FOURTH AND LAST PART.
62. LXII. THE CRY OF DISTRESS.
The next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone in front of his cave,
whilst his animals roved about in the world outside to bring home new
food,--also new honey: for Zarathustra had spent and wasted the old honey
to the very last particle. When he thus sat, however, with a stick in his
hand, tracing the shadow of his figure on the earth, and reflecting--
verily! not upon himself and his shadow,--all at once he startled and
shrank back: for he saw another shadow beside his own. And when he
hastily looked around and stood up, behold, there stood the soothsayer
beside him, the same whom he had once given to eat and drink at his table,
the proclaimer of the great weariness, who taught: "All is alike, nothing
is worth while, the world is without meaning, knowledge strangleth." But
his face had changed since then; and when Zarathustra looked into his eyes,
his heart was startled once more: so much evil announcement and ashy-grey
lightnings passed over that countenance.
The soothsayer, who had perceived what went on in Zarathustra's soul, wiped
his face with his hand, as if he would wipe out the impression; the same
did also Zarathustra. And when both of them had thus silently composed and
strengthened themselves, they gave each other the hand, as a token that
they wanted once more to recognise each other.
"Welcome hither," said Zarathustra, "thou soothsayer of the great
weariness, not in vain shalt thou once have been my messmate and guest.
Eat and drink also with me to-day, and forgive it that a cheerful old man
sitteth with thee at table!"--"A cheerful old man?" answered the
soothsayer, shaking his head, "but whoever thou art, or wouldst be, O
Zarathustra, thou hast been here aloft the longest time,--in a little while
thy bark shall no longer rest on dry land!"--"Do I then rest on dry land?"
--asked Zarathustra, laughing.--"The waves around thy mountain," answered
the soothsayer, "rise and rise, the waves of great distress and affliction:
they will soon raise thy bark also and carry thee away."--Thereupon was
Zarathustra silent and wondered.--"Dost thou still hear nothing?" continued
the soothsayer: "doth it not rush and roar out of the depth?"--Zarathustra
was silent once more and listened: then heard he a long, long cry, which
the abysses threw to one another and passed on; for none of them wished to
retain it: so evil did it sound.