barber,'(15) said Frankley. At least
that's what Arry and I call him: no idea what his real name is.
Quite a nice and moderately intelligent little man: but to him
everything beyond a certain vague distance back is a vast dark
barren but utterly fixed and determined land and time called
The Dark Ages. There are only four features in it: Norman
Keeps (by which he means baronial castles, and possibly the
house of any man markedly richer than himself); Them Jameses
(meaning roughly I suppose the kings One and Two); The
Squires (a curious kind of bogey-folk); and The People. Nothing
ever happened in that land but Them Jameses shutting up The
People in the Keeps (with the help of The Squires) and there
torturing them and robbing them, though they don't appear
ever to have possessed anything to be robbed of. Rather a
gloomy legend. But it's a great deal more fixed in a lot more
heads than is the Battle of Camlan!'(16)
'I know, I know,' said Lowdham loudly and angrily. 'It's a
shame! Norman Keeps is a very decent chap, and would rather
learn truth than lies. But Zigur (17) pays special attention to the
type. Curse him!'
Conversation stopped, and there was a silence. Ramer and
Guildford exchanged glances. Dolbear opened his eyes quietly
without moving his head.
'Zigur?' said Jeremy, looking at Lowdham. 'Zigur? Who is
he?'
'No idea, no idea!' said Lowdham. 'Is this a new game, Jerry?
Owlamoo,(18) who's he?' He strode to the window and flung it
open.
The early summer night was still and glimmering, warmer
than usual for the time of year. Lowdham leant out, and we
turned and stared at his back. The large window looked west,
and the two towers of All Souls' stuck up like dim horns against
the stars.
Suddenly Lowdham spoke in a changed voice, clear and
ominous, words in an unknown tongue; and then turning
fiercely upon us he cried aloud:
Behold the Eagles of the Lords of the West! They are coming
over Numenor!(19)
We were all startled. Several of us went to the window and
stood behind Lowdham, looking out. A great cloud, coming
up slowly out of the West, was eating up the stars. As it
approached it opened two vast sable wings, spreading north and
south.
Suddenly Lowdham pulled away, slammed the window
down, and drew the curtains. He slumped into a chair and shut
his eyes.
We returned to our seats and sat there uncomfortably for
some time without a sound. At last Ramer spoke.
'Numenor? Numenor?' he said quietly. 'Where did you find
that name, Arundel Lowdham?'
'Oh, I don't know,' Lowdham answered, opening his eyes,
and looking round with a rather dazed expression. 'It comes to
me, now and again. Just on the edge of things, you know.
Eludes the grasp. Like coming round after gas. But it's been
turning up more often than usual this spring. I'm sorry. Have I
been behaving oddly or something, not quite my old quiet
friendly self? Give me a drink!'
'I asked,' said Ramer, 'because Numenor is my name for
Atlantis.'(20)
'Now that is odd!' began Jeremy.
'Ah!' said Lowdham. 'I wondered if it might be. I asked you
what your name was that night last term; but you didn't
answer.'
'Well, here's a new development!' said Dolbear, who was
now wide awake. 'If Arry Lowdham is going to dive where the
dreams go and find the same fish as Ramer, we shall have to
look into the pool.'
'We shall,' said Jeremy; 'for it's not only Ramer and Arry. I
come into it too. I knew I had heard that name as soon as Arry
said it.(21) But I can't for the life of me remember where or when
at the moment. It'll bother me now, like a thorn in the foot,
until I get it out.'
'Very queer,' said Dolbear.
'What do you propose to do?' said Ramer.
'Take your advice,' said Jeremy. 'Get your help, if you'll give
it.'
'Go into memory-training on the Rufus-Ramer system and
see what we can fish up,' said Lowdham. 'I feel as if something
wants to get out, and I should be glad to get it out - or forget it.'
'I'm a bit lost in all this,' said Markison. 'I've missed
something evidently. Philip has told me a bit about the Ramer
revelations last term, but I'm still rather at sea. Couldn't you tell
us something, Lowdham, to make things a little clearer?'
'No, really, I'm feeling frightfully tired,' said Lowdham. 'You
had better read up the records, if Nick has written them out
yet.(22) I expect he has. He's pretty regular, and pretty accurate, if
a bit hard on me. And come along to the next meeting. And
we'd better make that in a fortnight's time, I think. You can
have my room, if you think you can all get in. We'll see what we
have got by then. I've nothing much to tell yet.'
The conversation then dropped back uncertainly towards the
normal, and nothing further occurred worth noting.
As we went out Lowdham said to Ramer: 'D'you think I
could come round and talk to you, and to Rufus, some time
soon?'
'Yes,' said Ramer. 'The sooner the better. You come too,
Jeremy.'
MGR. PF. RD. JM. JJ. RS. AAL. WTJ. NG.
Night 66. Thursday, May 22nd, 1987.
A crowded evening. Lowdham's rather small room was pretty
packed. The idea of Arry 'seeing things' was sufficiently
astonishing to attract every member who was in Oxford. (Also I
am supposed to keep more bottles in my cupboard than some
that I could name. AAL)
Lowdham seemed in a bright and rather noisy mood again;
reluctant to do anything but sing. Eventually he was quietened
and got into a chair.
'Well now,' said Markison, 'I've read the records. I can't say
I've made my mind up about them yet; but I'm very interested to
hear how you come into such business, Arry. It doesn't seem in
your line.'
'Well, I'm a philologist,' said Lowdham, 'which means a
misunderstood man. But where I come in is, I think, at the point
you've mentioned: at Arry. The name Arry, which some of you
are pleased to attach to me, is not just a tribute to my vulgar
noisiness, as seems assumed by the more ignorant among you: it
is short not for Henry or Harold, but for Arundel. In full Alwin
Arundel Lowdham your humble jester, at your service.'
'Well, what has that got to do with it?' said several voices.
'I'm not quite sure yet,' said Lowdham. 'But my father's name
was Edwin.'(23)
'Illuminating indeed! ' said Frankley.
'Not very, I think,' said Lowdham. 'Not illuminating, but
puzzling. My father was an odd sort of man, as far as I
remember. Large, tall, powerful, dark. Don't stare at me! I'm a
reduced copy. He was wealthy, and combined a passion for
the sea with learning of a sort, linguistic and archaeological.
He must have studied Anglo-Saxon and other North-western
tongues; for I inherited his library and some of his tastes.
'We lived in Pembrokeshire, near Penian:(24) more or less, for
we were away a large part of the year; and my father was
always going off at a moment's notice: he spent a great deal of
his time sailing about Norway, Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, and
sometimes southward to the Azores and so on. I did not know
him well, though I loved him as much as a small boy can, and
used to dream of the time when I could go sailing with him. But
he disappeared when I was only nine.'
'Disappeared?' said Frankley. 'I thought you told me once
that he was lost at sea.'
'He disappeared,' said Lowdham. 'A strange story. No storm.
His ship just vanished into the Atlantic. That was in 1947, just
forty years ago next month. No signals (he wouldn't use wireless,
anyway). No trace. No news. She was called The Earendel.(25) An
odd business.'
'The seas were still pretty dangerous at that time, weren't
they?' said Stainer. 'Mines all over the place?'
'Not a spar at any rate was ever found,' said Lowdham. 'That
was the end of The Earendel: a queer name, and a queer end.
But my father had some queer fancies about names. I am called
Alwin Arundel, a mouthful enough, out of deference to pru-
dence and my mother, I believe. The names he chose were
AElfwine Earendel.
'One of the few conversations I remember having with him
was just before he went off for the last time. I had begged to go
with him, and he had said NO, of course. "When can I go?" I said.
'"Not yet, AElfwine," he said. "Not yet. Some time, perhaps.
Or you may have to follow me."
'It was then that it came out about my names. "I modernized
'em," he said, "to save trouble. But my ship bears the truer
name. It does not look to Sussex,(26) but to shores a great deal
further off. Very far away indeed now. A man has more
freedom in naming his ship than his own son in these days. And
it's few men that have either to name."
'He went off next day. He was mad to be at sea again, as he
had been kept ashore all through the Six Years' War,(27) from the
summer of 1939 onward, except I believe just at the Dunkirk
time in 1940. Too old - he was fifty when the war broke out,
and I was only a year; for he had married late - too old, and I
fancy a good deal too free and unbiddable to get any particular
job, and he had become fiercely restless. He only took three
sailors with him,(28) I think, but of course I don't know how he
found them, or how they ever managed to get off, in those days
of tyranny. I fancy they just cleared out illegally, somehow.
Whither, I wonder? I don't think they meant to return. Anyway
I never saw him again.'
'I can't see the connexion of this thread at all yet,' said
Guildford.
'Wait a bit!' said Ramer. 'There is a connexion, or we think
so. We've discussed it. You'd better let Arundel have his say.'
'Well - as soon as he'd gone... I was only nine at the time,
as I said, and I had never bothered much about books, let alone
languages, naturally at that age. I could read, of course, but I
seldom did ... as soon as my father had gone, and we knew
that it was for good, I began to take up with languages,
especially making them up (as I thought). After a time I used to
stray into his study, left for years it was, just as it had been when
he was alive.
'There I learned a lot of odd things in a desultory way, and I
came across some sort of a diary or notes in a queer script. I
don't know what happened to it when my mother died. I only
found one loose leaf of it among the papers that came to me.
I've kept it for years, and often tried and failed to read it; but it
is mislaid at present. I was about fourteen or fifteen when I got
specially taken with Anglo-Saxon, for some reason. I liked its
word-style, I think. It wasn't so much what was written in it as
the flavour of the words that suited me. But I was first
introduced to it by trying to find out more about the names. I
didn't get much light on them.
'Eadwine friend of fortune? AElfwine elf-friend? That at any
rate is what their more or less literal translation comes to.
Though, as most of you will know (except poor Philip), these
two-part names are pretty conventional, and not too much can
be built on their literal meaning.'
'But they must originally have been made to have a meaning,'
said Ramer. 'The habit of joining, apparently at random, any
two of a list of beginners and enders, giving you Spear-peace
and Peace-wolf and that sort of thing, must have been a later
development, a kind of dried-up verbal heraldry. AElfwine any-
way is one of the old combinations. It occurs outside England,
doesn't it?'
'Yes,' said Lowdham. 'And so does Eadwine. But I could not
see that any of the many recorded AElfwines were very suitable:
AElfwine, grandson of King Alfred, for instance, who fell in the
great victory of 937; or AElfwine who fell in the famous defeat
of Maldon, and many others; not even AElfwine of Italy, that
is Albuin son of Auduin, the grim Langobard of the sixth
century.'(29)
'Don't forget the connexion of the Langobards with King
Sheaf,'(30) put in Markison, who was beginning to show signs of
interest.
'I don't,' said Lowdham. 'But I was talking of my earliest
investigations as a boy.'
'Nor the repetition of the sequence: Albuin son of Auduin;
AElfwine son of Eadwine; Alwin son of Edwin,' said Ramer.(31)
'Probably deliberately imitated from the well-known story of
Rosamund,'(32) objected Philip Frankley. 'Arry's father must have
known it. And that's quite enough to explain Alwin and AElfwine,
when you're dealing with a family of Nordic philologues.'
'Perhaps, O Horsefriend of Macedon!'(33) said Lowdham. 'But
it doesn't take in Earendel. There's little to be found out about
that in Anglo-Saxon, though the name is there all right. Some
guess that it was really a star-name for Orion, or for Rigel.(34) A
ray, a brilliance, the light of dawn: so run the glosses.(35)
Eala Earendel engla beorhtost
ofer middangeard monnum sended!'
he chanted. '"Hail Earendel, brightest of angels, above the
middle-earth sent unto men!" When I came across that citation
in the dictionary I felt a curious thrill, as if something had
stirred in me, half wakened from sleep. There was something
very remote and strange and beautiful behind those words, if I
could grasp it, far beyond ancient English.
'I know more now, of course. The quotation comes from the
Crist,. though exactly what the author meant is not so certain.(36)
It is beautiful enough in its place. But I don't think it is any
irreverence to say that it may derive its curiously moving quality
from some older world.'
'Why irreverent?' said Markison. 'Even if the words do refer
to Christ, of course they are all derived from an older pre-
christian world, like all the rest of the language.'
'That's so,' said Lowdham; 'but Earendel seems to me a
special word. It is not Anglo-Saxon;(37) or rather, it is not only
Anglo-Saxon, but also something else much older.
'I think it is a remarkable case of linguistic coincidence, or
congruence. Such things do occur, of course. 1 mean, in two
different languages, quite unconnected, and where no borrow-
ing from one to the other is possible, you will come across
words very similar in both sound and meaning. They are usually
dismissed as accidents; and I daresay some of the cases are not
significant. But I fancy that they may sometimes be the result of
a hidden symbol-making process working out to similar ends by
different routes. Especially when the result is beautiful and the
meaning poetical, as is the case with Earendel.'
'If I follow all this,' said Markison, 'I suppose you are trying
to say that you've discovered Earendel, or something like it, in
some other unconnected language, and are dismissing all the
other forms of the name that are found in the older languages
related to English. Though one of them, Auriwandalo, is
actually recorded as a Langobardic name, I think. It's odd how
the Langobards keep cropping up.'
'It is,' said Lowdham, 'but I am not interested in that at the
moment. For I do mean that: I have often heard earendel, or to
be exact earendil, e-a-r-e-n-d-i-l, in another language, where it
actually means Great Mariner, or literally Friend of the Sea;
though it also has, I think, some connexion with the stars.'
'What language is that?' said Markison, knitting his brows.
'Not one I've ever come across, I think.' (He has 'come across'
or dabbled in about a hundred in his time.)
'No, I don't suppose you've ever met it,' said Lowdham. 'It's
an unknown language. But I had better try and explain.
'From the time of my father's departure I began to have
curious experiences, and I have gone on having them down the
years, slowly increasing in clearness: visitations of linguistic
ghosts, you might say. Yes, just that. I am not a seer. I have, of
course, pictorial dreams like other folk, but only what Ramer
would call marginal stuff, and few and fleeting at that: which at
any rate means that if I see things I don't remember them. But
ever since I was about ten I have had words, even occasional
phrases, ringing in my ears; both in dream and waking abstrac-
tion. They come into my mind unbidden, or I wake to hear
myself repeating them. Sometimes they seem to be quite isolated,
just words or names. Sometimes something seems to "break my
dream"(38) as my mother used to say: the names seem to be
connected strangely with things seen in waking life, suddenly,
in some fleeting posture or passing light which transports me to
some quite different region of thought or imagination. Like the
Camera that night in March, Ramer, if you remember it.
'Looking at a picture once of a cone-shaped mountain rising
out of wooded uplands, I heard myself crying out: "Desolate is
Minul-Tarik, the Pillar of Heaven is forsaken!" and I knew that
it was a dreadful thing. But most ominous of all are the Eagles
of the Lords of the West. They shake me badly when I see them.
I could, I could - I feel I could tell some great tale of Numenor.
'But I'm getting on too fast. It was a long time before I began
to piece the fragments together at all. Most of these "ghost-
words" are, and always were, to all appearance casual, as casual
as the words caught by the eye from a lexicon when you're
looking for something else. They began to come through, as I
said, when I was about ten; and almost at once I started to note
them down. Clumsily, of course, at first. Even grown-up folk
make a poor shot, as a rule, at spelling the simplest words that
they've never seen, unless they have some sort of phonetic
knowledge. But I've still got some of the grubby little note-
books I used as a small boy. An unsystematic jumble, of course;
for it was only now and again that I bothered about such things.
But later on, when I was older and had a little more linguistic
experience, I began to pay serious attention to my "ghosts", and
saw that they were something quite different from the game of
trying to make up private languages.
'As soon as I started looking out for them, so to speak, the
ghosts began to come oftener and clearer; and when I had got a
lot of them noted down, I saw that they were not all of one
kind: they had different phonetic styles, styles as unlike as, well
- Latin and Hebrew. I am sorry, if this seems a bit complicated.
I can't help it: and if this stuff is worth your bothering about at
all, we'd better get it right.
'Well, first of all I recognized that a lot of these ghosts were
Anglo-Saxon, or related stuff. What was left I arranged in two
lists, A and B, according to their style, with a third rag-bag list C
for odd things that didn't seem to fit in anywhere. But it was
language A that really attracted me; it just suited me. I still like
it best.'
'In that case you ought to have got it pretty well worked out
by now,' said Stainer. 'Haven't you got a Grammar and Lexicon
of Lowdham's Language A that you could pass round? I
wouldn't mind a look at it, if it isn't in some hideous phonetic
script.
Lowdham stared at him, but repressed the explosion that
seemed imminent. 'Are you deliberately missing the point?' he
said. 'I've been painfully trying to indicate that I do not believe
that this stuff is "invented", not by me at any rate.
'Take the Anglo-Saxon first. It is the only known language
that comes through at all in this way, and that in itself is odd.
And it began to come through before I knew it. I recognized it as
Anglo-Saxon only after I began to learn it from books, and then
I had the curious experience of finding that I already knew a
good many of the words. Why, there are a number of ghost-
words noted in the very first of my childish note-books that are
plainly a beginner's efforts at putting down spoken Old English
words in modern letters. There's wook, woak, woof = crooked,
for instance, that is evidently a first attempt at recording
Anglo-Saxon woh.
'And as for the other stuff: A, the language I like best, is the
shortest list. How I wish I could get more of it! But it's not
under my control, Stainer. It's not one of my invented lingoes. I
have made up two or three, and they're as complete as they're
ever likely to be; but that's quite a different matter. But
evidently I'd better cut out the autobiography and jump down
to the present.
'It's now clear to me that the two languages A and B have got
nothing to do with any language I've ever heard, or come across
in books in the ordinary way. Nothing. As far as it is possible
for any language, built out of about two dozen sounds, as A is,
to avoid occasional resemblances to other quite unrelated
tongues: nothing. And they have nothing to do with my
inventions either. Language B is quite unlike my own style.
Language A is very agreeable to my taste (it may have helped to
form it), but it is independent of me; I can't "work it out", as
you put it.
'Any one who has ever spent (or wasted) any time on
composing a language will understand me. Others perhaps
won't. But in making up a language you are free: too free. It is
difficult to fit meaning to any given sound-pattern, and even
more difficult to fit a sound-pattern to any given meaning. I say
fit. I don't mean that you can't assign forms or meanings
arbitrarily, as you will. Say, you want a word for sky. Well, call
it jibberjabber, or anything else that comes into your head
without the exercise of any linguistic taste or art. But that's
code-making, not language-building. It is quite another matter
to find a relationship, sound plus sense, that satisfies, that is
when made durable. When you're just inventing, the pleasure or
fun is in the moment of invention; but as you are the master
your whim is law, and you may want to have the fun all over
again, fresh. You're liable to be for ever niggling, altering,
refining, wavering, according to your linguistic mood and to
your changes of taste.
'It is not in the least like that with my ghost-words. They
came through made: sound and sense already conjoined. I can
no more niggle with them than I can alter the sound or the sense
of the word polis in Greek. Many of my ghost-words have been
repeated, over and over again, down the years. Nothing changes
but, occasionally, my spelling. They don't change. They endure,
unaltered, unalterable by me. In other words they have the
effect and taste of real languages. But one can have one's
preferences among real languages, and as I say, I like A best.
'Both A and B I associate in some way with the name
Numenor. The rag-bag list has got pretty long as the years have
gone on, and I can now see that, among some unidentified stuff,
it contains a lot of echoes of later forms of language derived
from A and B. The Numenorean tongues are old, old, archaic;
they taste of an Elder World to me. The other things are worn,
altered, touched with the loss and bitterness of these shores of
exile.' These last words he spoke in a strange tone, as if talking
to himself. Then his voice trailed off into silence.
'I find this rather hard to follow, or to swallow,' said Stainer.
'Couldn't you give us something a bit clearer, something better
to bite on than this algebra of A and B?'
Lowdham looked up again. 'Yes, I could,' he said. 'I won't
bother you with the later echoes. I find them moving, somehow,
and instructive technically: I am beginning to discern the laws
or lines of their change as the world grew older; but that
wouldn't be clear even to a philologist except in writing and
with long parallel lists.
'But take the name Numenore or Numenor (both occur) to
start with. That belongs to Language A. It means Westernesse,
and is composed of nume "west" and nore "folk" or "country".
But the B name is Anadune, and the people are called Adunaim,
from the B word adun "west". The same land, or so I think, has
another name: in A Andore and in B Yozayan,(39) and both mean
"Land of Gift".
'There seems to be no connexion between the two languages
there. But there are some words that are the same or very similar
in both. The word for "sky" or "the heavens" is menel in
Language A and minil in B: a form of it occurs in Minul-tarik
"Pillar of Heaven" that I mentioned just now. And there seems
to be some connexion between the A word Valar, which seems
to mean something like "The Powers", we might say "gods"
perhaps, and the B plural Avaloim and the place-name Avalloni.
Although that is a B name, it is with it, oddly enough, that I
associate Language A; so if you want to get rid of algebra, you
can call A Avallonian, and B Adunaic. I do myself.
'The name Earendil, by the way, belongs to Avallonian, and
contains eare "the open sea" and the stem ndil "love, devotion":
that may look a bit odd, but lots of the Avallonian stems begin
with nd, mb, ng, which lose their d, b, or g when they stand
alone. The corresponding Adunaic name, apparently meaning
just the same, is Azrubel. A large number of names seem to have
double forms like this, almost as if one people spoke two
languages. If that is so, I suppose the situation could be
paralleled by the use of, say, Chinese in Japan, or indeed of
Latin in Europe. As if a man could be called Godwin, and also
Theophilus or Amadeus. But even so two different peoples must
come into the story somewhere.
'Well there you are. I hope you are not all bored. I could give
you long lists of other words. Words, words, mostly just that.
For the most part significant nouns, like Isil and Nilu for the
Moon; fewer adjectives, still fewer verbs, and only occasional
connected phrases. I love these languages, though they are only
fragments out of some forgotten book. I find both curiously
attractive, though Avallonian is nearest to my heart. Adunaic
with its, well, faintly Semitic flavour belongs more nearly to our
world, somehow. But Avallonian is to me beautiful, in its simple
and euphonious style. And it seems to me more august, more
ancient, and, well, sacred and liturgical. I used to call it the
Elven-Latin. The echoes of it carry one far away. Very far away.
Away from Middle-earth altogether, I expect.' He paused as if
he was listening. 'But I could not explain just what I mean by
that,' he ended.
There was a short silence, and then Markison spoke. 'Why
did you call it Elven-Latin?'(40) he asked. 'Why Elven?'
'I don't quite know,' Lowdham answered. 'It seems the
nearest English word for the purpose. But certainly I didn't
mean elf in any debased post-Shakespearean sort of sense.
Something far more potent and majestic. I am not quite clear
what. In fact it's one of the things that I most want to discover.
What is the real reference of the aelf in my name?
