Читать книгу Clara Barton, Professional Angel - Elizabeth Brown Pryor - Страница 7

preface

Among the handful of heroines in America, Clara Barton has stood foremost in the field of philanthropy for more than a century. Small girls are taught to revere her early contributions to the field of nursing; her bravery on the battlefields of the Civil War has taken on the quality of legend; the whole nation is indebted to her for the establishment of the American Red Cross. Lesser known, but of equal importance, are her achievements as a feminist, her role as the first female American diplomat, and her notable successes in the fields of education, foreign aid, and black rights. She participated in an astonishing number of the nineteenth century's major events and was a personal friend of figures as varied as Susan B. Anthony, Frederick Douglass, Benjamin Butler, and Kaiser Wilhelm.

Yet in a curious way Barton's splendid achievements seem to have obscured her intriguing and complex personality. Whereas all know of her courage, most would be surprised that she could “remember nothing but fear” about her childhood. For every characteristic that gave force to Barton's crusades there seemed to be a weak link that prevented her attaining personal happiness. What is found, in short, is a personality often at odds with itself. The qualities of courage, empathy, and determination so often ascribed to the beloved heroine undoubtedly existed, but just as evident were a merciless driving force, a shattering insecurity, a demanding and erratic ego. For when Barton wrote that her work had been accomplished “against the fearful odds,” she did not refer solely to the difficulties of pursuing a career in the male-dominated Victorian world. She was speaking of the many battles waged internally; the long fight against crippling depression and fear of insanity that grew out of her need to excel, and her belief that she had never done enough to secure a place in the world. It is an understanding of this darker side of Barton's nature that makes the story of her accomplishments so poignant, and so very interesting.

“I have lived my life, well and ill,” Clara Barton wrote a few years before her death, “ways less well than I wanted it to be but it is, as it is, and as it has been; so small a thing to have had so much said about it.” A modest statement, especially from a person whose name had been a household word for more than forty years. Modest, and disingenuous, for like so many other noble pronouncements made by Miss Barton, one suspects that this philosophical acceptance of her own actions was written with an eye to the fitting word and quotable phrase. In reality her whole life had been spent in a search for the public acclaim that served as a salve for the indifference of her family. Whatever the importance of her work for all of humanity, whatever its role in the larger scope of philanthropy, it certainly had significance for her. There were, in fact, few subjects on which she was less acquiescent.

There were times when Barton admitted her shortcomings or the disappointments of her life, but they were rare, and never public. She was certain of her abilities, yet always unsure whether others shared her high regard. Thus she made an early determination that if she were to be a public figure she would create a public image. It did not particularly concern her that that image was somewhat at odds with reality. Hence she began to write a series of statements and letters, cleverly crafted to be appropriate for publication, which portrayed her personality and achievements in an idealized light. The pupils she taught as a young woman were always the greatest rogues or the most accomplished scholars; titles were invented if not earned. Even her movements were falsified to show that she was continually at the center of the action. To some extent these measures were necessary to offset those who would question what, for example, a woman was doing following an army in wartime. (If through no fault of her own she was doing nothing, the worst was assumed.) Yet, it was not only major undertakings she sought to justify, but personal traits and family matters about which she need not have commented at all. Though she dyed her hair (and why not if she chose to do so) she told friends and public that her “raven locks had never turned gray.” Desiring to appear robust, she cosmetically lowered her age when the press inquired or the census taker came round. Barton's obsession with obscuring even the smallest details of her life reflected a sad lack of self-esteem and a need to project an image of perfection.

During periods of great stress Barton often expressed the desire to confide the whole convoluted story to some sympathetic ear—to impress upon someone how difficult the struggle against emotional instability, sexual prejudice, and family scandal had really been. On rare occasions she did give candid glimpses of her life, but always to physicians with whom she sought an alliance against the nervous breakdowns which plagued her. And if the world at large was to see the strong image of a dedicated, unflappable, and compassionate woman, if she built a brick wall around the facts of her life, a wall so high that the most dedicated biographer could chip away for years before here and there dislodging a bit of the shining facade, she also kept a scrupulous and frank diary in which she recorded all the small triumphs and ugly thoughts, the petty details which make up every life. She did not destroy these diaries, nor the mass of vividly written correspondence which so illuminates her character. These papers, some hundred thousand pieces, give lie to the idea that Miss Barton lacked a sense of the value of her life.

