The Sign

But on the morning after this night Zarathustra sprang up from his bed, girded his loins, and came out of his cave, glowing and strong, like a morning sun coming out of dark mountains.

“You great star,” he said, as he had once said, “you deep eye of happiness, what would all your happiness be if you did not have those for whom you shine!

“And if they stayed in their chambers while you are already awake and come and give and distribute: how your proud shame would be angered at that!

“Well then! they are still asleep, these higher humans, while I am awake: those are not my right companions! It is not for them that I wait here in my mountains.

“I want to go to my work, to my day: but they do not understand what the signs of my morning are; my step—is no wake-up call for them.

“They are still asleep in my cave; their dream is still chewing on my midnights. The ear that listens for me,—the ear that obeys is lacking in their limbs.”

—Zarathustra had spoken this to his heart when the sun rose: then he looked up questioningly, for he heard above him the sharp call of his eagle. “Well then!” he called up. “So it pleases me and befits me. My animals are awake, for I am awake.

“My eagle is awake and, like me, honors the sun. With eagle’s talons he reaches for the new light. You are my right animals; I love you.

“But I still lack my right human beings!”—

Thus spoke Zarathustra; but then it happened that he suddenly heard himself swarmed and fluttered around as by countless birds,—but the whirring of so many wings and the crowding around his head was so great that he closed his eyes. And truly, it fell upon him like a cloud, like a cloud of arrows that pours itself out over a new enemy. But behold, here it was a cloud of love, and over a new friend.

“What is happening to me?” thought Zarathustra in his astonished heart, and slowly let himself down on the big stone that lay beside the exit of his cave. But as he reached with his hands around him and above him and below him, and warded off the tender birds, behold, something still stranger happened to him: for in doing so he reached unawares into a thick, warm shag of hair; and at the same time a roar rang out before him,—a gentle, long lion’s roar.

“The sign is coming,” said Zarathustra, and his heart was transformed. And in truth, when it grew bright before him, there lay at his feet a yellow, mighty beast, nestling its head against his knees, unwilling to leave him for love, and behaving like a dog that finds its old master again. But the doves were no less eager with their love than the lion; and every time a dove flitted across the lion’s nose, the lion shook its head and wondered and laughed at it.

To all this Zarathustra said only one word: “My children are near, my children”—, then he became quite mute. But his heart was loosened, and tears dripped from his eyes and fell on his hands. And he no longer heeded anything and sat there motionless, no longer warding off the animals. Then the doves flew to and fro and settled on his shoulder and caressed his white hair and did not grow tired of tenderness and rejoicing. But the strong lion kept licking the tears that fell on Zarathustra’s hands, and roared and growled shyly as he did so. This is how these animals carried on.—

All this lasted a long time, or a short time: for, properly speaking, there is no time on earth for such things—. But meanwhile the higher humans in Zarathustra’s cave had woken up and were forming themselves into a procession to go out to meet Zarathustra and offer him their morning greeting: for when they awoke they had found that he was no longer among them. But when they reached the door of the cave, and the sound of their steps ran ahead of them, the lion started violently, turned away from Zarathustra all at once, and sprang, roaring wildly, at the cave; but the higher humans, when they heard it roar, all cried out as with one mouth, and fled back, and in a moment had vanished.

But Zarathustra himself, dazed and strange, rose from his seat, looked around, stood there in astonishment, questioned his heart, came to himself, and was alone. “What did I hear?” he said at last, slowly. “What just happened to me?”

And already memory came to him, and he grasped at one glance everything that had happened between yesterday and today. “Here is the stone,” he said, and stroked his beard, “on this I sat yesterday morning; and here the soothsayer came up to me, and here I first heard the cry that I heard just now, the great cry of distress.

“O you higher humans, it was of your distress that the old soothsayer prophesied to me yesterday morning,—

“—to your distress he wanted to seduce and tempt me: O Zarathustra, he said to me, I have come to seduce you to your last sin.

“To my last sin?” cried Zarathustra, and laughed angrily at his own word: “what was it that was saved up for me as my last sin?”

—And once more Zarathustra sank into himself and sat down again on the big stone and pondered. Suddenly he sprang up,—

“Pity! Pity for the higher human!” he cried out, and his face turned to bronze. “Well then! That—has had its time!

“My suffering and my pity—what does it matter! Do I strive for happiness? I strive for my work!

“Well then! The lion has come, my children are near, Zarathustra has grown ripe, my hour has come:—

“This is my morning, my day is beginning: rise now, rise, you great noon!”—

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and left his cave, glowing and strong, like a morning sun coming out of dark mountains.