Part 2

Then Govinda stopped on the path, raised his hands, and spoke: "May you not frighten your friend with such words, Siddhartha! Truly, your words awaken fear in my heart. And only consider: where would the holiness of prayers remain, where the venerability of the Brahman caste, where the sanctity of the Samanas, if it were as you say, if there were no learning?! What, O Siddhartha, what would become of all that which is holy, valuable, and venerable on earth?!"

And Govinda murmured a verse to himself, a verse from an Upanishad:

Who, pondering, with purified mind, sinks into Atman, Ineffable through words is the bliss of his heart.

But Siddhartha fell silent. He thought of the words Govinda had spoken to him, and thought the words through to their end.

Yes, he thought, standing with bowed head, what would remain of all that seemed holy to us? What remains? What proves true? And he shook his head.

Once, when the two youths had lived with the Samanas for about three years and shared their exercises, a message reached them by many paths and detours, a rumor, a legend: one had appeared, called Gotama, the Exalted One, the Buddha, who had overcome the suffering of the world within himself and brought the wheel of rebirths to a standstill. Teaching, he wandered through the land, surrounded by disciples, possessionless, homeless, wifeless, in the yellow mantle of an ascetic, yet with serene brow, a blessed one, and Brahmans and princes bowed before him and became his pupils.

This legend, this rumor, this tale sounded forth, exhaled its fragrance upward; here and there in the cities the Brahmans spoke of it, in the forest the Samanas, again and again the name of Gotama, the Buddha, reached the ears of the youths, in good and in ill, in praise and in reproach.

As when a pestilence reigns in a land, and the report arises that here and there a man, a sage, a knower, whose word and breath suffice to heal everyone seized by the plague, and as then this report runs through the land and everyone speaks of it, many believe, many doubt, but many at once set out to seek the sage, the helper, so through the land ran that legend, that fragrant legend of Gotama, the Buddha, the sage of the Sakya clan. To him, so the believers said, highest knowledge was his own; he remembered his former lives, he had attained Nirvana and never returned to the cycle, never sank again into the turbid stream of formations. Much glorious and incredible was reported of him; he had performed miracles, had overcome the devil, had spoken with the gods. His enemies and unbelievers, however, said that this Gotama was a vain seducer, that he passed his days in indulgence, despised sacrifice, was without learning and knew neither practice nor mortification.

Sweet sounded the legend of Buddha, magic exhaled from these reports. Sick was the world, hard to bear was life—and behold, here seemed a spring to burst forth, here seemed a herald's call to sound, consoling, mild, full of noble promises. Everywhere the rumor of the Buddha resounded, everywhere in the lands of India the youths hearkened, felt longing, felt hope, and among the Brahman sons of the cities and villages every pilgrim and stranger was welcome who brought news of him, the Exalted One, the Sakyamuni.

Also to the Samanas in the forest, also to Siddhartha, also to Govinda the legend had penetrated, slowly, in drops, each drop heavy with hope, each drop heavy with doubt. They spoke little of it, for the eldest of the Samanas was no friend of this legend. He had heard that the supposed Buddha had formerly been an ascetic and lived in the forest, but then turned back to indulgence and worldly lust, and he thought nothing of this Gotama.

"O Siddhartha," Govinda once said to his friend, "today I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me into his house, and in his house was a Brahman son from Magadha, who has with his own eyes seen the Buddha and heard him teach. Truly, then the breath pained me in my breast, and I thought to myself: would that I too, would that we both, Siddhartha and I, might live to see the hour when we hear the teaching from the mouth of that Perfected One! Speak, friend, will we not also go there and hear the teaching from the mouth of the Buddha?"

Siddhartha spoke: "Always, O Govinda, had I thought Govinda would remain with the Samanas, always had I believed it was his goal to grow sixty and seventy years old and ever further practice the arts and exercises that befit the Samana. But see, I had known Govinda too little, little did I know of his heart. Now therefore you wish, dearest, to take a new path and go there where the Buddha proclaims his teaching."

