Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None - 16

Loathing! Loathing! What doth it now matter about us kings!”—
“Thine old sickness seizeth thee,” said here the king on the left, “thy
loathing seizeth thee, my poor brother. Thou knowest, however, that some
one heareth us.”
Immediately thereupon, Zarathustra, who had opened ears and eyes to this
talk, rose from his hiding-place, advanced towards the kings, and thus
began:
“He who hearkeneth unto you, he who gladly hearkeneth unto you, is
called Zarathustra.
I am Zarathustra who once said: ‘What doth it now matter about kings!’
Forgive me; I rejoiced when ye said to each other: ‘What doth it matter
about us kings!’
Here, however, is MY domain and jurisdiction: what may ye be seeking in
my domain? Perhaps, however, ye have FOUND on your way what _I_ seek:
namely, the higher man.”
When the kings heard this, they beat upon their breasts and said with
one voice: “We are recognised!
With the sword of thine utterance severest thou the thickest darkness of
our hearts. Thou hast discovered our distress; for lo! we are on our way
to find the higher man—
—The man that is higher than we, although we are kings. To him do we
convey this ass. For the highest man shall also be the highest lord on
earth.
There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny, than when the mighty
of the earth are not also the first men. Then everything becometh false
and distorted and monstrous.
And when they are even the last men, and more beast than man, then
riseth and riseth the populace in honour, and at last saith even the
populace-virtue: ‘Lo, I alone am virtue!’”—
What have I just heard? answered Zarathustra. What wisdom in kings! I
am enchanted, and verily, I have already promptings to make a rhyme
thereon:—
—Even if it should happen to be a rhyme not suited for every one’s
ears. I unlearned long ago to have consideration for long ears. Well
then! Well now!
(Here, however, it happened that the ass also found utterance: it said
distinctly and with malevolence, Y-E-A.)
‘Twas once—methinks year one of our blessed Lord,—Drunk without wine,
the Sybil thus deplored:—“How ill things go! Decline! Decline! Ne’er
sank the world so low! Rome now hath turned harlot and harlot-stew,
Rome’s Caesar a beast, and God—hath turned Jew!”
2.
With those rhymes of Zarathustra the kings were delighted; the king on
the right, however, said: “O Zarathustra, how well it was that we set
out to see thee!
For thine enemies showed us thy likeness in their mirror: there lookedst
thou with the grimace of a devil, and sneeringly: so that we were afraid
of thee.
But what good did it do! Always didst thou prick us anew in heart and
ear with thy sayings. Then did we say at last: What doth it matter how
he look!
We must HEAR him; him who teacheth: ‘Ye shall love peace as a means to
new wars, and the short peace more than the long!’
No one ever spake such warlike words: ‘What is good? To be brave is
good. It is the good war that halloweth every cause.’
O Zarathustra, our fathers’ blood stirred in our veins at such words: it
was like the voice of spring to old wine-casks.
When the swords ran among one another like red-spotted serpents, then
did our fathers become fond of life; the sun of every peace seemed to
them languid and lukewarm, the long peace, however, made them ashamed.
How they sighed, our fathers, when they saw on the wall brightly
furbished, dried-up swords! Like those they thirsted for war. For a
sword thirsteth to drink blood, and sparkleth with desire.”—
—When the kings thus discoursed and talked eagerly of the happiness of
their fathers, there came upon Zarathustra no little desire to mock at
their eagerness: for evidently they were very peaceable kings whom he
saw before him, kings with old and refined features. But he restrained
himself. “Well!” said he, “thither leadeth the way, there lieth the
cave of Zarathustra; and this day is to have a long evening! At present,
however, a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from you.
It will honour my cave if kings want to sit and wait in it: but, to be
sure, ye will have to wait long!
Well! What of that! Where doth one at present learn better to wait
than at courts? And the whole virtue of kings that hath remained unto
them—is it not called to-day: ABILITY to wait?”
Thus spake Zarathustra.


LXIV. THE LEECH.

And Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further and lower down, through
forests and past moory bottoms; as it happeneth, however, to every one
who meditateth upon hard matters, he trod thereby unawares upon a man.
