Theosophical Whitman

 By Walter Raubicheck

Theosophical Society - Walt Whitman, America's greatest poet, was also a theosophist, even though his greatest poem, "Song of Myself," was published twenty years before the Theosophical Society was founded in New York in 1875. The principles of Theosophy underlie all the central images and themes of the poem, and the lack of awareness of these principles has led critics astray in their attempt to elucidate Whitman's meanings. In particular, the concept of the "self" in "Song of Myself" can be fully understood only from a Theosophical standpoint. Throughout the poem, every use of the words "I," "Soul," "Self," and "Body" is consistent with the ideas brought forth in the writings of Helena P. Blavatsky, A. P. Sinnett, and William Q. Judge, three Theosophical contemporaries of Whitman's.Walt Whitman, America's greatest poet, was also a theosophist, even though his greatest poem, "Song of Myself," was published twenty years before the Theosophical Society was founded in New York in 1875. The principles of Theosophy underlie all the central images and themes of the poem, and the lack of awareness of these principles has led critics astray in their attempt to elucidate Whitman's meanings. In particular, the concept of the "self" in "Song of Myself" can be fully understood only from a Theosophical standpoint. Throughout the poem, every use of the words "I," "Soul," "Self," and "Body" is consistent with the ideas brought forth in the writings of Helena P. Blavatsky, A. P. Sinnett, and William Q. Judge, three Theosophical contemporaries of Whitman's.

Whitman certainly drew on his own mystical experiences when creating this poem and indeed all the poems that comprised his one, ever-expanding volume of poetry, Leaves of Grass. However, in attempting to understand these experiences, he drew upon his readings in Hindu scriptures and the writings of Western mystics such as Swedenborg and Whitman's own contemporary, Emerson. The result was an astonishing body of work, which I believe is the nineteenth century's most important literary expression of "cosmic consciousness." At the heart of Whitman's achievement is the longest, most remarkable poem he ever wrote, "Song of Myself."

In Theosophy, the self is composed of seven levels. As Judge (30) remarks, "This conviction that man is a septenary and not merely a duad, was held long ago and very plainly taught to everyone with accompanying demonstrations, but like other philosophical tenets it disappeared from sight." In Sanskrit, the trinity of the essential man is called atma, buddhi, and manas. Atma is pure spirit, a spark of the Absolute, buddhi is its vehicle for manifestation, and manas is mind. Actually, manas is conceived as having a higher and lower aspect: the former is pure intuition and a direct link to buddhi and atma, while the latter is centered on intellectual thought and merges with the lower quaternity of the septenary self: desire and emotion, physical life energy, the astral body (the ethereal model of the outer body), and the physical body itself.

This overview of Theosophical psychology helps to identify the layers of Whitman's self in the poem.

In "Song of Myself," the speaker of the poem is lower manas, what modern psychology would call the ego. At times the ego addresses his Soul--higher manas, buddhi, and atma--while at other times he refers to his Body--the lower quaternity. The Soul is also referred to as the "Me myself." After listing a series of historical and personal influences ("People I met, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation"), the speaker declares:

These come to me days and nights and go from me again,

But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,

Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary...

Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

["Song," sec. 4]

Here Whitman is making a clear distinction between the speaker and the "Me," or the higher self. The ego (lower manas) is influenced by heredity and environment, but the "Me myself" is not.

The speaker never addresses his body because lower manas recognizes a union with the physical man which is more immediate than his connection to the "Me." However, in moments of inspiration ("I am afoot with my vision") lower manas becomes a "channel" for the spiritual insights that higher manas contains because of its union with buddhi and atma.

Despite Whitman's celebration of the body ("Through me forbidden voices, / Voices of sexes and lusts" [24]), he is at the same time aware that desires are only a portion of what he is himself: "and am not contained between my hat and boots" [7]). These declarations are not paradoxical when one realizes that this is a song of a multilayered self and that Whitman's psychology understands the body as the only way the Soul can function in nature.

But what of the speaker's identification with the emotions and desires of others, which characterizes many sections of the poem? At these points does the speaker become a cosmic "I" that is no longer directly related to the personal Walt Whitman? I think not. What we have here are examples of the perfect compassion that is achievable when lower manas unites with higher manas. As Blavatsky (79) says about Buddha and Christ, two "Masters" who achieved this union permanently, "The teachings of both are boundless love for humanity, charity, forgiveness of injury, forgetfulness of self...[They] both...make no difference between meum and tuum."

In "Song of Myself," after citing "boatmen" and "clam diggers," the speaker describes the marriage of a trapper to an Indian girl and the predicament of a runaway slave, and then lists a wide range of American types in section 15. At the end of this section the speaker says:

And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,

And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,

And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.

The speaker is not proclaiming an identity with others, whom he still refers to as "them." Yet the "song of myself" contains "one and all." The highest reaches of spiritual intuition break down the barriers between individual selves; love of neighbor creates the feeling of oneness that the speaker describes. His compassion for all the people who populate the poem brings them within the compass of the multilayered self he is: "And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral dressed in his shroud" (48).

This same intense compassion accounts for the speaker's ability to empathize with historical figures as well, to transcend the barriers of time: "I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured" (46). In describing the rescue of the passengers on a wrecked steamship by a courageous skipper, the speaker claims, "I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there" (33). After picturing the capture of a runaway slave, the speaker says, "I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person" (33). Again, this identification depends on Whitman's conception of the self: through genuine love--the charity of Christ or the compassion of Buddha--this self comes to include all others. Psychologically this state is achieved by uniting higher and lower manas and seeing the world through the visionary perspective that results.

