The Greeting

It was not until late afternoon that Zarathustra, after long, vain searching and roaming, came home to his cave again. But when he stood facing it, no more than twenty paces away, there happened what he least expected now: once again he heard the great cry of distress. And, astonishing! this time it came from his own cave. But it was a long, manifold, strange cry, and Zarathustra clearly made out that it was composed of many voices: although, heard from a distance, it might sound like the cry from a single mouth.

Then Zarathustra sprang toward his cave, and behold! what a play for the eyes awaited him after this play for the ears! For there they all sat together, the ones he had passed by during the day: the king on the right and the king on the left, the old sorcerer, the pope, the voluntary beggar, the shadow, the conscientious one of the spirit, the sad soothsayer, and the donkey; but the ugliest human being had put on a crown and wound two purple sashes around himself,—for he loved, like all ugly people, to dress up and act beautiful. But in the midst of this sorrowful company stood Zarathustra’s eagle, ruffled and restless, for he was supposed to answer too many things for which his pride had no answer; and the clever serpent hung around his neck.

All this Zarathustra beheld with great astonishment; then he examined each one of his guests with affable curiosity, read their souls, and wondered anew. Meanwhile the assembled ones had risen from their seats and were waiting with reverence for Zarathustra to speak. But Zarathustra spoke thus:

“You despairing ones! You strange ones! So it was your cry of distress I heard? And now I also know where to look for the one I looked for in vain today: the higher human—:

“—in my own cave he sits, the higher human! But why do I wonder! Did I not lure him to me myself, with honey offerings and the cunning lure-calls of my happiness?

“And yet it seems to me that you are poorly suited to one another’s company; you make each other’s hearts surly, you who cry out in distress, when you sit here together? Someone has to come first,

“—someone who makes you laugh again, a good, cheerful clown, a dancer and a wind and a madcap, some old fool:—what do you think?

“Do forgive me, you despairing ones, for speaking before you with such small words, unworthy, truly! of such guests! But you do not guess what makes my heart so mischievous:—

“—you yourselves do it, and the sight of you, forgive me! For everyone grows bold who watches one in despair. To speak encouragement to one in despair—everyone thinks himself strong enough for that.

“You gave me this strength yourselves,—a good gift, my high guests! An honest guest-gift! Well then, do not be angry now that I offer you something of mine as well.

“This here is my kingdom and my dominion: but what is mine shall be yours for this evening and this night. My animals shall serve you: let my cave be your resting place!

“In my house and home no one shall despair; in my territory I protect everyone from his wild beasts. And that is the first thing I offer you: safety!

“But the second is: my little finger. And once you have that, just take the whole hand as well, well then! and the heart besides! Welcome here, welcome, my guests!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and laughed from love and malice. After this greeting his guests bowed once more and were reverently silent; but the king on the right answered him in their name.

“By the way you offered us your hand and your greeting, O Zarathustra, we recognize you as Zarathustra. You humbled yourself before us; you almost hurt our reverence—:

“—but who could humble himself with such pride as you? That raises us up ourselves; it is a refreshment to our eyes and hearts.

“Just to see this alone we would gladly climb higher mountains than this mountain. For we came as sightseers; we wanted to see what makes dim eyes bright.

“And behold, already all our crying in distress is over. Already our minds and hearts stand open and are delighted. Little is lacking: and our courage will turn to mischief.

“Nothing more gladdening grows on earth, O Zarathustra, than a high, strong will: that is its most beautiful growth. A whole landscape is refreshed by one such tree.

“To the pine I compare whoever grows up like you, O Zarathustra: tall, silent, hard, alone, of the best, most supple wood, magnificent,—

“—but in the end reaching out with strong green branches for its dominion, asking strong questions of winds and storms and whatever is at home on the heights,

“—answering more strongly, a commander, a victor: oh, who would not climb high mountains to see such growths?

“In your tree here, O Zarathustra, even the gloomy one, the failure, is refreshed; at the sight of you even the unsettled one grows secure and heals his heart.

“And truly, toward your mountain and your tree many eyes are turned today; a great longing has set out, and many have learned to ask: who is Zarathustra?

“And whoever had ever had your song and your honey dripped into his ear: all the hidden ones, the hermits, the hermits in pairs, all at once said to their hearts:

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

“‘Why does he not come, he who announced himself so long?’ so many ask. ‘Has solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps come to him?’

“Now it happens that solitude itself grows brittle and breaks, like a grave that breaks and can no longer hold its dead. Everywhere one sees the risen.

“Now the waves are rising and rising around your mountain, O Zarathustra. And however high your height may be, many must come up to you; your boat shall not sit high and dry much longer.

“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 their way to you,—

“—for he himself is on his way to you, the last remnant of God among human beings, that is: all the human beings of the great longing, of the great disgust, of the great weariness,

“—all who do not want to live unless they learn to hope again—unless they learn from you, O Zarathustra, the great hope!”

Thus spoke the king on the right, and seized Zarathustra’s hand to kiss it; but Zarathustra warded off his veneration and stepped back in alarm, silent, and suddenly as if fleeing into far distances. But after a little while he was back with his guests again, looked at them with bright, searching eyes, and said:

My guests, you higher humans, I want to speak plain German with you, and plainly. It was not for you that I was waiting here in these mountains.

(“Plain German and plainly? God have mercy!” said the king on the left at this, aside. “You can tell he doesn’t know the dear Germans, this wise man from the East!

“But he means ‘German and coarse’—well then! These days that isn’t the worst taste yet!”)

“You may truly all be higher humans,” Zarathustra went on, “but for me—you are not high and strong enough.

“For me, that is: for the inexorable that is silent in me but will not always be silent. And if you belong to me, it is still not as my right arm.

“For whoever stands on sick and tender legs himself, as you do, wants above all, whether he knows it or hides it from himself: to be spared.

“But my arms and my legs I do not spare, I do not spare my warriors: how could you be fit for my war?

“With you I would spoil every victory for myself. And many a one of you would fall over as soon as he heard the loud sound of my drums.

“Nor are you beautiful enough for me, and well-born. I need pure, smooth mirrors for my teachings; on your surface even my own image is distorted.

“Your shoulders are pressed by many a burden, many a memory; many a wicked dwarf squats in your corners. There is hidden rabble in you too.

“And though you may be high and of a higher kind: much about you is crooked and misshapen. There is no smith in the world who could hammer you right and straight for me.

“You are only bridges: may higher ones stride across on you! You signify steps: so do not be angry with the one who climbs over you into his height!

“From your seed a genuine son and perfect heir may one day grow for me too: but that is far off. You yourselves are not those to whom my inheritance and name belong.

“It is not for you that I wait here in these mountains, not with you may I go down for the last time. You came to me only as an omen that higher ones are already on their way to me,—

“—not the human beings of the great longing, of the great disgust, of the great weariness, and what you called the remnant of God.

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

“—for higher ones, stronger ones, more victorious ones, more high-spirited ones, such as are built square in body and soul: laughing lions must come!

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

“Do speak to me of my gardens, of my blissful islands, of my new beautiful kind,—why do you not speak to me of them?

“This guest-gift I ask of your love, that you speak to me of my children. For this I am rich, for this I became poor: what did I not give away,

“—what would I not give away to have one thing: these children, this living plantation, these trees of life of my will and my highest hope!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and suddenly stopped in his speech: for his longing overcame him, and he closed his eyes and his mouth at the stirring of his heart. And all his guests too were silent and stood still and dismayed: except that the old soothsayer made signs with his hands and gestures.