The year 1884 opened sadly. Some chance fine weather in January reanimated him. Suddenly he improvised: no city, no people, no laws; a disorder of complaints, appeals, and moral fragments which seem to be the debris left over from the ruin of his great work. It is the third part of Zarathustra. The prophet, like Friedrich Nietzsche, lives alone and retired upon his mountain. He speaks to himself, deceives himself, forgets that he is alone; he threatens, he exhorts a humanity which neither fears nor hearkens to him. He preaches to it the contempt of customary virtues, the cult of courage, love of strength and of the nascent generations. But he does not go down to it, and no one hears his predication. He is sad, he desires to die. Then, Life, who surprises his desire, comes to him and raises his courage. "O Zarathustra!" says the goddess, "do not crack thy whip so terribly. Thou knowest, noise murdereth thought. And even now I have very tender thoughts. Hear me, thou art not faithful enough unto me, thou lovest me not nearly as much as thou sayst, I know, for thou thinkest of leaving me...." Zarathustra listens to the reproach, smiles and hesitates. "True," he says at last, "but thou also knowest. ..." They gaze at each other, and he tells her something in her ear, among all her confused, stupid yellow tresses. "What though I die?" he says; "nothing can separate, nothing can reconcile, for every moment has its return, every moment is eternal." "What," answers the goddess, "that thou knowest, Zarathustra? That no one knoweth." Their eyes meet. They look at the green meadow over which the cool of evening was spreading; they weep, then, in silence, they listen, they understand the eleven sayings of the old bell which strikes midnight in the mountain. _One!_ Oh man! Lose not sight! _Two!_ What saith the deep midnight? _Three!_ I lay in sleep, in sleep; _Four!_ From deep dream, I woke to light. _Five!_ The world is deep, _Six!_ And deeper than ever day thought it might. _Seven!_ Deep is its woe-- _Eight!_ And deeper than woe--delight. _Nine!_ Saith woe: Pass, go! _Ten!_ Eternity's sought by all delight--_Eleven!_ Eternity deep by all delight.[8] _Twelve!_ . . . . . . Then Zarathustra rises: he has recovered his security, his sweetness, and his strength. He takes up his staff and sings as he goes down towards men. A similar versicle completes the seven strophes of his hymn: "Never yet have I found the woman by whom I would like to have children, if it be not the woman whom I love: for I love thee, oh Eternity! "For I love thee, oh Eternity!"