“In piety there is also good taste: this said at last: Away with such a god! Better to have no god, better to set up destiny on one’s own account, better to be a fool, better to be god oneself!’ ”
—“What do I hear!” the old pope said then, listening intently; “O Zarathustra, you are more pious than you believe, with such unbelief! Some god in you has converted you to your ungodliness.
“Is it not your piety itself which no longer lets you believe in a God? And your over-great honesty will yet lead you even beyond good and evil!
“Behold, what has been reserved for you? You have eyes and hands and mouth, which have been predestined for blessing from eternity. One does not bless with the hand alone.
“Near to you, though you profess to be the ungodliest one, I scent a stealthy odor of holiness and well-being that comes from long benedictions: I feel glad and grieved through it.
“Let me be your guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth shall I now feel better than with you!”—
“Amen! So shall it be!” said Zarathustra, with great astonishment; “up there leads the way, there lies the cave of Zarathustra.
“Gladly, indeed, would I conduct you there myself, you venerable one, for I love all pious men. But now a cry of distress calls me hastily away from you.
“In my domain no one shall come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And best of all I would like to put every sorrowful one again on firm land and firm legs.
“Who, however, could take your melancholy off your shoulders? For that I am too weak. Truly, we should have to wait long until some one reawakened your god for you.
For that old god lives no more: he is quite dead.”—
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
THE UGLIEST MAN
—AND AGAIN ZARATHUSTRA’S FEET ran through mountains and forests, and his eyes sought and sought, but they nowhere found whom they wanted to see, the great sufferer and crier of distress. But all the time he was on his way he rejoiced in his heart and was full of gratitude. “What good things,” he said, “has this day given me, as amends for its bad beginning! What strange interlocutors have I found!
“At their words I will now chew a long while as at good corn; my teeth shall grind and crush them small, until they flow like milk into my soul!”—
But when the path again curved round a rock, suddenly the landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered into a realm of death. Here black and red cliffs bristled up, without any grass, tree, or bird’s voice. For it was a valley which all animals avoided, even the beasts of prey, except that a species of ugly, thick, green snake came here to die when they became old. Therefore the shepherds called this valley: “Snake’s Death.”
But Zarathustra became absorbed in dark recollections, for it seemed to him that he had once before stood in this valley. And much heaviness settled on his mind, so that he walked slowly and always more slowly, and at last stood still. Then, however, when he opened his eyes, he saw something sitting by the wayside shaped like a man and yet hardly like a man, something unspeakable. And suddenly there came over Zarathustra a great shame, because he had gazed on such a thing: blushing to the very roots of his white hair, he turned aside his glance, and raised his foot that he might leave this evil place. But then the dead wilderness resounded: for from the ground a noise welled up, gurgling and rattling, as water gurgles and rattles at night through stopped-up water-pipes; and at last it turned into human voice and human speech:-it sounded thus:
“Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Read my riddle! Speak, speak! What is the revenge on the witness?
“I entice you back; here is slippery ice! See to it, see to it, that your pride does not break its legs here!
“You think yourself wise, you proud Zarathustra! Read then the riddle, you hard nutcracker,—the riddle that I am! Say then: who am I!”
-But when Zarathustra had heard these words-what do you think took place in his soul then? Pity overcame him; and he sank down suddenly, like an oak that has long withstood many lumber-jacks, —heavily, suddenly, to the terror even of those who meant to fell it. But immediately he got up again from the ground, and his face became stern.
“I know you well,” he said, with a brazen voice, “You are the murderer of God! Let me go.
“You could not endure him who saw you,—who ever saw you through and through, you ugliest man. You took revenge on this witness!”
Thus spoke Zarathustra and was about to go; but the unspeakable grasped at a corner of his garment and began again to gurgle and seek for words. “Stay,” he said at last—
—“stay! Do not pass by! I have divined what axe it was that struck you to the ground: hail to you, O Zarathustra, that you are again upon your feet!
“You have divined, I know it well, how he who killed him feels,the murderer of God. Stay! Sit down here beside me; it is not to no purpose.
“To whom would I go but to you? Stay, sit down! Do not however look at me! Honor thus—my ugliness!5
“They persecute me: now you are my last refuge. Not with their hatred, not with their henchmen—oh, I will mock such persecution, and be proud and cheerful!
“Has not all success so far been with the well-persecuted? And he who persecutes well learns readily to follow—when once he is—put behind! But it is their pity—
—“it is from their pity that I flee away and flee to you. O Zarathustra, protect me, you, my last refuge, you the only one who saw into me:
—“you have divined how the man feels who killed him. Stay! And if you will go, you impatient one, do not go the way that I came. That way is bad.
“Are you angry with me because I have already mangled language too long? Because I have already advised you? But know that it is I, the ugliest man,
—“who also has the largest, heaviest feet. Where I have gone, the way is bad. I tread all paths to death and destruction.
“But that you passed me by in silence; that you blushed, I saw it well: by that I knew you as Zarathustra.
