“When she dies I shall send her a funeral wreath!” quoth Miss X. She also specified that the price was to be five dollars, if I remember aright.
Miss Nightingale’s house at 10 South Street, Park Lane, was in Mayfair, the aristocratic quarter of London. There was nothing especially striking about the quiet and commodious dwelling, with its air of dignified simplicity and retirement so well befitting the quiet tastes of its noble-hearted mistress. Florence Nightingale’s dislike of ostentation is well known. To serve her fellow-men and to relieve suffering was the ruling passion of her life, but she always shunned publicity, save as it might be necessary for the accomplishment of her work.
Upon my arrival I was met by a young lady, Miss Cochrane, who was, I presume, the secretary. She told me that Miss Nightingale had been interested in my letter and would enjoy seeing me. But she warned me not to stay long and to leave if my hostess seemed tired. Presently the nurse called me, and we ascended some flights of stairs till we reached a large pleasant room where I was ushered into the presence of Florence Nightingale. She was reclining in bed, propped up by pillows. A soft woolen shawl was around her shoulders. Her gray hair, still thick and not so white as that of most persons of her age (eighty-two), was parted in the middle and brushed smoothly down on each side beneath a plain cap. Her features were strong, the nose slightly aquiline, the eyes bright, apparently gray. She reminded me of Ralph Waldo Emerson in a certain shrewd and kindly look which seemed to betoken a strong sense of humor. Her complexion was good, her color also, with something of the English ruddiness. Her voice was strong and full, an unusual thing in a person of her age. A pad and pencil lay beside her, with which she made some notes in the course of our talk.
“What a dear old lady!” I said to myself as I looked at her. I had been warned that I must myself do the greater part of the talking, as it would not do to fatigue my distinguished hostess. In her Notes on Nursing she gives these vigorous and sensible hints for just such a visit as I was making.
Do you who are about the sick or who visit the sick, try and give them pleasure, remember to tell them what will do so. How often in such visits the sick person has to do the whole conversation.... A sick person does so enjoy hearing good news—for instance, of a love and courtship while in progress, to a good ending.
(How glad I am to think that I had the sense to tell her two of my sons had taken wives unto themselves. “I am glad they are married,” said the dear lady.)
A sick person also intensely enjoys hearing of any material good, any positive or practical success of the right. He has so much of books and fiction, of principles and precepts and theories; do, instead of advising him with advice he has heard at least fifty times before, tell him of one benevolent act which has really succeeded practically—it is like a day’s health to him.
Instead of repining at her enforced inactivity and grieving over her sufferings, like the usual egotistical invalid, this glorious soul found its health and strength in hearing of the good works of others! What wonder that her presence was like a benediction! People said to me afterward:
“Is she alone in her old age?”
“Whom has she with her?”