No More Learning

And now, they had abandoned him, none of them was his any more,
neither fasting, nor waiting, nor thinking. For the most wretched
things, he had given them up, for what fades most quickly, for sensual
lust, for the good life, for riches! His life had indeed been strange.
And now, so it seemed, now he had really become a childlike person.

Siddhartha thought about his situation. Thinking was hard on him, he
did not really feel like it, but he forced himself.

Now, he thought, since all these most easily perishing things have
slipped from me again, now I'm standing here under the sun again just as
I have been standing here a little child, nothing is mine, I have no
abilities, there is nothing I could bring about, I have learned nothing.
How wondrous is this! Now, that I'm no longer young, that my hair is
already half gray, that my strength is fading, now I'm starting again
at the beginning and as a child! Again, he had to smile. Yes, his fate
had been strange! Things were going downhill with him, and now he was
again facing the world void and naked and stupid. But he could not feed
sad about this, no, he even felt a great urge to laugh, to laugh about
himself, to laugh about this strange, foolish world.

"Things are going downhill with you! " he said to himself, and laughed
about it, and as he was saying it, he happened to glance at the river,
and he also saw the river going downhill, always moving on downhill,
and singing and being happy through it all. He liked this well, kindly
he smiled at the river. Was this not the river in which he had intended
to drown himself, in past times, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamed
this?

Wondrous indeed was my life, so he thought, wondrous detours it has
taken. As I boy, I had only to do with gods and offerings. As a youth,
I had only to do with asceticism, with thinking and meditation, was
searching for Brahman, worshipped the eternal in the Atman. But as a
young man, I followed the penitents, lived in the forest, suffered of
heat and frost, learned to hunger, taught my body to become dead.
Wonderfully, soon afterwards, insight came towards me in the form of the
great Buddha's teachings, I felt the knowledge of the oneness of the
world circling in me like my own blood. But I also had to leave Buddha
and the great knowledge. I went and learned the art of love with
Kamala, learned trading with Kamaswami, piled up money, wasted money,
learned to love my stomach, learned to please my senses. I had to spend
many years losing my spirit, to unlearn thinking again, to forget the
oneness. Isn't it just as if I had turned slowly and on a long detour
from a man into a child, from a thinker into a childlike person? And
yet, this path has been very good; and yet, the bird in my chest has
not died. But what a path has this been! I had to pass through so much
stupidity, through so much vices, through so many errors, through so
much disgust and disappointments and woe, just to become a child again
and to be able to start over. But it was right so, my heart says "Yes"
to it, my eyes smile to it. I've had to experience despair, I've had to
sink down to the most foolish one of all thoughts, to the thought of
suicide, in order to be able to experience divine grace, to hear Om
again, to be able to sleep properly and awake properly again. I had to
become a fool, to find Atman in me again. I had to sin, to be able to
live again. Where else might my path lead me to? It is foolish, this
path, it moves in loops, perhaps it is going around in a circle. Let
it go as it likes, I want to take it.

Wonderfully, he felt joy rolling like waves in his chest.

Wherever from, he asked his heart, where from did you get this
happiness? Might it come from that long, good sleep, which has done me
so good? Or from the word Om, which I said? Or from the fact that I
have escaped, that I have completely fled, that I am finally free again
and am standing like a child under the sky? Oh how good is it to have
fled, to have become free! How clean and beautiful is the air here, how
good to breathe! There, where I ran away from, there everything smelled
of ointments, of spices, of wine, of excess, of sloth. How did I hate
this world of the rich, of those who revel in fine food, of the
gamblers! How did I hate myself for staying in this terrible world for
so long! How did I hate myself, have deprive, poisoned, tortured
myself, have made myself old and evil! No, never again I will, as I
used to like doing so much, delude myself into thinking that Siddhartha
was wise! But this one thing I have done well, this I like, this I must
praise, that there is now an end to that hatred against myself, to that
foolish and dreary life! I praise you, Siddhartha, after so many years
of foolishness, you have once again had an idea, have done something,
have heard the bird in your chest singing and have followed it!

