The two months after my mother's death were the dreariest my life has
known, and they were months of tolerably hard struggle. The little house
in Colby Road taxed my slender resources heavily, and the search for work
was not yet successful. I do not know how I should have managed but for
the help, ever at hand, of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Scott. During this time I
wrote for Mr. Scott pamphlets on Inspiration, Atonement, Mediation and
Salvation, Eternal Torture, Religious Education of Children, Natural _v._
Revealed Religion, and the few guineas thus earned were very valuable.
Their house, too, was always open to me, and this was no small help, for
often in those days the little money I had was enough to buy food for two
but not enough to buy it for three, and I would go out and study all day
at the British Museum, so as to "have my dinner in town", the said dinner
being conspicuous by its absence. If I was away for two evenings running
from the hospitable house in the terrace, Mrs. Scott would come down to
see what had happened, and many a time the supper there was of real
physical value to me. Well might I write, in 1879, when Thomas Scott lay
dead: "It was Thomas Scott whose house was open to me when my need was
sorest, and he never knew, this generous noble heart, how sometimes, when
I went in, weary and overdone, from a long day's study in the British
Museum, with scarce food to struggle through the day--he never knew how
his genial 'Well, little lady', in welcoming tone, cheered the then utter
loneliness of my life. To no living man or woman--save one--do I owe the
debt of gratitude that I owe to Thomas Scott."
The small amount of jewellery I possessed, and all my superfluous
clothes, were turned into more necessary articles, and the child, at
least, never suffered a solitary touch of want. Mary was a wonderful
contriver, and kept house on the very slenderest funds that could be put
into a servant's hands, and she also made the little place so bright and
fresh-looking that it was always a pleasure to go into it. Recalling
those days of "hard living", I can now look on them without regret. More,
I am glad to have passed through them, for they have taught me how to
sympathise with those who are struggling as I struggled then, and I never
can hear the words fall from pale lips: "I am hungry", without
remembering how painful a thing hunger is, and without curing that pain,
at least for the moment.
But I turn from this to the brighter side of my life, the intellectual
and social side, where I found a delight unknown in the old days of
bondage. First, there was the joy of freedom, the joy of speaking out
frankly and honestly each thought. Truly, I had the right to say: "With a
great price obtained I this freedom," and having paid the price, I
revelled in the Liberty I had bought. Mr. Scott's valuable library was at
my service; his keen brain challenged my opinions, probed my assertions,
and suggested phases of thought hitherto untouched. I studied harder than
ever, and the study now was unchecked by any fear of possible
consequences. I had nothing left of the old faith save belief in "a God",
and that began slowly to melt away. The Theistic axiom: "If there be a
God at all he must be at least as good as his highest creature", began
with an "if", and to that "if" I turned my attention. "Of all impossible
things", writes Miss Frances Power Cobbe, "the most impossible must
surely be that a man should dream something of the good and the noble,
and that it should prove at last that his Creator was less good and less
noble than he had dreamed." But, I questioned, are we sure that there is
a Creator? Granted that, if there is, he must be above his highest
creature, but--is there such a being? "The ground", says the Rev. Charles
Voysey, "on which our belief in God rests is man. Man, parent of Bibles
and Churches, inspirer of all good thoughts and good deeds. Man, the
master-piece of God's thought on earth. Man, the text-book of all
spiritual knowledge. Neither miraculous nor infallible, man is
nevertheless the only trustworthy record of the Divine mind in things
perhaps pertaining to God. Man's reason, conscience, and affections are
the only true revelation of his Maker." But what if God were only man's
own image reflected in the mirror of man's mind? What if man were the
creator, not the revelation of his God?
It was inevitable that such thoughts should arise after the more palpably
indefensible doctrines of Christianity had been discarded. Once encourage
the human mind to think, and bounds to the thinking can never again be
set by authority. Once challenge traditional beliefs, and the challenge
will ring on every shield which is hanging in the intellectual arena.
Around me was the atmosphere of conflict, and, freed from its long
repression, my mind leapt up to share in the strife with a joy in the
intellectual tumult, the intellectual strain.
At this time I found my way to South Place Chapel, to which Mr. Moncure
D. Conway was attracting many a seeker after truth. I was fortunate
enough to be introduced to this remarkable religious leader, and to his
charming wife, one of the sweetest and steadiest natures which it has
been my lot to meet. It was from. Mrs. Conway that I first heard of Mr.
Bradlaugh as a speaker that everyone should hear. She asked me one day if
I had been to the Hall of Science, and I said, with the stupid, ignorant
reflexion of other people's prejudices which is but too common:
"No, I have never been. Mr. Bradlaugh is rather a rough sort of speaker,
is he not?"
"He is the finest speaker of Saxon English that I have ever heard," Mrs.
Conway answered, "except, perhaps, John Bright, and his power over a
crowd is something marvellous. Whether you agree with him or not, you
should hear him."
I replied that I really did not know what his views were, beyond having a
vague notion that he was an Atheist of a rather pronounced type, but that
I would go and hear him when I had an opportunity.
