Then was there spoken to me without voice: «You know it, Zarathus-tra?»-
And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face: but I was silent.
Then was there once more spoken to me without voice: «You know it, Zarathustra, but you do not speak it!»-
And at last I answered, like one defiant: «Yes, I know it, but I will not speak it!»
Then was there again spoken to me without voice: «You will not, Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal yourself not behind your defiance!»-
And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: «Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it! Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my power!»
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Then was there again spoken to me without voice: «What matter about yourself, Zarathustra! Speak your word, and perish!»
And I answered: «Ah, is it my word? Who am I? I await the worthier one; I am not worthy even to perish by it.»
Then was there again spoken to me without voice: «What matter about yourself? you are not yet humble enough for me. Humility has the hard-est skin.»-
And I answered: «What has not the skin of my humility endured! At the foot of my height do I dwell: how high are my summits, no one has yet told me. But well do I know my valleys.»
Then was there again spoken to me without voice: «O Zarathustra, he who has to remove mountains removes also valleys and plains.»-
And I answered: «As yet has my word not removed mountains, and what I have spoken has not reached man. I went, indeed, to men, but not yet have I attained to them.»
Then was there again spoken to me without voice: «What know you thereof! 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 did my feet then tremble.
And thus did they speak to me: you forgot the path before, now do you also forget how to walk!»
Then was there again spoken to me without voice: «What matter about their mockery! you are one who have unlearned to obey: now shall you command!
Know you not who is most needed by all? He who commands great things.
To execute great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to command great things.
This is your most unpardonable obstinacy: you have the power, and you will not rule.»-
And I answered: «I lack the lion’s voice for all commanding.»
Then was there again spoken to me as a whispering: «It is the still words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps guide the world.
O Zarathustra, you shall go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus will you command, and in commanding go foremost.»-
And I answered: «I am ashamed.»
Then was there again spoken to me without voice: «You must yet be-come a child, and be without shame.
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The pride of youth is still upon you; late have you become young: but he who would become a child must overcome even his youth.»-
And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, however, did I say what I had said at first. «I will not.»
Then did a laughing take place all around me. Alas, how that laughing lacerated my bowels and cut into my heart!
And there was spoken to me for the last time: «O Zarathustra, your fruits are ripe, but you are not ripe for your fruits!
So must you go again into solitude: for you shall yet become mellow.»-And again was there a laughing, and it fled: then did it become still
around me, as with a double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground, and the sweat flowed from my limbs.
-Now have you heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends.
But even this have you heard from me, who is still the most reserved of 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 then a niggard?-
When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these words, the violence of his pain, and a sense of the nearness of his departure from his friends came over him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew how to console him. In the night, however, he went away alone and left his friends.
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Part 4 Book 3
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Chapter 1 The Wanderer
THEN, when it was about midnight, Zarathustra went his way over the ridge of the isle, that he might arrive early in the morning at the other coast; because there he meant to embark. For there was a good roadstead there, in which foreign ships also liked to anchor: those ships took many people with them, who wished to cross over from the Blessed isles. So when Zarathustra thus ascended the mountain, he thought on the way of his many solitary wanderings from youth onwards, and how many mountains and ridges and summits he had already climbed.
I am a wanderer and mountain-climber, said he to his heart. I love not the plains, and it seems I cannot long sit still.
And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience- a wander-ing will be therein, and a mountain-climbing: in the end one experiences only oneself.
The time is now past when accidents could befall me; and what could now fall to my lot which would not already be my own!
It returns only, it comes home to me at last- my own Self, and such of it as has been long abroad, and scattered among things and accidents.
And one thing more do I know: I stand now before my last summit, and before that which has been longest reserved for me. Ah, my hardest path must I ascend! Ah, I have begun my most lonesome wandering!
Yet he who is of my nature does not avoid such an hour: the hour that says to him: Now only do you go the way to your greatness! Summit and abyss- these are now comprised together!
You go the way to your greatness: now has it become your last refuge, what was hitherto your last danger!
You go the way to your greatness: it must now be your best courage that there is no longer any path behind you!
You go the way to your greatness: here shall no one steal after you! your foot itself has effaced the path behind you, and over it stands writ-ten: Impossibility.
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And if all ladders henceforth fail you, then must you learn to mount upon your own head: how could you mount upward otherwise?
Upon your own head, and beyond your own heart! Now must the gentlest in you become the hardest.
He who has always much-indulged himself, sickens at last by his much-indulgence. Praises on what makes hardy! I do not praise the land where butter and honey- flow!
To learn to look away from oneself, is necessary in order to see many things.- this hardiness is needed by every mountain-climber.
Yet he who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he ever see more of anything than its foreground!
But you, O Zarathustra, would view the ground of everything, and its background: thus must you mount even above yourself- up, upwards, until you have even your stars under you!
Yes! To look down upon myself, and even upon my stars: that only would I call my summit, that has remained for me as my last summit!-
Thus spoke Zarathustra to himself while ascending, comforting his heart with harsh maxims: for he was sore at heart as he had never been before. And when he had reached the top of the mountain-ridge, behold, there lay the other sea spread out before him; and he stood still and was long silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and starry.
I recognize my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Now has my last lonesomeness begun.
Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexa-tion! Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now go down!
Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wan-dering: therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended:
-Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest flood! So wills my fate. Well! I am ready.
Whence come the highest mountains? so did I once ask. Then did I learn that they come out of the sea.
That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their summits. Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.-
Thus spoke Zarathustra on the ridge of the mountain where it was cold: when, however, he came into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stood alone amongst the cliffs, then had he become weary on his way, and eagerer than ever before.
Everything as yet sleeps, said he; even the sea sleeps. Drowsily and strangely does its eye gaze upon me.
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But it breaths warmly- I feel it. And I feel also that it dreams. It tosses about dreamily on hard pillows.
Hark! Hark! How it groans with evil recollections! Or evil expectations?
Ah, I am sad along with you, you
