Part 6

Siddhartha raised himself up, and then he saw sitting opposite him a human being, a stranger, a monk in a yellow robe with a shaven head, in the posture of meditation. He regarded the man, who had neither hair on his head nor beard, and he had not looked at him long before he recognized in this monk Govinda, the friend of his youth, Govinda, who had taken refuge with the sublime Buddha. Govinda had aged, as had he, but still his face bore the old features, spoke of zeal, of loyalty, of seeking, of timorousness. But when Govinda, feeling his gaze, lifted his eye and looked at him, Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not recognize him. Govinda was glad to find him awake; evidently he had sat here a long time and waited for him to wake, though he did not know him.

"I have been sleeping," said Siddhartha. "How did you come to be here?"

"You have been sleeping," answered Govinda. "It is not good to sleep in such places, where snakes are often found and the beasts of the forest make their paths. I, O sir, am a disciple of the sublime Gotama, the Buddha, the Sakyamuni, and with a number of our brethren I have made pilgrimage along this way, when I saw you lying and sleeping in a place where it is dangerous to sleep. Therefore I sought to wake you, O sir, and as I saw that your sleep was very deep, I stayed behind my companions and sat by you. And then, it seems, I myself fell asleep, I who would guard your sleep. Poorly have I done my service, weariness overcame me. But now, since you are awake, let me go, that I may catch up with my brothers."

"I thank you, Samana, that you watched over my sleep," spoke Siddhartha. "You disciples of the Exalted are kind. Now you may go."

"I go, sir. May the sir ever be well."

"I thank you, Samana."

Govinda made the sign of greeting and said: "Farewell."

"Farewell, Govinda," said Siddhartha.

The monk stood still.

"Permit me, sir, from where do you know my name?"

Then Siddhartha smiled.

"I know you, O Govinda, from the hut of your father, and from the Brahman school, and from the sacrifices, and from our walk to the Samanas, and from that hour when you took refuge with the Exalted in the Jetavana grove."

"You are Siddhartha!" cried Govinda aloud. "Now I recognize you, and understand no longer how I could not know you at once. Be welcome, Siddhartha, great is my joy to see you again."

"It also gladdens me to see you again. You have been the guardian of my sleep, again I thank you for it, though I would have needed no guardian. Where are you going, O friend?"

"Nowhere am I going. We monks are ever on the way, so long as it is not the rainy season, ever we wander from place to place, live by the rule, proclaim the teaching, receive alms, move on. Ever is it so. But you, Siddhartha, where are you going?"

Spoke Siddhartha: "With me also it is as with you, friend. I am going nowhere. I am only on the way. I make pilgrimage."

Govinda spoke: "You say: you make pilgrimage, and I believe you. But forgive, O Siddhartha, you do not look like a pilgrim. You wear the garment of a rich man, you wear the shoes of a noble, and your hair, which smells of fragrant water, is not the hair of a pilgrim, not the hair of a Samana."

"Indeed, dear one, well have you observed, all sees your sharp eye. Yet did I not say to you that I am a Samana. I said: I make pilgrimage. And so it is: I make pilgrimage."

"You make pilgrimage," said Govinda. "But few pilgrimage in such raiment, few in such shoes, few with such hair. Never have I, who have now pilgrimaged many years, met such a pilgrim."

"I believe you, my Govinda. But now, today, you have met just such a pilgrim, in such shoes, with such garment. Remember, dear one: perishable is the world of forms, perishable, most perishable are our garments, and the fashion of our hair, and our hair and bodies themselves. I wear the clothes of a rich man, there you have seen rightly. I wear them, for I have been a rich man, and wear my hair like worldlings and voluptuaries, for one of them have I been."

"And now, Siddhartha, what are you now?"

"I do not know, I know it as little as you. I am on the way. I was a rich man, and am no more; and what I shall be tomorrow, I know not."

"You have lost your wealth?"

"I have lost it, or it lost me. It slipped from me. Swiftly turns the wheel of forms, Govinda. Where is the Brahman Siddhartha? Where is the Samana Siddhartha? Where is the rich Siddhartha? Swiftly changes the perishable, Govinda, you know it."

Govinda looked long at the friend of his youth, doubt in his eye. Thereupon he greeted him, as one greets the noble, and went his way.

With smiling face Siddhartha watched him go, he still loved him, this faithful one, this timorous one. And how could he, in this moment, in this glorious hour after his wondrous sleep, permeated with Om, have failed to love any person and anything! Precisely herein lay the enchantment which had come to pass in sleep and through the Om within him, that he loved everything, that he was full of joyful love toward all that he saw. And just herein, so it now seemed to him, had he been so sorely sick before, that he could love nothing and no one.

