THE GREETING

THE GREETING

IT WAS LATE IN the afternoon when Zarathustra, after long useless searching and strolling about, again came home to his cave. But when he stood over against it, not more than twenty paces from it, the thing happened which he now least of all expected: he heard again the great cry of distress. And extraordinary! this time the cry came out of his own cave. It was a protracted, manifold, strange cry, and Zarathustra plainly distinguished that it was composed of many voices: although heard at a distance it might sound like the cry of a single mouth.

At that Zarathustra rushed forward to his cave, and behold! what a spectacle awaited him after that concert! For there sat together all 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 conscientious man of the spirit, the sorrowful soothsayer, and the ass; but the ugliest man had set a crown on his head, and had wound two purple belts around himself, for he liked, like all the ugly, to disguise himself and pretend to be beautiful. But in the midst of that melancholy company stood Zarathustra’s eagle, ruffled and disquieted, for he had been expected to answer too many questions for which his pride had no answer; the wise serpent, however, hung round his neck.

All this Zarathustra saw with great astonishment; but then he scrutinized each individual guest with gentle curiosity, read their souls and wondered again. In the meantime the assembled ones had risen from their seats, and waited respectfully for Zarathustra to speak. But Zarathustra spoke thus:

“You despairing ones! You strange! So it was your cry of distress that I heard? And now I know also where he is to be sought, whom I have sought for in vain today: the higher man—:

—“he sits in my own cave, the higher man! But why do I wonder! Haven’t I myself lured him to me by honey sacrifices and cunning bird calls of my happiness?

“But it seems to me that you are badly suited for company: you make one another’s hearts fretful, you that cry for help, when you sit here together. There is one that must come first,

—“one who will make you laugh once more, a good jovial jester, a dancer, a wind, a wild romp, some old fool:—what do you think?

“But forgive me, you despairing ones, for speaking such trivial words before you, unworthy, truly, of such guests! But you do not divine what makes my heart frolic:—

—“You yourselves do it, and the sight of you, forgive me! For every one who beholds a despairing one becomes courageous. To encourage a despairing one-every one thinks himself strong enough to do so.

“To myself you have given this power,-a good gift, my honorable guests! An excellent guest’s gift! Well, do not reprimand when I also offer you something of my own.

“This is my empire and my dominion: but that which is mine shall this evening and tonight be yours. My animals shall serve you: let my cave be your resting-place!

“No one shall despair at home and hearth with me, in my preserve I protect every one from his wild beasts. And that is the first thing I offer you: security!

“But the second thing is: my little finger. And when you have that, then take the whole hand, very well! and the heart too! Welcome here, welcome, my guests!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra and laughed with love and mischief. After this greeting his guests bowed once more and were respectfully silent; the king on the right, however, answered him in their name.

“O Zarathustra, by the way in which you have given us your hand and your greeting, we recognize you as Zarathustra. You have humbled yourself before us; you have almost injured our respect—:

—“but who could have humbled himself as you have done, with such pride? That uplifts us ourselves, it is a refreshment to our eyes and hearts.

“To see only this we would happily climb higher mountains than this. For we have come as eager sightseers, we wanted to see what brightens dim eyes.

“And behold, now all our cries of distress are finished. Now our minds and hearts are open and enraptured. Our spirits lack little to become gay.

“There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that grows more pleasingly on earth than a lofty, strong will: it is the finest growth. An entire landscape refreshes itself at one such tree.

“To the pine I compare him, O Zarathustra, who grows up like you—tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood, stately,—

—“but in the end 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 climb high mountains to see such growths?

“At your tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted also refresh themselves; seeing you even the wavering become steady and heal their hearts.

“And truly, many eyes today turn towards your mountain and your tree; a great longing has arisen, and many have learned to ask: ‘Who is Zarathustra?’

“And those into whose ears you have at any time dripped your song and your honey: all the hidden ones, the lonesome and the twosome, have simultaneously said to their hearts:

“ ‘Does Zarathustra still live? Life is no longer worthwhile, everything is the same, all is in vain: or—we must live with Zarathustra!’

“ ‘Why doesn’t he come who has so long announced himself?’ thus many people ask; ‘has solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps go to him?’

“Now it comes to pass that solitude itself becomes fragile and breaks open, like a grave that breaks open and can no longer hold its dead. Everywhere one sees the resurrected.

“Now the waves rise and rise around your mountain, 0 Zarathustra. And however high your height may be, many of them must rise up to you: your boat shall not rest much longer on dry ground.

“And that we despairing ones have now come into your cave, and already no longer despair:-it is only a sign and omen that better ones are on the way to you,—

—“for they themselves are on the way to you, the last remnant of god among men: that is, 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 you, O Zarathustra, the great hope!”

Thus spoke the king on the right, and seized the hand of Zarathustra in order to kiss it; but Zarathustra resisted his adoration and stepped back frightened, as if fleeing silently and suddenly into the far distance. But after a little while he was again at home with his guests, looked at them with clear scrutinizing eyes, and said:

“My guests, you higher men, I will speak in plain and clear German with you. It is not for you that I have waited here in these mountains.”

(“ ‘Plain and clear German?’ Good God!” said the king on the left to himself; “one sees he does not know our dear Germans, this wise man from the East!

“But he means ‘coarse German’—very well! That is not the worst taste in these days!”)

“You may, truly, all of you be higher men,” continued Zarathustra; “but for me—you 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 you are a part of me, still it is not as my right arm.

“For he who himself stands, like you, on sickly and tender legs, wishes above all to be spared, whether he is conscious of it or hides it from himself.

“My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat indulgently, nor I do spare my warriors: how then could you be fit for my warfare?

“With you I should still spoil all my victories. And many of you would tumble over if you heard only the loud beating of my drums.

“Moreover, you are not sufficiently beautiful and well-born for me. I require pure, smooth mirrors for my teachings; on your surface even my own likeness is distorted.

“On your shoulders many a burden presses, many a recollection; many an evil dwarf squats in your corners. There is hidden mob in you too.

“And though you are 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.

“You are only bridges: may higher ones pass over on you! You are steps: so do not be angry with him who climbs over 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. You yourselves are not those to 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. You have come to me only as omens that higher ones are on the way to me,—

—“not the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety, and that which you call the remnant of god;

—“No! No! Three times No! For others I wait here in these mountains, and will not lift my foot from there without them;

—“for higher ones, stronger ones, more triumphant ones, merrier ones, for such as are built squarely in body and soul: laughing lions must come!

“O my guests, you strange ones-have you yet heard nothing of my children? And that they are on the way to me?

“Speak to me of my gardens, of my happy islands, of my new beautiful race—why do you not speak to me of them?

“This guests’ present I ask of your love, that you speak to me of my children. For them I am 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 garden, these life trees of my will and of my highest hope!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and stopped suddenly in his speech: 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 were silent too and stood still and were confounded: except that the old soothsayer gestured with his hands and his features.