“You will not?” repeated the inquirer, unable to restrain his babbling tongue.  Silence reigned, and the livid blue hand lay motionless.  It moved slightly, and the company sighed with relief and raised their eyes.  Lazarus, risen from the dead, was looking straight at them, embracing all with one glance, heavy and terrible.

This was on the third day after Lazarus had arisen from the grave.  Since then many had felt that his gaze was the gaze of destruction, but neither those who had been forever crushed by it, nor those who in the prime of life (mysterious even as death) had found the will to resist his glance, could ever explain the terror that lay immovable in the depths of his black pupils.  He looked quiet and simple.  One felt that he had no intention to hide anything, but also no intention to tell anything.  His look was cold, as of one who is entirely indifferent to all that is alive.  And many careless people who pressed around him, and did not notice him, later learned with wonder and fear the name of this stout, quiet man who brushed against them with his sumptuous, gaudy garments.  The sun did not stop shining when he looked, neither did the fountain cease playing, and the Eastern sky remained cloudless and blue as always; but the man who fell under his inscrutable gaze could no longer feel the sun, nor hear the fountain, nor recognise his native sky.  Sometimes he would cry bitterly, sometimes tear his hair in despair and madly call for help; but generally it happened that the men thus stricken by the gaze of Lazarus began to fade away listlessly and quietly and pass into a slow death lasting many long years.  They died in the presence of everybody, colourless, haggard and gloomy, like trees withering on rocky ground.  Those who screamed in madness sometimes came back to life; but the others, never.

“So you will not tell us, Lazarus, what you saw There?” the inquirer repeated for the third time.  But now his voice was dull, and a dead, grey weariness looked stupidly from out his eyes.  The faces of all present were also covered by the same dead grey weariness like a mist.  The guests stared at one another stupidly, not knowing why they had come together or why they sat around this rich table.  They stopped talking, and vaguely felt it was time to leave; but they could not overcome the lassitude that spread through their muscles.  So they continued to sit there, each one isolated, like little dim lights scattered in the darkness of night.

The musicians were paid to play, and they again took up the instruments, and again played gay or mournful airs.  But it was music made to order, always the same tunes, and the guests listened wonderingly.  Why was this music necessary, they thought, why was it necessary and what good did it do for people to pull at strings and blow their cheeks into thin pipes, and produce varied and strange-sounding noises?

“How badly they play!” said some one.