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.

After Zarathustra left the ugliest man, he felt cold and lonely. His spirit was overcome by such coldness and loneliness that even his limbs grew colder. But as he wandered on, uphill and down, he sometimes passed green meadows. At other times he crossed wild, rocky beds where perhaps a restless stream had once flowed. Then, all at once, he felt warmer and more cheerful again.

“What hath happened unto me?” he asked himself, “something warm and living quickeneth me; it must be in the neighbourhood.

“What has happened to me?” he asked himself. “Something warm and alive is stirring me. It must be nearby.

Already am I less alone; unconscious companions and brethren rove around me; their warm breath toucheth my soul.”

Already, I am less alone. Unconscious companions and brothers wander around me. Their warm breath touches 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.

But when he looked around for the companions that comforted him in his loneliness, he saw cows standing together on a hill. Their closeness and smell had warmed his heart. The cows, however, seemed to be listening eagerly to a speaker and paid no attention as he approached. But when Zarathustra came very close, he could clearly hear a human voice speaking among the cows. Apparently, all the cows had turned their heads toward 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.

Then Zarathustra ran up quickly and drove the animals aside. He feared that someone had been hurt, and that the cows’ pity could hardly help. But he was mistaken. There sat a man on the ground, who seemed to be persuading the animals not to fear him. He was a peaceful man, a Preacher-on-the-Mount, whose very eyes preached kindness. “What are you looking for here?” Zarathustra called out in astonishment.

“What do I here seek?” answered he: “the same that thou seekest, thou mischief-maker; that is to say, happiness upon earth.

“What am I looking for here?” he answered. “The same thing you are looking for, you troublemaker: happiness on 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?

For that purpose, though, I would like to learn from these cows. I tell you, I have already spent half the morning talking to them. They were just about to answer me. Why are you disturbing 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.

Unless we change and become like cows, we will never enter the kingdom of heaven. For we should learn one thing from cows: how to chew the cud.

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,

And truly, even if a man gained the whole world but never learned to ruminate, what good would it do him? He would still suffer from 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!”—

His great affliction is now called DISGUST. Who today does not have a heart, mouth, and eyes full of disgust? You too! You too! But look at these cows!”

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.

Thus spoke the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and he turned his gaze toward Zarathustra. Until then, he had been gazing lovingly at the cows. But now his expression changed. “Who am I talking to?” he exclaimed in fright, 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.”

“This is the man without disgust. This is Zarathustra himself, who overcame the great disgust. This is the eye, the mouth, 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.

As he spoke, he kissed the hands of the man he was speaking to, his eyes overflowing with tears. He acted as if a precious gift, a jewel, had unexpectedly fallen to him from heaven. The cows, 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,—

“Don't speak of me, you strange and lovable man!” said Zarathustra, holding back his affection. “First, tell me about yourself! Aren't you the voluntary beggar who once gave 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.”

Who was ashamed of his wealth and of the rich? Who fled to the poorest people to give them his wealth and his heart? But they did not accept him.”

“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.”

“But they did not welcome me,” said the voluntary beggar, “as you surely know. So I finally went to the animals and those cows.”

“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.”

“Then you learned,” Zarathustra interrupted, “how much harder it is to give properly than to receive properly. You also learned that giving well is an ART, the last and most subtle 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.

“Especially nowadays,” answered the voluntary beggar: “Now everything low has become rebellious, exclusive, and haughty, like the common crowd.

For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth, for the great, evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth!

For the time has come, as you well know, for the great, evil, long, slow uprising of the mob and the slaves. It keeps spreading!

Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty giving; and the over-rich may be on their guard!

Now all acts of kindness and small gifts provoke the lower classes. And the extremely rich had better be on guard!

Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out of all-too-small necks:—of such bottles at present one willingly breaketh the necks.

These days, some people drip like bulging bottles with necks that are too narrow. People are happy to break the necks of such bottles nowadays.

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.”

I saw reckless greed, bitter envy, revenge worn down by worry, and the pride of the common people. The poor are no longer blessed. But the kingdom of heaven belongs to the cattle.”

“And why is it not with the rich?” asked Zarathustra temptingly, while he kept back the kine which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one.

“And why is it not with the rich?” Zarathustra asked suggestively. As he spoke, he held back the cows, which were sniffing at the peaceful one as if they knew him.

“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?

“Why are you tempting me?” the other replied. “You know the answer even better than I do. What drove me to the poorest, Zarathustra? Wasn't it my disgust with 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 the culprits of wealth, with their cold eyes and foul thoughts, who profit from all kinds of rubbish, at this rabble that stinks 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—

At this gilded, fake crowd, whose fathers were pickpockets, carrion crows, or ragpickers, and whose wives were submissive, lewd, and forgetful. For they are all little different from whores.

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.”

Common people above, common people below! What do “poor” and “rich” mean today? I unlearned that distinction. Then I fled farther and farther away, until I came to those cows.”

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.

The peaceful man spoke, puffing himself up and sweating as he talked. The cows marveled again. But Zarathustra kept looking at his face with a smile. All the while the man spoke so sternly, Zarathustra silently shook 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.

“You do violence to yourself, Preacher-on-the-Mount, when you use such harsh words. For neither your mouth nor your eyes were made for such harshness.

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.

And I think your stomach has not, either. All such rage, hatred, and frothing are repulsive to IT. Your stomach wants gentler things. You are 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.”

Rather, you seem to me a plant-eater and a root-man. Perhaps you grind grain. But you certainly dislike physical pleasures, and you love 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:

“You have understood me well,” answered the voluntary beggar, his heart lighter. “I love honey, and I also grind grain. For I have sought out what tastes sweet and makes the breath pure:

—Also what requireth a long time, a day’s-work and a mouth’s-work for gentle idlers and sluggards.

Also what takes a long time, a day's work and talk for gentle idlers and lazybones.

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.”

Those cows, of course, have taken it furthest. They have invented chewing their cud and lying in the sun. They also avoid all heavy thoughts that 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.

“Well!” said Zarathustra, “you should also see MY animals, my eagle and my serpent. Nothing like them exists on earth today.

Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave: be to-night its guest. And talk to mine animals of the happiness of animals,—

Look, that path leads to my cave. Be my guest there tonight. And talk to my animals about 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!

Until I come home myself. For now, a cry of distress calls me away from you in haste. Also, if you find fresh honey with me, ice-cold, golden honey in the comb, 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!”—

But now, say goodbye to your cows at once, you strange and lovable person! Do it though it is hard for you. For the cows are your dearest friends and teachers!”

—“One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,” answered the voluntary beggar. “Thou thyself art good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a cow!”

“With one exception, whom I hold even dearer,” replied the voluntary beggar. “You yourself are good, Zarathustra, even better 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 with you, you wicked flatterer!” Zarathustra cried mischievously. “Why do you spoil me with such praise and honeyed flattery?

“Away, away from me!” cried he once more, and heaved his stick at the fond beggar, who, however, ran nimbly away.

“Away, get away from me!” he cried again and threw his stick at the foolish beggar. But the beggar quickly ran away.