Thus an understanding of the speaker's supreme compassion enables us to see that the "I" who claims he is "A Southerner soon as a Northerner . . . a Yankee bound my own way ready for trade . . . a Kentuckian walking the vale of Elkhorn in my deerskin leggings" (35) is also "Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son" (41). The speaker explicitly claims that "Song of Myself" is the product of a "vision," of a psychological moment--symbolized by the famous erotic encounter between the speaker and the soul in section 5--when the seven layers of the self are all operative: at such times the speaker can communicate a range of experiences inaccessible to the mere ego, although they are all communicated through the ego, the thinking, language-using aspect of the self.

One of the themes of the poem is the ability of the multilayered self to survive physical death. Theosophy, of course, teaches the concepts of karma and reincarnation. At death the physical body is discarded, the astral (or emotional) body subsists for some time on a somewhat higher plane of existence until it too has exhausted its residue of desire, and the trinity of atma-buddhi-manas enters the state of heaven or "devachan," a realm of rest and regeneration. Eventually the higher trinity is reincarnated in a new physical vehicle, and manas is again divided into higher and lower aspects. The soul never dies; it is continually evolving; and the discarded matter of the physical body is integrated into the ongoing physical processes of nature.

Whitman shares the Theosophists' view of an ever unfolding cosmos, of an ongoing development of life that is not interrupted by physical death:

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and did not wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceas'd the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. [6]

Within this conception of a progressive universe, the soul is seen by Whitman as a particular entity that is also evolving, similar to the Theosophical idea of the "Monad," that "immortal part of man which incarnating in the lower kingdoms and gradually progressing through them to Man, finds thence way to the final goal--Nirvana" (Blavatsky 351). Thus the Monad unfolds its latent powers through the centuries as spiritual evolution progresses:

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,

And I said to my spirit "When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?"

And my spirit said"No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond." [46]

That Whitman believed in reincarnation is clear from some of the poem's most powerful declarations: "And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, / (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before)" (49); "Births have brought us richness and variety, / and other births will bring us richness and variety" (44); "I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I am an encloser of things to be. . . . On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps, / All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount" (44).

Clearly Whitman believes in the constant evolution of the soul, on earth and in spiritual realms, an evolution that began long before he actually became a human being: "Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there, / I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, / and took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon" (66). This idea accords well with the Theosophists' notion that the Monad unfolds its powers starting from the spiritual and physical energy of the smallest atom until through successive reincarnations it manifests as a human being. However, once the human stage is reached, there can be no regressing to lower forms of life. The essence of the cosmic vision of both "Song of Myself" and Theosophy is this continuous unfolding of the potential of lifeC"Urge and urge and urge, / Always the procreant urge of the world" (3)Con both physical and spiritual planes.

As to the fate of the physical body at "death," Whitman always celebrates the ongoing chemical processes of life in some of the poem's most famous lines: "And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, / I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing"(49); "I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, / If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles" (52). All aspects of the septenary self continue to fructify and grow as the cosmic evolution proceeds.

Whitman's vision was clearly genuine and intensely personal, yet he communicates it by using ideas from a wide variety of spiritual traditions, the same ones the Theosophists cite as containing the same basic elements of the universal religion. In addition to the references to the Shastas and Vedas, the Koran and the Gospels, Whitman alludes to Osiris, Isis, Brahma, and Buddha (41). Like Theosophy, Whitman's theology claims to include every faith, to reveal that the same truth is contained in all. And at its core is the septenary self that is the subject of Whitman's "Song," his own contribution to the great sacred texts of the world.


References

  • Blavatsky, H. P. The Key to Theosophy. Pasadena: Theosophical University Press, 1987.
  • Judge, William Q. The Ocean of Theosophy. Los Angeles: Theosophy Co., 1987.
  • Whitman, Walt. Poetry and Prose. New York: Library of America, 1982.

Theosophical Society - Walter Raubicheck is a Professor of English at Pace University in New York. He has published articles on education, popular culture, and American literature.Walter Raubicheck is a Professor of English at Pace University in New York. He has published articles on education, popular culture, and American literature.


The Ever-Present Reality

Originally printed in the July - August 2000 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Burnier, Radha. "The Ever-Present Reality." Quest  88.4 JULY - AUGUST 2000): pg 146-147.

By Radha Burnier

Theosophical Society - Radha Burnier was the president of the international Theosophical Society from 1980 till her death in 2013. The daughter of N. Sri Ram, who was president of the international Theosophical Society from 1953 to 1973, she was an associate of the great spiritual teacher J. KrishnamurtiAmong members of the Theosophical Society, it would be hard to find materialists who deny the existence of anything beyond the scope of the human senses and the human mind. But there are people, particularly in India, who are inclined to imagine that the Theosophical philosophy is a form of theism, accepting a God of some kind. This could be attributed to the general tendency to study insufficiently, or to wishful thinking based on desire for crutches and unwillingness to break old habits of thought, or to the belief that their own ancient religion, with many encrustations, can be subsumed under the name "Theosophy."

J. Krishnamurti's insistence that neither the word "god" nor the idols and mental images that people invent and call "god" have anything to do with the truly sacred is of immense relevance for the progress of humanity. Religions have put the stamp of authority on a god or gods fashioned by the human mind and provided with attributes characterizing the average human being. Gods are not infrequently pictured as behaving like erratic or errant human beings, demanding praise and flattery, rewarding mindless obedience and punishing "enemies."

The Theosophical view of the sacred, ever-existent Reality is different. The well-known Mahatma Letter number 10 (chronologically no. 88) makes this clear:

The God of the Theologians is simply an imaginary power, un loup garou [a bogeyman]. . . . Our chief aim is to deliver humanity of this nightmare, to teach man virtue for its own sake, and to walk in life relying on himself instead of leaning on a theological crutch, that for countless ages was the direct cause of nearly all human misery.

Even today, when the majority of people think they are living in an age of progress and in spite of whatever intellectual emancipation the study of science has achieved, the concept of god and the authority of churches are causing havoc. The bitterly destructive hatreds and feuds between the faithful of different religious denominations--in Bosnia, the Middle East, Ireland, the Indian subcontinent, Indonesia and so on--bear witness to the folly of humanity's continued belief in a mind-projected God.

