THE STILLEST HOUR

THE STILLEST HOUR

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO me, my friends? You see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go—ah, to go away from you!

Yes, once more Zarathustra must retire to his solitude: but this time the bear goes unhappily back to his cave!

What has happened to me? Who orders this?-Ah, my angry mistress wants it so, so she told me; have ever I told you her name?

Yesterday towards evening my stillest hour spoke to me: that is the name of my terrible mistress.

And thus it happened-for I must tell you everything, so that your heart may not harden against the suddenly departing!

Do you know the terror of him who falls asleep?—

He is terrified to the very toes, because the ground gives way under him, and the dream begins.

This I speak to you in a parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour the ground gave way under me: the dream began.

The hour hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath—I had never heard such stillness around me, so that my heart was terrified.

Then voicelessly it spoke to me: “You know it, Zaratbustra?”—

And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face: but I was silent.

Then once more voiceless it spoke to me: “You know it, Zarathustra, but you do not say it!”—

And at last I answered defiantly: “Yes, I know it, but I will not say it!”

Then again voicelessly it spoke to me: “You will not, Zarathustra? Is this true? Do not hide behind your defiance!”—

And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: “Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it! Spare me this! It is beyond my strength!”

Then again voicelessly it spoke to me: “What do you matter, Zarathustra! Speak your word and break!”

And I answered: “Ah, is it my word? Who am I? I await the worthier one; I am not worthy even of being broken by it.”

Then again voicelessly it spoke to me: “What do you matter? You are not yet humble enough for me. Humility has the thickest skin.”-And I answered: “What has the skin of my humility not endured! I dwell at the foot of my height: how high my summits are no one has yet told me. But I know my valleys well.”

Then again voicelessly it spoke to me: “O Zarathustra, he who must move mountains also moves valleys and plains.”—

And I answered: “As yet my word has not moved mountains and what I have spoken has not reached man. I went, indeed, to men, but I have not yet found them.”

Then again voicelessly it spoke to me: “What do you know of that! The dew falls on the grass when the night is most silent.”—

And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in my own path; and certainly my feet trembled then.

“And thus they spoke to me: You have forgotten the way, now you also forget how to walk!”

Then again voicelessly it spoke to me: “What does their mockery matter! You have unlearned to obey: now you will command!

“Do you not know who is most needed by all? He who commands great things.

“To do great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to command great things.

“This is the most unforgivable thing in you: you have the power and you will not rule.”

And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice for command.”

Then again as a whispering it spoke to me: “It is the stillest words that bring the storm. Thoughts that come on doves’ feet guide the world.

“0 Zarathustra, you will go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus you will command and in commanding go first.”-And I answered: “I am ashamed.”

Then again voicelessly it spoke to me: “You must yet become a child and without shame.

“The pride of youth is still in you, you are late in growing young: but he who would become a child must overcome even his youth.”—

And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, however, I said what I had said at first. “I will not.”

Then laughter broke out all around me. Ah, how that laughter tore my entrails and cut open my heart!

And for the last time it spoke to me: “0 Zarathustra, your fruits are ripe, but you are not ripe for your fruits!

“So you must go again into solitude: for you will yet become mellow.”—

And again there was laughter, and it fled: then it became still around me as with a double stillness. But I lay on the ground, and the sweat flowed from my limbs.

-Now you have heard everything, and why I must return into my solitude. I have kept nothing from you, my friends.

But you have heard even this from me, who still is the most taciturn of all men—and will be so!

Ah, my friends! I should have something more to say to you, I should have something more to give to you! Why do I not give it? Am I so stingy?—

But when Zarathustra had spoken these words, the violence of his pain and a sense of the nearness of his departure from his friends overwhelmed him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew how to console him. But that night he went away alone and left his friends.