There can be no mistaking the motives which led Florence Nightingale to enter on her career under the distressing conditions which then prevailed. Born and reared in refined surroundings, in an intellectual atmosphere, with all the educational advantages the times afforded, if she had fulfilled parental and popular expectations, she would have been satisfied to have spent her girlhood life chiefly in a round of gay social functions, with ample leisure for study and travel, and to have married at an early age a man belonging to her own social circle. That she was not satisfied with this sort of existence is seen in this typical extract from one of her letters, written when she was twenty-six years of age: “The thoughts and feelings that I have now,” she wrote, “I can remember since I was six years old. It was not I that 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. * * * The first thought and the last thought I can remember was nursing work, but for this I have had no education myself. * * *” Later she wrote: “In my thirty-first year I see nothing desirable but death. Why do I wish to leave this world? God knows I do not expect a greater heaven beyond, but that He would now set me down in St. Gile’s, or at a Kaiserwerth, there to find my work, and my salvation in my work.”
To her, life was earnest—it was a serious thing, and her struggle for many long, weary years to free herself, to overcome the obstacles that closed in around her, so that she might accomplish the kind of work she felt God wanted her to do—her long-continued effort to gain her relatives’ consent for her to even attempt nursing—forms one of the most interesting chapters in her life story. Nursing to her was always “God’s business.”
How much this sense of vocation, this strong feeling that she was called to do the will of God in this form of service, had to do with her success, no one can fully determine, but that it helped tremendously in carrying her over difficult places cannot be doubted. As one looks back over her wonderful life and tries to discern the secret of her remarkable influence, one cannot but feel that the spirit in which she did her work, her absolute devotion to the cause to which she was giving her best powers, accounts in large measure for her name being honored, and her memory kept green all over the civilized world. “The sweetest character in all British history,” was a noted man’s comment on her, yet the sweetness was always combined with strength, and courage, and a quiet determination not to give up because things were harder or more difficult than she had expected. Her work was not lightly undertaken, and as lightly abandoned, as nursing is by many young women today.
One of the outstanding qualities of this great woman was her individuality, a quality which some one has aptly said is close kin to honesty. She did her own thinking, and the results of that independent thinking were evident all through her career. In commenting on this quality of individuality, a recent writer, Byron H. Stauffer, has said:
“It burst out in a letter written when she was eight, which she closes with: ‘My love to all except Miss W—.’ It developed in her despising, early in life, the silly conventionalities of the high society of the day. It sparkled in explaining why she tittered during a ritualistic service: ‘The rector was praying “That it may please Thee to have mercy on all men,” and the ridiculousness of that prayer broke upon me. Think of it! If I asked you to have mercy on your own boy, you’d knock me down.’ Another instance of her nonconformity to the religious conventions lies in her declaration: ‘I never prayed for George IV; I always thought that people were very, very good who could pray for him. It was a wonder to me how he could possibly be any worse if nobody prayed for him. I prayed a little for William IV. For the young Victoria I prayed with rapture.’”
THE PRICE OF SKILL.
One of the tendencies of this age in nurses is to expect and apply for positions of responsibility for which they have not taken any special or definite pains to fit themselves. Their estimate of their own ability is often much greater than conditions justify; they often want the best positions without paying the price of special skill. The determination of Florence Nightingale to secure for herself the best instruction the world afforded at that time, and her conviction that if she was ever to accomplish anything worth while she must first learn all that was possible under the circumstances for her to learn about the business of caring for the sick, is a fine example for those who really desire to do worth while things in this world.
It has been well said that ability depends greatly on preparation, and that opportunity is largely dependent on ability. It was by no accident that Florence Nightingale became “the angel of the Crimea.” Nothing that she could do to fit herself for such a task had been omitted, though she could not know how great were the opportunities that were to be afforded her to use the knowledge and experience she was so determined to secure. She fully realized that to do good required more than good desires or intentions. To do good in the way that she wished required some skill. To be the best possible nurse, to fit herself in the best way, however long it might take, or how hard the way might be, meant much greater difficulties then than it could possibly mean now.
When in later years she expressed herself as follows, she was simply expressing the convictions which had been with her all through life:
“Nursing is an art, and if it is to be made an art, it requires as hard preparation as is required for any painter’s or sculptor’s work; for what is having to do with dead canvas or cold marble compared with caring for the living body?”