悉达多 英文版 Siddhartha
赫尔曼.黑塞 Hermann Hesse
SECOND PART Page 5
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 itsdeath? No, something else from within him had died, something whichalready for a long time had yearned to die. Was it not this what heused to intend to kill in his ardent years as a penitent? Was this nothis self, his small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled withfor so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which wasback again after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear? Was it notthis, which today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, bythis lovely river? Was it not due to this death, that he was now likea 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 invain as a Brahman, as a penitent. Too much knowledge had held himback, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules, to muchself-castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal! Full ofarrogance, he had been, always the smartest, always working the most,always one step ahead of all others, always the knowing and spiritualone, always the priest or wise one. Into being a priest, into thisarrogance, into this spirituality, his self had retreated, there it satfirmly and grew, while he thought he would kill it by fasting andpenance. 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 andpower, to woman and money, had to become a merchant, a dice-gambler, adrinker, and a greedy person, until the priest and Samana in him wasdead. Therefore, he had to continue bearing these ugly years, bearingthe disgust, the teachings, the pointlessness of a dreary andwasted life up to the end, up to bitter despair, until Siddhartha thelustful, Siddhartha the greedy could also die. He had died, a newSiddhartha had woken up from the sleep. He would also grow old, hewould also eventually have to die, mortal was Siddhartha, mortal wasevery physical form. But today he was young, was a child, the newSiddhartha, 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 therushing 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 movingwater thus strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him, as if the riverhad something special to tell him, something he did not know yet, whichwas still awaiting him. In this river, Siddhartha had intended todrown himself, in it the old, tired, desperate Siddhartha had drownedtoday. 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 whichI have crossed a long time ago on my way to the childlike people, afriendly 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 newlife, which had now grown old and is dead--my present path, my presentnew 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. Brightpearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating onthe reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it. Witha thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with whiteones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How did he love thiswater, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his hearthe 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 tolearn from it, he wanted to listen to it. He who would understand thiswater and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand manyother things, many secrets, all secrets.
But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this onetouched his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran,and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the sameand yet new in every moment! Great be he who would grasp this,understand this! He understood and grasped it not, only felt some ideaof 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 sameferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the river,stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognised him, he had also aged verymuch.
"Would you like to ferry me over?" he asked.
The ferryman, being astonished to see such an elegant man walking alongand on foot, took him into his boat and pushed it off the bank.
"It's a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself," the passengerspoke. "It must be beautiful to live by this water every day and tocruise on it."
With a smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side: "It isbeautiful, sir, it is as you say. But isn't every life, isn't everywork beautiful?"
mind, quiet, open, waiting, how hedid not lose a single.
"This may be true. But I envy you for yours."
"Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it. This is nothing for peoplewearing fine clothes."
Siddhartha laughed. "Once before, I have been looked upon today becauseof 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 acrossthis 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 ofall I would like you, ferryman, to give me an old loincloth and kept mewith you as your assistant, or rather as your trainee, for I'll have tolearn 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 inmy 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 goodfriends. Haven't you've been a Samana? I can't think of your name anymore."
"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'recoming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you."
They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oarwith 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 thatlast day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in hisheart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva's invitation. When they hadreached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the stakes; afterthis, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him bread andwater, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate with eagerpleasure of the mango fruits, Vasudeva offered him.
Afterwards, it was almost the time of the sunset, they sat on a log bythe bank, and Siddhartha told the ferryman about where he originallycame 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 leteverything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning,all that searching, all joy, all distress. This was among theferryman's virtues one of the greatest: like only a few, he knew howto listen. Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed howVasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how hedid 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 burry inhis 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 theriver, and of his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how he had felt sucha love for the river after his slumber, the ferryman listened with twicethe attention, entirely and completely absorbed by it, with his eyesclosed.
But when Siddhartha fell silent, and a long silence had occurred, thenVasudeva said: "It is as I thought. The river has spoken to you. Itis your friend as well, it speaks to you as well. That is good, that isvery 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 longtime, I have lived alone. Now, you shall live with me, there is spaceand food for both."
"I thank you," said Siddhartha, "I thank you and accept. And I alsothank you for this, Vasudeva, for listening to me so well! These peopleare rare who know how to listen. And I did not meet a single one whoknew it as well as you did. I will also learn in this respect fromyou."
"You will learn it," spoke Vasudeva, "but not from me. The river hastaught me to listen, from it you will learn it as well. It knowseverything, the river, everything can be learned from it. See, you'vealready learned this from the water too, that it is good to strivedownwards, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha isbecoming an oarsman's servant, the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes aferryman: this has also been told to you by the river. You'll learnthat 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'ttell you that other thing, oh friend. You'll learn it, or perhaps youknow it already. See, I'm no learned man, I have no special skill inspeaking, I also have no special skill in thinking. All I'm able to dois to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else. If I wasable to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am onlya ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. I havetransported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has beennothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek moneyand business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river wasobstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quicklyacross that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four orfive, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard itsvoice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred tothem, as it has become sacred to me. Let's rest now, Siddhartha."
Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate the boat, andwhen there was nothing to do at the ferry, he worked with Vasudeva inthe 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 weavebaskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned, and the daysand months passed quickly. But more than Vasudeva could teach him, hewas 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, withoutjudgement, without an opinion.
In a friendly manner, he lived side by side with Vasudeva, andoccasionally they exchanged some words, few and at length thought aboutwords. Vasudeva was no friend of words; rarely, Siddhartha succeededin persuading him to speak.
"Did you," so he asked him at one time, "did you too learn that secretfrom 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: thatthe river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at thewaterfall, 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, notthe shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future?"
"This it is," said Siddhartha. "And when I had learned it, I looked atmy life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was onlyseparated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by ashadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha's previous births wereno past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothingwas, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and ispresent."
Siddhartha spoke with ecstasy; deeply, this enlightenment had delightedhim. Oh, was not all suffering time, were not all forms of tormentingoneself and being afraid time, was not everything hard, everythinghostile 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 brightlyand nodded in confirmation; silently he nodded, brushed his hand overSiddhartha's shoulder, turned back to his work.
And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the rainyseason 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 thevoice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of thenight, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a thousandother voices more?"
"So it is," Vasudeva nodded, "all voices of the creatures are in itsvoice."
"And do you know," Siddhartha continued, "what word it speaks, when yousucceed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once?"
Happily, Vasudeva's face was smiling, he bent over to Siddhartha andspoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had been the very thing whichSiddhartha 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 withbliss, just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike toa child's, just as alike to an old man's. Many travellers, seeing thetwo ferrymen, thought they were brothers. Often, they sat in theevening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listenedto the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, thevoice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape. And ithappened from time to time that both, when listening to the river,thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day beforeyesterday, of one of their travellers, the face and fate of whom hadoccupied their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, and that theyboth in the same moment, when the river had been saying something goodto 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 wastransmitted to others, which many of the travellers felt. It happenedoccasionally that a traveller, after having looked at the face of one ofthe ferrymen, started to tell the story of his life, told about pains,confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice. It happenedoccasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night withthem 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 holymen living by that ferry. The curious people asked many questions, butthey got no answers, and they found neither sorcerers nor wise men, theyonly found two friendly little old men, who seemed to be mute and tohave become a bit strange and gaga. And the curious people laughed andwere discussing how foolishly and gullibly the common people werespreading such empty rumours.
The years passed by, and nobody counted them. Then, at one time, monkscame by on a pilgrimage, followers of Gotama, the Buddha, who wereasking to be ferried across the river, and by them the ferrymen weretold that they were most hurriedly walking back to their greatteacher, for the news had spread the exalted one was deadly sick andwould soon die his last human death, in order to become one with thesalvation. It was not long, until a new flock of monks came along ontheir pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks as well as most of theother travellers and people walking through the land spoke of nothingelse than of Gotama and his impending death. And as people are flockingfrom everywhere and from all sides, when they are going to war or to thecoronation of a king, and are gathering like ants in droves, thus theyflocked, like being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddhawas awaiting his death, where the huge event was to take place and thegreat perfected one of an era was to become one with the glory.
Often, Siddhartha thought in those days of the dying wise man, thegreat teacher, whose voice had admonished nations and had awokenhundreds of thousands, whose voice he had also once heard, whose holyface he had also once seen with respect. Kindly, he thought of him, sawhis path to perfection before his eyes, and remembered with a smilethose words which he had once, as a young man, said to him, the exaltedone. 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 therewas nothing standing between Gotama and him any more, though he wasstill unable to accept his teachings. No, there was no teaching atruly 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 otherthousand any more who lived in that what is eternal, who breathed whatis divine.
On one of these days, when so many went on a pilgrimage to the dyingBuddha, Kamala also went to him, who used to be the most beautiful ofthe courtesans. A long time ago, she had retired from her previouslife, had given her garden to the monks of Gotama as a gift, had takenher refuge in the teachings, was among the friends and benefactors ofthe pilgrims. Together with Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had goneon her way due to the news of the near death of Gotama, in simpleclothes, 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 torest, desired to eat, became disobedient and started whining.
Kamala often had to take a rest with him, he was accustomed to havinghis way against her, she had to feed him, had to comfort him, had toscold him. He did not comprehend why he had to to go on this exhaustingand 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 concernthe boy?