Sansara

Sidarta je već dugo živeo životom sveta, životom naslade, a da ipak nije istinski učestvovao u njemu. Ponovo su se u njemu probudila čula ugušivana onih žarkih godina provedenih kod samana, okusio je izobilje, okusio je sladostrasna uživanja i moć, ali uprkos svemu u srcu je dugo i dalje ostao samana i mudra Kamala je to jasno prozrela. Još uvek je njegovim životom upravljala sklonost i veština da razmišlja, da čeka i da posti, ovozemaljski ljudi - detinji ljudi - još uvek su mu bili tuđi, kao što je i on njima bio tuđ.
 
Godine su prolazile, a, uljuljkan blagostanjem, Sidarta gotovo i nije osetio kako odmiču. Obogatio se i već odavno je imao svoju kuću, vlastite sluge i svoj gaj na kraju grada, pored reke. Ljudi su ga voleli i dolazili k njemu kad god im je bio potreban novac ili savet, ali, osim Kamale niko mu nije bio blizak.
 
Ono uzvišeno stanje posvećene budnosti, koje je doživeo jednom u cvetu mladosti i drugi put u danima posle Gotamine propovedi, nakon rastanka sa Govindom, ono napeto iščekivanje, ponosna osama, bez potrebe za učenjem i učiteljem, ona živahna spremnost da čuje božanski glas u sopstvenom srcu - vremenom se pretvorilo u sećanje, sve se pokazalo prolaznim; veoma daleko i jedva čujno je žuborio sveti izvor, koji je nekad bio tako blizu i žuborio u njemu samom. Zacelo, on je još dugo nosio u sebi mnogo od onoga što je naučio od samana, od Gotame, od svog oca i bramana: da živi umereno, da razmišlja, da tone u meditacije, da hrani u sebi skrivena saznanja o svom biću, o večnom ja, koje nije ni telo ni svest. Mnogo je od toga nosio u sebi, ali, jedno po jedno, saznanja su potonula, prekrila ih je prašina. Kao što se grnčarsko kolo, kada se jednom stavi u pokret, još dugo okreće i tek lagano usporava hod da bi se najzad zaustavilo, tako se i u Sidartinoj duši još dugo okretao točak askeze, točak razmišljanja i razaznavanja, još se sve to kovitlalo u njemu, ali sporije, zapinjući i sve bliže zastoju. Lagano, kao što vlaga prodire u panj koji odumire, polako ga puni i izaziva truljenje, prodirali su u Sidartinu dušu svet i otupelost, ispunivši je osećanjem tegobe, umora i učmalosti. Ali, zauzvrat su oživela njegova čula, koja su mnogo šta naučila, stekla mnoga iskustva.
 
Sidarta je naučio da trguje, da vlada ljudima, da uživa sa ženom, naučio je da se lepo odeva, da naređuje slugama, da se kupa u mirišljavoj vodi. Naučio je da jede probrana i brižljivo pripremljena jela, štaviše, jeo je i ribu, meso i pticu, navikao je na razne začine i slatkiše, da pije vino koje otupljuje i donosi zaborav. Naučio je i igru kockama i igru na šahovskoj tabli, naučio je da posmatra ples igračica, da ga nose u nosiljci, da spava na mekoj postelji. Ali, još uvek je smatrao sebe drugačijim od ostalih, gledao je na njih sa primesom podsmeha, sa podrugljivim prezirom koji svaki samana oseća prema ljudima iz sveta. Sidarta je i na Kamasvamija gledao podrugljivo kad god bi bolovao, ljutio se, osećao se uvređenim, ili kad bi ga mučile trgovačke brige. Postepeno i neprimetno, uporedo sa smenom doba žetve i doba kiše, njegov podsmeh je posustajao, a nadmoć jenjavala. Malo-pomalo, Sidarta je, okružen sve većim bogatstvom, i sam počeo da poprima ponešto od ljudi detinjeg uma, primao njihove detinjaste težnje i strepnje. Pa ipak im je zavideo, i što je više postajao sličan njima utoliko je više rasla njegova zavist. Zavideo im je na svemu onome što je njemu nedostajalo, a njima bilo svojstveno: na značenju koje su pridavali sopstvenom životu, na žaru koji su unosili u svoja uživanja i strepnje, na plašljivoj, ali slatkoj, sreći koju im je pružala njihova večita zaljubljenost. Jer, ljudi su bili neprekidno zaljubljeni: u sebe same, u svoje žene, u svoju decu, u počasti ili u novac, u svoje planove i nade. Sidarta, međutim, baš to nije naučio od njih, svu tu detinju radost; naučio je od njih ono što je bilo neprijatno, što je i sam prezirao. Sve češće se događalo da se jutrom, posle večeri provedenih u društvu, beskrajno izležavao, osećajući se prazan i izmožden. Događalo se da se ljutio i negodovao što mu Kamasvami dosađuje svojim brigama. Događalo se da se isuviše bučno smeje kada bi gubio na kocki. U poređenju sa drugima njegovo lice je još uvek delovalo mudro i produhovljeno, ali se na njemu retko pojavljivao osmeh i postepeno je poprimalo crte koje se često vide na licu bogataša, crte koje su odraz nezadovoljstva, slabog zdravlja, mrzovolje, otupelosti i odsustva ljubavi. Malo-pomalo, duša mu je obolela od bolesti koja mori bogate ljude.
 
Zamor je obavijao Sidartu kao koprena, kao retka magla koja je iz dana u dan postajala sve gušća, iz meseca u mesec sve tmurnija, a iz godine u godinu sve teža. Kao što novo ruho vremenom postaje staro, gubi lepu boju, isprlja se i izgužva, iskrza na porubima, tkanina se izliže i iz nje vire konci potke, tako je počeo da se haba i Sidartin život posle rastanka sa Govindom; sa godinama koje su prolazile gubio je boju i sjaj, pojavile su se brazde i malje, prikrivajući se, tu i tamo bi iz potke provirili i vrebali razočarenje i gađenje. Sidartinom oku je to promaklo. Primećivao je jedino da je umukao jasni i odlučni glas, koji se nekada davno javio u njemu i uvek ga pratio u najboljim danima. 
 
Počeo je da robuje svetu, odao se nasladi, pohoti, otupelosti i, naposletku, još i poroku koji je - smatrajući ga najbudalastijim od svih - oduvek najviše prezirao i ismevao: gramzivosti. Postao je rob stremljenja za posedom i bogatstvom, i to više nisu za njega bile igre i tričarije, već okov i teret. U tu poslednju i nedostojnu zavisnost Sidarta je dospio neobičnim i podmuklim putem kroz kocku. Oa vremena u kome je u srcu prestao biti samana, Sidarta je počeo da se kocka u novac i dragocenosti i, dok je ranije u toj igri učestvovao smešeći se i uzgred, smatrajući je kao naviku ljudi detinjeg uma, sad joj se odavao sve žešće i strasnije. Bio je igrač od kojeg su ostali zazirali - mali je bio broj onih koji bi smogli hrabrost da se kockaju s njim, toliko su njegovi ulozi bili visoki i smeli. Sidarta se kockao gonjen teškim jadom u srcu, pričinjavalo mu je jetko zadovoljstvo da prokocka i proćerda bedne pare, ne mogavši ni na koji način jasnije da iskaže koliko prezire novac - idol trgovaca. Zato se kockao u velike svote bespoštedno, mrzeći sebe i rugajući se sebi zgrtao je i bacao hiljade, prokockao je novac, prokockao adiđare i jedan svoj letnjikovac, da bi zatim dobio i ponovo sve izgubio na kocki. Uživao je u strepnji, silnoj strepnji od koje mu se srce ledilo dok se kockao u visoke uloge, uživajući u njoj želeo je da je obnovi, da pojača golicavi izazov, jer je još jednom u tom osećanju nalazio nešto nalik na sreću, neku vrstu zanosa, nagoveštaj uzvišenog života nasuprot sopstvenom zasićenom, mlakom i bljutavom postojanju. I posle svakog većeg gubitka smišljao je kako da stekne nova bogatstva, bacao se još žustrije na trgovinu, terajući dužnike neumoljivom strogošću da namire svoj dug, a sve to samo da bi se ponovo kockao, rasipao i na taj način iskazao sav svoj prezir prema bogatstvu. Sidarta više nije primao gubitak ravnodušno, više nije bio dobrodušan prema prosjacima, niti je bio raspoložen da raznim moliocima poklanja i pozajmljuje novac. On, koji bi jednim bacanjem kocke smejući se proigrao i deset hiljada, postao je u trgovini strog i sitničav, a noću je katkad sanjao novac! I kad god bi se povratio iz te opake opčinjenosti, kad bi u ogledalu svoje spavaće sobe otkrio da mu je lice ostarilo i poružnelo, kad god bi ga obuzelo osećanje stida i gađenja, tražio bi izlaz u kockanju, opijao se bludom i vinom, da bi zatim ponovo podlegao nagonu da nagomilava i stiče novac. U toj besmislenoj trci ukrug umorio se, ostario i oboleo.

U to vreme usnio je san koji je protumačio kao opomenu. Toga dana proveo je večernje časove kod Kamale, u njenom divnom gaju. Sedeli su pod drvećem i ćaskali, a Kamala je zamišljeno izgovarala reči iza kojih su se krili seta i umor. Zamolila ga je da joj priča o Gotami i nije mogla sita da se nasluša koliko čistote izbija iz njegovog pogleda, kako su mu usta spokojna i lepa, a osmeh zrači dobrotom, kako mu je smiren hod. Morao je da joj priča dugo o uzvišenom Budi, a Kamala je uzdisala i rekla:
 
- Jednom, a možda već uskoro, i ja ću postati sledbenica Bude. Pokloniću mu svoj gaj i naći utočište u njegovom učenju.
 
Ali, nakon toga počela je da ga draži i da ga u ljubavnoj igri privija uza se bolnom žestinom, da ga ujeda oblivena suzama, kao da je iz te puste, prolazne strasti još jednom htela da iscedi i poslednju slatku kap. Sidartu nikad pre toga nije tako duboko prostrelilo saznanje koliko su sladostrast i smrt srodne. Ispružio se zatim kraj nje i zagledao iz neposredne blizine u Kamalino lice, - oko njenih očiju i uglova usana video je jasno ispisane znake strepnje, znamenja od tamnih linija i rasplinutih brazdi koja su podsećala na jesen i starost, kao što je Sidarta i sam, mada tek u četrdesetim godinama, tu i tamo već otkrivao sede vlasi u svojoj crnoj kosi. Umor je bio ispisan na Kamalinom licu, umor od dugog hodanja putem koji nije vodio radosnom cilju, umor i početak precvata, i skriveni, još neiskazani i možda nesvesni strah od starosti, strah od jeseni, strah od smrti. S uzdahom se oprostio od nje, duše pune nezadovoljstva i skrivene zebnje. 
 
