Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself
devise in order to get free from its tribulation and
mock at its prison?
devise in order to get free from its tribulation and
mock at its prison?
Nietzsche - v11 - Thus Spake Zarathustra
158 (#244) ############################################
158 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
And believe me, friend Hollaballoo! The greatest
events—are not our noisiest, but our stillest hours.
Not around the inventors of new noise, but around
the inventors of new values, doth the world revolve;
inaudibly it revolveth.
And just own to it! Little had ever taken place
when thy noise and smoke passed away. What, if
a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in
the mud!
And this do I say also to the o'erthrowers of
statues: It is certainly the greatest folly to throw
salt into the sea, and statues into the mud.
In the mud of your contempt lay the statue: but
it is just its law, that out of contempt, its life and
living beauty grow again!
With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing
by its suffering; and verily! it will yet thank you
for o'erthrowing it, ye subverters!
This counsel, however, do I counsel to kings and
churches, and to all that is weak with age or virtue
—let yourselves be o'erthrown! That ye may again
come to life, and that virtue—may come to you ! —"
Thus spake I before the fire-dog: then did he
interrupt me sullenly, and asked : " Church? What
is that? "
"Church? " answered I, "that is a kind of state,
and indeed the most mendacious. But remain
quiet, thou dissembling dog! Thou surely knowest
thine own species best!
Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog; like
thee doth it like to speak with smoke and roaring
—to make believe, like thee, that it speaketh out
of the heart of things.
## p. 159 (#245) ############################################
XL. —GREAT EVENTS. 159
For it seeketh by all means to be the most
important creature on earth, the state; and people
think it so. "
When I had said this, the fire-dog acted as if
mad with envy. "What! " cried he, "the most
important creature on earth? And people think it
so? " And so much vapour and terrible voices
came out of his throat, that I thought he would
choke with vexation and envy.
At last he became calmer and his panting sub-
sided; as soon, however, as he was quiet, I said
laughingly:
"Thou art angry, fire-dog: so I am in the right
about thee!
And that I may also maintain the right, hear the
story of another fire-dog; he speaketh actually out
of the heart of the earth.
Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain: so
doth his heart desire. What are ashes and smoke
and hot dregs to him!
Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud;
adverse is he to thy gargling and spewing and grips
in the bowels!
The gold, however, and the laughter — these
doth he take out of the heart of the earth: for,
that thou mayst know it,—the heart of the earth is
of gold. "
When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer
endure to listen to me. Abashed did he draw in
his tail, said "bow-wow! " in a cowed voice, and
crept down into his cave. —
Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however,
hardly listened to him: so great was their eagerness
## p. 160 (#246) ############################################
60 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the
flying man.
"What am I to think of it! " said Zarathustra.
"Am I indeed a ghost?
But it may have been my shadow. Ye have
surely heard something of the Wanderer and his
Shadow?
One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a
tighter hold of it; otherwise it will spoil my
reputation. "
And once more Zarathustra shook his head and
wondered. "What am I to think of it! " said he
once more.
"Why did the ghost cry: 'It is time! It is the
highest time! '
For what is it then—the highest time ? "—
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER.
"—And I saw a great sadness come over man-
kind. The best turned weary of their works.
A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: 'All
is empty, all is alike, all hath been! '
And from all hills there re-echoed: 'All is empty,
all is alike, all hath been! '
To be sure we have harvested: but why have all
our fruits become rotten and brown? What was it
fell last night from the evil moon?
In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine
become, the evil eye hath singed yellow our fields
and hearts.
## p. 161 (#247) ############################################
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER. l6l
Arid have we all become ; and fire falling upon
us, then do we turn dust like ashes:—yea, the fire
itself have we made aweary.
All our fountains have dried up, even the sea
hath receded. All the ground trieth to gape, but
the depth will not swallow!
'Alas! where is there still a sea in which one
could be drowned? ' so soundeth our plaint—across
shallow swamps.
Verily, even for dying have we become too
weary; now do we keep awake and live on—in
sepulchres. "
Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak;
and the foreboding touched his heart and trans-
formed him. Sorrowfully did he go about and
wearily; and he became like unto those of whom
the soothsayer had spoken. —
Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while,
and there cometh the long twilight. Alas, how
shall I preserve my light through it!
That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness!
To remoter worlds shall it be a light, and also to
remotest nights!
Thus did Zarathustra go about grieved in his
heart, and for three days he did not take any
meat or drink: he had no rest, and lost his speech.
At last it came to pass that he fell into a deep sleep.
His disciples, however, sat around him in long
night-watches, and waited anxiously to see if he
would awake, and speak again, and recover from
his affliction.
And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake
L
## p. 162 (#248) ############################################
162 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
when he awoke; his voice, however, came unto his
disciples as from afar:
Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my
friends, and help me to divine its meaning!
A riddle is it still unto me, this dream; the
meaning is hidden in it and encaged, and doth not
yet fly above it on free pinions.
All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-
watchman and grave-guardian had I become,
aloft, in the lone mountain-fortress of Death.
There did I guard his coffins: full stood the
musty vaults of those trophies of victory. Out of
glass coffins did vanquished life gaze upon me.
The odour of dust-covered eternities did I
breathe: sultry and dust-covered lay my soul.
And who could have aired his soul there!
Brightness of midnight was ever around me;
lonesomeness cowered beside her; and as a third,
death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female friends.
Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I
knew how to open with them the most creaking of
all gates.
Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound
through the long corridors when the leaves of the
gate opened: ungraciously did this bird cry, un-
willingly was it awakened.
But more frightful even, and more heart-
strangling was it, when it again became silent and
still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant
silence.
Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time
there still was: what do I know thereof! But at
last there happened that which awoke me.
## p. 163 (#249) ############################################
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER. 163
Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like
thunders, thrice did the vaults resound and howl
again: then did I go to the gate.
Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the
mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who carrieth his ashes
unto the mountain?
And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate,
and exerted myself. But not a finger's-breadth
was it yet open:
Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart:
whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw unto me
a black coffin.
And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing
the coffin burst up, and spouted out a thousand
peals of laughter.
And a thousand caricatures of children, angels,
owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and
mocked, and roared at me.
Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated
me. And I cried with horror as I ne'er cried
before.
But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came
to myself. —
Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then
was silent: for as yet he knew not the interpreta-
tion thereof. But the disciple whom he loved
most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra's hand, and
said:
"Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream,
O Zarathustra!
Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill
whistling, which bursteth open the gates of the
fortress of Death?
## p. 164 (#250) ############################################
164
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued
malices and angel-caricatures of life?
Verily, like a thousand peals of children's
laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres,
laughing at those night-watchmen and grave-
guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister
keys.
With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and
prostrate them: fainting and recovering will
demonstrate thy power over them.
And when the long twilight cometh and the
mortal weariness, even then wilt thou not disappear
from our firmament, thou advocate of life!
New stars hast thou made us see, and new
nocturnal glories : verily, laughter itself hast thou
spread out over us like a many-hued canopy.
Now will children's laughter ever from coffins
flow; now will a strong wind ever come victoriously
unto all mortal weariness: of this thou art thyself
the pledge and the prophet!
Verily, they themselves didst thou dream, thine
enemies: that was thy sorest dream.
But as thou awokest from them and camest to
thyself, so shall they awaken from themselves,
and come unto thee! ”
Thus spake the disciple; and all the others then
thronged around Zarathustra, grasped him by the
hands, and tried to persuade him to leave his bed
and his sadness, and return unto them. Zara-
thustra, however, sat upright on his couch, with an
absent look. Like one returning from long foreign
sojourn did he look on his disciples, and examined
their features; but still he knew them not. When,
## p. 165 (#251) ############################################
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER.
165
however, they raised him, and set him upon his
feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye changed ;
he understood everything that had happened,
stroked his beard, and said with a strong voice :
"Well ! this hath just its time; but see to it,
my disciples, that we have a good repast, and
without delay! Thus do I mean to make amends
for bad dreams!
The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink
at my side: and verily, I will yet show him a sea
in which he can drown himself ! ”-
Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long
into the face of the disciple who had been the
dream-interpreter, and shook his head. -
XLII. -REDEMPTION.
When Zarathustra went one day over the great
bridge, then did the cripples and beggars surround
him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him:
“Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn
from thee, and acquire faith in thy teaching : but
for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is still
needful—thou must first of all convince us cripples !
Here hast thou now a fine selection, and verily, an
opportunity with more than one forelock! The
blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run; and
from him who hath too much behind, couldst thou
well, also, take away a little ;—that, I think, would
be the right method to make the cripples believe in
Zarathustra! "
Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him
## p. 166 (#252) ############################################
166 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
who so spake: When one taketh his hump from
the hunchback, then doth one take from him his
spirit—so do the people teach. And when one
giveth the blind man eyes, then doth he see too
many bad things on the earth: so that he curseth
him who healed him. He, however, who maketh
the lame man run, inflicteth upon him the greatest
injury; for hardly can he run, when his vices run
away with him—so do the people teach concerning
cripples. And why should not Zarathustra also
learn from the people, when the people learn from
Zarathustra?
It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since
I have been amongst men, to see one person lacking
an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg, and that
others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the
head.
I see and have seen worse things, and divers
things so hideous, that I should neither like to
speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about
some of them: namely, men who lack everything,
except that they have too much of one thing—men
who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big
mouth, or a big belly, or something else big,—
reversed cripples, I call such men.
And when I came out of my solitude, and for
the first time passed over this bridge, then I could
not trust mine eyes, but looked again and again,
and said at last: "That is an ear! An ear as big
as a man! " I looked still more attentively—and
actually there did move under the ear something
that was pitiably small and poor and slim. And
in truth this immense ear was perched on a small
^
## p. 167 (#253) ############################################
XLII. —REDEMPTION. 167
thin stalk—the stalk, however, was a man! A
person putting a glass to his eyes, could even
recognise further a small envious countenance, and
also that a bloated soullet dangled at the stalk.
The people told me, however, that the big ear was
not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But
I never believed in the people when they spake
of great men—and I hold to my belief that it was
a reversed cripple, who had too little of everything,
and too much of one thing.
When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the
hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback
was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn
to his disciples in profound dejection, and said:
Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as
amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings!
This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find
man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle-
and butcher-ground.
And when mine eye fleeth from the present to
the bygone, it findeth ever the same: fragments
and limbs and fearful chances—but no men!
The present and the bygone upon earth—ah! my
friends—that is my most unbearable trouble; and
I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer
of what is to come.
A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and
a bridge to the future—and alas! also as it were
a cripple on this bridge: all that is Zarathustra.
And ye also asked yourselves often: "Who is
Zarathustra to us? What shall he be called by
us? " And like me, did ye give yourselves questions
for answers,
## p. 168 (#254) ############################################
168 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror?
Or an inheritor? A harvest? Or a ploughshare?
A physician? Or a healed one?
Is he a poet? Or a genuine one? An emanci-
pator? Or a subjugator? A good one? Or an
evil one?
I walk amongst men as the fragments of the
future: that future which I contemplate.
And it is all my poetisation and aspiration, to
compose and collect into unity what is fragment
and riddle and fearful chance.
And how could I endure to be a man, if man
were not also the composer, and riddle-reader, and
redeemer of chance!
To redeem what is past, and to transform every
"It was " into " Thus would I have it! "—that only
do I call redemption!
Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer
called: thus have I taught you, my friends! But
now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a
prisoner.
Willing emancipateth: but what is that called
which still putteth the emancipator in chains?
"It was ": thus is the Will's teeth-gnashing and
lonesomest tribulation called. Impotent towards
what hath been done—it is a malicious spectator
of all that is past.
Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot
break time and time's desire—that is the Will's
lonesomest tribulation.
Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself
devise in order to get free from its tribulation and
mock at its prison?
## p. 169 (#255) ############################################
XLII. —REDEMPTION. 169
Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly
delivereth itself also the imprisoned Will.
That time doth not run backward—that is its
animosity: "That which was": so is the stone
which it cannot roll, called.
And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity
and ill-humour, and taketh revenge on whatever
doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.
Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a
torturer; and on all that is capable of suffering
it taketh revenge, because it cannot go backward.
This, yea this alone is revenge itself: the Will's
antipathy to time, and its " It was. "
Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and
it became a curse unto all humanity, that this
folly acquired spirit!
The spirit of revenge: my friends, that hath
hitherto been man's best contemplation ; and where
there was suffering, it was claimed there was always
penalty.
"Penalty," so calleth itself revenge. With a
lying word it feigneth a good conscience. .
And because in the willer himself there is suffer-
ing, because he cannot will backwards—thus was
Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be penalty!
And then did cloud after cloud roll over the
spirit, until at last madness preached : " Everything
perisheth, therefore everything deserveth to perish! "
"And this itself is justice, the law of time—that
he must devour his children :" thus did madness
preach.
"Morally are things ordered according to justice
and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from
## p. 170 (#256) ############################################
170 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
the flux of things and from the 'existence' of
penalty? " Thus did madness preach.
"Can there be deliverance when there is eternal
justice? Alas, unrellable is the stone, 'It was':
eternal must also be all penalties! " Thus did
madness preach.
"No deed can be annihilated: how could it be
undone by the penalty! This, this is what is
eternal in the 'existence' of penalty, that existence
also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!
Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and
Willing become non-Willing—:" but ye know, my
brethren, this fabulous song of madness!
Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you
when I taught you: "The Will is a creator. "
All "It was" is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful
chance—until the creating Will saith thereto: "But
thus would I have it. "—
Until the creating Will saith thereto: "But thus
do I will it! Thus shall I will it! "
But did it ever speak thus? And when doth
this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed
from its own folly?
Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-
bringer? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge
and all teeth-gnashing?
And who hath taught it reconciliation with time,
and something higher than all reconciliation?
Something higher than all reconciliation must the
Will will which is the Will to Power—: but how
doth that take place? Who hath taught it also
to will backwards?
## p. 171 (#257) ############################################
XLII. —REDEMPTION. 171
—But at this point in his discourse it chanced
that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like
a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his
eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances
pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear-
thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed,
and said soothedly:
"It is difficult to live amongst men, because
silence is so difficult—especially for a babbler. "—
Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, how-
ever, had listened to the conversation and had
covered his face during the time; but when he
heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with
curiosity, and said slowly:
"But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
us than unto his disciples? "
Zarathustra answered: "What is there to be
wondered at! With hunchbacks one may well
speak in a hunchbacked way! "
"Very good," said the hunchback; "and with
pupils one may well tell tales out of school.
But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
his pupils—than unto himself? "—
XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE.
Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible!
The declivity, where the gaze shooteth down-
wards, and the hand graspeth upwards. There
doth the heart become giddy through its double
will.
Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart's double
will?
## p. 172 (#258) ############################################
172 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
This, this is my declivity and my danger, that my
gaze shooteth towards the summit, and my hand
would fain clutch and lean—on the depth!
To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind
myself to man, because I am pulled upwards to
the Superman: for thither doth mine other will
tend.
And therefore do I live blindly among men, as
if I knew them not: that my hand may not entirely
lose belief in firmness.
I know not you men: this gloom and consolation
is often spread around me.
I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask:
Who wisheth to deceive me?
This is my first manly prudence, that I allow
myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard
against deceivers.
Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how
could man be an anchor to my ball! Too easily
would I be pulled upwards and away!
This providence is over my fate, that I have to
be without foresight.
And he who would not languish amongst men,
must learn to drink out of all glasses; and he who
would keep clean amongst men, must know how to
wash himself even with dirty water.
And thus spake I often to myself for consolation:
"Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappi-
ness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as thy—
happiness! "
This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I
am more forbearing to the vain than to the proud.
Is not wounded vanity the mother of all
## p. 173 (#259) ############################################
XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE. 173
tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded,
there there groweth up something better than
pride.
That life may be fair to behold, its game must
be well played: for that purpose, however, it
needeth good actors.
Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they
play, and wish people to be fond of beholding
them—all their spirit is in this wish.
They represent themselves, they invent them-
selves; in their neighbourhood I like to look upon
life—it cureth of melancholy.
Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because
they are the physicians of my melancholy, and
keep me attached to man as to a drama.
And further, who conceiveth the full depth of
the modesty of the vain man! I am favourable to
him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty.
From you would he learn his belief in himself;
he feedeth upon your glances, he eateth praise out
of your hands.
Your lies doth he even believe when you lie
favourably about him: for in its depths sigheth
his heart: "What am I? "
And if that be the true virtue which is uncon-
scious of itself—well, the vain man is unconscious
of his modesty ! —
This is, however, my third manly prudence: I
am not put out of conceit with the wicked by your
timorousness.
