The Greeting

It was late in the afternoon only when Zarathustra, after long useless searching and strolling about, again came home to his cave. When, however, he stood over against it, not more than twenty paces therefrom, the thing happened which he now least of all expected: he heard anew the great CRY OF DISTRESS. And extraordinary! this time the cry came out of his own cave. It was a long, manifold, peculiar cry, and Zarathustra plainly distinguished that it was composed of many voices: although heard at a distance it might sound like the cry out of a single mouth.

It was late afternoon when Zarathustra finally returned to his cave, after wandering and searching in vain for a long time. But when he stood facing the cave, no more than twenty paces away, something happened that he least expected. He heard the great CRY OF DISTRESS again. And how extraordinary! This time the cry came from his own cave. It was a long, strange cry with many sounds. Zarathustra could clearly tell that it was made up of many voices, although from a distance it might have sounded like a cry from a single mouth.

Thereupon Zarathustra rushed forward to his cave, and behold! what a spectacle awaited him after that concert! For there did they all sit together whom he had passed during the day: the king on the right and the king on the left, the old magician, the pope, the voluntary beggar, the shadow, the intellectually conscientious one, the sorrowful soothsayer, and the ass; the ugliest man, however, had set a crown on his head, and had put round him two purple girdles,—for he liked, like all ugly ones, to disguise himself and play the handsome person. In the midst, however, of that sorrowful company stood Zarathustra’s eagle, ruffled and disquieted, for it had been called upon to answer too much for which its pride had not any answer; the wise serpent however hung round its neck.

Then Zarathustra rushed to his cave, and what a sight awaited him after that concert! Everyone he had passed during the day was sitting there together: the king on the right and the king on the left, the old magician, the pope, the voluntary beggar, the shadow, the intellectually conscientious one, the sorrowful soothsayer, and the ass. The ugliest man, however, had put a crown on his head and wrapped two purple sashes around himself. Like all ugly people, he liked to disguise himself and play the handsome person. In the middle of that sorrowful company stood Zarathustra’s eagle, ruffled and uneasy. It had been asked to answer too many questions that its pride could not answer. The wise serpent, however, hung around the eagle’s neck.

All this did Zarathustra behold with great astonishment; then however he scrutinised each individual guest with courteous curiosity, read their souls and wondered anew. In the meantime the assembled ones had risen from their seats, and waited with reverence for Zarathustra to speak. Zarathustra however spake thus:

Zarathustra saw all this with great astonishment. Then he studied each guest with polite curiosity, read their souls, and wondered again. Meanwhile, the guests had risen from their seats and waited reverently for Zarathustra to speak. But Zarathustra spoke as follows:

“Ye despairing ones! Ye strange ones! So it was YOUR cry of distress that I heard? And now do I know also where he is to be sought, whom I have sought for in vain to-day: THE HIGHER MAN—:

“You despairing ones! You strange ones! Was it YOUR cry of distress that I heard? Now I also know where to look for the one I have sought in vain today: THE HIGHER MAN:”

—In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man! But why do I wonder! Have not I myself allured him to me by honey-offerings and artful lure-calls of my happiness?

The higher man is sitting in my own cave! But why am I surprised? Didn’t I lure him here myself with offerings of honey and the skillful lure calls of my happiness?

But it seemeth to me that ye are badly adapted for company: ye make one another’s hearts fretful, ye that cry for help, when ye sit here together? There is one that must first come,

But it seems to me that you are ill suited to one another’s company. You who cry for help, do you make one another’s hearts restless when you sit here together? Someone must come first,

—One who will make you laugh once more, a good jovial buffoon, a dancer, a wind, a wild romp, some old fool:—what think ye?

Someone who will make you laugh again, a cheerful clown, a dancer, a wind, a wild romp, some old fool. What do you think?

