XXXIX. POETS.
“—And I saw a great sadness come over mankind.
A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all hath been!’
And from all hills there re-echoed: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all hath been!’ I do not belong to those who may be asked after their Why.
To be sure we have harvested: but why have all our fruits become rotten and brown? What was it fell last night from the evil moon?
In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye hath singed yellow our fields and hearts.
Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust like ashes:—yea, the fire itself have we made aweary.
All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded.
‘Alas! where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned?’ so soundeth our plaint—across shallow swamps. That the poets lie too much?—But Zarathustra also is a poet.
Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake and live on—in sepulchres.” Why dost thou believe it?”
Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak; and the foreboding touched his heart and transformed him.
Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while, and there cometh the long twilight.
That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness!
Thus did Zarathustra go about grieved in his heart, and for three days he did not take any meat or drink: he had no rest, and lost his speech.
And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake when he awoke; his voice, however, came unto his disciples as from afar: Many a poisonous hotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing hath there been done.
Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my friends, and help me to divine its meaning!
A riddle is it still unto me, this dream; the meaning is hidden in it and encaged, and doth not yet fly above it on free pinions. This do we call the eternally feminine in us.
All life had I renounced, so I dreamed.
There did I guard his coffins: full stood the musty vaults of those trophies of victory.
The odour of dust-covered eternities did I breathe: sultry and dust-covered lay my soul.
Brightness of midnight was ever around me; lonesomeness cowered beside her; and as a third, death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female friends.
Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to open with them the most creaking of all gates.
Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound through the long corridors when the leaves of the gate opened: ungraciously did this bird cry, unwillingly was it awakened.
But more frightful even, and more heart-strangling was it, when it again became silent and still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant silence.
Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time there still was: what do I know thereof!
Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like thunders, thrice did the vaults resound and howl again: then did I go to the gate. Ah, how I am weary of the poets!
Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain?
And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself.
Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart: whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin.
And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing the coffin burst up, and spouted out a thousand peals of laughter.
And a thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and mocked, and roared at me.
Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated me.
But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came to myself.—
Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then was silent: for as yet he knew not the interpretation thereof.
“Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream, O Zarathustra!
Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill whistling, which bursteth open the gates of the fortress of Death? And they themselves may well originate from the sea.
Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued malices and angel-caricatures of life? And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime.
Verily, like a thousand peals of children’s laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres, laughing at those night-watchmen and grave-guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister keys.
With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and prostrate them: fainting and recovering will demonstrate thy power over them.
And when the long twilight cometh and the mortal weariness, even then wilt thou not disappear from our firmament, thou advocate of life!
New stars hast thou made us see, and new nocturnal glories: verily, laughter itself hast thou spread out over us like a many-hued canopy. This parable I speak unto the poets.
Now will children’s laughter ever from coffins flow; now will a strong wind ever come victoriously unto all mortal weariness: of this thou art thyself the pledge and the prophet!
Verily, THEY THEMSELVES DIDST THOU DREAM, thine enemies: that was thy sorest dream.
But as thou awokest from them and camest to thyself, so shall they awaken from themselves—and come unto thee!”
Thus spake the disciple; and all the others then thronged around Zarathustra, grasped him by the hands, and tried to persuade him to leave his bed and his sadness, and return unto them.
“Well! this hath just its time; but see to it, my disciples, that we have a good repast; and without delay!
Thus spake Zarathustra.
