Trübsal, Schmerzen, Angst, und Noth,
Im Gebet auch oft gestritten
Mit dem hochgelobten Gott.’
Theodor Schenk.
Dorothea Beale—largely owing to her sensitive nature and high ideals—had had her full share of the sufferings and disappointments of youth. And when she had gained the experience and habits of more mature years, when she had schooled herself to bear, when her position was assured, when she was free to associate largely with those most sympathetic to her, her zeal1 for the best ever caused a pressing sense of effort and strain. Certain commonplace troubles she had not known, as, for example, the want of money—a need which in fact she never experienced, and never really understood in others. And on the whole her health had been good. She regarded it as one of her first duties to consider this, and except for the fact that she had an inherent indifference2 to the character of the food she ate, the duty was not neglected. But in 1878 she was called upon to go through a period of weakness and anxiety which limited her powers for the time. In spite of her great self-control she was obliged to relax a little, to take more rest, while the effort to preserve that self-control made her seem, to[180] some who knew nothing of it, hard and unsympathetic. Very little indeed did she say of what she went through at this time, because she thought it best for others that she should be reserved and silent on the subject. The College and Miss Beale seemed to have a stability which could not be touched or changed, and she knew the value of this characteristic to her work. Probably no one in the College, and hardly any one outside it, perhaps none except her sisters and Miss Clarke, knew how near she was at this time to an absolute breakdown3. The diary, still persistently5 kept, continued to be little more than a record of struggle against particular faults; yet here, from an occasional word and expression, the weariness and anxiety of the time may be gauged6.
The year opened for Miss Beale with a special renewal7 of effort. Canon Body’s addresses at a Retreat she attended in Warrington Crescent in the first days of January were full of inspiration to her. This meant actively8 fresh effort, keener self-scrutiny9, more watchfulness10. ‘I remember,’ she wrote on January 24, the opening day of College, ‘I remember with grief the many neglects of the past. Forsake11 me not, neither reward me after my deserts.’
The next few weeks show a pathetic struggle against a growing sense of weakness. At first she blamed herself if duty was neglected, then as she knew herself to be ill, still felt that more might have been done, refusing to take sickness as an excuse. There are many living who were at College at this period, and to them the picture of this effort and suffering going on in the background of all that then seemed unfailingly vital and positive must have a double interest,—increasing tenderness for the memory of her who for their sakes was bearing a daily burden of pain, encouraging to fresh zeal by showing what a brave[181] spirit may do even in weakness and depression. A few extracts to show this follow:—
‘Jan. 26. Nothing of real work done since school, and but little in the morning.
Feb. 3. Did not do best for literature class. Felt feeble and did not try as I ought.
” 9. [There] ought to be more industry in writing for Saturday lectures. The night cometh.
” 11. I grieve for the stupid lesson I gave Division III., because not well prepared.
” 14. Still great waste of time. How much have I to learn in this little time of life left to me.
” 15. Too much depressed16, feeling I can’t. Perhaps more variety and exercise wanted. Certainly more trust and energy.
” 16. More than one hour wasted in idle thoughts, 5-6 a.m., and yet I have work for others which I ought to have thought of, and lessons. I deserve to be left without help. Evening. Not much matter or order in lessons. Tired and discontented with self. Neglect of books. More trust and energy wanted.
” 26. I have idled away precious time, neglected individual work. Because my own will is weak, I could not strengthen [another].
” 28. Not in College. Much time wasted and [I was] disobedient to the voice of duty.
March 1. Still great waste of energy in idle thoughts. Talk of zeal but no religious work done to-day, though there are so many individuals I am ever putting off.
” 2. Omitted teachers’ class, which with less of idle thoughts I might have done.
” 6. Time not well used in afternoon. Letter to Miss Clarke.
” 14. Was ill last night. Almost no individual work.
” 15. A little more work for my children to-day. I thank Thee for some help. May I consecrate20 time and energies to Thee.[182]
” 17. Have not prayed well for to-morrow—was tired, but did waste some time. Not attentive13 enough at Church.... Surely to-day’s negligence21 might humble22 me!
” 18. Rose thirty-five minutes late through carelessness.
” 19. Back to College. Shall I patiently resign my work as soon as He bids?
” 20. Evening examination shortened because delayed. It was not necessary, though I am idle. Ordered away. Thy will be done.
” 21. Sent to Hyde. Forty-seven. (This was her birthday.) For the grievous neglect of past time enter not into judgment23. Sanctify the future!
” 22. Make me ever more constant to resign to Thee my will.
” 23. More ill, so tried to be idle, but did what thought I could. Vain thoughts of self-pity.
” 24. No Church. Have wasted time. Great inattention at prayer.
” 25. Talking, and therefore late, at least half an hour. Miss Belcher came.
” 27. George came. Was ill most of afternoon. Did nothing.
” 28. I thank Thee for hopes of more work. Make me more restful and faithful. Power of prayer fails. Grant me the spirit of holy fear.
