The Portable Nietzsche (47 page)

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and he got up from his resting place at the tree as from a strange drunkenness; and behold, the sun still stood straight over his head. But from this one might justly conclude that Zarathustra had not slept long.

It was only late in the afternoon that Zarathustra, after much vain searching and roaming, returned to his cave again. But when he was opposite it, not twenty paces away, that which he now least expected came about: again he heard the great
cry of distress.
And—amazing!—this time it came from his own cave. But it was a long-drawn-out, manifold, strange cry, and Zarathustra could clearly discern that it was composed of many voices, though if heard from a distance it might sound like a cry from a single mouth.

Then Zarathustra leaped toward his cave, and behold, what a sight awaited him after this sound! For all the men whom he had passed by during the day were sitting there together: the king at the right and the king at the left, the old magician, the pope, the voluntary beggar, the shadow, the conscientious in spirit, the sad soothsayer, and the ass; and the ugliest man had put on a crown and adorned himself with two crimson belts, for like all who are ugly he loved to disguise himself and pretend that he was beautiful. But in the middle of this melancholy party stood Zarathustra's eagle, bristling and restless, for he had been asked too many questions for which his pride had no answer; and the wise serpent hung around his neck.

Zarathustra beheld all this with great amazement; then he examined every one of his guests with friendly curiosity, read their souls, and was amazed again. Meanwhile all those gathered had risen from their seats and were waiting respectfully for Zarathustra to speak. But Zarathustra spoke thus:

“You who despair! You who are strange! So it was
your
cry of distress that I heard? And now I also know where to find him whom I sought in vain today:
the higher man
. He sits in my own cave, the higher man. But why should I be amazed? Have I not lured him to myself with honey sacrifices and the cunning siren calls of my happiness?

“Yet it seems to me that you are poor company; you who utter cries of distress upset each other's hearts as you sit here together. First someone must come—someone to make you laugh again, a good gay clown, a dancer and wind and wildcat, some old fool. What do you think?

“Forgive me, you who despair, that I speak to you with such little words, unworthy, verily, of such guests. But you do not guess
what
makes me so prankish: it is you yourselves who do it, and the sight of you; forgive me! For everyone becomes brave when he observes one who despairs. To encourage one who despairs—for that everyone feels strong enough. Even to me you gave this strength: a good gift, my honored guests! A proper present to ensure hospitality! Well then, do not be angry if I also offer you something of what is mine.

“This is my realm and my dominion; but whatever is mine shall be yours for this evening and this night. My animals shall serve you, my cave shall be your place of rest. In my home and house nobody shall despair; in my region I protect everybody from his wild animals. And this is the first thing I offer you: security. The second thing, however, is my little finger. And once you have
that,
by all means take the whole hand; well, and my heart too! Be welcome here, welcome, my guests!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and he laughed from love and malice. After this welcome his guests bowed again and were respectfully silent; but the king at the right hand answered him in their name: “From the manner, O Zarathustra, in which you offered us hand and welcome, we recognize you as Zarathustra. You humbled yourself before us; you almost wounded our reverence. But who would know as you do, how to humble himself with such pride?
That
in itself uplifts us; it is refreshing for our eyes and hearts. Merely to see this one thing, we would gladly climb mountains higher than this one. For we came, eager to see; we wanted to behold what makes dim eyes bright. And behold, even now we are done with all our cries of distress. Even now our minds and hearts are opened up and delighted. Little is lacking, and our spirits will become sportive.

“Nothing more delightful grows on earth, O Zarathustra, than a lofty, strong will: that is the earth's most beautiful plant. A whole landscape is refreshed by one such tree. Whoever grows up high like you, O Zarathustra, I compare to the pine: long, silent, hard, alone, of the best and most resilient wood, magnificent—and in the end reaching out with strong green branches for his
own
dominion, questioning wind and weather and whatever else is at home on the heights with forceful questions, and answering yet more forcefully, a commander, triumphant: oh, who would not climb high mountains to see such plants? Your tree here, O Zarathustra, refreshes even the gloomy ones, the failures; your sight reassures and heals the heart even of the restless. And verily, toward your mountain and tree many eyes are directed today; a great longing has arisen, and many have learned to ask, ‘Who is Zarathustra?'

“And those into whose ears you have once dripped your song and your honey, all the hidden, the lonesome, the twosome, have all at once said to their hearts, ‘Does Zarathustra still live? Life is no longer worth while, all is the same, all is in vain, or—we must live with Zarathustra.'

“ ‘Why does he not come who has so long announced himself?' ask many. ‘Has solitude swallowed him up? Or are we perhaps supposed to come to him?'

“Now it happens that solitude itself grows weary and breaks, like a tomb that breaks and can no longer hold its dead. Everywhere one sees the resurrected. Now the waves are climbing and climbing around your mountain, O Zarathustra. And however high your height may be, many must come up to you: your bark shall not be stranded much longer. And that we who were despairing have now come to your cave and no longer despair—that is but a sign and symbol that those better than we are on their way to you; for this is what is on its way to you: the last remnant of God among men—that is, all the men of great longing, of great nausea, of great disgust, all who do not want to live unless they learn to hope again, unless they learn from you, O Zarathustra, the
great
hope.”

Thus spoke the king at the right, and he seized Zarathustra's hand to kiss it; but Zarathustra resisted his veneration and stepped back, startled, silent, and as if he were suddenly fleeing into remote distances. But after a little while he was back with his guests again, looking at them with bright, examining eyes, and he said: “My guests, you higher men, let me speak to you in plain and clear German. It was not for
you
that I waited in these mountains.”

(“Plain and clear German? Good God!” the king at the left said at this point, in an aside. “One can see that he does not know our dear Germans, this wise man from the East! But what he
means
is ‘coarse German'; well, these days that is not the worst of tastes.”)

