And jealous, steal’th forth: —Of day the foe, With every step in secret, The rosy garland-hammocks Downsickling, till they’ve sunken Down nightwards, faded, downsunken:— Thus had I sunken one day From mine own truth-insanity, From mine own fervid day-longings, Of day aweary, sick of sunshine, —Sunk downwards, evenwards, shadowwards: By one sole trueness All scorched and thirsty: —Bethinkst thou still, bethinkst thou, burning heart, How then thou thirstedest?— THAT I SHOULD BANNED BE FROM ALL THE TRUENESS!
MERE FOOL! MERE POET!
LXXV. SCIENCE.
Thus sang the magician; and all who were present went like birds unawares into the net of his artful and melancholy voluptuousness.
Only the spiritually conscientious one had not been caught: he at once snatched the harp from the magician and called out: “Air! Let in good air! Let in Zarathustra! Thou makest this cave sultry and poisonous, thou bad old magician!
Thou seducest, thou false one, thou subtle one, to unknown desires and deserts. And alas, that such as thou should talk and make ado about the TRUTH!
Alas, to all free spirits who are not on their guard against SUCH magicians! It is all over with their freedom: thou teachest and temptest back into prisons,— —Thou old melancholy devil, out of thy lament soundeth a lurement: thou resemblest those who with their praise of chastity secretly invite to voluptuousness!”
Thus spake the conscientious one; the old magician, however, looked about him, enjoying his triumph, and on that account put up with the annoyance which the conscientious one caused him. “Be still!” said he with modest voice, “good songs want to re-echo well; after good songs one should be long silent.
Thus do all those present, the higher men. Thou, however, hast perhaps understood but little of my song? In thee there is little of the magic spirit.”
“Thou praisest me,” replied the conscientious one, “in that thou separatest me from thyself; very well! But, ye others, what do I see? Ye still sit there, all of you, with lusting eyes—: Ye free spirits, whither hath your freedom gone! Ye almost seem to me to resemble those who have long looked at bad girls dancing naked: your souls themselves dance!
In you, ye higher men, there must be more of that which the magician calleth his evil spirit of magic and deceit:—we must indeed be different.
And verily, we spake and thought long enough together ere Zarathustra came home to his cave, for me not to be unaware that we ARE different.
We SEEK different things even here aloft, ye and I. For I seek more SECURITY; on that account have I come to Zarathustra. For he is still the most steadfast tower and will— —To-day, when everything tottereth, when all the earth quaketh. Ye, however, when I see what eyes ye make, it almost seemeth to me that ye seek MORE INSECURITY, —More horror, more danger, more earthquake. Ye long (it almost seemeth so to me—forgive my presumption, ye higher men)— —Ye long for the worst and dangerousest life, which frighteneth ME most,—for the life of wild beasts, for forests, caves, steep mountains and labyrinthine gorges.
And it is not those who lead OUT OF danger that please you best, but those who lead you away from all paths, the misleaders. But if such longing in you be ACTUAL, it seemeth to me nevertheless to be IMPOSSIBLE.
For fear—that is man’s original and fundamental feeling; through fear everything is explained, original sin and original virtue. Through fear there grew also MY virtue, that is to say: Science.
For fear of wild animals—that hath been longest fostered in man, inclusive of the animal which he concealeth and feareth in himself:—Zarathustra calleth it ‘the beast inside.’
Such prolonged ancient fear, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual—at present, me thinketh, it is called SCIENCE.”— Thus spake the conscientious one; but Zarathustra, who had just come back into his cave and had heard and divined the last discourse, threw a handful of roses to the conscientious one, and laughed on account of his “truths.” “Why!” he exclaimed, “what did I hear just now? Verily, it seemeth to me, thou art a fool, or else I myself am one: and quietly and quickly will I put thy ‘truth’ upside down.
For FEAR—is an exception with us. Courage, however, and adventure, and delight in the uncertain, in the unattempted—COURAGE seemeth to me the entire primitive history of man.
The wildest and most courageous animals hath he envied and robbed of all their virtues: thus only did he become—man.
THIS courage, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual, this human courage, with eagle’s pinions and serpent’s wisdom: THIS, it seemeth to me, is called at present—” “ZARATHUSTRA!” cried all of them there assembled, as if with one voice, and burst out at the same time into a great laughter; there arose, however, from them as it were a heavy cloud. Even the magician laughed, and said wisely: “Well! It is gone, mine evil spirit!
