The Death of Melkor and the Life of the Elves

Thus spake Mandos in prophecy, when the Gods sat in judgement in Valinor, and the rumour of his words was whispered among all the Elves of the West. When the world is old and the Powers grow weary, then Morgoth, seeing that the guard sleepeth, shall come back through the Door of Night out of the Timeless Void; and he shall destroy the Sun and Moon. But Eärendel shall descend upon him as a white and searing flame and drive him from the airs. Then shall the Last Battle be gathered on the fields of Valinor. In that day Tulkas shall strive with Morgoth, and on his right hand shall be Fionwë, and on his left Túrin Turambar, son of Húrin, coming from the halls of Mandos; and the black sword of Túrin shall deal unto Morgoth his death and final end; and so shall the children of Húrin and all Men be avenged.

            (The Lost Road 333) 

I have always taken great pleasure in the story that in the final battle at the end of time Túrin will return from Death to kill Melkor, avenging his family and all Men. Nor am I alone in this. The prophecy of Túrin's return rings so true with so many because in it we hear the Final Chord of Ilúvatar resounding on the Fields of Time. Yet when composing The Silmarillion for publication, Christopher Tolkien chose to leave it out because he felt that, when writing the Valaquenta in 1958, his father had abandoned the so-called 'Second Prophecy of Mandos' in which this claim appeared (LR 333; Morgoth 204). He points out that his father had crossed it out in the manuscript. For this decision Douglas Charles Kane in his book Arda Reconstructed has faulted him (236-238). Kane argues, quite reasonably, that Tolkien did not cross out the entire Second Prophecy, and that he left the part which pertains to Túrin. Thus, Kane believes, the story of his returing and killing Melkor should have been preserved and printed in The Silmarillion. 

I can't really disagree with Kane's argument, but I believe there may be another, more metaphysical, reason for why Tolkien might have chosen to shelve the Second Prophecy. A letter of Tolkien's, which also comes from 1958, provides a clue:

That Sauron was not himself destroyed in the anger of the One [at the drowning of Númenor] is not my fault: the problem of evil, and its apparent toleration, is a permanent one for all who concern themselves with our world. The indestructibility of spirits with free wills, even by the Creator of them, is also an inevitable feature, if one either believes in their existence, or feigns it in a story.

            Letters no. 158 p. 280

This is consistent with something Tolkien wrote in The Book of Lost Tales a generation earlier. There the narrator explains that, when Melko (as he's called early in the legendarium) was taken captive by the Valar to protect the newly awakened Elves from him, he could not be put to death because "the great Gods may not yet be slain" (LT I 104). Notice that word "yet," which seems to suggest that a time may come when they might be slain? Well, that word wasn't there in the original text (LT I 104 n. 4). Tolkien added it, perhaps because he was anticipating the story that in the final battle Melko would in fact be slain. Not by Túrin, however, though he is present (LT I 219; LT II 281-282). So, it seems that Tolkien initially had an opnion resembling what he says in the 1958 letter, but changed his mind. Killing Melko was just too appealing an idea at the time, and even more so when Tolkien decided that Túrin really ought to be the one to do it. 

Yet by the 1950s, right about when Tolkien crossed out some, but not all, of the Second Prophecy of Mandos, Tolkien appears to hold an opinion that clashes with the part of the Second Prophecy he did not cross out. But if even God cannot destroy spirits possessing free will, what does that mean for the Elves, whose lives are said to end when Arda ends? One way out is to argue, as some have done, that Elves do not have free will. Or perhaps it means, as Finrod speculates -- prophesies even -- in the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth that the Elves will somehow survive the end of Arda. He also foresees that Eru himself will one day enter Arda to heal its hurts, which at least at first glance does not harmonize well with the vengeance of Túrin. The Athrabeth is of course also a work of the mid to late 1950s, when Tolkien wrote the letter quoted above and crossed out some of the Second Prophecy. Did he cross out all he meant to at that moment? Or did he allow metaphysics to trump myth hereafter?

'Der mentsh* trakht un got lakht': Divine Irony and the Ring Verse.

