1939
TO BEDE GRIFFITHS: On ecumenical differences; on the poet Coventry Patmore and the age at which to read certain books; on worries about the coming war; on the meaning of temporal evils; on the central importance of Gethsemane in Lewis’s own meditations; and on the necessity of every generation learning from its own experience. The Territorials are the part-time soldiers Britain had mobilized for protecting the homeland.
8 MAY 1939
It was nice to hear from you again. I think I said before that I have no contribution to make about reunion. It was never more needed. A united Christendom should be the answer to the new Paganism. But how reconciliation of the Churches, as opposed to conversions of individuals from a church to another, is to come about, I confess I cannot see. I am inclined to think that the immediate task is vigorous co-operation on the basis of what even now is common—combined, of course, with full admission of the differences. An experienced unity on some things might then prove the prelude to a confessional unity on all things. Nothing would give such strong support to the Papal claims as the spectacle of a Pope actually functioning as head of Christendom. But it is not, I feel sure, my vocation to discuss reunion….
I thought we had talked of Patmore. I think him really great within his own limited sphere. To be sure he pushes the parallel between Divine and human love as far as it can sanely or decently go, and perhaps at times a little further. One can imagine his work being most pernicious to a devout person who read it at the wrong age. But a superb poet. Do you remember the comparison of the naturally virtuous person who receives grace at conversion to a man walking along and suddenly hearing a band playing, and then ‘His step unchanged, he steps in time.’ Or on the poignancy of Spring, ‘With it the blackbird breaks the young day’s heart.’ Or the lightening during a storm at sea which reveals ‘The deep/Standing about in strong heaps.’ That is sheer genius. And the tightness (if you know what I mean) of all his work….
No, I haven’t joined the Territorials. I am too old. It would be hypocrisy to say that I regret this. My memories of the last war haunted my dreams for years. Military service, to be plain, includes the threat of every temporal evil: pain and death which is what we fear from sickness: isolation from those we love which is what we fear from exile: toil under arbitrary masters, injustice and humiliation, which is what we fear from slavery: hunger, thirst, cold and exposure which is what we fear from poverty. I’m not a pacifist. If its got to be, its got to be. But the flesh is weak and selfish and I think death would be much better than to live through another war.
Thank God, He has not allowed my faith to be greatly tempted by the present horrors. I do not doubt that whatever misery He permits will be for our ultimate good unless, by rebellious will, we convert it to evil. But I get no further than Gethsemane: and am daily thankful that that scene, of all others in Our Lord’s life, did not go unrecorded. But what state of affairs in this world can we view with satisfaction? If we are unhappy, then we are unhappy. If we are happy, then we remember that the crown is not promised without the cross and tremble. In fact, one comes to realise, what one always admitted theoretically, that there is nothing here that will do us good: the sooner we are safely out of this world the better. But ‘would it were evening, Hal, and all well.’ I have even, I’m afraid, caught myself wishing that I had never been born, which is sinful. Also, meaningless if you try to think it out.
The process of living seems to consist in coming to realise truths so ancient and simple that, if stated, they sound like barren platitudes. They cannot sound otherwise to those who have not had the relevant experience: that is why there is no real teaching of such truths possible and every generation starts from scratch.
TO SISTER PENELOPE, an Anglican nun, in the letter that begins their spiritual friendship: On humility; and on the books of George MacDonald and of Charles Williams.
9 AUGUST 1939
Thank you very much…for your kind letter. The letter raises for me rather an acute problem—do I become more proud in trying to resist or in frankly revelling in, the pleasure it gives me? One hopes there will come a day when one can enjoy nice things said about one’s self just in the same innocent way as one enjoys nice things about anyone else—perfect humility will need no modesty. In the meantime, it is not so….
I think your task of finding suitable fiction for the convalescents must be interesting. Do you know George MacDonald’s fantasies for grown-ups (his tales for children you probably know already). Phantastes and Lilith I found endlessly attractive, and full of what I felt to be holiness before I really knew that it was. One of his novels, Sir Gibbie (Everyman), though often, like all his novels, amateurish, is worth reading. And do you know the works of Charles Williams? Rather wild, but full of love and excelling in the creation of convincing good characters. (The reason these are rare in fiction is that to imagine a man worse than yourself you’ve only got to stop doing something, while to imagine one better you’ve got to do something)….
Though I’m forty years old as a man I’m only about twelve as a Christian, so it would be a maternal act if you found time sometimes to mention me in your prayers.
TO OWEN BARFIELD: On the meaning of Jesus’ temptations in the wilderness and in the garden of Gethsemane; on fear; on death; and on the meaning of his death on the cross.