What is the alternative? It is obviously not a return to materialism, which has promoted crass selfishness and the greed, cruelty, and other evils of which selfishness is the progenitor. To be a Theosophist is not necessarily to believe in and pay allegiance to any special god or deity. As Madame Blavatsky wrote:

One need but worship the spirit of living nature, and try to identify oneself with it. To revere that Presence, the invisible Cause, which is yet ever manifesting itself.

Life functions in dazzling ways in the minutest of forms as well as in the greatest. Annie Besant quotes from Giordano Bruno's Della Causa, Principio ed Uno in her series of lectures on Bruno delivered at the Sorbonne:

Be it ever so small a thing, it has in it part of the spiritual substance, which, finding appropriate conditions, expands into a plant or an animal. . . . There is not the minutest particle which does not contain such a portion in itself, which is not ensouled.

Bruno also wrote in another work, Del' Infinito, Universo e Mondi, that "as all proceeds from good, so everything is good, works towards good, and ends in good." This fact in itself is a marvel that could change the human heart when it takes it in.

The Mahatmas are clear that the universal, all-pervading Life is the only God:

If people are willing to accept and to regard as God our ONE LIFE, immutable and unconscious in its eternity, they may do so. . . . It penetrates, nay is the essence of every atom.

Recognition of the Divine Presence in everything, whether it appears animate or inanimate, must be encouraged and become part of every person's education, for it is the only kind of religion that can, in the present day, save the human and other kingdoms, as well as the planet. Such awareness forms the basis for the unfolding of human consciousness to ever higher levels and for establishing harmonious and respectful relationships among human beings and between human and other forms of existence.

The number of people interested in saving the environment is increasing, but environmentalists and ecologists do not necessarily experience life's sanctity; they have plans, they organize, at times ruthlessly, culling animal herds or manipulating nature according to their own ideas. Likewise, holistic philosophy does not always turn into compassionate action.

A new world religion must be founded on a sense of the sacredness of all life, all forms of life being manifestations and revelations of the transcendent Reality. As Light on the Path says: "The principle which gives life dwells in us, and without us, is undying and eternally beneficent." This is the truth of truths propounded from the time of the Vedas: "The one Reality lies hidden in all beings, is all pervasive, is the innermost core of all things."

When the manifested god is ever present, ever near, what need is there of invented gods? In the words of Dr. I. K. Taimni in his Glimpses into the Psychology of Yoga:

This outer physical universe is a projection or reflection of the inner spiritual universe, a fact which is hinted at in the occult maxim "As above so below."

And in this outer universe we can see, even with our ordinary physical eyes, the extraordinary beauty, the wondrous and inexhaustible creativity, the harmony and order of Life even in this small part of existence in which the Reality manifests itself to our perception, that is, in Nature and in human consciousness. Then why invent?


Radha Burnier is the international President of the Theosophical Society, as well as of the Theosophical Order of Service, and is a lifelong worker for both organizations.


Mandorlas, Halos, and Rings of Fire

Originally printed in the July - August 2000 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Callicott, Burton. "Mandorlas, Halos, and Rings of Fire." Quest  88.4 JULY - AUGUST 2000): pg 124 - 127.

By Burton Callicott

Mandorla—not your common, everyday word. It is the word found in art-history texts for the large oval shape behind the representations of single sacred figures. "Mandorla" is the Italian word for almond. The term is well chosen, for in Christian art the shape most commonly used resembles the shape of the almond. In some instances in Christian art, however, the shape is more elliptical and in others it is circular or nearly circular.

In texts describing these background shapes in Hindu and Buddhist art, the term "mandorla" is still used, despite the fact that few of them are actually almond-shaped. More often they are circular, horseshoe-shaped, fan-shaped or leaf-shaped. Sometimes the mandorla is composed of two overlapping circles, one about the head of the figure and a larger one about its torso. Projecting from the outer edges of many of these mandorlas are representations of tongues of flame.

In Christian art the mandorla occurs most frequently in the Romanesque style and most prominently, perhaps, behind the enthroned "Christ in Glory" on the tympana over the main portals of the cathedrals. It is also a common element in the succeeding style, the Gothic. It gradually gives way in the art of the Renaissance to a small circle of light—a halo—behind the head.

I am aware of no speculation about what the mandorla represents or about its origin. Nor do I know when and where the use of the symbol began. To the student of Theosophy, however, the inescapable notion is that the mandorla probably originated as the representation of the aura, the oval-shaped volume of light surrounding living physical bodies, as described by those with clairvoyant vision.

According to the esoteric tradition, the aura is a composite of the several subtle—astral, mental, and causal—bodies. (This composite does not include the etheric body which is almost entirely confined within the physical body.) Each of these bodies is composed of the matter of the plane on which it serves as the vehicle of consciousness. From the etheric to the causal, these bodies and worlds of matter are successively subtler, with complete interpenetration with one another and with the dense physical.

The human aura is said to be filled with color, with the prevailing brilliance and arrangement of the colors determined by the emotional, mental, and spiritual development of the person. Because the matter of those planes vibrates at very high frequencies, changes in coloration can be rapidly and suddenly brought about by shifting emotional and mental states.

In Man Visible and Invisible, by C. W. Leadbeater, first published in 1925, there are many fascinating color illustrations of auras displaying varying degrees of development, different temperaments, and different emotional-mental states. Leadbeater was an important early leader and teacher in the Theosophical Society who wrote many books and articles. In the course of his work and study, he attained clairvoyant vision through special training. He and his colleague, Dr. Annie Besant, singly and in collaboration through devoted and strenuous work, have given us a rich body of information about the invisible parts of ourselves and our multi-layered environment.