'You remember that I said Anglo-Saxon used to come
through mixed up with this other queer stuff, as if it had some
special connexion with it? Well, I got hold of Anglo-Saxon
through the ordinary books later on: I began to learn it properly
before I was fifteen, and that confused the issue. Yet it is an odd
fact that, though I found most of these words already there,
waiting for me, in the printed vocabularies and dictionaries,
there were some - and they still come through now and again -
that are not there at all. Tiwas,(41) for instance, apparently used
as an equivalent of the Avallonian Valar; and Nowendaland (42)
for Numenore. And other compound names too, like Freafiras,(43)
Regeneard,(44) and Midswipen.(45) Some were in very archaic form:
like hebaensuil "pillar of heaven", or frumaeldi; or very antique
indeed like Wihawinia.'(46)
'This is dreadful,' sighed Frankley. 'Though I suppose I
should be grateful at least that Valhalla and Valkyries have not
made their appearance yet. But you'd better be careful, Arry!
We're all friends here, and we won't give you away. But you will
be getting into trouble, if you let your archaic cats out of your
private bag among your quarrelsome philological rivals. Unless,
of course, you back up their theories.'(47)
'You needn't worry,' said Lowdham. 'I've no intention of
publishing the stuff. And I haven't come across anything very
controversial anyway. After all Anglo-Saxon is pretty near
home, in place and time, and it's been closely worked: there's
not much margin for wide errors, not even in pronunciation.
What I hear is more or less what the received doctrine would
lead me to expect. Except in one point: it is so slow! Compared
with us urban chirrupers the farmers and mariners of the past
simply mouthed, savoured words like meat and wine and honey
on their tongues. Especially when declaiming. They made a
scrap of verse majestically sonorous: like thunder moving on a
slow wind, or the tramp of mourners at the funeral of a king.
We just gabble the stuff. But even that is no news to philologists,
in theory; though the realization of it in sound is something
mere theory hardly prepares you for. And, of course, the
philologists would be very interested in my echoes of very
archaic English, even early Germanic - if they could be got to
believe that they were genuine.
'Here's a bit that might intrigue them. It's very primitive in
form, though I use a less horrific notation than is usual. But you
had better see this.' He brought out from his pocket several
scraps of paper and passed them round;
westra lage wegas rehtas, wraikwas nu isti.
'That came through years ago,(48) long before I could interpret
it, and it has constantly been repeated in various forms:
westra lage wegas rehtas, wraikwas nu isti.
westweg waes rihtweg, woh is nupa
and so on and on and on, in many snatches and dream-echoes,
down from what looks like very ancient Germanic to Old
English.
a straight way lay westward, now it is bent.
It seems the key to something, but I can't fit it yet. But it was
while I was rummaging in an Onomasticon,(49) and poring over
the list of AElfwines, that I got, seemed to hear and see, the
longest snatch that has ever come through in that way, Yes, I
said I wasn't a seer; but Anglo-Saxon is sometimes an excep-
tion. I don't see pictures, but I see letters: some of the words and
especially some of the scraps of verse seem to be present to the
mind's eye as well as to the ear, as if sometime, somewhere, I
had seen them written and could almost recall the page. If you
turn over the slips I gave you, you'll see the thing written out. It
came through when I was only sixteen, before I had read any of
the old verse; but the lines stuck, and I put them down as well as
I could. The archaic forms interest me now as a philologist, but
that's how they came through, and how they stand in my
note-book under the date October 1st 1954. A windy evening: I
remember it howling round the house, and the distant sound of
the sea.
Monath modaes lust mith merifloda
forth ti foeran thaet ic feorr hionan
obaer gaarseggaes grimmae bolmas
aelbuuina eard uut gisoecae.
Nis me ti hearpun hygi ni ti hringthegi
ni ti wibae wyn ni ti weoruldi hyct
ni ymb oowict ellaes nebnae ymb ytha giwalc.
It sounds to me now almost like my own father speaking across
grey seas of world and time:
My soul's desire over the sea-torrents
forth bids me fare, that I afar should seek
over the ancient water's awful mountains
Elf-friends' island in the Outer-world.
For no harp have I heart, no hand for gold,
in no wife delight, in the world no hope:
one wish only, for the waves' tumult.
'I know now, of course, that these lines very closely resemble
some of the verses in the middle of The Seafarer, as that strange
old poem of longing is usually called. But they are not the same.
In the text preserved in manuscript it runs elpeodigra eard 'the
land of aliens', not aelbuuina or aelfwina (as it would have been
spelt later) 'of the AElfwines, the Elven-friends'. I think mine is
probably the older and better text - it is in a much older form
and spelling anyway - but I daresay I should get into trouble, as
Pip suggests, if I put it into a "serious journal".(50)
'It was not until quite recently that I picked up echoes of some
other lines that are not found at all among the preserved
fragments of the oldest English verses.(51)
Pus cwaed AElfwine Widlast Eadwines sunu:
Fela bid on Westwegum werum uncudra,
wundra and wihta, wlitescene land,
eardgeard aelfa and esa bliss.
Lyt aenig wat hwylc his langod sie
pam pe eftsides eldo getwaefed.
'Thus spake AElfwine the Fartravelled son of Eadwine:
There is many a thing in the west of the world unknown to
men; marvels and strange beings, [a land lovely to look on,]
the dwelling place of the Elves and the bliss of the Gods.
Little doth any man know what longing is his whom old
age cutteth off from return.
'I think my father went before Eld should cut him off. But
what of Eadwine's son?
'Well, now I've had my say for the present. There may be
more later. I am working at the stuff - as hard as time and my
duties allow, and things may happen. Certainly I'll let you
know, if they do. For now you have endured so much, I expect
you will want some more news, if anything interesting turns up.
If it's any comfort to you, Philip, I think we shall get away from
Anglo-Saxon sooner or later.'
'If it's any comfort to you, Arry,' said Frankley, 'for the first
time in your long life as a preacher you've made me faintly
interested in it.'
'Good Heavens!' said Lowdham. 'Then there must be some-
thing very queer going on! Lor bless me! Give me a drink and I
will sing, as the minstrels used to say.
Fil me a cuppe of ful gode ale,
for longe I have spelled tale!
Nu wil I drinken or I ende
that Frenche men to helle wende!'(52)
The song was interrupted by Frankley. Eventually a sem-
blance of peace was restored, only one chair being a casualty.
Nothing toward or untoward occurred for the remainder of the
evening.
AAL. MGR. WTJ. JM. RD. RS. PF. JJ. JJR. NG.
Night 67. Thursday, June 12th, 1987.(53)
We met in Ramer's rooms in Jesus College. There were eight
of us present, including Stainer and Cameron, and all the
regulars except Lowdham. It was very hot and sultry, and we
sat near the window looking into the inner quadrangle, talking
of this and that, and listening for the noises of Lowdham's
approach; but an hour passed and there was still no sign of him.
'Have you seen anything of Arry lately?' said Frankley to
Jeremy. 'I haven't. I wonder if he's going to turn up at all
tonight?'
'I couldn't say,' said Jeremy. 'Ramer and I saw a good deal of
him in the first few days after our last meeting, but I haven't set
eyes on him for some time now.'
'I wonder what he's up to? They say he cancelled his lectures
last week. I hope he's not ill.'
'I don't think you need fret about your little Elf-friend,' said
Dolbear. 'He's got a body and a constitution that would put a
steamroller back a bit, if it bumped into him. And don't worry
about his mind! He's getting something off it, and that will do
him no harm, I think. At least whatever it does, it will do less
harm than trying to cork it up any longer. But what on earth
it all is - well, I'm still about as much at sea as old Edwin
Lowdham himself.'
'Sunk, in fact,' said Stainer. 'I should say it was a bad attack
of repressed linguistic invention, and that the sooner he brings
out an Adunaic Grammar the better for all.'
'Perhaps,' said Ramer. 'But he may bring out a lot more
besides. I wish he would come!'
At that moment there was the sound of loud footsteps, heavy
and quick, on the wooden stairs below. There was a bang on the
door, and in strode Lowdham.
'I've got something new!' he shouted. 'More than mere
words. Verbs! Syntax at last!' He sat down and mopped his
face.
'Verbs, syntax! Hooray!' mocked Frankley. 'Now isn't that
thrilling! '
'Don't try and start a row, O Lover of Horses (54) and
Horseplay!' said Lowdham. 'It's too hot. Listen!
'It's been very stuffy and thundery lately, and I haven't been
able to sleep, a troublesome novelty for me; and I began to have
a splitting headache. So I cleared off for a few days to the west
coast, to Pembroke. But the Eagles came up out of the Atlantic,
and I fled. I still couldn't sleep when I came back, and my
headache got worse. And then last night I fell suddenly into a
deep dark sleep - and I got this.' He waved a handful of papers
at us. 'I didn't come round until nearly twelve this morning, and
my head was ringing with words. They began to fade quickly as
soon as I woke; but I jotted down at once all I could.
'I have been working on the stuff every minute since, and I've
made six copies. For I think you'll find it well worth a glance;
but you fellows would never follow it without something to
look at. Here it is! '
He passed round several sheets of paper. On them were
inscribed strange words in a big bold hand, done with one of the
great thick-nibbed pens Lowdham is fond of. Under most of
the words were glosses in red ink.(55)
I.
(A) O sauron tule nukumna ... lantaner turkildi
and ? came humbled ... fell ?
nuhuinenna ... tar-kalion ohtakare valannar
under shadow ... ? war made on Powers ...
nimeheruvi arda sakkante leneme iluvataren
Lords-of-West Earth rent with leave of ?
eari ullier ikilyanna ... numenore ataltane
seas should flow into chasm ... Numenor fell down
(B) Kado zigurun zabathan unakkha ... eruhinim
and so ? humbled he-came ... ?
dubdam ugru-dalad ... ar-pharazonun azaggara
fell ?shadow under ... ? was warring
avaloiyada ... barim an-adun yurahtam daira
against Powers ... Lords of-West broke Earth
saibeth-ma eruvo ... azriya du-phursa akhasada
assent-with ?-from ... seas so-as-to-gush into chasm
... anadune ziran hikallaba ... bawtba dulgi
... Numenor beloved she-fell down ... winds black
... balik hazad an-nimruzir azulada
... ships seven of ? eastward
(B) Agannalo buroda nenud ... zaira nenud
Death-shadow heavy on-us ... longing (is) on-us
... adun izindi batan taido ayadda: ido
west straight road once went now
katha batina lokhi
all roads crooked
(A) Vahaiya sin And ore
far away now (is) Land of Gift
(B) Ephalak idon Yozayan
far away now (is) Land of Gift
(B) Ephal ephalak idon hi-Akallabeth
far far away now (is) She-that-hath-fallen
(A) Haiya vahaiya sin atalante.
far far away now (is) the Downfallen.(56)
'There are two languages here,' said Lowdham, 'Avallonian
and Adunaic: I have labelled them A and B. Of course, I have
put them down in a spelling of my own. Avallonian has a clear
simple phonetic structure and in my ear it rings like a bell, but I
seemed to feel as I wrote this stuff down that it was not really
spelt like this. I have never had the same feeling before, but this
morning I half glimpsed quite a different script, though I
couldn't visualize it clearly. I fancy Adunaic used a very similar
script too.
'"I believe these are passages out of some book," I said to
myself. And then suddenly I remembered the curious script in
my father's manuscript. But that can wait. I've brought the leaf
along.
'These are only fragmentary sentences, of course, and not by
any means all that I heard; but they are all that I could seize and
get written down. Text I is bilingual, though they are not
identical, and the B version is a little longer. That's only because
I could remember a bit more of it. They correspond so closely
because I heard the A version, a sentence at a time, with the B
version immediately following: in the same voice, as if someone
was reading out of an ancient book and translating it bit by bit
for his audience. Then there came a long dark gap, or a picture
of confusion and darkness in which the word-echoes were lost
in a noise of winds and waves.
'And then I got a kind of lamentation or chant, of which I
have put down all that I can now remember. You'll notice the
order is altered at the end. There were two voices here, one
singing A and the other singing B, and the chant always ended
up as I have set it out: A B B A. The last word was always
Atalante. I can give you no idea of how moving it was, horribly
moving. I still feel the weight of a great loss myself, as if I shall
never be really happy on these shores again.
'I don't think there are any really new words here. There are a
lot of very interesting grammatical details; but I won't bother
you with those, interesting as they are to me - and they seem to
have touched off something in my memory too, so that I now
know more than is actually contained in the fragments. You'll
see a lot of query marks, but I think the context (and often the
grammar) indicates that these are all names or titles.
'Tar-kalion, for instance: I think that is a king's name, for I've
often come across the prefix tar in names of the great, and ar in
the corresponding Adunaic name (on the system I told you
about) is the stem of the word for "king". On the other hand
turkildi and eruhinim, though evidently equivalent, don't mean
the same thing. The one means, I think, 'lordly men', and the
other is rather more startling, for it appears to be the name of
God the Omnipotent with a patronymic ending: in fact, unless I
am quite wrong, "Children of God". Indeed, I need not have
queried the words eruvo and iluvataren: there can't really be
any doubt that eruvo is the sacred name Eru with a suffixed
element meaning "from", and that therefore iluvataren means
the same thing.
'There is one point that may interest you, after what we were
saying about linguistic coincidence. Well, it seems to me a fair
guess that we are dealing with a record, or a legend, of an
Atlantis catastrophe.'
'Why or?' said Jeremy. 'I mean, it might be a record and a
legend. You never really tackled the question I propounded at
our first meeting this term. If you went back would you find
myth dissolving into history or history into myth? Somebody
once said, I forget who, that the distinction between history and
myth might be meaningless outside the Earth. I think it might at
least get a great deal less sharp on the Earth, further back.
Perhaps the Atlantis catastrophe was the dividing line?'
'We may be able to deal with your question a great deal better
when we've got to the bottom of all this,' said Lowdham. 'In the
meantime the point I was going to bring up is worth noting. I
said "Atlantis" because Ramer told us that he associated the
word Numenor with the Greek name. Well, look! here we learn
that Numenor was destroyed; and we end with a lament: far,
far au ay, now is Atalante. Atalante is plainly another name for
Numenor-Atlantis. But only after its downfall. For in Avallo-
nian atalante is a word formed normally from a common base
talat "topple over, slip down": it occurs in Text I in an emphatic
verbal form ataltane "slid down in ruin", to be precise. Atalante
means "She that has fallen down", So the two names have
approached one another, have reached a very similar shape by
quite unconnected routes. At least, I suppose the routes are
unconnected. I mean, whatever traditions may lie behind Plato's
Timaeus,(57) the name that he uses, Atlantis, must be just the
same old "daughter of Atlas" that was applied to Calypso. But
even that connects the land with a mountain regarded as the
pillar of heaven. Minul-Tarik, Minul-Tarik! Very interesting.'
He got up and stretched. 'At least I hope you all think so! But,
good lord, how hot and stuffy it is getting! Not an evening for a
lecture! But anyway, I can't make much more out of this with
only words, and without more words. And I need some pictures.
'I wish I could see a little, as well as hear, like you, Ramer. Or
like Jerry. He's had a few glimpses of strange things, while we
worked together; but he can't hear. My words seem to waken
his sight, but it's not at all clear yet. Ships with dark sails.
Towers on sea-washed shores. Battles: swords that glint, but are
silent. A great domed temple.(58) I wish I could see as much. But
I've done what I can. Sauron. Zigurun, Zigur. I can't fathom
those names. But the key is there, I think. Zigur.'
'Zigur!' said Jeremy in a strange voice.(59) We stared at him: he
was sitting with his eyes closed, and he looked very pale; beads
of sweat were on his face.
'I say, what's the matter, Jerry?' cried Frankley. 'Open the
other window, Ramer, and let's have some more air! I think
there's a storm brewing.'
'Zigur!' cried Jeremy again, in a remote strained voice. 'You
spoke of him yourself not long ago, cursing the name. Can you
have forgotten him, Nimruzir?'(60)
'I had forgotten,' Lowdham answered. 'But now I begin to
remember! ' He stood still and clenched his fists. His brow
lowered, and his eyes glittered. There was a glimmer of
lightning far away through the darkening window. Away in the
west over the roofs the sky was going dead black. There came a
distant rumour of thunder.
Jeremy groaned and laid his head back.
Frankley and Ramer went to him, and bent over him; but he
did not seem to notice them. 'It's the thunder, perhaps,' said
Frankley in a low voice. 'He seemed all right a few minutes ago;
but he looks pretty ghastly now.'
'Leave him alone,' growled Dolbear. 'You'll do no good
hovering over him.'
'Would you like to lie down on my bed?' said Ramer. 'Or
shall I get the car out and run you home?'
'Are you feeling ill, old man?' said Frankley.
'Yes,' groaned Jeremy without moving. 'Deathly. But don't
trouble me! Don't touch me! Ba kitabdahe!(61) Sit down. I shall
speak in a moment.'
There was a silence that seemed long and heavy. It was then
nearly ten o'clock, and the pale sky of summer twilight was
pricked by a few faint stars; but the blackness crawled slowly
onwards from the West. Great wings of shadow stretched out
ominously over the town. The curtains stirred as with a presage
of wind, and then hung still. There was a long mutter of thunder
ending in a crack.
Lowdham was standing erect in the middle of the floor,
looking out of the window with staring eyes. Suddenly:
'Narika 'nBari 'nAdun yanakhim,'(62) he shouted, lifting up
both his arms. 'The Eagles of the Lords of the West are at hand! '
Then all at once Jeremy began to speak. 'Now I see!' he said.
'I see it all. The ships have set sail at last. Woe to the time!
Behold, the mountain smokes and the earth trembles!'
He paused, and we sat staring, oppressed as by the oncoming
of doom. The voices of the storm drew nearer. Then Jeremy
began again.
'Woe to this time and the fell counsels of Zigur! The King
hath set forth his might against the Lords of the West. The fleets
of the Numenoreans are like a land of many islands; their masts
are like the stems of a forest; their sails are golden and black.
Night is coming. They have gone against Avalloni with naked
swords. All the world waiteth. Why do the Lords of the West
make no sign?'(63)
There was a dazzle of lightning and a deafening crash.
'Behold! Now the black wrath is come upon us out of the
West. The Eagles of the Powers of the World have arisen in
anger. The Lords have spoken to Eru, and the fate of the World
is changed!'(64)
'Do you not hear the wind coming and the roaring of the sea?'
said Lowdham.
'Do you not see the wings of the Eagles, and their eyes like
thunderbolts and their claws like forks of fire?' said Jeremy.
'See! The abyss openeth. The sea falls. The mountains lean over.
Urid yakalubim!' He got up unsteadily, and Lowdham took his
hand, and drew him towards him, as if to protect him. Together
they went to the window and stood there peering out, talking to
one another in a strange tongue. Irresistibly I was reminded of
two people hanging over the side of a ship. But suddenly with a
cry they turned away, and knelt down covering their eyes.
'The glory hath fallen into the deep waters,' said Jeremy
weeping.
'Still the eagles pursue us,' said Lowdham. 'The wind is like
the end of the world, and the waves are like mountains moving.
We go into darkness.'(65)
There was a roar of thunder and a blaze of lightning: flashes
north, south, and west. Ramer's room flared into a blistering
light and rocked back into darkness. The electric light had
failed. At a distance there was a murmur as of a great wind
coming.
'All hath passed away. The light hath gone out!' said Jeremy.
With a vast rush and slash rain came down suddenly like
waterfalls out of the sky, and a wind swept the city with wild
wings of fury; its shriek rose to a deafening tumult. Near at
hand I heard, or I thought I heard, a great weight like a tower
falling heavily, clattering to ruin. Before we could close the
windows with the strength of all hands present and heave the
shutters after them, the curtains were blown across the room
and the floor was flooded.
In the midst of all the confusion, while Ramer was trying to
find and light a candle, Lowdham went up to Jeremy, who was
cowering against the wall, and he took his hands.
'Come, Abrazan!'(66) he said. 'There is work to do. Let us look
to our folk and see to our courses, before it is too late!'
'It is too late, Nimruzir,' said Jeremy. 'The Valar hate us.
Only darkness awaits us.'
'A little light may yet lie beyond it, Come!' said Lowdham,
and he drew Jeremy to his feet. In the light of the flickering
candle that Ramer now held in a shaking hand, we saw him
drag Jeremy to the door, and push him out of the room. We
heard their feet stumbling and clattering down the stairs.
'They'll be drowned!' said Frankley, taking a few steps, as if
to follow them. 'What on earth has come over them?'
'The fear of the Lords of the West,' said Ramer, and his voice
shook. 'It is no good trying to follow them. But I think it was
their part in this story to escape from the very edge of Doom.
Let them escape!'
And there this meeting would have ended, but for the fact
that the rest of us could not face the night and dared not go.
For three hours we sat huddled up in dim candle-light, while
the greatest storm in the memory of any living man roared over
us: the terrible storm of June 12th 1987,(67) that slew more men,
felled more trees, and cast down more towers, bridges and other
works of Man than a hundred years of wild weather.*
(* The centre of its greatest fury seems to have been out in the
Atlantic, but its whole course and progress has been something of a
puzzle to meteorologists - as far as can be discovered from accounts it
seems to have proceeded more like blasts of an explosion, rushing
eastward and slowly diminishing in force as it went. N.G.)
When at last it had abated in the small hours, and through the
rags of its wild retreat the sky was already growing pale again in
the East, the company parted and crept away, tired and shaken,
to wade the flooded streets and discover if their homes and
colleges were still standing. Cameron made no remark. I am
afraid he had not found the evening entertaining.
I was the last to go. As I stood by the door, I saw Ramer pick
up a sheet of paper, closely covered with writing. He put it into
a drawer.(68)
'Good night - or good morning!' I said. 'We should be
thankful at any rate that we were not struck by lightning, or
caught in the ruin of the college.'
'We should indeed!' said Ramer. 'I wonder.'
'What do you wonder? ' I said.
'Well, I have an odd feeling, Nick, or suspicion, that we may
all have been helping to stir something up. If not out of history,
at any rate out of a very powerful world of imagination and
memory. Jeremy would say "perhaps out of both". I wonder if
we may not find ourselves in other and worse dangers.'
'I don't understand you,' I said. 'But at any rate, I suppose
you mean that you wonder whether they ought to go on.
Oughtn't we to stop them?'
'Stop Lowdham and Jeremy?' said Ramer. 'We can't do that
now.'
MGR. RD. PF. RS. JM. NG. Added later AAL. WTJ.
Night 68. June 26th, 1987.
Frankley's rooms. A small attendance: Frankley, Dolbear,
Stainer, Guildford.
There is not much to record. Most of the Club, present or
absent, were in one way or another involved in examinations,
and tired, and more bothered than is usual at this season.*
(* The extraordinary system of holding the principal examinations of
the year in the summer, which must have been responsible for an
incalculable amount of misery, was still in force. During the period of
'reforms' in the forties there was talk of altering this arrangement, but
it was never carried out, though it was one of the few thoroughly
desirable minor reforms proposed at the time. It was the events of the
summer of 1987 that finally brought things to a head, as most of the
examinations had that year to be transferred to the winter, or held
again after the autumn term. N.G.)
Things had been rather shaken up by the storm. It had come in
the seventh week, right in the middle of the final examinations;
and amongst a lot of other damage, the Examination Schools
had been struck and the East School wrecked.
'What a time we've been having, ever since old Ramer started
to attend again!' said Frankley. 'Notion Club! More like the
Commotion Club! Is there any news of the Commoters?'
