The Sorcerer

1

But when Zarathustra turned around a rock, he saw, not far below him on the same path, a human being who was flinging his limbs about like a raving madman and at last fell flat on his belly to the ground. “Stop!” Zarathustra said then to his heart. “That one there must be the higher human; from him came that wicked cry of distress,—I will see whether he can be helped.” But when he ran up to the place where the human being lay on the ground, he found a trembling old man with staring eyes; and however hard Zarathustra tried to raise him and set him on his feet again, it was in vain. The unfortunate man did not even seem to notice that anyone was near him; instead he kept looking around with pitiful gestures, like one forsaken and left alone by all the world. But at last, after much trembling, twitching, and curling up, he began to lament thus:

Who warms me, who loves me still?
Give hot hands!
Give braziers for the heart!
Stretched out, shuddering,
Like one half dead whose feet are warmed—
Shaken, alas! by unknown fevers,
Trembling at sharp, icy arrows of frost,
Hunted by you, thought!
Unnameable! Veiled! Terrible!
You hunter behind clouds!
Struck down by your lightning,
You mocking eye that stares at me out of the dark:
—so I lie,
Bend, twist, tormented
By all eternal tortures,
Struck
By you, cruelest hunter,
You unknown—god!

Strike deeper,
Strike once more!
Stab through, break this heart!
Why this torturing
With blunt-toothed arrows?
Why do you look again,
Never tired of human torment,
With gloating lightning eyes of gods?
You do not want to kill,
Only torture, torture?
Why—torture me,
You gloating unknown god?—

Haha! You creep closer?
At such a midnight
What do you want? Speak!
You crowd me, press me—
Ha! far too close already!
Away! Away!
You hear me breathing,
You eavesdrop on my heart,
You jealous one—
But jealous of what?
Away! Away! What is the ladder for?
Do you want in,
Into my heart,
To climb in, climb into my most secret
Thoughts?
Shameless one! Unknown—thief!
What would you steal from me,
What would you overhear from me,
What would you torture out of me,
You torturer!
You—hangman god!
Or shall I, like a dog,
Roll on the ground before you?
Devoted, rapt beside myself,
Wag my—love to you?

In vain!
Stab on,
Cruelest sting! No,
No dog—I am only your game,
Cruelest hunter!
Your proudest prisoner,
You robber behind clouds…
Speak at last,
What do you want, you highwayman, from me?
You lightning-veiled one! Unknown one! Speak,
What do you want, unknown god?—

What?
Ransom?
How much ransom do you want?
Ask much—so my pride advises!
And be brief—so my other pride advises!

Haha!
Me—you want? Me?
Me—whole?

Haha!
And you torture me, fool that you are,
Torture my pride to pieces?
Give me love—who warms me still?
Who loves me still?—give hot hands,
Give braziers for the heart,
Give me, the loneliest,
Whom ice, alas! sevenfold ice
Teaches to pine even for enemies,
To pine for enemies,
Give, yes, surrender,
Cruelest enemy,
To me—yourself!…

Gone!
He himself has fled,
My last, my only companion,
My great enemy,
My unknown one,
My hangman god!…

—No!
Come back,
With all your tortures!
To the last of all the solitary
Oh come back!
All my streams of tears run
Their course to you!

And my heart’s last flame—
For you it glows!
Oh come back,
My unknown god! My pain!
My last happiness!

2

—But here Zarathustra could no longer restrain himself; he took his stick and struck at the lamenting man with all his strength. “Stop it!” he shouted at him with furious laughter. “Stop it, you actor! You counterfeiter! You liar from the ground up! I recognize you well enough!

“I will warm your legs for you, you wicked sorcerer; I know very well how—to make it hot for the likes of you!”

—“Leave off,” said the old man, and sprang up from the ground, “strike no more, O Zarathustra! I was only doing it in play!