Forgive me, however, ye despairing ones, for speaking such trivial words before you, unworthy, verily, of such guests! But ye do not divine WHAT maketh my heart wanton:—

Forgive me, you despairing ones, for speaking such trivial words before you. They are truly unworthy of such guests! But you do not know WHAT makes my heart so playful:

—Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it me! For every one becometh courageous who beholdeth a despairing one. To encourage a despairing one—every one thinketh himself strong enough to do so.

You do it yourselves, and so does your appearance. Forgive me for saying so! For everyone becomes brave when they see someone in despair. Everyone thinks they are strong enough to encourage someone in despair.

To myself have ye given this power,—a good gift, mine honourable guests! An excellent guest’s-present! Well, do not then upbraid when I also offer you something of mine.

You have given me this power, my honored guests. What a good gift! An excellent gift from my guests! Well, then, do not complain when I offer you something of my own.

This is mine empire and my dominion: that which is mine, however, shall this evening and to-night be yours. Mine animals shall serve you: let my cave be your resting-place!

This is my kingdom and my domain. But what is mine will be yours this evening and tonight. My animals will serve you. Let my cave be your resting place!

At house and home with me shall no one despair: in my purlieus do I protect every one from his wild beasts. And that is the first thing which I offer you: security!

No one shall despair in my home. Within my domain, I protect everyone from their wild beasts. And that is the first thing I offer you: safety!

The second thing, however, is my little finger. And when ye have THAT, then take the whole hand also, yea, and the heart with it! Welcome here, welcome to you, my guests!”

The second thing, however, is my little finger. And when you have THAT, take my whole hand too, and my heart with it! Welcome, my guests, welcome!”

Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed with love and mischief. After this greeting his guests bowed once more and were reverentially silent; the king on the right, however, answered him in their name.

So spoke Zarathustra, laughing with love and mischief. After his greeting, his guests bowed again and fell silent in reverence. But the king on the right answered him on their behalf.

“O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast given us thy hand and thy greeting, we recognise thee as Zarathustra. Thou hast humbled thyself before us; almost hast thou hurt our reverence—:

“O Zarathustra, we recognize you by the way you offered us your hand and greeted us. You have humbled yourself before us. You have almost hurt the reverence we feel for you:

—Who however could have humbled himself as thou hast done, with such pride? THAT uplifteth us ourselves; a refreshment is it, to our eyes and hearts.

But who else could have humbled themselves as you have, with such pride? Your humility lifts us up. It refreshes our eyes and hearts.

To behold this, merely, gladly would we ascend higher mountains than this. For as eager beholders have we come; we wanted to see what brighteneth dim eyes.

Just to see this, we would gladly climb mountains higher than this one. For we came eager to see what brightens dim eyes.

And lo! now is it all over with our cries of distress. Now are our minds and hearts open and enraptured. Little is lacking for our spirits to become wanton.

And look! Our cries of distress are now all over. Our minds and hearts are open and filled with joy. Our spirits are close to becoming wild and carefree.

There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth more pleasingly on earth than a lofty, strong will: it is the finest growth. An entire landscape refresheth itself at one such tree.

Zarathustra, nothing grows more beautifully on earth than a lofty, strong will. It is the finest growth. A single such tree refreshes an entire landscape.

To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which groweth up like thee—tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood, stately,—

I compare him to the pine, Zarathustra, which grows like you: tall, silent, hardy, solitary, stately, and made of the finest, most flexible wood.

—In the end, however, grasping out for ITS dominion with strong, green branches, asking weighty questions of the wind, the storm, and whatever is at home on high places;

In the end, however, reaching for ITS own dominion with strong, green branches, asking serious questions of the wind, the storm, and whatever lives in high places;

—Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh! who should not ascend high mountains to behold such growths?

Answering with greater gravity, a commander, a victor! Oh, who would not climb high mountains to see such growths?

At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted also refresh themselves; at thy look even the wavering become steady and heal their hearts.

At your tree, Zarathustra, even the gloomy and unhealthy find refreshment. Your gaze steadies even those who waver and heals their hearts.

And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree do many eyes turn to-day; a great longing hath arisen, and many have learned to ask: ‘Who is Zarathustra?’

