Lazarus, by Leonid Andreev, translated by Abraham Yarmolinsky. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Sean Michael Hogan. Lazarus, by Leonid Andreev, translated by Abraham Yarmolinsky. Part 1. When Lazarus left the grave, where for three days and three nights he had been under the enigmatic sway of death, and returned alive to his dwelling, for a long time no one noticed in him those sinister oddities which, as time went on, made his very name a terror. Gladdened unspeakably by the sight of him who had been returned to life, those near to him caressed him unceasingly, and satiated their burning desire to serve him in solicitude for his food and drink and garments. Then they dressed him gorgeously in bright colors of hope and laughter, and when, like a bridegroom in his bridal vestures, he sat again among them at the table, and again ate and drank, they wept, overwhelmed with tenderness. And they summoned the neighbors to look at him who had risen miraculously from the dead. These came and shared the serene joy of the hosts. Strangers from far-off towns and hamlets came and adored the miracle in tempestuous words. Back to a beehive was the house of Mary and Martha. Whatever was found new in Lazarus' face and gestures was thought to be some trace of a grave illness and of the shocks recently experienced. Evidently, the destruction wrought by death on the corpse was only arrested by the miraculous power, but its effects were still apparent. And what death had succeeded in doing with Lazarus' face and body was like an artist's unfinished sketch seen under thinning glass. On Lazarus' temples, under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, lay a deep and cadaverous blueness. Cadaverously blue also were his long fingers, and around his fingernails growing long in the grave, the blue had become purple and dark. On his lips the skin, swollen in the grave, had burst in places, and thin reddish cracks were formed, shining as though covered with transparent mica. And he had grown stout. His body, puffed up in the grave, retained its monstrous size, and showed those frightful swellings in which one sensed the presence of the rank liquid of decomposition. But the heavy corpse-like odor which penetrated Lazarus' grave clothes, and it seemed his very body, soon entirely disappeared, the blue spots on his face and hands grew paler, and the reddish cracks closed up, although they never disappeared altogether. That is how Lazarus looked when he appeared before people in his second life, but his face looked natural to those who had seen him in the coffin. In addition to the changes in his appearance, Lazarus' temper seemed to have undergone a transformation, but this circumstance startled no one and attracted no attention. Before his death Lazarus had always been cheerful and carefree, fond of laughter and a merry joke. It was because of this brightness and cheerfulness with not a touch of malice and darkness that the master had grown so fond of him. But now Lazarus had grown grave and taciturn. He never gested himself, nor responded with laughter to other people's jokes, and the words which he uttered very infrequently were the plainest, most ordinary, and necessary words, as deprived of depth and significance as those sounds with which animals express pain and pleasure, thirst, and hunger. They were the words that one can say all one's life, and yet they give no indication of what pains and gladdens the depths of the soul. Thus with the face of a corpse which for three days had been under the heaviest way of death, dark and taciturn, already appallingly transformed, but still unrecognized by anyone in his new self, he was sitting at the feasting table among friends and relatives, and his gorgeous nuptial garments glittered with yellow gold and bloody scarlet. God waves of jubilation now soft, now tempestruously sonorous surged around him. Warm glances of love were reaching out for his face, still cold with the coldness of the grave, and a friend's warm palm caressed his blue heavy hand, and music played the tympanum and the pipe, the chitara and the harp. It was as though bees hummed, grasshoppers chirped, and birds warbled over the happy house of Mary and Martha. Step two. One of the guests in cautiously lifted the veil. By a thoughtless word he broke the serene charm and uncovered the truth in all its naked ugliness. Air the thought formed itself in his mind, his lips uttered with a smile. Why dost thou not tell us what happened yonder? And all grew silent, startled by the question. It was as if it occurred to them only now that for three days Lazarus had been dead, and they looked at him, anxiously awaiting his answer. But Lazarus kept silence. Thou dost not wish to tell us, wondered the man. Is it so terrible yonder? And again his thought came after his words. Had it been otherwise he would not have asked this question, which at that very moment oppressed his heart with its insufferable horror. Uneasiness seized all present, and with the feeling of heavy weariness they awaited Lazarus's words. He was silent, sternly and coldly, and his eyes were lowered. And as if for the first time they noticed the frightful blueness of his face and his repulsive obesity, on the table as though forgotten by Lazarus rested his bluish purple wrist, and to this all eyes turned, as if it were from it that the awaited answer was to come. The musicians were still playing, but now the silence reached them too, and even as water extinguishes scattered embers, so were their merry tunes extinguished in the silence. The pipe grew silent, the voices of the sonorous tympanum and the murmuring harp died away. And as if the strings had burst, the chitarra answered with a tremulous broken note. Silence. Thou dost not wish to say, repeated the guest, unable to check his chattering tongue. But the stillness remained unbroken, and the bluish purple hand rested motionless. And then he stirred slightly, and everyone felt relieved. He lifted up his eyes, and low, straight way, embracing everything in one heavy glance, fraught with weariness and horror, he looked at them, Lazarus who had arisen from the dead. It was the third day since Lazarus had left the grave. Ever since then many had experienced the pernicious power of his eye, but neither those who were crushed by it forever, nor those who found the strength to resist in it the primordial sources of life, which is as mysterious as death. Never could they explain the horror which lay motionless in the depth of his black pupils. Lazarus looked calmly and simply, with no desire to conceal anything, but also with no intention to say anything. He looked coldly as he who is infinitely indifferent to those alive. Many carefree people came close to him without noticing him, and only later did they learn with astonishment and fear who that calm, stout man was that walked slowly by, almost touching them with his gorgeous dazzling garments. The sun did not cease shining when he was looking, nor did the fountain hush its murmur, and the sky overhead remained cloudless and blue, but the man under the spell of his enigmatic look heard no more the fountain, and saw not the sky overhead. Sometimes he wept bitterly, sometimes he tore his hair, and in frenzy called for help, but more often it came to pass that apathetically and quietly he began to die, and so he languished many years before everybody's very eyes wasted away, colorless, flabby, dull, like a tree silently drying up in a stony soil.  So thou dost not wish to tell us what thou hast seen yonder, repeated the man, but now his voice was impassive and dull, and deadly gray weariness showed in Lazarus's eyes, and deadly gray weariness covered like dust all the faces, and with dull amazement the guests stared at each other, and did not understand wherefore they had gathered here and sat at the rich table. The talk ceased. They thought it was time to go home, but could not overcome the flaccid, lazy weariness which glued their muscles, and they kept on sitting there, yet apart and torn away from each other, like pale fires scattered over a dark field.  They unfolded the customary melody, but the guests harkened in dull amazement. Already they knew not wherefore is it necessary, and why is it well that people should pluck strings, inflate their cheeks, blow in thin pipes, and produce a bizarre, many-voiced noise? What bad music! said someone. The musicians took a fence and left. Following them the guests left one after another, for night was already coming. And when placid darkness encircled them, and they began to breathe with more ease, suddenly Lazarus's image loomed up before each one in formidable radiance, the blue face of a corpse, grave clothes gorgeous and resplendent, a cold look in the depths of whichly emotionless and unknown horror. As though petrified they were standing far apart, and darkness enveloped them. But in the darkness blazed brighter and brighter the supernatural vision of him, who for three days had been under the enigmatic sway of death. For three days had he been dead, thrice had the sun risen and set, but he had been dead. Children had played, streams murmured over pebbles, the wayfarer had lifted up hot dust in the high road, but he had been dead. And now he is again among them, touches them, looks at them, looks at them, and through the black disks of his pupils, as through darkened glass, stares the unknowable yonder. Part 3 No one was taking care of Lazarus, for no friends nor relatives were left to him, and the great desert which encircled the holy city came near the very threshold of his dwelling. And the desert entered his house, and stretched on his couch, like a wife, and extinguished the fires. No one was taking care of Lazarus. One after the other his sisters, Mary and Martha, forsook him. For a long while Martha was loathed to abandon him, for she knew not who would feed him and pity him. She wept and prayed. But one night when the wind was roaming in the desert and with a hissing sound, the cypresses were bending over the roof. She dressed noiselessly, and secretly left the house. Lazarus probably heard the door slam. He banged against the sidepost under the gusts of the desert wind, but he did not rise to go out and to look at her that was abandoning him. All the night long the cypresses hissed over his head, and plaintively thumped the door, letting in the cold, greedy desert. Like a leper he was shunned by everyone, and it was proposed to tie a bell to his neck, as is done with lepers, to warn people against sudden meetings. But someone remarked, growing frightfully pale, that it would be too horrible if by night the moaning of Lazarus's bell were suddenly heard under the windows, and so the project was abandoned. And since he did not take care of himself, he would probably have starved to death. Had not the neighbors brought him food in fear of something that they sensed but vaguely. The food was brought to him by children. They were not afraid of Lazarus, nor did they mock him with naive cruelty as children are wont to do with the wretched and miserable. They were indifferent to him, and Lazarus answered them with the same coldness.  