6. The King of the Golden Hall
We are now, for the first time, approaching a representative of the tyrannical father, King Théoden. Like the other representatives, Saruman and Denethor, he lacks a wife. We can expect a distinctly masculine environment, and indeed, he lives high up by a mountain, just like the other two. But when Legolas gazes toward Edoras, unexpected images greet us – a clear stream from the mountain cutting through the green landscape, lined with willows, and green hills dotted with countless flowers. We realize that the scene we are about to enter is not as one-sidedly masculine as we expected; and indeed, what makes Edoras unique as a human domain is that here, for the first time in the saga, we encounter a real, normal, yet not ordinary woman – Éowyn, the only human woman of significance in the story. Théoden is also the only one of the three men who is redeemed. What sets him apart from the other two is his relationship with embodied femininity.
When the company arrives at the gate, the guards ask who they are. But they ask in their own language, not the common tongue, “as is the custom in the West.” The guard says that King Théoden has ordered this, as no foreigner is welcome in troubled times. The king thus seeks to isolate himself from foreign influences. We will discuss this further when we reach Minas Tirith, but Théoden represents the “sick old king,” in short, a symbol of a rigid and outdated attitude of consciousness. This attitude cannot accept renewal because it threatens the established mindset. Only that which is affirming, familiar, and habitual is acceptable. We know that Gandalf has come here to “renew” Théoden, but the sick old king meets him with rejection and scorn. This is a form of self-defense; if we imagine the attitude as an independent entity, its negative reaction to Gandalf’s visit is justified and rational – Gandalf, the impulse for renewal, is a real threat.
We recognize this reluctance to accept external influences from the Shire, and particularly from Lothlórien (without drawing other comparisons). They have arranged things well for themselves and do not want anything to come and disturb them. This is precisely how we tend to react to the impulses of the unconscious that seek to balance a one-sided attitude. However they manifest, our reaction is almost always to reject the impulse, to somehow make the disturbance disappear. The opposite of this attitude is, of course, openness, which is a rare quality both in the saga and in our culture. When conflict arises, we either want to flee or fight “the other,” not open ourselves to it. In the situation that Théoden represents, an unbalanced yang dominates while yin is kept at arm’s length. Over time, the king has become sick, on the verge of madness, due to this lack of balance.
Once the company is let in, they ascend a stone-paved path to a stone staircase that leads them to a stone-paved terrace. The stone and the upward movement describe the masculine environment. But once up there, they see sparkling spring water flowing down into a pool. So, the situation has not entirely stagnated; the energy represented by the sparkling water is embodied by Éowyn. (We can compare this to the fountain and Galadriel in Lothlórien; water, as mentioned, represents yin.) There is potential for redemption for the sick old king, but something prevents him from seeing it.
It is dim in Théoden’s hall, feeling stifling. The king sits on his throne, but he is so bent by age that he has become almost dwarflike – he does not grow but shrinks; without balance there is no growth. Behind the throne stands “a white-clad woman,” the potential for redemption. It is noteworthy that she is mentioned almost in the same breath as the king and that she stands behind him – Théoden has no direct relationship with her, but he could just as easily have one. We recognize this pattern from our dreams, where people tend to represent unconscious aspects that we could just as well be conscious of, but for some reason, we are not; whereas, for example, snakes, with which one cannot establish rapport, represent genuinely unconscious content that we struggle to relate to, even when we try.
The reason Théoden sits as he does, with his back to Éowyn, is that he – psychologically speaking – is trapped in a complex. In front of him (which is, of course, descriptive) sits a shriveled man who represents precisely this. Wormtongue, as he is called, has been Théoden’s advisor for some time. He represents the voice the king listens to. Like a complex that can poison and darken our minds with constant whispers and assertions (“you’ll never manage that,” “there’s no point in trying,” “how could you be so foolish as to…” and so on), Wormtongue feeds Théoden’s mind with his poison. By now, the king is entirely in Wormtongue’s grip, though he is, of course, unaware of it. Jung wrote:
“Everyone knows nowadays that people ‘have complexes.’ What is not so well known, though far more important theoretically, is that complexes can have us.”[1]
When we are overtaken by a complex, it is very difficult for others to do much about it, not least because we identify with the complex – the ego is, in essence, the complex. If someone tried to help me break free from it, it would feel like an attack on my person. Moreover, complexes are always affective, so my reaction might risk being aggressive, threatening, or simply sarcastic and condescending. Even if the insightful Éowyn sees what is happening to her uncle, there is little she can do about it. The impulse for change and the subsequent realization of the complex – here, the insight that it is Wormtongue’s thoughts, not his own, that keep him trapped – must come from within. This impulse is once again represented by Gandalf. But when Gandalf, as this potential for renewal, presents himself to Théoden, the king’s attitude, ridden by the complex, is completely closed to new impulses. “You have always been a herald of woe,” the king says scornfully, calling Gandalf a “stormcrow.” Once again, the rigid attitude of consciousness naturally defends itself against this impulse, but it cannot do so rationally or courteously, only with sarcasm and insults. Complexes, to put it mildly, are never generous; they are emotional, closed, and self-absorbed. One can never reason with a person caught in a complex.
