No More Learning

Like the sail trembling with the violence of the
spirit, doth my wisdom cross the sea—my wild
wisdom!
But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise
ones—how could ye go with me! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXI—THE NIGHT-SONG.
'Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak
louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
'Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving
ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a
loving one.
Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within
me; it longeth to find expression. A craving for
love is within me, which speaketh itself the language
of love.
Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is
my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!
Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would
I suck at the breasts of light!
And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling
starlets and glow-worms aloft! —and would rejoice
in the gifts of your light.
But I live in mine own light, I drink again into
myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and
oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more
blessed than receiving.


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XXXI. —THE NIGHT-SONG. 125
It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth
bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes
and the brightened nights of longing.
Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the dark-
ening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh,
the violent hunger in satiety!
They take from me: but do I yet touch their
soul? There is a gap 'twixt giving and receiving;
and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.
A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should
like to injure those I illumine; I should like to
rob those I have gifted :—thus do I hunger for
wickedness.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand
already stretcheth out to it; hesitating like the
cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap:—thus
do I hunger for wickedness!
Such revenge doth mine abundance think of:
such mischief welleth out of my lonesomeness.
My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing;
my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing
his shame; to him who ever dispenseth, the hand
and heart becomes callous by very dispensing.
Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame
of suppliants; my hand hath become too hard for
the trembling of filled hands.
Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the
down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all
bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!
Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is
dark do they speak with their light—but to me
they are silent.



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124 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
rounded and inflated, and trembling with the
violence of the wind?
Like the sail trembling with the violence of the
spirit, doth my wisdom cross the sea—my wild
wisdom!
But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise
ones—how could ye go with me! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXI—THE NIGHT-SONG.
'Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak
louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
'Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving
ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a
loving one.
Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within
me; it longeth to find expression. A craving for
love is within me, which speaketh itself the language
of love.
Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is
my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!
Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would
I suck at the breasts of light!
And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling
starlets and glow-worms aloft! —and would rejoice
in the gifts of your light.
But I live in mine own light, I drink again into
myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and
oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more
blessed than receiving.


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XXXI. —THE NIGHT-SONG. 125
It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth
bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes
and the brightened nights of longing.
Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the dark-
ening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh,
the violent hunger in satiety!
They take from me: but do I yet touch their
soul? There is a gap 'twixt giving and receiving;
and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.
A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should
like to injure those I illumine; I should like to
rob those I have gifted:—thus do I hunger for
wickedness.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand
already stretcheth out to it; hesitating like the
cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap:—thus
do I hunger for wickedness!
Such revenge doth mine abundance think of:
such mischief welleth out of my lonesomeness.
My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing;
my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing
his shame; to him who ever dispenseth, the hand
and heart becomes callous by very dispensing.
Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame
of suppliants; my hand hath become too hard for
the trembling of filled hands.
Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the
down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all
bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!
Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is
dark do they speak with their light—but to me
they are silent.


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126 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one:
unpityingly doth it pursue its course.
Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart,
cold to the suns :—thus travelleth every sun.
Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses:
that is their travelling. Their inexorable will do
they follow: that is their coldness.
Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that
extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, ye
only drink milk and refreshment from the light's
udders!
Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth
with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it
panteth after your thirst!
Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And
thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!
'Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in
me as a fountain,—for speech do I long.
'Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak
louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
'Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones
awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving
one. —
Thus sang Zarathustra.
XXXII. —THE DANCE-SONG.
One evening went Zarathustra and his disciples
through the forest; and when he sought for a well,
lo, he lighted upon a green meadow peacefully
surrounded with trees and bushes, where maidens
were dancing together. As soon as the maidens


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XXXII. —THE DANCE-SONG. 127
recognised Zarathustra, they ceased dancing; Zara-
thustra, however, approached them with friendly
mein and spake these words:
Cease not your dancing, ye lovely maidens! No
game-spoiler hath come to you with evil eye, no
enemy of maidens.
God's advocate am I with the devil: he, however,
is the spirit of gravity. How could I, ye light-
footed ones, be hostile to divine dances? Or to
maidens' feet with fine ankles?
To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark
trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will
find banks full of roses under my cypresses.
And even the little God may he find, who is
dearest to maidens: beside the well lieth he quietly,
with closed eyes.
Verily, in broad daylight did he fall asleep, the
sluggard! Had he perhaps chased butterflies too
much?
Upbraid me not, ye beautiful dancers, when I
chasten the little God somewhat! He will cry,
certainly, and weep—but he is laughable even when
weeping!
And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a
dance; and I myself will sing a song to his dance:
A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity
my supremest, powerfulest devil, who is said to be
"lord of the world. "—
And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when
Cupid and the maidens danced together:
Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life! And
into the unfathomable did I there seem to sink.


