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by Leonid Andreyev



Lazarus was untouched by the magnificence of the imperial apartments.
He remained stolidly indifferent, as though he saw no contrast between
his ruined house at the edge of the desert and the solid, beautiful
palace of stone. Under his feet the hard marble of the floor took on
the semblance of the moving sands of the desert, and to his eyes the
throngs of gaily dressed, haughty men were as unreal as the emptiness
of the air. They looked not into his face as he passed by, fearing to
come under the awful bane of his eyes; but when the sound of his heavy
steps announced that he had passed, heads were lifted, and eyes
examined with timid curiosity the figure of the corpulent, tall,
slightly stooping old man, as he slowly passed into the heart of the
imperial palace. If death itself had appeared men would not have
feared it so much; for hitherto death had been known to the dead only,
and life to the living only, and between these two there had been no
bridge. But this strange being knew death, and that knowledge of his
was felt to be mysterious and cursed. "He will kill our great, divine
Augustus," men cried with horror, and they hurled curses after him.
Slowly and stolidly he passed them by, penetrating ever deeper into
the palace.

Caesar knew already who Lazarus was, and was prepared to meet him. He
was a courageous man; he felt his power was invincible, and in the
fateful encounter with the man "wonderfully raised from the dead" he
refused to lean on other men's weak help. Man to man, face to face, he
met Lazarus.

"Do not fix your gaze on me, Lazarus," he commanded. "I have heard
that your head is like the head of Medusa, and turns into stone all
upon whom you look. But I should like to have a close look at you, and
to talk to you before I turn into stone," he added in a spirit of
playfulness that concealed his real misgivings.

Approaching him, he examined closely Lazarus' face and his strange
festive clothes. Though his eyes were sharp and keen, he was deceived
by the skilful counterfeit.

"Well, your appearance is not terrible, venerable sir. But all the
worse for men, when the terrible takes on such a venerable and
pleasant appearance. Now let us talk."

Augustus sat down, and as much by glance as by words began the
discussion. "Why did you not salute me when you entered?"

Lazarus answered indifferently: "I did not know it was necessary."

"You are a Christian?"


Augustus nodded approvingly. "That is good. I do not like the
Christians. They shake the tree of life, forbidding it to bear fruit,
and they scatter to the wind its fragrant blossoms. But who are you?"

With some effort Lazarus answered: "I was dead."

"I heard about that. But who are you now?"

Lazarus' answer came slowly. Finally he said again, listlessly and
indistinctly: "I was dead."

"Listen to me, stranger," said the Emperor sharply, giving expression
to what had been in his mind before. "My empire is an empire of the
living; my people are a people of the living and not of the dead. You
are superfluous here. I do not know who you are, I do not know what
you have seen There, but if you lie, I hate your lies, and if you tell
the truth, I hate your truth. In my heart I feel the pulse of life; in
my hands I feel power, and my proud thoughts, like eagles, fly through
space. Behind my back, under the protection of my authority, under the
shadow of the laws I have created, men live and labour and rejoice. Do
you hear this divine harmony of life? Do you hear the war cry that men
hurl into the face of the future, challenging it to strife?"

Augustus extended his arms reverently and solemnly cried out: "Blessed
art thou, Great Divine Life!"

But Lazarus was silent, and the Emperor continued more severely: "You
are not wanted here. Pitiful remnant, half devoured of death, you fill
men with distress and aversion to life. Like a caterpillar on the
fields, you are gnawing away at the full seed of joy, exuding the
slime of despair and sorrow. Your truth is like a rusted sword in the
hands of a night assassin, and I shall condemn you to death as an
assassin. But first I want to look into your eyes. Mayhap only cowards
fear them, and brave men are spurred on to struggle and victory. Then
will you merit not death but a reward. Look at me, Lazarus."

