Set Down in Malice: A Book of Reminiscences

								

whole, he thought it better that if A (myself) wished to write about B
(Mr George Moore), it would be an excellent arrangement, provided
that:
(1) A was an intimate friend of B’s, or
(2) A was a complete stranger to B.
I was left, most courteously, to infer that I (A), being a complete
stranger, had better remain so.
I did.
I have done.

CHAPTER II
MISCELLANEOUS


Mrs Annie Besant—Marcus Stone—Lloyd George—Bishop
Welldon—Dr Walford Davies

Mrs Annie Besant, like her Himalayan Mahatmas, is lofty, remote, and
difficult of access. Only once was I admitted to The Presence. What
drove me there was, first of all, curiosity, and, secondly, a feeling
of great respect for her which I had retained from boyhood. I admired
her courage, her independence, her friendship with and loyalty to
Bradlaugh; moreover, I have always held in high regard those who, from
temperamental or spiritual discord with their fellows, have kicked over
the intellectual traces and run a race of their own. Annie Besant,
whatever else she may be, is a woman of courage, of vast resource and
of indomitable will.
But alas! my hour’s interview with her did much to sap and destroy my
devotion. First of all, I must say that, previous to meeting her, I
had been for a short time an Associate of the Theosophical Society. I
was never admitted to membership of that body because I never claimed
the privilege; my associateship originated in my desire to hear Orage
lecture and in my anxiety to study some curious and not unintelligent
people at first hand. Nothing is at once more distressing and more
repellent to me than affectation, and the affectation of most members
of the Theosophical Society whom I met was really appalling. The people
were also grotesque. The men had dyspepsia and bald heads, and the
women wore djibbahs and a look of condescending benevolence. They read
Madame Blavatsky assiduously and gabbled nonsense to each other.
Mrs Besant made an appointment for me one Saturday afternoon at the
Midland Hotel, Manchester. I was shown into a private sitting-room
which, upon entering, I took to be empty. But, after a few moments had
passed, I observed a snake-like movement in a corner of the room, and a
thin, pale lady advanced languidly towards me, holding out a lifeless
hand which hung nervelessly at her wrist. I glanced at her in surprise
and noticed that she wore a djibbah, a long necklace of yellow stones,
a most insincere smile, and vegetarian boots.
“Mrs Besant will be with you shortly,” she said, scrutinising me
carefully. Having, as it appeared to me, taken a mental inventory of
my clothing, she glided to the door and, smiling at me once more,
disappeared. I took her to be a sort of bodyguard.
The entrance of Mrs Besant was brisk and businesslike. She had a firm
handshake; she looked a capable business woman—a woman accustomed to
issuing commands and having them implicitly obeyed. Of medium height,