Talk With the Kings

Ere Zarathustra had been an hour on his way in the mountains and forests, he saw all at once a strange procession. Right on the path which he was about to descend came two kings walking, bedecked with crowns and purple girdles, and variegated like flamingoes: they drove before them a laden ass. “What do these kings want in my domain?” said Zarathustra in astonishment to his heart, and hid himself hastily behind a thicket. When however the kings approached to him, he said half-aloud, like one speaking only to himself: “Strange! Strange! How doth this harmonise? Two kings do I see—and only one ass!”

Before Zarathustra had spent an hour traveling through the mountains and forests, he suddenly saw a strange procession. Two kings were walking toward him on the very path he was about to descend. They wore crowns and purple sashes and were as colorful as flamingos. They drove a loaded donkey ahead of them. “What do these kings want in my domain?” Zarathustra asked himself in astonishment. He quickly hid behind a thicket. But when the kings came closer, he spoke under his breath, as if talking only to himself: “Strange! Strange! How does this make sense? I see two kings and only one donkey!”

Thereupon the two kings made a halt; they smiled and looked towards the spot whence the voice proceeded, and afterwards looked into each other’s faces. “Such things do we also think among ourselves,” said the king on the right, “but we do not utter them.”

Then the two kings stopped. They smiled and looked toward the place where the voice came from. Then they looked at each other. “We think such things too,” said the king on the right, “but we do not say them aloud.”

The king on the left, however, shrugged his shoulders and answered: “That may perhaps be a goat-herd. Or an anchorite who hath lived too long among rocks and trees. For no society at all spoileth also good manners.”

The king on the left, however, shrugged and replied: “That may perhaps be a goatherd. Or a hermit who has lived too long among rocks and trees. For having no company at all also spoils good manners.”

“Good manners?” replied angrily and bitterly the other king: “what then do we run out of the way of? Is it not ‘good manners’? Our ‘good society’?

“Good manners?” the other king replied angrily and bitterly. “What are we running away from? Isn’t it ‘good manners’? Our ‘good society’?”

Better, verily, to live among anchorites and goatherds, than with our gilded, false, over-rouged populace—though it call itself ‘good society.’

It is better to live among hermits and goatherds than among our gilded, false, overly made-up crowd, though it calls itself ‘good society.’

—Though it call itself ‘nobility.’ But there all is false and foul, above all the blood—thanks to old evil diseases and worse curers.

Though it calls itself ‘nobility.’ But there, everything is false and foul, especially the blood, thanks to old, evil diseases and even worse healers.

The best and dearest to me at present is still a sound peasant, coarse, artful, obstinate and enduring: that is at present the noblest type.

For now, I still value a healthy peasant most: rough, cunning, stubborn, and resilient. To me, that is the noblest type at present.

The peasant is at present the best; and the peasant type should be master! But it is the kingdom of the populace—I no longer allow anything to be imposed upon me. The populace, however—that meaneth, hodgepodge.

The peasant is the best now, and the peasant type should rule! But this is the kingdom of the populace. I no longer let anything be imposed on me. And the populace means a hodgepodge.

Populace-hodgepodge: therein is everything mixed with everything, saint and swindler, gentleman and Jew, and every beast out of Noah’s ark.

Populace-hodgepodge: everything is mixed together there. Saints and swindlers, gentlemen and Jews, and every beast from Noah’s ark.

Good manners! Everything is false and foul with us. No one knoweth any longer how to reverence: it is THAT precisely that we run away from. They are fulsome obtrusive dogs; they gild palm-leaves.

Good manners! Everything about us is false and foul. No one knows how to show reverence anymore. Reverence is exactly what we run away from. They are shameless, pushy dogs. They gild palm leaves.

This loathing choketh me, that we kings ourselves have become false, draped and disguised with the old faded pomp of our ancestors, show-pieces for the stupidest, the craftiest, and whosoever at present trafficketh for power.