'D'you mean Lowdham and Jeremy?' said Stainer. 'Pro-
moters, I should say! I've never seen anything better staged -
and with Michael Ramer, as a kind of conniving chorus. It was
wonderfully well done!'
'Wonderfully!' said Dolbear. 'I am lost in admiration. Think
of their meteorological information! Superb! Foreseeing like
that a storm not foretold, apparently, by any station in the
world. And timing it so beautifully, too, to fit in neatly with
their prepared parts. It makes you think, doesn't it? - as those
say, who have never experienced the process. And Ramer says
flatly that he was bowled over, altogether taken by surprise.
Whatever you may think of his views, it would be very rash to
assume that he was lying. He takes this affair rather seriously.
"Those two are probably dangerous," he said to me; and he
wasn't thinking merely of spoofing the Club, Stainer.'
'Hm. I spoke too hastily, evidently,' said Stainer, stroking his
chin. 'Hm. But what then? If not arranged, it was a very
remarkable coincidence.'
'Truly remarkable!' said Dolbear. 'But we'll leave that ques-
tion open for a bit, I think; coincidence or connexion. They're
both pretty difficult to accept; but they're the only choices.
Pre-arrangement is impossible - or rather it's a damned sight
more improbable, and even more alarming. What about these
two fellows, though? Has anything been heard of them?'
'Yes,' said Guildford. 'They're alive, and neither drowned nor
blasted. They've written me a joint letter to lay before the Club.
This is what they say:
Dear Nick,
We hope every one is safe and sound. We are. We were cast
up far away when the wind fell, but we're dry again at last; so
now we're off, more or less in the words of the old song, 'on
some jolly little jaunts to the happy, happy haunts where the
beer flows wild and free'. In due course (if ever) we'll let our
colleges have our addresses. A.A.L.
That is the end of Arry's great big fist. Jeremy adds:
We are researching. More stuff may come through, I think.
What about a vacation meeting? Just before the racket of
term. What about Sept. 25th? You can have my rooms. Yrs.
W.T.J.'
'What about the racket of the vacation! ' said Frankley.
They re damned lucky not to be in the schools (69) this year, or
they'ld have to come back, wherever the wind may have blown
them. Any idea where that was, Nick?'
'No,' said Guildford. 'The postmark is illegible,(70) and there's
no address inside. But what about the proposed meeting? I
suppose most of us will be about again by then.'
September 25th was agreed to. At that moment Michael
Ramer came in. 'We've heard from them!' Frankley cried.
'Nicholas has had a letter. They're all right, and they're off on a
holiday somewhere: no address.'
'Good!' said Ramer. 'Or I hope so. I hope they won't wreck
the British Isles before they've finished.'
'My dear Ramer! ' Steiner protested. 'What do you mean?
What can you mean? Dolbear has been preaching the open
mind to my incredulity. He had better talk to you. The other
extreme is just as bad.'
'But I haven't any fixed opinions,' said Ramer. 'I was merely
expressing a doubt, or a wild guess. But actually I am not really
very much afraid of any more explosions now. I fancy that that
force has been spent, for the present, for a long time to come
perhaps.
'But I am a little anxious about Arry and Wilfrid themselves.
They may quite well get into some danger. Still we can only wait
and see. Even if we could find them we could do no more. You
can't stop a strong horse with the bit between its teeth. You
certainly could not rein Arry in now, and Wilfrid is evidently
nearly as deeply in it as Arry is.
'In the meantime I have got something to show you. Arry
dropped a leaf of paper in my room that night. I think it is the
leaf of his father's manuscript that he told us about. Well - I've
deciphered it.'
'Good work! ' said Guildford. 'I didn't know you were a
cryptographer.'
'I'm not,' Ramer laughed, 'but I have my methods. No, no -
nothing dreamy this time. I just made a lucky shot and landed
on the mark. I don't know whether Arry had solved it himself
before he dropped it, but I think not; for if he had, he would
have included it in the stuff he showed us. It's quite plain what
held him up: it was too easy. He was looking for something
remote and difficult, while all the time the solution was right on
his own doorstep. He thought it was Numenorean, I guess; but
actually it is Old English, Anglo-Saxon, his own stuff!
The script is, I suppose, Numenorean,(71) as Arry thought. But
it has been applied by someone to ancient English. The proper
names, when they're not Old English translations, are in the
same script, but the letters are then quite differently used, and
I shouldn't have been able to read them without the help of
Arry s texts.
'I wonder who had the idea of writing Anglo-Saxon in this
odd way? Old Edwin Lowdham seems at first a likely guess; but
I'm not so sure. The thing is evidently made up of excerpts from
a longish book or chronicle.'
'Well, come on!' cried Frankley. 'How you philologists do
niggle! Let's see it, and tell us what it says!'
'Here it is!' said Ramer, taking three sheets out of his pocket
and handing them to Frankley. 'Pass it round! I've got a copy.
The original is only a small octavo page as you see, written on
both sides in a large hand in this rather beautiful script.
'Now, I said to myself: "If this is in one of Arry's languages, I
can't do anything with it; no one but he can solve it, But he
failed, so probably it isn't. In that case, what language is it most
likely to be, remembering what Arry told us? Anglo-Saxon.
Well, that's not one of my languages, though I know the
elements. So when I'd made a preliminary list of all the separate
letters that I could distinguish, I trotted round to old Professor
Rashbold at Pembroke,(72) though I didn't know him personally.
A grumpy old bear Arry has always called him; but evidently
Arry has never given him the right sort of buns.
'He liked mine. He didn't care tuppence about what the stuff
said, but it amused him to try and solve the puzzle, especially
when he heard that it had defeated Arry. "Oh! Young Lowd-
ham!" he said. "A clever fellow under that pothouse manner.
But too fly-away; always after some butterfly theory. Won't
stick to his texts. Now if I had had him as my pupil, I should
have put some stiffening into him." Well, starting out with my
guess that the stuff might be Anglo-Saxon, old Rashbold didn't
take long. I don't know his workings. All he said before I left
was: "Never seen this script before; but I should say it was a
consonantal alphabet, and all these diacritics are vowel-signs.
I'll have a look at it." He sent it back to me this morning, with a
long commentary on the forms and spellings, which I am not
inflicting on you, except his concluding remarks.
'"To sum up: it is in Old English of a strongly Mercian
(West-Midland) colour, ninth century I should say.(73) There are
no new words, except possibly to-sprengdon. There are several
words, probably names and not Old English, that I have not
succeeded in getting out; but you will excuse me from spending
more time on them. My time is not unlimited. Whoever made
the thing knew Old English tolerably well, though the style has
the air of a translation. If he wanted to forge a bit of Old
English, why did not he choose an interesting subject?"
'Well, I solved the names, as I told you; and there you have
the text as old Rashbold sent it back, with the names put in.
Only as my typewriter has no funny letters I have used th for the
old thorn-letter. The translation is Rashbold's too.
Hi alle sae on weorulde oferliodon, sohton hi nyston hwet; ah
aefre walde heara heorte westward.... forthon hit swe gefyrn
arkdde se AElmihtiga thaet hi sceoldan steorfan 7 thas
weoruld ofgeofan.... hi ongunnon murcnian.... hit gelomp
seoththan thaet se fula deofles thegn se the AElfwina folc
(Zigur) nemneth weox swithe on middangearde 7 he geas-
code Westwearena meht 7 wuldor .... walde healecran stol
habban thonne Earendeles eafera seolf ahte...... Tha cwom
he, (Tarcalion) se cyning up on middangeardes oran 7 he
sende sona his erendwracan to (Zigure): heht hine on ofste
cuman to thes cyninges manraedenne to buganne. 7 he (Zigur)
lytigende ge-eadmedde hine thaet he cwom, wes thaeh inwitful
under, facnes hogde Westfearena theode ..... swe adwalde
he fornean alle tha (Numenor)iscan mid wundrum 7 mid
tacnum .... 7 hi gewarhton micelne alh on middan
(Arminaleth)(75) there cestre on thaem hean munte the aer
unawidlod wes 7 wearth nu to haethenum herge, 7 hi ther
onsegdon unase[c]gendlic lac on unhalgum weofode ... Swe
cwom deathscua on Westfearena land 7 Godes bearn under
sceadu feollon .... Thes ofer feola gera hit gelomp thaet
(Tarcalione) wearth aeldo onsaege, thy wearth he hreow on
mode 7 tha walde he be (Zigures) onbryrdingum (Avalloni)
mid ferde gefaran. Weron Westfearena scipferde sweswe
unarimedlic egland on there sae .... ah tha Westfregan
gebedon hi to thaem AElmihtigan 7 be his leafe tosprengdon hi
tha eorthan thaet alle sae nither gutan on efgrynde, 7 alle tha
sceopu forwurdan, forthon seo eorthe togan on middum
garsecge .... swearte windas asteogon 7 AElfwines seofon
sceopu eastweard adraefdon.
Nu sitte we on elelonde 7 forsittath tha blisse 7 tha
eadignesse the iu wes 7 nu sceal eft cuman naefre. Us swithe
onsiteth deathscua. Us swithe longath..... On aerran melum
west leg reht weg, nu earon alle weogas wo. Feor nu is leanes
lond. Feor nu is Neowollond (76) thaet geneotherade. Feor nu is
Dreames lond thaet gedrorene.
All the seas in the world they sailed, seeking they knew not
what; but their hearts were ever westward.... because so had
the Almighty ordained it of old that they should die and leave
this world.... they began to murmur.... It afterwards came
to pass that the foul servant of the devil, whom the people of
the ?AElfwines name (Zigur), grew mightily in middle-earth,
and he learned of the power and glory of the Westware
(Dwellers in the West) .... desired a higher throne than even
the descendant of Earendel possessed ...... Then he, King
(Tarcalion) landed on the shores of middle-earth, and at once
he sent his messengers to (Zigur), commanding him to come in
haste to do homage to the king; and he (Zigur) dissembling
humbled himself and came, but was filled with secret malice,
purposing treachery against the people of the Westfarers.....
Thus he led astray wellnigh all the (Numenore)ans with signs
and wonders.... and they built a great temple in the midst of
the town (of Arminaleth) on the high hill which before was
undefiled but now became a heathen fane, and they there
sacrificed unspeakable offerings on an unholy altar ... Thus
came death-shade into the land of the Westfarers and God's
children fell under the shadow .... Many years later it came
to pass that old age assailed (Tarcalion); wherefore he
became gloomy in heart, and at the instigation of (Zigur) he
wished to conquer (Avalloni) with a host. The ship-hosts of
the Westfarers were like countless islands in the sea .... But
the West-lords prayed to the Almighty, and by his leave split
asunder the earth so that all seas should pour down into an
abyss and the ships should perish; for the earth gaped open in
the midst of the ocean.... black winds arose and drove away
AElfwine's seven ships.
Now we sit in the land of exile, and dwell cut off from the
bliss and the blessedness that once was and shall never come
again. The death-shade lies heavy on us; longing is on us.....
In former days west lay a straight way, now are all ways
crooked. Far now is the land of gift. Far now is the?prostrate
land that is cast down. Far now is the land of Mirth that is
fallen.
'Well, old Rashbold may not have found that interesting. But
it depends what you're looking for. You people at any rate will
find it interesting, I think, after the events of that night. You will
notice that the original text is written continuously in bold-
stroke hand (I don't doubt that the actual penman was old
Edwin), but there are dividing dots at intervals. What we have is
really a series of fragmentary extracts, separated, I should guess,
by very various intervals of omission, extremely like Arry's
snatches of Avallonian and Adunaic. Indeed this stuff corres-
ponds closely to his (which in itself is very interesting): it includes
all that he gave us, but gives a good deal more, especially at the
beginning. You notice that there is a long gap at the same point
as the break between his Text I and II.
'Of course, when old Rashbold said "the style has the air of a
translation", he simply meant that the fabricator had not been
quite successful in making the stuff sound like natural Anglo-
Saxon. I can't judge that. But I daresay he is right, though his
implied explanation may be wrong. This probably is a trans-
lation out of some other language into Anglo-Saxon. But not, I
think, by the man who penned the page. He was in a hurry, or
like Arry trying to catch the evanescent, and if he had had any
time for translation he would have done it into modern English.
I can't see any point in the Anglo-Saxon unless what he "saw"
was already in it.
'I say "saw". For this stuff looks to me like the work of a man
copying out all he had time to see, or all he found still intact and
legible in some book.'
'Or all he could get down of some strongly visualized dream,'
said Dolbear. 'And even so, I should guess that the hand that
penned this stuff was already familiar with the strange script.
It's written freely and doesn't look at all like the work of a man
trying to copy something quite unknown. On your theory,
Ramer, he wouldn't have had time, anyway.'
'Yes, it's a pretty puzzle,' said Frankley. 'But I don't suppose
we shall get much forrarder (77) without Arry's help. So we must
wait in patience till September, and hope for a light beyond the
sea of Scripts. I must go. The scripts that are waiting for me are
much longer and hardly more legible.'
'And probably more puzzling,' said Stainer. 'Surely there's no
great mystery here, in spite of Ramer's attempts to create one.
Here we have a specimen of old Edwin Lowdham's queer
hobby: the fabrication of mythical texts; and the direct source
of all Arry's stuff. He seems to have taken after his father, in
more senses than one; though he's probably more inventive
linguistically.'
'Really you're unteachable, Stainer,' said Dolbear. 'Why do
you always prefer a theory that cannot be true, unless somebody
is lying?'
'Who am I accusing of lying?'
'Well, wait until September, and then say what you've just
said slowly and carefully to Arry, and you'll soon discover,' said
Dolbear. 'If you've forgotten everything he said, I haven't. Good
night!'
RD. PF. RS. MGR. NG.
Night 69. Thursday, 25 September, 1987.
There was a large meeting in Jeremy's rooms. Jeremy and
Lowdham had reappeared in Oxford only the day before,
looking as if they had spent all the vacation examining rather
than holidaymaking. There were eight other people present, and
Cameron came in late.
After the experiences of June 12th most of the Club felt a
trifle apprehensive, and conversation began by being jocular, in
consequence. But Lowdham took no part in the jesting; he was
unusually quiet.
'Well, Jerry,' said Frankley at last, 'you're the host. Have you
arranged any entertainment for us? If not, after so many weeks,
I daresay several of us have got things in our pockets.'
'That means that you have at any rate,' said Jeremy. 'Let's
have it! We want, or at least I want, some time to tell you about
what we've been doing, but there's no hurry.'
'That depends on how long your account of yourselves is
going to take,' said Stainer. 'Did you do anything except drink
and dawdle about the countryside?'
'We did,' said Lowdham. 'But there's no special reason to
suppose that you'ld be interested to hear about it, Stainer.'
'Well, I'm here, and that indicates at least a faint interest,'
said Stainer.
'All right! But if the Club really wants to hear us, then it's in
for one or two meetings in which we shall take up all the time.
Pip will burst, I can see, if he has to wait so long. Let him let his
steam off first. What's it about, Horsey?'
'It'll explain itself, if the Club really wants to hear it,' said
Frankley.
'Go on! Let's have it! ' we said.
Frankley took a piece of paper out of his pocket and began.
The Death At last out of the deep seas he passed,
and mist rolled on the shore;
under clouded moon the waves were loud,
as the laden ship him bore 4
to Ireland, back to wood and mire,
to the tower tall and grey,
where the knell of Cluain-ferta's bell (79)
tolled in green Galway. 8
Where Shannon down to Lough Derg ran
under a rainclad sky
Saint Brendan came to his journey's end
to await his hour to die. 12
'0! tell me, father, for I loved you well,
if still you have words for me,
of things strange in the remembering
in the long and lonely sea, 16
of islands by deep spells beguiled
where dwell the Elven-kind:
in seven long years the road to Heaven
or the Living Land did you find?' 20
'The things I have seen, the many things,
have long now faded far;
only three come clear now back to me:
a Cloud, a Tree, a Star. 24
We sailed for a year and a day and hailed
no field nor coast of men;
no boat nor bird saw we ever afloat
for forty days and ten. 28
We saw no sun at set or dawn,
but a dun cloud lay ahead,
and a drumming there was like thunder coming
and a gleam of fiery red. 32
Upreared from sea to cloud then sheer
a shoreless mountain stood;
its sides were black from the sullen tide
to the red lining of its hood. 36
No cloak of cloud, no lowering smoke,
no looming storm of thunder
in the world of men saw I ever unfurled
like the pall that we passed under. 40
We turned away, and we left astern
the rumbling and the gloom;
then the smoking cloud asunder broke,
and we saw that Tower of Doom: 44
on its ashen head was a crown of red,
where fires flamed and fell.
Tall as a column in High Heaven's hall,
its feet were deep as Hell; 48
grounded in chasms the waters drowned
and buried long ago,
it stands, I ween, in forgotten lands
where the kings of kings lie low. 52
We sailed then on, till the wind had failed,
and we toiled then with the oar,
and hunger and thirst us sorely wrung,
and we sang our psalms no more. 56
A land at last with a silver strand
at the end of strength we found;
the waves were singing in pillared caves
and pearls lay on the ground; 60
and steep the shores went upward leaping
to slopes of green and gold,
and a stream out of the rich land teeming
through a coomb of shadow rolled. 64
Through gates of stone we rowed in haste,
and passed, and left the sea;
and silence like dew fell in that isle,
and holy it seemed to be. 68
As a green cup, deep in a brim of green,
that with wine the white sun fills
was the land we found, and we saw there stand
on a laund between the hills 72
a tree more fair than ever I deemed
might climb in Paradise:
its foot was like a great tower's root,
it height beyond men's eyes; 76
so wide its branches, the least could hide
in shade an acre long,
and they rose as steep as mountain-snows
those boughs so broad and strong; 80
for white as a winter to my sight
the leaves of that tree were,
they grew more close than swan-wing plumes,
all long and soft and fair. 84
We deemed then, maybe, as in a dream,
that time had passed away
and our journey ended; for no return
we hoped, but there to stay. 88
In the silence of that hollow isle,
in the stillness, then we sang -
softly us seemed, but the sound aloft
like a pealing organ rang. 92
Then trembled the tree from crown to stem;
from the limbs the leaves in air
as white birds fled in wheeling flight,
and left the branches bare. 96
From the sky came dropping down on high
a music not of bird,
not voice of man, nor angel's voice;
but maybe there is a third 100
fair kindred in the world yet lingers
beyond the foundered land.
Yet steep are the seas and the waters deep
beyond the White-tree Strand.' 104
'0! stay now, father! There's more to say.
But two things you have told:
The Tree, the Cloud; but you spoke of three.
The Star in mind do you hold?' 108
'The Star? Yes, I saw it, high and far,
at the parting of the ways,
a light on the edge of the Outer Night (80)
like silver set ablaze, 112
where the round world plunges steeply down,
but on the old road goes,
as an unseen bridge that on arches runs
to coasts than no man knows.' 116
'But men say, father, that ere the end
you went where none have been.
I would hear you tell me, father dear,
of the last land you have seen.' 120
'In my mind the Star I still can find,
and the parting of the seas,
and the breath as sweet and keen as death
that was borne upon the breeze. 124
But where they bloom those flowers fair,
in what air or land they grow,
what words beyond the world I heard,
if you would seek to know, 128
in a boat then, brother, far afloat
you must labour in the sea,
and find for yourself things out of mind:
you will learn no more of me.' 132
In Ireland, over wood and mire,
in the tower tall and grey,
the knell of Cluain-ferta's bell
was tolling in green Galway. 136
Saint Brendan had come to his life's end
under a rainclad sky,
and journeyed whence no ship returns,
and his bones in Ireland lie. 140
When Frankley stopped there was a silence. If he had hoped
for critical comments, adverse or favourable, he got none.
'Very odd indeed! Very odd!' said Lowdham at last. 'Have
you been in touch with our minds on the Ramer-system, Philip?
Anyway, when did you write that, and why?'
'There have been many more minds than yours, Arundel,
working on this theme, as has been pointed out before,' said
Ramer. 'Tell us about it, Philip!'
'There's nothing much to tell,' said Frankley. 'I woke up
about four days ago with the thing largely fixed, and the name
Brendan running in my head. The first dozen lines were already
made (or were still remembered), and some of the rest was too.
The pictures were quite clear for a while. I read the Navigatio
Sancti Brendani, of course, once upon a time, years ago, as well
as that early Anglo-French thing, Benedeit's Vita. But I've not
looked at them again - though perhaps if I did, I might find
them less dull and disappointing than I remember them.'
'I don't think you would,' said Lowdham; 'they're rather
dismal. Whatever merits they may have, any glimmer of a
perception of what they are talking about is not one of them,
trundling the magnificent theme to market like bunches of
neatly cut and dried flowers. The Old French thing may be very
interesting linguistically, but you won't learn much about the
West from that.
'Still that seems to be where you got your Volcano and Tree
from. But you've given them a twist that's not in your source.
You've put them in a different order, I think, making the Tree
further west; and your Volcano is not a hell-smithy, but
apparently a last peak of some Atlantis.(81) And the Tree in St.
Brendan was covered with white birds that were fallen angels.
The one really interesting idea in the whole thing, I thought:
they were angels that lived in a kind of limbo, because they were
only lesser spirits that followed Satan only as their feudal
overlord, and had no real part, by will or design, in the Great
Rebellion. But you make them a third fair race.'
'And that bit about the "round world" and the "old road",'
said Jeremy, 'where did you get that from?'
'I don't know,' said Frankley. 'It came in the writing. I got a
fleeting picture, but it's faded now.'
'The Parting of the Ways!' muttered Lowdham. 'What do you
know of that?'
'Oh, nothing. But, well - well, but you cannot really find or
see Paradise by ship, you know.'(82)
'No,' said Lowdham. 'Not in the High Legends, not in those
that have power. No longer. And it was seldom permitted
anyway, even before.' He said no more, and we all sat still for a
while.
The silence was finally broken by Markison. 'Well,' he said, 'I
hope you're not going to take the line of St. Brendan to the
monk: "you will learn no more of me." Have you two nothing
more to say? '
'Yes indeed!' said Jeremy. 'But we've not been to Paradise.'
'Where have you been then?'
'We ended up at Porlock (83) on the 13th, that's last Saturday
week,' said Jeremy.
'Why Porlock? Not a very exciting place, is it?'
'Not now, maybe,' Lowdham answered. 'You'll see a sort of
reason for it, though. But if you mean: did we wittingly pick on
Porlock? the answer is no.'
'We started off down in Cornwall, Land's End,' said Jeremy.
'That was just before the end of June.'
'Started off?' said Guildford. 'I got your letter on June 25th,
but that still leaves a bit of a gap. We last saw you on the night
of June 12th: not a date we're likely to forget in a hurry. What
happened during the next ten days?'
'Was it as long as that?' said Lowdham blankly. 'I don't really
know. We landed in a cove. I seem to remember the boat
grinding on rocks and then being flung up on the shingles. We
were damned lucky. She was holed and sinking, and we ought
to have been drowned. Or did I dream it?' He knitted his brows.
