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.
acknowledgments
I was home not long ago and one of my friends said to me, “But what will we do without Clara? She is the only continuity in our lives.” And indeed, the writing of this book has spanned my entire adult life, with all of its friendships, false starts, high times and low moments. I feel, thus, that just about everyone I know has lived through—some would say survived—this exercise with me. My debt for their support and patience is correspondingly large.
The dedication of this book to my mother and late father was not made idly. I owe everything I have, or have achieved, to them. And in these acknowledgments I would expand this to include my two wonderful sisters, Beverly Louise Brown and Peggy Ann Brown.
I would also specially note the assistance I received from Charles Rosenberg and Drew Faust of the University of Pennsylvania. Not only did they stretch my thinking and encourage me, they read and reread the manuscript, offered significant critical advice, and in the end virtually acted as agents for the book. All of this strikes me as considerably above and beyond their duties as graduate advisors.
Mention should also be made of the fine help given to me over a ten-year period from the staffs of the Clara Barton National Historic Site, the National Archives, the American National Red Cross, and, particularly, the
