Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None - 17

God? And thine over-great honesty will yet lead thee even beyond good
and evil!
Behold, what hath been reserved for thee? Thou hast eyes and hands and
mouth, which have been predestined for blessing from eternity. One doth
not bless with the hand alone.
Nigh unto thee, though thou professest to be the ungodliest one, I feel
a hale and holy odour of long benedictions: I feel glad and grieved
thereby.
Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth
shall I now feel better than with thee!”—
“Amen! So shall it be!” said Zarathustra, with great astonishment; “up
thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra.
Gladly, forsooth, would I conduct thee thither myself, thou venerable
one; for I love all pious men. But now a cry of distress calleth me
hastily away from thee.
In my domain shall no one come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And
best of all would I like to put every sorrowful one again on firm land
and firm legs.
Who, however, could take THY melancholy off thy shoulders? For that I am
too weak. Long, verily, should we have to wait until some one re-awoke
thy God for thee.
For that old God liveth no more: he is indeed dead.”—
Thus spake Zarathustra.


LXVII. THE UGLIEST MAN.

—And again did Zarathustra’s feet run through mountains and forests,
and his eyes sought and sought, but nowhere was he to be seen whom they
wanted to see—the sorely distressed sufferer and crier. On the whole
way, however, he rejoiced in his heart and was full of gratitude. “What
good things,” said he, “hath this day given me, as amends for its bad
beginning! What strange interlocutors have I found!
At their words will I now chew a long while as at good corn; small
shall my teeth grind and crush them, until they flow like milk into my
soul!”—
When, however, the path again curved round a rock, all at once the
landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered into a realm of death. Here
bristled aloft black and red cliffs, without any grass, tree, or bird’s
voice. For it was a valley which all animals avoided, even the beasts of
prey, except that a species of ugly, thick, green serpent came here to
die when they became old. Therefore the shepherds called this valley:
“Serpent-death.”
Zarathustra, however, became absorbed in dark recollections, for it
seemed to him as if he had once before stood in this valley. And much
heaviness settled on his mind, so that he walked slowly and always more
slowly, and at last stood still. Then, however, when he opened his eyes,
he saw something sitting by the wayside shaped like a man, and hardly
like a man, something nondescript. And all at once there came over
Zarathustra a great shame, because he had gazed on such a thing.
Blushing up to the very roots of his white hair, he turned aside his
glance, and raised his foot that he might leave this ill-starred place.
Then, however, became the dead wilderness vocal: for from the ground a
noise welled up, gurgling and rattling, as water gurgleth and rattleth
at night through stopped-up water-pipes; and at last it turned into
human voice and human speech:—it sounded thus:
“Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Read my riddle! Say, say! WHAT IS THE REVENGE
ON THE WITNESS?
I entice thee back; here is smooth ice! See to it, see to it, that thy
pride doth not here break its legs!
Thou thinkest thyself wise, thou proud Zarathustra! Read then the
riddle, thou hard nut-cracker,—the riddle that I am! Say then: who am
_I_!”
—When however Zarathustra had heard these words,—what think ye then
took place in his soul? PITY OVERCAME HIM; and he sank down all at
once, like an oak that hath long withstood many tree-fellers,—heavily,
suddenly, to the terror even of those who meant to fell it. But
immediately he got up again from the ground, and his countenance became
stern.
“I know thee well,” said he, with a brazen voice, “THOU ART THE MURDERER
OF GOD! Let me go.
Thou couldst not ENDURE him who beheld THEE,—who ever beheld thee
through and through, thou ugliest man. Thou tookest revenge on this
witness!”
Thus spake Zarathustra and was about to go; but the nondescript grasped
at a corner of his garment and began anew to gurgle and seek for words.
“Stay,” said he at last—
—“Stay! Do not pass by! I have divined what axe it was that struck thee
to the ground: hail to thee, O Zarathustra, that thou art again upon thy
feet!
Thou hast divined, I know it well, how the man feeleth who killed
him,—the murderer of God. Stay! Sit down here beside me; it is not to
no purpose.
To whom would I go but unto thee? Stay, sit down! Do not however look at
me! Honour thus—mine ugliness!
They persecute me: now art THOU my last refuge. NOT with their hatred,
NOT with their bailiffs;—Oh, such persecution would I mock at, and be
proud and cheerful!
Hath not all success hitherto been with the well-persecuted ones? And
he who persecuteth well learneth readily to be OBSEQUENT—when once he
is—put behind! But it is their PITY—
—Their pity is it from which I flee away and flee to thee. O