 Just this morning I was reflecting on the incantatory lines at the heart of the Ring verse:

One Ring to rule them all, one ring to find them
One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them

The emphatically repeated 'them' refers as much to the bearers of the other Rings of Power as it does to the Rings themselves. The intent to enslave the bearers was imperfectly realized of course, except in the case of Men. It occurs to me, however, that these verses also reflect the relations of the three agents of the eucatastrophe at Mt Doom, Frodo, Gollum, and Sam, all of whom of course are Ringbearers. The Ring brought them all together and bound them in the literal darkness of Mordor. Frodo 'wouldn't have got far without Sam' (TT 4.viii.712) and 'but for [Gollum]' Frodo 'could not have destroyed the Ring' (RK 6.iii.947). Frodo, however, 'was meant to have the Ring' as much as Bilbo had been (FR 1.ii.55), but it was not the maker of the Ring who intended this.

'[T]here was something else at work', as Gandalf tells Frodo. That 'something' read the Ring verse ironically, in a sense no one else grasped, much like the words that in truth prophesied the Witch-king's death rather than his invulnerability. Just as Éowyn, Merry, and the barrow-blade were brought together as if by chance to belie the obvious meaning of 'not by the hand of man shall he fall' (RK 5.vi.840; App. A 1051), so too, the coming together of Frodo, Gollum, and Sam at Mt Doom reveals new meaning in the Ring verse. 

It is a new meaning such as Eru prophesied to Melkor before the world was made (Silm. 17) :

'.... And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.'

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*The use of this word here should not be taken to imply that Sauron was ever a mentsh to anyone, anywhere, at any time. 

Melkor's Song of Ice and Fire - A Brief Note on The Ainulindalë

And Ilúvatar spoke to Ulmo, and said: 'Seest thou not how here in this little realm in the Deeps of Time Melkor hath made war upon thy province? He hath bethought him of bitter cold immoderate, and yet hath not destroyed the beauty of thy fountains, nor of thy clear pools. Behold the snow, and the cunning work of frost! Melkor hath devised heats and fire without restraint, and hath not dried up thy desire nor utterly quelled the music of the sea. Behold rather the height and glory of the clouds, and the everchanging mists; and listen to the fall of rain upon the Earth! And in these clouds thou art drawn nearer to Manwë, thy friend, whom thou lovest.' 

Then Ulmo answered: 'Truly, Water is become now fairer than my heart imagined, neither had my secret thought conceived the snowflake, nor in all my music was contained the falling of the rain. I will seek Manwë, that he and I may make melodies for ever to my delight!' And Manwë and Ulmo have from the beginning been allied, and in all things have served most faithfully the purpose of Ilúvatar. 

(Silmarillion, 19)

In this conversation, which takes place before Ilúvatar creates the world described in the Music of the Ainur, we see shown forth the first example of Ilúvatar's warning to Melkor that anyone who 'attempteth [to alter the music in my despite] shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined' (17). Ilúvatar then repeats this warning to Melkor in the moment he grants the Ainur a Vision of their Music (17), and while the text tells us that he said 'many other things' (17) to them at this time, we get to hear only his words to Melkor and Ulmo. They are thus singled out, and Ilúvatar's words to them bookend the Vision, with Melkor addressed directly before it and Ulmo directly afterwards. 

While Ulmo responds with wonder and delight and declares his intention to collaborate with Manwë, as we saw, Melkor is for now silent and 'filled with shame, of which came secret anger' (17). The next (and last) time he speaks in the Ainulindalë follows immediately upon the entry of the Ainur into the newly made world:  

And in this work the chief part was taken by Manwë and Aulë and Ulmo; but Melkor too was there from the first, and he meddled in all that was done, turning it if he might to his own desires and purposes; and he kindled great fires. When therefore Earth was yet young and full of flame Melkor coveted it, and he said to the other Valar: 'This shall be my own kingdom; and I name it unto myself!' 

(20-21).  

