ulptor'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 an