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 has not at present his heart, his mouth and his eyes full of disgust? you also! you also! But behold these kine!»-
Thus spoke 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 over-comer of the great disgust, this is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart of Zarathustra himself.»
And whilst he thus spoke he kissed with o’erflowing eyes the hands of him with whom he spoke, and behaved altogether like one to whom a precious gift and jewel has fallen unawares from heaven. The kine, however, gazed at it all and wondered.
«Speak not of me, you strange one; you amiable one!» said Zarathustra, and restrained his affection, «speak to me firstly 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 upon them his abundance and his heart? But they received him not.»
«But they received me not,» said the voluntary beggar, «you know it, forsooth. So I went at last to the animals and to those kine.»
«Then learned you,» interrupted Zarathustra, «how much harder it is to give properly than to take properly, and that 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 rabble.
For the hour has come, you know it , for the great, evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extends and extends!
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Now does it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty giv-ing; 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 breaks the necks.
Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge, rabble-pride: all these struck my 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 do you tempt me?» answered the other. «You know it yourself 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 stinks to heaven,
-At this gilded, falsified rabble, 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-
Rabble above, rabble 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 spoke 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.
«You do violence to yourself, you Preacher-on-the-Mount, when you use such severe words. For such severity neither your mouth nor your eye have been given you.
Nor, methinks, has your stomach either: to it all such rage and hatred and foaming-over is repugnant. Your stomach wants softer things: you are not a butcher.
Rather seem you to me a plant-eater and a root-man. Perhaps you grind corn. Certainly, however, you are averse to fleshly joys, 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 sweetly and makes pure breath:
-Also what requires a long time, a day’s-work and a mouth’s-work for gentle idlers and sluggards.
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Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it: they have created ru-minating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all heavy thoughts which inflate the heart.»
-«Well!» said Zarathustra, «you should also see my animals, my eagle and my serpent,- their like do not at present exist on earth.
Behold, there leads the way to my cave: be tonight its guest. 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!
Now, however, take leave at once of your kine, you strange one! you amiable one! though it be hard for you. For they are your warmest friends and preceptors!»-
-«One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,» answered the voluntary beggar. «You yourself are good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a cow!»
«Away, away with you! you evil flatterer!» cried Zarathustra mischiev-ously, «why do you 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.
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Chapter 9 The Shadow
SCARCELY however was the voluntary beggar gone in haste, and Zarathustra again alone, when he heard behind him a new voice which called out: «Stay! Zarathustra! Do wait! It is myself, O Zarathustra, my-self, your shadow!» But Zarathustra did not wait; for a sudden irritation came over him on account of the crowd and the crowding in his moun-tains. «Where has my lonesomeness gone?» spoke he.
«It is verily becoming too much for me; these mountains swarm; my kingdom is no longer of this world; I require new mountains.
My shadow calls me? What matter about my shadow! Let it run after me! I- run away from it.»
Thus spoke Zarathustra to his heart and ran away. But the one behind followed after him, so that immediately there were three runners, one after the other- namely, foremost the voluntary beggar, then Zarathustra, and thirdly, and hindmost, his shadow. But not long had they run thus when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly, and shook off with one jerk all his irritation and detestation.
«What!» said he, «have not the most ludicrous things always happened to us old hermits and saints?
My folly has grown big in the mountains! Now do I hear six old fools’ legs rattling behind one another!
But does Zarathustra need to be frightened by his shadow? Also, me-thinks that after all it has longer legs thin mine.»
Thus spoke Zarathustra, and, laughing with eyes and entrails, he stood still and turned round quickly- and behold, he almost thereby threw his shadow and follower to the ground, so closely had the latter followed at his heels, and so weak was he. For when Zarathustra scrutin-ized him with his glance he was frightened as by a sudden apparition, so slender, swarthy, hollow and worn-out did this follower appear.
«Who are you?» asked Zarathustra vehemently, «what do you here? And why call you yourself my shadow? you are not pleasing to me.»
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«Forgive me,» answered the shadow, «that it is I; and if I please you not- well, O Zarathustra! therein do I admire you and your good taste.
A wanderer am I, who have walked long at your heels; always on the way, but without a goal, also without a home: so that verily, I lack little of being the eternally Wandering Jew, except that I am not eternal and not a Jew.
What? Must I ever be on the way? Whirled by every wind, unsettled, driven about? O earth, you have become too round for me!
On every surface have I already sat, like tired dust have I fallen asleep on mirrors and window-panes: everything takes from me, nothing gives; I become thin- I am almost equal to a shadow.
After you, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and hie longest; and though I hid myself from you, I was nevertheless your best shadow: wherever you have sat, there sat I also.
With you have I wandered about in the remotest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that voluntarily haunts winter roofs and snows.
With you have I pushed into all the forbidden, all the worst and the furthest: and if there be anything of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear of any prohibition.
With you have I broken up whatever my heart revered; all boundary-stones and statues have I o’erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I pursue,- verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With you did I unlearn the belief in words and worths and in great names. When the devil casts his skin, does not his
