THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR

THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR

AFTER THIS ZARATHUSTRA RETURNED again into the mountains to the solitude of his cave and withdrew himself from men: waiting like a sower who has scattered his seed. His soul, however, became impatient and full of longing for those whom he loved: because he still had much to give them. For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love and to keep a sense of shame as a giver.

Thus months and years passed for the solitary; but his wisdom increased and caused him pain by its abundance.

One morning, however, he awoke before dawn, reflected long on his bed, and at last spoke to his heart:

“Why was I so startled in my dream that I awoke? Did not a child step up to me, carrying a mirror?

“ ‘O Zarathustra’—the child said to me—‘look at yourself in the mirror!’

“But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked, and my heart was shaken: for it was not myself I saw, but a devil’s grimace and sneering laughter.

“Truly, I understand the dream’s sign and admonition all-too-well: my teaching is in danger, weeds want to be called wheat!

“My enemies have grown powerful and have distorted the meaning of my teaching, so that my dearest ones are ashamed of the gifts I gave them.

“I have lost my friends; the hour has come to seek my lost ones!”—

With these words Zarathustra sprang up, but not like a frightened man seeking the air, rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit has moved. His eagle and serpent regarded him with amazement : for a coming happiness lit up his face like the dawn.

What has happened to me, my animals?-said Zarathustra. Have I not changed? Has not bliss come to me like a storm wind?

My happiness is foolish and will say foolish things: it is still too young—so have patience with it!

I am wounded by my happiness: all sufferers shall be physicians to me!

I may go down again to my friends and also to my enemies! Zarathustra may again speak and give and show love to the beloved!

My impatient love overflows in torrents, downward, toward sunrise and sunset. Out of silent mountains and storms of pain my soul rushes into the valleys.

I have longed and looked into the distance too long. I have belonged to solitude too long: thus I have forgotten how to be silent.

I have become mouth through and through, and the brawling of a brook from high rocks: I want to hurl my speech down into the valleys.

And let the stream of my love plunge into impassable ways! How should a stream not finally find its way to the sea!

Indeed a lake is in me, secluded and self-sufficient; but the stream of my love draws it down with it—to the sea!

I go new ways, a new speech comes to me; I grow tired, like all creators, of the old tongues. My spirit no longer wants to walk on worn out soles.

All speech runs too slowly for me—I leap into your chariot, storm! And I will whip even you with my malice!

Like a cry and a yawp I want to traverse wide seas, till I find the happy islands where my friends are dwelling:—

And my enemies among them! How I now love any one to whom I may but speak! My enemies too are part of my bliss.

And when I want to mount my wildest horse, it is always my spear that helps me up best: it is the ever-ready servant of my foot:—

The spear that I hurl at my enemies! How grateful I am to my enemies that at last I can hurl it!

The tension of my cloud was too great: between laughters of lightning I want to cast hail showers into the depths.

Violently then my chest will heave, violently it will blow its storm over the mountains: thus comes its relief

Truly, my happiness and my freedom come like a storm! But my enemies shall think that the evil one rages over their heads.

Yes, you too will be terrified, my friends, by my wild wisdom; and perhaps you will flee from it along with my enemies.

Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with shepherds’ flutes! Ah, that my lioness wisdom would learn to roar tenderly! And we have already learned so much with one another!

My wild wisdom became pregnant on lonely mountains; on the rough stones she bore her young, the youngest.

Now she runs foolishly through the harsh desert and seeks and seeks the soft grass—my old wild wisdom!

On the soft grass of your hearts, my friends!-upon your love she would bed her most dearly beloved!—

Thus spoke Zarathustra.