Thus he praised himself, found joy in himself, listened curiously to his
stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had now, so he felt, in
these recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured up
to the point of desperation and death, a piece of suffering, a piece of
misery. Like this, it was good. For much longer, he could have stayed
with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and let
his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in this
soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment of
complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when he
hang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself. That he
had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbed
to it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was still alive
after all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he laughed, this was
why his face was smiling brightly under his hair which had turned gray.

"It is good," he thought, "to get a taste of everything for oneself,
which one needs to know. That lust for the world and riches do not
belong to the good things, I have already learned as a child. I have
known it for a long time, but I have experienced only now. And now I
know it, don't just know it in my memory, but in my eyes, in my heart,
in my stomach. Good for me, to know this! "

For a long time, he pondered his transformation, listened to the bird,
as it sang for joy. Had not this bird died in him, had he not felt its
death? No, something else from within him had died, something which
already for a long time had yearned to die. Was it not this what he
used to intend to kill in his ardent years as a penitent? Was this not
his self, his small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled with
for so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which was
back again after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear? Was it not
this, which today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, by
this lovely river? Was it not due to this death, that he was now like
a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?

Now Siddhartha also got some idea of why he had fought this self in
vain as a Brahman, as a penitent. Too much knowledge had held him
back, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules, to much
self-castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal! Full of
arrogance, he had been, always the smartest, always working the most,
always one step ahead of all others, always the knowing and spiritual
one, always the priest or wise one. Into being a priest, into this
arrogance, into this spirituality, his self had retreated, there it sat
firmly and grew, while he thought he would kill it by fasting and
penance. Now he saw it and saw that the secret voice had been right,
that no teacher would ever have been able to bring about his salvation.
Therefore, he had to go out into the world, lose himself to lust and
power, to woman and money, had to become a merchant, a dice-gambler, a
drinker, and a greedy person, until the priest and Samana in him was
dead. Therefore, he had to continue bearing these ugly years, bearing
the disgust, the teachings, the pointlessness of a dreary and
wasted life up to the end, up to bitter despair, until Siddhartha the
lustful, Siddhartha the greedy could also die. He had died, a new
Siddhartha had woken up from the sleep. He would also grow old, he
would also eventually have to die, mortal was Siddhartha, mortal was
every physical form. But today he was young, was a child, the new
Siddhartha, and was full of joy.

He thought these thoughts, listened with a smile to his stomach,
listened gratefully to a buzzing bee. Cheerfully, he looked into the
rushing river, never before he had like a water so well as this one,
never before he had perceived the voice and the parable of the moving
water thus strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him, as if the river
had something special to tell him, something he did not know yet, which
was still awaiting him. In this river, Siddhartha had intended to
drown himself, in it the old, tired, desperate Siddhartha had drowned
today. But the new Siddhartha felt a deep love for this rushing water,
and decided for himself, not to leave it very soon.




THE FERRYMAN

By this river I want to stay, thought Siddhartha, it is the same which
I have crossed a long time ago on my way to the childlike people, a
friendly ferryman had guided me then, he is the one I want to go to,
starting out from his hut, my path had led me at that time into a new
life, which had now grown old and is dead--my present path, my present
new life, shall also take its start there!

Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green,
into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets. Bright
pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating on
the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it. With
a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with white
ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How did he love this
water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his heart
he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told him:
Love this water! Stay near it! Learn from it! Oh yes, he wanted to
learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. He who would understand this
water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many
other things, many secrets, all secrets.

But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this one
touched his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran,
and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the same
and yet new in every moment! Great be he who would grasp this,
understand this! He understood and grasped it not, only felt some idea
of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.

Siddhartha rose, the workings of hunger in his body became unbearable.
In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, upriver,
listened to the current, listened to the rumbling hunger in his body.