Melkor's stated intention of course provokes a refusal to submit from Manwë -- 'This kingdom thou shalt not take for thine own, wrongfully, for many others have laboured here no less than thou' (21) -- and leads to war between Melkor and the other Valar.

What's most striking to me in all of this is that the beauty of water described in its various forms arises from the unintentional collaboration of Melkor and Ulmo. Melkor's hostility and selfish desire to dominate the Music has worked upon water to produce beauties 'fairer than my heart imagined,' as Ulmo recognizes. And precisely as Ilúvatar predicted. It should also stand out because it is the only time (I can think of off the top of my head) when Melkor's evil actions produce unquestionable, inspiring beauty untouched by any sorrow. It is a perfect example of the later statement that evil will prove good to have been, and yet remain evil (98). In that thought, however, there can be only sorrow, because Melkor cannot see the beauty he has helped to create, cannot be inspired by it to collaborate with Manwë, his 'brother ... in the mind of Ilúvatar' (21), cannot, therefore, repent of his desire to dominate.  Far from it in fact: 'Melkor hated the sea, for he could not subdue it' (30).

Clearly there is more work to be done here. A study of the meaning imparted by the way the Ainulindalë is structured looks like it could provide some intriguing results, given what we've seen here. I have skipped over the appearance of the Children in the Vision, for example, as well as the perhaps metaphysical implications of the question of why it is that water becomes more beautiful as a result of the effects of evil. Is it because it is the part of creation which best and most preserves the Music of the Ainur, and therefore the primordial thought of Ilúvatar as expressed in the themes he propounded to them? 

But so detailed a study I will have to leave for another day. 

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Works Consulted

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Guest Post -- Luke Baugher on Tulkas and "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight"

Tulkas, a question of the influence of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

     On Tuesday of this week, I began a read-through of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. My text is that found in Medieval English Literature edited by Thomas Garbáty. This is an enchanting read and all the more enjoyable in its original language. I was working my way through the description of Arthur's Christmas feast when I came across the word tulkes in line 41:

Þer tournayed tulkes bi-tymez ful mony,
Justed ful iolilé þise gentyle kniȝtes,
Syþen kayred to þe court, caroles to make.[1]

Tulkas © Steamey

     In this edition, the definition ascribed to tulkes is "knights." As I have always been an avid Tolkien fan, this immediately struck me as very phonetically similar to Tolkien's character Tulkas. So I decided to do a little digging. What follows is some of the interesting information that I have found, with the helpful suggestions of several much respected Tolkien scholars.

    Initially, an etymological approach might shed some light on the association as, most Tolkien fan know, this field is intimately connected with The Professor's creativity.  The Oxford English Dictionary indicates that tulkes is "Generally identified with Old Norse túlkr interpreter, spokesman,"[2] which is related to the rarely attested Old Norse túlk, a verb meaning "to utter sound, to sound."[3] Although it also notes that "nothing has been found to connect the Middle English sense, common in alliterative verse, with these."[4] In order for us to find a connection, let's follow the advice of Carl F. Hostetter and look at how Tolkien himself has defined tulkes. Hostetter notes that:

In the Middle English glossaries prepared by Tolkien that bear on this matter (that for SGGK and that for Sisam's Fourteenth Century Verse and Prose), he glosses tulk(e) (tolke) as 'man, knight' (SGGK), or just 'man' (Sisam), and refers it to the Old Norse cognate túlk-r 'spokesman'. [5]

     So, to follow Hostetter's logic, the sense in which Middle English tulke means "man" "is a secondary development." He goes on to elaborate "its further sense "knight" being then a tertiary development."[6] So the sense in which tulke means "man" is more prevalent, while the sense in which it means "knight" is a derivative thereof, perhaps caused by context. While this etymological trace is very interesting, it does not actually solve whether or not this word could have inspired Tolkien.