And truly, many eyes turn toward your mountain and your tree today. A great longing has arisen, and many have learned to ask: ‘Who is Zarathustra?’

And those into whose ears thou hast at any time dripped thy song and thy honey: all the hidden ones, the lone-dwellers and the twain-dwellers, have simultaneously said to their hearts:

And all those into whose ears you have ever dripped your song and your honey spoke to their hearts at once. All the hidden ones, those who live alone and those who live in pairs, said:

‘Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer worth while to live, everything is indifferent, everything is useless: or else—we must live with Zarathustra!’

‘Is Zarathustra still alive? Life is no longer worth living. Nothing matters, everything is useless. Or else, we must live with Zarathustra!’

‘Why doth he not come who hath so long announced himself?’ thus do many people ask; ‘hath solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps go to him?’

‘Why hasn't he come, after announcing his arrival so long ago?’ many people ask. ‘Has solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps go to him?’

Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself becometh fragile and breaketh open, like a grave that breaketh open and can no longer hold its dead. Everywhere one seeth resurrected ones.

Now even solitude becomes fragile and breaks open, like a grave that can no longer hold its dead. Everywhere you see people risen from the dead.

Now do the waves rise and rise around thy mountain, O Zarathustra. And however high be thy height, many of them must rise up to thee: thy boat shall not rest much longer on dry ground.

Now the waves rise higher and higher around your mountain, Zarathustra. And no matter how high you are, many waves must reach you. Your boat will not rest on dry ground much longer.

And that we despairing ones have now come into thy cave, and already no longer despair:—it is but a prognostic and a presage that better ones are on the way to thee,—

And we who were despairing have now come into your cave and no longer despair. This is only a sign and a warning that better people are on their way to you.

—For they themselves are on the way to thee, the last remnant of God among men—that is to say, all the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety,

For they themselves are on their way to you, the last remnant of God among men. They are all the men of great longing, great disgust, and great weariness from having had too much,

—All who do not want to live unless they learn again to HOPE—unless they learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the GREAT hope!”

All who do not want to live unless they learn to HOPE again, unless they learn the GREAT hope from you, Zarathustra!”

Thus spake the king on the right, and seized the hand of Zarathustra in order to kiss it; but Zarathustra checked his veneration, and stepped back frightened, fleeing as it were, silently and suddenly into the far distance. After a little while, however, he was again at home with his guests, looked at them with clear scrutinising eyes, and said:

The king on the right said this and took Zarathustra’s hand to kiss it. But Zarathustra stopped him and stepped back in alarm, as if fleeing silently and suddenly into the distance. After a little while, though, he was at ease with his guests again. He looked at them with clear, searching eyes and said:

“My guests, ye higher men, I will speak plain language and plainly with you. It is not for YOU that I have waited here in these mountains.”

“My guests, you higher men, I will speak plainly to you. You are not the ones I have waited for here in these mountains.”

(“‘Plain language and plainly?’ Good God!” said here the king on the left to himself; “one seeth he doth not know the good Occidentals, this sage out of the Orient!

(“‘Plain language and plainly?’ Good God!” the king on the left said to himself. “Clearly, this sage from the Orient does not know the good Westerners!

But he meaneth ‘blunt language and bluntly’—well! That is not the worst taste in these days!”)

But he means ‘blunt language, spoken bluntly’. Well! That is not the worst taste these days!”)

“Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men,” continued Zarathustra; “but for me—ye are neither high enough, nor strong enough.

“You may all be higher men,” Zarathustra continued. “But for me, you are neither high enough nor strong enough.

For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which is now silent in me, but will not always be silent. And if ye appertain to me, still it is not as my right arm.

For me, that is, for the relentless force within me that is silent now but will not always be silent. And even if you belong to me, you do not belong to me as my right arm does.

For he who himself standeth, like you, on sickly and tender legs, wisheth above all to be TREATED INDULGENTLY, whether he be conscious of it or hide it from himself.