When he reached the ferry, the boat was just ready, and the same
ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the river,
stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognised him, he had also aged very
much.

"Would you like to ferry me over? " he asked.

The ferryman, being astonished to see such an elegant man walking along
and on foot, took him into his boat and pushed it off the bank.

"It's a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself," the passenger
spoke. "It must be beautiful to live by this water every day and to
cruise on it. "

With a smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side: "It is
beautiful, sir, it is as you say. But isn't every life, isn't every
work beautiful? "

"This may be true. But I envy you for yours. "

"Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it. This is nothing for people
wearing fine clothes. "

Siddhartha laughed. "Once before, I have been looked upon today because
of my clothes, I have been looked upon with distrust. Wouldn't you,
ferryman, like to accept these clothes, which are a nuisance to me,
from me? For you must know, I have no money to pay your fare. "

"You're joking, sir," the ferryman laughed.

"I'm not joking, friend. Behold, once before you have ferried me across
this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a good deed. Thus,
do it today as well, and accept my clothes for it. "

"And do you, sir, intent to continue travelling without clothes? "

"Ah, most of all I wouldn't want to continue travelling at all. Most of
all I would like you, ferryman, to give me an old loincloth and kept me
with you as your assistant, or rather as your trainee, for I'll have to
learn first how to handle the boat. "

For a long time, the ferryman looked at the stranger, searching.

"Now I recognise you," he finally said. "At one time, you've slept in
my hut, this was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty years ago,
and you've been ferried across the river by me, and we parted like good
friends. Haven't you've been a Samana? I can't think of your name any
more. "

"My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you've last seen me. "

"So be welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva. You will, so I hope,
be my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell me, where you're
coming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you. "

They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oar
with more strength, in order to overcome the current. He worked calmly,
his eyes fixed in on the front of the boat, with brawny arms.
Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, how once before, on that
last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his
heart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva's invitation. When they had
reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the stakes; after
this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him bread and
water, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate with eager
pleasure of the mango fruits, Vasudeva offered him.

Afterwards, it was almost the time of the sunset, they sat on a log by
the bank, and Siddhartha told the ferryman about where he originally
came from and about his life, as he had seen it before his eyes today,
in that hour of despair. Until late at night, lasted his tale.

Vasudeva listened with great attention. Listening carefully, he let
everything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning,
all that searching, all joy, all distress. This was among the
ferryman's virtues one of the greatest: like only a few, he knew how
to listen. Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed how
Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how he
did not lose a single one, awaited not a single one with impatience,
did not add his praise or rebuke, was just listening. Siddhartha felt,
what a happy fortune it is, to confess to such a listener, to bury in
his heart his own life, his own search, his own suffering.

But in the end of Siddhartha's tale, when he spoke of the tree by the
river, and of his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how he had felt such
a love for the river after his slumber, the ferryman listened with twice
the attention, entirely and completely absorbed by it, with his eyes
closed.

But when Siddhartha fell silent, and a long silence had occurred, then
Vasudeva said: "It is as I thought. The river has spoken to you. It
is your friend as well, it speaks to you as well. That is good, that is
very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend. I used to have a wife,
her bed was next to mine, but she has died a long time ago, for a long
time, I have lived alone. Now, you shall live with me, there is space
and food for both. "

"I thank you," said Siddhartha, "I thank you and accept. And I also
thank you for this, Vasudeva, for listening to me so well! These people
are rare who know how to listen. And I did not meet a single one who
knew it as well as you did. I will also learn in this respect from
you. "

"You will learn it," spoke Vasudeva, "but not from me. The river has
taught me to listen, from it you will learn it as well. It knows
everything, the river, everything can be learned from it. See, you've
already learned this from the water too, that it is good to strive
downwards, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is
becoming an oarsman's servant, the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a
ferryman: this has also been told to you by the river. You'll learn
that other thing from it as well. "

Quoth Siddhartha after a long pause: "What other thing, Vasudeva? "

