24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex
TO J. E. SPICE
28 October 1940
Dear Mr. Spice,
Forgive my delay in answering your very kind letter of the 21st. I am, of course, greatly honoured by your invitation to become an Honorary member of the Oxford University Society of Change Ringers. I have pleasure in enclosing my cheque for half a guinea in payment of this year’s subscription.
I am afraid it must be very difficult for Ringers Societies to carry on under present conditions, but one can only hope that the bells will not be silent too long.1
Wishing you all success,
Yours sincerely,
Dorothy L. Sayers
1 Church bells were not rung during the war until November 1942, in celebration of the Battle of Alamein.
[24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex]
TO DEREK MCCULLOCH
5 November 1940
Dear Mr. McCulloch,
Sorry I couldn’t send this last week. “It turned out as I knew it would be”; the thing, suddenly released from compression within thirty minutes, shot out like a joyful jack-in-the-box, and had to be captured and brought back. So I spent an angry week-end trying to resqueeze it into its box. It’s still about a page and a half longer (by count of words) than the second “St. Paul” play; but there are not so many shipwrecks and effects to allow for. But I took the opportunity of the extra 15 minutes to enliven things with a bit of crowdage and shoutery by introducing the famous episode of the Golden Eagle. This seemed good to me, as counteracting the necessarily rather pious and domestic effect of the Bethlehem scene. (I hate coping with this baby stuff – thank Heaven, one can only be young once, whoever one is!) It also gives Herod a good kick-off for his fury in the matter of the Massacre of the Innocents. It’s important that this shouldn’t be looked on as a mere piece of meaningless savagery. It was a perfectly reasonable political step, if you once allow that the good of the State is more important than the rights of the individual. The thing one wants to put up against the idea of the Kingdom of Heaven is the idea of the political kingdom, not the caprice of one wicked man. And finally, it gives Herod a final flare-up in his best manner – he handled that business rather well – and, as you will perceive, I have a weakness for the brilliant old ruffian. To the actor, of course, he is money for jam. I don’t think anyone could go wrong in playing Herod, though I do rather see Cecil Trouncer in it, if he’s available. I hope the allusions to his past – the Mariamne stuff and the political pretensions of the Hasmonaeans – [are] not too obscure. After all, children who have done any English history must have some acquaintance with the idea of the pretenders to the throne, and the claims of rival houses.
At this point, I have been depressed by a letter from Dr. Welch, saying that the “St. Paul” plays appeal “rather to adolescents and adults” than to children, and wistfully hoping that my plays will be understandable to youngsters “from 8 or 9 upwards”. I feel that 45 minutes of a religious play, every word of which is to be understanded of the eight-year-old, would be intolerably tedious to the twelve-year-olds. Besides, children differ so much. My own fancy, at that tender age, was for good, rumbling phrases, whether they meant anything or not. I should have liked the Kings’ astrological speeches, and the mysterious prophecies about the Victor-victim, and the three parallel dreams. Nor should I have minded a little pleasing melancholy – in fact, in my youth I rather wallowed in gloom, and liked to have the myrrh along with the gold. It’s the grown-ups who demand this everlasting brightness. But you will judge. My practice, when confronted with possible opposition from the religious authorities, is, first to satisfy the producer and enlist his support; then to sit back and watch while he fights it out on my behalf. This is called strategy.
By the way: I have two “things” about broadcast plays, both of which add greatly to my own troubles. One is, that I have a rooted conviction that all plays, even when broadcast, should explain themselves within their own dialogue. I don’t like to hear the Narrator expounding the situation. This may be a prejudice inherited from stage practice. But the thing irritates me – just as I am irritated by those complicated ballets, where an acre of small print on the programme is required to inform you that when the Huntsman leaps in and executes three chassées and a pirouette, he is really telling the Princess that he is the disguised rightful heir who was ousted by the wicked step-mother and left in the wood to be eaten by a bear, but for the intervention of a kindly charcoal-burner. I feel that if that information is so necessary to the understanding of the action, it ought to be conveyed in the action. Consequently, I have cut down the part of the Narrator to four brief Bible texts. The first three merely indicate the scene-changes; the fourth summarily concludes the story, and spares us a second domestic scene, and another angelic intrusion. One really cannot have two warning dreams in one episode. The choice was between cutting the Kings’ dreams and reducing Herod’s second scene to an outline, so as to give a scene to the Flight into Egypt, on the one hand, and doing as I have done – elaborating Herod and the Kings and cutting the Flight. I chose to do it this way, (a) because Herod is good acting stuff and (b) because there wasn’t very much that Mary and Joseph could say or do in the Flight scene, except be a couple of ordinary parents in a fright – and I don’t think one should bring Mary in unless one has something really important for her to say and do. By the way, you will notice that I have put into the Kings’ salutation a suggestion of the “Hail Mary”, but only the bit that will please the Catholics without offending the Protestants. (Let no one try to stampede us into accepting that the phrase “Mother of God” is Papist! It is not Latin, but Greek, and the people who object to it are Nestorian heretics,1 which is a very shocking thing to be!)
