THE RENEGADES

Ah, lieth everything already withered and grey which but lately stood green and many-hued on this meadow! And how much honey of hope did I carry hence into my beehives!

Ah, everything that recently stood green and colorful in this meadow now lies withered and gray! And how much honey of hope I carried from here to my beehives!

Those young hearts have already all become old—and not old even! only weary, ordinary, comfortable:—they declare it: “We have again become pious.”

All those young hearts have already grown old. No, not even old! Just weary, ordinary, and comfortable. They declare: “We have become pious again.”

Of late did I see them run forth at early morn with valorous steps: but the feet of their knowledge became weary, and now do they malign even their morning valour!

Recently, I saw them set out early in the morning with brave steps. But the feet of their knowledge grew tired, and now they even speak ill of their morning courage!

Verily, many of them once lifted their legs like the dancer; to them winked the laughter of my wisdom:—then did they bethink themselves. Just now have I seen them bent down—to creep to the cross.

Truly, many of them once lifted their legs like dancers. The laughter of my wisdom winked at them. Then they thought better of it. I have just seen them bent down, crawling to the cross.

Around light and liberty did they once flutter like gnats and young poets. A little older, a little colder: and already are they mystifiers, and mumblers and mollycoddles.

They once fluttered around light and freedom like gnats and young poets. A little older and a little colder, they have already become mystifiers, mumblers, and pampered weaklings.

Did perhaps their hearts despond, because lonesomeness had swallowed me like a whale? Did their ear perhaps hearken yearningly-long for me IN VAIN, and for my trumpet-notes and herald-calls?

Perhaps their hearts sank because loneliness had swallowed me like a whale? Did they perhaps listen longingly for me in vain, for my trumpet notes and herald calls?

—Ah! Ever are there but few of those whose hearts have persistent courage and exuberance; and in such remaineth also the spirit patient. The rest, however, are COWARDLY.

Ah! There are always only a few whose hearts have lasting courage and exuberance. In them, the spirit also remains patient. The rest, however, are COWARDLY.

The rest: these are always the great majority, the common-place, the superfluous, the far too many—those all are cowardly!—

The rest are always the great majority, the ordinary, the unnecessary, the far too many. All of them are cowards!

Him who is of my type, will also the experiences of my type meet on the way: so that his first companions must be corpses and buffoons.

Anyone like me will also encounter experiences like mine along the way. So their first companions must be corpses and buffoons.

His second companions, however—they will call themselves his BELIEVERS,—will be a living host, with much love, much folly, much unbearded veneration.

His second companions, however, will call themselves his BELIEVERS. They will be a lively crowd, full of love, folly, and youthful reverence.

To those believers shall he who is of my type among men not bind his heart; in those spring-times and many-hued meadows shall he not believe, who knoweth the fickly faint-hearted human species!

A person like me should not give his heart to those believers. Anyone who knows how fickle and fainthearted humans are should not believe in those springtimes and many-colored meadows.

COULD they do otherwise, then would they also WILL otherwise. The half-and-half spoil every whole. That leaves become withered,—what is there to lament about that!

If they could act otherwise, they would also WILL otherwise. The half-hearted spoil every whole. What is there to lament about leaves withering!

Let them go and fall away, O Zarathustra, and do not lament! Better even to blow amongst them with rustling winds,—

Let them go and fall away, Zarathustra, and do not mourn! Better still, blow among them like a rustling wind.

—Blow amongst those leaves, O Zarathustra, that everything WITHERED may run away from thee the faster!—

Blow among those leaves, Zarathustra, so that everything WITHERED may run away from you all the faster!

“We have again become pious”—so do those apostates confess; and some of them are still too pusillanimous thus to confess.

“We have become religious again,” those apostates confess. Some are still too cowardly to admit it.

Unto them I look into the eye,—before them I say it unto their face and unto the blush on their cheeks: Ye are those who again PRAY!

