The Cry for Help

The next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone in front of his cave, whilst his animals roved about in the world outside to bring home new food,—also new honey: for Zarathustra had spent and wasted the old honey to the very last particle. When he thus sat, however, with a stick in his hand, tracing the shadow of his figure on the earth, and reflecting—verily! not upon himself and his shadow,—all at once he startled and shrank back: for he saw another shadow beside his own. And when he hastily looked around and stood up, behold, there stood the soothsayer beside him, the same whom he had once given to eat and drink at his table, the proclaimer of the great weariness, who taught: “All is alike, nothing is worth while, the world is without meaning, knowledge strangleth.” But his face had changed since then; and when Zarathustra looked into his eyes, his heart was startled once more: so much evil announcement and ashy-grey lightnings passed over that countenance.

The next day, Zarathustra sat again on the stone in front of his cave. His animals roamed the world outside, gathering fresh food and honey to bring home. Zarathustra had used up and wasted every last bit of the old honey. As he sat there, he traced the shadow of his figure on the ground with a stick and reflected. Truly, he was not reflecting on himself or his shadow! Suddenly, he started and shrank back, for he saw another shadow beside his own. He quickly looked around and stood up. There beside him stood the soothsayer, the same man he had once given food and drink at his table. The soothsayer had proclaimed the great weariness and taught: “Everything is alike, nothing is worthwhile, the world has no meaning, knowledge strangles.” But his face had changed since then. When Zarathustra looked into his eyes, his heart was startled once more. His face bore so many signs of evil to come, and flashes of ashy-gray lightning passed over it.

The soothsayer, who had perceived what went on in Zarathustra’s soul, wiped his face with his hand, as if he would wipe out the impression; the same did also Zarathustra. And when both of them had thus silently composed and strengthened themselves, they gave each other the hand, as a token that they wanted once more to recognise each other.

The soothsayer sensed what was happening in Zarathustra’s soul. He wiped his face with his hand, as if to wipe away the impression. Zarathustra did the same. After both had silently composed and strengthened themselves, they shook hands as a sign that they wished to recognize each other once more.

“Welcome hither,” said Zarathustra, “thou soothsayer of the great weariness, not in vain shalt thou once have been my messmate and guest. Eat and drink also with me to-day, and forgive it that a cheerful old man sitteth with thee at table!”—“A cheerful old man?” answered the soothsayer, shaking his head, “but whoever thou art, or wouldst be, O Zarathustra, thou hast been here aloft the longest time,—in a little while thy bark shall no longer rest on dry land!”—“Do I then rest on dry land?”—asked Zarathustra, laughing.—“The waves around thy mountain,” answered the soothsayer, “rise and rise, the waves of great distress and affliction: they will soon raise thy bark also and carry thee away.”—Thereupon was Zarathustra silent and wondered.—“Dost thou still hear nothing?” continued the soothsayer: “doth it not rush and roar out of the depth?”—Zarathustra was silent once more and listened: then heard he a long, long cry, which the abysses threw to one another and passed on; for none of them wished to retain it: so evil did it sound.

“Welcome,” said Zarathustra. “Prophet of the great weariness, it was not for nothing that you once ate at my table as my guest. Eat and drink with me today as well, and forgive me for having a cheerful old man at your table!” “A cheerful old man?” replied the prophet, shaking his head. “But whoever you are or wish to be, Zarathustra, you have been up here long enough. Soon your boat will no longer rest on dry land!” “Am I resting on dry land?” asked Zarathustra, laughing. “The waves around your mountain,” answered the prophet, “are rising and rising. They are waves of great distress and suffering. Soon they will lift your boat too and carry you away.” Zarathustra fell silent and wondered. “Do you still hear nothing?” the prophet continued. “Does nothing rush and roar up from the depths?” Zarathustra fell silent again and listened. Then he heard a long, long cry. The abysses passed it from one to another, for none of them wanted to keep it. It sounded so evil.

“Thou ill announcer,” said Zarathustra at last, “that is a cry of distress, and the cry of a man; it may come perhaps out of a black sea. But what doth human distress matter to me! My last sin which hath been reserved for me,—knowest thou what it is called?”

“Bearer of bad news,” Zarathustra said at last, “that is a cry of distress, a man's cry. It may perhaps come from a black sea. But what does human distress matter to me? Do you know what my last sin, which has been reserved for me, is called?”

—“PITY!” answered the soothsayer from an overflowing heart, and raised both his hands aloft—“O Zarathustra, I have come that I may seduce thee to thy last sin!”—

“PITY!” the soothsayer replied, his heart overflowing. He raised both hands high. “Oh, Zarathustra, I have come to tempt you into your last sin!”

And hardly had those words been uttered when there sounded the cry once more, and longer and more alarming than before—also much nearer. “Hearest thou? Hearest thou, O Zarathustra?” called out the soothsayer, “the cry concerneth thee, it calleth thee: Come, come, come; it is time, it is the highest time!”—

The words had hardly been spoken when the cry sounded again. It was longer and more alarming than before, and much nearer. “Do you hear it? Do you hear it, Zarathustra?” called the soothsayer. “The cry concerns you. It is calling you: Come, come, come. It is time, it is high time!”

Zarathustra was silent thereupon, confused and staggered; at last he asked, like one who hesitateth in himself: “And who is it that there calleth me?”

Zarathustra fell silent, confused and shaken. At last he asked, as if uncertain: “And who is calling me there?”

“But thou knowest it, certainly,” answered the soothsayer warmly, “why dost thou conceal thyself? It is THE HIGHER MAN that crieth for thee!”