Noć je Sidarta zatim proveo u svojoj kući sa plesačicama i uz vino, izigravajući pred zvanicama nadmoć koju više nije osećao, popio je mnogo vina i ponoć je odavno prošla kada je otišao na počinak. Umoran, pa ipak uzburkan, tek što nije zaplakao od očajanja a san mu dugo nije dolazio na oči. Srce mu se ispunilo jadom, koji mu se učinio nepodnošljiv, gađenjem koje ga je prožimalo kao i mučnina od mlakog i odvratnog ukusa vina, od ogavno sladunjave i jednolične muzike, od bljutavo nežnih osmeha plesačica i preslatkog mirisa koji se širio iz njihovih grudi i kose. Ali, najviše od svega se gadio sam sebe, svoje mirišljave kose, vonja vina iz svojih usta, svoje mlitave, umorne i prezasićene puti. Kad neko pretera sa jelom i pićem i s mukom povraća, naposletku ipak oseća zadovoljstvo što mu je laknulo; tako je i on lišen sna, pod plahovitom navalom gađenja poželeo da se oslobodi uživanja, stečenih navika, celog svog besmislenog života i samog sebe. Zadremao je tek u osvit zore, kada je svet idući za svojim poslovima promicao ulicom ispred njegove kuće u gradu, utonuvši ošamućen u neku vrstu nagoveštaja sna. Tog trenutka je usnio san:
 
Kamala je u zlatnom kavezu držala malu, veoma retku pticu pevačicu. Sanjao je o njoj. Sanjao je da je umukla ona koja je inače u jutarnjim časovima uvek pevala, i kako mu je to palo u oči prišao je kavezu i bacivši pogled ugledao ptičicu, mrtvu i ukočenu. Izvukavši je, za trenutak je odmeravao njenu težinu na dlanu i odmah zatim izbacio na ulicu, ali se u taj mah toliko uplašio, srce ga je zabolelo tako silno, jer mu se učinilo da je sa tom mrtvom pticom odbacio od sebe sve što je dragoceno i dobro.
 
Trgnuvši se iz ovog sna, osetio je da ga obuzima duboka tuga. Učinilo mu se da je vodio bezvredan život, pust i besmislen; u rukama mu nije ostalo ništa što je živo, što bi na neki način bilo dragoceno ili vredno da se sačuva. Ostao je sam i bez ičega, kao brodolomnik na žalu.
 
U mračnom raspoloženju Sidarta je pošao u svoj gaj i zatvorivši vratnice za sobom seo ispod mangoovog drveta, osećajući smrt u srcu i grozu u nedrima; sedeo je tako, svestan da mu duša umire, da vene, da mu je došao kraj. Malo-pomalo se pribirao i u mislima još jednom prevalio ceo svoj životni put, od prvoga dana svojih uspomena. Kada li je doživeo sreću, osetio istinsko ushićenje? Oh da, više puta je to doživljavao. U dečačkim godinama, kada bi stekao pohvale bramana, kada bi se istakao u recitovanju svetih stihova, ostavivši svoje vršnjake daleko iza sebe u raspravama sa naučnicima, ili pomažući pri prinošenju žrtvi. Tada je svim svojim srcem osećao: - Pred tobom se nalazi put za koji si pozvan, bogovi te očekuju. - I kasnije opet kao mladić, kada ga je cilj svih razmišljanja vodio do sve većih visina, izdvojio i poneo iz jata onih koji su gajili ista stremljenja, kada se u mukama borio da dokuči misao bramana, a svako stečeno saznanje u njemu raspirilo novu žeđ, eto, tada je u toj žeđi i u tim mukama osetio isto: - Dalje! Dalje! Ti si pozvan! - To je bio glas koji je čuo kada je napustio zavičaj i odabrao život samana, a i kada je od samana otišao i pošao Savršenom, a zatim odatle krenuo u neizvesno. Oh, kako dugo nije čuo taj glas, kako dugo već nije dospeo ni do kakve visine, kako je jednoličan i jalov bio njegov put dugi niz godina, bez uzvišenog cilja, bez žeđi, bez uzdizanja, a zadovoljavao se malim nasladama, pa ipak nikad zadovoljan! Za sve ove godine on je, i ne znajući, nastojao i žudio da bude čovek kao toliki drugi, sličan toj deci, a pri tom je njegov život bio mnogo bedniji i siromašniji od njihovog, jer njihovi ciljevi nisu bili i njegovi, kao ni njihove brige, a sav taj svet ljudi sličnih Kamasvamiju za njega je bila samo igra, ples koji posmatramo, komedija. Jedino mu je Kamala bila draga i dragocena - ali, da li još uvek? Da li mu je ona još bila potrebna, ili on njoj? Nisu li oboje igrali igru koja nema kraja? Da li je trebalo živeti za to? Ne, nipošto! Ta igra se zvala sansara, bila je to igra za decu, možda je bilo prijatno igrati je jedanput, dvaput, deset puta - ali stalno i neprekidno iznova?
 
Sidarta je tada znao da je igra završena, da više ne može da učestvuje u njoj. Podiđoše ga žmarci, osetio je da je u njemu samom nešto umrlo.
 
Celog tog dana sedeo je ispod mangoovog drveta, sećajući se svog oca, sećajući se Govinde, sećajući se Gotame. Zar ih je morao napustiti da bi postao sličan Kamasvamiju? Sedeo je tako i kada se noć već spustila. Podigavši pogled i ugledavši zvezde, pomislio je: - Evo me gde sedim ispod svog mangoovog drveta, u svom gaju. - Malko se nasmešio - da li ie bilo nužno, da li je bilo ispravno i zar nije bila samo luckasta igra to što poseduje mangoovo drvo, što ima svoj vrt?
 
I tome je došao kraj, i to je umrlo u njemu. Ustao je i oprostio se od mangoovog drveta, oprostio od vrta. Kako celoga dana ništa nije jeo spopala ga je žestoka glad i on se seti svoje kuće u gradu, svoje odaje i postelje, trpeze pune jela. Nasmešio se umorno i stresavši se oprostio sa svim tim stvarima.
 
U taj isti noćni čas Sidarta je napustio svoj vrt, napustio grad i nikada se više nije vratio. Dugo je Kamasvami tragao za njim, misleći da je pao u razbojničke ruke. Kamala nije tragala za njim. Kada je saznala da je Sidarta nestao, nije se začudila. Nije li to oduvek očekivala? Zar on nije bio samana, beskućnik, večiti putnik? A najviše je to osetila prilikom njihovog poslednjeg sastanka, pa se usred tuge zbog gubitka radovala što ga je poslednji put tako usrdno privila na svoje srce, što je još jednom osetila da mu pripada sva, da je sva prožimana njime.
 
Kada je stigla prva vest o Sidartinom nestanku, prišla je prozoru na kome je u zlatnom kavezu držala retku pticu pevačicu. Otvorila je vrata kaveza , izvadila pticu i pustila da poleti. Dugo je pogledom pratila let ptice. Od toga dana ona više nije primala posete i zatvorila je vrata svoje kuće. Ali, posle nekog vremena znala je da je prilikom poslednjeg sastanka sa Sidartom ostala bremenita. 

Na reci

Sidarta je prolazio šumom već daleko od grada, a znao je samo jedno: da mu nema povratka, da je život koji je godinama vodio otišao u nepovrat, da ga je do odvratnosti iskusio i iscrpeo. Mrtva je bila ptica pevačica o kojoj je sanjao. Mrtva je bila i ptica u njegovom srcu. Duboko se zapleo u sansaru, upio je u sebe sa svih strana gađenje i smrt, kao što sunđer upija vodu dok se ne napuni. Bio je prezasićen, pun jada, pun smrti, više ničega nije bilo u svetu što bi ga privuklo, obradovalo, što bi moglo da mu pruži utehu.
 
Žarko je želeo da više ne zna za sebe, da stekne mir, da bude mrtav. Kada bi grom hteo da ga spali! Kada bi naišao tigar i rastrgao ga! Kada bi bar postojalo vino, neki otrov kojim bi se opio i došao do zaborava i sna da se više ne probudi! Da li je postojala prljavština kojom se nije opteretio? Zar se moglo živeti i dalje? Zar se moglo i dalje disati, uvek nanovo udisati i izdisati vazduh, osećati glad i ponovo jesti, ponovo spavati, ponovo ležati kraj žene? Zar to trčanje ukrug još nije bilo iscrpljeno i okončano?
 
Sidarta je stigao do velike reke u šumi, one iste reke preko koje ga ie jednom prevezao splavar, u vreme kada je još bio mladić i dolazio iz grada Gotame. Na toj reci se zaustavio i oklevajući stajao na obali. Malaksao je od umora i gladi, uostalom - čemu bi služilo da ide dalje, kakvom cilju? Ne, ciljeva više nije bilo, ničeg više nije bilo osim duboke, bolne čežnje, da se otarasi tog pustog sna, da povrati bljutavo vino, da okonča ovaj bedni i sramni život.
 
Nad obalom reke nadvilo se kokosovo stablo, Sidarta se ramenima oslonio na nj' i obujmivši ga rukama zagledao se u zelenu vodu koja je neprekidno proticala pred njim; netremice je gledao u talase i otkrio da je sav obuzet željom da se opusti i da utone u tu struju. U njoj je video odraz užasne pustoši, kao odgovor na strašnu prazninu u sopstvenoj duši. Zacelo, stigao je do kraja. Za njega više ništa nije postojalo osim da sam sebe uništi, da razbije promašenu tvorevinu svog života, da je baci pred noge bogovima koji mu se grohotom smeju. To je bio cilj silovitog povraćanja za kojim je žudeo: smrt i razbijanje kalupa koji je mrzeo! Neka ribe požderu to pseto, Sidartu, tog bezumnika. to iskvareno i trulo telo, tu posustalu i zloupotrebljavanu dušu! Neka ga požderu ribe i krokodili, neka ga demoni raskomadaju.
 
Izobličena lica zurio je u vodu i pljunuo ugledavši odraz svoga lika. Smrtno umoran odvojio je ruke od stabla i okrenuo se sa namerom da se baci u talase, da najzad potone. Padao je zatvorenih očiju u susret smrti.
 
U taj mah u zabačenim predelima njegove duše, iz prošlosti njegovog premorenog života odjeknu glas. Bila je to jedna reč, jedan slog koji je bez ijedne misli promucao u sebi, staru početnu i završnu reč svih bramanskih molitvi, sveti »om«, koji znači »savršenost«, ili »potpunost«. I u trenutku u kome do Sidartinog uva dopre glas koji izgovori »om«, njegov usnuli duh se namah razbudi i on shvati da je njegova namera bezumna.
 
Sidarta se prenerazi. Evo, šta se zbilo s njim, bio je tako izgubljen, zabludeo i lišen svih saznanja da je hteo da potraži smrt, da je u njemu mogla sazreti ova želja, toliko detinjasta želja, da nađe mir uništivši svoje telo! Sva patnja ovih dana, otrežnjenje i očajanje nisu mogle da urode plodom koji mu je doneo trenutak u kome je »om« dopro do njegove svesti i on u magnovenju spoznao svoju bedu i zabludu.
 
- Om! - izgovorio je tiho. - Om! - I bi svestan bramana, i bi svestan da je život neuništiv i svestan svega božanskog bačenog u zaborav.
 
Ali, to je bio samo tren, blesak munje. Sidarta se sručio u podnožje kokosovog drveta, položio glavu na koren stabla i utonuo u dubok san.
 