Given to time and to the desert his house was crumbling down, and long since had his famishing, lowing goats wandered away to the neighboring pastures. And his bridal garments became threadbare. Ever since that happy day when the musicians played, he had worn them unaware of the difference of the new and the worn. The bright colors grew dull and faded. Vicious dogs and the sharp thorn of the desert turned the tender fabric into rags. By day when the merciless sun slew all things alive, and even scorpions sought shelter under stones and writhed there in a mad desire to sting, he sat motionless under the sun rays. His blue face and the uncouth, bushy beard lifted up, bathing in the fiery flood. When people still talked to him, he was once asked, Poor Lazarus, does it please thee to sit thus and to stare at the sun? And he had answered, Yes, it does. So strong it seemed was the cold of his three days grave, so deep the darkness that there was no heat on earth to warm Lazarus, nor a splendor that could brighten the darkness of his eyes. That is what came to the mind of those who spoke to Lazarus, and with a sigh they left him. And when the scarlet flattened globe would lower, Lazarus would set out for the desert and walk straight toward the sun as though striving to reach it. He always walked straight toward the sun, and those who tried to follow him and to spy upon what he was doing at night in the desert retained in their memory the black silhouette of a tall, stout man against the red background of an enormous, flattened disc. Night pursued them with her horrors, and so they did not learn of Lazarus's doings in the desert, but the vision of the black on red was forever branded on their brain. Just as a beast with a splinter in its eye furiously rubs its muzzle with its paws, so they too foolishly rubbed their eyes, but what Lazarus had given was indelible, and death alone could have face it. But there were people who lived far away, who never saw Lazarus, and knew of him only by report. With daring curiosity, which is stronger than fear and feeds upon it, with hidden mockery, it would come to Lazarus who was sitting in the sun and enter into conversation with him. By this time Lazarus' appearance had changed for the better and was not so terrible.  But when the short talk was over and they started homework, their looks were such that the inhabitants of the Holy City recognized them at once and said, look, there is one more fool on whom Lazarus has set his eye. And they shook their heads regretfully and lifted up their arms. There came brave, intrepid warriors with tinkling weapons. Happy youths came with laughter and song. Busy tradesmen jingling their money ran in for a moment and haughty priests leaned their crojures against Lazarus' door, and they were all strangely changed as they came back. The same terrible shadow swooped down upon their souls and given new appearance to the old, familiar world. Those who still had the desire to speak expressed their feelings thus. All things tangible and visible grew hollow, light and transparent, similar to lights and shadows in the darkness of night. For that great darkness, which holds the whole cosmos, was dispersed neither by the sun or by the moon and the stars, but like an immense black shroud enveloped the earth and like a mother embraced it. It penetrated all the bodies, iron and stone, and the particles of the bodies having lost their ties grew lonely, and it penetrated into the depths of the particles, and the particles of particles became lonely. For that great void which encircles the cosmos was not filled by things visible, neither by the sun nor by the moon and the stars, but reigned unrestrained, penetrating everywhere severing body from body, particle from particle. In the void hollow trees spread hollow roots threatening a fantastic fall, temples, palaces and horses loomed up and they were hollow, and in the void men moved about restlessly, but they were light and hollow like shadows. For time was no more, and the beginning of all things came near their end. The building was still being built, and builders were still hammering away, and its ruins were already seen and the void in its place. The man was still being born, but already funeral candles were burning at his head, and now they were extinguished, and there was the void in place of the man and of the funeral candles. And wrapped by void and darkness the man in despair trembled in the face of the horror of the infinite. Thus spake the men who had still a desire to speak, but surely much more could have told those who wished not to speak, and died in silence. At that time there lived in Rome a renowned sculptor. In clay, marble and bronze he wrought bodies of gods and men, and such was their beauty that people called them immortal. But he himself was discontented and asserted that there was something even more beautiful that he could not embody either in marble or in bronze. I have not yet gathered the glimmers of the moon, nor have I my fill of sunshine, he was want to say, and there is no soul in my marble, no life in my beautiful bronze. And when on moonlight nights he slowly walked along the road, crossing the black shadows of cypresses, his white tunic glittering in the moonshine, those who met him would laugh in a friendly way and say, Aren't thou going to gather moonshiner, really, is? Why then didst thou not fetch baskets? And he would answer, laughing and pointing to his eyes, Here are the baskets wherein I gather the sheen of the moon and the glimmer of the sun. And so it was, the moon glimmered in his eyes, and the sun sparkled therein, but he could not translate them into marble, and therein lay the serene tragedy of his life. He was descended from an ancient patrician race, had a good wife and children, and suffered from no want. When the obscure rumour about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wife and friends, and undertook the far journey to Judea to see him who had miraculously risen from the dead. He was somewhat weary in those days, and he hoped that the road would sharpen his blunted senses. What was said of Lazarus did not frighten him. He had pondered much over death, did not like it, but he disliked also those who confused it with life. In this life, life and beauty, beyond death the enigmaticle, thought he, and there is no better thing for a man to do than to delight in life and in the beauty of all things living. He had even a vain glorious desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of his own view, and restore his soul to life, as his body had been restored. This seemed so much easier because the rumours, shy and strange, did not render the whole truth about Lazarus, and but vaguely warned against something frightful. Lazarus had just risen from the stone in order to follow the sun which was setting in the desert. And a rich Roman, attended by an armed slave, approached him and addressed him in a sonorous tone of voice. Lazarus! And Lazarus beheld a superb face, lit with glory, and arrayed in fine clothes, and precious stones sparkling in the sun. The red light lent to the Roman's face, and had the appearance of gleaming bronze. That also Lazarus noticed. He resumed obediently his place, and lowered his weary eyes.  Thou art even horrible, my poor friend. And death was not lazy that day when thou didst fall so heedlessly into his hands. But thou art stout, and as the great Caesar used to say, fat people are not ill-tempered. To tell the truth, I don't understand why men fear thee. Permit me to spend the night in thy house. The hour is late, and I have no shelter. Never had anyone asked Lazarus's hospitality. I have no bed, said he. I am somewhat of a soldier, and I can sleep sitting, the Roman answered. We shall build a fire. I have no fire. Then we shall have our talk in the darkness, like two friends. I think that we'll find a bottle of wine. I have no wine, the Roman laughed. Now I see why thou art so somber and dislikest by second life. No wine. Why, then we shall do without it. There are words that make the head go around better than the phalernian. By a sign he dismissed the slave, and they remained all alone. And again the sculptor started speaking. But it was as if, together with the setting sun, life had left his words, and they grew pale and hollow, as if they staggered on unsteady feet, as if they slipped and fell down, drunk with the heavy leaves of weariness and despair. And black chasms grew up between the words, like far-off hints of great void and the great darkness. Now I am thy guest, and thou wilt not be unkind to me, Lazarus, said he. Hospitality is the duty, even of those who for three days were dead. Three days, I was told, thou didst rest in the grave. There it must be cold. That is whence comes thy ill habit of going without fire and wine. As to me, I like fire. It grows dark here so rapidly. The lines of thy eyebrows and forehead are quite, quite interesting. They're like ruins of strange palaces buried in ashes after an earthquake.  I've seen bridegrooms in thy country, and they wear such clothes. Are they not funny and terrible? But art thou a bridegroom? The sun had already disappeared.  