And lo, there spurted into his face all at once a cry of pain, and two
curses and twenty bad invectives, so that in his fright he raised his
stick and also struck the trodden one. Immediately afterwards, however,
he regained his composure, and his heart laughed at the folly he had
just committed.
“Pardon me,” said he to the trodden one, who had got up enraged, and had
seated himself, “pardon me, and hear first of all a parable.
As a wanderer who dreameth of remote things on a lonesome highway,
runneth unawares against a sleeping dog, a dog which lieth in the sun:
—As both of them then start up and snap at each other, like deadly
enemies, those two beings mortally frightened—so did it happen unto us.
And yet! And yet—how little was lacking for them to caress each other,
that dog and that lonesome one! Are they not both—lonesome ones!”
—“Whoever thou art,” said the trodden one, still enraged, “thou
treadest also too nigh me with thy parable, and not only with thy foot!
Lo! am I then a dog?”—And thereupon the sitting one got up, and pulled
his naked arm out of the swamp. For at first he had lain outstretched
on the ground, hidden and indiscernible, like those who lie in wait for
swamp-game.
“But whatever art thou about!” called out Zarathustra in alarm, for he
saw a deal of blood streaming over the naked arm,—“what hath hurt thee?
Hath an evil beast bit thee, thou unfortunate one?”
The bleeding one laughed, still angry, “What matter is it to thee!” said
he, and was about to go on. “Here am I at home and in my province.
Let him question me whoever will: to a dolt, however, I shall hardly
answer.”
“Thou art mistaken,” said Zarathustra sympathetically, and held him
fast; “thou art mistaken. Here thou art not at home, but in my domain,
and therein shall no one receive any hurt.
Call me however what thou wilt—I am who I must be. I call myself
Zarathustra.
Well! Up thither is the way to Zarathustra’s cave: it is not far,—wilt
thou not attend to thy wounds at my home?
It hath gone badly with thee, thou unfortunate one, in this life: first
a beast bit thee, and then—a man trod upon thee!”—
When however the trodden one had heard the name of Zarathustra he was
transformed. “What happeneth unto me!” he exclaimed, “WHO preoccupieth
me so much in this life as this one man, namely Zarathustra, and that
one animal that liveth on blood, the leech?
For the sake of the leech did I lie here by this swamp, like a fisher,
and already had mine outstretched arm been bitten ten times, when there
biteth a still finer leech at my blood, Zarathustra himself!
O happiness! O miracle! Praised be this day which enticed me into the
swamp! Praised be the best, the livest cupping-glass, that at present
liveth; praised be the great conscience-leech Zarathustra!”—
Thus spake the trodden one, and Zarathustra rejoiced at his words and
their refined reverential style. “Who art thou?” asked he, and gave
him his hand, “there is much to clear up and elucidate between us, but
already methinketh pure clear day is dawning.”
“I am THE SPIRITUALLY CONSCIENTIOUS ONE,” answered he who was asked,
“and in matters of the spirit it is difficult for any one to take it
more rigorously, more restrictedly, and more severely than I, except him
from whom I learnt it, Zarathustra himself.
Better know nothing than half-know many things! Better be a fool on
one’s own account, than a sage on other people’s approbation! I—go to
the basis:
—What matter if it be great or small? If it be called swamp or sky?
A handbreadth of basis is enough for me, if it be actually basis and
ground!
—A handbreadth of basis: thereon can one stand. In the true
knowing-knowledge there is nothing great and nothing small.”
“Then thou art perhaps an expert on the leech?” asked Zarathustra; “and
thou investigatest the leech to its ultimate basis, thou conscientious
one?”
“O Zarathustra,” answered the trodden one, “that would be something
immense; how could I presume to do so!
That, however, of which I am master and knower, is the BRAIN of the
leech:—that is MY world!
And it is also a world! Forgive it, however, that my pride here findeth
expression, for here I have not mine equal. Therefore said I: ‘here am I
at home.’
How long have I investigated this one thing, the brain of the leech, so
that here the slippery truth might no longer slip from me! Here is MY
domain!
—For the sake of this did I cast everything else aside, for the sake of
this did everything else become indifferent to me; and close beside my
knowledge lieth my black ignorance.
