Eavesdropping
Rated: G
A/N: I don’t own Sam Gamgee, Bilbo Baggins or the Gaffer. Nor do I own Frodo, the Elves or Bag End. All that belongs to Professor Tolkien. There’s also a poem quoted from The Fellowship of the Ring (it’s on page 250 of my beat up old Ballantine paperback edition).
This is a short scene inspired by the passage in Fellowship where the Gaffer mentions that Bilbo taught Sam his letters, “meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it.” I got to wondering how that might have come about and this is the result.
Contrary to what anyone might expect, young Sam Gamgee never minded it when his father ordered him to help take care of Mr Bilbo’s gardens. Although he was only fifteen, he was already quite adept with the shears. Sam was strong for his size, and his capable hands easily endured the long hours required to keep the lawns at Bag End neatly trimmed.
Of course, some areas of grass got more attention than others. Sam’s favourite spot was the patch of grass right under the window of Mr Bilbo’s study. It was there he had a chance of overhearing things. Not that he meant to eavesdrop - although if anyone caught him he was ready with a reply for that. He meant nothing malicious by his listening. It was more that he couldn’t help himself. It was here that he’d first heard Mr Bilbo talking about Elves with young Mr Frodo.
Sam’s heart and mind had been captivated ever since. He longed for the day that he might actually see an Elf, although he knew the chances of that ever happening were rather poor. To see an Elf, you had to travel all the way to Woody End, and even then you’d be lucky if you caught a glimpse of one. From what Sam could gather, Elves only allowed themselves to be spotted if they wanted to be. They were better at blending into the forest than hobbits hiding from Big People (which was saying something). Elves were downright magical…
Sam shook himself. If the Gaffer caught him wool-gathering, Sam would catch it and no mistake. He moved closer to his favourite window and began to work, even though there was little chance of hearing anything good today. Mr Frodo was off tramping over the countryside with his cousins, leaving Mr Bilbo alone. Even if Mr Bilbo had visitors, they would, like as not, be discussing something other than Elves. Mr Frodo was the only other hobbit who shared Mr Bilbo’s interest in ancient tales, as far as Sam knew.
He’d have to do the next best thing and try to remember the last thing he’d overheard while working under this window. Something about a half-Elf and his house somewhere east of the Shire, beyond the Edge of the Wild. What had the name been? Riven-something.
“Hullo there, Master Gamgee. Lovely day.”
Sam jumped at the sound of Mr Bilbo’s voice, quickly biting back a few words that would make the Gaffer box Sam’s ears if he’d heard them. Sam had narrowly missed cutting himself with the shears. He looked up to find the owner of Bag End leaning out the window of his study. Sam felt his face begin to redden as he snapped to attention.
“Mr Bilbo, erm, sir,” he mumbled.
“I had the feeling I just might find you here,” Mr Bilbo went on.
Sam’s blush deepened, and his heart began to pound out of control. Did Mr Bilbo know about his habit? Sam had thought he’d been so careful to avoid getting caught. Now the Gaffer was going to find out about it - Sam could already imagine his father’s admonishments: “Sam, you ninnyhammer! Always going about with your head in the clouds, when it’s supposed to be set square on your shoulders. You ought to be minding the taters and carrots, and not the business of your betters!”
“I-I’m sorry, Mr Bilbo, sir,” he stammered.
“Whatever for, my boy? I was simply looking for someone to talk to. With Frodo off on this fine day, I thought you might like to share a bit of tea with me. I’ve got a lovely seed cake to go along with it.”
As tempting as the offer sounded, Sam knew it was not his place to take tea with Bilbo Baggins. “But the gardening, sir,” he protested.
“Nonsense!” replied Mr Bilbo. “The grass will still be there when you come back, and you’ll be the stronger for it. Come now, I insist.”
Sam had no choice but to lay down the shears, brush the grass clippings from his waistcoat and make his way to Bag End’s front door with its polished brass knob. Mr Bilbo was waiting for him in the hall. Sam followed the older hobbit into the study, staring about him in awe. On a table a large tome lay open to a page half-filled with spidery writing. Sam wished he knew what it said. Next to the book sat an open bottle of ink and a fine feather quill.
