Out of Service

Not long, however, after Zarathustra had freed himself from the magician, he again saw a person sitting beside the path which he followed, namely a tall, black man, with a haggard, pale countenance: THIS MAN grieved him exceedingly. “Alas,” said he to his heart, “there sitteth disguised affliction; methinketh he is of the type of the priests: what do THEY want in my domain?

Not long after Zarathustra had freed himself from the magician, he saw another person sitting beside the path. It was a tall man dressed in black, with a haggard, pale face. THIS MAN troubled him deeply. “Alas,” he said to himself, “there sits suffering in disguise. I think he is a priest. What do THEY want in my domain?

What! Hardly have I escaped from that magician, and must another necromancer again run across my path,—

What! I have hardly escaped from that magician, and now another necromancer must cross my path?

—Some sorcerer with laying-on-of-hands, some sombre wonder-worker by the grace of God, some anointed world-maligner, whom, may the devil take!

Some sorcerer who heals by laying on hands, some gloomy miracle worker by the grace of God, some anointed slanderer of the world. May the devil take him!

But the devil is never at the place which would be his right place: he always cometh too late, that cursed dwarf and club-foot!”—

But the devil is never where he should be. He always comes too late, that cursed dwarf with a clubfoot!”

Thus cursed Zarathustra impatiently in his heart, and considered how with averted look he might slip past the black man. But behold, it came about otherwise. For at the same moment had the sitting one already perceived him; and not unlike one whom an unexpected happiness overtaketh, he sprang to his feet, and went straight towards Zarathustra.

Zarathustra cursed impatiently to himself and wondered how he could slip past the black man without looking at him. But things turned out differently. At that very moment, the seated man noticed him. As if overcome by unexpected happiness, he sprang to his feet and walked straight toward Zarathustra.

“Whoever thou art, thou traveller,” said he, “help a strayed one, a seeker, an old man, who may here easily come to grief!

“Whoever you are, traveler,” he said, “help someone who has lost his way, a seeker, an old man who may easily come to harm here!

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.

This world is strange and distant to me. I also heard wild beasts howling. And the one who could have protected me is no longer alive.

I was seeking the pious man, a saint and an anchorite, who, alone in his forest, had not yet heard of what all the world knoweth at present.”

I was looking for the devout man, a saint and hermit who lived alone in his forest. He had not yet heard what all the world now knows.”

“WHAT doth all the world know at present?” asked Zarathustra. “Perhaps that the old God no longer liveth, in whom all the world once believed?”

“What does the whole world know now?” asked Zarathustra. “Perhaps that the old God, in whom the whole world once believed, is no longer alive?”

“Thou sayest it,” answered the old man sorrowfully. “And I served that old God until his last hour.

“You said it,” the old man replied sadly. “And I served that old God until his last hour.

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.

Now, however, I am out of service, without a master, yet still not free. Nor am I happy for even an hour, except when I remember the past.

Therefore did I ascend into these mountains, that I might finally have a festival for myself once more, as becometh an old pope and church-father: for know it, that I am the last pope!—a festival of pious recollections and divine services.

So I climbed into these mountains to celebrate a festival for myself once more, as befits an old pope and church father. For you should know that I am the last pope! My festival is one of pious memories and worship.

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.

But now he himself is dead, the most devout of men, the saint in the forest. He constantly praised his God in song and murmured prayers.

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.

When I found his cottage, he was no longer there. But I found two wolves inside, howling because he had died. All animals loved him. Then I hurried 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!”

Had I come into these forests and mountains for nothing? Then my heart decided I should seek another, the most devout of all those who do not believe in God. My heart decided I should seek Zarathustra!”

Thus spake 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.

The gray-haired man spoke and gazed keenly at the man before him. But Zarathustra took the old pope's hand and looked at it admiringly for a long time.

“Lo! thou venerable one,” said he then, “what a fine and long hand! That is the hand of one who hath ever dispensed blessings. Now, however, doth it hold fast him whom thou seekest, me, Zarathustra.

“Look, honored one,” he said, “what a fine, long hand! It is the hand of someone who has always given blessings. But now it holds fast the one you seek, me, Zarathustra.

It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who saith: ‘Who is ungodlier than I, that I may enjoy his teaching?’”—

I am the ungodly Zarathustra, and I say: ‘Who is more ungodly than I am, so that I may enjoy his teaching?’”

Thus spake Zarathustra, and penetrated with his glances the thoughts and arrear-thoughts of the old pope. At last the latter began:

This is what Zarathustra said, and his gaze pierced the old pope’s thoughts and hidden thoughts. At last, the old pope began:

“He who most loved and possessed him hath now also lost him most—:

“He who loved him most and had 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!”—

Look, surely I am the most godless of us right now? But who could be glad of that!”

—“Thou servedst him to the last?” asked Zarathustra thoughtfully, after a deep silence, “thou knowest HOW he died? Is it true what they say, that sympathy choked him;

“You served him to the end?” Zarathustra asked thoughtfully after a long silence. “Do you know HOW he died? Is it true what they say, that sympathy 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?”—

That he saw MAN hanging on the cross and could not bear it? That his love for man became his hell and finally caused his death?”

The old pope however did not answer, but looked aside timidly, with a painful and gloomy expression.

The old pope did not answer, however. He timidly looked away, his expression pained and gloomy.

“Let him go,” said Zarathustra, after prolonged meditation, still looking the old man straight in the eye.