Govinda spoke: "It pleases you to mock. May you mock, Siddhartha! But is there not also in you a longing, a desire awakened, to hear this teaching? And did you not once say to me that you would not walk the path of the Samanas much longer?"

Then Siddhartha laughed, in his way, whereby the tone of his voice took on a shadow of sadness and a shadow of mockery, and said: "Indeed, Govinda, indeed you have spoken well, rightly have you remembered. May you also remember the other, which you heard from me, that I had become distrustful and weary toward teaching and learning, and that my faith is small in words that come to us from teachers. But well then, dear one, I am ready to hear that teaching—though in my heart I believe we have already tasted the best fruit of that teaching."

Govinda spoke: "Your readiness gladdens my heart. But say, how could that be? How should the teaching of Gotama, before we have heard it, have already opened its best fruit to us?"

Siddhartha spoke: "Let us enjoy this fruit and await the rest, O Govinda! This fruit, however, which we already owe to Gotama at this moment, consists in his calling us away from the Samanas! Whether he has something else and better to give us, O friend, let us await with calm heart."

On this same day Siddhartha made known to the eldest of the Samanas his resolve that he wished to leave him. He made it known to the eldest with the courtesy and modesty befitting the younger and the pupil. But the Samana fell into anger that the two youths wished to leave him, and spoke loudly and used coarse invective.

Govinda was alarmed and became embarrassed, but Siddhartha inclined his mouth to Govinda's ear and whispered to him: "Now I will show the old man that I have learned something from him."

Placing himself close before the Samana, with collected soul, he caught the old man's gaze with his eyes, bound him, made him silent, made him will-less, subjected him to his will, commanded him to do silently what he demanded of him. The old man became silent, his eye grew rigid, his will paralyzed, his arms hung down, powerless he had succumbed to Siddhartha's enchantment. But Siddhartha's thoughts took possession of the Samana, he had to perform what they commanded. And so the old man bowed several times, made blessing gestures, spoke stammering a pious wish for the journey. And the youths returned the bows in thanks, returned the wish, and departed with greeting.

On the way Govinda said: "O Siddhartha, you have learned more among the Samanas than I knew. It is hard, it is very hard, to bewitch an old Samana. Truly, had you remained there, you would soon have learned to walk on water."

"I do not desire to walk on water," said Siddhartha. "May old Samanas content themselves with such arts!"

GOTAMA

In the city of Savathi every child knew the name of the Exalted Buddha, and every house was prepared to fill the alms bowl of Gotama's disciples, the silently begging. Near the city lay Gotama's favorite abode, the grove Jetavana, which the rich merchant Anathapindika, a devoted worshiper of the Exalted One, had given as a gift to him and his own.

Toward this region all the tales and answers had pointed which fell to the two young ascetics in search of Gotama's abode. And when they arrived in Savathi, in the very first house before whose door they stood begging, food was offered them, and they accepted food, and Siddhartha asked the woman who handed them the food:

"Gladly, you charitable one, gladly would we learn where the Buddha dwells, the most venerable, for we are two Samanas from the forest, and have come to see him, the Perfected One, and to hear the teaching from his mouth."

The woman spoke: "Truly you have alighted at the right place, you Samanas from the forest. Know, in Jetavana, in the garden of Anathapindika, dwells the Exalted One. There may you, pilgrims, spend the night, for enough space is there for the countless who stream hither to hear the teaching from his mouth."

Then Govinda rejoiced, and full of joy cried: "Well then, our goal is reached and our path at an end! But tell us, you mother of pilgrims, do you know him, the Buddha, have you seen him with your own eyes?"

The woman spoke: "Many times have I seen him, the Exalted One. On many days have I seen him walk through the alleys, silent, in the yellow mantle, how he silently offers his alms bowl at the house doors, how he carries away the filled bowl."