It was as if gigantic bear feet began rumbling on the sand, and the wind sent a cold wave along the backbone. In the darkness thou seemest still larger, Lazarus, as if thou hast grown stouter in these moments. Thou'st thou feed on darkness, Lazarus? I would feign of a little fire, at least a little fire, a little fire. I feel somewhat chilly. Your nights are so barbarously cold. Word not so dark, I should say that thou were't looking at me, Lazarus. Yes, it seems to me thou art looking. Why, thou art looking at me, I feel it. But there thou art smiling. Night came and filled the air with heavy blackness. How well it will be when the sun will rise tomorrow in you. I am a great sculptor, thou knowest. That is how my friends call me. I create. Yes, that is the word. But I need daylight. I give life to the cold marble. I melt sonorous bronze in fire, in bright hot fire. Why did that touch me with thy hand? Come, said Lazarus, thou art my guest. And they went to the house, and a long night enveloped the earth. The slave, seeing that his master did not come, went to seek him when the sun was already high in the sky. And he beheld his master side by side with Lazarus, in profound silence where they're sitting right under the dazzling, scorching sun rays and looking upward. The slave began to weep and cried out, my master, what has befallen thee master? The very same day the sculptor left for Rome, on the way Aurelius was pensive and taciturn, staring attentively at everything, the men, the ship, the sea, as though trying to retain something. On the high sea a storm burst upon them, and all through it Aurelius stayed on the deck and eagerly scanned the seas, looming near and sinking with a thud. At home his friends were frightened at the change which had taken place in Aurelius, but he calmed them, saying meaningly, I have found it. And without changing the dusty clothes he wore on his journey, he fell to work, and the marble obediently resounded under his sonora's hammer. Long and eagerly worked he, admitting no one, until one morning he announced that the work was ready and ordered his friends to be summoned, severe critics and connoisseurs of art. And to meet them he put on bright and gorgeous garments that glittered with yellow golden scarlet vices. Here is my work, said he thoughtfully. These friends glanced, and a shadow of profound sorrow covered their faces. It was something monstrous, deprived of all the lines and shapes familiar to the eye, but not without a hint at some new strange image.  A mad leap of wild and bizarre fragments, all feebly and vainly striving to part from one another. And as if by chance, beneath one of the wildly rent salience, a butterfly was chiseled with divine skill, all airy loveliness, delicacy, and beauty, with transparent wings which seemed to tremble with an impotent desire to take flight. Wherefore this wonderful butterfly, really, is, said someone falteringly. I know not, was the sculptor'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 boyfriend. 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 skillfully built garden.  Red and white butterflies floated 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. Part 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 a bridegroom of an unknown bride.  And men, all in trim and bright attire, wrote 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's 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 emotionless 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 and 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 a farcemen and messengers were sitting, a vague group of weary shadows. Had the thunder burst and the wind attack 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 sea, hoping to see a niad's pink shoulder flash in the hollow of an azure wave, or a drunken gay centaur dash along, and frenzy splashed the wave with his hoof.  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 so 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 imprudence 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. Never did he drink, yet forever was he drunk. But instead of the gay reverie which wine brings with it, frightful dreams began to haunt him, the sole food of his stricken spirit. Day and night he lived in the poisonous vapours of his nightmares, and death itself was not more frightful than her raving, monstrous forerunners. And Lazarus came to a youth and his beloved, who loved each other, and were most beautiful in their passions, proudly and strongly embracing his love the youth said with serene regret. Look at us, Lazarus, and share our joy. Is there anything stronger than love? And Lazarus looked, and for the rest of their life, they kept on loving each other, but their passion grew gloomy and joyless, like those funeral cypresses with roots feed on the decay of the graves, and whose black summits in a still evening hour seek in vain to reach the sky. Thrown by the unknown forces of life into each other's embraces, they mingled to tears with kisses, voluptuous pleasures with pain, and they felt themselves doubly slaves, obedient slaves to life, and patient servants of the silent nothingness. Ever united, ever severed, they blazed like sparks, and like sparks lost themselves in the boundless dark. And Lazarus came to a haughty sage, and the sage said to him, I know all the horrors thou canst reveal to me. Is there anything thou canst frighten me with? But before long the sage felt that the knowledge of horror was far from being the horror itself, and that the vision of death was not death. And he felt that wisdom and folly are equal before the face of infinity, for infinity knows them not. And it vanished, the dividing line between knowledge and ignorance, truth and falsehood, top and bottom, and the shapeless thought hung suspended in the void. Then the sage clutched his gray head and cried out frantically, I cannot think, I cannot think. Thus under the indifferent glance for him, whom miraculously had risen from the dead, perished everything that asserts life, its significance and joys. And it was suggested that it was dangerous to let him see the emperor, that it was better to kill him, and having buried him secretly, to tell the emperor that he had disappeared, no one knew wither. Already swords were being wetted, and youths devoted to the public welfare prepared for the murder. When Augustus ordered Lazarus to be brought before him next morning, thus destroying their cruel plans. If there was no way of getting rid of Lazarus, at least it was possible to soften the terrible impression his face produced. With this in view, skillful painters, barbers, and artists were summoned. And all night long, they were busy over Lazarus's head. They cropped his beard, curled it, and gave it a tidy, agreeable appearance. By means of paints, they concealed the corpse-like blueness of his hands and face. Repulsive were the wrinkles of suffering that furrowed his old face, and they were puttyed, painted, and smoothed. Then, over the smooth background, wrinkles of good-tempered laughter and pleasant carefree mirth were skillfully painted with fine brushes. Lazarus submitted indifferently to everything that was done to him. Soon he was turned into a becomingly stout, venerable old man, into a quiet and kind grandfather of numerous offspring. It seemed that the smile, with which only a while ago he was spinning funny yarns, was still lingering on his lips, and that in the corner of his eyes serene tenderness was hiding, a companion of old age. But people did not dare change his nuptial garments, and they could not change his eyes. Too dark and frightful glasses through which looked at men, the unknowable yonder. Part six. Lazarus was not moved by the magnificence of the imperial palace. It was as though he saw no difference between the crumbling house, closely pressed by the desert, and the stone palace solid and fair, and indifferently he passed into it. And the hard marble of the floors under his feet grew similar to the quicksand of the desert, and the multitude of richly dressed and haughty men became like void air under his glance. No one looked into his face as Lazarus passed by, fearing to fall under the appalling influence of his eyes. But when the sound of his heavy footsteps had sufficiently died down, the courtiers raised their heads and with fearful curiosity examined the figure of a stout, tall, slightly bent old man who was slowly penetrating into the very heart of the imperial palace. Were death itself passing, it would be faced with no greater fear. For until then the dead alone knew death, and those alive knew life only, and there was no bridge between them. But this extraordinary man, although alive, knew death, and enigmatic appalling was his curse of knowledge. Whoa, people thought, he will take the life of our great day if I had Augustus. And they sent curses after Lazarus, who meanwhile kept on advancing into the interior of the palace. Already did the emperor know who Lazarus was and prepared to meet him. But the monarch was a brave man and felt his own tremendous, unconquerable power, and in his fatal duel with him who had miraculously risen from the dead, he wanted not to invoke human help. And so he met Lazarus face to face. Lift not thine eyes upon me, Lazarus, he ordered. I heard thy faces like that of Medusa and turned into stone whosoever thou lookest at. Now I wish to see thee and to have a talk with thee before I turn into stone. Added he in a tone of kingly jesting, not devoid of fear. Coming close to him, he carefully examined Lazarus' face and his strange, festile garments. And although he had a keen eye, he was deceived by his appearance. So, thou dost not appear terrible, my venerable old man, but the worst for us, if horror assumes such a respectable and pleasant air. Now let us have a talk. Augustus sat and, questioning Lazarus with his eye as much as with words, started the conversation. Why didst thou not greet me as thou enteredst? Lazarus answered indifferent. I knew not it was necessary. Art thou a Christian? No. Augustus approvingly shook his head. That is good, I do not like Christians. They shake the tree of life before it is covered with fruit and disperse its odorous bloom to the winds. But who art thou? With a visible effort Lazarus answered, I was dead. I had heard that, but who art thou now? Lazarus was silent, but at last repeated in a tone of weary apathy. I was dead. Listen to me, stranger, said the emperor, distinctly and severely giving utterance to the thought that had come to him at the beginning. My realm is the realm of life. My people are of the living, not of the dead. Thou art here one too many. I know not who thou art and what thou sawst there, but if thou liest, I hate thy lies. And if thou tellst the truth, I hate thy truth. In my bosom I feel the throb of life. I feel strength in my arm, and my proud thoughts like eagles pierce the space. And yonder in the shelter of my rule under the protection of laws created by me, people live and toil and rejoice. Thus thou hear the battle cry, the challenged men throw into the face of the future. Augustus, as in prayer, stretched forth his arms and exclaimed solemnly, be blessed, O great and divine life. Lazarus was silent, and with growing sternness the emperor went on. Thou art not wanted here, miserable remnant, snatched from under death's teeth. Thou inspirest weariness and disgust with life, like a caterpillar in the fields, thou gloatest on the rich ear of joy, and belchest out the drivel of despair and sorrow.  