April 2. Back at Cheltenham.
” 5. Tried, but not successfully, with my Confirmation26 children. Feeling too ill to do well. Thy will be done.
” 8. Better class. Was helped.
” 13. Not punctual because sleepless29. Read Mr. Hinton’s Life and was helped by it. Confirmation at Christchurch. Summary [of the term]. Time wasted, idle prayer, boasting. Intercessions [neglected] because too selfish.
” 16. Came to Hyde [for the holidays].’
So ended a term of great anxiety. One medical opinion, doubtless referred to in her diary of March 20,[183] was of such a nature, that Miss Beale thought she must resign her work at once. At Hyde her sisters persuaded her to rest and to see another doctor, who took a more hopeful view, which was wholly justified30 by her gradual return to health.
Among the few who knew of this sorrow was the old pupil and friend, Miss Margaret Clarke. To her Miss Beale wrote from Hyde before she had received the second medical opinion, and the reply shows, far more than the diary can tell us, how deep was the gloom which hung over her way at this time. It might well have been written three years later, when Miss Beale was called upon to undergo greater suffering than any bodily pain alone can give, and suggests to those who read it now, that the darkness of that later time was shadowing her spirit even as early as this. The interest of it is the greater because it shows another who like Dorothea Beale, while faithful to her work, unsparing in care and thought for her children, had been called upon personally to know spiritual anguish31. Such suffering, such loss, such deeper realisation of Divine love as are read in this letter are surely the portion of those who, having given much and helped many, are called to some further work of sympathy, needing perhaps ‘heart’s blood.’
‘My very dear Friend,—Your letter touches me so nearly, and calls out such true sympathy, that I cannot help yielding myself to the impulse to answer you, as one who, by her own experience, knows the pain and suffering you are now passing through. Last year at this time I was in it, and possibly just where you are now, where my complete faith in all that was most dear to me was tested; yes, tested and sifted32, till all human longings34 and cravings, even those the most lawful35, were laid low; God Himself seemed to draw near, and strip the soul of all it prized, and was proud of, asking one thing after another of it, and last of all the heart, whole and unshared, until, when Good Friday came, it could sympathise with the Crucified, as it[184] had never done before. Not that all that had not been done before as I believed, but this was in a way deeper, more searching than the soul had yet realised. I do not know if I am making myself clear to you, for it is difficult to put it into words. It was the unlearning human wisdom, and the getting ready to be “a little child,” to learn Divine Wisdom, in the school of the Kingdom of the Incarnate37 Word.
‘And then, when all was yielded, at least in will, then came a desolation time, which none but those who have passed through it can know—a living death, as it were; the soul having just power to cling to the Invisible Cross, and say the Creed38, as a witness perhaps more to itself, that faith was alive, than to God as an act of faith in Him. I never slept, (I was for) whole nights awake, (the) brain always at work trying to solve the difficult problems of God’s wisdom, and circumstances in my own life, and to find out what was right, what was His Will. At last I was given a simple faith blindly to give myself to God for whatever He wished for me. To let go reasonings and what I thought, etc., and say just as a little child “Our Father” with intention for what He willed. I did not know what it might be, but He knew, and I would trust Him, and then I went on to (think of) that seventeenth chapter of St. John, and claimed my share in the benefits of that prayer, in the answer that is ever coming to each separate member of Christ’s Body all along the years since it was prayed.
‘And so, gradually, the passage was made into a nearer region, a nearer relationship to God, if I may so express myself. But I must not go on writing in this way. I can only tell you that what was then only a trembling venture of Faith has become a substantial reality in the life of the soul; the whole being, body, soul and spirit being penetrated39 by it, and the whole of life transformed by the “sunshine” which makes itself felt, even through stray clouds, which must come sometimes, and there is rest and peace in the soul—divine peace.
‘Forgive me, dear Miss Beale, for writing in a way I scarcely ever do to any one.
‘I know how impossible it will be for you to rest, but do try to do so, as long as you can.’
After the Easter holidays Miss Beale was much better in health, and though her work through the summer was carried on with a good deal of strain and weariness, she was able to do it as fully25 as usual. The summer holidays[185] were spent partly at Hyde Court with her mother, and partly at Cheltenham, and by the end of them she was much rested and again able to take the walks she enjoyed. The opening day of the autumn term was September 17. ‘Help me not to disgrace my profession!’ she exclaimed in her diary of that day.
Two years after this date Hyde Court ceased to be the regular holiday home, for in November 1881 Mrs. Beale died. In one of her later letters to her ‘Principal’ daughter she had written: ‘I hunger to see you, my darling. You have been so good to me always, your reward will come.’ Such words of praise are dear indeed when the lips that spoke them are cold. They were treasured by Miss Beale. But in this bereavement40, as in all times when made conscious of the shadow of death, specially of her own, she tried to face the mystery with clear-sighted gaze, to realise sincerely the impression it was meant to produce. She would not let expressions of comfort and hope, which she welcomed and accepted to the full, or any brightness brought by the kindness of the living, hide for her the penitential aspect of death.
