悉达多 英文版 Siddhartha
赫尔曼.黑塞 Hermann Hesse
SECOND PART Page 7
"Why did you take the axe along?" asked Siddhartha.
Vasudeva said: "It might have been possible that the oar of our boatgot lost."
But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking. He thought, the boywould have thrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and inorder to keep them from following him. And in fact, there was no oarleft in the boat. Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the boat and lookedat his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say: "Don't you see whatyour son is trying to tell you? Don't you see that he doesn't want tobe followed?" But he did not say this in words. He started making anew oar. But Siddhartha bid his farewell, to look for the run-away.Vasudeva did not stop him.
When Siddhartha had already been walking through the forest for a longtime, the thought occurred to him that his search was useless. Either,so he thought, the boy was far ahead and had already reached the city,or, if he should still be on his way, he would conceal himself from him,the pursuer. As he continued thinking, he also found that he, on hispart, was not worried for his son, that he knew deep inside that he hadneither perished nor was in any danger in the forest. Nevertheless, heran without stopping, no longer to save him, just to satisfy his desire,just to perhaps see him one more time. And he ran up to just outside ofthe city.
back, which had notbeen suffered and solved up to its end.
When, near the city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entranceof the beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, wherehe had seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair. The past roseup in his soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded,naked Samana, the hair full of dust. For a long time, Siddhartha stoodthere and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks inyellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.
For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening tothe story of his life. For a long time, he stood there, looked at themonks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walkingamong the high trees. Clearly, he saw himself being served food anddrink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly anddisdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full ofdesire his worldly life. He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, theorgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala'ssong-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathedSansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, feltonce again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by theholy Om.
After having been standing by the gate of the garden for a long time,Siddhartha realised that his desire was foolish, which had made him goup to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was notallowed to cling him. Deeply, he felt the love for the run-away in hisheart, like a wound, and he felt at the same time that this wound hadnot been given to him in order to turn the knife in it, that it had tobecome a blossom and had to shine.
That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour,made him sad. Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him herefollowing the runaway son, there was now emptiness. Sadly, he sat down,felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy anymore, no goal. He sat lost in thought and waited. This he had learnedby the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience, listeningattentively. And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listenedto his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice. Many anhour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell intoemptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path. And when he feltthe wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with Om.The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many hours,and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him andplaced two bananas in front of him. The old man did not see him.
From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand touching hisshoulder. Instantly, he recognised this touch, this tender, bashfultouch, and regained his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva, who hadfollowed him. And when he looked into Vasudeva's friendly face, intothe small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing buthis smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too. Now he saw thebananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave one to the ferryman,ate the other one himself. After this, he silently went back into theforest with Vasudeva, returned home to the ferry. Neither one talkedabout what had happened today, neither one mentioned the boy's name,neither one spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about thewound. In the hut, Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after awhile Vasudeva came to him, to offer him a bowl of coconut-milk, healready found him asleep.
OM
For a long time, the wound continued to burn. Many a travellerSiddhartha had to ferry across the river who was accompanied by a son ora daughter, and he saw none of them without envying him, withoutthinking: "So many, so many thousands possess this sweetest of goodfortunes--why don't I? Even bad people, even thieves and robbers havechildren and love them, and are being loved by them, all except for me."Thus simply, thus without reason he now thought, thus similar to thechildlike people he had become.
Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the realisation, theknowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of his long searchwas. It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an ability, a secretart, to think every moment, while living his life, the thought ofoneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness. Slowly thisblossomed in him, was shining back at him from Vasudeva's old, childlikeface: harmony, knowledge of the eternal perfection of the world,smiling, oneness.
But the wound still burned, longingly and bitterly Siddhartha thought ofhis son, nurtured his love and tenderness in his heart, allowed thepain to gnaw at him, committed all foolish acts of love. Not by itself,this flame would go out.