“You may indeed all be higher men,” continued Zarathustra, “but for me you are not high and strong enough. For me—that means, for the inexorable in me that is silent but will not always remain silent. And if you do belong to me, it is not as my right arm. For whoever stands on sick and weak legs himself, as you do, wants
consideration
above all, whether he knows it or hides it from himself. To my arms and my legs, however, I show no consideration;
I show my warriors no consideration:
how then could you be fit for
my
war? With you I should spoil my every victory. And some among you would collapse as soon as they heard the loud roll of my drums.

“Nor are you beautiful and wellborn enough for me. I need clean, smooth mirrors for my doctrines; on your surface even my own image is distorted. Many a burden, many a reminiscence press on your shoulders; many a wicked dwarf crouches in your nooks. There is hidden mob in you too. And even though you may be high and of a higher kind, much in you is crooked and misshapen. There is no smith in the world who could hammer you right and straight for me.

“You are mere bridges: may men higher than you stride over you. You signify steps: therefore do not be angry with him who climbs over you to his height. A genuine son and perfect heir may yet grow from your seed, even for me: but that is distant. You yourselves are not those to whom my heritage and name belong.

“It is not for you that I wait in these mountains; it is not with you that I am to go down for the last time. Only as signs have you come to me, that those higher than you are even now on their way to me:
not
the men of great longing, of great nausea, of great disgust, and that which you called the remnant of God; no, no, three times no! It is for others that I wait here in these mountains, and I will not lift my feet from here without them; it is for those who are higher, stronger, more triumphant, and more cheerful, such as are built perpendicular in body and soul:
laughing lions
must come!

“O my strange guests! Have you not yet heard anything of my children? And that they are on their way to me? Speak to me of my gardens, of my blessed isles, of my new beauty—why do you not speak to me of that? This present I beseech from your love, that you speak to me of my children. For this I am rich, for this I grew poor; what did I not give, what would I not give to have one thing: these children, this living plantation, these life-trees of my will and my highest hope!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and suddenly he stopped in his speech, for a longing came over him, and he closed his eyes and mouth as his heart was moved. And all his guests too fell silent and stood still in dismay; only the old soothsayer made signs and gestures with his hands.

For it was at this point that the soothsayer interrupted the welcome, pushed forward like one who has no time to lose, seized Zarathustra's hand, and shouted: “But Zarathustra! One thing is more necessary than another: thus you say yourself. Well then, one thing is more necessary to
me
now than anything else. A word at the right time: did you not invite me to
supper?
And here are many who have come a long way. Surely, you would not feed us speeches alone? Also, all of you have thought far too much, for my taste, of freezing, drowning, suffocating, and other physical distress; but nobody has thought of
my
distress, namely, starving—”

(Thus spoke the soothsayer; but when Zarathustra's animals heard these words they ran away in fright. For they saw that whatever they had brought home during the day would not be enough to fill this one soothsayer.)

“Including dying of thirst,” continued the soothsayer. “And although I hear water splashing nearby like speeches of wisdom—that is, abundantly and tirelessly —I want
wine.
Not everybody is a born water drinker like Zarathustra. Nor is water fit for the weary and wilted:
we
deserve wine.
That
alone gives sudden convalescence and immediate health.”

On this occasion, as the soothsayer asked for wine, it happened that the king at the left, the taciturn one, got a word in too, for once. “For wine,” he said, “
we
have taken care—I together with my brother, the king at the right; we have wine enough—a whole ass-load. So nothing is lacking but bread.”

“Bread?” countered Zarathustra, and he laughed. “Bread is the one thing hermits do not have. But man does not live by bread alone, but also of the meat of good lambs, of which I have two.
These
should be slaughtered quickly and prepared tastily with sage: I love it that way. Nor is there a lack of roots and fruit, good enough even for gourmets and gourmands, nor of nuts and other riddles to be cracked. Thus we shall have a good meal in a short while. But whoever would join in the eating must also help in the preparation, even the kings. For at Zarathustra's even a king may be cook.”

This suggestion appealed to the hearts of all; only the voluntary beggar objected to meat and wine and spices. “Now listen to this glutton Zarathustra!” he said jokingly; “is that why one goes into caves and high mountain ranges, to prepare such meals? Now indeed I understand what he once taught us: ‘Praised be a little poverty!' And why he wants to abolish beggars.”

“Be of good cheer,” Zarathustra answered him, “as I am. Stick to your custom, my excellent friend, crush your grains, drink your water, praise your fare; as long as it makes you gay!

“I am a law only for my kind, I am no law for all. But whoever belongs with me must have strong bones and light feet, be eager for war and festivals, not gloomy, no dreamer, as ready for what is most difficult as for his festival, healthy and wholesome. The best belongs to my kind and to me; and when one docs not give it to us, we take it: the best food, the purest sky, the strongest thoughts, the most beautiful women.”

Thus spoke Zarathustra; but the king at the right retorted: “Strange! Has one ever heard such clever things out of the mouth of a sage? And verily, he is the strangest sage who is also clever and no ass.”

Thus spoke the king at the right, and he was amazed; but the ass commented on his speech with evil intent: Yeah-Yuh. But this was the beginning of that long-drawn-out meal which the chronicles call “the last supper.” And in the course of it, nothing else was discussed but
the higher man
.

The first time I came to men I committed the folly of hermits, the great folly: I stood in the market place. And as I spoke to all, I spoke to none. But in the evening, tightrope walkers and corpses were my companions; and I myself was almost a corpse. But with the new morning a new truth came to me: I learned to say, “Of what concern to me are market and mob and mob noise and long mob ears?”

You higher men, learn this from me: in the market place nobody believes in higher men. And if you want to speak there, very well! But the mob blinks: “We are all equal.”