The following fragmentary thoughts seem to come from the very chamber41 of death, and were written on the day of the month which was to be the date of her own death, twenty-five years later:—
‘November 9, 1881.
‘At first death seemed, as I looked at that pale face, simply terrible—how could I die? This morning I went again and touched the cold hand, and gazed into the face, so calm and wax-like. She who had rejoiced over my birth fifty years ago was now perhaps watching me. Does the spirit linger round its earthly tabernacle for a while? The memory of old times came back—not only the love and unselfishness, but the harshness too, the faults, the sins, I find in myself—surely she feels it now as the light shines on her. Does she not see herself more as God sees her? For every sinful word we shall give account.[186] Surely this sorrow is a purifying fire, and the words are true, if we would judge ourselves here we shall not be judged.
‘Here, where we have partaken together of His Body and Blood, I kneel near that empty tabernacle—but a spiritual Presence is with us—purifying us both and drawing us nearer to Him in Whom living and dead are one.
‘Bless and purify our spirits, O Lord, with the dew of Thy grace, make us gentler and holier. Through the veil we seem to see Thee nearer. Longing33, praying that we may not, as the rich man, have to feel the burning shame for our unloving spirit, now that we see His love, His tender, searching eye.
‘It becomes to me a sacred chapel42, I can scarcely bear to part. The room is fragrant43 with the gifts of tender flowers from loving friends, and there is a peace here abiding44 in the sense of God’s continued, loving, healing discipline. “I change not!”’
During these years outside interests multiplied. New friendships were formed; some old ones were strengthened. The College Magazine, the first definite link forged with old pupils, was begun in 1880. Miss Beale made more acquaintances outside the College. In London she met many who shared her educational interests. In Cheltenham she attended, and often read and spoke at, a small literary gathering45 called the Society of Friends, which met from time to time at different houses. The diary becomes full of reference to Mrs. Middleton and Mrs. Owen. Through Mrs. Middleton she came to know Mr. Wilkinson’s[48] great evangelistic work in his fashionable London parish. She often went to hear him preach, read his books, and showed them to others. Mrs. Owen introduced her to the Life and philosophy of James Hinton, which made a very deep impression. At Mr. Owen’s house she met many earnest social workers and thinkers. Among these was Miss Ellice Hopkins, whose devoted46 work revived in tenfold force[187] her early pity for those who need to be ‘found.’ The increasing vigour48 of the College life and work was ever bringing in new ideas. Men who were making their mark as thinkers and teachers of their own special subjects often came to lecture. Among the most enthralled49 listeners to the eloquence50 of Professor William Knight51, to the marvellous fairy-tales of science told by Professor Barrett, was the Lady Principal herself. Teachers and educationists of widely different views came to see the work of the school, often to find that the successful head-mistress who was able to show them so much was willing and eager to learn from them, and to see matters from their standpoint. Meanwhile she was reading as widely and eagerly as ever.
It was a time when long-accepted opinions were unsettled for many, by new scientific theories, or by a greater sensitiveness to the mystery of pain and the apparent indifference of a part of the so-called religious world in presence of the deepest wrongs and suffering. Dorothea Beale had to take her part in the special difficulties of her own day. The battle has been shifted to another ground for this generation, which scarcely knows what resistance was made, what suffering was endured by some heroic souls in the last, and at what a price a larger spiritual consciousness was bought.
The contact with so many minds, the widening circle of acquaintance with workers of different views and methods, and especially the appeal for aid in religious perplexity constantly made by those who came under her influence, doubtless helped to precipitate52 that sorrow, which, though in its acutest phase of short duration, was the sharpest trial Miss Beale was ever called upon to experience; one on which she never ceased to look back with horror. She who had said that she ‘could truly take[188] to herself the words of Faber,’[49] who had been from earliest childhood conscious of a protecting Presence, and had even then ‘found prayer a joy,’ now in late middle life felt herself, as it were, cast out. At an age when the inexperienced questionings of youth were over, when she hoped to find faith and hope strengthened by knowledge, it seemed for a moment as if they had died down altogether.
‘Nel mezzo cammin di nostra vita
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
Che la diritta via era smarrita.’
To write of it is to turn a page of soul-history so intimate, and for a moment so painful, that it may well be thought it should be passed over in silence. But to omit it would not be wholly faithful to the memory of one who wished certainly that this story of her inner life should be known to all who could be helped by it. To tell it, moreover, is to use her own words, for she wrote of it herself, more than once or twice. She felt, when she looked back on it afterwards, that she was obliged to go through this time of suffering in order that she might be better fitted to do the work given her, in order that others who had lost faith and hope might be helped to regain53 them, by knowing how she herself had passed from destruction and despair to hope and rebuilding.