“That sort of thing belongs to my art; I wanted to put you yourself to the test when I gave you this performance! And, truly, you have seen through me well!

“But you too—gave me no small proof of yourself: you are hard, you wise Zarathustra! Hard you strike with your ‘truths’; your cudgel forces out of me—this truth!”

—“Do not flatter,” answered Zarathustra, still agitated and with a dark look, “you actor from the ground up! You are false: why do you talk—of truth!

“You peacock of peacocks, you sea of vanity, what were you playing before me, you wicked sorcerer, in whom was I supposed to believe when you lamented in such a form?”

“The penitent of the spirit,” said the old man, “him—I was playing: you yourself once invented that word—

“—the poet and sorcerer who at last turns his spirit against himself, the transformed one who freezes to death from his evil knowledge and conscience.

“And just admit it: it took you a long time, O Zarathustra, to get behind my art and my lie! You believed in my distress when you held my head with both hands,—

“—I heard you lament, ‘He has been loved too little, loved too little!’ My malice exulted inwardly that I had deceived you so far.”

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

“But you—must deceive: that much I know of you! You must always mean two, three, four, and five things at once! Even what you just confessed was not nearly true enough or false enough for me!

“You wicked counterfeiter, how could you do otherwise! You would paint up even your illness if you showed yourself naked to your doctor.

“Just so you painted up your lie before me just now when you said: ‘I was only doing it in play!’ There was seriousness in it too; you are something of a penitent of the spirit!

“I can guess what you are: you became the enchanter of everyone, 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 of yours is genuine anymore, except your mouth: that is, the disgust that sticks to your mouth.”—

—“But who are you!” cried the old sorcerer at this in a defiant voice. “Who may speak like that to me, the greatest who lives today?”—and a green lightning shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But right afterward he was transformed and said sadly:

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

“I wanted to represent a great human being, and I persuaded many: but this lie went beyond my strength. On it I am breaking.

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

“It honors you,” Zarathustra said darkly, looking down to the side, “it honors you that you sought greatness, but it also betrays you. You are not great.

“You wicked old sorcerer, that is the best and most honest thing about you, and that I honor in you: that you grew weary of yourself and said it out loud: ‘I am not great.’

“In that I honor you as a penitent of the spirit: and even if only for a breath and a flash, for this one moment you were—genuine.

“But tell me, what are you looking for here in my forests and rocks? And when you lay down in my path, what test did you want of me?—

“—in what were you tempting me?”—

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and his eyes sparkled. The old sorcerer was silent for a while, then he said: “Was I tempting you? I—am only seeking.

“O Zarathustra, I am seeking a genuine one, a right one, a simple one, an unequivocal one, a human being of all integrity, a vessel of wisdom, a saint of knowledge, a great human being!

“Do you not know it, then, O Zarathustra? I am seeking Zarathustra.”

—And here a long silence arose between the two; but Zarathustra sank deep into himself, so that he closed his eyes. But then, returning to the one he was talking with, he grasped the sorcerer’s hand and spoke, full of courtesy and cunning:

“Well then! Up there leads the path, there lies Zarathustra’s cave. In it you may look for whomever you would like to find.

“And ask my animals for advice, my eagle and my serpent: they shall help you look. But my cave is large.

“I myself, of course—I have not yet seen a great human being. Today even the subtlest eye is coarse for what is great. It is the kingdom of the rabble.

“Many a one I have found already who stretched and puffed himself up, and the people cried: ‘Look there, a great human being!’ But what good are all the bellows! In the end the wind comes out.

“In the end a frog bursts that puffed itself up too long: then the wind comes out. To stab a swollen one in the belly, I call that a fine pastime. Hear that, you boys!

“This Today belongs to the rabble: who still knows there what is great, what is small! Who would seek greatness there with any luck! A fool alone: fools have the luck.

“You seek great human beings, you strange fool? Who taught you that? Is today the time for it? O you wicked seeker, why—do you tempt me?”—

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