THE MAGICIAN

1

But when Zarathustra had gone around a rock he saw on the same path, not far below him, a man who threw his limbs about like a maniac, and at last tumbled to the ground on his belly. “Stop!” Zarathustra said then to his heart, “he there must surely be the higher man, from him came that dreadful cry of distress,—I will see if I can help him.” But when he ran to the spot where the man lay on the ground, he found a trembling old man who stared; and all of Zarathustra’s efforts to lift him and set him again on his feet were in vain. The unfortunate one, too, did not seem to notice that someone was beside him; on the contrary, he continually looked around with pathetic gestures, like one forsaken by and isolated from all the world. At last, however, after much trembling, convulsion, and contortion, he began to wail thus:

Who warms me, who loves me still? Give hot hands! Give charcoal-warmers of the heart! Stretched out, shuddering, Like the half dead, whose feet one warms—Shaken, ah! by unknown fevers, Shivering with sharp icy frost-arrows, Hunted by you, thought! Unnamable! Veiled! Terrible! You hunter behind clouds! Struck down by your lightning bolt, You mocking eye that stares at me from the dark: —thus I lie, bent, twisted, convulsed With all eternal torture, Struck By you, cruelest hunter, You unknown—god!

Strike deeper! Strike yet once more! Stake through, break this heart! Why this torture With blunt-toothed arrows? Why do you keep looking, Not tired of human pain, Pleased to see suffering with gods’ lightning eyes? You do not want to kill, Only torture, torture? Why—torture me, You sadistic, unknown God?—Ha ha! You are stealing near? In such midnight What do you want? Speak! You crowd me, press me—Ha! far too closely! Away! Away! You hear me breathing, You overhear my heart, You jealous—Jealous of what? Away! Away! Why the ladder? Do you want in, Into my heart, Climb in, deep into my most secret Thoughts to climb? Shameless! Unknown—thief! What do you want with your stealing? What do you want with your listening? What do you want with your torturing, You torturer! You—hangman-god! Or shall I, like the dogs, Roll for you? Cringing, enraptured, beside myself, Wag with love-for you?

In vain! Stick further, Cruelest thorn! No, No dog—I am only your game, Cruelest hunter! Your proudest captive, You robber behind clouds! Speak at last! You lightning-veiled! Unknown! Speak, What do you want, highway-ambusher, from—me? What do you want, unknown—God?—What? Ransom? What do you want with ransom? Demand much—my pride advises that! And be brief—my other pride advises that!

Ha ha! Me—you want? Me? Me—entirely? ... Ha ha! And torture me, fool that you are, Racking my pride? Give love to me—who still warms me? Who still loves me?-give hot hands, Give charcoal-warmers of the heart, Give me, the loneliest, Whom ice, ah! sevenfold ice Has taught to long for enemies, For enemies themselves, Give, yes yield, Cruelest enemy, to me—yourself!

Away! He himself fled, My single last companion, My great enemy, My unknown My hangman-god!—

—No! Come back, With all your tortures! To the last of all the lonely O come back! All the streams of my tears run Their course to you! And my last heart’s flame—Flares up to you! O come back, My unknown God! My pain! My last-happiness!

2

—But here Zarathustra could no longer restrain himself, took his stick and struck the wailer with all his might. “Stop it!” he shouted at him with furious laughter, “stop this, you actor! You counterfeiter! You liar from the ground up!3 I know you well!

“I will warm your legs for you, you evil magician, for such as you I know very well how—to make things hot!”

—“Leave off,” the old man said and sprang up from the ground, “strike me no more, 0 Zarathustra! I did it only for fun!

“That kind of thing belongs to my art; it was you that I wanted to try out when I gave this performance. And truly, you have seen quite through me!

“But you too-have given me no small proof of yourself: you are hard, you wise Zarathustra! You strike hard with your ‘truths,’ your stick forces from me—this truth!”

—“Do not flatter me,” answered Zarathustra, still excited and frowning, “you actor from the ground up! You are false: why do you speak-of truth!

