DE PROFUNDIS
‘Es sind die, so viel erlitten
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 zeal 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 indifference 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 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 breakdown. The
diary, still persistently 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 gauged.
The year opened for Miss Beale with a special renewal 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
actively fresh effort, keener self-scrutiny, more watchfulness. ‘I
remember,’ she wrote on January 24, the opening day of College, ‘I
remember with grief the many neglects of the past. Forsake 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 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.
” 31. Inattentive. Spoke unkindly without cause. Irritable.
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 depressed, 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].
” 27. In bed all day. There are duties still undone,
though I see death near.
” 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.
” 5. Too exhausted to do much. Give me true contrition
for the past.
” 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 consecrate time and
energies to Thee.
” 17. Have not prayed well for to-morrow—was tired,
but did waste some time. Not attentive enough at
Church.... Surely to-day’s negligence might
humble 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 judgment. 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.
” 3. I ought to have specially husbanded strength.
” 5. Tried, but not successfully, with my Confirmation
children. Feeling too ill to do well. Thy will be
done.
” 7. Holy Eucharist. Ill at night. The Lord thy
refuge, and underneath the everlasting arms.
” 8. Better class. Was helped.
” 13. Not punctual because sleepless. 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, 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 justified 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 anguish. 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 sifted, till all human
longings and cravings, even those the most lawful, 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 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 Incarnate 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 Creed, 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 penetrated 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 fully as usual. The summer
holidays 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 bereavement, 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 chamber 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. 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. Longing, 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 chapel, I can scarcely bear to part.
The room is fragrant with the gifts of tender flowers from
loving friends, and there is a peace here abiding 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 gathering 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 devoted work revived in tenfold
force her early pity for those who need to be ‘found.’ The increasing
vigour 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 enthralled listeners to
the eloquence of Professor William Knight, 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 precipitate 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 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 regain 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
strife 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.’
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 noted herself as ‘perplexed with the
Incomprehensible.’ On June 27, 1881, a year before the darkness closed
in, she wrote: ‘A great dread 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 persistent 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 hideous waste. The very things which made it lovely
seemed to be shining and horrible shams, with undreamed-of
treachery and horror lurking 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 mire,
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 intimacy 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 poignant the sense of 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 thereby.’
A letter to a friend mentions books which had a destructive effect as
read at this time. It was not Miss Beale’s habit deliberately 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 biassed 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 discomfort seems to have grown gradually all the
year. ‘Poor lesson because depressed,’ 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 hem.’ 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 delusion that He was, and God has
deceived us, and we were deceived. The Pharisees were right in
testing 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 fabled prophet of old, Eli! Eli! and God disowned
Him, and the words followed which proved that He was forsaken,
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 grotesque forms. I could not
utter the Creeds 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 interpretation
of generous love proceeding from the soul, it seemed simply
horrible: the martyr slowly consuming in the fire, God looking
on, refusing to interfere with natural causes. I had seen this
before, but, as in that beautiful parable 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 immortal hope, no resurrection; all was
dark horror and amazement. 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 standing 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 consolation to all the
groans 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 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 delusions 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
Christian 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 parched heavens, and though
no rain fell, each time there was a little refreshing 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 quench
the parching thirst of the desert, it seemed a mirage,—and no
good Shepherd waded 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 wilderness, 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
with tears, but I took it,—I ate it, whilst praying that God
would take away my life,—take it, lest I should tempt others
into the stony 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 profane,
thought now that my mere 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
mighty 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 sedative, could I my
children? No; I must go on till I could feel the truth of those
words ever recurring to me, “And dying rise, and rising with
Him, raise His brethren, ransomed by His own dear life.”
‘In darkness, I thought, “He descended 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 tints were put on, were not our life
through assimilation.’[52]
Probably those to whom Miss Beale turned at first realised little of the
distress 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 distinguished [teacher]
whom I thought so able and strong, and his concluding words
sounded like a knell. “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 conceal 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 misery 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 Steward. 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. Miserable. 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.
Decided 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 orphans? 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 dreary pine forest with
beautiful ferns. Felt there must be a presence behind them.
Then the trouble revived once more.
‘_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 orphaned 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 contemplate 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.’
The immediate sequel to the story of these few days was told in a letter
to a friend:—
‘_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 Rev. Rowland Corbet, was in the habit of gathering
some who were earnestly studying the difficult questions of the day.
Miss Beale wrote of these gatherings 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 wreck. 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 æon 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 desolate.
‘Three weeks ago, if any one had spoken, as I am doing now, I
should have thought it superstitious, 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 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 delightful 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
manifestations, 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 needy
(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; 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 ascent 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 faculties 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 wondrous 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.
‘In all ages He has made man feel His Presence in the heart and
yearn after Him.
‘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 Buddha teaching
the Karma, to Moses the divine writing,—to saints who sought
Him in later times.
‘Why impeach the testimony 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 contrite and humble spirit,
and who trembles at His Presence felt in the darkness. We have
to learn to see the Spirit of Christ dwelling in each man,
regenerating 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 drawn 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 followers 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 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, lighting 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 exultation,
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 obedience 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 spaciousness
came into her life, they were there to protect her in the newly found
liberty. The tale of them remains to show that the doubts of this dark
year were akin 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 passionate desire to
help; that this descent into darkness as of the grave was necessary to
one who yearned to give herself utterly 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.’