The Life of Florence Nightingale Volume I Part 8

[49] Bibliography A, No. 2.

Any dreams, then, which she may have harboured of literary distinction, she had put resolutely away from her. "Oh G.o.d," she had written in her diary at Cairo, "thou puttest into my heart this great desire to devote myself to the sick and sorrowful. I offer it to thee. Do with it what is for thy service." But there was still one other temptation to be subdued.

CHAPTER VII

THE SINGLE LIFE

The craving for sympathy, which exists between two who are to form one indivisible and perfect whole, is in most cases between man and woman, in some between man and G.o.d. This the Roman Catholics have understood and expressed under the simile, Christ the bridegroom, the Nun married to Him, the Monk married to the Church; or as St.

Francis to poverty, or as St. Ignatius Loyola to the divine mistress of his thoughts, the Virgin. This sort of tie between man and G.o.d seems alone able to fill the want of the other, the permanent exclusive tie between the one man and the one woman.--FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE: _Suggestions for Thought_.

"I had three paths among which to choose," wrote Miss Nightingale in a diary of 1850: "I might have been a literary woman, or a married woman, or a Hospital Sister." We have seen how she turned away from the first path. Why did she reject the second?

"Our dear Flo," wrote Mrs. Bracebridge to Miss Clarke in 1844, "has just recovered from a severe cold, but I hear nothing of what I long for, _i.e._ some n.o.ble-hearted, true man, one who can love her as she deserves to be loved, prepared to take her to a house of her own." And three years later another friend, f.a.n.n.y Allen, in describing a visit to Embley, said of Florence: "What a wife she would make for a man worthy of her! but I am not sure I yet know the mate fit for her." The two Nightingale girls, she surmised, would experience a "difficulty in finding any one they would like well enough to forsake such a home."[50]

In the case of Florence, the position was ill understood by outsiders.

To her the home was not a happy garden which she would be very reluctant to forsake, but rather a gilded cage from which she eagerly sought a way of escape. To us who have the means of knowing her inmost thoughts and feelings, the question thus presents itself in another light than that in which it appeared to her friends at the time. She craved for a larger, fuller life than she could find at home. Why could she not, or why did she not, seek it in marriage? It is love that sometimes "frees the imprisoned spirit," that enables it to find and to express itself. That Miss Nightingale remained single was not the result of lack of opportunity to marry. The reason is to be found elsewhere--in feelings, thoughts, and ideals, in reasoned convictions and aspirations, which, if I can present them aright, will illuminate her character and her career.

[50] _A Century of Family Letters_, vol. ii. pp. 106, 107.

In 1873 Miss Nightingale, like the rest of the world, was reading _Middlemarch_, and a paper which she wrote in that year contained some notice of George Eliot's heroine.[51] "A novel of genius has appeared.

Its writer once put before the world (in a work of fiction too), certainly the most living, probably the most historically truthful, presentment of the great Idealist, Savonarola of Florence. This author now can find no better outlet for the heroine--also an Idealist--_because_ she cannot be a 'St. Teresa' or an 'Antigone,' than to marry an elderly sort of literary impostor, and, quick after him, his relation, a baby sort of itinerant Cluricaune (see _Irish Fairies_) or inferior Faun (see Hawthorne's matchless _Transformation_). Yet close at hand, in actual life, was a woman--an Idealist too--and if we mistake not, a connection of the author's, who has managed to make her ideal very real indeed. By taking charge of blocks of buildings in poorest London, while making herself the rent-collector, she found work for those who could not find work for themselves; she organized a system of visitors; ... she brought sympathy and education to bear from individual to individual, ... so that one might be tempted to say, 'Were there one such woman with power to direct the flow of volunteer help, nearly everywhere running to waste, in every street of London's East End, almost might the East End be persuaded to become Christian.' Could not the heroine, the 'sweet sad enthusiast,' have been set to some such work as this? Indeed it is past telling the mischief that is done in thus putting down youthful ideals. There are not too many to begin with.

There are few indeed to end with--even without such a gratuitous impulse as this to end them." In this pa.s.sage, as in much that Florence Nightingale wrote, there is an autobiographical note. She did not marry because she held fast to an ideal--an ideal nearer to that of Octavia Hill than to that of Dorothea Brooke.

[51] _Fraser's Magazine_, May 1873.

II

For two or three years Florence Nightingale was in much trouble of mind from an attachment which one of her cousins had formed for her. In no case would she have thought it right to marry him. "Accident or relationship," she wrote some years later,[52] "throw people together in their childhood, and acquaintance has grown up naturally and unconsciously. Accordingly in novels it is generally cousins who marry; and now it seems the only natural thing, the only possible way of making an intimacy. And yet we know that intermarriage between relations is in direct contravention of the laws of nature for the well-being of the race." It was supposed by some of the family circle at the time that this was the only objection to an engagement; but there were others.