This disgust chokes me: we kings have become false. We dress ourselves in the faded splendor of our ancestors. We are showpieces for the stupidest, the craftiest, and anyone who trades in power today.

We ARE NOT the first men—and have nevertheless to STAND FOR them: of this imposture have we at last become weary and disgusted.

We are NOT the first men, yet we have to STAND FOR them. At last, we are tired and disgusted by this pretense.

From the rabble have we gone out of the way, from all those bawlers and scribe-blowflies, from the trader-stench, the ambition-fidgeting, the bad breath—: fie, to live among the rabble;

We have stayed away from the rabble, from all those loudmouths and scribbling blowflies, from the stench of traders, the restless ambition, and the bad breath. Ugh, to live among the rabble!

—Fie, to stand for the first men among the rabble! Ah, loathing! Loathing! Loathing! What doth it now matter about us kings!”—

Shame on us, for being the foremost among the rabble! Ah, disgust! Disgust! Disgust! What do we kings matter now!”

“Thine old sickness seizeth thee,” said here the king on the left, “thy loathing seizeth thee, my poor brother. Thou knowest, however, that some one heareth us.”

“Your old sickness has seized you,” said the king on the left. “Your loathing has seized you, my poor brother. But you know that someone can hear us.”

Immediately thereupon, Zarathustra, who had opened ears and eyes to this talk, rose from his hiding-place, advanced towards the kings, and thus began:

Zarathustra had been listening and watching. Immediately afterward, he rose from his hiding place, approached the kings, and began:

“He who hearkeneth unto you, he who gladly hearkeneth unto you, is called Zarathustra.

“The one who listens to you, who gladly listens to you, is called Zarathustra.

I am Zarathustra who once said: ‘What doth it now matter about kings!’ Forgive me; I rejoiced when ye said to each other: ‘What doth it matter about us kings!’

I am Zarathustra, who once said: ‘What do kings matter now!’ Forgive me. I was delighted when you said to each other: ‘What do we kings matter!’

Here, however, is MY domain and jurisdiction: what may ye be seeking in my domain? Perhaps, however, ye have FOUND on your way what I seek: namely, the higher man.”

But this is MY domain, under my authority. What are you looking for here? Perhaps, though, you have FOUND on your way what I seek: the higher man.”

When the kings heard this, they beat upon their breasts and said with one voice: “We are recognised!

When the kings heard this, they beat their chests and said together: “We have been recognized!

With the sword of thine utterance severest thou the thickest darkness of our hearts. Thou hast discovered our distress; for lo! we are on our way to find the higher man—

With the sword of your words, you cut through the deepest darkness in our hearts. You have discovered our distress. For we are on our way to find the higher man.

—The man that is higher than we, although we are kings. To him do we convey this ass. For the highest man shall also be the highest lord on earth.

The man who is higher than we are, although we are kings. We bring him this donkey. For the highest man should also be the highest lord on earth.

There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny, than when the mighty of the earth are not also the first men. Then everything becometh false and distorted and monstrous.

There is no greater misfortune in all human destiny than when the most powerful people on earth are not also the best. Then everything becomes false, distorted, and monstrous.

And when they are even the last men, and more beast than man, then riseth and riseth the populace in honour, and at last saith even the populace-virtue: ‘Lo, I alone am virtue!’”—

And even when they are the last men, more beast than human, the masses rise higher and higher in esteem. At last, even the virtue of the masses says: ‘Look, I alone am virtue!’”

What have I just heard? answered Zarathustra. What wisdom in kings! I am enchanted, and verily, I have already promptings to make a rhyme thereon:—

What have I just heard? Zarathustra replied. What wisdom from kings! I am enchanted, and I already feel inspired to make a rhyme about it:

—Even if it should happen to be a rhyme not suited for every one’s ears. I unlearned long ago to have consideration for long ears. Well then! Well now!

Even if the rhyme is not suited to everyone’s ears. I stopped worrying about long ears long ago. Well then! Well now!

