Sam Wellman - Florence Nightingale: Compassionate Care for People Who Need It Most

1999 by Sam Wellman

Print ISBN 978-1-64352-401-6

eBook Editions:

Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-577-8

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Cover portrait illustration by Keith Robinson, www.keithrobinson.co.uk

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A ugust 22, 1827, was both the happiest and the unhappiest day that seven-year-old Florence Nightingale had ever spent at Tapton in Yorkshire, England. The day began in her grandmothers fine house with a breakfast so wonderful that Florence lost her usual reticence.

There are more cakes and fruit than I have ever seen in my life! she gushed.

An accomplishment indeed, agreed one of the many adults at the table, since the English breakfast is quite the best in the world anyway.

As Florence savored each bite of her meal, the discussion at the table centered on the unusual wedding that was to take place that afternoon.

Flo will soon have a double-uncle and a double-aunt, quipped another grown-up at the far end of the long dining table, using Florences nickname. Almost everyone called her Flo. Her sisters name, Parthenope, was usually reduced to the two-syllable Parthe, which rhymes with Marthy, but sometimes Flo chopped it all the way down to Pop.

As it happened, the bride, this particular day, was the sister of Flos father, William, and the groom was the brother of Flos mother, Fanny. So Flo would indeed have Aunt Mai as an aunt twice over, and Uncle Sam would be her uncle twice over. Any children they had in the future would be Flos and Parthes double-cousins.

The uniqueness of the arrangement did not salve Flos pain. In truth, she was not in favor of this marriage. Aunt Mai was her favorite aunt. It seemed just days ago that Flo had hidden in a wardrobe, giggling until her sides hurt, as Aunt Mai looked and looked for her. Was Aunt Mai angry? Of course not. She thought it was a delicious joke. Now dour Uncle Sam would deprive Flo of her aunts attention. Flo brooded as she rode to the church in a carriage with Parthe, Papa, Uncle Sam, and the clergyman. She thought she should have been in the magnificent brides carriage with Aunt Mai. This momentary separation was only the beginning.

The wedding turned out to be a nightmare for Flo. When Aunt Mai and Uncle Sam were kneeling at the altar, Flo suddenly felt her mothers strong hand on her shoulder, pulling her back into one of the first pews. Goodness! Had she actually kneeled between Aunt Mai and Uncle Sam? She couldnt remember doing it. But she must have.

Mamas eyes were wide after the ceremony. Flo, what could you have been thinking?

Papa defended her. The dear child was confused.

Parthe shook her head. How mortifying.

Several days later, Flo recorded the great event in her journal:

On Wednesday, Aunt Mai was married to Uncle Sam. I, Papa, Uncle Sam, Pop, and Mr. Bagshaw (the clergyman) went first. Mama and Aunt Mai in the brides carriage. Aunt Julia and Miss Bagshaw came last. When they were married, we were all kneeling on our knees, except Mr. Bagshaw. Papa took Aunt Mais hand and gave it to Uncle Sam. We all cried, except Uncle Sam, Mr. Bagshaw, and Papa.

There was certainly no need to record her embarrassing attempt to keep the two participants apart! Though only seven years old, Flo already had a history of other nightmarish moments. Strange things had haunted her earliest years, frightening her very much. In fact, at times it seemed as though something was inside her. She thought she might be possessed. She couldnt remember where she might have gotten such an insane notion. Certainly no fairy tale or Bible story would have planted an idea like that. She feared being found out and avoided everyone, throwing tantrums if asked to do anything in the presence of others. At times, she had fought to stay in the nursery rather than attend meals.

But, praise God, I grew out of itsomehow, she remembered.

When Flo was young, social etiquette among the upper class in England was complicated, demanding, and troubling. She once called a duchess your grace, only to be scolded later because she too was of the gentry. But when she later called a baron by his title, she was reprimanded because a baron is called Lord. His immediate superior, of course, must indeed be called Viscount! And yet the fearsif not the discomforthad almost gone away. By the age of seven, Flo no longer feared social occasions as much. In fact, she had even begun to appreciate the rigidity of upper-class English manners.

The custom of calling was a perfect example. When the Nightingales arrived in a certain town for a short stay, Mama would visit various houses of importancenever before one oclock in the afternoon, of courseand have the footman leave three calling cards at the door. Her card was for the lady of the house, whereas Mr. Nightingales two cards were for both the lady and the gentleman. The cards served as an invitation of sorts. The recipient was expected to return a card or perhaps a call. Sometimes the card obtained immediate results, and Mama and her daughters were invited into the drawing room. Even then, the call was to last no more than fifteen minutes, and the conversation was so bland as to broach nothing more important than the weather. Later, by mutual interest, acquaintances could be cautiously expanded. If a friendship developed, the calls would get closer and closer to the supper hour, eventually culminating in an invitation to dine. When others of the Nightingales social status were leaving town, their footman took cards around to all their acquaintances to formalize the departure.

Once one learns the rules, rationalized Flo, one never is at a loss as to what to do.

The social skills exhibited by Mama and Parthe were exemplary. Though only one year older than Flo, Parthe had always laughed easily through dinners and parties and paying visits. Mama did not laugh so gaily as Parthe, but she labored lightly through her social obligations nevertheless. Young Flo endured society, even losing her fear of socializing, but she did not gain peace of mind. She was restless, though she didnt yet consider that an affliction. As a child educated by governesses, she was impressed that the great poet George Herbert had lived a scant fifteen miles or so from the Nightingales Embley Park estate, and she was very familiar with Herberts poem Pulley: