SIDDHARTHA

An Indian Tale

by Hermann Hesse

FIRST PART

To Romain Rolland, my dear friend

THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN

In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near theboats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig treeis where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the youngfalcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The suntanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mangogrove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, whenhis mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art ofreflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak theOm silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself whileinhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with allthe concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow ofthe clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depthsof his being, indestructible, one with the universe. 

Joy leapt in his father's heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to become great wise manand priest, a prince among the Brahmans. 

Bliss leapt in his mother's breast when she saw him, when she saw himwalking, when she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he who was walking on slender legs, greeting her with perfectrespect. 

Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans' young daughters whenSiddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminousforehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips. 

But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, theson of a Brahman. He loved Siddhartha's eye and sweet voice, he lovedhis walk and the perfect decency of his movements, he loved everythingSiddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, histranscendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy officialin charge of offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not avain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest; and also not adecent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, aswell did not want to become one of those, not one of those tens ofthousands of Brahmans. He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the glorious, then Govinda wanted to follow him ashis friend, his companion, his servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow. 

Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy foreverybody, he was a delight for them all. 

But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found nodelight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing hislimbs daily in the bath of repentance, sacrificing in the dim shade ofthe mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone's love andjoy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughtscame into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling fromthe stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams cameto him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the teachings of the old Brahmans. 

Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself, he had startedto feel that the love of his father and the love of his mother, and alsothe love of his friend, Govinda, would not bring him joy for ever andever, would not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him. He had started tosuspect that his venerable father and his other teachers, that the wiseBrahmans had already revealed to him the most and best of their wisdom, that they had already filled his expecting vessel with their richness, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was not content, the soul wasnot calm, the heart was not satisfied. The ablutions were good, butthey were water, they did not wash off the sin, they did not heal thespirit's thirst, they did not relieve the fear in his heart. Thesacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent--but was thatall? Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune? And what about the gods?Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not theAtman, He, the only one, the singular one? Were the gods not creations, created like me and you, subject to time, mortal? Was it thereforegood, was it right, was it meaningful and the highest occupation to makeofferings to the gods? For whom else were offerings to be made, whoelse was to be worshipped but Him, the only one, the Atman? And wherewas Atman to be found, where did He reside, where did his eternal heartbeat, where else but in one's own self, in its innermost part, in itsindestructible part, which everyone had in himself? But where, wherewas this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part? It was notflesh and bone, it was neither thought nor consciousness, thus thewisest ones taught. So, where, where was it? To reach this place, theself, myself, the Atman, there was another way, which was worthwhilelooking for? Alas, and nobody showed this way, nobody knew it, not thefather, and not the teachers and wise men, not the holy sacrificialsongs! They knew everything, the Brahmans and their holy books, theyknew everything, they had taken care of everything and of more thaneverything, the creation of the world, the origin of speech, of food, ofinhaling, of exhaling, the arrangement of the senses, the acts of thegods, they knew infinitely much--but was it valuable to know all ofthis, not knowing that one and only thing, the most important thing, thesolely important thing?

Surely, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the Upanishadesof Samaveda, spoke of this innermost and ultimate thing, wonderfulverses. "Your soul is the whole world", was written there, and it waswritten that man in his sleep, in his deep sleep, would meet with hisinnermost part and would reside in the Atman. Marvellous wisdom was inthese verses, all knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected herein magic words, pure as honey collected by bees. No, not to be lookeddown upon was the tremendous amount of enlightenment which lay herecollected and preserved by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans. --But where were the Brahmans, where the priests, where the wise men orpenitents, who had succeeded in not just knowing this deepest of allknowledge but also to live it? Where was the knowledgeable one who wovehis spell to bring his familiarity with the Atman out of the sleep intothe state of being awake, into the life, into every step of the way, into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chieflyhis father, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one. Hisfather was to be admired, quiet and noble were his manners, pure hislife, wise his words, delicate and noble thoughts lived behind its brow--but even he, who knew so much, did he live in blissfulness, did hehave peace, was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did henot, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man, from the offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans?Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for a cleansing every day, over and over every day? Was notAtman in him, did not the pristine source spring from his heart? It hadto be found, the pristine source in one's own self, it had to bepossessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was gettinglost. 

Thus were Siddhartha's thoughts, this was his thirst, this was hissuffering. 

Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya-Upanishad the words:"Truly, the name of the Brahman is satyam--verily, he who knows such athing, will enter the heavenly world every day. " Often, it seemed near, the heavenly world, but never he had reached it completely, never he hadquenched the ultimate thirst. And among all the wise and wisest men, heknew and whose instructions he had received, among all of them there wasno one, who had reached it completely, the heavenly world, who hadquenched it completely, the eternal thirst. 

"Govinda, " Siddhartha spoke to his friend, "Govinda, my dear, come withme under the Banyan tree, let's practise meditation. "

They went to the Banyan tree, they sat down, Siddhartha right here, Govinda twenty paces away. While putting himself down, ready to speakthe Om, Siddhartha repeated murmuring the verse:

Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrow's target, That one should incessantly hit. 

After the usual time of the exercise in meditation had passed, Govindarose. The evening had come, it was time to perform the evening's ablution. He called Siddhartha's name. Siddhartha did not answer. Siddhartha satthere lost in thought, his eyes were rigidly focused towards a verydistant target, the tip of his tongue was protruding a little betweenthe teeth, he seemed not to breathe. Thus sat he, wrapped up incontemplation, thinking Om, his soul sent after the Brahman as an arrow. 

Once, Samanas had travelled through Siddhartha's town, ascetics on apilgrimage, three skinny, withered men, neither old nor young, withdusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world, strangersand lank jackals in the realm of humans. Behind them blew a hot scentof quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial. 

In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke toGovinda: "Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to theSamanas. He will become a Samana. "

Govinda turned pale, when he heard these words and read the decision inthe motionless face of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot fromthe bow. Soon and with the first glance, Govinda realized: Now it isbeginning, now Siddhartha is taking his own way, now his fate isbeginning to sprout, and with his, my own. And he turned pale like adry banana-skin. 

"O Siddhartha, " he exclaimed, "will your father permit you to do that?"

Siddhartha looked over as if he was just waking up. Arrow-fast he readin Govinda's soul, read the fear, read the submission. 

"O Govinda, " he spoke quietly, "let's not waste words. Tomorrow, atdaybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Speak no more of it. "

Siddhartha entered the chamber, where his father was sitting on a mat ofbast, and stepped behind his father and remained standing there, untilhis father felt that someone was standing behind him. Quoth theBrahman: "Is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what you came to say. "

Quoth Siddhartha: "With your permission, my father. I came to tell youthat it is my longing to leave your house tomorrow and go to theascetics. My desire is to become a Samana. May my father not opposethis. "

The Brahman fell silent, and remained silent for so long that the starsin the small window wandered and changed their relative positions, 'erethe silence was broken. Silent and motionless stood the son with hisarms folded, silent and motionless sat the father on the mat, and thestars traced their paths in the sky. Then spoke the father: "Notproper it is for a Brahman to speak harsh and angry words. Butindignation is in my heart. I wish not to hear this request for asecond time from your mouth. "

Slowly, the Brahman rose; Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded. 

"What are you waiting for?" asked the father. 

Quoth Siddhartha: "You know what. "

Indignant, the father left the chamber; indignant, he went to his bedand lay down. 

After an hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stoodup, paced to and fro, and left the house. Through the small window ofthe chamber he looked back inside, and there he saw Siddhartha standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot. Pale shimmered his brightrobe. With anxiety in his heart, the father returned to his bed. 

After another hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahmanstood up again, paced to and fro, walked out of the house and saw thatthe moon had risen. Through the window of the chamber he looked backinside; there stood Siddhartha, not moving from his spot, his armsfolded, moonlight reflecting from his bare shins. With worry in hisheart, the father went back to bed. 

And he came back after an hour, he came back after two hours, lookedthrough the small window, saw Siddhartha standing, in the moon light, by the light of the stars, in the darkness. And he came back hour afterhour, silently, he looked into the chamber, saw him standing in the sameplace, filled his heart with anger, filled his heart with unrest, filledhis heart with anguish, filled it with sadness. 

And in the night's last hour, before the day began, he returned, steppedinto the room, saw the young man standing there, who seemed tall andlike a stranger to him. 

"Siddhartha, " he spoke, "what are you waiting for?"

"You know what. "

"Will you always stand that way and wait, until it'll becomes morning, noon, and evening?"

"I will stand and wait. 

"You will become tired, Siddhartha. "

"I will become tired. "

"You will fall asleep, Siddhartha. "

"I will not fall asleep. "

"You will die, Siddhartha. "

"I will die. "

"And would you rather die, than obey your father?"

"Siddhartha has always obeyed his father. "

"So will you abandon your plan?"

"Siddhartha will do what his father will tell him to do. "

The first light of day shone into the room. The Brahman saw thatSiddhartha was trembling softly in his knees. In Siddhartha's face hesaw no trembling, his eyes were fixed on a distant spot. Then hisfather realized that even now Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in hishome, that he had already left him. 

The Father touched Siddhartha's shoulder. 

"You will, " he spoke, "go into the forest and be a Samana. Whenyou'll have found blissfulness in the forest, then come back and teachme to be blissful. If you'll find disappointment, then return and letus once again make offerings to the gods together. Go now and kiss yourmother, tell her where you are going to. But for me it is time to go tothe river and to perform the first ablution. "

He took his hand from the shoulder of his son and went outside. Siddhartha wavered to the side, as he tried to walk. He put his limbsback under control, bowed to his father, and went to his mother to do ashis father had said. 

As he slowly left on stiff legs in the first light of day the stillquiet town, a shadow rose near the last hut, who had crouched there, and joined the pilgrim--Govinda. 

"You have come, " said Siddhartha and smiled. 

"I have come, " said Govinda. 

WITH THE SAMANAS

In the evening of this day they caught up with the ascetics, the skinnySamanas, and offered them their companionship and--obedience. Theywere accepted. 

Siddhartha gave his garments to a poor Brahman in the street. He worenothing more than the loincloth and the earth-coloured, unsown cloak. He ate only once a day, and never something cooked. He fasted forfifteen days. He fasted for twenty-eight days. The flesh waned fromhis thighs and cheeks. Feverish dreams flickered from his enlargedeyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched fingers and a dry, shaggybeard grew on his chin. His glance turned to icy when he encounteredwomen; his mouth twitched with contempt, when he walked through a cityof nicely dressed people. He saw merchants trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing for their dead, whores offering themselves, physicianstrying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable day forseeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children--and all of thiswas not worthy of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank, it all stank of lies, it all pretended to be meaningful and joyful andbeautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction. The world tastedbitter. Life was torture. 

A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to become empty, empty ofthirst, empty of wishing, empty of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow. Dead to himself, not to be a self any more, to find tranquility with anemptied heard, to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that washis goal. Once all of my self was overcome and had died, once everydesire and every urge was silent in the heart, then the ultimate partof me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer myself, the great secret. 

Silently, Siddhartha exposed himself to burning rays of the sun directlyabove, glowing with pain, glowing with thirst, and stood there, until heneither felt any pain nor thirst any more. Silently, he stood there inthe rainy season, from his hair the water was dripping over freezingshoulders, over freezing hips and legs, and the penitent stood there, until he could not feel the cold in his shoulders and legs any more, until they were silent, until they were quiet. Silently, he cowered inthe thorny bushes, blood dripped from the burning skin, from festeringwounds dripped pus, and Siddhartha stayed rigidly, stayed motionless, until no blood flowed any more, until nothing stung any more, untilnothing burned any more. 

Siddhartha sat upright and learned to breathe sparingly, learned toget along with only few breathes, learned to stop breathing. Helearned, beginning with the breath, to calm the beat of his heart, leaned to reduce the beats of his heart, until they were only a few andalmost none. 

Instructed by the oldest if the Samanas, Siddhartha practisedself-denial, practised meditation, according to a new Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha accepted the heroninto his soul, flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of a heron's hunger, spoke the heron's croak, died aheron's death. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, andSiddhartha's soul slipped inside the body, was the dead jackal, lay onthe banks, got bloated, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyaenas, wasskinned by vultures, turned into a skeleton, turned to dust, was blownacross the fields. And Siddhartha's soul returned, had died, haddecayed, was scattered as dust, had tasted the gloomy intoxication ofthe cycle, awaited in new thirst like a hunter in the gap, where hecould escape from the cycle, where the end of the causes, where aneternity without suffering began. He killed his senses, he killed hismemory, he slipped out of his self into thousands of other forms, was ananimal, was carrion, was stone, was wood, was water, and awoke everytime to find his old self again, sun shone or moon, was his self again, turned round in the cycle, felt thirst, overcame the thirst, felt newthirst. 

Siddhartha learned a lot when he was with the Samanas, many ways leadingaway from the self he learned to go. He went the way of self-denialby means of pain, through voluntarily suffering and overcoming pain, hunger, thirst, tiredness. He went the way of self-denial by means ofmeditation, through imagining the mind to be void of all conceptions. These and other ways he learned to go, a thousand times he left hisself, for hours and days he remained in the non-self. But though theways led away from the self, their end nevertheless always led back tothe self. Though Siddhartha fled from the self a thousand times, stayedin nothingness, stayed in the animal, in the stone, the return wasinevitable, inescapable was the hour, when he found himself back in thesunshine or in the moonlight, in the shade or in the rain, and was onceagain his self and Siddhartha, and again felt the agony of the cycle whichhad been forced upon him. 

By his side lived Govinda, his shadow, walked the same paths, undertookthe same efforts. They rarely spoke to one another, than the serviceand the exercises required. Occasionally the two of them went throughthe villages, to beg for food for themselves and their teachers. 

"How do you think, Govinda, " Siddhartha spoke one day while beggingthis way, "how do you think did we progress? Did we reach any goals?"

Govinda answered: "We have learned, and we'll continue learning. You'll be a great Samana, Siddhartha. Quickly, you've learned everyexercise, often the old Samanas have admired you. One day, you'll bea holy man, oh Siddhartha. "

Quoth Siddhartha: "I can't help but feel that it is not like this, myfriend. What I've learned, being among the Samanas, up to this day, this, oh Govinda, I could have learned more quickly and by simplermeans. In every tavern of that part of a town where the whorehousesare, my friend, among carters and gamblers I could have learned it. "

Quoth Govinda: "Siddhartha is putting me on. How could you havelearned meditation, holding your breath, insensitivity against hungerand pain there among these wretched people?"

