I have been re-reading one of my favorite novels of all time, Gaudy Night, by Dorothy L Sayers. Dorothy was a terrible old snob, and her portrayal of porters, maids and valets is teeth-grittingly condescending, but I am, nonetheless, always delighted by this book. It paints Oxford in unforgettably golden tones, and makes one long to punt, stroll the college gardens, quote John Donne and dine at High Table. And if you have followed the encounters of Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane through the previous novels of the series, nothing is more satisfying than the last page of Gaudy Night. Crime, romance, comedy and philosophy - it's all here!
For those of us who hang out at both universities and churches, this is the bit where Harriet goes to church:
'Here was the great Anglican compromise at its most soothing and ceremonial. The solemn procession of doctors in hood and habit; the Vice Chancellor bowing to the preacher, and the beadles tripping before them; the throng of black gowns and hte decorous gaiety of the summer-froocked wives of dons; the hymns and the bidding-prayer; the gowned and hooded preacher austere in cassock and bands; the quiet discourse delivered in a thin, clear, scholarly voice, and dealing gently with the relations of the Christian philosophy to atomic physics. Here were the Universities and the Church of England kissing one another in righteousness and peace, like the angels in a Botticelli Nativity; very exquisitely robed, very cheerful in a serious kind of way, a little mannered, a little conscious of their fine mutual courtesy. Here, without any heat, they could discuss their common problem, agreeing pleasantly, or pleasantly disagreeing to differ. Of the grotesque and ugly devil-shapes sprawling at the foot of the picture, these angels had no word to say.'
For those of us who hang out at both universities and churches, this is the bit where Harriet goes to church:
'Here was the great Anglican compromise at its most soothing and ceremonial. The solemn procession of doctors in hood and habit; the Vice Chancellor bowing to the preacher, and the beadles tripping before them; the throng of black gowns and hte decorous gaiety of the summer-froocked wives of dons; the hymns and the bidding-prayer; the gowned and hooded preacher austere in cassock and bands; the quiet discourse delivered in a thin, clear, scholarly voice, and dealing gently with the relations of the Christian philosophy to atomic physics. Here were the Universities and the Church of England kissing one another in righteousness and peace, like the angels in a Botticelli Nativity; very exquisitely robed, very cheerful in a serious kind of way, a little mannered, a little conscious of their fine mutual courtesy. Here, without any heat, they could discuss their common problem, agreeing pleasantly, or pleasantly disagreeing to differ. Of the grotesque and ugly devil-shapes sprawling at the foot of the picture, these angels had no word to say.'
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