(Here, however, it happened that the ass also found utterance: it said distinctly and with malevolence, Y-E-A.)

(Here, however, the donkey also spoke. It said clearly and maliciously, Y-E-A.)

‘Twas once—methinks year one of our blessed Lord,—Drunk without wine, the Sybil thus deplored:—“How ill things go! Decline! Decline! Ne’er sank the world so low! Rome now hath turned harlot and harlot-stew, Rome’s Caesar a beast, and God—hath turned Jew!”

Once, I think in the first year of our blessed Lord, the Sybil lamented, drunk without wine: “How badly things are going! Decline! Decline! The world has never sunk so low! Rome has become a prostitute and a brothel, Rome’s Caesar is a beast, and God has become a Jew!”

With those rhymes of Zarathustra the kings were delighted; the king on the right, however, said: “O Zarathustra, how well it was that we set out to see thee!

The kings were delighted by Zarathustra’s rhymes. But the king on the right said: “O Zarathustra, how glad we are that we set out to see you!

For thine enemies showed us thy likeness in their mirror: there lookedst thou with the grimace of a devil, and sneeringly: so that we were afraid of thee.

For your enemies showed us your likeness in their mirror. There you wore the grimace of a devil and sneered, so we were afraid of you.

But what good did it do! Always didst thou prick us anew in heart and ear with thy sayings. Then did we say at last: What doth it matter how he look!

But what good did it do! You kept pricking our hearts and ears with your sayings. At last we said: What does it matter what he looks like!

We must HEAR him; him who teacheth: ‘Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars, and the short peace more than the long!’

We must HEAR him, the one who teaches: ‘You should love peace as a means to new wars, and short peace more than long peace!’

No one ever spake such warlike words: ‘What is good? To be brave is good. It is the good war that halloweth every cause.’

No one ever spoke such warlike words: ‘What is good? Being brave is good. A good war makes every cause sacred.’

O Zarathustra, our fathers’ blood stirred in our veins at such words: it was like the voice of spring to old wine-casks.

Zarathustra, at such words, our fathers’ blood stirred in our veins. The words were like the voice of spring to old wine casks.

When the swords ran among one another like red-spotted serpents, then did our fathers become fond of life; the sun of every peace seemed to them languid and lukewarm, the long peace, however, made them ashamed.

When swords flashed against one another like red-spotted snakes, our fathers grew fond of life. To them, the sun of every peace seemed weak and lukewarm. But a long peace made them ashamed.

How they sighed, our fathers, when they saw on the wall brightly furbished, dried-up swords! Like those they thirsted for war. For a sword thirsteth to drink blood, and sparkleth with desire.”—

How our fathers sighed when they saw brightly polished, dried-out swords on the wall! Like those swords, they thirsted for war. For a sword thirsts for blood and sparkles with desire.”

—When the kings thus discoursed and talked eagerly of the happiness of their fathers, there came upon Zarathustra no little desire to mock at their eagerness: for evidently they were very peaceable kings whom he saw before him, kings with old and refined features. But he restrained himself. “Well!” said he, “thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra; and this day is to have a long evening! At present, however, a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from you.

As the kings spoke eagerly about the happiness of their fathers, Zarathustra felt a strong urge to mock their eagerness. For the kings before him were plainly very peaceable, with old, refined features. But he held back. “Well!” he said, “that path leads to Zarathustra’s cave, and this day will have a long evening! But for now, a cry of distress calls me away from you in haste.”

It will honour my cave if kings want to sit and wait in it: but, to be sure, ye will have to wait long!

It will honor my cave if kings want to sit and wait in it. But you will have to wait a long time!

Well! What of that! Where doth one at present learn better to wait than at courts? And the whole virtue of kings that hath remained unto them—is it not called to-day: ABILITY to wait?”

Well! What of that! Where can you learn to wait better these days than at royal courts? And isn't the only virtue kings still have called today: the ABILITY to wait?”

Thus spake Zarathustra.

This is what Zarathustra said.