But before that, let me look into thine eyes. Prechants only cowards are afraid of them, but in the brave they awaken the thirst for strife and victory. Then thou shalt be rewarded, not executed. Now, look at me, Lazarus. At first it appeared to the day of fight Augustus that a friend was looking at him. So soft, so tenderly fascinating was Lazarus's glance. It promised not horror, but sweet rest, and the infinite seemed to him a tender mistress, a compassionate sister, a mother. But stronger and stronger grew its embraces, and already the mouth greedy of hissing kisses interfered with the monarch's breathing. And already to the surface of the soft tissues of the body came the iron of the bones and tightened its merciless circle, and unknown fangs, blunt and cold, touched his heart and sank into it with slow indolence. It pains so that day of fight Augustus growing pale. But look at me, Lazarus, look. It was as though some heavy gates ever closed were slowly moving apart, and through the glowing interstice, the appalling horror of the infinite poured in slowly and steadily. Like two shadows there entered the shoreless void and the unfathomable darkness. They extinguished the sun, ravished the earth from under the feet and the roof from over the head. No more did the frozen heart ache. Look, look, Lazarus, ordered Augustus, tottering. Time stood still, and the beginning of each thing grew frightfully near to its end. Augustus' throne just erected crumbled down, and the void was already in the place of the throne and of Augustus. Noiselessly did Rome crumble down, and a new city stood on its site and it too was swallowed by the void. Like fantastic giants, cities, states, and countries fell down and vanished in the void darkness, and with uttermost indifference to the insatiable black womb of the infinite swallow them. Halt, ordered the emperor. In his voice sounded already a note of indifference. His hands dropped in languor, and in the veins struggled with the onrushing darkness, his fiery eyes now blazed up and now went out. My life, thou hast taken from me, Lazarus, said he in a spiritless, feeble voice. And these words of hopelessness saved him. He remembered his people, whose shield he was destined to be, and keen, salutary pain pierced his deadened heart. They are doomed to death, he thought, warily. Serene shadows in the darkness of the infinite thought he, and horror grew upon him. Frail vessels with living, seething blood, with a heart that knows sorrow and also great joy, said he in his heart, and tenderness pervaded it. Thus pondering and oscillating between the poles of life and death, he slowly came back to life, to find in its suffering and in its joys a shield against the darkness of the void and the horror of the infinite. No, thou hast not murdered me, Lazarus, said he firmly. But I will take thy life, be gone. That evening the day of fight Augustus partook of his meats and drinks with particular joy. Now and then his lifted hand remained suspended in the air and a dull glimmer replaced the bright sheen in his fiery eye. It was the cold wave of horror that surged at his feet, defeated but not undone, ever awaiting its hour that horror stood at the emperor's bedside like a black shadow all through his life. It swayed his nights, but yielded the days to the sorrows and joys of life. The following day the hangman with a hot iron burned out Lazarus' eyes. Then he was sent home. The day of fight Augustus dared not kill him. Lazarus returned to the desert and the wilderness met him with hissing gusts of wind and the heat of the blazing sun. Again he was sitting on a stone. His rough, bushy beard lifted up and the two black holes in place of his eyes looked at the sky with an expression of dull terror. A far off the holy city stirred noisily and restlessly but around him everything was deserted and dumb. No one approached the place where lived he who had miraculously risen from the dead and long since his neighbors had forsaken their houses. Driven by the hot iron into the depth of his skull his cursed knowledge hid there in an ambush. As though leaping out from an ambush it plunged its thousand invisible eyes into the man and no one dared look at Lazarus. And in the evening when the sun reddening and growing wider become nearer and nearer the western horizon the blind Lazarus would slowly follow it. He would stumble against stones and fall, stout and weak as he was, would rise heavily to his feet and walk on again and on the red screen of the sun's head his black body and outspread hands would form a monstrous likeness of a cross. And it came to pass that once he went out and did not come back. Thus seemingly ended the second life of him who for three days had been under the enigmatic sway of death and rose miraculously from the dead. End of Lazarus, recording by Sean Michael Hogan, St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada. Nyalakotep by HP Lovecraft. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Peter Piazza. Nyalakotep by HP Lovecraft. Nyalakotep crawling chaos. I am the last. I will tell the audience void. I do not recall distinctly when it began but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger. A danger widespread and all embracing. Such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledged to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a demoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons. The autumn heat lingered fearsomely and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown. And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was none could tell but he was of the old native blood and looked like a pharaoh. The fellow him knelt when they saw him he could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of 27 centuries and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilization came Nyarlathotep, swore they slender and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments, yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences of electricity and psychology and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep and shuddered and when Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished for the small hours while rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem. Now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale pitting moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges and old steeples crumbling against the sickly sky. I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city, the great viole of the terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him and of the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings and what was thrown on the screen in the darkened room prophesied things, none but Nyarlathotep dared prophecy and in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from them that which had never been taken before yet which should only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not. It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see Nyarlathotep through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room and shadowed on a screen. I saw hooded forms amidst ruins and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments and I saw the world battling against blackness, against the waves of destruction from ultimate space, whirling, churning, struggling around the dimming cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators and hair stood up on end while shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads and when I was colder and more scientific than the rest mumbled a trembling protest about imposture and static electricity. Nyarlathotep drove us all out down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid but I never could be afraid and others screamed with me for solace. We swore to one another that the city was exactly the same and still alive and when the electric lights began to fade we cursed the company over and over again and laughed at the queer faces we made. I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious, involuntary marching formations and seemed to know our destinations that we dare not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass with scarce a line of rusted metal to shoe where the tramways had run and again we saw a tram car, loan, window list, dilapidated and almost on its side. When we gazed around the horizon we could not find the third tower by the river and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. We then split up into narrow columns each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another file down a weed choked a subway entrance howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country and presently I felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn. For as we stalked out on the dark moor we beheld around us the hellish moan glitter of evil snows, trackless inexplicable snows swept asunder in one direction only where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plotted dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished but my power to linger was slight as if beckoned by those who had gone before I have floated between the titanic snowdrifts quivering and afraid into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable. Screamingly sentient dumbly delirious only that gods that were can tell a sickened sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands and whirled blindly past ghastly midnight's of rotten creation corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities charnel winds that brushed the pellet stars and made them flicker low. Beyond the world's vague ghosts of monstrous things have seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up the dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness and through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled maddening beating of drums and thin monotonous wine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers of time the detestable pounding and piping were on to dance slowly, awkwardly and absurdly the gigantic tenebrous ultimate gods the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep end of Nyarlathotep The Open Window by Saki This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rachel, New Jersey, Summer 2009 The Open Window by Saki My aunt will be damned presently, Mr. Nuttle said a very self-possessed young lady at 15 In the meantime you must try and put up with me Framed and Nuttle endeavored to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping a nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing I know how it will be, his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul and your nerves will be worse than ever for moping I should just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there some of them as far as I can remember were quite nice Framped and wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction came into the nice division Do you know many of the people around here? I asked the niece when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion hardly a soul, said Framed and my sister was saying here at the rectory you know, some four years ago and she gave me a letter of introduction to