          

     Perhaps looking more in-depth at Tolkien's name Tulkas will help illuminate a connection. Tulkas’s characterization certainly conforms to many of the traits laid out by tulke in that he is a male, and he does partake in youthful shows of strength and competition like one would expect of knights. Tolkien's descriptions of Tulkas certainly highlight these attributes:

Greatest in strength and deeds of prowess is Tulkas, who is surnamed Astaldo, the Valiant. He came last to Arda, to aid the Valar in the first battles with Melkor. He delights in wrestling and in contests of strength; and he rides no steed, for he can outrun all things that go on feet, and he is tireless. His hair and beard are golden, and his flesh ruddy; his weapons are his hands. He has little heed for either the past or the future, and is of no avail as a counsellor, but is a hardy friend.[7]

     For an even closer connection, Tolkien defined tulkas. In his reflection on the subject, Jason Fisher also notes the connection between tulkes and tulkr, but extends his observation by noting that "within the legendarium, Tulkas is Quenya meaning 'strong, steadfast.'"[8] In the Appendix to The Book of Lost Tales 1, the context of Tolkien’s name is given contest:

QL gives the name under root TULUK, with tulunka ‘steady, firm’, tulka- ‘fix, set up, establish’. The Gnomish form is Tulcus (-os), with related words tulug ‘steady, firm’, tulga- ‘make firm, settle, steady, comfort’.[9]

     So now we are starting to form a bridge between two disparate words and finding a common ground. Fisher contends an additional definition of tulkr as "fighting man."[10] This background leads Patrick Wynne to observe:

There seems to be a clear logical connection between 'fighting man' and 'strong' (the former habitually having the latter attribute). The sort of game that Tolkien played with such allusions...would suggest that in later days, dim memories of the vala Tulkas 'Strong' as a skilled fighter resulted in the Quenya name influencing (or being the direct source of) words such as ON tulkr and ME tulkes.[11]

     So we have finally arrived at a tentative link etymologically, to compound with the phonetic similarity that started these observations. Although these links are possible, I cannot overstate the caution that we should use when ascribing motivation to Tolkien's creative process.

            

     When directly talking about whether or not this word could have served as an inspiration for Tolkien, caveats abound. Nelson Goering cautions that "It certainly seems possible, though obviously it's hard to know for sure."[12] He observes that

"If Tolkien traced the etymology of the word back, as is not unlikely, he would have arrived at Lithuanian tul̃kas... As an old Baltic word that found its way into various Germanic languages... it's the sort of thing that might have lodged somewhere in the back of his mind (maybe)."[13]

     So the jury is out on whether or not this word could be the inspiration behind Tolkien's creation of the grappling Vala, but the similarities are tantalizing regardless. Who knows, "he may well have found the sound/sense correspondence suggested by ME tulk(e) pleasing, regardless of ultimate etymology."[14]

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[1] “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight” Medieval English Literature. Ed. Thomas Garbáty. Long Grove: Waveland, 1997. 255-332. Print. (257, emphasis mine).

[2] "† tulk | tolk, n." OED Online. Oxford University Press, December 2015. Web. 16 December 2015.

[3] "† tulk, v." OED Online. Oxford University Press, December 2015. Web. 16 December 2015.

[4] "† tulk | tolk, n." OED Online. Oxford University Press, December 2015. Web. 16 December 2015.

[5] Hostetter, Carl F. " In the Middle English glossaries prepared by Tolkien that bear on this matter (that for SGGK and that for Sisam's Fourteenth Century Verse and Prose), he glosses _tulk(e)_(_tolke_) as 'man, knight' (SGGK), or just 'man' (Sisam), and refers it to the Old Norse cognate _túlk-r_ 'spokesman'." Facebook. 15 Dec. 2015. [16 Dec. 2015 < https://www.facebook.com/groups/61115826282/permalink/10153187834231283/>]

[6] Ibid.

[7] Tolkien, J.R.R. The Silmarillion. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. Print. (28).

[8] Fisher, Jason. " Yes, probably. The Old Norse form of the same word is tulkr "fighting man", which is even closer to the form Tolkien used. Though within the legendarium, Tulkas is Quenya meaning "strong, steadfast"." Facebook. 15 Dec. 2015. [16 Dec. 2015. <https://www.facebook.com/groups/61115826282/permalink/10153187834231283/comment_id=10153189216071283&notif_t=group_comment>]

[9] Tolkien, J.R.R. The Book of Lost Tales 1. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. New York: Ballantine, 1983. Print. (313).

