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Chapter ten, The Son timid and
weeping. The boy had attended his mother's

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funeral, gloomy and shy. He
had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him

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as his son and welcomed him at
his place in Vasadeva's hut Pale. He

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sat for many days by the heel
of the dead, did not want to

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eat, gave no open look,
did not open his heart. Met his

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fate with resistance and denial. Said
Arthur spared him and let him do as

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he pleased. He honored his mourning
SidD Arthur understood that his son did not

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know him, that he could not
love him like a father. Slowly,

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he also saw and understood that the
eleven year old was a pampered boy,

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a mother's boy, and that he
had grown up in the habits of rich

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people, accustomed to finer food,
to a soft bed, accustomed to giving

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orders to servants. Sid Arthur understood
that the mourning, pampered child could not

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suddenly and willingly be content with a
life amongst strangers and in poverty. He

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did not force him. He did
many a chore for him, always picked

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the best piece of the meal for
him. Slowly, he hoped to win

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him over by friendly patience, rich
and happy, he had called himself when

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the boy had come to him.
Since time had passed on in the meanwhile,

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and the boy remained a stranger and
in a gloomy disposition, since he

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displayed a proud and stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work,

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did not pay his respect to the
old men, stole from Vasudeva's fruit

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trees. Then sid Arthur began to
understand that his son had not brought him

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happiness and peace, but suffered ring
and worry. But he loved him,

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and he preferred the suffering and worries
of love over happiness and joy without the

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boy. Since young Siddhartha was in
the hut, the old man had split

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the work Thasudeva had again taken on
the job of the fairyman all by himself,

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and said Arthur, in order to
be with his son, did the

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work in the hut and in the
field for a long time. For long

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months, said Arthur waited for his
son to understand him, to accept his

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love, to perhaps reciprocate it.
For long months, Vasudeva waited, watching,

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waited, and said nothing. One
day when Siddartha. The younger had

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once again tormented his father very much
with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes,

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and had broken both of his rice
bowls. Vasudeva took in the evening

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his friend aside and talked to him. Pardon me, he said, from

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a friendly heart. I am talking
to you. I am seeing that you

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are tormenting yourself. I am seeing
that you're in grief. Your son,

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my dear, is worrying you,
and he is also worrying me. That

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young bird is accustomed to a different
life, to a different nest. He

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has not like you, run away
from riches and the city, being disgusted

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and fed up with it. Against
his will, he had to leave all

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this behind. I asked the river
friend, many times I have asked it.

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But the river laughs. It laughs
at me, It laughs at you

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and me, and is shaking with
laughter at our foolishness. Water wants to

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join water. Youth wants to join
youth. Your son is not in the

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place where he can prosper. You
too should ask the river. You too

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should listen to it. Said Arthur
looked into his friendly face in the many

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wrinkles of which there was an incessant
cheerfulness. How could I part with him,

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he said, quietly, ashamed.
Give me some more time, my

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dear. See, I'm fighting for
him. I'm seeking to win his heart

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with love and with friendly patience.
I intend to capture it. One day,

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the river shall also talk to him. He also is called upon,

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Thasudeva's smile flourished more warmly. Oh, yes, he too is called upon.

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He too is of the eternal life. But do we you and me

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know what he is called upon to
do? What path to take, what

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actions to perform? What pain to
endure? Not a small one his pain

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will be After all, his heart
is proud and hard. People like this

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have to suffer a lot, er
a lot, do much injustice, burden

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themselves with much sin. Tell me, my dear, you're not taking control

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of your son's upbringing. You don't
force him, you don't beat him,

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you don't punish him. No Vasudeva, I don't do anything of this.

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I knew it. You don't force
him, don't beat him, don't give

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him orders, because you know that
soft is stronger than hard, water,

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stronger than rocks, love, stronger
than force. Very good, I praise

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you, But aren't you mistaken in
thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn't

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punish him. Don't you shackle him
with your love? Don't you make him

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feel in fear area every day?
And don't you make it even harder on

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him with your kindness and patience?
Don't you force him, the arrogant and

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pampered boy, to live in a
hut with two old banana eaters, to

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whom even rice is a delicacy,
whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts

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are old and quiet and beats in
a different pace than his. Isn't forced?

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Isn't he punished? By all this? Troubled? Said Arthur, looked

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to the ground quietly, he asked, what do you think I should do,

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quoth Thasudeva. Bring him into the
city, Bring him into his mother's

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house. They'll still be servants around, give him to them, and when

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there aren't any around anymore, bring
him to a teacher, not for the

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teaching sake, but so that he
shall be among other boys, and among

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girls, and in the world which
is his own. Have you never thought

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of this? You're seeing into my
heart? Said Arthur, spoke sadly.

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Often I have thought of this,
But look, how shall I put him,

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who had no tender heart anyhow,
into this world? Won't he become

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exuberant? Won't he lose himself to
pleasure and power? Won't he repeat all

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of his father's mistakes? Won't he
perhaps get entirely lost in Sant Sarah?