'Bless me, if I'm sure. D'you remember, Trewyn?'(84)
'No,' said Jeremy, thinking. 'No, I don't. The first thing I can
remember is your saying: "We'd better let Nick have a line to
know that we haven't been drowned." Yes, yes of course: we'd
been caught at sea in a storm of wind and lightning, and as you
all knew we had gone sailing, we thought you might be
anxious.'
'Don't you remember the night up in my rooms, the night of
the great storm?' said Ramer.
'Yes, I remember bringing some texts round,' said Lowdham.
'And I remember the Eagles. But surely the storm came after-
wards, after we had started on our research tour?'
'All right,' said Dolbear. 'Don't bother with all that now;
there will be plenty of time to talk about it later. Get on with
your own tale.'
'Well,' said Jeremy, 'we stuck to the west coasts as much as
we could, staying by the sea, and walking as near to it as
possible, when we did not go by boat. Arry is an able seaman,
and you can still get small sailing craft in the West, and
sometimes an old sailor to help who can still handle a boat
without petrol. But after our wreck we did not sail again till we
got round to North Devon. We actually crossed by boat from
Bideford to South Wales in July, and then we went on to
Ireland, right up the west coast of it by stages.
'We took a look at Scotland, but no further north than Mull.
There seemed nothing for us there, no feel in the air at all. So we
went back to Hibernia.(85) The great storm had left more traces
there than anywhere, and not only in visible damage. There was
a good deal of that, but much less than you would expect, and it
did not interest us so much as the effect on the people and the
stories that we found going about. People in Galway - well, for
the matter of that, from Brandon Hill to Slieve (86) League
seemed to have been pretty well shaken by it, and were still
scared for weeks afterwards. If the wind got up at all, as of
course it did from time to time, they huddled indoors; and some
would begin to trek inland.
'We both heard many tales of the huge waves "high as hills"
coming in on the Black Night. And curiously enough, many of
the tale-tellers agreed that the greatest waves were like phan-
toms, or only half real: "like shadows of mountains of dark
black wicked water". Some rolled far inland and yet did little
damage before, well, disappearing, melting away. We were told
of one that had rolled clean over the Aran Isles (87) and passed up
Galway Bay, and so on like a cloud, drowning the land in a
ghostly flood like rippling mist, almost as far as Clonfert.
'And we came across one old man, a queer old fellow whose
English was hardly intelligible, on the road not far from
Loughrea.(88) He was wild and ragged, but tall and rather
impressive. He kept pointing westward, and saying, as far as we
could gather: "It was out of the Sea they came, as they came in
the days before the days". He said that he had seen a tall black
ship high on the crest of the great wave, with its masts down
and the rags of black and yellow sails flapping on the deck, and
great tall men standing on the high poop and wailing, like the
ghosts they were; and they were borne far inland, and came,
well, not a soul knows where they came.
'We could get no more out of him, and he went on westward
and vanished into the twilight, and who he was or where he was
going we did not discover either. Apart from such tales and
rumours we had no real adventures. The weather was not too
bad generally, and we walked a lot, and slept pretty well. A
good many dreams came, especially in Ireland, but they were
very slippery; we couldn't catch them. Arry got whole lists of
ghost-words, and I had some fleeting pictures, but they seldom
fitted together. And then, when we thought our time was up, we
came to Porlock.
'As we crossed over the Severn (89) Sea earlier in the summer,
Arry had looked back, along the coast to the south, at the shores
of Somerset, and he had said something that I couldn't catch.
It was ancient English, I think, but he didn't know himself: it
faded from him almost as soon as he had spoken. But I had a
sudden feeling that there was something important waiting for
us there, and I made up my mind to take him back that way
before the end of our journey, if there was time. So I did.
'We arrived in a small boat at Porlock Weir on Saturday,
September 13th. We put up at The Ship, up in Porlock itself; but
we felt drawn back shorewards, and as soon as we had fixed our
rooms we went out and turned westward, going up onto the
cliffs and along as far as Culbone and beyond. We saw the sun
set, dull, hazy, and rather grim, about half past six, and then we
turned back for supper.
'The twilight deepened quickly, and I remember that it
seemed suddenly to grow very chilly; a cold wind sprang up
from the land and blew out westward towards the dying sun;
the sea was leaden. We both felt tired and anxious, for no clear
reason: we had been feeling rather cheery. It was then that Arry
turned away from the sea and took my arm, and he said quite
clearly, and I heard him and understood him: Uton efstan nu,
Treowine! Me ofthyncth thisses windes. Mycel wen is Deniscra
manna to niht.(90) And that seemed to break my dreams. I began
to remember, and piece together a whole lot of things as we
walked back to the town; and that night I had a long series of
dreams and remembered a good deal of them.'
'Yes,' said Lowdham, 'and something happened to me at that
moment, too. I began to see as well as to hear. Treowine, that is
Wilfrid Trewyn Jeremy, and I seemed to have got into the same
dream together, even before we were asleep. The faces in the
hotel looked pale and thin, and the walls and furniture only half
real: other things and faces were vaguely moving behind them
all. We were approaching the climax of some change that had
begun last May, when we started to research together.
'Anyway, we went to bed, and we both dreamed; and we
woke up and immediately compared notes; and we slept again
and woke and did the same. And so it went on for several days,
until we were quite exhausted. So at last we decided to go home;
we made up our minds to come back to Oxford the next day,
Thursday. That night, Wednesday, September 17th, something
happened: the dreams coalesced, took shape, and came into the
open, as you might say. It seemed impossible to believe when it
was over that years had not slipped by, and that it was still
Thursday, September 18th, 1987, and we could actually return
here as we had planned. I remember staring incredulously round
the dining-room, that seemed to have grown strangely solid
again, half wondering if it was not some new dream-trick. And
we went into the post-office and a bank to make sure of the
date! Then we crept back here secretly, a week ago, and stayed
in retreat until yesterday, conferring and putting together all we
had got before we came out of hiding. I think I'll leave Trewyn
to do the telling. He's better at it than I am; and he saw more,
after the earlier scenes.'
'No!' said Jeremy. 'Alwin had better begin. The earlier part is
his, more than mine. He remembers more of what was said by
me than I do myself. Go on now, Arry!'
'Well', said Lowdham, 'it seemed to me like this. I woke with
a start.(91) Evidently I had been dozing on a bench near the fire.
The voices seemed to pour over me like a stream. I felt that I had
been dreaming, something very odd and vivid, but I could not
catch it; and for a minute or two the familiar scene in the hall
seemed strange, and the English speech about me sounded alien
and remote, although the voices were for the most part using the
soft speech of western Wessex that I knew so well. Here and there
I caught the tones of the Marchers from up beyond Severn-
mouth; and I heard a few speaking queerly, using uncouth
words after the manner of those from the eastern shires.
'I looked down the hall, hoping to see my friend Treowine
Ceolwulf's son. There was a great crowd in hall, for King
Eadweard was there. The Danish ships were in the Severn Sea,
and all the south shores were in arms. The heathen earls had
been defeated away up in the west marches at Archenfield, but
the pirates were still at large off the Welsh coast, trying to get
food and supplies, and the Devenish men and Somersets (92) were
on guard. There had been a bitter affray at Watchet a few nights
before, but the Danish men had been driven off. Porlock's turn
might come.
'I looked round at the faces of the men: some old and worn,
some still young and keen; but they seemed dim, almost
dreamlike in the wavering torches. The candles on the high table
were guttering. A wind was blowing outside the great wooden
hall, surging round the house; the timbers creaked. I felt tired.
Not only because Treowine and I had had a long spell of
coastguard duty, and had had little sleep since the raid on
Watchet; but I was tired of this woeful and dishevelled world,
slipping slowly back into decay, as it seemed to me, with its
petty but cruel wars, and all the ruin of the good and fair things
there had been in my grandsires' days. The hangings on the wall
behind the dais were faded and worn, and on the table there
were but few vessels or candlesticks of gold and silver smithcraft
that had survived the pillage of the heathen.
'The sound of the wind disturbed me and brought back to me
old longings that I thought I had buried. I found myself thinking
of my father, old Eadwine Oswine's son,(93) and the strange tales
he had told me when I was a small lad and he a grizzled seaman
of more than fifty winters: tales of the west coasts, and far
islands, and of the deep sea, and of a land there was far away,
where there was peace and fruitfulness among a fair folk that
did not wither.
'But Eadwine had taken his ship, Earendel, out into the deep
sea long ago, and he never returned. What haven received him
no man under heaven could tell. That was in the black winter,
when Alfred went into hiding (94) and so many men of Somerset
fled over sea. My mother fled to her kindred among the West
Welsh (95) for a while, and I had seen only nine winters in this
world, for I was born just before the holy Eadmund was done to
death by the heathen.(96) I learned the Welsh tongue and much
craft upon the wild waters, before I came back in full manhood
to Somerset and the service of the good king in his last wars.(97)
'I had been in Iraland more than once; and wherever I went I
sought tales of the Great Sea and what lay out upon it, or
beyond, if haply it had any further shore. Folk had not much to
tell for certain,. but there was talk of one Maelduin (98) who had
sailed to new lands, and of the holy Brendan and others. And
some there were who said that there had been a land of Men
away west in long days of yore, but that it had been cast down
and those that escaped had come to Eriu (99) (so they called
Iraland) in their ships, and their descendants lived on there, and
in other lands about the shores of Garsecg. But they dwindled
and forgot, and nought now was left of them but a wild strain in
the blood of men of the West. "And you will know those that
have it by the sea-longing that is on them," they said,. <and it is
many that it draws out west to their death or to come never
back among living men>.
'And I thought that maybe the blood of such men ran in my
father's veins and my own, for our kin had long been settled at
Glastonbury, where there was rumour of strange comers out of
the sea in days of old. And the sound of the winds and seas on
the west beaches was ever a restless music to me, at once a pain
and a desire; and the pain was keener in Spring, and the desire
stronger in Autumn. And now it was Autumn, and the desire
was scarcely to be borne; for I was growing old. And the seas
were wide. So I mused, forgetting once again where I was, but
not sleeping.
'I heard the crash of waves on the black cliffs, and sea-birds
wailing; snow fell. Then the sea opened before me, pale and
boundless. And now the sun shone above me, and the land and
the sound of it and the smell of it fell far behind. Treowine was
beside me, and we were alone, going west. And the sun came
down and sank towards the sea before us, and still we sailed
west, on towards the setting sun, and the longing in my heart
drew me on against my fear and land-bound will. And so I
passed into night in the midst of the deep waters, and I thought
that a sweet fragrance was borne on the air.
'And suddenly I was brought back to Porlock and the hall of
the king's thegn Odda. Men were calling out for a minstrel, and
a minstrel I was, when the mood was on me. The king himself,
stern Eadweard Alfred's son - tired before old age he looked -
sent to me, bidding me sing or speak. He was a stern man, as I
say, but like his father in having an ear, when he had the time,
for the sound of the old measures. I rose and walked to the steps
of the dais, and bowed.
'"Westu hal, AElfwine!" said the king. "Sing me nu hwaet-
wegu: sum eald leoth, gif thu wilt."
' "Ic can lyt on leothcraeft, hlaford," I said; "ac this geworht'ic
unfyrn the to weorthmynde."
'And then I began, and let my voice roll out; but my mouth
did not speak the words that I had purposed: of all that I had so
carefully devised against the event, in the night watches or
pacing on the cold cliffs, not a stave came out.
Hwaet! Eadweard cyning AElfredes sunu
beorna beaggifa on Brytenrice
aet Ircenfelda (100) ealdorlangne tir
geslog aet saecce sweorda ecgum *
and all the rest, of such sort as kings look for: not a word of it.
Instead I said this: (101)
Monath modes lust mid mereflode
forth to feran, thaet ic feor heonan
ofer garsecges grimme holmas
AElfwina eard ut gesece.
Nis me to hearpan hyge ne to hringthege,
ne to wife wynn, ne to worulde hyht,
ne ymb owiht elles, nefne ymb ytha gewealc.
Then I stopped suddenly, and stood confused. There was some
laughter, from those not under the king's eye, and a few
mocking calls. There were many folk in hall who knew me well,
and they had long been pleased to make a jest of my talk of the
Great Sea; and it now pleased them to pretend that I had spoken
of AElfwines eard, as if I had a realm of my own out westward.
'"If England is not good enough, let him go find a better
land!" they cried. "He need go no further than Iraland, if he
longs for elves and uncouth wights, God save him! Or he can go
with the heathen to the Land of Ice that they say they have
found."
' "If he has no mind to sing for the raising of our hearts, let us
find a scop who will."
' "We have had enough of the sea," shouted one of the
Marchers. "A spell of Dane-hunting round the rim of Wales
would cure him."
'But the king sat gravely and did not smile, and many besides
were silent. I could see in his eyes that the words had touched
him, though I doubt not, he had heard others like them often
before.
'"Peace!" said old Odda of Portloca, master of the hall.
"AElfwine here has sailed more seas than you have heard of, and
(* Lowdham provides the following translations 'for Philip's benefit'.
'Greetings, AElfwine,' said the king. 'Recite me something, some old
poem if you like.' 'I have little skill in poetry, my lord,' I said, 'but I
composed this in your honour a little while ago.'
'Lo! Eadweard the king, Alfred's scion, brave men's patron, in
Britain's island at Archenfield undying fame in battle reaped him with
reddened blades.'
For the translation of the next verses see Night 66, p. 244. N.G.)
the lands of the Welsh and Irish are not strange to him. With the
king's leave let him say what his mood bids him. It is no harm to
turn from these sorry shores for a while and speak of marvels
and strange lands, as the old verse-makers often did. Will you
not speak us something by the elder poets, AElfwine?"
'"Not now, lord," I said; for I was abashed and weary, and
I felt as a man in a dream who finds himself unclad in the
market-place. "There are others in hall. Men of the Marches I
hear by their speech; and they were used to boast of their
songcraft, before the Danes came. With the king's leave I will
sit."
'At that a man from among the Marchers leapt to his feet and
got leave to speak; and lo! I saw it was my friend Treowine. A
small dark man he was, but he had a good voice, if a strange
way with his words. His father Ceolwulf, I had heard, claimed
to come of the kin of the kings that sat at Tamworth (102) of old;
but Treowine had come south many years before. Ere I had
found a seat, he had a foot on the step and had begun.
'His verse was in the old style, indeed it was the work of some
old poet, maybe, though I had not heard it before, and many
words were dark to us of later times; but he gave them out
strong and true, now loud, now soft, as the theme asked,
without help of harp. Thus he began, and soon all the hall was
stone-still:
Hwaet! we on geardagum of Garsecge
fyrn gefrugnon of feorwegum
to Longbeardna londgemaerum
tha hi aer heoldon, iglond micel
on North-theodum, nacan bundenne
scirtimbredne scrithan gangan...
'But if it was dark to some of our younger men of Wessex, it
will be as night to you, who have passed so much further down
the streams of time, since the old poets sang in Angel of the grey
North-seas; so I have cast it into the speech of your age. And I
have done so, for by chance, or more than chance, this song had
a part in what befell after, and its theme was knit up with my
own thoughts, and it whetted my longing the more.
King Sheave.(103)
In days of yore out of deep Ocean to the Longobards, in the
land dwelling that of old they held in the isles of the North,
a ship came sailing, shining-timbered, without oar or mast,
eastward floating. The sun behind it sinking westward with
flame kindled the fallow water. Wind was wakened. Over the
world's margin clouds grey-helmed climbed slowly up, wings
unfolding wide and looming, as mighty eagles moving onward
to eastern Earth, omens bearing.
Men there marvelled, in the mist standing of the dark islands
in the deeps of time: laughter they knew not, light nor wisdom;
shadow was upon them, and sheer mountains stalked behind
them, stern and lifeless, evil-haunted. The East was dark.
The ship came shining to the shore driven, and strode upon
the strand, till its stern rested on sand and shingle. The sun went
down. The clouds overcame the cold heavens. In fear and
wonder to the fallow water sad-hearted men swiftly hastened,
to the broken beaches, the boat seeking gleaming-timbered in
the grey twilight. They looked within, and there laid sleeping a
boy they saw breathing softly: his face was fair, his form lovely;
his limbs were white, his locks raven golden-braided. Gilt and
carven with wondrous work was the wood about him. In golden
vessel gleaming water stood beside him; strung with silver a
harp of gold beneath his hand rested; his sleeping head was
softly pillowed on a sheaf of corn shimmering palely, as the
fallow gold doth from far countries west of Angol. Wonder
filled them.
The boat they hauled, and on the beach moored it high above
the breakers, then with hands lifted from the bosom its burden.
The boy slumbered. On his bed they bore him to their bleak
dwellings, dark-walled and drear, in a dim region between
waste and sea. There of wood builded high above the houses
was a hall standing, forlorn and empty. Long had it stood so, no
noise knowing, night nor morning, no light seeing. They laid
him there, under lock left him lonely sleeping in the hollow
darkness. They held the doors. Night wore away. New
awakened, as ever on earth, early morning; day came dimly.
Doors were opened. Men strode within, then amazed halted;
fear and wonder filled the watchmen. The house was bare, hall
deserted; no form found they on the floor lying, but by bed
forsaken the bright vessel dry and empty in the dust standing.
The guest was gone.
Grief o'ercame them. In sorrow they sought him, till the sun
rising over the hills of heaven to the homes of men light came
bearing. They looked upward, and high upon a hill hoar and
treeless gold was glimmering. Their guest stood there with head
uplifted, hair unbraided; harpstrings they heard in his hand
ringing, at his feet they saw the fallow-golden corn-sheaf lying.
Then clear his voice a song began, sweet, unearthly, words in
music woven strangely in a tongue unknown. Trees stood silent,
and men unmoving marvelling harkened.
Middle-earth had known for many ages neither song nor
singer; no sight so fair had eyes of mortal, since the earth was
young, seen when waking in that sad country long forsaken. No
lord they had, no king, nor counsel, but the cold terror that
dwelt in the desert, the dark shadow that haunted the hills and
the hoar forest: Dread was their master. Dark and silent, long
years forlorn lonely waited the hall of kings, house forsaken
without fire or food.
Forth men hastened from their dim houses. Doors were
opened, and gates unbarred. Gladness wakened. To the hill they
thronged, and their heads lifting on their guest they gazed. Grey-
bearded men bowed before him and blessed his coming their
years to heal; youths and maidens, wives and children, welcome
gave him. His song ended. Silent standing he looked upon them.
Lord they called him; king they made him, crowned with golden
wheaten garland: white his raiment, his harp his sceptre. In his
house was fire, food and wisdom: there fear came not. To
manhood he grew, might and glory.
Sheave they called him, whom the ship brought them, a name
renowned in the North-countries ever since in song; but a secret
hidden his true name was in tongue unknown of a far country,
where the falling seas wash western shores, beyond the ways of
men since the world worsened. The word is forgotten and the
name perished.
Their need he healed, and laws renewed long forsaken.
Words he taught them wise and lovely: their tongue ripened in
the time of Sheave to song and music. Secrets he opened, runes
revealing. Riches he gave them, reward of labour, wealth and
comfort from the earth calling, acres ploughing, sowing in
season seed of plenty, hoarding in garner golden harvest for the
help of men. The hoar forest in his days drew back to the dark
mountains; the shadow lifted, and shining corn, white ears of
wheat, whispered in the breezes where waste had been. The
woods blossomed.
Halls and houses hewn of timber, strong towers of stone steep
and lofty, golden-gabled, in his guarded city they raised and
roofed. In his royal dwelling of wood well-carven the walls were
wrought; fair-hued figures filled with silver, gold, and scarlet,
gleaming hung there, stories boding of strange countries, were
one wise in wit the woven legends to thread with thought. At his
throne men found counsel and comfort and care's healing,
justice in judgement. Generous-handed his gifts he gave. Glory
was uplifted. Far sprang his fame over fallow water; through
Northern lands the renown echoed of the shining king, Sheave
the mighty.
'When he ended there was loud applause - loudest from those
who understood least, so that men should perceive how well
they could thread the old songs; and they passed a horn to
Treowine's hand. But ere he drank, I rose up, and there where I
stood I finished his song for him:
Seven sons he begat, sire (104) of princes, men great of mood,
mighty-handed and high-hearted. From his house cometh the
seed of kings, as songs tells us, fathers of the fathers, who before
the change in the Elder Years the earth governed, Northern
kingdoms named and founded, shields of their people: Sheave
begat them: Sea-danes and Goths, Swedes and Northmen,
Franks and Frisians, folk of the islands, Swordmen and Saxons,
Swabians, Angles, and the Longobards, who long ago beyond
Mircwudu a mighty realm and wealth won them in the Welsh
countries, where AElfwine, Eadwine's son in Italy was king. All
that has passed!
'And with that, while men still stared - for there were many
that knew my name and my father's - I beckoned to Treowine,
and we strode from the hall into the darkness and the wind.
'And there I think I must end for tonight,' said Lowdham,
with a sudden change of tone and voice that startled us: we
jumped like men waked suddenly from a dream. It seemed as if
one man had vanished and another had sprung up in his place,
so vividly had he presented AElfwine to us as he spoke. Quite
plainly I had seen him standing there, a man very like Arry but
not the same - rather taller and less thick, and looking older and
greyer, though by his account he was just Arry's age it seemed; I
had seen the glittering of his eyes as he looked round and strode
out. The hall and the faces I saw in a blur behind him, and
Treowine was only a dim shadow against the flicker of far
candles as he spoke of King Sheave; but I heard the wind
rushing above all the words.
'Next meeting Treowine and I will go on again, if you want
any more of this,' said Lowdham. 'AElfwine's tale is nearly
done; and after that we shall flit more quickly, for we shall pass
further and further from what Stainer would call History - in
which old AElfwine really walked, at least for the most part, I
guess.
'If you haven't got a horn, fill me a mug! For I have done both
AElfwine's part and Treowine's, and it is thirsty work, a
minstrel's.'
Markison handed him a pewter tankard full. 'Beo thu blithe
aet thisse beorthege!'(105) he said, for ancient English is only one
of the innumerable things he knows.
Lowdham drained the tankard at a draught. And so ended the
sixty-ninth night of the Notion Club. It was agreed to meet again
in only one week's time, on October 2nd, lest the onset of term
should hinder the further tales of AElfwine and Treowine.
WTJ. AAL MGR. RD. PF. RS. JM. JJR. NG.
Night 70. Thursday, 2 October, 1987.
Here the typescript text ends, not at the foot of a page; and here the
manuscript ends also, without the date-heading for the next meeting.
It is certain that my father wrote nothing further. There are, however,
two brief texts, written very fast in pencil but fortunately just about
legible, which give a glimpse of what he had in mind. Though both
obviously belong to the same time, it is not clear which preceded the
other; the one that I give first was written on the back of a draft for the
passage in E beginning 'It was then that Arry turned away from the
sea' (p. 268).
The Danes attack Porlock that night. They are driven off and
take refuge by swimming out to the ships and so to 'Broad
Relic'.(106) A small 'cnearr' (107) is captured.
It is not well guarded. AElfwine tells Treowine that he has
stores laid up. They move the boat and stock it the following
night and set sail West.
The wind is from the East, and they sail on and on, and come
to no land; they are exhausted, and a dreamlike death seems to
be coming over them. They smell [? the] fragrance. Swete is
blostma braep begeondan sae (108) says AElfwine, and struggles to
rise. But the wind changes: great clouds come out of the West.