some of the people here he made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret then you know practically nothing about my aunt perceived the self-possessed young lady only her name and address was a comment of the caller who was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state an undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation her great tragedy happened just three years ago so the child that would be since your sister's time her tragedy asked Frampton somehow in this questful country spot tragedies seemed out of place you may wonder why we keep that window it opened on an October afternoon said the niece indicating a large French window that opened unto a long it is quite warm for the time of the year said Frampton but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy? out through that window three years ago to a day her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting they never came back and crossing the moor to their favorite snipe shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog it had been that dreadful wet summer you know and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning their bodies were never recovered that was the dreadful part of it here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day they in the little brown spaniel that was lost with them and walk in it that window just as they used to do that is why the window is kept open every evening till it's quite dark poor dear aunt she's often told me how they went out her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm and Ronnie her youngest brother singing birdie where do you bound as he always did to tease her because she said it got on her nerves do you know sometimes and still quiet evenings like this I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window she broke off the little shutter it was a relief to Frampton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late and making her appearance I hope Vera has been amusing you she said she has been very interesting said Frampton I hope you don't mind the open window said Mrs. Sappleton briskly my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting and they always come in this way they've been out for snipe in the marshes today so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets so like you men folk isn't it she rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds and the prospects for ducks in the winter to Frampton it was all purely horrible he made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn her talk into a less ghastly topic he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond it was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary the doctors agreed ordering me complete rest an absence of mental excitement and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise announced Frampton labored under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities their cause and cure on the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement he continued no said Mrs. Appleton and a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment then she suddenly brightened into alert attention but not to what Frampton was saying here they are at last she cried just in time for tea they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes Frampton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece of the look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension the child was staring out through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes and a chill shock of nameless fear Frampton swung around in his seat and looked in the same direction and the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window they all carried guns under their arms and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders a tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels noiselessly they neared the house and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk I say Bertie, why do you bound? Frampton grabbed wildly this stickin hat the hall door, the gravel drive and the front gate were dimly knitted stages in his headlong retreat the cyclists coming along the road to run into the hedge to avoid an imminent collision here we are, my dear said the bearer of the white Macintosh coming in through the window fairly muddy, but most of it's dry it was that who bolted out as we came up a most extraordinary man a Mr. Nettle, said Mrs. Sappleton could only talk about his illnesses and dashed off with that a word of goodbye or apology when you arrived one would think he had seen a ghost I expected was a spaniel, so then he's calmly he told me he had a horror of dogs he was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creature snarling and grinning and foaming just above him enough to make anyone lose their nerve romance at short notice was her specialty End of The Open Window by Saki The Other Lodgers by Ambrose Beers this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org reading by Bologna Times The Other Lodgers by Ambrose Beers in order to take that train said Colonel Lovering sitting in the Waldorf Astoria Hotel you will have to remain nearly all night in Atlanta that is a fine city but I advise you not to put up at the Brethith House one of the principal hotels it is an old wooden building an urgent need of repairs there are breaches in the walls that you could throw a cat through the bedrooms have no locks on the doors no furniture but a single chair in each and a bedstead without bedding just a mattress even these meagre accommodations you cannot be sure that you will have in monopoly you must take your chance of being stowed in with a lot of others sir it is a most abominable hotel the night that I passed in it was an uncomfortable night I got in late and was shown to my room on the ground floor by an apologetic night clerk with a tallow candle which he considerably left with me I was worn out by two days and a night of hard railway travel and had not entirely recovered from a gunshot wound in the head received in an altercation rather than look for better quarters I laid down on the mattress without removing my clothing and fell asleep a long toward morning I awoke the moon had risen and was shining in at the uncurtained window illuminating the room with a soft bluish light which seemed somehow a bit spooky though I dare say it had no uncommon quality all moonlight is that way if you will observe it imagine my surprise an indignation when I saw the floor occupied but at least a dozen of the lodges I sat up earnestly damning the management of that unthinkable hotel and was about to spring from the bed to go and make trouble for the night clerk him of the apologetic manna and the tallow candle when something in the situation affected me with a strange indisposition to move I suppose I was what a story writer might call frozen with terror for those men were obviously all dead they lay on their backs disposed orderly along three sides of the room their feet to the walls against the other wall farthest from the doll stood my bed in the chair all the faces were covered but under their white claws the features of the two bodies that lay in the square patch of moonlight near the window showed in sharp profile as to nose and chin I thought this a bad dream and tried to cry out as one does in a nightmare but couldn't make no sound at last with a desperate effort I threw my feet to the floor and passing between the two rows of clouted faces and the two bodies that lay near the door I escaped from the infernal place and ran to the office the night clerk was there behind the desk sitting in the dim light of another tallow candle just sitting and staring he did not rise my abrupt entrance produced no effect upon him though I must have looked a veritable corpse myself it occurred to me then that I had not before really observed the fellow he was a little chap with a colorless face and the whitest, blankest eyes I ever saw he had no more expression than the back of my hand his clothing was a dirty gray damn you, I said what do you mean? just the same I was shaking like a leaf in the wind and did not recognize my own voice the night clerk rose bowed apologetically and, well, he was no longer there and at that moment I felt a hand upon my shoulder from behind just fancied that if you can unspeakably frightened I turned and saw a portly con-faced gentleman who asked what is the matter, my friend? I was not long in telling him but before I made an end of it he went pale himself see here, he said are you telling the truth? I had now got myself in hand and terror had given place to indignation if you dare to doubt it I said I'll hammer the life out of you no, he replied don't do that just sit down till I tell you this is not a hotel it used to be afterward it was a hospital now it is unoccupied awaiting a tenant the room that you mentioned was a dead room there were always plenty of dead the fellow that you call the night clerk used to be that but later he booked the patients as they were brought in I don't understand his being here he has been dead a few weeks and who are you? I blurted out oh, I look after the premises I happen to be passing just now and seeing a light in here came in to investigate let us have a look into that room he added lifting the sputtering candle from the desk I'll see you at the devil first said I bolting out the door into the street sir, that breathed house in Atlanta is a beastly place don't you stop there I forbid your account of it certainly does not suggest comfort by the way, Colonel when did all that occur? in September 1860 shortly after the siege end of The Other Lodgers by Ambrose Beers The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain if you have any information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org reading by Sean Michael Hogan The Oval Portrait by Edgar Allan Poe the chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance rather than permit me in my desperately wounded condition to pass a night in the open air was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the apennines not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs Radcliffe to all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned we established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments it lay in a remote turret of the building its decorations were rich yet tattered and antique its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multi-form armorial trophies together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque in these paintings which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary in these paintings my incipient delirium perhaps caused me to take deep interest so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room since it was