IV

At that time there lived in Rome a renowned sculptor. In clay, marble,

and bronze he wrought bodies of gods and men, and such was their beauty,

that people called them immortal. But he himself was discontented and

asserted that there was something even more beautiful, that he could not

embody either in marble or in bronze. "I have not yet gathered the

glimmers of the moon, nor have I my fill of sunshine," he was wont to

say, "and there is no soul in my marble, no life in my beautiful

bronze." And when on moonlit nights he slowly walked along the road,

crossing the black shadows of cypresses, his white tunic glittering in

the moonshine, those who met him would laugh in a friendly way and say:

"Art thou going to gather moonshine, Aurelius? Why then didst thou not

fetch baskets?"

And he would answer, laughing and pointing to his eyes:

"Here are the baskets wherein I gather the sheen of the moon and the

glimmer of the sun."

And so it was: the moon glimmered in his eyes and the sun sparkled

therein. But he could not translate them into marble and therein lay the

serene tragedy of his life.

He was descended from an ancient patrician race, had a good wife and

children, and suffered from no want.

When the obscure rumor about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wife

and friends and undertook the far journey to Judea to see him who had

miraculously risen from the dead. He was somewhat weary in those days

and he hoped that the road would sharpen his blunted senses. What was

said of Lazarus did not frighten him: he had pondered much over Death,

did not like it, but he disliked also those who confused it with life.

"In this life,--life and beauty;

beyond,--Death, the enigmatical"--

thought he, and there is no better thing for a man to do than to delight

in life and in the beauty of all things living. He had even a

vainglorious desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of his own view and

restore his soul to life, as his body had been restored. This seemed so

much easier because the rumors, shy and strange, did not render the

whole truth about Lazarus and but vaguely warned against something

frightful.

Lazarus had just risen from the stone in order to follow the sun which

was setting in the desert, when a rich Roman attended by an armed slave,

approached him and addressed him in a sonorous tone of voice:

"Lazarus!"

And Lazarus beheld a superb face, lit with glory, and arrayed in fine

clothes, and precious stones sparkling in the sun. The red light lent to

the Roman's face and head the appearance of gleaming bronze--that also

Lazarus noticed. He resumed obediently his place and lowered his weary

eyes.

"Yes, thou art ugly, my poor Lazarus,"--quietly said the Roman, playing

with his golden chain; "thou art even horrible, my poor friend; and

Death was not lazy that day when thou didst fall so heedlessly into his

hands. But thou art stout, and, as the great Cæsar used to say, fat

people are not ill-tempered; to tell the truth, I don't understand why

men fear thee. Permit me to spend the night in thy house; the hour is

late, and I have no shelter."

Never had anyone asked Lazarus' hospitality.

"I have no bed," said he.

"I am somewhat of a soldier and I can sleep sitting," the Roman

answered. "We shall build a fire."

"I have no fire."

"Then we shall have our talk in the darkness, like two friends. I think

thou wilt find a bottle of wine."

"I have no wine."

The Roman laughed.

"Now I see why thou art so somber and dislikest thy second life. No

wine! Why, then we shall do without it: there are words that make the

head go round better than the Falernian."

By a sign he dismissed the slave, and they remained all alone. And again

the sculptor started speaking, but it was as if, together with the

setting sun, life had left his words; and they grew pale and hollow, as

if they staggered on unsteady feet, as if they slipped and fell down,

drunk with the heavy lees of weariness and despair. And black chasms

grew up between the words--like far-off hints of the great void and the

great darkness.

"Now I am thy guest, and thou wilt not be unkind to me, Lazarus!"--said

he. "Hospitality is the duty even of those who for three days were dead.

Three days, I was told, thou didst rest in the grave. There it must be

cold ... and that is whence comes thy ill habit of going without fire

and wine. As to me, I like fire; it grows dark here so rapidly.... The

lines of thy eyebrows and forehead are quite, quite interesting: they

are like ruins of strange palaces, buried in ashes after an earthquake.

But why dost thou wear such ugly and queer garments? I have seen

bridegrooms in thy country, and they wear such clothes--are they not

funny--and terrible.... But art thou a bridegroom?"

The sun had already disappeared, a monstrous black shadow came running

from the east--it was as if gigantic bare feet began rumbling on the

sand, and the wind sent a cold wave along the backbone.

"In the darkness thou seemest still larger, Lazarus, as if thou hast

grown stouter in these moments. Dost thou feed on darkness, Lazarus? I

would fain have a little fire--at least a little fire, a little fire. I

feel somewhat chilly, your nights are so barbarously cold.... Were it

not so dark, I should say that thou wert looking at me, Lazarus. Yes, it

seems to me, thou art looking.... Why, thou art looking at me, I feel

it,--but there thou art smiling."

Night came, and filled the air with heavy blackness.

"How well it will be, when the sun will rise to-morrow anew.... I am a

great sculptor, thou knowest; that is how my friends call me. I create.

Yes, that is the word ... but I need daylight. I give life to the cold

marble, I melt sonorous bronze in fire, in bright hot fire.... Why didst

thou touch me with thy hand?"

"Come"--said Lazarus--"Thou art my guest."

And they went to the house. And a long night enveloped the earth.

The slave, seeing that his master did not come, went to seek him, when

the sun was already high in the sky. And he beheld his master side by

side with Lazarus: in profound silence were they sitting right under the

dazzling and scorching sunrays and looking upward. The slave began to

weep and cried out:

"My master, what has befallen thee, master?"

The very same day the sculptor left for Rome. On the way Aurelius was

pensive and taciturn, staring attentively at everything--the men, the

ship, the sea, as though trying to retain something. On the high sea a

storm burst upon them, and all through it Aurelius stayed on the deck

and eagerly scanned the seas looming near and sinking with a thud.

