THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR

THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR

WHEN ZARATHUSTRA HAD LEFT the ugliest man he felt chilled and alone: for much coldness and loneliness came over his spirit, so that even his limbs became colder. But when he wandered on and on, uphill and down, at times past green meadows, though also sometimes over wild stony lows, where formerly perhaps an impatient brook had made its bed: then suddenly he grew warmer and cheerful again.

“What has happened to me?” he asked himself, “something warm and living refreshes me, it must be nearby.

“Already I am less alone; unknown companions and brothers circle around me, their warm breath touches my soul.”

But when he peered about and sought for the comforters of his loneliness, behold, there were cows standing together on a knoll; it was their nearness and odor that had warmed his heart. But the cows seemed to listen eagerly to a speaker, and paid no heed to him who approached. When, however, Zarathustra was quite near to them, then he heard plainly that a human voice spoke in the midst of the cows; and apparently all of them had turned their heads towards the speaker.

Then Zarathustra eagerly sprang up and pulled the animals aside, for he feared that someone had had an accident, which the pity of the cows could hardly 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 goodness itself preached.6 “What do you seek here?” called out Zarathustra in astonishment.

“What do I seek here?” he answered: “just what you seek, you disturber of the peace; that is, happiness on earth.

“But to that end I would like to learn from these cows. For I tell you that I have already talked half a morning to them, and just now they were about to give me their answer. Why do you disturb them?

“Unless we are converted and become as cows, we shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. For we ought to learn one thing from them: ruminating.

“And truly, though 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 misery,

—“his great misery: that, however, is today called disgust. Who today does not have his heart, his mouth and his eyes full of disgust? You too! You too! But regard these cows!”—

Thus spoke the preacher on the mount and then turned then his gaze towards Zarathustra—for so far it had rested lovingly on the cows-: but then he changed. “Who is it that I am speaking with?” he exclaimed, frightened, and sprang up from the ground.

“This is the man without disgust, this is Zarathustra himself, the overcomer of the great disgust, this is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart of Zarathustra himself.”

And while he thus spoke he kissed with overflowing eyes the hands of him with whom he spoke, and behaved altogether like one to whom a precious gift and jewel has unexpectedly fallen from heaven. But the cows looked at it all and were amazed.

“Do not speak of me, you strange one! Dear one!” said Zarathustra, restraining his affection, “speak to me first 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 them his abundance and his heart? But they received him not.”

“But they received me not,” said the voluntary beggar, “you know it, indeed. So I went at last to the animals and to these cows.”

“Then you learned,” interrupted Zarathustra, “how much harder it is to give properly than to take properly, and that gift-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 mob.

“For the hour has come, you know it well, for the great, evil, long, slow mob and slave rebellion: it grows and grows!

“Now all charity and any little giving away provokes the base; and the overrich may be on their guard!

“Whoever drips today, like bulging bottles out of all-too-narrow necks-today the necks of such bottles are broken gladly.

“Lustful greed, bilious envy, sour vengefulness, mob pride: all this threw itself in my face. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed. The kingdom of heaven, however, is with the cows.”

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

“Why do you tempt me?” answered the other. “You know it yourself even better than I. What was it that drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra? Was it not my disgust at the richest?

—“at the convicts of riches, with cold eyes and lewd thoughts, who pick up profit out of all kinds of rubbish, at this rabble that stinks to heaven,

—“at this gilded, debased mob, whose fathers were pickpockets or carrion crows or ragmen with compliant, lustful, forgetful wives—for they are all of them not much different from whores—

“Mob above, mob below! What are ‘poor’ and ‘rich’ today! I unlearned that distinction-then I fled away further and ever further, until I came to these cows.”

Thus spoke the peaceful one and himself snorted and perspired with his words: so that the cows were again amazed. But Zarathustra kept looking into his face with a smile, all the time the man talked so severely, and then shook his head silently.

“You do violence to yourself, you preacher on the mount, when you use such severe words. Neither your mouth nor your eyes were made for such severity.

“Nor your stomach either, I think: it opposes all such rage and hatred and foaming over. Your stomach wants gentler things: you are no butcher.

“You seem to me rather a plant-and root-man. Perhaps you grind corn. But you are certainly disinclined to fleshly pleasures 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 sweet and makes pure breath:

—“also what takes a long time, a day‘s-work and a mouth’s-work for gentle idlers and loafers.

“To be sure, nobody has achieved more than these cows: they have devised ruminating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all heavy thoughts that inflate the heart.”

—“Well!” said Zarathustra, “you should also see my animals, my eagle and my serpent,-there is not their like on earth today.

“Behold, there leads the way to my cave: be its guest tonight. 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!

“But now take leave of your cows at once, you strange one! Dear one! though it is hard for you. For they are your warmest friends and teachers!”—

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

“Away, away with you! you naughty flatterer!” cried Zarathustra mischievously, “why do you spoil me with such praise and honey of flattery?

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