The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers. Vol. 1 by Dorothy L. Sayers
The thing which the Churches at present most lack in the work of making Christian truth widely understood, is a body of experts who are able and willing to write on their own technical subjects with Christian assumptions behind them; correspondingly, the strongest attack upon Christianity comes precisely from the enormous output of technical literature which assumes an anti-Christian philosophy. It cannot be an accident that the scales are so heavily over-weighted; and the only conclusion one can draw is that either the majority of technical thinkers [are not Christians], or if they are, the Christian “explanation of the Universe” has not become so intimately a part of their minds as to impregnate and inform their secular work, as, for example, materialist philosophies impregnate and inform the work of innumerable writers on bio-chemistry, philology, history, and economics, to mention a few subjects at random.
That the Church herself tacitly acquiesces, or is at any rate pretty well resigned to, this separation between her philosophy and the fruits of secular labour, is betrayed by her pathetic astonishment and gratification over any person with a reputation in secular affairs who will condescend to approve or patronise Christianity in public. “Here”, she cries, waving flags, “is actually an intelligent person – an astronomer, novelist, diplomat, stockbroker, painter, somebody with a proper job – who nevertheless is a Christian, or almost a Christian, or at least not actively anti-religious; how unexpected and complimentary!” True, she does not always inquire very closely whether the worker in question is taken seriously by his professional colleagues; that is part of her failure to respect the integrity of the work. And it is also unfortunately true that, having discovered a Christian who is serving God in his proper job, her next step is to do all she can to distract and impede him in the exercise of that job by taking him away to address meetings, write apologetics, and generally exhaust himself in ecclesiastical work which is not his proper job, and which – if unduly persisted in – will end by unfitting him for the secular job to which he is called. (The opening chapter of Stephen Spender’s Life and the Poet5 is a strong warning against the results of serving propaganda aims outside, instead of through, one’s vocation; and what he says about political is equally true of religious amateur activities.)
What is in question, you see, is not a revision of doctrine, but a metanoia6 – a determination to recognise the Logos wherever He is found, week-days as well as Sundays; in the carpenter’s shop as well as in the Temple; in the workman’s truth as well as in the theologian’s truth, to do so in practice, and not only in theory. It is difficult, because the Church has insensibly allowed herself to acquiesce in the materialist’s mental habit of departmentalizing the truth; but her professional integrity is involved in the synthesizing [of] truths to make up the Truth.…
Yours faithfully,
[Dorothy L. Sayers]
1 The Rev. Stephen Miller Winter, Wargrave Vicarage, Berkshire, Honorary Canon of Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford.
2 See Malvern 1941 (Longman).
3 See letter to him, 7 October 1941.
4 Latin: the necessary changes being made.
5 Sir Stephen Spender (1890–1995).
6 From the Greek, signifying a change of mind, repentance.
During the War many commodities were unobtainable, lemons among them. In February 1943 Marjorie Barber happened to obtain one and sent it, as though it were a precious jewel, to D. L. S.
24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex
TO MARJORIE BARBER
13 February 1943
Dearest Bar,
Very many astonished thanks for the Museum Piece – so appropriately packed in a jeweller’s box – which arrived quite safely. Mac looked at it with a stupefied gaze and asked, “What is it?” Our only difficulty now is to decide how to dispose of it. Mac thinks it should be kept in a glass case, and people be invited to see it at so much a head; I (being of low, common clay with a pragmatic sort of mind) suggested that we might now have that curry which he formerly rejected on account of its “being no good without a squeeze of lemon”. He said it would be a pity to destroy it; I said it would be a pity to let it dry up or grow green whiskers; he said it would keep a long time yet. So we put it back in its wadding and laid it carefully aside; and when he has forgotten about it I shall probably hike it out on my own responsibility and serve it up with curry or fish or something. It is a very beautiful and encouraging lemon, anyway, and I thank you again most heartily. Mrs. Rice was much impressed, and said: “Where ever did she get that?”
Much love and blessing,
D. L. S.
Five days later an even more remarkable present arrived: 75 double-sided gramophone records, being the recording of the entire performance of The Man Born to be King.
[24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex]
TO MR B. E. NICOLLS
19 February 1943
Dear Mr. Nicolls,
Thank you very much indeed for The Man Born to be King, who arrived safely under special escort yesterday afternoon. This is indeed a magnificent present, and when I look at the tremendous number of records involved I am at a loss to thank the directors of the B.B.C. properly for their generosity. I am also a little staggered by finding that any work of mine could make so bulky and impressive an appearance! This is certainly the handsomest and most important looking of my published works. However, I certainly can’t say “Alone I did it”, and may I take this opportunity to renew my thanks to the B.B.C. in general, and to all the people in the Religious and Dramatic Departments, who, together with the engineers, carried this lengthy and exacting production through in spite of so many trials and difficulties.