I look them in the eye and say it to their faces, watching their cheeks blush: You are the ones who PRAY again!

It is however a shame to pray! Not for all, but for thee, and me, and whoever hath his conscience in his head. For THEE it is a shame to pray!

But it is shameful to pray! Not for everyone, but for you, me, and anyone whose conscience is in their head. For YOU, it is shameful to pray!

Thou knowest it well: the faint-hearted devil in thee, which would fain fold its arms, and place its hands in its bosom, and take it easier:—this faint-hearted devil persuadeth thee that “there IS a God!”

You know it well: the faint-hearted devil in you wants to fold its arms, put its hands in its lap, and take it easy. This faint-hearted devil persuades you that “there IS a God!”

THEREBY, however, dost thou belong to the light-dreading type, to whom light never permitteth repose: now must thou daily thrust thy head deeper into obscurity and vapour!

By doing so, however, you show that you are the kind of person who fears the light. The light never lets you rest. Now you must push your head deeper into darkness and mist every day!

And verily, thou choosest the hour well: for just now do the nocturnal birds again fly abroad. The hour hath come for all light-dreading people, the vesper hour and leisure hour, when they do not—“take leisure.”

And truly, you have chosen the right hour, for the night birds are flying abroad again. The hour has come for all who dread the light. It is the evening hour and the hour of leisure, when they do not “take leisure.”

I hear it and smell it: it hath come—their hour for hunt and procession, not indeed for a wild hunt, but for a tame, lame, snuffling, soft-treaders’, soft-prayers’ hunt,—

I hear it and smell it. Their time for hunting and marching has come. But this is no wild hunt. It is a tame, lame hunt by snuffling people who tread softly and pray softly.

—For a hunt after susceptible simpletons: all mouse-traps for the heart have again been set! And whenever I lift a curtain, a night-moth rusheth out of it.

The hunt for gullible fools is on: all the mousetraps for the heart have been set again! And whenever I lift a curtain, a moth flies out from behind it.

Did it perhaps squat there along with another night-moth? For everywhere do I smell small concealed communities; and wherever there are closets there are new devotees therein, and the atmosphere of devotees.

Was it perhaps crouching there with another night moth? For I smell small, secret communities everywhere. And wherever there are closets, there are new devotees inside them, along with the atmosphere of devotees.

They sit for long evenings beside one another, and say: “Let us again become like little children and say, ‘good God!’”—ruined in mouths and stomachs by the pious confectioners.

They sit together for long evenings and say: “Let us become like little children again and say, ‘good God!’” The pious confectioners have ruined their mouths and stomachs.

Or they look for long evenings at a crafty, lurking cross-spider, that preacheth prudence to the spiders themselves, and teacheth that “under crosses it is good for cobweb-spinning!”

Or they spend long evenings watching a crafty cross-spider lying in wait. It preaches caution to the spiders themselves and teaches them that “under crosses is a good place to spin webs!”

Or they sit all day at swamps with angle-rods, and on that account think themselves PROFOUND; but whoever fisheth where there are no fish, I do not even call him superficial!

Or they sit all day by swamps with fishing rods, and think this makes them PROFOUND. But I would not even call someone superficial who fishes where there are no fish!

Or they learn in godly-gay style to play the harp with a hymn-poet, who would fain harp himself into the heart of young girls:—for he hath tired of old girls and their praises.

Or they learn to play the harp in a pious and cheerful style with a hymn writer. He hopes to play his way into the hearts of young girls, because he has grown tired of older girls and their praise.

Or they learn to shudder with a learned semi-madcap, who waiteth in darkened rooms for spirits to come to him—and the spirit runneth away entirely!

Or they learn to shudder with a learned half-madman who waits in darkened rooms for spirits to visit him. But the spirit runs away entirely!

Or they listen to an old roving howl- and growl-piper, who hath learnt from the sad winds the sadness of sounds; now pipeth he as the wind, and preacheth sadness in sad strains.

