THE HEART OF CLARA BARTON
When Clara Barton left the schoolroom for the life of a clerk in
Washington, she was well past thirty years of age. When the war
broke out, and she left the Patent Office for the battle-field, she
was forty. Why was not she already married? Her mother married at
seventeen; her sister married early: why was she single and teaching
school at thirty, or available for hospital service at forty? And why
did she not marry some soldier whom she tended? Did any romance lie
behind her devotion to what became her life-work? Had she suffered any
disappointment in love before she entered upon her career?
The question whether Clara Barton was ever in love has been asked
by every one who has attempted anything approaching a sketch of her
career. Mr. Epler’s biography contained a chapter on this subject, but
later it was found so incomplete and unsatisfactory it was thought
best to omit it and to await the opening of her personal and official
papers. These now are available, as well as the personal recollections
of those of her relatives whose knowledge of her life includes any
possibility of affairs of the heart.
On the subject of her personal affections, Clara Barton was very
reticent. To the present writer she said that she chose, somewhat early
in life, the course which seemed to her more fruitful of good for her
than matrimony. In her girlhood she was shy, and, when she found her
life vocation, as she then esteemed it, as a teacher, she was so much
interested in her school that she gave little thought to matrimony,
and was satisfied that on the whole it would be better in her case if
she lived unmarried. She had little patience, however, with women who
affect to despise men. Always loyal to her own sex, and proud of every
woman who accomplished anything notable, she was no man-hater, but, on
the contrary, enjoyed the society of men, trusted their judgment, and
liked their companionship.
Her nephew, Stephen E. Barton, furnishes me this paragraph:
My aunt said to me at one time that I must not think she had never
known any experience of love. She said that she had had her romances
and love affairs like other girls; but that in her young womanhood,
though she thought of different men as possible lovers, no one of them
measured up to her ideal of a husband. She said to me that she could
think of herself with satisfaction as a wife and mother, but that on
the whole she felt that she had been more useful to the world by being
free from matrimonial ties.
So far as her diaries and letters show, she remained heart-whole
through the entire period of her girlhood in Oxford. There was,
however, a young man of about her own age, born in Oxford, and a very
distant relative between whom and herself there existed something
approaching affection. The families were long-time friends, and the
young people had interests in common. A lady who remembers him well
says: “She was fond of him and he of her. He was a handsome young
fellow, and Clara once said to me that she should not want the man to
have all the good looks in the family.”
This friendship continued for many years, and developed on the part
of the young man a very deep affection, and on Clara’s part sincere
respect. He visited her when she was a student in Clinton Institute,
and was of real service to her there, making fine proof of his faithful
friendship, but she could not be sure that she loved him.
She had another ardent admirer in Oxford, who followed her to
Bordentown and there pressed his suit. Clara had long corresponded
with him, and for a time was uncertain how much she cared for him.
This young man had come to know her while she was a teacher in Oxford
and she was boarding in the family where he lived. In 1849 he went to
California in search of gold, and on his return was eager to take her
out of the schoolroom and establish her in a home. For this purpose he
visited her in Bordentown. She welcomed him, and sincerely wished that
she could love him, but, while she held him in thorough respect, she
did not see in him the possibilities of a husband, such as she would
have chosen. He pressed his suit, and she sorrowfully declined. They
remained firm friends as long as he lived.
A third young man is known to have made love to her while she was at
Clinton Institute. He was the brother of one of the young women in the
school whom she cherished as a dear friend. He was a young man of fine
character, but her heart did not respond to him.
Two or more of these affairs lay heavy on her heart and conscience
about the time of her leaving Clinton Institute and of her teaching in
Bordentown. She was then in correspondence with three young men who
loved her, and in a state of some mental uncertainty. If letters were
delayed she missed them, and recorded in her diary:
Rather melancholy. Don’t know why, I received no intelligence from
certain quarters.
In the spring of 1852 she had a brief period of depression, growing,
in part at least, out of her uncertainty in these matters. On Tuesday,
March 2, 1852, she wrote in her diary:
Morning cold and icy. Walked to school. Dull day and unpleasant,
cheerless indoors and out. Cannot see much in these days worth living
for; cannot but think it will be a quiet resting-place when all these
cares and vexations and anxieties are over, and I no longer give or
take offense. I am badly organized to live in the world, or among
society; I have participated in too many of its unpleasant scenes;
have always looked on its most unhappy features and have grown weary
of life at an age when other people are enjoying it most.