Vasudeva rose. "It is late," he said, "let's go to sleep. I can't
tell you that other thing, oh friend. You'll learn it, or perhaps you
know it already. See, I'm no learned man, I have no special skill in
speaking, I also have no special skill in thinking. All I'm able to do
is to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else. If I was
able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am only
a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. I have
transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been
nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek money
and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was
obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly
across that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four or
five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its
voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to
them, as it has become sacred to me. Let's rest now, Siddhartha. "

Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate the boat, and
when there was nothing to do at the ferry, he worked with Vasudeva in
the rice-field, gathered wood, plucked the fruit off the banana-trees.
He learned to build an oar, and learned to mend the boat, and to weave
baskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned, and the days
and months passed quickly. But more than Vasudeva could teach him, he
was taught by the river. Incessantly, he learned from it. Most of all,
he learned from it to listen, to pay close attention with a quiet heart,
with a waiting, opened soul, without passion, without a wish, without
judgement, without an opinion.

In a friendly manner, he lived side by side with Vasudeva, and
occasionally they exchanged some words, few and at length thought about
words. Vasudeva was no friend of words; rarely, Siddhartha succeeded
in persuading him to speak.

"Did you," so he asked him at one time, "did you too learn that secret
from the river: that there is no time? "

Vasudeva's face was filled with a bright smile.

"Yes, Siddhartha," he spoke. "It is this what you mean, isn't it: that
the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the
waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains,
everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not
the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future? "

"This it is," said Siddhartha. "And when I had learned it, I looked at
my life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was only
separated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by a
shadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha's previous births were
no past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothing
was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and is
present. "

Siddhartha spoke with ecstasy; deeply, this enlightenment had delighted
him. Oh, was not all suffering time, were not all forms of tormenting
oneself and being afraid time, was not everything hard, everything
hostile in the world gone and overcome as soon as one had overcome time,
as soon as time would have been put out of existence by one's thoughts?
In ecstatic delight, he had spoken, but Vasudeva smiled at him brightly
and nodded in confirmation; silently he nodded, brushed his hand over
Siddhartha's shoulder, turned back to his work.

And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the rainy
season and made a powerful noise, then said Siddhartha: "Isn't it so,
oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices? Hasn't it the
voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of the
night, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a thousand
other voices more? "

"So it is," Vasudeva nodded, "all voices of the creatures are in its
voice. "

"And do you know," Siddhartha continued, "what word it speaks, when you
succeed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once? "

Happily, Vasudeva's face was smiling, he bent over to Siddhartha and
spoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had been the very thing which
Siddhartha had also been hearing.

And time after time, his smile became more similar to the ferryman's,
became almost just as bright, almost just as throughly glowing with
bliss, just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to
a child's, just as alike to an old man's. Many travellers, seeing the
two ferrymen, thought they were brothers. Often, they sat in the
evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened
to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the
voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape.
And it
happened from time to time that both, when listening to the river,
thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day before
yesterday, of one of their travellers, the face and fate of whom had
occupied their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, and that they
both in the same moment, when the river had been saying something good
to them, looked at each other, both thinking precisely the same thing,
both delighted about the same answer to the same question.

There was something about this ferry and the two ferrymen which was
transmitted to others, which many of the travellers felt. It happened
occasionally that a traveller, after having looked at the face of one of
the ferrymen, started to tell the story of his life, told about pains,
confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice. It happened
occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night with
them to listen to the river. It also happened that curious people came,
who had been told that there were two wise men, or sorcerers, or holy
men living by that ferry. The curious people asked many questions, but
they got no answers, and they found neither sorcerers nor wise men, they
only found two friendly little old men, who seemed to be mute and to
have become a bit strange and gaga. And the curious people laughed and
were discussing how foolishly and gullibly the common people were
spreading such empty rumours.