Today there is a growing awareness that what we call the aura, of which the mandorla in religious art is probably a symbol, is not unlike the force fields and energy fields described by modern science. In this context, the rings of fire around Hindu and Buddhist images are particularly significant. It is interesting to note, too, that in the tradition of the metaphysical philosophies, spirit is symbolized by the element of fire.

Fritz Kunz stated that the discovery and study of force fields prove the "existence of the immaterial" and should banish for all time purely materialistic notions about the nature of the universe. We are reminded of these eloquent words from Pitirim Sorokin's essay, "Three Basic Trends of Our Times" (from the journal Main Currents in Modern Thought, 1960): "Around a bend of quantum mechanics and at the foot of the electron ladder the basic notions of materialistic science, such as matter, objective reality, time, space and causality, are no longer applicable, and the testimony of our senses largely loses its significance." The subtle worlds and their contents elude physical vision and the finest instruments of science as well. According to the Ancient Wisdom, the irresistible evolutionary impulse will, in time, and only after the necessary and antecedent spiritual development, unfold all of the latent human cognitive faculties. This will enable human beings to function consciously in those dimensions of their world now largely closed to them.

In the meantime let us give heed to the sages and seers of all ages who teach that the surest and safest way to grow spiritually and expand consciousness is by the path of selfless service and the practice of brotherhood

MANDORLA

 

Two sculptured vertical arcs

meeting in points above and below

--in the shape of the almond--

framing the "Christ in Glory,"

in high relief enthroned

in the tympanum stone

above the cathedral's main portal,

configure the mandorla.

So knew some

in the Romanesque era

of the hidden aura

of light and energy--

of the subtle bodies

the invisible synergy.

Art reaches layers of consciousness that are inaccessible to verbal formulations and rational discourse. I believe that works of art actually emanate energies which have the power of resonating with and drawing responses at spiritual levels. --Burton Callicott


Burton Callicott is an artist and Theosophist who will celebrate his ninety-third birthday this year. This article, describing the mandorla form, is reprinted with slight modifications from The Love of Life, the journal of the Theosophical Order of Service. A painting by Callicott using the mandorla form is on the cover of this issue, whose "Viewpoint" considers the painter and his painting.


Confounding or Amazing? The Multiple Deconversions of Annie Besant

Originally printed in the March - April 2002 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: MacKay, Carol Hanbery. "Confounding or Amazing? The Multiple Deconversions of Annie Besant." Quest  90.2 (MARCH - APRIL 2002):50-56.

By Carol Hanbery MacKay

Theosophical Society - Carol Hanbery MacKay is an Associate Professor of English at the University of Texas at Austin, where she teaches courses on Victorian fiction, Women's Studies, and autobiography. Educated at Stanford University and UCLA, she is the author of Soliloquy in Nineteenth-Century Fiction (1987) and editor of The Two Thackerays (1988) and Dramatic Dickens (1989). She is preparing a critical edition of Annie Besant's Autobiographical Sketches (1885) for Broadview Press. This article is an excerpt from her recently published book, Creative Negativity: Four Victorian Exemplars of the Female Quest (Stanford University Press, 2001). The book advances an original theory of creative negativity to help explain the rhetorical and artistic strategies of four Victorian women who were "velvet revolutionaries" in their own time: poet-photographer Julia Margaret Cameron (1815 -1879), novelist-essayist Anne Thackeray Ritchie (1837 -1919), actress-playwright-novelist Elizabeth Robins (1862 -1952), and activist-spiritual leader Annie Wood Besant.ANNIE WOOD BESANT (1847 -1933) engaged tumultuously with problems of personal belief throughout her early life. As a young woman, she was a problematic figure in Victorian England, openly questioning and then breaking from the Anglican Church to become an atheist, a freethinker, a neo-Malthusian, and then a Fabian Socialist—all the while exasperating the general public with her writings and legal and political battles. Her inner peace came only in 1889, when she embraced the worldwide social and mystical movement known as Theosophy.

After the death of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky in 1891, Besant headed the Theosophical movement in her typically controversial style for more than forty years, writing prolifically on the subject. She was the elected President of the Theosophical Society from 1907 until her death. She also participated actively in the stormy politics of India, where she influenced as much as she provoked Mohandas K. Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru, while that land of ancient tradition struggled to free itself from British colonialism.

Some of the apparent paradoxes in Besant's life story and her complex intellectual journey can be understood by a theory of "deconversion"—the loss of confidence in one system of belief that impels the individual to adopt a new one. Because they understand the spiritual quest resulting from deconversion better than most Westerners, Indian biographers have played an important role in redressing our often imbalanced perspective on Besant's life, even if some of them have engaged in open hagiography. Too many of her Western biographers have failed to understand the process of deconversion, so they unfortunately deride her apparent lack of commitment. For example, Arthur C. Nethercot's two-volume biography (1960 and 1963), in treating Besant's life in nine stages, implies a satiric analogy to a cat's nine lives. Anne Taylor's 1992 biography is a disappointment largely because of its lack of empathy for its subject. A more balanced account is Geoffrey West's earlier (1929) text, The Life of Annie Besant. West proffers an interlude chapter on conversion, opening with the words, "With regard to Mrs. Besant's conversion to Theosophy nothing needs more to be stressed than that it was, absolutely, a logical conclusion to all that had gone before. It might almost have been prophesied, had anyone possessed intimate knowledge and subtle perception" (143).

Reading the literature about Besant leads to the conclusion that she has not been well served by most of her Western biographers, who appear not to have read her autobiographical texts carefully. Unbiased accounts are in articles like Mark Bevir's "Annie Besant's Quest for Truth: Christianity, Secularism and New Age Thought" in The Journal of Ecclesiastical History (1999), which studies her life stages "in the context of the Victorian crisis of faith and the social concerns it helped raise" (62). Ultimately, however, she may be best understood by spiritual feminism.