And did I not myself warn you against it when I said that it was a deceiver, a lying and deceiving spirit?
Especially when it showeth itself naked. But what can _I_ do with regard to its tricks! Have _I_ created it and the world?
Well! Let us be good again, and of good cheer! And although Zarathustra looketh with evil eye—just see him! he disliketh me—: —Ere night cometh will he again learn to love and laud me; he cannot live long without committing such follies.
HE—loveth his enemies: this art knoweth he better than any one I have seen. But he taketh revenge for it—on his friends!”
Thus spake the old magician, and the higher men applauded him; so that Zarathustra went round, and mischievously and lovingly shook hands with his friends,—like one who hath to make amends and apologise to every one for something. When however he had thereby come to the door of his cave, lo, then had he again a longing for the good air outside, and for his animals,—and wished to steal out.
LXXVI. AMONG DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT.
1.
“Go not away!” said then the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s shadow, “abide with us—otherwise the old gloomy affliction might again fall upon us.
Now hath that old magician given us of his worst for our good, and lo! the good, pious pope there hath tears in his eyes, and hath quite embarked again upon the sea of melancholy.
Those kings may well put on a good air before us still: for that have THEY learned best of us all at present! Had they however no one to see them, I wager that with them also the bad game would again commence,— —The bad game of drifting clouds, of damp melancholy, of curtained heavens, of stolen suns, of howling autumn-winds, —The bad game of our howling and crying for help! Abide with us, O Zarathustra! Here there is much concealed misery that wisheth to speak, much evening, much cloud, much damp air!
Thou hast nourished us with strong food for men, and powerful proverbs: do not let the weakly, womanly spirits attack us anew at dessert!
Thou alone makest the air around thee strong and clear! Did I ever find anywhere on earth such good air as with thee in thy cave?
Many lands have I seen, my nose hath learned to test and estimate many kinds of air: but with thee do my nostrils taste their greatest delight!
Unless it be,—unless it be—, do forgive an old recollection! Forgive me an old after-dinner song, which I once composed amongst daughters of the desert:— For with them was there equally good, clear, Oriental air; there was I furthest from cloudy, damp, melancholy Old-Europe!
Then did I love such Oriental maidens and other blue kingdoms of heaven, over which hang no clouds and no thoughts.
Ye would not believe how charmingly they sat there, when they did not dance, profound, but without thoughts, like little secrets, like beribboned riddles, like dessert-nuts— Many-hued and foreign, forsooth! but without clouds: riddles which can be guessed: to please such maidens I then composed an after-dinner psalm.”
Thus spake the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s shadow; and before any one answered him, he had seized the harp of the old magician, crossed his legs, and looked calmly and sagely around him:—with his nostrils, however, he inhaled the air slowly and questioningly, like one who in new countries tasteth new foreign air. Afterward he began to sing with a kind of roaring.
2.
THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE!
—Ha!
Solemnly!
In effect solemnly!
A worthy beginning!
Afric manner, solemnly!
Of a lion worthy, Or perhaps of a virtuous howl-monkey— —But it’s naught to you, Ye friendly damsels dearly loved, At whose own feet to me, The first occasion, To a European under palm-trees, A seat is now granted. Selah.
Wonderful, truly!
Here do I sit now, The desert nigh, and yet I am So far still from the desert, Even in naught yet deserted: That is, I’m swallowed down By this the smallest oasis—: —It opened up just yawning, Its loveliest mouth agape, Most sweet-odoured of all mouthlets: Then fell I right in, Right down, right through—in ’mong you, Ye friendly damsels dearly loved! Selah.
Hail! hail! to that whale, fishlike, If it thus for its guest’s convenience Made things nice!—(ye well know, Surely, my learned allusion?)
Hail to its belly, If it had e’er A such loveliest oasis-belly As this is: though however I doubt about it, —With this come I out of Old-Europe, That doubt’th more eagerly than doth any Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it!
Amen!
Here do I sit now, In this the smallest oasis, Like a date indeed, Brown, quite sweet, gold-suppurating, For rounded mouth of maiden longing, But yet still more for youthful, maidlike, Ice-cold and snow-white and incisory Front teeth: and for such assuredly, Pine the hearts all of ardent date-fruits. Selah.