Florence was in no mood, then or afterwards, to marry for the sake of marrying. Marriage, she had written to Miss Clarke (p. 66), was not an absolute blessing; and though she liked her cousin, she was in no sense in love with him. She felt relief, intense and unmixed, as she recorded in her private meditations, when she learnt that the young man had at last forgotten her. But though this episode left her heart-whole, it had a great and painful influence upon her mind. "Cleanse all my love from the desire of creating an interest in another's heart" is the burden of many of her meditations.

[52] _Suggestions for Thought_, vol. ii. p. 401.

Among other attachments of which Florence Nightingale was the object, there was one which had a deeper effect and called for a more difficult and searching choice in life. She was asked in marriage by one who continued for some years to press his suit. It was a proposal which seemed to those about her to promise every happiness. The match would by all have been deemed suitable, and by many might have been called brilliant. And Florence herself was strongly drawn to her admirer. She had not come to this state of mind in hasty inclination. She was on her guard against any such temptation. Many years before, in a letter to her "brother Jonathan," as she called Miss Hilary Bonham Carter, she had written:--

It strikes me that in all the most unworldly poetry (both prose and verse) _la pa.s.sion qu'on appelle inclination_ is treated in a very extraordinary way. When one finds a comparative stranger becoming all of a sudden more essential to one than one's family (via flattery, in general, of one sort or another), one is content with saying to oneself, "Oh! that's love," instead of saying, "How unjust and how blind this feeling is." I wonder whether if people were to examine--for, as Socrates says, the life unexamined is not a living life--they would not find that (whatever it may ripen to afterwards) this feeling at first is generally begun by vanity or jealousy or self-love; and that what is very much to be guarded against, instead of submitted to, is the stranger's admiration (and I suppose everybody has been susceptible at one time of their lives) having more effect upon one than one's own family's.

In this case, however, the stranger's admiration had stood the test. She felt drawn to him, not by vanity or self-love; but because she admired his talents, and because the more she saw of him the greater pleasure did she find in his society. She leaned more and more upon his sympathy.

Yet when the proposal first came, she refused it; and when it was renewed, she persisted. Then, it may be said, she cannot have been "in love" with him. And in one sense that is, I suppose, quite true; for love, as the poets tell us, does not reason, and Florence Nightingale reasoned deeply over her case. But it is certain that she felt at least as much affection as suffices to make half the marriages in the world.

She turned away from a path to which she was strongly drawn in order to pursue her Ideal.

In one of the many pages of autobiographical notes which she preserved in relation to this episode in her life, Miss Nightingale thus explained her refusal to marry. "I have an intellectual nature which requires satisfaction, and that would find it in him. I have a pa.s.sional nature which requires satisfaction, and that would find it in him. I have a moral, an active nature which requires satisfaction, and that would not find it in his life. I can hardly find satisfaction for any of my natures. Sometimes I think that I will satisfy my pa.s.sional nature at all events, because that will at least secure me from the evil of dreaming. But would it? I could be satisfied to spend a life with him combining our different powers in some great object. I could not satisfy this nature by spending a life with him in making society and arranging domestic things.... To be nailed to a continuation and exaggeration of my present life, without hope of another, would be intolerable to me.

Voluntarily to put it out of my power ever to be able to seize the chance of forming for myself a true and rich life would seem to me like suicide."

Florence Nightingale was no vestal ascetic. A true and perfect marriage was, she thought, the perfect state. "Marrying a man of high and good purpose, and following out that purpose with him is the happiest" lot.

"The highest, the only true love, is when two persons, a man and a woman, who have an attraction for one another, unite together in some true purpose for mankind and G.o.d."[53] The thought of G.o.d in inst.i.tuting marriage was "that these two, when the right two are united, shall throw themselves fearlessly into the universe, and do its work, secure of companionship and sympathy." Miss Nightingale recognized also that for many women marriage, even though it may fall short of this ideal state, is the proper lot in life. But she held, on the other hand, that there are some women who may be marked out for single life. "I don't agree at all (she wrote in 1846) that a woman has no reason (if she does not care for any one else) for not marrying a good man who asks her, and I don't think Providence does either. I think He has as clearly marked out some to be single women as He has others to be wives, and has organized them accordingly for their vocation. I think some have every reason for not marrying, and that for these it is much better to educate the children who are already in the world and can't be got out of it, than to bring more into it. The Primitive Church clearly thought so too, and provided accordingly; and though no doubt the Primitive Church was in many matters an old woman, yet I think the experience of ages has proved her right in this." And again: "Ours is a system of Christianity without the Cross"; the single life was the life of Christ. "Has Heaven bestowed everlasting souls on men, and sent them upon earth for no better purpose than to marry and be given in marriage? True, there is in this world much more waiting to be done; but is it the man leading a secular life who will do it? He is apt to see nothing beyond himself and the fair creature he has chosen for his bride." And, as with men, so with women.