My spiritual conscience requireth from me that it should be so—that I
should know one thing, and not know all else: they are a loathing unto
me, all the semi-spiritual, all the hazy, hovering, and visionary.
Where mine honesty ceaseth, there am I blind, and want also to be blind.
Where I want to know, however, there want I also to be honest—namely,
severe, rigorous, restricted, cruel and inexorable.
Because THOU once saidest, O Zarathustra: ‘Spirit is life which itself
cutteth into life’;—that led and allured me to thy doctrine. And
verily, with mine own blood have I increased mine own knowledge!”
—“As the evidence indicateth,” broke in Zarathustra; for still was the
blood flowing down on the naked arm of the conscientious one. For there
had ten leeches bitten into it.
“O thou strange fellow, how much doth this very evidence teach
me—namely, thou thyself! And not all, perhaps, might I pour into thy
rigorous ear!
Well then! We part here! But I would fain find thee again. Up thither is
the way to my cave: to-night shalt thou there be my welcome guest!
Fain would I also make amends to thy body for Zarathustra treading upon
thee with his feet: I think about that. Just now, however, a cry of
distress calleth me hastily away from thee.”
Thus spake Zarathustra.


LXV. THE MAGICIAN.

1.
When however Zarathustra had gone round a rock, then saw he on the same
path, not far below him, a man who threw his limbs about like a maniac,
and at last tumbled to the ground on his belly. “Halt!” said then
Zarathustra to his heart, “he there must surely be the higher man, from
him came that dreadful cry of distress,—I will see if I can help him.”
When, however, he ran to the spot where the man lay on the ground,
he found a trembling old man, with fixed eyes; and in spite of all
Zarathustra’s efforts to lift him and set him again on his feet, it was
all in vain. The unfortunate one, also, did not seem to notice that some
one was beside him; on the contrary, he continually looked around with
moving gestures, like one forsaken and isolated from all the world.
At last, however, after much trembling, and convulsion, and
curling-himself-up, he began to lament thus:
Who warm’th me, who lov’th me still?
Give ardent fingers!
Give heartening charcoal-warmers!
Prone, outstretched, trembling,
Like him, half dead and cold, whose feet one warm’th—
And shaken, ah! by unfamiliar fevers,
Shivering with sharpened, icy-cold frost-arrows,
By thee pursued, my fancy!
Ineffable! Recondite! Sore-frightening!
Thou huntsman ’hind the cloud-banks!
Now lightning-struck by thee,
Thou mocking eye that me in darkness watcheth:
—Thus do I lie,
Bend myself, twist myself, convulsed
With all eternal torture,
And smitten
By thee, cruellest huntsman,
Thou unfamiliar—GOD...
Smite deeper!
Smite yet once more!
Pierce through and rend my heart!
What mean’th this torture
With dull, indented arrows?
Why look’st thou hither,
Of human pain not weary,
With mischief-loving, godly flash-glances?
Not murder wilt thou,
But torture, torture?
For why—ME torture,
Thou mischief-loving, unfamiliar God?—
Ha! Ha!
Thou stealest nigh
In midnight’s gloomy hour?...
What wilt thou?
Speak!
Thou crowdst me, pressest—
Ha! now far too closely!
Thou hearst me breathing,
Thou o’erhearst my heart,
Thou ever jealous one!
—Of what, pray, ever jealous?
Off! Off!
For why the ladder?
Wouldst thou GET IN?
To heart in-clamber?
To mine own secretest
Conceptions in-clamber?
Shameless one! Thou unknown one!—Thief!
What seekst thou by thy stealing?
What seekst thou by thy hearkening?
What seekst thou by thy torturing?
Thou torturer!
Thou—hangman-God!
Or shall I, as the mastiffs do,
Roll me before thee?
And cringing, enraptured, frantical,
My tail friendly—waggle!
In vain!
Goad further!
Cruellest goader!
No dog—thy game just am I,
Cruellest huntsman!
Thy proudest of captives,
Thou robber ’hind the cloud-banks ...
Speak finally!
Thou lightning-veiled one! Thou unknown one! Speak!
What wilt thou, highway-ambusher, from—ME?
What WILT thou, unfamiliar—God?
What?
Ransom-gold?
How much of ransom-gold?