Enraptured Govinda listened and would have asked and heard much more. But Siddhartha urged onward. They gave thanks and went, and scarce needed to ask the way, for not few pilgrims and also monks from Gotama's community were on the way to Jetavana. And when they arrived there in the night, there was a constant arrival, calling, and speaking of those who sought and found shelter. The two Samanas, accustomed to life in the forest, quickly and noiselessly found a refuge and rested there until morning.

At sunrise they saw with astonishment what a great multitude, believers and curious, had lodged here. In all the paths of the splendid grove monks walked in yellow raiment, under the trees they sat here and there, sunk in contemplation—or in spiritual converse; like a town the shady gardens appeared, full of people, swarming like bees. The majority of the monks went out with the alms bowl, to gather in the city nourishment for the midday meal, the only one of the day. Also the Buddha himself, the Enlightened, was wont to make the begging round in the morning.

Siddhartha saw him, and recognized him at once, as if a god had shown him. He saw him, a plain man in yellow cowl, carrying the alms bowl in his hand, walking quietly thither.

"See here!" said Siddhartha softly to Govinda. "This one here is the Buddha."

Attentively Govinda looked at the monk in the yellow cowl, who seemed to differ in nothing from the hundreds of monks. And soon Govinda also recognized: this is he. And they followed him and observed him.

The Buddha walked his way modestly and sunk in thought, his quiet face was neither cheerful nor sorrowful, it seemed to smile faintly inward. With a hidden smile, still, calm, not unlike a healthy child, the Buddha moved, wore the garment and set his foot exactly like all his monks, by precise rule. But his face and his step, his quietly lowered gaze, his quietly hanging hand, and yet every finger on his quietly hanging hand spoke peace, spoke perfection, sought nothing, imitated nothing, breathed gently in an unwithering rest, in an unwithering light, an inviolable peace.

Thus walked Gotama, toward the city, to collect alms, and the two Samanas recognized him solely by the perfection of his rest, by the stillness of his figure, in which no seeking, no willing, no imitating, no striving was to be discerned, only light and peace.

"Today we shall hear the teaching from his mouth," said Govinda.

Siddhartha gave no answer. He was little curious about the teaching, he did not believe it would teach him anything new, for he had, just as Govinda, heard again and again the content of this Buddha-teaching, though from reports of second and third hand. But he looked attentively at Gotama's head, at his shoulders, at his feet, at his quietly hanging hand, and it seemed to him that every limb on every finger of this hand was teaching, spoke, breathed, exhaled fragrance, shone truth. This man, this Buddha, was truthful even to the gesture of his last finger. This man was holy. Never had Siddhartha revered a human being thus, never had he loved a human being as he loved this one.

The two followed the Buddha to the city and returned silently, for they themselves intended to abstain from food that day. They saw Gotama return, saw him take the meal in the circle of his disciples—what he ate would not have satisfied a bird—and saw him withdraw into the shade of the mango trees.

In the evening, however, when the heat lay down and all in the camp became lively and assembled, they heard the Buddha teach. They heard his voice, and it too was perfect, was of perfect rest, was full of peace. Gotama taught the teaching of suffering, of the origin of suffering, of the path to the removal of suffering. Calmly flowed and clear his quiet speech. Suffering was life, full of suffering was the world, but deliverance from suffering was found: deliverance found who walked the path of the Buddha. With gentle yet firm voice spoke the Exalted One, taught the four main tenets, taught the eightfold path, patiently he went the accustomed way of teaching, of examples, of repetitions, bright and still his voice hovered over the hearers, like a light, like a starry sky.

When the Buddha—night had already fallen—closed his speech, many pilgrims stepped forth and asked for admission into the community, took their refuge in the teaching. And Gotama received them, speaking: "Well have you heard the teaching, well is it proclaimed. Come hither then and walk in holiness, to make an end of all suffering."

Behold, then also Govinda stepped forth, the timid one, and spoke: "I too take my refuge in the Exalted One and in his teaching," and asked for admission into discipleship, and was received.