But I am wandering. The second “thing” I have about any series of plays, broadcast or otherwise, is that each should be, as far as possible, a complete and self-explanatory play in itself, with a beginning, a middle and an end of its own, and not just a slice out of a long narrative. This, again, is part of my prejudice against the Narrator, doing his bit of synopsis at the beginning: “Well, children, last week we saw how,” etc. This is going to make things awkward in the middle of the series, because it means constructing each play at the same time as a self-contained unit and also as a structural unit within the series. It means some careful “planting” and also that each plant should have its own root and leaves. But if it can be done, I think it is worth while, because it makes everything much easier for the listener who has happened to miss an instalment here and there. I don’t know whether I shall be able to manage it. Of course, I may not have to! You and/or the other authorities may not care for the first play, and then I shan’t have to do the rest.
Having now read the “St. Paul” plays, I’m sorry I didn’t hear them. I think it is exceptionally awkward material – a continual succession of shipwrecks and sermons – very gallantly handled. His dialogue is always excellent. I feel my usual irritation with the narrator, jerking us back to the question of what we know, or do not know about the subject. An author has no business to button-hole the audience to explain the defects in his knowledge – it makes him into a school-teacher at once. And I do feel – as I nearly always feel with Christian plays and films – that it suffers from a certain lack of theological guts. After all, it wasn’t a new idea that there was only one God (the Jews had had that, and got into trouble with the State before), and it wasn’t the idea that we should all be nice and kind all round (the Greeks had had that) that gave the thing its terrific dynamism. It was the sense that something which was the power of life itself had gone through the world like a thunderbolt and split time into two halves. I don’t say that is quite the way to convey it to the children, but it’s the feeling one wants to convey somehow. And you don’t quite get it by making the characters say: “There’s something funny about you blokes”, at every turn. And I do wish Paul didn’
t address everybody as “Friend”, like a Communist writing to his comrades!
However, I’ve no business to criticise other people’s plays, since mine will probably be no good at all. And I shall certainly be told that I have put in too much theology, too much obscure and mystical theology, too much offensive and Catholic theology, and far too little “simple Gospel” and plain, practical morality.
I’ve added a few notes on the characters. They must be real people – except the Kings, who are rather fairy sort of people. I think that is right. Tradition has bound the fairy-tale atmosphere upon them, and they come and go in a perfectly unexplained, magical way. By comparison, the Shepherds and their angel-vision are as plain as pie-crust. But what does come clearly out in the Gospel story, if one reads it carefully, is that they quite obviously thought they were bringing their message to Herod’s own household. Else why should they ask him to show them “him that is born king of the Jews”? It was the natural assumption to make. And hence the elaborate gifts of gold and myrrh and incense – the usual sort of present from one kingly court to another. The upshot of the thing must have surprised them – though I haven’t stressed this, since surprise is apt to sound comic. Actually, I don’t suppose Herod showed them how greatly “troubled” he was; the interview with the priests probably took place in private; but that would have been too undramatic. Also, it’s interesting that “all the people was troubled with” Herod. That supports the idea that the Kings made no secret of their (as they supposed) welcome mission; and that it was taken up by the people, and by Herod, as an exciting rumour about the possible new Messiah. And that would excite Jerusalem at that moment, when Herod was dying, when a religious revolt was already seething among the Pharisees, and when there were at least three claimants to the crown. (Almost Herod’s last act was to execute the wretched Antipater.)
In the hope that you may find the play workable, I will proceed to the next. I’m alarmed by the sweat this one has taken, and feel that time is short. The next one ought, logically, to cope with the Temptation in the Wilderness (since that was the moment when the idea of the wrong sort of kingdom was definitely faced and rejected). That means coping with the DEVIL – always an embarrassing character to make credible.
I hope you like the general title of the plays. It is an old fairy-tale title, and tells the story in six words.2
Hitler seems to keep fussing in and out today. One of these days our local siren will wear its whistle out. I hope Bristol hasn’t been too much bothered lately. If things go well, and you do the plays, I should like very much to attend a rehearsal or two. The job is that with trains as they are it’s a sort of pilgrimage to get anywhere these days.
The local warden has just come in to say that there is a time-bomb across the street, which “looks as though it might go off any minute”. He adds that “the police and the military are surrounding it” – as though it were a truculent parachutist. It’s a mild one, I gather – about 250 lb. But I had better retire from the window3 and put the MS of the play in the air-raid shelter.
Yours very sincerely,
[Dorothy L. Sayers]
1 Those who adhere to the heresy of Nestorius (5th-century Patriarch of Constantinople) who attributed distinct divine and human attributes to Christ.
2 The title, “The Man Born to be King”, was also used by William Morris for one of his poetical legends. (See The Earthly Paradise. D. L. S. read this at school.)
3 Her desk was in the window of her library on the first floor, overlooking Newland Street.
24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex
TO MARJORIE BARBER
11 November 1940
Dearest Bar,
So glad the jersey fits all right. Muriel’s has turned out quite satisfactory too, I think – I don’t like her round neck quite as well as your square one, but she chose that and it seems to suit her all right. I thought, what with the weather and the war, we might as well have the wool, in case Christmas never comes. Though here I am again encouraged by Winston, who seems to think 1942 and even 1943 may arrive in due course.
