Leave off, said the old man, and sprang up from the ground. Strike me no more, O Zarathustra! I did it only for amusement!

That kind of thing belongeth to mine art. Thee thyself I wanted to put to the proof when I gave this performance. And verily, thou hast well detected me!

But thou thyself — hast given me no small proof of thyself: thou art hard, thou wise Zarathustra! Hard strikest thou with thy ‘truths’, thy cudgel forceth from me — this truth!

Flatter not, answered Zarathustra, still excited and frowning, thou stage-player from the heart! Thou art false: why speakest thou — of truth!

Thou peacock of peacocks, thou sea of vanity; what didst thou represent before me, thou evil magician? Whom was I meant to believe in when thou wailedst in such wise?

The penitent in spirit, said the old man. It was him — I represented; thou thyself once devisedst this expression —

The poet and magician who at last turneth his spirit against himself, the transformed one who freezeth to death by his bad science and conscience.

And just acknowledge it: it was long, O Zarathustra, before thou discoveredst my trick and lie! Thou believedst in my distress when thou heldest my head with both thy hands —

I heard thee lament: ‘We have loved him too little, loved him too little!’ Because I so far deceived thee, my wickedness rejoiced in me.

Thou mayest have deceived subtler ones than I, said Zarathustra sternly. I am not on my guard against deceivers; I have to be without precaution: so willeth my lot.

Thou, however — must deceive: so far do I know thee! Thou must ever be equivocal, trivocal, quadrivocal, and quinquivocal! Even what thou hast now confessed is not nearly true enough nor false enough for me!

Thou bad false coiner, how couldst thou do otherwise! Thy very malady wouldst thou whitewash if thou showed thyself naked to thy physician.

Thus didst thou whitewash thy lie before me when thou saidst: ‘I did so only for amusement!’ There was also seriousness therein, thou art something of a penitent-in-spirit!

I divine thee well: thou hast become the enchanter of all the world; but for thyself thou hast no lie or artifice left — thou art disenchanted to thyself!

Thou hast reaped disgust as thy one truth. No word in thee is any longer genuine, but thy mouth is so: that is to say, the disgust that cleaveth unto thy mouth.

Who art thou at all, cried here the old magician with defiant voice, who dareth to speak thus unto me, the greatest man now living? And a green flash shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But immediately after he changed and said sadly:

O Zarathustra, I am weary of it. I am disgusted with mine arts, I am not great, why do I dissemble! But thou knowest it well — I sought for greatness!

A great man I wanted to appear, and persuaded many; but the lie hath been beyond my power. On it do I collapse.