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08 - By The River - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse · Wisdom of the Ages Library

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Chapter eight. By the river, Sir Arthur walked through the forest, was
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already far from the city, and knew nothing but that one thing, that
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there was no going back for him, that this life as he had lived
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it for many years until now was over and done away with, and that
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he had tasted all of it, sucked everything out of it until he was
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disgusted with it. Dead was the singing bird he had dreamt of. Dead
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was the bird in his heart. Deeply he had been entangled in Sansara.
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He had sucked up disgust and death from all sides into his body, like
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a sponge that sucks up water until it is full and full. He was
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full of the feeling of being sick of it, full of misery, full
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of death. There was nothing left in this world which could have attracted him,
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given him joy, given him comfort. Passionately, he wished to know
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nothing about himself any more, to have rest, to be dead. If
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there was only a lightning bolt to strike him dead, if there was only
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a tiger to devour him, if there was only a wine, a poison
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which could numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness and sleep, and no awakening
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from that? Was there still any kind of filth. He had not soiled
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himself with a sin or foolish act. He had not committed a dreariness of
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the soul. He had not brought upon himself. Was it still at all
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possible to be alive? Was it possible to breathe in again and again,
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to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, to sleep again,
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to sleep with a woman again? Was this cycle not again exhausted and
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brought to a conclusion for him? Sir Arthur reached the large river in the
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forest, the same river over which, a long time ago, when he
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had still been a young man and came from the town of Gautama, the
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ferryman had conducted him by this river. He stopped hesitatingly. He stood at
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the bank. Tiredness and hunger had weakened him. And whatever he should walk
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on, wherever to, to whichever goal, No, there were no more
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goals. There was nothing left but the deep, painful yearning to shake off
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this whole desolate dream, to spit out this stale wine, to put an
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end to this miserable and shameful life. A hang bent over the bank of
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the river, a cocoanut tree. Sir Arthur leaned against its trunk with his
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shoulder, embraced the trunk with one arm, and looked down into the green
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water which ran and ran under him. Looked down and found himself to be
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entirely filled with the wish to go and to drown in these waters. A
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frightening emptiness was reflected back at him by the water, answering to the terrible
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emptiness in his soul. Yes, he had reached the end. There was
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nothing left for him except to annihilate himself, except to smash the failure into
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which he had shaped his life, to throw it away before the feet of
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mockingly laughing gods. This was the great vomiting he had longed for, death,
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the smashing to bits of the form he hated. Let him be food
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for fishes, this dog, said Arthur, this lunatic, this depraved and
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rotten body, this weakened and abused soul. Let him be food for fishes
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and crocodiles. Let him be chopped to bits by the demons. With a
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distorted face, he stared into the water, saw the reflection of his face,
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and spit at it. In deep tiredness, he took his arm away
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from the trunk of the tree and turned a bit in order to let himself
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fall straight down, in order to finally drown. With his eyes closed,
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he slipped towards death. Then, out of remote areas of his soul,
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out of past times of his now weary life, a sound stirred up.
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It was a word, a syllable, which he, without thinking, with
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a slurred voice, spoke to himself, the old word, which is the
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beginning and the end of all prayers of the Brahmans, the holy Olm,
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which roughly means that what is perfect or the completion. And in the moment
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when the sound of Olm touched Siddarthur's ear, his dormant spirit suddenly woke up
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and realized the foolishness of his actions. Sir Arthur was deeply shocked. So
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this was how things were with him? So doomed was he, so much?
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Had he lost his way and was forsaken by all knowledge? That he
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had been able to seek death, That this wish, this wish of a
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child, had been able to grow up in him, to find rest by
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annihilating his body. What all agony of these recent times, all sobering realizations,
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all desperation, had not brought about. This was brought on by this
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moment. When the Olm entered his consciousness, he became aware of himself,
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in his misery and in his error, Olm. He spoke to himself Olm,
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and again he knew about Brahman, knew about the indestructibility of life,
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knew about all that is divine, which he had forgotten. But this was
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only a moment flash By the foot of the cocoanut tree, Sir Arthur collapsed,
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struck down by tiredness, mumbling, Olm placed his head on the root
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of the tree and fell into a deep sleep. Deep was his sleep,
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and without dreams. For a long time he had not known such a sleep
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any more. When he woke up after many hours, he felt as if
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ten years had passed. He heard the water quietly flowing, did not know
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where he was and who had brought him there. Opened his eyes, saw
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with astonishment that there were trees and the sky above him, and he remembered
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where he was and how he got there. But it took him a long
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while for this, and the past seemed to him as if it had been
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covered by a veil. Infinitely distant, infinitely far away, infinitely meaningless.