already night to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself while it's done that I might resign myself if not to sleep at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow in which purported to criticise and describe them long, long I read and devoutly, devoutly I gazed rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came the position of the candelabrum displeased me and outreaching my hand with difficulty rather than disturb my slumbering valet I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book but the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated the rays of the numerous candles for there were many now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed-posts I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before it was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood I glanced at the painting hurriedly and then closed my eyes and I did this was not at first apparent even to my own perception but while my lids remained thus shut I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting them it was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought to make sure that my vision had not deceived me to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze in a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting that I now saw a right I could not and would not doubt the flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses and just startled me at once into waking life the portrait I have already said was that of a young girl it was a mere head and shoulders done in what is technically termed a vignette manner much in the style of the favourite heads of Sully the arms, the bosom and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of the whole the frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed and moresque as a thing of art nothing could be more admirable in the painting itself but it could have been neither the execution of the work nor the immortal beauty of the countenance which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me least of all could it have been that my fancy shaken from its half slumber had mistaken the head for that of a living person I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design of the vignetting and of the frame must have instantly dispelled such idea must have prevented even its momentary entertainment thinking earnestly upon these points I remained for an hour perhaps half sitting, half reclining with my vision riveted upon the portrait at length satisfied with the true secret of its effect I fell back within the bed I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life likeness of expression which at first startling finally confounded, subdued and appalled me with deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabra in its former position the cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories turning to the number which designated the oval portrait I there read the vague and quaint words which follow she was a maiden of rarest beauty and not more lovely than full of glee and evil was the hour when she saw and loved and wedded the painter he, passionate, studious, austere and having already a bride in his art she a maiden of rarest beauty and not more lovely than full of glee all light and smiles and frolicsome as the young fawn loving and cherishing all things hating only the art which was her rival dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover it was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride but she was humble and obedient and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead but he the painter took glory in his work which went on from hour to hour and from day to day and he was a passionate, wild, moody man who became lost in reveries so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride who pined visibly to all but him yet she smiled on and still on uncomplainingly because she saw that the painter who had high renown took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak and in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance and low words as of a mighty marvel and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well but at length as the labour drew nearer to its conclusion there were admitted none into the turret for the painter had grown wild with the ardour of his work and turned his eyes from canvas merely even to regard the countenance of his wife and he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him and when many weeks had passed and but little remained to do save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp and then the brush was given and then the tint was placed and for one moment the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought but in the next while he yet gazed he grew tremulous and very pallid and aghast and crying with a loud voice this is indeed life itself turned suddenly to regard his beloved she was dead end of The Oval Portrait reading by Sean Michael Hogan St. John's Newfoundland, Canada Present and a Hanging by Ambrose Beers This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Today's reading by Tom Hackett djhackett.newgrounds.com and Hungry for Work at VoiceActingAlliance.com Present and a Hanging by Ambrose Beers An old man named Daniel Baker living near Lebanon, Iowa was suspected by his neighbors of having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission to pass the night at his house This was in 1853 when peddling was more common in the western country than it is now and was attended with considerable danger The peddler with his pack traversed the country by all manner of lonely roads and was compelled to rely upon the country people for hospitality This brought him into a relation with queer characters some of whom were not altogether scrupulous in their methods of making a living murder being an acceptable means to that end It occasionally occurred that a peddler with diminished pack and swollen purse would be traced to the lonely dwelling of some rough character and never could be traced beyond This was so in the case of the old man Baker as he was always called Such names are given in the western settlements only to elderly persons who are not esteemed To the general disrepute of social unworth is a fixed special approach of age A peddler came to his house and none went away That is all that anybody knew Seven years later, the Reverend Mr. Cummings a Baptist minister well known in that part of the country was driving by Baker's farm one night It was not very dark There was a bit of moon somewhere above the light veil of mist that lay along the earth Mr. Cummings, who was at all times a cheerful person, was whistling a tune which would occasionally interrupt to speak a word of friendly encouragement to his horse As he came to a little bridge across a dry ravine he saw the figure of a man standing upon it clearly outlined against the gray background of a misty forest The man had something strapped on his back and carried a heavy stick Obviously, and I did her in peddler His attitude handed in a suggestion of abstraction like that of a sleepwalker Mr. Cummings reigned in his horse when he arrived in front of him gave him a pleasant salutation and invited him to a seat in the vehicle If you are going mile away, he added The man raised his head with him full in the face but neither answered nor made any further movement The minister, with good natured persistence repeated his invitation At this, the man threw his right hand forward from his side and pointed downward as he stood on the extreme end of the bridge Mr. Cummings looked past him over under the ravine saw nothing unusual and withdrew his eyes to address the man again He had disappeared The horse, which all this time had been uncommonly restless gave at the same moment a snort of terror and started to run away Before he had regained control of the animal the minister was at the crest of the hill a hundred yards along He looked back and saw the figure again in the same place and in the same attitude as when he had first observed it Then, for the first time he was conscious of a sense of the supernatural and drove home as rapidly as his willing horse would go On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family and early the next morning accompanied by two neighbors John White Corwell and Abner Razer returned to the spot They found the body of Old Man Baker hanging by the neck from one of the beams of the bridge immediately beneath the spot where the apparition had stood A thick coating of dust slightly dampened by the mist covered the floor of the bridge but the only footprints were those of Mr. Cummings' horse In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose frail earth of the slope below it disclosing human bones already nearly uncovered by the action of water and frost They were identified as those of the lost peddler At the double inquest the coroner's jury found that Daniel Baker died by his own hand while suffering from temporary insanity and that Samuel Moritz was murdered by some person or persons to the jury unknown End of Present at a Hanging by Ambrose Beers Read by Tom Hackett djhackett.newgrounds.com and hungry for work at voiceactingaliance.com The Strange Disappearance of Mr. Jeremiah Dance by Elliot O'Donnell This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Bologna Times The Strange Disappearance of Mr. Jeremiah Dance by Elliot O'Donnell Twenty pounds a year for a twelve-roomed house with large front lawn good stabbling and big kitchen gardens That sounds all right I commented but why so cheap? Well, the advertiser Mr. Baldwin by name a short stout gentleman with keen glittering eyes replied, Well, you see it's a bit of a distance from the town and or most people prefer being near like neighbors and all that sort of thing like neighbors I exclaimed I don't I've just seen about enough of them Drain's all right Oh yes, perfect Water Excellent Everything in good condition First rate Loneliness, the only thing that people object to That is so Then I'll oblige you to send someone to show me over the house for I think it is just the sort of place we want You see, after being bottled up in a theater all the afternoon and evening one likes to get away somewhere where it is quiet somewhere where one can lie in bed in the morning inhaling pure air and undisturbed by street traffic I understand Mr. Baldwin responded but or it is rather late now Wouldn't you prefer to see it over in the morning? Everything looks at its worst It's very worst in the twilight Oh, I'll make allowances for the dusk I said You haven't got any ghost stowed away there have you? And he went off into a roar of laughter Ha ha ha ha No, the house is not haunted Mr. Baldwin replied not that it would much matter