And, at the
same time, there appeared a corresponding alteration in her
physical mood. The thin, angular woman, with her haughty eye and
her acrid mouth, had vanished; and in her place was the rounded,
bulky form of a fat old lady, smiling all day long. Then
something else became visible. The brain which had been steeled
at Scutari was indeed, literally, growing soft. Senility--an ever
more and more amiable senility--descended. Towards the end,
consciousness itself grew lost in a roseate haze, and melted into
nothingness.
It was just then, three years before her death, when she was
eighty-seven years old (1907), that those in authority bethought
them that the opportune moment had come for bestowing a public
honour on Florence Nightingale. She was offered the Order of
Merit. That Order, whose roll contains, among other distinguished
names, those of Sir Lawrence Alma Tadema and Sir Edward Elgar, is
remarkable chiefly for the fact that, as its title indicates, it
is bestowed because its recipient deserves it, and for no other
reason. Miss Nightingale's representatives accepted the honour,
and her name, after a lapse of many years, once more appeared in
the Press. Congratulations from all sides came pouring in. There
was a universal burst of enthusiasm--a final revivification of
the ancient myth. Among her other admirers, the German Emperor
took this opportunity of expressing his feelings towards her.
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