Zarathustra, protect me, thou, my last refuge, thou sole one who
divinedst me:
—Thou hast divined how the man feeleth who killed HIM. Stay! And if
thou wilt go, thou impatient one, go not the way that I came. THAT way
is bad.
Art thou angry with me because I have already racked language too long?
Because I have already counselled thee? But know that it is I, the
ugliest man,
—Who have also the largest, heaviest feet. Where _I_ have gone, the way
is bad. I tread all paths to death and destruction.
But that thou passedst me by in silence, that thou blushedst—I saw it
well: thereby did I know thee as Zarathustra.
Every one else would have thrown to me his alms, his pity, in look and
speech. But for that—I am not beggar enough: that didst thou divine.
For that I am too RICH, rich in what is great, frightful, ugliest, most
unutterable! Thy shame, O Zarathustra, HONOURED me!
With difficulty did I get out of the crowd of the pitiful,—that I might
find the only one who at present teacheth that ‘pity is obtrusive’—
thyself, O Zarathustra!
—Whether it be the pity of a God, or whether it be human pity, it is
offensive to modesty. And unwillingness to help may be nobler than the
virtue that rusheth to do so.
THAT however—namely, pity—is called virtue itself at present by
all petty people:—they have no reverence for great misfortune, great
ugliness, great failure.
Beyond all these do I look, as a dog looketh over the backs of thronging
flocks of sheep. They are petty, good-wooled, good-willed, grey people.
As the heron looketh contemptuously at shallow pools, with backward-bent
head, so do I look at the throng of grey little waves and wills and
souls.
Too long have we acknowledged them to be right, those petty people: SO
we have at last given them power as well;—and now do they teach that
‘good is only what petty people call good.’
And ‘truth’ is at present what the preacher spake who himself sprang
from them, that singular saint and advocate of the petty people, who
testified of himself: ‘I—am the truth.’
That immodest one hath long made the petty people greatly puffed up,—he
who taught no small error when he taught: ‘I—am the truth.’
Hath an immodest one ever been answered more courteously?—Thou,
however, O Zarathustra, passedst him by, and saidst: ‘Nay! Nay! Three
times Nay!’
Thou warnedst against his error; thou warnedst—the first to do
so—against pity:—not every one, not none, but thyself and thy type.
Thou art ashamed of the shame of the great sufferer; and verily when
thou sayest: ‘From pity there cometh a heavy cloud; take heed, ye men!’
—When thou teachest: ‘All creators are hard, all great love is beyond
their pity:’ O Zarathustra, how well versed dost thou seem to me in
weather-signs!
Thou thyself, however,—warn thyself also against THY pity! For many are
on their way to thee, many suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning,
freezing ones—
I warn thee also against myself. Thou hast read my best, my worst
riddle, myself, and what I have done. I know the axe that felleth thee.
But he—HAD TO die: he looked with eyes which beheld EVERYTHING,—he
beheld men’s depths and dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness.
His pity knew no modesty: he crept into my dirtiest corners. This most
prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one had to die.
He ever beheld ME: on such a witness I would have revenge—or not live
myself.
The God who beheld everything, AND ALSO MAN: that God had to die! Man
cannot ENDURE it that such a witness should live.”
Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra however got up, and prepared to
go on: for he felt frozen to the very bowels.
“Thou nondescript,” said he, “thou warnedst me against thy path. As
thanks for it I praise mine to thee. Behold, up thither is the cave of
Zarathustra.
My cave is large and deep and hath many corners; there findeth he
that is most hidden his hiding-place. And close beside it, there are
a hundred lurking-places and by-places for creeping, fluttering, and
hopping creatures.
Thou outcast, who hast cast thyself out, thou wilt not live amongst men
and men’s pity? Well then, do like me! Thus wilt thou learn also from
me; only the doer learneth.
And talk first and foremost to mine animals! The proudest animal and the
wisest animal—they might well be the right counsellors for us both!”—
Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more thoughtfully and slowly
even than before: for he asked himself many things, and hardly knew what
to answer.
“How poor indeed is man,” thought he in his heart, “how ugly, how
wheezy, how full of hidden shame!
They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how great must that self-love
be! How much contempt is opposed to it!
Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath despised himself,—a great
lover methinketh he is, and a great despiser.
No one have I yet found who more thoroughly despised himself: even THAT
is elevation. Alas, was THIS perhaps the higher man whose cry I heard?
I love the great despisers. Man is something that hath to be
surpassed.”—


