Fenrir's Fangs

 68. The Voluntary Beggar

  WHEN Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he was chilled and felt
lonesome: for much coldness and lonesomeness came over his spirit,
so that even his limbs became colder thereby. When, however, he
wandered on and on, uphill and down, at times past green meadows,
though also sometimes over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps
an impatient brook had made its bed, then he turned all at once warmer
and heartier again.
  "What hath happened unto me?" he asked himself, "something warm
and living quickeneth me; it must be in the neighbourhood.
  Already am I less alone; unconscious companions and brethren rove
around me; their warm breath toucheth my soul."
  When, however, he spied about and sought for the comforters of his
lonesomeness, behold, there were kine there standing together on an
eminence, whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart. The kine,
however, seemed to listen eagerly to a speaker, and took no heed of
him who approached. When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto
them, then did he hear plainly that a human voice spake in the midst
of the kine, and apparently all of them had turned their heads towards
the speaker.
  Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the animals aside; for he
feared that some one had here met with harm, which the pity of the
kine would hardly be able to 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 kindness itself preached.
"What dost thou seek here?" called out Zarathustra in astonishment.
  "What do I here seek?" answered he: "the same that thou seekest,
thou mischief-maker; that is to say, happiness upon earth.
  To that end, however, I would fain learn of these kine. For I tell
thee that I have already talked half a morning unto them, and just now
were they about to give me their answer. Why dost thou disturb them?
  Except we be converted and become as kine, we shall in no wise enter
into the kingdom of heaven. For we ought to learn from them one thing:
ruminating.
  And verily, although 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 affliction,
  -His great affliction: that, however, is at present called
disgust. Who hath not at present his heart, his mouth and his eyes
full of disgust? Thou also! Thou also! But behold these kine!"-
  Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and turned then his own look
towards Zarathustra- for hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine-:
then, however, he put on a different expression. "Who is this with
whom I talk?" he exclaimed, frightened, and sprang up from the ground.
  "This is the man without disgust, this is Zarathustra himself, the
surmounter of the great disgust, this is the eye, this is the mouth,
this is the heart of Zarathustra himself."
  And whilst he thus spake he kissed with o'erflowing eyes the hands
of him with whom he spake, and behaved altogether like one to whom a
precious gift and jewel hath fallen unawares from heaven. The kine,
however, gazed at it all and wondered.
  "Speak not of me, thou strange one; thou amiable one!" said
Zarathustra, and restrained his affection, "speak to me firstly of
thyself! Art thou 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 bestow upon them his abundance and his heart? But they
received him not."
  "But they received me not," said the voluntary beggar, "thou knowest
it, forsooth. So I went at last to the animals and to those kine."
  "Then learnedst thou," interrupted Zarathustra, "how much harder
it is to give properly than to take properly, and that bestowing
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 hath become rebellious and
exclusive and haughty in its manner- in the manner of the populace.
  For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth, for the great,
evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and
extendeth!
  Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty
giving; and the overrich may be on their guard!
  Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out of all-too-small
necks:- of such bottles at present one willingly breaketh the necks.
  Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge, populace-pride:
all these struck mine eye. It is no longer true that the poor are
blessed. The kingdom of heaven, however, is with the kine."
  "And why is it not with the rich?" asked Zarathustra temptingly,
while he kept back the kine which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful
one.
  "Why dost thou tempt me?" answered the other. "Thou knowest it
thyself better even than I. What was it drove me to the poorest, O
Zarathustra? Was it not my disgust at the richest?
  -At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and rank thoughts, who
pick up profit out of all kinds of rubbish- at this rabble that
stinketh to heaven,
  -At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers were pickpockets,
or carrion-crows, or rag-pickers, with wives compliant, lewd and
forgetful:- for they are all of them not far different from harlots-
  Populace above, populace below! What are 'poor' and 'rich' at
present! That distinction did I unlearn,- then did I flee away further
and ever further, until I came to those kine."
  Thus spake the peaceful one, and puffed himself and perspired with
his words: so that the kine wondered anew. Zarathustra, however,
kept looking into his face with a smile, all the time the man talked
so severely- and shook silently his head.
  "Thou doest violence to thyself, thou Preacher-on-the-Mount, when
thou usest such severe words. For such severity neither thy mouth
nor thine eye have been given thee.
  Nor, methinketh, hath thy stomach either: unto it all such rage
and hatred and foaming-over is repugnant. Thy stomach wanteth softer
things: thou art not a butcher.
  Rather seemest thou to me a plant-eater and a root-man. Perhaps thou
grindest corn. Certainly, however, thou art averse to fleshly joys,
and thou lovest honey."
  "Thou hast divined me well," answered the voluntary beggar, with
lightened heart. "I love honey, I also grind corn; for I have sought
out what tasteth sweetly and maketh pure breath:
  -Also what requireth a long time, a day's-work and a mouth's-work
for gentle idlers and sluggards.
  Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it: they have
devised ruminating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all
heavy thoughts which inflate the heart."
  -"Well!" said Zarathustra, "thou shouldst also see mine animals,
mine eagle and my serpent,- their like do not at present exist on
earth.
  Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave: be tonight its guest.
And talk to mine animals of the happiness of animals,-
  -Until I myself come home. For now a cry of distress calleth me
hastily away from thee. Also, shouldst thou find new honey with me,
ice-cold, golden-comb-honey, eat it!
  Now, however, take leave at once of thy kine, thou strange one! thou
amiable one! though it be hard for thee. For they are thy warmest
friends and preceptors!"-
  -"One excepted, whom I hold still dearer," answered the voluntary
beggar. "Thou thyself art good, O Zarathustra, and better even than
a cow!"
  "Away, away with thee! thou evil flatterer!" cried Zarathustra
mischievously, "why dost thou spoil me with such praise and
flattery-honey?
  "Away, away from me!" cried he once more, and heaved his stick at
the fond beggar, who, however, ran nimbly away.