XXVIII. THE RABBLE.

The people have ye served and the people’s superstition—NOT the truth!—all ye famous wise ones!

And on that account also did they tolerate your unbelief, because it was a pleasantry and a by-path for the people.

But he who is hated by the people, as the wolf by the dogs—is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods.

To hunt him out of his lair—that was always called “sense of right” by the people: on him do they still hound their sharpest-toothed dogs.

“For there the truth is, where the people are!

Your people would ye justify in their reverence: that called ye “Will to Truth,” ye famous wise ones!

And your heart hath always said to itself: “From the people have I come: from thence came to me also the voice of God.”

Stiff-necked and artful, like the ass, have ye always been, as the advocates of the people.

And many a powerful one who wanted to run well with the people, hath harnessed in front of his horses—a donkey, a famous wise man.

And now, ye famous wise ones, I would have you finally throw off entirely the skin of the lion!

The skin of the beast of prey, the speckled skin, and the dishevelled locks of the investigator, the searcher, and the conqueror!

Ah! for me to learn to believe in your “conscientiousness,” ye would first have to break your venerating will.

Conscientious—so call I him who goeth into God-forsaken wildernesses, and hath broken his venerating heart. Ah, ofttimes became I weary of spirit, when I found even the rabble spiritual!

In the yellow sands and burnt by the sun, he doubtless peereth thirstily at the isles rich in fountains, where life reposeth under shady trees.

But his thirst doth not persuade him to become like those comfortable ones: for where there are oases, there are also idols.

Hungry, fierce, lonesome, God-forsaken: so doth the lion-will wish itself.

Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from Deities and adorations, fearless and fear-inspiring, grand and lonesome: so is the will of the conscientious.

In the wilderness have ever dwelt the conscientious, the free spirits, as lords of the wilderness; but in the cities dwell the well-foddered, famous wise ones—the draught-beasts.

For, always, do they draw, as asses—the PEOPLE’S carts! How have I freed myself from loathing? Who hath rejuvenated mine eye? How have I flown to the height where no rabble any longer sit at the wells?

Not that I on that account upbraid them: but serving ones do they remain, and harnessed ones, even though they glitter in golden harness. Verily, to the loftiest height had I to fly, to find again the well of delight!

And often have they been good servants and worthy of their hire. For thus saith virtue: “If thou must be a servant, seek him unto whom thy service is most useful! And there is a life at whose waters none of the rabble drink with me!

The spirit and virtue of thy master shall advance by thou being his servant: thus wilt thou thyself advance with his spirit and virtue!” And often emptiest thou the goblet again, in wanting to fill it!

And verily, ye famous wise ones, ye servants of the people!

But the people ye remain for me, even with your virtues, the people with purblind eyes—the people who know not what SPIRIT is!

Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life: by its own torture doth it increase its own knowledge,—did ye know that before? Past, the wickedness of my snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide!

And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and consecrated with tears as a sacrificial victim,—did ye know that before?

And the blindness of the blind one, and his seeking and groping, shall yet testify to the power of the sun into which he hath gazed,—did ye know that before?

And with mountains shall the discerning one learn to BUILD! It is a small thing for the spirit to remove mountains,—did ye know that before? It shall laugh back to you with ITS purity.

Ye know only the sparks of the spirit: but ye do not see the anvil which it is, and the cruelty of its hammer!

Verily, ye know not the spirit’s pride! But still less could ye endure the spirit’s humility, should it ever want to speak!

And never yet could ye cast your spirit into a pit of snow: ye are not hot enough for that! Thus are ye unaware, also, of the delight of its coldness.

In all respects, however, ye make too familiar with the spirit; and out of wisdom have ye often made an almshouse and a hospital for bad poets.

Ye are not eagles: thus have ye never experienced the happiness of the alarm of the spirit.

Ye seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly floweth all deep knowledge.

Thus spake Zarathustra.