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The slave-revolt in morality begins by resentment itself becoming creative and giving birth to values — the resentment of such beings, as real reaction, the reaction of deeds, is impossible to, and as nothing but an imaginary vengeance will serve to indemnify. Whereas, on the one hand, all noble morality takes its rise from a triumphant Yea-saying to one's self, slave-morality will, on the other hand, from the very beginning, say No to something "exterior," "different," "not-self;" this No being its creative deed. This reversion of the value-positing eye — this necessary glance outwards instead of backwards upon itself — is part of resentment. Slave-morality, in order to arise, needs, in the first place, an opposite and outer world; it needs, physiologically speaking, external irritants, in order to act at all; — its action is, throughout, reaction. The reverse is true in the case of noble valuation. It acts and grows spontaneously. It only seeks for its antithesis in order to say, still more thankfully, still more rejoicingly, Yea to itself. Its negative concept "low," "mean," "bad," is merely a late-born and pale after- image in comparison with the positive fundamental concept of the noble valuation which is thoroughly saturated with life and passion and says: "We, the noble, we, the good, the fair, we, the happy! If the noble manner of valuation mistakes in, and sins against reality, this happens in respect to the sphere, which is not sufficiently known to it, — the true knowledge of which, in fact, it stubbornly opposes. Under certain circumstances it will mistake the sphere it despises, the sphere of the common man, of the lower people. On the other hand, one should observe, that in any case the emotion of contempt, of looking down upon, of looking superior (supposing even that the picture of the despised be falsified by it), will remain far behind the falsification, with which suppressed hatred, the revenge of the impotent, will—of course in effigy — maltreat its opponent. Indeed, too much carelessness, too much easy-taking, too much looking away, too much impatience, nay, even too much self-rejoicing, are admixed with contempt, to transform its object into a monster and caricature. One should not fail to take notice of the almost benignant nuances, which, e.g., Grecian nobility puts into all words with which it contrasts the common people with itself; how a kind of pity, regardfulness and indulgence is mixed and sugared into such words, with the result, that nearly all expressions characterising the common man, finally remain as mere denominations for "unhappy," "pitiable" (compare δειλός, δείλαιος, πονηρός, μοχθηρός—the two latter words originally denoting the common man as working-slave and beast of burden) — and how, on the other hand, "bad," "low," "unhappy," always suggested to the Greek ear a tone in which the timbre "unhappy" preponderated: as being the inheritance of an ancient nobler and aristocratic manner of valuation, which even in the act of despising remains true to itself (—philologists may be reminded here of the sense in which οϊζυρός, άνολβος, τλήμων, δυστυχείν, ξυμφορά are used). The "well-born" naturally felt themselves as the "happy;" they did not find it necessary to construct, through a glance at their enemies, their happiness artificially; as the case might be, talk it into themselves, lie themselves into it (as is the practice of all men of resentment); and again, as complete men, men teeming with strength and, therefore, of necessity active men, they could not sever happiness from action, — activity with them being the necessary concomitant of happiness (hence the derivation of εύ πράττεινe). All this is quite in contrast with the "happiness" which is felt in the state of the impotent, the oppressed, those suppurative from venomous and hostile feelings, with whom it appears mainly as narcosis, numbness, rest, peace, "Sabbath," unharnessing of the mind, and stretching of the limbs, in short, is a passive state. Whereas, on the one hand, the life of the noble man is self-confident and self-sincere (γενναϊος "nobleborn" underscores the nuance "sincere" and perhaps also "naïve"), the man of resentment, on the other hand, is neither sincere, nor naïve, neither honest nor straightforward against himself. His soul squints; his mind loves hiding-places, alleys and back-doors; everything hidden appeals to him as his world, his shelter, his comfort; he is master in the art of keeping silence, of forgetting nothing, of waiting, of provisional self-diminution, of self-humiliation. A race of such men of resentment will at last, of necessity, be more prudent than any noble race; it will also learn to appreciate prudence in quite different measure: namely as a primary condition of existence; whereas prudence in the case of noble men is very apt to have about it a dainty tang of luxury and raffinement. For in their case prudence is far less essential than the perfect reliableness of function of the regulating, unconscious instincts or even a certain imprudence, such as readiness to encounter things — whether danger or an enemy — or that eccentric suddenness of anger, love, reverence, gratitude