For anyone who, like you, stands on weak and fragile legs wants above all to be TREATED INDULGENTLY. This is true whether he knows it or hides it from himself.

My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat indulgently, I DO NOT TREAT MY WARRIORS INDULGENTLY: how then could ye be fit for MY warfare?

But I do not pamper my arms and legs. I DO NOT PAMPER MY WARRIORS: how else could you be fit for MY warfare?

With you I should spoil all my victories. And many of you would tumble over if ye but heard the loud beating of my drums.

With you, I would ruin all my victories. And many of you would fall over if you heard the loud beating of my drums.

Moreover, ye are not sufficiently beautiful and well-born for me. I require pure, smooth mirrors for my doctrines; on your surface even mine own likeness is distorted.

Besides, you are not beautiful or well-born enough for me. I need pure, smooth mirrors for my teachings. Even my own reflection is distorted on your surface.

On your shoulders presseth many a burden, many a recollection; many a mischievous dwarf squatteth in your corners. There is concealed populace also in you.

Many burdens and memories weigh on your shoulders. Many mischievous dwarfs squat in your corners. A hidden crowd lives within you too.

And though ye be high and of a higher type, much in you is crooked and misshapen. There is no smith in the world that could hammer you right and straight for me.

And though you are exalted and of a higher kind, much in you is crooked and misshapen. No blacksmith in the world could hammer you straight and true for me.

Ye are only bridges: may higher ones pass over upon you! Ye signify steps: so do not upbraid him who ascendeth beyond you into HIS height!

You are only bridges. May higher ones cross over you! You are steps, so do not scold the one who climbs beyond you to his own height!

Out of your seed there may one day arise for me a genuine son and perfect heir: but that time is distant. Ye yourselves are not those unto whom my heritage and name belong.

One day, a true son and perfect heir may arise for me from your descendants. But that day is far off. You yourselves are not the ones to whom my legacy and name belong.

Not for you do I wait here in these mountains; not with you may I descend for the last time. Ye have come unto me only as a presage that higher ones are on the way to me,—

I am not waiting for you here in these mountains. I cannot descend with you for the last time. You have come to me only as a sign that higher ones are on their way to me.

—NOT the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety, and that which ye call the remnant of God;

NOT the men of great longing, great disgust, great weariness, and what you call the remnant of God.

—Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For OTHERS do I wait here in these mountains, and will not lift my foot from thence without them;

No! No! Three times no! I am waiting here in the mountains for OTHERS. I will not leave without them.

—For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones, merrier ones, for such as are built squarely in body and soul: LAUGHING LIONS must come!

For higher, stronger, more triumphant, and more cheerful people, for those solid in body and soul, LAUGHING LIONS must come!

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

Oh, my strange guests, have you heard nothing yet about my children? Or that they are on their way to me?

Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy Isles, of my new beautiful race—why do ye not speak unto me thereof?

Please speak to me of my gardens, my Happy Isles, my new beautiful race. Why don't you speak to me of them?

This guests’-present do I solicit of your love, that ye speak unto me of my children. For them am I rich, for them I became poor: what have I not surrendered,

I ask this gift of you in love: speak to me of my children. For them I am rich. For them I became poor. What have I not given up,

—What would I not surrender that I might have one thing: THESE children, THIS living plantation, THESE life-trees of my will and of my highest hope!”

What would I not give up to have one thing: THESE children, THIS living plantation, THESE life-trees of my will and my highest hope!”

Thus spake Zarathustra, and stopped suddenly in his discourse: for his longing came over him, and he closed his eyes and his mouth, because of the agitation of his heart. And all his guests also were silent, and stood still and confounded: except only that the old soothsayer made signs with his hands and his gestures.

Thus spoke Zarathustra, but he suddenly stopped speaking, overcome by longing. His heart was so stirred that he closed his eyes and his mouth. All his guests fell silent too, standing still and bewildered. Only the old soothsayer made signs with his hands and gestures.