The Quietest Hour

What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go—alas, to go away from YOU!

What has happened to me, my friends? You see me troubled, driven away, obeying against my will, ready to leave. Alas, to leave YOU!

Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously this time doth the bear go back to his cave!

Yes, Zarathustra must retreat into solitude once more. But this time, the bear goes back to his cave without joy!

What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth this?—Ah, mine angry mistress wisheth it so; she spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to you?

What has happened to me? Who ordered this? Ah, my angry mistress wants it this way. She spoke to me. Have I ever told you her name?

Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me MY STILLEST HOUR: that is the name of my terrible mistress.

Yesterday evening, MY STILLEST HOUR spoke to me. That is the name of my terrible mistress.

And thus did it happen—for everything must I tell you, that your heart may not harden against the suddenly departing one!

And this is how it happened. I must tell you everything, so that your heart may not harden against the one who suddenly leaves!

Do ye know the terror of him who falleth asleep?—

Do you know the terror of someone falling asleep?

To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground giveth way under him, and the dream beginneth.

He is terrified to his very toes because the ground is giving way beneath him and the dream is beginning.

This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour did the ground give way under me: the dream began.

I tell you this in a parable. Yesterday, at the quietest hour, the ground gave way beneath me. The dream began.

The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath—never did I hear such stillness around me, so that my heart was terrified.

The hour hand moved on, and the clock of my life drew breath. I had never heard such stillness around me, and my heart was terrified.

Then was there spoken unto me without voice: “THOU KNOWEST IT, ZARATHUSTRA?”—

Then someone spoke to me without a voice: “DO YOU KNOW IT, ZARATHUSTRA?”

And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face: but I was silent.

I cried out in terror at the whispering, and my face went pale. But I said nothing.

Then was there once more spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest it, Zarathustra, but thou dost not speak it!”—

Then, once again, something spoke to me without a voice: “You know it, Zarathustra, but you do not say it!”

And at last I answered, like one defiant: “Yea, I know it, but I will not speak it!”

At last, I answered defiantly: “Yes, I know it, but I won’t say it!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou WILT not, Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance!”—

Then I was spoken to again without a voice: “You WILL not, Zarathustra? Is that true? Do not hide behind your defiance!”

And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: “Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it! Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my power!”

And I wept and trembled like a child and said, “Ah, I would do it, but how can I? Please spare me this! It is beyond my power!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about thyself, Zarathustra! Speak thy word, and succumb!”

Then, once again, words came to me without a voice: “What does it matter what happens to you, Zarathustra! Speak your word and perish!”

And I answered: “Ah, is it MY word? Who am I? I await the worthier one; I am not worthy even to succumb by it.”

And I answered: “Ah, is it MY word? Who am I? I am waiting for someone more worthy. I am not even worthy to be overcome by it.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about thyself? Thou art not yet humble enough for me. Humility hath the hardest skin.”—

Then someone spoke to me again without a voice: “What does it matter about you? You are not yet humble enough for me. Humility has the toughest skin.”

And I answered: “What hath not the skin of my humility endured! At the foot of my height do I dwell: how high are my summits, no one hath yet told me. But well do I know my valleys.”

And I answered: “What has the skin of my humility not endured! I live at the foot of my own heights. No one has yet told me how high my peaks are. But I know my valleys well.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “O Zarathustra, he who hath to remove mountains removeth also valleys and plains.”—

Then someone spoke to me again without a voice: “O Zarathustra, whoever must remove mountains also removes valleys and plains.”

And I answered: “As yet hath my word not removed mountains, and what I have spoken hath not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but not yet have I attained unto them.”

And I answered: “My words have not yet moved mountains, and what I have said has not reached people. I did go to them, but I have not yet reached them.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What knowest thou THEREOF! The dew falleth on the grass when the night is most silent.”—

Then, once again, a voice spoke to me without sound: “What do you know of THAT? Dew falls on the grass when the night is most silent.”

And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in mine own path; and certainly did my feet then tremble.

And I answered: “They mocked me when I found my own path and walked it. And my feet certainly trembled then.

And thus did they speak unto me: Thou forgottest the path before, now dost thou also forget how to walk!”

And so they said to me: You forgot the path before, and now you forget how to walk!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about their mockery! Thou art one who hast unlearned to obey: now shalt thou command!

Then something spoke to me again without a voice: “What does their mockery matter? You have unlearned obedience. Now you must command!

Knowest thou not who is most needed by all? He who commandeth great things.

Do you know who everyone needs most? The one who commands great things.

To execute great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to command great things.

Doing great things is difficult, but commanding great things is even harder.

This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou hast the power, and thou wilt not rule.”—

This is your most unforgivable stubbornness: you have the power, but you refuse to rule.”

And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice for all commanding.”

And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice to give any commands.”

Then was there again spoken unto me as a whispering: “It is the stillest words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps guide the world.

Then a voice spoke to me again in a whisper: “The quietest words bring the storm. Thoughts that come on the footsteps of doves guide the world.

O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus wilt thou command, and in commanding go foremost.”—

O Zarathustra, you will go as a shadow of what is to come. In this way you will command, and in commanding you will lead the way.”

And I answered: “I am ashamed.”

And I replied: “I am ashamed.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou must yet become a child, and be without shame.

Then once again, words came to me without a voice: “You must become a child again and be without shame.

The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast thou become young: but he who would become a child must surmount even his youth.”—

You still have the pride of youth. You became young late in life. But anyone who wants to become a child must overcome even their youth.”

And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, however, did I say what I had said at first. “I will not.”

I thought about it for a long time and trembled. But in the end, I said what I had said at first. “I will not.”

Then did a laughing take place all around me. Alas, how that laughing lacerated my bowels and cut into my heart!

Then laughter broke out all around me. Oh, how that laughter tore at my guts and cut into my heart!

And there was spoken unto me for the last time: “O Zarathustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not ripe for thy fruits!

And I was told for the last time: “O Zarathustra, your fruits are ripe, but you are not ripe for your fruits!

So must thou go again into solitude: for thou shalt yet become mellow.”—

So you must return to solitude, for you will yet grow mellow.”

And again was there a laughing, and it fled: then did it become still around me, as with a double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground, and the sweat flowed from my limbs.

Again, there was laughter, and it fled. Then everything around me fell silent, as if in a double silence. But I lay on the ground, sweat flowing from my limbs.

—Now have ye heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends.

Now you have heard everything, including why I must return to my solitude. I have hidden nothing from you, my friends.

But even this have ye heard from me, WHO is still the most reserved of men—and will be so!

But you have heard even this from me. I am still the most reserved of men, and I will remain so!

Ah, my friends! I should have something more to say unto you! I should have something more to give unto you! Why do I not give it? Am I then a niggard?—

Ah, my friends! I have more to say to you! I have more to give you! Why don't I give it to you? Am I stingy?

When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these words, the violence of his pain, and a sense of the nearness of his departure from his friends came over him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew how to console him. In the night, however, he went away alone and left his friends.

After Zarathustra spoke these words, he was overwhelmed by intense pain and the knowledge that he would soon leave his friends. He wept aloud, and no one knew how to comfort him. But during the night, he left his friends and went away alone.