LXVIII. THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR.

When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he was chilled and felt
lonesome: for much coldness and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so
that even his limbs became colder thereby. When, however, he wandered
on and on, uphill and down, at times past green meadows, though also
sometimes over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps an impatient
brook had made its bed, then he turned all at once warmer and heartier
again.
“What hath happened unto me?” he asked himself, “something warm and
living quickeneth me; it must be in the neighbourhood.
Already am I less alone; unconscious companions and brethren rove around
me; their warm breath toucheth my soul.”
When, however, he spied about and sought for the comforters of his
lonesomeness, behold, there were kine there standing together on an
eminence, whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart. The kine,
however, seemed to listen eagerly to a speaker, and took no heed of him
who approached. When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto them,
then did he hear plainly that a human voice spake in the midst of the
kine, and apparently all of them had turned their heads towards the
speaker.
Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the animals aside; for he
feared that some one had here met with harm, which the pity of the
kine would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was deceived; for
behold, there sat a man on the ground who seemed to be persuading
the animals to have no fear of him, a peaceable man and
Preacher-on-the-Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached. “What
dost thou seek here?” called out Zarathustra in astonishment.
“What do I here seek?” answered he: “the same that thou seekest, thou
mischief-maker; that is to say, happiness upon earth.
To that end, however, I would fain learn of these kine. For I tell thee
that I have already talked half a morning unto them, and just now were
they about to give me their answer. Why dost thou disturb them?
Except we be converted and become as kine, we shall in no wise enter
into the kingdom of heaven. For we ought to learn from them one thing:
ruminating.
And verily, although a man should gain the whole world, and yet not
learn one thing, ruminating, what would it profit him! He would not be
rid of his affliction,
—His great affliction: that, however, is at present called DISGUST. Who
hath not at present his heart, his mouth and his eyes full of disgust?
Thou also! Thou also! But behold these kine!”—
Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and turned then his own look
towards Zarathustra—for hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine—:
then, however, he put on a different expression. “Who is this with whom
I talk?” he exclaimed frightened, and sprang up from the ground.
“This is the man without disgust, this is Zarathustra himself, the
surmounter of the great disgust, this is the eye, this is the mouth,
this is the heart of Zarathustra himself.”
And whilst he thus spake he kissed with o’erflowing eyes the hands
of him with whom he spake, and behaved altogether like one to whom a
precious gift and jewel hath fallen unawares from heaven. The kine,
however, gazed at it all and wondered.
“Speak not of me, thou strange one; thou amiable one!” said Zarathustra,
and restrained his affection, “speak to me firstly of thyself! Art thou
not the voluntary beggar who once cast away great riches,—
—Who was ashamed of his riches and of the rich, and fled to the poorest
to bestow upon them his abundance and his heart? But they received him
not.”
“But they received me not,” said the voluntary beggar, “thou knowest it,
forsooth. So I went at last to the animals and to those kine.”
“Then learnedst thou,” interrupted Zarathustra, “how much harder it is
to give properly than to take properly, and that bestowing well is an
ART—the last, subtlest master-art of kindness.”
“Especially nowadays,” answered the voluntary beggar: “at present, that
is to say, when everything low hath become rebellious and exclusive and
haughty in its manner—in the manner of the populace.
For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth, for the great, evil,
long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth!
Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty giving;
and the over-rich may be on their guard!
Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out of all-too-small
necks:—of such bottles at present one willingly breaketh the necks.
Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge, populace-pride: all
these struck mine eye. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed.
The kingdom of heaven, however, is with the kine.”
“And why is it not with the rich?” asked Zarathustra temptingly, while
he kept back the kine which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one.
“Why dost thou tempt me?” answered the other. “Thou knowest it thyself
better even than I. What was it drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra?
Was it not my disgust at the richest?
—At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and rank thoughts, who pick
up profit out of all kinds of rubbish—at this rabble that stinketh to
heaven,
—At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers were pickpockets,
or carrion-crows, or rag-pickers, with wives compliant, lewd and
forgetful:—for they are all of them not far different from harlots—
Populace above, populace below! What are ‘poor’ and ‘rich’ at present!
That distinction did I unlearn,—then did I flee away further and ever
further, until I came to those kine.”
Thus spake the peaceful one, and puffed himself and perspired with
his words: so that the kine wondered anew. Zarathustra, however, kept
looking into his face with a smile, all the time the man talked so
severely—and shook silently his head.
“Thou doest violence to thyself, thou Preacher-on-the-Mount, when thou
usest such severe words. For such severity neither thy mouth nor thine
eye have been given thee.
Nor, methinketh, hath thy stomach either: unto IT all such rage and
hatred and foaming-over is repugnant. Thy stomach wanteth softer things:
thou art not a butcher.
Rather seemest thou to me a plant-eater and a root-man. Perhaps thou
grindest corn. Certainly, however, thou art averse to fleshly joys, and
thou lovest honey.”
“Thou hast divined me well,” answered the voluntary beggar, with
lightened heart. “I love honey, I also grind corn; for I have sought out
what tasteth sweetly and maketh pure breath:
—Also what requireth a long time, a day’s-work and a mouth’s-work for
gentle idlers and sluggards.
Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it: they have devised
ruminating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all heavy
thoughts which inflate the heart.”
—“Well!” said Zarathustra, “thou shouldst also see MINE animals, mine
eagle and my serpent,—their like do not at present exist on earth.
Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave: be to-night its guest. And
talk to mine animals of the happiness of animals,—
—Until I myself come home. For now a cry of distress calleth me hastily
away from thee. Also, shouldst thou find new honey with me, ice-cold,
golden-comb-honey, eat it!
Now, however, take leave at once of thy kine, thou strange one! thou
amiable one! though it be hard for thee. For they are thy warmest
friends and preceptors!”—
—“One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,” answered the voluntary
beggar. “Thou thyself art good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a
cow!”
“Away, away with thee! thou evil flatterer!” cried Zarathustra
mischievously, “why dost thou spoil me with such praise and
flattery-honey?
“Away, away from me!” cried he once more, and heaved his stick at the
fond beggar, who, however, ran nimbly away.