Studies like Catherine Wessinger's Annie Besant and Progressive Messianism, 1847-1933 point the way to understanding Besant; and the title of her dissertation, "Millenarianism in the Thought of Annie Besant" (University of Iowa, 1985), more overtly asserts Besant's progressive model in contrast to catastrophic millennialism. Of Wessinger's articles, two are especially apropos: "Democracy vs. Hierarchy: The Evolution of Authority in the Theosophical Society," and "Annie Besant and Issues in Contemporary Feminist Spirituality." Diana Burfield's "Theosophy and Feminism: Some Explorations in Nineteenth Century Biography" and Joy Dixon's "Sexology and the Occult: Sexuality and Subjectivity in Theosophy's New Age" are other feminist studies of Besant.

To read Besant's texts closely is to run the risk of being radicalized, maybe even converted to a succession of her belief systems, culminating with her grand vision for the future of the human race. The line of resistance to her siren song seems to have taken the form of personal attack and disparagement, chiefly through the charge or innuendo that she was easily swayed by others and always "needed a man in her life." These assaults uncannily resemble the jeering she had experienced on the platform and the derision of the mainstream press during her life, so it is perhaps not surprising that Besant anticipated them in her own writings. She answered such criticisms in advance for those who were willing to listen—who could discern her sincerity, consistency, and integrity.

The self-questioning that consumed her prior to joining the Theosophical Society sums up her position succinctly, for it shows her unclouded recognition of the losses entailed by her choice:

For I saw, distinct and clear—with painful distinctness, indeed—what that joining would mean. . . . Was I to plunge into a new vortex of strife, and make myself a mark for ridicule—worse than hatred—and fight for an unpopular truth? . . . Must I leave the army that had battled for me so bravely, the friends who through all brutality of social ostracism had held me dear and true? And [Charles Bradlaugh], the strongest and truest friend of all, whose confidence I had shaken by my Socialism—must he suffer the pang of seeing his co-worker, his co-fighter, of whom he had been so proud, to whom he had been so generous, go over to the opposing hosts, and leave the ranks of Materialism? [Autobiography 342 -3]

Bradlaugh, president of the National Secular Society, had been her co-worker and co-leader of the free-thought movement since their first meeting at the Hall of Science in 1874. He did not, however, share the interest in socialism that Besant later developed. The growing division in their views played out in the pages of her journal Our Corner. Besant published her exchange of views on Socialism with Bradlaugh on a monthly basis in 1887, starting in April and ending in June. He began with "Socialism: Its Fallacies and Dangers"; she responded with "Its Truths and Its Hopes." He then tried a "Rejoinder," to which she provided in the same issue "A Final Reply"—thereby getting the last word.

The passage from Besant's Autobiography cited above does not mark Besant as she is often depicted by her biographers: the antagonist who loves a good fight and always needs another cause—with its male leadership—to champion. It instead exposes a tired, compassionate "soldier," one who took the next necessary step in her evolution even if it meant hurting those she loved, such as Charles Bradlaugh, because she could not deny a greater truth.

All along, in both her Autobiographical Sketches (1885) and An Autobiography (1893), Besant had been noting and underscoring, with increasing self-insight and audience awareness, the underlying logic of her social and spiritual evolution. Yet she still realized that she needed to address directly the criticisms that continued to be leveled at her, criticisms that would haunt her life story as rendered by biographers in the many decades to come. It was in this knowing spirit that she openly asserted, "I have been told that I plunged headlong into Theosophy and let my enthusiasm carry me away. I think the charge is true, in so far as the decision was swiftly taken; but it had been long led up to, and realized the dreams of childhood on the higher planes of intellectual womanhood" (Autobiography 345).

What more could she say on this point? To say more would have been to incur the critique of her detractors that she was being repetitious and even defensive, yet history has borne out her prescience in recognizing the necessity of risking overstatement to the resistant reader. To the reader or listener willing to trace her steps, Besant was more than generous in her explanations and explications, as witnessed in her two full-length autobiographical accounts, two lectures that she delivered and then subsequently reprinted entitled "Why I Became a Theosophist," and the entire body of her writings on Theosophy, which followed during the remaining four decades of her fully-lived lifetime.

In the context of her spiritual evolution by deconversion, it is fascinating to note the tension between Besant and George Bernard Shaw, a tension that transcended Besant's death and continued to resurface in Shaw's repeated jibes at her seriousness of purpose and her ultimate success. Nine years his senior, Besant was in fact responsible for the young Shaw finding a periodical audience and financial security. In her journal Our Corner, she serialized two of his unpublished novels, The Irrational Knot (about the marriage tie) and Love among the Artists, as well as signing him on as a regular contributor to the column entitled "Art Corner."

Appearing in Our Corner over a twenty-three month period in 1885 and 1886, The Irrational Knot was not published in book form until 1905, when Shaw referred to it as "The Second Novel of His Nonage." Alluding to Henrik Ibsen's play on the subject, the preface of the book says, "It may be regarded as an early attempt on the part of the Life Force to write a Doll's House in English by the instrumentality of a very immature writer aged twenty-four." Shaw's "immature" work on marriage can be compared with Besant's 1879 pamphlet on the subject, Marriage: Its Past, Present and Future.

Shaw's note to the reader of Love among the Artists, as serialized in fourteen monthly installments in 1887-1888 and published in book form in 1900, offers a back-handed acknowledgement of Besant: "If you find yourself displeased with my story, remember that it is not I, but the generous and appreciative editor of this magazine, who puts it forward as worth reading" (Our Corner 10:265). An account of the stormy relationship between Besant and Shaw, albeit slanted in Shaw's favor, is given by Michael Holroyd in Bernard Shaw: The Search for Love; and a more even-handed one, by Sally Peters in Bernard Shaw: The Ascent of the Superman.