Solicit much—that bid’th my pride!
And be concise—that bid’th mine other pride!
Ha! Ha!
ME—wantest thou? me?
—Entire?...
Ha! Ha!
And torturest me, fool that thou art,
Dead-torturest quite my pride?
Give LOVE to me—who warm’th me still?
Who lov’th me still?—
Give ardent fingers,
Give heartening charcoal-warmers,
Give me, the lonesomest,
The ice (ah! seven-fold frozen ice,
For very enemies,
For foes, doth make one thirst),
Give, yield to me,
Cruellest foe,
—THYSELF!—
Away!
There fled he surely,
My final, only comrade,
My greatest foe,
Mine unfamiliar—
My hangman-God!...
—Nay!
Come thou back!
WITH all of thy great tortures!
To me the last of lonesome ones,
Oh, come thou back!
All my hot tears in streamlets trickle
Their course to thee!
And all my final hearty fervour—
Up-glow’th to THEE!
Oh, come thou back,
Mine unfamiliar God! my PAIN!
My final bliss!
2.
—Here, however, Zarathustra could no longer restrain himself; he took
his staff and struck the wailer with all his might. “Stop this,” cried
he to him with wrathful laughter, “stop this, thou stage-player! Thou
false coiner! Thou liar from the very heart! I know thee well!
I will soon make warm legs to thee, thou evil magician: I know well
how—to make it hot for such as thou!”
—“Leave off,” said the old man, and sprang up from the ground, “strike
me no more, O Zarathustra! I did it only for amusement!
That kind of thing belongeth to mine art. Thee thyself, I wanted to put
to the proof when I gave this performance. And verily, thou hast well
detected me!
But thou thyself—hast given me no small proof of thyself: thou art
HARD, thou wise Zarathustra! Hard strikest thou with thy ‘truths,’ thy
cudgel forceth from me—THIS truth!”
—“Flatter not,” answered Zarathustra, still excited and frowning,
“thou stage-player from the heart! Thou art false: why speakest thou—of
truth!
Thou peacock of peacocks, thou sea of vanity; WHAT didst thou represent
before me, thou evil magician; WHOM was I meant to believe in when thou
wailedst in such wise?”
“THE PENITENT IN SPIRIT,” said the old man, “it was him—I represented;
thou thyself once devisedst this expression—
—The poet and magician who at last turneth his spirit against himself,
the transformed one who freezeth to death by his bad science and
conscience.
And just acknowledge it: it was long, O Zarathustra, before thou
discoveredst my trick and lie! Thou BELIEVEDST in my distress when thou
heldest my head with both thy hands,—
—I heard thee lament ‘we have loved him too little, loved him too
little!’ Because I so far deceived thee, my wickedness rejoiced in me.”
“Thou mayest have deceived subtler ones than I,” said Zarathustra
sternly. “I am not on my guard against deceivers; I HAVE TO BE without
precaution: so willeth my lot.
Thou, however,—MUST deceive: so far do I know thee! Thou must ever be
equivocal, trivocal, quadrivocal, and quinquivocal! Even what thou hast
now confessed, is not nearly true enough nor false enough for me!
Thou bad false coiner, how couldst thou do otherwise! Thy very malady
wouldst thou whitewash if thou showed thyself naked to thy physician.
Thus didst thou whitewash thy lie before me when thou saidst: ‘I did
so ONLY for amusement!’ There was also SERIOUSNESS therein, thou ART
something of a penitent-in-spirit!
I divine thee well: thou hast become the enchanter of all the world; but
for thyself thou hast no lie or artifice left,—thou art disenchanted to
thyself!
Thou hast reaped disgust as thy one truth. No word in thee is any longer
genuine, but thy mouth is so: that is to say, the disgust that cleaveth
unto thy mouth.”—
—“Who art thou at all!” cried here the old magician with defiant voice,
“who dareth to speak thus unto ME, the greatest man now living?”—and a
green flash shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But immediately after he
changed, and said sadly:
“O Zarathustra, I am weary of it, I am disgusted with mine arts, I am
not GREAT, why do I dissemble! But thou knowest it well—I sought for
greatness!
A great man I wanted to appear, and persuaded many; but the lie hath
been beyond my power. On it do I collapse.
