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09 - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse · Adventure Books Library

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Chapter nine, The ferry Man by this river, I want to stay,
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thought said Arthur. It is the same which I have crossed a long time
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ago on my way to the childlike people. A friendly fairy man had guided
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me. Then he is the wine I want to go to. Starting out
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from his hut, my path had led me at that time into a new
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life, which had now grown old and is dead. My present path,
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my present new life, shall also take its start there. Tenderly, he
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looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines
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of its drawing, so rich in secrets, bright pearls he saw rising from
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the deep quiet bubbles of air floating on the reflecting surface, the blue of
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the sky being depicted in it with a thousand eyes. The river looked at
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him with green ones, with white ones, with crystal ones, with sky
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blue ones. How did he love this water? How did it delight him?
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How grateful was he to it? In his heart? He heard the
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water talking, which was newly awakening, and it told him, love this
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water, stay near it, learn from it. Oh, yes, he
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wanted to learn from it. He wanted to listen to it. He who
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would understand this water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would
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also understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets. But out of
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all secrets of the river he today only saw one. This one touched his
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soul. He saw this water ran and ran incessantly, It ran and was
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nevertheless always there was, always, at all times the same, and yet
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knew in every moment. Great be he who would grasp this. Understand this
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He understood and grasped it, not only felt some idea of its stirring a
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distant memory, divine voices. Sir Arthur rose, the workings of hunger in
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his body became unbearable. In a daze, he walked on up the path
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by the river, upriver, listened to the current, listened to the rumbling
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hunger in his body. When he reached the ferry, the boat was just
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ready, and the same ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the
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river stood in the boat. Saddarthur recognized him. He had also aged very
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much. Would you like to ferry me over? He asked. The ferryman,
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being astonished to see such an elegant man walking along and on foot,
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took him into his boat and pushed it off. The bank. It is
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a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself. The passenger spoke, it must
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be beautiful to live by this water every day, and a cruise on it
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with a smile. The man at the oar moved from side to side.
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It is beautiful, sir. It is as you say. But isn't every
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life? Isn't every work beautiful? This may be true, but I envy
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you yours. Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it. This is nothing
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for people where wearing fine clothes, said Arthur laughed. Once before, I
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have been looked upon to day because of my clothes. I have been looked
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upon with distrust. Wouldn't you, fairyman, like to accept these clothes,
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which are a nuisance to me from me? For you must know I have
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no money to pay your fare. You are joking, sir, the ferryman
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laughed. I am not joking. Friend. Behold, once before you have
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ferried me across this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a good
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deed. Thus do it to day as well, and accept my clothes for
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it. And do you, sir, intend to continue traveling without clothes?
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Ah? Most of all, I wouldn't want to continue traveling at all.
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Most of all, I would like you, fairyman, to give me an
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old loin cloth and keep me as your assistant, or rather as your trainee,
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for I'll have to learn first how to handle the boat. For a
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long time, the ferry man looked at the stranger, searching. Now I
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recognize you, he finally said. At one time you've slept in my hut.
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This was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty years ago,
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and you've been ferried across the river by me, and we parted like good
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friends. Haven't you been a samana? I can't think of your name any
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more. My name is sir Darthur, and I was a samana when you
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last saw me. So be welcome, said Darthur. My name is Vasud'va.
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You will, so, I hope, be my guest to day as
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well as sleep in my heart, and tell me where you're coming from and
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why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you. They had reached the
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middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oar with more strength in order
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to overcome the current. He worked calmly, his eyes fixed on the front
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of the boat. With brawny arms Siddartha sat and watched him and remembered how
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once before, on that last day of his time as a Samana, love
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for this man had stirred in his heart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva's invitation.
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When they had reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat
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to the stakes. After this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut,
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offered him bread and water, and Saddartha ate with eager pleasure, and
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also ate with eager pleasure of the mango fruits Vasudiva offered him. Afterwards,
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it was almost the time of the sunset. They sat on a log by
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the bank, and Saddartha told the fairy man about where he originally had come
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from, and about his life as he had seen it before his eyes to
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day, in that hour of despair, until late at night lasted his tale.
