joke. It was because of this brightness and cheerfulness, with not a touch of malice and
darkness, that the Master had grown so fond of him. But now Lazarus had grown grave
and taciturn, he never jested, himself, nor responded with laughter to other people's jokes;
and the words which he uttered, very infrequently, were the plainest, most ordinary, and
necessary words, as deprived of depth and significance, as those sounds with which
animals express pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger. They were the words that one can
say all one's life, and yet they give no indication of what pains and gladdens the depths of
the soul.
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.
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.