O Zarathustra, everything is a lie in me; but that I collapse—this my
collapsing is GENUINE!”—
“It honoureth thee,” said Zarathustra gloomily, looking down with
sidelong glance, “it honoureth thee that thou soughtest for greatness,
but it betrayeth thee also. Thou art not great.
Thou bad old magician, THAT is the best and the honestest thing I honour
in thee, that thou hast become weary of thyself, and hast expressed it:
‘I am not great.’
THEREIN do I honour thee as a penitent-in-spirit, and although only for
the twinkling of an eye, in that one moment wast thou—genuine.
But tell me, what seekest thou here in MY forests and rocks? And if thou
hast put thyself in MY way, what proof of me wouldst thou have?—
—Wherein didst thou put ME to the test?”
Thus spake Zarathustra, and his eyes sparkled. But the old magician kept
silence for a while; then said he: “Did I put thee to the test? I—seek
only.
O Zarathustra, I seek a genuine one, a right one, a simple one, an
unequivocal one, a man of perfect honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint
of knowledge, a great man!
Knowest thou it not, O Zarathustra? I SEEK ZARATHUSTRA.”
—And here there arose a long silence between them: Zarathustra,
however, became profoundly absorbed in thought, so that he shut his
eyes. But afterwards coming back to the situation, he grasped the hand
of the magician, and said, full of politeness and policy:
“Well! Up thither leadeth the way, there is the cave of Zarathustra. In
it mayest thou seek him whom thou wouldst fain find.
And ask counsel of mine animals, mine eagle and my serpent: they shall
help thee to seek. My cave however is large.
I myself, to be sure—I have as yet seen no great man. That which is
great, the acutest eye is at present insensible to it. It is the kingdom
of the populace.
Many a one have I found who stretched and inflated himself, and the
people cried: ‘Behold; a great man!’ But what good do all bellows do!
The wind cometh out at last.
At last bursteth the frog which hath inflated itself too long: then
cometh out the wind. To prick a swollen one in the belly, I call good
pastime. Hear that, ye boys!
Our to-day is of the populace: who still KNOWETH what is great and what
is small! Who could there seek successfully for greatness! A fool only:
it succeedeth with fools.
Thou seekest for great men, thou strange fool? Who TAUGHT that to thee?
Is to-day the time for it? Oh, thou bad seeker, why dost thou—tempt
me?”—
Thus spake Zarathustra, comforted in his heart, and went laughing on his
way.


LXVI. OUT OF SERVICE.

Not long, however, after Zarathustra had freed himself from the
magician, he again saw a person sitting beside the path which he
followed, namely a tall, black man, with a haggard, pale countenance:
THIS MAN grieved him exceedingly. “Alas,” said he to his heart, “there
sitteth disguised affliction; methinketh he is of the type of the
priests: what do THEY want in my domain?
What! Hardly have I escaped from that magician, and must another
necromancer again run across my path,—
—Some sorcerer with laying-on-of-hands, some sombre wonder-worker by
the grace of God, some anointed world-maligner, whom, may the devil
take!
But the devil is never at the place which would be his right place: he
always cometh too late, that cursed dwarf and club-foot!”—
Thus cursed Zarathustra impatiently in his heart, and considered how
with averted look he might slip past the black man. But behold, it came
about otherwise. For at the same moment had the sitting one already
perceived him; and not unlike one whom an unexpected happiness
overtaketh, he sprang to his feet, and went straight towards
Zarathustra.
“Whoever thou art, thou traveller,” said he, “help a strayed one, a
seeker, an old man, who may here easily come to grief!
The world here is strange to me, and remote; wild beasts also did I hear
howling; and he who could have given me protection—he is himself no
more.
I was seeking the pious man, a saint and an anchorite, who, alone in his
forest, had not yet heard of what all the world knoweth at present.”
“WHAT doth all the world know at present?” asked Zarathustra. “Perhaps
that the old God no longer liveth, in whom all the world once believed?”
“Thou sayest it,” answered the old man sorrowfully. “And I served that
old God until his last hour.
Now, however, am I out of service, without master, and yet not free;
likewise am I no longer merry even for an hour, except it be in
recollections.