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Brightly the ferryman smile lit up softly. He touched said Arthur's arm and said,

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ask the river about it, my
friend, hear it, laugh about

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it? Would you actually believe that
you had committed your foolish acts in order

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to spare your son from committing them
too? And could you in any way

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protect your son from Sant Sarah?
How could you by means of teachings,

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prayer, admonition? My dear,
have you entirely forgotten that story that story

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containing so many lessons, That story
about Siddartha a Brahman son, which you

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once told me here on this very
spot, Who has kept a Samana Siddartha

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save from sansara, from sin,
from greed, from foolishness? Were his

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father's religious devotion, his teacher's warnings, his own knowledge, his own search

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able to keep him safe? Which
father, which teacher had been able to

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protect him from? Living his life
for himself, from soiling himself with life,

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from burdening himself with guilt, from
drinking the bitter drink for himself,

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from finding his path for himself.
Would you think, my dear, anybody

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might perhaps be spared from taking this
path, That perhaps your little son would

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be spared because you love him,
because you would like to keep him safe,

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because you would like to keep him
from suffering and pain and disappointment.

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But even if you would die ten
times for him, you would not be

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able to take the slightest part of
his destiny upon yourself. Never before Vasudeva

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had spoken so many words kindly said
Arthur, thanked him, went troubled into

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the hut, could not sleep for
a long time. Vasudeva had told him

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nothing he had not already thought and
known for himself. But this was a

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knowledge he could not act upon.
Stronger than the knowledge was his love for

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the boy. Stronger was his tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had

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he ever lost his heart so much
to something? Had he ever loved any

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person thus thus blind kindly, thus
sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus

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happily. Siddartha could not heed his
friend's advice. He could not give up

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the boy. He let the boy
give him orders, he let him disregard

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him. He said nothing and waited
daily. He began the mute struggle of

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friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva said nothing and waited friendly,

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knowing patient, they were both masters
of patience. At one time, when

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the boy's face reminded him very much
of Kamala, Siddartha suddenly had to think

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of a line which Kamala, a
long time ago, in the days of

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their youth, had once said to
him. You cannot love, she had

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said to him, And he had
agreed with her, and had compared himself

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to a star while comparing the childlike
people with falling leaves. And nevertheless,

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he had also sensed an accusation in
that line. Indeed, he had never

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been able to lose or devote himself
completely to another person, to forget himself,

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to commit foolish acts for the love
of another person. Never he had

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been able to do this. And
this was, as it seemed to him

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at that time, the great distinction
which set him apart from the childlike people.

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But now, since his son was
here, now, he said,

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Arthur had become completely a childlike person, suffering for the sake of another person,

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loving another person, lost to a
love, having become a fool on

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account of love. Now he too
felt late. Once in his lifetime,

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this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered from it, suffered miserably,

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and was nevertheless in bliss, was
nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by

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the one thing. He did sense
very well that his love, this blind

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love for his son, was a
passion, something very human, that it

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was censora, a murky source,
dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at

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the same time it was not worthless, It was necessary, came from the

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essence of his own being. This
pleasure also had to be atoned for.

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This pain also had to be endured. These foolish acts also had to be

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committed. Through all this the son
let him commit his foolish acts, let

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him court for his affection, let
him humiliate himself every day by giving in

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to his moods. This father had
nothing which could have delighted him, and

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nothing which he would have feared.
He was a good man, this father,

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a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man,

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perhaps a saint. All these were
no attributes which could win the boy over.

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He was bored by his father,
who kept him prisoner here in this

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miserable heart of his. He was
bored by him, And for him to

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answer every naughtiness with a smile,
every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with

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kindness. This very thing was the
hated trick of this old sneak. Much

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more the boy would have liked it
if he had been threatened by him,

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if he had been abused by him. A day came when what young Siddhartha

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had on his mind came bursting forth, and he openly turned against his father.

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The latter had given him a time
ask. He had told him to

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gather brushwood, but the boy did
not leave the hut. In stubborn disobedience

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and rage, he stayed where he
was, thumped on the ground with his

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feet, clenched his fists, and
screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and

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contempt into his father's face. Get
the brushwood for yourself, he shouted,

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foaming at the mouth. I'm not
your servant. I do know that you

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won't hit me, you don't dare. I do know that you constantly want

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to punish me and put me down
with your religious devotion and your indulgence.

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You want me to become like you, just as devout, just as soft,

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just as wise. But I listen
up just to make you suffer.

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I rather want to become a highway
robber and a murderer and to go to

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hell than to become like you.
I hate you. You're not my father,

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and if you've been ten times my
mother's fornicator. Rage and grief boiled

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over in him. Foamed at the
father in a hundred savage and evil words.

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Then the boy ran away and only
returned late at night. But the

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next morning he had disappeared. What
had also disappeared was a small basket woven

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out of bast of two colors,
in which the ferryman kept those copper and

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silver coins which they received as a
fair. The boat had also disappeared.

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Sid Arthur sort it lying by the
opposite bank. The boy had run away.