Mr. Conway had passed beyond the emotional Theism of Mr. Voysey, and talk
with him did something towards widening my views on the question of a
Divine Existence. I re-read carefully Mansel's Bampton Lectures, and
found in them much to provoke doubt, nothing to induce faith. Take the
following phrases, and think whither they carry us. Dean Mansel is
speaking of God as Infinite, and he says: "That a man can be conscious of
the Infinite is, then, a supposition which, in the very terms in which it
is expressed, annihilates itself.... The Infinite, if it is to be
conceived at all, must be conceived as potentially everything and
actually nothing; for if there is anything in general which it cannot
become, it is thereby limited; and if there is anything in particular
which it actually is, it is thereby excluded from being any other thing.
But again, it must also be conceived as actually everything and
potentially nothing: for an unrealised potentiality is likewise a
limitation. If the infinite can be that which it is not, it is by that
very possibility marked out as incomplete and capable of a higher
perfection. If it is actually everything, it possesses no characteristic
feature by which it can be distinguished from anything else and discerned
as an object of consciousness."
Could any argument more thoroughly Atheistic be put before a mind which
dared to think out to the logical end any train of thought? Such
reasoning can lead but to one of two ends: despair of truth and
consequent acceptance of the incomprehensible as Divine, or else the
resolute refusal to profess belief where reason is helpless, and where
faith is but the credulity of ignorance. In my case, it had the latter
effect.
At the same time I re-read Mill's "Examination of Sir W. Hamilton's
Philosophy", and also went through a pretty severe study of Comte's
_Philosophic Positive_. I had entirely given up the use of prayer, not
because I was an Atheist but because I was still a Theist. It seemed to
me to be absurd to pray, if I believed in a God who was wiser and better
than myself. An all-wise God did not need my suggestions: an all-good God
would do all that was best without my prompting. Prayer appeared to me to
be a blasphemous impertinence, and for a considerable time I had
discontinued its use. But God fades gradually out of the daily life of
those who never pray; a God who is not a Providence is a superfluity;
when from the heaven does not smile a listening Father, it soon becomes
an empty space whence resounds no echo of man's cry.
At last I said to Mr. Scott: "Mr. Scott, may I write a tract on the
nature and existence of God?"
He glanced at me keenly: "Ah, little lady; you are facing then that
problem at last? I thought it must come. Write away."
The thought that had been driving me forward found its expression in the
opening words of the essay (published a few months later, with one or two
additions that were made after I had read two of Mr. Bradlaugh's essays,
his "Plea for Atheism", and "Is there a God?"): "It is impossible for
those who study the deeper religious problems of our time to stave off
much longer the question which lies at the root of them all, 'What do you
believe in regard to God?' We may controvert Christian doctrines one
after another; point by point we may be driven from the various beliefs
of our churches; reason may force us to see contradictions where we had
imagined harmony, and may open our eyes to flaws where we had dreamed of
perfection; we resign all idea of a revelation; we seek for God in Nature
only: we renounce for ever the hope (which glorified our former creed
into such alluring beauty) that at some future time we should verily
'see' God; that 'our eyes should behold the King in his beauty', in that
fairy 'land which is very far off'. But every step we take onwards
towards a more reasonable faith and a surer light of Truth, leads us
nearer and nearer to the problem of problems: 'What is THAT which men
call God?".
I sketched out the plan of my essay and had written most of it when on
returning one day from the British Museum I stopped at the shop of Mr.
Edward Truelove, 256 High Holborn. I had been working at some Comtist
literature, and had found a reference to Mr. Truelove's shop as one at
which Comtist publications might be bought. Lying on the counter was a
copy of the _National Reformer_, and attracted by the title I bought it.
I had never before heard of nor seen the paper, and I read it placidly in
the omnibus; looking up, I was at first puzzled and then amused to see an
old gentleman gazing at me with indignation and horror printed on his
countenance; I realised that my paper had disturbed his peace of mind,
and that the sight of a young woman, respectably dressed in crape,
reading an Atheistic journal in an omnibus was a shock too great to be
endured by the ordinary Philistine without sign of discomposure. He
looked so hard at the paper that I was inclined to offer it to him for
his perusal, but repressed the mischievous inclination, and read on
demurely.
This first copy of the paper with which I was to be so closely connected
bore date July 19th, 1874, and contained two long letters from a Mr.
Arnold of Northampton, attacking Mr. Bradlaugh, and a brief and
singularly self-restrained answer from the latter. There was also an
article on the National Secular Society, which made me aware that there
was an organisation devoted to the propagandism of Free Thought. I felt
that if such a society existed, I ought to belong to it, and I
consequently wrote a short note to the editor of the _National Reformer_,
asking whether it was necessary for a person to profess Atheism before
being admitted to the Society. The answer appeared in the _National
Reformer_:--
"S.E.--To be a member of the National Secular Society it is only
necessary to be able honestly to accept the four principles, as given in
the _National Reformer_ of June 14th. This any person may do without
being required to avow himself an Atheist. Candidly, we can see no
logical resting-place between the entire acceptance of authority, as in
the Roman Catholic Church, and the most extreme nationalism. If, on again
looking to the Principles of the Society, you can accept them, we repeat
to you our invitation."
