Last summer, the Florence Nightingale Museum in London announced a holiday program for children. It ran like this: "Daily-changing drop-in activities include crafting a pattern lantern like the one made famous by the Lady with the Lamp, designing a lace bonnet like Flo's, drawing a family portrait book based on images of the Nightingale family on display in the museum, and working with an artist to create a watercolour picture of a germ." Meanwhile, across London the Serpentine Gallery was hosting a retrospective of Richard Prince's avant-gardist art, including recent work that repaints the covers of pulp novels about nurses. In stiff white gowns and tidy caps, with masks across their mouths and beneath their staring eyes, Prince's nurses (appearing under such titles as "Student Nurse," "Mission Nurse," "Runaway Nurse," and "Dude Ranch Nurse") are semi-lurid, often bloodied, and, above all remote, unsettled, opaque. Who are these nurses? What are they after?
Between sweet sentimentality and strange opacity is where Florence Nightingale lives today. Now, as back then, her reputation is tended by devoted admirers, who esteem her as the founder of modern nursing, a paragon of public service, the exemplary heroine. But already in its mid-Victorian origins there was a counter-mythology that grew and flourished in the 20th century. It never got as edgy as Prince's nurses, but it was full of subversive implication about her sexuality, her hypochondria, her will to power. What did Nightingale want? And what did the culture want with her? The subtitle of Mark Bostridge's new biography is The Making of an Icon, and his book splendidly charts the astonishing arc of her celebrity. Even more intently, though, it follows Nightingale's passionate, obstinate self-making. The biographic record gives us no reason to believe she set out to create a legend for herself or even to achieve reputation on the small scale. Accidents of history placed her in the hanging cage of celebrity.
The shelves are cluttered with biographies of Nightingale; Bostridge's won't be the last, but for now it's surely the best. He shows great care with the overwhelming mass of material (all the published and unpublished writing, all the density of such a long life), sorting subtle personal relationships tactfully, and never pressing such a large and angular life into chewable tablets of hypothesis. He knows that every surface of Nightingale has been written up and covered over, but he efficiently steers free from both the hagiographers and the cynics who preceded him. Without straining for novelty or original synthesis, Bostridge aims for (and achieves) accuracy, coherence, balance, readability, and accumulating force. But what makes for underground excitement in the book is that the subject, F.N., lives out the spectacle and excess of her life while the author maintains the discipline of his equanimity. Her life pulls toward grand gestures and eccentricity; his account stands for fairness and sympathy. We should all be so lucky with those who think about us.
Nightingale has been marked and branded as one of the Victorians, furiously earnest and exhaustingly brisk. To open her Notes on Nursing (1860) is to snap immediately to attention and begin washing your hands. "Windows are made to open; doors are made to shut"; "[a] dark house is always an unhealthy house, always an ill-aired house, always a dirty house." She worked to save wounded soldiers in the Crimean War (1854-1856), and then the ambitions grew: to reform the management of health throughout the army, to train professional nurses of the future and domestic nurses in the present, to transform the architecture of hospitals, to improve the health of those bringing empire to the subcontinent and, finally, to all of India. She worked herself into a frenzy, then into exhaustion, and then back to frenzy. (She called her life "a fever.") A few close relatives and friends—including an aunt, a cousin, and poet Arthur Hugh Clough, whom she was accused of working to death—devoted themselves to her causes and her campaigns, which in her last four decades of life she largely directed from her bed.
But Nightingale should also be seen as one of us moderns. Nothing is more striking than her contempt for the weight of tradition and authority, her demand that we modernize our lives and transform the social world at its roots. To be serious about nursing is to consider all the circumstances that keep us from flourishing, to preserve the health of families and cities, as well as the health of the body. The goal of nursing is to heal the world. Above this grand mission stands God, but a god of her own compounding. His laws are the laws of science, and we can only serve his purposes by working, working, working—struggling without rest for the visible publicgood. The call is to an endless labor that we must perform on our own with nothing to sustain us but the rousing of our own conviction. The exhaustion that Nightingale felt, and that her biography stirs in us, is the modern exhaustion of the fully self-assigned life.
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