There was
humour in the face; but the curious watcher might wonder whether
it was humour of a very pleasant kind; might ask himself, even as
he heard the laughter and marked the jokes with which she cheered
the spirits of her patients, what sort of sardonic merriment this
same lady might not give vent to, in the privacy of her chamber.
As for her voice, it was true of it, even more than of her
countenance, that it 'had that in it one must fain call master'.
Those clear tones were in no need of emphasis: 'I never heard her
raise her voice', said one of her companions. 'Only when she had
spoken, it seemed as if nothing could follow but obedience.'
Once, when she had given some direction, a doctor ventured to
remark that the thing could not be done. 'But it must be done,'
said Miss Nightingale. A chance bystander, who heard the words,
never forgot through all his life the irresistible authority of
them. And they were spoken quietly-- very quietly indeed.
Late at night, when the long miles of beds lay wrapped in
darkness, Miss Nightingale would sit at work in her little room,
over her correspondence. It was one of the most formidable of all
her duties. There were hundreds of letters to be written to the
friends and relations of soldiers; there was the enormous mass of
official documents to be dealt with; there were her own private
letters to be answered; and, most important of all, there was the
composition of her long and confidential reports to Sidney
Herbert.
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