Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, and was silent.
“There they stand,” said he to his heart; “there they laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears.
Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or do they only believe the stammerer?
They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that which makes them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguishes them from the goatherds.
They dislike, therefore, to hear of ‘contempt’ of themselves. So I will appeal to their pride.
I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is THE LAST MAN!”
And thus spoke Zarathustra unto the people:
It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope.
Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow thereon.
Alas! there comes the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man – and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!
I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you have still chaos in you.
Alas! There comes the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There comes the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.
Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN.
“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?” – so asks the last man and blinks.
The earth has then become small, and on it there hops the last man who makes everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the ground‐flea; the last man lives longest.
“We have discovered happiness,” say the last men, and blink thereby.
They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth. One still loves one's neighbor and rubs against him; for one needs warmth.
Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. He is a fool who still stumbles over stones or men!
A little poison now and then: that makes pleasant dreams. And much poison at last for a pleasant death.
One still works, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.
One no longer becomes poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wants to rule? Who still wants to obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wants the same; everyone is equal: he who has other sentiments goes voluntarily into the madhouse.
“Formerly all the world was insane,” say the subtlest of them, and blink thereby.
They are clever and know all that has happened: so there is no end to their raillery. People still fall out, but are soon reconciled – otherwise it spoils their stomachs.
They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health.
“We have discovered happiness,” say the last men, and blink thereby.
And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra, which is also called “The Prologue”: for at this point the shouting and mirth of the multitude interrupted him. “Give us this last man, Oh Zarathustra,” they called out, “make us into these last men! Then will we make you a present of the Superman!” And all the people exulted and smacked their lips. Zarathustra, however, turned sad, and said to his heart:
“They understand me not: I am not the mouth for these ears.
Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too much have I hearkened unto the brooks and trees: now do I speak unto them as unto the goatherds.
Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they think me cold, and a mocker with terrible jests.
And now do they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me too. There is ice in their laughter.”
6.
Then, however, something happened which made every mouth mute and every eye fixed. In the meantime, of course, the rope‐dancer had commenced his performance: he had come out at a little door, and was going along the rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the market‐place and the people. When he was just midway across, the little door opened once more, and a gaudily‐dressed fellow like a buffoon sprang out, and went rapidly after the first one. “Go on, halt‐foot,” cried his frightful voice, “go on, lazy‐bones, interloper, sallow‐face! – lest I tickle you with my heel! What do you here between the towers? In the tower is the place for you, you should be locked up; to one better than thyself you block the way!” – And with every word he came nearer and nearer the first one. When, however, he was but a step behind, there happened the frightful thing which made every mouth mute and every eye fixed – he uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped over the other who was in his way. The latter, however, when he thus saw his rival triumph, lost at the same time his head and his footing on the rope; he threw his pole away, and shot downwards faster than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The market‐place and the people were like the sea when the storm comes on: they all flew apart and in disorder, especially where the body was about to fall.
Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and just beside him fell the body, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What are you doing there?” said he at last, “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he drags me to hell: will you prevent him?”
“On mine honor, my friend,” answered Zarathustra, “there is nothing of all that whereof you speak: there is no devil and no hell. Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body: fear, therefore, nothing any more!”
The man looked up distrustfully. “If you speak the truth,” said he, “I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal which has been taught to dance by blows and scanty fare.”
“Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “you have made danger your calling; therein there is nothing contemptible. Now you perish by your calling: therefore will I bury you with my own hands.”
When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but he moved his hand as if he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude.
7.
Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market‐place veiled itself in gloom. Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror become fatigued. Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground, absorbed in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it became night, and a cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then arose Zarathustra and said to his heart:
“Truly,