Soon after, when the Buddha had withdrawn to his night's rest, Govinda turned to Siddhartha and spoke eagerly: "Siddhartha, it does not befit me to reproach you. Both have heard the Exalted One, both have heard the teaching. Govinda has heard the teaching, he has taken his refuge in it. But you, honored one, will you not also walk the path of deliverance? Will you hesitate, will you still wait?"

Siddhartha awoke as from a sleep when he heard Govinda's words. Long he looked into Govinda's face. Then he spoke softly, with a voice without mockery: "Govinda, my friend, now you have taken the step, now you have chosen the path. Always, O Govinda, have you been my friend, always have you walked a step behind me. Often have I thought: will Govinda not also once take a step alone, without me, out of his own soul? See, now you have become a man and choose your own path. May you walk it to the end, O my friend! May you find deliverance!"

Govinda, who had not yet fully understood, repeated with a tone of impatience his question: "Speak, I beg you, my dear! Tell me, as indeed it cannot be otherwise, that you too, my learned friend, will take your refuge in the exalted Buddha!"

Siddhartha laid his hand on Govinda's shoulder: "You have not heeded my blessing, O Govinda. I repeat it: may you walk this path to the end! May you find deliverance!"

In this moment Govinda recognized that his friend had left him, and he began to weep.

"Siddhartha!" he cried lamenting.

Siddhartha spoke kindly to him: "Forget not, Govinda, that you now belong to the Samanas of the Buddha! You have renounced home and parents, renounced birth and property, renounced your own will, renounced friendship. So wills the teaching, so wills the Exalted One. So you yourself have willed. Tomorrow, O Govinda, I shall leave you."

Long still the friends wandered in the thicket, long they lay and found no sleep. And ever anew Govinda pressed his friend, he should tell him why he would not take refuge in Gotama's teaching, what fault then he found in this teaching. But Siddhartha each time turned him away and said: "Be content, Govinda! Very good is the Exalted One's teaching, how should I find a fault in it?"

At earliest morning a follower of Buddha, one of his eldest monks, went through the garden and called to him all those who as newcomers had taken refuge in the teaching, to clothe them in the yellow garment and instruct them in the first teachings and duties of their state. Then Govinda tore himself away, embraced once more the friend of his youth, and joined the procession of novices.

But Siddhartha wandered in thought through the grove.

Then he met Gotama, the Exalted One, and when he greeted him with reverence and the Buddha's gaze was so full of kindness and stillness, the youth took courage and asked the venerable one for leave to speak with him. Silently the Exalted One nodded assent.

Siddhartha spoke: "Yesterday, O Exalted One, it was granted me to hear your wondrous teaching. Together with my friend I came from afar, to hear the teaching. And now my friend will remain with your own, to you has he taken his refuge. But I take up my pilgrimage anew."

"As it pleases you," spoke the venerable one politely.

"Too bold is my speech," Siddhartha continued, "but I would not leave the Exalted One without having communicated my thoughts to him in sincerity. Will the venerable one still grant me a moment's hearing?"

Silently the Buddha nodded assent.

Siddhartha spoke: "One thing, O most venerable, above all have I admired in your teaching. All in your teaching is perfectly clear, is proven; as a perfect, as a never and nowhere interrupted chain you show the world as an eternal chain, fitted from causes and effects. Never has this been seen so clearly, never been presented so irrefutably; higher truly must every Brahman's heart beat in his breast, when he, through your teaching, beholds the world as perfect coherence, seamless, clear as crystal, not dependent on chance, not dependent on gods. Whether it be good or evil, whether life in it be suffering or joy, may remain undecided, it may perhaps be that this is not essential—but the unity of the world, the coherence of all happening, the enclosing of all great and small by the same stream, by the same law of causes, of becoming and of dying, this shines bright from your exalted teaching, O Perfected One. Now however, according to your very own teaching, this unity and consequence of all things is nonetheless broken at one place, through a small gap there streams into this world of unity something foreign, something new, something that was not before, and that cannot be shown and cannot be proven: that is your teaching of the overcoming of the world, of deliverance. With this small gap, with this small breach however the whole eternal and unitary law of the world is again broken and annulled. May you forgive me, that I voice this objection."