[10] Ibid.

[11] Wynne, Patrick. " Yeah, there seems to be a clear logical connection between 'fighting man' and 'strong' (the former habitually having the latter attribute). The sort of game that Tolkien played with such allusions (as Carl F. Hostetter and I used to discuss in our column "Words and Devices" in VT) would suggest that in later days, dim memories of the vala Tulkas 'Strong' as a skilled fighter resulted in the Quenya name influencing (or being the direct source of) words such as ON _tulkr_ and ME _tulkes_." Facebook. 15 Dec. 2015. [16 Dec. 2015. < https://www. facebook.com/groups/61115826282/permalink/10153187834231283/?comment_id=10153189216071283&notif_t=group_comment>]

[12] Goering, Nelson. "It certainly seems possible, though obviously it's hard to know for sure. If Tolkien traced the etymology of the word back, as is not unlikely, he would have arrived at Lithuanian tul̃kas (yes, the circumflex is meant to be above the 'l' - that's Lithuanian for you...). As an old Baltic word that found its way into various Germanic languages (northern German into Norse into English), it's the sort of thing that might have lodged somewhere in the back of his mind (maybe)." Facebook. 15 Dec. 2015. [16 Dec. 2015. <https://www.facebook.com/ groups/61115826282/permalink/10153187834231283/?comment_id=10153189216071283&notif_t=group_comment>]

[13] Ibid.

[14] Hostetter, Carl F. "Which is NOT to say that ME _tulk(e)_ 'man, knight' DIDN'T inspire Tolkien's "Tulkas" — he may well have found the sound/sense correspondence suggested by ME _tulk(e)_ pleasing, regardless of ultimate etymology. Because after all, etymology is NOT determinative of meaning (if it were, then languages would never change, and we would almost all be speaking Proto-Indo-European...). It's just to say that the meaning of _tulk(e)_ as exhibited in SGGK isn't in fact primary." Facebook. 15 Dec. 2015. [16 Dec. 2015. <https://www.facebook.com/ groups/61115826282/permalink/10153187834231283/>]

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Thanks so much, Luke, for an interesting note on another possible connection between Tolkien's scholarly and mythological worlds. While we must be cautious, as Nelson Goering rightly emphasizes, so little in Tolkien seems to have happened by chance. As I read your note I was struck by the 'tulkes' jousting 'ful iolilé' and the 'delight' which Tulkas took 'in wrestling and contests of strength.' And of course Tulkas also 'laughs ever, in sport or in war, and even in the face of Melkor he laughed in battles before the Elves were born' (Silmarillion, 29).  Nicely done. 

The Dream of Manwë in 'Of Aulë and Yavanna'

After Ilúvatar has sanctioned Aulë's making of the Dwarves because of his humility, Yavanna turns to Manwë, fearful of what the coming dominion of the Children of Ilúvatar will mean for the other life of Arda.

'If thou hadst thy will what wouldst thou reserve?' said Manwë. 'Of all thy realm what dost thou hold dearest?'  

'All have their worth,' said Yavanna, 'and each contributes to the worth of the others. But the kelvar can flee or defend themselves, whereas the olvar that grow cannot. And among these I hold trees dear. Long in the growing, swift shall they be in the felling, and unless they pay toll with fruit upon bough little mourned in their passing. So I see in my thought. Would that the trees might speak on behalf of all things that have roots, and punish those that wrong them!'  

'This is a strange thought,' said Manwë.  

'Yet it was in the Song,' said Yavanna. 'For while thou wert in the heavens and with Ulmo built the clouds and poured out the rains, I lifted up the branches of great trees to receive them, and some sang to Ilúvatar amid the wind and the rain.'  