“You’ll excuse the mess I make with my writings,” Bilbo said, as he poured Sam a cup of tea. “I’ve come to a tricky spot, and I thought a little something might be just what I needed to clear my mind. Did you know,” he went on, filling his own cup now, and cutting into a large seed cake, “the Elves have no word for the world?”
Sam looked up sharply at the older hobbit, eyes round. Bilbo was busy serving the cake, and his own eyes were averted, so that Sam could not tell if he was in trouble or not. “No-no, I didn’t,” he replied honestly. “What do they say then?”
“They do have a word they use, but it doesn’t mean the same thing as what we mean when we say ‘the world’. When they talk about Arda, it means so much more than the world. It includes all of Endor - Middle-earth - Aman - the Undying Lands - menel - the heavens - ithil - the moon - anor - the sun - elen - the stars. All of that is part of Arda.”
Sam could only stare. He wasn’t sure at all what Mr Bilbo was talking about, but just hearing all those Elven words made Sam’s heart leap. He repeated the words in his mind, hoping desperately to hold onto them. Somehow they didn’t sound quite the same in his thoughts as they had when Mr Bilbo had pronounced them.
Bilbo shook his head and laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re much interested in the mad musings of an old hobbit, are you?”
“Oh no, sir! I am!” Sam blurted out. And then, feeling even bolder, he added, “Could you tell me some more about the Elves?”
“That I could, though I daresay you won’t find my translations very exciting. I could, however, recite you this piece I’ve been working on. It’s a poem in Elvish, you see, but it tells a story. I can give it to you as far as I’ve gone with it.”
“Please, sir.”
Sam listened raptly as Bilbo began to recite:
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven’s field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say…
“Sam Gamgee!” The Gaffer’s shout echoed in through the open window. “I’m going to make you sorry when I catch you! Leaving good tools lying on the ground and all!”
Sam bolted upright. “I’ve got to go, sir.”
Bilbo had also risen at a much more leisurely pace. “You just let me take care of this,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Sit down and finish your tea.” Then, going over to the window, he addressed the Gaffer. “What seems to be the problem, Master Hamfast?”
“Begging your pardon, Mr Bilbo,” the Gaffer’s reply floated through the window, “but my no-account son’s gone off on the job.”
“I’m afraid that’s my fault. I asked him to come in and keep me company for a while. We’ll be just a bit longer, and then I’ll have him back to work directly.”
“Mind he doesn’t shirk then,” the Gaffer replied gruffly, and Sam could tell the words were directed at him more than at Mr Bilbo.
“I give you my word he’ll finish his chores and be along home after that.” Turning back to Sam, Bilbo said, “Well, that settles that. I’m afraid there’s no time to go on with the story. Pity. It’s nice to have an appreciative audience. Perhaps next week I’ll have the entire poem translated, and you can hear it then if you like.”
Sam worked hard to swallow his disappointment at the interruption. “I’d like that, sir.”
He had started to rise, when Bilbo held up a hand. “Half a moment,” he said with a laugh. “You’re allowed to finish your tea.”
Sam took his seat once again. Bilbo was watching him speculatively. “I might even come up with a way for you to hear the story even faster, although you’ll have to work for it.”
Sam looked up hopefully. “I’m not afraid of work, and that’s a fact. Whatever needs doing…”
“I don’t think I’m talking about the same sort of work. It’s the sort of work that requires thinking.”
Sam’s face fell. “Thinking, sir? I don’t know as you’ve got the right hobbit then.”
“You mean you wouldn’t like to learn your letters? You’d have to do your lessons, of course.”
“Letters, sir? I never thought…” He trailed off as his joy overtook him. “Oh yes, sir, I’d love to be able to read!”
Bilbo smiled. “Then it’s settled if your Gaffer is agreeable. I’ll have a word with him after supper. Now, you’d best be back to work.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
As Sam went back to the trimming, he couldn’t help but wonder if Mr Bilbo had known about his secret fondness for Elves all along. The older hobbit must have noticed the special care with which Sam cut the lawn under his study window. Perhaps he’d happened to look out the window a time or two and caught Sam in the act. How Bilbo knew didn’t matter now, though. Mr Bilbo was going to teach Sam his letters, and tell him more stories.
Sam bent to the clipping, trying to recall the Elven words he had heard, but only two of them had stuck in his mind: elen - the stars - and Arda - the world.