Or they listen to an old wandering piper who howls and growls. He has learned the sadness of sounds from the sad winds. Now he plays like the wind and preaches sadness in sad tunes.

And some of them have even become night-watchmen: they know now how to blow horns, and go about at night and awaken old things which have long fallen asleep.

And some of them have even become night watchmen. They now know how to blow horns, and they roam at night, waking old things that have long been asleep.

Five words about old things did I hear yester-night at the garden-wall: they came from such old, sorrowful, arid night-watchmen.

Last night, I heard five words about old things at the garden wall. They came from old, sorrowful, dry night watchmen.

“For a father he careth not sufficiently for his children: human fathers do this better!”—

“For a father, he does not care enough for his children. Human fathers do a better job!”

“He is too old! He now careth no more for his children,”—answered the other night-watchman.

“He is too old! He no longer cares about his children,” answered the other night watchman.

“HATH he then children? No one can prove it unless he himself prove it! I have long wished that he would for once prove it thoroughly.”

“Does he have children, then? No one can prove it unless he proves it himself! I have long wished he would prove it thoroughly, just once.”

“Prove? As if HE had ever proved anything! Proving is difficult to him; he layeth great stress on one’s BELIEVING him.”

“Prove? As if he had ever proved anything! He finds it difficult to prove things. He puts great emphasis on people BELIEVING him.”

“Ay! Ay! Belief saveth him; belief in him. That is the way with old people! So it is with us also!”—

“Yes! Yes! Belief saves him, belief in him. That is how it is with old people! It is the same with us!”

—Thus spake to each other the two old night-watchmen and light-scarers, and tooted thereupon sorrowfully on their horns: so did it happen yester-night at the garden-wall.

The two old night watchmen and light-scarers spoke to each other this way, then sadly blew their horns. That is what happened last night at the garden wall.

To me, however, did the heart writhe with laughter, and was like to break; it knew not where to go, and sunk into the midriff.

But my heart writhed with laughter and seemed ready to burst. It did not know where to go and sank into my belly.

Verily, it will be my death yet—to choke with laughter when I see asses drunken, and hear night-watchmen thus doubt about God.

Surely, I will die yet from choking with laughter when I see drunk donkeys and hear night watchmen doubt God like that.

Hath the time not LONG since passed for all such doubts? Who may nowadays awaken such old slumbering, light-shunning things!

Hasn't the time for all such doubts LONG since passed? Who could awaken such old, sleeping things that shun the light today!

With the old Deities hath it long since come to an end:—and verily, a good joyful Deity-end had they!

The old gods came to an end long ago. And truly, their end was a good and joyful one!

They did not “begloom” themselves to death—that do people fabricate! On the contrary, they—LAUGHED themselves to death once on a time!

They did not “begloom” themselves to death. People made that up! On the contrary, they once LAUGHED themselves to death!

That took place when the unGodliest utterance came from a God himself—the utterance: “There is but one God! Thou shalt have no other Gods before me!”—

That happened when a God himself made the most ungodly statement: “There is only one God! You shall have no other Gods before me!”

—An old grim-beard of a God, a jealous one, forgot himself in such wise:—

An old, grim-bearded God, a jealous one, lost control of himself in this way:

And all the Gods then laughed, and shook upon their thrones, and exclaimed: “Is it not just divinity that there are Gods, but no God?”

Then all the Gods laughed and shook on their thrones. They exclaimed: “Isn't it divine that there are Gods, but no God?”

He that hath an ear let him hear.—

Let anyone who has ears listen.

Thus talked Zarathustra in the city he loved, which is surnamed “The Pied Cow.” For from here he had but two days to travel to reach once more his cave and his animals; his soul, however, rejoiced unceasingly on account of the nighness of his return home.

Thus spoke Zarathustra in the city he loved, known as “The Pied Cow.” From there, it was only a two-day journey back to his cave and his animals. His soul rejoiced without end because his return home was near.