The years passed by, and nobody counted them. Then, at one time, monks
came by on a pilgrimage, followers of Gotama, the Buddha, who were
asking to be ferried across the river, and by them the ferrymen were
told that they were most hurriedly walking back to their great
teacher, for the news had spread the exalted one was deadly sick and
would soon die his last human death, in order to become one with the
salvation. It was not long, until a new flock of monks came along on
their pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks as well as most of the
other travellers and people walking through the land spoke of nothing
else than of Gotama and his impending death. And as people are flocking
from everywhere and from all sides, when they are going to war or to the
coronation of a king, and are gathering like ants in droves, thus they
flocked, like being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddha
was awaiting his death, where the huge event was to take place and the
great perfected one of an era was to become one with the glory.

Often, Siddhartha thought in those days of the dying wise man, the
great teacher, whose voice had admonished nations and had awoken
hundreds of thousands, whose voice he had also once heard, whose holy
face he had also once seen with respect. Kindly, he thought of him, saw
his path to perfection before his eyes, and remembered with a smile
those words which he had once, as a young man, said to him, the exalted
one. They had been, so it seemed to him, proud and precocious words;
with a smile, he remembered them. For a long time he knew that there
was nothing standing between Gotama and him any more, though he was
still unable to accept his teachings. No, there was no teaching a
truly searching person, someone who truly wanted to find, could accept.
But he who had found, he could approve of any teachings, every path,
every goal, there was nothing standing between him and all the other
thousand any more who lived in that what is eternal, who breathed what
is divine.

On one of these days, when so many went on a pilgrimage to the dying
Buddha, Kamala also went to him, who used to be the most beautiful of
the courtesans. A long time ago, she had retired from her previous
life, had given her garden to the monks of Gotama as a gift, had taken
her refuge in the teachings, was among the friends and benefactors of
the pilgrims. Together with Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had gone
on her way due to the news of the near death of Gotama, in simple
clothes, on foot. With her little son, she was travelling by the river;
but the boy had soon grown tired, desired to go back home, desired to
rest, desired to eat, became disobedient and started whining.

Kamala often had to take a rest with him, he was accustomed to having
his way against her, she had to feed him, had to comfort him, had to
scold him. He did not comprehend why he had to go on this exhausting
and sad pilgrimage with his mother, to an unknown place, to a stranger,
who was holy and about to die. So what if he died, how did this concern
the boy?

The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva's ferry, when little
Siddhartha once again forced his mother to rest. She, Kamala herself,
had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, she
crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested. But
suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fear
and saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under her
dress, a small, black snake fled, by which Kamala had been bitten.

Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path, in order to reach people,
and got near to the ferry, there Kamala collapsed, and was not able to
go any further. But the boy started crying miserably, only interrupting
it to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his loud screams for
help, until the sound reached Vasudeva's ears, who stood at the ferry.
Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her into
the boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, were
Siddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire. He looked
up and first saw the boy's face, which wondrously reminded him of
something, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten. Then
he saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognised, though she lay unconscious
in the ferryman's arms, and now he knew that it was his own son, whose
face had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in
his chest.

Kamala's wound was washed, but had already turned black and her body was
swollen, she was made to drink a healing potion. Her consciousness
returned, she lay on Siddhartha's bed in the hut and bent over her stood
Siddhartha, who used to love her so much. It seemed like a dream to
her; with a smile, she looked at her friend's face; just slowly she,
realized her situation, remembered the bite, called timidly for the boy.

"He's with you, don't worry," said Siddhartha.

Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a heavy tongue, paralysed
by the poison. "You've become old, my dear," she said, "you've become
gray. But you are like the young Samana, who at one time came without
clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden. You are much more like
him, than you were like him at that time when you had left me and
Kamaswami. In the eyes, you're like him, Siddhartha. Alas, I have also
grown old, old--could you still recognise me? "

Siddhartha smiled: "Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear. "

Kamala pointed to her boy and said: "Did you recognise him as well?
He is your son. "

Her eyes became confused and fell shut. The boy wept, Siddhartha took
him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight of
the child's face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he had
learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself. Slowly,
with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood,
the words came flowing to him. And with that singsong, the boy became
calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep. Siddhartha
placed him on Vasudeva's bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked
rice. Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a smile.