“Every one else would have thrown his alms to me, his pity, in look and speech. But for that—I am not beggar enough: you understood that—
“for that I am too rich, rich in what is great, frightful, ugliest, most unspeakable! Your shame, O Zarathustra, honored me!
“With difficulty I removed myself from the importunate crowd of the pitiful-that I might find the only one who at present teaches that ‘pity importunes’—you, O Zarathustra!
—“whether it is the pity of a god, or whether it is human pity: it is offensive to modesty. And unwillingness to help may be nobler than the virtue that rushes to do so.
“But that, pity, is called virtue itself today by all little people—they have no reverence for great misfortune, great ugliness, great failure.
“I look beyond all these, as a dog looks over the backs of thronging flocks of sheep. They are little good-wooled good-willed grey people.
“As the heron looks contemptuously at shallow pools, with its head bent back, so I look at the throng of grey little waves and wills and souls.
“Too long have we acknowledged them to be right, those little people: thus we have at last given them power as well—and now they teach: ‘good is only what little people call good.’
“And ‘truth’ today is what the preacher spoke who himself sprang from them, that singular saint and advocate of the little people, who testified of himself ‘I—am the truth.’
“That immodest one has long made the little people greatly puffed up—he who taught no small error when he taught ‘I—am the truth.’
“Has an immodest one ever been answered more courteously?—You, however, O Zarathustra, passed him by, and spoke: ‘No! No! Three times no!’
“You warned against his error, you were the first to warn against pity—not all, not none, but you and your kind.
“You are ashamed of the shame of the great sufferer; and truly when you say ‘from pity there comes a grey cloud, take care, mankind!’
—“w
hen you teach ‘all creators are hard, all great love is beyond pity:’ O Zarathustra, how well versed in weather signs you seem to me!
“But you yourself—warn yourself too against your pity! For many are on their way to you, many suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning, freezing ones—
“I warn you too against myself. You have read my best, my worst riddle, myself, and what I have done. I know the axe that fells you.
“But he—had to die: he looked with eyes which saw everything, —he saw men’s depths and dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness.
“His pity knew no shame: he crept into my dirtiest corners. This most prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one had to die.
“He always saw me: on such a witness I would have revenge—or not live myself.
“The god who saw everything, even man: that god had to die! Man cannot bear it that such a witness should live.”
Thus spoke the ugliest man. But Zarathustra got up and prepared to go on: for he was chilled to the marrow.
“You unspeakable,” he said, “you warned me against your way. As thanks for it I recommend mine to you. Behold, up there is the cave of Zarathustra.
“My cave is large and deep and has many corners; there the best hidden finds his hiding place. And close beside it, there are a hundred lurking places and byways for creeping, fluttering, and hopping creatures.
“You outcast who cast yourself out, you will not live among men and men’s pity? Well then, do as I do! Thus you will learn from me too; only the doer learns.
“And speak first and foremost with my animals! The proudest animal and the wisest animal-they may well be the best counselors for us both!”—
Thus spoke Zarathustra and went his way, even more thoughtfully and slowly than before: for he asked himself many things, and hardly knew what to answer.
“How poor indeed is man,” he thought in his heart, “how ugly, how wheezing, how full of hidden shame!
“They tell me that man loves himself. Ah, how great must that self-love be! How much contempt is opposed to it!
“Even this man has loved himself, as he has despised himself,he seems to me a great lover and a great despiser.
“No one yet have I found who despised himself more deeply: even that is height. Ah, was he perhaps the higher man whose cry I heard?
“I love the great despisers. But man is something that must be overcome.”—
THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR
WHEN ZARATHUSTRA HAD LEFT the ugliest man he felt chilled and alone: for much coldness and loneliness came over his spirit, so that even his limbs became colder. But when he wandered on and on, uphill and down, at times past green meadows, though also sometimes over wild stony lows, where formerly perhaps an impatient brook had made its bed: then suddenly he grew warmer and cheerful again.
“What has happened to me?” he asked himself, “something warm and living refreshes me, it must be nearby.
“Already I am less alone; unknown companions and brothers circle around me, their warm breath touches my soul.”
But when he peered about and sought for the comforters of his loneliness, behold, there were cows standing together on a knoll; it was their nearness and odor that had warmed his heart. But the cows seemed to listen eagerly to a speaker, and paid no heed to him who approached. When, however, Zarathustra was quite near to them, then he heard plainly that a human voice spoke in the midst of the cows; and apparently all of them had turned their heads towards the speaker.
Then Zarathustra eagerly sprang up and pulled the animals aside, for he feared that someone had had an accident, which the pity of the cows could hardly relieve. But in this he was deceived; for behold, there sat a man on the ground who seemed to be persuading the animals to have no fear of him, a peaceable man and preacher on the mount, out of whose eyes goodness itself preached.6 “What do you seek here?” called out Zarathustra in astonishment.
“What do I seek here?” he answered: “just what you seek, you disturber of the peace; that is, happiness on earth.
“But to that end I would like to learn from these cows. For I tell you that I have already talked half a morning to them, and just now they were about to give me their answer. Why do you disturb them?