Therefore did I ascend into these mountains, that I might finally have
a festival for myself once more, as becometh an old pope and
church-father: for know it, that I am the last pope!—a festival of
pious recollections and divine services.
Now, however, is he himself dead, the most pious of men, the saint in
the forest, who praised his God constantly with singing and mumbling.
He himself found I no longer when I found his cot—but two wolves found
I therein, which howled on account of his death,—for all animals loved
him. Then did I haste away.
Had I thus come in vain into these forests and mountains? Then did my
heart determine that I should seek another, the most pious of all
those who believe not in God—, my heart determined that I should seek
Zarathustra!”
Thus spake the hoary man, and gazed with keen eyes at him who stood
before him. Zarathustra however seized the hand of the old pope and
regarded it a long while with admiration.
“Lo! thou venerable one,” said he then, “what a fine and long hand! That
is the hand of one who hath ever dispensed blessings. Now, however, doth
it hold fast him whom thou seekest, me, Zarathustra.
It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who saith: ‘Who is ungodlier than I,
that I may enjoy his teaching?’”—
Thus spake Zarathustra, and penetrated with his glances the thoughts and
arrear-thoughts of the old pope. At last the latter began:
“He who most loved and possessed him hath now also lost him most—:
—Lo, I myself am surely the most godless of us at present? But who
could rejoice at that!”—
—“Thou servedst him to the last?” asked Zarathustra thoughtfully, after
a deep silence, “thou knowest HOW he died? Is it true what they say,
that sympathy choked him;
—That he saw how MAN hung on the cross, and could not endure it;—that
his love to man became his hell, and at last his death?”—
The old pope however did not answer, but looked aside timidly, with a
painful and gloomy expression.
“Let him go,” said Zarathustra, after prolonged meditation, still
looking the old man straight in the eye.
“Let him go, he is gone. And though it honoureth thee that thou speakest
only in praise of this dead one, yet thou knowest as well as I WHO he
was, and that he went curious ways.”
“To speak before three eyes,” said the old pope cheerfully (he was blind
of one eye), “in divine matters I am more enlightened than Zarathustra
himself—and may well be so.
My love served him long years, my will followed all his will. A good
servant, however, knoweth everything, and many a thing even which a
master hideth from himself.
He was a hidden God, full of secrecy. Verily, he did not come by his
son otherwise than by secret ways. At the door of his faith standeth
adultery.
Whoever extolleth him as a God of love, doth not think highly enough of
love itself. Did not that God want also to be judge? But the loving one
loveth irrespective of reward and requital.
When he was young, that God out of the Orient, then was he harsh and
revengeful, and built himself a hell for the delight of his favourites.
At last, however, he became old and soft and mellow and pitiful,
more like a grandfather than a father, but most like a tottering old
grandmother.
There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney-corner, fretting on account
of his weak legs, world-weary, will-weary, and one day he suffocated of
his all-too-great pity.”—
“Thou old pope,” said here Zarathustra interposing, “hast thou seen THAT
with thine eyes? It could well have happened in that way: in that way,
AND also otherwise. When Gods die they always die many kinds of death.
Well! At all events, one way or other—he is gone! He was counter to the
taste of mine ears and eyes; worse than that I should not like to say
against him.
I love everything that looketh bright and speaketh honestly. But
he—thou knowest it, forsooth, thou old priest, there was something of
thy type in him, the priest-type—he was equivocal.
He was also indistinct. How he raged at us, this wrath-snorter, because
we understood him badly! But why did he not speak more clearly?
And if the fault lay in our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him
badly? If there was dirt in our ears, well! who put it in them?
Too much miscarried with him, this potter who had not learned
thoroughly! That he took revenge on his pots and creations, however,
because they turned out badly—that was a sin against GOOD TASTE.
There is also good taste in piety: THIS at last said: ‘Away with SUCH
a God! Better to have no God, better to set up destiny on one’s own
account, better to be a fool, better to be God oneself!’”
—“What do I hear!” said then the old pope, with intent ears; “O
Zarathustra, thou art more pious than thou believest, with such an
unbelief! Some God in thee hath converted thee to thine ungodliness.
Is it not thy piety itself which no longer letteth thee believe in a