The Awakening

1

After the song of the wanderer and shadow the cave was all at once full of noise and laughter; and since the assembled guests were all talking at once, and even the donkey, at such encouragement, no longer kept still, a slight aversion and mockery toward his visitors came over Zarathustra: although he was glad of their gaiety. For it seemed to him a sign of convalescence. So he slipped out into the open and spoke to his animals.

“Where has their distress gone now?” he said, and already he himself breathed more freely after his slight weariness,—“with me they have unlearned, it seems to me, crying out in distress!

“—though not yet, unfortunately, crying out.” And Zarathustra held his ears shut, for just then the donkey’s Yea-a was mingling strangely with the jubilant noise of these higher humans.

“They are merry,” he began again, “and who knows? perhaps at their host’s expense; and if they learned to laugh from me, still it is not my laughter they have learned.

“But what does it matter! They are old people: they convalesce in their own way, they laugh in their own way; my ears have endured worse already and did not grow surly.

“This day is a victory: he is already giving way, he is fleeing, the Spirit of Gravity, my old archenemy! How well this day is going to end, which began so badly and heavily!

“And it wants to end. Already the evening is coming: over the sea he rides, the good rider! How he sways, the blissful one, the homecomer, in his purple saddles!

“The sky looks on clearly, the world lies deep: O all you strange ones who have come to me, it is surely worth it to live with me!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra. And again the shouting and laughter of the higher humans came out of the cave: then he began anew.

“They are biting, my bait is working; their enemy too is giving way, the Spirit of Gravity. Already they are learning to laugh at themselves: do I hear right?

“My men’s fare is working, my sayings of sap and strength: and truly, I did not feed them on bloating vegetables! But on warriors’ fare, on conquerors’ fare: I awakened new desires.

“New hopes are in their arms and legs, their hearts are stretching out. They are finding new words; soon their spirit will breathe mischief.

“Such fare may not be for children, of course, nor for longing little women, old and young. Their entrails are persuaded in other ways; I am not their doctor and teacher.

“Disgust is giving way in these higher humans: well then! that is my victory. In my kingdom they grow secure, all stupid shame runs away, they pour themselves out.

“They pour out their hearts, good hours come back to them, they celebrate and chew the cud,—they are growing grateful.

“That I take as the best sign: they are growing grateful. Not long now, and they will devise festivals for themselves and put up monuments to their old joys.

“They are convalescents!” Thus spoke Zarathustra gladly to his heart and gazed out; but his animals pressed close to him and honored his happiness and his silence.

2

But suddenly Zarathustra’s ear was startled: for the cave, which until then had been full of noise and laughter, all at once became deathly still;—but his nose smelled a fragrant smoke and incense, as of burning pinecones.

“What is happening? What are they up to?” he asked himself, and crept up to the entrance so that he might watch his guests unnoticed. But, wonder upon wonder! what did he have to see there with his own eyes!

“They have all become pious again, they are praying, they are mad!”—he said, and was astonished beyond measure. And, truly! all these higher humans, the two kings, the retired pope, the wicked sorcerer, the voluntary beggar, the wanderer and shadow, the old soothsayer, the conscientious one of the spirit, and the ugliest human being: they were all on their knees like children and credulous little old women, worshiping the donkey. And just then the ugliest human being began to gurgle and snort, as if something unspeakable wanted to come out of him; but when he had actually brought it to words, behold, it was a pious, strange litany in praise of the worshiped and incensed donkey. And this litany went like this:

Amen! And praise and honor and wisdom and thanks and glory and strength be to our God, forever and ever!

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.

He bears our burden, he took upon himself the form of a servant, he is patient of heart and never says No; and whoever loves his God chastises him.

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.

He does not speak: except that he always says Yes to the world he created: thus he praises his world. It is his slyness that does not speak: so he is seldom in the wrong.

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.

Inconspicuous he goes through the world. Gray is the livery in which he wraps his virtue. If he has spirit, he hides it; but everyone believes in his long ears.

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.

What hidden wisdom is this, that he wears long ears and says only Yes and never No! Has he not created the world in his own image, namely as stupid as possible?

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.

You walk straight and crooked paths; it matters little to you what seems straight or crooked to us human beings. Beyond good and evil is your kingdom. It is your innocence not to know what innocence is.

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.

Behold, how you push no one away from you, not the beggars, nor the kings. You let the little children come to you, and when the wicked boys entice you, you say in your simplicity Yea-a.

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.

You love she-asses and fresh figs, you are no despiser of good food. A thistle tickles your heart when you happen to be hungry. In that lies the wisdom of a god.

—But the donkey cried Yea-a.