Spavao je duboko i bez snova, odavno već nije znao za takav san. Kada se nakon mnogih časova probudio, učinilo mu se da je prošlo deset godina. Čuo je tihi žubor vode, ali nije znao gde se nalazi i kako je dospeo ovamo, otvorivši oči začudio se drveću i nebu nad glavom, setivši se najzad gde se nalazi i kako je ovamo došao. Ali, kako je tek nakon dužeg vremena došao do saznanja, prošlost mu se učinila kao prekrivena nekom koprenom, beskrajno daleka, beskrajno strana i ravnodušna. Znao je samo da je napustio svoj raniji život (u prvi mah, kada se osvestio, raniji život mu se učinio kao davno minulo nekadašnje ovaploćenje, kao ranije rođenje njegovog sadašnjeg ja) - da je hteo da ga odbaci pun gađenja i jada, ali je zatim, kraj neke reke, ispružen ispod kokosovog drveta, došao k sebi sa svetom reči »om« na usnama, da je posle toga zaspao i da sada razbuđen i kao preporođen posmatra svet oko sebe. Tiho je izgovorio reč »om« sa kojom je zaspao, pa mu se učinilo da njegov dugi san nije bio ništa drugo već samo dugotrajno, zadubljeno izgovaranje oma, misao prožeta omom, uranjanje i potpuno poniranje u om, u bezimeno, u savršeno.
 
Kako je bio čudesan njegov san! Nikada ga spavanje nije tako okrepilo, preporodilo i podmladilo! Možda je uistini umro, potonuo i sada se ponovo rodio u nekom novom liku? Ali ne, poznavao je on sebe, svoju ruku i svoje noge, poznavao je mesto na kome je ležao, poznavao ja u svojim nedrima, tog Sidartu, samovoljnog, neobičnog, pa ipak se taj Sidarta preobrazio, preporodio, bio je čudnovato ispavan, čudnovato budan, radostan i radoznao.
 
Sidarta se uspravi i vide da naspram njega sedi čovek, njemu nepoznat, u žutoj monaškoj rizi, obrijane glave, u stavu razmišljanja. Posmatrao je čoveka koji nije imao ni kose ni bradu, i ne potraja dugo i on u tom kaluđeru pozna Govindu, prijatelja iz mladih dana, Govindu koji je našao utočište kod uzvišenog Bude. Govinda je ostario, ali su mu crte lica ostale iste, iz njih su zračile revnost, odanost, težnja za traganjem i strepnja. Kada je Govinda, osetivši njegov pogled, digao glavu i zagledao se u njega, Sidarta vide da ga Govinda nije poznao. Govinda se obradovao što ga vidi budnog, očigledno je dugo sedeo na tom mestu i čekao da se probudi, iako ga nije poznao.
 
- Spavao sam - reče Sidarta. - Kako si dospeo ovamo?
 
- Ti si spavao — odgovori Govinda. - Nije dobro spavati na mestima na kojima se često nailazi na zmije, gde prolaze šumske životinje. Ja sam ti, gospodine, sledbenik uzvišenog Gotame, Bude, Sakijamunija, pa sam sa nekolicinom naše braće prolazio ovim putem i ugledao te gde ležiš i spavaš na mestu na kome je opasno spavati. Namera mi je bila da te probudim, o gospodine, no videvši da je tvoj san dubok, zaostao sam iza mojih i ostao da sedim kraj tebe. A onda, čini mi se, zaspah i ja, - koji sam hteo da čuvam tvoj san. Loše sam obavio svoju dužnost, savladao me umor. Ali sad, pošto si budan, pusti me da odem, i da sustignem svoju braću. 

- Hvala ti, samano, hvala tebi što si čuvao moj san, - reče Sidarta. - Prijazni ste vi svi, sledbenici Uzvišenog. Bilo ti prosto da odeš!
 
- Odlazim gospodine. Neka vam je vazda dobro, gospodine!
 
- Hvala ti, samano.
 
Govinda napravi znak pozdrava i reče:
 
- Zbogom ostaj.
 
- Zbogom ostao, Govindo, - odvrati Sidarta.
 
Monah zastade.
 
- Dozvoli, gospodine, odakle ti je moje ime poznato?
 
Sidarta se tad osmehnu.
 
- Poznajem te, o Govindo, još kad si bio u kolibi svog oca i odlazio u školu bramana, poznajem te iz vremena kada smo prinosili žrtve, kada smo otišli među samane i onog časa kada si u lugu Jetavana potražio utočište kod Uzvišenog.
 
- Ti si Sidarta! - povika Govinda. - Sad sam te poznao i ne shvatam kako te nisam odmah poznao. Dobro došao, Sidarto, velika je moja radost što te ponovo vidim.
 
- I meni je drago što te opet vidim. Ti si bio čuvar mog sna, ja ti se još jednom zahvaljujem na tome, mada mi čuvar nije bio potreban. Kuda si pošao, prijatelju moj?
 
- Nikud. Mi monasi uvek smo na putu, sve dok ne naiđu kiše mi idemo iz mesta u mesto, primamo milostinju i odlazimo dalje. Oduvek je to tako. A ti, Sidarto, kuda si ti krenuo?
 
Sidarta reče:
 
- Sa mnom je isto što i s tobom, prijatelju. Nikud ne idem. Ali se, eto, nalazim na putu. Na hodočašću.
 
Govinda reče:
 
- Kažeš da si i ti na hodočašću i ja ti verujem. Ali, oprosti, o Sidarto, ne ličiš na hodočasnika. Na tebi je ruho bogataša, nosiš obuću otmenih, a tvoja kosa, koja miriše na mirišljave vodice, nije kosa hodočasnika, niti je kosa samane.
 
- Zacelo, mili, dobro si zapazio, tvoje oštro oko vidi sve. Ali, ja ti nisam rekao da sam samana. Rekao sam, da sam na hodočašću. I tako i jeste: ja sam hodočasnik na hodočašću.
 
- Ti si hodočasnik - reče Govinda. - Ali, malo je onih koji na hodočašće odlaze u takvom ruhu, sa takvom obućom i kosom. Ja, koji sam tolike godine hodočasnik, još nikad nisam sreo nijednog tebi sličnog.
 
- Verujem ti, Govindo moj. Ali, danas si, eto, sreo takvog hodočasnika, u ovakvoj obući i ovakvom ruhu. Seti se, dragi: kratkog veka je svet obličja, veoma su kratkog veka naša odeća i način na koji se češljamo, pa i sama naša kosa i telo. Na meni je odeća bogataša, ti si to dobro uočio. Nosim je jer sam bio bogataš, a kosu češljam kao svetski ljudi i sladostrasnici, jer sam i sam bio jedan od njih.
 
- A sada, Sidarta, šta si sad?
 
- Ne znam, kao što ne znaš ni ti. Nalazim se na putu! Bio sam bogataš, a to više nisam, ne znam šta ću sutra biti.
 
- Jesi li izgubio svoje bogatstvo?
 
- Izgubio sam ga, ili je ono mene izgubilo. Nestalo je. Točak mena se okreće veoma brzo, Govindo. Gde je sad braman Sidarta? Gde Sidarta samana? Gde je bogati Sidarta? Brzo se menja sve što je prolazno, Govindo, ti to znaš.
 
Govinda se dugo zagledao u prijatelja iz mladosti, sa sumnjom u pogledu. Zatim ga pozdravi kao što se pozdravljaju velika gospoda i ode svojim putem.
 
Sidarta ga je, smešeći se, pratio pogledom - još uvek je voleo tog odanog i bojažljivog čoveka. Kako bi, uostalom, u tom trenutku, u tom veličanstvenom času svog čudesnog sna, prožet omom, i mogao da nekog ili nešto ne voli! U tome i jeste bila suština mađije koju su mu doneli san i om - što je sad voleo sve, što je bio pun ljubavi prema svemu što je video oko sebe. I upravo je u tome bila njegova teška boljka - tako mu se sad činilo - što ništa i nikog nije umeo da voli.
 
Nasmešena lica je Sidarta pratio pogledom monaha koji se udaljavao. San ga je okrepio, ali ga je silno mučila glad, jer već dva dana ništa nije jeo, a davno je prošlo vreme kada je bio otporan prema gladi. Tužno, ali i smejući se, pomišljao je na to vreme. Sećao se da se tada Kamali hvalio sa svoje tri plemenite i nesavladive veštine: da posti - da čeka - da misli. To je bio njegov posed, njegova moć i snaga, njegov čvrsti oslonac. U revnosnim i mukotrpnim godinama svoje mladosti naučio je ove tri veštine i ništa drugo. One su ga sada napustile, više
 
nijednu od njih nije posedovao, nije umeo ni da posti, ni da čeka, niti da misli. Dao ih je za ono najbednije, najprolaznije, za čulna uživanja, za ugodan život, za bogatstvo! Doista je čudno to što se s njim zbilo. I sada, tako mu se činilo, zbilja je postao čovek detinjeg uma.
 
Sidarta je razmišljao o svom položaju. Ali mu je padalo teško da misli, u stvari nije bio raspoložen za to, ali se prisiljavao.
 
Sada, razmišljao je, kada su sve te prolazne stvari otpale, sada opet stojim na suncu, kao što sam stajao nekada kao malo dete, ništa nije moje, ništa ne mogu, ništa ne znam, ništa nisam naučio. Kako je to čudno! Sad, kad više nisam mlad, kad mi je kosa gotovo seda a snaga popušta, sad opet počinjem iz početka i od detinjeg doba! Nehotice se ponovo nasmešio. Da, čudna je bila njegova sudbina! Krenuo je nizbrdo i sad je opet stajao u svetu prazan, nag i glup. Ali to ga nije činilo tužnim, štaviše, došlo mu je da se smeje, da se smeje sam sebi, da se smeje tom čudnom, budalastom svetu.
 
- Krenuo si nizbrdo! - reče sam sebi i nasmeja se, i kako je to izgovorio pogled mu pade na reku i vide da i ona teče naniže, da se valja nizvodno, a da pri tom veselo pevuši. To mu se dopalo i on se prijateljski osmehnu reci. Zar to nije bila reka u kojoj je hteo da se udavi nekada davno, pre sto godina, ili je to samo sanjao? 

Moj život je odista bio čudesan, pomislio je, kretao se čudnim zaobilaznim putevima. Kao dete sam imao posla samo sa bogovima i žrtvama. Kao dečak sam se bavio samo askezom, razmišljanjem i meditacijom, u potrazi za bramanom, obožavajući ono večno u atmanu. Kao mladić sam otišao u pokajnike, živeo sam u šumi, patio od žege i hladnoće, naučio sam da gladujem i da nateram svoje telo da odumire. Zatim sam kroz učenje velikog Bude čudesno došao do spoznaje, osetio sam kako u meni kruži saznanje o jedinstvu sveta kao sopstvena krv. Ali, morao sam da odem i od Bude i od velikog saznanja. Pošao sam, i od Kamale naučio ljubavne slasti, od Kamasvamija sam naučio da trgujem, gomilao sam novac i rasipao ga, naučio sam da volim svoj stomak, da ugađam svojim čulima. Mnoge godine sam morao da provedem da bih izgubio svoj duh, da se odućim da mislim, da zaboravim na jedinstvo. Zar sve to nije kao da sam se polako i veoma zaobilaznim putevima od muškarca preobrazio u dete, od mislioca pretvorio u detinjeg čoveka? Pa ipak je taj put bio veoma dobar, ptica u mojim nedrima ipak nije uginula. Ali, kakav je to bio put? Morao sam proći kroz tolike gluposti, tolike poroke, kroz tolike zablude, gađenja, razočaranja i jad, samo da bih ponovo postao dete i mogao početi iznova. Ali, tako je trebalo da bude, moje srce se s tim slaže, moje oči se smeše. Morao sam da doživim očajanje, da potonem do najbudalastije među svim mislima, do pomisli na samoubistvo, da bih doživeo milost, da bih opet čuo om, da bih mogao istinski da spavam i da se istinski probudim. Trebalo je da postanem budala, da bih ponovo našao atman u sebi. Kuda će me još odvesti moj put? Luckast je taj put, sav je u krivinama, a možda vodi ukrug. Kakav je da je, ja ću ići njime.
 
