“Universal History ... is at bottom, the History of the Great Men who have worked here.”—Carlyle.
Dorothea Beale is one of the few people to whom we can apply the adjective great. As one reads the story of her life this quality is very clearly marked. She was great in her thoughts, great in her plans, great in her deeds. It is impossible to define greatness, but it is a quality that is easily recognisable by those who have the power to see.
She had a well-balanced brain, an extremely desirable possession in an educationalist. Whether she would have done superlatively good work in one subject, had she specialised, it is impossible to say, but she certainly did extremely good work in many subjects—History, Mathematics, Philosophy, Languages—to mention only a few. Such all-round capacity is very valuable in a Head Mistress, as it enables her to judge fairly the teaching that is being given in almost every subject. Intellectually she was abnormally active: rest was to her an impossibility, and up to the end of her life she kept this marvellous mental energy. The amount of work she was able to do was prodigious: her administrative duties, her teaching, her literary essays—she wrote a considerable amount—her vast correspondence, implied a mass of work that few people could get through. Her great powers made it rather difficult for her to understand people of limited capacity, though she tried to do so. Dorothea Beale was a great organiser. Teachers who went to the Ladies’ College from other schools were amazed at the perfect organisation, and were greatly impressed by the way in which Dorothea Beale kept in touch with everything. She was like a centre to which were attached invisible wires from every girl and every teacher. One of her leading ideas was to work through her staff. She knew she could accomplish infinitely more with their sympathy and help than by trying to do things herself. A piece of advice she frequently offered to her teachers was to get others to do anything they could, so as to leave their own energies for the essential part of their work, the part that no one else could do. The doctrine of conservation of energy she preached much to her staff. She dreaded for them the exhausting effect of even too much enthusiasm. Holidays, she said, were to be used for the refreshment of body, mind, and soul: and she advised them to avoid anything that might impair their health.
Her humour was subtle and not always understood. She frequently said most humorous things with a perfectly grave face, so that people who did not understand her often quoted her jokes to prove her lack of humour. One day she said to the girls that she believed her friend, Mr. X., always made a plan of learning poetry while he shaved, and she commended it to them as a practice they should all immediately follow!
As life went on, I believe, Dorothea Beale became rather unpractical in personal matters, and when she had to do things for herself did them with difficulty. Happily she usually had some one to look after her.
“I had a great deal of talk with her,” wrote one of her Old Girls, “at one of the Head Mistresses’ Conferences, and I remember her giving me such an amusing account of her attempts to blow up an air-cushion for herself, that we both laughed until the tears ran down our faces.”
At the age of sixty-seven Dorothea Beale took to cycling. At first she attempted a bicycle, but this was somewhat difficult at that advanced age, so she took the advice of her friends and rode, instead, a tricycle. Most mornings about seven o’clock she was to be seen riding along the Cheltenham streets. “The milkmen know how to keep out of my way,” she used laughingly to say. The tricycle was a source of great pleasure to her, as it enabled her to get out easily and quickly into quiet country, where she could enjoy the beauty and solitude of nature.
Her writing became rather illegible, though in youth it was good. There is a story told of her which sounds to me rather the kind of anecdote that is applied to different people in succession. After a Scripture class a girl received back a written exercise with a remark by Dorothea Beale at the end. The girl gazed at the remark, looking at it in every possible way, but could not decipher it. The book was handed round the class, but no one could read the red-ink hieroglyphics. Finally some genius hit on the interpretation—“Write legibly!”
The living monument of Dorothea Beale’s work is a testimony to her greatness of soul, her patience and her power to wait. Yet, curiously enough, she was in smaller things often very impetuous: sometimes she forgot decisions made hastily and difficulties ensued.
All her life Dorothea Beale had to fight against extreme sensitiveness and shyness. She, who never shrank from any duty, however difficult, often shrank from the society of those who might be unsympathetic, and was sorely wounded by adverse criticism. Yet in a larger sense, she did not trouble about the judgment of others, accustomed as she was throughout life to submit herself to a Higher Judge. She found it difficult to make advances to other people and always welcomed the fearless, happy girls who ventured to treat her as a comrade and friend. No doubt this sensitiveness helped her much in her dealings with others. It gave her the power of sympathising, especially in times of sorrow and difficulty: one has only to read some of her letters to see how powerful she was in this way. A few extracts will illustrate this point:—