And Siddhartha said quietly, as if he was talking to himself: "What ismeditation? What is leaving one's body? What is fasting? What isholding one's breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a shortescape of the agony of being a self, it is a short numbing of thesenses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in theinn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented coconut-milk. Thenhe won't feel his self any more, then he won't feel the pains of lifeany more, then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he fallsasleep over his bowl of rice-wine, he'll find the same what Siddharthaand Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self. This is how it is, oh Govinda. "

Quoth Govinda: "You say so, oh friend, and yet you know that Siddharthais no driver of an ox-cart and a Samana is no drunkard. It's true thata drinker numbs his senses, it's true that he briefly escapes and rests, but he'll return from the delusion, finds everything to be unchanged, hasnot become wiser, has gathered no enlightenment, --has not risen severalsteps. "

And Siddhartha spoke with a smile: "I do not know, I've never been adrunkard. But that I, Siddhartha, find only a short numbing of thesenses in my exercises and meditations and that I am just as far removedfrom wisdom, from salvation, as a child in the mother's womb, this Iknow, oh Govinda, this I know. "

And once again, another time, when Siddhartha left the forest togetherwith Govinda, to beg for some food in the village for their brothers andteachers, Siddhartha began to speak and said: "What now, oh Govinda, might we be on the right path? Might we get closer to enlightenment?Might we get closer to salvation? Or do we perhaps live in a circle--we, who have thought we were escaping the cycle?"

Quoth Govinda: "We have learned a lot, Siddhartha, there is stillmuch to learn. We are not going around in circles, we are moving up, the circle is a spiral, we have already ascended many a level. "

Siddhartha answered: "How old, would you think, is our oldest Samana, our venerable teacher?"

Quoth Govinda: "Our oldest one might be about sixty years of age. "

And Siddhartha: "He has lived for sixty years and has not reached thenirvana. He'll turn seventy and eighty, and you and me, we will growjust as old and will do our exercises, and will fast, and will meditate. But we will not reach the nirvana, he won't and we won't. Oh Govinda, I believe out of all the Samanas out there, perhaps not a single one, not a single one, will reach the nirvana. We find comfort, we findnumbness, we learn feats, to deceive others. But the most importantthing, the path of paths, we will not find. "

"If you only, " spoke Govinda, "wouldn't speak such terrible words, Siddhartha! How could it be that among so many learned men, among somany Brahmans, among so many austere and venerable Samanas, among somany who are searching, so many who are eagerly trying, so many holymen, no one will find the path of paths?"

But Siddhartha said in a voice which contained just as much sadness asmockery, with a quiet, a slightly sad, a slightly mocking voice: "Soon, Govinda, your friend will leave the path of the Samanas, he has walkedalong your side for so long. I'm suffering of thirst, oh Govinda, andon this long path of a Samana, my thirst has remained as strong as ever. I always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions. I have asked the Brahmans, year after year, and I have asked the holyVedas, year after year, and I have asked the devote Samanas, year afteryear. Perhaps, oh Govinda, it had been just as well, had been just assmart and just as profitable, if I had asked the hornbill-bird or thechimpanzee. It took me a long time and am not finished learning thisyet, oh Govinda: that there is nothing to be learned! There is indeedno such thing, so I believe, as what we refer to as `learning'. Thereis, oh my friend, just one knowledge, this is everywhere, this is Atman, this is within me and within you and within every creature. And so I'mstarting to believe that this knowledge has no worser enemy than thedesire to know it, than learning. "

At this, Govinda stopped on the path, rose his hands, and spoke: "Ifyou, Siddhartha, only would not bother your friend with this kind oftalk! Truly, you words stir up fear in my heart. And just consider:what would become of the sanctity of prayer, what of the venerability ofthe Brahmans' caste, what of the holiness of the Samanas, if it was asyou say, if there was no learning?! What, oh Siddhartha, what wouldthen become of all of this what is holy, what is precious, what isvenerable on earth?!"

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

He who ponderingly, of a purified spirit, loses himself in themeditation of Atman, unexpressable by words is his blissfulness of hisheart. 

But Siddhartha remained silent. He thought about the words whichGovinda had said to him and thought the words through to their end. 

Yes, he thought, standing there with his head low, what would remain ofall that which seemed to us to be holy? What remains? What can standthe test? And he shook his head. 

At one time, when the two young men had lived among the Samanas forabout three years and had shared their exercises, some news, a rumour, amyth reached them after being retold many times: A man had appeared, Gotama by name, the exalted one, the Buddha, he had overcome thesuffering of the world in himself and had halted the cycle of rebirths. He was said to wander through the land, teaching, surrounded bydisciples, without possession, without home, without a wife, in theyellow cloak of an ascetic, but with a cheerful brow, a man of bliss, and Brahmans and princes would bow down before him and would become hisstudents. 

This myth, this rumour, this legend resounded, its fragrants rose up, here and there; in the towns, the Brahmans spoke of it and in theforest, the Samanas; again and again, the name of Gotama, the Buddhareached the ears of the young men, with good and with bad talk, withpraise and with defamation. 

It was as if the plague had broken out in a country and news had beenspreading around that in one or another place there was a man, a wiseman, a knowledgeable one, whose word and breath was enough to healeveryone who had been infected with the pestilence, and as such newswould go through the land and everyone would talk about it, many wouldbelieve, many would doubt, but many would get on their way as soon aspossible, to seek the wise man, the helper, just like this this mythran through the land, that fragrant myth of Gotama, the Buddha, thewise man of the family of Sakya. He possessed, so the believers said, the highest enlightenment, he remembered his previous lives, he hadreached the nirvana and never returned into the cycle, was never againsubmerged in the murky river of physical forms. Many wonderful andunbelievable things were reported of him, he had performed miracles, had overcome the devil, had spoken to the gods. But his enemies anddisbelievers said, this Gotama was a vain seducer, he would spent hisdays in luxury, scorned the offerings, was without learning, and knewneither exercises nor self-castigation. 

The myth of Buddha sounded sweet. The scent of magic flowed from thesereports. After all, the world was sick, life was hard to bear--andbehold, here a source seemed to spring forth, here a messenger seemedto call out, comforting, mild, full of noble promises. Everywherewhere the rumour of Buddha was heard, everywhere in the lands of India, the young men listened up, felt a longing, felt hope, and among theBrahmans' sons of the towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger waswelcome, when he brought news of him, the exalted one, the Sakyamuni. 

The myth had also reached the Samanas in the forest, and alsoSiddhartha, and also Govinda, slowly, drop by drop, every drop ladenwith hope, every drop laden with doubt. They rarely talked about it, because the oldest one of the Samanas did not like this myth. He hadheard that this alleged Buddha used to be an ascetic before and hadlived in the forest, but had then turned back to luxury and worldlypleasures, and he had no high opinion of this Gotama. 

"Oh Siddhartha, " Govinda spoke one day to his friend. "Today, I wasin the village, and a Brahman invited me into his house, and in hishouse, there was the son of a Brahman from Magadha, who has seen theBuddha with his own eyes and has heard him teach. Verily, this mademy chest ache when I breathed, and thought to myself: If only I wouldtoo, if only we both would too, Siddhartha and me, live to see thehour when we will hear the teachings from the mouth of this perfectedman! Speak, friend, wouldn't we want to go there too and listen to theteachings from the Buddha's mouth?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "Always, oh Govinda, I had thought, Govinda wouldstay with the Samanas, always I had believed his goal was to live to besixty and seventy years of age and to keep on practising those feats andexercises, which are becoming a Samana. But behold, I had not knownGovinda well enough, I knew little of his heart. So now you, myfaithful friend, want to take a new path and go there, where the Buddhaspreads his teachings. "

Quoth Govinda: "You're mocking me. Mock me if you like, Siddhartha!But have you not also developed a desire, an eagerness, to hear theseteachings? And have you not at one time said to me, you would not walkthe path of the Samanas for much longer?"

At this, Siddhartha laughed in his very own manner, in which his voiceassumed a touch of sadness and a touch of mockery, and said: "Well, Govinda, you've spoken well, you've remembered correctly. If youonly remembered the other thing as well, you've heard from me, which isthat I have grown distrustful and tired against teachings and learning, and that my faith in words, which are brought to us by teachers, issmall. But let's do it, my dear, I am willing to listen to theseteachings--though in my heart I believe that we've already tasted thebest fruit of these teachings. "

Quoth Govinda: "Your willingness delights my heart. But tell me, howshould this be possible? How should the Gotama's teachings, even beforewe have heard them, have already revealed their best fruit to us?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "Let us eat this fruit and wait for the rest, ohGovinda! But this fruit, which we already now received thanks to theGotama, consisted in him calling us away from the Samanas! Whether hehas also other and better things to give us, oh friend, let us awaitwith calm hearts. "

On this very same day, Siddhartha informed the oldest one of the Samanasof his decision, that he wanted to leave him. He informed the oldestone with all the courtesy and modesty becoming to a younger one and astudent. But the Samana became angry, because the two young men wantedto leave him, and talked loudly and used crude swearwords. 

Govinda was startled and became embarrassed. But Siddhartha put hismouth close to Govinda's ear and whispered to him: "Now, I want to showthe old man that I've learned something from him. "

Positioning himself closely in front of the Samana, with a concentratedsoul, he captured the old man's glance with his glances, deprived him ofhis power, made him mute, took away his free will, subdued him under hisown will, commanded him, to do silently, whatever he demanded him to do. The old man became mute, his eyes became motionless, his will wasparalysed, his arms were hanging down; without power, he had fallenvictim to Siddhartha's spell. But Siddhartha's thoughts brought theSamana under their control, he had to carry out, what they commanded. And thus, the old man made several bows, performed gestures of blessing, spoke stammeringly a godly wish for a good journey. And the young menreturned the bows with thanks, returned the wish, went on their way withsalutations. 

On the way, Govinda said: "Oh Siddhartha, you have learned more fromthe Samanas than I knew. It is hard, it is very hard to cast a spellon an old Samana. Truly, if you had stayed there, you would soon havelearned to walk on water. "

"I do not seek to walk on water, " said Siddhartha. "Let old Samanas becontent with such feats!"

GOTAMA

In the town of Savathi, every child knew the name of the exalted Buddha, and every house was prepared to fill the alms-dish of Gotama'sdisciples, the silently begging ones. Near the town was Gotama'sfavourite place to stay, the grove of Jetavana, which the rich merchantAnathapindika, an obedient worshipper of the exalted one, had given himand his people for a gift. 

All tales and answers, which the two young ascetics had received intheir search for Gotama's abode, had pointed them towards this area. And arriving at Savathi, in the very first house, before the door ofwhich they stopped to beg, food has been offered to them, and theyaccepted the food, and Siddhartha asked the woman, who handed them thefood:

"We would like to know, oh charitable one, where the Buddha dwells, themost venerable one, for we are two Samanas from the forest and havecome, to see him, the perfected one, and to hear the teachings from hismouth. "

Quoth the woman: "Here, you have truly come to the right place, youSamanas from the forest. You should know, in Jetavana, in the gardenof Anathapindika is where the exalted one dwells. There you pilgrimsshall spent the night, for there is enough space for the innumerable, who flock here, to hear the teachings from his mouth. "

This made Govinda happy, and full of joy he exclaimed: "Well so, thuswe have reached our destination, and our path has come to an end! Buttell us, oh mother of the pilgrims, do you know him, the Buddha, haveyou seen him with your own eyes?"

Quoth the woman: "Many times I have seen him, the exalted one. On manydays, I have seen him, walking through the alleys in silence, wearinghis yellow cloak, presenting his alms-dish in silence at the doors ofthe houses, leaving with a filled dish. "

Delightedly, Govinda listened and wanted to ask and hear much more. But Siddhartha urged him to walk on. They thanked and left and hardlyhad to ask for directions, for rather many pilgrims and monks as wellfrom Gotama's community were on their way to the Jetavana. And sincethey reached it at night, there were constant arrivals, shouts, andtalk of those who sought shelter and got it. The two Samanas, accustomed to life in the forest, found quickly and without making anynoise a place to stay and rested there until the morning. 

At sunrise, they saw with astonishment what a large crowd of believersand curious people had spent the night here. On all paths of themarvellous grove, monks walked in yellow robes, under the trees theysat here and there, in deep contemplation--or in a conversation aboutspiritual matters, the shady gardens looked like a city, full of people, bustling like bees. The majority of the monks went out with theiralms-dish, to collect food in town for their lunch, the only meal of theday. The Buddha himself, the enlightened one, was also in the habit oftaking this walk to beg in the morning. 

Siddhartha saw him, and he instantly recognised him, as if a god hadpointed him out to him. He saw him, a simple man in a yellow robe, bearing the alms-dish in his hand, walking silently. 

"Look here!" Siddhartha said quietly to Govinda. "This one is theBuddha. "

Attentively, Govinda looked at the monk in the yellow robe, who seemedto be in no way different from the hundreds of other monks. And soon, Govinda also realized: This is the one. And they followed him andobserved him. 

The Buddha went on his way, modestly and deep in his thoughts, hiscalm face was neither happy nor sad, it seemed to smile quietly andinwardly. With a hidden smile, quiet, calm, somewhat resembling ahealthy child, the Buddha walked, wore the robe and placed his feetjust as all of his monks did, according to a precise rule. But hisface and his walk, his quietly lowered glance, his quietly dangling handand even every finger of his quietly dangling hand expressed peace, expressed perfection, did not search, did not imitate, breathed softlyin an unwhithering calm, in an unwhithering light, an untouchable peace. 

Thus Gotama walked towards the town, to collect alms, and the twoSamanas recognised him solely by the perfection of his calm, by thequietness of his appearance, in which there was no searching, no desire, no imitation, no effort to be seen, only light and peace. 

"Today, we'll hear the teachings from his mouth. " said Govinda. 

Siddhartha did not answer. He felt little curiosity for the teachings, he did not believe that they would teach him anything new, but he had, just as Govinda had, heard the contents of this Buddha's teachingsagain and again, though these reports only represented second- orthird-hand information. But attentively he looked at Gotama's head, his shoulders, his feet, his quietly dangling hand, and it seemed tohim as if every joint of every finger of this hand was of theseteachings, spoke of, breathed of, exhaled the fragrant of, glistened oftruth. This man, this Buddha was truthful down to the gesture of hislast finger. This man was holy. Never before, Siddhartha had venerateda person so much, never before he had loved a person as much as thisone. 

They both followed the Buddha until they reached the town and thenreturned in silence, for they themselves intended to abstain fromon this day. They saw Gotama returning--what he ate could not even havesatisfied a bird's appetite, and they saw him retiring into the shadeof the mango-trees. 

But in the evening, when the heat cooled down and everyone in the campstarted to bustle about and gathered around, they heard the Buddhateaching. They heard his voice, and it was also perfected, was ofperfect calmness, was full of peace. Gotama taught the teachings ofsuffering, of the origin of suffering, of the way to relieve suffering. Calmly and clearly his quiet speech flowed on. Suffering was life, full of suffering was the world, but salvation from suffering had beenfound: salvation was obtained by him who would walk the path of theBuddha. With a soft, yet firm voice the exalted one spoke, taught thefour main doctrines, taught the eightfold path, patiently he went theusual path of the teachings, of the examples, of the repetitions, brightly and quietly his voice hovered over the listeners, like a light, like a starry sky. 

When the Buddha--night had already fallen--ended his speech, many apilgrim stepped forward and asked to accepted into the community, soughtrefuge in the teachings. And Gotama accepted them by speaking: "Youhave heard the teachings well, it has come to you well. Thus join usand walk in holiness, to put an end to all suffering. "

Behold, then Govinda, the shy one, also stepped forward and spoke: "Ialso take my refuge in the exalted one and his teachings, " and he askedto accepted into the community of his disciples and was accepted. 

