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10 - The Son - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse · The Philosophy Insights Collection

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