Chapter ten, The Son timid and weeping. The boy had attended his mother's
funeral, gloomy and shy. He had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him
as his son and welcomed him at his place in Vasadeva's hut Pale. He
sat for many days by the heel of the dead, did not want to
eat, gave no open look, did not open his heart. Met his
fate with resistance and denial. Said Arthur spared him and let him do as
he pleased. He honored his mourning SidD Arthur understood that his son did not
know him, that he could not love him like a father. Slowly,
he also saw and understood that the eleven year old was a pampered boy,
a mother's boy, and that he had grown up in the habits of rich
people, accustomed to finer food, to a soft bed, accustomed to giving
orders to servants. Sid Arthur understood that the mourning, pampered child could not
suddenly and willingly be content with a life amongst strangers and in poverty. He
did not force him. He did many a chore for him, always picked
the best piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win
him over by friendly patience, rich and happy, he had called himself when
the boy had come to him. Since time had passed on in the meanwhile,
and the boy remained a stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he
displayed a proud and stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work,
did not pay his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva's fruit
trees. Then sid Arthur began to understand that his son had not brought him
happiness and peace, but suffered ring 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 in the hut, the old man had split
the work Thasudeva had again taken on the job of the fairyman all by himself,
and said Arthur, in order to be with his son, did the
work in the hut and in the field for a long time. For long
months, said Arthur waited for his son to understand him, to accept his
love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For long months, Vasudeva waited, watching,
waited, and said nothing. One day when Siddartha. 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. I am talking to you. I am seeing that you
are tormenting yourself. I am seeing that you're in grief. Your son,
my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me. That
young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest. He
has not like you, run 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 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 our foolishness. Water wants to
join water. Youth wants to join youth. Your son is not in the
place where he can prosper. You too should ask the river. You too
should listen to it. Said Arthur looked into his friendly face in the many
wrinkles of which there was an incessant cheerfulness. How could I part with him,
he said, quietly, ashamed. Give me some more time, my
dear. See, I'm fighting for him. I'm seeking to win his heart
with love and with friendly patience. I intend to capture it. One day,
the river shall also talk to him. He also is called upon,
Thasudeva's smile flourished more warmly. Oh, yes, he too is called upon.
He too is of the eternal life. But do we you and me
know what he 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, his heart is proud and hard. People like this
have to suffer a lot, er a lot, do much injustice, burden
themselves with much sin. Tell me, my dear, you're not taking control
of your son's upbringing. You don't force 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,
stronger than rocks, love, stronger than force. Very good, I praise
you, But aren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn't
punish him. Don't you shackle him with your love? Don't you make him
feel in fear area every day? And don't you make it even harder on
him with your kindness and patience? Don't you force him, the arrogant and
pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana eaters, to
whom even rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts
are old and quiet and beats in a different pace than his. Isn't forced?
Isn't he punished? By all this? Troubled? Said Arthur, looked
to the ground quietly, he asked, what do you think I should do,
quoth Thasudeva. Bring him into the city, Bring him into his mother's
house. They'll still be servants around, give him to them, and when
there aren't any around anymore, bring him to a teacher, not for the
teaching sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among
girls, and in the world which is his own. Have you never thought
of this? You're seeing into my heart? Said Arthur, spoke sadly.
Often I have thought of this, But look, how shall I put him,
who had no tender heart anyhow, into this world? Won't he become
exuberant? Won't he lose himself to pleasure and power? Won't he repeat all
of his father's mistakes? Won't he perhaps get entirely lost in Sant Sarah?
Brightly the ferryman smile lit up softly. He touched said Arthur's arm and said,
ask the river about it, my friend, hear it, laugh about
it? Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts in order
to spare your son from committing them too? And could you in any way
protect your son from Sant Sarah? How could you by means of teachings,
prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely forgotten that story that story
containing so many lessons, That story about Siddartha a Brahman son, which you
once told me here on this very spot, Who has kept a Samana Siddartha
save from sansara, from sin, from greed, from foolishness? Were his
father's religious devotion, his teacher's 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 safe,
because you would like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment.
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 said Arthur, 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. Stronger than the knowledge was his love for
the boy. Stronger was his tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had
he ever lost his heart so much to something? Had he ever loved any
person thus thus blind kindly, thus sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus
happily. Siddartha could not heed his friend's 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 began the mute struggle of
friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva said nothing and waited friendly,
knowing patient, they were both masters of patience. At one time, when
the boy's face reminded him very much of Kamala, Siddartha 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 cannot love, she had
said to him, And he had agreed with her, and had compared himself
to a star while comparing the childlike people with falling leaves. And nevertheless,
he had also sensed an accusation in that line. Indeed, he had never
been able to lose or devote himself completely to another person, to forget himself,
to commit foolish acts for the love of another person. Never he had
been able to do this. And this was, as it seemed to him
at that time, the great distinction which set him apart from the childlike people.