To the there-named south-fruits now, Similar, all-too-similar, Do I lie here; by little Flying insects And also by yet littler, Foolisher, and peccabler Wishes and phantasies,— Environed by you, Ye silent, presentientest Maiden-kittens, Dudu and Suleika, —ROUNDSPHINXED, that into one word I may crowd much feeling: (Forgive me, O God, All such speech-sinning!)
—Sit I here the best of air sniffling, Paradisal air, truly, Bright and buoyant air, golden-mottled, As goodly air as ever From lunar orb downfell— Be it by hazard, Or supervened it by arrogancy?
As the ancient poets relate it.
But doubter, I’m now calling it In question: with this do I come indeed Out of Europe, That doubt’th more eagerly than doth any Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it!
Amen.
This the finest air drinking, With nostrils out-swelled like goblets, Lacking future, lacking remembrances Thus do I sit here, ye Friendly damsels dearly loved, And look at the palm-tree there, How it, to a dance-girl, like, Doth bow and bend and on its haunches bob, —One doth it too, when one view’th it long!— To a dance-girl like, who as it seem’th to me, Too long, and dangerously persistent, Always, always, just on SINGLE leg hath stood?
—Then forgot she thereby, as it seem’th to me, The OTHER leg?
For vainly I, at least, Did search for the amissing Fellow-jewel —Namely, the other leg— In the sanctified precincts, Nigh her very dearest, very tenderest, Flapping and fluttering and flickering skirting.
Yea, if ye should, ye beauteous friendly ones, Quite take my word: She hath, alas! LOST it!
Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu!
It is away!
For ever away!
The other leg!
Oh, pity for that loveliest other leg!
Where may it now tarry, all-forsaken weeping?
The lonesomest leg?
In fear perhaps before a Furious, yellow, blond and curled Leonine monster? Or perhaps even Gnawed away, nibbled badly— Most wretched, woeful! woeful! nibbled badly! Selah.
Oh, weep ye not, Gentle spirits!
Weep ye not, ye Ye sweetwood-heart Purselets!
Weep ye no more, Pallid Dudu!
Be a man, Suleika! Bold! Bold!
—Or else should there perhaps Something strengthening, heart-strengthening, Here most proper be?
Some inspiring text?
Some solemn exhortation?— Ha! Up now! honour!
Moral honour! European honour!
Blow again, continue, Bellows-box of virtue!
Ha!
Once more thy roaring, Thy moral roaring!
As a virtuous lion Nigh the daughters of deserts roaring!
Ye very dearest maidens, Is more than every European fervour, European hot-hunger!
And now do I stand here, As European, I can’t be different, God’s help to me!
Amen!
THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE!
LXXVII. THE AWAKENING.
1.
After the song of the wanderer and shadow, the cave became all at once full of noise and laughter: and since the assembled guests all spake simultaneously, and even the ass, encouraged thereby, no longer remained silent, a little aversion and scorn for his visitors came over Zarathustra, although he rejoiced at their gladness. For it seemed to him a sign of convalescence. So he slipped out into the open air and spake to his animals.
“Whither hath their distress now gone?” said he, and already did he himself feel relieved of his petty disgust—“with me, it seemeth that they have unlearned their cries of distress!
—Though, alas! not yet their crying.” And Zarathustra stopped his ears, for just then did the YE-A of the ass mix strangely with the noisy jubilation of those higher men.
“They are merry,” he began again, “and who knoweth? perhaps at their host’s expense; and if they have learned of me to laugh, still it is not MY laughter they have learned.
But what matter about that! They are old people: they recover in their own way, they laugh in their own way; mine ears have already endured worse and have not become peevish.
This day is a victory: he already yieldeth, he fleeth, THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY, mine old arch-enemy! How well this day is about to end, which began so badly and gloomily!
And it is ABOUT TO end. Already cometh the evening: over the sea rideth it hither, the good rider! How it bobbeth, the blessed one, the home-returning one, in its purple saddles!
The sky gazeth brightly thereon, the world lieth deep. Oh, all ye strange ones who have come to me, it is already worth while to have lived with me!”
Thus spake Zarathustra. And again came the cries and laughter of the higher men out of the cave: then began he anew: “They bite at it, my bait taketh, there departeth also from them their enemy, the spirit of gravity. Now do they learn to laugh at themselves: do I hear rightly?