"She'll die," Siddhartha said quietly.

Vasudeva nodded; over his friendly face ran the light of the stove's
fire.

Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face,
Siddhartha's eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks.
Quietly, he read it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with
her suffering. Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes.

Looking at him, she said: "Now I see that your eyes have changed as
well. They've become completely different. By what do I still
recognise that you're Siddhartha? It's you, and it's not you. "

Siddhartha said nothing, quietly his eyes looked at hers.

"You have achieved it? " she asked. "You have found peace? "

He smiled and placed his hand on hers.

"I'm seeing it," she said, "I'm seeing it. I too will find peace. "

"You have found it," Siddhartha spoke in a whisper.

Kamala never stopped looking into his eyes. She thought about her
pilgrimage to Gotama, which wanted to take, in order to see the face of
the perfected one, to breathe his peace, and she thought that she had
now found him in his place, and that it was good, just as good, as if
she had seen the other one. She wanted to tell this to him, but the
tongue no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking, she looked at him,
and he saw the life fading from her eyes. When the final pain filled
her eyes and made them grow dim, when the final shiver ran through her
limbs, his finger closed her eyelids.

For a long time, he sat and looked at her peacefully dead face. For a
long time, he observed her mouth, her old, tired mouth, with those lips,
which had become thin, and he remembered, that he used to, in the spring
of his years, compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig. For a long
time, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles, filled
himself with this sight, saw his own face lying in the same manner,
just as white, just as quenched out, and saw at the same time his face
and hers being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the feeling of
this both being present and at the same time real, the feeling of
eternity, completely filled every aspect of his being. Deeply he felt,
more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the indestructibility of
every life, the eternity of every moment.

When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha did
not eat. In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men
prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down
to sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the
hut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and
encircled by all times of his life at the same time. But occasionally,
he rose, stepped to the door of the hut and listened, whether the boy
was sleeping.

Early in the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came
out of the stable and walked over to his friend.

"You haven't slept," he said.

"No, Vasudeva. I sat here, I was listening to the river. A lot it has
told me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with the
thought of oneness. "

"You've experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but I see: no sadness has
entered your heart. "

"No, my dear, how should I be sad? I, who have been rich and happy,
have become even richer and happier now. My son has been given to me. "

"Your son shall be welcome to me as well. But now, Siddhartha, let's
get to work, there is much to be done. Kamala has died on the same bed,
on which my wife had died a long time ago. Let us also build Kamala's
funeral pile on the same hill on which I had then built my wife's
funeral pile. "

While the boy was still asleep, they built the funeral pile.




THE SON

Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother's funeral; gloomy
and shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and
welcomed him at his place in Vasudeva's hut. Pale, he sat for many
days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look,
did not open his heart, met his fate with resistance and denial.

Siddhartha spared him and let him do as he pleased, he honoured his
mourning. Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him, that
he could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and understood
that the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a mother's boy, and that he
had grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food, to
a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha
understood that the mourning, pampered child could not suddenly and
willingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty. He did
not force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best piece
of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly
patience.

Rich and happy, he had called himself, when the boy had come to him.
Since time had passed on in the meantime, and the boy remained a
stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and
stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not pay
his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva's fruit-trees, then
Siddhartha began to understand that his son had not brought him
happiness and peace, but suffering and worry. But he loved him, and he
preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy
without the boy. Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old men had
split the work. Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman all
by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work in
the hut and the field.

For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to
understand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For
long months, Vasudeva waited, watching, waited and said nothing. One
day, when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his father
very much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken
both of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside
and talked to him.