Right afterwards, when the Buddha had retired for the night, Govindaturned to Siddhartha and spoke eagerly: "Siddhartha, it is not my placeto scold you. We have both heard the exalted one, we have bothperceived the teachings. Govinda has heard the teachings, he has takenrefuge in it. But you, my honoured friend, don't you also want to walkthe path of salvation? Would you want to hesitate, do you want to waitany longer?"

Siddhartha awakened as if he had been asleep, when he heard Govinda'swords. For a long tome, he looked into Govinda's face. Then he spokequietly, in a voice without mockery: "Govinda, my friend, now you havetaken this step, now you have chosen this path. Always, oh Govinda, you've been my friend, you've always walked one step behind me. Often Ihave thought: Won't Govinda for once also take a step by himself, without me, out of his own soul? Behold, now you've turned into a manand are choosing your path for yourself. I wish that you would go it upto its end, oh my friend, that you shall find salvation!"

Govinda, not completely understanding it yet, repeated his question inan impatient tone: "Speak up, I beg you, my dear! Tell me, since itcould not be any other way, that you also, my learned friend, will takeyour refuge with the exalted Buddha!"

Siddhartha placed his hand on Govinda's shoulder: "You failed to hearmy good wish for you, oh Govinda. I'm repeating it: I wish that youwould go this path up to its end, that you shall find salvation!"

In this moment, Govinda realized that his friend had left him, and hestarted to weep. 

"Siddhartha!" he exclaimed lamentingly. 

Siddhartha kindly spoke to him: "Don't forget, Govinda, that you arenow one of the Samanas of the Buddha! You have renounced your homeand your parents, renounced your birth and possessions, renounced yourfree will, renounced all friendship. This is what the teachingsrequire, this is what the exalted one wants. This is what you wantedfor yourself. Tomorrow, oh Govinda, I'll leave you. "

For a long time, the friends continued walking in the grove; for a longtime, they lay there and found no sleep. And over and over again, Govinda urged his friend, he should tell him why he would not want toseek refuge in Gotama's teachings, what fault he would find in theseteachings. But Siddhartha turned him away every time and said: "Becontent, Govinda! Very good are the teachings of the exalted one, howcould I find a fault in them?"

Very early in the morning, a follower of Buddha, one of his oldestmonks, went through the garden and called all those to him who had asnovices taken their refuge in the teachings, to dress them up in theyellow robe and to instruct them in the first teachings and duties oftheir position. Then Govinda broke loose, embraced once again hischildhood friend and left with the novices. 

But Siddhartha walked through the grove, lost in thought. 

Then he happened to meet Gotama, the exalted one, and when he greetedhim with respect and the Buddha's glance was so full of kindness andcalm, the young man summoned his courage and asked the venerable one forthe permission to talk to him. Silently the exalted one nodded hisapproval. 

Quoth Siddhartha: "Yesterday, oh exalted one, I had been privileged tohear your wondrous teachings. Together with my friend, I had come fromafar, to hear your teachings. And now my friend is going to stay withyour people, he has taken his refuge with you. But I will again starton my pilgrimage. "

"As you please, " the venerable one spoke politely. 

"Too bold is my speech, " Siddhartha continued, "but I do not want toleave the exalted one without having honestly told him my thoughts. Does it please the venerable one to listen to me for one moment longer?"

Silently, the Buddha nodded his approval. 

Quoth Siddhartha: "One thing, oh most venerable one, I have admired inyour teachings most of all. Everything in your teachings is perfectlyclear, is proven; you are presenting the world as a perfect chain, achain which is never and nowhere broken, an eternal chain the links ofwhich are causes and effects. Never before, this has been seen soclearly; never before, this has been presented so irrefutably; truly, the heart of every Brahman has to beat stronger with love, once he hasseen the world through your teachings perfectly connected, without gaps, clear as a crystal, not depending on chance, not depending on gods. Whether it may be good or bad, whether living according to it would besuffering or joy, I do not wish to discuss, possibly this is notessential--but the uniformity of the world, that everything whichhappens is connected, that the great and the small things are allencompassed by the same forces of time, by the same law of causes, ofcoming into being and of dying, this is what shines brightly out of yourexalted teachings, oh perfected one. But according to your very ownteachings, this unity and necessary sequence of all things isnevertheless broken in one place, through a small gap, this world ofunity is invaded by something alien, something new, something which hadnot been there before, and which cannot be demonstrated and cannot beproven: these are your teachings of overcoming the world, of salvation. But with this small gap, with this small breach, the entire eternal anduniform law of the world is breaking apart again and becomes void. Please forgive me for expressing this objection. "

Quietly, Gotama had listened to him, unmoved. Now he spoke, theperfected one, with his kind, with his polite and clear voice: "You'veheard the teachings, oh son of a Brahman, and good for you that you'vethought about it thus deeply. You've found a gap in it, an error. Youshould think about this further. But be warned, oh seeker of knowledge, of the thicket of opinions and of arguing about words. There is nothingto opinions, they may be beautiful or ugly, smart or foolish, everyonecan support them or discard them. But the teachings, you've heard fromme, are no opinion, and their goal is not to explain the world to thosewho seek knowledge. They have a different goal; their goal is salvationfrom suffering. This is what Gotama teaches, nothing else. "

"I wish that you, oh exalted one, would not be angry with me, " said theyoung man. "I have not spoken to you like this to argue with you, toargue about words. You are truly right, there is little to opinions. But let me say this one more thing: I have not doubted in you for asingle moment. I have not doubted for a single moment that you areBuddha, that you have reached the goal, the highest goal towards whichso many thousands of Brahmans and sons of Brahmans are on their way. You have found salvation from death. It has come to you in the courseof your own search, on your own path, through thoughts, throughmeditation, through realizations, through enlightenment. It has notcome to you by means of teachings! And--thus is my thought, oh exaltedone, --nobody will obtain salvation by means of teachings! You will notbe able to convey and say to anybody, oh venerable one, in words andthrough teachings what has happened to you in the hour of enlightenment!The teachings of the enlightened Buddha contain much, it teaches many tolive righteously, to avoid evil. But there is one thing which these soclear, these so venerable teachings do not contain: they do not containthe mystery of what the exalted one has experienced for himself, healone among hundreds of thousands. This is what I have thought andrealized, when I have heard the teachings. This is why I am continuingmy travels--not to seek other, better teachings, for I know there arenone, but to depart from all teachings and all teachers and to reach mygoal by myself or to die. But often, I'll think of this day, oh exaltedone, and of this hour, when my eyes beheld a holy man. "

The Buddha's eyes quietly looked to the ground; quietly, in perfectequanimity his inscrutable face was smiling. 

"I wish, " the venerable one spoke slowly, "that your thoughts shall notbe in error, that you shall reach the goal! But tell me: Have you seenthe multitude of my Samanas, my many brothers, who have taken refuge inthe teachings? And do you believe, oh stranger, oh Samana, do youbelieve that it would be better for them all the abandon the teachingsand to return into the life the world and of desires?"

"Far is such a thought from my mind, " exclaimed Siddhartha. "I wishthat they shall all stay with the teachings, that they shall reach theirgoal! It is not my place to judge another person's life. Only formyself, for myself alone, I must decide, I must chose, I must refuse. Salvation from the self is what we Samanas search for, oh exalted one. If I merely were one of your disciples, oh venerable one, I'd fear thatit might happen to me that only seemingly, only deceptively my selfwould be calm and be redeemed, but that in truth it would live on andgrow, for then I had replaced my self with the teachings, my duty tofollow you, my love for you, and the community of the monks!"

With half of a smile, with an unwavering openness and kindness, Gotama looked into the stranger's eyes and bid him to leave with ahardly noticeable gesture. 

"You are wise, oh Samana. ", the venerable one spoke. 

"You know how to talk wisely, my friend. Be aware of too much wisdom!"

The Buddha turned away, and his glance and half of a smile remainedforever etched in Siddhartha's memory. 

I have never before seen a person glance and smile, sit and walk thisway, he thought; truly, I wish to be able to glance and smile, sit andwalk this way, too, thus free, thus venerable, thus concealed, thusopen, thus child-like and mysterious. Truly, only a person who hassucceeded in reaching the innermost part of his self would glance andwalk this way. Well so, I also will seek to reach the innermost partof my self. 

I saw a man, Siddhartha thought, a single man, before whom I would haveto lower my glance. I do not want to lower my glance before any other, not before any other. No teachings will entice me any more, since thisman's teachings have not enticed me. 

I am deprived by the Buddha, thought Siddhartha, I am deprived, andeven more he has given to me. He has deprived me of my friend, the onewho had believed in me and now believes in him, who had been my shadowand is now Gotama's shadow. But he has given me Siddhartha, myself. 

AWAKENING

When Siddhartha left the grove, where the Buddha, the perfected one, stayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt that in thisgrove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him. He ponderedabout this sensation, which filled him completely, as he was slowlywalking along. He pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water helet himself sink down to the ground of the sensation, down to the placewhere the causes lie, because to identify the causes, so it seemed tohim, is the very essence of thinking, and by this alone sensations turninto realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start toemit like rays of light what is inside of them. 

Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered. He realized that he was noyouth any more, but had turned into a man. He realized that one thinghad left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that one thing nolonger existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youthand used to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen toteachings. He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on hispath, even him, the highest and wisest teacher, the most holy one, Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was not able to accepthis teachings. 

Slower, he walked along in his thoughts and asked himself: "But whatis this, what you have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you much, were still unable to teachyou?" And he found: "It was the self, the purpose and essence of whichI sought to learn. It was the self, I wanted to free myself from, whichI sought to overcome. But I was not able to overcome it, could onlydeceive it, could only flee from it, only hide from it. Truly, nothing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy, as this my very ownself, this mystery of me being alive, of me being one and beingseparated and isolated from all others, of me being Siddhartha! Andthere is no thing in this world I know less about than about me, aboutSiddhartha!"

Having been pondering while slowly walking along, he now stopped asthese thoughts caught hold of him, and right away another thought sprangforth from these, a new thought, which was: "That I know nothing aboutmyself, that Siddhartha has remained thus alien and unknown to me, stemsfrom one cause, a single cause: I was afraid of myself, I was fleeingfrom myself! I searched Atman, I searched Brahman, I was willing toto dissect my self and peel off all of its layers, to find the core ofall peels in its unknown interior, the Atman, life, the divine part, theultimate part. But I have lost myself in the process. "

Siddhartha opened his eyes and looked around, a smile filled his faceand a feeling of awakening from long dreams flowed through him from hishead down to his toes. And it was not long before he walked again, walked quickly like a man who knows what he has got to do. 

"Oh, " he thought, taking a deep breath, "now I would not let Siddharthaescape from me again! No longer, I want to begin my thoughts and mylife with Atman and with the suffering of the world. I do not want tokill and dissect myself any longer, to find a secret behind the ruins. Neither Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva-Veda, nor theascetics, nor any kind of teachings. I want to learn from myself, wantto be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha. "

He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysteriouswas the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the skyand the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of itwas beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst washe, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for thefirst time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was nolonger the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidentaldiversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular anddivine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way andpurpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and hereSiddhartha. The purpose and the essential properties were not somewherebehind the things, they were in them, in everything. 

"How deaf and stupid have I been!" he thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will notscorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to read the book of the world andthe book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I hadanticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters, I called thevisible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidentaland worthless forms without substance. No, this is over, I haveawakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before thisvery day. "

In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, asif there was a snake lying in front of him on the path. 

Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this: He, who was indeedlike someone who had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had tostart his life anew and start again at the very beginning. When he hadleft in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of thatexalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, hehe had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, thathe, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying onhis path, he also awoke to this realization: "But I am no longer theone I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am noBrahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my father'splace? Study? Make offerings? Practise meditation? But all this isover, all of this is no longer alongside my path. "

Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time ofone moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone hewas. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had beenhis father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did notbelong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one andalone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to, he alsobelonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become amonk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, wheredid he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose languagewould he speak?

Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when hestood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold anddespair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmlyconcentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walkedagain in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back. 

SECOND PART

Dedicated to Wilhelm Gundert, my cousin in Japan

KAMALA

Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for theworld was transformed, and his heart was enchanted. He saw the sunrising over the mountains with their forests and setting over thedistant beach with its palm-trees. At night, he saw the stars in thesky in their fixed positions and the crescent of the moon floating likea boat in the blue. He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and river, the glistening dew in thebushes in the morning, distant hight mountains which were blue andpale, birds sang and bees, wind silverishly blew through the rice-field. All of this, a thousand-fold and colourful, had always been there, always the sun and the moon had shone, always rivers had roared andbees had buzzed, but in former times all of this had been nothing moreto Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive veil before his eyes, looked upon in distrust, destined to be penetrated and destroyed bythought, since it was not the essential existence, since this essencelay beyond, on the other side of, the visible. But now, his liberatedeyes stayed on this side, he saw and became aware of the visible, soughtto be at home in this world, did not search for the true essence, didnot aim at a world beyond. Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus, without searching, thus simply, thus childlike. Beautiful were the moonand the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest andthe rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly. Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thuschildlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus withoutdistrust. Differently the sun burnt the head, differently the shadeof the forest cooled him down, differently the stream and the cistern, the pumpkin and the banana tasted. Short were the days, short thenights, every hour sped swiftly away like a sail on the sea, and underthe sail was a ship full of treasures, full of joy. Siddhartha saw agroup of apes moving through the high canopy of the forest, high in thebranches, and heard their savage, greedy song. Siddhartha saw a malesheep following a female one and mating with her. In a lake of reeds, he saw the pike hungrily hunting for its dinner; propelling themselvesaway from it, in fear, wiggling and sparkling, the young fish jumped indroves out of the water; the scent of strength and passion cameforcefully out of the hasty eddies of the water, which the pike stirredup, impetuously hunting. 

All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not beenwith it. Now he was with it, he was part of it. Light and shadowran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart. 

On the way, Siddhartha also remembered everything he had experienced inthe Garden Jetavana, the teaching he had heard there, the divine Buddha, the farewell from Govinda, the conversation with the exalted one. Againhe remembered his own words, he had spoken to the exalted one, everyword, and with astonishment he became aware of the fact that there hehad said things which he had not really known yet at this time. What hehad said to Gotama: his, the Buddha's, treasure and secret was not theteachings, but the unexpressable and not teachable, which he hadexperienced in the hour of his enlightenment--it was nothing but thisvery thing which he had now gone to experience, what he now began toexperience. Now, he had to experience his self. It is true that he hadalready known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its essencebearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman. But never, he hadreally found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the netof thought. With the body definitely not being the self, and not thespectacle of the senses, so it also was not the thought, not therational mind, not the learned wisdom, not the learned ability to drawconclusions and to develop previous thoughts in to new ones. No, thisworld of thought was also still on this side, and nothing could beachieved by killing the random self of the senses, if the random self ofthoughts and learned knowledge was fattened on the other hand. Both, the thoughts as well as the senses, were pretty things, the ultimatemeaning was hidden behind both of them, both had to be listened to, bothhad to be played with, both neither had to be scorned nor overestimated, from both the secret voices of the innermost truth had to be attentivelyperceived. He wanted to strive for nothing, except for what the voicecommanded him to strive for, dwell on nothing, except where the voicewould advise him to do so. Why had Gotama, at that time, in the hourof all hours, sat down under the bo-tree, where the enlightenment hithim? He had heard a voice, a voice in his own heart, which hadcommanded him to seek rest under this tree, and he had neither preferredself-castigation, offerings, ablutions, nor prayer, neither food nordrink, neither sleep nor dream, he had obeyed the voice. To obey likethis, not to an external command, only to the voice, to be ready likethis, this was good, this was necessary, nothing else was necessary. 