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Vasudeva listened with great attention, listened carefully. He let everything enter his
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mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning, all that searching, all
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joy, all distress. This was among the fairy Man's virtues, one of
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the greatest. Like only a few he knew how to listen without him having
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spoken a word. The speaker sensed how Vasudiva let his words enter his mind,
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quiet, open waiting, how he did not lose a single word,
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awaited, not a single one with impatience, did not add his phrase or
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rebuke, was just listening. Sadd Arthur felt, what a happy fortune it
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is to confess to such a listener, to bury in his heart his own
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life, his own search, his own suffering. But in the end of
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Saddarthur's tale, when he spoke of the tree by the river, and of
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his deep fall of the holy om, and how he had felt such a
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love for the river after his slumber, the ferry man listened with twice the
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attention, entirely and completely absorbed by it, with his eyes closed. And
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when Sirdarthur felt silent, and a long silence had occurred, then Vasudeva said,
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it is as I thought. The river has spoken to you. It
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is your friend as well. It speaks to you as well. That is
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good, That is very good. Stay with me, said Arthur, my
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friend. I used to have a wife. Her bed was next to mine,
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but she has died a long time ago. For a long time I
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have lived alone. Now you shall live with me. There is space and
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food for both. I thank you, said Sadartha. I thank you and
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accept, and I also thank you for this, Vasudiva for listening to me
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so well. These people are rare who know how to listen. And I
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did not meet a single one who knew it as well as you did.
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I will also learn in this respect from you. You will learn it,
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spoke Vasudiva, but not from me. The river has taught me to listen.
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From it, you will learn it as well. It knows everything,
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the river. Everything can be learned from it. See, you've already learned
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this from the river, to that it is good to strive downwards, to
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sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is becoming an oarsman
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servant the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a faery man. This has also been told
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to you by the river. You'll learn that other thing from it as well,
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quoth Siddhartha, after a long pause. What other thing, Vasudiva?
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Vasudiva rose, it is late, he said, let's go to sleep.
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I can't tell you that other thing. Oh friend, you'll learn it,
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or perhaps you already know it. See I'm no learned man, I have
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no special skill in speaking. I also have no special skill in thinking.
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All I'm able to do is to listen and to be godly. I have
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learned nothing else. If I was able to say and to teach it,
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I might be a wise man. But like this, I am only a
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faery man. And it is my task to ferry people across the river.
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I have transported many thousands, and to all of them, my river has
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been nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They traveled to seek money and
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business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was obstructing
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their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly across that obstacle.
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But for some among the thousand, a few, four or five,
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the river has stopped being an obstacle. They have heard its voice, they
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have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to them, as
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it has become sacred to me. Let's rest now, said Arthur. Sir
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Arthur stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate the boat, And when there
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was nothing to do with the ferry, he worked with Vasudiva in the rice
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field, gathered wood, plucked the fruit off the banana trees. He learned
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to build an oar, and learned to mend the boat, and to weave
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baskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned. And the days and
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months passed quickly, but more than Vasudeva could teach him. He was taught
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by the river incessantly. He learned from it. Most of all, he
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learned from it to listen, to pay hose attention, with a quiet heart,
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with a waiting opened soul, without passion, without a wish, without
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judgment, without an opinion, in a friendly manner. He lived side by
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side with Vasudeva, and occasionally they exchanged some words few and at length thought
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about words. Vasudeva was no friend to words. Rarely said Arthur succeeded in
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persuading him to speak. Did you so, he asked him, at one
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time, Did you too learn that secret from the river that there is no
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time? Vasudeva's face was filled with a bright smile. Yes, said Arthur,
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he spoke. It is this what you mean, isn't it? That
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the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth,
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at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea,
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in the mountains, everywhere at once, and that there is only the
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present for it, not the shadow of the past, not the shadow of
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the future. This it is, said, said Arthur. And when I
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had learned it, I looked at my life, and it was also a
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river. And the boy, said Arthur, was only separated from the man,
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said Arthur, and from the old man, said Arthur, by a
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shadow, not something real. Also said Arthur's previous births were no past,
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and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothing was,
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nothing will be, Everything is, everything has existence and is present. Sad
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Arthur spoke with ecstasy deeply. This enlightenment had delighted him. Oh was not
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all suffering. Time were not all forms of tormenting oneself and being afraid?
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Time was not everything hard, everything hostile in the world gone and overcome as
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soon as one had overcome time, as soon as time would have been put
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out of existence by one's thoughts. In ecstatic delight, he had spoken,
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but Vasu Diva smiled at him brightly and nodded in confirmation. Silently, he
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nodded, brushed his hand over Sir Arthur's shoulder, turned back to his work,
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and once again, when the river had just increased its flow in they
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season and made a powerful noise. Then said Saddarthur, isn't it so o,
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friend? The river has many voices, many many voices. Hasn't it
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the voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull,
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and of a bird of the night, and a woman giving birth,
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and of a sighing man, and a thousand other voices? More so it
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is, Vasudeva nodded, All voices of the creature are in its voice.
