I was elected to the Executive Committee of the Vegetarian Society, and made it a point to attend every one of its meetings, but I always felt tongue-tied. Dr. Oldfield once said to me, 'You talk to me quite all right, but why is it that you never open your lips at a committee meeting? You are a drone.' I appreciated the banter. The bees are ever busy, the drone is a thorough idler. And it was not a little curious that whilst others expressed their opinions at these meetings, I sat quite silent. Not that I never felt tempted to speak. But I was at a loss to know how to express myself. All the rest of the members appeared to me to be better informed than I. Then it often happened that just when I had mustered up courage to speak, a fresh subject would be started. This went on for a long time.
Meantime a serious question came up for discussion. I thought it wrong to be
absent, and felt it cowardice to register a silent vote. The discussion
arose somewhat in this wise. The President of the Society was Mr. Hills,
proprietor of the Thames Iron Works. He was a puritan. It may be said
that the existence of the Society depended practically on his financial
assistance. Many members of the Committee were more or less his protégés.
Dr. Allinson of vegetarian fame was also a member of the Committee. He
was an advocate of the then new birth control movement, and preached its
methods among the working classes. Mr. Hills regarded these methods as
cutting at the root of morals. He thought that the Vegetarian Society
had for its object not only dietetic but also moral reform, and that a
man of Dr. Allinson's anti-puritanic views should not be allowed to
remain in the Society. A motion was therefore brought for his removal.
The question deeply interested me. I considered Dr. Allinson's views
regarding artificial methods of birth control as dangerous, and I
believed that Mr. Hills was entitled, as a puritan, to oppose him. I had
a high regard for Mr. Hills and his generosity. But I thought it was
quite improper to exclude a man from a vegetarian society simply because
he refused to regard puritan morals as one of the objects of the
society. Mr. Hills' view regarding the exclusion of anti-puritans from
the Society was personal to himself, and it had nothing to do with the
declared object of the Society, which was simply the promotion of
vegetarianism and not of any system of morality. I therefore held that
any vegetarian could be a member of the Society irrespective of his
views on other morals.
There were in the Committee others also who shared my view, but I felt myself
personally called upon to express my own. How to do it was the question.
I had not the courage to speak and I therefore decided to set down my
thoughts in writing. I went to the meeting with the document in my
pocket. So far as I recollect, I did not find myself equal even to
reading it, and the President had it read by someone else. Dr. Allinson
lost the day. Thus in the very first battle of the kind I found myself
siding with the losing party. But I had comfort in the thought that the
cause was right. I have a faint recollection that, after this incident,
I resigned from the Committee.
This shyness I retained throughout my stay in England. Even when I paid a social call
the presence of half a dozen or more people would strike me dumb.
I once went to Ventnor with Sjt. Mazmudar. We stayed there with a vegetarian family.
Mr. Howard, the author of The Ethics of Diet,
was also staying at the same watering-place. We met him, and he invited
us to speak at a meeting for the promotion of vegetarianism. I had
ascertained that it was not considered incorrect to read one's speech. I
knew that many did so to express themselves coherently and briefly. To
speak ex tempore would have
been out of the question for me. I had therefore written down my speech.
I stood up to read it, but could not. My vision became blurred and I
trembled, though the speech hardly covered a sheet of foolscap. Sjt.
Mazmudar had to read it for me. His own speech was of course excellent
and was received with applause. I was ashamed of myself and sad at heart
for my incapacity.
My last effort to make a public speech in England was on the eve of my departure
for home. But this time too I only succeeded in making myself
ridiculous. I invited my vegetarian friends to dinner in the Holborn
Restaurant referred to in these chapters. 'A vegetarian dinner could be
had,' I said to myself, 'in vegetarian restaurants as a matter of
course. But why should it not be possible in a non-vegetarian restaurant
too?' And I arranged with the manager of the Holborn Restaurant to
provide a strictly vegetarian meal. The vegetarians hailed the new
experiment with delight. All dinners are meant for enjoyment, but the
West has developed the thing into an art. They are celebrated with great
éclat, music and speeches. And the little dinner party that I gave was also not
unaccompanied by some such display. Speeches, therefore, there had to
be. When my turn for speaking came, I stood up to make a speech. I had
with great care thought out one which would consist of a very few
sentences. But I could not proceed beyond the first sentence. I had read
of Addison that he began his maiden speech in the House of Commons,
repeating 'I conceive' three times, and when he could proceed no
further, a wag stood up and said, 'The gentleman conceived thrice but
brought forth nothing.' I had thought of making a humorous speech taking
this anecdote as the text. I therefore began with it and stuck there. My
memory entirely failed me and in attempting a humorous speech I made
myself ridiculous. I thank you, gentlemen, for having kindly responded
to my invitation,' I said abruptly, and sat down.
It was only in South Africa that I got over this shyness, though I never completely
overcame it. It was impossible for me to speak impromptu.
I hesitated whenever I had to face strange audiences and avoided making
a speech whenever I could. Even today I do not think I could or would
even be inclined to keep a meeting of friends engaged in idle talk.
I must say that, beyond occasionally exposing me to laughter, my
constitutional shyness has been no disadvantage whatever. In fact I can
see that, on the contrary, it has been all to my advantage. My hesitancy
in speech, which was once an annoyance, is now a pleasure. Its greatest
benefit has been that it has taught me the economy of words. I have
naturally formed the habit of restraining my thoughts. And I can now
give myself the certificate that a thoughtless word hardly ever escapes
my tongue or pen. I do not recollect ever having had to regret anything
in my speech or writing. I have thus been spared many a mishap and waste
of time. Experience has taught me that silence is part of the spiritual
discipline of a votary of truth. Proneness to exaggerate, to suppress or
modify the truth, wittingly or unwittingly, is a natural weakness of
man, and silence is necessary in order to surmount it. A man of few
words will rarely be thoughtless in his speech; he will measure every
word. We find so many people impatient to talk. There is no chairman of
a meeting who is not pestered with notes for permission to speak. And
whenever the permission is given the speaker generally exceeds the
time-limit, asks for more time, and keeps on talking without permission.
All this talking can hardly be said to be of any benefit to the world.
It is so much waste of time. My shyness has been in reality my shield
and buckler. It has allowed me to grow. It has helped me in my
discernment of truth.