ON THE VIRTUE THAT MAKES SMALL

1

When Zarathustra was on firm land again he did not go straightway to his mountains and his cave, but made many wanderings and questionings and found out this and that, so that he said jokingly of himself: “Behold a river that flows back to its source in many windings!” For he wanted to learn what had happened to men while he had been away: whether they had become greater or smaller. And once he saw a row of new houses, and he marveled and said:

What do these houses mean? Truly, no great soul put them up as its likeness!

Perhaps a silly child took them out of its toy box? If only another child would put them back into the box!

And these rooms and chambers-can men go out and in there? They seem to be made for silk dolls; or for dainty nibblers who perhaps let others nibble with them.

And Zarathustra stood still and reflected. At last he said sorrowfully: “Everything has become smaller!

“Everywhere I see lower doorways: those of my kind probably still go through, but—he must stoop!

Oh, when shall I arrive again at my home, where I shall no longer have to stoop-shall no longer have to stoop before the small ones!“—And Zarathustra sighed and gazed into the distance.—

But the very same day he gave his speech on the virtue that makes small.

2

I pass through this people and keep my eyes open: they do not forgive me for not envying their virtues.

They bite at me, because I say to them that for small people, small virtues are necessary—and because it is hard for me to understand that small people are necessary!

Here I am still like a cock in a strange farmyard, at which even the hens peck: but I am not unfriendly to these hens on that account.

I am courteous towards them, as towards all small annoyances; to be prickly towards what is small seems to me the wisdom of hedgehogs.

They all speak of me when they sit around their fire in the evening—they speak of me, but no one thinks-of me!

This is the new stillness I have learned: their noise about me spreads a cloak over my thoughts.

They shout to one another: “What is this dark cloud about to do to us? Let us see that it does not bring a plague upon us!”

And recently a woman pulled back her child that was approaching me: “Take the children away,” she cried, “such eyes scorch children’s souls.”

They cough when I speak: they think that coughing is an objection to strong winds-they know nothing of the roaring of my happiness!

“We have no time yet for Zarathustra”—so they object; but what matters a time that “has no time” for Zarathustra?

And if they praise me, how could I go to sleep on their praise? To me their praise is a belt of thorns: it scratches me even when I take it off.

And I also learned this among them: the praiser acts as if he gave back, but in truth he wants to be given more!

Ask my foot if it likes their way of lauding and luring! Truly, to such a measure and tick-tock beat it likes neither to dance nor stand still.

They would like to lure and praise me to a small virtue; they would like to persuade my foot to the tick-tock of a small happiness.

I pass through this people and keep my eyes open: they have become smaller and are becoming smaller—but that is due to their doctrine of happiness and virtue.

For they are modest even in virtue-because they want comfort. But only a modest virtue is compatible with comfort.

To be sure, they also learn in their way to stride on and stride forward: I call that their limping—. Thus they become a hindrance to all who are in a hurry.

And many of them go forward and at the same time look backward with stiff necks: I like running into these.

Foot and eye should not lie nor give the lie to each other. But there is much lying among small people.

Some of them will, but most of them are only willed. Some of them are genuine, but most of them are bad actors.

There are unconscious actors among them and involuntary actors—the genuine are always rare, especially genuine actors.

There is little of man here: therefore their women make themselves manly. For only he who is man enough will-redeem the woman in woman.

And I found this hypocrisy the worst among them: that even those who command feign the virtues of those who serve.

“I serve, you serve, we serve”—so prays here even the hypocrisy of the rulers-and ah, if the first lord is only the first servant!

Ah, into their hypocrisies too my eyes’ curiosity flew astray; and well did I divine all their fly-happiness and their buzzing around sunny windowpanes.

I see as much weakness as kindness. As much weakness as justice and pity.

They are frank, honest, and kind to one another, as grains of sand are frank, honest, and kind to grains of sand.

To embrace a small happiness modestly—they call that “resignation”! And at the same time they look out for a new little happiness.

In their hearts they want one thing most of all: that no one hurt them. Thus they anticipate every one’s wishes and do well to every one.

That, however, is cowardice: though it be called “virtue.”—

And when they happen to speak harshly, these little people,I hear in it only their hoarseness-in fact every draft makes them hoarse.

They are clever, their virtues have clever fingers. But they lack fists, their fingers do not know how to close into fists.

Virtue for them is what makes modest and tame: with it they have made the wolf a dog and man himself man’s best domestic animal.

“We set our chair in the middle”—so says their smirking to me “and as far from dying warriors as from contented swine.”

That, however, is—mediocrity: though it be called moderation.—

3

I pass through this people and let fall many words: but they know neither how to take nor how to keep them.

They are surprised that I did not come to revile their lusts and vices; and truly, I have not come to warn against pickpockets either!

They wonder why I am not ready to improve and sharpen their cleverness: as if they had not yet enough smartasses, whose voices grate on my ear like slate pencils!

And when I cry: “Curse all the cowardly devils in you, that would like to whimper and fold the hands and pray”—then they cry: “Zarathustra is godless.”

And especially their teachers of resignation cry this;—but precisely in their ears I love to shout: “Yes! I am Zarathustra the godless!”

Those teachers of resignation! Wherever there is anything small and sick and scabby, there they creep like lice; and only my disgust prevents me from squashing them.

Well! This is my sermon for their ears: I am Zarathustra the godless, who says: “Who is more godless than I, that I may delight in his instruction?”

I am Zarathustra the godless: where shall I find my equal? And all those are my equals who give themselves their own will and renounce all resignation.

I am Zarathustra the godless! I cook every chance in my pot. And only when it is cooked through do I welcome it as my food.

And truly, many a chance came imperiously to me: but my will spoke still more imperiously to it, then it went down imploringly on its knees—

—imploring that it might find home and heart with me, and saying flatteringly: “See, O Zarathustra, how friend comes only to friend!”—

But why do I speak when no one has my ears! And so I will shout it out to all the winds:

You become ever smaller, you small people! You crumble away, you comfortable ones! You will yet perish—

—by your many small virtues, by your many small omissions, and by your many small resignations!

Too tender, too yielding: so is your soil! But for a tree to become great, it seeks to twine hard roots around hard rocks!

Also what you omit weaves at the web of mankind’s future; even your nothing is a spider’s web and a spider that lives on the blood of the future.

And when you take, it is like stealing, you small virtuous ones; but even among rogues, honor says: “One should steal only when one cannot rob.”

“It is given”—that is also a doctrine of resignation. But I say to you, you comfortable ones: it is taken and will ever take more and more from you!

Ah, that you would renounce all half willing, and would decide to be idle like you decide to act!

Ah, that you understood my word: “Always do what you will—but first be such as can will!

“For all that love your neighbor as yourselves-but first be such as love themselves—

“—such as love with a great love, such as love with a great contempt!” Thus speaks Zarathustra the godless.—

But why do I speak when no one has my ears! It is still an hour too early for me here.

I am my own forerunner among this people, my own cockcrow in dark lanes.

But their hour comes! And mine comes too! Hourly they become smaller, poorer, more barren-poor herbs! poor soil!

And soon they shall stand before me like dry grass and prairie, and truly, weary of themselves and panting even more than for water—for fire!

O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noon!-One day I shall turn them into running fires and heralds with flaming tongues:—

—one day they shall proclaim with flaming tongues: It is coming, it is near, the great noon!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.