to you if it were for I can see you don't believe in spooks Believe in spooks I cried Not much I would have soon believed in patent hair restores Let me see it over at once Very well, sir I'll take you there myself Mr. Baldwin replied somewhat reluctantly Here, Tim fetch the keys of the crow's nest and tell Higgins to bring the trap round The boy he addressed flew and in a few minutes the sound of wheels and the jingling of harness announced the vehicle was at the door Ten minutes later and I and my escort were bowling merrily over the ground in the direction of the crow's nest It was early autumn and the cool evening air fragrant with the mellowness of the luscious Virginian pippin was tinged also with the sadness inseparable from the demise of a long and glorious summer Evidences of decay and death were everywhere in the brown fallen leaves of the oaks and elms in the bare and denoted ditches Here, a giant mill-wheel half immersed in a dark still-pull stood idle and silent There, a hovel but recently inhabited by hot-pickers was now tenant-less its glassless windows boarded over and a wealth of death and rotting vegetable matter and thick profusion over the tiny path and the single stone doorstep Is it always as quiet and deserted as this? I asked of my companion who continually cracked his whip as if he liked to hear the reverberations of its echoes Always was the reply and sometimes more so You ain't used to the country Not very I want to try it by way of a change Are you well versed in the cry of birds? What was that? We were fast approaching a gloomy bit of the road where there were plantations on each side and the trees united their fantastically forked branches overhead I thought I had never seen so dismal looking a spot and a sudden lowering of the temperature made me draw my overcoat tighter round me That? Oh, a knot-bird of some sort Mr. Baldwin replied Inedless and, wasn't it I can't imagine why they were created Whoa! Steady there Steady The horse reared as he spoke and taking a violent plunge forward set off at a wild gallop A moment later and I uttered an exclamation of astonishment Keeping pace with us although apparently not moving it more than an ordinary walking pace was a man of medium height dressed in a Panama hat and Albert coat He had a thin aquiline nose a rather pronounced chin was clean-shaven and had a startlingly white complexion By the side of him trotted two poodles whose close-cropped skins showed out with remarkable perspicuity Who the deuce is he? I asked, raising my voice to a shout on account of the loud clatter made by the horse's hoofs Who? What? Mr. Baldwin shouted in return Why, the man walking along with us Man, I can't see no man Mr. Baldwin growled I looked at him curiously It may, of course, have been due to the terrific speed we were going to the difficulty of holding in the horse but his cheeks were ashy pale and his teeth shattered Do you mean to say, I cried that you can see no figure walking on my side of the horse and actually keeping pace with it? Of course I can't Mr. Baldwin snapped It's an hallucination caused by the moonlight through the branches overhead I've experienced it more than once Then why don't you have it now? I queried Don't ask so many questions, please Mr. Baldwin shouted Don't you see it is as much as I can do to hold the brute in Heaven preserve us, we were nearly over that time The trap rose high in the air as he spoke and then dropped with such a jolt that I was nearly thrown off and only saved myself by the skin of my teeth A few yards more the spinny ceased and we were away out in the open country plunging and galloping as if our very souls depended on it From all sides queer and fantastic shadows of objects which certainly had no material counterparts in the moon kiss-sward of the rich ripe meadows rose to greet us and filled the lane with their black and white wavering ethereal forms. The evening was one of wonders for which I had no name. Wonders associated with an iciness that was far from agreeable I was not at all sure which I like best. The black, stiggian treeline part of the road we had just left or the wide ocean of brilliant moonbeams and street suggestions The figures of the man and the dogs were equally vivid in each. Though I could no longer doubt they were nothing mortal they were altogether unlike what I had imagined, ghosts like the generality of people who are psychic and who have never had an experience of the super-physical. My conception of a phantasm was a thing in white that made ridiculous groanings and still more ridiculous clankings of chains. But here was something different something that looked, save perhaps for the excessive pallor of its cheeks just like an ordinary man I knew it was not a man partly on account of its extraordinary performance no man, even if running at full speed, could keep up with us like that. Partly on account of the unusual nature of the atmosphere which was altogether indefinable it brought with it and also because of my own sensations my intense horror which could not, I felt certain have been generated by anything physical I cogitated all this in my mind as I gazed at the figure and in order to make sure it was no hallucination I shut first one eye and then the other made them alternately with the palm of my hand the figure, however was still there still pacing along at our side with the regular swing of the born walker we kept on in this fashion till we arrived at a rusty iron gate leading by means of a weed-covered path to a low two-story white house here the figures left us and as it seemed to me vanished at the foot of the garden wall this is the house Mr. Baldwin patted pulling up with the greatest difficulty the horse evencing obvious antipathy to the iron gate and these are the keys I'm afraid you must go in alone as I dare not leave the animal even for a minute oh, all right, I said I don't mind, now that the ghost or whatever you like to call it has gone I'm myself again I jumped down and, threading my way through the bramble entangled path, reached the front door on opening it I hesitated the big old-fashioned hall with the great frowning staircase leading to the gallery overhead the many open doors showing not but bare, deserted boards within the grim passages, all moonlit and peopled only with queer flickering shadows suggested much that was terrifying I fancied I heard noises noises like stealthy footsteps moving from room to room and tiptoeing along the passages and down the staircase once my heart almost stopped beating as I saw what, at first I took to be a white face peering at me from a far recess but which I eventually discovered was only a dob of whitewash and, once again my hair all but rose on end when one of the doors at which I was looking swung open and something came forth oh the horror of that moment as long as I live I shall never forget it the something was a cat just a rather lean but otherwise material black tom yet, in the state my nerves were then it created almost as much horror as if it had been a ghost of course it was the figure of the walking man it was the cause of all this nervousness had it not appeared to me I should doubtless have entered the house with the utmost sang froid my mind set on nothing but the condition of the walls drains, etc as it was I held back and it was only after a severe mental struggle I summoned up the courage to leave the door away and explore cautiously, very cautiously with my heart in my mouth from room to room halting every now and then in dreadful suspense as the wind sewing through across the open land behind the house blew down the chimneys and set the window frames jarring at the commencement of one of the passages I was immeasurably startled to see a dark shape poke forward and then spring hurriedly back and it was so frightened that I dared not advance to see what it was moment after moment sped by and I still stood there the cold sweat oozing out all over me and my eyes fixed in hideous expectation on the blank wall what was it, what was hiding there would it spring out on me if I went to see at last urged on by a fascination I found impossible to resist I crept down the passage my heart throbbing painfully and my whole being overcome with the most sickly anticipations as I drew nearer to the spot it was as much as I could do to breathe and my respiration came in quick jerks and gasps six, five four, two feet and I was at the dreaded angle another step taken after the most prodigious battle and nothing sprang out on me I was confronted only with a large piece of paper that had come loose from the wall and flapped backwards and forwards each time the breeze from without rustled past it the reaction after such an agony of suspense was so great that I leaned against the wall and laughed till I cried a noise from somewhere away in the basement calling me to myself I went downstairs again a shock this time more sudden more acute pressed against the window-pane of one of the front reception rooms was the face of a man with corpse-like cheeks and pale malevolent eyes I was petrified every drop of my blood was congealed my tongue glued to my mouth my arms hung helpless I stood in the doorway and stared at it this went on for what seemed to me an eternity then came a revelation the face was not that of a ghost but of Mr. Baldwin who, getting alarmed at my long absence had come to look for me we left the premises together all the way back to the town I thought, should I or should I not take the house seen as I had seen it it was a ghoulish looking place as weird as Paris catacomb but then daylight makes all the difference viewed in the sunshine it would be just like any other house plain bricks and mortar I liked the situation it was just far enough away from town to enable me to escape all the smoke and traffic and near enough to make shopping easy the only obstacles were the shadows the strange enigmaticles shadows I had seen in the hall and passages and the figure of the walker dare I take a house that knew such visitors at first I said no and then yes something I could not tell what urged me to say yes I felt that a very grave issue was at stake that of a great wrong connected in some manner with a mysterious figure awaited writing and that the hand of fate pointed at me as the one who could do it are you sure the house is not haunted I demanded as we slowly rolled away from the iron gate and I leaned back in my seat to light my pipe haunted Mr. Baldwin scoffed why I thought you did not believe in ghosts laughed at them no more I do believe in them I retorted but I have children and we know how imaginative children are I can't undertake to stop their imaginations no but you can tell me whether anyone else has imagined anything there imagination