and revenge by which noble souls at all times have recognised themselves as such. Even the resentment of superior man, when it appears in him, acts and exhausts itself in the reaction which follows at once, and hence it does not poison. And again, it will not manifest itself at all in countless cases, in which with the poor and the feeble it is inevitable. Not to be able to take seriously, for a long time, an enemy, or a misfortune or even one's own misdeeds — is the characteristic of strong and full natures, abundantly endowed with plastic, formative, restorative, also obliterative force (a good example of this, in recent times, is Mirabeau, who had no memory for insults and affronts received, and who could not forgive for the sole reason that — he forgot). Such a man, with a single jerk, shakes off much vermin which burrows in others. Only here is also possible, if on earth it be possible at all, true "love" for one's enemies. How much veneration for his enemy has not superior man! — and such veneration is already a bridge to love . . . . He demands an enemy for himself, as his distinction, he will only suffer an enemy in whom he finds nothing to despise and very much to honour! On the other hand, let us figure to ourselves the enemy as conceived by the man of resentment — just therein, we shall have his deed, his creation: he has conceived the "foul fiend," "the Evil one," as his fundamental concept, proceeding from which he now conceives also a complementary image and counterpart, a "Good one" himself! . . . .
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Quite reversely, therefore, from superior man, with whom the fundamental concept "good" is the primary and spontaneous conception, proceeding from himself, out of which he will subsequently create for himself an idea of "bad"! This "bad" of superior origin and that "evil" from the brew kettle of unquenched hatred — the former an after-creation, something accidental, a complementary colour; the latter the original, the beginning, the real deed in the conception of slave-morality — how different an aspect is offered by these two words "bad" and "evil," though, seemingly, they are opposed to one and the same concept, viz., "good"! But it is not the same concept "good." On the contrary, let people ask themselves, from the standpoint of resentment morality as to who is "evil"? Answering in all severity: just the "good" one of the opposite morality, even the noble man, the powerful and the ruling one, — but reversely coloured, reversely interpreted, reversely looked at through the venom-eye of resentment. Here let us deny one thing least of all. He, who learned to know these good ones only as enemies, in so doing learned to know only evil enemies, and those very men, who by manners, reverence, usage, gratitude, and still more by mutual superintendence, by jealousy inter pares are rigorously held within bounds, and who, on the other hand, in their conduct among one another prove themselves so inventive in regardfulness, self-restraint, delicacy, faith, pride and friendship, — these same men are towards that which is without, which to them is foreign, a foreign land, not much better than so many disencaged beasts of prey. Here they enjoy liberty from all social restraint; the wilderness must compensate them for the tension produced by a long incarceration and impalement in the "peace" of society; they step back into the innocence of the conscience of the beast of prey, as exultant monsters, which, perhaps, walk away from an abominable sequence of murder, burning down, violation, torture, with such wantonness and equanimity, as if merely some student-trick had been accomplished; with the conviction, that now for a long time again the poets will have something to celebrate and sing of. At the ground of all these noble races, the beast of prey, the splendid, blond beast, lustfully roving in search of spoils and victory, cannot be mistaken. An outlet is necessary from time to time for this hidden ground; the animal must come out again, must go back into wilderness: Roman, Arabian, Germanic, Japanese nobility, Homeric heroes, Scandinavian vikings — in this need they all are one. It is the noble races, that left the concept "barbarian" on every trace, wherever they passed; even in their highest civilisation the consciousness of this fact is visible and even a certain pride in it (for instance, when Perikles addresses his Athenians in that celebrated funeral oration: "In every land and sea, our boldness has cut a way for itself, setting up for itself, everywhere, imperishable monuments for good and for bad"). This "boldness" of the noble races, foolhardy, absurd, sudden, as is its manifestation; what is unforeseeable, and even improbable of their enterprises, — Perikles speaks highly of the ῥαθυμία of the Athenians, — their indifference and contempt for safety, life, body, comfort; their terrible gaiety and profundity of delight in all destruction, in all blisses of victory and cruelty — all this, to the minds of those, who suffered from it, finally was united into the picture of the "barbarian," of the "foul fiend," as the case might be, of the "Goth" or the "Vandal." The deep, icy