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And do you know, said Arthur, continued, what word it speaks when
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you succeed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once? Happily,
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Vasudeva's face was smiling. He bent over to Saddartha and spoke the holy om
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in his ear. And this had been the very thing which Siddhartha had also
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been hearing. And time after time his smile became more similar to the fairry
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man's, became almost just as bright, almost just as thoughtfully glowing with bliss,
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just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to a
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child's, just as alike to an old man's. Many travelers, seeing the
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two ferry men, thought they were brothers. Often they sat in the evening
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together by the bank on the log, said nothing, and both listened to
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the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life,
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the voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape. And
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it happened from time to time that both, when listening to the water,
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thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day before, yesterday,
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of one of their travelers, the face and fate of whom had occupied
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their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, And that they both,
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in the same moment, when the river had been saying something good to them,
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looked at each other, both thinking precisely the same thing, both delighted
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about the same answer to the same question. There was something about this fairy
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and the two ferrymen which was transmitted to others, which many of the travelers
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felt. It happened occasionally that a traveler, after having looked at the face
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of one of the fairy men, started to tell the story of his life,
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told about pains, confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice.
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It happened occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night with them
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to listen to the river. It also happened that curious people came who had
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been told that there were two wise men or sorcerers or holy men living by
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that faery. The curious people asked many questions, but they got no answers,
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and they found neither sorcerers nor wise men. They only found two friendly,
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little old men who seemed to be mute and to have become a bit
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strange and gugger. And the curious people laughed and were discussing how foolishly and
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gullibly the common people were spreading such empty rumors. The years passed by,
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and nobody counted them. Then at one time monks came by on a pilgrimage
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followers of Gatama the Buddha, who were asking to be ferried across the river,
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And by then the ferrymen were told that they were most hurriedly walking back
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to their great teacher, for the news had spread the Exalted One was deadly
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sick and would soon die his last human death in order to become one with
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the salvation. It was not long until a new flock of monks came along
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on their pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks, as well as
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most of the other travelers and people walking through the land spoke of nothing else
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than of Gautama and his impending death. And as people are flocking from everywhere
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and from all sides, when they are going to war or to the coronation
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of a king, and are gathering like ants in droves, thus they flocked,
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like being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddha
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was awaiting his death, where the huge event was to take place, and
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the great perfected one of an era was to become one with the glory.
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Often said Arthur thought, in those days of the dying wise man, the
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great teacher, whose voice had admonished nations and had awoken hundreds of thousands,
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whose voice he had also once heard, whose holy face he had also once
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seen with respect. Kindly he thought of him, saw his path to perfection
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before his eyes, and remembered with a smile those words which he had once
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as a young man said to him the exalted One. They had been so
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it seemed to him, proud and precocious words. With a smile, he
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remembered them for a long time. He knew that there was nothing standing between
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Gautama and him anymore, though he was still unable to accept his teachings.
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No, there was no teaching a truly searching person, someone who truly wanted
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to find could accept. But he who had found, he could approve of
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any teachings, every path, every goal. There was nothing standing between him
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and all the other thousand anymore who lived in that what is eternal, who
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breathed what is divine. On one of these days when so many went on
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a pilgrimage to the dying Buddha, Kamala also went to him, who used
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to be one of the most beautiful of the Cortazans. A long time ago.
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She had retired from her previous life, had given her garden to the
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monks of God Tarma as a gift, had taken her refuge in the teachings,
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was among the friends and benefactors of the pilgrims. Together with Siddartha,
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the boy, her son. She had gone on her way due to the
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news of the near death of Gautama. In simple clothes on foot with her
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little son, she was traveling by the river, but the boy had soon
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grown tired, desired to go back home, desired to rest, desired to
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eat, became disobedient and started whining Kamala often had to take a rest with
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him. He was accustomed to having his way against her. She had to
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feed him, had to comfort him, had to scold him. He did
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not comprehend why he had to go on this exhausting and sad pilgrimage with his
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mother to an unknown place, to a stranger who was holy and about to
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die. So what if he died? How did this concern the boy?
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The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva's ferry when little Saddhartha once again forced his
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mother to rest. She Kamala herself had also become tired, and while the
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boy was chewing a banana, she crouched down on the ground, closed her
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eyes a bit, and rested. But suddenly she uttered a wailing scream.
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The boy looked at her in fear and saw her face having grown pale from
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horror, and from under her dress a small black snake fled by which Kamala
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had been bitten. Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path in order
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to reach people, and got near the ferry. There, Kamala collapsed and
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was not able to go any further, but the boy started crying miserably.