The diary of this whole period is more than ever indicative of inward strife54 and unrest from which she would not by her own will escape to any comfort other than the highest. Among the entries, which are for the most part self-analytical and depressed, it is curious to find this: ‘Letter from —— Some vanity perhaps in the refusal.’
[189]
It was an offer of marriage from an old friend.
Once or twice there is a hint of coming sorrow before she was conscious what its nature would be. Once, when marking the anniversary of a friend’s death, she noted55 herself as ‘perplexed with the Incomprehensible.’ On June 27, 1881, a year before the darkness closed in, she wrote: ‘A great dread56 of coming sorrow, as of a calvary before me. If some bitter cup is to be poured out, Thy will be done. Only forsake me not! Salvator Mundi!’
The new year (of 1882) opened as usual with renewed self-dedication; but she mentions that she came back to Cheltenham on January 14, after the annual Retreat, ‘very broken.’ Though a persistent4 effort to keep up her religious rule was maintained, the clear shining of faith was much clouded. One who went to her for help at that time writes of it thus:—
‘I went to her in sore trouble at the beginning of 1882, in one of the overwhelming griefs of extreme youth, when the whole aspect of life has suddenly changed from a lovely rose-garden ... to a hideous57 waste. The very things which made it lovely seemed to be shining and horrible shams58, with undreamed-of treachery and horror lurking59 behind everything. It was the culminating disillusionment to turn to her who had been such a tower of patient strength all through school-life, and find nothing, no help, no comfort, no explanation, no hope to give! Yet while there were many at that time whom I could not endure to see, or do with because of the feeling of betrayal all round, there was never that with her. It never dawned on my mind for a moment that she was herself in the horrible mire60, but I understood, I suppose, in my heart. I felt sorry for her and loved her better than ever before, and I never understood till now the reason of the tender intimacy61 of that time, which lay under the apparent disappointment of finding no help or comfort where I had made sure of it.’
This powerlessness to help those who turned to her in their spiritual need made more poignant62 the sense of[190] loss to one who loved to give freely as a mother to her children. ‘Then others came,’ she wrote afterwards of this time, ‘and one felt like the starving mother who saw the babe at her empty breast. I had no simple truths, no milk of the word to give them that they might grow thereby63.’
A letter to a friend mentions books which had a destructive effect as read at this time. It was not Miss Beale’s habit deliberately64 to read a book which was likely to disturb or weaken faith. To an old pupil who once wrote to her of Strauss’s book, The Old Faith and the New, she had replied:—
‘September 1873.
‘I feel sorry you have read Strauss, but, of course, if you felt it your duty to do so, you were right. Still, I do not think one is bound to read everything, any more than one is to listen to all that can be said against all one’s friends. I mean a person might be ever so good, yet if we were constantly to listen to insinuations against them, if we were frequently with those who disbelieved in their goodness, and looked contemptuous when we trusted, a most well-founded confidence might result in doubt and distrust. I think we should act in religious matters as we ought in a case of friendship—refuse to hear insinuations, but ask for the grounds, arguments—not let our mind be biassed66 against our will and better judgment. I believe with many that these doubts are “spectres of the cave,” that if we have courage to face them, we shall see them fade away. But then we must be very much in earnest, spend time and labour and much thought upon this, as upon other subjects, and pray for the spirit of truth. I have not read Strauss, I know the general line of his arguments, but as you say he gives none here, I need not get the book to meet them.’
Now, in this period of doubt and anxiety, books by any whom Miss Beale thought to be earnest seekers for truth, whether they were orthodox or not, were freely read.
The sense of loss and discomfort67 seems to have grown gradually all the year. ‘Poor lesson because depressed,’[191] she notes on a day in February. A fortnight later in church she was ‘wrestling like Jacob; Tell me Thy Name.’ Palm Sunday, however, brought some peace. ‘I think I touched His garment’s hem12.’ Each day in that Holy Week she was at an early service before school hours began, and on Easter Day wrote: ‘This Lent has been blessed.’ In Easter week she notes that she finished reading Jukes’s New Man, ‘a beautiful book.’
But before the holidays were over there was ‘a dread of coming sorrow,’ a renewed feeling of deadness and want of devotion, only ‘passive following the inward guide.’ ‘Much troubled this morning,’ she wrote on Whit-Sunday, and the need for a ‘new life-pulse’ grew larger as the summer term wore on. Yet she persisted in striving to keep her devotional rules, and for her apparent want of zeal blamed only herself. At the end of that busy term, so full of work and interests and anxieties, she wrote: ‘Be with me in the holidays. I fear them.’
Of the suffering of that time she afterwards wrote fully, tracing the steps by which she was gradually led to think that the historical evidence on which she thought her faith rested was of no value. An extract from one account is given:—
‘Even if historical evidence were there, it could not be for all. And was it there?