I am so glad that you feel it to have been successful and worth the doing, and I can only repeat my very sincere thanks, and remain
Yours sincerely,
[Dorothy L. Sayers]
In March 1943 the recording of The Man Born to be King was broadcast.1 Someone who listened to part of the third play, “A Certain Nobleman”, was a Mr L. T. Duff, who wrote angrily on 15 March:
Dear Madam,
I heard part of your radio play last night, but eventually switched off in disgust that such drivel should be given over the air, and that a person of your standing should write it.
I can quite understand people of little education accepting and taking in such things as these, but you must have made research and enquiries into the actual so-called miracle and in view of your findings, I cannot understand why you should then write a play based on a pack of lies.
In point of fact the miracle never occurred and can be proved from many reasons. One being that it was physically impossible for Jesus to have been at the feast at all in view of the distance of a 100 miles or so that he was away a day or so earlier, and the time in which to travel.
A very good book to read is The Life of Jesus Christ by Hall Caine2. Especially read the part on which your play was based, and you will no doubt feel heartily ashamed of yourself for being a party to such deceit.
Yours faithfully,
L. T. Duff
1 See letter to B. E. Nicolls, 12 May 1943.
2 Sir (Thomas Henry) Hall Caine (1853–1931), novelist. He began work on a life of Christ in 1893, which was published after his death in 1938.
To this insulting letter D. L. S. took the trouble to reply:
[24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex]
L. T. DUFF, ESQ.
22 March 1943
Dear Sir,
I am sorry that you should have sustained such a shock. Is this really the first time you have realised that quite a large number of educated persons profess the Catholic Faith – even persons of (God save the mark!) “standing”?
But let me beg you not to agitate yourself too much. For a person of excitable disposition it is extremely wearing to live in a constant state of virtuous indignation. Forget that materialism is out of fashion, that the physicists are all goin
Poor Hall Caine! That is a very pathetic book. The labour of a lifetime, hopelessly unscholarly, and published fifty years too late to flutter even the popular dove-cotes. Mercifully he did not live to learn that it was dead before it was born.
Yours faithfully,
[Dorothy L. Sayers]
24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex
TO MARJORIE BARBER
23 March 1943
Dearest Bar…
We have eaten the LEMON at last! I kept it in its box for a bit till it began to look a little wrinkled; then, acting on your advice, I put it into water till it plumped out again. Then, seeing that it was showing signs of growing whiskers, and happening to have received from “George” a consignment of appropriate offal – to wit, sweetbreads – I cast reverence to the winds, cut the precious creature open (it was in perfectly good condition), used half the juice for the sauce and served up the sweetbreads adorned with slices of lemon as per Mrs. Beeton. Mac looked at it and said in an awful and accusing voice: “You’ve CUT the LEMON!” I said, “Well, you never looked at it and it was beginning to grow whiskers, so I thought I might as well.” So we ate it, and I used the peel to make barley-water, and I’ve still got a small piece left and shall eat it with a piece of fish for breakfast. So I think the lemon has done its duty nobly, and I thought humbly and gratefully of you, and of our Armies in Africa and of the Merchant Seamen and the Warships and all the other kind and courageous beings who had toiled to bring the lemon and the sweetbreads. “So that was all right, Best Beloved.”1
By the way – we had another shock on the kitchen front! No sooner was the cook settled than my little Mrs Rice came in, almost weeping with rage and frustration, to say that her little boy had come out all over spots, and she thought he had measles. So she would be shut up in the house for about a fortnight, and she was so cross, because she liked coming here, and she liked doing her work, and now she’d hear nothing all day but “Mrs So-and-so’s baby was due next week” (instead, I gathered, of my improving conversation). So I sympathised very much, said she musn’t worry so far as we were concerned since Mrs Goodwin was now coming earlier; and Mrs Rice tied her little woolly cap viciously on her head and went wrathfully away. This was on Saturday. On Monday (being her wash-day) she doesn’t come, but we had resigned ourselves to measles and thought to see her no more, anyhow, and I instructed Mrs Goodwin that instead of doing the brass and the silver and turning out her cupboards and the stinking little hole where the refrigerator lives, (on which she had set her heart) she would have to make beds and dust the sitting-rooms.
