Warning: Anyone who belongs to, or approves of, the modern anti-smoking Thought Police will probably not like this story. I don't smoke myself, but the Professor did and clearly thinks pipe-weed is an excellent institution!
I've already told you that my sister Firiel always, somehow, knows if Father is suffering in any way. I've also told you how she made it her life's work to protect Father, and how at times this could cause difficulties. There was one incident that could have been very embarrassing if there hadn't been good will all round … perhaps I shouldn't tell you … but I know I can trust you not to let it go any further.
It was very soon after Firiel burned her doll; I've already told you about that. Our dear hobbit friends were soon to leave us and we were holding a splendid and ceremonious farewell feast in their honour. This was not because Father and Mother liked splendid and ceremonious feasts, because they didn't: they were both so accustomed to hard living that they actually preferred it, and left to themselves would have fed as simply as any small farmer and his wife.
(This frequently led to trouble with Aldar, our chief cook, who like all chief cooks was exceedingly vain. When we needed to impress or overawe distinguished guests with our magnificence Aldar was happy, but during the hard-living phases he was apt to have tantrums and say that his skill was unappreciated. When the King came to visit us once and insisted on joining in the hard living – he had been used to it as well, but never got the chance to indulge in it at home in the City – Aldar got so cross that Mother, in all kindness, offered to find him a place in the royal kitchens. At that Aldar fairly foamed at the mouth and said that his family had served the Stewards for ten generations and if he wasn't thought good enough to continue the tradition, he might as well go straight away and drown himself in Anduin. No wonder Mother always said that managing our household was harder than fighting two battles at once.)
I beg your pardon … where was I? Oh yes, the hobbits. Hobbits love ceremony and magnificence, and of course good food and plenty of it – even if they sometimes infuriated Aldar by describing his best efforts as 'fancy' – and so the feast had to be splendid just to please them. I was particularly interested because it was the first time I had been allowed to stay up for such an occasion, and I had been given so many warnings about good behaviour that I scarcely dared open my mouth to either eat or talk. Not that the hobbits were easily offended, bless them; it was a kind of trial run for more delicate occasions later on. I was also interested because it was the great occasion on which Father was going to try The Pipe.
I know everybody in Gondor seems to smoke nowadays, but in those days it hadn't entirely caught on, despite the King having set the example and made it fashionable. The hobbits were devoted to what they called 'pipe-weed' and claimed to have taught the King and everybody else how to use it, and since Sam had told us that Ithilien was the perfect place to grow the stuff, Father – who had hitherto steered clear of it – felt honour bound to set the example by taking up smoking. The hobbits were absolutely delighted and had presented him with a particularly handsome and intricately carved pipe and a supply of Longbottom Leaf, which they all agreed was the best 'weed' of all.
Well, we ate our way manfully (or in some cases hobbitfully) through the innumerable courses sent up by the triumphant Aldar, and then the great moment came and Father, having filled and lit The Pipe with Merry's help, and with further anxious instructions from the other two hobbits, made his first essay. The results were not quite what the hobbits or anybody else had anticipated. Father gasped, choked, dropped the pipe, started a fit of coughing that threatened to tear him apart, leapt to his feet and left the room faster than I'd ever seen him move before. The other guests sat petrified, the hobbits exchanged horrified glances, and old Anborn, standing as always behind Father's chair (where he was well placed either to disapprove of whatever Father was doing or to lay down his life for him, depending on the circumstances), seemed to be mentally reviewing the penalties for poisoning the Steward of Gondor at his own table. As for me, I was torn between alarm and an irresistible desire to laugh at the expressions on people's faces, but then I met Mother's cold eye and sobered up at once. Mother, shaken but controlling herself superbly, told everyone not to worry as she was sure that it was nothing serious, and that Father would be back again in a moment.
Sure enough he was, and seemed to be in one piece although his normally pale face had a distinct tinge of green about it. He sat down, regarded The Pipe (retrieved by an anxious servant) and said, in a tone of mild regret: 'So that is pipe weed. I'm very sorry, but I do not think I shall ever take to it.'
Sam and Pippin looked at Merry, the self-styled expert, who said awkwardly, 'Well, Sir, it does come hard at first, but…'
Father shook his head with complete finality, and there was a moment of awkward silence that was broken by a scuffle at the main door, followed by a yell of agony, and Firiel, in her night-dress, rushed into the room and flung herself on Father. Captain Beregond came in just behind her, clutching his right hand in his left and looking … well, a little put out.
'Firiel, what are you doing here?' said Father, gently disengaging himself from a protective embrace which threatened to strangle him.
Firiel enthroned herself on his lap and said, in her clear, carrying voice, 'I came because somebody was hurting you. She looked around the table and pointed a furious finger at the three hobbits in turn. 'They were hurting you. I won't let people hurt you. That was why I came.' The hobbits quailed.
'Firiel,' said Father gravely, 'you are quite wrong to accuse our poor friends in that way. Far from hurting me, they were trying to do me a favour. If it went a little wrong, that was not their fault. Do I look hurt, now?'
Firiel scanned his face anxiously, and slowly shook her head.
Mother, meanwhile, had seen another side to the affair and now interposed in her iciest voice, which struck terror into most people but seldom had any effect on her daughter, 'Firiel, did you just bite Captain Beregond?'
'Yes, I did,' said Firiel composedly. 'He told me I couldn't come in.'
'He is my guard,' said Father, struggling to be stern. 'It is his duty to tell people they cannot come in.'
Mother looked grimmer than ever. 'If my advice were asked, young madam, I should say that such conduct merited a whipping.'
Firiel sat bolt upright on Father's lap and they both stiffened in horror, giving, as they often did, the strange impression that they were really one person that had somehow got divided into two. 'Am I to be whipped, Father?' she whispered.