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He only knew that his previous life in the first moment when he thought about
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it, this past life seemed to him like a very old previous incarnation,
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like an early pre birth of his present self. That this previous life had
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been abandoned by him, that full of disgust and wretchedness, he had even
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intended to throw his life away. But that by a river under a cocoanut
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tree, he has come to his senses the holy word Om on his lips,
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that he had fallen asleep and had now woken up, and was looking
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at the world as a new man. Quietly, he spoke the word Om
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to himself, speaking which he had fallen asleep. And it seemed to him
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as if his entire long sleep had been nothing but a long meditative recitation of
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Om, a thinking of Om, a submergence and complete entering into Olm,
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into the nameless, the perfected. What a wonderful sleep? Had this been?
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Never before? By sleep? He had been thus refreshed, thus renewed,
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thus rejuvenated. Perhaps he had really died, had drowned, and was
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reborn in a new body. But no, he knew himself. He knew
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his hand at his feet knew the place where he lay, knew this self
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in his chest. This Saddarthur, the eccentric, the weird one. But
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this Saiddartha was nevertheless transform armed, was renewed, was strangely well rested,
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strangely awake, joyful, and curious. Sadd Arthur straightened up. Then he
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saw a person sitting opposite to him, an unknown man, a monk in
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a yellow robe with a shaven head, sitting in the position of pondering.
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He observed the man who had neither hair on his head nor a beard,
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and he had not observed him for long when he recognized this monk as Govinda,
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the friend of his youth, Govinda, who had taken his refuge with
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the exalted Buddha. Govinda had aged he too, but still his face bore
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the same features, expressed zeal, faithfulness, searching, timidness. But when
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Govinda, now sensing his gaze, opened his eyes and looked at him,
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Saddarthur saw that Govinda did not RECOGNI him. Govinda was happy to find him
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awake. Apparently he had been sitting here for a long time and had been
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waiting for him to wake up, though he did not know him. I
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have been sleeping, said Sir Arthur. However did you get here you have
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been sleeping, answered Govinda. It is not good to be sleeping in such
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places where snakes often are and the animals of the forest have their paths.
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I, oh, sir, am a follower of the Exalted Gautama, the
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Buddha, the Sakya Mundi, and have been on a pilgrimage together with several
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of us on this path. When I saw you lying and sleeping in a
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place where it is dangerous to sleep. Therefore, I sought to wake you
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up, oh sir, And since I saw that your sleep was very deep,
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I strayed behind from my group and sat with you. And then so
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it seems I have fallen asleep myself, I who wanted to guard your sleep
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badly, I have served you. Tiredness has overwhelmed me. And now that
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you're awake, let me go catch up with my brothers. I thank you
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Somana for watching out over my sleep, spoke Sir Arthur, your friendly you
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followers of the Exalted One. Now you may go, Then I'm going,
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sir. May you, sir, always be in good health. I thank
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you, Somana. Govinda made the gesture of a salutation and said farewell.
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Farewell, Govinda, said Sir Arthur. The monk stopped. Permit me to
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ask, Sir, from where do you know my name? Now? Said
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Arthur smiled. I know you, oh Govinda, from your father's hut,
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and from the school of the Brahmans, and from the offerings, and from
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our walk to the Somanas, and from that hour when you took your refuge
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with the Exalted One in the grove Jettavannah, your sir, Darthur, Govinda
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exclaimed loudly. Now I'm recognizing you, and don't comprehend any more how I
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couldn't recognize you right away. Be welcome, said Arthur. My joy is
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great to see you again. It also gives me joy to see you again.
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You've been the guard of my sleep again. I thank you for this,
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though I wouldn't have required any guard. Where are you going to,
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oh friend, I am going nowhere. We monks are always traveling, whenever
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it is not the rainy season. We always move from one place to another,
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live a calling to the rules of the teachings passed on to us except
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alms move on. It is always like this. But you, said Arthur,
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where are you going to quoth, said Arthur. It is as it
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is with you. I am going nowhere. I'm just traveling. I am
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on a pilgrimage. Govinda spoke. You're saying you're on a pilgrimage, and
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I believe in you. But forgive me, oh, said Arthur, you
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do not look like a pilgrim. You're wearing a rich man's garments. You're
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wearing the shoes of a distinguished gentleman. And your hair and the fragrance of
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perfume is not a pilgrim's hair, nor the hair of a somana. Right,
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So, my dear you who observed, well, your keen eyes see
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everything. But I haven't said to you that I was a Samana. I
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said, I'm on a pilgrimage, and so it is. I'm on a
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pilgrimage. You're on a pilgrimage, said Govinda. But few would go on
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a pilgrimage in such clothes, few in such shoes, few with such hair.
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Never I have met such a pilgrim, being a pilgrim myself for many
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years, I believe you, my dear Govinda, But now to day you've
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met a pilgrim just like this, wearing such shoes, such a garment,
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Remember, my dear, Not eternal is the world of appearances, not eternal
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anything but eternal our our garments, and the style of our hair, and
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our hair, and our bodies themselves. I'm wearing a rich man's clothes.