“You peacock of peacocks, you sea of vanity; what did you represent before me, you evil magician; whom was I meant to believe in when you wailed in this way?”

“The ascetic of the spirit,” said the old man, “it was him—I represented; you yourself once invented this expression—

“—The poet and magician who at last turns his spirit against himself, the transformed one who freezes through his evil science and conscience.

“And just admit it: it was a long while, 0 Zarathustra, before you discovered my trick and lie! You believed in my distress when you held my head with both your hands,—

“—I heard you lament ‘he has been loved too little, loved too little!’ That I so far deceived you made my malice rejoice in me.”

“You may have deceived subtler ones than I,” said Zarathustra sternly. “I am not on my guard against deceivers, I must be without caution: so my lot wants it.

“But you—must deceive: so far do I know you! You must ever be equivocal, tri-quadri-, quinquivocal! Even what you just confessed is not nearly true enough nor false enough for me!

“You bad counterfeiter, how could you do otherwise! You would even rouge your disease if you showed yourself naked to your physician.

“Thus you rouged your lie before me when you said: ‘I did so only for fun!’ There was also seriousness in it, you are something of an ascetic of the spirit!

“I divine you well: you have become the enchanter of all, but against yourself you have no lie or cunning left—you are disenchanted with yourself!

“You have reaped disgust as your one truth. No word in you is genuine any more, but your mouth is so: that is, the disgust that clings to your mouth.”—

—“Well who are you!” the old magician cried then with defiant voice, “who dares to speak thus to me, the greatest man living today?”—and a green flash shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But immediately afterward he changed, and said sadly:

“O Zarathustra, I am weary of it, I am disgusted with my arts, I am not great, why do I dissemble! But you know it well—I sought greatness!

“I wanted to appear to be a great man and persuaded many: but this lie is beyond my strength. It is breaking me.

“O Zarathustra, everything about me is a lie; but that I am breaking-this my breaking is genuine!”—

“It honors you,” said Zarathustra gloomily and looking aside, “it honors you that you sought greatness, but it betrays you too. You are not great.

“You bad old magician, that is the best and the most honest thing I honor in you, that you have become weary of yourself, and have expressed it: ‘I am not great.’

“In that I honor you as an ascetic of the spirit, and although only for the twinkling of an eye, in that one moment you were-genuine.

“But tell me, what are you looking for here in my forests and rocks? And lying down in my way, how did you want to try me?—

—in what did you test me?”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and his eyes sparkled. The old magician was silent for a while, then he said: “Did I seek to test you? I—only seek.

“O Zarathustra, I seek a genuine one, a right one, a simple one, an unequivocal one, a man of all honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint of knowledge, a great man!

“Don’t you know it, O Zarathustra? I seek Zarathustra.”

—And here there was a long silence between them; but Zarathustra became profoundly absorbed in thought, so that he shut his eyes. But afterwards coming back to his companion in the conversation, he grasped the hand of the magician and said, full of politeness and cunning:

“Well! The way leads up there, there is the cave of Zarathustra. In it you may seek him whom you would like to find.

“And ask counsel of my animals, my eagle and my serpent: they shall help you to seek. But my cave is large.

“I myself, to be sure—I have as yet seen no great man. For what is great, even the subtlest eye today is too coarse. It is the kingdom of the mob.

“I have found many who stretched and inflated themselves, and the people cried: ‘Look there, a great man!’ But what good are all bellows! In the end, wind comes out.

“At last the frog bursts which has inflated itself too long: then out comes wind. To prick a swollen one in the belly, I call that good fun. Hear that, you boys!

“Today belongs to the mob: who still knows what is great and what is small! Who could successfully seek greatness there! Only a fool: fools succeed.

“You seek for great men, you strange fool? Who taught you to? Is today the time for it? Oh, you evil seeker, why do you—seek to test me?”4—

Thus spoke Zarathustra, comforted in his heart, and went laughing on his way.