THE SON
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Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mothers funeral; gloomy and shy, he had listeo Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and weled him at his pla Vasudevas hut. Pale, he sat for many days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look, did not open his heart, met his fate with resistand denial.Siddhartha spared him a him do as he pleased, he honoured his m. Siddhartha uood that his son did not know him, that he could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and uood that the eleven-year-old ampered boy, a mothers boy, and that he had grown up in the habits of rich people, aced to finer food, to a soft bed, aced to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha uood that the m, pampered child could not suddenly and willingly be tent with a life among strangers and in poverty. He did not force him, he did many a chore for him, alicked the best piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly patience.
Rid happy, he had called himself, when the boy had e to him. Siime had passed on in the meantime, and the boy remained a stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and stubbornly disobedie, did not want to do any work, did not pay his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudevas fruit-trees, then Siddhartha began to uand that his son had nht him happiness and peace, but suffering and worry. But he loved him, and he preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy without the boy. Since young Siddhartha was i, the old men had split the work. Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman all by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work i and the field.
For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to uand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For long months, Vasudeva waited, watg, waited and said nothing. One day, when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his father very much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken both of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside and talked to him.
"Pardon me." he said, "from a friendly heart, Im talking to you. Im seeing that you are tormenting yourself, Im seeing that youre in grief. Your son, my dear, is w you, and he is also w me. That young bird is aced to a different life, to a differe. He has not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being disgusted and 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 river laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking with laughter at out foolishness. Water wants to join water, youth wants to join youth, your son is not in the place where he prosper. You too should ask the river; you too should listen to it!"
Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many wrinkles of which there was incessant cheerfulness.
"How could I part with him?" he said quietly, ashamed. "Give me some more time, my dear! See, Im fighting for him, Im seeking to win his heart, with love and with friendly patience I io capture it. One day, the river shall also talk to him, he also is called upon."
Vasudevas smile flourished more warmly. "Oh yes, he too is called upooo is of the eternal life. But do we, you and me, know what he is called upon to do, ath to take, what as to perform, ain to endure? Not a small one, his pain will be; after all, his heart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err a lot, do mujustice, burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, my dear: youre not taking trol of your sons upbringing? You dont force him? You do him? You dont punish him?"
"No, Vasudeva, I dont do anything of this."
"I k. You dont force him, do him, dont give him orders, because you know that "soft" is strohan "hard", Water strohan rocks, love strohan force. Very good, I praise you. But arent you mistaken in thinking that you wouldnt force him, wouldnt punish him? Dont you shackle him with your love? Dont you make him feel inferior every day, and dont you make it even harder on him with your kindness and patience? Dont you force him, the arrogant and pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banaers, to whom even rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts t be his, whose hearts are old and quiet as in a different pace than his? Isnt forced, isnt he punished by all this?"
Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the ground. Quietly, he asked: "What do you think should I do?"
Quoth Vasudeva: &qu him into the city, bring him into his mothers house, therell still be servants around, give him to them. And when there arent any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for the teags sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among girls, and in the world which is his own. Have you hought of this?"
"Youre seeing into my heart," Siddhartha spoke sadly. "Often, I have thought of this. But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart anyhow, into this world? Wont he bee exuberant, wont he lose himself to pleasure and power, wont he repeat all of his fathers mistakes, wont he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?"
Brightly, the ferrymans smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddharthas arm and said: "Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it laugh about it! Would you actually believe that you had itted your foolish acts in order to spare your son from itting them too? And could you in any rotect your son from Sansara? How could you? By means of teags, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely fotten that story, that story taining so many lessons, that story about Siddhartha, a Brahmans son, which you oold me here on this very spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin, from greed, from foolishness? Were his fathers religious devotion, his teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my dear, anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That perhaps your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappoi? But even if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the slightest part of his destiny upon yourself."
Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long time. Vasudeva had told him nothing, he had not already thought and known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon, strohan the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so muething, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, ahus happily?
Siddhartha could not heed his friends advice, he could not give up the boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He said nothing and waited; daily, he begae struggle of friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of patience.
At oime, when the boys face reminded him very much of Kamala, Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. "You ot love," she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had pared himself with a star, while paring the childlike people with falling leaves, aheless he h<bdi></bdi>ad also sensed an accusation in that line. Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself pletely to another person, tet himself, to it foolish acts for the love of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as it had seemed to him at that time, the great distin which set him apart from the childlike people. But now, since his son was here, now he, Siddhartha, had also bee pletely a childlike person, suffering for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love, having bee a fool on at of love. Now he too felt, late, on his lifetime, this stro and stra of all passions, suffered from it, suffered miserably, and was heless in bliss, was heless renewed in one respect, enriched by ohing.
