But they received me not, said the voluntary beggar. Thou knowest it, forsooth. So I went at last to the animals and to those kine.

Then learnedst thou, interrupted Zarathustra, how much harder it is to give properly than to take properly, and that bestowing 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 hath become rebellious and exclusive and haughty in its manner—in the manner of the populace.

For the hour hath come—thou knowest it forsooth—for the great, evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth!

Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty giving; and the overrich may be on their guard!

Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out of all-too-small necks—of such bottles at present one willingly breaketh the necks.

Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge, populace-pride: all these struck mine eye. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed. The kingdom of heaven, however, is with the kine.

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

Why dost thou tempt me? answered the other. Thou knowest it thyself better even than I. What was it drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra? Was it not my disgust at the richest?

At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and rank thoughts, who pick up profit out of all kinds of rubbish—at this rabble that stinketh to heaven—

At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers were pickpockets, or carrion-crows, or rag-pickers, with wives complaint, lewd and forgetful; for they are all of them not far different from harlots—

Populace above, populace below! What are ‘poor’ and ‘rich’ at present! That distinction did I unlearn—then did I flee away further and ever further, until I came to those kine.

Thus spake the peaceful one, and puffed himself and perspired with his words, so that the kine wondered anew. Zarathustra, however, kept looking into his face with a smile all the time the man talked so severely—and shook silently his head.

Thou doest violence to thyself, thou Preacher-on-the-Mount, when thou usest such severe words. For such severity neither thy mouth nor thine eye have been given thee.

Nor, methinketh, hath thy stomach either: unto it all such rage and hatred and foaming—over is repugnant. Thy stomach wanteth softer things; thou art not a butcher.

Rather seemest thou to me a plant-eater and a root-man. Perhaps thou grindest corn. Certainly, however, thou art averse to fleshly joys, and thou lovest honey.

Thou hast divined me well, answered the voluntary beggar, with lightened heart. I love honey, I also grind corn; for I have sought out what tasteth sweetly and maketh pure breath—

Also what requireth a long time, a day’s-work and a mouth’s-work for gentle idlers and sluggards.

Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it; they have devised ruminating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all heavy thoughts which inflate the heart.