Radost mu je čudesno preplavila grudi.
 
- Odakle ti ta razdraganost? - upitao je svoje srce. Izvire li ona iz tog dugog, dobrog sna, koji mi je toliko prijao? Ili iz reči om koju sam izgovorio? Ili potiče otud što sam umakao, što je moje bekstvo izvršeno, što sam, najzad, slobodan i kao dete stojim pod nebeskim svodom? Oh, kako je divno što sam utekao, što sam slobodan! Kako je vazduh ovde čist i lep, kako je prijatno udisati ga! Tamo odakle sam pobegao sve je vonjalo na mirišljava ulja, na začine, na vino, na izobilje, na otupelost. Kako sam mrzeo onaj svet bogataša, sladokusaca, kockara! Kako sam mrzeo sam sebe što sam tako dugo ostao u tom užasnom svetu! Kako sam sebe mrzeo, trovao, mučio, postavši kroz to star i zao! Nikad više neću uobraziti, kao što sam to nekad rado činio, da je Sidarta mudar! Ali, ovo sam uradio dobro, ovo mi se sviđa, moram da slavim što je sada došao kraj mržnji koju sam osećao prema sebi, prema onom ludom i pustom životu! Hvalim te, Sidarto, što se posle tolikih godina ludosti u tebi opet rodila jedna zamisao, što si nešto uradio, što si u svojim nedrima čuo pesmu ptice i što si se odazvao njenom zovu!
 
Tako je hvalio sebe, radujući se sam sebi, a za to vreme je radoznalo osluškivao kako mu stomak krči. Učinilo mu se da je deo patnji i jada u poslednje vreme i ovih dana do kraja okusio i povratio iz sebe, do očaja i smrti. To je bilo dobro. On je još dugo mogao ostati kod Kamasvamija, da stiče novac i da ga rasipa, da se tovi a da mu duša umire od žeđi, još dugo je mogao da obitava u tom finom, ututkanom paklu da ovo nije došlo: trenutak potpune beznadežnosti i očaja, onaj krajnji trenutak kada se nadnosio nad zahuktalom vodom spreman da sam sebe uništi. Sama činjenica što je osetio očajanje i duboko gađenje, a da nije podlegao, i što su ptice, radosni izvor i glas u njemu još bili živi, ispunjavala ga je radošću, zbog toga se smejao, zbog toga mu se ozarilo lice ispod osedele kose.
 
- Dobro je da čovek sam iskusi sve što treba da zna, - pomislio je. - Da uživanja sveta i bogatstvo ne služe dobru, naučio sam još u detinjstvu. Znao sam to odavno, ali sam tek sada doživeo. Sada znam, i to ne samo po sećanju već svojim očima, svojim srcem, svojim stomakom. Blago meni što to znam!
 
Dugo je razmišljao o svom preobražaju, oslušnuo kako ptica peva od radosti. Zar ta ptica nije bila umrla u njemu, zar nije osetila njegovu smrt? Ne, nešto drugo je umrlo u njemu, nešto što je već odavno čeznulo za smrću. Zar to nije bilo ono što je u svojim žarkim pokajničkim godinama hteo da umrtvi? Zar to nije u stvari bilo njegovo ja, njegovo malo, usplahireno i ponosno ja, sa kojim se borio toliko godina, koje ga je uvek, nanovo pobeđivalo, koje se ponovo javljalo posle umrtvljavanja, zabranivši mu radost, ispunjavajući ga strahom? Zar to nije bilo ono što je danas, najzad, našlo smrt ovde u šumi, na ovoj ljupkoj reci? Nije li tragom ove smrti sada bio kao dete, pun poverenja, oslobođen straha, pun radosti?
 
Sidarta je sada slutio zašto se kao braman, kao pokajnik uzalud borio sa tim svojim ja. Ometali su ga preterano znanje, isuviše mnogo svetih stihova, isuviše mnogo žrtvenih obreda, mučenja svoga tela, neobuzdanost u delima i stremljenjima! Bio je prožet ohološću, uvek je bio najmudriji, najrevnosniji, uvek korak ispred ostalih, uvek posvećen i uman, uvek sveštenik ili mudrac. Njegovo ja se uvlačilo u to svetaštvo, u tu oholost i mudrost, ono se uvrežilo i raslo, dok je on verovao da će ga umrtviti postom i pokorom. Sada je uvideo, prozreo da je skriveni glas u njemu bio u pravu, da ga nikada nijedan učitelj ne bi mogao izbaviti. Zbog toga je morao da ide u svet, da se predaje uživanju i moći, čarima žene i novcu, zato je morao da postane trgovac, kockar, pijanac i gramzivac, sve dok sveštenik i samana u njemu nisu zamrli. Zbog toga je morao da podnosi ove ružne godine, da trpi gađenja, prazninu i besmislicu jednog opustelog i izgubljenog života, do kraja, do najcrnjeg očajanja, sve dok nisu, najzad, našli smrt i razvratnik Sidarta, i gramzivac Sidarta. On je umro, a iza sna se probudio novi Sidarta. I on će ostariti, i on će jednom morati da umre, Sidarta je bio prolazan, kratkog veka je svako bitisanje. Ali, danas je bio mlad, bio je kao dete, novi i radošću ispunjen Sidarta.
 
Takav je bio tok njegovih misli, on se osluškujući smešio krčanju svojih creva i pun zahvalnosti slušao zujanje pčela. Vedro je gledao u reku koja je proticala, nikada mu se nijedna voda nije dopala kao ova, nikada nije tako snažno i lepo čuo glas i parabolu vodenog toka. Učinilo mu se da reka ima da mu kaže nešto naročito, nešto što on još ne zna, što ga tek čeka. U toj reci je Sidarta hteo da se udavi, u njoj se danas udavio stari, umorni, očajni Sidarta. Novi Sidarta je osećao duboku ljubav prema toj vodenoj struji, te odluči da je skoro ne napušta. 

Splavar

Hoću da ostanem na toj reci, pomisli Sidarta, to je ona ista preko koje sam nekad prešao na putu ka ljudima detinjeg uma, tada me je povezao ljubazni splavar, poći ću njemu, iz njegove kolibe me je u svoje vreme put odveo u novi život, koji je ostario i umro - neka i moj sadašnji put, moj sadašnji novi život pođu odavde!
 
Nežno se zagledao u vodenu struju, u providno zelene i kristalne linije njenih tajanstvenih obrisa. Video je kako iz dubine izranjaju svetli biseri, kako vazdušni mehuri plivaju na površini, odražavajući nebesko plavetnilo. Reka mu je uzvraćala pogled iz hiljade očiju, zelenih, belih, kristalnih, nebesnoplavih. Kako je voleo ovu vodu, kako ga je očaravala, kako joj je bio zahvalan! U svom srcu je čuo glas, koji se nanovo probudio, a koji mu je govorio: Voli ovu vodu! Ostani kraj nje! Oh, da, hteo je da uči od nje, hteo je da je sluša. Učinilo mu se da bi onaj ko bi razumeo ovu vodu i njene tajne razumeo i mnoge druge stvari, mnoge tajne - sve tajne.
 
Ali, među tajnama reke on je toga dana dokučio samo jedno, a to ga je dirnulo do dna duše. Video je da voda promiče, neprekidno otiče, a da je još uvek bila tu, da uvek i za sva vremena ostaje ista, pa ipak svakog trenutka drugačija! Oh, ko bi to mogao da shvati, da pojmi! On nije shvatio i poimao, u njemu se pokrenula slutnja, zabrujala daleka sećanja, božanski glasovi.
 
Sidarta se diže, glad se nepodnošljivo uskomešala u njegovoj utrobi. U zanosu je krenuo dalje, penjući se obalskom stazom osluškivao je šum vodenog toka, osluškivao kako mu glad krči u utrobi.
 
Stigavši do splava, vide da je čamac spreman i u njemu istog splavara, koji je nekad mladog samanu prevezao preko reke. Sidarta ga je poznao, on je takođe veoma ostario.
 
- Hoćeš li da me povezeš? - upita ga.
 
Splavar se iznenadio što tako otmen čovek ide sam i pešice, ali ga primi u čamac i otisnu se od obale.
 
- Odabrao si lep život, - progovori namernik. - Mora da je lepo provoditi dane kraj ove vode i ploviti po njoj.
 
Veslač se, osmehnut, njihao:
 
- Lepo je, gospodine, baš kao što kažeš. Ali, nisu li svaki zivot i svaki rad lepi?
 
- Kanda je tako. Ali zavidim ti na tome. Oh, ti bi ubrzo izgubio volju na takav život i rad. Nije to za ljude u finoj odeći.
 
Sidarta se nasmeja.
 
- Neko me je danas sa podozrenjem posmatrao upravo zbog moje odeće. Da li bi, ti splavaru, primio od mene ovu odeću koja mi je mrska? Treba da znaš da nemam novaca da ti platim prevoz.
 
- Gospodin se šali. - nasmeja se splavar.
 
- Ne šalim se, prijatelju. Znaj, da si me već jednom prevezao svojim čamcem preko ove vode, za božju nagradu. Učini to i danas, a primi za to moju odeću.
 
- Zar će gospodin bez odeće da nastavi put?
 
- Oh, najradije ne bih ni nastavio put. Najviše bih voleo, splavaru, da mi daš neku staru pregaču i da me zadržiš kraj sebe kao pomoćnika, bolje reći kao učenika, jer prvo moram naućiti da baratam oko čamca.
 
Splavar je dugo i ispitivaćki zagledao stranca.
 
- Sad te poznadoh, - reče naposletku.
 
- Jednom si spavao u mojoj kolibi, bilo je to davno, kanda je prošlo više od dvadeset godina, tada sam te prevezao preko reke i rastali smo se kao dobri prijatelji. Nisi li ti bio samana? Ne mogu više da ti se setim imena.
 
- Moje ime je Sidarta, a bio sam samana kada si me poslednji put video.
 
- Dobro mi došao, Sidarto. Ja se zovem Vasudeva. Bićeš i danas, kako se nadam, moj gost i spavaćeš u mojoj kolibi, ispričaćeš mi odakle dolaziš i zašto ti je ova lepa odeća tako mrska?
 
Stigli su na sredinu reke i Vasudeva je zaveslao snažnije, hvatajući se ukoštac sa vodenom strujom. Radio je mirno snažnim rukama, pogleda uperena u pramac. Sidarta je sedeo i posmatrao ga, setio se kako se nekad, poslednjeg dana onog doba koje je proveo kao samana, u njegovom srcu probudila ljubav prema tom čoveku. Sa zahvalnošću je prihvatio Vasudevin poziv. Kada su pristali uz obalu pomogao je da se čamac priveže za kočeve, a onda ga splavar zamoli da uđe u kolibu i ponudi ga hlebom i vodom, te Sidarta sa zadovoljstvom prionu da jede, sa zadovoljstvom pojede i plodove mangoa kojima ga je Vasudeva poslužio.
 