There are women of intellectual or actively moral natures for whom marriage (unless it realizes the perfect ideal) means the sacrifice of their higher capacities to the satisfaction of their lower. "Death," she wrote (again in a note-book of 1846), "is often the gateway to the Garden where we shall no longer hunger and thirst after real satisfaction. Marriage, on the contrary, is often an initiation into the meaning of that inexorable word Never; which does not deprive us, it is true, of what 'at their festivals the idle and inconsiderate call life,'

but which brings in reality the end of our lives, and the chill of death with it."

[53] _Suggestions for Thought_, vol. ii. pp. 229, 231.

In her own case, Miss Nightingale was conscious of capacities within her for "high purposes for mankind and for G.o.d." She could not feel sure that the marriage which was offered to her would enable her to employ those capacities to their best and fullest power. And so she sacrificed her "pa.s.sional" nature to her moral ideal. "I am 30," she wrote on her birthday in her diary of 1850; "the age at which Christ began His mission. Now no more childish things, no more vain things, no more love, no more marriage. Now, Lord, let me only think of Thy will." And amongst her sayings in another book, I find this: "Strong pa.s.sions to teach the secrets of the human heart, and a strong will to hold them in subjection, these are the keys of the kingdom in this world and the next." Florence Nightingale turned away from marriage in order that she might remain entirely free to fulfil her vocation.

III

It was not a sacrifice which cost her little. If, as some may hold, she was not in love, yet she confessed to herself many of a lover's pangs, and there were moments when, as she met her admirer again, or as she thought of him, she was half inclined to repent of her choice of the single life. And the sacrifice, moreover, was of an immediate satisfaction to an ideal which after all she might never be able to realize. The legends of the saints tell of many virgins and martyrs who have crucified the flesh and sacrificed worldly happiness for the love of Christ. But when the sacrifice was made, the love which seemed to them far better was already theirs. In the ears of St. Agnes the Divine Voice had sounded with sweet a.s.surance, and she had tasted of the milk and honey of His lips. St. Dorothea was already espoused in a garden where celestial fruits and roses that never fade surrounded her. And to Florence Nightingale also happiness was to be given, filling all her life for some years, so that she "sought no better heaven"; but at the time when she made her choice, and renounced all else to follow her ideal, the way before her was still dark and uncertain. She was conscious of a call, but she had no a.s.surance of appointed work. To have entered into a marriage which gave no sure promise of her ideal, would have been, she felt, the suicide of a soul; yet, when she was called to choose between the two paths, her present life was starvation.

Perhaps it was the price which she had paid for her ideal that led to what, in later years, some considered a certain hardness in her. When once a woman had devoted her life to the work of nursing, Miss Nightingale had little sympathy with any turning back. She seemed sometimes in such cases to regard marriage as the unpardonable sin.

But another and a loftier train of thought was prompted by her experience. At the end of one of her meditations upon marriage, and her refusal of it, I find these significant words: "I must strive after a better life for woman." She did not mean a better life than marriage; she meant also a life that should make the conditions of marriage better. In the world in which she lived, daughters, she wrote, "can only have a choice among those people whom their parents like, and who like their parents well enough to come to their house." One may doubt whether in the mid-Victorian or in any age, young men paid calls only because they liked the parents; but unquestionably restriction in the employments of women involves also limitation in the opportunities for choice in marriage. And at the same time the lack of interest and variety in the lives of girls at home makes many of them inclined to marriage as a mere means of escape. By throwing open new spheres of usefulness to women, Miss Nightingale hoped at one and the same time to improve the lot of those who were marked out to be wives, and to find satisfaction for those marked out for the single life.

CHAPTER VIII

APPRENTICESHIP AT KAISERSWERTH

(1851)

The only happiness a brave man ever troubled himself with asking much about was, happiness enough to get his work done. It is, after all, the one unhappiness of a man, that he cannot work; that he cannot get his destiny as a man fulfilled.--CARLYLE.

Foreign travel had, as we have seen, in no way changed Florence Nightingale's resolve to devote herself to a life of nursing. She had turned away deliberately from marriage, and was bent upon finding a new field of usefulness for unmarried women. But ways and means of doing this were not yet apparent. She had no independent fortune of her own.