My virile food taketh effect, my strong and savoury sayings: and verily, I did not nourish them with flatulent vegetables! But with warrior-food, with conqueror-food: new desires did I awaken.
New hopes are in their arms and legs, their hearts expand. They find new words, soon will their spirits breathe wantonness.
Such food may sure enough not be proper for children, nor even for longing girls old and young. One persuadeth their bowels otherwise; I am not their physician and teacher.
The DISGUST departeth from these higher men; well! that is my victory.
In my domain they become assured; all stupid shame fleeth away; they empty themselves.
They empty their hearts, good times return unto them, they keep holiday and ruminate,—they become THANKFUL.
THAT do I take as the best sign: they become thankful. Not long will it be ere they devise festivals, and put up memorials to their old joys.
They are CONVALESCENTS!” Thus spake Zarathustra joyfully to his heart and gazed outward; his animals, however, pressed up to him, and honoured his happiness and his silence.
2.
All on a sudden however, Zarathustra’s ear was frightened: for the cave which had hitherto been full of noise and laughter, became all at once still as death;—his nose, however, smelt a sweet-scented vapour and incense-odour, as if from burning pine-cones.
“What happeneth? What are they about?” he asked himself, and stole up to the entrance, that he might be able unobserved to see his guests.
But wonder upon wonder! what was he then obliged to behold with his own eyes!
“They have all of them become PIOUS again, they PRAY, they are mad!”—said he, and was astonished beyond measure. And forsooth! all these higher men, the two kings, the pope out of service, the evil magician, the voluntary beggar, the wanderer and shadow, the old soothsayer, the spiritually conscientious one, and the ugliest man—they all lay on their knees like children and credulous old women, and worshipped the ass. And just then began the ugliest man to gurgle and snort, as if something unutterable in him tried to find expression; when, however, he had actually found words, behold! it was a pious, strange litany in praise of the adored and censed ass. And the litany sounded thus: Amen! And glory and honour and wisdom and thanks and praise and strength be to our God, from everlasting to everlasting!
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
He carrieth our burdens, he hath taken upon him the form of a servant, he is patient of heart and never saith Nay; and he who loveth his God chastiseth him.
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
He speaketh not: except that he ever saith Yea to the world which he created: thus doth he extol his world. It is his artfulness that speaketh not: thus is he rarely found wrong.
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
Uncomely goeth he through the world. Grey is the favourite colour in which he wrappeth his virtue. Hath he spirit, then doth he conceal it; every one, however, believeth in his long ears.
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
What hidden wisdom it is to wear long ears, and only to say Yea and never Nay! Hath he not created the world in his own image, namely, as stupid as possible?
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
Thou goest straight and crooked ways; it concerneth thee little what seemeth straight or crooked unto us men. Beyond good and evil is thy domain. It is thine innocence not to know what innocence is.
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
Lo! how thou spurnest none from thee, neither beggars nor kings. Thou sufferest little children to come unto thee, and when the bad boys decoy thee, then sayest thou simply, YE-A.
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
Thou lovest she-asses and fresh figs, thou art no food-despiser. A thistle tickleth thy heart when thou chancest to be hungry. There is the wisdom of a God therein.
—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.
LXXVIII. THE ASS-FESTIVAL.
1.
At this place in the litany, however, Zarathustra could no longer control himself; he himself cried out YE-A, louder even than the ass, and sprang into the midst of his maddened guests. “Whatever are you about, ye grown-up children?” he exclaimed, pulling up the praying ones from the ground. “Alas, if any one else, except Zarathustra, had seen you: Every one would think you the worst blasphemers, or the very foolishest old women, with your new belief!
And thou thyself, thou old pope, how is it in accordance with thee, to adore an ass in such a manner as God?”— “O Zarathustra,” answered the pope, “forgive me, but in divine matters I am more enlightened even than thou. And it is right that it should be so.
Better to adore God so, in this form, than in no form at all! Think over this saying, mine exalted friend: thou wilt readily divine that in such a saying there is wisdom.
He who said ‘God is a Spirit’—made the greatest stride and slide hitherto made on earth towards unbelief: such a dictum is not easily amended again on earth!
Mine old heart leapeth and boundeth because there is still something to adore on earth. Forgive it, O Zarathustra, to an old, pious pontiff-heart!—” —“And thou,” said Zarathustra to the wanderer and shadow, “thou callest and thinkest thyself a free spirit? And thou here practisest such idolatry and hierolatry?
