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