'Behold the Eagles of the Lords of the West coming over
Numenor' said AElfwine, and fell back as one dead.
Treowine sees the round world [?curve] below, and straight
ahead a shining land, before the wind seizes them and drives
them away. In the gathering dark [or dusk] he sees a bright star,
shining in a rent in the cloud in the West. Eala Earendel engla
beorhtast. Then he remembers no more.
'Whether what follows is my direct dream,' said Jeremy, 'or
the dreams of Treowine and AElfwine in the deeps of the sea I
cannot say.'
I woke to find myself
Here this sketch tantalisingly breaks off. On the same page and
fairly certainly written at the same time stands this note:
The theory is that the sight and memory goes on with
descendants of Elendil and Voronwe (= Treowine) but not re-
incarnation; they are different people even if they still resemble
one another in some ways even after a lapse of many genera-
tions.
The second sketch is at first fuller (and may for that reason be
thought to have followed the other), but then passes into an outline of
headings and brief statements.
Danes attack that night but are driven off. AElfwine and
Treowine are among those who capture a small ship that had
ventured close inshore and stuck. The rest escape to 'Broad
Relic'.
It is grey dawn ere all is over. 'Going to rest?' said Treowine
to AElfwine. 'Yes, I hope so,' said AElfwine, 'but not in this land,
Treowine! I am going - to seek a land, whence King Sheaf came,
maybe; or to find Death, if that be not the name for the same
place.'
'What do you mean?'
'I am sailing,' said AElfwine. 'The wind blows westward. And
here's a ship that knows the sea. The king himself has given it to
me. I have handled many such before. Will you come? Two
could make shift to sail her.'
'We should need more; and what of water and victual?'
'I have all prepared,' said AElfwine, 'for this venture has long
been brewing in my mind, and now at last chance and desire are
matched. There is provision down in my house by the weir, and
we'll find a couple of lusty men of Somerset whom I know.
They'll go as far as Ireland at the least, and then we'll see.'
'Yes, you'll find madmen enough there,' said Treowine, 'but
I'll go with you so far at the least.'
When it was dark on the following night AElfwine brought
along Ceola (of Somerset) and Geraint (of West Wales) and we
stowed her, and thrust her off. The east wind freshened, and we
set sail and drove out into the dark waters. There's no need to
make long tale of it: we bent our course past the horns of
Pembrokeshire and so out to sea. And then we had a change of
weather, for a wild wind from the South-west drove us back and
northward, and we hardly made haven upon a long firth in the
South-west of Ireland. I'd never been there before, for I was
younger than AElfwine. We sat out the storm there, and got
fresh supplies, and then AElfwine spoke of his desire to Ceola
and Geraint.
Treowine sees the straight road and the world plunging
down. AElfwine's vessel seems to be taking the straight road and
falls [sic] in a swoon of fear and exhaustion.
AElfwine gets view of the Book of Stories; and writes down
what he can remember.
Later fleeting visions.
Beleriand tale.
Sojourn in Numenor before and during the fall ends with
Elendil and Voronwe fleeing on a hill of water into the dark
with Eagles and lightning pursuing them. Elendil has a book
which he has written.
His descendants get glimpses of it.
AElfwine has one.
On the same slip of paper and written at the same time as this
second text is a note saying that Edwin Lowdham's page 'should be
in Anglo-Saxon straight, without some scraps of Numenorean', and
that 'the Anglo-Saxon should not be written in Numenorean script'.
Finally there stands this last note: 'At end Lowdham and Jeremy can
revisualize some more fragments, but it is hardly needed, as Lowdham
and Jeremy have a vivid dream of the Fall of Numenor.'
From the beginning of this history, the story of the Englishman
AElfwine, called also Eriol, who links by his strange voyage the
vanished world of the Elves with the lives of later men, has constantly
appeared. So in the last words of the Quenta Noldorinwa (IV.165) it is
said:
To Men of the race of Earendel have they [the tales of the Quenta]
at times been told, and most to Eriol, who alone of the mortals of
later days, and yet now long ago, sailed to the Lonely Isle, and came
back to the land of Leithien [Britain] where he lived, and remem-
bered things that he had heard in fair Cortirion, the city of the Elves
in Tol Eressea.
He is seen in Tavrobel of Tol Eressea translating The Annals of
Valinor and The Annals of Beleriand from the work of Pengolod the
Wise of Gondolin, and parts of his Anglo-Saxon text are preserved
(IV.263, 281 ff.); the Ainulindale was spoken to him by Rumil of Tun
(V.156); the Lhammas of Pengolod was seen by AElfwine 'when he
came into the West' (V.167). To the Quenta Silmarillion his note is
appended (V.203): 'The work of Pengolod I learned much by heart,
and turned into my tongue, some during my sojourn in the West, but
most after my return to Britain'; after which follow the lines of
AElfwine Widlast that Arundel Lowdham heard, as Alboin Errol had
heard them: Fela bid on Westwegum werum uncudra, wundra ond
wihta, wlitescyne lond...
Crossing this theme, and going back to one form of the old story
AElfwine of England (II.322 and note 42), was the story that AElfwine
never set foot on the Lonely Isle. So in my father's sketches for those
further reaches of The Lost Road that he never wrote, AElfwine on the
one hand (V.78) awakes on the beach of the Lonely Isle 'to find the
ship being drawn by people walking in the water', and there in Eressea
he 'is told the Lost Tales'; but in other notes of that time (V.SO), after
'the vision of Eressea', the 'west wind blows them back', and they
come to shore in Ireland. In the note to the final version of the poem
The Song of AElfwine (a version which I suggested was 'probably from
the years after The Lord of the Rings, though it might be associated
with the Notion Club Papers of 1945', V.100) it is told (V.103):
AElfwine (Elf-friend) was a seaman of England of old who, being
driven out to sea from the coast of Erin, passed into the deep waters
of the West, and according to legend by some strange chance or
grace found the 'straight road' of the Elvenfolk and came at last to
the Isle of Eressea in Elvenhome. Or maybe, as some say, alone in
the waters, hungry and athirst, he fell into a trance and was granted
a vision of that isle as it once had been, ere a West-wind arose and
drove him back to Middle-earth.
In the first of the sketches just given AElfwine and Treowine are in
sight of the 'shining land' when the wind drives them away; but in the
second my father once more sees AElfwine in the Lonely Isle looking at
'the Book of Stories'. But the whole conception has now developed a
disturbing complexity: the Downfall of Numenor, the Straight Road
into the West, the ancient histories in unknown language and un-
known script preserved in Eressea, the mysterious voyage of Edwin
Lowdham in his ship The Earendel and the single preserved page of his
book in Anglo-Saxon, the 're-emergence' in his son Arundel (Earendel)
and his friend Wilfrid Trewin Jeremy of 'the sight and memory' of
their forebears in distant ages communicated in dreams, and the
violent irruption of the Numenorean legend into the late twentieth
century - all framed within an elaborate foreseeing of the future (not
without comic and ironic elements).
There is a slip of paper on which my father sketched out very
rapidly ideas for what would become 'Part Two' of The Notion Club
Papers; this was undoubtedly written before he began the writing of
the manuscript E, but it is most conveniently given here.
Do the Atlantis story and abandon Eriol-Saga, with
Loudham, Jeremy, Guildford and Ramer taking part.
After night 62.(109) Loudham, walking home with Guildford
and Ramer, apologizes for appearing to scoff. They halt in
Radcliffe Square and Loudham looks up at the Camera. It is
starry, but a black cloud is coming up out of the West [changed
at once to (but) caught like smoke in the moon a wisp of cloud
seemed to be issuing from the lantern of the dome]. Loudham
halts and looks up, passing [his] hand over his forehead. 'I was
going to say,' he says, 'that - I don't know. I wonder.' He
hopped into college and said no more.
Night 65. Truncated. It begins after lacuna. Conversation had
been about myths, but Loudham had been restless, walking
about twisting his handkerchief and making some unsuccessful
jests.
Suddenly he went to the window. It was a summer night and
he looked out, then spoke in a loud solemn voice. 'Behold the
Eagles of the Lords of the West coming over Numenor.' We
were startled. Some of us went and looked out. A great cloud
was eating up the stars, spreading two vast dark wings south
and north.
Loudham drew away. They discuss Numenor? Loudham's
ancestry?
The words with which this sketch begins, 'Do the Atlantis story and
abandon Eriol-Saga ...', are remarkable. In the first place, they seem
to support the analysis of the way in which The Notion Club Papers
developed that I have suggested at various points, and which I will
state here in a more coherent form.
'Part One' of the Papers (not at this time conceived to be so) had
reached the stage of the completed manuscript B (see p. 147 and note
4), and at this stage Harry Loudham was not seen as contributing
greatly to the discussions of the Notion Club: a maker of jokes and
interjections. Above all, he had no especial interest in the question of
Atlantis or in names from unknown worlds. Examples of this have
been pointed out in the notes to Part One.(110)
Only when the manuscript B was completed (and the text of 'Part
One' of the Papers very largely achieved) did the thought enter: 'Do
the Atlantis story.' With Loudham's standing beneath the Radcliffe
Camera and staring up at the sky the whole course of the Papers was
changed. Adjustments and additions were subsequently made to 'Part
One', hinting at his peculiar 'affinity' with the legend of the downfall
of the island empire, and changing the nature of his interests: for
whereas in B Guildford could say of him (p. 214 note 23): Memoirs of
the courts of minor 18th century monarchs are his natural browsing-
ground', in the list of members of the Club given on p. 151 (made
when B had been completed)(111) he has 'special interests in Icelandic
and Anglo-Saxon'. And as the writing of 'Part Two' in the manuscript
E proceeded he ceased to be Harry and became Arry, for Arundel
(Earendel).
But when my father wrote 'Do the Atlantis story' he also said that
the 'Eriol-Saga' should be abandoned, although there is no mention of
any such matter in the text of 'Part One'. The only explanation that I
can see is that the 'Eriol-Saga' had been, up to this time, what my
father had in mind for the further course of the meetings of the Notion
Club, but was now rejecting in favour of 'Atlantis'.
In the event he did not do so; he found himself drawn back into the
ideas that he had sketched for The Lost Road (see V.77 - 8), but now
in a conception so intricate that one need perhaps look no further for
an answer to the question, why were The Notion Club Papers
abandoned?
NOTES.
1. Pencilled at the head of the first page of the sole manuscript ('E')
of 'Part Two' is 'The Strange [Investigation >] Case of Arundel
Loudham', and the same title together with the number '[Part]
II' is found on a separate title-page that seems to belong with E
(p. 153 note 2). The second text of this Part, the typescript 'F',
while distinct from the typescript D of Part One and with a
separate pagination, has no title or heading before 'Night 62'.
- Loudham is spelt thus in E at first, but becomes Lowdham in
the course of the writing of the manuscript (p. 153 note 4).
2. In E there is no Night 62: see p. 195 (Guildford's footnote) and
note 47.
3. In E there is no head-note to Night 63 except the word
'defective', and thus no reference to 'the imram'. In the final
text, the typescript F, the number of the night to which the
mention of the imram is referred was left blank; I have added
'69', since on that night Frankley read his poem on Saint
Brendan (pp. 261 ff.). - The bracketed opening word 'Good',
supposed to be absent in the original, was added by the editor.
4. the High: High Street; Radcliffe Square, see p. 222 note 69.
5. For 'especially about the imram' E has 'especially about the
Enkeladim', changed soon to 'the Imram'. For references to the
Enkeladim (En-keladim) in Part One see pp. 199, 206 - 7, 221
note 65; and for the imrama (tales of seavoyaging) see V.81 - 2.
6. Nordics: E has 'philologists' (but Ramer himself was a philol-
ogist).
7. B.N.C.: the common abbreviation of Brasenose College, whose
gate is in Radcliffe Square. The 'lane' along which Ramer and
Guildford walked after Lowdham had left them is Brasenose
Lane, leading from Radcliffe Square to Turl Street (p. 213 note
18). - For The Camera in the following sentence see p. 222
note 69.
8. On the inclusion of Night 64 see the Editor's Foreword, p. 156.
9. In E as originally written the entire opening of Night 65 had
been lost, and the text only takes up with '[Jeremy] ... "as you
said...." ' - which is where in F the text takes up again after
the loss of a page in the middle of the record of the meeting
(p. 227). Thus in E the conversation concerning neologisms was
at first lacking; it was added in to the manuscript subsequently.
10. In E it was Dolbear, not Ramer, who objected thus to Lowd-
ham's remark. Arry (for Harry) entered in the course of the
writing of E; see p. 213 note 16.
11. N.E.D.: A New English Dictionary, the actual title of the
Oxford English Dictionary or O.E.D.
12. The expression the Six Years' War is used in the Foreword and
several times in the text. In E my father called it here the Second
German War.
13. Vita Fera: literally 'savage life' (ferus 'wild, untamed, savage,
fierce').
14. Cf. p. 174: Frankley, according to Guildford, 'regards knowl-
edge of his own language at any period before the Battle of
Bosworth as a misdemeanour'.
15. Norman Keeps was an historical person, who expounded to my
father the view of English history here recounted by Philip
Frankley while plying his trade at the barbering establishment of
Weston and Cheal in the Turl Street.
16. Battle of Camlan: the battle in which King Arthur and his
nephew Modred fell.
17. Zigur: the Adunaic name of Sauron, which is the name that
Lowdham uses in E here.
18. Owlamoo: This was in fact the name of a bogey conceived by
my brother Michael (and of which my father made a picture,
dated 1928, now in the Bodleian Library); but of course
Lowdham intended no more than any old absurd name: in E he
says 'Wallamaloo, who's he?'
19. Numenor: so F at all occurrences here (the long mark over the o
being added subsequently); E has Numenor.
20. Numenor is my name for Atlantis: see p. 221 note 63.
21. I knew I had heard that name as soon as Arry said it: see pp.
306-7.
22. A footnote to the text in E at this point reads: 'The records were
supposed to be written up and presented for correction at the
end of each term. Before being passed they were initialled by all
persons mentioned in them. N.G. Cf. the Note to the list of
members of the Notion Club in F, p. 160.
23. My father's name was Edwin: in initial drafting (and in E as first
written) Lowdham's father was called Oswin Ellendel (a 'mod-
ernisation' of Elendil) and he himself was Alboin Arundel (cf.
Oswin Errol father of Alboin in The Lost Road, V.36 ff.).
Oswin Loudham was at first to be a sailor by profession,
or else the somewhat absentee Professor of Anglo-Saxon at
Cambridge ('I believe he did know some Anglo-Saxon' said
his son).
24. I have not been able to discover a place named Penian in
Pembrokeshire.
25. The Earendel: in E the ship was named Earendel Star.
26. It does not look to Sussex: Arundel in Sussex (explained as Old
English harhun-dell, 'hoarhound valley', the name of a plant)
has of course no connection whatsoever with Earendel, merely a
likeness of sound.
27. E has 'the War of 1939' (see note 12).
28. three sailors: E has only 'And he'd had great difficulty in
collecting any sort of crew.' Cf. the three mariners who
accompanied Earendel and Elwing on the voyage to Valinor in
the Quenta Silmarillion (V.324, 327).
29. With this passage cf. V.37 - 8 and my commentary V.53 - 5.
30. the connexion of the Langobards with King Sheaf: see p. 227,
and V.92 ff.
31. In E Ramer says: 'Nor the repetition of the sequence: Alboin son
of Audoin = Alwin son of Edwin.' The addition in F of AElfwine
son of Eadwine is curious, since no actual AElfwine son of
Eadwine has been mentioned (merely the Old English forms of
Alwin and Edwin). Possibly it should be understood that Ramer
in his discussion with Lowdham before the present meeting
(p. 235) had learnt of the verses ascribed to AElfwine Widlast
Eadwines sunu (p. 244).
32. Rosamund: see V.54.
33. O Horsefriend of Macedon! A Lowdham joke on Frankley's
first name (of which one is reminded immediately above),
referring to King Philip of Macedon, father of Alexander the
Great (Greek phil-ippos 'horse-loving').
34. a star-name for Orion, or for Rigel: see p. 301 and note 6.
35. the glosses: translations into Anglo-Saxon of individual words
in Latin manuscripts. See my father's (draft) letter written in
August 1967 to a correspondent known only as Mr. Rang
(Letters no. 297), in which he gave a long account of the
relation between Anglo-Saxon Earendel and the Earendil of his
mythology. The relevant part of this letter is reprinted in II.266,
but without the footnote to the words 'To my mind the
Anglo-Saxon uses seem plainly to indicate that it was a star
presaging the dawn (at any rate in English tradition)':
Its earliest recorded A-S form is earendil (oer-), later earendel,
eorendel. Mostly in glosses on jubar = leoma; also on aurora.
But also in Blickling Homilies 163, se niwa eorendel applied
to St John the Baptist; and most notably Crist 104, eala!
earendel engla beorhtast ofer middangeard monnum sended.
Often supposed to refer to Christ (or Mary), but comparison
with Blickling Homilies suggests that it refers to the Baptist.
The lines refer to a herald, and divine messenger, clearly not
the sodfaesta sunnan leoma = Christ.
The last words of this note refer to the following lines in the
poem Crist:
Eala Earendel engla beorhtast
ofer middangeard monnum sended,
ond sodfaesta sunnan leoma,
torht ofer tunglas - pu tida gehwane.
of sylfum pe symle inlihtes.
'... and true radiance of the sun, bright above the stars - thou of
thy very self illuminest for ever every season.' - The Blickling
Homilies are a collection of Old English sermons preserved in a
manuscript at Blickling Hall in Norfolk.
36. E has 'what Cynewulf meant'. Of Cynewulf, author of the Crist
and other poems, nothing is certainly known beyond his name,
which he preserved by setting the runic letters composing it into
short passages in the body of his poems, so that the actual
names of the runes (as for example the W-rune was called wynn
'joy') have a meaning in the context.
37. From this point to the end of Night 66 there are not two but
three texts to be considered (as already noted, p. 147), for this
part of the typescript F was rejected and replaced by a new
version, while both typescript versions differ radically from E in
respect of Lowdham's linguistic discoveries. The divergences
have many notable features, and the superseded versions are
given separately, pp. 299 ff.
38. 'That breaks my dream' was an expression of my mother's,
meaning that something in waking life had suddenly reminded
her of a passage in a dream. In the original version of Night 66
(p. 303) Jeremy says 'That breaks my dream!' when Lowdham's
words suddenly recall to his mind the place where, in his dream,
he had found the reference to Numenor. - The Oxford English
Dictionary does not give the expression, and the only place that
I have found it is in the English Dialect Dictionary, ed. Joseph
Wright, Break 27 (3), with a reference to West Yorkshire.
39. Yozayan: this Adunaic name occurs in Aldarion and Erendis
(Unfinished Tales p. 184): 'Do you not love the Yozayan?'
40. The term Elf-latin (also Elven-latin) occurs frequently in The
Lost Road and The Lhammas: see the Index to Vol.V. Alboin
Errol called the first language ('Eressean') that 'came through'
to him Elf-latin, but it is not explained why he did so.
41. Tiwas: Tiw was the name in Old English of the Germanic god
equated with Mars (whence Tuesday, based on Latin dies
Martis; French Mardi), and known in Old Norse as Tyr. The
name is generally derived from an earlier * Tiwaz, cognate with
Latin deus (< 'deiwos), and so meaning originally 'god'; in Old
Norse the plural Twar 'gods' is found, of which Tiwas (=
'Valar') is the unrecorded Old English equivalent that 'came
through' to Lowdham.
42. Nowendaland: derived from the recorded Old English word
nowend 'shipmaster, mariner'. For another occurrence of
Nowendaland see p. 317.
43. Freafiras: this word is found elsewhere (see p. 317) as a trans-
lation of the word turkildi in Lowdham's Fragment I (p. 246),
which he translated 'lordly men' (p. 248): Old English frea
'lord', often found also as the first element of compounds, and
firas 'men', a word used in Old English poetry (cf. IV.206, 208,
211-12).
44. Regeneard: this was no doubt used in reference to Valinor. In
Old English the element regn- occurs in compounds with an
intensive force ('greatness, power'), and also in proper names
(as Regenweald, revived as Reginald). In the ancient Norse
poems Regin, plural, meant the gods, the rulers of the world,
and occurs in Ragna-rok 'the doom of the gods' (mistakenly
transformed into 'the twilight of the gods' by confusion with the
word rokr 'twilight'). Old English eard 'land, country, dwelling,
home'; thus Regeneard 'God-home', Valinor.
45. Midswipen: a word midja-sweipains is found in Gothic,
apparently meaning 'cataclysm, flood of the middle(-earth)',
midja being a reduced form of midjun- as in Gothic midjun-
gards (the inhabited world of men, 'Middle-earth'). This is
clearly the basis of Lowdham's unrecorded Old English Mid-
swipen.
46. hebaensuil: in later spelling heofonsyl; cf. the Old English text
given on p. 314. frumaeldi: 'First Age'. I cannot certainly
interpret Wihawinia.
47. In The Lost Road (V.43) Oswin Errol tells Alboin: 'But you'll
get into trouble, if you let your cats out of the bag among the
philologists - unless, of course, they back up the authorities.'
Like Edwin Lowdham, Oswin Errol had studied Old English
(V.44).
48. westra lage wegas rehtas, wraikwas nu isti: the line 'came
through' also to Alboin Errol in The Lost Road (V.43), but
ending nu isti sa wraithas; see p. 304.
49. Onomasticon: alphabetic list of proper names, especially of
persons.
50. In The Lost Road AElfwine chanted a form of these lines in the
hall before King Edward the Elder (V.84), where they are not
given in an archaic form but in the spelling of the manuscript of
The Seafarer (see V.85):
Monad modes lust mid mereflode
ford to feran, paet ic feor heonan
ofer hean holmas, ofer hwaeles edel
elpeodigra eard gesece.
Nis me to hearpan hyge ne to hringpege
ne to wife wyn ne to worulde hyht
ne ymb owiht elles nefne ymb yda gewealc.
A prose translation is given (whereas Lowdham translates into
alliterative verse): 'The desire of my spirit urges me to journey
forth over the flowing sea, that far hence across the hills of
water and the whale's country I may seek the land of strangers.
No mind have I for harp, nor gift of ring, nor delight in women,
nor joy in the world, nor concern with aught else save the rolling
of the waves.'
In The Seafarer the text is somewhat different:
monad modes lust maela gehwylce
ferd to feran, paet ic feor heonan
elpeodigra eard gesece
(which is then followed by five lines omitted in AElfwine's
version); maela gehwylce 'on every occasion', ferd (ferhd) 'heart,
spirit', i.e. literally 'the desire of my spirit urges my heart on
every occasion to journey'. These alterations reappear in Lowd-
ham's version here, and they depend, I imagine, on my father's
judgement that the preserved text of The Seafarer is corrupt.
The third line in The Lost Road text, ofer hean holmas, ofer
hwaeles edel, not found in The Seafarer, is replaced in Lowd-
ham's version by the less banal ofer garsecges grimme holmas
(writing it in later spelling), 'over the grim waves of Garsecg (the
ocean)'; for Garsecg see the references given in V.82.
