Thus, with the face of a corpse which for three days had been under the heavy sway of death, dark and taciturn, already appallingly transformed, but still unrecognized by anyone in his new self, he was sitting at the feasting table, among friends and relatives, and his gorgeous nuptial garments glittered with yellow gold and bloody scarlet.  Broad waves of jubilation, now soft, now tempestuously sonorous surged around him; warm glances of love were reaching out for his face, still cold with the coldness of the grave; and a friend’s warm palm caressed his blue, heavy hand.  And music played the tympanum and the pipe, the cithara and the harp.  It was as though bees hummed, grasshoppers chirped and birds warbled over the happy house of Mary and Martha.

II

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.