THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY

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WHEN ZARATHUSTRA SPOKE THESE sayings, he stood near the entrance of his cave; but with the last words he slipped away from his guests and fled for a little while into the open air.

“O pure scents around me,” he cried, “O blessed stillness around me! But where are my animals? Come here, come here, my eagle and my serpent!

“Tell me, my animals: these higher men, all of them-do they perhaps smell bad? O pure smells around me! Only now do I know and feel how I love you, my animals.”

-And Zarathustra said again: “I love you, my animals!” But the eagle and the serpent pressed close to him when he spoke these words, and looked up at him. In this attitude all three were silent together, and sniffed and sipped the good air with one another. For the air here outside was better than with the higher men.

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But hardly had Zarathustra left the cave when the old magician got up, looked cunningly about him, and said: “He is gone!

“And already, you higher men—let me tickle you with this complimentary and flattering name, as he himself does-already my evil spirit of deceit and magic attacks me, my melancholy devil,

—“who is an adversary of this Zarathustra from the bottom: forgive him for this! Now he insists on working spells before you, now he has his hour; I struggle with this evil spirit in vain.

“Of all of you, whatever verbal honors you like to assume, whether you call yourselves ‘the free spirits’ or ‘the truthful,’ or ‘the ascetics of the spirit,’ or ‘the unfettered,’ or ‘the great longers,’—

—“of all of you who like me suffer from the great disgust, for whom the old God has died and as yet no new god lies in cradles and swaddling clothes-of all of you my evil spirit and devil of sorcery is fond.

“I know you, higher men, I know him—I know also this fiend whom I love in spite of myself, this Zarathustra: he himself often seems to me like the beautiful mask of a saint,

—“like a new strange masquerade in which my evil spirit, the melancholy devil, delights—I love Zarathustra, so it often seems to me, for the sake of my evil spirit.—

“But already he attacks me and compels me, this spirit of melancholy, this evening-twilight devil: and truly, you higher men, he has a longing—

—“open your eyes!-he has a longing to come naked, whether as man or woman I do not yet know: but he comes, he compels me, ah! open your senses!

“The day is fading away, to all things the evening now comes, even to the best things; hear now and see, you higher men, what devil—man or woman-this spirit of evening-melancholy is!”

Thus spoke the old magician, looked cunningly about him and then seized his harp.

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In clarifying air, When already the dew’s comfort Wells down to the earth, Unseen, also unheard—For tender shoes wear The comforting dew, like all that gently comforts—: Do you remember then, do you remember, hot heart, How once you thirsted For heavenly tears and dew showers Singed and exhausted by thirst, While on yellow paths in the grass Wicked evening sun glances Ran about you through dark trees Blinding, glowing glances of the sun, pleased at your suffering?

“Seducer of truth? You?”—so they taunted “No! Only a poet! An animal, cunning, preying, prowling, That must lie, That must knowingly, willingly lie: Lusting for prey, Colorfully masked, A mask for itself, Prey for itself—This—the seducer of truth? No! Only fool! Only poet! Only speaking colorfully, Only shrieking colorfully from the masks of fools, Climbing around on mendacious word bridges, On colorful rainbows, between false heavens And false earths, Roving, floating about—Only fool! Only poet!

This—the seducer of truth? Not still, stiff, smooth, cold, Become a statue, A pillar of god, Not set up before temples, A God’s gatekeeper: No! an enemy to all such statues of truth, More at home in every desert than at temples, With feline mischievousness, Springing through every window Quickly! into every chance, Sniffing for every jungle, Eagerly, longingly sniffing, That you in jungles Among the mottled fierce creatures, Should run sinfully healthy and colorful and beautiful, With lustful lips, Happily mocking, happily hellish, happily bloodthirsty, Robbing, skulking, lying:—

Or like the eagle, which long, Long stares into abysses, Into its abysses:—Oh, how they circle down, Under, in, In ever deeper depths!—Then, Suddenly, with straight aim Quivering flight, They pounce on lambs, Headlong down, ravenous, Lusting for lambs, Hating all lamb souls, Grim in hatred at all that look Sheepish, lamb eyed, or curly woolled, Grey, with lambs’ sheeps’ kindness!

Thus, Eaglelike, pantherlike, Are the poet’s desires, Are your desires beneath a thousand masks, You fool! You poet!

You who have seen man As god as sheep—: To rend the god in man, Like the sheep in man, And rending to laugh—

That, that is your bliss! A panther’s and eagle’s bliss! A poet’s and fool’s bliss!

In clarifying air, When already the moon’s sickle, Green between purpled reds And envious creeps forth: -the day’s enemy, With every step secretly Into hanging rose gardens Sickling down, until they sink, Sink down palely beneath night:—So I sank once Out of my madness of truth, Out of my longing of days, Weary of day, sick from light, -Sank downwards, eveningwards, shadowwards: With one truth Scorched and thirsty: -Do you still remember, do you remember, hot heart, How you then thirsted?—That I am banished From all truth, Only fool! Only poet!