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Only interrupting it to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his
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loud screams for help, until the sound reached Vasudeva's ears, who stood at
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the ferry. Quickly he came walking, took the woman on his arms,
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carried her into the boat. The boy ran along, and soon they all
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reached the hut, where Siddartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the
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fire. He looked up and first saw the boy's face, which wondrously reminded
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him of something like a warning to remember something he had forgotten. Then he
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saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognized, though she lay unconscious in the ferry
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man's arms, And now he knew that it was his own son whose face
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had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in his
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chest. Kamala's wound was washed, but had already turned black, and her
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body was swollen. She was made to drink a healing potion. Her consciousness
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returned. She lay on Sir Darthur's bed in the hut and bent over her
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stood said d Arthur, who used to love her so much, it seemed
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like a dream to her, with a smile. She looked at her friend's
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face. Just slowly, she realized her situation, remembered the bite, called
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timidly for the boy. He's with you. Don't worry, said sadd Arthur.
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Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a heavy tongue, paralyzed
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by the poison. You've become old, my dear, she said, You've
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become gray. But you are like the young Samana who at one time came
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without clothes with dusty feet to me into the garden. You are much more
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like him than you were like him at the time when you had left me
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and come aswami. In the eyes, you're like him, said Arthur.
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Alas I have also grown old. Old, could you still recognize me,
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said Arthur, smiled instantly, I recognized you, Kamala, my dear.
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Kamala pointed to her boy and said, did you recognize him as well?
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He is your son. Her eyes became confused and fell shut. The boy
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wept, said Arthur. Took him on his knees, let him weep,
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petted his hair, and at the sight of the child's face, a Brahman
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prayer came to his mind, which he had learned a long time ago when
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he had been a little boy himself. Slowly, with a singing voice,
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he started to speak from his past and childhood. The words came flowing to
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him, and with that sing song, the boy became calm, was only
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now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep. Sadd Arthur placed him Onvasudeva's
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bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked rice. Said Arthur gave him
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a look, which he returned with a smile. She'll die, said,
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Arthur said Quietlyvasudeva nodded over his friendly face, ran the light of the stove's
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fire. Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face,
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said Arthur's eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks.
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Quietly, he read it attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with her
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suffering. Kamala felt it. Her gaze sought his eyes, looking at him.
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She said, now I see that your eyes have changed as well.
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They've become completely different. But what do I still recognize that you're said Arthur.
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It's you and it's not you, Sir Arthur said nothing. Quietly,
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his eyes looked at hers. You have achieved it, she asked, You
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have found peace. He smiled and placed his hand on hers. I'm seeing
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it, she said, I'm seeing it. I too will find peace.
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You have found it, said Arthur, spoke in a whisper. Kamala never
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stopped looking into his eyes. She thought about her pilgrimage to Gautama, which
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wanted to take in order to see the face of the perfected One, to
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breathe his peace. And she thought that she had now found him in his
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place, and that it was good, just as good as if she had
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seen the other one. She wanted to tell this to him, but the
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tongue no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking, she looked at him,
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and he saw the life fading from her eyes when the final pain filled her
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eyes and made them grow dim, when the final shiver ran through her limbs,
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his finger closed her eyelids. For a long time, he sat and
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looked at her peacefully dead face. For a long time, he observed her
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mouth, her old tired mouth, with those lips which had become thin,
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and he remembered that he used to, in the spring of his years,
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compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig. For a long time he sat
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red in the pale face in the tired wrinkles, filled himself with this sight,
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saw his own face lying in the same manner, just as white,
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just as quenched out, and saw at the same time his face and hers
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being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the feeling of
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this both being present and at the time real. The feeling of eternity completely
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filled every aspect of his being deeply. He felt, more deeply than ever
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before, in this hour, the indestructibility of every life, the eternity of
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every moment. When he rose, Vasudiva had prepared rice for him, but
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Siddartha did not eat. In the stable where their goats stood, the two
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old men prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down to
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sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the hut, listening
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to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and encircled by all times
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of his life at the same time. But occasionally he rose, stepped to
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the door of the hut and listened whether the boy was sla Early in the
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morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came out of the
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stable and walked over to his friend. You haven't slept, he said,
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No Vasadiva, I sat here. I was listening to the river A lot.
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It has told me deeply. It has filled me with the healing thought,
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with the thought of oneness. You've experienced suffering, said Arthur. But
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I see no sadness has entered your heart. No, my dear, how
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should I be sad? I who have been rich and happy, have become
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even richer and happier. Now my son has been given to me. Your
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son shall be welcome to me as well. But now, said Arthur,
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let's get to work. There. There is much to be done. Kamala
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has died on the same bed on which my wife had died a long time
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ago. Let us also build Kamala's funeral pile on the same hill on which
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I had then built my wife's funeral pile. While the boy was still asleep,
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they built the funeral pile. End of Chapter nine.