In the night when he slept in the straw hut of a ferryman by the river, Siddhartha had a dream: Govinda was standing in front of him, dressedin the yellow robe of an ascetic. Sad was how Govinda looked like, sadly he asked: Why have you forsaken me? At this, he embracedGovinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him closeto his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman, and a full breast popped out of the woman's dress, at which Siddharthalay and drank, sweetly and strongly tasted the milk from this breast. It tasted of woman and man, of sun and forest, of animal and flower, of every fruit, of every joyful desire. It intoxicated him and renderedhim unconscious. --When Siddhartha woke up, the pale river shimmeredthrough the door of the hut, and in the forest, a dark call of an owlresounded deeply and pleasantly. 

When the day began, Siddhartha asked his host, the ferryman, to get himacross the river. The ferryman got him across the river on hisbamboo-raft, the wide water shimmered reddishly in the light of themorning. 

"This is a beautiful river, " he said to his companion. 

"Yes, " said the ferryman, "a very beautiful river, I love it more thananything. Often I have listened to it, often I have looked into itseyes, and always I have learned from it. Much can be learned from ariver. "

"I than you, my benefactor, " spoke Siddhartha, disembarking on the otherside of the river. "I have no gift I could give you for yourhospitality, my dear, and also no payment for your work. I am a manwithout a home, a son of a Brahman and a Samana. "

"I did see it, " spoke the ferryman, "and I haven't expected any paymentfrom you and no gift which would be the custom for guests to bear. Youwill give me the gift another time. "

"Do you think so?" asked Siddhartha amusedly. 

"Surely. This too, I have learned from the river: everything is comingback! You too, Samana, will come back. Now farewell! Let yourfriendship be my reward. Commemorate me, when you'll make offerings tothe gods. "

Smiling, they parted. Smiling, Siddhartha was happy about thefriendship and the kindness of the ferryman. "He is like Govinda, " hethought with a smile, "all I meet on my path are like Govinda. All arethankful, though they are the ones who would have a right to receivethanks. All are submissive, all would like to be friends, like toobey, think little. Like children are all people. "

At about noon, he came through a village. In front of the mud cottages, children were rolling about in the street, were playing withpumpkin-seeds and sea-shells, screamed and wrestled, but they alltimidly fled from the unknown Samana. In the end of the village, thepath led through a stream, and by the side of the stream, a youngwoman was kneeling and washing clothes. When Siddhartha greeted her, she lifted her head and looked up to him with a smile, so that he sawthe white in her eyes glistening. He called out a blessing to her, asit is the custom among travellers, and asked how far he still had to goto reach the large city. Then she got up and came to him, beautifullyher wet mouth was shimmering in her young face. She exchanged humorousbanter with him, asked whether he had eaten already, and whether it wastrue that the Samanas slept alone in the forest at night and were notallowed to have any women with them. While talking, she put her leftfoot on his right one and made a movement as a woman does who would wantto initiate that kind of sexual pleasure with a man, which the textbookscall "climbing a tree". Siddhartha felt his blood heating up, and sincein this moment he had to think of his dream again, he bend slightlydown to the woman and kissed with his lips the brown nipple of herbreast. Looking up, he saw her face smiling full of lust and hereyes, with contracted pupils, begging with desire. 

Siddhartha also felt desire and felt the source of his sexuality moving;but since he had never touched a woman before, he hesitated for amoment, while his hands were already prepared to reach out for her. Andin this moment he heard, shuddering with awe, the voice if his innermostself, and this voice said No. Then, all charms disappeared from theyoung woman's smiling face, he no longer saw anything else but the dampglance of a female animal in heat. Politely, he petted her cheek, turned away from her and disappeared away from the disappointed womanwith light steps into the bamboo-wood. 

On this day, he reached the large city before the evening, and washappy, for he felt the need to be among people. For a long time, hehad lived in the forests, and the straw hut of the ferryman, in whichhe had slept that night, had been the first roof for a long time he hashad over his head. 

Before the city, in a beautifully fenced grove, the traveller cameacross a small group of servants, both male and female, carryingbaskets. In their midst, carried by four servants in an ornamentalsedan-chair, sat a woman, the mistress, on red pillows under a colourfulcanopy. Siddhartha stopped at the entrance to the pleasure-garden andwatched the parade, saw the servants, the maids, the baskets, saw thesedan-chair and saw the lady in it. Under black hair, which made totower high on her head, he saw a very fair, very delicate, very smartface, a brightly red mouth, like a freshly cracked fig, eyebrows whichwere well tended and painted in a high arch, smart and watchful darkeyes, a clear, tall neck rising from a green and golden garment, restingfair hands, long and thin, with wide golden bracelets over the wrists. 

Siddhartha saw how beautiful she was, and his heart rejoiced. He boweddeeply, when the sedan-chair came closer, and straightening up again, he looked at the fair, charming face, read for a moment in the smarteyes with the high arcs above, breathed in a slight fragrant, he didnot know. With a smile, the beautiful women nodded for a moment anddisappeared into the grove, and then the servant as well. 

Thus I am entering this city, Siddhartha thought, with a charming omen. He instantly felt drawn into the grove, but he thought about it, andonly now he became aware of how the servants and maids had looked at himat the entrance, how despicable, how distrustful, how rejecting. 

I am still a Samana, he thought, I am still an ascetic and beggar. Imust not remain like this, I will not be able to enter the grove likethis. And he laughed. 

The next person who came along this path he asked about the grove andfor the name of the woman, and was told that this was the grove ofKamala, the famous courtesan, and that, aside from the grove, she owneda house in the city. 

Then, he entered the city. Now he had a goal. 

Pursuing his goal, he allowed the city to suck him in, drifted throughthe flow of the streets, stood still on the squares, rested on thestairs of stone by the river. When the evening came, he made friendswith barber's assistant, whom he had seen working in the shade of anarch in a building, whom he found again praying in a temple of Vishnu, whom he told about stories of Vishnu and the Lakshmi. Among the boatsby the river, he slept this night, and early in the morning, before thefirst customers came into his shop, he had the barber's assistant shavehis beard and cut his hair, comb his hair and anoint it with fine oil. Then he went to take his bath in the river. 

When late in the afternoon, beautiful Kamala approached her grove in hersedan-chair, Siddhartha was standing at the entrance, made a bow andreceived the courtesan's greeting. But that servant who walked at thevery end of her train he motioned to him and asked him to inform hismistress that a young Brahman would wish to talk to her. After a while, the servant returned, asked him, who had been waiting, to follow himconducted him, who was following him, without a word into a pavilion, where Kamala was lying on a couch, and left him alone with her. 

"Weren't you already standing out there yesterday, greeting me?" askedKamala. 

"It's true that I've already seen and greeted you yesterday. "

"But didn't you yesterday wear a beard, and long hair, and dust in yourhair?"

"You have observed well, you have seen everything. You have seenSiddhartha, the son of a Brahman, who has left his home to become aSamana, and who has been a Samana for three years. But now, I haveleft that path and came into this city, and the first one I met, evenbefore I had entered the city, was you. To say this, I have come toyou, oh Kamala! You are the first woman whom Siddhartha is notaddressing with his eyes turned to the ground. Never again I want toturn my eyes to the ground, when I'm coming across a beautiful woman. "

Kamala smiled and played with her fan of peacocks' feathers. And asked:"And only to tell me this, Siddhartha has come to me?"

"To tell you this and to thank you for being so beautiful. And if itdoesn't displease you, Kamala, I would like to ask you to be my friendand teacher, for I know nothing yet of that art which you have masteredin the highest degree. "

At this, Kamala laughed aloud. 

"Never before this has happened to me, my friend, that a Samana from theforest came to me and wanted to learn from me! Never before this hashappened to me, that a Samana came to me with long hair and an old, tornloin-cloth! Many young men come to me, and there are also sons ofBrahmans among them, but they come in beautiful clothes, they come infine shoes, they have perfume in their hair and money in their pouches. This is, oh Samana, how the young men are like who come to me. "

Quoth Siddhartha: "Already I am starting to learn from you. Evenyesterday, I was already learning. I have already taken off my beard, have combed the hair, have oil in my hair. There is little which isstill missing in me, oh excellent one: fine clothes, fine shoes, moneyin my pouch. You shall know, Siddhartha has set harder goals forhimself than such trifles, and he has reached them. How shouldn't Ireach that goal, which I have set for myself yesterday: to be yourfriend and to learn the joys of love from you! You'll see that I'lllearn quickly, Kamala, I have already learned harder things than whatyou're supposed to teach me. And now let's get to it: You aren'tsatisfied with Siddhartha as he is, with oil in his hair, but withoutclothes, without shoes, without money?"

Laughing, Kamala exclaimed: "No, my dear, he doesn't satisfy me yet. Clothes are what he must have, pretty clothes, and shoes, pretty shoes, and lots of money in his pouch, and gifts for Kamala. Do you know itnow, Samana from the forest? Did you mark my words?"

"Yes, I have marked your words, " Siddhartha exclaimed. "How should Inot mark words which are coming from such a mouth! Your mouth is likea freshly cracked fig, Kamala. My mouth is red and fresh as well, itwill be a suitable match for yours, you'll see. --But tell me, beautifulKamala, aren't you at all afraid of the Samana from the forest, who hascome to learn how to make love?"

"Whatever for should I be afraid of a Samana, a stupid Samana from theforest, who is coming from the jackals and doesn't even know yet whatwomen are?"

"Oh, he's strong, the Samana, and he isn't afraid of anything. He couldforce you, beautiful girl. He could kidnap you. He could hurt you. "

"No, Samana, I am not afraid of this. Did any Samana or Brahman everfear, someone might come and grab him and steal his learning, and hisreligious devotion, and his depth of thought? No, for they are his veryown, and he would only give away from those whatever he is willing togive and to whomever he is willing to give. Like this it is, preciselylike this it is also with Kamala and with the pleasures of love. Beautiful and red is Kamala's mouth, but just try to kiss it againstKamala's will, and you will not obtain a single drop of sweetness fromit, which knows how to give so many sweet things! You are learningeasily, Siddhartha, thus you should also learn this: love can beobtained by begging, buying, receiving it as a gift, finding it in thestreet, but it cannot be stolen. In this, you have come up with thewrong path. No, it would be a pity, if a pretty young man like youwould want to tackle it in such a wrong manner. "

Siddhartha bowed with a smile. "It would be a pity, Kamala, you are soright! It would be such a great pity. No, I shall not lose a singledrop of sweetness from your mouth, nor you from mine! So it is settled:Siddhartha will return, once he'll have have what he still lacks:clothes, shoes, money. But speak, lovely Kamala, couldn't you stillgive me one small advice?"

"An advice? Why not? Who wouldn't like to give an advice to a poor, ignorant Samana, who is coming from the jackals of the forest?"

"Dear Kamala, thus advise me where I should go to, that I'll find thesethree things most quickly?"

"Friend, many would like to know this. You must do what you've learnedand ask for money, clothes, and shoes in return. There is no other wayfor a poor man to obtain money. What might you be able to do?"

"I can think. I can wait. I can fast. "

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing. But yes, I can also write poetry. Would you like to give mea kiss for a poem?"

"I would like to, if I'll like your poem. What would be its title?"

Siddhartha spoke, after he had thought about it for a moment, theseverses:

Into her shady grove stepped the pretty Kamala, At the grove's entrance stood the brown Samana. Deeply, seeing the lotus's blossom, Bowed that man, and smiling Kamala thanked. More lovely, thought the young man, than offerings for gods, More lovely is offering to pretty Kamala. 

Kamala loudly clapped her hands, so that the golden bracelets clanged. 

"Beautiful are your verses, oh brown Samana, and truly, I'm losingnothing when I'm giving you a kiss for them. "

She beckoned him with her eyes, he tilted his head so that his facetouched hers and placed his mouth on that mouth which was like afreshly cracked fig. For a long time, Kamala kissed him, and with adeep astonishment Siddhartha felt how she taught him, how wise she was, how she controlled him, rejected him, lured him, and how after this firstone there was to be a long, a well ordered, well tested sequence ofkisses, everyone different from the others, he was still to receive. Breathing deeply, he remained standing where he was, and was in thismoment astonished like a child about the cornucopia of knowledge andthings worth learning, which revealed itself before his eyes. 

"Very beautiful are your verses, " exclaimed Kamala, "if I was rich, Iwould give you pieces of gold for them. But it will be difficult foryou to earn thus much money with verses as you need. For you need a lotof money, if you want to be Kamala's friend. "

"The way you're able to kiss, Kamala!" stammered Siddhartha. 

"Yes, this I am able to do, therefore I do not lack clothes, shoes, bracelets, and all beautiful things. But what will become of you?Aren't you able to do anything else but thinking, fasting, makingpoetry?"

"I also know the sacrificial songs, " said Siddhartha, "but I do not wantto sing them any more. I also know magic spells, but I do not want tospeak them any more. I have read the scriptures--"

"Stop, " Kamala interrupted him. "You're able to read? And write?"

"Certainly, I can do this. Many people can do this. "

"Most people can't. I also can't do it. It is very good that you'reable to read and write, very good. You will also still find use forthe magic spells. "

In this moment, a maid came running in and whispered a message intoher mistress's ear. 

"There's a visitor for me, " exclaimed Kamala. "Hurry and get yourselfaway, Siddhartha, nobody may see you in here, remember this! Tomorrow, I'll see you again. "

But to the maid she gave the order to give the pious Brahman whiteupper garments. Without fully understanding what was happening to him, Siddhartha found himself being dragged away by the maid, brought intoa garden-house avoiding the direct path, being given upper garments as agift, led into the bushes, and urgently admonished to get himself out ofthe grove as soon as possible without being seen. 

Contently, he did as he had been told. Being accustomed to the forest, he managed to get out of the grove and over the hedge without making asound. Contently, he returned to the city, carrying the rolled upgarments under his arm. At the inn, where travellers stay, hepositioned himself by the door, without words he asked for food, withouta word he accepted a piece of rice-cake. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow, he thought, I will ask no one for food any more. 

Suddenly, pride flared up in him. He was no Samana any more, it was nolonger becoming to him to beg. He gave the rice-cake to a dog andremained without food. 

