The Son

by Hermann Hesse

　　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.