The Tree on the Hill

Zarathustra’s eye had perceived that a certain youth avoided him. And as he walked alone one evening over the hills surrounding the town called “The Pied Cow,” behold, there found he the youth sitting leaning against a tree, and gazing with wearied look into the valley. Zarathustra thereupon laid hold of the tree beside which the youth sat, and spake thus:

Zarathustra noticed that a young man was avoiding him. One evening, Zarathustra was walking alone over the hills around the town called “The Pied Cow.” He found the young man sitting against a tree, gazing wearily into the valley. Zarathustra took hold of the tree beside him and said:

“If I wished to shake this tree with my hands, I should not be able to do so.

“If I wanted to shake this tree with my hands, I wouldn't be able to.

But the wind, which we see not, troubleth and bendeth it as it listeth. We are sorest bent and troubled by invisible hands.”

But the wind, which we cannot see, troubles and bends it as it pleases. Invisible hands bend and trouble us most.”

Thereupon the youth arose disconcerted, and said: “I hear Zarathustra, and just now was I thinking of him!” Zarathustra answered:

The young man stood up, flustered, and said: “I hear Zarathustra, and I was just thinking of him!” Zarathustra replied:

“Why art thou frightened on that account?—But it is the same with man as with the tree.

“Why does that frighten you? But it is the same with man as with the tree.

The more he seeketh to rise into the height and light, the more vigorously do his roots struggle earthward, downward, into the dark and deep—into the evil.”

The more he seeks to rise into the heights and the light, the more fiercely his roots struggle downward into the earth, into the dark and deep, into evil.”

“Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth. “How is it possible that thou hast discovered my soul?”

“Yes, into evil!” cried the young man. “How could you have discovered my soul?”

Zarathustra smiled, and said: “Many a soul one will never discover, unless one first invent it.”

Zarathustra smiled and said: “You will never discover many souls unless you first invent them.”

“Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth once more.

“Yes, into evil!” the young man cried again.

“Thou saidst the truth, Zarathustra. I trust myself no longer since I sought to rise into the height, and nobody trusteth me any longer; how doth that happen?

“You spoke the truth, Zarathustra. I no longer trust myself since I tried to rise to the heights. And nobody trusts me anymore. How did that happen?

I change too quickly: my to-day refuteth my yesterday. I often overleap the steps when I clamber; for so doing, none of the steps pardons me.

I change too quickly. What I believe today disproves what I believed yesterday. I often skip steps as I climb, and none of the steps forgives me for it.

When aloft, I find myself always alone. No one speaketh unto me; the frost of solitude maketh me tremble. What do I seek on the height?

When I am high above, I am always alone. No one speaks to me. The frost of solitude makes me tremble. What am I looking for up here?

My contempt and my longing increase together; the higher I clamber, the more do I despise him who clambereth. What doth he seek on the height?

My contempt and my longing grow together. The higher I climb, the more I despise the one who climbs. What does he seek on the heights?

How ashamed I am of my clambering and stumbling! How I mock at my violent panting! How I hate him who flieth! How tired I am on the height!”

How ashamed I am of my scrambling and stumbling! How I mock my desperate panting! How I hate the one who flies! How tired I am up here on the heights!”

Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside which they stood, and spake thus:

At this point, the young man fell silent. Zarathustra looked thoughtfully at the tree beside them and said:

“This tree standeth lonely here on the hills; it hath grown up high above man and beast.

“This tree stands alone here on the hills. It has grown high above people and animals.

And if it wanted to speak, it would have none who could understand it: so high hath it grown.

And if it wanted to speak, no one would understand it, because it has grown so high.

Now it waiteth and waiteth,—for what doth it wait? It dwelleth too close to the seat of the clouds; it waiteth perhaps for the first lightning?”

Now it waits and waits. What is it waiting for? It lives too close to the seat of the clouds. Perhaps it is waiting for the first lightning?”

