the red sails, the ships would probably have perished, for none of those aboard had either the will or the strength to struggle for life.  With a supreme effort some mariners would reach the board and eagerly scan the blue, transparent deep, hoping to see a naiad’s pink shoulder flash in the hollow of an azure wave, or a drunken gay centaur dash along and in frenzy splash the wave with his hoof.  But the sea was like a wilderness, and the deep was dumb and deserted.

With utter indifference did Lazarus set his feet on the street of the eternal city.  As though all her wealth, all the magnificence of her palaces built by giants, all the resplendence, beauty, and music of her refined life were but the echo of the wind in the wilderness, the reflection of the desert quicksand.  Chariots were dashing, and along the streets were moving crowds of strong, fair, proud builders of the eternal city and haughty participants in her life; a song sounded; fountains and women laughed a pearly laughter; drunken philosophers harangued, and the sober listened to them with a smile; hoofs struck the stone pavements.  And surrounded by cheerful noise, a stout, heavy man was moving, a cold spot of silence and despair, and on his way he sowed disgust, anger, and vague, gnawing weariness.  Who dares to be sad in Rome, wondered indignantly the citizens, and frowned.  In two days the entire city already knew all about him who had miraculously risen from the dead, and shunned him shyly.

But some daring people there were, who wanted to test their strength, and Lazarus obeyed their imprudent summons.  Kept busy by state affairs, the emperor constantly delayed the reception, and seven days did he who had risen from the dead go about visiting others.

And Lazarus came to a cheerful Epicurean, and the host met him with laughter on his lips: 

“Drink, Lazarus, drink!”—­shouted he.  “Would not Augustus laugh to see thee drunk!”

And half-naked drunken women laughed, and rose petals fell on Lazarus’ blue hands.  But then the Epicurean looked into Lazarus’ eyes, and his gaiety ended forever.  Drunkard remained he for the rest of his life; never did he drink, yet forever was he drunk.  But instead of the gay reverie which wine brings with it, frightful dreams began to haunt him, the sole food of his stricken spirit.  Day and night he lived in the poisonous vapors of his nightmares, and death itself was not more frightful than her raving, monstrous forerunners.

And Lazarus came to a youth and his beloved, who loved each other and were most beautiful in their passions.  Proudly and strongly embracing his love, the youth said with serene regret: 

“Look at us, Lazarus, and share our joy.  Is there anything stronger than love?”

And Lazarus looked.  And for the rest of their life they kept on loving each other, but their passion grew gloomy and joyless, like those funeral cypresses whose roots feed on the decay of the graves and whose black summits in a still evening hour seek in vain to reach the sky.  Thrown by the unknown forces of life into each other’s embraces, they mingled tears with kisses, voluptuous pleasures with pain, and they felt themselves doubly slaves, obedient slaves to life, and patient servants of the silent Nothingness.  Ever united, ever severed, they blazed like sparks and like sparks lost themselves in the boundless Dark.