The fourth line of Lowdham's version differs, as he points out,
from that in The Seafarer in the reading aelbuuina eard (= later
aelfwina eard) 'land of the Elf-friends' for elpeodigra eard 'land
of strangers, aliens'; the substitution of aelfwina for elpeodigra
requires the presence of the word uut (ut) for metrical reasons.
The text of The Lost Road follows The Seafarer.
In The Notion Club Papers AElfwine's chant before the king
(p. 272) is exactly as Lowdham's version here, but given in later
spelling; see also p. 304.
51. These lines Alboin Errol recited to his father in The Lost Road
(V.44) in precisely the same form, except that AElfwine is not
there called Eadwines sunu. For other appearances of these lines
see V.55. In the translation the words 'a land lovely to look on'
(wlitescene land) have been added from the first typescript (see
note 37): they were inadvertently omitted in the second.
52. Lowdham concludes his lecture in the manner of the ending of a
medieval minstrel's romance, and with a swipe at Frankley. or I
ende: 'before I end.'
53. From Night 67 onwards there are again only the manuscript E
and the typescript F, the latter being the continuation of the
revised typescript (see p. 147 and note 37 above).
54. 0 Lover of Horses: see note 33.
55. Lowdham's 'fragments' are inserted into the typescript on
separate sheets. They are in two forms: a typescript, printed
here, and a manuscript of two pages, reproduced as frontis-
pieces to this book, representing Lowdham's copies 'in a big
bold hand, done with one of the great thick-nibbed pens
Lowdham is fond of', with 'glosses in red ink': for unglossed
words there are however (unlike what Lowdham said of his
copies, p. 248) no query marks. In the typescript text of the
fragments the Avallonian and Adunaic words are given all in
capital letters, but I print them here in italic, capitalising
according to the manuscript version.
56. Comparison of the typescript text of the fragments printed here
with the manuscript version reproduced as frontispieces will
show that the only differences in actual word-forms are manu-
script hikalba 'she fell' in I (B), where the typescript has
hikallaba; manuscript katha 'all' in II, where the typescript has
katha; and manuscript ido 'now' at all three occurrences in II,
but idon at the last two in the typescript, with the gloss 'now
(is)'. There are many minor differences in Lowdham's glosses.
The typescript text of the fragments was no doubt made to
accompany the final typescript F of the narrative, but it is not
clear to me whether it preceded or followed the manuscript
pages. Earlier forms of these pages are given on pp. 311 - 12. For
the form of the fragments in E see p. 309.
57. Plato's dialogue Timaeus is the source (together with the long
unfinished dialogue Critias) of the legend of Atlantis, the great
island empire in the western ocean which, expanding aggressive-
ly against the peoples of the Mediterranean, was defeated by the
Athenians, and was swallowed up 'in a single day and night' by
the sea, leaving a vast shoal of mud that rendered the waters
impassable in the region where Atlantis had been. According to
Plato, the story was told (about the beginning of the sixth
century B.C.) by an Egyptian priest to Solon the Athenian, and it
came down thence by several intermediaries to Critias, a relative
of Plato's, who tells the story in the two dialogues. In the Critias
a long and extremely detailed account of Atlantis is given, of its
great city, the temple of Poseidon with its colossal statue of the
god, the wealth of the land in all resources of minerals, animals,
timber, flowers and fruits, the horse-racing, the bull-sacrifice,
the laws governing the realm. At the end of this account the
narrator tells that the men of Atlantis fell away from the justice,
wisdom and virtue of earlier generations, and that Zeus,
perceiving their debasement and corruption, and wishing to
punish them, called all the gods together and spoke to them; but
at this point the Critias breaks off unfinished. The story of the
war with the Greeks and the downfall of Atlantis is told, very
briefly, in the other dialogue, the Timaeus.
The eldest child of Poseidon (tutelary god of Atlantis) by a
mortal woman became the first king, and Poseidon named him
Atlas, 'and after him the whole island and ocean were called
Atlantis.'
Ultimately the name Atlas is that of the Titan who upheld
the heavens on his head and his hands, according to Hesiod in
the far western regions of the earth, near the dwelling of the
Hesperides. He was the father of the Pleiades, and also, in
Homer, of Calypso, on whose island Ogygia Odysseus was
shipwrecked.
58. Cf. The Lost Road, where Audoin Errol, son of Alboin, speaks
to himself of his dreams (V.52): 'Just pictures, but not a sound,
not a word. Ships coming to land. Towers on the shore. Battles,
with swords glinting but silent. And there is that ominous
picture: the great temple on the mountain, smoking like a
volcano.'
59. E has here: ' "... But I've done what I can. Sauron and nahamna
remain to be solved." "Sauron!" said Jeremy in a strange voice.'
Lowdham refers only to unknown Quenya words because, as
will be seen more fully later, in E there was no Adunaic element
in the fragments he received. The word nahamna preceded
nukumna 'humbled' of the later text of the Quenya fragment
(p. 246), and was uninterpretable also by Alboin Errol in The
Lost Road (V.47).
60. The name Nimruzir appears in Fragment I (8), 'seven ships of
Nimruzir eastward'. In E Jeremy addresses Lowdham as Earen-
dil, changed subsequently to Elendil.
61. The Adunaic words Ba kitabdahe! are absent in E (see note 59).
62. In E Lowdham cries out: 'Es sorni heruion an! The Eagles of the
Lords are at hand!' This was changed later to 'The Eagles of the
Powers of the West are at hand! Sorni Numevalion anner! ' In an
earlier, rejected version of the passage Lowdham's words were:
'Soroni numeheruen ettuler!'
63. In E Jeremy speaks of 'the fell counsels of Sauron', not 'of
Zigur'. He says that 'Tarkalion has set forth his might', where F
has 'the King', and the sails of the Numenorean ships are 'scarlet
and black' ('golden and black', F). He ends in E: 'The world
waits in fear. The Numenoreans have encompassed Avallon as
with a cloud. The Eldar mourn and are afraid. Why do the
Lords of the West make no sign?'
64. For 'The Lords have spoken to Eru, and the fate of the World is
changed' E has 'The Lords have spoken to Iluvatar [> the
Maker], and the counsel of the Almighty is changed, and the
fate of the world is overturned.'
65. For the passage in F beginning 'See! The abyss openeth...' E (as
first written: the wording was changed in detail subsequently)
has:
'Ah! Look! There is a chasm in the midst of the Great Seas
and the waters rush down into it in great confusion. The ships
of the Numenoreans are drowned in the abyss. They are lost
for ever. See now the eagles of the Lords overshadow
Numenor. The mountain goes up to heaven in flame and
vapour; the hills totter, slide, and crumble: the land founders.
The glory has gone down into the deep waters. Dark ships,
dark ships flying into darkness! The eagles pursue them. Wind
drives them, waves like hills moving. All has passed away.
Light has departed! '
There was a roar of thunder and a blaze of lightning...
Thus there is no mention in E of Lowdham and Jeremy moving
to the window and 'talking to one another in a strange tongue.'
66. For Abrazan E has Voronwe, 'Steadfast', 'Faithful'; this was the
name of the Elf who guided Tuor to Gondolin, Unfinished Tales
pp. 30 ff. Cf. Jeremy's second name, Trewin (see note 84).
67. On 'the Great Storm' see p. 157 and note 1.
68. The statement that Ramer picked up a piece of paper covered
with writing and put it in a drawer is present in E as written. See
note 70.
69. in the schools: acting as examiners in the final examinations,
held at the end of the summer term (cf. Guildford's footnote on
p. 253).
70. In E the letter was postmarked in London. - As E was written,
the record of the meeting of Night 68 ended immediately after
Guildford had read the letter aloud, with the words: 'We agreed
to Thursday 25th of September', and is followed by Night 69 on
that date. Thus, although at the end of Night 67 Guildford's
statement that he saw Ramer pick up the leaf of Edwin
Lowdham's manuscript and put it in a drawer was present in E
as originally written, on Night 68 Ramer does not appear and
the paper is not mentioned (which is why the account of Night
68 begins with the words 'There is not much to record' - words
that should have been removed). In E Night 69 (the last meeting
recorded in The Notion Club Papers) proceeds essentially as in
F (pp. 260 - 77). The matter of 'Edwin Lowdham's page' on
Night 68 was inserted into E, but the structure of the manu-
script and its pagination show clearly that this was not done
until the text of Night 69 had been completed.
71. In E Ramer's remarks about 'Edwin Lowdham's page' and his
discovery that the language was Old English are very much the
same as in F, but he gives an opinion about the dialect and date:
'He thought it was Numenorean, I guess. But actually it is just
Old English - latish West Saxon, I think, but I'm no expert. The
script is, I think, plainly Numenorean...' See further notes 72
and 74.
72. Rashbold is a translation of Tolkien: see p. 151. Pembroke is the
college to which the professorship of Anglo-Saxon is attached,
its holder being ex officio a fellow of the college. - In E
Professor Rashbold does not appear, and it is Ramer himself
who deciphered, transcribed, and translated the page ('And
here's the transcription, with such a translation as I could
make').
73. Cf. the third Old English version of The Annals of Valinor, of
which I noted (IV.290) that the language is that of ninth-century
Mercia. There are several references in my father's letters to his
particular liking for and sense of affinity with the West Mid-
lands of England and its early language. In January 1945 he had
said to me (Letters no. 95): 'For barring the Tolkien (which
must long ago have become a pretty thin strand) you are a
Mercian or Hwiccian (of Wychwood) on both sides.' In June
1955 he wrote to W. H. Auden (Letters no. 163): 'I am a
West-midlander by blood (and took to early west-midland
Middle English as a known tongue as soon as I set eyes on it)';
and in another letter of this time (Letters no. 165): '... it is, I
believe, as much due to descent as to opportunity that Anglo-
Saxon and Western Middle English and alliterative verse have
been both a childhood attraction and my main professional
sphere.'
74. The Old English version (not in the Mercian dialect, see note 71)
written to accompany the manuscript E is given on pp. 313 - 14,
and the representation of the original form of it in Edwin
Lowdham's tengwar on pp. 319 - 20. Of the subsequent Old
English (Mercian) version, printed here from F, my father began
a text in tengwar but abandoned it after a single page; this is
reproduced on p. 321.
75. Arminaleth: Adunaic name of the City of the Numenoreans,
found also in The Drowning of Anadune. In The Fall of
Numenor ($2) it was named Numenos (V.25, and in this book
p. 333). On the site of the temple see p. 384.
76. Neowollond: in Professor Rashbold's translation (p. 259) this is
rendered 'the? prostrate land'; in the earlier Old English version
accompanying E, which was translated by Michael Ramer (note
72), the name (in the form Niwelland) is rendered 'the Land that
is fallen low' (pp. 314 - 15). Old English neowol (neol, niwol)
'prostrate, prone; deep, profound'; cf. the early names for
Helm's Deep, Neolnearu, Neolnerwet, VIII.23 note 6.
77. forrarder:'further forward'.
78. On the texts and titles of this poem see the note on pp. 295 - 6,
where also the published version is given.
79. Cluain-ferta: Clonfert, near the river Shannon above Lough
Derg. The monastery was founded by Saint Brendan Abbot of
Clonfert, called the Navigator, about the year 559.
80. a light on the edge of the Outer Night: cf. the Quenta
Silmarillion (V.327): 'But [the Valar] took Vingelot [the ship of
Earendel], and they hallowed it, and they bore it away through
Valinor to the uttermost rim of the world, and there it passed
through the Door of Night and was lifted up even into the
oceans of heaven.' The following line in the present text, like
silver set ablaze, is replaced in the final form of the poem
(p. 298, line 104) by beyond the Door of Days.
81. The passage Lowdham refers to is lines 33 - 52, where when 'the
smoking cloud asunder broke' they 'saw that Tower of Doom':
in the earliest text of the poem the mariners 'looked upon
Mount Doom' (p. 295).
82. Cf. the outline for The Lost Road in V.80, where 'AElfwine
objects that Paradise cannot be got to by ship - there are deeper
waters between us than Garsecg. Roads are bent: you come
back in the end. No escape by ship.'
83. Porlock: on the north coast of Somerset.
84. Trewyn: Jeremy's second name is spelt Trewin in the lists of
members of the Notion Club. The Old English name is
Treowine (which Lowdham uses subsequently, p. 268), 'true
friend'; cf. the Elvish name Voronwe' 'Steadfast' by which
Lowdham names him in the text E (note 66).
85. Hibernia: Ireland (see note 99).
86. Slieve League is a mountain on the coast of Donegal, Brandon
Hill on the coast of Kerry; thus Lowdham means 'all down the
west coast of Ireland'.
87. The Aran Isles lie across the entrance to Galway Bay.
88. Loughrea: a town and lake to the east of Galway.
89. the Severn Sea: the mouth of the Severn.
90. 'Let us hasten now, Treowine! I do not like this wind. There is a
great likelihood of Danes tonight.'
91. The opening of Lowdham's story is closely based on the account
in The Lost Road (V.83), although there AElfwine's part is
reported by the narrator, and it is his son Eadwine that he looks
for in the hall, not his friend Treowine. For a brief account of
the historical setting in the years of King Edward the Elder (son
of King Alfred), the defeat of the Danes at Archenfield in
Herefordshire, and the raids on Watchet and Porlock, see
V.80 - 1.
92. Devenish men and Somersets: Devenish is Old English Defenisc
'of Devon'; Defnas, Defenas 'men of Devon' is the origin of
the name Devon. Somersets is from Old English Sumorsaete
'men of Somerset' with the later plural ending added; as with
Defnas > Devon, Sumorsaete became the name of the region
Somerset.
93. Edwin Lowdham's father has not been mentioned, but as is seen
here he was Oswin Lowdham.
94. Alfred went into hiding: in the Isle of Athelney in Somerset, in
878.
95. the West Welsh: the people of Cornwall (Old English Corn-
wealas 'the Welsh in Cornwall' became the name of the region,
Cornwall). On AElfwine's mother, who came 'from the West',
see II.313, V.85.
96. Saint Edmund, King of East Anglia, was defeated by the Danes
in 869 and (according to the tenth century life of the king)
murdered by them: he was tied to a tree and shot through with
many arrows. The Danish raids in the region of the Severn took
place in 914, and thus 'AElfwine' was about 45 years old at this
time (see V.80, 85), since he was born 'just before' the death of
Saint Edmund. Arry Lowdham was born in 1938, and was now
48 or 49. Subsequently Guildford says (p. 276) that in his vision
of AElfwine in the hall at Porlock he had looked older than
Lowdham, 'though by his account he was just of Arry's age it
seemed'.
97. the good king in his last wars: King Alfred (died 899).
98. Maelduin: see V.81 - 2.
99. Eriu: the Old Celtic name * Iveriu (whence Latin Hibernia)
became Irish Eriu (accusative case Eirinn, Erin). From the same
source is Old English Iras, Iraland.
100. aet Ircenfelda: Archenfield in Herefordshire; see V.SO (the Old
English Ircingafeld given there is an earlier form).
101. Monath modes lust...: on these verses see note 50.
102. Tamworth: in Staffordshire: the chief residence of the Mercian
kings.
103. King Sheave: for discussion of the legend of 'Sheaf' and notes on
the text of the poem see V.91 - 6.
Among the manuscripts of The Lost Road material (see V.85
ff.) there are two texts of the poem, the one (which I will here
call 'V') written out in verse lines, the other ('P') written as
prose. In The Lost Road I printed V only, since the two versions
differ only in a few minor details. In V there is a short narrative
opening, in which it is told that AElfwine chanted the poem; in P
there is only a title, King Sheave.
In the manuscript E of The Notion Club Papers it is not
Treowine who recites the poem, as it is the typescript F:
At that one of the Marchers leaped to his feet and got leave
to speak. Even before I had found a seat beside Treowine,
whom I espied far down the hall, the fellow had a foot on the
step and had begun. He had a good voice, if a strange way
with his words. Ceolwulf, as I heard later, was his name, and
he claimed to come of the blood of their kings that sat at
Tamworth of old. His verse was in the old style...
This was changed in pencil to the later account. In E there is
only a direction 'Here follows the Lay of King Sheave', which
stands at the bottom of page 42 in the manuscript. The text
continues on another page with 'When he ended there was loud
applause... and they passed a horn of ale to Ceolwulf's hand.'
When I edited The Lost Road I did not observe that this page is
numbered 46, while the manuscript P of King Sheave (in which
the poem is written out as prose) is numbered 43 to 45. Thus the
manuscripts V and P, which I took to be 'obviously closely
contemporary' (V.87), were in fact separated by some eight
years: a misjudgement based on the fact of the texts being
placed together in my father's archive and their close similarity,
although the evidence of the pagination is perfectly clear.
The manuscript P, then, was written in 1945 on the basis of
the much earlier V, and was the text from which the typescript F
given here was taken (with a few further changes); and all
differences between the text given on pp. 273 ff. in this book
and that on pp. 87 ff. in The Lost Road belong to 1945.
The last eight lines of the supplementary part of the poem
(The Lost Road p. 91, lines 146 - 53, beginning 'Sea-danes and
Goths ...'), which do not appear in the manuscript V, also
belong apparently to the time of The Notion Club Papers.
104. The text P has sires, but both V and the typescript F of the
Papers have sire.
105. aet thisse beorthege: Old English beordegu 'beer-drinking'.
106. I cannot explain the reference of 'Broad Relic'.
107. cnearr: 'ship', a very rare Old English word probably taken
from Norse, since it is only applied to vessels of the Vikings.
108. 'Sweet is the breath of flowers beyond the sea.'
109. After night 62: this is the later Night 63.
110. See p. 214 note 23; p. 194 and note 46; p. 199 and note 51; p.
206 and note 63.
111. That this list, following the revised title-page given on p. 149,
was made after the completion of manuscript B is seen from the
name Frankley for earlier Franks (p. 150).
Note on 'The Death of Saint Brendan'
with the text of the published form 'Imram'.
A great deal of work went into this poem, with its elaborate
versification: there are no less than fourteen closely-written pages of
initial working, and there follow four finished manuscript texts
preceding the typescript text printed on pp. 261 - 4. Much further
work on it followed later. It is notable, however, that already in the
earliest text the final form reached in The Notion Club Papers was
very closely approached: there is in fact only one passage that shows a
significant difference (and this was corrected already on the first
manuscript to the later form). This concerns lines 43 - 53, where the
earliest text reads:
then the smoking cloud asunder broke
and we looked upon Mount Doom:
tall as a column in high Heaven's hall,
than all mortal mountains higher,
the tower-top of a foundered power,
with crown of redgold fire.
We sailed then on...
The first text bears the title The Ballad of St. Brendan's Death. The
second text, which as the pagination shows belongs with the manu-
script E of The Notion Club Papers, is entitled The Death of St.
Brendan. The third (with this title) and the fourth (without title) are
finely written manuscripts, and the fifth (with the title The Death of St.
Brendan pencilled in as shown on p. 261) is part of the typescript F of
The Notion Club Papers.
The poem, entitled Imram (Irish: 'sailing, voyaging') was once
previously printed, in the issue of the periodical Time and Tide for
3 December 1955 (where it was illustrated by a woodcut of Saint
Brendan and the great fishes by Robert Gibbings, originally made for
Helen Waddell's book of translations Beasts and Saints, 1934). Three
further typescripts, all with the title Imram, clearly belong to the later
time. I print here in its entirety the text as it was published in Time and
Tide, for that is now scarcely obtainable, and although the opening
and concluding verses underwent very little alteration my father
greatly changed most of the poem from its form in The Notion Club
Papers.
IMRAM
At last out of the deep sea he passed,
and mist rolled on the shore;
under clouded moon the waves were loud,
as the laden ship him bore 4
to Ireland, back to wood and mire
and the tower tall and grey,
where the knell of Cluain-ferta's bell
tolled in green Galway. 8
Where Shannon down to Lough Derg ran
under a rain-clad sky
Saint Brendan came to his journey's end
to find the grace to die. 12
'0 tell me, father, for I loved you well,
if still you have words for me,
of things strange in the remembering
in the long and lonely sea, 16
of islands by deep spells beguiled
where dwell the Elvenkind:
in seven long years the road to Heaven
or the Living Land did you find?' 20
'The things I have seen, the many things,
have long now faded far;
only three come clear now back to me:
a Cloud, a Tree, a Star. 24
'We sailed for a year and a day and hailed
no field nor coast of men;
no boat nor bird saw we ever afloat
for forty days and ten. 28
Then a drumming we heard as of thunder coming,
and a Cloud above us spread;
we saw no sun at set or dawn,
yet ever the west was red. 32
'Upreared from sea to cloud then sheer
a shoreless mountain stood;
its sides were black from the sullen tide
up to its smoking hood, 36
but its spire was lit with a living fire
that ever rose and fell:
tall as a column in High Heaven's hall,
its roots were deep as Hell; 40
grounded in chasms the waters drowned
and swallowed long ago
it stands, I guess, on the foundered land
where the kings of kings lie low. 44
'We sailed then on till all winds failed,
and we toiled then with the oar;
we burned with thirst and in hunger yearned,
and we sang our psalms no more. 48
At last beyond the Cloud we passed
and came to a starlit strand;
the waves were sighing in pillared caves,
grinding gems to sand. 52
And here they would grind our bones we feared
until the end of time;
for steep those shores went upward leaping
to cliffs no man could climb. 56
But round by west a firth we found
that clove the mountain-wall;
there lay a water shadow-grey
between the mountains tall. 60
Through gates of stone we rowed in haste,
and passed, and left the sea;
and silence like dew fell in that isle,
and holy it seemed to be. 64
'To a dale we came like a silver grail
with carven hills for rim.
In that hidden land we saw there stand
under a moonlight dim 68
a Tree more fair than ever I deemed
in Paradise might grow:
its foot was like a great tower's root,
its height no man could know; 72
and white as winter to my sight
the leaves of that Tree were;
they grew more close than swan-wing plumes,
long and soft and fair. 76
'It seemed to us then as in a dream
that time had passed away,
and our journey ended; for no return
we hoped, but there to stay. 80
In the silence of that hollow isle
half sadly then we sang:
softly we thought, but the sound aloft
like sudden trumpets rang. 84
The Tree then shook, and flying free
from its limbs the leaves in air
as white birds rose in wheeling flight,
and the lifting boughs were bare. 88
On high we heard in the starlit sky
a song, but not of bird:
neither noise of man nor angel's voice,
but maybe there is a third 92
fair kindred in the world yet lingers
beyond the foundered land.
But steep are the seas and the waters deep
beyond the White-tree Strand! ' 96
'0 stay now, father! There is more to say.
But two things you have told:
the Tree, the Cloud; but you spoke of three.
The Star in mind do you hold?' 100
'The Star? Why, I saw it high and far
at the parting of the ways,
a light on the edge of the Outer Night
beyond the Door of Days, 104
where the round world plunges steeply down,
but on the old road goes,
as an unseen bridge that on arches runs
to coasts that no man knows.' 108
'But men say, father, that ere the end
you went where none have been.