I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun
hatcheth: tigers and palms and rattle-snakes.
Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood
## p. 174 (#260) ############################################
174 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
of the warm sun, and much that is marvellous in
the wicked.
In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so
very wise, so found I also human wickedness below
the fame of it.
And oft did I ask with a shake of the head:
Why still rattle, ye rattle-snakes?
Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And
the warmest south is still undiscovered by man.
How many things are now called the worst
wickedness, which are only twelve feet broad and
three months long! Some day, however, will
greater dragons come into the world.
For that the Superman may not lack his dragon,
the superdragon that is worthy of him, there
must still much warm sun glow on moist virgin
forests!
Out of your wild cats must tigers have evolved,
and out of your poison-toads, crocodiles: for the
good hunter shall have a good hunt!
And verily, ye good and just! In you there is
much to be laughed at, and especially your fear of
what hath hitherto been called "the devil! "
So alien are ye in your souls to what is great,
that to you the Superman would be frightful in his
goodness!
And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee
from the solar-glow of the wisdom in which the
Superman joyfully batheth his nakedness!
Ye highest men who have come within my ken!
this is my doubt of you, and my secret laughter:
I suspect ye would call my Superman—a devil!
Ah, I became tired of those highest and best
## p. 175 (#261) ############################################
XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE.
175
ones : from their "height" did I long to be up,
out, and away to the Superman !
A horror came over me when I saw those best ones
naked : then there grew for me the pinions to
soar away into distant futures.
Into more distant futures, into more southern
souths than ever artist dreamed of: thither, where
Gods are ashamed of all clothes !
But disguised do I want to see you, ye neighbours
and fellowmen, and well-attired and vain and
estimable, as “the good and just;”—
And disguised will I myself sit amongst you-
that I may mistake you and myself: for that is
my last manly prudence. -
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XLIV. -THE STILLEST HOUR.
What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye
see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient,
ready to go—alas, to go away from you !
Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his
solitude: but unjoyously this time doth the bear
go back to his cave !
What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth
this ? —Ah, mine angry mistress wisheth it so; she
spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to
you ?
Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me
my stillest hour: that is the name of my terrible
mistress.
And thus did it happen-for everything must I
## p. 176 (#262) ############################################
176 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
tell you, that your heart may not harden against
the suddenly departing one!
Do ye know the terror of him who falleth
asleep ? —
To the very toes he is terrified, because the
ground giveth way under him, and the dream
beginneth.
This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday
at the stillest hour did the ground give way under
me: the dream began.
The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my
life drew breath—never did I hear such stillness
around me, so that my heart was terrified.
Then was there spoken unto me without voice:
"Thou knowest it, Zarathustra ? "—
And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the
blood left my face: but I was silent.
Then was there once more spoken unto me with-
out voice: "Thou knowest it, Zarathustra, but
thou dost not speak it! "—
And at last I answered, like one defiant: "Yea,
I know it, but I will not speak it! "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "Thou wilt not, Zarathustra? Is this true?
Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance! "—
And I wept and trembled like a child, and said:
"Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it!
Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my
power! "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "What matter about thyself, Zarathustra!
Speak thy word, and succumb! "
And I answered: "Ah, is it my word? Who
## p. 177 (#263) ############################################
XLIV. —THE STILLEST HOUR.
177
am I? I await the worthier one ; I am not worthy
even to succumb by it. ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “What matter about thyself? Thou art not
yet humble enough for me. Humility hath the
hardest skin. ”—
And I answered: “What hath not the skin of
my humility endured! At the foot of my height
do I dwell : how high are my summits, no one hath
yet told me. But well do I know my valleys. ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “O Zarathustra, he who hath to remove
mountains removeth also valleys and plains. ”—
And I answered : “As yet hath my word not
removed mountains, and what I have spoken hath
not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but
not yet have I attained unto them. ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “What knowest thou thereof! The dew
falleth on the grass when the night is most
silent. ”-
And I answered : “ They mocked me when I
found and walked in mine own path; and certainly
did my feet then tremble.
And thus did they speak unto me: Thou for-
gottest the path before, now dost thou also forget
how to walk ! ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “What matter about their mockery! Thou
art one who hast unlearned to obey: now shalt
thou command !
Knowest thou not who is most needed by all ?
He who commandeth great things.
## p. 178 (#264) ############################################
178 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
To execute great things is difficult: but the
more difficult task is to command great things.
This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou
hast the power, and thou wilt not rule. "—
And I answered: "I lack the lion's voice for
all commanding. "
Then was there again spoken unto me as a
whispering: "It is the stillest words which bring
the storm. Thoughts that come with doves' foot-
steps guide the world.
O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that
which is to come: thus wilt thou command, and
in commanding go foremost. "—
And I answered: "I am ashamed. "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "Thou must yet become a child, and be
without shame.
The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast
thou become young: but he who would become a
child must surmount even his youth. "—
And I considered a long while, and trembled.
At last, however, did I say what I had said at first:
"I will not. "
Then did a laughing take place all around me.
Alas, how that laughing lacerated my bowels and
cut into my heart!
And there was spoken unto me for the last time:
"O Zarathustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not
ripe for thy fruits!
So must thou go again into solitude: for thou
shalt yet become mellow. "—
And again was there a laughing, and it fled:
then did it become still around me, as with a
## p. 179 (#265) ############################################
XLIV. —THE STILLEST HOUR. 179
double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground,
and the sweat flowed from my limbs.
—Now have ye heard all, and why I have to
return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept
hidden from you, my friends.
But even this have ye heard from me, who is
still the most reserved of men—and will be so!