"Simple is the life which people lead in this world here, " thoughtSiddhartha. "It presents no difficulties. Everything was difficult, toilsome, and ultimately hopeless, when I was still a Samana. Now, everything is easy, easy like that lessons in kissing, which Kamala isgiving me. I need clothes and money, nothing else; this a small, neargoals, they won't make a person lose any sleep. "

He had already discovered Kamala's house in the city long before, therehe turned up the following day. 

"Things are working out well, " she called out to him. "They areexpecting you at Kamaswami's, he is the richest merchant of the city. If he'll like you, he'll accept you into his service. Be smart, brownSamana. I had others tell him about you. Be polite towards him, he isvery powerful. But don't be too modest! I do not want you to becomehis servant, you shall become his equal, or else I won't be satisfiedwith you. Kamaswami is starting to get old and lazy. If he'll likeyou, he'll entrust you with a lot. "

Siddhartha thanked her and laughed, and when she found out that he hadnot eaten anything yesterday and today, she sent for bread and fruitsand treated him to it. 

"You've been lucky, " she said when they parted, "I'm opening one doorafter another for you. How come? Do you have a spell?"

Siddhartha said: "Yesterday, I told you I knew how to think, to wait, and to fast, but you thought this was of no use. But it is useful formany things, Kamala, you'll see. You'll see that the stupid Samanas arelearning and able to do many pretty things in the forest, which thelikes of you aren't capable of. The day before yesterday, I was still ashaggy beggar, as soon as yesterday I have kissed Kamala, and soon I'llbe a merchant and have money and all those things you insist upon. "

"Well yes, " she admitted. "But where would you be without me? Whatwould you be, if Kamala wasn't helping you?"

"Dear Kamala, " said Siddhartha and straightened up to his full height, "when I came to you into your grove, I did the first step. It was myresolution to learn love from this most beautiful woman. From thatmoment on when I had made this resolution, I also knew that I wouldcarry it out. I knew that you would help me, at your first glance atthe entrance of the grove I already knew it. "

"But what if I hadn't been willing?"

"You were willing. Look, Kamala: When you throw a rock into the water, it will speed on the fastest course to the bottom of the water. Thisis how it is when Siddhartha has a goal, a resolution. Siddhartha doesnothing, he waits, he thinks, he fasts, but he passes through the thingsof the world like a rock through water, without doing anything, withoutstirring; he is drawn, he lets himself fall. His goal attracts him, because he doesn't let anything enter his soul which might oppose thegoal. This is what Siddhartha has learned among the Samanas. This iswhat fools call magic and of which they think it would be effected bymeans of the daemons. Nothing is effected by daemons, there are nodaemons. Everyone can perform magic, everyone can reach his goals, ifhe is able to think, if he is able to wait, if he is able to fast. "

Kamala listened to him. She loved his voice, she loved the look fromhis eyes. 

"Perhaps it is so, " she said quietly, "as you say, friend. But perhapsit is also like this: that Siddhartha is a handsome man, that his glancepleases the women, that therefore good fortune is coming towards him. "

With one kiss, Siddhartha bid his farewell. "I wish that it should bethis way, my teacher; that my glance shall please you, that alwaysgood fortune shall come to me out of your direction!"

WITH THE CHILDLIKE PEOPLE

Siddhartha went to Kamaswami the merchant, he was directed into a richhouse, servants led him between precious carpets into a chamber, wherehe awaited the master of the house. 

Kamaswami entered, a swiftly, smoothly moving man with very gray hair, with very intelligent, cautious eyes, with a greedy mouth. Politely, the host and the guest greeted one another. 

"I have been told, " the merchant began, "that you were a Brahman, alearned man, but that you seek to be in the service of a merchant. Might you have become destitute, Brahman, so that you seek to serve?"

"No, " said Siddhartha, "I have not become destitute and have never beendestitute. You should know that I'm coming from the Samanas, withwhom I have lived for a long time. "

"If you're coming from the Samanas, how could you be anything butdestitute? Aren't the Samanas entirely without possessions?"

"I am without possessions, " said Siddhartha, "if this is what you mean. Surely, I am without possessions. But I am so voluntarily, andtherefore I am not destitute. "

"But what are you planning to live of, being without possessions?"

"I haven't thought of this yet, sir. For more than three years, I havebeen without possessions, and have never thought about of what I shouldlive. "

"So you've lived of the possessions of others. "

"Presumable this is how it is. After all, a merchant also lives ofwhat other people own. "

"Well said. But he wouldn't take anything from another person fornothing; he would give his merchandise in return. "

"So it seems to be indeed. Everyone takes, everyone gives, such islife. "

"But if you don't mind me asking: being without possessions, what wouldyou like to give?"

"Everyone gives what he has. The warrior gives strength, the merchantgives merchandise, the teacher teachings, the farmer rice, the fisherfish. "

"Yes indeed. And what is it now what you've got to give? What is itthat you've learned, what you're able to do?"

"I can think. I can wait. I can fast. "

"That's everything?"

"I believe, that's everything!"

"And what's the use of that? For example, the fasting--what is itgood for?"

"It is very good, sir. When a person has nothing to eat, fasting is thesmartest thing he could do. When, for example, Siddhartha hadn'tlearned to fast, he would have to accept any kind of service before thisday is up, whether it may be with you or wherever, because hunger wouldforce him to do so. But like this, Siddhartha can wait calmly, he knowsno impatience, he knows no emergency, for a long time he can allowhunger to besiege him and can laugh about it. This, sir, is whatfasting is good for. "

"You're right, Samana. Wait for a moment. "

Kamaswami left the room and returned with a scroll, which he handed tohis guest while asking: "Can you read this?"

Siddhartha looked at the scroll, on which a sales-contract had beenwritten down, and began to read out its contents. 

"Excellent, " said Kamaswami. "And would you write something for me onthis piece of paper?"

He handed him a piece of paper and a pen, and Siddhartha wrote andreturned the paper. 

Kamaswami read: "Writing is good, thinking is better. Being smart isgood, being patient is better. "

"It is excellent how you're able to write, " the merchant praised him. "Many a thing we will still have to discuss with one another. Fortoday, I'm asking you to be my guest and to live in this house. "

Siddhartha thanked and accepted, and lived in the dealers house from nowon. Clothes were brought to him, and shoes, and every day, a servantprepared a bath for him. Twice a day, a plentiful meal was served, butSiddhartha only ate once a day, and ate neither meat nor did he drinkwine. Kamaswami told him about his trade, showed him the merchandiseand storage-rooms, showed him calculations. Siddhartha got to knowmany new things, he heard a lot and spoke little. And thinking ofKamala's words, he was never subservient to the merchant, forced himto treat him as an equal, yes even more than an equal. Kamaswamiconducted his business with care and often with passion, but Siddharthalooked upon all of this as if it was a game, the rules of which hetried hard to learn precisely, but the contents of which did not touchhis heart. 

He was not in Kamaswami's house for long, when he already took part inhis landlords business. But daily, at the hour appointed by her, hevisited beautiful Kamala, wearing pretty clothes, fine shoes, and soonhe brought her gifts as well. Much he learned from her red, smartmouth. Much he learned from her tender, supple hand. Him, who was, regarding love, still a boy and had a tendency to plunge blindly andinsatiably into lust like into a bottomless pit, him she taught, thoroughly starting with the basics, about that school of thought whichteaches that pleasure cannot be be taken without giving pleasure, andthat every gesture, every caress, every touch, every look, every spotof the body, however small it was, had its secret, which would bringhappiness to those who know about it and unleash it. She taught him, that lovers must not part from one another after celebrating love, without one admiring the other, without being just as defeated as theyhave been victorious, so that with none of them should start feelingfed up or bored and get that evil feeling of having abused or havingbeen abused. Wonderful hours he spent with the beautiful and smartartist, became her student, her lover, her friend. Here with Kamalawas the worth and purpose of his present life, nit with the businessof Kamaswami. 

The merchant passed to duties of writing important letters and contractson to him and got into the habit of discussing all important affairswith him. He soon saw that Siddhartha knew little about rice and wool, shipping and trade, but that he acted in a fortunate manner, and thatSiddhartha surpassed him, the merchant, in calmness and equanimity, andin the art of listening and deeply understanding previously unknownpeople. "This Brahman, " he said to a friend, "is no proper merchant andwill never be one, there is never any passion in his soul when heconducts our business. But he has that mysterious quality of thosepeople to whom success comes all by itself, whether this may be a goodstar of his birth, magic, or something he has learned among Samanas. He always seems to be merely playing with out business-affairs, theynever fully become a part of him, they never rule over him, he is neverafraid of failure, he is never upset by a loss. "

The friend advised the merchant: "Give him from the business heconducts for you a third of the profits, but let him also be liable forthe same amount of the losses, when there is a loss. Then, he'll becomemore zealous. "

Kamaswami followed the advice. But Siddhartha cared little about this. When he made a profit, he accepted it with equanimity; when he madelosses, he laughed and said: "Well, look at this, so this one turnedout badly!"

It seemed indeed, as if he did not care about the business. At onetime, he travelled to a village to buy a large harvest of rice there. But when he got there, the rice had already been sold to anothermerchant. Nevertheless, Siddhartha stayed for several days in thatvillage, treated the farmers for a drink, gave copper-coins to theirchildren, joined in the celebration of a wedding, and returned extremelysatisfied from his trip. Kamaswami held against him that he had notturned back right away, that he had wasted time and money. Siddharthaanswered: "Stop scolding, dear friend! Nothing was ever achieved byscolding. If a loss has occurred, let me bear that loss. I am verysatisfied with this trip. I have gotten to know many kinds of people, a Brahman has become my friend, children have sat on my knees, farmershave shown me their fields, nobody knew that I was a merchant. "

"That's all very nice, " exclaimed Kamaswami indignantly, "but in fact, you are a merchant after all, one ought to think! Or might you haveonly travelled for your amusement?"

"Surely, " Siddhartha laughed, "surely I have travelled for my amusement. For what else? I have gotten to know people and places, I have receivedkindness and trust, I have found friendship. Look, my dear, if I hadbeen Kamaswami, I would have travelled back, being annoyed and in ahurry, as soon as I had seen that my purchase had been renderedimpossible, and time and money would indeed have been lost. But likethis, I've had a few good days, I've learned, had joy, I've neitherharmed myself nor others by annoyance and hastiness. And if I'll everreturn there again, perhaps to buy an upcoming harvest, or for whateverpurpose it might be, friendly people will receive me in a friendly andhappy manner, and I will praise myself for not showing any hurry anddispleasure at that time. So, leave it as it is, my friend, and don'tharm yourself by scolding! If the day will come, when you will see:this Siddhartha is harming me, then speak a word and Siddhartha will goon his own path. But until then, let's be satisfied with one another. "

Futile were also the merchant's attempts, to convince Siddhartha that heshould eat his bread. Siddhartha ate his own bread, or rather they bothate other people's bread, all people's bread. Siddhartha never listenedto Kamaswami's worries and Kamaswami had many worries. Whether therewas a business-deal going on which was in danger of failing, or whethera shipment of merchandise seemed to have been lost, or a debtor seemedto be unable to pay, Kamaswami could never convince his partner that itwould be useful to utter a few words of worry or anger, to have wrinkleson the forehead, to sleep badly. When, one day, Kamaswami held againsthim that he had learned everything he knew from him, he replied: "Wouldyou please not kid me with such jokes! What I've learned from you ishow much a basket of fish costs and how much interests may be charged onloaned money. These are your areas of expertise. I haven't learned tothink from you, my dear Kamaswami, you ought to be the one seeking tolearn from me. "

Indeed his soul was not with the trade. The business was good enoughto provide him with the money for Kamala, and it earned him much morethan he needed. Besides from this, Siddhartha's interest and curiositywas only concerned with the people, whose businesses, crafts, worries, pleasures, and acts of foolishness used to be as alien and distant tohim as the moon. However easily he succeeded in talking to all of them, in living with all of them, in learning from all of them, he was stillaware that there was something which separated him from them and thisseparating factor was him being a Samana. He saw mankind going troughlife in a childlike or animallike manner, which he loved and alsodespised at the same time. He saw them toiling, saw them suffering, and becoming gray for the sake of things which seemed to him to entirelyunworthy of this price, for money, for little pleasures, for beingslightly honoured, he saw them scolding and insulting each other, hesaw them complaining about pain at which a Samana would only smile, andsuffering because of deprivations which a Samana would not feel. 

He was open to everything, these people brought his way. Welcome wasthe merchant who offered him linen for sale, welcome was the debtor whosought another loan, welcome was the beggar who told him for one hourthe story of his poverty and who was not half as poor as any givenSamana. He did not treat the rich foreign merchant any different thanthe servant who shaved him and the street-vendor whom he let cheat himout of some small change when buying bananas. When Kamaswami came tohim, to complain about his worries or to reproach him concerning hisbusiness, he listened curiously and happily, was puzzled by him, triedto understand him, consented that he was a little bit right, only asmuch as he considered indispensable, and turned away from him, towardsthe next person who would ask for him. And there were many who came tohim, many to do business with him, many to cheat him, many to draw somesecret out of him, many to appeal to his sympathy, many to get hisadvice. He gave advice, he pitied, he made gifts, he let them cheat hima bit, and this entire game and the passion with which all people playedthis game occupied his thoughts just as much as the gods and Brahmansused to occupy them. 

At times he felt, deep in his chest, a dying, quiet voice, whichadmonished him quietly, lamented quietly; he hardly perceived it. Andthen, for an hour, he became aware of the strange life he was leading, of him doing lots of things which were only a game, of, though beinghappy and feeling joy at times, real life still passing him by and nottouching him. As a ball-player plays with his balls, he played withhis business-deals, with the people around him, watched them, foundamusement in them; with his heart, with the source of his being, he wasnot with them. The source ran somewhere, far away from him, ran andran invisibly, had nothing to do with his life any more. And at severaltimes he suddenly became scared on account of such thoughts and wishedthat he would also be gifted with the ability to participate in all ofthis childlike-naive occupations of the daytime with passion and withhis heart, really to live, really to act, really to enjoy and to liveinstead of just standing by as a spectator. But again and again, hecame back to beautiful Kamala, learned the art of love, practised thecult of lust, in which more than in anything else giving and takingbecomes one, chatted with her, learned from her, gave her advice, received advice. She understood him better than Govinda used tounderstand him, she was more similar to him. 

Once, he said to her: "You are like me, you are different from mostpeople. You are Kamala, nothing else, and inside of you, there is apeace and refuge, to which you can go at every hour of the day and beat home at yourself, as I can also do. Few people have this, and yetall could have it. "

"Not all people are smart, " said Kamala. 