Then Manwë sat silent, and the thought of Yavanna that she had put into his heart grew and unfolded; and it was beheld by Ilúvatar. Then it seemed to Manwë that the Song rose once more about him, and he heeded now many things therein that though he had heard them he had not heeded before. And at last the Vision was renewed, but it was not now remote, for he was himself within it, and yet he saw that all was upheld by the hand of Ilúvatar; and the hand entered in, and from it came forth many wonders that had until then been hidden from him in the hearts of the Ainur.  

Then Manwë awoke, and he went down to Yavanna upon Ezellohar, and he sat beside her beneath the Two Trees. And Manwë said: 'O Kementári, Eru hath spoken, saying: "Do then any of the Valar suppose that I did not hear all the Song, even the least sound of the least voice? Behold! When the Children awake, then the thought of Yavanna will awake also, and it will summon spirits from afar, and they will go among the kelvar and the olvar, and some will dwell therein, and be held in reverence, and their just anger shall be feared. For a time: while the Firstborn are in their power, and while the Secondborn are young." But dost thou not now remember, Kementári, that thy thought sang not always alone? Did not thy thought and mine meet also, so that we took wing together like great birds that soar above the clouds? That also shall come to be by the heed of Ilúvatar, and before the Children awake there shall go forth with wings like the wind the Eagles of the Lords of the West.'

(Silmarillion, 45-46)

As the postponed 'Then Manwë awoke' clearly indicates, Manwë has just been experiencing a dream of some kind.  He recognizes the Song and the Vision at once, but something new is at hand. His perspective is simultaneously wider, in that he sees for the first time the fundamental and ongoing role of the hand of Eru, and more intimate because, having entered into Arda, he is now an active participant in a present reality and not simply a witness to a vision of what may yet be, as he was when Ilúvatar showed the Ainur what they had sung (Silmarillion, 17). 

What Manwë sees here I find interesting for a couple of reasons. First, the revelation that there is more going on than meets the eye reminds me strongly of a passage in the second book of Vergil's Aeneid, where Venus, seeking to persuade her son, Aeneas, not to kill or even blame Helen but to save himself from the ruin of Troy while he still has a chance, grants him a wider perspective on reality than he normally possesses:

“‘Think: it’s not that beauty, Helen, you should hate,
not even Paris, the man that you should blame, no,
it’s the gods, the ruthless gods who are tearing down
the wealth of Troy, her toppling crown of towers.
Look around. I’ll sweep it all away, the mist
so murky, dark, and swirling around you now,
it clouds your vision, dulls your mortal sight.	750
You are my son. Never fear my orders.
Never refuse to bow to my commands.
“‘There,
yes, where you see the massive ramparts shattered,
blocks wrenched from blocks, the billowing smoke and ash
— it’s Neptune himself, prising loose with his giant trident
the foundation-stones of Troy, he’s making the walls quake,
ripping up the entire city by her roots.
“‘There’s Juno,
cruelest in fury, first to commandeer the Scaean Gates,
sword at her hip and mustering comrades, shock troops
streaming out of the ships.
“‘Already up on the heights	760
— turn around and look—there’s Pallas holding the fortress,
flaming out of the clouds, her savage Gorgon glaring.
Even Father himself, he’s filling the Greek hearts
with courage, stamina—Jove in person spurring the gods
to fight the Trojan armies!
“‘Run for your life, my son.
Put an end to your labors. I will never leave you,
I will set you safe at your father’s door.’
“Parting words. She vanished into the dense night.
And now they all come looming up before me,
terrible shapes, the deadly foes of Troy,	770
the gods gigantic in power.
“Then at last
I saw it all, all Ilium settling into her embers,
Neptune’s Troy, toppling over now from her roots
like a proud, veteran ash on its mountain summit,
chopped by stroke after stroke of the iron axe as
woodsmen fight to bring it down, and
over and over it threatens to fall, its boughs shudder,
its leafy crown quakes and back and forth it sways
till overwhelmed by its wounds, with a long last groan
it goes—torn up from its heights it crashes down	780
in ruins from its ridge . . .
Venus leading, down from the roof I climb
and win my way through fires and massing foes.
The spears recede, the flames roll back before me."
	(transl. Fagles)