The early friendship between Besant and Shaw deepened, although he remained jealous of the influence of the "other men" in her life—co-workers and collaborators like freethinker and radical Bradlaugh, editorial assistant John Mackinnon Robertson (later a Member of Parliament of considerable stature), scientist Edward Aveling, editor and co-seeker William Thomas Stead, and reformer-turned-Theosophist Herbert Burrows. But collaboration was not really a concept that Shaw could fathom. He was too much of an individualist and an egotist to work in equal partnership with anyone, least of all a strong woman, in actuality a superwoman who could outperform his superman. Even in a movement that espoused cooperation, namely the Fabianism to which Shaw nominated Besant in membership, he remained competitive, and when Besant moved beyond the more moderate Fabians to embrace what Socialism fully entailed, he expressed exasperation and a sense of betrayal.

After Besant's deconversion to Theosophy, Shaw found an outlet for his contradictory feelings about her in his portrayal of the character Raina Petkoff in his play Arms and the Man (1894). Besant's idealism gets transformed into a mixture of Romanticism and realistic self-knowledge in this heroine, whose "noble attitude" and "thrilling voice" provoke both mockery and admiration from the practical but equally Romantic Swiss mercenary, Captain Bluntschli, a role that very much reflects Shaw's own position.

Shaw's shorthand notes to Arms and the Man summed up the play: "The comedy begins in the conflict between [Raina's] romantic ideas of heroic soldiering and the reality before her in the person of this extremely matter-of-fact Swiss homme de metier." In his undated instructions to the producer of a film version of the play, he wrote, "Raina must be pretty enough to be readily forgiven her affectations and little lies; and she must have some comic talent." This last comment is especially intriguing given his views on Besant's lack of humor.

Shaw's confirmation that "Mrs. Besant" was the model for Raina came in the postscript of a letter (21 April 1898, Collected Letters 2:341) sent to fellow drama critic William Archer. It is interesting to note that Shaw wrote the part of Raina for the actress Florence Farr, with whom he had one of his many theatrical dalliances; Farr subsequently became involved with W. B. Yeats, who continued to be influenced by Theosophy long after his official break with it in 1889. Incidentally, Shaw has also acknowledged that the character of Mrs. Clandon, "a leader of the sex emancipation movement" in You Never Can Tell (1898), another "pleasant play," is modeled on Besant. Torn between seeing Besant as a genuine reformer and a quixotic dreamer, he fought to resist her charisma even as he was compelled to appreciate it.

We can gain some insight into his understanding of this melodrama of male-female relations (and perhaps Shaw's personal feelings about Besant) by reading his correspondence with the actress Lillah McCarthy, who played the part of Raina in the play's 1907 revival. Ranting about McCarthy's failure on opening night to carry "dramatic indignation to the point of totally forgetting your clothes"—because she still did not "sweep with a sufficiently majestic unconsciousness of them"—Shaw launched into an even more vitriolic attack a month later, when he declaimed that "Raina has gone to bits" because she was no longer on her "high horse." "What Raina wants," he went on to explain, "is the extremity of style—style—Comedie Francaise, Queen of Spain style. Do you hear, worthless wretch that you are?—STYLE." This letter ends with the exasperated exclamation "Demon—demon—demon!" (Collected Letters 2:755 –7). Hands-on about the productions of his plays, Shaw nonetheless seemed even more carried away here than usual, as if he indeed had a living model he was trying to approximate, someone with whom he had a longstanding love-hate relationship.

In 1947, four decades after the 1907 revival of Arms and the Man—fourteen years after Annie Besant's death, only four before his own, and the centenary year of her birth—the perennially pugnacious George Bernard Shaw felt constrained to challenge an article in the Freethinker and to assert his own active role in Besant's deconversion to Theosophy. Entitled "Annie Besant and the 'Secret Doctrine,'" Shaw's response tried to rewrite the history of Besant's reviewing of H. P. Blavatsky's major work, The Secret Doctrine, at the request of the editor William T. Stead. Ignoring (or perhaps unaware of) the accounts published by all three participants, he insisted on attacking Stead as "a complete Philistine" and casting himself in the rescuing role that Besant had earlier played for him.

Yet Shaw's assessment was privately countered and Stead's sensitivity confirmed in a letter Stead wrote to Blavatsky (December 8, 1888), in which he also acknowledged that "you have a genius quite transcendent, and an extraordinary aptitude for both literature and propagandism, which the rest of your fellow-creatures may well envy." Meanwhile, Besant went on to report in An Autobiography (308 -10) that she reviewed the Blavatsky text for the Pall Mall Gazette (April 25, 1889) explicitly at Stead's behest, requesting from him as well "an introduction to the writer" so that she might send a note "asking to be allowed to call." Some first-hand accounts by Stead and Besant of their relationship with Blavatsky and Besant's review of The Secret Doctrine are reprinted in Daniel Caldwell's anthology The Esoteric World of Madame Blavatsky (365 -70).

According to his rewritten scenario, however, Shaw declared that it was he who turned the review assignment over to Besant out of concern for her "serious want of money" and the fact that it was "a huge tome which I contemplated with dismay." Given Shaw's gratitude to William Archer for doing the same for him by planting him on the reviewer roster of the Pall Mall Gazette, it is not hard to see in this account a false memory induced by his desire to repay a long-held debt to Besant for boosting his career in journalism. It was not the first time Shaw had misremembered his earlier history.

