THE DANCE SONG

THE DANCE SONG

ONE EVENING ZARATHUSTRA WAS walking through the forest with his disciples; and while looking for a well, behold, he came upon a green meadow peacefully surrounded with trees and bushes: on it girls were dancing together. As soon as the girls recognized Zarathustra, they stopped dancing; Zarathustra, however, approached them in a friendly way and spoke these words:

“Do not stop your dance, you lovely girls! No spoilsport, no enemy of girls, has come to you with an evil eye.

“I am God’s advocate with the devil: he, however, is the spirit of gravity. How could I, you light-footed ones, be an enemy of godlike dances? or of girls’ feet with fine ankles?

“To be sure, I am a forest and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness will find banks full of roses beneath my cypresses.

“And he will even find the little god whom girls love best: he lies beside the well, still, with closed eyes.

“Truly, he fell asleep in broad daylight, the slacker! Did he chase after butterflies too much?

“Do not be angry with me, you beautiful dancers, if I reprimand the little god somewhat! He may cry and weep-but he is laughable even when weeping!

“And with tears in his eyes he should ask you for a dance; and I myself will sing a song to his dance:

“A dance-and mocking-song on the spirit of gravity, my supreme, most powerful devil, who is said to be ‘the master of the world.’ ”—

And this is the song that Zarathustra sang while Cupid and the girls danced together:

Lately I gazed into your eye, O life! And I seemed to sink into the unfathomable.

But you pulled me out with a golden rod; you laughed mockingly when I called you unfathomable.

“All fish talk like that,” you said; “what they do not fathom is unfathomable.

“But I am merely changeable and wild and in every way a woman, and no virtuous one:

“Though I be called by you men the ‘profound,’ or ‘faithful,’ ‘eternal,’ ‘mysterious.’

But you men always endow us with your own virtues—ah, you virtuous men!”

Thus she laughed, the incredible woman; but I never believe her and her laughter when she speaks evil of herself.

And when I spoke secretly with my wild wisdom, she said to me angrily: “you will, you desire, you love, that is the only reason you praise life!”

Then I almost answered indignantly and told the truth to the angry one; and one cannot answer more indignantly than when one “tells the truth” to one’s wisdom.

For things stand thus with us three. In my heart I love only life—and truly, most when I hate her!

But that I am fond of wisdom, and often too fond, is because she reminds me so strongly of life!

She has her eye, her laugh, and even her golden fishing rod: is it my fault that both are so alike?

And when life once asked me: “Who is she then, this wisdom?”—then I said eagerly: “Ah, yes! Wisdom!

“One thirsts for her and is not satisfied, one looks at her through veils, one grasps for her through nets.

“Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the canniest old fish are still lured by her.

“She is changeable and capricious; I have often seen her bite her lip and comb against the grain of her hair.

“Perhaps she is wicked and false and altogether a woman; but when she speaks ill of herself, just then she is most seductive.”

When I had said this to life, she laughed maliciously and shut her eyes. “Of whom do you speak?” she said. “Perhaps of me?

“And if you were right—should one say that to my face! But now speak of your wisdom, too!”

Ah, and now again you have opened your eyes, O beloved life! And into the unfathomable I again seemed to sink.—

Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the girls had departed, he became sad.

“The sun has long since set,” he said at last, “the meadow is damp, and from the forest comes coolness.

“An unknown presence is about me and gazes thoughtfully. What! You still live, Zarathustra?

“Why? Wherefore? By what? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to live?—

“Ah, my friends, it is the evening that asks thus through me. Forgive me my sadness!

“Evening has come: forgive me that evening has come!”

Thus sang Zarathustra.