Yes, everything was dead, for the shivering cold which he felt could only be the cold shiver of death. . . .
Blue, was she blue? . . . The man lifted a corner of the sheet: Gerrit saw a face, pale as that of a mermaid whose features had blossomed up out of the icy stillness of a tragic pool. . . . The eyes were open. . . . What sad golden eyes those were! . . . Had they not always laughed . . . with golden gleams of mockery? . . . Then why did he now for the first time see them weeping . . . in death . . . see them mournfully staring . . . in death? . . . Had they never laughed? . . . Had they always gazed mournfully . . . even though they gleamed golden and mocked . . . or seemed to . . . seemed to? . . . Then what was real? . . . Was everything . . . was everything dead then? . . . Did he . . . dead . . . want to bring her his gift . . . what she had asked for so strangely . . . the portrait . . . the portrait of his children? . . . He had it here: he felt it lying on his chest . . . hard and heavy . . . like a plank, like a plank . . . He had it here. . . .
"Gerrit, dear, are you coming?"
Who was calling him from so very far away? . . . Wasn't it his sister? . . . His favourite sister? . . .
"Come along, Gerrit!"
Who were those calling him away from that