With smiling face Siddhartha watched the departing monk. Sleep had strengthened him greatly, but hunger tormented him sorely, for he had now eaten nothing for two days, and long was the time past when he had been hard against hunger. With sorrow, and yet also with laughter, he thought of that time. Then, so he remembered, he had boasted before Kamala of three things, had known three noble and invincible arts: fasting—waiting—thinking. This had been his possession, his power and strength, his firm staff; in the diligent, toilsome years of his youth he had learned these three arts, nothing else. And now they had left him, none of them was his anymore, neither fasting, nor waiting, nor thinking. For the most wretched had he given them up, for the most perishable, for sensual pleasure, for luxury, for riches! Strange it seemed to him indeed. And now, so it seemed, now he had truly become a child of the world.

Siddhartha thought upon his state. Hard fell the thinking upon him, he had in truth no liking for it, yet he forced himself.

Now, thought he, since all these most perishable things have slipped from me again, now I stand again under the sun, as once I stood as a small child, nothing is mine, nothing can I, nothing avail I, nothing have I learned. How wondrous is this! Now, when I am no longer young, now that my hair is already half gray, now that my strength fails, now I begin again from the start and at the child. Again he must smile. Yes, strange was his fate! It went downward with him, and now he stood again empty and naked and foolish in the world. But sorrow at this he could not feel, no, he felt even great incitement to laugh, to laugh at himself, to laugh at this strange, foolish world.

"Downward goes it with you!" said he to himself, and laughed therewith, and as he spoke it, his glance fell upon the river, and the river too he saw going downward, ever wandering downward, and yet singing and being merry. This pleased him well, friendly he smiled at the river. Was this not the river in which he would have drowned himself, once, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamed that?

Wondrous indeed has my life been, so thought he, wondrous bypaths has it taken. As a boy I had to do only with gods and sacrifices. As a youth I had to do only with penance, with thinking and absorption, was in search of Brahman, honored the Eternal in the Atman. But as a young man I followed the contritionists, lived in the forest, suffered heat and frost, learned to hunger, taught my body to die. Wondrously came knowledge to meet me in the teaching of the great Buddha, I felt knowledge of the oneness of the world circle in me like my own blood. But also from Buddha and from the great knowledge I had to depart again. I went and learned from Kamala the lust of love, learned from Kamaswami the trade, heaped up money, squandered money, learned to love my belly, learned to flatter my senses. Many years must I spend therein, to lose the spirit, to unlearn thinking again, to forget the oneness. Is it not so, as if I had slowly and by great detours become from a man a child, from a thinker a child of the world? And yet this path has been very good, and yet the bird in my breast is not dead. But what a path was this! I have had to go through so much foolishness, through so much vice, through so much error, through so much loathing and disappointment and woe, merely to become a child again and to be able to begin anew. But it was right so, my heart says yes to it, my eyes laugh at it. I had to experience despair, I had to sink down to the most foolish of all thoughts, to the thought of suicide, to experience grace, to hear Om again, to be able to sleep rightly and awaken rightly. I had to become a fool, to find Atman again in me. I had to sin, to be able to live again. Where yet may my path lead me? Foolish is it, this path, it goes in loops, it goes perhaps in a circle. Let it go as it will, I will go it.

Wondrously he felt the joy surge in his breast.

Whence then, asked he his heart, whence have you this merriness? Comes it perhaps from this long, good sleep, which has done me so much good? Or from the word Om, which I spoke? Or from this, that I have escaped, that my flight is accomplished, that I am at last free again and stand like a child beneath the sky? O how good is this having-fled, this having-become-free! How pure and beautiful is the air here, how good to breathe! There, from whence I fled, there everything smelled of ointment, of spices, of wine, of abundance, of sloth. How I hated that world of the rich, of the gluttons, of the gamblers! How I hated myself, that I stayed so long in that terrible world! How I hated myself, robbed myself, poisoned myself, tormented myself, made myself old and evil! No, never more will I, as once I so gladly did, imagine that Siddhartha is wise! But this have I done well, this pleases me, this must I praise, that now an end is made with that hatred against myself, with that foolish and barren life! I praise you, Siddhartha, after so many years of folly you have once again had an idea, have done something, have heard the bird in your breast sing and have followed it!