‘No, [only] fragments by nobodies, inconsistent versions. If God gave a perfect Man, He could not be for an age, but for all time, and how if His life passed, and we have no writing, only untrustworthy accounts? Surely, then, the life was worthless which God did not care to save for us. He stored up coal and light, our physical life, but He cared not to preserve Jesus, the spiritual life, He who had been called the Light of the world. Then it must be a delusion68 that He was, and God has deceived us, and we were deceived. The Pharisees were right in testing[192] His claims. They watched Him on the Cross and there bade Him cry to the God Whom He had claimed as Father,—and He cried as the fabled69 prophet of old, Eli! Eli! and God disowned Him, and the words followed which proved that He was forsaken70, that the thirst of soul was unappeased and His life was indeed over. And so the darkness gathered round the Cross, ever darkening as I listened to the cry. Was God indeed mocking our hopes? The old pagan vision rose before me. The symbols of the Christ were confounded with grotesque71 forms. I could not utter the Creeds72 of the Church. Yet strange to say I yet clung to a consciousness of a Father of the visible. In my troubled dreams, which haunted me day and night, I still seemed to feel there was a God, though no voice was heard for me among the trees of the garden.[50]
‘I said I will not give up my trust in God, I must reconstruct. I will not, as some who have lost faith in Christ and the eternal, give away the trust in a Father. This I thought would survive without, but with that (my faith in Christ) went all belief in the existence of any other. As I listened to the voice of creation unharmonised by the interpretation73 of generous love proceeding74 from the soul, it seemed simply horrible: the martyr75 slowly consuming in the fire, God looking on, refusing to interfere76 with natural causes. I had seen this before, but, as in that beautiful parable77 of the Septuagint, I had seen God was with him, and the joy overpowered the pain, and the true life was purified, and they thanked God in the fires. Now I saw no immortal78 hope, no resurrection; all was dark horror and amazement79. No; could I keep belief in a God who had deceived mankind? Should I trust Him, pray “to Him”?[51]
‘For months I read and thought of nothing else; whenever the pressing claims of work left me for a moment, I felt the light was gone from my life. Sometimes a deeper sympathy filled me,—as I seemed like a gladiator standing80 with my fellows. Morituri te salutant. But generally I felt myself growing hardened by the want of power to find sympathy in my sorrow, nor could I pray. I did not often, and when I did, it was one cry—“Why, why hast Thou left us, O God—without answer to our cries? Why hast Thou uttered no word of consolation81 to all the groans82 of earth? If Thou hast not heard Jesus, none of us need pray.” He trusted in God that He would deliver Him, and was forsaken, and men have waited through the ages, as a little child would wait, shut up in prison by some cruel father, and would not at first believe that he was[193] to be starved to death. And at last they realised that God for them was not,—only the prison-house He had built, in which they passed away their lives, in which, like a starving man, they dreamed of palaces and feasts, the delusions83 of their fevered brain.
‘How that old passage came home to one’s fevered soul,—“the desert shall blossom as the rose”—as the thought of one’s old Christian84 faith came back. What would one not give, I thought, to believe it true once more! For that lighted up the whole world, then there were living waters, consolation in every sorrow, a well-spring of divine sympathy, inexhaustible,—wells from which one could drink for ever, and pour out of one’s abundance.
‘Sometimes one did look up to the parched85 heavens, and though no rain fell, each time there was a little refreshing86 dew, as if God were answering when one let Him speak, instead of running into desert places, crying with Io, forsaken and maddened by a cruel God. Sometimes the words came then, “I will see you again.”
‘But the vision of green pasture, of waters that would quench87 the parching88 thirst of the desert, it seemed a mirage89,—and no good Shepherd waded90 out to me in my desert. Sometimes I found other wanderers, who asked of me the waters, and this seemed to fill my heart with deeper anguish; like Hagar, I could die in the wilderness91, but I could not see my child die. So I tried to escape, but I could not, and I was obliged to lift my eyes to Heaven for their sakes. I did not tell them that what I took for mirage was real,—I did not try to turn stones into bread, I could only tell them of what I felt must be the creed of Goethe, that creation is the garment of God, and these shores of earth could not be all; there must be something true and substantial behind the phenomenal. The philosophy of St. John interpreted by Browning, the consciousness of love in my own nature, bore witness to the greater love of God. The Spirit within bore witness that there was a Father of spiritual life, and therefore that a divine sonship was possible for us. And as in our desolation we looked up together, it seemed as if the old truth was coming back to us, but in a new way. Jesus had taught it, only we had not seen it before.... If we felt the witness of the Spirit prompting us to cry, Abba Father, and if there was a Father, this prompting must come from Him. And so I listened once more for this Voice. And I was not left alone in the desert, as I waited in my first grief. God sent to me messengers when I had lain down there in the stupefaction of spiritual sleep. They offered me angels’ food. I watered it[194] with tears, but I took it,—I ate it, whilst praying that God would take away my life,—take it, lest I should tempt65 others into the stony92 desert. Yes, I, who had refused to take others to the Lord’s Table, because they were faint and hungry, and in the highways of the world,—I, who had thought it profane93, thought now that my mere94 hunger gave me a right to come. If He was indeed there, He might fill the empty cruse with oil. He might hear me as I said, “We have no wine.” And I remembered as I dared to come in my unbelief, the words I had been taught, of the hungry being filled. I thought I had once been of the mighty95 and rich, now I knew I was weak and hungry, so I came. But I saw not the Master, only a stranger whom I knew not, for my eyes were holden, and I did not recognise Him.