Worse verily, doest thou here than with thy bad brown girls, thou bad, new believer!”
“It is sad enough,” answered the wanderer and shadow, “thou art right: but how can I help it! The old God liveth again, O Zarathustra, thou mayst say what thou wilt.
The ugliest man is to blame for it all: he hath reawakened him. And if he say that he once killed him, with Gods DEATH is always just a prejudice.”
—“And thou,” said Zarathustra, “thou bad old magician, what didst thou do! Who ought to believe any longer in thee in this free age, when THOU believest in such divine donkeyism?
It was a stupid thing that thou didst; how couldst thou, a shrewd man, do such a stupid thing!”
“O Zarathustra,” answered the shrewd magician, “thou art right, it was a stupid thing,—it was also repugnant to me.”
—“And thou even,” said Zarathustra to the spiritually conscientious one, “consider, and put thy finger to thy nose! Doth nothing go against thy conscience here? Is thy spirit not too cleanly for this praying and the fumes of those devotees?”
“There is something therein,” said the spiritually conscientious one, and put his finger to his nose, “there is something in this spectacle which even doeth good to my conscience.
Perhaps I dare not believe in God: certain it is however, that God seemeth to me most worthy of belief in this form.
God is said to be eternal, according to the testimony of the most pious: he who hath so much time taketh his time. As slow and as stupid as possible: THEREBY can such a one nevertheless go very far.
And he who hath too much spirit might well become infatuated with stupidity and folly. Think of thyself, O Zarathustra!
Thou thyself—verily! even thou couldst well become an ass through superabundance of wisdom.
Doth not the true sage willingly walk on the crookedest paths? The evidence teacheth it, O Zarathustra,—THINE OWN evidence!”
—“And thou thyself, finally,” said Zarathustra, and turned towards the ugliest man, who still lay on the ground stretching up his arm to the ass (for he gave it wine to drink). “Say, thou nondescript, what hast thou been about!
Thou seemest to me transformed, thine eyes glow, the mantle of the sublime covereth thine ugliness: WHAT didst thou do?
Is it then true what they say, that thou hast again awakened him? And why? Was he not for good reasons killed and made away with?
Thou thyself seemest to me awakened: what didst thou do? why didst THOU turn round? Why didst THOU get converted? Speak, thou nondescript!”
“O Zarathustra,” answered the ugliest man, “thou art a rogue!
Whether HE yet liveth, or again liveth, or is thoroughly dead—which of us both knoweth that best? I ask thee.
One thing however do I know,—from thyself did I learn it once, O Zarathustra: he who wanteth to kill most thoroughly, LAUGHETH.
‘Not by wrath but by laughter doth one kill’—thus spakest thou once, O Zarathustra, thou hidden one, thou destroyer without wrath, thou 2.
Then, however, did it come to pass that Zarathustra, astonished at such merely roguish answers, jumped back to the door of his cave, and turning towards all his guests, cried out with a strong voice: “O ye wags, all of you, ye buffoons! Why do ye dissemble and disguise yourselves before me!
How the hearts of all of you convulsed with delight and wickedness, because ye had at last become again like little children—namely, pious,— —Because ye at last did again as children do—namely, prayed, folded your hands and said ‘good God’!
But now leave, I pray you, THIS nursery, mine own cave, where to-day all childishness is carried on. Cool down, here outside, your hot To be sure: except ye become as little children ye shall not enter into THAT kingdom of heaven.” (And Zarathustra pointed aloft with his hands.)
“But we do not at all want to enter into the kingdom of heaven: we have become men,—SO WE WANT THE KINGDOM OF EARTH.”
3.
And once more began Zarathustra to speak. “O my new friends,” said he,— “ye strange ones, ye higher men, how well do ye now please me,— —Since ye have again become joyful! Ye have, verily, all blossomed forth: it seemeth to me that for such flowers as you, NEW FESTIVALS are required.
—A little valiant nonsense, some divine service and ass-festival, some old joyful Zarathustra fool, some blusterer to blow your souls bright.
Forget not this night and this ass-festival, ye higher men! THAT did ye devise when with me, that do I take as a good omen,—such things only the convalescents devise!
And should ye celebrate it again, this ass-festival, do it from love to yourselves, do it also from love to me! And in remembrance of me!”
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXXIX. THE DRUNKEN SONG.