And one day, when the wound burned violently, Siddhartha ferried acrossthe river, driven by a yearning, got off the boat and was willing to goto the city and to look for his son. The river flowed softly andquietly, it was the dry season, but its voice sounded strange: itlaughed! It laughed clearly. The river laughed, it laughed brightlyand clearly at the old ferryman. Siddhartha stopped, he bent over thewater, in order to hear even better, and he saw his face reflected inthe quietly moving waters, and in this reflected face there wassomething, which reminded him, something he had forgotten, and as hethought about it, he found it: this face resembled another face, whichhe used to know and love and also fear. It resembled his father's face,the Brahman. And he remembered how he, a long time ago, as a young man,had forced his father to let him go to the penitents, how he had bed hisfarewell to him, how he had gone and had never come back. Had hisfather not also suffered the same pain for him, which he now sufferedfor his son? Had his father not long since died, alone, without havingseen his son again? Did he not have to expect the same fate forhimself? Was it not a comedy, a strange and stupid matter, thisrepetition, this running around in a fateful circle?
The river laughed. Yes, so it was, everything came back, which had notbeen suffered and solved up to its end, the same pain was suffered overand over again. But Siddhartha want back into the boat and ferried backto the hut, thinking of his father, thinking of his son, laughed at bythe river, at odds with himself, tending towards despair, and not lesstending towards laughing along at himself and the entire world.
Alas, the wound was not blossoming yet, his heart was still fighting hisfate, cheerfulness and victory were not yet shining from his suffering.Nevertheless, he felt hope, and once he had returned to the hut, he feltan undefeatable desire to open up to Vasudeva, to show him everything,the master of listening, to say everything.
Vasudeva was sitting in the hut and weaving a basket. He no longer usedthe ferry-boat, his eyes were starting to get weak, and not just hiseyes; his arms and hands as well. Unchanged and flourishing was onlythe joy and the cheerful benevolence of his face.
Siddhartha sat down next to the old man, slowly he started talking.What they had never talked about, he now told him of, of his walk tothe city, at that time, of the burning wound, of his envy at the sightof happy fathers, of his knowledge of the foolishness of such wishes, ofhis futile fight against them. He reported everything, he was able tosay everything, even the most embarrassing parts, everything could besaid, everything shown, everything he could tell. He presented hiswound, also told how he fled today, how he ferried across the water,a childish run-away, willing to walk to the city, how the river hadlaughed.
While he spoke, spoke for a long time, while Vasudeva was listeningwith a quiet face, Vasudeva's listening gave Siddhartha a strongersensation than ever before, he sensed how his pain, his fears flowedover to him, how his secret hope flowed over, came back at him fromhis counterpart. To show his wound to this listener was the same asbathing it in the river, until it had cooled and become one with theriver. While he was still speaking, still admitting and confessing,Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no longer Vasudeva, nolonger a human being, who was listening to him, that this motionlesslistener was absorbing his confession into himself like a tree the rain,that this motionless man was the river itself, that he was God himself,that he was the eternal itself. And while Siddhartha stopped thinkingof himself and his wound, this realisation of Vasudeva's changedcharacter took possession of him, and the more he felt it and enteredinto it, the less wondrous it became, the more he realised thateverything was in order and natural, that Vasudeva had already been likethis for a long time, almost forever, that only he had not quiterecognised it, yes, that he himself had almost reached the same state.He felt, that he was now seeing old Vasudeva as the people see thegods, and that this could not last; in his heart, he started bidding hisfarewell to Vasudeva. Thorough all this, he talked incessantly.
When he had finished talking, Vasudeva turned his friendly eyes, whichhad grown slightly weak, at him, said nothing, let his silent love andcheerfulness, understanding and knowledge, shine at him. He tookSiddhartha's hand, led him to the seat by the bank, sat down with him,smiled at the river.
"You've heard it laugh," he said. "But you haven't heard everything.Let's listen, you'll hear more."
They listened. Softly sounded the river, singing in many voices.Siddhartha looked into the water, and images appeared to him in themoving water: his father appeared, lonely, mourning for his son; hehimself appeared, lonely, he also being tied with the bondage ofyearning to his distant son; his son appeared, lonely as well, the boy,greedily rushing along the burning course of his young wishes, eachone heading for his goal, each one obsessed by the goal, each onesuffering. The river sang with a voice of suffering, longingly it sang,longingly, it flowed towards its goal, lamentingly its voice sang.
"Do you hear?" Vasudeva's mute gaze asked. Siddhartha nodded.