On Thursday, March 13, she wrote:
I have found it extremely hard to restrain the tears to-day, and would
have given almost anything to have been alone and undisturbed. I have
seldom felt more friendless, and I believe I ever feel enough so. I
see less and less in the world to live for, and in spite of all my
resolution and reason and moral courage and every thing else, I grow
weary and impatient. I know it is wicked and perhaps foolish, but I
cannot help it. There is not a living thing but would be just as well
off without me. I contribute to the happiness of not a single object;
and often to the unhappiness of many and always of my own, for I am
never happy. True, I laugh and joke, but could weep that very moment,
and be the happier for it.
“There’s many a grief lies hid, not lost,
And smiles the least befit who wear them most.”
How long I can endure such a life I do not know, but often wish that
more of its future path lay on the other side of the present. I am
grateful when so many of the days pass away. But this repining is of
no use, and I would not say or write it for any ear or eye but my own.
I cannot help thinking it, and it is a relief to say it to myself; but
I will indulge in such useless complaints no more, but commence once
more my allotted task.
The mood did not last long. Its immediate occasion had been a not
very cheerful letter from friends in Oxford, and a discussion with
the mother of a dull pupil who was troubled because her daughter was
not learning faster. Three days later she was seeking to account for
her depression by some possible telepathic influence from home; for
she had word of the burning of Stephen’s factory. Far from being the
more depressed by this really bad news, she was much relieved to know
that he had not rushed into the burning building, as would have been
just like him, and have been killed or injured in trying to save the
property or to help some one else.
On Friday night she had finished a reasonably good week, and had a
longer letter than usual from the lover whom she had known longest. It
“of course pleased me in proportion to its length.” She adds, “I am
puzzled to know how I can manage one affair, and fear I cannot do it
properly.”
The reader of these yellow pages, after seventy years and more, knows
better than she knew then what was troubling her most, and can smile at
what caused her so much concern.
By the following Tuesday she resolved to “begin to think earnestly of
_immediate_ future. Have not made any definite plans.”
This necessity of planning for the immediate future brought back her
bad feelings. She wrote on Wednesday, March 24:
Think I shall not write as much in future. Grow dull and I fear
selfish in my feelings and care less what is going on. Not that I
think less of others, but less of myself, and am more and more certain
every day that there is no such thing as true friendship, at least
for me; and I will not dupe and fool myself with the idle, vain hobby
any longer. It is all false; in fact, the whole world is false. This
brings me to my old inquiry again, what is the use of living in it?
I can see no possible satisfaction or benefit arising from my life;
others may from theirs.
A week later she wrote that she had no letters, but had “grown
indifferent and did not care either to write or to receive letters.”
She had resolved not to write so much, but she went on:
I am thinking to-night of the future, and what my next move must be.
Wish I had some one to advise me, or that I could speak to some one
of it. Had ever one poor girl so many strange, wild thoughts, and no
one to listen or share one of them, or even to realize that my head
contains one idea beyond the present foolish moment?
But she resolves to stop this vain and moody introspection:
I will not allow myself any more such grumbling! I know it is wicked.
But how can I make myself happy and contented under such circumstances
as I am ever placed in?
Her diary then grew irregular, with no entries between April 20 and May
25. Within that time she solved a part of her love-problem:
Have kept no journal for a month or more. Had nothing to note, but
some things are registered where they will never be effaced in my
lifetime.
But she finished her school successfully; went to Trenton and bought
a silk dress. She filled the back of this book with a list of the
English poets with the dates of their birth and death, and a sentence
or two descriptive of each of the more prominent. She had this habit
of writing, in the back of her journal, things that belonged to no
one day. The volume previous contained a sentimental poem of a tragic
parting of lovers, and a lachrymose effusion entitled “A Prayer for
Death.”