I expect M. has told you that she arrived back here to find a truly homelike atmosphere. About one hour before she came, the cook came up and announced that Mrs. Pork-Butcher just opposite had been out in her garden and found a hole in the ground. Mr. P-B went to inspect it, and said: “Ho! I shall report that to the police”. So the police came and looked at it and said, “Ho! We shall report that to the military”. So the military came and looked at it and said: “Ho! that is a 250 lb. time-bomb”. Having looked at it, and spoken thus, they went away. So the police said to the Pork-Butcher, “Would you rather evacuate your house and shop?” And the P-B said to the police: “Will I hell? Balls to you”. So the local plumber-and-decorator came to tell us all about it, and the cook told me, adding that the bomb “looked as though it would go off any minute”, but that no doubt it would be a harmless neighbour, since the military and the police were “surrounding it” – as if it were a truculent parachutist. The plumber-and-decorator then went and had a drink with Mac, who came in to tea later, with the information that the bomb had grown to 500 lb. We were much interested, and predicted that by the morning it would have increased to a land-mine. But evidently the swelling was not what we supposed; for the following evening my secretary came in and announced that the creature had apparently kittened in the night, as (according to the latest reports) there were now three or four of it; moreover, a quite separate one had turned up in the field behind her garden. That night, about 11.55, a heavy explosion was heard, followed by several more. Some of us thought the whole litter must have exploded simultaneously, but I thought not, and said it was a stick of bombs dropped at Braintree. Later, someone told us that a stick of bombs had fallen at Coggeshall; and my answer was adjudged correct, till our evacuee came in and said that somebody had told him that our bomb had gone off the night before at 11.30. This was as confusing as a detective story, because, owing to the conflict of evidence about the time, the bomb could prove an alibi, and the time that we heard the explosions could be proved by me, because I had the wireless on, waiting for the midnight news. Also (circumstantial evidence) the Pork-Butcher still had his shutters up – a measure adopted as an anti-time-bomb precaution, and we supposed that if it had gone off just behind his premises, the shutters would by now be either taken down or blown out. Finally, the cook thrust her head into the sitting-room to announce (from the P-B’s own mouth) that the Bomb Had Not Gone Off Yet. So we suppose it is still there. So is the Pork-Butcher’s. And so is the New Post-Office next door to the Pork-Butcher’s. And some of us think that the bomb must have been rendered fairly harmless, since the Government has only just finished the Post-Office at vast expense and wouldn’t want it blown up. But Mac says, No – it is built with public money, and they wouldn’t care whether it was blown up or not. Anyway, it is a very ugly building and much higher than our house. So if the Bomb goes off, the Post-Office will probably shield us from the blast, but come and die heroically on our roof. So we hope it will not go off; but, this being the country, nobody bothers at all one way or the other.…
Best love,
Yours ever,
D. L. S.
Muriel’s best love – She says she knows she has something to say to you, but can’t think what it is.
On 5 November 1940 D. L. S. sent off the first of her plays to Derek McCulloch. He acknowledged it but said he had not yet been able to read it. Only one copy had been sent, for fear lest others might be destroyed in an air-raid. He reported that “my staff tore it from me to read in relays, but judging from their excited remarks the general opinion seems to be ‘favourable’, as publishers with their extreme caution are fond of saying”.
Everything seemed promising and D. L. S. began work on the second play. Derek McCulloch was obliged to go to Glasgow for a few days. In his absence, the Assistant Director, Miss May E. Jenkin, wrote to D. L. S. about the play. She began b
y saying: “We have now all read it and let me say at once that we are quite delighted with it. It seems to us admirably dramatic, and both profound and beautiful.” She went on to say, however, that certain speeches would be over the heads of children and that in some places the idiom was too modern: “We wonder if you will allow us discreetly to edit? If you would prefer to make these small alterations yourself, I will send you the play back, but we are anxious not to delay having the copies duplicated and posts are so slow at the moment. We would, of course, get your O.K. for every change before the broadcast.”
D. L. S., who had herself expressed to Derek McCulloch some doubt as to whether she was writing above the heads of children, reacted irascibly, evidently because she sensed that her work was now being judged by a committee.1
[24 Newland Street
Witham
Essex]
TO MAY E. JENKIN
22 November 1940
Dear Miss Jenkin,
Thank you for your letter. I am glad you like “Kings in Judaea”. I shall now proceed to be autocratic – as anyone has a right to be, who is doing a hundred pounds’ worth of work for twelve guineas.
I don’t think you need trouble yourselves too much about certain passages being “over the heads of the audience”. They will be over the heads of the adults, and the adults will write and complain. Pay no attention. You are supposed to be playing to children – the only audience, perhaps, in the country whose minds are still open and sensitive to the spell of poetic speech. The two passages you mention are those which I had already dealt with in my letter to Mr. McCulloch; because I knew that they would present a difficulty to adults – though not to children – and that your first impulse would be to cut them.
The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers. Vol. 1 Page 24
