Thus Spoke Zarathustra (38 page)

‘Even a prison at last seems bliss to such restless people as you. Have you ever seen how captured criminals sleep? They sleep peacefully, they enjoy their new security.

‘Take care that you are not at last captured by a narrow belief, a hard, stern illusion! For henceforth everything that is narrow and firm will entice and tempt you.

‘You have lost your goal: alas, how will you get over and laugh away that loss? By losing your goal – you have lost your way, too!

‘You poor traveller, wanderer, you weary butterfly! Would you this evening have a resting place and homestead? So go up to my cave!

‘Yonder leads the way to my cave. And now I will run quickly away from you again. Already it is as if a shadow were lying upon me.

‘I will run alone, so that it may again grow bright around me. For that I still have to be a long time merrily on my legs. In the evening, however, we shall – dance!’

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

At Noontide

A
ND
Zarathustra ran and ran and found no one else and was alone and found himself again and again and enjoyed and relished his solitude and thought of good things, for hours on end. About the hour of noon, however, when the sun stood
exactly over Zarathustra’s head, he passed by an old gnarled and crooked tree which was embraced around by the abundant love of a vine and hidden from itself: from the vine an abundance of yellow grapes hung down to the wanderer. Then he felt a desire to relieve a little thirst and to pluck himself a grape; but when he had already extended his arm to do so, he felt an even greater desire to do something else: that is, to lie down beside the tree at the hour of perfect noon and sleep.

This Zarathustra did; and no sooner had he lain down upon the ground, in the stillness and secrecy of the multicoloured grass, than he forgot his little thirst and fell asleep. For, as Zarathustra’s saying has it: One thing is more necessary than another. Only his eyes remained open – for they were not wearied of seeing and admiring the tree and the love of the vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra spoke thus to his heart:

Soft! Soft! Has the world not just become perfect? What has happened to me?

As a delicate breeze, unseen, dances upon the smooth sea, light, light as a feather: thus – does sleep dance upon me.

My eyes it does not close, my soul it leaves awake. It is light, truly I light as a feather.

It persuades me, I know not how; it inwardly touches me with a caressing hand, it compels me. Yes, it compels me, so that my soul stretches itself out:

how lengthy and weary my soul has grown, my strange soul! Has a seventh day’s evening come to it just at noontide? Has it wandered too long, blissfully, among good and ripe things?

It stretches itself out, long, long – longer! it lies still, my strange soul. It has tasted too many good things, this golden sadness oppresses it, it makes a wry mouth.

Like a ship that has entered its stillest bay – now it leans against the earth, weary of long voyages and uncertain seas. Is the earth not more faithful?

As such a ship lies against the shore, nestles against the
shore – there it suffices for a spider to spin its thread out to it from the land. No stronger ropes are needed.

As such a weary ship rests in the stillest bay: thus do I now rest dose to the earth, faithful, trusting, waiting, fastened to it by the finest threads.

Oh happiness! Oh happiness! Would you sing, O my soul? You lie in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour when no shepherd plays his flute.

Take care! Hot noontide sleeps upon the fields. Do not sing! Soft! The world is perfect.

Do not sing, you grass bird, O my soul! Do not even whisper! Just see – soft! old noontide sleeps, it moves its mouth: has it not just drunk a drop of happiness

– an ancient brown drop of golden happiness, of golden wine? Something glides across it, its happiness laughs. Thus – does a god laugh. Soft!

‘Happiness; how little attains happiness!’ Thus I spoke once and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy: I have learned
that
now. Wise fools speak better.

Precisely the least thing, the gentlest, lightest, the rustling of a lizard, a breath, a moment, a twinkling of the eye –
little
makes up the quality of the
best
happiness. Soft!

What has happened to me? Listen! Has time flown away? Do I not fall? Have I not fallen – listen! into the well of eternity?