‘Oh how often did I pine for death, not but that I could have taken the suffering. I thought that was possible, if I could have borne it alone. The grief was to feel that I should lead others away, whether I spoke or was silent. This only was right, never to say an untrue word, to teach what truth I had. But I was pledged like a clergyman. Still I did not yet know what I thought. I might read a little, for if I must find Christ was dead, I hoped, begged, God would take my life, that others might not die through me. With what joy did I see sickness come, and what disappointment there was when it was not unto death.
‘Sometimes I thought I would take some spiritual opiate,—think no more, but try to kill self into a state in which probability should content me. But I could not work nor pray by such means. And if I could content myself by a sedative96, could I my children? No; I must go on till I could feel the truth of those words ever recurring97 to me, “And dying rise, and rising with Him, raise His brethren, ransomed98 by His own dear life.”
‘In darkness, I thought, “He descended99 into hell,” and I felt I would not rise unless I could bring my children too with me.
‘What was the state of thought [at that time]? One could only look and read and see amongst the most intellectual the loss of hold on Christianity, and with those who believed, one felt it had been as with oneself, the belief would not bear the strain that would come; the tints100 were put on, were not our life through assimilation.’[52]
[195]
Probably those to whom Miss Beale turned at first realised little of the distress101 that prompted her questions.
‘I said, “Surely there must be some one who can help where I am too weak and ignorant,” so I went to a distinguished102 [teacher] whom I thought so able and strong, and his concluding words sounded like a knell103. “Nothing can be done.”’[53]
The darkest hour came during the early days of August when staying with friends, from whom she vainly hoped to conceal104 her sorrow.
‘At first I was silent, but as I could only weep day and night, I was obliged to tell them.... They kept me when I could not pay other visits. Whilst wondering at my misery105 they tried to help me by getting [books].’[54]
It was perhaps some relief—as of one who faces the worst—to note in her diary each fresh incoming wave of sorrowful thought.
‘1882, August 6, Sunday. At church. A nice sermon on the parable of the Unjust Steward106. Talk of Newman’s books. J. said A. had some. I, thinking of J. H. N., asked to borrow. [The book] proved to be by the brother, F. Newman.
‘Monday, August 7. Read some [of F. Newman’s book]. Pitied him much.
‘Tuesday, August 8. 6 a.m.-8, read more. Miserable107. After breakfast walked alone. No letter. Could not go to dinner. Terrible neuralgia. Wept nearly all day.
‘Wednesday, August 9. Awake at 4 a.m. Not up to breakfast. Decided108 must write [my resignation]. All is dark. “Such clouds of nameless sorrow cross, All night before my darkened eyes.” The light has gone out of the heavens. Why [does] God leave us without one word, His children orphans109? Can He have left us to delusions? Tears are my meat day and night. I cannot live an untrue life. If Jesus be what I once believed Him, He would not wish it. “Every one that is of the truth heareth My Voice.” Tried to pray harder. Woke [as] in a dreary110 pine forest with beautiful ferns. Felt there must be a presence behind them. Then the trouble revived once more.
[196]
‘Thursday, August 10. Wrote my resignation. May my children never know this sorrow. Christian teaching spiritualised, as I have seen it, is the holiest and purest. Their souls need not be orphaned111 as mine. [I] cannot stay [with them]. I could not play the hypocrite, I should hate myself. Without Christ, I should not be what I was. If I could attempt to go on, which I could not for a moment contemplate112 since it is untrue, think if I were found out, the moral blow for my children. They would think I had been false when teaching them my deepest faith,—the joy of my life,—that which made all the suffering bearable, and all gladness double, the love of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I would suffer the loss of all things if I might win Christ and be found in Him.
‘O Lord, Thou hast deceived me, and I was deceived.’
‘August 1882.
‘I was engaged to attend a religious conference at the end of a week. I did not quite like to give it up, for there might possibly be some hope of help, though I felt there was none. My friends begged me to go,—there was just a chance. I went,—but almost turned back after I had started, for I was so broken down I could not restrain my tears, and I was ashamed to be seen. Well, I met there [some] men of powerful mind, leaders of thought in their different departments, who had gone through periods of darkness, but had waited for the dawn, and now they believed.... After two days I told my grief to a sympathising friend, who was surprised at my wretchedness, and her calm faith gave me a little calmness too. So the day before we were to leave I ventured to tell all my trouble to the clergyman who had invited me. I think I may dare to say that my faith has come back—not as it was before, but more spiritual; once more I can say the Creed, and I think I shall be able to teach again....’