Continuing with his revisionist history about Besant's conversion to Theosophy, Shaw went on to report that he had been "utterly confounded" by reading Besant's 1889 article in the Star, entitled "How I Became a Theosophist." "I had done a trick I never intended," he confessed, though not without some pride in his apparent influence despite his face-to-face accusation that "she was quite mad." He was, however, disturbed by her jocular response, all the more so because he found it uncharacteristic: "She said she supposed that since she had, as a Theosophist, become a vegetarian, her mind may have been affected." (Shaw was himself notoriously vegetarian.) Then, after declaring that this occasion marked "the end of our collaboration" and that their "separation was entirely of her doing," Shaw launched into the oft quoted tirade that has fueled the negative rhetoric of many of Besant's detractors:

Like all great public speakers she was a born actress. She was successively a Puseyite Evangelical, an Atheist Bible-smasher, a Darwinian Secularist, a Fabian Socialist, a Strike Leader, and finally a Theosophist, exactly as Mrs. Siddons was a Lady Macbeth, Lady Randolph, Beatrice, Rosalind, and Volumnia. She "saw herself" as a priestess above all: That was how Theosophy held her to the end. There was a different leading man every time: Bradlaugh, Robertson, Aveling, Shaw, and Herbert Burrows. That did not matter. Whoever does not understand this as I, a playwright, do, will never understand the career of Annie Besant. ["Annie Besant and the 'Secret Doctrine'" 450]

In spite of himself, Shaw here paid tribute to Besant's great powers of oratory, but his "actress" label missed the point that she had been repeatedly making about the nature of her deconversion process. Not giving credence to her own accounts (again, possibly because he had never read them), he provided his own rationale in the language of the theater, his false analogy suggesting that she took on a jumbled assortment of roles, not the successive ones that she so carefully researched and agonized over.

As for Shaw's intimations regarding her "leading men," Besant apparently had a precise rebuttal in mind over half a century prior to his attempt to impugn her character:

I may add that such shafts are specially pointless against myself. A woman who thought her way out of Christianity and Whiggism into Freethought and Radicalism absolutely alone; who gave up every old friend, male and female, rather than resign the beliefs she had struggled to in solitude; who, again in embracing active Socialism, has run counter of the views of her nearest "male friends"; such a woman may very likely go wrong, but I think she may venture, without conceit, to at least claim independence of judgment. [Autobiography 316]

The integrity and independence that Shaw denied to Besant are manifest in her lifetime struggles and her own writing. That so many of her contemporaries, as well as most biographers, should fail to see these qualities speaks more about their own efforts to resist the strength of her argument and the potency of her rhetoric than anything else.

On a more constructive note, it is worthwhile to observe how Besant's spiritual journey resembles one of popular culture's most widely loved female quests, namely L. Frank Baum's story The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900). Apart from the actual connections between Baum and Theosophy, plot elements of the story—Dorothy's multiple challenges in the land of Oz, the interplay between reality and illusion, and her spirited desire to return home—all find parallels in the experiences of Besant's complex life story. Moreover, at least one literary critic reads Baum's tale as a Theosophical allegory. Specifically citing Besant's and Blavatsky's metaphorical description of the quest to find Truth, John Algeo makes the connection fairly explicit: "There is a Road, steep and thorny, beset with perils of every kind, but yet a Road, and it leads to the very heart of the universe." Algeo goes on to summarize, "Dorothy's quest is for salvation, liberation, enlightenment, freedom from birth and death" (295), adding, "If there is a 'moral' to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, this is it: we must rely on ourselves, for we alone have the power to save ourselves" (297). Besant's real strength lay in precisely that ability to combine self-reliance with a relentless pursuit of the truth synonymous with ultimate liberation.

Controversial in life and death, Besant continues to vex would-be biographers with her rich complexities. The best accounts—because fairest and closest to the experience of their subject—reproduce at length her own words. At the same time, they also support the position that no account can be definitive, that we as would-be readers of such a complex life story need to track it down from multiple sources, putting together a narrative of our own making even as we recognize that it will need to be reformulated again and again.

In trying to tell the story of the multiple deconversions of Annie Wood Besant, I have followed a winding trail of resources. Bibliographies of Besant's writings can be found in various biographies about her, notably those of Aiyar, Bennett, Besterman, Cousins, Dinnage, Kumar, Nethercot, Prakasa, Taylor, and West. There have even been Internet exchanges providing information to readers who have not had ready access to her history or writings. One such posting at http://www.indiana. edu/~libref/victoria (21 April 1997) from Teresa Malafaia at the University of Lisbon reported that she had recently supervised an M.A. thesis on the Besant autobiographies. Excerpts from An Autobiography appear in at least one anthology, namely Janet Horowitz Murray's Strong-Minded Women and Other Lost Voices from Nineteenth-Century England; they are reproduced under the following headings: "Decision to Marry" (1866), "Her Daughter's Illness" (1871), "Her First Lecture" (1873), and "The 'White Slavery' of London Match Workers" (1888). Ruth Brandon's recent study, The New Woman and the Old Men: Love, Sex and the Woman Question, provides an example of yet another body of research to be taken into account.

In addition, works contemporary with Besant to be considered for their influence, reflection of the cultural ambience, or attempt to write character from Besant's example include especially Edith Lees Ellis's Attainment (1909), whose heroine Rachel is clearly modeled on Besant and her journey. Rachel moves from philanthropy to Theosophy, wherein the sun and the moon blend the light of their mysteries to create a union "beyond motion and beyond speech" (316). Another is the children's book The Story of the Amulet (1906), written by Besant's good friend Edith Nesbit. In this text, the Queen of Babylon travels forward in time to Edwardian England, only to wreck havoc at the British Museum when she tries to reclaim her possessions on display. As she sweeps down the Museum steps, a passing journalist inquires, "Theosophy, I suppose. Is she Mrs. Besant?" Given a "reckless" affirmation, the journalist rushes off to Fleet Street to publish his article, "Impertinent Miracle at the British Museum" (128).

Much has been written about Besant because she had such a broadly based public career, but by the same token there have been more veils thrown over her activities and the assessments of them. Serving so many different agendas, Annie Wood Besant has appeared in multiple guises, which have in turn obscured her all-too-singular multiplicity. Without engaging in hagiography ourselves, I think we can join with my colleague Desley Deacon, who speaks with quiet amazement of lives so lived: "You just gaze in wonder."