"No, " said Siddhartha, "that's not the reason why. Kamaswami is just assmart as I, and still has no refuge in himself. Others have it, who aresmall children with respect to their mind. Most people, Kamala, arelike a falling leaf, which is blown and is turning around through theair, and wavers, and tumbles to the ground. But others, a few, arelike stars, they go on a fixed course, no wind reaches them, inthemselves they have their law and their course. Among all the learnedmen and Samanas, of which I knew many, there was one of this kind, aperfected one, I'll never be able to forget him. It is that Gotama, the exalted one, who is spreading that teachings. Thousands offollowers are listening to his teachings every day, follow hisinstructions every hour, but they are all falling leaves, not inthemselves they have teachings and a law. "

Kamala looked at him with a smile. "Again, you're talking about him, "she said, "again, you're having a Samana's thoughts. "

Siddhartha said nothing, and they played the game of love, one of thethirty or forty different games Kamala knew. Her body was flexiblelike that of a jaguar and like the bow of a hunter; he who had learnedfrom her how to make love, was knowledgeable of many forms of lust, manysecrets. For a long time, she played with Siddhartha, enticed him, rejected him, forced him, embraced him: enjoyed his masterful skills, until he was defeated and rested exhausted by her side. 

The courtesan bent over him, took a long look at his face, at his eyes, which had grown tired. 

"You are the best lover, " she said thoughtfully, "I ever saw. You'restronger than others, more supple, more willing. You've learned my artwell, Siddhartha. At some time, when I'll be older, I'd want to bearyour child. And yet, my dear, you've remained a Samana, and yet youdo not love me, you love nobody. Isn't it so?"

"It might very well be so, " Siddhartha said tiredly. "I am like you. You also do not love--how else could you practise love as a craft?Perhaps, people of our kind can't love. The childlike people can;that's their secret. "

SANSARA

For a long time, Siddhartha had lived the life of the world and of lust, though without being a part of it. His senses, which he had killed offin hot years as a Samana, had awoken again, he had tasted riches, hadtasted lust, had tasted power; nevertheless he had still remained in hisheart for a long time a Samana; Kamala, being smart, had realized thisquite right. It was still the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting, which guided his life; still the people of the world, the childlikepeople, had remained alien to him as he was alien to them. 

Years passed by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly feltthem fading away. He had become rich, for quite a while he possessed ahouse of his own and his own servants, and a garden before the city bythe river. The people liked him, they came to him, whenever they neededmoney or advice, but there was nobody close to him, except Kamala. 

That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced thatone time at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotama'ssermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, thatproud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart, had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant and quiet, theholy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur withinhimself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, hehad learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge of the self, of his eternal entity, which is neither body nor consciousness. Manya part of this he still had, but one part after another had beensubmerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter's wheel, once it hasbeen set in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowlylose its vigour and come to a stop, thus Siddhartha's soul had kept onturning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel ofdifferentiation for a long time, still turning, but it turned slowly andhesitantly and was close to coming to a standstill. Slowly, likehumidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly andmaking it rot, the world and sloth had entered Siddhartha's soul, slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it tosleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive, there was muchthey had learned, much they had experienced. 

Siddhartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people, to enjoyhimself with a woman, he had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to giveorders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eattenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth andforgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice and on a chess-board, to watch dancing girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan-chair, to sleep on a soft bed. But still he had felt different from andsuperior to the others; always he had watched them with some mockery, some mocking disdain, with the same disdain which a Samana constantlyfeels for the people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing, when hewas annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his worries asa merchant, Siddhartha had always watched it with mockery. Just slowlyand imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by, his mockery had become more tired, his superiority had become morequiet. Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumedsomething of the childlike people's ways for himself, something of theirchildlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet, he envied them, enviedthem just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied themfor the one thing that was missing from him and that they had, theimportance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount ofpassion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness ofbeing constantly in love. These people were all of the time in lovewith themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or money, with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out ofall things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child; helearned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which hehimself despised. It happened more and more often that, in the morningafter having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for a longtime, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became angryand impatient, when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. It happenedthat he laughed just too loud, when he lost a game of dice. His facewas still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely laughed, and assumed, one after another, those features which are so oftenfound in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent, ofsickliness, of ill-humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly thedisease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of him. 

Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over Siddhartha, slowly, getting a bit denser every day, a bit murkier every month, a bit heavierevery year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautifulcolour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams, and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus Siddhartha'snew life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, hadgrown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed by, wasgathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already showing itsugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting. Siddhartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright andreliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time andhad ever guided him in his best times, had become silent. 

He had been captured by the world, by lust, covetousness, sloth, andfinally also by that vice which he had used to despise and mock themost as the most foolish one of all vices: greed. Property, possessions, and riches also had finally captured him; they were nolonger a game and trifles to him, had become a shackle and a burden. On a strange and devious way, Siddhartha had gotten into this final andmost base of all dependencies, by means of the game of dice. It wassince that time, when he had stopped being a Samana in his heart, thatSiddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, whichhe at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom ofthe childlike people, with an increasing rage and passion. He was afeared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were hisstakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing andwasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in noother way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants'false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with highstakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands, threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a house in thecountry, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifyingfear, which he felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worriedabout losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renewit, always increase it, always get it to a slightly higher level, for inthis feeling alone he still felt something like happiness, somethinglike an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in themidst of his saturated, lukewarm, dull life. 

And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued thetrade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, becausehe wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering, continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost hiscalmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not payedon time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition forgiving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, whogambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed atit, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionallydreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from this uglyspell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom's wall tohave aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust cameover him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into anumbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fledback into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointlesscycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill. 

Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spend the hours ofthe evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure-garden. They hadbeen sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtfulwords, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden. She hadasked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of him, how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind hissmile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tellher about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said: "Oneday, perhaps soon, I'll also follow that Buddha. I'll give him mypleasure-garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings. " Butafter this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the actof making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if, oncemore, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear toSiddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain byher side, and Kamala's face had been close to him, and under her eyesand next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never before, read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slightgrooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just asSiddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed, here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was writtenon Kamala's beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, whichhas no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering, and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious anxiety: fear ofold age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die. With a sigh, he hadbid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance, and full ofconcealed anxiety. 

Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girlsand wine, had acted as if he was superior to them towards thefellow-members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunkmuch wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired andyet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long timesought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought hecould not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetratinghis entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, thejust too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancinggirls, the just too sweet scent of their hair and breasts. But morethan by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumedhair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby tiredness andlistlessness of his skin. Like when someone, who has eaten and drunkfar too much, vomits it back up again with agonising pain and isnevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless man wished tofree himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointlesslife and himself, in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the lightof the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the streetbefore his city-house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for afew moments a half unconsciousness, a hint of sleep. In those moments, he had a dream:

Kamala owned a small, rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird, he dreamt. He dreamt: this bird had become mute, who at other timesalways used to sing in the morning, and since this arose his attention, he stepped in front of the cage and looked inside; there the small birdwas dead and lay stiff on the ground. He took it out, weighed it for amoment in his hand, and then threw it away, out in the street, and inthe same moment, he felt terribly shocked, and his heart hurt, as if hehad thrown away from himself all value and everything good by throwingout this dead bird. 

Starting up from this dream, he felt encompassed by a deep sadness. Worthless, so it seemed to him, worthless and pointless was the way hehad been going through life; nothing which was alive, nothing which wasin some way delicious or worth keeping he had left in his hands. Alonehe stood there and empty like a castaway on the shore. 

With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha went to the pleasure-garden he owned, locked the gate, sat down under a mango-tree, felt death in his heartand horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in him, withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered histhoughts, and in his mind, he once again went the entire path of hislife, starting with the first days he could remember. When was thereever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Ohyes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as aboy, he has had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from theBrahmans, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front ofthe one who has distinguished himself in the recitationof the holy verses, in the dispute with the learned ones, as anassistant in the offerings. " Then, he had felt it in his heart: "Thereis a path in front of you, you are destined for, the gods are awaitingyou. " And again, as a young man, when the ever rising, upward fleeing, goal of all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude ofthose seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose ofBrahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new thirst in him, then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the painfelt this very same thing: "Go on! Go on! You are called upon!" Hehad heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the lifeof a Samana, and again when he had gone away from the Samanas to thatperfected one, and also when he had gone away from him to the uncertain. For how long had he not heard this voice any more, for how long had hereached no height any more, how even and dull was the manner in whichhis path had passed through life, for many long years, without a highgoal, without thirst, without elevation, content with small lustfulpleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of these many years, withoutknowing it himself, he had tried hard and longed to become a man likethose many, like those children, and in all this, his life had beenmuch more miserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were nothis, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of theKamaswami-people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, acomedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him--but wasshe still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they not playa game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No, itwas not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game forchildren, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, tentimes--but for ever and ever over again?

Then, Siddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play itany more. Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt, something had died. 

That entire day, he sat under the mango-tree, thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Did he have to leave them tobecome a Kamaswami? He still sat there, when the night had fallen. When, looking up, he caught sight of the stars, he thought: "Here I'msitting under my mango-tree, in my pleasure-garden. " He smiled a little--was it really necessary, was it right, was it not as foolish game, that he owned a mango-tree, that he owned a garden?

He also put an end to this, this also died in him. He rose, bid hisfarewell to the mango-tree, his farewell to the pleasure-garden. Sincehe had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and thoughtof his house in the city, of his chamber and bed, of the table with themeals on it. He smiled tiredly, shook himself, and bid his farewell tothese things. 

In the same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left thecity, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people lookfor him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamalahad no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha haddisappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Washe not a Samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim? And most ofall, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she washappy, in spite of all the pain of the loss, that she had pulled him soaffectionately to her heart for this last time, that she had felt onemore time to be so completely possessed and penetrated by him. 

When she received the first news of Siddhartha's disappearance, she wentto the window, where she held a rare singing bird captive in a goldencage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let itfly. For a long time, she gazed after it, the flying bird. From thisday on, she received no more visitors and kept her house locked. Butafter some time, she became aware that she was pregnant from the lasttime she was together with Siddhartha. 

BY THE RIVER

Siddhartha walked through the forest, was already far from the city, andknew nothing but that one thing, that there was no going back for him, that this life, as he had lived it for many years until now, was overand done away with, and that he had tasted all of it, sucked everythingout of it until he was disgusted with it. Dead was the singing bird, hehad dreamt of. Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply, he had beenentangled in Sansara, he had sucked up disgust and death from all sidesinto his body, like a sponge sucks up water until it is full. And fullhe was, full of the feeling of been sick of it, full of misery, full ofdeath, there was nothing left in this world which could have attractedhim, given him joy, given him comfort. 

Passionately he wished to know nothing about himself anymore, to haverest, to be dead. If there only was a lightning-bolt to strike himdead! If there only was a tiger a devour him! If there only was awine, a poison which would numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness andsleep, and no awakening from that! Was there still any kind of filth, he had not soiled himself with, a sin or foolish act he had notcommitted, a dreariness of the soul he had not brought upon himself?Was it still at all possible to be alive? Was it possible, to breathein again and again, to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, tosleep again, to sleep with a woman again? Was this cycle not exhaustedand brought to a conclusion for him?

Siddhartha reached the large river in the forest, the same river overwhich a long time ago, when he had still been a young man and came fromthe town of Gotama, a ferryman had conducted him. By this river hestopped, hesitantly he stood at the bank. Tiredness and hunger hadweakened him, and whatever for should he walk on, wherever to, to whichgoal? No, there were no more goals, there was nothing left but thedeep, painful yearning to shake off this whole desolate dream, to spitout this stale wine, to put an end to this miserable and shameful life. 

A hang bent over the bank of the river, a coconut-tree; Siddharthaleaned against its trunk with his shoulder, embraced the trunk with onearm, and looked down into the green water, which ran and ran under him, looked down and found himself to be entirely filled with the wish tolet go and to drown in these waters. A frightening emptiness wasreflected back at him by the water, answering to the terrible emptinessin his soul. Yes, he had reached the end. There was nothing left forhim, except to annihilate himself, except to smash the failure intowhich he had shaped his life, to throw it away, before the feet ofmockingly laughing gods. This was the great vomiting he had longed for:death, the smashing to bits of the form he hated! Let him be food forfishes, this dog Siddhartha, this lunatic, this depraved and rottenbody, this weakened and abused soul! Let him be food for fishes andcrocodiles, let him be chopped to bits by the daemons!

With a distorted face, he stared into the water, saw the reflection ofhis face and spit at it. In deep tiredness, he took his arm away fromthe trunk of the tree and turned a bit, in order to let himself fallstraight down, in order to finally drown. With his eyes closed, heslipped towards death. 

Then, out of remote areas of his soul, out of past times of his nowweary life, a sound stirred up. It was a word, a syllable, which he, without thinking, with a slurred voice, spoke to himself, the old wordwhich is the beginning and the end of all prayers of the Brahmans, theholy "Om", which roughly means "that what is perfect" or "thecompletion". And in the moment when the sound of "Om" touchedSiddhartha's ear, his dormant spirit suddenly woke up and realized thefoolishness of his actions. 

Siddhartha was deeply shocked. So this was how things were with him, so doomed was he, so much he had lost his way and was forsaken by allknowledge, that he had been able to seek death, that this wish, thiswish of a child, had been able to grow in him: to find rest byannihilating his body! What all agony of these recent times, allsobering realizations, all desperation had not brought about, this wasbrought on by this moment, when the Om entered his consciousness: hebecame aware of himself in his misery and in his error. 

Om! he spoke to himself: Om! and again he knew about Brahman, knewabout the indestructibility of life, knew about all that is divine, which he had forgotten. 

But this was only a moment, flash. By the foot of the coconut-tree, Siddhartha collapsed, struck down by tiredness, mumbling Om, placed hishead on the root of the tree and fell into a deep sleep. 

Deep was his sleep and without dreams, for a long time he had not knownsuch a sleep any more. When he woke up after many hours, he felt as iften years had passed, he heard the water quietly flowing, did not knowwhere he was and who had brought him here, opened his eyes, saw withastonishment that there were trees and the sky above him, and heremembered where he was and how he got here. But it took him a longwhile for this, and the past seemed to him as if it had been covered bya veil, infinitely distant, infinitely far away, infinitely meaningless. He only knew that his previous life (in the first moment when he thoughtabout it, this past life seemed to him like a very old, previousincarnation, like an early pre-birth of his present self)--that hisprevious life had been abandoned by him, that, full of disgust andwretchedness, he had even intended to throw his life away, but that by ariver, under a coconut-tree, he has come to his senses, the holy wordOm on his lips, that then he had fallen asleep and had now woken up andwas looking at the world as a new man. Quietly, he spoke the word Om tohimself, speaking which he had fallen asleep, and it seemed to him as ifhis entire long sleep had been nothing but a long meditative recitationof Om, a thinking of Om, a submergence and complete entering into Om, into the nameless, the perfected. 

What a wonderful sleep had this been! Never before by sleep, he hadbeen thus refreshed, thus renewed, thus rejuvenated! Perhaps, he hadreally died, had drowned and was reborn in a new body? But no, he knewhimself, he knew his hand and his feet, knew the place where he lay, knew this self in his chest, this Siddhartha, the eccentric, the weirdone, but this Siddhartha was nevertheless transformed, was renewed, was strangely well rested, strangely awake, joyful and curious. 