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You've seen this, quite right. I'm wearing them because I have been a
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rich man. And I'm wearing my hair like the worldly and lustful people,
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because I have been one of them. And now, said Arthur, what
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are you now? I don't know it. I don't know it, just
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like you, I'm traveling. I was a rich man and am no rich
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man any more. And what i'll be to morrow, I don't know.
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You've lost your riches, I've lost them, or they me they somehow happened
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to slip away from me. The wheel of physical manifestations is turning quickly,
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Govinda. Where is Saddarthur the Brahman. Where is Siddartha the Samana? Where
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is Saddartha the rich Man? None? Eternal things change quickly, Govinda,
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you know it. Govinda looked at the friend of his youth for a long
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time with doubt in his eyes. After that, he gave him the salutation
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which one would use on a gentleman, and went on his way with a
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smiling face. Saddarthur watched him leave. He loved him still, this faithful
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man, this fearful man. And how could he not have loved everybody and
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everything in this moment, in the glorious hour after his wonderful sleep, filled
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with the enchantment which had happened inside of him in his sleep, and by
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means of the olm, was this very thing that he loved everything, that
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he was full of joyful love for everything he saw. And it was this
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very thing. So it seemed to him now, which had been his sickness
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before, that he was not able to love anybody or anything. With a
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smiling face, Sir Arthur watched the leaving monk. The sleep had strengthened him
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much, but hunger gave him much pain. For now he had not eaten
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for two days, and the times were long past when he had been tough
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against hunger. With sadness, and yet also with a smile, he thought
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of that time in those days, so he remembered he had boasted of three
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things to Kamala, had been able to do three noble and undefeatable feats fasting,
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waiting, thinking. These had been his possession, his power and strength,
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his solid staff. In the busy, laborious years of his youth.
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He had learned these three feats, nothing else, and now they had abandoned
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him. None of them was his any more, neither fasting nor waiting,
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nor thinking for the most wretched things. He had given them up for what
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fades most quickly, for sensual lust, for the good life, for riches.
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His life had indeed been strange, and now so it seemed, now
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he had really become a childlike person. Sir Arthur thought about his situation.
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Thinking was hard on him. He did not really feel like it, but
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he forced himself. Now, he thought, since all these most easily perishing
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things have slipped from me again. Now I'm standing here under the sun again,
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just as I have been standing here a little child. Nothing is mine.
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I have no abilities, there is nothing I could bring about. I
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have learned nothing. How wondrous is this now that I am no longer young,
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that my hair is already half gray, that my strength is fading.
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Now I'm starting again at the beginning, and as a child again. He
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had to smile. Yes, his fate had been strange, things were going
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downhill with him, and now he was again facing the world, void and
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naked and stupid. But he could not feel sad about this. No,
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he even felt a great urge to laugh, to laugh about himself, to
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laugh about this strange, foolish world. Going downhill with you, he said
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to himself, and laughed about it. And as he was saying it,
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he happened to glance at the river, and he also saw the river was
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going downhill. All was moving on downhill, and singing and being happy through
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it all. He liked this well. Kindly, he smiled at the river.
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Was this not the river in which he had intended to drown himself in
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past times a hundred years ago? Or had he dreamed? This? Wondrous?
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Indeed was my life? So he thought, wondrous detours? Has it
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taken? As a boy? I had only to do with gods and offerings?
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As a youth, I had only to do with asceticism, with thinking,
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a meditation was searching for Brahman worshiped the eternal in the Utman. But
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as a young man I followed the penitents, lived in the forest, suffered
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of heat and frost, learned to hunger, taught my body to become dead.
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Wonderfully. Soon afterwards, insight came towards me in the form of the
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Great Buddha's teachings. I felt the knowledge of the oneness of the world circling
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in me like my own blood. But I also had to leave Buddha and
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the great knowledge. I went and learned the art of love with Kamala,
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learned trading with Kamaswami, piled up money, wasted money, learned to love
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my stomach, learned to please my senses. I had to spend many years
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losing my spirit, to unlearn thinking again, to forget the oneness. Isn't
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it just as if I had turned slowly and on a long detour from a
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man into a child, from a thinker into a childlike person? And yet
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yet this path has been very good, and yet the bird in my chest
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has not died. But what a path has this been. I had to
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pass through so much stupidity, through so much vices, through so many errors,
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through so much disgust and disappointments and woe, just to become a child
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again and to be able to start over. But it was right, So
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my heart says yes to it. My eyes smile to it. I've had
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to experience despair. I've had to sink down to the most foolish one of
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all thoughts, to the thought of suicide. In order to be able to
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experience divine grace, to hear Om again, to be able to sleep properly
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and to awake properly again, I had to become a fool to find utman
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in me again. I had to sin to be able to live again.