But now, since his son was here, now, he said,
Arthur had become completely a childlike person, suffering for 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. Once in his lifetime,
this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered from it, suffered miserably,
and was nevertheless in bliss, was nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by
the one thing. He did sense very well that his love, this blind
love for his son, was a passion, something very human, that it
was censora, a murky source, dark waters. Nevertheless, 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 endured. These foolish acts also had to be
committed. Through all this the son let him commit his foolish acts, let
him court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving in
to his moods. This father had nothing which could 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 were no attributes which could win the boy over.
He was bored by his father, who kept him prisoner here in this
miserable heart 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 time ask. He had told him to
gather brushwood, but the boy did not leave the hut. In stubborn disobedience
and rage, he stayed where he was, thumped on the ground with his
feet, clenched his fists, and screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and
contempt into his father's face. Get the brushwood for yourself, he shouted,
foaming at the mouth. I'm not your servant. I do know that you
won't hit me, you don't dare. I do know that you constantly want
to punish me and put me down with your religious devotion and your indulgence.
You want me to become like you, just as devout, just as soft,
just as wise. But I listen up just to make you suffer.
I rather want to become a highway robber and a murderer and to go to
hell than to become like you. I hate you. You're not my father,
and if you've been ten times my mother's 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
next morning he had disappeared. What had also disappeared was a small basket woven
out of bast of two colors, in which the ferryman kept those copper and
silver coins which they received as a fair. The boat had also disappeared.
Sid Arthur sort it lying by the opposite bank. The boy had run away.
I must follow him, said sid Arthur, who had been shivering with
grief since those ranting speeches the boy had made yesterday. A child can't go
through the forest all alone. He'll 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. He's looking for the path
to the city, and he is right. Don't forget that. He's doing
what you've failed to do yourself. He's taking care of himself. He's taking
his course. Alas, said Arthur, I see you suffering, But you're
suffering a pain at which one would like to laugh, at which you'll soon
laugh for yourself, said Arthur. Did not answer. He already held the
axe in his hands and began to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva
helped him to tie the canes 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. Fasudeva said,
it might have been possible that the oar of our boat got lost.
Patsiddhartha 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. Fasudeva pointed at the bottom of the boat and looked at his friend
with a smile, as if he wanted to say, don't you see what
your son is trying to tell you? Don't you see that he doesn't want
to be followed? But he did not say this in words. He started
making a new oar. Patsiddhartha bid his farewell to look for the runaway.
Fasudeva did not stop him. When sid Arthur 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
conceal himself from him the pursuer. As he continued thinking, he also found
that he, on his part, was not worried for his son, for
he knew deep inside that he had neither perished nor was in any danger in
the forest. Nevertheless, he ran 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 the city. When near the city,
he reached a wide road. He stopped by the entrance of the beautiful
pleasure garden, which used to belong to Camala, 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,
his hair full of dust. For a long time, Saiddartha 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,
pondering, seeing images, listening to the story of his life. For a
long time, he stood there, looked at the monks, saw young Sadartha
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 back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and
full of desire his worldly life. He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants,
the orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala's songbird
in the cage live through all this once again breathed sands. Sarah 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 Ome. After having
been standing at the gate of the garden for a long time, said Arthur,
realized 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 clean him. Deeply. He felt the love for the runaway 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 become 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 here following the runaway
sun, 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 learned by the
river, this one thing waiting, having patience, listening attentively, and he
sat and listened in the dust of the road, listened to his heart beating
tiredly and sadly waited for a voice. Many an hour he crouched listening,
saw no images anymore, fell into emptiness, let himself fall without seeing a
path, and when he felt the wound burning, he silently spoke the om
filled himself with olm. The monks in the garden saw him, and since
he crouched there 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 touching his shoulder. Instantly he recognized this touch, this
tender, bashful touch, and regained his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva,
who had followed him. And when he looked into Vasudeva's 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 one
to the ferryman ate the other one himself. After this he silently went back
into the forest with Vasudeva, returned home to the fairy Neither one talked about
what had happened to day. Neither one mentioned the boy's name, neither one
spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about the wound In the hut.
Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after a while Vasudeva came
to him to offer him a bowl of cocoanut milk, he already found him
asleep. End of chapter ten