"Pardon me. " he said, "from a friendly heart, I'm talking to you. I'm
seeing that you are tormenting yourself, I'm seeing that you're in grief.
Your son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me. That
young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest. He
has not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being disgusted
and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all this behind.
I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it. But the river
laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking with
laughter at out foolishness. Water wants to join water, youth wants to
join youth, your son is not in the place where he can prosper. You too
should ask the river; you too should listen to it! "

Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many wrinkles
of which there was incessant cheerfulness.

"How could I part with him? " he said quietly, ashamed. "Give me some
more time, my dear! See, I'm fighting for him, I'm seeking to win his
heart, with love and with friendly patience I intent to capture it.
One day, the river shall also talk to him, he also is called upon. "

Vasudeva's smile flourished more warmly. "Oh yes, he too is called
upon, he too is of the eternal life. But do we, you and me, know what
he is called upon to do, what path to take, what actions to perform,
what pain to endure? Not a small one, his pain will be; after all, his
heart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err a
lot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, my
dear: you're not taking control of your son's upbringing? You don't
force him? You don't beat him? You don't punish him? "

"No, Vasudeva, I don't do anything of this. "

"I knew it. You don't force him, don't beat him, don't give him orders,
because you know that 'soft' is stronger than 'hard', Water stronger
than rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you. But
aren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn't
punish him? Don't you shackle him with your love? Don't you make him
feel inferior every day, and don't you make it even harder on him with
your kindness and patience? Don't you force him, the arrogant and
pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom even
rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts are old
and quiet and beats in a different pace than his? Isn't forced, isn't
he punished by all this? "

Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the ground. Quietly, he asked: "What
do you think should I do? "

Quoth Vasudeva: "Bring him into the city, bring him into his mother's
house, there'll still be servants around, give him to them. And when
there aren't any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for the
teachings' sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among
girls, and in the world which is his own. Have you never thought of
this? "

"You're seeing into my heart," Siddhartha spoke sadly. "Often, I have
thought of this. But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart
anyhow, into this world? Won't he become exuberant, won't he lose
himself to pleasure and power, won't he repeat all of his father's
mistakes, won't he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara? "

Brightly, the ferryman's smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha's
arm and said: "Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it laugh about
it! Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts
in order to spare your son from committing them too? And could you in
any way protect your son from Sansara? How could you? By means of
teachings, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely forgotten
that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about
Siddhartha, a Brahman's son, which you once told me here on this very
spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin,
from greed, from foolishness? Were his father's religious devotion, his
teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him
safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from
living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from
burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for
himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my dear,
anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That perhaps
your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would
like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment? But even
if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the
slightest part of his destiny upon yourself. "

Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha
thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long
time. Vasudeva had told him nothing, he had not already thought and
known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon,
stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his
tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so much
to something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus
sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?

Siddhartha could not heed his friend's advice, he could not give up the
boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He
said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of
friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing
and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of
patience.

At one time, when the boy's face reminded him very much of Kamala,
Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time
ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. "You cannot
love," she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had compared
himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling
leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line.
Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to
another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love
of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as
it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him
apart from the childlike people. But now, since his son was here, now
he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person, suffering
for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love,
having become a fool on account of love. Now he too felt, late, once
in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered
from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, was
nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing.

He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, was
a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source,
dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was not
worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being.
This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be
endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed.

Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him
court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving
in to his moods. This father had nothing which would have delighted
him and nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, this
father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a
saint, all these there no attributes which could win the boy over. He
was bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable
hut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness
with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with
kindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Much
more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he
had been abused by him.

A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting
forth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter had given
him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy did not
leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he was,
thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and screamed in
a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father's face.

"Get the brushwood for yourself! " he shouted foaming at the mouth, "I'm
not your servant. I do know, that you won't hit me, you don't dare; I
do know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with
your religious devotion and your indulgence. You want me to become like
you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But I, listen up, just
to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and
murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you!