At home his friends were frightened at the change which had taken place

in Aurelius, but he calmed them, saying meaningly:

"I have found it."

And without changing the dusty clothes he wore on his journey, he fell

to work, and the marble obediently resounded under his sonorous hammer.

Long and eagerly worked he, admitting no one, until one morning he

announced that the work was ready and ordered his friends to be

summoned, severe critics and connoisseurs of art. And to meet them he

put on bright and gorgeous garments, that glittered with yellow

gold--and--scarlet byssus.

"Here is my work," said he thoughtfully.

His friends glanced and a shadow of profound sorrow covered their faces.

It was something monstrous, deprived of all the lines and shapes

familiar to the eye, but not without a hint at some new, strange image.

On a thin, crooked twig, or rather on an ugly likeness of a twig rested

askew a blind, ugly, shapeless, outspread mass of something utterly and

inconceivably distorted, a mad leap of wild and bizarre fragments, all

feebly and vainly striving to part from one another. And, as if by

chance, beneath one of the wildly-rent salients a butterfly was chiseled

with divine skill, all airy loveliness, delicacy, and beauty, with

transparent wings, which seemed to tremble with an impotent desire to

take flight.

"Wherefore this wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?" said somebody

falteringly.

"I know not"--was the sculptor's answer.

But it was necessary to tell the truth, and one of his friends who loved

him best said firmly:

"This is ugly, my poor friend. It must be destroyed. Give me the

hammer."

And with two strokes he broke the monstrous man into pieces, leaving

only the infinitely delicate butterfly untouched.

From that time on Aurelius created nothing. With profound indifference

he looked at marble and bronze, and on his former divine works, where

everlasting beauty rested. With the purpose of arousing his former

fervent passion for work and, awakening his deadened soul, his friends

took him to see other artists' beautiful works,--but he remained

indifferent as before, and the smile did not warm up his tightened lips.

And only after listening to lengthy talks about beauty, he would retort

wearily and indolently:

"But all this is a lie."

And by the day, when the sun was shining, he went into his magnificent,

skilfully built garden and having found a place without shadow, he

exposed his bare head to the glare and heat. Red and white butterflies

fluttered around; from the crooked lips of a drunken satyr, water

streamed down with a splash into a marble cistern, but he sat

motionless and silent,--like a pallid reflection of him who, in the

far-off distance, at the very gates of the stony desert, sat under the

fiery sun.

V

And now it came to pass that the great, deified Augustus himself

summoned Lazarus. The imperial messengers dressed him gorgeously, in

solemn nuptial clothes, as if Time had legalized them, and he was to

remain until his very death the bridegroom of an unknown bride. It was

as though an old, rotting coffin had been gilt and furnished with new,

gay tassels. And men, all in trim and bright attire, rode after him, as

if in bridal procession indeed, and those foremost trumpeted loudly,

bidding people to clear the way for the emperor's messengers. But

Lazarus' way was deserted: his native land cursed the hateful name of

him who had miraculously risen from the dead, and people scattered at

the very news of his appalling approach. The solitary voice of the brass

trumpets sounded in the motionless air, and the wilderness alone

responded with its languid echo.

Then Lazarus went by sea. And his was the most magnificently arrayed and

the most mournful ship that ever mirrored itself in the azure waves of

the Mediterranean Sea. Many were the travelers aboard, but like a tomb

was the ship, all silence and stillness, and the despairing water sobbed

at the steep, proudly curved prow. All alone sat Lazarus exposing his

head to the blaze of the sun, silently listening to the murmur and

splash of the wavelets, and afar seamen and messengers were sitting, a

vague group of weary shadows. Had the thunder burst and the wind

attacked 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.

And Lazarus came to a haughty sage, and the sage said to him:

"I know all the horrors thou canst reveal to me. Is there anything thou

canst frighten me with?"

But before long the sage felt that the knowledge of horror was far from

being the horror itself, and that the vision of Death, was not Death.

And he felt that wisdom and folly are equal before the face of Infinity,

for Infinity knows them not. And it vanished, the dividing-line between

knowledge and ignorance, truth and falsehood, top and bottom, and the

shapeless thought hung suspended in the void. Then the sage clutched his

gray head and cried out frantically:

"I cannot think! I cannot think!"

Thus under the indifferent glance for him, who miraculously had risen

from the dead, perished everything that asserts life, its significance

and joys. And it was suggested that it was dangerous to let him see the

emperor, that it was better to kill him and, having buried him secretly,

to tell the emperor that he had disappeared no one knew whither. Already

swords were being whetted and youths devoted to the public welfare

prepared for the murder, when Augustus ordered Lazarus to be brought

before him next morning, thus destroying the cruel plans.

If there was no way of getting rid of Lazarus, at least it was possible

to soften the terrible impression his face produced. With this in view,

skillful painters, barbers, and artists were summoned, and all night

long they were busy over Lazarus' head. They cropped his beard, curled

it, and gave it a tidy, agreeable appearance. By means of paints they

concealed the corpse-like blueness of his hands and face. Repulsive were

the wrinkles of suffering that furrowed his old face, and they were

puttied, painted, and smoothed; then, over the smooth background,

wrinkles of good-tempered laughter and pleasant, carefree mirth were

skillfully painted with fine brushes.

Lazarus submitted indifferently to everything that was done to him. Soon

he was turned into a becomingly stout, venerable old man, into a quiet

and kind grandfather of numerous offspring. It seemed that the smile,

with which only a while ago he was spinning funny yarns, was still

lingering on his lips, and that in the corner of his eye serene

tenderness was hiding, the companion of old age. But people did not dare

change his nuptial garments, and they could not change his eyes, two

dark and frightful glasses through which looked at men, the unknowable

Yonder.