What is happening to me? Still! Is it stinging me – alas – in the heart? In the heart! oh break, break, heart, after such happiness, after such stinging!

What? Has the world not just become perfect? Round and ripe? Oh, golden round ring
⁴⁷
– whither does it fly? Away, after it! Away!

Soft – (and at this point Zarathustra stretched himself and felt that he was asleep).

Up! (he said to himself) up, sleeper! You noontide sleeper! Very well, come on, old legs I It is time and past time, you have still a good way to go.

You have slept your fill, how long? Half an eternity! Very well, come on, my old heart! For how long after such a sleep may you – wake your fill?

(But then he fell asleep again, and his soul contradicted him and resisted and again lay down.) ‘Let me alone! Soft! Has the world not just become perfect? Oh perfect as a round golden ball!’

Get up (said Zarathustra), you little thief, you lazybones!
⁴⁸
What! Still stretching, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells?

But who are you then, O my soul? (And at this point he started, for a ray of sunlight had glanced down from the sky on to his face.)

O sky above me (he said, sighing, and sat upright), are you watching me? Are you listening to my strange soul?

When will you drink this drop of dew that has fallen upon all earthly things – when will you drink this strange soul

– when, well of eternity! serene and terrible noontide abyss! when will you drink my soul back into yourself?

Thus spoke Zarathustra and raised himself from his bed beside the tree as from a strange intoxication: and behold, the sun was still standing straight above his head. One might rightly gather from that, however, that Zarathustra had not been sleeping for long.

The Greeting

I
T
was only in the late afternoon that Zarathustra, after long, vain searching and roaming about, returned home to his cave. But when he was opposite it, not twenty paces away, then occurred that which he now least expected: he heard again the great
cry of distress
. And astonishing thing! this time it came from his own cave. It was a protracted, manifold, strange cry, however, and Zarathustra clearly distinguished that it was composed of many voices: although, heard from a distance, it might sound like a cry from a single throat.

Thereupon, Zarathustra sprang towards his cave, and behold! what a spectacle awaited him after that concert! For all those whom he had passed by that day were seated together: the king on the right and the king on the left, the old sorcerer,
the pope, the voluntary beggar, the shadow, the conscientious man of the spirit, the sorrowful prophet, and the ass; the ugliest man, however, had placed a crown upon his head and slung two purple sashes around him, for, like all the ugly, he loved to disguise and embellish himself. But in the midst of this melancholy company stood Zarathustra’s eagle, agitated and with feathers ruffled, for he had been expected to answer too much for which his pride had no answer; the wise serpent, however, hung about its neck.

Zarathustra beheld all this with great amazement; then, however, he examined each of his guests with gentle curiosity, read what was in their souls, and was amazed anew. In the meantime the assembled guests had risen from their seats and were respectfully waiting for Zarathustra to speak. Zarathustra, however, spoke thus:

You despairing men! You strange men! So was it
your
cry of distress I heard? And now I know, too, where to seek him whom I sought today in vain:
the Higher Man

– he sits in my own cave, the Higher Man! But why am I surprised! Have I myself not enticed him to me with honey offerings and cunning bird-calls of my happiness?

But it seems to me you are ill adapted for company, you disturb one another’s hearts, you criers of distress, when you sit here together? First of all someone else must come,

someone to make you laugh again, a good, cheerful Jack Pudding, a dancer and breeze and madcap, some old fool or other: – what do you think?

But forgive me, you despairing men, that I speak before you such petty words, truly unworthy of such guests I But you do not guess
what
makes my heart wanton:

you yourselves do it, and the sight of you, forgive me for it! For anyone beholding a man in despair grows brave. To encourage a despairing man – anyone thinks himself strong enough for that.

To me have you given this strength – a goodly guest-gift, my exalted guests! Very well, do not be angry with me if I offer you something of mine.

This is my kingdom and my domain: but what is mine shall be yours for this evening and this night. My animals shall serve you: let my cave be your resting place!