Ah, my friends! I should have something more
to say unto you! I should have something more
to give unto you! Why do I not give it? Am I
then a niggard ? —
When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these
words, the violence of his pain, and a sense of the
nearness of his departure from his friends came
over him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew
how to console him.
158 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
And believe me, friend Hollaballoo! The greatest
events—are not our noisiest, but our stillest hours.
Not around the inventors of new noise, but around
the inventors of new values, doth the world revolve;
inaudibly it revolveth.
And just own to it! Little had ever taken place
when thy noise and smoke passed away. What, if
a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in
the mud!
And this do I say also to the o'erthrowers of
statues: It is certainly the greatest folly to throw
salt into the sea, and statues into the mud.
In the mud of your contempt lay the statue: but
it is just its law, that out of contempt, its life and
living beauty grow again!
With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing
by its suffering; and verily! it will yet thank you
for o'erthrowing it, ye subverters!
This counsel, however, do I counsel to kings and
churches, and to all that is weak with age or virtue
—let yourselves be o'erthrown! That ye may again
come to life, and that virtue—may come to you ! —"
Thus spake I before the fire-dog: then did he
interrupt me sullenly, and asked : " Church? What
is that? "
"Church? " answered I, "that is a kind of state,
and indeed the most mendacious. But remain
quiet, thou dissembling dog! Thou surely knowest
thine own species best!
Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog; like
thee doth it like to speak with smoke and roaring
—to make believe, like thee, that it speaketh out
of the heart of things.
## p. 159 (#245) ############################################
XL. —GREAT EVENTS. 159
For it seeketh by all means to be the most
important creature on earth, the state; and people
think it so. "
When I had said this, the fire-dog acted as if
mad with envy. "What! " cried he, "the most
important creature on earth? And people think it
so? " And so much vapour and terrible voices
came out of his throat, that I thought he would
choke with vexation and envy.
At last he became calmer and his panting sub-
sided; as soon, however, as he was quiet, I said
laughingly:
"Thou art angry, fire-dog: so I am in the right
about thee!
And that I may also maintain the right, hear the
story of another fire-dog; he speaketh actually out
of the heart of the earth.
Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain: so
doth his heart desire. What are ashes and smoke
and hot dregs to him!
Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud;
adverse is he to thy gargling and spewing and grips
in the bowels!
The gold, however, and the laughter — these
doth he take out of the heart of the earth: for,
that thou mayst know it,—the heart of the earth is
of gold. "
When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer
endure to listen to me. Abashed did he draw in
his tail, said "bow-wow! " in a cowed voice, and
crept down into his cave. —
Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however,
hardly listened to him: so great was their eagerness
## p. 160 (#246) ############################################
60 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the
flying man.
"What am I to think of it! " said Zarathustra.
"Am I indeed a ghost?
But it may have been my shadow. Ye have
surely heard something of the Wanderer and his
Shadow?
One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a
tighter hold of it; otherwise it will spoil my
reputation. "
And once more Zarathustra shook his head and
wondered. "What am I to think of it! " said he
once more.
"Why did the ghost cry: 'It is time! It is the
highest time! '
For what is it then—the highest time ? "—
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER.
"—And I saw a great sadness come over man-
kind. The best turned weary of their works.
A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: 'All
is empty, all is alike, all hath been! '
And from all hills there re-echoed: 'All is empty,
all is alike, all hath been! '
To be sure we have harvested: but why have all
our fruits become rotten and brown? What was it
fell last night from the evil moon?
In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine
become, the evil eye hath singed yellow our fields
and hearts.
## p. 161 (#247) ############################################
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER. l6l
Arid have we all become ; and fire falling upon
us, then do we turn dust like ashes:—yea, the fire
itself have we made aweary.
All our fountains have dried up, even the sea
hath receded. All the ground trieth to gape, but
the depth will not swallow!
'Alas! where is there still a sea in which one
could be drowned? ' so soundeth our plaint—across
shallow swamps.
Verily, even for dying have we become too
weary; now do we keep awake and live on—in
sepulchres. "
Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak;
and the foreboding touched his heart and trans-
formed him. Sorrowfully did he go about and
wearily; and he became like unto those of whom
the soothsayer had spoken. —
Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while,
and there cometh the long twilight. Alas, how
shall I preserve my light through it!
That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness!
To remoter worlds shall it be a light, and also to
remotest nights!
Thus did Zarathustra go about grieved in his
heart, and for three days he did not take any
meat or drink: he had no rest, and lost his speech.
At last it came to pass that he fell into a deep sleep.
His disciples, however, sat around him in long
night-watches, and waited anxiously to see if he
would awake, and speak again, and recover from
his affliction.
And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake
L
## p. 162 (#248) ############################################
162 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
when he awoke; his voice, however, came unto his
disciples as from afar:
Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my
friends, and help me to divine its meaning!
A riddle is it still unto me, this dream; the
meaning is hidden in it and encaged, and doth not
yet fly above it on free pinions.
All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-
watchman and grave-guardian had I become,
aloft, in the lone mountain-fortress of Death.
There did I guard his coffins: full stood the
musty vaults of those trophies of victory. Out of
glass coffins did vanquished life gaze upon me.
The odour of dust-covered eternities did I
breathe: sultry and dust-covered lay my soul.
And who could have aired his soul there!
Brightness of midnight was ever around me;
lonesomeness cowered beside her; and as a third,
death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female friends.
Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I
knew how to open with them the most creaking of
all gates.
Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound
through the long corridors when the leaves of the
gate opened: ungraciously did this bird cry, un-
willingly was it awakened.
But more frightful even, and more heart-
strangling was it, when it again became silent and
still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant
silence.
Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time
there still was: what do I know thereof! But at
last there happened that which awoke me.