Now clearly the perspectives of Manwë and Aeneas differ greatly. Aeneas's vision is of a single moment in time and space; Manwë's appears far more cosmic in scope. Yet the difference between them is not as great as we might expect, which is in a way precisely my point here. Aeneas is a mortal; his vision of reality is necessarily and unsurprisingly limited.  In its limitation Aeneas' vision is like the one Ulmo grants Tuor when he says that his 'heart yearneth rather to the Sea' (Unfinished Tales, 30). Ulmo allows him to see all the breadth and depth of the sea 'with the swift sight of the Valar,' but no more. The vision ends as Tuor catches the merest glimpse of Valinor.

Manwë, however, is the Elder King, the chief of the Valar, the peer of Melkor, an immortal who existed before the world was made and played a central role in its imagining and making. Yet even his sight is limited, as is that of Aulë and Yavanna, the two other Valar in this chapter which bears their names and explores the perils and mysteries of sub-creation both before and after the ongoing creation of Arda. Aulë's dwarves were not in the Song, yet the Eagles of Manwë and the Ents of Yavanna evidently were. The hand of Ilúvatar, unseen by Manwë until this moment, continues to produce wonders from what lay 'hidden ... in the hearts of the Ainur.' The things the individual Valar did not know or had not attended to (since, as Manwë admits, there were things in the Song that he heard, but did not heed) are as much a part of the reality of Arda as all they knew and saw 'with the swift sight of the Valar.'  Much 'lies still in the freedom of Ilúvatar' (Silmarillion, 28; cf. 17-18).  The Valar are of course still quite far from the point alluded to in The Ainulindalë, when total mutual comprehension between Ilúvatar and all his children will accompany -- and perhaps even cause -- the realization of the themes as they sing them:

Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days. Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being in the moment of their utterance, for all shall then understand fully his intent in their part, and each shall know the comprehension of each, and Ilúvatar shall give to their thoughts the secret fire, being well pleased. 

(Silmarillion, 15-16)

One could well quote the New Testament here, and wonder how much specific inspiration Tolkien might have drawn from it in The Ainulindalë: 'For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known' (1Cor. 13:12 KJV). This most famous chapter of First Corinthians speaks powerfully of knowledge and understanding, both perfect and imperfect, of prophecy of what is to come, and of the critical role of love (charity); it states categorically that 'without charity' 'the tongues of men and angels' can produce only cacophony and discord -- just as happens in the Music thanks to Melkor (Silmarillion, 16-17), from whose heart, it is later said, 'all love had departed forever' (Silmarillion, 66). Given this, it quite easy to suspect that the similarity we see here is no coincidence.

The second interesting connection which Manwë's dream calls to mind is to a passage in On Fairy-Stories:

Now “Faërian 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 Faërian 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 Faërian 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. They do not live in it, though they can, perhaps, afford to spend more time at it than human artists can. The Primary World, Reality, of elves and men is the same, if differently valued and perceived. 

(OFS para. 74)

What is Manwë experiencing but 'a dream that some other mind is weaving'? Except that he is neither 'deluded' nor forgetful of this 'alarming fact'.  And if it were not already apparent from the description of the dream that Ilúvatar is the weaver of this dream, Manwë's words to Yavanna afterwards -- 'O Kementári, Eru hath spoken....' -- make it absolutely clear. But rather than introduce him to a Faërian Drama or a Secondary World, this dream enlarges his knowledge and understanding of the Primary World and its supernatural underpinnings. Like Aeneas, Manwë sees the hand of God at work. Like Tuor, he sees a deeper, wider world. As elsewhere in Tolkien, we see that dreams are a link to things about the world that are not normally perceived. For men or hobbits this is no surprise. What is unexpected is that the same appears true of the Valar, only on a different scale. 

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1) Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. 2) And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. 3) And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. 

4) Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, 5) Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; 6) Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; 7) Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. 

8) Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 9) For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. 10) But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. 11) When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12) For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. 13) And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity. 

(1Cor 13:1-13 KJV)