is sometimes very infectious as far as I know then no least ways I have not heard tell of it who is the last tenant Mr. Jeremiah danced why did he leave how do I know got tired of being there I suppose how long was he there nearly three years where is he now that's more than I can say why do you wish to know why I repeated because it is more satisfactory to me to hear about the house from someone who has lived in it has he left no address not that I know of and it's more than two years since he was here what the house has been empty all that time two years is not very long houses even townhouses are frequently unoccupied for longer than that I think you lack it I did not speak again till the drive was over and we drew up outside the landlord's house I then said let me have an agreement I've made up my mind to take it three years and the option to stay on that was just like me whatever I did I did on the spur of the moment a mode of procedure that often led me into difficulties a month later and my wife, children, servants and I were all ensconced in the crow's nest that was the beginning of October well the month passed by and November was fairly in before anything remarkable happened it then came about in this fashion Jenny, my eldest child a self-willed and rather bad-tempered girl of about twelve evading the vigilance of her mother who had forbidden her to go out as she had a cold ran to the gate one evening to see if I was anywhere in sight though barely five o'clock the moon was high in the sky and the shadows of the big trees had already commenced their gambles along the roadside Jenny clambered up the gate as children do and peering over suddenly aspired what she took to be me striding towards the house at a swinging pace and followed by two poodles Papa! she cried how cute of you only to think of you bringing home two doggies what will mum say? and climbing over into the lane at imminent danger to life and limb she tore frantically towards the figure to her dismay however it was not me but a stranger with a horribly white face and big glassy eyes which she turned down on her and stared she was so frightened that she fainted and some ten minutes later I found her lying out there on the road in the exception she gave me of the man and dogs I felt quite certain they were the figures I had seen though I pretended the man was a tramp and assured her she would never see him again a week passed and I was beginning to hope nothing would happen when one of the servants gave notice to leave at first she would not say why she did not like the house but when pressed made the following statement it's haunted Mrs. B I can put up with mice and beetles but not with ghosts I've had a queer sensation as if water was falling down my spine ever since I've been here but never saw anything till last night I was then in the kitchen getting ready to go to bed Jane and Emma had already gone up and I was preparing to follow them when all of a sudden I heard footsteps quick and heavy I pressed the gravel and approached the window the boss says I to myself maybe he's forgot the key and can't get in at the front door well I went to the window and was about to throw it open when I got an awful shock pressed against the glass looking in at me was a face not the boss's face not the face of anyone living but a horrid white thing with a drooping mouth that had no more expression in them than a pig as sure as I'm standing here Mrs. B it was the face of a corpse the face of a man that had died no natural death and by its side standing on their hind legs and staring in at me too were two dogs both poodles also no living things but dead horribly dead well he stared at me all three of them for perhaps a minute certainly not less and then vanished that's why I'm leaving Mrs. B my heart was never over strong I always suffered with palpitations and if I saw those heads again it would kill me after this my wife spoke to me seriously Jack she said are you sure there's nothing in it I don't think Mary would leave us without a good cause she saw tallies exactly with a figure that frightened Jenny Jenny assures me she never said a word about it to the servants they can't both have imagined it I did not know what to say my conscience pricked me without a doubt I ought to have told my wife of my own experience in the lane and have consulted her before taking the house supposing she many of the children should die of fright it would be my fault I should never forgive myself you've something on your mind what is it my wife demanded I hesitated a moment or two and then told her the next quarter of an hour was one I do not care to recollect but when it was over and she had had her say it was decided I should make inquiries and see if there was any possible way of getting rid of the ghosts with this end in view I drove to the town and after several fruitless efforts was at length introduced to a Mr. Marsden clerk of one of the banks who in reply to my questions said well Mr. B it's just this way I do know something only in a small place like this one has to be so extra careful what one says some years ago a Mr. Jeremiah dance occupied the crow's nest he came here apparently a total stranger and though often in the town was only seen in the company of one person his landlord Mr. Baldwin with whom if local gossip is to be relied on he appeared to be on terms of the greatest familiarity indeed they were seldom apart walked about the lanes arm in arm visited each other's houses on alternate evenings called each other Teddy and Leslie this state of things continued for nearly three years and then people suddenly began to comment on the fact that Mr. dance had gone or at least was no longer visible and Aaron Boy returning back to town late one evening swore to being passed on the way by a trap containing Mr. Baldwin and Mr. dance who were speaking in very loud voices just as if they were having a violent altercation on reaching that part of the road where the trees are thickest overhead the lad overtook them or rather Mr. Baldwin preparing to mount into the trap Mr. dance was nowhere to be seen and from that day to this nothing has ever been heard of him as none of his friends or relations came forward to raise inquiries and all his bills were paid several of them by Mr. Baldwin no one took the matter up Mr. Baldwin poo-pooed the Aaron Boy's story and declared that on the night in question he had been alone in an altogether different part of the county and knew nothing whatever of Mr. dance's movements further than that he had recently announced his attention of leaving the crow's nest before the expiration of the three years lease he had not the remotest idea where he was he claimed the furniture and payment of the rent due to him did the matter end there I asked in one sense of the word yes in another no within a few weeks of dance's disappearance rumors got afloat that his ghost had been seen on the road just where you may say you saw it as a matter of fact I've seen it myself and so have crowds of other people has anyone ever spoken to it yes and it has vanished at once I went there one night with the purpose of laying it but on its appearance suddenly I confess I was so startled that I had not only forgot what I rehearsed to say without uttering as much as a word and what are your deductions of the case the same as everyone else's Mr. Marston whispered only like everyone else I dare not say had Mr. Dance any dogs yes two poodles of which much to Mr. Baldwin's annoyance everyone noticed this he used to make the most ridiculous fuss I observed that settles it and to think I never believed in them before well I am going to try try what Mr. Marston said a note of alarm in his voice try laying it I have an idea I may succeed I wish you luck then may I come with you thanks no I rejoined I would rather go there alone I said this in a well-lighted room with the hum of a crowded thoroughfare in my ears twenty minutes later when I had left all that behind and was fast approaching the darkest part of an exceptionally dark road I wished I had not at the very spot where I had previously seen the figures I saw them now they suddenly appeared by my side and though I was going at a great rate for the horse took fright they kept easy pace with me twice I said to speak to them but could not ejaculate a syllable through sheer horror and it was only by nerving myself to the utmost and forcing my eyes away from them that I was able to stick to my seat and hold on to the reins on and on we dashed until trees, road, sky, universe were obliterated in one blinding whirlwind and the sails choked my ears and deadened me to everything saved the all-terrorizing instinctive knowledge that the figures by my side were still there stalking along as quietly and leisurely as if the horse had been going at a snail's pace at last to my intense relief for never had the ride seem longer I reached the crow's nest and as I hurriedly dismounted from the trap the figure shot across me and vanished once inside the house and in the bosom of my family where all was light and laughter courage returned and I upgraded myself bitterly for this cowardice I confessed to my wife and she insisted on accompanying me the following afternoon at twilight to the spot where the ghost appeared to originate to our intense dismay we had not been there three or four minutes before Dora our youngest girl a pretty sweet-tempered child of eight came running up to us with a telegram which one of the servants had asked her to give us my wife snatching it from her and reading it was about to scold her severely when she suddenly paused and clutching hold of the child with one hand pointed hysterically at something on one side of her with the other I looked and Dora looked and we both saw standing erect and staring at us the spare figure of a man with a ghastly white face and dull lifeless eyes clad in a Panama hat Albert Coat and small patent leather boots beside him were two glossy abnormally glossy poodles I tried to speak but as before was too frightened to articulate a sound and my wife was in the same plight with Dora however it was otherwise and she electrified us by going up to the figure and exclaiming who are you you must be very ill to look so white tell me your name the figure made no reply but gliding slowly forward moved up to a large isolated oak and pointing with the index finger left hand at the trunk of the tree seemingly sank into the earth and vanished from view for some seconds everyone was silent and then my wife exclaimed Jack, I shouldn't wonder if Dora hasn't been the means of solving the mystery examine the tree closely I did so the tree was hollow and inside it were three in the end of the strange disappearance of Mr. Jeremiah dance