Still had Gotama listened to him, unmoved. With his kindly, with his polite and clear voice spoke now the Perfected One: "You have heard the teaching, O Brahman son, and well for you that you have thought so deeply upon it. You have found a gap in it, a fault. May you think further thereon. But let yourself be warned, you eager for knowledge, against the thicket of opinions and against the strife about words. Nothing is to be thought of opinions, they may be beautiful or ugly, wise or foolish, everyone may adhere to them or reject them. The teaching however, which you have heard from me, is not an opinion, and its goal is not to explain the world for those eager for knowledge. Its goal is another; its goal is deliverance from suffering. This is it, which Gotama teaches, nothing else."

"May you not be angry with me, O Exalted One," said the youth. "Not to seek strife with you, strife about words, have I spoken thus to you. You are truly right, little is to be thought of opinions. But let me say this one thing more: not a moment have I doubted you. Not a moment have I doubted that you are Buddha, that you have reached the goal, the highest, after which so many thousand Brahmans and Brahman sons are on the way. You have found deliverance from death. It has come to you from your own seeking, on your own path, through thought, through absorption, through knowledge, through enlightenment. Not has it come to you through teaching! And—so is my thought, O Exalted One—to no one will deliverance fall through teaching! To no one, O venerable, will you be able to communicate and tell in words and through teaching what happened to you in the hour of your enlightenment! Much contains the teaching of the enlightened Buddha, much it teaches, to live righteously, to avoid evil. One thing however the so clear, the so venerable teaching does not contain: it does not contain the secret of that which the Exalted One himself experienced, he alone among the hundred thousands. This is it, which I have thought and recognized, when I heard the teaching. This is it, for which I continue my wandering—not to seek another, a better teaching, for I know, there is none, but to leave all teachings and all teachers and reach my goal alone or to die. Oftentimes however will I think of this day, O Exalted One, and this hour, when my eyes beheld a saint."

The eyes of the Buddha looked quietly to the ground, quietly in perfect equanimity shone his unfathomable face.

"May your thoughts," spoke the venerable one slowly, "be no error! May you come to the goal! But tell me: have you seen the troop of my Samanas, my many brothers, who have taken refuge in the teaching? And do you think, strange Samana, do you think that it would be better for all these to leave the teaching and return into the life of the world and of lusts?"

"Far is such a thought from me," cried Siddhartha. "May they all remain with the teaching, may they reach their goal! It does not befit me to judge another's life. Only for myself, for me alone must I judge, must I choose, must I reject. Deliverance from the I we Samanas seek, O Exalted One. Were I now one of your disciples, O venerable, I fear it might happen to me that only seemingly, only deceptively my I would come to rest and be delivered, that it however in truth would live on and grow, for I would then have made the teaching, my following, my love for you, the community of the monks into my I!"

With half a smile, with an unshakable clarity and friendliness Gotama looked into the stranger's eye and dismissed him with a scarcely visible gesture.

"Wise are you, O Samana," spoke the venerable one.

"Wise know you to speak, my friend. Beware of too great wisdom!"

Away walked the Buddha, and his gaze and half smile remained forever engraved in Siddhartha's memory.

So have I seen no man gaze and smile, sit and walk, he thought, so truly I too wish to be able to gaze and smile, sit and walk, so free, so venerable, so hidden, so open, so childlike and mysterious. So truly gazes and walks only the man who has penetrated to the innermost of his self. Well, I too will seek to penetrate to the innermost of my self.

A man have I seen, thought Siddhartha, a single one, before whom I had to lower my eyes. Before no other more will I lower my eyes, before none more. No teaching more shall allure me, since this man's teaching has not allured me.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”