Message #33033

[VoraX]

 70. 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
out-stretched 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 the heart! Oh, break up, break up, my heart, after such
happiness, after such a sting!
  -What? Hath not the world just now become perfect? Round and ripe?
Oh, for the golden round ring- whither doth it fly? Let me run after
it! Quick!
  Hush- -" (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and felt that he
was asleep.)
  "Up!" said he to himself, "thou sleeper! Thou noontide sleeper! Well
then, up, ye old legs! It is time and more than time; many a good
stretch of road is still awaiting you-
  Now have ye slept your fill; for how long a time? A half-eternity!
Well then, up now, mine old heart! For how long after such a sleep
mayest thou- remain awake?"
  (But then did he fall asleep anew, and his soul spake against him
and defended itself, and lay down again)- "Leave me alone! Hush!
Hath not the world just now become perfect? Oh, for the golden round
ball!-
  "Get up," said Zarathustra, "thou little thief, thou sluggard! What!
Still stretching thyself, yawning, sighing, failing into deep wells?
  Who art thou then, O my soul!" (and here he became frightened, for a
sunbeam shot down from heaven upon his face.)
  "O heaven above me," said he sighing, and sat upright, "thou
gazest at me? Thou hearkenest unto my strange soul?
  When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell down upon all
earthly things,- when wilt thou drink this strange soul-
  -When, thou well of eternity! thou joyous, awful, noontide abyss!
when wilt thou drink my soul back into thee?"

  Thus spake Zarathustra, and rose from his couch beside the tree,
as if awakening from a strange drunkenness: and behold! there stood
the sun still exactly above his head. One might, however, rightly
infer therefrom that Zarathustra had not then slept long.
                    71. The Greeting

