Siddhartha (Wisehouse Classics Edition)

Hermann Hesse, David Wyllie

• Publisher: Wisehouse Classics
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9789176375501
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Buddhism

Siddhartha is a novel by Hermann Hesse that deals with the spiritual journey of self-discovery of a man named Siddhartha during the time of the Gautama Buddha. The book, Hesse's ninth novel, was written in German, in a simple, lyrical style. It was published in the U.S. in 1951 and became influential during the 1960s. Hesse dedicated the first part of it to Romain Rolland and the second part to Wilhelm Gundert, his cousin.The word Siddhartha is made up of two words in Sanskrit language, siddha (achieved) + artha (what was searched for), which together means "he who has found meaning (of existence)" or "he who has attained his goals." In fact, the Buddha's own name, before his renunciation, was Siddhartha Gautama, Prince of Kapilavastu. In this book, the Buddha is referred to as "Gotama". (more on www.wisehouse-publishing.com)

PART ONE

Dedicated to my revered friend, Romain Rolland

THE BRAHMIN'S SON

I

n the shade of the house, in the sunshine on the river bank where the boats were, in the shade of the forest of shala trees, in the shade of the fig tree, this is where Siddhartha grew up, the brahmin's most handsome son, the young falcon, alongside his friend Govinda, the brahmin's son. His pale shoulders were bronzed by the sunshine on the river bank, when he was bathing, when performing ceremonious ablutions, when making holy sacrifices. Shadow flowed into his dark eyes in the mango groves, when playing boyish games, when his mother sang, when he talked with the wise ones. Siddhartha spent many hours in conversation with the wise ones, he practised his skills of rhetoric with Govinda, practised the art of thought with Govinda, in order to achieve mystic contemplation. He was already able to utter the holy word, Om, in silence, the word of words, in silence to utter it and draw it in with his breath, in silence to utter it and send it out with his breath, his mind collected, his brow surrounded with the light of the clear-thinking soul. He was already able to understand, in his innermost being, the nature of Atman, indestructible, at one with the universe.

Joy sprang up in his father's heart when he saw his son, the learned one, the one with a thirst for knowledge, joy sprang up when he foretold that he would grow into a wise man and a priest, a prince among the brahmins.

Bliss sprang up in his mother's breast when she saw her son, when she saw him walk, when she saw him sit down and stand up, Siddhartha, the strong one, the handsome one, walking on his slender legs, when, with perfect decorum, he her offered her his greetings.

Love was stirred in the hearts of the brahmins' daughters when they saw Siddhartha walk through the streets of the town, his luminous brow, the eyes of a king, his narrow hips.

But the one who loved him more than all the others was Govinda, his friend, the brahmin's son. He loved Siddhartha's eyes and his noble voice, he loved his walk and the perfect grace of his movements, he loved everything that Siddhartha did or said, and most of all he loved his soul, his lofty and fiery thoughts, the bright glow of his will, his lofty vocation. Govinda knew that Siddhartha would never become a mediocre brahmin, no lazy officiator of sacrifices, no greedy peddler of magic spells, no rhetorician of vain and empty speech, no sly or malevolent priest, and also never become a good but stupid sheep in the flock of many. No, and he too, Govinda, had no wish to become one such, not one of those brahmans that are numbered in their thousands. He wanted to be a follower of Siddhartha, the beloved, the noble. And if Siddhartha ever became a god, if he ever went to join the luminous ones, then Govinda would follow him, as his friend, as his companion, as his servant, as his spear carrier, his shadow.

Everyone loved Siddhartha in the same way. To everyone he brought joy.

To himself, though, Siddhartha did not bring joy. Wandering between the roses in the fig garden, sitting in the bluish shade in the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs in his daily act of atonement, performing sacrifice in the dark shade of the mango wood, all his movements as they should be, loved by all, joy to all, he nonetheless carried no joy in his own heart. Tears came to him, restless thoughts came to him from the water of the river as it flowed, from the stars of the night as they sparkled, from the rays of the Sun as they blazed, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, from the smoke of his sacrifices, from the verses of the Rig Veda as he breathed them, from the teachings of the ancient brahmins as they seeped into him.

Siddhartha had begun to nurture discontent in himself. He had begun to feel that his father's love, and his mother's love, and the love of his friend, Govinda, would not always and for all time bring him happiness, calm him, satisfy him, be enough for him. He had begun to see that his venerable father and his other teachers, the wise brahmins, had already given him almost all of their wisdom, all the best of their wisdom, that their fullness had already been poured into his vessel, receptive and ready to accept it, and that the vessel was not full, the spirit was not satisfied, the soul was not quieted, the heart was not at peace. The washings were good, but they were water, they did not wash sins away, they did not assuage the thirst of the soul, they did not dispell the pain of the heart. Most important of all were the sacrifices and the call of the gods—but was that all? Did the sacrifices bring happiness? And how did the gods feel about that? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not Atman, him, the only one, the all-in-one? Were the gods not forms that had been created like you and me, subject to time, mortal? So was it good to make sacrifice to the gods, was it proper, was it a meaningful and elevated act? Whom else would you make sacrifice to, whom else should you offer your veneration to other than Him, the one and only, Atman? And where was Atman to be found, where did He live, where did His eternal heart beat, where else but in the Self, in the Deepest, in the Indestructible that every man carried in himself? But where, where was this Self, this Deepest, this Ultimate? It was not made of flesh and bone, it was not thought or consciousness, that is was the wisest men taught. Where, where was it then? To pierce through to the Self, to me, to Atman—was there any other way worth seeking out? But no-one showed him this way, no-one knew it, not his father, not his teachers or the wise men, not the sacred songs of sacrifice! They knew everything, the brahmins and their holy books, knew everything, they had made great efforts into everything and into more than everything, the creation of the world, the origins of speech, food, breathing in and breathing out, the hierarchy of sins, the acts of the gods—their knowledge was boundless—but was it worth knowing all of this when there was one single thing they did not know, the thing of highest importance, the only thing of importance?

