A friend asked me: which edition of George MacDonald’s story “The Golden Key” was Tolkien referring to in his note in MS B of “On Fairy-stories,” where he wrote: “Quote [as] ending from Golden Key p. 146-148”? (p. 250 of Tolkien On Fairy-stories (2008), edited by Verlyn Flieger and myself).
I recall trying to figure this out (my notes date to February 2007) when putting together the original book, but couldn’t come to any definite conclusion, so there is no footnote to it in Tolkien On Fairy-stories. I have revisited this point now, and can suggest a possibility.
MacDonald’s story “The Golden Key” was first published in MacDonald’s collection Dealings with the Fairies (London: Alexander Strahan, 1867). The story reappeared in reprints (some retitled) and other collections, enough to be very confusing as to which edition Tolkien might have consulted before 1945.
With the use of Raphael B. Shaberman’s George MacDonald: A Bibliographical Study (1990), I narrowed this down considerably. I have now consulted some editions that I wasn’t able to see nearly twenty years ago. Here is a short summary of relevant editions with pages numbers for “The Golden Key”:
Dealings with the Fairies (Alexander Strahan, 1867). “The Golden Key” pp. 248-308. [Part of the collection was later published as The Light Princess and Other Fairy Tales.]
Works of Fancy and Imagination, volume IX (Chatto & Windus, 1871). “The Golden Key” pp. 51-122. Also published as Cross Purposes and Other Stories (Chatto & Windus, 1902) pp. 51-122.
The Light Princess and Other Fairy Stories (Blackie, 1891). “The Golden Key” pp. 135-192.
Dealings with the Fairies (NY 1891). “The Golden Key” pp. 135-192. [US edition, evidently reproduced from the 1891 Blackie book, The Light Princess and Other Fairy Stories.]
Fairy Tales (Fifield, 1904; Allen & Unwin, 1920 [not seen], 1924), edited and with Introduction by Greville MacDonald. “The Golden Key” pp. 121-169.
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There are two possibilities with some of the story appearing on pages 148-150. The first, The Light Princess and Other Fairy Stories (Blackie, 1891)/Dealings with the Fairies (NY 1891), I think unlikely because it is the passage where Tangle meets the lady who calls herself grandmother (this passage doesn’t have the necessary “turn”—see below). One recalls Tolkien’s much later comment to an interviewer in 1966, in a discussion of The Lord of the Rings: “I didn't write it for children. That's why I don't like George MacDonald very much; he's a horrible old grandmother.” Grandmother figures recur in MacDonald’s writings, though in this instance, following in the wake of Tolkien’s unsuccessful attempt to write an introduction to “The Golden Key,” it would seem that this passage was in his mind.
The more likely possibility is the 1904 Fairy Tales volume, edited by MacDonald’s son Greville. It was reprinted by Allen & Unwin in 1924, MacDonald’s Centenary, at the same time Allen & Unwin published Greville’s massive biography of his father, George MacDonald and His Wife.
At the end of the finished essay of “On Fairy-stories” Tolkien quotes from “The Black Bull of Norroway” (a Scottish tale which is retold in Andrew Lang’s The Blue Fairy Book), “when the sudden ‘turn’ comes we get a piercing glimpse of joy, and heart’s desire, that for a moment passes outside of the frame, rends indeed the very web of story, and lets a gleam come through” (“On Fairy-stories”, paragraph 101, Tolkien On Fairy-stories, p. 76). Could a similar ‘turn’ found in the passages from pp. 148-150 in Fairy Tales (1904, or 1924), where Tangle sees a beautiful little creature with wings which she recognizes as “my fish”—but the creature responds, “I am a fish no longer. I am an aëranth”?
I copy below the text of pages 148-150. I suspect, if Tolkien’s had viewed this as his “turn,” he later felt he had found a better one in “The Black Bull of Norroway.” Thoughts and comments welcomed.
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shape, each disappearing in the surrounding press of shadowy foliage. Sometimes a profile of unspeakable beauty or grandeur would appear for a moment and vanish. Sometimes they seemed lovers that passed linked arm in arm, sometimes father and son, sometimes brothers in loving contest, sometimes sisters entwined in gracefullest community of complex form. Sometimes wild horses would tear across, free, or bestrode by noble shadows of ruling men. But some of the things which pleased them most they never knew how to\ describe.
About the middle of the plain they sat down to rest in the heart of a heap of shadows. After sitting for a while, each, looking up, saw the other in tears: they were each longing after the country whence the shadows fell.
“We must find the country from which the shadows come,” said Mossy.
“We must, dear Mossy,” responded Tangle. “What if your golden key should be the key to it?“
“Ah! that would be grand,” returned Mossy.—”But we must rest here for a little, and then we shall be able to cross the plain before night.”
So he lay down on the ground, and about him on every side, and over his head, was the constant play of wonderful shadows. He could look through them, and see the one
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behind the other, till they mixed in a mass of darkness. Tangle, too, lay admiring, and wondering, and longing for the country whence the shadows came. When they were rested they rose and pursued their journey.
How long they were in crossing this plain I cannot tell; but before night Mossy’s hair
was streaked with grey, and Tangle had got wrinkles on her forehead.
As evening drew on, the shadows fell deeper and rose higher. At length they reached a place where they rose above their heads, and made all dark around them. Then they took hold of each other’s hand, and walked on in silence and in some dismay. They felt the gathering darkness, and something strangely solemn besides, and the beauty of the shadows ceased to delight them. All at once Tangle found that she had not a hold of Mossy’s hand, though when she lost it she could not tell.
“Mossy, Mossy!” she cried aloud in terror.
But no Mossy replied.
A moment after, the shadows sank to her feet, and down under her feet, and the mountains rose before her. She turned towards the gloomy region she had left, and called once more upon Mossy. There the gloom lay tossing and heaving, a dark, stormy, foamless sea of shadows, but no Mossy rose out of it, or came climbing up the hill on which she stood. She threw herself down and wept in despair.
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Suddenly she remembered that the beautiful lady had told them, if they lost each other in a country of which she could not remember the name, they were not to be afraid, but to go straight on.
“And besides,” she said to herself, “Mossy has the golden key, and so no harm will come to him, I do believe.”
She rose from the ground, and went on.
Before long she arrived at a precipice, in the face of which a stair was cut. When she had ascended half-way, the stair ceased, and the path led straight into the mountain. She was afraid to enter, and turning again towards the stair, grew giddy at sight of the depth beneath her, and was forced to throw herself down in the mouth of the cave.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a beautiful little creature with wings standing beside her, waiting.
“I know you,” said Tangle. “You are my fish.”
“Yes. But I am a fish no longer. I am an aëranth now.”
“What is that?” asked Tangle.
“What you see I am,” answered the shape. “And I am come to lead you through the
mountain.”
“Oh! thank you, dear fish—aëranth I mean,” returned Tangle, rising.
Thereupon the aëranth took to his wings . . .