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I must follow him, said sid
Arthur, who had been shivering with

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grief since those ranting speeches the boy
had made yesterday. A child can't go

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through the forest all alone. He'll
perish. We must build a raft,

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Vasudeva, to get over the water. We will build a raft, said

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Vasudeva to get our boat back,
which the boy has taken away. But

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him, you shall let run along, my friend, he is no child

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any more. He knows how to
get around. He's looking for the path

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to the city, and he is
right. Don't forget that. He's doing

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what you've failed to do yourself.
He's taking care of himself. He's taking

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his course. Alas, said Arthur, I see you suffering, But you're

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suffering a pain at which one would
like to laugh, at which you'll soon

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laugh for yourself, said Arthur.
Did not answer. He already held the

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axe in his hands and began to
make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva

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helped him to tie the canes together
with ropes of grass. Then they crossed

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over, drifted far off their course, pulled the raft upriver on the opposite

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bank. Why did you take the
axe along, asked Siddhartha. Fasudeva said,

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it might have been possible that the
oar of our boat got lost.

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Patsiddhartha knew what his friend was thinking. He thought the boy would have thrown

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away or broken the oar in order
to get even and in order to keep

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them from following him. And in
fact there was no oar left in the

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boat. Fasudeva pointed at the bottom
of the boat and looked at his friend

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with a smile, as if he
wanted to say, don't you see what

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your son is trying to tell you? Don't you see that he doesn't want

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to be followed? But he did
not say this in words. He started

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making a new oar. Patsiddhartha bid
his farewell to look for the runaway.

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Fasudeva did not stop him. When
sid Arthur had already been walking through the

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forest for a long time, the
thought occurred to him that his search was

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useless, either so he thought the
boy was far ahead and had already reached

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the city, or if he should
still be on his way, he would

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conceal himself from him the pursuer.
As he continued thinking, he also found

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that he, on his part,
was not worried for his son, for

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he knew deep inside that he had
neither perished nor was in any danger in

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the forest. Nevertheless, he ran
without stopping, no longer to save him,

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just to satisfy his desire, just
to perhaps see him one more time,

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and he ran up to just outside
the city. When near the city,

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he reached a wide road. He
stopped by the entrance of the beautiful

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pleasure garden, which used to belong
to Camala, where he had seen her

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for the first time in her sedan
chair. The past rose up in his

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soul again. He saw himself standing
there, young a bearded, naked Samana,

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his hair full of dust. For
a long time, Saiddartha stood there

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and looked through the open gate into
the garden, seeing monks in yellow robes

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walking among the beautiful trees. For
a long time, he stood there,

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pondering, seeing images, listening to
the story of his life. For a

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long time, he stood there,
looked at the monks, saw young Sadartha

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in their place, saw young Kamala
walking among the high trees. Clearly,

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he saw himself being served food and
drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss

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from her, looking proudly and disdainfully
back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and

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full of desire his worldly life.
He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants,

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the orgies, the gamblers with the
dice, the musicians, saw Kamala's songbird

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in the cage live through all this
once again breathed sands. Sarah was once

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again old and tired, felt once
again disgust, felt once again the wish

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to annihilate himself, was once again
healed by the Holy Ome. After having

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been standing at the gate of the
garden for a long time, said Arthur,

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realized that his desire was foolish,
which had made him go up to

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this place, That he could not
help his son, that he was not

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allowed to clean him. Deeply.
He felt the love for the runaway in

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his heart like a wound. And
he felt at the same time that this

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wound had not been given to him
in order to turn the knife in it,

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that it had to become a blossom
and had to shine. That this

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wound did not blossom, yet did
not shine yet at this hour made him

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sad. Instead of the desired goal
which had drawn him here following the runaway

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sun, there was now emptiness.
Sadly, he sat down, felt something

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dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy anymore, no goal.

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He sat lost in thought and waited. This he had learned by the

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river, this one thing waiting,
having patience, listening attentively, and he

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sat and listened in the dust of
the road, listened to his heart beating

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tiredly and sadly waited for a voice. Many an hour he crouched listening,

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saw no images anymore, fell into
emptiness, let himself fall without seeing a

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path, and when he felt the
wound burning, he silently spoke the om

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filled himself with olm. The monks
in the garden saw him, and since

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he crouched there for many hours and
dust was gathering on his gray hair,

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one of them came to him and
placed two bananas in front of him.

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The old man did not see him. From this petrified state, he was

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awoken by a hand touching his shoulder. Instantly he recognized this touch, this

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tender, bashful touch, and regained
his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva,

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who had followed him. And when
he looked into Vasudeva's friendly face,

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into the small wrinkles, which were
as if they were filled with nothing but

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his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too. Now he

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saw the bananas lying in front of
him, picked them up, gave one

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to the ferryman ate the other one
himself. After this he silently went back

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into the forest with Vasudeva, returned
home to the fairy Neither one talked about

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what had happened to day. Neither
one mentioned the boy's name, neither one

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spoke about him running away, neither
one spoke about the wound In the hut.

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Siddhartha lay down on his bed,
and when after a while Vasudeva came

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to him to offer him a bowl
of cocoanut milk, he already found him

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asleep. End of chapter ten