It was true that many verses in the holy scriptures, magnificent verses such as the Upanishads of the Samaveda, spoke of this deepest and ultimate thing. "Your soul is the entire world," was written there, and it was written that man in his sleep, deep sleep, enters into his deepest part and lives in Atman. Great wisdom was written in these verses, all the knowledge of the wisest was collected here and presented in words of magic, as pure as the honey collected from the bees. No, the enormous amount of knowledge here, assembled and preserved through countless generations of wise brahmins, was not to be under-valued.—but where were the brahmins, where were the priests, where were the wise men and the penitents who had succeeded not only in learning this deepest wisdom but in living it? Where was the gifted one who, by his magic, would draw the essence of Atman out of its sleep and make it alert, something that was alive in its coming and going, in word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable brahmins, most of all he knew his father, the pure one, the learned one, the most venerable of all. His father was an admirable man, quiet and noble in his manner, pure his life, wise his words, in his brow lived fine and noble thoughts—but even he, who had so much knowledge; Did he live in holiness, was he at peace, was he, too, not just another seeker, just another thirsty one? Did he not, over and again, need to go to the well to assuage his thirst, did he not need to make sacrifice, read books and debate his beliefs with the brahmins? Why did he, the immaculate one, need to wash his sins away every day, strive to become pure every day, every day again and again? Was Atman not a part of him, did the source not flow into his heart? The source of all things had to be found, the source within us all, it had to be taken into ourselves! All else was mere seeking, mere straying from the path, mere delusion.

These were the thoughts of Siddhartha, this was his thirst, this was his sorrow.

He would often recite the words from one of the Chandogya Upanishads: "Forsooth, the name of Brahman is Satyam—forsooth, he who knows such things goeth daily into the world of Heaven". The world of Heaven often seemed near to him, but he had never quite been able to reach it, never been able to quench the ultimate thirst. And from all the wise men he knew, even from the wisest of all, whose teachings he enjoyed, there was not one who ever had quite reached it, the world of Heaven, which would have quenched the ultimate thirst for him.

"Govinda," said Siddhartha to his friend, "Govinda, dear friend, come with me under the banyan tree, we have to nurture our skill of contemplation".

They went to the Banyan tree, they sat down beneath it, Siddhartha here and, twenty paces away, sat Govinda. As he sat down in preparedness to utter the word 'Om', Siddhartha repeatedly muttered the verse:

Om is the bow, the arrow is the soul,

Brahman is the arrow's goal,

The goal to reach directly.

After they had practised contemplation for their usual length of time Govinda stood. The evening had come, it was time to wash in preparation for the evening. He called out Siddhartha's name. Siddhartha gave no answer. Siddhartha sat deep in contemplation, his eyes were fixed on a greatly distant object, the tip of his tongue protruded slightly from between his teeth, he seemed not to be breathing. So he sat, engrossed in contemplation, his mind fixed on Om, his soul as the arrow sent out to Brahman.

One day Samanas came through the town where Siddhartha lived, travelling ascetics, three men wizened and close to death, neither old nor young, their shoulders were bloody and dusty, they were nearly naked and they were scorched by the sun, an air of loneliness about them, alien to this world and the enemy of the world, strangers, emaciated jackals in the empire of man. The odour of quiet suffering blew in from behind them, of service that destroyed, of pitiless loss of self.

That evening, after their hour of contemplation, Siddhartha said to Govinda, "Tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the samanas. He will become a samana."

When Govinda heard these words and saw the unshakable resolution in his friend's face he turned pale. Siddhartha could no more be dissuaded from his course than the arrow speeding from the bow. Just as soon as he saw this, Govinda knew that this was where it started, Siddhartha would now go on his way, now his destiny would begin to grow, and with Siddhartha's destiny so would Govinda's. And he became as pale as a dried banana skin.

Oh, Siddhartha," he exclaimed, "will your father allow that?"

Siddhartha looked back at him as one who was awakening. With the speed of an arrow he saw the fear, saw the resignation in Govinda's soul.

"Oh, Govinda," he said gently, "let us not waste words. Tomorrow, at the break of day, I will embark on the life of a samana. Let us talk no more about it."

Siddhartha went into the room where his father sat on a raffia mat and stood behind him until his father could feel that he was there....