d 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;