And he, too, would laugh and point to his eyes and say: “Here are the baskets in which I gather the light of the moon and the radiance of the sun.”
And that was the truth. In his eyes shone moon and sun. But he could not transmit the radiance to marble. Therein lay the greatest tragedy of his life. He was a descendant of an ancient race of patricians7, had a good wife and children, and except in this one respect, lacked nothing.
When the dark rumour8 about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wife and friends and decided9 to make the long voyage to Judea, in order that he might look upon the man miraculously10 raised from the dead. He felt lonely in those days and hoped on the way to renew his jaded11 energies. What they told him about Lazarus did not frighten him. He had meditated12 much upon death. He did not like it, nor did he like those who tried to harmonise it with life. On this side, beautiful life; on the other, mysterious death, he reasoned, and no better lot could befall a man than to live—to enjoy life and the beauty of living. And he already had conceived a desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of this view and to return his soul to life even as his body had been returned. This task did not appear impossible, for the reports about Lazarus, fearsome and strange as they were, did not tell the whole truth about him, but only carried a vague warning against something awful.
Lazarus was getting up from a stone to follow in the path of the setting sun, on the evening when the rich Roman, accompanied by an armed slave, approached him, and in a ringing voice called to him: “Lazarus!”
Lazarus saw a proud and beautiful face, made radiant by fame, and white garments and precious jewels shining in the sunlight. The ruddy rays of the sun lent to the head and face a likeness13 to dimly shining bronze—that was what Lazarus saw. He sank back to his seat obediently, and wearily lowered his eyes.
“It is true you are not beautiful, my poor Lazarus,” said the Roman quietly, playing with his gold chain. “You are even frightful14, my poor friend; and death was not lazy the day when you so carelessly fell into its arms. But you are as fat as a barrel, and ‘Fat people are not bad,’ as the great Cæsar said. I do not understand why people are so afraid of you. You will permit me to stay with you over night? It is already late, and I have no abode15.”
Nobody had ever asked Lazarus to be allowed to pass the night with him.
“I have no bed,” said he.
“I have no light.”
“I have no wine.”
The Roman laughed.
“Now I understand why you are so gloomy and why you do not like your second life. No wine? Well, we shall do without. You know there are words that go to one’s head even as Falernian wine.”
With a motion of his head he dismissed the slave, and they were alone. And again the sculptor spoke18, but it seemed as though the sinking sun had penetrated19 into his words. They faded, pale and empty, as if trembling on weak feet, as if slipping and falling, drunk with the wine of anguish20 and despair. And black chasms21 appeared between the two men—like remote hints of vast emptiness and vast darkness.
“Now I am your guest and you will not ill-treat me, Lazarus!” said the Roman. “Hospitality is binding22 even upon those who have been three days dead. Three days, I am told, you were in the grave. It must have been cold there... and it is from there that you have brought this bad habit of doing without light and wine. I like a light. It gets dark so quickly here. Your eyebrows23 and forehead have an interesting line: even as the ruins of castles covered with the ashes of an earthquake. But why in such strange, ugly clothes? I have seen the bridegrooms of your country, they wear clothes like that—such ridiculous clothes—such awful garments... Are you a bridegroom?”
Already the sun had disappeared. A gigantic black shadow was approaching fast from the west, as if prodigious24 bare feet were rustling25 over the sand. And the chill breezes stole up behind.
“In the darkness you seem even bigger, Lazarus, as though you had grown stouter26 in these few minutes. Do you feed on darkness, perchance?... And I would like a light... just a small light... just a small light. And I am cold. The nights here are so barbarously cold... If it were not so dark, I should say you were looking at me, Lazarus. Yes, it seems, you are looking. You are looking. You are looking at me!... I feel it—now you are smiling.”
The night had come, and a heavy blackness filled the air.
“How good it will be when the sun rises again to-morrow... You know I am a great sculptor... so my friends call me. I create, yes, they say I create, but for that daylight is necessary. I give life to cold marble. I melt the ringing bronze in the fire, in a bright, hot fire. Why did you touch me with your hand?”
“Come,” said Lazarus, “you are my guest.” And they went into the house. And the shadows of the long evening fell on the earth...
The slave at last grew tired waiting for his master, and when the sun stood high he came to the house. And he saw, directly under its burning rays, Lazarus and his master sitting close together. They looked straight up and were silent.
The same day Aurelius left for Rome. The whole way he was thoughtful and silent, attentively28 examining everything, the people, the ship, and the sea, as though endeavouring to recall something. On the sea a great storm overtook them, and all the while Aurelius remained on deck and gazed eagerly at the approaching and falling waves. When he reached home his family were shocked at the terrible change in his demeanour, but he calmed them with the words: “I have found it!”
In the dusty clothes which he had worn during the entire journey and had not changed, he began his work, and the marble ringingly responded to the resounding29 blows of the hammer. Long and eagerly he worked, admitting no one. At last, one morning, he announced that the work was ready, and gave instructions that all his friends, and the severe critics and judges of art, be called together. Then he donned gorgeous garments, shining with gold, glowing with the purple of the byssin.
“Here is what I have created,” he said thoughtfully.
His friends looked, and immediately the shadow of deep sorrow covered their faces. It was a thing monstrous30, possessing none of the forms familiar to the eye, yet not devoid31 of a hint of some new unknown form. On a thin tortuous32 little branch, or rather an ugly likeness of one, lay crooked33, strange, unsightly, shapeless heaps of something turned outside in, or something turned inside out—wild fragments which seemed to be feebly trying to get away from themselves. And, accidentally, under one of the wild projections34, they noticed a wonderfully sculptured butterfly, with transparent35 wings, trembling as though with a weak longing36 to fly.
“Why that wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?” timidly asked some one.
“I do not know,” answered the sculptor.
The truth had to be told, and one of his friends, the one who loved Aurelius best, said: “This is ugly, my poor friend. It must be destroyed. Give me the hammer.” And with two blows he destroyed the monstrous mass, leaving only the wonderfully sculptured butterfly.
After that Aurelius created nothing. He looked with absolute indifference37 at marble and at bronze and at his own divine creations, in which dwelt immortal beauty. In the hope of breathing into him once again the old flame of inspiration, with the idea of awakening38 his dead soul, his friends led him to see the beautiful creations of others, but he remained indifferent and no smile warmed his closed lips. And only after they spoke to him much and long of beauty, he would reply wearily:
“But all this is—a lie.”
And in the daytime, when the sun was shining, he would go into his rich and beautifully laid-out garden, and finding a place where there was no shadow, would expose his bare head and his dull eyes to the glitter and burning heat of the sun. Red and white butterflies fluttered around; down into the marble cistern39 ran splashing water from the crooked mouth of a blissfully drunken Satyr; but he sat motionless, like a pale shadow of that other one who, in a far land, at the very gates of the stony40 desert, also sat motionless under the fiery41 sun.
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1
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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12
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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33
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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40
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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41
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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