"Listen better!" Vasudeva whispered.
Siddhartha made an effort to listen better. The image of his father,his own image, the image of his son merged, Kamala's image also appearedand was dispersed, and the image of Govinda, and other images, and theymerged with each other, turned all into the river, headed all, being theriver, for the goal, longing, desiring, suffering, and the river's voicesounded full of yearning, full of burning woe, full of unsatisfiabledesire. For the goal, the river was heading, Siddhartha saw ithurrying, the river, which consisted of him and his loved ones and ofall people, he had ever seen, all of these waves and waters werehurrying, suffering, towards goals, many goals, the waterfall, the lake,the rapids, the sea, and all goals were reached, and every goal wasfollowed by a new one, and the water turned into vapour and rose to thesky, turned into rain and poured down from the sky, turned into asource, a stream, a river, headed forward once again, flowed on onceagain. But the longing voice had changed. It still resounded, full ofsuffering, searching, but other voices joined it, voices of joy and ofsuffering, good and bad voices, laughing and sad ones, a hundred voices,a thousand voices.
Siddhartha listened. He was now nothing but a listener, completelyconcentrated on listening, completely empty, he felt, that he had nowfinished learning to listen. Often before, he had heard all this, thesemany voices in the river, today it sounded new. Already, he could nolonger tell the many voices apart, not the happy ones from the weepingones, not the ones of children from those of men, they all belongedtogether, the lamentation of yearning and the laughter of theknowledgeable one, the scream of rage and the moaning of the dying ones,everything was one, everything was intertwined and connected, entangleda thousand times. And everything together, all voices, all goals, allyearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, allof this together was the world. All of it together was the flow ofevents, was the music of life. And when Siddhartha was listeningattentively to this river, this song of a thousand voices, when heneither listened to the suffering nor the laughter, when he did not tiehis soul to any particular voice and submerged his self into it, butwhen he heard them all, perceived the whole, the oneness, then the greatsong of the thousand voices consisted of a single word, which was Om:the perfection.
"Do you hear," Vasudeva's gaze asked again.
In this hour, Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate, stopped suffering.On his face flourished the cheerfulness of a knowledge, which is nolonger opposed by any will, which knows perfection, which is inagreement with the flow of events, with the current of life, full ofsympathy for the pain of others, full of sympathy for the pleasure ofothers, devoted to the flow, belonging to the oneness.
When Vasudeva rose from the seat by the bank, when he looked intoSiddhartha's eyes and saw the cheerfulness of the knowledge shiningin them, he softly touched his shoulder with his hand, in this carefuland tender manner, and said: "I've been waiting for this hour, my dear.Now that it has come, let me leave. For a long time, I've been waitingfor this hour; for a long time, I've been Vasudeva the ferryman. Nowit's enough. Farewell, hut, farewell, river, farewell, Siddhartha!"
Siddhartha made a deep bow before him who bid his farewell.
"I've known it," he said quietly. "You'll go into the forests?"
"I'm going into the forests, I'm going into the oneness," spoke Vasudevawith a bright smile.
With a bright smile, he left; Siddhartha watched him leaving. With deepjoy, with deep solemnity he watched him leave, saw his steps full ofpeace, saw his head full of lustre, saw his body full of light.
GOVINDA
Together with other monks, Govinda used to spend the time of restbetween pilgrimages in the pleasure-grove, which the courtesan Kamalahad given to the followers of Gotama for a gift. He heard talk of anold ferryman, who lived one day's journey away by the river, andwho was regarded as a wise man by many. When Govinda went back on hisway, he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see the ferryman.Because, though he had lived his entire life by the rules, though he wasalso looked upon with veneration by the younger monks on account of hisage and his modesty, the restlessness and the searching still had notperished from his heart.
He came to the river and asked the old man to ferry him over, and whenthey got off the boat on the other side, he said to the old man:"You're very good to us monks and pilgrims, you have already ferriedmany of us across the river. Aren't you too, ferryman, a searcher forthe right path?"
Quoth Siddhartha, smiling from his old eyes: "Do you call yourself asearcher, oh venerable one, though you are already of an old in yearsand are wearing the robe of Gotama's monks?"