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128
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle ;
derisively didst thou laugh when I called thee
unfathomable.
“Such is the language of all fish,” saidst thou ;
“what they do not fathom is unfathomable.
But changeable am I only, and wild, and alto-
gether a woman, and no virtuous one:
Though I be called by you men the 'profound
one, or the "faithful one,' the eternal one,' 'the
mysterious one. '
But ye men endow us always with your own
virtues—alas, ye virtuous ones! ”
Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but
never do I believe her and her laughter, when she
speaketh evil of herself.
And when I talked face to face with my wild
Wisdom, she said to me angrily: “Thou willest,
thou cravest, thou lovest; on that account alone
dost thou praise Life ! ”
Then had I almost answered indignantly and
told the truth to the angry one; and one cannot
answer more indignantly than when one "telleth
the truth” to one's Wisdom.
For thus do things stand with us three. In my
heart do I love only Life—and verily, most when I
hate her!
But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too
fond, is because she remindeth me very strongly
of Life!
She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden
angle-rod : am I responsible for it that both are so
alike?
And when once Life asked me: “Who is she


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XXXII. —THE DANCE-SONG. 129
then, this Wisdom ? "_then said I eagerly: “Ah,
yes! Wisdom!
One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one
looketh through veils, one graspeth through nets.
Is she beautiful ? What do I know! But the
oldest carps are still lured by her.
Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I
seen her bite her lip, and pass the comb against the
grain of her hair.
Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a
woman; but when she speaketh ill of herself, just
then doth she seduce most. ”
When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she
maliciously, and shut her eyes. “Of whom dost
thou speak? " said she. “Perhaps of me?
And if thou wert right-is it proper to say that
in such wise to my face! But now, pray, speak
also of thy Wisdom ! ”
Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine
eyes, O beloved Life! And into the unfathomable
have I again seemed to sink. -
Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was
over and the maidens had departed, he became sad.
“The sun hath been long set,” said he at last,
“the meadow is damp, and from the forest cometh
coolness.
An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth
thoughtfully. What! Thou livest still, Zarathustra ?
Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where?
How? Is it not folly still to live ?
Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus
interrogateth in me. Forgive me my sadness!


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I30 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Evening hath come on: forgive me that evening
hath come on! "
Thus sang Zarathustra.
XXXIII. —THE GRAVE-SONG.
"Yonder is the grave-island, the silent isle;
yonder also are the graves of my youth. Thither
will I carry an evergreen wreath of life. "
Resolving thus in any heart, did I sail o'er the
sea. —
Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all
ye gleams of love, ye divine fleeting gleams! How
could ye perish so soon for me! I think of you
to-day as my dead ones.
From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto
me a sweet savour, heart-opening and melting.
Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart of the
lone seafarer.
Still am I the richest and most to be envied—I,
the lonesomest one! For I have possessed you, and
ye possess me still. Tell me: to whom hath there
ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have
fallen unto me?
Still am I your love's heir and heritage, bloom-
ing to your memory of many-hued, wild-growing
virtues, O ye dearest ones!
Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each
other, ye kindly strange marvels; and not like
timid birds did ye come to me and my longing—
nay, but as trusting ones to a trusting one!
Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond


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XXXIII. -THE GRAVE-SONG.
131
eternities, must I now name you by your faithless-
ness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams: no other
name have I yet learnt.
Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives.
Yet did ye not flee from me, nor did I flee from
you: innocent are we to each other in our faithless-
ness.
To kill me, did they strangle you, ye singing
birds of my hopes! Yea, at you, ye dearest ones,
did malice ever shoot its arrows—to hit my heart !
And they hit it! Because ye were always my
dearest, my possession and my possessedness: on
that account had ye to die young, and far too
early!
At my most vulnerable point did they shoot the
arrow-namely, at you, whose skin is like down-
or more like the smile that dieth at a glance !
But this word will I say unto mine enemies :
What is all manslaughter in comparison with what
ye have done unto me!
Worse evil did ye do unto me than all man-
slaughter; the irretrievable did ye take from me:-
thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies !
Slew ye not my youth's visions and dearest
marvels!
My playmates took ye from me, the
blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit
this wreath and this curse.
This curse upon you, mine enemies ! Have ye
not made mine eternal short, as a tone dieth away
in a cold night! Scarcely, as the twinkle of divine
eyes, did it come to me—as a fleeting gleam!
Thus spake once in a happy hour my purity :
“ Divine shall everything be unto me. "