A/N: I don’t own Sam Gamgee, Bilbo Baggins or the Gaffer. Nor do I own Frodo, the Elves or Bag End. All that belongs to Professor Tolkien. There’s also a poem quoted from The Fellowship of the Ring (it’s on page 250 of my beat up old Ballantine paperback edition).
This is a short scene inspired by the passage in Fellowship where the Gaffer mentions that Bilbo taught Sam his letters, “meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it.” I got to wondering how that might have come about and this is the result.
Contrary to what anyone might expect, young Sam Gamgee never minded it when his father ordered him to help take care of Mr Bilbo’s gardens. Although he was only fifteen, he was already quite adept with the shears. Sam was strong for his size, and his capable hands easily endured the long hours required to keep the lawns at Bag End neatly trimmed.
Of course, some areas of grass got more attention than others. Sam’s favourite spot was the patch of grass right under the window of Mr Bilbo’s study. It was there he had a chance of overhearing things. Not that he meant to eavesdrop - although if anyone caught him he was ready with a reply for that. He meant nothing malicious by his listening. It was more that he couldn’t help himself. It was here that he’d first heard Mr Bilbo talking about Elves with young Mr Frodo.
Sam’s heart and mind had been captivated ever since. He longed for the day that he might actually see an Elf, although he knew the chances of that ever happening were rather poor. To see an Elf, you had to travel all the way to Woody End, and even then you’d be lucky if you caught a glimpse of one. From what Sam could gather, Elves only allowed themselves to be spotted if they wanted to be. They were better at blending into the forest than hobbits hiding from Big People (which was saying something). Elves were downright magical…
Sam shook himself. If the Gaffer caught him wool-gathering, Sam would catch it and no mistake. He moved closer to his favourite window and began to work, even though there was little chance of hearing anything good today. Mr Frodo was off tramping over the countryside with his cousins, leaving Mr Bilbo alone. Even if Mr Bilbo had visitors, they would, like as not, be discussing something other than Elves. Mr Frodo was the only other hobbit who shared Mr Bilbo’s interest in ancient tales, as far as Sam knew.
He’d have to do the next best thing and try to remember the last thing he’d overheard while working under this window. Something about a half-Elf and his house somewhere east of the Shire, beyond the Edge of the Wild. What had the name been? Riven-something.
“Hullo there, Master Gamgee. Lovely day.”
Sam jumped at the sound of Mr Bilbo’s voice, quickly biting back a few words that would make the Gaffer box Sam’s ears if he’d heard them. Sam had narrowly missed cutting himself with the shears. He looked up to find the owner of Bag End leaning out the window of his study. Sam felt his face begin to redden as he snapped to attention.
“Mr Bilbo, erm, sir,” he mumbled.
“I had the feeling I just might find you here,” Mr Bilbo went on.
Sam’s blush deepened, and his heart began to pound out of control. Did Mr Bilbo know about his habit? Sam had thought he’d been so careful to avoid getting caught. Now the Gaffer was going to find out about it - Sam could already imagine his father’s admonishments: “Sam, you ninnyhammer! Always going about with your head in the clouds, when it’s supposed to be set square on your shoulders. You ought to be minding the taters and carrots, and not the business of your betters!”
“I-I’m sorry, Mr Bilbo, sir,” he stammered.
“Whatever for, my boy? I was simply looking for someone to talk to. With Frodo off on this fine day, I thought you might like to share a bit of tea with me. I’ve got a lovely seed cake to go along with it.”
As tempting as the offer sounded, Sam knew it was not his place to take tea with Bilbo Baggins. “But the gardening, sir,” he protested.
“Nonsense!” replied Mr Bilbo. “The grass will still be there when you come back, and you’ll be the stronger for it. Come now, I insist.”
Sam had no choice but to lay down the shears, brush the grass clippings from his waistcoat and make his way to Bag End’s front door with its polished brass knob. Mr Bilbo was waiting for him in the hall. Sam followed the older hobbit into the study, staring about him in awe. On a table a large tome lay open to a page half-filled with spidery writing. Sam wished he knew what it said. Next to the book sat an open bottle of ink and a fine feather quill.