## p. 163 (#249) ############################################
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER. 163
Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like
thunders, thrice did the vaults resound and howl
again: then did I go to the gate.
Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the
mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who carrieth his ashes
unto the mountain?
And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate,
and exerted myself. But not a finger's-breadth
was it yet open:
Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart:
whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw unto me
a black coffin.
And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing
the coffin burst up, and spouted out a thousand
peals of laughter.
And a thousand caricatures of children, angels,
owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and
mocked, and roared at me.
Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated
me. And I cried with horror as I ne'er cried
before.
But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came
to myself. —
Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then
was silent: for as yet he knew not the interpreta-
tion thereof. But the disciple whom he loved
most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra's hand, and
said:
"Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream,
O Zarathustra!
Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill
whistling, which bursteth open the gates of the
fortress of Death?
## p. 164 (#250) ############################################
164
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued
malices and angel-caricatures of life?
Verily, like a thousand peals of children's
laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres,
laughing at those night-watchmen and grave-
guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister
keys.
With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and
prostrate them: fainting and recovering will
demonstrate thy power over them.
And when the long twilight cometh and the
mortal weariness, even then wilt thou not disappear
from our firmament, thou advocate of life!
New stars hast thou made us see, and new
nocturnal glories : verily, laughter itself hast thou
spread out over us like a many-hued canopy.
Now will children's laughter ever from coffins
flow; now will a strong wind ever come victoriously
unto all mortal weariness: of this thou art thyself
the pledge and the prophet!
Verily, they themselves didst thou dream, thine
enemies: that was thy sorest dream.
But as thou awokest from them and camest to
thyself, so shall they awaken from themselves,
and come unto thee! ”
Thus spake the disciple; and all the others then
thronged around Zarathustra, grasped him by the
hands, and tried to persuade him to leave his bed
and his sadness, and return unto them. Zara-
thustra, however, sat upright on his couch, with an
absent look. Like one returning from long foreign
sojourn did he look on his disciples, and examined
their features; but still he knew them not. When,
## p. 165 (#251) ############################################
XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER.
165
however, they raised him, and set him upon his
feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye changed ;
he understood everything that had happened,
stroked his beard, and said with a strong voice :
"Well ! this hath just its time; but see to it,
my disciples, that we have a good repast, and
without delay! Thus do I mean to make amends
for bad dreams!
The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink
at my side: and verily, I will yet show him a sea
in which he can drown himself ! ”-
Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long
into the face of the disciple who had been the
dream-interpreter, and shook his head. -
XLII. -REDEMPTION.
When Zarathustra went one day over the great
bridge, then did the cripples and beggars surround
him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him:
“Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn
from thee, and acquire faith in thy teaching : but
for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is still
needful—thou must first of all convince us cripples !
Here hast thou now a fine selection, and verily, an
opportunity with more than one forelock! The
blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run; and
from him who hath too much behind, couldst thou
well, also, take away a little ;—that, I think, would
be the right method to make the cripples believe in
Zarathustra! "
Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him
## p. 166 (#252) ############################################
166 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
who so spake: When one taketh his hump from
the hunchback, then doth one take from him his
spirit—so do the people teach. And when one
giveth the blind man eyes, then doth he see too
many bad things on the earth: so that he curseth
him who healed him. He, however, who maketh
the lame man run, inflicteth upon him the greatest
injury; for hardly can he run, when his vices run
away with him—so do the people teach concerning
cripples. And why should not Zarathustra also
learn from the people, when the people learn from
Zarathustra?
It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since
I have been amongst men, to see one person lacking
an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg, and that
others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the
head.
I see and have seen worse things, and divers
things so hideous, that I should neither like to
speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about
some of them: namely, men who lack everything,
except that they have too much of one thing—men
who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big
mouth, or a big belly, or something else big,—
reversed cripples, I call such men.
And when I came out of my solitude, and for
the first time passed over this bridge, then I could
not trust mine eyes, but looked again and again,
and said at last: "That is an ear! An ear as big
as a man! " I looked still more attentively—and
actually there did move under the ear something
that was pitiably small and poor and slim. And
in truth this immense ear was perched on a small
^
## p. 167 (#253) ############################################
XLII. —REDEMPTION. 167
thin stalk—the stalk, however, was a man! A
person putting a glass to his eyes, could even
recognise further a small envious countenance, and
also that a bloated soullet dangled at the stalk.
The people told me, however, that the big ear was
not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But
I never believed in the people when they spake
of great men—and I hold to my belief that it was
a reversed cripple, who had too little of everything,
and too much of one thing.
When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the
hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback
was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn
to his disciples in profound dejection, and said:
Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as
amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings!
This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find
man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle-
and butcher-ground.
And when mine eye fleeth from the present to
the bygone, it findeth ever the same: fragments
and limbs and fearful chances—but no men!
The present and the bygone upon earth—ah! my
friends—that is my most unbearable trouble; and
I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer
of what is to come.
A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and
a bridge to the future—and alas! also as it were
a cripple on this bridge: all that is Zarathustra.
And ye also asked yourselves often: "Who is
Zarathustra to us? What shall he be called by
us? " And like me, did ye give yourselves questions
for answers,
## p. 168 (#254) ############################################
168 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror?
Or an inheritor? A harvest? Or a ploughshare?
A physician? Or a healed one?
Is he a poet? Or a genuine one? An emanci-
pator? Or a subjugator? A good one? Or an
evil one?
I walk amongst men as the fragments of the
future: that future which I contemplate.
And it is all my poetisation and aspiration, to
compose and collect into unity what is fragment
and riddle and fearful chance.
