Transcript of Analyzing Nietzsche: Talk with the Kings

LXIII. TALK WITH THE KINGS. 1.   Zarathustra left the soothsayer in  his cave, and is out to find out   where the cry of distress is coming from. Ere Zarathustra had been an hour on his way   in the mountains and forests, he saw all  at once a strange procession. Right on the   path which he was about to descend came two kings  walking, bedecked with crowns and purple girdles,   and variegated like flamingoes: they  drove before them a laden ass.   The first people he meets on his way are  two kings, who are walking a donkey. This   seems strange. Kings would usually associate  themselves with more noble animals, like horses,   and if they need a donkey to carry their  luggage, they would let others drive it. It   seems that these kings have fallen from grace. "What do these kings want in my domain?" said   Zarathustra in astonishment to his heart, and  hid himself hastily behind a thicket. When   however the kings approached to him, he said  half-aloud, like one speaking only to himself:   "Strange! Strange! How doth this harmonise?  Two kings do I see — and only one ass!"   Zarathustra also notices the oddness in the  picture, although his comment seems to be a   sarcastic mockery of kings, as was his way,  suggesting that two kings need two donkeys.   Thereupon the two kings made a halt; they  smiled and looked towards the spot whence   the voice proceeded, and afterwards looked  into each other's faces. "Such things do we   also think among ourselves," said the king  on the right, "but we do not utter them."   The king on the left, however, shrugged his  shoulders and answered: "That may perhaps be   a goat-herd. Or an anchorite who hath lived too  long among rocks and trees. For no society at   all spoileth also good manners." The kings are amused by his words,   because they know they look ridiculous, and  they seem to take pleasure in the fact that   someone dares to speak this way before them.  In the confines of society, kings have to   constantly live with worship and sycophancy, as  obligated by the manners of their culture. The   king on the left surmises, correctly, that the  speaker must be someone detached from society.   "Good manners?" replied angrily and bitterly the  other king: "what then do we run out of the way   of? Is it not 'good manners'? Our 'good society'? Better, verily, to live among anchorites   and goatherds, than with our gilded,  false, over-rouged populace — though   it call itself 'good society.' The king on the right spells it out.   They both escaped society, because they could  no longer live with its so-called good manners.   They are seeking something more truthful. — Though it call itself 'nobility.' But there   all is false and foul, above all the blood —  thanks to old evil diseases and worse curers.   The best and dearest to me at present is  still a sound peasant, coarse, artful,   obstinate and enduring: that is  at present the noblest type.   Nietzsche, we know, held nobility in high  regard. But here he shows that he doesn't   mean the way that noblemen of his time behaved.  When he talked of nobility, he meant a code of   conduct that included things like self-discipline,  individualism, and pride in oneself. The king   says that the noblemen lost these qualities. The  noblest people of the time are the rural peasants,   who are at least true to their nature. The peasant is at present the best;   and the peasant type should be master! But  it is the kingdom of the populace — I no   longer allow anything to be imposed upon me. The  populace, however — that meaneth, hodgepodge.   Populace-hodgepodge: therein is everything mixed  with everything, saint and swindler, gentleman   and Jew, and every beast out of Noah's ark. The king makes the distinction, among the simple   folks, between peasants and populace. The  peasants are those who remain true to their   nature. In contrast, there is modern society  that is a mix of many different types of people,   each with their own values, which has created  a hodge-podge of values with no coherency or   logic. The populace are those who just adopt this  mix of values that is imposed on them, which has   nothing to do with their nature. We've heard  Zarathustra say similar things in the past.   Good manners! Everything is false and foul with  us. No one knoweth any longer how to reverence: it   is THAT precisely that we run away from. They are  fulsome obtrusive dogs; they gild palm-leaves.   This loathing choketh me, that we kings ourselves  have become false, draped and disguised with   the old faded pomp of our ancestors,  show-pieces for the stupidest, the craftiest,   and whosoever at present trafficketh for power. We ARE NOT the first men — and have nevertheless   to STAND FOR them: of this imposture have  we at last become weary and disgusted.   