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132
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Then did ye haunt me with foul phantoms; ah,
whither hath that happy hour now iled!
“All days shall be holy unto me”_s0 spake
once the wisdom of my youth : verily, the language
of a joyous wisdom !
But then did ye enemies steal my nights, and
sold them to sleepless torture: ah, whither hath that
joyous wisdom now fled ?
Once did I long for happy auspices: then did
ye lead an owl-monster across my path, an adverse
sign. Ah, whither did my tender longing then flee?
All loathing did I once vow to renounce: then
did ye change my nigh ones and nearest ones into
ulcerations. Ah, whither did my noblest vow then
flee?
As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways:
then did ye cast filth on the blind one's course: and
now is he disgusted with the old footpath.
And when I performed my hardest task, and
celebrated the triumph of my victories, then did
ye make those who loved me call out that I then
grieved them most.
Verily, it was always your doing: ye embittered
to me my best honey, and the diligence of my best
bees.
To my charity have ye ever sent the most im-
pudent beggars; around my sympathy have ye
ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus have
ye wounded the faith of my virtue.
And when I offered my holiest as a sacrifice,
immediately did your "piety” put its fatter gifts
beside it: so that my holiest suffocated in the
fumes of your fat.


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XXXIII. —THE GRAVE-SONG. 133
And once did I want to dance as I had never
yet danced: beyond all heavens did I want to
dance. Then did ye seduce my favourite minstrel.
And now hath he struck up an awful, melancholy
air; alas, he tooted as a mournful horn to mine
ear!
Murderous minstrel, instrument of evil, most
innocent instrument! Already did I stand pre-
pared for the best dance: then didst thou slay my
rapture with thy tones!
Only in the dance do I know how to speak the
parable of the highest things:—and now hath my
grandest parable remained unspoken in my limbs!
Unspoken and unrealised hath my highest hope
remained! And there have perished for me all the
visions and consolations of my youth!
How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and
surmount such wounds? How did my soul rise
again out of those sepulchres?
Yea, something invulnerable, unburiable is with
me, something that would rend rocks asunder: it
is called my Will. Silently doth it proceed, and
unchanged throughout the years.
Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will;
hard of heart is its nature and invulnerable.
Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever livest
thou there, and art like thyself, thou most patient
one! Ever hast thou burst all shackles of the
tomb!
In thee still liveth also the unrealisedness of
my youth; and as life and youth sittest thou here
hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves.
Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all


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134 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
graves: Hail to thee, my Will! And only where
there are graves are there resurrections. —
Thus sang Zarathustra.
XXXIV. —SELF-SURPASSING.
"Will to Truth" do ye call it, ye wisest ones, that
which impelleth you and maketh you ardent?
Will for the thinkableness of all being: thus do
/ call your will!
All being would ye make thinkable: for ye
doubt with good reason whether it be already
thinkable.
But it shall accommodate and bend itself to you!
So willeth your will. Smooth shall it become and
subject to the spirit, as its mirror and reflection.
That is your entire will, ye wisest ones, as a
Will to Power; and even when ye speak of good
and evil, and of estimates of value.
Ye would still create a world before which ye can
bow the knee: such is your ultimate hope and
ecstasy.
The ignorant, to be sure, the people—they are
like a river on which a boat floateth along: and in
the boat sit the estimates of value, solemn and
disguised.
Your will and your valuations have ye put on the
river of becoming; it betrayeth unto me an old Will
to Power, what is believed by the people as good
and evil.
It was ye, ye wisest ones, who put such guests in