Zatim se spustiše na neko deblo na obali, sunce je bilo na zalasku, i Sidarta ispriča splavaru svoje poreklo i život, onako kako ga je danas video pred očima, u onom času očaja. Njegova priča potraja do duboko u noć.
 
Vasudeva ga je slušao sa velikom pažnjom. Sve je poimao slušajući ga, njegovo poreklo i detinjstvo, silno učenje, sva traganja, sve radosti i nevolje.
 
Među svim vrlinama splavara bila je jedna od najvećih: što je kao malo ko umeo da sluša svog sagovornika. Iako ne bi progovorio ni slovca, sagovornik bi osetio da Vasudeva upija njegove reči mirno, otvoreno trudeći se da ne gubi nijednu, da nije nestrpljiv i da to kazivanje ne želi ni da hvali niti da kudi, već samo sluša. Sidarta je bio svestan kakva je sreća poveravati se takvom slušaocu, polagati sopstveni život, sopstvena traganja i patnje u njegovo srce. 

Pred kraj Sidartine priče, kada je govorio o stabl u kraj reke, i o svom dubokom padu, o svetom omu i kako je nakon sna osećao toliku ljubav prema reci, splavar ga je slušao s dvostrukom pažnjom, predano, zatvorenih očiju.
 
A kada je Sidarta zaćutao i nastupio dug tajac, Vasudeva najzad reče:
 
- Sve je baš kao što sam i mislio. Reka je progovorila. Ona ti je takođe prijatelj, i tebi se obraća. To je dobro, veoma dobro. Ostani kod mene, Sidarto, prijatelju moj. Nekad sam imao ženu, njen ležaj je bio pokraj mog, ali ona je umrla davno, odavno živim sam. Živi sad ti sa mnom, mesta i hrane ima za nas obojicu.
 
- Hvala ti, - reče Sidarta, - sa zahvalnošću primam tvoj poziv. A hvala ti i na tome, Vasudevo, što si me tako pomno slušao! Retki su ljudi koji umeju da slušaju reči drugoga, nikad nikoga nisam sreo koji bi to umeo kao ti. I tome ću se učiti od tebe.
 
- Ti ćeš to naučiti, - reče Vasudeva, - ali ne od mene. Reka me je naučila da slušam, pa će i tebe. Reka zna sve, od nje se svemu možeš naučiti. Eto, i to si već naučio od vode da je dobro stremiti naniže, tonuti, tražiti dubinu. Bogati i otmeni Sidarta će postati veslar, učeni braman Sidarta će biti splavar: i to ti je rečeno od reke. Naučićeš i ono drugo od nje.
 
Sidarta progovori posle dugog ćutanja.
 
- Šta je to drugo, Vasudevo?
 
Vasudeva se diže.
 
- Kasno je, - reče, - hajd'mo na spavanje. Ono »drugo« ti ne mogu reći, prijatelju. Naučićeš to, a možda već i znaš. Vidiš, ja nisam učen, nisam vičan da govorim, niti da mislim. Umem samo da slušam i da budem pobožan, ništa drugo nisam učio. Kada bih umeo da iskažem i da poučavam, možda bih bio mudrac, a ovako sam samo splavar i moj zadatak je da ljude prevozim preko ove reke. Mnoge sam prevezao, hiljade, i svima njima ova reka nije značila ništa drugo doli prepreku na njihovom putu. Puto vali su tragom novca i poslova, na svadbe i na hadžiluke, a reka im je bila smetnja i splavar je bio samo tu da ih što brže prebaci preko zapreke. Ali, nekim malobrojnim među hiljadama, četvorici ili petorici, reka više nije bila prepreka, oni su čuli njen glas, oni su ga slušali i reka im je postala sveta, kao i meni. Hajdemo sad na počinak, Sidarto.
 
Sidarta je ostao kod splavara i naučio da opslužuje čamac, a kad nije imao posla sa splavom obrađivao je sa Vasudevom pirinčano polje, skupljao suvarke, brao plodove sa stabala banana. Naučio je da delje vesla, da popravlja čamac, da plete korpe, radujući se svemu što bi naučio, a dani i meseci prolazili su mu u letu. Ali, više no što je to Vasudeva mogao, poučavala ga je reka. Od nje je neprestano učio. Pre svega je naučio od nje veštinu slušanja, da osluškuje smirena srca, strpljive, otvorene duše, bez strasti, bez želje, bez suda i mišljenja.
 
Prijatno je živeo kraj Vasudeve, izmenivši s njim tu i tamo po koju reč, malobrojne i dugo promišljene reči. Vasudeva nije bio pobornik mnogih reči, Sidarti je retko polazilo za rukom da ga natera da govori.
 
- Da li si - upita ga jednom - od reke naučio i tajnu: da vreme ne postoji?
 
Vasudevino lice ozari vedri osmeh.
 
- Jesam, Sidarto, - reče. - Misliš li time ovo: da se reka nalazi svuda u isti mah, na izvoru i na ušću, na vodopadu i na skeli u brzaku, u moru, u planini, svuda i istovremeno, i da za nju postoji samo sadašnjica, bez senke budućnosti?
 
- To je ono što sam mislio, - reče Sidarta. - I kada sam to naučio, bacio sam pogled na svoj život i on je takođe bio reka, i dečaka Sidartu su od muškarca Sidarte razdvajale samo senke, a ništa stvarno. Sidartina ranija rođenja nisu bila prošlost, niti su njegova smrt i povratak brami budućnost. Ništa nije bilo, ništa neće biti, sve jeste, sve ima svoje bitisanje i sadašnjost.
 
Sidarta je govorio sa zanosom, ova svetla misao prožimala ga je dubokom radošću. O, zar nisu sve patnje bile vreme, zar nije sve tegobno i neprijateljsko u svetu nastalo i bilo savladano čim je savladano vreme, čim se iz misli moglo izbrisati vreme? Govorio je s ushićenjem. Vasudeva ga je gledao smešeći se i klimao glavom, ćutke je odobravao i, prešavši rukom preko Sidartinih pleća, vratio se svom poslu.
 
Jednom, kada je reka u doba kiša nabujala i silno hujala, Sidarta reče:
 
- Reka ima mnogo glasova, veoma mnogo glasova, zar ne, prijatelju? Zar u nje nije glas kralja, i ratnika, i bika, i noćne ptice, i porodilje, i onoga koji uzdiše i još hiljade drugih glasova. Zar ne, prijatelju?
 
- Tako je, - klimnu Vasudeva glavom, — svi glasovi bića se nalaze u njenom glasu.
 
- Znaš li, - produži Sidarta, - koju reč izgovara ako ti pođe za rukom da istovremeno čuješ njenih deset hiljada glasova?
 
Vasudevino lice je ozario blaženi osmeh, i primaknuvši se Sidarti, on mu šapnu na uvo sveti om. I upravo je to čuo i Sidarta.
 
Njegov osmeh je svakom prilikom bivao sve sličniji osmehu starog splavara, gotovo je istovetno zračio, blistao od sreće, treperio u spletu hiljade bora, postajao isto tako detinjast, isto tako starački. Mnogi putnici su, ugledavši dvojicu splavara, pomislili da su braća. Često su večerom zajedno sedeli na deblu kraj obale, ćutali i osluškivali šum vode koja za njih nije bila voda, već glas života, glas postojanja, glas večnog nastajanja. I katkad se događalo da su, slušajud reku, obojica mislili na istu stvar, na prekjučerašnji razgovor, na nekog od svojih putnika čiji su ih lik ili sudbina zanimali, na smrt, na svoje detinjstvo, da u isti mah izmenjaju poglede kada bi im reka saopštila nešto prijatno, pomislivši isto, obojica srećni zbog istog odgovora na isto pitanje. 

Iz splava i dvojice splavara izbijalo je, zračilo nešto što je plenilo mnoge putnike. Događalo se da neko od putnika, zagledavši se u lice jednog od splavara, počne da priča svoj život, da priča o svojim jadima, da prizna zlodela, da traži utehu i savet. Događalo se da neko od njih zatraži dozvolu da provede veče kod njih i da osluškuje šum reke. Događalo se i to da dođu radoznalci, koji su čuli da na tom splavu žive dva mudraca, ili čarobnjaka, ili sveca. Radoznalci su postavljali mnoga pitanja, ali nisu dobijali odgovore, a nisu naišli ni na čarobnjake, niti na mudrace, zatekli su samo dva stara prijatna čovečuljka koji su, po svemu sudeći, bili mutavi i pomalo čudni, a i tupavi. Radoznalci su se smejali i silno ih je zabavljalo koliko je benast i lakoveran narod kad širi prazne glasine.
 
Godine su prolazile a da ih nijedan od njih nije brojao. Jednom su naišli monasi, sledbenici Gotame, Bude, koji su ih zamolili da ih prebace preko reke, i splavari su od njih saznali da žure da se vrate svom velikom učitelju, jer se pronela vest da je Uzvišeni na smrt bolestan i da će uskoro umreti svojom poslednjom ljudskom smrću i ući u večno izbavljenje. Ne potraja dugo i naiđe nova četa monaha, pa za njom još jedna, i kaluđeri, kao i ostali putnici i namernici, ne pričahu ni o čemu drugom doli o Gotami i njegovoj skoroj smrti. I kao što se u ratničkom pohodu ili za vreme krunisanja nekog kralja ljudi sjate sa svih strana i okupljaju u rojevima kao mravi, tako su, privučeni kao nekom čarolijom, pohrlili tamo gde je veliki Buda očekivao smrt, tamo gde će se zbiti čudesni čin kada u večni sjaj uđe Svetli, Savršeni jednog razdoblja sveta.
 
Sidarta se u to vreme često sećao mudraca samrtnika, velikog učitelja, koji je svojim glasom opominjao narode i razbudio stotine hiljada, čiji je glas i sam jednom slušao, čiji je sveti lik jednom i sam posmatrao sa najdubljim poštovanjem. Sećao ga se sa prijateljskim osećanjima, pred očima mu iskrsn u njegov put ka savršenstvu i s osmehom ožive u sebi reči koje je nekad, kao mlad čovek, uputio Uzvišenom. Učinilo mu se, prisećajući ih se pun vedrine, da su to bile ponosne i zrele reči. Odavno je bio svestan da ga ništa ne razdvaja od Gotame, čije učenje ipak nije mogao da primi. Onaj ko istinski traži, ko istinski želi da nađe put, ne može primati nikakvo učenje. Ali, onaj ko ga je našao, taj je mogao da odobrava svako učenje, svaki cilj, toga više ništa ne odvaja od hiljade drugih koji su živeli u duhu večnog, u duhu božanskog.
 