Siddhartha straightened up, then he saw a person sitting opposite to him, an unknown man, a monk in a yellow robe with a shaven head, sitting inthe position of pondering. He observed the man, who had neither hairon his head nor a beard, and he had not observed him for long when herecognised this monk as Govinda, the friend of his youth, Govinda whohad taken his refuge with the exalted Buddha. Govinda had aged, he too, but still his face bore the same features, expressed zeal, faithfulness, searching, timidness. But when Govinda now, sensing his gaze, openedhis eyes and looked at him, Siddhartha saw that Govinda did notrecognise him. Govinda was happy to find him awake; apparently, he hadbeen sitting here for a long time and been waiting for him to wake up, though he did not know him. 

"I have been sleeping, " said Siddhartha. "However did you get here?"

"You have been sleeping, " answered Govinda. "It is not good to besleeping in such places, where snakes often are and the animals of theforest have their paths. I, oh sir, am a follower of the exaltedGotama, the Buddha, the Sakyamuni, and have been on a pilgrimagetogether with several of us on this path, when I saw you lying andsleeping in a place where it is dangerous to sleep. Therefore, I soughtto wake you up, oh sir, and since I saw that your sleep was very deep, I stayed behind from my group and sat with you. And then, so it seems, I have fallen asleep myself, I who wanted to guard your sleep. Badly, I have served you, tiredness has overwhelmed me. But now that you'reawake, let me go to catch up with my brothers. "

"I thank you, Samana, for watching out over my sleep, " spoke Siddhartha. "You're friendly, you followers of the exalted one. Now you may gothen. "

"I'm going, sir. May you, sir, always be in good health. "

"I thank you, Samana. "

Govinda made the gesture of a salutation and said: "Farewell. "

"Farewell, Govinda, " said Siddhartha. 

The monk stopped. 

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

Now, Siddhartha smiled. 

"I know you, oh Govinda, from your father's hut, and from the schoolof the Brahmans, and from the offerings, and from our walk to theSamanas, and from that hour when you took your refuge with the exaltedone in the grove Jetavana. "

"You're Siddhartha, " Govinda exclaimed loudly. "Now, I'm recognisingyou, and don't comprehend any more how I couldn't recognise you rightaway. Be welcome, Siddhartha, my joy is great, to see you again. "

"It also gives me joy, to see you again. You've been the guard of mysleep, again I thank you for this, though I wouldn't have required anyguard. Where are you going to, oh friend?"

"I'm going nowhere. We monks are always travelling, whenever it is notthe rainy season, we always move from one place to another, liveaccording to the rules if the teachings passed on to us, accept alms, move on. It is always like this. But you, Siddhartha, where are yougoing to?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "With me too, friend, it is as it is with you. I'mgoing nowhere. I'm just travelling. I'm on a pilgrimage. "

Govinda spoke: "You're saying: you're on a pilgrimage, and I believe inyou. But, forgive me, oh Siddhartha, you do not look like a pilgrim. You're wearing a rich man's garments, you're wearing the shoes of adistinguished gentleman, and your hair, with the fragrance of perfume, is not a pilgrim's hair, not the hair of a Samana. "

"Right so, my dear, you have observed well, your keen eyes seeeverything. But I haven't said to you that I was a Samana. I said:I'm on a pilgrimage. And so it is: I'm on a pilgrimage. "

"You're on a pilgrimage, " said Govinda. "But few would go on apilgrimage in such clothes, few in such shoes, few with such hair. Never I have met such a pilgrim, being a pilgrim myself for many years. "

"I believe you, my dear Govinda. But now, today, you've met a pilgrimjust like this, wearing such shoes, such a garment. Remember, my dear:Not eternal is the world of appearances, not eternal, anything buteternal are our garments and the style of our hair, and our hair andbodies themselves. I'm wearing a rich man's clothes, you've seen thisquite right. I'm wearing them, because I have been a rich man, and I'mwearing my hair like the worldly and lustful people, for I have beenone of them. "

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

"I don't know it, I don't know it just like you. I'm travelling. I wasa rich man and am no rich man any more, and what I'll be tomorrow, Idon't know. "

"You've lost your riches?"

"I've lost them or they me. They somehow happened to slip away from me. The wheel of physical manifestations is turning quickly, Govinda. Whereis Siddhartha the Brahman? Where is Siddhartha the Samana? Where isSiddhartha the rich man? Non-eternal things change quickly, Govinda, you know it. "

Govinda looked at the friend of his youth for a long time, with doubt inhis eyes. After that, he gave him the salutation which one would useon a gentleman and went on his way. 

With a smiling face, Siddhartha watched him leave, he loved him still, this faithful man, this fearful man. And how could he not have lovedeverybody and everything in this moment, in the glorious hour after hiswonderful sleep, filled with Om! The enchantment, which had happenedinside of him in his sleep and by means of the Om, was this very thingthat he loved everything, that he was full of joyful love for everythinghe saw. And it was this very thing, so it seemed to him now, which hadbeen his sickness before, that he was not able to love anybody oranything. 

With a smiling face, Siddhartha watched the leaving monk. The sleep hadstrengthened him much, but hunger gave him much pain, for by now he hadnot eaten for two days, and the times were long past when he had beentough against hunger. With sadness, and yet also with a smile, hethought of that time. In those days, so he remembered, he had boastedof three three things to Kamala, had been able to do three noble andundefeatable feats: fasting--waiting--thinking. These had been hispossession, his power and strength, his solid staff; in the busy, laborious years of his youth, he had learned these three feats, nothingelse. And now, they had abandoned him, none of them was his any more, neither fasting, nor waiting, nor thinking. For the most wretchedthings, he had given them up, for what fades most quickly, for sensuallust, 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, hedid not really feel like it, but he forced himself. 

Now, he thought, since all these most easily perishing things haveslipped from me again, now I'm standing here under the sun again just asI have been standing here a little child, nothing is mine, I have noabilities, 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 isalready half gray, that my strength is fading, now I'm starting againat the beginning and as a child! Again, he had to smile. Yes, his fatehad been strange! Things were going downhill with him, and now he wasagain facing the world void and naked and stupid. But he could not feedsad about this, no, he even felt a great urge to laugh, to laugh abouthimself, to laugh about this strange, foolish world. 

"Things are going downhill with you!" he said to himself, and laughedabout 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, kindlyhe smiled at the river. Was this not the river in which he had intendedto drown himself, in past times, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamedthis?

Wondrous indeed was my life, so he thought, wondrous detours it hastaken. 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, wassearching for Brahman, worshipped the eternal in the Atman. But as ayoung man, I followed the penitents, lived in the forest, suffered ofheat and frost, learned to hunger, taught my body to become dead. Wonderfully, soon afterwards, insight came towards me in the form of thegreat Buddha's teachings, I felt the knowledge of the oneness of theworld circling in me like my own blood. But I also had to leave Buddhaand the great knowledge. I went and learned the art of love withKamala, learned trading with Kamaswami, piled up money, wasted money, learned to love my stomach, learned to please my senses. I had to spendmany years losing my spirit, to unlearn thinking again, to forget theoneness. Isn't it just as if I had turned slowly and on a long detourfrom a man into a child, from a thinker into a childlike person? Andyet, this path has been very good; and yet, the bird in my chest hasnot died. But what a path has this been! I had to pass through so muchstupidity, through so much vices, through so many errors, through somuch disgust and disappointments and woe, just to become a child againand 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 tosink down to the most foolish one of all thoughts, to the thought ofsuicide, in order to be able to experience divine grace, to hear Omagain, to be able to sleep properly and awake properly again. I had tobecome a fool, to find Atman in me again. I had to sin, to be able tolive again. Where else might my path lead me to? It is foolish, thispath, it moves in loops, perhaps it is going around in a circle. Letit go as it likes, I want to to take it. 

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

Wherever from, he asked his heart, where from did you get thishappiness? Might it come from that long, good sleep, which has done meso good? Or from the word Om, which I said? Or from the fact that Ihave escaped, that I have completely fled, that I am finally free againand am standing like a child under the sky? Oh how good is it to havefled, to have become free! How clean and beautiful is the air here, howgood to breathe! There, where I ran away from, there everything smelledof ointments, of spices, of wine, of excess, of sloth. How did I hatethis world of the rich, of those who revel in fine food, of thegamblers! How did I hate myself for staying in this terrible world forso long! How did I hate myself, have deprive, poisoned, torturedmyself, have made myself old and evil! No, never again I will, as Iused to like doing so much, delude myself into thinking that Siddharthawas wise! But this one thing I have done well, this I like, this I mustpraise, that there is now an end to that hatred against myself, to thatfoolish and dreary life! I praise you, Siddhartha, after so many yearsof 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 hisstomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had now, so he felt, inthese recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured upto the point of desperation and death, a piece of suffering, a piece ofmisery. Like this, it was good. For much longer, he could have stayedwith Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and lethis soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in thissoft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment ofcomplete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when hehang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself. That hehad felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbedto it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was still aliveafter all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he laughed, this waswhy 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 notbelong to the good things, I have already learned as a child. I haveknown it for a long time, but I have experienced only now. And now Iknow 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 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?"

"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?

The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva's ferry, when littleSiddhartha once again forced his mother to rest. She, Kamala herself, had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, shecrouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested. Butsuddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fearand saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under herdress, 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 togo any further. But the boy started crying miserably, only interruptingit to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his loud screams forhelp, until the sound reached Vasudeva's ears, who stood at the ferry. Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her intothe boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, wereSiddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire. He lookedup and first saw the boy's face, which wondrously reminded him ofsomething, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten. Thenhe saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognised, though she lay unconsciousin the ferryman's arms, and now he knew that it was his own son, whoseface had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred inhis chest. 

Kamala's wound was washed, but had already turned black and her body wasswollen, she was made to drink a healing potion. Her consciousnessreturned, she lay on Siddhartha's bed in the hut and bent over her stoodSiddhartha, who used to love her so much. It seemed like a dream toher; 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, paralysedby the poison. "You've become old, my dear, " she said, "you've becomegray. But you are like the young Samana, who at one time came withoutclothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden. You are much more likehim, than you were like him at that time when you had left me andKamaswami. In the eyes, you're like him, Siddhartha. Alas, I have alsogrown 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 tookhim on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight ofthe child's face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he hadlearned 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 becamecalm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep. Siddharthaplaced him on Vasudeva's bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and cookedrice. 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'sfire. 

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 withher suffering. Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes. 

Looking at him, she said: "Now I see that your eyes have changed aswell. They've become completely different. By what do I stillrecognise 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 herpilgrimage to Gotama, which wanted to take, in order to see the face ofthe perfected one, to breathe his peace, and she thought that she hadnow found him in his place, and that it was good, just as good, as ifshe had seen the other one. She wanted to tell this to him, but thetongue no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking, she looked at him, and he saw the life fading from her eyes. When the final pain filledher eyes and made them grow dim, when the final shiver ran through herlimbs, his finger closed her eyelids. 

For a long time, he sat and looked at her peacefully dead face. For along 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 springof his years, compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig. For a longtime, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles, filledhimself 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 faceand hers being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the feeling ofthis both being present and at the same time real, the feeling ofeternity, completely filled every aspect of his being. Deeply he felt, more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the indestructibility ofevery life, the eternity of every moment. 

When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha didnot eat. In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old menprepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself downto sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before thehut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched andencircled 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 boywas sleeping. 

Early in the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva cameout 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 hastold me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with thethought of oneness. "

"You've experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but I see: no sadness hasentered 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'sget 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'sfuneral pile on the same hill on which I had then built my wife'sfuneral 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; gloomyand shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son andwelcomed him at his place in Vasudeva's hut. Pale, he sat for manydays 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 hismourning. Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him, thathe could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and understoodthat the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a mother's boy, and that hehad grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food, toa soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants. Siddharthaunderstood that the mourning, pampered child could not suddenly andwillingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty. He didnot force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best pieceof the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendlypatience. 

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 astranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud andstubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not payhis respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva's fruit-trees, thenSiddhartha began to understand that his son had not brought himhappiness and peace, but suffering and worry. But he loved him, and hepreferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joywithout the boy. Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old men hadsplit the work. Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman allby himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work inthe hut and the field. 

For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son tounderstand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it. Forlong months, Vasudeva waited, watching, waited and said nothing. Oneday, when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his fathervery much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had brokenboth of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend asideand talked to him. 

"Pardon me. " he said, "from a friendly heart, I'm talking to you. I'mseeing 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. Thatyoung bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest. Hehas not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being disgustedand 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 riverlaughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking withlaughter at out foolishness. Water wants to join water, youth wants tojoin youth, your son is not in the place where he can prosper. You tooshould ask the river; you too should listen to it!"

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

"How could I part with him?" he said quietly, ashamed. "Give me somemore time, my dear! See, I'm fighting for him, I'm seeking to win hisheart, 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 calledupon, he too is of the eternal life. But do we, you and me, know whathe 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, hisheart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err alot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, mydear: you're not taking control of your son's upbringing? You don'tforce 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 strongerthan rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you. Butaren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn'tpunish him? Don't you shackle him with your love? Don't you make himfeel inferior every day, and don't you make it even harder on him withyour kindness and patience? Don't you force him, the arrogant andpampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom evenrice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts are oldand quiet and beats in a different pace than his? Isn't forced, isn'the punished by all this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 timeago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. "You cannotlove, " she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had comparedhimself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with fallingleaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line. Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely toanother person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the loveof another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, asit had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set himapart from the childlike people. But now, since his son was here, nowhe, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person, sufferingfor 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, oncein his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions, sufferedfrom it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, wasnevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing. 

He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, wasa passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source, dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was notworthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being. This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to beendured, these foolish acts also had to be committed. 

Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let himcourt for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by givingin to his moods. This father had nothing which would have delightedhim and nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, thisfather, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps asaint, all these there no attributes which could win the boy over. Hewas bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserablehut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtinesswith a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness withkindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Muchmore the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if hehad been abused by him. 

A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came burstingforth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter had givenhim a task, he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy did notleave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he was, thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and screamed ina powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father's face. 

"Get the brushwood for yourself!" he shouted foaming at the mouth, "I'mnot your servant. I do know, that you won't hit me, you don't dare; Ido know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me down withyour religious devotion and your indulgence. You want me to become likeyou, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But I, listen up, justto make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber andmurderer, and go to hell, than to become like you! I hate you, you'renot my father, and if you've ten times been my mother's fornicator!"

Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in a hundredsavage and evil words. Then the boy ran away and only returned late atnight. 

But the next morning, he had disappeared. What had also disappeared wasa small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which the ferrymenkept those copper and silver coins which they received as a fare. The boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it lying by the oppositebank. The boy had ran away. 

