one of the guests incautiously lifted the veil. by a thoughtless word he broke the serene charm and uncovered the truth in all its naked ugliness. ere the thought formed itself in his mind, his lips uttered with a smile:

"why dost thou not tell us what happened yonder?"

and all grew silent, startled by the question. it was as if it occurred to them only now that for three days lazarus had been dead, and they looked at him, anxiously awaiting his answer. but lazarus kept silence.

"thou dost not wish to tell us,"—wondered the man, "is it so terrible yonder?"

and again his thought came after his words. had it been otherwise, he would not have asked this question, which at that very moment oppressed his heart with its insufferable horror. uneasiness seized all present, and with a feeling of heavy weariness they awaited lazarus' words, but he was silent, sternly and coldly, and his eyes were lowered. and as if for the first time, they noticed the frightful blueness of his face and his repulsive obesity. on the table, as though forgotten by lazarus, rested his bluish-purple wrist, and to this all eyes turned, as if it were from it that the awaited answer was to come. the musicians were still playing, but now the silence reached them too, and even as water extinguishes scattered embers, so were their merry tunes extinguished in the silence. the pipe grew silent; the voices of the sonorous tympanum and the murmuring harp died away; and as if the strings had burst, the cithara answered with a tremulous, broken note. silence.

"thou dost not wish to say?" repeated the guest, unable to check his chattering tongue. but the stillness remained unbroken, and the bluish-purple hand rested motionless. and then he stirred slightly and everyone felt relieved. he lifted up his eyes, and lo! straightway embracing everything in one heavy glance, fraught with weariness and horror, he looked at them,—lazarus who had arisen from the dead.

it was the third day since lazarus had left the grave. ever since then many had experienced the pernicious power of his eye, but neither those who were crushed by it forever, nor those who found the strength to resist in it the primordial sources of life,—which is as mysterious as death,—never could they explain the horror which lay motionless in the depth of his black pupils. lazarus looked calmly and simply with no desire to conceal anything, but also with no intention to say anything; he looked coldly, as he who is infinitely indifferent to those alive. many carefree people came close to him without noticing him, and only later did they learn with astonishment and fear who that calm stout man was, that walked slowly by, almost touching them with his gorgeous and dazzling garments. the sun did not cease shining, when he was looking, nor did the fountain hush its murmur, and the sky overhead remained cloudless and blue. but the man under the spell of his enigmatical look heard no more the fountain and saw not the sky overhead. sometimes, he wept bitterly, sometimes he tore his hair and in frenzy called for help; but more often it came to pass that apathetically and quietly he began to die, and so he languished many years, before everybody's very eyes, wasted away, colorless, flabby, dull, like a tree, silently drying up in a stony soil. and of those who gazed at him, the ones who wept madly, sometimes felt again the stir of life; the others never.

"so thou dost not wish to tell us what thou hast seen yonder?" repeated the man. but now his voice was impassive and dull, and deadly gray weariness showed in lazarus' eyes. and deadly gray weariness covered like dust all the faces, and with dull amazement the guests stared at each other and did not understand wherefore they had gathered here and sat at the rich table. the talk ceased. they thought it was time to go home, but could not overcome the flaccid lazy weariness which glued their muscles, and they kept on sitting there, yet apart and torn away from each other, like pale fires scattered over a dark field.

but the musicians were paid to play and again they took their instruments and again tunes full of studied mirth and studied sorrow began to flow and to rise. they unfolded the customary melody but the guests hearkened in dull amazement. already they knew not wherefore is it necessary, and why is it well, that people should pluck strings, inflate their cheeks, blow in thin pipes, and produce a bizarre, many-voiced noise.

"what bad music," said someone.

the musicians took offense and left. following them, the guests left one after another, for night was already come. and when placid darkness encircled them and they began to breathe with more ease, suddenly lazarus' image loomed up before each one in formidable radiance: the blue face of a corpse, grave-clothes gorgeous and resplendent, a cold look, in the depths of which lay motionless an unknown horror. as though petrified, they were standing far apart, and darkness enveloped them, but in the darkness blazed brighter and brighter the supernatural vision of him who for three days had been under the enigmatical sway of death. for three days had he been dead: thrice had the sun risen and set, but he had been dead; children had played, streams murmured over pebbles, the wayfarer had lifted up hot dust in the highroad,—but he had been dead. and now he is again among them,—touches them,—looks at them,—looks at them! and through the black discs of his pupils, as through darkened glass, stares the unknowable yonder.