AUGUST 1939
As regards our argument about Gethsemane, I quite see that it sounds odd to attribute to perfect man a fear which imperfect men have often overcome. But one must beware of interpreting ‘perfect man’ in a sense which would nullify the temptation in the wilderness: a scene on which, at first, one would be tempted to comment (a) As regards the stone and bread ‘Imperfect men have voluntarily starved’ (b) As regards Satan’s demand for worship ‘Most men have never sunk so low as to feel this temptation at all.’
If we are to accept the Gospels however, we must interpret Christ’s perfection in a sense which admits of his feeling both the commonest and most animal temptations ( hunger and the fear of death) and those temptations which usually occur only to the worst of men ( devil worship for the sake of power). I am assuming that the stones and bread represent hunger: but if you prefer to regard it as primarily a temptation to thaumaturgy [ miracle-working] (‘If thou be the Son of God, command these stones’) then it falls into my second class.
The consideration of this second class at once raises the question ‘Are there no temptations proper to the very best and the very worst, which the middle sort of men do not feel?’: or, again, ‘Do not common temptations attack most fiercely the best and the worst?’ I should answer Yes, and say that fear of death was one of these….
…Death for Him also is the final defeat, but this time of real Free (I am taking it for granted that the spiritual essence of death is ‘the opposite of Freedom’: hence the most mortal images are rigidity, suffocation et cetera).
No doubt, He also knows the answer—that voluntary death…makes unfree itself the assertion of freedom. But voluntary submission does not mean that there is nothing to submit to.
What is it to an ordinary man to die, if once he can set his teeth to bear the merely animal fear? To give in—he has been doing that nine times out of ten all his life. To see the lower in him conquer the higher, his animal body turning into lower animals and these finally into the mineral—he has been letting this happen since he was born. To relinquish control—easy for him as slipping on a well worn shoe.
But in Gethsemane it is essential Free that is asked to be bound, unwearied control to throw up the sponge. Life itself to die. Ordinary men have not been so much in love with life as is usually supposed: small as their share of it is they have found it too much to bear without reducing a large portion of it as nearly to non-life as they can: we love drugs, sleep, irresponsibility, amusement, are more than half in love with easeful death—if only we could be sure it wouldn’t hurt! Only He who really lived a human life (and I presume that only one did) can fully taste the horror of death.
TO SISTER PENELOPE, who had given Lewis her book, Leaves from the Trees, in which “Consider the Dog: A Study in Right Relationship” is the first chapter: On what he has learned from animals about our relationship to God; and on the possibility of animals in heaven, and even their greeting us with tails wagging as we arrive.
24 AUGUST 1939
Thank you very much for your most interesting letter and for Leaves….
Your book raises a whole host of points that interest me. I have often thought of the parallel between the dog-man and the man-God relation and agree with all you say. I have found it helpful, too, in trying to understand Grace—which I suppose comes in on top of our humanity as the many quasi-human qualities which the dog learns from living with us come in on top of his caninity…. I very earnestly hope that you are right on p. 76 about tails wagging as well as trumpets sounding: not (as the anti-sentimental do vainly talk!) through sentiment, but because animal suffering raises quite terrifying problems about divine justice. Yet it is difficult to me to accept your suggestion, partly because the whole Christian tradition is so silent on the subject (or is that my ignorance?) and partly—well, what about all the wasps?—remembering, as you well remind us elsewhere, that the living members of any species are such a small minority. Perhaps the real answer is beyond human understanding: we know so little about Time and Individuality.
TO HIS BROTHER, who had been called back to active duty in the army and to whom Lewis wrote long, newsy letters weekly throughout the war: On the reading of Introduction to the Devout Life by St. Francis de Sales.
3 DECEMBER 1939
And talking of books, I have been looking rapidly through St. François de Sales this week end to find a passage I wanted to quote, and have derived much ‘social pleasure’ from your pencillings: as I have experienced before, to read a book marked by you in your absence is almost the nearest thing to a conversation. When I read that hares turn white in winter because they eat nothing but snow (used as an argument for frequent communion) and see your mark it is almost as if one of us was pointing the passage out to the other here in the study.
TO HIS BROTHER: On the center of the Christian experience at the heart of the best of western literature; and on Samuel Johnson.
18 DECEMBER 1939
Yes, I know well what you mean by the materialistic gains of being a Christian. It more often presents itself to me the other way round—how on earth did we manage to enjoy all these books so much as we did in the days when we had really no conception of what was at the centre of them? Sir, he who embraces the Christian revelation rejoins the main tide of human existence! And I quite agree about Johnson. If one had not experienced it, it would be hard to understand how a dead man out of a book can be almost a member of one’s family circle—still harder to realise, even now, that you and I have a chance of someday really meeting him.