Father looked from her to Mother to poor Captain Beregond, thought for a moment and said, 'I think that question must be answered by the injured party. Captain?'
Mother sighed in exasperation. She knew perfectly well that Beregond worshipped the ground both Father and Firiel trod on and would have forgiven either of them far worse injuries than this. Beregond looked from Mother's angry face to Father's carefully expressionless one to Firiel's imploring one and murmured that no, he didn't think Lady Firiel deserved whipping, seeing that she had only acted out of concern for her father.
Firiel, unprompted – or prompted through her silent communion with Father – slid off his lap, walked over to Beregond, curtseyed (which, night-dress or no, she did like a queen), and said, 'Captain Beregond, I am very sorry that I bit you, and I promise that I will never, never, do it again. Please forgive me.'
'There's nothing to forgive, my lady,' answered Beregond, 'but perhaps the next time we have a difference of opinion, we could discuss it a little more calmly.'
She beamed at him and he beamed back; he had to. When Firiel smiled at you, you smiled at her, and felt as if you'd been given several birthday presents all at once.
Firiel turned to the hobbits and begged their pardon for her rudeness. 'I know you would never really try to hurt Father, but I do love Father so much, I have to look after him, I can't help it.' Then, speaking directly to Sam, the cunning child added, 'I'm sure your Elanor would never do anything so naughty, but she would understand why I did it, wouldn't she?' That, of course, was enough for Sam, and the other hobbits were just as quickly mollified; but there still remained one formidable challenge to Firiel's powers of persuasion, and she faced up to it immediately.
'Mother, I'm sorry for being such a bad girl,' she said simply, standing very upright before her severest judge and looking at her with those eyes that, even then, were so uncannily like Father's. Mother, who a moment before, I'm sure, had been itching to box Firiel's ears and maybe Father's too, found herself beginning to smile, resolutely banished the smile, and said merely, 'Very well, child, that will do.'
'And that being settled, and as I can see Morwen at the door seeking after her runaway,' concluded Father, 'it's time to give me a kiss, sweetheart, and go back to bed, for it isn't seemly for you to be gallivanting like this.'
Firiel kissed his cheek tenderly, beamed round once again at us all, and left the room with considerably more dignity than she had come in.
That's really the end of the story, but there was a sort of sequel, if you'd like to hear it. You won't be surprised to hear that I was wild to try The Pipe myself, despite or perhaps because of the dire effect it had had on Father. Father, who could read me like a book, told me (before I'd even mentioned the subject) that I was too young to try the experiment and that he had some concern for my lungs if I had not, and forbade me to touch The Pipe or any other like it. I'm afraid this did not deter me from borrowing – all right, purloining – a pipe from Pippin's quarters and trying it in a quiet corner of the grounds. I won't describe the result in detail, but the effect on Father was quite mild by comparison. And of course Father, who had not only an extraordinary knack of appearing just when you wanted him but also a very disconcerting knack of appearing just when you didn't, came on me as I was heaving my heart up behind a laurel bush. He watched me dispassionately for a few moments, and then, as I looked up groggily between the hope of comfort and the fear of wrath, said, 'H'm!' and turned on his heel and left me to it.
It was too much to hope that he'd forget about it, of course. When I staggered back into the house I was formally told that I had not been deemed worthy to join my elders at dinner – the very last dinner before the hobbits left us – and instead was to join Firiel at her nursery tea, which I, at the advanced age of eleven, felt as a terrible humiliation. Worse was to come. While Firiel fed daintily but determinedly on cold chicken (for such a small creature she had an amazing appetite; I suppose looking after Father took a lot of energy), I was served a plate of efras. You don't know what efras are? Be thankful. Efras are an evil kind of fish that are found in Anduin and a few other unfortunate Gondorian rivers. They are never served fresh but are smoked – after which they will keep indefinitely – and later boiled and eaten. When smoked they look like your worst nightmare, and when boiled they taste like it. They are, however, believed to be very nourishing, and Rangers swear by them because they weigh light and will keep you going for a long time. (They also make you brave, because whatever enemy you have to face, it can't be worse than another meal of efras.) So there I was with my efras, and a triumphant Morwen standing over me to make sure I ate every scrap; both she and Mother hated waste. I looked down at the efras and they looked up at me out of their horrid, black, beady eyes. I took a forkful and raised it to my mouth, but – no, I just couldn't do it.
It was then that Firiel intervened. She reached out, pulled my plate over to her side of the table, and replaced it with her own.
'You mustn't do that, lady Firiel,' scolded Morwen. 'Master Elboron has been very naughty and he must eat what he's been given to eat.'
Firiel speared the smallest efra on her fork, conveyed it to her mouth, and with a heroic effort, swallowed it. 'I was naughty too, last night,' she said. 'Much naughtier than Elboron. The naughtiest one should eat the nastiest dinner.'
'You'll do as you're told, Miss,' said Morwen, 'or I shall tell your lady mother and…'
Firiel, quite undeterred, held out her small knife to me and said, 'Cut everything up, and we'll eat half the chicken each, and half the fishes. That's fair, and Father likes everything to be fair.' She smiled up triumphantly at Morwen. 'It is fair, isn't it?'
Morwen, who was a sensible and kindly girl at heart, though frequently baffled by Firiel, sighed and admitted that yes, it probably was. Firiel smiled triumphantly at me, and in pure gratitude to her I cleared my plate. Firiel, as is well known, can inspire men to deeds of heroism which they wouldn't be capable of otherwise.
We took to cultivating pipe weed in Ithilien and made a very good business out of it, but Father never did take up smoking. Neither did I. The very sight of a pipe makes me think of efras, and that's that.
I'm not all that fond of cold chicken, either.