And how could I endure to be a man, if man
were not also the composer, and riddle-reader, and
redeemer of chance!
To redeem what is past, and to transform every
"It was " into " Thus would I have it! "—that only
do I call redemption!
Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer
called: thus have I taught you, my friends! But
now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a
prisoner.
Willing emancipateth: but what is that called
which still putteth the emancipator in chains?
"It was ": thus is the Will's teeth-gnashing and
lonesomest tribulation called. Impotent towards
what hath been done—it is a malicious spectator
of all that is past.
Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot
break time and time's desire—that is the Will's
lonesomest tribulation.
Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself
devise in order to get free from its tribulation and
mock at its prison?
## p. 169 (#255) ############################################
XLII. —REDEMPTION. 169
Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly
delivereth itself also the imprisoned Will.
That time doth not run backward—that is its
animosity: "That which was": so is the stone
which it cannot roll, called.
And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity
and ill-humour, and taketh revenge on whatever
doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.
Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a
torturer; and on all that is capable of suffering
it taketh revenge, because it cannot go backward.
This, yea this alone is revenge itself: the Will's
antipathy to time, and its " It was. "
Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and
it became a curse unto all humanity, that this
folly acquired spirit!
The spirit of revenge: my friends, that hath
hitherto been man's best contemplation ; and where
there was suffering, it was claimed there was always
penalty.
"Penalty," so calleth itself revenge. With a
lying word it feigneth a good conscience. .
And because in the willer himself there is suffer-
ing, because he cannot will backwards—thus was
Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be penalty!
And then did cloud after cloud roll over the
spirit, until at last madness preached : " Everything
perisheth, therefore everything deserveth to perish! "
"And this itself is justice, the law of time—that
he must devour his children :" thus did madness
preach.
"Morally are things ordered according to justice
and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from
## p. 170 (#256) ############################################
170 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
the flux of things and from the 'existence' of
penalty? " Thus did madness preach.
"Can there be deliverance when there is eternal
justice? Alas, unrellable is the stone, 'It was':
eternal must also be all penalties! " Thus did
madness preach.
"No deed can be annihilated: how could it be
undone by the penalty! This, this is what is
eternal in the 'existence' of penalty, that existence
also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!
Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and
Willing become non-Willing—:" but ye know, my
brethren, this fabulous song of madness!
Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you
when I taught you: "The Will is a creator. "
All "It was" is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful
chance—until the creating Will saith thereto: "But
thus would I have it. "—
Until the creating Will saith thereto: "But thus
do I will it! Thus shall I will it! "
But did it ever speak thus? And when doth
this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed
from its own folly?
Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-
bringer? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge
and all teeth-gnashing?
And who hath taught it reconciliation with time,
and something higher than all reconciliation?
Something higher than all reconciliation must the
Will will which is the Will to Power—: but how
doth that take place? Who hath taught it also
to will backwards?
## p. 171 (#257) ############################################
XLII. —REDEMPTION. 171
—But at this point in his discourse it chanced
that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like
a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his
eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances
pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear-
thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed,
and said soothedly:
"It is difficult to live amongst men, because
silence is so difficult—especially for a babbler. "—
Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, how-
ever, had listened to the conversation and had
covered his face during the time; but when he
heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with
curiosity, and said slowly:
"But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
us than unto his disciples? "
Zarathustra answered: "What is there to be
wondered at! With hunchbacks one may well
speak in a hunchbacked way! "
"Very good," said the hunchback; "and with
pupils one may well tell tales out of school.
But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
his pupils—than unto himself? "—
XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE.
Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible!
The declivity, where the gaze shooteth down-
wards, and the hand graspeth upwards. There
doth the heart become giddy through its double
will.
Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart's double
will?
## p. 172 (#258) ############################################
172 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
This, this is my declivity and my danger, that my
gaze shooteth towards the summit, and my hand
would fain clutch and lean—on the depth!
To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind
myself to man, because I am pulled upwards to
the Superman: for thither doth mine other will
tend.
And therefore do I live blindly among men, as
if I knew them not: that my hand may not entirely
lose belief in firmness.
I know not you men: this gloom and consolation
is often spread around me.
I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask:
Who wisheth to deceive me?
This is my first manly prudence, that I allow
myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard
against deceivers.
Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how
could man be an anchor to my ball! Too easily
would I be pulled upwards and away!
This providence is over my fate, that I have to
be without foresight.
And he who would not languish amongst men,
must learn to drink out of all glasses; and he who
would keep clean amongst men, must know how to
wash himself even with dirty water.
And thus spake I often to myself for consolation:
"Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappi-
ness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as thy—
happiness! "
This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I
am more forbearing to the vain than to the proud.
Is not wounded vanity the mother of all
## p. 173 (#259) ############################################
XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE. 173
tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded,
there there groweth up something better than
pride.
That life may be fair to behold, its game must
be well played: for that purpose, however, it
needeth good actors.
Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they
play, and wish people to be fond of beholding
them—all their spirit is in this wish.
They represent themselves, they invent them-
selves; in their neighbourhood I like to look upon
life—it cureth of melancholy.
Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because
they are the physicians of my melancholy, and
keep me attached to man as to a drama.
And further, who conceiveth the full depth of
the modesty of the vain man! I am favourable to
him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty.
From you would he learn his belief in himself;
he feedeth upon your glances, he eateth praise out
of your hands.
Your lies doth he even believe when you lie
favourably about him: for in its depths sigheth
his heart: "What am I? "
And if that be the true virtue which is uncon-
scious of itself—well, the vain man is unconscious
of his modesty ! —
This is, however, my third manly prudence: I
am not put out of conceit with the wicked by your
timorousness.
I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun
hatcheth: tigers and palms and rattle-snakes.
Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood
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174 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
of the warm sun, and much that is marvellous in
the wicked.
In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so
very wise, so found I also human wickedness below
the fame of it.
And oft did I ask with a shake of the head:
Why still rattle, ye rattle-snakes?
Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And
the warmest south is still undiscovered by man.
How many things are now called the worst
wickedness, which are only twelve feet broad and
three months long! Some day, however, will
greater dragons come into the world.
For that the Superman may not lack his dragon,
the superdragon that is worthy of him, there
must still much warm sun glow on moist virgin
forests!
Out of your wild cats must tigers have evolved,
and out of your poison-toads, crocodiles: for the
good hunter shall have a good hunt!
And verily, ye good and just! In you there is
much to be laughed at, and especially your fear of
what hath hitherto been called "the devil! "
So alien are ye in your souls to what is great,
that to you the Superman would be frightful in his
goodness!
And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee
from the solar-glow of the wisdom in which the
Superman joyfully batheth his nakedness!
Ye highest men who have come within my ken!
this is my doubt of you, and my secret laughter:
I suspect ye would call my Superman—a devil!
Ah, I became tired of those highest and best
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XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE.
175
ones : from their "height" did I long to be up,
out, and away to the Superman !
A horror came over me when I saw those best ones
naked : then there grew for me the pinions to
soar away into distant futures.
Into more distant futures, into more southern
souths than ever artist dreamed of: thither, where
Gods are ashamed of all clothes !
But disguised do I want to see you, ye neighbours
and fellowmen, and well-attired and vain and
estimable, as “the good and just;”—
And disguised will I myself sit amongst you-
that I may mistake you and myself: for that is
my last manly prudence. -
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XLIV. -THE STILLEST HOUR.
What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye
see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient,
ready to go—alas, to go away from you !
Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his
solitude: but unjoyously this time doth the bear
go back to his cave !
What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth
this ? —Ah, mine angry mistress wisheth it so; she
spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to
you ?
Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me
my stillest hour: that is the name of my terrible
mistress.
And thus did it happen-for everything must I
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176 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
tell you, that your heart may not harden against
the suddenly departing one!
Do ye know the terror of him who falleth
asleep ? —
To the very toes he is terrified, because the
ground giveth way under him, and the dream
beginneth.
This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday
at the stillest hour did the ground give way under
me: the dream began.
The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my
life drew breath—never did I hear such stillness
around me, so that my heart was terrified.
Then was there spoken unto me without voice:
"Thou knowest it, Zarathustra ? "—
And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the
blood left my face: but I was silent.
Then was there once more spoken unto me with-
out voice: "Thou knowest it, Zarathustra, but
thou dost not speak it! "—
And at last I answered, like one defiant: "Yea,
I know it, but I will not speak it! "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "Thou wilt not, Zarathustra? Is this true?
Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance! "—
And I wept and trembled like a child, and said:
"Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it!
Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my
power! "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "What matter about thyself, Zarathustra!
Speak thy word, and succumb! "
And I answered: "Ah, is it my word? Who
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XLIV. —THE STILLEST HOUR.
177
am I? I await the worthier one ; I am not worthy
even to succumb by it. ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “What matter about thyself? Thou art not
yet humble enough for me. Humility hath the
hardest skin. ”—
And I answered: “What hath not the skin of
my humility endured! At the foot of my height
do I dwell : how high are my summits, no one hath
yet told me. But well do I know my valleys. ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “O Zarathustra, he who hath to remove
mountains removeth also valleys and plains. ”—
And I answered : “As yet hath my word not
removed mountains, and what I have spoken hath
not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but
not yet have I attained unto them. ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “What knowest thou thereof! The dew
falleth on the grass when the night is most
silent. ”-
And I answered : “ They mocked me when I
found and walked in mine own path; and certainly
did my feet then tremble.
And thus did they speak unto me: Thou for-
gottest the path before, now dost thou also forget
how to walk ! ”
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: “What matter about their mockery! Thou
art one who hast unlearned to obey: now shalt
thou command !
Knowest thou not who is most needed by all ?
He who commandeth great things.
## p. 178 (#264) ############################################
178 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
To execute great things is difficult: but the
more difficult task is to command great things.
This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou
hast the power, and thou wilt not rule. "—
And I answered: "I lack the lion's voice for
all commanding. "
Then was there again spoken unto me as a
whispering: "It is the stillest words which bring
the storm. Thoughts that come with doves' foot-
steps guide the world.
O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that
which is to come: thus wilt thou command, and
in commanding go foremost. "—
And I answered: "I am ashamed. "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "Thou must yet become a child, and be
without shame.
The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast
thou become young: but he who would become a
child must surmount even his youth. "—
And I considered a long while, and trembled.
At last, however, did I say what I had said at first:
"I will not. "
Then did a laughing take place all around me.
Alas, how that laughing lacerated my bowels and
cut into my heart!
And there was spoken unto me for the last time:
"O Zarathustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not
ripe for thy fruits!
So must thou go again into solitude: for thou
shalt yet become mellow. "—
And again was there a laughing, and it fled:
then did it become still around me, as with a
## p. 179 (#265) ############################################
XLIV. —THE STILLEST HOUR. 179
double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground,
and the sweat flowed from my limbs.
—Now have ye heard all, and why I have to
return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept
hidden from you, my friends.
But even this have ye heard from me, who is
still the most reserved of men—and will be so!
Ah, my friends! I should have something more
to say unto you! I should have something more
to give unto you! Why do I not give it? Am I
then a niggard ? —
When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these
words, the violence of his pain, and a sense of the
nearness of his departure from his friends came
over him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew
how to console him.