“You’ll excuse the mess I make with my writings,” Bilbo said, as he poured Sam a cup of tea. “I’ve come to a tricky spot, and I thought a little something might be just what I needed to clear my mind. Did you know,” he went on, filling his own cup now, and cutting into a large seed cake, “the Elves have no word for the world?”
Sam looked up sharply at the older hobbit, eyes round. Bilbo was busy serving the cake, and his own eyes were averted, so that Sam could not tell if he was in trouble or not. “No-no, I didn’t,” he replied honestly. “What do they say then?”
“They do have a word they use, but it doesn’t mean the same thing as what we mean when we say ‘the world’. When they talk about Arda, it means so much more than the world. It includes all of Endor - Middle-earth - Aman - the Undying Lands - menel - the heavens - ithil - the moon - anor - the sun - elen - the stars. All of that is part of Arda.”
Sam could only stare. He wasn’t sure at all what Mr Bilbo was talking about, but just hearing all those Elven words made Sam’s heart leap. He repeated the words in his mind, hoping desperately to hold onto them. Somehow they didn’t sound quite the same in his thoughts as they had when Mr Bilbo had pronounced them.
Bilbo shook his head and laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re much interested in the mad musings of an old hobbit, are you?”
“Oh no, sir! I am!” Sam blurted out. And then, feeling even bolder, he added, “Could you tell me some more about the Elves?”
“That I could, though I daresay you won’t find my translations very exciting. I could, however, recite you this piece I’ve been working on. It’s a poem in Elvish, you see, but it tells a story. I can give it to you as far as I’ve gone with it.”
“Please, sir.”
Sam listened raptly as Bilbo began to recite:
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven’s field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say…
“Sam Gamgee!” The Gaffer’s shout echoed in through the open window. “I’m going to make you sorry when I catch you! Leaving good tools lying on the ground and all!”
Sam bolted upright. “I’ve got to go, sir.”
Bilbo had also risen at a much more leisurely pace. “You just let me take care of this,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Sit down and finish your tea.” Then, going over to the window, he addressed the Gaffer. “What seems to be the problem, Master Hamfast?”
“Begging your pardon, Mr Bilbo,” the Gaffer’s reply floated through the window, “but my no-account son’s gone off on the job.”
“I’m afraid that’s my fault. I asked him to come in and keep me company for a while. We’ll be just a bit longer, and then I’ll have him back to work directly.”
“Mind he doesn’t shirk then,” the Gaffer replied gruffly, and Sam could tell the words were directed at him more than at Mr Bilbo.
“I give you my word he’ll finish his chores and be along home after that.” Turning back to Sam, Bilbo said, “Well, that settles that. I’m afraid there’s no time to go on with the story. Pity. It’s nice to have an appreciative audience. Perhaps next week I’ll have the entire poem translated, and you can hear it then if you like.”
Sam worked hard to swallow his disappointment at the interruption. “I’d like that, sir.”
He had started to rise, when Bilbo held up a hand. “Half a moment,” he said with a laugh. “You’re allowed to finish your tea.”
Sam took his seat once again. Bilbo was watching him speculatively. “I might even come up with a way for you to hear the story even faster, although you’ll have to work for it.”
Sam looked up hopefully. “I’m not afraid of work, and that’s a fact. Whatever needs doing…”
“I don’t think I’m talking about the same sort of work. It’s the sort of work that requires thinking.”
Sam’s face fell. “Thinking, sir? I don’t know as you’ve got the right hobbit then.”
“You mean you wouldn’t like to learn your letters? You’d have to do your lessons, of course.”
“Letters, sir? I never thought…” He trailed off as his joy overtook him. “Oh yes, sir, I’d love to be able to read!”
Bilbo smiled. “Then it’s settled if your Gaffer is agreeable. I’ll have a word with him after supper. Now, you’d best be back to work.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
As Sam went back to the trimming, he couldn’t help but wonder if Mr Bilbo had known about his secret fondness for Elves all along. The older hobbit must have noticed the special care with which Sam cut the lawn under his study window. Perhaps he’d happened to look out the window a time or two and caught Sam in the act. How Bilbo knew didn’t matter now, though. Mr Bilbo was going to teach Sam his letters, and tell him more stories.
Sam bent to the clipping, trying to recall the Elven words he had heard, but only two of them had stuck in his mind: elen - the stars - and Arda - the world.