References

Aiyar,

C. P. Ramaswami. Annie Besant. Delhi: Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, 1963.

Algeo,

John. "A Notable Theosophist: L. Frank Baum." American Theosophist 74(August-September 1986): 270 -3.

———.

"The Wizard of Oz: The Perilous Journey." American Theosophist 74 (October1986): 291-7. Reprint, Quest 6.2 (Summer 1993): 48 –55.

Baum, L.

Frank. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. 1900. Reprint in The AnnotatedWizard of Oz, ed. Michael Patrick Hearn. New York: Clarkson N. Potter, 1973.

Bennett,

Olivia. Annie Besant. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1988.

Besant,

Annie. Autobiographical Sketches. London: Freethought Publishing Company, 1885. Originally published in Our Corner 3 -5 (1884 -1885).

———.

An Autobiography. 1893. London: Theosophical Publishing Society, 1894; 2nd ed.Benares, 1908; 3rd ed. Adyar, 1939.

———.

Marriage: Its Past, Present and Future. 1879. Reprint, ed. Emanuel Haldeman-Julius. Girard KS: Appeal to Reason, 1900 and other editions.

Besterman,

Theodore. Mrs. Annie Besant: A Modern Prophet. London: Kegan Paul, Trench,Trubner, 1934.

Bevir,

Mark. "Annie Besant's Quest for Truth: Christianity, Secularism and New Age Thought." The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 50.1 (1999): 62-93.

Brandon,

Ruth. The New Women and the Old Men: Love, Sex and the Woman Question. New York: W.W. Norton, 1990.

Burfield,

Diana. "Theosophy and Feminism: Some Explorations in Nineteenth CenturyBiography." In Women's Religious Experience, ed. Pat Holden, 27 -56. Beckenham: Croom Helm, 1983.

Caldwell,

Daniel H., comp. The Esoteric World of Madame Blavatsky: Insights into the Lifeof a Modern Sphinx. Wheaton, IL: Theosophical Publishing House, Quest Books, 2000.

Cousins,

James, ed. The Annie Besant Centenary Book. Adyar, Madras: TheosophicalPublishing House, 1947.

Dinnage,

Rosemary. Annie Besant. Middlesex: Penguin, 1986.

Dixon,

Joy. "Sexology and the Occult: Sexuality and Subjectivity in Theosophy's New Age." Journal of the History of Sexuality 7.3 (1997): 409-33.

Ellis,

Edith Lees [Mrs. Havelock Ellis]. Attainment. London: Alston Rivers, 1909.

Holroyd,

Michael.Bernard Shaw: The Search for Love. Vol. 1 (1856-1898). New York: RandomHouse, 1988.

Kumar,

Raj. Annie Besant's Rise to Power in Indian Politics,1914-1917. Delhi: Concept Publishing House, 1981.

Murray,

Janet Horowitz, ed. Strong-Minded Women and Other Lost Voices fromNineteenth-Century England. New York: Pantheon Books, 1982.

Nesbit,

Edith. The Story of the Amulet. 1906. Reprint London: Ernest Benn, 1957.

Nethercot,

Arthur H. The First Five Lives of Annie Besant. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960.

———.

The Last FourLives of Annie Besant Chicago: University of Chicago Press,1963

Peters,

Sally. Bernard Shaw: The Ascent of the Superman. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1996.

Prakasa,

Sri. Annie Besant as Woman and as Leader. 1940. Reprint Bombay: Bharatiya VidyaBhavan, 1962.

Shaw,

George Bernard. "Annie Besant and the 'Secret Doctrine.'" The Freethinker 67(December 14, 1947): 450.

———.

Collected Letters. Vol. 2: 1898-1910. Ed. Dan H. Laurence. London: Max Reinardt,1972.

———.

The Irrational Knot. London: Constable, 1905.

———.

Love among the Artists. Chicago: Herbert S. Stone, 1900.

Stead,

William T. Letter to H. P. Blavatsky, December 8, 1888. Archives of theTheosophical Society, Adyar, Madras (Chennai), India.

Taylor,

Anne. Annie Besant: A Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992.

Wessinger,

Catherine. "Annie Besant and Issues in Contemporary Feminist Spirituality" Quest 10.1 (1997): 26 -33, and 10.2 (1997): 42 -49, 51.

———.

Annie Besant and Progressive Messianism, 1847-1933. Lewiston, NY: Edwin MellenPress, 1988.

———.

"Democracy vs. Hierarchy: The Evolution of Authority in the Theosophical Society." In When Prophets Die: The Postcharismatic Fate of New Religious Movements, ed. Timothy Miller, 93 –106, 218 -22. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991.

West,

Geoffrey. [Geoffrey Harry Wells.] The Life of Annie Besant. London: Gerald Howe,1929.




Carol Hanbery MacKay is an Associate Professor of English at the University of Texas at Austin, where she teaches courses on Victorian fiction, Women's Studies, and autobiography. Educated at Stanford University and UCLA, she is the author of Soliloquy in Nineteenth-Century Fiction (1987) and editor of The Two Thackerays (1988) and Dramatic Dickens (1989). She is preparing a critical edition of Annie Besant's Autobiographical Sketches (1885) for Broadview Press. This article is an excerpt from her recently published book, Creative Negativity: Four Victorian Exemplars of the Female Quest (Stanford University Press, 2001). The book advances an original theory of creative negativity to help explain the rhetorical and artistic strategies of four Victorian women who were "velvet revolutionaries" in their own time: poet-photographer Julia Margaret Cameron (1815 -1879), novelist-essayist Anne Thackeray Ritchie (1837 -1919), actress-playwright-novelist Elizabeth Robins (1862 -1952), and activist-spiritual leader Annie Wood Besant.


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