When Lazarus left the grave, where, for three days and three nights he had been under the enigmatical
sway of death, and returned alive to his dwelling, for a long time no one noticed in him those sinister
oddities, which, as time went on, made his very name a terror. Gladdened unspeakably by the sight of him
who had been returned to life, those near to him caressed him unceasingly, and satiated their burning
desire to serve him, in solicitude for his food and drink and garments. And they dressed him
gorgeously, in bright colors of hope and laughter, and when, like to a bridegroom in his bridal
vestures, he sat again among them at the table, and again ate and drank, they wept, overwhelmed with
tenderness. And they summoned the neighbors to look at him who had risen miraculously from the dead.
These came and shared the serene joy of the hosts. Strangers from far-off towns and hamlets came and
adored the miracle in tempestuous words. Like to a beehive was the house of Mary and Martha.
Whatever was found new in Lazarus' face and gestures was thought to be some trace of a grave illness and
of the shocks recently experienced. Evidently, the destruction wrought by death on the corpse was only
arrested by the miraculous power, but its effects were still apparent; and what death had succeeded in
doing with Lazarus' face and body, was like an artist's unfinished sketch seen under thin glass. On
Lazarus' temples, under his eyes, and in the hollows of his cheeks, lay a deep and cadaverous blueness;
cadaverously blue also were his long fingers, and around his fingernails, grown long in the grave, the
blue had become purple and dark. On his lips the skin, swollen in the grave, had burst in places, and
thin, reddish cracks were formed, shining as though covered with transparent mica. And he had grown
stout. His body, puffed up in the grave, retained its monstrous size and showed those frightful
swellings, in which one sensed the presence of the rank liquid of decomposition. But the heavy
corpse-like odor which penetrated Lazarus' graveclothes and, it seemed, his very body, soon entirely
disappeared, the blue spots on his face and hands grew paler, and the reddish cracks closed up, although
they never disappeared altogether. That is how Lazarus looked when he appeared before people, in his
second life, but his face looked natural to those who had seen him in the coffin.
In addition to the changes in his appearance, Lazarus' temper seemed to have undergone a transformation,
but this circumstance startled no one and attracted no attention. Before his death Lazarus had always
been cheerful and carefree, fond of laughter and a merry 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.
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.
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 fountai…