Jednoga od tih dana, kada su toliki poklonici odlazili Budi, krenula je i Kamala, nekad najlepša među kurtizanama. Odavno se ona povukla iz svog ranijeg života, i poklonivši svoj vrt monasima Gotame, našla je utočište u učenju, pripadala je krugu prijateljica i dobročiniteljki poklonika. U pratnji dečaka Sidarte, svoga sina, čuvši vest o bliskoj smrti Gotame, krenula je na put pešice, odevena u jednostavnu haljinu. Išla je sa svojim sinom duž obale reke; ali dečak se brzo umorio, tražio je da se vrati kući. Tražio je da se odmore, tražio da jede, bio je jogunast i plačljiv. Kamala je češće morala da otpočine zbog njega, on je navikao da isteruje svoju volju, ona je morala da ga hrani, da ga teši, da ga kori. On nije shvatio zbog čega je njegova majka morala da krene na ovaj tegobni i tužni hadžiluk, u nepoznato mesto, nepoznatom čoveku, koji je bio svetac i ležao na samrti. Neka umre, što se to dečaka ticalo?
 
Poklonici su bili nedaleko od Vasudevinog splava, kad je mali Sidarta ponovo naterao majku da se malo odmore. Kamala se i sama umorila i, dok je dečak grickao bananu, ona se šćućurila na zemlji, zažmurila za koji tren i otpočinula. Ali, najednom bolno vrisnu, dečak je pogleda uplašeno i vide da je pobledela od užasa, a ispod njenog skuta šmugnu mala, crna zmija, koja je ujela Kamalu.
 
Oboje potrčaše putem da što pre stignu do ljud i i dođoše blizu splava, tu se Kamala sruši na zemlju, ne mogavši da ide dalje. Dečak zakuka iz glasa, ljubeći i grleći majku, a ona mu se pridruži dozivajući u pomoć sve dok njihovi krici nisu doprli do ušiju Vasudeve, koji je stajao kraj čamca. Brzo je prišao, podigao ženu i na rukama je odneo do čamca, dečak je trčao za njim i ubrzo sve troje stigoše do kolibe, u kojoj je Sidarta stajao kraj ognjista i ložio vatru. Dižući pogled, ugledao je prvo dečaka i njegov lik ga je na neki čudan način podsećao i oživljavao u njemu nešto davno zaboravljeno. Zatim je ugledao Kamalu, koju je ubrzo poznao, mada je onesvešćena ležala na rukama splavara, i bilo mu je jasno da je to njegov sopstveni sin, čiji je lik u njemu razbudio uspomene, pa mu srce zaigra u grudima.
 
Ispraše ranu Kamali, koja je već bila pocrnela i telo joj se nadulo, pa joj uliše u usta lekoviti napitak. Svest joj se povratila, ležala je u kolibi na Sidartinom ležaju, a Sidarta - koji ju je nekad toliko voleo - nadneo se nad njom. Njoj se učini da sanja, smešeći se zagledala se u lice svoga prijatelja i tek posle nekog vremena postade svesna svog položaja i, setivši se ujeda zmije, uplašeno poče da doziva dečaka.
 
- On je kraj tebe, budi bez brige, - reče Sidarta.
 
Kamala ga pogleda u oči. Progovorila je jezikom otežalim od otrova.
 
- Ostario si, dragi, - reče - osedeo. Ali, još uvek si nalik na mladog samanu koji je jednom, bez odeće i prašnjavih nogu, došao u moj vrt. Mnogo si mu sličniji nego onda kada si napustio Kamasvamija i mene. Po očima si mu sličan, Sidarto. Oh, i ja sam ostarila, stara sam - zar si me ipak poznao?
 
Sidarta se nasmeši: - Odmah sam te poznao, Kamalo, mila moja. 

 Kamala pokaza na dečaka i reče: — Jesi li i njega poznao? On je tvoj sin.
 
Njen pogled se zamuti i ona sklopi oči. Dečak je plakao i Sidarta ga posadi na svoje koleno, pusti g a da se isplače, milujući ga po kosi i, zagledavši se u detinji lik, pade mu na pamet bramanska molitva koju je naučio nekada davno, kada je i sam bio mali dečak. Lagano, pevajućim glasom, počeo je da izgovara reči molitve, one su potekle iz prošlosti i detinjstva. Jednolično pevušenje smirilo je dečaka, i on je, zajecavši još koji put, najzad zaspao. Sidarta ga položi na Vasudevin ležaj. Vasudeva je stajao kraj ognjišta i kuvao pirinač. Sidarta mu dobaci pogled koji je ovaj, smešeći se, uzvratio.
 
- Ona će umreti, - reče Sidarta tihim glasom. Vasudeva klimnu glavom, odraz plamena sa ognjišta prelete njegovim ljubaznim licem.
 
Kamala se još jednom osvestila. Od bola joj se iskrivilo lice, Sidartin pogled pročita patnju ucrtanu na njenim usnama, na bledim obrazima. Ćutke, pažljivo i očekujući, udubio se u njenu patnju. Kamala to oseti i pogledom potraži njegov lik.
 
Zagledavši se u njega, ona reče:
 
- Sad vidim da se i tvoj pogled izmenio. Postao je sasvim drugačiji. Po čemu ipak poznajem da si ti Sidarta? Ti si to, a opet i nisi.
 
Sidarta nije progovorio, već je pogledom ćutke uronio u njene oči.
 
- Jesi li postigao? - upita ona. - Jesi li našao spo kojstvo?
 
On se nasmeši i položi svoju ruku na njenu.
 
- Vidim da jesi, - reče ona - vidim. - Ja ću takođe naći mir.
 
- Našla si ga, - prošapta Sidarta.
 
Kamala se netremice zagledala u njegove oči. Pomislila je kako je htela da se pokloni Gotami, da vidi lik Savršenog, da udahne njegovo spokojstvo, a da je umesto njega sad našla Sidartu, da je to bilo dobro, isto tako dobro kao i da je videla Uzvišenog. Htela je da mu to kaže, ali se jezik više nije pokoravao njenoj volji. Gledala je u njega bez reči i on vide da se život gasi u njenim očima. Kada joj se pogled ispunio poslednjim bolom i oko ugasilo, kad a je poslednji trzaj preleteo preko njenih udova, njegovi prsti joj zaklopiše oči.
 
Dugo je sedeo kraj nje i gledao u njeno zauvek usnulo lice. Dugo je posmatrao njena usta, stara i umorna usta usahlih usana, sećajući se da je nekad, u proleće svog života, ova usta upoređivao sa sveže raspuklom smokvom. Dugo je sedeo tako, čitao iz crta njenog bledog lica, iz umomih bora; ispunivši dušu tim pogledom, video je i svoje lice u istom položaju, isto tako belo, ugaslo, a istovremeno je video svoje i njeno lice u mladim danima, rumenih usana, zažarenih pogleda, i osećanje sadašnjosti i istodobnosti, osećanje večnosti prožimalo ga je do srži. U tom času je osetio duboko, dublje no ikad, nerazrušivost svakog života, večnost svakog trenutka.
 
Pošto se digao, Vasudeva ga posluži pirinčem. Ali, Sidarta nije jeo. Oba starca pripremila su sebi ležaj na slami u štali, gde se nalazila njihova koza, te Vasudeva leže da spava. Sidarta iziđe i presede noć ispred kolibe, osluškujući šum reke, zapljuskivan prošlošću, u isti mah dodinvan i okružen svim razdobljima svog života. Povremeno se dizao, prilazio vratima kolibe i osluškivao da li dečak spava.
 
U rano jutro, pre no što se sunce pojavilo na nebu, Vasudeva iziđe iz štale i priđe svom prijatelju.
 
- Spavao si? - reče mu.
 
- Nisam, Vasudevo. Sedeo sam ovde i slušao šum reke. Ona mi je rekla mnogo, duboko me je ispunila blagotvornim mislima, mislima o jedinstvu.
 
- Snašla te je žalost, Sidarto, ali vidim da tuga nije prodrla u tvoje srce.
 
- Nije, dragi, kako bih mogao da budem tužan? Ja, koji sam bio bogat i srećan, sad sam još bogatiji i srećniji. Podaren mi je sin.
 
- Neka je tvoj sin i meni dobro došao. Ali sad, Sidarto, prionimo na posao, treba mnogo raditi. Kamala je umrla na onom istom ležaju na kome je nekad izdahnula moja žena. Napravićemo lomaču n a onom istom brežuljku na kome sam nekad podigao lomaču svojoj ženi.
 
Dok je dečak još spavao, njih dvojica su podigli lomaču. 

Sin

Dečak je, zazirući i plačući, prisustvovao posmrtnom obredu svoje majke, natmureno i unezvereno je slušao Sidartu koji ga je pozdravio kao sina i poželeo mu dobrodošlicu u Vasudevinoj kolibi. Danima je bledih obraza sedeo na pokojničinom brežuljku, odbijao jelo, krio pogled, zatvarao svoje srce, braneći se od svoje sudbine i odupirući joj se.
 
Sidarta ga je štedeo sa puno obzira i puštao mu na volju, poštujući njegovu tugu. Sidarta je shvatio da ga sin ne poznaje, da ne može da ga voli kao oca.
 
Postupno je uvideo i shvatio da je jedanaestogodišnji dečak razmaženi mamin sin, odrastao u bogatstvu, naviknut na fina jela i mekšu postelju, naviknut da zapoveda slugama. Sidarta je shvatio da se ožalošćeni i razmaženi dečak ne može odjednom i dobrovoljno zadovoljiti životom u tuđini i siromaštvu. Nije ga prisiljavao da radi, već je mnoge poslove obavljao umesto sina, birao za njega uvek najbolje zalogaje. Nadao se da će ga postepeno, ljubaznim strpljenjem pridobiti.
 
Nazvao je sebe bogatim i srećnim kada je dečak dospeo kod njega. Ali, kako je vreme prolazilo, a dečak se i dalje mrgodno tuđio, pokazavši da je u srcu ohol i jogunast, ne želeći da se prihvati bilo kakvog rada, ne ukazujući starima dužno poštovanje, pljačkajući Vasudevine voćke - Sidarta je sve više bio svestan da mu sin nije doneo sreću i mir, već nevolje i brige. Ali, voleo ga je i miliji su mu bili nevolje i brige koje donosi ta ljubav od sreće i mira bez dečaka.
 
Otkako je mladi Sidarta došao u kolibu, stari su podelili između sebe sve poslove. Vasudeva je opet sam obavljao dužnosti splavara, a Sidarta je preuzeo radove u kući i u polju, da bi bio uz sina.
 
Dugo vreme, duge mesece je Sidarta čekao da ga sin razume, da prihvati njegovu ljubav i da je jednom možda i uzvrati. Duge mesece je čekao Vasudeva, posmatrajući očekivao je i ćutao. Jednoga dana, kada je dečak Sidarta opet namučio svog oca prkosom i hirovima, razbivši mu obe činije za pirinač, Vasudeva pozva uveče svog prijatelja na stranu.
 
- Izvini, - reče mu - govorim ti iz prijateljska srca. Vidim da mučiš sebe i vidim da si ojađen. Zabrinjava te sin, dragi moj, a i meni zadaje brige. To je poletarac navikao na drugi život, na drugačije gnezdo. On nije kao ti bežao od bogatstva i iz grada, pun gađenja i prezasićen, on je protiv svoje volje morao da napusti sve to. Upitao sam reku, o prijatelju, pitao sam je mnogo puta. Ali, reka se smeje, ona me ismeva, i mene i tebe, trese se od smeha što smo tako budalasti. Voda teži vodi, mladost teži mladosti, tvoj sin se ne nalazi na mestu na kome može da stasa. Upitaj reku, poslušaj je i ti!
 