"I must follow him, " said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with griefsince those ranting speeches, the boy had made yesterday. "A childcan't go through the forest all alone. He'll perish. We must build araft, Vasudeva, to get over the water. "

"We will build a raft, " said Vasudeva, "to get our boat back, which theboy has taken away. But him, you shall let run along, my friend, he isno child any more, he knows how to get around. He's looking for thepath to the city, and he is right, don't forget that. He's doing whatyou've failed to do yourself. He's taking care of himself, he's takinghis course. Alas, Siddhartha, I see you suffering, but you're sufferinga pain at which one would like to laugh, at which you'll soon laugh foryourself. "

Siddhartha did not answer. He already held the axe in his hands andbegan to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva helped him to tied thecanes together with ropes of grass. Then they crossed over, driftedfar off their course, pulled the raft upriver on the opposite bank. 

"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. 

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. 

Differently than before, he now looked upon people, less smart, lessproud, but instead warmer, more curious, more involved. When he ferriedtravellers of the ordinary kind, childlike people, businessmen, warriors, women, these people did not seem alien to him as they used to:he understood them, he understood and shared their life, which was notguided by thoughts and insight, but solely by urges and wishes, he feltlike them. Though he was near perfection and was bearing his finalwound, it still seemed to him as if those childlike people were hisbrothers, their vanities, desires for possession, and ridiculous aspectswere no longer ridiculous to him, became understandable, became lovable, even became worthy of veneration to him. The blind love of a motherfor her child, the stupid, blind pride of a conceited father for hisonly son, the blind, wild desire of a young, vain woman for jewelry andadmiring glances from men, all of these urges, all of this childishstuff, all of these simple, foolish, but immensely strong, stronglyliving, strongly prevailing urges and desires were now no childishnotions for Siddhartha any more, he saw people living for their sake, saw them achieving infinitely much for their sake, travelling, conducting wars, suffering infinitely much, bearing infinitely much, andhe could love them for it, he saw life, that what is alive, theindestructible, the Brahman in each of their passions, each of theiracts. Worthy of love and admiration were these people in their blindloyalty, their blind strength and tenacity. They lacked nothing, therewas nothing the knowledgeable one, the thinker, had to put him above themexcept for one little thing, a single, tiny, small thing: theconsciousness, the conscious thought of the oneness of all life. AndSiddhartha even doubted in many an hour, whether this knowledge, thisthought was to be valued thus highly, whether it might not also perhapsbe a childish idea of the thinking people, of the thinking and childlikepeople. In all other respects, the worldly people were of equal rankto the wise men, were often far superior to them, just as animals toocan, after all, in some moments, seem to be superior to humans in theirtough, unrelenting performance of what is necessary. 

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 (?? über) himself and the entireworld. 

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. 

Brightly, Vasudeva's smile was shining, floating radiantly over all thewrinkles of his old face, as the Om was floating in the air over all thevoices of the river. Brightly his smile was shining, when he looked athis friend, and brightly the same smile was now starting to shine onSiddhartha's face as well. His wound blossomed, his suffering wasshining, his self had flown into the oneness. 

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?"

"It's true, I'm old, " spoke Govinda, "but I haven't stopped searching. Never I'll stop searching, this seems to be my destiny. You too, so itseems to me, have been searching. Would you like to tell me something, oh honourable one?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "What should I possibly have to tell you, ohvenerable one? Perhaps that you're searching far too much? That in allthat searching, you don't find the time for finding?"

"How come?" asked Govinda. 

"When someone is searching, " said Siddhartha, "then it might easilyhappen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what he searchesfor, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything enter his mind, because he always thinks of nothing but the object of his search, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal. Searchingmeans: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, havingno goal. You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because, striving for your goal, there are many things you don't see, which aredirectly in front of your eyes. "

"I don't quite understand yet, " asked Govinda, "what do you mean bythis?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "A long time ago, oh venerable one, many years ago, you've once before been at this river and have found a sleeping man bythe river, and have sat down with him to guard his sleep. But, ohGovinda, you did not recognise the sleeping man. "

Astonished, as if he had been the object of a magic spell, the monklooked into the ferryman's eyes. 

"Are you Siddhartha?" he asked with a timid voice. "I wouldn't haverecognised you this time as well! From my heart, I'm greeting you, Siddhartha; from my heart, I'm happy to see you once again! You'vechanged a lot, my friend. --And so you've now become a ferryman?"

In a friendly manner, Siddhartha laughed. "A ferryman, yes. Manypeople, Govinda, have to change a lot, have to wear many a robe, I amone of those, my dear. Be welcome, Govinda, and spend the night in myhut. "

Govinda stayed the night in the hut and slept on the bed which used tobe Vasudeva's bed. Many questions he posed to the friend of his youth, many things Siddhartha had to tell him from his life. 

When in the next morning the time had come to start the day's journey, Govinda said, not without hesitation, these words: "Before I'llcontinue on my path, Siddhartha, permit me to ask one more question. Do you have a teaching? Do you have a faith, or a knowledge, youfollow, which helps you to live and to do right?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "You know, my dear, that I already as a young man, inthose days when we lived with the penitents in the forest, started todistrust teachers and teachings and to turn my back to them. I havestuck with this. Nevertheless, I have had many teachers since then. Abeautiful courtesan has been my teacher for a long time, and a richmerchant was my teacher, and some gamblers with dice. Once, even afollower of Buddha, travelling on foot, has been my teacher; he sat withme when I had fallen asleep in the forest, on the pilgrimage. I've alsolearned from him, I'm also grateful to him, very grateful. But most ofall, I have learned here from this river and from my predecessor, theferryman Vasudeva. He was a very simple person, Vasudeva, he was nothinker, but he knew what is necessary just as well as Gotama, he was aperfect man, a saint. "

Govinda said: "Still, oh Siddhartha, you love a bit to mock people, asit seems to me. I believe in you and know that you haven't followed ateacher. But haven't you found something by yourself, though you'vefound no teachings, you still found certain thoughts, certain insights, which are your own and which help you to live? If you would like totell me some of these, you would delight my heart. "

Quoth Siddhartha: "I've had thoughts, yes, and insight, again andagain. Sometimes, for an hour or for an entire day, I have feltknowledge in me, as one would feel life in one's heart. There havebeen many thoughts, but it would be hard for me to convey them to you. Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found:wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass onto someone always sounds like foolishness. "

"Are you kidding?" asked Govinda. 

"I'm not kidding. I'm telling you what I've found. Knowledge can beconveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it ispossible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but itcannot be expressed in words and taught. This was what I, even as ayoung man, sometimes suspected, what has driven me away from theteachers. I have found a thought, Govinda, which you'll again regard asa joke or foolishness, but which is my best thought. It says: Theopposite of every truth is just as true! That's like this: any truthcan only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided. Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said withwords, it's all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness, roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his teachings ofthe world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, into deceptionand truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be done differently, there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But the world itself, what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided. A person oran act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is neverentirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real. Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and oftenagain. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be betweenthe world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, betweenevil and good, is also a deception. "

"How come?" asked Govinda timidly. 

"Listen well, my dear, listen well! The sinner, which I am and whichyou are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, hewill reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha--and now see: these 'times tocome' are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is not on hisway to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, thoughour capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture thesethings. No, within the sinner is now and today already the futureBuddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, inyou, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible, the hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, oron a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all smallchildren already have the old person in themselves, all infants alreadyhave death, all dying people the eternal life. It is not possible forany person to see how far another one has already progressed on hispath; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in theBrahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation, there is thepossibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was, is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything isgood, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, I seewhatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness, wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything onlyrequires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to begood for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to everharm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I needed sinvery much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and neededthe most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up allresistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stopcomparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfectionI had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoybeing a part of it. --These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts whichhave come into my mind. "

Siddhartha bent down, picked up a stone from the ground, and weighed itin his hand. 

"This here, " he said playing with it, "is a stone, and will, after acertain time, perhaps turn into soil, and will turn from soil into aplant or animal or human being. In the past, I would have said: Thisstone is just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of theMaja; but because it might be able to become also a human being and aspirit in the cycle of transformations, therefore I also grant itimportance. Thus, I would perhaps have thought in the past. But todayI think: this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it isalso Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn intothis or that, but rather because it is already and always everything--and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it appears to me nowand today as a stone, this is why I love it and see worth and purpose ineach of its veins and cavities, in the yellow, in the gray, in thehardness, in the sound it makes when I knock at it, in the dryness orwetness of its surface. There are stones which feel like oil or soap, and others like leaves, others like sand, and every one is special andprays the Om in its own way, each one is Brahman, but simultaneously andjust as much it is a stone, is oily or juicy, and this is this very factwhich I like and regard as wonderful and worthy of worship. --But let mespeak no more of this. The words are not good for the secret meaning, everything always becomes a bit different, as soon as it is put intowords, gets distorted a bit, a bit silly--yes, and this is also verygood, and I like it a lot, I also very much agree with this, that thiswhat is one man's treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness toanother person. "

Govinda listened silently. 

"Why have you told me this about the stone?" he asked hesitantly aftera pause. 

"I did it without any specific intention. Or perhaps what I meant was, that love this very stone, and the river, and all these things we arelooking at and from which we can learn. I can love a stone, Govinda, and also a tree or a piece of bark. This are things, and things can beloved. But I cannot love words. Therefore, teachings are no good forme, they have no hardness, no softness, no colours, no edges, no smell, no taste, they have nothing but words. Perhaps it are these which keepyou from finding peace, perhaps it are the many words. Becausesalvation and virtue as well, Sansara and Nirvana as well, are merewords, Govinda. There is no thing which would be Nirvana; there is justthe word Nirvana. "

Quoth Govinda: "Not just a word, my friend, is Nirvana. It is athought. "

Siddhartha continued: "A thought, it might be so. I must confess toyou, my dear: I don't differentiate much between thoughts and words. To be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts. I have a betteropinion of things. Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man hasbeen my predecessor and teacher, a holy man, who has for many yearssimply believed in the river, nothing else. He had noticed that theriver's spoke to him, he learned from it, it educated and taught him, the river seemed to be a god to him, for many years he did not know thatevery wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle was just as divine andknows just as much and can teach just as much as the worshipped river. But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew everything, knewmore than you and me, without teachers, without books, only because hehad believed in the river. "

Govinda said: "But is that what you call `things', actually somethingreal, something which has existence? Isn't it just a deception of theMaja, just an image and illusion? Your stone, your tree, your river--are they actually a reality?"

"This too, " spoke Siddhartha, "I do not care very much about. Let thethings be illusions or not, after all I would then also be an illusion, and thus they are always like me. This is what makes them so dear andworthy of veneration for me: they are like me. Therefore, I can lovethem. And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, ohGovinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all. Tothoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may bethe thing great thinkers do. But I'm only interested in being able tolove the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able tolook upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and greatrespect. "

"This I understand, " spoke Govinda. "But this very thing was discoveredby the exalted one to be a deception. He commands benevolence, clemency, sympathy, tolerance, but not love; he forbade us to tie ourheart in love to earthly things. "

"I know it, " said Siddhartha; his smile shone golden. "I know it, Govinda. And behold, with this we are right in the middle of thethicket of opinions, in the dispute about words. For I cannot deny, mywords of love are in a contradiction, a seeming contradiction withGotama's words. For this very reason, I distrust in words so much, forI know, this contradiction is a deception. I know that I am inagreement with Gotama. How should he not know love, he, who hasdiscovered all elements of human existence in their transitoriness, intheir meaninglessness, and yet loved people thus much, to use a long, laborious life only to help them, to teach them! Even with him, evenwith your great teacher, I prefer the thing over the words, place moreimportance on his acts and life than on his speeches, more on thegestures of his hand than his opinions. Not in his speech, not in histhoughts, I see his greatness, only in his actions, in his life. "

For a long time, the two old men said nothing. Then spoke Govinda, while bowing for a farewell: "I thank you, Siddhartha, for telling mesome of your thoughts. They are partially strange thoughts, not allhave been instantly understandable to me. This being as it may, I thankyou, and I wish you to have calm days. "

(But secretly he thought to himself: This Siddhartha is a bizarreperson, he expresses bizarre thoughts, his teachings sound foolish. So differently sound the exalted one's pure teachings, clearer, purer, more comprehensible, nothing strange, foolish, or silly is contained inthem. But different from his thoughts seemed to me Siddhartha's handsand feet, his eyes, his forehead, his breath, his smile, his greeting, his walk. Never again, after our exalted Gotama has become one with theNirvana, never since then have I met a person of whom I felt: this is aholy man! Only him, this Siddhartha, I have found to be like this. Mayhis teachings be strange, may his words sound foolish; out of his gazeand his hand, his skin and his hair, out of every part of him shines apurity, shines a calmness, shines a cheerfulness and mildness andholiness, which I have seen in no other person since the final death ofour exalted teacher. )

As Govinda thought like this, and there was a conflict in his heart, heonce again bowed to Siddhartha, drawn by love. Deeply he bowed to himwho was calmly sitting. 

"Siddhartha, " he spoke, "we have become old men. It is unlikely forone of us to see the other again in this incarnation. I see, beloved, that you have found peace. I confess that I haven't found it. Tell me, oh honourable one, one more word, give me something on my way which Ican grasp, which I can understand! Give me something to be with me onmy path. It it often hard, my path, often dark, Siddhartha. "

Siddhartha said nothing and looked at him with the ever unchanged, quiet smile. Govinda stared at his face, with fear, with yearning, suffering, and the eternal search was visible in his look, eternalnot-finding. 

Siddhartha saw it and smiled. 

"Bent down to me!" he whispered quietly in Govinda's ear. "Bend down tome! Like this, even closer! Very close! Kiss my forehead, Govinda!"

But while Govinda with astonishment, and yet drawn by great love andexpectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched hisforehead with his lips, something miraculous happened to him. While histhoughts were still dwelling on Siddhartha's wondrous words, while hewas still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away time, toimagine Nirvana and Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt forthe words of his friend was fighting in him against an immense love andveneration, this happened to him:

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he sawother faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, ofhundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet allseemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed andrenewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw theface of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, theface of a dying fish, with fading eyes--he saw the face of a new-bornchild, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying--he saw the faceof a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of anotherperson--he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneelingand his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of hissword--he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and crampsof frenzied love--he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void--he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, ofbulls, of birds--he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni--he saw all of thesefigures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each onehelping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birthto it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession oftransitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any timehaving passed between the one and the other face--and all of thesefigures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated alongand merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered bysomething thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, likea thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask ofwater, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smilingface, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile ofoneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness abovethe thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was preciselythe same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-foldsmile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with greatrespect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected onesare smiling. 

Not knowing any more whether time existed, whether the vision had lasteda second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there existeda Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you, feeling in his innermost selfas if he had been wounded by a divine arrow, the injury of which tastedsweet, being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost self, Govindastill stood for a little while bent over Siddhartha's quiet face, whichhe had just kissed, which had just been the scene of all manifestations, all transformations, all existence. The face was unchanged, after underits surface the depth of the thousandfoldness had closed up again, hesmiled silently, smiled quietly and softly, perhaps very benevolently, perhaps very mockingly, precisely as he used to smile, the exalted one. 

Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears he knew nothing of, ran down his old face;like a fire burnt the feeling of the most intimate love, the humblestveneration in his heart. Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, beforehim who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of everythinghe had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable and holy tohim in his life.