The Cry of Distress

The next day Zarathustra sat again on his stone in front of the cave, while the animals roamed about outside in the world so that they might bring home new food,—new honey too: for Zarathustra had used up and squandered the old honey down to the last grain. But as he sat there in this way, with a stick in his hand, tracing the shadow of his form on the earth, thinking and, truly! not about himself and his shadow—all at once he was startled and gave a jolt: for he saw beside his shadow yet another shadow. And as he quickly looked around and stood up, behold, there stood the soothsayer beside him, the same one whom he had once fed and given drink at his table, the proclaimer of the great weariness, who taught: “All is the same, nothing is worth it, the world is without meaning, knowledge chokes.” But his face had changed in the meantime; and when Zarathustra looked into his eyes, his own heart was startled once again: so many evil proclamations and ash-gray lightnings ran across that face.

The soothsayer, who had perceived what was going on in Zarathustra’s soul, wiped his hand across his face, as if he wanted to wipe it away; Zarathustra did the same. And when both of them had in this way silently composed and strengthened themselves, they gave each other their hands, as a sign that they wanted to recognize each other again.

“Be welcome,” said Zarathustra, “you soothsayer of the great weariness, it shall not be for nothing that you were once my table companion and guest. Eat and drink with me today as well, and forgive a contented old man for sitting at table with you!”—“A contented old man?” answered the soothsayer, shaking his head. “But whoever you are or want to be, O Zarathustra, you have been up here long enough,—before long your boat shall no longer sit high and dry!”—“Am I sitting high and dry, then?” asked Zarathustra, laughing.—“The waves around your mountain,” answered the soothsayer, “are rising and rising, the waves of great distress and gloom: soon they will lift your boat too and carry you away.”—At this Zarathustra was silent and wondered.—“Do you still hear nothing?” the soothsayer went on. “Is there not a roaring and rushing coming up from the depths?”—Zarathustra was silent again and listened: then he heard a long, long cry, which the abysses threw to one another and passed along, for none of them wanted to keep it: so evil did it sound.

“You wicked proclaimer,” Zarathustra said at last, “that is a cry of distress and the cry of a human being; it may well come from a black sea. But what is human distress to me! My last sin, which has been saved up for me,—do you know, perhaps, what it is called?”

—“Pity!” answered the soothsayer from an overflowing heart, and raised both hands high—“O Zarathustra, I have come to seduce you to your last sin!”—

And hardly were these words spoken when the cry rang out again, longer and more anxious than before, and already much nearer. “Do you hear? Do you hear, O Zarathustra?” cried the soothsayer. “The cry is meant for you, it is calling you: come, come, come, it is time, it is high time!”—

At this Zarathustra was silent, confused and shaken; at last he asked, like one who hesitates within himself: “And who is it that calls me there?”

“But you know it already,” answered the soothsayer vehemently, “why do you hide? It is the higher human who is crying out for you!”

“The higher human?” cried Zarathustra, seized with horror. “What does he want? What does he want? The higher human! What does he want here?”—and his skin was covered with sweat.

But the soothsayer did not answer Zarathustra’s fear; he listened and listened toward the depths. But when it remained silent there for a long time, he turned his gaze back and saw Zarathustra standing and trembling.

“O Zarathustra,” he began in a sad voice, “you do not stand there like one whose happiness makes him giddy: you will have to dance so that you do not topple over!

“But even if you wanted to dance before me and leap all your side-leaps: no one shall be able to say to me: ‘Look, here dances the last joyful human being!’

“Anyone who came up to this height looking for him would come in vain: caves he would find, no doubt, and caves behind caves, hiding places for those in hiding, but not mineshafts of happiness and treasure chambers and new gold veins of happiness.

“Happiness—how would one find happiness among such buried ones and hermits! Must I still seek the last happiness on blissful islands, and far away among forgotten seas?

“But all is the same, nothing is worth it, no seeking helps, and there are no blissful islands anymore either!”—

Thus sighed the soothsayer; but at his last sigh Zarathustra became bright and sure again, like one who comes out of a deep chasm into the light. “No! No! Three times No!” he cried in a strong voice, and stroked his beard—“That I know better! There are still blissful islands! Hush about that, you sighing sack of sorrow!

“Stop splashing about that, you raincloud in the morning! Am I not already standing here wet with your gloom and drenched like a dog?

“Now I shake myself and run away from you so that I may get dry again: you must not wonder at that! Do I seem discourteous to you? But this is my court.

“As for your higher human, though: well then! I will look for him at once in those forests: from there came his cry. Perhaps an evil beast is pressing him there.

“He is in my domain: in it he shall come to no harm! And truly, there are many evil beasts with me.”—

With these words Zarathustra turned to go. Then the soothsayer spoke: “O Zarathustra, you are a rogue!

“I know it already: you want to be rid of me! You would rather run into the forests and hunt evil beasts!

“But what good does it do you? In the evening you will have me back after all; I will be sitting in your own cave, patient and heavy as a block of wood—and waiting for you!”

“So be it!” Zarathustra called back as he went. “And whatever is mine in my cave belongs to you too, my guest!

“But should you find any honey still in there, well then! just lick it up, you growling bear, and sweeten your soul! For in the evening we both want to be in good spirits,

“—in good spirits and glad that this day has come to an end! And you yourself shall dance to my songs as my dancing bear.

“You do not believe it? You shake your head? Well then! Up! Old bear! But I too—am a soothsayer.”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.