Sidarta se snuždeno zagledao u prijateljsko lice, u čijim borama je carevala postojana vedrina.
 
- Zar se mogu rastati od njega? - upita prigušeno, postiđeno. - Ostavi mi vremena, dragi moj! Vidi, ja se borim za njega, borim se da pridobijem njegovo srce, da ga plenim ljubavlju i ljubaznim strpljenjem. Hteo bih da reka jednom govori i njemu, on je takođe pozvan.
 
Vasudevin osmeh je procvetao još većom toplinom. - Oh da, i on je pozvan, i on ima večni život. Ali, znamo li, ti i ja, zašto je pozvan, za kakav put, za kakva dela, za kakve patnje? Njegova patnja neće biti mala, jer mu je srce gordo i nemilostivo, takvi moraju da propate mnogo, predstoje im mnoge zablude, činiće mnoge nepravde, opteretiće se mnogim grehovima. Reci mi, dragi moj: Zar ti svog sina ne vaspitavaš? Ti ga ne prisiljavaš? Ne tučeš ga? Ne kažnjavaš ga?
 
- Ne, Vasudevo, ja sve to ne činim.
 
- Znao sam. Ti ga ne prisiljavaš, ne tučeš ga, ne naređuješ mu, jer znaš da je blagost jača od strogosti, da je voda jača od stene, ljubav jača od sile. Vrlo dobro, da te pohvalim. Ali, nije li zabluda što smatraš da ne treba da ga prisiljavaš, što ga ne kažnjavaš? Ne sputavaš li ga okovima svoje ljubavi? Zar ga ne postiđuješ svakodnevno, zar mu ne otežavaš još više svojom blagošću i strpljenjem? Ne primoravaš li oholog i razmaženog dečaka da živi u kolibi sa dvojicom staraca koji se hrane bananama, za koje je i pirinač poslastica, čije misli ne mogu da budu njegove, čije je srce staro i stišano i ima drugačiji hod od njegovog? Nije li sve to za njega prisila, nije li to kazna?
 
Sidarta je, zaprepašćen, oborio pogled zemlji. Tihim glasom je upitao: - Šta misliš, šta treba da uradim?
 
Vasudeva reče: - Povedi ga u grad, odvedi ga u kuću njegove majke, biće tamo još slugu, pa ga predaj njima. Ukoliko ih nema, odvedi ga nekom učitelju, ne zbog nauka, nego da bude uz druge dečake i devojčice, u svetu koji je njegov. Zar na to nikad nisi pomislio?
 
- Ti vidiš moje srce, - progovori Sidarta tužno. - Pomišljao sam na to često. Ali, čuj, kako da predam tom svetu dečaka, kome ionako nedostaje blagost srca? Neće li postati obestan i zabrazditi u sladostrašće i obest, neće li da ponovi sve zablude svog oca, da se potpuno izgubi u sansari? 

 Osmeh ozari splavarevo lice, on nežno dodirnu Sidartinu mišicu i reče:
 
- Upitaj o tome reku, prijatelju! Slušaj kako se smeje! Misliš li doista da si svoje ludosti počinio da bi sina poštedeo od istih? Možeš li da sačuvaš svog sina od sansare? Kako? Učenjem, molitvama, opominjući ga? Mili moj, zar si zaboravio poučnu priču o sinu bramana Sidarti, koju si mi jednom ispričao na ovom istom mestu? Ko je sačuvao samanu Sidartu od sansare, od greha, gramzivosti, ludosti? Jesu li pobožnost njegovog srca, opomene koje su proizišle iz očevog učenja, ili sopstvena saznanja, sopstvena traganja mogla da ga sačuvaju? Koji otac, koji učitelj bi mogao da ga sačuva od toga da sam živi svoj život, da sam sebe uprlja životom, da sam ispije gorki napitak, da sam nađe svoj put? Veruješ li, dragi, da bi neko mogao da bude pošteden toga puta? Možda tvoj sinčić, zato što ga voliš, zato što bi hteo da ga poštediš patnje i bola i razočaranja? Ali, i kad bi i deset puta dao svoj život za njega, opet ne bi mogao da ga oslobodiš ni najmanjeg delića njegove sudbine.
 
Vasudeva još nikad nije izgovorio toliko reči. Sidarta mu je ljubazno zahvalio, pa se potišteno vratio u kolibu i dugo nije mogao da zaspi. Vasudeva mu nije rekao ništa što već i sam nije pomislio i znao. Ali, to saznanje nije mogao da pretvori u delo, jača od saznanja je bila njegova ljubav prema dečaku, jači su bili njegova nežnost i strah da ga izgubi. Da li je ikad postojalo nešto što bi toliko plenilo njegovo srce, tako slepo, bolno, tako bezuspešno, a ipak tako srećno?
 
Sidarta nije mogao da posluša savet svoga prijatelja, nije mogao da se liši sina. Dozvoljavao je da mu dečak nareduje, da ga nipodaštava. Ćutao je i čekao, vodio svakodnevnu borbu ljubaznosti, nečujnu borbu strpljenja. Vasudeva je takođe ćutao i čekao, prijateljski, vispreno, trpeljivo. Obojica su majstorski ovladali strpljenjem.
 
Jednom, kada ga je dečakov lik živo podsetio na Kamalu, Sidarta se namah seti reči koje mu je Kamala nekada davno, u danima mladosti, uputila:
 
- Ti ne umeš da voliš, - rekla mu je tada i on se s tim saglasio, uporedivši sebe sa zvezdom, a ljude detinjeg uma sa lišćem koje opada, pa ipak je u njenim rečima osetio i prekor. Odista, on se nikad nije do kraja gubio u ljubavi, nikad se nije mogao potpuno predati drugom biću, a zaboraviti sebe, niti činiti ludosti zbog ljubavi prema drugom, on to nikada nije umeo, a u tome je i bila - kako mu se tada činilo - ta velika razlika koja ga je odvajala od ljudi detinjeg uma. Ali, sad, otkako mu je sin došao, Sidarta se sav pretvorio u čoveka detinjeg uma, koji pati zbog drugog bića, koji voli drugoga, izgubljen u toj ljubavi, preobražen zbog te ljubavi u budalu. Sada je i on, kasno, jednom u životu osetio tu najjaču i najneobičniju strast, patio zbog nje, ojađen, a ipak prožet blaženstvom, preporođen, nečim obogaćen.
 
Jasno je osetio da je ova slepa ljubav prema sinu strast, nešto veoma ljudsko, da je to sansara, mutni izvor, potamnela voda. Ali, istovremeno je osetio da ona nije bezvredna, da je nužna, da izvire iz njegovog sopstvenog bića. Trebalo je okajati i tu slast, iskusiti i te patnje, počiniti i te ludosti.
 
Sin je za to vreme pustio da se otac zavarava, da pokušava da ga pridobije, pustio ga da se svakodnevno ponižava i povinuje njegovim hirovima. U tom ocu nije bilo ničega što bi ga očaralo, ničega što bi mu ulilo strahopoštovanje. Ovaj otac je bio dobričina, čovek prostodušan i blag, možda i veoma pobožan, možda svetac - ali sve to nisu bile osobine kojima bi dečaka mogao pridobiti za sebe. Dosadan mu je bio taj otac, koji ga je zarobio u svojoj bednoj kolibi, prosto dosadan, a to što je svaku nepristojnost uzvratio osmehom, svaku porugu ljubaznošću i svaku pakost dobrotom, smatrao je najmrskijim lukavstvom tog matorog potuljenka. Dečaku bi bilo milije da mu je pretio, da ga je zlostavljao.
 
Dođe dan u koji je izbila ćud mladog Sidarte i on se otvoreno okrenuo protiv oca. Ovaj mu je dao nalog, zatražio da skuplja suvarke. Dečak, međutim, nije izišao iz kolibe, stajao je prkosno i besno, lupao nogama o tle, stiskao pesnice i u silnom izlivu jarosti tresnuo ocu u lice svu svoju mržnju i prezir.
 
- Donesi sam te svoje suvarke, - vikao je zapenušivši - nisam ti ja sluga. Znam da me nećeš tući, ne usuđuješ se; znam da hoćeš neprekidno da me kažnjavaš i ponižavaš svojom pobožnošću i popustljivošću. Hoćeš da i ja budem kao ti, isto tako pobožan, blag i mudar! Ali, čuj me, da bih ti učinio nažao, radije ću postati drumski razbojnik i ubica i otići u pakao nego da postanem neko kao što si ti! Mrzim te, nisi moj otac pa neka si i deset puta bio milosnik moje majke!
 
U njemu prekipeše srdžba i jad, uskovitlaše se stotine pustih i opakih reči koje je sad uputio ocu. Dečak zatim istrča iz kolibe i vrati se tek kasno uveče.
 
Sutradan ga više nije bilo. Zajedno s njim nestala je i mala korpa, ispletena od like u dve boje, u kojoj su splavari držali bakrenjake i srebrnjake dobijene od putnika za prevoz. Nestao je i čamac, Sidarta je video da leži na suprotnoj obali. Dečak je pobegao. 

- Moram poći za njim - reče Sidarta, koji je drhtao od muke posle jučerašnjih pogrdnih reči dečaka. - Dete ne može samo da prođe kroz šumu. Nastradaće. Moramo da sagradimo splav, Vasudevo, da bismo prešli preko vode.
 
- Sagradićemo splav, - reče Vasudeva - da bismo dovezli čamac koji je dečak uzeo. Ali, njega bi trebalo pustiti, prijatelju, nije on više dete, umeće da se snađe. On traži put koji će ga odvesti u grad, i u pravu je, ne zaboravi to. On je uradio ono što si ti sam propustio. Brine o sebi i ide svojim putem. Oh, Sidarto, vidim da patiš, ali tebe mori bol kome bi se trebalo smejati, kome češ se i sam uskoro smejati.
 
Sidarta nije odgovorio. Sekira mu se već našla u rukama i on poče da gradi splav od bambusa, Vasudeva mu pomože da povezuje stabla konopcima od upletene trave. Zatim se prevezoše preko reke, struja ih je ponela daleko niz vodu, i najzad izvukoše splav na suprotnu obalu.
 
- Zašto si poneo sekiru? - upita Sidarta.
 
Vasudeva reče: - Možda je izgubljeno veslo našeg čamca.
 
Sidarta je znao na šta misli njegov prijatelj. Pomislio je da je dečak možda bacio ili razbio veslo, da se osveti i da ih spreči da ga gone. I odista u čamcu nije bilo vesla. Vasudeva pokaza rukom dno čamca i pogleda u svog prijatelja s osmehom, kao da je hteo da kaže: - Zar ne vidiš šta sin hoće da ti kaže? Zar ne vidiš da on ne želi da ideš u potragu za njim? - Ali, to nije iskazao rečima. Prionuo je da izdelje novo veslo. Sidarta se, međutim, oprostio od njega pre no što je pošao da traži sina. Vasudeva ga nije zadržavao.
 
