Latest / Adventure Books Collection / 10 - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse

Transcript

10 - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse · Adventure Books Collection

• Chapter ten, the sun timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother's funeral, gloomy and shy. He had listened to SidD Arthur, who greeted him as his son and welcomed him at his place in Vasadeva's hut Pale. He sat for many days by the heel of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look, did not open his heart. Met his fate with resistance and denial. Sad Arthur spared him and let him do as he pleased. He honored his mourning. Sid Arthur understood that his son did not know him, that he could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and understood that the eleven year old was a pampered boy, a mother's boy, and that he had grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food, to a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants. Sir Arthur understood that the morning pampered child could not suddenly and willingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty. He did not force him. He did many a chore for him, always picked the best piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over by friendly patience, rich and happy, he had called himself when the boy had come to him. Since time had passed on in the meanwhile, and the boy remained a stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not pay his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudiva's fruit trees. Then Sir Arthur began to understand that his son had not brought him happiness and peace, but and worry. But he loved him, and he preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy without the boy. Since young Siddarthur was in the hut, the old man had split the work. Vasudiva had again taken on the job of the fairy man all by himself, and said Arthur, in order to be with his son, did the work in the hut and in the field for a long time. For long months, said Arthur waited for his son to understand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For long months, Vasudiva waited, watching, waited, and said nothing. One day, when Saddarthur the younger had once again tormented his father very much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes, and had broken both of his rice bowls. Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside and talked to him. Pardon me, he said, from a friendly heart, I am talking to you. I am seeing that you are tormenting yourself. I am seeing that you are in grief. Your son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me. That young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest. He has not, like you, run away from riches and the city, being disgusted and fed up with it. Against his will, he had to leave all this behind. I ask the river friend, many times I have asked it. But the river laughs. It laughs at me, It laughs at you and me, and is shaking with laughter at our foolishness. Water wants to join water. Youth wants to join youth. Your son is not in the place where he can prosper. You too should ask the river. You too should listen to it, said Arthur looked into his friendly face in the many wrinkles of which there was an incessant cheerfulness. How could I part with him, he said, quietly, ashamed. Give me some more time, my dear. See, I'm fighting for him. I'm seeking to win his heart with love and with friendly patience. I intend to capture it. One day, the river shall also talk to him. He also is called upon. Vasudeva's smile flourished more warmly. Oh, yes, he too is called upon. He too is of the eternal life. But do we you and me know what he is called upon to do? What path to take, what actions to perform, what pain to endure? Not a small one his pain will be. After all, his heart is proud and hard. People like this have to suffer a lot, er a lot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, my dear, you're not taking control of your son's upbringing. You don't force him, you don't beat him, you don't punish him. No, Vasudiva, I don't do anything of this. I knew it. You don't force him, don't beat him, don't give him orders, because you know that soft is stronger than hard, water stronger than rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you, But aren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn't punish him. Don't you shackle him with your love? Don't you make him feel in fear every day? And don't you make it even harder on him with your kindness and patience? Don't you force him, the arrogant and pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana eaters, to whom even rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts are old and quiet, and beats in a different pace than his. Isn't forced? Isn't he punished by all this? Troubled? Said Arthur, look to the ground. Quietly, he asked, what do you think I should do, quoth Fasudeva. Bring him into the city, Bring him into his mother's house. There'll still be servants around, give him to them, And when there aren't any around anymore, bring him to a teacher, not for the teaching's sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among girls, and in the world which is his? Have you never thought of this? You're seeing into my heart? Said Arthur, spoke sadly. Often I have thought of this. But look, how shall I put him who had no tender heart? Anyhow into this world. Won't he become exuberant? Won't he lose himself to pleasure and power? Won't he repeat all of his father's mistakes? Won't he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansarah? Brightly the ferry man smile lit up softly. He touched Arthur's arm and said, ask the river about it, my friend, hear it, laugh about it? Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts in order to spare your son from committing them too? And could you in any way protect your son from Sensarah? How could you by means of teachings, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely forgotten that story, that story containing so many lessons, That story about Siddartha, a Brahman son, which you once told me here on this very spot. Who has kept a Samana Saiddartha's safe from Sansara, from sin, from greed, from foolishness. Were his father's religious devotion, his teacher's warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him safe. Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life from burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for himself, from finding his path for himself. Would you think, my dear, anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path, That perhaps your little son would be spared because you love him, because you would like to keep him safe, because you would like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment. But even if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the slightest part of his destiny upon yourself. Never before Vasudeva had spoken so many words kindly. Siddartha thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long time. Vasudeva had told him nothing he had not already thought and known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon. Stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy. Stronger was his tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so much to something? Had he ever loved any person thus thus kindly, thus sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily. Sir Darthur could not heed his friend's advice. He could not give up the boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He said nothing and waited daily. He began the mute struggle of friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasud Diva said nothing and waited friendly, knowing patient, they were both masters of patience. At one time, when the boy's face reminded him very much of Kamala, Siddartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala, a long time ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. You cannot love, she had said to him, And he had agreed with her, and had compared himself to a star while comparing the childlike people with falling leaves. And nevertheless, he had also sensed an accusation in that line. Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love of another person. Never he had been able to do this. And this was, as it seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him apart from the childlike people. But now, since his son was here, now, he said, Arthur had become completely a childlike person, suffering for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love, having become a fool on account of love. Now he too felt late. Once in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions suffered from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, was nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by the one thing. He did sense very well that his love, this blind love for his son, was a passion, something very human, that it was sansara, a murky source, dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at the same time it was not worthless, It was necessary, came from the essence of his own being. This pleasure also had to be atoned for. This pain also had to be endured. These foolish acts also had to be committed. Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving in to his moods. This father had nothing which could have delighted him, and nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, this father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a saint. All these were no attributes which could win the boy over. He was bored by his father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable hut of his. He was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with kindness. This very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Much more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he had been abused by him. A day came when what young Saddhartha had on his mind came bursting forth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter had given him as he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy did not leave the heart. In stubborn disobedience and rage, he stayed where he was, thumped on the ground with his feet clenched his fists, and screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father's face. Get the brushwood for yourself, he shouted, foaming at the mouth. I'm not your servant. I do know that you won't hit me, you don't dare. I do know that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with your religious devotion and your indulgence. You want me to become like you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise. But I listen up just to make you suffer. I rather want to become a highway robber and a murderer and to go to hell, than to become like you. I hate you. You're not my father, and if you've been ten times my mother's fornicata, rage and grief boiled over in him. Foamed at the father in a hundred savage and evil words. Then the boy ran away and only returned late at night. But the next morning he had disappeared. What had also disappeared was a small basket woven out of bast of two colors, in which the ferrymen kept those copper and silver coins which they received as a fair. The boat had also disappeared. Sad Darthur sought it, lying by the opposite bank. The boy had run away. I must follow him, said Saddarthur, who had been shivering with grief since those ranting speeches the boy had made yesterday. A child can't go through the forest all alone. He'll perish. We must build a raft, Vasudeva. To get over the water. We will build a raft, said Vasudeva, to get our boat back, which the boy has taken away but him. You shall let run along, my friend, he is no child any more. He knows how to get around. He's looking for the path to the city, and he is right. Don't forget that. He's doing what you've failed to do yourself. He's taking care of himself. He's taking his course alas, said Arthur, I see you suffering. But you're suffering are pain at which one would like to laugh, at which you'll soon laugh for yourself, said Arthur. Did not answer. He already held the axe in his hands and began to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva helped him to tie the canes together with ropes of grass. Then they crossed over, drifted far off their course, pulled the raft up river on the opposite bank. Why did you take the axe along, asked Siddartha. Vasudeva said, it might have been possible that the awe of our boat got lost. Patsidartha knew what his friend was thinking. He thought the boy would have thrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and in order to keep them from following him. And in fact there was no owe left in the boat. Vasudeva pointed at the bottom of the boat and looked at his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say, don't you see what your son is trying to tell you? Don't you see that he doesn't want to be followed? But he did not say this in words. He started making a new awe. Patsidartha bid his farewell to look for the runaway Vasudeva did not stop him. When Suddartha had already been walking through the forest for a long time, the thought occurred to him that his search was useless, either so he thought the boy was far ahead and had already reached the city, or if he should still be on his way, he would conceal himself from him the pursuer. As he continued thinking, he also found that he, on his part, was not worried for his son, for he knew deep inside that he had neither perished nor was in any danger in the forest. Nevertheless, he ran without stopping, no longer to save him, just to satisfy his desire, just to perhaps see him one more time, and he ran up to just outside the city. When near the city he reached a wide road, he stopped by the entrance of the beautiful pleasure garden which used to belong to Kamala, where he had seen her for the first time in her sedan chair. The past rose up in his soul again. He saw himself standing there, young, a bearded, naked Samana, his hair full of dust. For a long time, Saddartha stood there and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees. For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening to the story of his life. For a long time, he stood there, looked at the monks, saw young Saddartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking among the high trees. Clearly, he saw himself being served food and drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of the de desire his worldly life. He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala's songbird in the cage. Live. Through all this once again breathed Sansara was once again old and tired, felt once again disgusted, felt once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the holy om. After having been standing at the gate of the garden for a long time, Saddarthur realized that his desire was foolish, which had made him go up to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was not allowed to cling him deeply. He felt the love for the runaway in his heart like a wound, And he felt at the same time that this wound had not been given to him him in order to turn the knife in it, That it had to become a blossom and had to shine. That this wound did not blossom, yet did not shine yet at this hour made him sad. Instead of the desired goal which had drawn him here following the runaway sun, there was now emptiness. Sadly he sat down, felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy anymore, no goal. He sat last in thought and waited. This he had learned by the river, this one thing waiting, having patience, listening attentively. And he sat and listened in the dust of the road, listened to his heart beating tiredly, and sadly waited for a voice hour. He crouched listening, saw no images anymore, fell into emptiness, let himself fall without seeing a path, and when he felt the wound burning, he silently spoke the olm, filled himself with olm. The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched there for many hours and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him and placed two bananas in front of him. The old man did not see him. From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand touching his shoulder. Instantly he recognized this touch, this tender, bashful touch, and regained his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva, who had followed him. And when he looked into Vasudeva's friendly face, into the small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing but his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too. Now he saw the bananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave one to the faeryman ate the other one himself. After this he silently went back into the forest. With Vasudiva returned home to the fairy. Neither one talked about what had happened to day. Neither one mentioned the boy's name, neither one spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about the wound in the hut. Said Arthur lay down on his bed, and when after a while Vasudeva came to him to offer him a bowl of cocoanut milk, he already found him asleep. End of Chapter ten.