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XXXIV. —SELF-SURPASSING. 135
this boat, and gave them pomp and proud names—
ye and your ruling Will!
Onward the river now carrieth your boat: it
must carry it. A small matter if the rough wave
foameth and angrily resisteth its keel!
It is not the river that is your danger and the
end of your good and evil, ye wisest ones: but that
Will itself, the Will to Power—the unexhausted,
procreating life-will.
But that ye may understand my gospel of good
and evil, for that purpose will I tell you my gospel
of life, and of the nature of all living things.
The living thing did I follow; I walked in the
broadest and narrowest paths to learn its nature.
With a hundred-faced mirror did I catch its
glance when its mouth was shut, so that its eye
might speak unto me. And its eye spake unto
me.
But wherever I found living things, there heard
I also the language of obedience. All living things
are obeying things.
And this heard I secondly: Whatever cannot
obey itself, is commanded. Such is the nature of
living things.
This, however, is the third thing which I heard—
namely, that commanding is more difficult than
obeying. And not only because the commander
beareth the burden of all obeyers, and because this
burden readily crusheth him:—
An attempt and a risk seemed all commanding
unto me; and whenever it commandeth, the living
thing risketh itself thereby.
Yea, even when it commandeth itself, then also


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136 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
must it atone for its commanding. Of its own law
must it become the judge and avenger and victim.
How doth this happen! so did I ask myself.
What persuadeth the living thing to obey, and
command, and even be obedient in commanding?
Hearken now unto my word, ye wisest ones!
Test it seriously, whether I have crept into the
heart of life itself, and into the roots of its heart!
Wherever I found a living thing, there found I
Will to Power; and even in the will of the servant
found I the will to be master.
That to the stronger the weaker shall serve—
thereto persuadeth he his will who would be master
over a still weaker one. That delight alone he is
unwilling to forego.
And as the lesser surrendereth himself to the
greater that he may have delight and power over
the least of all, so doth even the greatest surrender
himself, and staketh—life, for the sake of power.
It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and
danger, and play dice for death.
And where there is sacrifice and service and
love-glances, there also is the will to be master.
By by-ways doth the weaker then slink into the
fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one—
and there stealeth power.
And this secret spake Life herself unto me.
"Behold," said she, "I am that which must ever
surpass itself.
To be sure, ye call it will to procreation, or
impulse towards a goal, towards the higher, remoter,
more manifold: but all that is one and the same
secret.


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XXXIV. —SELF-SURPASSING.
137
Rather would I succumb than disown this one
thing; and verily, where there is succumbing and
leaf-falling, lo, there doth Life sacrifice itself—for
power!
That I have to be struggle, and becoming, and
purpose, and cross-purpose—ah, he who divineth
my will, divineth well also on what crooked paths
it hath to tread !
Whatever I create, and however much I love
it,-soon must I be adverse to it, and to my love:
so willeth my will.
And even thou, discerning one, art only a path
and footstep of my will: verily, my Will to Power
walketh even on the feet of thy Will to Truth!
He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at
it the formula: ‘Will to existence': that will
doth not exist !
For what is not, cannot will; that, however,
which is in existence-how could it still strive for
existence!
Only where there is life, is there also will : not,
however, Will to Life, but--so teach I thee-Will
to Power!
Much is reckoned higher than life itself by
the living one; but out of the very reckoning
speaketh-the Will to Power ! ”—
Thus did Life once teach me : and thereby, ye
wisest ones, do I solve you the riddle of your
hearts.
Verily, I say unto you: good and evil which
would be everlasting-it doth not exist! Of its
own accord must it ever surpass itself anew.
With your values and formulæ of good and evil,


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138
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
ye exercise power, ye valuing ones: and that is
your secret love, and the sparkling, trembling, and
overflowing of your souls.
But a stronger power groweth out of your values,
and a new surpassing: by it breaketh egg and
egg-shell.
And he who hath to be a creator in good and
evil-verily, he hath first to be a destroyer, and
break values in pieces.
Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest
good : that, however, is the creating good. -
Let us speak thereof, ye wisest ones, even though
it be bad. To be silent is worse ; all suppressed
truths become poisonous.
And let everything break up which can break
up by our truths! Many a house is still to be
built ! -
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXV. —THE SUBLIME ONES.
Calm is the bottom of my sea : who would guess
that it hideth droll monsters!
Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with
swimming enigmas and laughters.
A sublime one saw I to-day, a solemn one, a
penitent of the spirit: Oh, how my soul laughed
at his ugliness!
With upraised breast, and like those who draw
in their breath: thus did he stand, the sublime
one, and in silence :


