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Updated: June 19, 2025
What was thy mother's name? I gave her the name of my real mother, and she shook her head. 'I never heard of her, she said. 'Did thy father ever speak of me, a wife who ran away from him? 'Yes; he has spoken of you that is, if you are Zalia, the daughter of an oil-merchant of Rhodes? "'I am that woman, she exclaimed, 'I am that woman! And did he mourn my loss?
"You've never been ill yet, Zeen! It won't be anything this time." "I'm ill now, Zalia." "Wait, I'll get a light. Why aren't you in bed?" "In bed, in bed ... then it'll be for good, Zalia; I'm afraid of my bed." She felt along the ceiling for the lamp, then in the corner of the hearth for the tinder-box; she struck fire and lit up. Zeen looked pale, yellow, deathlike.
Zeen opened his eyes two green, glazed eyes, which no longer saw things and wriggled his arms from under the clothes: "Why don't you make the goat stop bleating?" he stammered. They looked at one another. "Zalia, why won't you speak to me?... And what are all these people doing here?... I don't want any one to help me die!... I and Zalia.... I and Zalia.... Look, how beautiful!
"I don't know, I've given him some Haarlem oil, he's been sick; he's complaining of pains in his side and in his stomach; he's very pale: you wouldn't know him." They went indoors. Zalia took the lamp and both passed in, between the loom and the wall by Zeen's bed. He lay staring at the ceiling and catching his breath. Mite stood looking at him. "You must give him some English salt, Zalia."
"Oh, Zalia, it's so awfully hot here and it'll be long before it's evening!" "But, Zeen, what do you feel?" Zeen made no movement. "Are you ill?" "Yes, I am, Zalia. No, not ill, but I feel so queer and I think I ought to go home." Zalia did not know what to do: she was frightened and did not understand his funny talk.
The house-door was open; as she went in, Zalia saw not a thing before her eyes, but she heard something creaking on the floor. It was Zeen, trying to scramble to his feet when he heard her come in. "Zeen!" she cried. "Yes," moaned Zeen. "How are you? No better yet? Where are you?... Why are you lying flat on the floor like this?" "Zalia, I'm so ill ... my stomach and...."
Their wooden shoes clattered softly in the powdery sand of the white road; when they had gone very far, their voices still rang loud and their figures looked like wandering pollards. In the east, a thin golden-red streak hung between two dark clouds. It was very cool. "Fine weather to-morrow," said Warten; and he trudged off to his goat-house. "Good-night, Zalia." "Good-night, Warten."
"It'll be to-night," said Treze. "Where can Virginie be? She'll come too late." "Virginie is better than three doctors or a priest either," thought Mite. "Zalia, I think I'd get out the candle." Zalia went to the chest and got out the candle. "Mother, I'm frightened," whined Fietje. "You mustn't be frightened of dead people, child; you must get used to it." "Have you any holy water, Zalia?"
"Then ... but it's too late now, any way...." And she looked into the sick man's eyes again. "He's very far gone," thought Mite. "Got worse quickly," said Barbara. Zalia said nothing; she stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her husband and then at the women who were saying what they thought of him.
Zalia was startled by it, but, to comfort him: "It'll be nothing, Zeen," she said. "I'll give you a little Haarlem oil." She pulled him on to a chair, fetched the little bottle, put a few drops into a bowl of milk and poured it down his throat. "Is it doing you good?"
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