The ‘religious conference’ was at Stoke, a little village in Shropshire, where the rector, the Rev47. Rowland Corbet, was in the habit of gathering some who were earnestly studying the difficult questions of the day.[197] Miss Beale wrote of these gatherings114 in the letter already quoted:—
‘There are only about twelve staying in the house. No one is put out of the synagogue for not seeing the truth, and they are not afraid to ask questions, but none are invited who are not supposed to be seeking for the light.’
That a door to the light was at this conference quickly opened for Miss Beale may be seen in the letters she wrote, on her return to Cheltenham after it was over, to the friends who had helped her so much:—
‘August 19, 1882.
‘Dear Mr. Corbet,—I could not say one word of thanks this morning: I think you understood.
‘It is good for us tempest-tossed people to see the restful faith of the veterans who come to help us. Certainly the old ship in which I have somehow sailed upon the waves for so many years is a wreck115. I must try to believe He will set my feet upon a rock.
‘Yesterday things began to get clearer: your kind and patient explanations of the alphabet of the spiritual made me follow the discussion better afterwards, and I felt I could begin again to join in the Church’s Creed with a deeper meaning than before. I suppose one can’t expect to come out of the grave at once,—but how different is this Saturday from last, it seems as if some ?on had gone by. I don’t know yet what I think, except that I believe I shall see the light and rise and always remain, yours very gratefully,
D. Beale.’
To Mrs. Russell Gurney:—
‘August 27, 1882.
‘Dear Mrs. Russell Gurney,—I have had such a happy Sunday,—I can hardly believe it is the same earth that seemed to me so dead the week before, when I could not go to Church, but wandered about quite desolate116.
‘Three weeks ago, if any one had spoken, as I am doing now, I should have thought it superstitious117, and I don’t think it will be well either for myself or others to speak much of it now, only to one who, like you, understands—and who helped to take off the “grave-clothes.”
‘I want to use my limbs first, to get back to my old work[198] now, and see if there is really a new life; I want to see if I can help some for whom I could do nothing before.
‘I am with delightful118 people. Mr. Webb is just a living picture of Chaucer’s Good Parson and well known in the scientific world: his special field is astronomy. He showed us a wonderful gas-nebula on Saturday night. He quite believes in spiritual manifestations119, and seems to think with Professor Barrett about the ether.
‘I have to thank you much, dear Mrs. Gurney, for your sympathy. It was such a help to me to be able to speak to you. I meant to say nothing to any one, but I could not help it. The story of your own vision helped me, as it was something like my own: it is so much what Browning describes at the end of “Saul,” when David has realised the Divine love, and feels the living pulse beating in all nature. Everybody helped me in some way, but especially Mr. Corbet’s teaching, which seems wonderfully beautiful.
‘I dare say it was the same last year; but different to me, because I was comparatively satisfied then, not poor and needy120 (as I came this time), and therefore ready to understand.
‘“I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice”: my text for to-day.’
She felt like one set free from prison, but the newly recovered liberty was used with caution. ‘You will like to know,’ she wrote to a friend in the following year, ‘that the fitful gleams of sunlight, which used to come after the dark night, have become now something like a steady shining. I was able to get a few quiet days at Christmas, and then first I began to feel that I should be able to give thanks for this terrible experience, and the thankfulness has grown ever since.’
As she said, the thankfulness grew. But in the very heart of the fire she had felt no regret, known no complaining. She was willing to suffer, if by that means she might help the more. On August 15, just a week after the day she always remembered as ‘Tuesday the 8th,’ she wrote of one whose calling in life was to teach others: ‘You say he has been reading sceptical books;[199] I want him to go on doing so. He must know how deep the questions go, or he will be fighting windmills, as I have done.’
It will be asked by what steps the ascent121 was made, and what the height from which the new spiritual horizons were discerned; what was the train of thought which brought back the possibility of saying the Church’s Creed? The mental process, if it can be disentangled from an exercise which engaged all the faculties122 of soul and spirit, was probably that suggested in the words of Amiel: ‘Chacun ne comprend que ce qu’il retrouve en soi.’ But the research and the retrieval were not simply individual and within, they involved the scrutiny of widespread religious instincts, cravings and needs. They were aided above all by the contemplation of martyr deaths and martyr lives, which in their continuous and abiding witness to the faith are seen to constitute a claim to authority.
Miss Beale herself strove to show how the doubting spirit was silenced by an answer of faith, in a little paper called ‘Building,’ which is dated September 8. Here she wrote:—
‘Sweep away external proofs, we must believe in a God and in His love.
‘We see He speaks to His children through the wondrous123 language of Nature, drawing them to His Heart and teaching ever new trust through it.
‘He shows His Father Heart in the love of the human, ignorant,—for the child.
‘There is a long witness down the ages that to those who long for His Presence and follow holiness, He gives the great reward of His conscious sympathy, speaking in their hearts, so that they know it is His Voice. In different ages, in different ways, as men need the language they understand.