I sent my name in as an active member, and find it recorded in the
_National Reformer_ of August 9th. Having received an intimation that
Londoners could receive their certificates at the Hall of Science from
Mr. Bradlaugh on any Sunday evening, I betook myself thither, and it was
on the 2nd August, 1874, that I first set foot in a Freethought hall.
As I sat, much crushed, surveying the crowded audience with much interest
and longing to know which were members of the brotherhood I had entered,
a sudden roar of cheering startled me. I saw a tall figure passing
swiftly along and mounting the stairs, and the roar deepened and swelled
as he made a slight acknowledgment of the greeting and sat down. I
remember well my sensations as I looked at Charles Bradlaugh for the
first time. The grave, quiet, _strong_ look, as he sat facing the crowd,
impressed me strangely, and most of all was I surprised at the breadth of
forehead, the massive head, of the man I had heard described as a mere
ignorant demagogue.
The lecture was on "The ancestry and birth of Jesus", and was largely
devoted to tracing the resemblance between the Christ and Krishna myths.
As this ground was well-known to me, I was able to judge of the
lecturer's accuracy, and quickly found that his knowledge was as sound as
his language was splendid. I had never before heard eloquence, sarcasm,
fire, and passion brought to bear on the Christian superstition, nor had
I ever before felt the sway of the orator, nor the power that dwells in
spoken words.
After the lecture, Mr. Bradlaugh came down the Hall with some
certificates of membership of the National Secular Society in his hand,
and glancing round for their claimants caught, I suppose, some look of
expectancy in my face, for he paused and handed me mine, with a
questioning, "Mrs. Besant?". Then he said that if I had any doubt at all
on the subject of Atheism, he would willingly discuss it with me, if I
would write making an appointment for that purpose. I made up my mind to
take advantage of the opportunity, and a day or two later saw me walking
down Commercial Road, looking for Turner Street.
My first conversation with Mr. Bradlaugh was brief, direct, and
satisfactory. We found that there was little real difference between our
theological views, and my dislike of the name "Atheist" arose from my
sharing in the vulgar error that the Atheist asserted, "There is no God".
This error I corrected in the draft of my essay, by inserting a few
passages from pamphlets written by acknowledged Atheists, to which Mr.
Bradlaugh drew my attention; with this exception the essay remained as it
was sketched, being described by Mr. Bradlaugh as "a very good Atheistic
essay", a criticism which ended with the smiling comment: "You have
thought yourself into Atheism without knowing it."
Very wise were some of the suggestions made: "You should never say you
have an opinion on a subject until you have tried to study the strongest
things said against the view to which you are inclined". "You must not
think you know a subject until you are acquainted with all that the best
minds have said about it." "No steady work can be done in public unless
the worker study at home far more than he talks outside." And let me say
here that among the many things for which I have to thank Mr. Bradlaugh,
there is none for which I owe him more gratitude than for the fashion in
which he has constantly urged the duty of all who stand forward as
teachers to study deeply every subject they touch, and the impetus he has
given to my own love of knowledge by the constant spur of criticism and
of challenge, criticism of every weak statement, challenge of every
hastily-expressed view. It will be a good thing for the world when a
friendship between a man and a woman no longer means protective
condescension on one side and helpless dependence on the other, but when
they meet on equal ground of intellectual sympathy, discussing,
criticising, studying, and so aiding the evolution of stronger and
clearer thought-ability in each.
A few days after our first discussion, Mr. Bradlaugh offered me a place
on the staff of the _National Reformer_ at a small weekly salary; and my
first contribution appeared in the number for August 30th, over the
signature of "Ajax"; I was obliged to use a _nom de guerre_ at first, for
the work I was doing for Mr. Scott would have been injured had my name
appeared in the columns of the terrible _National Reformer_, and until
the work commenced and paid for was concluded I did not feel at liberty
to use my own name. Later, I signed my _National Reformer_ articles, and
the tracts written for Mr. Scott appeared anonymously.
The name was suggested by the famous statue of "Ajax crying for light", a
cast of which stands in the centre walk of the Crystal Palace. The cry
through the darkness for light, even if light brought destruction, was
one that awoke the keenest sympathy of response from my heart:
"If our fate be death,
Give light, and let us die!"
To see, to know, to understand, even though the seeing blind, though the
knowledge sadden, though the understanding shatter the dearest hopes,
such has ever been the craving of the upward-striving mind of man. Some
regard it as a weakness, as a folly, but I am sure that it exists most
strongly in some of the noblest of our race; that from the lips of those
who have done most in lifting the burden of ignorance from the
overstrained and bowed shoulders of a stumbling world has gone out most
often into the empty darkness the pleading, impassioned cry :--
"Give light."