Thus he praised himself, had joy in himself, listened curiously to his stomach, which growled with hunger. A piece of sorrow, a piece of misery he had now, so he felt, in these last times and days fully tasted and spat out, gnawed to despair and to death. So it was good. Long yet might he have stayed with Kamaswami, gained money, squandered money, fattened his belly and let his soul thirst, long yet might he have dwelt in this soft, well-cushioned hell, had not this come: the moment of perfect comfortlessness and despair, that uttermost moment, when he hung above the streaming water and was ready to destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deepest loathing, and that he had not succumbed to it, that the bird, the joyful spring and voice in him was yet alive, at this he felt this joy, at this he laughed, at this his face shone beneath the graying hair.

"It is good," thought he, "to taste everything oneself, which one needs to know. That worldly lust and riches are not of the good, I learned already as a child. Known have I it long, experienced have I it only now. And now I know it, know it not only with the memory, but with my eyes, with my heart, with my stomach. Well for me, that I know it!"

Long he mused upon his transformation, listened to the bird, how it sang for joy. Had not this bird in him died, had he not felt its death? No, something else in him had died, something which had long, long yearned to die. Was it not that, which he had once in his glowing penitent years sought to kill? Was it not his I, his small, timorous and proud I, with which he had fought so many years, which had ever again conquered him, which after every mortification was there again, forbade joy, felt fear? Was it not this, which today had at last found its death, here in the forest at this lovely river? Was it not because of this death, that he now was like a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?

Now also Siddhartha suspected why, as a Brahman, as a penitent, he had fought in vain against this I. Too much knowledge had hindered him, too many holy verses, too many sacrifice rules, too much mortification, too much doing and striving! Full of pride had he been, ever the cleverest, ever the most zealous, ever a step ahead of all, ever the knowing and spiritual one, ever the priest or wise man. Into this priesthood, into this pride, into this spirituality his I had crept, there it sat fast and grew, while he thought to kill it with fasting and penance. Now he saw it, and saw that the secret voice had been right, that no teacher could ever have redeemed him. Therefore he had had to go into the world, had had to lose himself in lust and power, in woman and money, had had to become a merchant, a dice-player, a drunkard and miser, until the priest and Samana in him was dead. Therefore he had had to endure further these ugly years, endure the loathing, the emptiness, the senselessness of a barren and lost life, to the end, to bitter despair, until also the voluptuary Siddhartha, the miserly Siddhartha could die. He was dead, a new Siddhartha had awakened from sleep. He too would grow old, he too would one day have to die, perishable was Siddhartha, perishable was every form. But today he was young, was a child, the new Siddhartha, and was full of joy.

These thoughts he thought, listened smiling to his stomach, heard thankfully a humming bee. Cheerfully he looked into the streaming river, never had a water pleased him so well as this, never had he perceived the voice and parable of the flowing water so strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him, the river had something special to tell him, something which he did not yet know, which still waited for him. In this river Siddhartha had sought to drown himself, in it the old, weary, despairing Siddhartha had today drowned. The new Siddhartha but felt a deep love for this flowing water, and resolved in himself, not to leave it so soon again.

THE FERRYMAN

At this river will I stay, thought Siddhartha, it is the same, over which I once came on the way to the children of the world, a friendly ferryman led me then, to him will I go, from his hut my path once led me into a new life, which now has grown old and dead—may also my present path, my present new life take its beginning there!

Tenderly he looked into the streaming water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines of its mysterious drawing. Bright pearls he saw rise from the depth, silent air-bubbles swim on the surface, sky-blue mirrored therein. With a thousand eyes the river looked at him, with green, with white, with crystal, with sky-blue. How he loved this water, how it enraptured him, how grateful he was to it! In his heart he heard the newly awakened voice speak, and it said to him: Love this water! Stay with it! Learn from it! O yes, he would learn from it, he would hearken to it. Who understood this water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would understand much else besides, many secrets, all secrets.

Of the secrets of the river but one he saw today, which seized his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, ever ran it, and was yet ever there, was ever and at all times the same and yet every moment new! O who would grasp this, would understand this! He understood and grasped it not, felt only presentiment stir, distant memory, divine voices.

Siddhartha rose, unbearable became the stirring of hunger in his body. Taken with it he wandered on, up the shore path, against the current, hearkened to the stream, hearkened to the growling hunger in his body.

When he reached the ferry, the boat lay ready, and the same ferryman who once had set the young Samana across the river stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognized him again, he too was strongly aged.

"Will you ferry me over?" asked he.

The ferryman, astonished to see so noble a man wandering alone and on foot, took him into the boat and pushed off.

"A fair life have you chosen," spoke the guest. "Fair it must be, to live by this water every day and to fare upon it."