These entries and incidents are cited because they are wholly
exceptional. While she was ever morbidly sensitive, to the day of her
death, and under strain of criticism or lack of appreciation given to
great and wholly disproportionate depression of spirits, these entries,
made when she had no less than three possible matrimonial entanglements
in prospect, and was not sure whether she wanted any, must be the
sole documentary evidence of a strain from which both she and the men
concerned wholly recovered. All of the men are known by name, and
they married and left families, and were little if any the worse, and
quite possibly were the better, for having loved Clara Barton. Nor,
though the perplexities of having too many lovers, mingled as these
perplexities were with the daily problems of the schoolroom and a long
absence from home, during which her home letters made her homesick, did
the experience do her any permanent harm. Not long did she wish to die.
Indeed, her mood was soon a very different one. The entries that have
been cited were made at Hightstown. Next year she was at Bordentown,
and there she throve so well she had to send back to her home town for
an assistant. She still had one love affair, already referred to, but
it had ceased to depress her seriously.
A young woman of thirty is not to be blamed for stopping to consider
that she may not always be bothered by three simultaneous offers of
marriage. On the other hand, while all of these were worthy men, there
was not one of them so manifestly stronger than she that she felt she
was safe in giving her heart to him. The vexations of the schoolroom
suggested the quiet of a home as a pleasant contrast, but which should
she choose, and were there any of the men to whom she could forever
look up with affection and sustained regard?
For each one of these three young men she appears to have had a genuine
regard. She liked them, all of them, and it was not easy for her to see
them go out of her life. The time came when each of them demanded to
know where he stood in her affections; and each time this occurred she
had a period of heart-searching, and thought herself the most miserable
young woman alive. In each case, however, she came to the sane and
commendable decision, not to bestow her hand where her heart could not
go utterly.
From one who knew her intimately in those days I have this statement:
Clara Barton had many admirers, and they were all men whom she admired
and some whom she almost loved. More men were interested in her than
she was ever interested in; some of them certainly interested her, yet
not profoundly. I do not think she ever had a love affair that stirred
the depths of her being. The truth is, Clara Barton was herself so
much stronger a character than any of the men who made love to her
that I do not think she was ever seriously tempted to marry any of
them. She was so pronounced in her opinions that a man who wanted a
submissive wife would have stood somewhat in awe of her. However good
a wife she might have made to a man whom she knew to be her equal, and
for whom she felt real admiration, she would not have been an ideal
wife for a man to whom she could not look up, not only in regard to
moral character, which in every case was above reproach, but also as
to intellect, education, and ambition.
Clara Barton’s diaries did not ordinarily indulge in self-analysis.
She recorded the events of the day briefly, methodically, and without
much comment. She indicated by initials the young men to whom she wrote
and from whom she received letters, relatives being spoken of by their
first names. The passages quoted from her diaries are exceptional.
While she was highly sensitive, and morbidly conscientious, her usual
moods were those of quiet and sensible performance of her day’s work.
For ten years after she began to teach, she was shut out from any real
opportunity for love. Her elevation to the teacher’s platform, while
still a child, shut out her normal opportunity for innocent flirtation.
Love hardly peeped in at her during her teens, or in her early
twenties. By the time it came to her, other interests had gained a long
start. She was ambitious, she was determined to find out what she was
good for, and to do something worth while in life. Had some young man
come into her life as worthy as those who made love to her, and who was
her equal or superior in ability and education, she might have learned
to love him. As it was, she decided wisely both for herself and for
the men who sought her hand.
Having thus chosen, she did not mourn her fate. She enjoyed her
friendships with men and with women, and lived her busy, successful,
and happy life. She did not talk of these affairs, nor did she write of
them. She retained the personal friendship of the men whom she refused;
and two of them, who lived not far from her in New England, made their
friendship manifest in later years. Few people knew that they had ever
been rejected lovers of hers; they were esteemed and lifelong friends.
There were times when her heart cried out for something more than this.