At first it seemed to divine Augustus as if a friend were looking at
him, so soft, so alluring, so gently fascinating was the gaze of
Lazarus. It promised not horror but quiet rest, and the Infinite dwelt
there as a fond mistress, a compassionate sister, a mother. And ever
stronger grew its gentle embrace, until he felt, as it were, the
breath of a mouth hungry for kisses... Then it seemed as if iron bones
protruded in a ravenous grip, and closed upon him in an iron band; and
cold nails touched his heart, and slowly, slowly sank into it.

"It pains me," said divine Augustus, growing pale; "but look, Lazarus,

Ponderous gates, shutting off eternity, appeared to be slowly swinging
open, and through the growing aperture poured in, coldly and calmly,
the awful horror of the Infinite. Boundless Emptiness and Boundless
Gloom entered like two shadows, extinguishing the sun, removing the
ground from under the feet, and the cover from over the head. And the
pain in his icy heart ceased.

"Look at me, look at me, Lazarus!" commanded Augustus, staggering...

Time ceased and the beginning of things came perilously near to the
end. The throne of Augustus, so recently erected, fell to pieces, and
emptiness took the place of the throne and of Augustus. Rome fell
silently into ruins. A new city rose in its place, and it too was
erased by emptiness. Like phantom giants, cities, kingdoms, and
countries swiftly fell and disappeared into emptiness—swallowed up in
the black maw of the Infinite...

"Cease," commanded the Emperor. Already the accent of indifference was
in his voice. His arms hung powerless, and his eagle eyes flashed and
were dimmed again, struggling against overwhelming darkness.

"You have killed me, Lazarus," he said drowsily.

These words of despair saved him. He thought of the people, whose
shield he was destined to be, and a sharp, redeeming pang pierced his
dull heart. He thought of them doomed to perish, and he was filled
with anguish. First they seemed bright shadows in the gloom of the
Infinite.—How terrible! Then they appeared as fragile vessels with
life-agitated blood, and hearts that knew both sorrow and great
joy.—And he thought of them with tenderness.

And so thinking and feeling, inclining the scales now to the side of
life, now to the side of death, he slowly returned to life, to find in
its suffering and joy a refuge from the gloom, emptiness and fear of
the Infinite.

"No, you did not kill me, Lazarus," said he firmly. "But I will kill
you. Go!"

Evening came and divine Augustus partook of food and drink with great
joy. But there were moments when his raised arm would remain suspended
in the air, and the light of his shining, eager eyes was dimmed. It
seemed as if an icy wave of horror washed against his feet. He was
vanquished but not killed, and coldly awaited his doom, like a black
shadow. His nights were haunted by horror, but the bright days still
brought him the joys, as well as the sorrows, of life.

Next day, by order of the Emperor, they burned out Lazarus' eyes with
hot irons and sent him home. Even Augustus dared not kill him.

      *       *       *       *       *

Lazarus returned to the desert and the desert received him with the
breath of the hissing wind and the ardour of the glowing sun. Again he
sat on the stone with matted beard uplifted; and two black holes,
where the eyes had once been, looked dull and horrible at the sky. In
the distance the Holy City surged and roared restlessly, but near him
all was deserted and still. No one approached the place where Lazarus,
miraculously raised from the dead, passed his last days, for his
neighbours had long since abandoned their homes. His cursed knowledge,
driven by the hot irons from his eyes deep into the brain, lay there
in ambush; as if from ambush it might spring out upon men with a
thousand unseen eyes. No one dared to look at Lazarus.

And in the evening, when the sun, swollen crimson and growing larger,
bent its way toward the west, blind Lazarus slowly groped after it. He
stumbled against stones and fell; corpulent and feeble, he rose
heavily and walked on; and against the red curtain of sunset his dark
form and outstretched arms gave him the semblance of a cross.

It happened once that he went and never returned. Thus ended the
second life of Lazarus, who for three days had been in the mysterious
thraldom of death and then was miraculously raised from the dead.

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