LXIX. THE SHADOW.

Scarcely however was the voluntary beggar gone in haste, and Zarathustra
again alone, when he heard behind him a new voice which called out:
“Stay! Zarathustra! Do wait! It is myself, forsooth, O Zarathustra,
myself, thy shadow!” But Zarathustra did not wait; for a sudden
irritation came over him on account of the crowd and the crowding in his
mountains. “Whither hath my lonesomeness gone?” spake he.
“It is verily becoming too much for me; these mountains swarm; my
kingdom is no longer of THIS world; I require new mountains.
My shadow calleth me? What matter about my shadow! Let it run after me!
I—run away from it.”
Thus spake Zarathustra to his heart and ran away. But the one behind
followed after him, so that immediately there were three runners,
one after the other—namely, foremost the voluntary beggar, then
Zarathustra, and thirdly, and hindmost, his shadow. But not long had
they run thus when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly, and shook
off with one jerk all his irritation and detestation.
“What!” said he, “have not the most ludicrous things always happened to
us old anchorites and saints?
Verily, my folly hath grown big in the mountains! Now do I hear six old
fools’ legs rattling behind one another!
But doth Zarathustra need to be frightened by his shadow? Also,
methinketh that after all it hath longer legs than mine.”
Thus spake Zarathustra, and, laughing with eyes and entrails, he stood
still and turned round quickly—and behold, he almost thereby threw his
shadow and follower to the ground, so closely had the latter followed at
his heels, and so weak was he. For when Zarathustra scrutinised him
with his glance he was frightened as by a sudden apparition, so slender,
swarthy, hollow and worn-out did this follower appear.
“Who art thou?” asked Zarathustra vehemently, “what doest thou here? And
why callest thou thyself my shadow? Thou art not pleasing unto me.”
“Forgive me,” answered the shadow, “that it is I; and if I please thee
not—well, O Zarathustra! therein do I admire thee and thy good taste.
A wanderer am I, who have walked long at thy heels; always on the way,
but without a goal, also without a home: so that verily, I lack little
of being the eternally Wandering Jew, except that I am not eternal and
not a Jew.
What? Must I ever be on the way? Whirled by every wind, unsettled,
driven about? O earth, thou hast become too round for me!
On every surface have I already sat, like tired dust have I fallen
asleep on mirrors and window-panes: everything taketh from me, nothing
giveth; I become thin—I am almost equal to a shadow.
After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and hie longest; and
though I hid myself from thee, I was nevertheless thy best shadow:
wherever thou hast sat, there sat I also.
With thee have I wandered about in the remotest, coldest worlds, like a
phantom that voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden, all the worst and the
furthest: and if there be anything of virtue in me, it is that I have
had no fear of any prohibition.
With thee have I broken up whatever my heart revered; all
boundary-stones and statues have I o’erthrown; the most dangerous wishes
did I pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and worths and in great
names. When the devil casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall
away? It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin.
‘Nothing is true, all is permitted’: so said I to myself. Into the
coldest water did I plunge with head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand
there naked on that account, like a red crab!
Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my shame and all my belief
in the good! Ah, where is the lying innocence which I once possessed,
the innocence of the good and of their noble lies!
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of truth: then did it
kick me on the face. Sometimes I meant to lie, and behold! then only did
I hit—the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me: now it doth not concern me any more.
Nothing liveth any longer that I love,—how should I still love myself?
‘To live as I incline, or not to live at all’: so do I wish; so wisheth
also the holiest. But alas! how have _I_ still—inclination?
Have _I_—still a goal? A haven towards which MY sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth WHITHER he saileth, knoweth what
wind is good, and a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an unstable
will; fluttering wings; a broken backbone.
This seeking for MY home: O Zarathustra, dost thou know that this
seeking hath been MY home-sickening; it eateth me up.
‘WHERE is—MY home?’ For it do I ask and seek, and have sought, but
have not found it. O eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O
eternal—in-vain!”
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra’s countenance lengthened at his
words. “Thou art my shadow!” said he at last sadly.
“Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and wanderer! Thou hast had a
bad day: see that a still worse evening doth not overtake thee!
To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last even a prisoner blessed.
Didst thou ever see how captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly,
they enjoy their new security.
Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture thee, a hard, rigorous
delusion! For now everything that is narrow and fixed seduceth and
tempteth thee.
Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas, how wilt thou forego and forget that
loss? Thereby—hast thou also lost thy way!
Thou poor rover and rambler, thou tired butterfly! wilt thou have a rest
and a home this evening? Then go up to my cave!
Thither leadeth the way to my cave. And now will I run quickly away from
thee again. Already lieth as it were a shadow upon me.
I will run alone, so that it may again become bright around me.
Therefore must I still be a long time merrily upon my legs. In the
evening, however, there will be—dancing with me!”—
Thus spake Zarathustra.


