The Donkey Festival

1

But at this point in the litany Zarathustra could no longer control himself; he himself cried Yea-a, louder even than the donkey, and leapt into the midst of his guests, who had gone mad.

“But what are you doing there, you children of men?” he cried, pulling the praying ones up from the ground. “Woe if anyone other than Zarathustra were watching you:

“Everyone would judge that with your new faith you were the worst blasphemers or the most foolish of all little old women!

“And you yourself, you old pope, how does it square with yourself that you worship a donkey here as God in this way?”—

“O Zarathustra,” answered the pope, “forgive me, but in matters of God I am even more enlightened than you. And that is only fair.

“Better to worship God in this form than in no form at all! Think about this saying, my lofty friend: you will quickly guess that there is wisdom in such a saying.

“He who said ‘God is a spirit’—he took the greatest step and leap toward unbelief so far on earth: such a word is not easily made good again on earth!

“My old heart leaps and skips because there is still something to worship on earth. Forgive that, O Zarathustra, to an old, pious pope’s heart!—”

—“And you,” said Zarathustra to the wanderer and shadow, “you call yourself and fancy yourself a free spirit? And you go in for such idolatry and priestcraft here?

“Truly, you are carrying on worse here than with your wicked brown girls, you wicked new believer!”

“Wicked enough,” answered the wanderer and shadow, “you are right: but what can I do about it! The old God lives again, O Zarathustra, say what you will.

“The ugliest human being is to blame for everything: he has awakened him again. And if he says that he once killed him: with gods, death is always only a prejudice.”

—And you, said Zarathustra, you wicked old sorcerer, what have you done! Who shall believe in you from now on, in this free age, if you believe in such asininities of gods?

It was a stupidity, what you did; how could you, you clever one, commit such a stupidity!

“O Zarathustra,” answered the clever sorcerer, “you are right, it was a stupidity,—and it was hard enough for me too.”

—“And you, of all people,” said Zarathustra to the conscientious one of the spirit, “consider, and put your finger to your nose! Does nothing here go against your conscience? Is your spirit not too clean for this praying and the fumes of these praying brethren?”

“There is something to it,” answered the conscientious one, and put his finger to his nose, “there is something in this spectacle that even does my conscience good.

“Perhaps I may not believe in God: but it is certain that God still seems to me most believable in this form.

“God is supposed to be eternal, according to the testimony of the most pious: whoever has so much time takes his time. As slowly and as stupidly as possible: with that such a one can go very far indeed.

“And whoever has too much spirit might well become foolishly infatuated with stupidity and folly itself. Think about yourself, O Zarathustra!

“You yourself—truly! even you could well turn into a donkey from overabundance and wisdom.

“Does not a perfect sage like to walk on the most crooked paths? Appearances teach it, O Zarathustra,—your appearance!”

—“And you yourself, finally,” said Zarathustra, and turned toward the ugliest human being, who was still lying on the ground, raising his arm to the donkey (for he was giving it wine to drink). “Speak, you unspeakable one, what have you done there!

“You seem to me transformed, your eye glows, the mantle of the sublime lies around your ugliness: what have you done?

“Is it true, then, what they say, that you awakened him again? And what for? Was he not killed off and done away with for good reason?

“You yourself seem to me awakened: what have you done? what have you turned around? Why have you converted? Speak, you unspeakable one?”

“O Zarathustra,” answered the ugliest human being, “you are a rogue!

“Whether he still lives or lives again or is thoroughly dead,—which of us two knows that best? I ask you.

“But one thing I know,—I learned it from you yourself once, O Zarathustra: whoever wants to kill most thoroughly laughs.

“‘One kills not with wrath but with laughter’—so you once said. O Zarathustra, you hidden one, you annihilator without wrath, you dangerous saint,—you are a rogue!”

2

But then it happened that Zarathustra, astonished at nothing but such roguish answers, sprang back to the door of his cave and, turned toward all his guests, cried in a strong voice:

“O you rascally fools, all of you, you buffoons! Why do you disguise and hide yourselves from me!

“How every one of your hearts wriggled with joy and malice because at last you had become once again like little children, namely pious,—

“—because at last you did again as children do, namely prayed, folded your hands, and said ‘dear God’!

“But now leave this nursery for me, my own cave, where today all childishness is at home. Cool off your hot childish high spirits and the noise of your hearts out here!

“To be sure: unless you become like little children, you will not enter that kingdom of heaven.” (And Zarathustra pointed upward with his hands.)

“But we do not want to enter the kingdom of heaven at all: we have become men,—so we want the kingdom of earth.”

3

And once more Zarathustra began to speak. “O my new friends,” he said,—“you strange ones, you higher humans, how well I like you now,—

“—since you have become cheerful again! Truly, you have all blossomed: it seems to me that such flowers as you need new festivals,

“—a little brave nonsense, some divine service and donkey festival, some old, cheerful Zarathustra fool, a roaring wind that blows your souls bright.

“Do not forget this night and this donkey festival, you higher humans! That you invented with me; I take that as a good omen,—such things only convalescents invent!

“And if you celebrate it again, this donkey festival, do it for love of yourselves, do it for love of me too! And in remembrance of me!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.