“Let him go,” said Zarathustra after thinking for a long time. He was still looking the old man straight in the eye.

“Let him go, he is gone. And though it honoureth thee that thou speakest only in praise of this dead one, yet thou knowest as well as I WHO he was, and that he went curious ways.”

“Let him go, he is gone. Though it does you honor to speak only in praise of the dead man, you know as well as I do WHO he was and that he followed strange paths.”

“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.

“Speaking between three eyes,” said the old pope cheerfully. He was blind in one eye. “When it comes to divine matters, I am more enlightened than Zarathustra himself, and I have good reason to be.

My love served him long years, my will followed all his will. A good servant, however, knoweth everything, and many a thing even which a master hideth from himself.

My love served him for many years, and my will followed his in everything. But a good servant knows everything, even many things a master hides from himself.

He was a hidden God, full of secrecy. Verily, he did not come by his son otherwise than by secret ways. At the door of his faith standeth adultery.

He was a hidden God, full of secrets. Indeed, he could only have fathered his son in secret. Adultery stands at the entrance to his faith.

Whoever extolleth him as a God of love, doth not think highly enough of love itself. Did not that God want also to be judge? But the loving one loveth irrespective of reward and requital.

Anyone who praises him as a God of love does not think highly enough of love itself. Didn’t that God also want to be a judge? But a loving person loves without regard for reward or repayment.

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 favourites.

When that God from the East was young, he was harsh and vengeful. He built himself a hell to delight 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.

But in the end, he grew old, soft, mellow, and pitiful. He was more like a grandfather than a father, but most of all like a shaky 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.”—

There he sat, shriveled in the corner by the fireplace, worrying about his weak legs. He was weary of the world and weary of willing. One day, he suffocated from his all-too-great pity.”

“Thou old pope,” said here Zarathustra interposing, “hast thou seen THAT with thine 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.

“Old pope,” Zarathustra interrupted, “did you see THAT with your own eyes? It could well have happened that way, AND it could have happened another way. 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 mine ears and eyes; worse than that I should not like to say against him.

Well! In any case, one way or another, he is gone! I found him unpleasant to look at and listen to. I would not want to say anything worse about him.

I love everything that looketh bright and speaketh honestly. But he—thou knowest it, forsooth, thou old priest, there was something of thy type in him, the priest-type—he was equivocal.

I love everything that looks bright and speaks honestly. But he was ambiguous. You know, old priest, there was something of your type in him, the priest type.

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?

He was also unclear. How that wrath-snorter raged at us because we misunderstood him! But why didn’t he 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?

And if the fault was in our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him so poorly? If there was dirt in our ears, well! Who put it there?

Too much miscarried with him, this potter who had not learned thoroughly! That he took revenge on his pots and creations, however, because they turned out badly—that was a sin against GOOD TASTE.

Too much went wrong for him, this potter who had never fully learned his craft! But he took revenge on his pots and creations because they turned out badly. That was a sin against GOOD TASTE.

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 account, better to be a fool, better to be God oneself!’”

There is also good taste in faith. At last, good taste said: ‘Away with SUCH a God! Better to have no God. Better to make one’s own destiny, or be a fool, or be God oneself!’”

—“What do I hear!” said then the old pope, with intent ears; “O Zarathustra, thou art more pious than thou believest, with such an unbelief! Some God in thee hath converted thee to thine ungodliness.

“What do I hear!” said the old pope, listening intently. “O Zarathustra, even in your disbelief, you are more pious than you think! Some god within you has converted you to your godlessness.

Is it not thy piety itself which no longer letteth thee believe in a God? And thine over-great honesty will yet lead thee even beyond good and evil!

Isn’t it your own devotion that no longer lets you believe in a God? And your excessive honesty will lead you even beyond good and evil!

Behold, what hath been reserved for thee? Thou hast eyes and hands and mouth, which have been predestined for blessing from eternity. One doth not bless with the hand alone.

Look, what has been kept for you? Your eyes, hands, and mouth have been destined to bless since eternity. You do not bless with your hand alone.

Nigh unto thee, though thou professest to be the ungodliest one, I feel a hale and holy odour of long benedictions: I feel glad and grieved thereby.

Though you claim to be the most godless of all, I sense near you a wholesome, holy scent of long blessings. This makes me both glad and sad.

Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth shall I now feel better than with thee!”—

Let me stay with you for one night, Zarathustra! Right now, there is nowhere on earth I would feel better than with you!”

“Amen! So shall it be!” said Zarathustra, with great astonishment; “up thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra.

“Amen! So it shall be!” said Zarathustra in great astonishment. “The path leads up there, to Zarathustra’s cave.

Gladly, forsooth, would I conduct thee thither myself, thou venerable one; for I love all pious men. But now a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from thee.

I would gladly take you there myself, venerable one, for I love all pious men. But now a cry for help calls me away from you in haste.

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.

No one will come to harm in my domain. My cave is a safe haven. Above all, I want to help every sorrowful person find firm ground and stand on their own feet again.

Who, however, could take THY melancholy off thy shoulders? For that I am too weak. Long, verily, should we have to wait until some one re-awoke thy God for thee.

But who could lift YOUR sadness from your shoulders? I am too weak to do that. We would have to wait a long time for someone to awaken your God for you again.

For that old God liveth no more: he is indeed dead.”—

For that old God no longer lives. He is indeed dead.”

Thus spake Zarathustra.

That is what Zarathustra said.