‘To Abraham and the prophets, to Socrates, to Buddha125 teaching[200] the Karma, to Moses the divine writing,—to saints who sought Him in later times.
‘Why impeach126 the testimony127 of Christendom as to the Resurrection, if it is what we must believe in, if it is just the good news for which the world was then dying? We know Paul and John believed it, and men believed them then; and the miracle of the Christian Church which is before our eyes, and the teaching of the Christ is found to be the food of the soul, and in prayer as men drink it in, they hand on Sacramental life, which is its own witness. We want that!
‘We can believe that for some inscrutable reason the Eternal educates His children in time.
‘Perhaps we have to go through these depths of blankness that we may not bottle up the spiritual to one time or church or country, but believe God is really eternal, omnipresent; that He does dwell with him who is of a contrite128 and humble spirit, and who trembles at His Presence felt in the darkness. We have to learn to see the Spirit of Christ dwelling129 in each man, regenerating130 him to the true and higher life.
‘We have to see it is God’s method to work through the man,—therefore the treasure is in earthen vessels,—the light is dimmed by the medium. But if it were given whole and complete by angels, the moral nature could no more be drawn131 out than the intellect could have been, had God revealed the kalendars and Kepler’s Laws.
‘So through the Man Christ Jesus, Who emptied Himself ere He could speak to man, Who, as His wondrous teaching, life and resurrection testify, stood in some different relation to God than other men, God has spoken to the whole world.’
Another paper of this period, entitled ‘Of my Religious Opinions,’ concludes thus:—
‘Yes, it was this. The consciousness of a universal life of God in man which lifted me up once more to see God in Christ, to see the New Man coming to the birth in all for whom Christ lived, and the whole world existed that this might be, that the whole being of the creature might be lifted into responsive sympathy with a sympathetic Father, and those followers132 of Christ Who was ever preaching the religion of Humanity were to lift the imperfect yet real Church of Christ to a higher life. Upon a world which seemed dead, which no prophet staff could restore, they were to stretch themselves, heart to heart, their own warm palpitating life was to rouse, and the power of love could raise[201] the dead. We must learn that old lesson that no creature is common or unclean. We must enter as never before into the full meaning of the Name by which God was known to Abraham—I AM,—the Eternal. Ours has been a God of time, He is the Living God, lighting133 every man that cometh into the world. But here, light is struggling with darkness. There shall be no night there in that day dawn beyond the tomb.
‘Have you not been taught that the written word is imperfect without the heavenly interpretation, and does not your own experience confirm this, and the history of the records of the Christ bear it out? Enough we have as a foundation, but we must build thereon, or there will be no home for our soul. This is the method of God, revealing to us that we can only help one another. God must teach us all. They shall be all taught of God, here and hereafter.
‘Here the phenomenal and the imperfect is the only possible revelation to man, but through these he is being educated for the real, the actual. He will one day know God.’
The writer of these words might indeed have sung, ‘Thou hast set my feet in a large room.’ But the daily journal shows no trace of exultation134, far less of relaxing watchfulness. It is surely impossible to exaggerate the importance of the jealous care with which devotional rules were guarded. More than all the high thoughts and noble imaginings with which she was so wonderfully gifted, this lifelong obedience135 came to her aid in the great crisis. Habits of prayer, daily acts of self-sacrifice and self-consecration, had been maintained even when their meaning seemed to be clouded. When sight was restored, when a greater sense of spaciousness136 came into her life, they were there to protect her in the newly found liberty. The tale of them remains137 to show that the doubts of this dark year were akin36 to that thirst for God which in all ages has been the portion of the saints.
May it not be said that they were the outcome of a passionate138 desire to help; that this descent into darkness as of the grave was necessary to one who yearned139 to give[202] herself utterly140 to aid others to find the way to the light? ‘Can ye drink indeed?’ was asked of those who willed to share the divine work and joy, and in all times it has been given to a few to be brought through suffering into that region of consciousness in which they are made ‘able.’
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1
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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13
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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14
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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49
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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51
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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52
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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53
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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55
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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56
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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58
shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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59
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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61
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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62
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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63
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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64
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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65
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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66
biassed
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| （统计试验中）结果偏倚的，有偏的 | |
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67
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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70
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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71
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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72
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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73
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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74
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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75
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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76
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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77
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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80
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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81
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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83
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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84
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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85
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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86
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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89
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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90
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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93
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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ransomed
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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100
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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101
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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102
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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103
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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104
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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105
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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107
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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109
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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110
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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111
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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112
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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113
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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114
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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115
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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116
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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117
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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118
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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119
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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120
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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121
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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122
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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123
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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124
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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125
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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126
impeach
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| v.弹劾；检举 | |
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127
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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128
contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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129
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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130
regenerating
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的现在分词 )；正反馈 | |
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131
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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132
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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133
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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134
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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135
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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136
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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137
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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138
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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139
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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