Smiling, the rower rocked: "It is fair, sir, it is as you say. But is not every life, is not every work fair?"

"It may well be. But I envy you yours."

"Ah, you would soon lose the liking for it. This is nothing for people in fine clothes."

Siddhartha laughed. "Already once today have I been regarded because of my clothes, regarded with mistrust. Will you not, ferryman, take these clothes, which are a burden to me, from me? For you must know, I have no money to pay you a ferry-fee."

"The sir jests," laughed the ferryman.

"I jest not, friend. See, already once have you ferried me in your boat over this water, for God's reward. So do it also today, and take my clothes therefor."

"And will the sir travel on without clothes?"

"Ah, most gladly would I not travel on at all. Most glad would I be, ferryman, if you gave me an old apron and kept me with you as your helper, rather as your apprentice, for first must I learn to handle the boat."

Long looked the ferryman at the stranger, searching.

"Now I recognize you," said he at last. "Once you slept in my hut, long is it since, well more than twenty years may that be, and were brought by me over the river, and we took leave of each other like good friends. Were you not a Samana? Your name I can no longer recall."

"I am called Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you saw me last."

"So be welcome, Siddhartha. I am called Vasudeva. You will, so I hope, be also today my guest and sleep in my hut, and tell me whence you come, and why your fair clothes are so burdensome to you."

They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva laid himself stronger into the oar, to come against the current. Calmly he worked, the gaze on the boat's prow, with powerful arms. Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, as already once, on that last day of his Samana time, love to this man had stirred in his heart. Thankfully he took Vasudeva's invitation. When they landed at the shore, he helped him bind the boat fast at the posts, thereupon the ferryman bade him enter the hut, offered him bread and water, and Siddhartha ate with relish, and ate with relish also of the mango-fruits which Vasudeva offered him.

Thereafter they sat, it went toward sunset, on a tree-trunk at the shore, and Siddhartha told the ferryman his origin and his life, as he had seen it today, in that hour of despair, before his eyes. Till deep into the night lasted his telling.

Vasudeva listened with great attentiveness. All took he listening into himself, origin and childhood, all that learning, all that seeking, all joy, all need. This was among the ferryman's virtues one of the greatest: he understood like few the listening. Without that he had spoken a word, the speaker felt how Vasudeva received his words into himself, still, open, waiting, how he lost none, expected none with impatience, set neither praise nor blame beside them, only listened. Siddhartha felt what happiness it is, to confess to such a listener, to sink one's own life into his heart, one's own seeking, one's own suffering.

Toward the end of Siddhartha's tale but, when he spoke of the tree by the river, and of his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how after his slumber he had felt such love to the river, then the ferryman listened with doubled attentiveness, wholly given, with closed eye.

But when Siddhartha fell silent, and a long stillness had been, then said Vasudeva: "It is so, as I thought. The river has spoken to you. Also to you is it friend, also to you it speaks. This is good, this is very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend. I once had a wife, her bed was beside mine, but she is long dead, long have I lived alone. Live now you with me, there is room and food for both."

"I thank you," said Siddhartha, "I thank you and accept. And also for this I thank you, Vasudeva, that you have listened to me so well! Rare are the people who understand the listening. And none met I who understood it like you. Also herein will I learn from you."

"You will learn it," spoke Vasudeva, "but not from me. The listening has the river taught me, from it will you also learn it. He knows all, the river, all can one learn from him. See, also this have you already learned from the water, that it is good to strive downward, to sink, to seek the depth. The rich and noble Siddhartha becomes a rower, the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a ferryman: also this has been told you by the river. You will learn also the other from him."

Spoke Siddhartha, after a long pause: "Which other, Vasudeva?"

Vasudeva rose. "Late has it become," said he, "let us go to sleep. I cannot tell you the other, O friend. You will learn it, perhaps you also know it already. See, I am no scholar, I understand not to speak, I understand also not to think. I understand only to listen and to be pious, else have I learned nothing. Could I say it and teach it, so were I perhaps a wise man, so but am I only a ferryman, and my task is it, to set people over this river. Many have I ferried over, thousands, and to all of them my river has been nothing else than an obstacle on their journeys. They traveled to money and business, and to weddings, and to pilgrimages, and the river was in their way, and the ferryman was thereto, to bring them quickly over the obstacle. Some among the thousands but, some few, four or five, to these has the river ceased to be an obstacle, they have heard its voice, they have hearkened to it, and the river has become holy to them, as it has become to me. Let us now go to rest, Siddhartha."}

“Stories of the world, in your language.”