From the rabble have we gone out of the way, from  all those bawlers and scribe-blowflies, from the   trader-stench, the ambition-fidgeting, the bad  breath — : fie, to live among the rabble;   What is at present day called "good manners" is  not what was called so in the past. In the past,   good manners were determined by the noblemen,  and were aimed at teaching one to develop their   skills. But what today's populace calls "good  manners" is determined by the rabble, and is just   an expression of that aforementioned hodge-podge  of values. The noblemen, including kings,   are now obliged to act according to these manners  as well, but these two kings still remember how   it used to be, and they realize that these new  manners are destroying humankind. Therefore,   they escaped, to at least save themselves. — Fie, to stand for the first men among the   rabble! Ah, loathing! Loathing! Loathing!  What doth it now matter about us kings!" —   "Thine old sickness seizeth thee,"  said here the king on the left,   "thy loathing seizeth thee, my poor brother. Thou  knowest, however, that some one heareth us."   These kings were considered by the populace  to be the first men – that is, those who are   the figureheads, supposed to represent the  values and manners of this populace. They   couldn't take it any longer, says the king on  the right, before the other king stops his rant,   because he remembers that they have company. Immediately thereupon, Zarathustra,   who had opened ears and eyes to this  talk, rose from his hiding-place,   advanced towards the kings, and thus began: "He who hearkeneth unto you, he who gladly   hearkeneth unto you, is called Zarathustra. I am Zarathustra who once said: 'What doth   it now matter about kings!' Forgive me;  I rejoiced when ye said to each other:   'What doth it matter about us kings!' Here, however, is MY domain and jurisdiction:   what may ye be seeking in my domain? Perhaps,  however, ye have FOUND on your way what I seek:   namely, the higher man." Zarathustra introduces himself,   and adds that he enjoyed hearing such wise words,  echoing things he has always been saying, coming   from their mouths. He asks them if they have seen  the higher man that he is seeking. For us readers,   it is quite obvious that these kings are the  higher men that he is seeking, men who did not   bow to the rabble but escaped to find something  better. Strangely, he doesn't seem to get it.   When the kings heard this, they  beat upon their breasts and   said with one voice: "We are recognised! With the sword of thine utterance severest   thou the thickest darkness of our hearts. Thou  hast discovered our distress; for lo! we are on   our way to find the higher man — — The man that is higher than we,   although we are kings. To him do we convey  this ass. For the highest man shall also   be the highest lord on earth. The kings tell him that they, too,   are seeking the higher man. They mean someone  who is better than them, someone that they   can follow in order to create a better humanity. There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny,   than when the mighty of the earth are not  also the first men. Then everything becometh   false and distorted and monstrous. And when they are even the last men,   and more beast than man, then riseth and riseth  the populace in honour, and at last saith even the   populace-virtue: 'Lo, I alone am virtue!'" — The higher man, say the kings, should be the   one leading humanity and determining its  values. But today, the rabble makes the rules,   and this shall be humanity's undoing. What have I just heard? answered   Zarathustra. What wisdom in kings!  I am enchanted, and verily, I have   already promptings to make a rhyme thereon: — — Even if it should happen to be a rhyme not   suited for every one's ears. I unlearned  long ago to have consideration for long   ears. Well then! Well now! (Here, however, it happened   that the ass also found utterance: it said  distinctly and with malevolence, Y-E-A.)   Zarathustra realizes that these kings have  finally come to some of the conclusions that   he always espoused, and this makes him happy, and  inspires him to compose a song. The song, he says,   is not for every ear, just for those worthy of  hearing it, and he evidently believes that these   kings are worthy. Those who are not worthy,  the populace, he characterizes as having long   ears. At this point, however, the donkey reminds  him that he is there as well. He has long ears,   but he also wants to hear the song. The donkey  asserts itself as a character in the story.   