No one shall despair at my hearth and home, I protect everyone from his wild animals in my preserve. And that is the first thing I offer you: security!

The second, however, is: my little finger. And when you have that, take the whole hand, very well! and the heart in addition! Welcome to this place, welcome, my guests!

Thus spoke Zarathustra and laughed with love and mischievousness. After this greeting, his guests bowed themselves again and held a respectful silence; the king on the right, however, replied to him in their name.

By the manner in which you have offered us hand and greeting, O Zarathustra, do we recognize you as Zarathustra. You have humbled yourself before us; you have almost injured our respect:

but who could have humbled himself with such pride as you?
That
uplifts us ourselves, it is a refreshment to our eyes and hearts.

Just to see this would we climb higher mountains than this mountain. For we have come as sightseers, we wanted to see what makes sad eyes bright.

And behold, already all our distressful crying is over. Already our hearts and minds are opened and delighted. Little is needed for our hearts to grow wanton.

Nothing more gladdening grows on earth, O Zarathustra, than an exalted, robust will: it is the earth’s fairest growth. A whole landscape is refreshed by one such tree.

To the pine-tree, O Zarathustra, do I compare him who grows up like you: tall, silent, hard, alone, of the finest, supplest wood, magnificent

– at last, however, reaching out with strong, green branches for
its
domain, asking bold questions of the winds and storms and whatever is at home in the heights, replying more boldly, a commander, a victor: oh who would not climb high mountains to behold such trees?

The gloomy man, too, and the ill-constituted, refresh themselves at your tree, O Zarathustra; at your glance even the restless man grows secure and heals his heart.

And truly, many eyes today are raised to your mountain and your tree; a great longing has arisen, and many have learned to ask: Who is Zarathustra?

And he into whose ear you have ever poured your song and your honey: all the hidden men, the hermits and hermit-couples, say all at once to their hearts:

‘Does Zarathustra still live? There is no longer any point in living, it is all one, everything is in vain: except we live with Zarathustra!’

‘Why does he not come, he who has proclaimed himself so long?’ thus many ask. ‘Has solitude devoured him? Or should we perhaps go to him?’

Now solitude itself yields and breaks apart and can no longer contain its dead. The resurrected are to be seen everywhere.

Now the waves rise and rise around your mountain, O Zarathustra. And however high your height may be, many must reach up to you: your boat shall not sit in die dry for much longer.

And that we despairing men have now come into your cave and are already no longer despairing: that is only a sign and omen that better men are on their way to you;

for this itself is on its way to you, the last remnant of God among men, that is: all men possessed by great longing, great disgust, great satiety,

all who do not want to live except they learn to
hope
again – except they learn from you, O Zarathustra, the
great
hope!

Thus spoke the king on the right and grasped Zarathustra’s hand to kiss it; but Zarathustra resisted his adoration and stepped back startled, silently and abruptly, as if escaping into the far distance. But after a short while he was again with his guests, regarded them with clear, questioning eyes, and said:

My guests, you Higher Men, I will speak clearly and in
plain German to you.
⁴⁹
It is not for
you
that I have been waiting in these mountains.

(‘Clearly and in plain German? God help us!’ said the king on the left to himself at this point; ‘it is clear he does not know the good Germans, this wise man from the East!

‘But he means “uncouthly and in German” – very well! Nowadays that is not in quite the worst taste!’)

Truly, you may all be Higher Men (Zarathustra went on): but for me – you are not high and strong enough.

For me, that is to say: for the inexorable that is silent within me but will not always be silent. And if you belong to me, it is not as my right arm.

For he who himself stands on sick and tender legs, as you do, wants above all, whether he knows it or conceals it from himself: to be
spared
.

My arms and my legs, however, I do not spare, I do not spare
my warriors
: how, then, could you be fit for
my
warfare?

With you I should still spoil every victory. And some of you would give in simply on hearing the loud beating of my drums.