From the day of her birth she was too isolated. Her public career
began before her shy childhood had ended. She was too solitary; she
had “strange, wild thoughts,” and no one to whom to confide them. She
could have welcomed the love of a strong, true man. She was always
over-sensitive. She was cut to the very heart by experiences which
she ought to have treated as almost negligible. She met opposition,
criticism, injustice with calm demeanor, but she bled within her armor,
and covered herself with undeserved reproaches and unhappy reflections
that she seemed doomed to give and to suffer pain. In some respects she
was peculiarly unfitted to meet the world alone. But she met it and
conquered it. She turned her loneliness into a rich companionship of
friendships; she forgot her solitude in unselfish ministry. Spite of
her shrinking nature, her natural timidity, her over-sensitiveness, she
lived a full and happy life. Those who knew her remember few laments
and fewer tears, but many a constant smile, a quick and unfailing
sense of humor, a healthy and hearty laugh, a ready sympathy and a
generous spirit. The love which she was forbidden to bestow upon any
one man, she gave to the world at large, and the world loved her in
return.
The most direct reference to affairs of the heart which Clara Barton
appears to have made in her letters is in a letter written by her to
her cousin, Judge Robert Hale, on August 16, 1876.
When Clara Barton went abroad in search of health in 1869, she hardly
expected to return. She took two thousand dollars’ worth of bonds which
belonged to her and deposited them with a friend, with instructions
that if she died, the money was to be used for the improvement of the
Barton lot in the Oxford cemetery. It was a large lot on the brow of a
hill, and had been heavily washed by the rains. She wished it properly
graded and cared for, and this was likely to be, and proved to be, an
expensive undertaking.
This friend did not keep the bonds separate from his own property, and
in time of financial stress he sold them and applied the money to his
own needs. When she returned and learned of this, she was displeased.
To her it seemed hardly less than a criminal action. She had no purpose
of prosecuting him, but, on the other hand, she wished him to realize
that this was something more than an ordinary debt. She put the matter
in the hands of her cousin, Judge Hale, who accepted a note in lieu of
the bonds. This did not please her, and she wrote her cousin a letter
which caused him to chide her as being a rather importunate creditor.
She replied that this was not true, but that she herself had kept all
her money for French relief separate from her own money, and she always
kept trust funds separate from her own money, and she expected people
dealing with her to do the same. She said:
I am not, as I seem to you, a “relentless creditor.” On the contrary,
I would give him that debt rather than break him down in his business,
or if the gift would keep him from going down. I am less grieved about
the loss than I am about the manner of his treating my trust. I was
his teacher and he was one of my boys. I have always dealt straight
and plain with my boys. I am not a lawyeress, nor a diplomat, only
a woman artless to simplicity; but I am as square as a brick, and I
expect my boys to be square.
In some way Judge Hale had gotten the idea that this former pupil of
hers had been a youthful lover, and that that fact had influenced her
in the loan of the money. It is in reply to this suggestion that she
said:
It seems very ludicrous to me, the idea which has fastened itself upon
you, relative to my supposed love affair. I, poor I, who never had
a love affair in all my born days, and really don’t much expect one
after this date! My dear cousin, I trust this letter will show you
clearly that my pecuniary affairs and my heart affairs are not at all
mixed; and I beg you to believe that, if in the future I should be
stricken by the tender malady, I shall never attempt to facilitate or
perpetuate the matter by the loaning of money. My observation has not
been favorable to such a course of procedure.
Whether she ultimately recovered the two thousand dollars or not, her
biographer does not know, but she lived to put the cemetery lot in good
order, and in her will she left a fund of sixteen hundred dollars for
its perpetual maintenance. She also kept her financial transactions
free from any heart complications. Her letter is a pretty certain
indication that no love affair had ever taken very strong hold of her
in the first fifty years of her life.
The war might easily have brought to Clara Barton a husband if she had
inclined toward one, but she found other interests, and was happy in
them. Later in life she had on more than one occasion to consider the
possibility of a home; and we shall have occasion to make brief mention
of one or two of these incidents. What is essential now is to know that
Clara Barton did not enter upon her life-work by reason of a broken
heart. Her relations with men were wholesome and enjoyable, but none
of them brought her such complete assurance of a happy home as to win
her from what she came to feel was her life-work. Some possibilities
of matrimony gave her deep concern at the time; but she was able to
tell Judge Hale in 1876, when she was fifty-five years of age, that
she had never had a love affair, and did not expect to have one; but
that if she had, she would keep it wholly separate from her financial
interests; which was a very sensible resolution, and one to which she
lived up faithfully.