XXIII. THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR.

My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your friend: “Behold Zarathustra! Walketh he not amongst us as if amongst animals?” For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love, and keep modest as a giver.

But it is better said in this wise: “The discerning one walketh amongst men AS amongst animals.”

Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal with red cheeks.

How hath that happened unto him? Is it not because he hath had to be ashamed too oft?

O my friends!

And on that account doth the noble one enjoin upon himself not to abash: bashfulness doth he enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers.

Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose bliss is in their pity: too destitute are they of bashfulness.

If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so; and if I be so, it is preferably at a distance.

Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee, before being recognised: and thus do I bid you do, my friends!

May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like you across my path, and those with whom I MAY have hope and repast and honey in common! With amazement did his eagle and serpent gaze upon him: for a coming bliss overspread his countenance like the rosy dawn.

Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but something better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself better. Am I not transformed? Hath not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind?

Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren, is our original sin!

And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to contrive pain.

Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped the sufferer; therefore do I wipe also my soul. Zarathustra can again speak and bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones!

For in seeing the sufferer suffering—thereof was I ashamed on account of his shame; and in helping him, sorely did I wound his pride. Out of silent mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul into the valleys.

Great obligations do not make grateful, but revengeful; and when a small kindness is not forgotten, it becometh a gnawing worm. Too long hath solitude possessed me: thus have I unlearned to keep silence.

“Be shy in accepting!

I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow as friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit from my tree: thus doth it cause less shame.

Beggars, however, one should entirely do away with!

And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the sting of conscience teacheth one to sting.

The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than to have thought pettily!

To be sure, ye say: “The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great evil deed.” But here one should not wish to be sparing.

Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh forth—it speaketh honourably. How I now love every one unto whom I may but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss.

“Behold, I am disease,” saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness.

But like infection is the petty thought: it creepeth and hideth, and wanteth to be nowhere—until the whole body is decayed and withered by the petty infection. How grateful am I to mine enemies that I may at last hurl it!

To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I would whisper this word in the ear: “Better for thee to rear up thy devil!

Ah, my brethren!

It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult. But mine enemies shall think that THE EVIL ONE roareth over their heads.

And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us at all.

If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a resting-place for his suffering; like a hard bed, however, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou serve him best. Ah, that my lioness wisdom would learn to roar softly! And much have we already learned with one another!

And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: “I forgive thee what thou hast done unto me; that thou hast done it unto THYSELF, however—how could I forgive that!”

Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity.

One should hold fast one’s heart; for when one letteth it go, how quickly doth one’s head run away!

Thus spake Zarathustra.