LXX. NOONTIDE.

—And Zarathustra ran and ran, but he found no one else, and was alone
and ever found himself again; he enjoyed and quaffed his solitude, and
thought of good things—for hours. About the hour of noontide, however,
when the sun stood exactly over Zarathustra’s head, he passed an old,
bent and gnarled tree, which was encircled round by the ardent love of
a vine, and hidden from itself; from this there hung yellow grapes in
abundance, confronting the wanderer. Then he felt inclined to quench a
little thirst, and to break off for himself a cluster of grapes. When,
however, he had already his arm outstretched for that purpose, he felt
still more inclined for something else—namely, to lie down beside the
tree at the hour of perfect noontide and sleep.
This Zarathustra did; and no sooner had he laid himself on the ground in
the stillness and secrecy of the variegated grass, than he had forgotten
his little thirst, and fell asleep. For as the proverb of Zarathustra
saith: “One thing is more necessary than the other.” Only that his eyes
remained open:—for they never grew weary of viewing and admiring the
tree and the love of the vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra
spake thus to his heart:
“Hush! Hush! Hath not the world now become perfect? What hath happened
unto me?
As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon parqueted seas, light,
feather-light, so—danceth sleep upon me.
No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul awake. Light is it,
verily, feather-light.
It persuadeth me, I know not how, it toucheth me inwardly with a
caressing hand, it constraineth me. Yea, it constraineth me, so that my
soul stretcheth itself out:—
—How long and weary it becometh, my strange soul! Hath a seventh-day
evening come to it precisely at noontide? Hath it already wandered too
long, blissfully, among good and ripe things?
It stretcheth itself out, long—longer! it lieth still, my strange
soul. Too many good things hath it already tasted; this golden sadness
oppresseth it, it distorteth its mouth.
—As a ship that putteth into the calmest cove:—it now draweth up to
the land, weary of long voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more
faithful?
As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the shore:—then it sufficeth
for a spider to spin its thread from the ship to the land. No stronger
ropes are required there.
As such a weary ship in the calmest cove, so do I also now repose, nigh
to the earth, faithful, trusting, waiting, bound to it with the lightest
threads.
O happiness! O happiness! Wilt thou perhaps sing, O my soul? Thou liest
in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd
playeth his pipe.
Take care! Hot noontide sleepeth on the fields. Do not sing! Hush! The
world is perfect.
Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul! Do not even whisper! Lo—hush!
The old noontide sleepeth, it moveth its mouth: doth it not just now
drink a drop of happiness—
—An old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine? Something whisketh
over it, its happiness laugheth. Thus—laugheth a God. Hush!—
—‘For happiness, how little sufficeth for happiness!’ Thus spake I
once and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy: THAT have I now
learned. Wise fools speak better.
The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a
lizard’s rustling, a breath, a whisk, an eye-glance—LITTLE maketh up
the BEST happiness. Hush!
—What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time flown away? Do I not fall? Have
I not fallen—hark! into the well of eternity?
—What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth me—alas—to the heart? To