Then Wormtongue speaks, but it could just as well be Théoden, as the advisor and the attitude of consciousness represent the same content. He calls Galadriel the “sorceress” who spins a “web of deceit.” We see that Wormtongue, with his negative attitude toward the feminine, also associates the Great Mother with weaving, falsehood, and, by extension, a spider.
The wise Gandalf, quite rightly, does not attempt to discuss or debate with this complex – it would be entirely pointless and risk a scene with clearly negative consequences. Instead, he sings a song about Galadriel, incorporating images of light, a well, a star, and a tree. By not engaging with the complex-ridden assertions and insinuations, he has a disarming effect. He simply brushes it aside by doing something gentle and calm that has nothing to do with the complex. This creates an opening, as the complex, so to speak, loses its footing when the situation takes on a character that renders it irrelevant.
Then the wizard casts off his gray cloak and rises before them as Gandalf the White – thunder rumbles, the sun is obscured, the fire fades, and a bolt of lightning strikes Wormtongue to the ground. (Lightning symbolizes sudden insight, enlightenment.) Then the light returns, and once the complex is neutralized, Gandalf becomes gentle and humble again, asking Théoden if he would not, after all, accept his counsel. Then he says, “I cannot give advice to one who has given up.” This is noteworthy, as it harks back to our earlier discussion of courage, the moral fortitude that Jung argues is necessary for the patient’s continued development. There must be an inner spark – if it has been extinguished, there is little another can do. One cannot ignite a spark in another’s soul, but one can help make the other aware of it, help him find the calling he has hitherto been unaware of.
Gandalf urges Théoden to step out of his dim hall, to physically leave the situation where the complex dominated him. We all know how crucial a change of environment can be. “Too long have you sat in the shadows, listening to twisted words and false counsel.” Théoden rises and walks on weak legs toward the gate, supported by Éowyn. Only now do they form a close relationship; only when Théoden is no longer possessed by the complex is he open enough to receive her, to accept her support.
They step out onto the terrace and feel the wind against their faces. They look toward the stream, out across Rohan’s green plains, as a light drizzle begins to fall; the description of what they feel and gaze upon ends with “the glittering river” – energy, eros, yin.
As they stand looking eastward, the author writes: “Where now was the Ring-bearer? How thin indeed was the thread upon which doom still hung!” This brings to mind Jung’s words: “The world hangs on a thin thread, and that is the psyche of man.”[2] We mention this because we have previously returned to Frodo as the saga’s very consciousness, and the fact that he bears this light makes him – according to Gandalf, Aragorn, Elrond, and Galadriel – the central figure in the saga; we also recall that the Ringwraiths did not reach for the Ring when they had the chance, but only poisoned Frodo, later urging him to “return to Mordor.” It is on this thread, this light, that the fate of the world hangs; and only Frodo can bear it because he is it.
Wormtongue remains and tries to pull Théoden back into old patterns. But now the complex no longer has power over him. That is how it works – complexes do not disappear, but they lose their hold over us when we become conscious of them.
The advisor’s words poisoned the king and rendered him passive, so we see that the Terrible Mother plays a role even in this environment. This is why he is called “Wormtongue,” and now Gandalf calls him “snake” outright. As mentioned earlier, while actual snakes do not appear in the saga, the snake motif recurs, always in connection with the negative mother. They banish Wormtongue, so we can assume this is not the last we’ve seen of him.
Then all is said and done, and it is time to ride to war. Éowyn brings a cup, offering it first to the king and then to the rest of the company in turn, just as Galadriel did; and we may recall that the elves – of unspecified sex but whom we judged to be male elves with distinctly feminine traits – also offered a cup to drink at the first meeting with the fair folk. In any case, there has been a development of the positive femininity – from giggling elves, through the unrestrained Goldberry, then the wise Galadriel, to the now human and, let us say, well-balanced Éowyn. She, as an ordinary (yet admirable) woman, represents the culmination of this development. They will not meet another woman until Arwen arrives in Minas Tirith to marry Aragorn, after the War of the Ring is over. On the other hand, Éowyn will be an active part of the unfolding events from this point, illustrating how she has been “integrated.”
This integration means that she herself is redeemed – she has, so to speak, come to life. When she looks into Aragorn’s eyes, love arises. There are, of course, rational reasons why it is Aragorn specifically, but on the symbolic level, he is “open,” as discussed earlier, which makes him receptive to eros. The hesitation that has characterized this leader of men should be understood as his acceptance of not knowing, his acceptance of uncertainty, yin, and that is the door that stands open to eros, to the feminine energy Éowyn represents.
A union of these opposites cannot, for obvious reasons, be fulfilled, but as a ricochet of this, it is decided that Éowyn will remain in Edoras as its “lord” and is given a sword. This is not obvious, as otherwise only men carry swords in the saga and hold the title of lord, while women with equivalent power are unarmed and titled lady, as has been the historical norm. Giving this unequivocally feminine figure the quintessential masculine weapon and a masculine title illustrates the union of opposites that Éowyn’s integration represents (without disrupting the saga’s internal logic and necessary development).
Footnotes
[1] Jung, "A Review of the Complex Theory", CW 8, par. 200.
[2] "Carl Gustav Jung – Interview with John Freeman,” Face to Face, BBC Television, aired October 22, 1959.