1.
Meanwhile one after another had gone out into the open air, and into the cool, thoughtful night; Zarathustra himself, however, led the ugliest man by the hand, that he might show him his night-world, and the great round moon, and the silvery water-falls near his cave. There they at last stood still beside one another; all of them old people, but with comforted, brave hearts, and astonished in themselves that it was so well with them on earth; the mystery of the night, however, came nigher and nigher to their hearts. And anew Zarathustra thought to himself: “Oh, how well do they now please me, these higher men!”—but he did not say it aloud, for he respected their happiness and their silence.— Then, however, there happened that which in this astonishing long day was most astonishing: the ugliest man began once more and for the last time to gurgle and snort, and when he had at length found expression, behold! there sprang a question plump and plain out of his mouth, a good, deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all who listened to him.
“My friends, all of you,” said the ugliest man, “what think ye? For the sake of this day—_I_ am for the first time content to have lived mine entire life.
And that I testify so much is still not enough for me. It is worth while living on the earth: one day, one festival with Zarathustra, hath taught me to love the earth.
‘Was THAT—life?’ will I say unto death. ‘Well! Once more!’
My friends, what think ye? Will ye not, like me, say unto death: ‘Was THAT—life? For the sake of Zarathustra, well! Once more!’”— Thus spake the ugliest man; it was not, however, far from midnight.
And what took place then, think ye? As soon as the higher men heard his question, they became all at once conscious of their transformation and convalescence, and of him who was the cause thereof: then did they rush up to Zarathustra, thanking, honouring, caressing him, and kissing his hands, each in his own peculiar way; so that some laughed and some wept.
The old soothsayer, however, danced with delight; and though he was then, as some narrators suppose, full of sweet wine, he was certainly still fuller of sweet life, and had renounced all weariness. There are even those who narrate that the ass then danced: for not in vain had the ugliest man previously given it wine to drink. That may be the case, or it may be otherwise; and if in truth the ass did not dance that evening, there nevertheless happened then greater and rarer wonders than the dancing of an ass would have been. In short, as the proverb of Zarathustra saith: “What doth it matter!”
2.
When, however, this took place with the ugliest man, Zarathustra stood there like one drunken: his glance dulled, his tongue faltered and his feet staggered. And who could divine what thoughts then passed through Zarathustra’s soul? Apparently, however, his spirit retreated and fled in advance and was in remote distances, and as it were “wandering on high mountain-ridges,” as it standeth written, “‘twixt two seas, —Wandering ‘twixt the past and the future as a heavy cloud.” Gradually, however, while the higher men held him in their arms, he came back to himself a little, and resisted with his hands the crowd of the honouring and caring ones; but he did not speak. All at once, however, he turned his head quickly, for he seemed to hear something: then laid he his finger on his mouth and said: “COME!”
And immediately it became still and mysterious round about; from the depth however there came up slowly the sound of a clock-bell.
Zarathustra listened thereto, like the higher men; then, however, laid he his finger on his mouth the second time, and said again: “COME! COME!
IT IS GETTING ON TO MIDNIGHT!”—and his voice had changed. But still he had not moved from the spot. Then it became yet stiller and more mysterious, and everything hearkened, even the ass, and Zarathustra’s noble animals, the eagle and the serpent,—likewise the cave of Zarathustra and the big cool moon, and the night itself. Zarathustra, however, laid his hand upon his mouth for the third time, and said: COME! COME! COME! LET US NOW WANDER! IT IS THE HOUR: LET US WANDER INTO THE NIGHT!
3.
Ye higher men, it is getting on to midnight: then will I say something into your ears, as that old clock-bell saith it into mine ear,— —As mysteriously, as frightfully, and as cordially as that midnight clock-bell speaketh it to me, which hath experienced more than one man: —Which hath already counted the smarting throbbings of your fathers’ hearts—ah! ah! how it sigheth! how it laugheth in its dream! the old, deep, deep midnight!
Hush! Hush! Then is there many a thing heard which may not be heard by day; now however, in the cool air, when even all the tumult of your hearts hath become still,— —Now doth it speak, now is it heard, now doth it steal into overwakeful, nocturnal souls: ah! ah! how the midnight sigheth! how it laugheth in its dream!
—Hearest thou not how it mysteriously, frightfully, and cordially speaketh unto THEE, the old deep, deep midnight?
