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And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when Cupid and the maidens danced together:
Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life! And into the unfathomable did I there seem to sink.
But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle; derisively didst thou laugh when I called thee unfathomable.
“Such is the language of all fish,” saidst thou; “what THEY do not fathom is unfathomable.
But changeable am I only, and wild, and altogether a woman, and no virtuous one:
Though I be called by you men the ‘profound one,’ or the ‘faithful one,’ ‘the eternal one,’ ‘the mysterious one.’
But ye men endow us always with your own virtues—alas, ye virtuous ones!”
Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but never do I believe her and her laughter, when she speaketh evil of herself.
And when I talked face to face with my wild Wisdom, she said to me angrily: “Thou willest, thou cravest, thou lovest; on that account alone dost thou PRAISE Life!”
Then had I almost answered indignantly and told the truth to the angry one; and one cannot answer more indignantly than when one “telleth the truth” to one’s Wisdom.
For thus do things stand with us three. In my heart do I love only Life—and verily, most when I hate her!
But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too fond, is because she remindeth me very strongly of Life!
She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden angle-rod: am I responsible for it that both are so alike?
And when once Life asked me: “Who is she then, this Wisdom?”—then said I eagerly: “Ah, yes! Wisdom!
One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one looketh through veils, one graspeth through nets.
Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured by her.
Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and pass the comb against the grain of her hair.
Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she speaketh ill of herself, just then doth she seduce most.”
When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she maliciously, and shut her eyes. “Of whom dost thou speak?” said she. “Perhaps of me?
And if thou wert right—is it proper to say THAT in such wise to my face! But now, pray, speak also of thy Wisdom!”
Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine eyes, O beloved Life! And into the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink.—
Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had departed, he became sad.
“The sun hath been long set,” said he at last, “the meadow is damp, and from the forest cometh coolness.
An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou livest still, Zarathustra?
Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to live?—
Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me. Forgive me my sadness!
Evening hath come on: forgive me that evening hath come on!”
Thus sang Zarathustra.
“Yonder is the grave-island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves of my youth. Thither will I carry an evergreen wreath of life.”
Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o’er the sea.—
Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all ye gleams of love, ye divine fleeting gleams! How could ye perish so soon for me! I think of you to-day as my dead ones.
From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto me a sweet savour, heart-opening and melting. Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart of the lone seafarer.
Still am I the richest and most to be envied—I, the lonesomest one! For I HAVE POSSESSED you, and ye possess me still. Tell me: to whom hath there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen unto me?
Still am I your love’s heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O ye dearest ones!
Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each other, ye kindly strange marvels; and not like timid birds did ye come to me and my longing—nay, but as trusting ones to a trusting one!
Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities, must I now name you by your faithlessness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams: no other name have I yet learnt.
Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives. Yet did ye not flee from me, nor did I flee from you: innocent are we to each other in our faithlessness.
To kill ME, did they strangle you, ye singing birds of my hopes! Yea, at you, ye dearest ones, did malice ever shoot its arrows—to hit my heart!
And they hit it! Because ye were always my dearest, my possession and my possessedness: ON THAT ACCOUNT had ye to die young, and far too early!
At my most vulnerable point did they shoot the arrow—namely, at you, whose skin is like down—or more like the smile that dieth at a glance!
But this word will I say unto mine enemies: What is all manslaughter in comparison with what ye have done unto me!
Worse evil did ye do unto me than all manslaughter; the irretrievable did ye take from me:—thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies!
Slew ye not my youth’s visions and dearest marvels! My playmates took ye from me, the blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit this wreath and this curse.
This curse upon you, mine enemies! Have ye not made mine eternal short, as a tone dieth away in a cold night! Scarcely, as the twinkle of divine eyes, did it come to me—as a fleeting gleam!
Thus spake once in a happy hour my purity: “Divine shall everything be unto me.”
Then did ye haunt me with foul phantoms; ah, whither hath that happy hour now fled!
“All days shall be holy unto me”—so spake once the wisdom of my youth: verily, the language of a joyous wisdom!
But then did ye enemies steal my nights, and sold them to sleepless torture: ah, whither hath that joyous wisdom now fled?
Once did I long for happy auspices: then did ye lead an owl-monster across my path, an adverse sign. Ah, whither did my tender longing then flee?
All loathing did I once vow to renounce: then did ye change my nigh ones and nearest ones into ulcerations. Ah, whither did my noblest vow then flee?
As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways: then did ye cast filth on the blind one’s course: and now is he disgusted with the old footpath.