mistrust, which the German causes, as soon as he attains to power, also now again, — is still the afterclap of that unquenchable horror, with which Europe, for centuries, witnessed the raging of the blond Germanic beast (although between the ancient Germanics and us Germans there exists scarcely a relationship of ideas, not to say blood-relationship). I have called attention on one occasion to the embarrassment of Hesiod, when contriving the sequence of the ages of civilisation and seeking to express it in gold, silver and bronze: with the contradictions presented to him by the glorious, but likewise so awful, so violent world of Homer, he could only settle by making two ages of one, which he placed in succession — first the age of the heroes and demigods of Troy and Thebes, as that world had remained fixed in the memory of noble families, who traced their ancestry back to it; then the age of bronze, as that same world appeared to the descendants of the down-trodden, robbed, maltreated, of those led into captivity and sold as slaves: an age of bronze, as I mentioned, stern, cold, cruel, devoid of feeling and of conscience, demolishing and dyeing all things in blood. Assuming it to be true, what now at all events is believed as "truth," that this is the very sense of all civilisation: to change and rear the beast of prey of "man" into a tame and civilised animal, a domestic animal, — then undoubtedly all those instincts of reaction and resentment, by the aid of which the noble families and their ideals were at last overcome and debased, would have to be regarded as the proper tools of civilisation, which, however, would not mean that the bearers of such tools represented civilisation themselves. The contrary is not only probable — no! it is to-day evidential! These bearers of prostrating and vengeance-craving instincts, the progeny of all European and non-European serfdom, of all pre-Aryan populations in particular — they represent the decline of mankind! These "tools of civilisation" are the shame of man, and rather a suspicion, a counter-argument against "civilisation" in general. We may be fully right if the fear of the blond beast, lurking at the bottom of all noble races, will not leave us, and if we are on the look-out; but who would not a hundred times sooner fear — if, at the same time, he may admire — than have nothing to fear, but, at the same time, not be able to rid himself of the loathsome sight of the ill-constituted, the stinted, the stunted and the poisoned? And is not this our doom? What, to-day, constitutes our aversion from "man"? For we suffer from man, no doubt whatever! Not fear, but the fact that we have no longer anything in man to fear; that the vermin "man" is in the foreground and majority; that "tame" man, man hale and hopelessly mediocre and disagreeable has already learned to feel himself as the end and aim, as the sense of history, as " higher man;" — in fact that he has a certain right to feel himself as such, inasmuch as he feels himself at a distance from the superabundance of that which is spoiled, sickly, weary and worn-out, of which Europe begins to stink to-day, — hence, at any rate, as something relatively perfect, something still capable of life, something still saying Yea to life . . . .
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Here I shall not suppress a sigh and a last confidence. What is it that just I find intolerable? That, which alone I cannot away with; which makes me suffocate and pine? Bad air! Bad air! That something ill-constituted comes near me; that I must smell the entrails of an abortive soul! . . . . How much need, privation, bad weather, sickness, hardship, isolation, can we not ordinarily stand? In fact, we get through everything else, born as we are for a subterranean and warring existence; we always again succeed in coming up to light, we always again live to see our golden hour of victory, — and then we stand as we have been born, infrangible, with tension, prepared for things new, still more difficult, still more distant, like some bow, which by every danger is stretched only still more tightly. But from time to time permit me — assuming that there are heavenly patronesses, beyond Good and Evil — a glance, permit me but one glance upon something perfect, something completely finished, something happy, mighty, triumphant, in which there is still something to be feared! Upon a man that justifies man; upon a complementary, lucky and redeeming case of man, which vindicates our faith in man! For thus it is: the dwarfing and levelling of European man hides our greatest danger, for this sight makes weary. We see, to-day, nothing which will grow larger; we divine, that it goes still downwards, ever downwards, downwards into the thinner, into the more good-natured, the more prudent, the more comfortable, the more mediocre, the more indifferent, the more Chinese, the more Christian. Man, no doubt whatever, grows ever "better" . . . . Even here lies the doom of Europe — with the fear of man, we have lost also the love and reverence for man, the hope in man, in fact, the will to man. The sight of man now makes tired. What, to-day, is nihilism if not this? . . . . We are tired of man . . . .
