By the River

by Hermann Hesse

　　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.