Barton's outrage at criticism, and the half-truths she told, were symptoms of a broad and terrible insecurity that stemmed partly from her unusual childhood, when she had been outside the nuclear family, and partly from her position as a childless, spouseless, intelligent, and hard-driving woman in a world that chose to glorify only the homemaking female. Barton saw herself, perhaps accurately, as an anomalous person in society. She occasionally took pleasure in viewing herself as a maverick, and genuinely enjoyed her role as a pioneer among working women. But the lack of an established niche clearly made her uncomfortable, and she vacillated between self-righteous conformity and rebellion. She traveled thus, without authority, unwilling to accept the mores of her day, improvising as she went. Unable to blame herself for the discomfort she felt, she lashed out at the world at large. Times of depression nearly always caused her to condemn the world as nothing more than a set of drear and confining societal standards. She often spoke of suicide, of the pleasure of leaving behind this “world of strife and bickering and lies.” Periodically her nerves gave way under the constant strain of building the law as well as the substance of her life. Then for a time she would drop out of sight, and demand a coddling attention before she would rejoin the race for praise.

Fostering as she did a kind of self-imposed exile from the normal bonds of family and friends, Barton came to rely on herself for loyalty and approbation. In her eyes, she was the best candidate for every job, the ideal housekeeper, the most affectionate friend. Never did she learn to take criticism, and under its yoke she felt either persecution or smug superiority. To her mind there was little difference between observation, comment, suggestion, and censorship—and censorship was always the fault of the censor. Even the closest of nephews was accused of betrayal when he wisely tried to reshape his aunt's disastrous Spanish-American War policy. She could never bring herself to delegate authority; she was simply unable to believe that anyone else could do the job as she could. Worse yet, they might succeed as well as she, and threaten to rival her for glory or authority. Of course this made both personal and professional relationships difficult. Fealty to Barton was the one common characteristic of those who chose to work and live in her shadow. Sometimes she inspired great loyalty; always she demanded it. One of her most prized aides called her “the Queen.”

We are all creatures of contrast, now confident, now hindered and terrorized by the prospect of a new day. But in Barton the normal toss and pitch of life was exaggerated, so that she felt always the need to compensate for some heightened emotion. Depression was countermanded by excessive work or a zealous crusade for some cause, and the frantic activity did not stop until nervous collapse or increased depression made it a necessity. Balance and serenity, the very traits she peddled to the press, were flighty visitors to her life. Chaos came to form such a semblance of normality for Barton that she fought the few periods of calm that came to her. Finding the tranquility boring, if not downright disconcerting, she hastened to take on the burden of more troubled souls. The celebrated incident of her childhood, during which she nursed her adult brother for nearly two years, was little more than an exercise to fill—with emotional tension and hard work—a stretch of time that, at the age of twelve, she already thought wasted in play. Moreover, in aiding her brother David she found (as she would with the myriad others who came under her care) that she could change the direction of a life, or alleviate the terrible distress of physical suffering, a sharp contrast with her own life, in which she was powerless to check the pain or lessen the sorrow. For Barton every fresh wound was bound up on another human being. She never learned to administer first aid to herself.

Hence it was achievement that lent definition to Clara Barton's life. Her identity was completely tied to her career, and work itself held a deep significance for her. More than an activity, it became a kind of creed. “You have never known me without work and you never will,” she once declared. “It has always been a part of the best religion I had.” It was while working, especially under stress, that the quick intelligence, the undaunted bravery, the brilliant timing, came to the fore. With work she gained purpose, a justification for her existence, independence, and praise. Only when her career lagged did the greatest despondency come.

It is the nature of Barton's work that has most interested the world; there is something perennially fascinating about those who trade in the misfortunes of others. Of course for her purposes only the most noble of causes could suffice. Even the most hostile world could hardly dare to criticize a woman working for humanity, and in a crisis she could always be the center of attention. No altruist, she craved the teary-eyed thanks, the clinging hands, and the eternal gratitude of those she helped. The love and adoration missing from her home life were found here, as well as the larger praise of the world. Until well into her eighties she never hesitated to rush to the scene of disaster, where she would be needed and revered, no matter what pressing business should have kept her in Washington.

Yet it would be wrong to treat Barton's lifework cynically, for she was filled with honest qualities which lent it integrity. She bore dreadful shocks of exposure, and faced hideous scenes, with equanimity and always with unflinching valor. A strong current of philanthropy ran in her family's blood; she honored charity because her father had encouraged her to do so, and she lived what he had taught. She had true compassion for the weak or disadvantaged and ever sought to supplement their dignity as well as their material possessions. If she was quick to grasp the dramatic possibilities of a relief mission, she did not ignore the little kindnesses which in aggregate made up so much of her work. Unable to be brave for herself, anxious over every irreverent tweak of fate, Barton was a miracle of sustenance for others.

Thus the paradox exists; the woman frightened by life, but confident in the face of terror; the driven achiever who worrried that she had failed to do enough; the beloved heroine who died alone. Her long list of accomplishments, unequalled in the annals of American women, must be placed in this perspective: that she dared to offend a society whose acceptance she treasured, and to patch up the lives around her when her own was rent and frayed.