When lo and behold! this morning in walks Mrs Rice as bright as a button. The measles had turned out to be only nettle-rash. To make up for this, however, the elder boy had had an abscess in his ear, the little girl had had a whitlow on her finger, and on Sunday night, just as Mr Rice was going off to work, the boiler burst. Mr Rice said, “I’m sorry for you, but I can’t do nothing about it, I’ve got to go.” So Mrs Rice and a neighbour drew off all the water and emptied the boiler, and next day “the men” came, and they were all over the house, and they found that a new elbow-joint was needed in the pipe, and they tried all round Witham to get a piece of pipe and there wasn’t one to be had anywhere, and Mrs Rice said, “Can’t you mend it?” and the man took it away and mended it and thought it was all right but when he brought it back it burst again and there was nothing for it but a new piece of pipe; so the men went away, leaving it all anyhow, to try again to get a piece of pipe, and Mrs Rice’s friend next door said the same thing had happened to her and she had waited 18 months for a piece of pipe and was still waiting. And “the man” said it was the fault of these Council Houses – he knowed when they put in that cheap piping there’d be trouble. So there Mrs Rice was – no water anywhere and they couldn’t use that room, and how she’d manage she didn’t know – “but anyway”, said Mrs Rice, triumphantly, I’m here, and it’s better than measles, isn’t it?” – I think Mrs Rice is really one of the nicest people I know.…
Well, bless you – looking forward to seeing you at Easter –
Best love,
D. L. S.
I forgot to ask what happened to Mrs Rice’s wash-day. It can’t have been very successful! If they can’t get a pipe I shall have to suggest that she brings the family washing to our hot water for the next 18 months!
1 The catch-phrase “Oh Best Beloved” occurs in Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. The version “So that was all right, Best Beloved” occurs several times with minor variations in the story “The Beginning of the Armadilloes”.
24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex
TO HER SON
28 March 1943
Dear John,
Herewith cheque – Hope you are getting on all right and overthrowing Hitler with what speed you may. Though if rumour is to be believed, that gentleman has already been dealt with on the quem Deus vult perdere1 principle, and has gone rotten like a medlar, but not, perhaps, before he was ripe.
As for me, the state of affairs I outlined in my last letter went steadily from bad to worse, and left me virtually a prisoner in the house for six months. And if anybody wants to know what I have been doing – why, I have been dirtying saucepans and washing them up again – a process which leaves me with strong notions about the general futility of things. I don’t really mind being unable to stir from my own doorstep, and I don’t really mind not being able to fool around the country delivering addresses; but when it comes to the point that one cannot get any work done at all, one foresees the moment when one will become a burden upon the rates. Eventually, therefore, I appealed to the Ministry of Labour, saying that either I must be able to earn my living or the State must make up its mind to support me. This startled them, and they allowed me the services of a woman in the evenings, as a result of which I escaped to London for the first time since I don’t know when. I have also discovered that, having once lost the habit of work, it is very difficult to get into it again. The minute one settles down to anything and tries to think, one is shaken up, as out of sleep, by the thought that something is probably boiling over! So that all I have done since last October (except cooking, washing-up, mending and making) is to write a few letters to people, imploring them not to think or lead others to think that the “Post-War World” is going to be a time of peace, plenty, and expanding markets. It won’t, you know. After the first few years of making good in the occupied countries (which will provide plenty of markets, always supposing nobody wants or expects payment for commodities supplied) the markets will shrink, as the result of having so many more fully-industrialised countries. I’m not sure, but I think we are going to see mass-production come full circle and destroy itself – not in my time (unless we have another war rather quickly) but probably in yours. This will be interesting. I can’t imagine anything more interesting. But it will be extremely painful if we don’t realise in time what’s happening, and make preparation accordingly. I think (again) that, after the aristocracy of managers, the next thing will be an aristocracy of technicians. You will probably come in for that – after which, perhaps, we shall be ruled by the Land again, if we have not destroyed it first.
Damn! I must go and do lunch. No woman on Sundays!
Love,
D. L. S.
1 Latin: Whom God wishes to destroy (He first makes mad). Joshua Barnes, in his edition of Euripides (Index Prior, under “Deus”) quotes the saying as “Deus quos vult perdere, dementat prius”, which he translates as “Whom God would destroy He first sends mad”. It was rumoured at the time that Hitler had gone off his head.
[24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex]
TO LADY FLORENCE CECIL
30
Dear Lady Florence,
Thank you so much for your letter. I am afraid I don’t think I could write a play about Martha and Mary. For one thing my own bias would be too much on the side of Mary to suit the Mothers’ Union, though there is certainly scriptural warrant for this point of view! For another, I have got several heavy jobs of work on hand, and I couldn’t possibly get down to it for a considerable time. Thirdly, of course, there is always the tiresome difficulty about money. One has to live unfortunately, and if one is relying exclusively on amateur fees for a specialised show of this kind it does take a frightful long time before the work pays for itself, unless one exacts the top scale of royalties, which is more than it would be reasonable to expect Women’s Institutes to pay. Not that this last consideration would be of great importance if the subject was one that I passionately wanted to write about, but at the moment I don’t feel drawn to it – indeed, I am rather anxious, just at present, to get off the religious onto the secular drama, because it is rather a bad thing to get into too much of a rut. I have now written fifteen religious plays, in almost unbroken succession if one counts the twelve parts of The Man Born to be King separately, which is fairly good going.