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Where else might my path lead me to? It is foolish, this path.
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It moves in loops. Perhaps it is going around in a circle.
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Let it go as it likes. I want to take it wonderfully. He
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felt joy rolling like waves in his chest. Where ever, from, he
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asked his heart, Where did you get this happiness? Might it come from
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that long good sleep which has done me so good? Or from the word
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Om which I said, Or from the fact that I have escaped, that
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I have completely fled, that I am finally free again and am standing like
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a child under the sky. Oh, how good it is to have fled,
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to have become free. How clean and beautiful is the air here?
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How good to breathe there? Where I ran away from there, everything smelled
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of ointment, of spices, of wine, of excess of sloth. How
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did I hate this world of the rich, of those who revel in fine
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food, of the gamblers? How did I hate myself for staying in this
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terrible world for so long? How did I hate myself? Have deprived,
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poisoned, tortured myself, have made myself old and evil? No, never
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again I will, as I used to like doing so much, delude myself
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into thinking that Siddarthur was wise. But this one thing I have done well.
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This I like. This, I must praise. But there is now
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an end to that hatred against myself, to that foolish and dreary life.
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I praise you, said Arthur, after so many years of foolishness, you
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have once again had an idea, have done something, have heard the bird
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in your chest singing, and have followed it. Thus he praised himself,
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found joy in himself, listened curiously to his stomach, which was rumbling with
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hunger. He had now so he felt, in those recent times and days,
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completely tasted and spit out, devoured up to the point of desperation and
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death. A piece of suffering, a piece of misery like this, It
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was good for much longer. He could have stayed with Kamaswami, made money,
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wasted money, filled his stomach, and let his soul die of thirst
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for much longer. He could have lived in this soft, well upholstered hell
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if this had not happened, the moment of complete hopelessness and despair, that
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most extreme moment, when he hung over the rushing waters and was ready to
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destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deep disgust, that
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he had not succumbed to it. That the bird, the joyful source and
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voice in him, was still alive after all. This was why he felt
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joy, This was why he laughed, This was why his face was smiling
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brightly under his hair, which had turned gray. It is good, he
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thought, to get a taste of everything for oneself, which one needs to
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know. That lust for the world and riches do not belong to the good
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things. I have already learned as a child. I have known it for
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a long time, but I have experienced only now, and now I know
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it. Don't just know it in my memory, but in my eyes,
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in my art, in my stomach. Good for me to know this.
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For a long time, he pondered his transformation listened to the bird as it
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sang for joy. Had not this bird died in him? Had he not
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felt his death? No, something else from within him had died, something
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which already, for a long time had yearned to die. Was it not
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this what he intended to kill in his ardent years as a penitent? Was
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it not his self, his small, frightened and proud self he had wrestled
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with for so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which
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was back again after every killing prohibited joy felt fear. Was it not this
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which to day had finally come to its death here in the forest, by
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this lovely river. Was not due to this death that he was now like
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a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of
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joy. Now Saddartha also got some idea of why he had fought this self
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in vain as a Brahman, as a penitent. Too much knowledge had held
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him back, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules, too much
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self castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal. Full of arrogance
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he had been. All was the smartest, always working the most, always
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one step ahead of all others. All was the knowing and spiritual one all
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was the priest or wise one into being a priest, into this arrogance,
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into this spirituality his self had retreated. There it sat firmly and grew.
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While he thought he would kill it by fasting and penance. Now he saw
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it, and saw the secret voice had been right, that no teacher would
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ever have been able to bring about his salvation. Therefore he had to go
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out into the world, lose himself to lust and power to women and money,
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had to become a merchant, a dice gambler, a drinker, and
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a greedy person until the priest and Samana in him was dead. Therefore he
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had to continue bearing these ugly years, bearing the disgust, the teachings,
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the pointlessness of a dreary and wasted life, up to the end, up
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to bitter despair, until said Darthur, the lustful, Sir, Darthur the
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greedy, could also die. He had died, a new sir Arthur had
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woken up from the sleep. He would also grow old. He would also
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eventually have to die. Mortal, was said Arthur. Mortal was every physical
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form. But today he was young, was a child the new, said
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Arthur, and was full of joy. He thought these thoughts, listened with
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a smile to his stomach, listened gratefully to a buzzing bee. Cheerfully,
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he looked into the rushing river. Never before he had liked a water so
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well as this one. Never before he had perceived the voice and the parable
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of the moving water thus strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him as if
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the river had something special to tell him, something he did not know yet,
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which was still awaiting him. In this river. Saddartha had intended to
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drown himself in it. The old, tired, desperate Saddarthur had dress to
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day. But the new said Arthur felt a deep love for this rushing water,
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and decided for himself not to leave it very soon. End of chapter eight