  IT WAS late in the afternoon only when Zarathustra, after long
useless searching and strolling about, again came home to his cave.
When, however, he stood over against it, not more than twenty paces
therefrom, the thing happened which he now least of all expected: he
heard anew the great cry of distress. And extraordinary! this time the
cry came out of his own cave. It was a long, manifold, peculiar cry,
and Zarathustra plainly distinguished that it was composed of many
voices: although heard at a distance it might sound like the cry out
of a single mouth.
  Thereupon Zarathustra rushed forward to his cave, and behold! what a
spectacle awaited him after that concert! For there did they all sit
together whom he had passed during the day: the king on the right
and the king on the left, the old magician, the pope, the voluntary
beggar, the shadow, the intellectually conscientious one, the
sorrowful soothsayer, and the ass; the ugliest man, however, had set a
crown on his head, and had put round him two purple girdles,- for he
liked, like all ugly ones, to disguise himself and play the handsome
person. In the midst, however, of that sorrowful company stood
Zarathustra's eagle, ruffled and disquieted, for it had been called
upon to answer too much for which its pride had not any answer; the
wise serpent however hung round its neck.
  All this did Zarathustra behold with great astonishment; then
however he scrutinised each individual guest with courteous curiosity,
read their souls and wondered anew. In the meantime the assembled ones
had risen from their seats, and waited with reverence for
Zarathustra to speak. Zarathustra however spake thus:
  "Ye despairing ones! Ye strange ones! So it was your cry of distress
that I heard? And now do I know also where he is to be sought, whom
I have sought for in vain today: the higher man-:
  -In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man! But why do I wonder!
Have not I myself allured him to me by honey-offerings and artful
lure-calls of my happiness?
  But it seemeth to me that ye are badly adapted for company: ye
make one another's hearts fretful, ye that cry for help, when ye sit
here together? There is one that must first come,
  -One who will make you laugh once more, a good jovial buffoon, a
dancer, a wind, a wild romp, some old fool:- what think ye?
  Forgive me, however, ye despairing ones, for speaking such trivial
words before you, unworthy, verily, of such guests! But ye do not
divine what maketh my heart wanton:-
  -Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it me! For every
one becometh courageous who beholdeth a despairing one. To encourage a
despairing one- every one thinketh himself strong enough to do so.
  To myself have ye given this power,- a good gift, mine honourable
guests! An excellent guest's-present! Well, do not then upbraid when I
also offer you something of mine.
  This is mine empire and my dominion: that which is mine, however,
shall this evening and tonight be yours. Mine animals shall serve you:
let my cave be your resting-place!
  At house and home with me shall no one despair: in my purlieus do
I protect every one from his wild beasts. And that is the first
thing which I offer you: security!
  The second thing, however, is my little finger. And when ye have
that, then take the whole hand also, yea and the heart with it!
Welcome here, welcome to you, my guests!"
  Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed with love and mischief. After
this greeting his guests bowed once more and were reverentially
silent; the king on the right, however, answered him in their name.
  "O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast given us thy hand
and thy greeting, we recognise thee as Zarathustra. Thou hast
humbled thyself before us; almost hast thou hurt our reverence-:
  -Who however could have humbled himself as thou hast done, with such
pride? That uplifteth us ourselves; a refreshment is it, to our eyes
and hearts.
  To behold this, merely, gladly would we ascend higher mountains than
this. For as eager beholders have we come; we wanted to see what
brighteneth dim eyes.
  And lo! now is it all over with our cries of distress. Now are our
minds and hearts open and enraptured. Little is lacking for our
spirits to become wanton.
  There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth more pleasingly on
earth than a lofty, strong will: it is the finest growth. An entire
landscape refresheth itself at one such tree.
  To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which groweth up like
thee- tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood,
stately,-
  -In the end, however, grasping out for its dominion with strong,
green branches, asking weighty questions of the wind, the storm, and
whatever is at home on high places;
  -Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh! who should not
ascend high mountains to behold such growths?
  At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted also
refresh themselves; at thy look even the wavering become steady and
heal their hearts.
  And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree do many eyes turn
to-day; a great longing hath arisen, and many have learned to ask:
'Who is Zarathustra?'
  And those into whose ears thou hast at any time dripped thy song and
thy honey: all the hidden ones, the lone-dwellers and the
twain-dwellers, have simultaneously said to their hearts:
  'Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer worth while to live,
everything is indifferent, everything is useless: or else- we must
live with Zarathustra!'
  'Why doth he not come who hath so long announced himself?' thus do
many people ask; 'hath solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps
go to him?'
  Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself becometh fragile and
breaketh open, like a grave that breaketh open and can no longer
hold its dead. Everywhere one seeth resurrected ones.
  Now do the waves rise and rise around thy mountain, O Zarathustra.
And however high be thy height, many of them must rise up to thee: thy
boat shall not rest much longer on dry ground.
  And that we despairing ones have now come into thy cave, and already
no longer despair:- it is but a prognostic and a presage that better
ones are on the way to thee,-
  -For they themselves are on the way to thee, the last remnant of God
among men- that is to say, all the men of great longing, of great
loathing, of great satiety,
  -All who do not want to live unless they learn again to hope- unless
they learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the great hope!"
  Thus spake the king on the right, and seized the hand of Zarathustra
in order to kiss it; but Zarathustra checked his veneration, and
stepped back frightened, fleeing as it were, silently and suddenly
into the far distance. After a little while, however, he was again
at home with his guests, looked at them with clear scrutinising
eyes, and said:
  "My guests, ye higher men, I will speak plain language and plainly
with you. It is not for you that I have waited here in these
mountains."
  ("'Plain language and plainly?' Good God!" said here the king on the
left to himself; "one seeth he doth not know the good Occidentals,
this sage out of the Orient!
  But he meaneth 'blunt language and bluntly'- well! That is not the
worst taste in these days!")
  "Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men," continued Zarathustra;
"but for me- ye are neither high enough, nor strong enough.
  For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which is now silent in
me, but will not always be silent. And if ye appertain to me, still it
is not as my right arm.
  For he who himself standeth, like you, on sickly and tender legs,
wisheth above all to be treated indulgently, whether he be conscious
of it or hide it from himself.
  My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat indulgently, I do not
treat my warriors indulgently: how then could ye be fit for my
warfare?
  With you I should spoil all my victories. And many of you would
tumble over if ye but heard the loud beating of my drums.
  Moreover, ye are not sufficiently beautiful and well-born for me.
I require pure, smooth mirrors for my doctrines; on your surface
even mine own likeness is distorted.
  On your shoulders presseth many a burden, many a recollection;
many a mischievous dwarf squatteth in your corners. There is concealed
populace also in you.
  And though ye be high and of a higher type, much in you is crooked
and misshapen. There is no smith in the world that could hammer you
right and straight for me.
  Ye are only bridges: may higher ones pass over upon you! Ye
signify steps: so do not upbraid him who ascendeth beyond you into his
height!
  Out of your seed there may one day arise for me a genuine son and
perfect heir: but that time is distant. Ye yourselves are not those
unto whom my heritage and name belong.
  Not for you do I wait here in these mountains; not with you may I
descend for the last time. Ye have come unto me only as a presage that
higher ones are on the way to me,-
  -Not the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great
satiety, and that which ye call the remnant of God;
  -Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For others do I wait here in these
mountains, and will not lift my foot from thence without them;
  -For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones, merrier ones,
for such as are built squarely in body and soul: laughing lions must
come!
  O my guests, ye strange ones- have ye yet heard nothing of my
children? And that they are on the way to me?
  Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy Isles, of my new
beautiful race- why do ye not speak unto me thereof?
  This guests'- present do I solicit of your love, that ye speak
unto me of my children. For them am I rich, for them I became poor:
what have I not surrendered.
  What would I not surrender that I might have one thing: these
children, this living plantation, these life-trees of my will and of
my highest hope!"
  Thus spake Zarathustra, and stopped suddenly in his discourse: for
his longing came over him, and he closed his eyes and his mouth,
because of the agitation of his heart. And all his guests also were
silent, and stood still and confounded: except only that the old
soothsayer made signs with his hands and his gestures.