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