“But surely you know,” the soothsayer answered warmly. “Why are you hiding? It is THE HIGHER MAN who is crying out for you!”

“The higher man?” cried Zarathustra, horror-stricken: “what wanteth HE? What wanteth HE? The higher man! What wanteth he here?”—and his skin covered with perspiration.

“The higher man?” cried Zarathustra, horrified. “What does HE want? What does HE want? The higher man! What does he want here?” His skin was covered in sweat.

The soothsayer, however, did not heed Zarathustra’s alarm, but listened and listened in the downward direction. When, however, it had been still there for a long while, he looked behind, and saw Zarathustra standing trembling.

But the soothsayer paid no attention to Zarathustra’s alarm. He kept listening to the sounds below. After it had been quiet there for a long time, he looked back and saw Zarathustra standing there, trembling.

“O Zarathustra,” he began, with sorrowful voice, “thou dost not stand there like one whose happiness maketh him giddy: thou wilt have to dance lest thou tumble down!

“O Zarathustra,” he began in a sorrowful voice, “you don't stand there like someone dizzy with happiness. You'll have to dance to keep from falling down!

But although thou shouldst dance before me, and leap all thy side-leaps, no one may say unto me: ‘Behold, here danceth the last joyous man!’

But even if you dance before me and make all your sideways leaps, no one may say to me: ‘Look, here dances the last joyful man!’

In vain would any one come to this height who sought HIM here: caves would he find, indeed, and back-caves, hiding-places for hidden ones; but not lucky mines, nor treasure-chambers, nor new gold-veins of happiness.

Anyone who came to this height looking for him would search in vain. They would find caves and caves behind them, hiding places for those in hiding. But they would find no rich mines, treasure chambers, or new veins of gold promising happiness.

Happiness—how indeed could one find happiness among such buried-alive and solitary ones! Must I yet seek the last happiness on the Happy Isles, and far away among forgotten seas?

Happiness. How could anyone find happiness among people so alone and buried alive? Must I still seek the last happiness on the Happy Isles, far away among forgotten seas?

But all is alike, nothing is worth while, no seeking is of service, there are no longer any Happy Isles!”—

But everything is the same. Nothing is worth doing. Searching does no good. There are no longer any Happy Isles!”

Thus sighed the soothsayer; with his last sigh, however, Zarathustra again became serene and assured, like one who hath come out of a deep chasm into the light. “Nay! Nay! Three times Nay!” exclaimed he with a strong voice, and stroked his beard—“THAT do I know better! There are still Happy Isles! Silence THEREON, thou sighing sorrow-sack!

So the soothsayer sighed. But with his last sigh, Zarathustra became calm and confident again, like someone emerging from a deep chasm into the light. “No! No! Three times no!” he exclaimed in a strong voice, stroking his beard. “I know better than THAT! There are still Happy Isles! Be silent ABOUT THAT, you sighing sack of sorrow!”

Cease to splash THEREON, thou rain-cloud of the forenoon! Do I not already stand here wet with thy misery, and drenched like a dog?

Stop splashing THERE, you morning rain cloud! Am I not already standing here, soaked by your misery and drenched like a dog?

Now do I shake myself and run away from thee, that I may again become dry: thereat mayest thou not wonder! Do I seem to thee discourteous? Here however is MY court.

Now I shake myself and run away from you so I can dry off again. You should not be surprised. Do I seem rude to you? But this is MY court.

But as regards the higher man: well! I shall seek him at once in those forests: FROM THENCE came his cry. Perhaps he is there hard beset by an evil beast.

But as for the higher man, well! I will look for him in those forests at once. His cry came FROM THERE. Perhaps a fierce beast is attacking him there.

He is in MY domain: therein shall he receive no scath! And verily, there are many evil beasts about me.”—

He is in MY domain. He will come to no harm here! And truly, there are many evil beasts around me.”

With those words Zarathustra turned around to depart. Then said the soothsayer: “O Zarathustra, thou art a rogue!

With those words, Zarathustra turned to leave. Then the soothsayer said: “Oh, Zarathustra, you are a rogue!

I know it well: thou wouldst fain be rid of me! Rather wouldst thou run into the forest and lay snares for evil beasts!

I know it well: you would gladly be rid of me! You would rather run into the forest and set traps for evil beasts!

But what good-will it do thee? In the evening wilt thou have me again: in thine own cave will I sit, patient and heavy like a block—and wait for thee!”

But what good will it do you? By evening, you will have me back. I will sit in your own cave, patient and heavy as a block, and wait for you!”

“So be it!” shouted back Zarathustra, as he went away: “and what is mine in my cave belongeth also unto thee, my guest!

“So be it!” Zarathustra shouted back as he walked away: “And what is mine in my cave is also yours, my guest!

Shouldst thou however find honey therein, well! just lick it up, thou growling bear, and sweeten thy soul! For in the evening we want both to be in good spirits;

But if you find honey in it, well, just lick it up, you growling bear, and sweeten your soul! For this evening, we both want to be in good spirits.

—In good spirits and joyful, because this day hath come to an end! And thou thyself shalt dance to my lays, as my dancing-bear.

In good spirits and joyful because this day has ended! And you yourself will dance to my songs, like my dancing bear.

Thou dost not believe this? Thou shakest thy head? Well! Cheer up, old bear! But I also—am a soothsayer.”

You don't believe this? You're shaking your head? Well! Cheer up, old bear! But I too can foretell the future.”

Thus spake Zarathustra.

So spoke Zarathustra.