She returned to a family circle which understood her cravings no better than before. The call of domestic duties was the same as before. There were aunts and a grandmother to be visited, company at home to be entertained, a sister to be humoured, a father and mother to be pleased.

But she could not please them, because she herself could find no pleasure in their life. She did not say to herself that she was better than they. Still less did she thank G.o.d that she was not as they were.

But she felt with piteous keenness the gulf that separated her alike from her parents and from her sister. She loved her father, and admired his good impulses and amiable character. But she perceived that his contentment in a life of busy idleness made him const.i.tutionally unable to enter fully into her state of mind. She loved her mother, and considered that she was, within her range, a woman of genius. "She has the genius of order," she wrote in a character-sketch of her mother, "the genius to organize a parish, to form society. She has obtained by her own exertions the best society in England." What pained the daughter was the inability to please the mother. "When I feel her disappointment in me, it is as if I was becoming insane." She loved her sister also, and, I think, yet more tenderly. But as the sister once wrote: "The natures G.o.d has given us differ as widely as different races." Florence was deeply sensible of the attractive side of her sister's character.

Lady Verney had indeed a most attractive mind; she was very vivacious, inquiring, and highly gifted, both as an artist and as a writer. She was a perfect hostess, and her memory is pleasant to all who knew her. If she lacked some of her sister's stronger English characteristics, she had a light touch which Florence did not possess. And Florence felt the charm of all this. "No one less than I," she wrote, "wants her to do one single thing different from what she does. She wants no other religion, no other occupation, no other training than what she has. She has never had a difficulty except with me; she knows nothing of struggle in her own unselfish nature." But for that very reason she could not sympathize with, because she could not understand, her sister's difficulties. In a pa.s.sage which is doubtless autobiographical, Florence wrote: "Very few people can sympathise with each other in any pursuit or thought of any importance. If people do not give you thought for thought, receive yours, digest it, and give it back with the impression of their own character upon it, then give you one for you to do likewise, it is best to know what one is about, and not to attempt more than kindly, cheerful outward intercourse. Some find amus.e.m.e.nt in the outward, do not suffer inwardly, because the attention is turned elsewhere."[54] Meanwhile Florence felt that everything she said or did was a subject of vexation to her sister, a disappointment to her mother, a worry to her father. "I have never known a happy time," she exclaimed to herself, "except at Rome and that fortnight at Kaiserswerth. It is not the unhappiness I mind, it is not indeed; but people can't be unhappy without making those about them so."

[54] _Suggestions for Thought_, vol. ii. pp. 236, 237.

She strove to attain happiness. She tried to submit her will to what her spiritual confidantes told her must be taken to be the will of G.o.d; to trust that in His own good time He would make her vocation sure; in such confidence to find relief, and to throw herself meanwhile into the round of immediate duties. But the more she struggled, the more she failed.

She could not subdue the imperious longing to be up and doing which surged within her. "The thoughts and feelings that I have now," she wrote, "I can remember since I was six years old. It was not that I made them. A profession, a trade, a necessary occupation, something to fill and employ all my faculties, I have always felt essential to me, I have always longed for, consciously or not. During a middle part of my life, college education, acquirement, I longed for, but that was temporary.

The first thought I can remember, and the last, was nursing work; and in the absence of this, education work, but more the education of the bad than of the young. But for this I had had no education myself." Finding no outlet in active reality, she lived more than ever in a land of dreams. "Everything has been tried," she exclaimed to herself; "foreign travel, kind friends, everything." And again, "My G.o.d! what is to become of me?" Eighteen months before she had resolved on a great effort to crucify her old self, "to break through the habits, entailed upon me by an idle life, of living, not in the present world of action, but in a future one of dreams. Since then nations have pa.s.sed before me, but have brought no new life to me. In my 31st year I see nothing desirable but death." She was perishing, as she put it, for want of food; and she could find no impulse to activity. Her habit of late rising grew upon her; for what had she to wake for? "Starvation does not lead a man to exertion, it only weakens him. O weary days, O evenings that seem never to end! For how many long years, I have watched that drawing-room clock and thought it would never reach the ten! And for 20 or 30 more years to do this!" And again, "Oh, how I am to get through this day, to talk through all this day, is the thought of every morning.... This is the sting of death. Why do I wish to leave this world? G.o.d knows I do not expect a heaven beyond, but that He would set me down in St. Giles's, at a Kaiserswerth, there to find my work and my salvation in my work."

II

Such cries from the heart, cries for the food for which she was hungering and which her parents could or would not let her take, filled many a sheet of Florence Nightingale's diaries, letters, and memoranda.

"Mountains of difficulties," as she says in one place, were "piled up"