When Zarathustra had said this, the youth called out with violent gestures: “Yea, Zarathustra, thou speakest the truth. My destruction I longed for, when I desired to be on the height, and thou art the lightning for which I waited! Lo! what have I been since thou hast appeared amongst us? It is mine envy of thee that hath destroyed me!”—Thus spake the youth, and wept bitterly. Zarathustra, however, put his arm about him, and led the youth away with him.

When Zarathustra had said this, the young man cried out, gesturing wildly: “Yes, Zarathustra, you speak the truth. I longed for my own destruction when I wanted to reach the heights, and you are the lightning I was waiting for! Look, what have I become since you appeared among us? My envy of you has destroyed me!” The young man wept bitterly as he spoke. But Zarathustra put his arm around him and led him away.

And when they had walked a while together, Zarathustra began to speak thus:

And after they had walked together for a while, Zarathustra began to speak:

It rendeth my heart. Better than thy words express it, thine eyes tell me all thy danger.

It breaks my heart. Your eyes reveal all the danger you face better than your words do.

As yet thou art not free; thou still SEEKEST freedom. Too unslept hath thy seeking made thee, and too wakeful.

You are not yet free. You are still SEEKING freedom. Your search has left you too sleepless and too wakeful.

On the open height wouldst thou be; for the stars thirsteth thy soul. But thy bad impulses also thirst for freedom.

You want to be on the open heights, because your soul thirsts for the stars. But your bad impulses also thirst for freedom.

Thy wild dogs want liberty; they bark for joy in their cellar when thy spirit endeavoureth to open all prison doors.

Your wild dogs want freedom. They bark for joy in their cellar when your spirit tries to open all prison doors.

Still art thou a prisoner—it seemeth to me—who deviseth liberty for himself: ah! sharp becometh the soul of such prisoners, but also deceitful and wicked.

It seems to me that you are still a prisoner devising freedom for yourself. Ah, the souls of such prisoners grow sharp, but also deceitful and wicked.

To purify himself, is still necessary for the freedman of the spirit. Much of the prison and the mould still remaineth in him: pure hath his eye still to become.

The person freed in spirit still needs to purify himself. Much of the prison and its mold remain in him. His eye still needs to become pure.

Yea, I know thy danger. But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not thy love and hope away!

Yes, I know the danger you face. But by my love and hope, I urge you: do not give up your love and hope!

Noble thou feelest thyself still, and noble others also feel thee still, though they bear thee a grudge and cast evil looks. Know this, that to everybody a noble one standeth in the way.

You still feel noble, and others still see you as noble, though they resent you and give you hostile looks. Know this: a noble person stands in everyone’s way.

Also to the good, a noble one standeth in the way: and even when they call him a good man, they want thereby to put him aside.

A noble person also stands in the way of the good. Even when they call him a good man, they mean to push him aside.

The new, would the noble man create, and a new virtue. The old, wanteth the good man, and that the old should be conserved.

The noble man wants to create something new and a new virtue. The good man wants the old to be preserved.

But it is not the danger of the noble man to turn a good man, but lest he should become a blusterer, a scoffer, or a destroyer.

But the danger for the noble man is not that he will become good. It is that he will become a loudmouth, a scoffer, or a destroyer.

Ah! I have known noble ones who lost their highest hope. And then they disparaged all high hopes.

Ah! I have known noble people who lost their greatest hope. Then they spoke scornfully of all great hopes.

Then lived they shamelessly in temporary pleasures, and beyond the day had hardly an aim.

Then they lived shamelessly for passing pleasures and had hardly any aim beyond the day.

“Spirit is also voluptuousness,”—said they. Then broke the wings of their spirit; and now it creepeth about, and defileth where it gnaweth.

“Spirit is also sensual pleasure,” they said. Then the wings of their spirit broke. Now it crawls about, defiling whatever it gnaws.

Once they thought of becoming heroes; but sensualists are they now. A trouble and a terror is the hero to them.

Once they dreamed of becoming heroes, but now they live for pleasure. The hero troubles and terrifies them.

But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not away the hero in thy soul! Maintain holy thy highest hope!—

But by my love and hope, I urge you: Do not cast away the hero in your soul! Hold your highest hope sacred!

Thus spake Zarathustra.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.