He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, assion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source, dark waters. heless, he felt at the same time, it was not worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being. This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be ehese foolish acts also had to be itted.
Through all this, the so him it his foolish acts, let him court for his affe, let him humiliate himself every day by giving in to his moods. This father had nothing which would have delighted him and nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, this father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a saint, all these there no attributes which could win the boy over. He was bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable hut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with kindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Much more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he had been abused by him.
A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting forth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter had given him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy did not leave the hut, in stubborn disobediend rage he stayed where he was, thumped on the ground with his feet, ched his fists, and screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and pt into his fathers face.
"Get the brushwood for yourself!" he shouted foaming at the mouth, "Im not your servant. I do know, that you wont hit me, you dont dare; I do know, that you stantly want to punish me and put me down with yious devotion and your indulgence. You wao bee like you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But I, listen up, just to make you suffer, I rather want to bee a highway-robber and murderer, and go to hell, than to bee like you! I hate you, youre not my father, and if youve ten times been my mothers fornicator!"
Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in a hundred savage and evil words. Then the boy ran away and only returned late at night.
But the m, he had disappeared. What had also disappeared was a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which the ferbbr></abbr>rymehose copper and silver s which they received as a fare. The boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it lying by the opposite bank. The boy had ran away.
"I must follow him," said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with grief sihose ranting speeches, the boy had made yesterday. "A child t gh the forest all alone. Hell perish. We must build a raft, Vasudeva, to get over the water."
"We will build a raft," said Vasudeva, "to get our boat back, which the boy has taken away. But him, you shall let run along, my friend, he is no child any more, he knows how to get around. Hes looking for the path to the city, and he is right, dont fet that. Hes doing what youve failed to do yourself. Hes taking care of himself, hes taking his course. Alas, Siddhartha, I see you suffering, but youre suffering a pain at whie would like to laugh, at which youll soon laugh for yourself."
Siddhartha did not answer. He already held the axe in his hands and began to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva helped him to tied the es together with ropes of grass. Then they crossed over, drifted far 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 boat got lost."
But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking. He thought, the boy would have thrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and in order to keep them from following him. And in fact, there was no oar left in the boat. Vasudeva poio the bottom of the boat and looked at his friend with a smile, as if he wao say: "Dont you see what your son is trying to tell you? Dont you see that he doesnt want to be followed?" But he did not say this in words. He started making a new 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 long time, 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 ceal himself from him, the pursuer. As he tihinking, he also found that he, on his part, was not worried for his son, that he knew deep ihat he had her perished nor was in any danger in the forest. heless, he ran without stopping, no loo save him, just to satisfy his desire, just to perhaps see him one more time. And he ran up to just outside of the city.
Whehe city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entrance of the beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, where he had seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair. The past rose up in his soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded, naked Samana, the hair full of dust. For a long time, Siddhartha stood there and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.
For a long time, he stood there, p, seeing images, listening to the story of his life. For a long time, he stood there, looked at the monks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking among the high trees. Clearly, he saw himself being served food and drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and disdainfully ba his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of desire his worldly life. He sa<s></s>w Kamaswami, saw the servants, the ies, the gamblers with the dice, the musis, saw Kamalas song-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathed Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, felt once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the holy 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 go up to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was not allowed to g him. Deeply, he felt the love for the run-away in his heart, like a wound, and he felt at the same time that this wound had not been given to him in order to turn the knife in it, that it had to bee a blossom and had to shine.
That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shi, at this hour, made him sad. Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here following the runaway son, there was iness. Sadly, he sat dow something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy any more, no goal. He sat lost in thought and waited. This he had learned by the river, this ohing: waiting, having patience, listening attentively. A and listened, in the dust of the road, listeo his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice. Many an hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell iiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path. And when he felt the 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 and placed two bananas in front of him. The old man did not see him.
From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand toug his shoulder. Instantly, he reised this touch, this tender, bashful touch, and regained his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva, who had followed him. And when he looked into Vasudevas friendly face, into the small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing but his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too. Now he saw the bananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave oo the ferryman, ate the other one himself. After this, he silently went bato the forest ?99lｉｂ?h Vasudeva, returned home to the ferry. her oalked about what had happeoday, her oiohe boys name, her one spoke about him running away, her one spoke about the wound. I, Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after a while Vasudeva came to him, to offer him a bowl of ut-milk, he already found him asleep.
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