I would hear you tell me, father dear,
of the last land you have seen.' 112
'In my mind the Star I still can find,
and the parting of the seas,
and the breath as sweet and keen as death
that was borne upon the breeze. 116
But where they bloom, those flowers fair,
in what air or land they grow,
what words beyond this world I heard,
if you would seek to know, 120
in a boat then, brother, far afloat
you must labour in the sea,
and find for yourself things out of mind:
you will learn no more of me.' 124
In Ireland over wood and mire
in the tower tall and grey
the knell of Cluain-ferta's bell
was tolling in green Galway. 128
Saint Brendan had come to his life's end
under a rain-clad sky,
journeying whence no ship returns;
and his bones in Ireland lie. 132
MAJOR DIVERGENCES IN EARLIER VERSIONS OF
THE NOTION CLUB PAPERS (PART TWO).
(i) The earlier versions of Night 66.
I have mentioned previously that from Lowdham's words 'Earendel
seems to me a special word. It is not Anglo-Saxon' (see p. 237 and note
37) there is a third text to be considered: for the part of the typescript
F that follows from this point and extends to the end of Night 66
(p. 245) was rejected and replaced by another version. I shall refer to
the rejected portion as 'F 1', and its replacement as 'F 2'. That this
rewriting was carried out while the typescript was being made is seen
from the fact that at the end of the rewritten section it is F 2 that
continues to the end of the Papers.
For some distance the original manuscript E was followed closely in
F 1 and for this part it is only necessary to give the text of the latter.
In any case, said Lowdham, Earendel is not Anglo-Saxon.
Or rather, it is and it isn't. I think it is one of those curious cases
of linguistic coincidence" that have long puzzled me. I some-
times think that they are too easily dismissed as "mere acci-
dent". You know the sort of thing that you can find in any
dictionary of a strange language, and which so excites the
amateur philologists, itching to derive one tongue from another
that they know better: a word that is nearly the same in form
and meaning as the corresponding word in English, or Latin, or
Hebrew, or what not. Like mare 'male' in the New Hebrides
and Latin maris, marem.(1) Or the example that used to be given
as a frightful warning in the old text-books: that popol means
'people' or 'popular assembly' in Tamil, but has no connexion
whatever with populus and its derivatives, and is really derived,
they say, from a Tamil word for a mat for the councillors to
squat on.
'I dare say some of these things are mere chance, or at least
not very significant. Yet I think it also happens that a word-
form may be arrived at by different routes, in far separated
times and places, and yet the result may be the product of a
hidden symbol-making process working out to a similar end. Or
in any case the "accident" may touch off, as it were, deeper or
sleeping mind-echoes, so that the similar form thus acquires
similar significance or emotional content. Every language has
words in which its genius seems to come to flash-point, words
whose form, though it remains within the general style, achieves
a brilliance or a beauty of universal virtue.'
'If I follow all this, and I'm not at all sure that I do,' said
Markison, 'I suppose you are trying to say that you've dis-
covered Earendel or something like it in some strange language.
Is that so?'
'I think I come in for a moment here,' said Jeremy, who had
been as restless as a bird on a twig ever since the word Earendel
had cropped up. 'We've been trying to strengthen our recollec-
tions under tuition; but I've not had much success yet. Still I
have succeeded in connecting Numenor a little more clearly
with a library,(2) with something I came across once when I was
working on Ghost-stories. I can't get it more exact, or I
couldn't. But a result of the effort to remember has been to drag
up a good many vague dream-scenes of that rather troubled
searching-for-something-missing variety: wandering about in
libraries looking for a lost book, getting dusty and worried.
'Then two nights ago I got a dream of which I still remember
one fairly clear passage. I took down a folder, or a cardboard
case, from a high shelf, and in it I found a manuscript. It was in
an ornamental and rather archaic hand, yet I seem to remember
that I knew that it was not really old (by the paper, or the ink, or
something), but belonged to this century. Here and there were
passages in an unknown character.'
'I've found that missing leaf of my father's book,' interposed
Lowdham.(3) 'I've shown it to Jeremy, and he's quite certain that
the character is the same. Though we've not succeeded in
deciphering it. It's not any alphabet known to the books.'
'And what is more peculiar', said Jeremy, 'there is nothing at
all to connect my dream-vision or dream-manuscript with
Edwin Lowdham: the style of the hands is wholly different,
though the letter-forms are the same. Old Edwin's is a large,
black, broad-stroke round hand; mine was more delicate and
pointed.
'Well, unfortunately I don't recollect anything very clear or
connected about the contents of my dream-manuscript - I call it
that because I begin to wonder if this dream is really founded on
any waking experience at all - but it contained, I think, some
kind of legendary history,(4) full of strange names all seeming to
belong to the same language. This much I do remember: the
name Numenor or Numenore was frequent; and so was the
name Earendil. Very nearly the same, you see, but actually
spelt: e-a-r-e-n-d-i-l, Earendil.
'So I think Arry must be right. It is a case of linguistic
coincidence or congruence, and the key is not to be found in
Anglo-Saxon. We need not bother with the connexions of
English Earendel in the other related languages, like the proper
names Orendel, and Aurvendill, or Saxo's Horwendillus.'(5)
'But is not Auriwandalo actually recorded as a name in
Langobardic?' said Markison, who has a finger in most pies of
learning. 'Odd how the Langobards crop up.'
'It is,' said Lowdham.
'Hm, yes, and there is a connexion between these names and
the stars,' said Jeremy. 'Didn't Thor throw Aurvendil's toe up
into the sky, Arry?(6) And Earendil certainly had a connexion
with a star in the strange tongue. Somehow I feel sure of that.'(7)
'Yes, that's so,' said Lowdham; 'but in the unknown language
it was only a legendary connexion, not a linguistic one, I think.
Earendil meant Sea-friend.(8) I am quite sure of that, because -
well, perhaps I'd better go on where I left off.
'From the time of my father's departure...
The following passage in E / F 1 was retained in the revised type-
script F 2 (p. 237 - 8) as far as 'some great tale of Numenor' almost
without change, and there is no need to repeat it. The only difference
between the texts is in the name of the 'cone-shaped mountain', and
this is a difference very important in determining the relation of the
texts of The Drowning of Anadune to those of The Notion Club
Papers. Where F 2 has 'Desolate is Minul-Tarik, the Pillar of Heaven
is forsaken! ' the name in E is Menelminda, changed in pencil to
Meneltyula, while in F 1 it is Menel-tubel, changed to Menel-tubil.
From 'some great tale of Numenor', however, all three texts diverge
among themselves, and the major divergence is between the manu-
script E and the first typescript F 1. I continue now therefore with the
text of E (cf. pp. 238 ff.).
'But most of the word-recollections are, as it were, casual; as
casual as the words caught by the eye from a lexicon when one
is looking for something else. It was a long time before I began
to note them down, and use them for the language I was
amusing myself by "making up". They did not fit, or rather they
took control and bent that language to their own style. In fact
it became difficult to tell which were my invented words and
which the ghost-words; indeed I've a notion that "invention"
gradually played a smaller and smaller part. But there was
always a large residue that would not work in.
'I soon found, as I got to know more, that some of the
ingredients were Anglo-Saxon, and other things: which I'll
mention in a minute. But when I weeded them out there was still
a large amount of words left over, and in worrying over these I
made a discovery. They belonged to another ghost-language,
and to one that was related to the other. I could perceive a good
many of the laws or rules of change: for the Numenorean style
was in most points the older, more archaic, while the other had
been altered (as if by contact with our western shores) to a style
much more like that of the older north-western tongues.'
'I don't follow all this,' said Stainer. 'Nor do I,' said both
Markison and Guildford. 'Give them some of the examples you
gave me, Arry,' said Ramer.
'Well,' said Lowdham hesitating, 'if I can remember any of
the examples where the relationship is clear to lay folk (it is
often rather complex). Yes, lome is 'night' (but not 'darkness')
and lomelinde is 'a nightingale': I feel sure of that. In the second
language it is dumh, later du; and duilin. I refer them to a
Primitive Western domi, domilinde. Alda means a 'tree' - it was
one of the earliest certain words I got - and orne when smaller
and more slender like a birch or rowan; in the second language I
find galad, and orn (plural yrn): I refer them to galada, and orne
(plural ornei). Sometimes the forms are more similar: the Sun
and Moon, for instance, appear as Anar, Isil beside Anaur (later
Anor) and Ithil. I liked first the one language and then the other
in different linguistic moods,(9) but the older seemed always the
more august, somehow, the more, I don't know ... liturgical,
monumental: I used to call it the Elven-latin; and the other
seemed more resonant with the loss and regret of these shores of
exile' - he paused - 'but I don't know why I say that.'
'But why Elven-latin?' asked Markison.
'I don't quite know,' said Lowdham. 'I certainly don't mean
Elves in any of the more debased post-Shakespearean sort of
ways. Actually the language is associated in my mind with the
name Eresse': an island, I think. I often call it Eressean.(10) But it is
also associated with names like Eldar, Eldalie which seem to
refer to, well, something like Ramer's Enkeladim.'(11)
'That breaks my dream!' cried Jeremy.(12) 'Of course! Now I
know. It wasn't a library. It was a folder containing a manu-
script, on a high shelf in Whitburn's second-hand room,(13) that
funny dark place where all sorts of unsaleable things drift. No
wonder my dreams were full of dust and anxiety! It must have
been fifteen years ago since I found the thing there: Quenta
Eldalien, being the History of the Elves, by John Arthurson (14)-
in a manuscript much as I've described it. I took an eager but
hasty glance. But I had no time to spare that day, and I could
find no one in the shop to answer any enquiries, so I hurried off.
I meant to come back, but I didn't, not for almost a fortnight.
And - then the manuscript had vanished! They had no record of
it, and neither old Whitburn nor anyone else there remembered
ever seeing any such thing. I recall now what a catastrophe it
seemed to me at the time; but I was very busy with other work,
and soon forgot all about it.'
'It certainly looks as if more than one mind had been working
back along similar lines,' said Ramer. 'Several minds indeed; for
our expert is at fault for once. Lewis also mentions the name
somewhere.'
'So he does!' cried Jeremy. 'In a preface, was it? But he was
quoting from someone, I think, from a source that hasn't been
traced. And he used the form numinor. All the other sources
have numenor, or numenore' - that's so, isn't it, Arry?'(15)
'Yes,' said Lowdham. 'nume is West, and nore is kindred, or
land. The ancient English was Westfolde, Hesperia.(16) But you
wanted to know why Elven. Well, I got that from another line,
too. You remember I mentioned that Anglo-Saxon used to come
through mixed up with this other queer stuff? Well, I got hold
of Anglo-Saxon through the ordinary books, of course, fairly
early, and that confused the issue; though some words and
names came through to me that are not in the dictionaries...'
From here to the end of Night 66 the version in the original
manuscript E is very close to the final form (pp. 242 - 5), though some
elements are lacking, notably Lowdham's description of the ancient
slowness and sonorousness of diction (p. 242): following Frankley's
'Unless, of course, you back up their theories' Lowdham goes on: 'As a
matter of fact, I think they do. At least, here is a bit that came through
very early, long before I could interpret it; and it has been repeated
over and over again in various forms:
Westra lage wegas rehtas wraithas nu isti...'(17)
The Old English lines beginning Monad modes lust are in later
spelling, but have the same form as that in F 2 (see pp. 243-4 and
note 50, and p. 272). There is no reference in E to the date of the
'coming through' of these lines, nor to its being an evening of high
wind.
The remarkable feature of this original version is of course that
Lowdham's two 'ghost-languages' were Quenya and Sindarin (or
rather, the language that would come to be called Sindarin). Lowd-
ham's account in this version thus maintains the linguistic experience
of Alboin Errol in The Lost Road (cf. note 9): 'Eressean as he called it
as a boy ... was getting pretty complete. He had a lot of Beleriandic,
too, and was beginning to understand it, and its relation to Eressean'
(V.45).
The first typescript version F 1 follows the manuscript E at the
beginning of the section just given ('But most of these word-
recollections ...', p. 302), in Lowdham's description of how the
'ghost-words' 'soon took control and bent my [invented] language to
their own style'; but when he comes to tell that as he sifted the 'large
residue [of words] that would not work in' he made a discovery, his
discovery is totally different from that in the original text. This is
where Adunaic first appeared. It may be that my father had been long
cogitating this new language; but even if this is so, it would seem that
it had not reached a form sufficiently developed to enter as Lowd-
ham's 'second language' in manuscript E. In fact, I doubt that it is so.
It seems to me to be overwhelmingly probable that Adunaic actually
arose at this time (see further p. 147).
I give here the text of F 1 from this point (corresponding to the E
text on p. 302 and the final text F 2 on p. 238).
'I found, when I got to know more, that some of the
ingredients were Anglo-Saxon and other related things: I'll deal
with that in a minute; it was not a large part. Working over the
rest, collecting and sifting it, I made a discovery. I had got two
ghost-languages: Numenorean A and B. Most of what I had got
at an early period was B; later A became more frequent, but B
remained the most common language, especially in anything
like connected passages; A was chiefly limited to single words
and names, though I think that a lot of it is incorporated in my
invented language.
'As far as I could or can see, these languages are unrelated,
though they have some words in common. But in addition to
these tongues there remains a residue, and I now see that it
consists of some echoes of other later tongues that are later than
Numenorean A and B, but are derived from them or from their
blending. I can discern some of the laws or lines of change that
they show. For the Numenorean tongues, I feel, are archaic and
of an elder world, but the others are altered and belong to
Middle-earth.'
'I don't follow all this,' said Stainer. Most of us felt the same,
and said so.
'Couldn't you give them some of the examples that you gave
to me, Arry?' said Ramer. 'Some of the important names, and a
word or two; it would be clearer with something definite to go
on.'
Lowdham hesitated. 'I'll try,' he said. 'But I shan't be able to
give many examples of the later changed forms; the relations
would seldom be clear, even to philologists, without many
instances side by side in writing.
'Well, take the name Numenor or Numenore. That belongs to
language A. It means Westernesse, and is composed of nume
"west" and nore "folk" or "country"; but the B name is
Anadun, and the people are called Adunai. And the land had
another name: in A Andore, and in B Athanati; and both mean
land of gift>. There seems no connexion between the two
languages here; but in both menel means "the heavens". It
occurs in the B name Menel-tubil that I mentioned just now.
And there seems to be some connexion between the A word
Valar, which appears to mean something like "gods", and the B
plural Avaloi and the place-name Avalloni.
'The name Earendil, by the way, belongs to language A, and
contains eare "the open sea" and the stem ndil "love, devotion".
The corresponding B name is Pharazir, made of pharaz and the
stem iri- [changed in ink on the typescript to: Azrubel, made of
azar "sea" and the stem bel-]. A large number of the names seem
to have double forms like this, almost as if one people spoke
two languages. If that is so, I suppose the situation could be
paralleled by the use of, say, Chinese in Japan, or indeed of
Latin in Europe. As if a man could be called Godwin and also
Theophilus or Amadeus. But even so, two different peoples
must come into the story somewhere.
'I don't know if you want any more examples; but the words
for the Sun and Moon in A are Anar and Isil (or in their oldest
form Anar and Ithil); and in B they are Uri and Nilu. These
words survive in not much changed shapes in the later lan-
guages that I spoke of: Anor (Anaur) and Ithil, beside Uir, Yr
and Nil, Njul. Again the A and B forms seem unconnected; but
there is a word that often occurs and is nearly the same in both:
lome in A, and lomi in B. That means "night", but as it comes
through to me I feel that it has no evil connotations; it is a word
of peace and beauty and has none of the associations of fear or
groping that, say, "dark" has for us. For the evil sense I do not
know the A word. In B and its derivatives there are many words
or stems, such as dolgu, ugru, nulu.
'Well, there you are. I hope you are not all bored. I love these
languages. I call them Avallonian and Adunaic.(18) I find first the
one and then the other more attractive, in different linguistic
moods; but A, the Avallonian, is the more beautiful, with the
simpler and more euphonious phonetic style. And it seems to me
the more august, somehow, the more ancient, and, well, sacred
and liturgical. I used to call it the Elven-latin. But the Adunaic is
more resonant with the loss and regret of Middle-earth, these
shores of exile.' He paused, as if he heard echoes from a great
distance. 'But I do not know why I say that,' he ended.
There was a short silence, and then Markison spoke. 'Why
did you call it Elven-latin?' he asked. 'Why Elven?'
'It seemed to fit,' Lowdham answered. 'But certainly I didn't
mean elf in any debased post-Shakespearean sort of sense....
The remainder of Night 66 is the same as in F 2 (pp. 242 - 5),
except that, as in E, Lowdham's account of the ancient mode of
utterance is absent.
It will be seen that in F 1, as in E, Wilfrid Jeremy interrupts to speak
of his 'dream-manuscript' (p. 300), found in a library, in which
occurred the names Numenor and Earendil: the unknown character of
some passages in it was the same as that of the single leaf preserved
from Edwin Lowdham's 'notes in a queer script' (p. 235), which
Arundel Lowdham had now found again; but that this passage is
entirely absent in F 2 (p. 237). Subsequently, in E, Jeremy returns to
the subject ('That breaks my dream!', p. 303), remembering both that
he found - in waking life, years before - the manuscript not in a
library but in the second-hand room of a bookshop, and that the
manuscript bore the title Quenta Eldalien, being the History of the
Elves, by John Artburson; and this leads to a mention of Lewis's use of
the name Numinor. This second interruption of Jeremy's is not in F 1,
which is on the face of it strange, since his first speech was surely
intended to lead on to his second. A probable explanation of this is
that my father decided to discard this element of Jeremy's manuscript
(perhaps as complicating excessively the already complex conception)
while he was making the typescript, and that this was one reason why
he produced the revised version at this point. But Jeremy's remarks at
the previous meeting (Night 65, p. 232: 'I come into it too. I knew I
had heard that name as soon as Arry said it. But I can't for the life of
me remember where or when at the moment. It'll bother me now, like
a thorn in the foot, until I get it out') should have been removed.
NOTES.
1. The genitive and accusative cases maris, marem are given because
the nominative is mas ('male').
2. Jeremy is referring to the earlier passage (Night 65, p. 232) in
which he claimed that he himself had heard the name Numenor,
but could not remember when.
3. In the revised text F 2 there is no mention of the missing leaf
having been found under Night 66 - naturally enough, since it
was at this meeting that Lowdham referred to it as having been
mislaid (p. 235). It was an odd oversight in E and F 1 that at the
same meeting Lowdham both first mentions it and says that he
cannot find it at the present time, and also declares that he has
found it and discussed it with Jeremy. In F 2 he brings the leaf to
the next meeting (p. 248).
4. E has here: '... the contents of the dream-manuscript - I call it
that, because I doubt now whether this dream is really founded
on any waking experience at all; though I don't somehow doubt
that such a manuscript exists somewhere, probably in Oxford: it
contains, I think, some kind of legendary history...'
5. Orendel in German, Aurvandill in Norse, Horwendillus in
Latinized form in the Danish History of Saxo Grammaticus
(latter half of the twelfth century). The form in Norse is
Aurvandill, but at the occurrences of the name both in E and F 1
my father spelt it Aurvendill. See note 6.
6. In the 'Prose Edda' of Snorri Sturluson a strange tale is told by the
god Thor, how he 'carried Aurvandill in a basket on his back
from the North out of Jotunheim [land of giants]; and he added
for a token that one of his toes had stuck out of the basket and
become frozen; and so Thor broke it off and cast it into the sky,
and made a star of it, which is called Aurvandilsta [Aurvandil's
Toe]' (Snorra Edda, Skaldskaparmal $17). Association of Aur-
vandill with Orion is the basis of the suggestions mentioned by
Lowdham earlier (p. 236): 'Some guess that it [Earendel] was
really a star-name for Orion, or for Rigel' - Rigel being the very
bright star in the left foot of Orion (as he is drawn in the old
figure).
7. E has, And Earendil certainly had a connexion with a star in the
strange tongue: I seem to remember that: like the ship' - the last
words being changed from 'And the ship was Earendel's Star'.
Earlier in E (p. 284 note 25) the ship was called Earendel Star.
8. In E Lowdham translates Earendil as 'Lover of the Great Seas'; in
the final text F 2 as 'Great Mariner, or literally Friend of the Sea'
(p. 237).
9. This passage is modelled on Alboin Errol's words to his father in
The Lost Road (V.41), using the same examples, with the same
distinction in respect of the word lome ('night' but not 'dark-
ness'), the same note that alda was one of the earliest words to
appear, and the same remark that (in Alboin's words) 'I like first
one, then the other, in different moods.'
10. Eressean was Alboin Errol's name for his first language, 'Elf-
latin'; the second was Beleriandic.
11. Cf. p. 221 note 65: the passage cited there from the B manuscript
of Part One, in which 'Tolkien's Unfallen Elves' and 'Tolkien's
Eldar, Eldalie' are referred to, though not struck out on that
manuscript, must by now have been rejected; it is clear that
Lowdham means that Eldar, Eldalie had 'come through' to him,
and that he only knew them so. See further note 14.
12. See p. 286 note 38.
13. Whitburn: see p. 149 and note 7.
14. My father's father was Arthur Tolkien; he was referring of course
to his manuscript of The Silmarillion, which had never been
published but had washed up, forgotten and disregarded, in the
second-hand room of a bookshop. The author of The Silmarillion
is disguised by a pseudonym; for no reference can now be made
to the works of Tolkien, least of all as having been published and
known to members of the Notion Club (see the citation from
manuscript B of Part One, p. 220 note 52 at end). - In a rejected
form of this passage the title of the manuscript was not Quenta
Eldalien but Quenta Eldaron.
15. Ramer's remark 'Lewis also mentions the name somewhere' is at
first sight puzzling, since it was Lowdham's mention of Eldar,
Eldalie that brought back to Jeremy's mind the manuscript by
'John Arthurson' that he had once seen, and the name Numenor
has not been mentioned for some time. But Ramer was following
his own thought, that 'several minds' had been 'working back
along similar lines' (and of course it was the name Numenor that
had originally caught Jeremy's attention and finally led to his
recollection of the manuscript). - Jeremy's words 'In a preface,
was it?' presumably refer to Lewis's preface to That Hideous
Strength: 'Those who would like to learn further about Numinor
and the True West must (alas!) await the publication of much
that still exists only in the MSS. of my friend, Professor J. R. R.
Tolkien.' But then why does Jeremy say 'from a source that hasn't
been traced', since the source, though unpublished, was stated by
Lewis? Such an untiring researcher as Wilfrid Jeremy would have
found out who J. R. R. Tolkien was, even if now forgotten!
By 'All the other sources' Jeremy presumably means his own
recollection of the manuscript by 'John Arthurson' and the name
that had 'come through' to Ramer (p. 232) and Lowdham.
There are a number of references to Numinor in That Hideous
Strength, as: 'Merlin's art was the last survival of something
older and different - something brought to Western Europe after
the fall of Numinor' (Chapter 9, $v); again with reference to
Merlin, 'something that takes us back to Numinor, to pre-glacial
periods' (Ch.12, $vi); (Merlin) '"Tell me, slave, what is Numi-
nor?" "The True West," said Ransom' (Ch.13, $i); other refer-
ences in Ch.13, $v.