O MAN, TAKE HEED!
4.
Woe to me! Whither hath time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The world sleepeth— Ah! Ah! The dog howleth, the moon shineth. Rather will I die, rather will I die, than say unto you what my midnight-heart now thinketh.
Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why spinnest thou around me? Wilt thou have blood? Ah! Ah! The dew falleth, the hour cometh— —The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asketh and asketh and asketh: “Who hath sufficient courage for it?
—Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: THUS shall ye flow, ye great and small streams!”
—The hour approacheth: O man, thou higher man, take heed! this talk is for fine ears, for thine ears—WHAT SAITH DEEP MIDNIGHT’S VOICE INDEED?
5.
It carrieth me away, my soul danceth. Day’s-work! Day’s-work! Who is to be master of the world?
The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have ye already flown high enough? Ye have danced: a leg, nevertheless, is not a wing.
Ye good dancers, now is all delight over: wine hath become lees, every cup hath become brittle, the sepulchres mutter.
Ye have not flown high enough: now do the sepulchres mutter: “Free the dead! Why is it so long night? Doth not the moon make us drunken?”
Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why doth the worm still burrow? There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour,— —There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth still the heart, there burroweth still the wood-worm, the heart-worm. Ah! Ah! THE WORLD IS DEEP!
6.
Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love thy tone, thy drunken, ranunculine tone!—how long, how far hath come unto me thy tone, from the distance, from the ponds of love!
Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre! Every pain hath torn thy heart, father-pain, fathers’-pain, forefathers’-pain; thy speech hath become ripe,— —Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like mine anchorite heart—now sayest thou: The world itself hath become ripe, the grape turneth brown, —Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness. Ye higher men, do ye not feel it? There welleth up mysteriously an odour, —A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed, brown, gold-wine-odour of old happiness, —Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which singeth: the world is deep, AND DEEPER THAN THE DAY COULD READ!
7.
Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for thee. Touch me not!
Hath not my world just now become perfect?
My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me alone, thou dull, doltish, stupid day! Is not the midnight brighter?
The purest are to be masters of the world, the least known, the strongest, the midnight-souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day.
O day, thou gropest for me? Thou feelest for my happiness? For thee am I rich, lonesome, a treasure-pit, a gold chamber?
O world, thou wantest ME? Am I worldly for thee? Am I spiritual for thee? Am I divine for thee? But day and world, ye are too coarse,— —Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happiness, after deeper unhappiness, grasp after some God; grasp not after me: —Mine unhappiness, my happiness is deep, thou strange day, but yet am I no God, no God’s-hell: DEEP IS ITS WOE.
8.
God’s woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God’s woe, not at me!
What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,— —A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog, which no one understandeth, but which MUST speak before deaf ones, ye higher men! For ye do not understand me!
Gone! Gone! O youth! O noontide! O afternoon! Now have come evening and night and midnight,—the dog howleth, the wind: —Is the wind not a dog? It whineth, it barketh, it howleth. Ah! Ah!
how she sigheth! how she laugheth, how she wheezeth and panteth, the midnight!
How she just now speaketh soberly, this drunken poetess! hath she perhaps overdrunk her drunkenness? hath she become overawake? doth she ruminate?
—Her woe doth she ruminate over, in a dream, the old, deep midnight—and still more her joy. For joy, although woe be deep, JOY IS DEEPER STILL THAN GRIEF CAN BE.
9.
Thou grape-vine! Why dost thou praise me? Have I not cut thee! I am cruel, thou bleedest—: what meaneth thy praise of my drunken cruelty?
“Whatever hath become perfect, everything mature—wanteth to die!” so sayest thou. Blessed, blessed be the vintner’s knife! But everything immature wanteth to live: alas!
Woe saith: “Hence! Go! Away, thou woe!” But everything that suffereth wanteth to live, that it may become mature and lively and longing, —Longing for the further, the higher, the brighter. “I want heirs,” so saith everything that suffereth, “I want children, I do not want MYSELF,”— Joy, however, doth not want heirs, it doth not want children,—joy wanteth itself, it wanteth eternity, it wanteth recurrence, it wanteth everything eternally-like-itself.
Woe saith: “Break, bleed, thou heart! Wander, thou leg! Thou wing, fly!
Onward! upward! thou pain!” Well! Cheer up! O mine old heart: WOE SAITH: “HENCE! GO!”
10.