'Twas once — methinks year  one of our blessed Lord, —   Drunk without wine, the Sybil thus deplored: — "How ill things go!   Decline! Decline! Ne'er sank the world so low! Rome now hath turned harlot and harlot-stew,   Rome's Caesar a beast, and  God — hath turned Jew!"   Zarathustra's song puts the blame on Christianity.  In Roman times, the noblemen were indeed the ones   who ruled, and determined the values. But then  came the Christians and imposed their Jewish God,   the God that said that the meek shall inherit the  earth. The Sybil, the seer, warned back then that   this spells doom. And, indeed, the meek, also  known as the rabble, have inherited the earth,   and here we are. 2.   With those rhymes of Zarathustra the kings  were delighted; the king on the right,   however, said: "O Zarathustra, how well  it was that we set out to see thee!   For thine enemies showed us  thy likeness in their mirror:   there lookedst thou with the grimace of a devil,  and sneeringly: so that we were afraid of thee.   But what good did it do! Always didst  thou prick us anew in heart and ear with   thy sayings. Then did we say at last:  What doth it matter how he look!   Part two begins with the kings admitting that they  believed what they were told about Zarathustra,   told by those who want to maintain  the current bad values and manners,   and thus regard Zarathustra as their greatest  enemy, and demonize him. But his words worked   on them, and now that they have awakened to  see the current values for what they are, they   realize he was the one who was right all along.  He is the higher man that they came to seek.   We must HEAR him; him who teacheth: 'Ye  shall love peace as a means to new wars,   and the short peace more than the long!' No one ever spake such warlike words:   'What is good? To be brave is good. It is  the good war that halloweth every cause.'   O Zarathustra, our fathers' blood stirred  in our veins at such words: it was like   the voice of spring to old wine-casks. The kings tell Zarathustra that his words,   which he spoke in 'War and Warriors',  reminded them of their predecessors,   from the medieval times when noblemen were  warriors. They, too, preferred war over peace.   When the swords ran among one another  like red-spotted serpents, then did our   fathers become fond of life; the sun of every  peace seemed to them languid and lukewarm,   the long peace, however, made them ashamed. How they sighed, our fathers, when they saw on   the wall brightly furbished, dried-up swords! Like  those they thirsted for war. For a sword thirsteth   to drink blood, and sparkleth with desire." — The kings begin to reminisce about those glory   days. Here, however, is where Zarathustra has  enough. The first part was about him finding   common ground with the kings. In the second  part, he realizes that it only goes so far.   — When the kings thus discoursed and talked  eagerly of the happiness of their fathers,   there came upon Zarathustra no little  desire to mock at their eagerness:   for evidently they were very peaceable kings  whom he saw before him, kings with old and   refined features. But he restrained himself.  "Well!" said he, "thither leadeth the way, there   lieth the cave of Zarathustra; and this day is to  have a long evening! At present, however, a cry   of distress calleth me hastily away from you. Zarathustra's sarcasm is reawakened when he sees   these two kings, who are of the genteel, courtly  noblemen of present day, talks so eagerly about   war, which they are obviously not cut for. But  he still regards the change in them as a positive   thing, so he restrains himself, and invites  them to stay and wait for him in his cave.   It will honour my cave if kings  want to sit and wait in it: but,   to be sure, ye will have to wait long! Well! What of that! Where doth one at present   learn better to wait than at courts? And the whole  virtue of kings that hath remained unto them — is   it not called to-day: ABILITY to wait?" Thus spake Zarathustra.   He does mock them a little bit, noting how  impotent today's kings have become. But then he   leaves them behind and carries on his search for  the higher man. This will be a recurring theme in   the coming chapters: Zarathustra will meet figures  who are obviously the higher men he is seeking,   but will not recognize them as such. The  thing that we are still wandering about,   together with him, is: who made the cry  of distress? It wasn't the two kings,   as far as we can tell. This is still a mystery,  and we shall have to keep on reading to solve it.