16. Westfolde (folde 'earth, land, country') seems not to be recorded
in Old English. This is the same as Westfold in The Lord of
the Rings. - Hesperia: 'western land' (hesperus 'western', 'the
evening star').
17. Above the th of wraithas is written kw (see p. 287 note 48).
18. In F 1 Lowdham's words about Avalloni in F 2 (p. 241) are
absent ('Although that is a B name, it is with it, oddly enough,
that I associate language A; so if you want to get rid of algebra,
you can call A Avallonian, and B Adunaic'). Thus there is no
explanation in F 1 why he calls the A language Avallonian despite
the fact that Avalloni is a B name.
(ii) The original version of Lowdham's 'Fragments' (Night 67).
In the manuscript E Lowdham's fragments are, like Alboin Errol's in
The Lost Road (V.47) in one language only, Quenya ('Eressean').
Lowdham bursts in to Ramer's rooms and tells of his visit to
Pembrokeshire just as he does in F (p. 246), but he does not bring
copies of the text that has come to him - he asks Ramer for a large
sheet of paper to pin up on a board. Then he says, Well, here it is! It s
Numenorean or Eressean, and I'll put the text that I can remember
down first large, and the English gloss (where I can give any) under-
neath. It's fragmentary, just a collection of incomplete sentences.'
The first of the two fragments reads thus, as E was originally written
(the change of ilu to eru was very probably made at the time of
writing: for ilu 'the World' see IV.241 - 5):
ar sauron tule nahamna ... lantier turkildi
and ? came ? ... they-fell ?
unuhuine ... tarkalion ohtakare valannar
under-shadow ... ? war-made on-Powers
Herunumen [ilu >] eru terhante ... Iluvataren ...
Lord-of-West world sunder-broke ... of-God
eari ullier kilyanna ... Numenore ataltane.
seas they-should-pour in-Chasm ... Numenor down-fell.
It will be seen that the Elvish here, apart from the curious change
from ilu to eru, is identical in its forms with that of Alboin Errol's first
fragment; and the only differences in the glosses are 'of-God' for
Alboin's 'of-Iluvatar', 'sunder-broke' for 'broke', and 'they-should-
pour' for 'poured'. A few changes were made subsequently: lantier o
lantaner, eru > arda, terhante > askante, and the addition of leneme
'by leave' - the changed forms being found in the final version (p. 246)
with the exception of askante, where the final version has sakkante
'rent'.
Then follows (where in The Lost Road it is said: 'Then there had
seemed to be a long gap'): 'After that there came a long dark gap
which slipped out of memory as soon as I woke to daylight. And then I
got this."
Malle tena lende numenna ilya si maller
road straight went westward all now roads
raikar ... turkildi romenna ... nuruhuine
bent ... ? eastward ... death-shadow
mene lumna ... vahaya sin atalante.
on-us is-heavy ... far-away now ?
This is also very close to Alboin Errol's second passage. The word
tena 'straight' was changed from tera (as in The Lost Road), perhaps
in the act of writing; otherwise the only differences in the Quenya
words are mene lumna for mel-lumna in The Lost Road (glossed
'us-is-heavy'), and sin for sin, where Lowdham's gloss was changed
from 'now' (as in The Lost Road) to 'now-is'. This fragment appears
in Adunaic in the final version (Fragment II, p. 247), apart from the
words vahaiya sin Andore / atalante.
In E Lowdham makes the same observations as in F (pp.247 - 8) about
his glimpse of the script, with the thought that these were passages out
of a book; and he says likewise 'And then suddenly I remembered the
curious script in my father's manuscript - but that can wait', without
however adding, as he does in F, 'I've brought the leaf along', although
at the end of the meeting, after the storm, Ramer picks up the leaf
from the floor and puts it in a drawer (p. 291, notes 68 and 70).
Lowdham remarks that 'there are some new words here', and that 'all
except nahamna I at once guessed to be names'. He naturally has less
to say in E about the language of the fragments than he does in F,
noting only that he thought that Tarkalion was a king's name and that
Turkildi was 'the name of a people: "lordly men", I think', and
commenting on Atalante in very much the same words as in F,
translating it as '"It (or She) that is downfallen", or more closely
"who has slipped down into an abyss" '.
(iii) The earlier versions of Lowdham's 'Fragments'
in Adunaic (Night 67).
There are two manuscript pages of Lowdham's fragments in Quenya
and Adunaic preceding those reproduced as frontispieces. The first of
these pages, here called (1), has interlinear glosses in English in red
ink; the second, (2), has not. In the Quenya fragment I (A) the
development from the form found in E to the final form (pp. 246 - 7)
can be observed, but there are only a few points to mention. The word
nahamna, which neither Alboin Errol nor Lowdham could translate,
became in (1) kamindon, still untranslatable but with the gloss -ly
beneath, and in (2) akamna, changed to nukumna. The name herunu-
men survived in (1) and (2), but was changed in the latter to
Numekundo (numeheruvi in the final form).
The Adunaic fragments, I (B) and II (B), underwent a great deal of
change, and I give here the text in (1), showing the changes made
carefully to the text in ink, but ignoring scribbled pencilled emenda-
tions which are mostly very difficult to interpret.
Kado zigurun zabathan [hunekku >] unekku ... eruhin
and so ? humbled he-came ... ?
udubanim dalad ugrus ... arpharazon
fell under horror? shadow? ... ?
azgaranadu avaloi-[men >] si ... barun-aduno
was waging war? Powers on ... the Lord of West
rakkhatu kamat sobethuma eruvo ... azre
broke asunder earth assent-with of God ... seas
nai [phurusam >] phurrusim akhas-ada. anaduni akallabi.
might-flow Chasm-into Westernesse fell in ruin.
Adunaim azulada ... agannulo burudan
The Adunai (Men of W.) eastward ... death-shade heavy-is
nenum ... adun batan akhaini ezendi ido kathy
on-us ... West road lay straight lo! now all
batani rokhF-nam ... [vahaia sin atalante] ... ephalek
ways bent-are ... far away
idon akallabeth ... [haia vahaia sin atalante]
lo! now is She-that-is-fallen ...
ephal ephalek idon athanate
far far away is now Athanate (the Land of Gift)
In the rejected typescript F 1 of Night 66 appears Athanati (p. 305),
where F 2 has Yozayan (p. 241).
In text (2) the final text of the fragments was very largely reached,
but still with a number of differences. I list here all of these, in the
order of the occurrence of the words in the final text, giving the final
form first:
unakkha: unakkha > yadda > unakkha
dubdam: dubbudam > dubdam
ar-pharazonun: ar-pharazon ) ar-pharazonun
azaggara: azagrara, with azaggara as alternative
barim: barun
yurahtam: urahhata > urahta
hikallaba (typescript), hikalba (manuscript): hikallaba > hikalba
bawiba dulgi: dulgu bawib
an-nimruzir: nimruzir
At the beginning of II Adunaim azulada retained from (1), then
struck out
buroda nenud: buruda nenu
adun izindi batan taido ayadda: adun batan eluk izindi yadda
ido (manuscript) at last two occurrences, idon (typescript): idon
hi-Akallabeth: Akallabeth
Eru. The appearance of the name Eru in these texts is interesting:
Lowdham says (pp. 248 - 9) that he thinks that eruhinim in I (B) must
mean 'Children of God'; that eruvo 'is the sacred name Eru with a
suffixed element meaning from> -, and that therefore iluvataren
means the same thing.' In a list of 'Alterations in last revision [of The
Silmarillion] 1951' my father included Aman, Arda, Ea', Eru, and
other names (V.338). It seems very probable that the name Eru (Eru) -
and Arda also - first emerged at this time, as the Adunaic equivalent of
Iluvatar (for the etymology of Eru in Adunaic see p. 432). The
appearance of era in the E text (p. 310), replacing ilu 'world' and in
turn displaced by arda, could be explained as the first emergence of
eru, as a Quenya word, and with a different meaning.
(iv) Earlier versions of Edwin Lowdham's Old English text.
Two texts of a longer Old English version are extant, the second of
these, followed here, being a revision of the first but closely similar to
it and accompanied by a translation. This version belongs with the
manuscript E: there are no Adunaic names, and a complete facsimile
of Edwin Lowdham's text in Numenorean script (tengwar) bears a
page reference to the manuscript. In those passages where this version
and the later one (pp. 257 - 8) can be compared many differences in the
forms of words will be seen, for this does not represent the old
Mercian dialect (see p. 291 note 71).
I give the text here as my father wrote it in a rapidly pencilled
manuscript. The two sides of Edwin Lowdham's page in tengwar are
reproduced on pp. 319 - 20; the tengwar text was directly based on the
Old English that now follows, and (in intention) scarcely deviates
from it. There are a very few minor differences in spelling between the
two, including the last word, the name Niwelland, which in the
tengwar text is given as Neowolland (p. 292 note 76).
Ealle sae on worulde hi oferlidon, sohton hi nyston hwaet ac aefre
wolde hyra heorte westweard, fordamde hi ofhyngrede wurdon
daere undeadlican blisse daere Eldalie 7 swa hyra wuldor weox swa
aefre hyra langung 7 hyra unstilnes wurdon de ma aetiht ....... pa
forbudon da Eldan him on Eresse up to cumanne, fordam hi
mennisce waeron 7 deadlice 7 peahpe da Wealdend him langes lifes
udon ne mihton hi alysan hi of daere woruldmednesse he on ealle
men aer dam ende faered 7 hi swulton efne hyra heacyningas,
Earendles yrfenuman, 7 hyra liffaec puhte dam Eldum scort. Fordon
hit swa gefyrn araedde se AElmihtiga daet hi steorfan sceoldon 7 pas
woruld ofgyfan ....... ac hi ongunnon murcnian, saegdon daet pis
forbod him unryht puhte. Ponne on digle asendon hi sceaweras on
Avallon da dyrnan lare dara Eldena to asmeaganne; ne fundon deah
nawder ne rune ne raed de him to bote waeron ....... Hit gelamp
sippan daet se fula Deofles pegn de AElfwina folc Sauron
nemneb weox swide on middangearde 7 he geaxode Westwarena
miht 7 wuldor 7 daet hi gyt holde waeren Gode; ongunnon
upahaefenlice swadeah ... Pa gehyrde Westwarena cyning aet his
saelidum be Saurone daet he wolde cyning beon ofer eallum cyning-
um 7 healicran stol habban wolde donne Earendles afera sylf ahte.
Ponne sende he Tarcalion se cyning butan Wealdendra raede oppe
Eldena his aerendracan to Saurone, abead him daet he on ofste on
Westfoldan cwome paer to daes cyninges manraedenne to buganne 7
he Sauron lytigende geeadmedde hine daet he cwom, waes peah
inwitful under, facnes hogode Westwarena peode. Pa cwom he up
aet sumum cyrre on Romelonde daere hyde 7 sona adwealde fornean
ealle ha Numenoriscan mid wundrum 7 mid tacnum; fordam he
mihte mycel on gedwimerum 7 drycraeftum....... 7 hi geworhton
mycelne ealh on dam hean 'munte' de Meneltyula - daet is to
secganne Heofonsyl - hatte - se de aer waes unawidlod; dydon ha
halignesse to haehenum hearge 7 paer onsaegdon unasecgendlice lac
on unhalgum weofode ... swa cwom se deapscua on Westfarena
land.......
Paes ofer fela geara hit gelamp daet Tarcalione wearp yldo onsaege
7 py weard he hreow on mode 7 pa wolde he be Saurones
onbryrdingum Avallon mid fyrde gefaran, fordamde Sauron him
saegde daet da Eldan him on woh eces lifes forwyrnden..... waeron
Westwarena scipfyrda swaswa unarimedlic igland on daere sae 7
hyra maestas gelice fyrgenbeamum on beorghlidum, 7 hyra here-
cumbol gelice punorwolcnum; waeron hyra segl blodread 7 blacu
..... Nu sitte we on elelande 7 forgytad daere blisse de iu waes 7 nu
sceal eft cuman naefre. Us swide onsitt Deapscua. Woh bip seo
woruld. Feor nu is Niwelland d.
I cannot explain the 8 at the end of this text, which stands at the end
of a line but not at the end of the page, and which must have a
significance since the symbol for th concludes the version in tengwar
(and concludes the page). The translation reads thus:
All the seas in the world they sailed, seeking they knew not what;
but their hearts were turned ever westward, for they were become
greatly desirous of the undying bliss of the Eldalie, and as their
power and glory grew so was their longing and their unquiet ever
the more increased....... Then the Eldar forbade them to land on
Eresse, for they were of human kindred and mortal; and albeit the
Powers had granted them long life, they could not release them from
the weariness of the world that comes upon all men ere the end, and
they died, even their high-kings, descendants of Earendel; and their
life-span seemed short to the Eldar. For thus had the Almighty
ordained it, that they should die and leave this world ....... But
they began to murmur, saying that this prohibition seemed to them
unjust. Then they sent out in secret spies to Avallon to explore the
hidden knowledge of the Eldar; but they discovered neither lore nor
counsel that was of any avail to them.......
It came to pass afterward that the foul servant of the Devil whom
the people of the AElfwinas call Sauron grew mightily in the Great
Lands, and he learned of the power and glory of the Westware, and
that they were still faithful to God, but were behaving arrogantly
nonetheless... Then the King of the Westware heard news from his
mariners concerning Sauron, that he desired to be King over all
Kings and to have a more exalted throne than even the heir of
Earendel himself possessed. Then he, Tarkalion the King, without
counsel either of the Powers or of the Eldar, sent his ambassadors to
Sauron, commanding him to come with all speed to Westfolde,
there to do homage to the King. And Sauron, dissembling, humbled
himself and came, being filled with malice beneath, and designing
wickedness against the people of the Westware. He landed then one
day at the haven of Romelonde, and straightway he deluded well
nigh all the Numenoreans with signs and wonders; for he had great
craft in phantoms and in wizardry ... and they builded a great
temple on that high mountain that was called Meneltyula (that is
to say the Pillar of Heaven), which before was undefiled, and
there they did sacrifice unspeakable offerings upon an unholy altar
... thus came the Deathshadow upon the land of the Westware
Many years afterward it came to pass that old age assailed
Tarkalion, so that he became exceedingly sad in mind, and he
determined then (being goaded by Sauron) to invade Avallon with
an army; for Sauron said to him that the Eldar refused to him the
gift of everlasting life, wrongfully ..... The fleets of the Numenor-
eans were as uncounted islands in the sea and their masts were like
unto tall trees upon the mountain-sides, and their war-banners like
to thunder-clouds, and their sails were bloodred and black.......
Now we dwell in the land of exile and forget the bliss that once
was and now shall come again never. Heavy lies upon us the
Deathshadow. Bent is the world. Far now is the Land that is fallen
low.
At the end the following bracketed sentence was added subsequently:
'[that is Atalante which was before called Andor and Vinyamar and
Numenor.]'
A remarkable feature of this text is the ascription to the Eldar of a
ban on Numenorean landing in Eressea, and still more the statement
that Sauron told Tarkalion that the Eldar 'refused to him the gift of
everlasting life'; on this see pp. 355 - 6-
Of names in this text the following may be noted. There is an Old
English form Eldan for 'Eldar', with genitive plural Eldena, dative
plural Eldum. For Meneltyula (in the first draft of this version
Menelmindo) see p. 302, and for Heofonsyl p. 242 and note 46. The
statement that Sauron landed 'at the haven of Romelonde' (in the first
draft Romelonan) is interesting: with Romelonde 'East-haven' cf. the
great harbour of Romenna 'Eastward' in the later form of the legend.
Also notable is the name Vinyamar of Numenor in the addition at the
end of the translation: with this cf. Vinya 'the Young', 'the New Land'
in The Fall of Numenor (V.19, 25, and in this book p. 332) and in The
Lost Road (V.64). Later Vinyamar 'New Dwelling' became the name
of the house of Turgon on the coast of Nevrast, before he removed to
Gondolin (Index to Unfinished Tales).
With the sails of the Numenorean ships that were 'bloodred and
black' cf. p. 290 note 63, where Jeremy sees them as 'scarlet and black'
in E, but 'golden and black' in F.
There are several other Old English texts and scraps of texts extant.
In one of these a much fuller account of the drowning of Numenor is
given, to which I append a translation:
Ac pa pa Tarcaligeones foregengan dyrstlaehton paet hie on paet land
astigen and hie paer dydon micel yfel ond atendon Tunan pa burg, pa
hreowsode Osfruma and he gebaed him to pam AElmihtigan, and be
paes Scyppendes raede 7 leafe onhwierfed wearp worulde gesceapu.
Weard Osgeard from eorpan asundrod, 7 micel aefgrynde aetiewde
on middum Garsecge, be eastan Anetige. 7 pa sae dufon niper inn on
paet gin, ond mid pam bearhtme para hreosendra waetera wearp eall
middangeard afylled; 7 para waetergefealla se prosm stanc up op
heofon ofer para ecra munta heafdu.
Paer forwurdon eall Westfarena scipu, and adranc mid him eall
paet folc. Forwurdon eac Tarcaligeon se gyldena 7 seo beorhte Iligen
his cwen, feollon butu niper swaswa steorran on pystro and gewiton
seoppan of eallra manna cyppe. Micle flodas gelumpon on pam
timan and landa styrunga, and Westfolde pe aer Numenor hatte
weard aworpen on Garsecges bosm and hire wuldor gewat.
But when those who went before Tarcalion dared to go up into
the land, and did there great evil and set fire to the city of Tuna, then
the Lord of the Gods grieved, and he prayed to the Almighty; and by
the counsel and leave of the Creator the fashion of the world was
changed. Osgeard [Valinor] was sundered from the earth, and a
great abyss appeared in the midst of Garsecg [the Ocean], to the east
of Anetig [the Lonely Isle]. And the seas plunged down into the
chasm, and all Middle-earth was filled with the noise of the falling
waters; and the smoke of the cataracts rose up to heaven above the
heads of the everlasting mountains.
There perished all the ships of the Westfarers, and all that people
were drowned with them. There perished also Tarcalion the golden
and bright Ilien his queen; they fell both like stars into the darkness
and passed out of all men's knowledge. There were great floods in
that time and tumults of the lands, and Westfolde, which before was
named Numenor, was cast down into the bosom of Garsecg, and its
glory perished.
Tol Eressea, the Lonely Isle, is named Anetig in the Old English
version of the earliest Annals of Valinor (IV.281, etc.). In that work
Valinor was Godepel changed to Esa-eard (IV.283), Esa being the
genitive plural of Os 'god', as here in Osgeard (Valinor) and in
Osfruma 'Lord of the Gods' (Manwe). Tarcaligeon, Iligen are Old
English spellings representing Tarcalion, Ilien.
Comparison of this text with The Fall of Numenor $$6 - 8 (pp.
336 - 7) will show a close relation between the two. I think it very
probable that this text represents my father's original idea for the
single preserved page of Edwin Lowdham's manuscript, before he
decided that the page should consist, in Ramer's words (p. 259), of 'a
series of fragmentary extracts, separated, I should guess, by very
various intervals of omission'.
A portion of this text is also found written in tengwar, with an
interlinear gloss in modern script. This, I think, was the first of the
texts in tengwar (see the next section).
Other Old English names found in these papers are Ealfaederburg
'the mountain of Allfather (Iluvatar)' as an alternative name for
Heofonsyl 'Pillar of Heaven'; Heafiras 'High Men', of the Numenor-
eans (cf. Freafiras mentioned below); and se Malsca, of Sauron (cf.
Malscor, a name of Morgoth found in a list of Old English equivalents
of Elvish names associated with the Quenta, IV.209; an Old English
noun malscrung 'bewitching, bewildering' is recorded).
Lastly may be mentioned a slip of paper giving the Quenya
fragments in their original form (that is, in the form in which they are
found in The Lost Road and preceding that in manuscript E, as is seen
from tera 'straight' for tena, p. 310), with the usual English glosses
and queries, but also with a translation into Old English (rapidly
jotted down and hard to read):
7 Saweron com to hype. Gedruron Freafiras under sceadu. Tarkal-
ion wig gebead pam Heamaegnum. Pa tocleaf Westfrea pas woruld
be paes AElmihtigan leafe. 7 fleowon pa sae inn on paet micle gin 7
wearp) Nowendaland ahwylfed.
Geo laeg riht weg westanweard, nu sind alle wegas [?forcrymbed].
Freafiras eastweard. Deapscua us lip hefig on. Nu swipe feor is seo
Niperhrorene.
It is curious to see that nahamna (marked as usual with a query in the
modern English gloss) was translated to hype 'to haven'. The Old
English words be... leafe 'with leave' correspond to dots in the Elvish
text (the word leneme being introduced here later in E, p. 310).
Freafiras and Nowendaland are mentioned by Lowdham (p. 242 and
notes 42, 43) among names that have 'come through' to him which are
not recorded in Old English. Heamaegnum: heah-maegen 'great power'.
Westfrea ('Lord of the West') was struck out and replaced by (appar-
ently) Regenrices Wealdend ('Ruler of Valinor': cf. Regeneard p. 242
and note 44). No verb (for)crymban is recorded, but cf. Old English
crumb 'crooked, bent', and crymbing 'curvature, bend'.
(v) The page preserved from Edwin Lowdham's manuscript
written in Numenorean script.
My father's representations of this page are reproduced on pp. 319 - 21.
The first form, here called Text I, is written on both sides of a single
sheet as was Edwin Lowdham's, and represents the Old English text
given on pp. 313 - 14; as already explained, this was written to
accompany the account in the manuscript E. My father wrote it with
a dipping pen, and where the ink ran pale parts of many letters,
especially the fine strokes, are extremely faint in the original and
disappear entirely in reproduction. To remedy this I have worked over
a photocopy of the original and darkened the strokes to make them
visible; and I have added line-numbers in the margins to make my
commentary on the tengwar easier to follow.
Text II corresponds to the later Old English version in the typescript
F, but it covers only one side of a sheet and extends only to the words
swe adwalde he for(nean) (p. 257): at that point, as it appears, it was
abandoned. This may or may not relate to my father's note (p. 279):
'the Anglo-Saxon should not be written in Numenorean script'.
The reproductions of these pages are followed by commentaries on
the scripts, which differ in the two versions. These commentaries are
reproduced from my manuscript, since it would be very much more
difficult to print them.
Text I was written quickly and has a number of errors; Text II was
more carefully done. Some pages of notes accompany the original
texts, but these are very rough and difficult jottings and have not
proved of much help in deducing the structure. There can be no doubt
that these texts were to some degree experimental, especially in the use
of the diacritic marks and in the application of the script to Old
English.
In what I take to be the first of these tengwar texts (not reproduced),
corresponding to part of the Old English text given on p. 316, the
vowel-diacritics differ from the usage in Text I. Those used for o and y
in Text I are here used for u and o, while y is rendered by that for u
together with a single dot (= i), reflecting the historical origin of Old
English y in many instances from u followed by i in the next syllable.
(The surviving page of Edwin Lowdham's manuscript
Text I, recto.)
(The surviving page of Edwin Lowdham's manuscript
Text I, verso.)
(The surviving page of Edwin Lowdham's manuscript
Text II.)