“Whoever you are, you traveller,” said he, “help a strayed one, a seeker, an old man, who may here easily come to grief!
The world here is strange to me, and remote; wild beasts also did I hear howling; and he who could have given me protection- he is himself no more.
I was seeking the pious man, a saint and an hermit, who, alone in his forest, had not yet heard of what all the world knows at present.”
“What does all the world know at present?” asked Zarathustra. “Perhaps that the old God no longer lives, in whom all the world once believed?”
“You say it,” answered the old man sorrowfully. “And I served that old God until his last hour.
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Now, however, am I out of service, without master, and yet not free; likewise am I no longer merry even for an hour, except it be in recollections.
Therefore did I ascend into these mountains, that I might finally have a festival for myself once more, as becomes an old pope and church-father: for know it, that I am the last pope!- a festival of pious recollections and divine services.
Now, however, is he himself dead, the most pious of men, the saint in the forest, who praised his God constantly with singing and mumbling.
He himself found I no longer when I found his cot- but two wolves found I therein, which howled on account of his death,- for all animals loved him. Then did I haste away.
Had I thus come in vain into these forests and mountains? Then did my heart determine that I should seek another, the most pious of all those who believe not in God-, my heart determined that I should seek Zarathustra!”
Thus spoke the hoary man, and gazed with keen eyes at him who stood before him. Zarathustra however seized the hand of the old pope and regarded it a long while with admiration.
“Lo! you venerable one,” said he then, “what a fine and long hand! That is the hand of one who has ever dispensed blessings. Now, however, does it hold fast him whom you seek, me, Zarathustra.
It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who says: ‘Who is ungodlier than I, that I may enjoy his teaching?'”-
Thus spoke Zarathustra, and penetrated with his glances the thoughts and arrear-thoughts of the old pope. At last the latter began:
“He who most loved and possessed him has now also lost him most-:
-Lo, I myself am surely the most godless of us at present? But who could rejoice at that!”-
-“You served him to the last?” asked Zarathustra thoughtfully, after a deep silence, “you know how he died? Is it true what they say, that sym-pathy choked him;
-That he saw how man hung on the cross, and could not endure it;-that his love to man became his hell, and at last his death?”- –
The old pope however did not answer, but looked aside timidly, with a painful and gloomy expression.
“Let him go,” said Zarathustra, after prolonged meditation, still look-ing the old man straight in the eye.
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“Let him go, he is gone. And though it honors you that you speak only in praise of this dead one, yet you know as well as I who he was, and that he went curious ways.”
“To speak before three eyes,” said the old pope cheerfully (he was blind of one eye), “in divine matters I am more enlightened than Zarathustra himself- and may well be so.
My love served him long years, my will followed all his will. A good servant, however, knows everything, and many a thing even which a master hides from himself.
He was a hidden God, full of secrecy. He did not come by his son oth-erwise than by secret ways. At the door of his faith stands adultery.
Whoever extolls him as a God of love, does not think highly enough of love itself. Did not that God want also to be judge? But the loving one loves irrespective of reward and requital.
When he was young, that God out of the Orient, then was he harsh and revengeful, and built himself a hell for the delight of his favorites.
At last, however, he became old and soft and mellow and pitiful, more like a grandfather than a father, but most like a tottering old grandmother.
There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney-corner, fretting on account of his weak legs, world-weary, will-weary, and one day he suffocated of his all-too-great pity.”- –
“You old pope,” said here Zarathustra interposing, “have you seen that with your eyes? It could well have happened in that way: in that way, and also otherwise. When gods die they always die many kinds of death.
Well! At all events, one way or other- he is gone! He was counter to the taste of my ears and eyes; worse than that I should not like to say against him.
I love everything that looks bright and speaks honestly. But he- you know it, you old priest, there was something of your type in him, the priest-type- he was equivocal.
He was also indistinct. How he raged at us, this wrath-snorter, because we understood him badly! But why did he not speak more clearly?
And if the fault lay in our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him badly? If there was dirt in our ears, well! who put it in them?
Too much miscarried with him, this potter who had not learned thor-oughly! That he took revenge on his pots and creations, however, be-cause they turned out badly- that was a sin against good taste.
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There is also good taste in piety: this at last said: ‘Away with such a God! Better to have no God, better to set up destiny on one’s own ac-count, better to be a fool, better to be God oneself!'”
-“What do I hear!” said then the old pope, with intent ears; “O Zarathustra, you are more pious than you believe, with such an unbelief! Some god in you has converted you to your ungodliness.
Is it not your piety itself which no longer lets you believe in a God? And your over-great honesty will yet lead you even beyond good and evil!
Behold, what has been reserved for you? you have eyes and hands and mouth, which have been predestined for blessing from eternity. One does not bless with the hand alone.
Near to you, though you profess to be the ungodliest one, I feel a hale and holy odour of long benedictions: I feel glad and grieved thereby.
Let me be your guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth shall I now feel better than with you!”-
“Amen! So shall it be!” said Zarathustra, with great astonishment; “up there leads the way, there lies the cave of Zarathustra.
Gladly would I conduct you there myself, you venerable one; for I love all pious men. But now a cry of distress calls me hastily away from you.
In my domain shall no one come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And best of all would I like to put every sorrowful one again on firm land and firm legs.
Who, however, could take your melancholy off your shoulders? For that I am too weak. Long, verily, should we have to wait until some one re-awoke your God for you.
For that old God lives no more: he is indeed dead.”-Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 7 The Ugliest Man
-AND again did Zarathustra’s feet run through mountains and forests, and his eyes sought and sought, but nowhere was he to be seen whom they wanted to see- the sorely distressed sufferer and crier. On the whole way, however, he rejoiced in his heart and was full of gratitude. “What good things,” said he, “has this day given me, as amends for its bad be-ginning! What strange interlocutors have I found!
At their words will I now chew a long while as at good corn; small shall my teeth grind and crush them, until they flow like milk into my soul!”-
When, however, the path again curved round a rock, all at once the landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered into a realm of death. Here bristled aloft black and red cliffs, without any grass, tree, or bird’s voice. For it was a valley which all animals avoided, even the beasts of prey, ex-cept that a species of ugly, thick, green serpent came here to die when they became old. Therefore the shepherds called this valley: “Serpent-death.”
Zarathustra, however, became absorbed in dark recollections, for it seemed to him as if he had once before stood in this valley. And much heaviness settled on his mind, so that he walked slowly and always more slowly, and at last stood still. Then, however, when he opened his eyes, he saw something sitting by the wayside shaped like a man, and hardly like a man, something nondescript. And all at once there came over Zarathustra a great shame, because he had gazed on such a thing. Blush-ing up to the very roots of his white hair, he turned aside his glance, and raised his foot
