Not merely Lazarus’ face, but his very character, it seemed, had changed; though it astonished no one and did not attract the attention it deserved.  Before his death Lazarus had been cheerful and careless, a lover of laughter and harmless jest.  It was because of his good humour, pleasant and equable, his freedom from meanness and gloom, that he had been so beloved by the Master.  Now he was grave and silent; neither he himself jested nor did he laugh at the jests of others; and the words he spoke occasionally were simple, ordinary and necessary words—­words as much devoid of sense and depth as are the sounds with which an animal expresses pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger.  Such words a man may speak all his life and no one would ever know the sorrows and joys that dwelt within him.

Thus it was that Lazarus sat at the festive table among his friends and relatives—­his face the face of a corpse over which, for three days, death had reigned in darkness, his garments gorgeous and festive, glittering with gold, bloody-red and purple; his mien heavy and silent.  He was horribly changed and strange, but as yet undiscovered.  In high waves, now mild, now stormy, the festivities went on around him.  Warm glances of love caressed his face, still cold with the touch of the grave; and a friend’s warm hand patted his bluish, heavy hand.  And the music played joyous tunes mingled of the sounds of the tympanum, the pipe, the zither and the dulcimer.  It was as if bees were humming, locusts buzzing and birds singing over the happy home of Mary and Martha.

II

Some one recklessly lifted the veil.  By one breath of an uttered word he destroyed the serene charm, and uncovered the truth in its ugly nakedness.  No thought was clearly defined in his mind, when his lips smilingly asked:  “Why do you not tell us, Lazarus, what was There?” And all became silent, struck with the question.  Only now it seemed to have occurred to them that for three days Lazarus had been dead; and they looked with curiosity, awaiting an answer.  But Lazarus remained silent.

“You will not tell us?” wondered the inquirer.  “Is it so terrible There?”

Again his thought lagged behind his words.  Had it preceded them, he would not have asked the question, for, at the very moment he uttered it, his heart sank with a dread fear.  All grew restless; they awaited the words of Lazarus anxiously.  But he was silent, cold and severe, and his eyes were cast down.  And now, as if for the first time, they perceived the horrible bluishness of his face and the loathsome corpulence of his body.  On the table, as if forgotten by Lazarus, lay his livid blue hand, and all eyes were riveted upon it, as though expecting the desired answer from that hand.  The musicians still played; then silence fell upon them, too, and the gay sounds died down, as scattered coals are extinguished by water.  The pipe became mute, and the ringing tympanum and the murmuring dulcimer; and as though a chord were broken, as though song itself were dying, the zither echoed a trembling broken sound.  Then all was quiet.