“Unless we are converted and become as cows, we shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. For we ought to learn one thing from them: ruminating.
“And truly, though a man should gain the whole world, and yet not learn one thing, ruminating, what would it profit him! He would not be rid of his misery,
—“his great misery: that, however, is today called disgust. Who today does not have his heart, his mouth and his eyes full of disgust? You too! You too! But regard these cows!”—
Thus spoke the preacher on the mount and then turned then his gaze towards Zarathustra—for so far it had rested lovingly on the cows-: but then he changed. “Who is it that I am speaking with?” he exclaimed, frightened, and sprang up from the ground.
“This is the man without disgust, this is Zarathustra himself, the overcomer of the great disgust, this is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart of Zarathustra himself.”
And while he thus spoke he kissed with overflowing eyes the hands of him with whom he spoke, and behaved altogether like one to whom a precious gift and jewel has unexpectedly fallen from heaven. But the cows looked at it all and were amazed.
“Do not speak of me, you strange one! Dear one!” said Zarathustra, restraining his affection, “speak to me first of yourself! Are you not the voluntary beggar who once cast away great riches,—
—“Who was ashamed of his riches and of the rich, and fled to the poorest to give them his abundance and his heart? But they received him not.”
“But they received me not,” said the voluntary beggar, “you know it, indeed. So I went at last to the animals and to these cows.”
“Then you learned,” interrupted Zarathustra, “how much harder it is to give properly than to take properly, and that gift-giving well is an art—the last, subtlest master-art of kindness.”
“Especially nowadays,” answered the voluntary beggar: “at present, that is to say, when everything low has become rebellious and exclusive and haughty in its manner: in the manner of the mob.
“For the hour has come, you know it well, for the great, evil, long, slow mob and slave rebellion: it grows and grows!
“Now all charity and any little giving away provokes the base; and the overrich may be on their guard!
“Whoever drips today, like bulging bottles out of all-too-narrow necks-today the necks of such bottles are broken gladly.
“Lustful greed, bilious envy, sour vengefulness, mob pride: all this threw itself in my face. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed. The kingdom of heaven, however, is with the cows.”
“And why is it not with the rich?” asked Zarathustra temptingly, while he kept back the cows which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one.
“Why do you tempt me?” answered the other. “You know it yourself even better than I. What was it that drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra? Was it not my disgust at the richest?
—“at the convicts of riches, with cold eyes and lewd thoughts, who pick up profit out of all kinds of rubbish, at this rabble that stinks to heaven,
—“at this gilded, debased mob, whose fathers were pickpockets or carrion crows or ragmen with compliant, lustful, forgetful wives—for they are all of them not much different from whores—
“Mob above, mob below! What are ‘poor’ and ‘rich’ today! I unlearned that distinction-then I fled away further and ever further, until I came to these cows.”
Thus spoke the peaceful one and himself snorted and perspired with his words: so that the cows were again amazed. But Zarathustra kept looking into his face with a smile, all the time the man talked so severely, and then shook his head silently.
“You do violence to yourself, you preacher on the mount, when you use such severe words. Neither your mouth nor your eyes were made
for such severity.
“Nor your stomach either, I think: it opposes all such rage and hatred and foaming over. Your stomach wants gentler things: you are no butcher.
“You seem to me rather a plant- and root-man. Perhaps you grind corn. But you are certainly disinclined to fleshly pleasures and you love honey.”
“You have divined me well,” answered the voluntary beggar, with lightened heart. “I love honey, I also grind corn, for I have sought out what tastes sweet and makes pure breath:
—“also what takes a long time, a day‘s-work and a mouth’s-work for gentle idlers and loafers.
“To be sure, nobody has achieved more than these cows: they have devised ruminating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all heavy thoughts that inflate the heart.”
—“Well!” said Zarathustra, “you should also see my animals, my eagle and my serpent,-there is not their like on earth today.
“Behold, there leads the way to my cave: be its guest tonight. And talk to my animals of the happiness of animals,—
—“until I myself come home. For now a cry of distress calls me hastily away from you. Also, should you find new honey with me, ice-cold, golden-comb-honey, eat it!
“But now take leave of your cows at once, you strange one! Dear one! though it is hard for you. For they are your warmest friends and teachers!”—
—“One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,” answered the voluntary beggar. “You yourself are good, O Zarathustra, and even better than a cow!”
“Away, away with you! you naughty flatterer!” cried Zarathustra mischievously, “why do you spoil me with such praise and honey of flattery?
“Away, away from me!” he cried once more and swung his stick at the affectionate beggar: who however ran nimbly away.
THE SHADOW
BUT SCARCELY HAD THE voluntary beggar gone in haste, and Zarathustra was again alone, when he heard behind him a new voice that called out: “Stop! Zarathustra! Wait! It is I, O Zarathustra, I, your shadow!” But Zarathustra did not wait, for a sudden irritation came over him on account of the crowd and the crowding in his mountains. “Where has my solitude gone?” he said.
Thus Spoke Zarathustra Page 27