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XXXV. —THE SUBLIME ONES. 139
O'erhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his
hunting, and rich in torn raiment; many thorns
also hung on him—but I saw no rose.
Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty.
Gloomy did this hunter return from the forest of
knowledge.
From the fight with wild beasts returned he
home: but even yet a wild beast gazeth out of his
seriousness—an unconquered wild beast!
As a tiger doth he ever stand, on the point of
springing; but I do not like those strained souls;
ungracious is my taste towards all those self-
engrossed ones.
And ye tell me, friends, that there is to be no
dispute about taste and tasting? But all life is a
dispute about taste and tasting!
Taste: that is weight at the same time, and
scales and weigher; and alas for every living
thing that would live without dispute about weight
and scales and weigher!
Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this
sublime one, then only will his beauty begin—
and then only will I taste him and find him
savoury.
And only when he turneth away from himself
will he o'erleap his own shadow—and verily! into
his sun.
Far too long did he sit in the shade, the cheeks
of the penitent of the spirit became pale; he almost
starved on his expectations.
Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hideth
in his mouth. To be sure, he now resteth, but he
hath not yet taken rest in the sunshine.


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140 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
As the ox ought he to do; and his happiness
should smell of the earth, and not of contempt for
the earth.
As a white ox would I like to see him, which,
snorting and lowing, walketh before the plough-
share: and his lowing should also laud all that is
earthly!
Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his
hand danceth upon it. O'ershadowed is still the
sense of his eye.
His deed itself is still the shadow upon him:
his doing obscureth the doer. Not yet hath he
overcome his deed.
To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the
ox: but now do I want to see also the eye of the
angel.
Also his hero-will hath he still to unlearn: an
exalted one shall he be, and not only a sublime
one :—the ether itself should raise him, the willess
one! x
He hath subdued monsters, he hath solved
enigmas. But he should also redeem his monsters
and enigmas; into heavenly children should he
transform them.
As yet hath his knowledge not learned to smile,
and to be without jealousy; as yet hath his gushing
passion not become calm in beauty.
Verily, not in satiety shall his longing cease and
disappear, but in beauty! Gracefulness belongeth
to the munificence of the magnanimous.
His arm across his head: thus should the hero
repose; thus should he also surmount his repose.
But precisely to the hero is beauty the hardest


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XXXV. —THE SUBLIME ONES. 141
thing of all. Unattainable is beauty by all ardent
wills.
A little more, a little less: precisely this is much
here, it is the most here.
To stand with relaxed muscles and with un-
harnessed will: that is the hardest for all of you,
ye sublime ones!
When power becometh gracious and descendeth
into the visible—I call such condescension, beauty.
And from no one do I want beauty so much as
from thee, thou powerful one: let thy goodness be
thy last self-conquest.
All evil do I accredit to thee: therefore do I
desire of thee the good.
Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings,
who think themselves good because they have
crippled paws!
The virtue of the pillar shalt thou strive after:
more beautiful doth it ever become, and more
graceful—but internally harder and more sustain-
ing—the higher it riseth.
Yea, thou sublime one, one day shalt thou also
be beautiful, and hold up the mirror to thine own
beauty.
Then will thy soul thrill with divine desires; and
there will be adoration even in thy vanity!
For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero
hath abandoned it, then only approacheth it in
dreams—the superhero. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.


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142
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
XXXVI. —THE LAND OF CULTURE.
Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized
upon me.
And when I looked around me, lo! there time
was my sole contemporary.
Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and
always faster. Thus did I come unto you, ye
present-day men, and into the land of culture.
For the first time brought I an eye to see you,
and good desire: verily, with longing in my heart
did I come.
But how did it turn out with me? Although so
alarmed—I had yet to laugh! Never did mine eye
see anything so motley-coloured !
I laughed and laughed, while my foot still
trembled, and my heart as well. “Here, forsooth,
is the home of all the paintpots,”—said I.
With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs-
so sat ye there to mine astonishment, ye present-
day men !
And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered
your play of colours, and repeated it!
Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-
day men, than your own faces! Who could-
recognise you!
Written all over with the characters of the past,
and these characters also pencilled over with new
characters—thus have ye concealed yourselves well
from all decipherers !
And though one be a trier of the reins, who still
believeth that ye have reins! Out of colours ye
seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps.


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XXXVI. —THE LAND OF CULTURE. I43
All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out
of your veils; all customs and beliefs speak divers-
coloured out of your gestures.
He who would strip you of veils and wrappers,
and paints and gestures, would just have enough
left to scare the crows.