Sidarta je već dugo išao šumom kada mu sinu misao da je njegovo traganje uzaludno. Ili je dečak već daleko odmakao i možda već stigao u grad, pomislio je, ili će se, ako je još na putu, sakriti ispred njega. Razmišljajući dalje otkri da u stvari nije u brizi za sinom, da je u dubini duše ubeđen da dečak nije nastradao i da mu u šumi ne preti nikakva opasnost. Uprkos tome išao je brzo i bez odmora, ne više da ga spase već gonjen željom da ga možda još jednom vidi. Tako je žurio sve dok nije stigao nadomak grada.
 
Stigavši do širokog puta blizu grada, zaustavio se na ulazu prekrasnog luga koji je ranije pripadao Kamali, gdje ju je nekad prvi put ugledao u nosiljci. To nekadašnje vreme vaskrsnu u njegovoj duši, video je sebe kako stoji na tom mestu - mladi, bradati, nagi samana, kose pune prašine. Dugo je Sidarta stajao tu i gledao kroz otvorenu kapiju u vrt. Video je monahe u žutim rizama kako promiču ispod lepih stabala.
 
Dugo je stajao tu, zamišljen, video pred sobom slike i osluškivao istoriju svog života. Stajao je tako i pogledom pratio monahe, video umesto njih mladog Sidartu, mladu Kamalu u šetnji ispod visokih stabala. Jasno je video sebe kada ga je Kamala ugostila, kada je od nje primio prvi poljubac, kako se gordo i pun prezira osvrnuo na svoj život bramana i pun žudnje započeo svetovni život. Video je Kamasvamija, video sluge, gozbe, kockare i muzikante, video je Kamalinu pticu pevačicu u kavezu, preživljavajući sve to još jednom, udišući sansaru postao je ponovo star i umoran, ponovo je osetio gađenje, ponovo osetio želju da sam sebe ugasi, ponovo je uživao u svetom omu.
 
Pošto je dugo postojao na kapiji vrta, Sidarta uvide da je želja koja ga je nagnala da dođe na ovo mesto bila nerazumna, da svome sinu ne može pomoći, da se ne može vezati za njega. Duboko u srcu je osetio ljubav prema beguncu, kao živu ranu, ali je istovremeno osetio da mu ta rana nije zadata da po njoj rije, već da ona treba da se pretvori u cvet i da zrači blistavim sjajem.
 
Žalostilo ga je što u ovaj čas rana još nije procvala, još nije zračila. Umesto da se nađe na cilju svojih želja, koje su ga dovele ovamo tragom odbeglog sina, obreo se u pustoši. Seo je tužan, osećao da u njegovom srcu nešto umire, da je prazan, da pred sobom više nema nikakve radosti, nikakav cilj. Sedeo je utonuvši u misli i čekao. Naučio je na reci jedno: da čeka, da bude strpljiv i da osluškuje. I zato je sedeo i osluškivao, u prašini na drumu, osluškivao kako mu srce radi umorno i tužno, očekujući glas. Mnoge časove je ostao tu šćućuren, osluškujući, više nije video slike, tonuo je u prazno, potpuno se opustio, a pred sobom nije video nikakav put. I kada bi rana zabridela, nečujno je izgovarao om, osetio sebe u omu. Monasi u vrtu su ga videli i, kako je mnoge časove ostao šćućuren i kako se na njegovoj sedoj kosi taložila prašina, prišao mu je jedan od njih i stavio dve banane ispred njega. Starac ga nije primetio.
 
Iz ove obamrlosti ga trže ruka koja mu dodirnu rame. Ubrzo je poznao ovaj nežni, stidljivi dodir i povratio se. Digao se i pozdravio Vasudevu koji je pošao za njim. I bacivši pogled na Vasudevino srdačno lice, na sitne i osmehom ispunjene bore, vedre oči, i sam se nasmešio. U tom ugleda banane kraj sebe, uze ih i pruži jednu splavaru, a drugu pojede sam. Zatim se ćutke vratio sa Vasudevom u šumu, krenuo kući, na splav. Nijedan od njih ne pomenu šta se tog dana dogodilo, nijedan ne pomenu dečaka, njegovo bekstvo, nijedan ne progovori o zadatoj rani. U kolibi se Sidarta ispruži na svoj ležaj i kada mu nakon izvesnog vremena Vasudeva priđe da ga ponudi šoljom kokosovog mleka, vide da je zaspao.

Om

 
Rana je bridela dugo. Sidarta je morao da preveze preko reke mnoge putnike koji su vodili sa sobom sina ili kćer, i nijednog od hjih nije mogao da gleda, a da mu ne zavidi, a da ne pomisli: - Eto, tolike hiljade imaju tu najdražu sreću - zašto sam ja toga lišen? I opaki ljudi, pa i lopovi i razbojnici imaju decu, vole ih i njihova deca vole njih, samo ja to nemam. - Razmišljao je, eto, tako prosto, tako nerazumno, toliko je postao sličan detinjim ljudima.
 
Sada je drugačije posmatrao ljude, manje mudro, sa manje gordosti, ali zato sa više topline, radoznalije, unoseći se više u njihov život. Kada bi prevezao uobičajenu vrstu putnika, proste ljude, trgovce, ratnike, ženskadiju - više mu oni nisu bili tuđi kao nekad: imao je razumevanja za njih, shvatao ih je i učestvovao u njihovom životu kojim nisu rukovodile misli i saznanja, već jedino nagoni, želje, osećao se kao jedan od njih. Mada je došao gotovo do savršenstva, hvatajući se ukoštac sa poslednjom ranom, ipak mu se činilo da su mu ovi ljudi braća, a njihove sujete, požude i smešne osobine prestale su da mu budu smešne, postale su shvatljive, dostojne ljubavi, štaviše, i poštovanja. Slepa ljubav majke prema svom detetu, glupi, slepi ponos oca, uobraženog oca na sina jedinca, šturo neobuzdano stremljenje za adiđarima i zadivljenim pogledima muškaraca kod neke mlade, sujetne žene, svi ovi nagoni, sve ove detinjarije, svi ovi priprosti, budalasti, ali neobično snažni, toliko životni i silno prodorni porivi i požude za Sidartu više nisu bili detinjarija, video je da ljudi radi njih žive, radi njih stvaraju neizmerna čuda, putuju, vode ratove, neizmerno pate , neizmerno trpe, pa je zbog toga mogao samo da ih voli, video je život, životvornost, ono nerazrušivo u svim njihovim strastima, u svim njihovim delima. Ljudi su bili dostojni ljubavi i divljenja u svojoj slepoj odanosti, snazi i žilavosti. Ništa im nije nedostajalo, posvećeni i mislioci su bili samo malko ispred njih, imali su samo jedno jedino sićušno preimućstvo: svest, svesnu misao o jedinstvu svega živog. U izvesnim časovima Sidarta bi, štaviše, posumnjao, treba li to saznanje, tu misao ceniti tako visoko, nije li samo možda i to detinjarija misaonih ljudi, misaono detinjih ljudi. U svemu drugom su ljudi iz sveta bili ravni mudracu, često i daleko nadmoćniji, kao što i životinje, u svom upornom, nepokolebljivom izvršavanju onoga što je potrebno, u izvesnim trenucima na izgled imaju nadmoć nad ljudima.
 
U Sidarti je lagano procvalo i sazrevalo saznanje, svest o tome šta je zapravo mudrost, šta je cilj njegovog dugog traganja. Misliti usred života svakog trenutka misao o jedinstvu, osećati jedinstvo i udisati ga - nije bilo ništa drugo doli spremnost duše, sposobnost i skrivena veština. Lagano se to rascvalo u njemu, odražavalo na Vasudevinom licu matorog deteta: sklad, saznanje o večnom savršenstvu sveta, osmeh i jedinstvo.
 
Ali, rana je u njemu ipak bridela, sa čežnjom i gorčinom je Sidarta mislio na svoga sina, negujući u svom srcu ljubav i nežnost, pustivši da ga bol nagriza i činivši sve ludosti ljubavi. Ovaj plamen se nije gasio sam od sebe.
 
I jednoga dana, kada ga je rana ljuto pekla, Sidarta se preveze preko reke, i gonjen čežnjom iskrca se u nameri da pođe u grad i potraži sina. Reka je tekla lagano i tiho, bilo je sušno godišnje doba, ali njen glas je imao neobičan zvuk: ona se smejala! Razgovetno se čuo smeh. Reka je zvonko i nedvosmisleno ismevala starog splavara. Sidarta je zastao i nadneo se nad vodu da bolje čuje, na površini vode koja j e mirno proticala video je odraz svoga lica, a u tom odrazu bilo je nečeg što ga je podsećalo, nečeg zaboravljenog, i kada se pribrao, otkrio je da je to lice slično jednom drugom liku, koji je nekada poznavao i voleo, a osećao i strahopoštovanje prema njemu. Bilo je slično liku njegovog oca, bramana. Sećao se kako je nekada davno, kao mladić, primorao svog oca da ga pusti da ode među pokajnike, kako se oprostio od njega, zatim otišao i nikada se više nije vratio. Nije li i njegovog oca radi njega morila ista patnja koja sad njega muči za sinom? Nije li otac odavno umro, sam, ne videvši više svoga sina? Nije li i on sam morao da očekuje istu sudbinu? Nije li bila lakrdija ovo ponavljanje, nije li bilo nečeg čudnog i glupog u tom trcanju unutar kobnog kruga?
 
Reka se smejala. Da, to je bilo tako, sve se uvek vraćalo, sve što se nije do kraja propatilo i razrešilo, nailazile su uvek iste patnje. Sidarta se tada ponovo ukrca u čamac i odveze do kolibe, sećajući se svog oca, sećajući se svog sina, ismevan od reke, u razdoru sam sa sobom, sklon da očajava, a ne manje sklon da se i sam grohotom smeje sebi i celom svetu. O, rana još nije procvala, njegovo srce se još odupiralo sudbini, iz njegove patnje još nisu zračili vedrina i pobeda. Ali u njemu se budila nada i, vrativši se u kolibu, osetio je neodoljivu želju da Vasudevi otvori dušu, da mu je prikaže, da njemu - majstoru u slušanju - iskaže sve.
 
Vasudeva je sedeo u kolibi, pletući korpu. On više nije vozio čamac, oči su mu oslabile, i ne samo oči već i mišice i ruke. Nepromenjeni i rascvetani bili su samo blagost i vedra dobroćudnost na njegovom licu.
 
Sidarta sede kraj starca i sa njegovih usana lagano potekoše reči. Pričao je sad o svemu o čemu nikada nije govorio, o svom odlasku u grad, o rani koja je bridela, o svojoj zavisti pri pogledu na srećne očeve, o tome da je svestan koliko su takve želje nerazum ne, o svojoj uzaludnoj borbi protiv njih. O svemu je govorio, bio je u stanju da kaže sve, pa i najmučnije, sve se moglo reći, sve pokazatl, o svemu pričati. Otkrio je svoju ranu, govorio i o svom današnjem bekstvu, kako se prevezao preko vode - kao detinjasti begunac - sa namerom da ode u grad, i kako se reka smejala. 

Dok je govorio, a govorio je dugo, dok ga je Vasudeva slušao smirena lica, Sidarta je to slušanje Vasudevino osećao jače no ikad, osećao kako se njegovi jadi, njegove strepnje i skrivene nade ulivaju u sagovornika i odatle opet dolaze njemu u susret. Otkriti svoju ranu ovom slušaocu bilo je isto kao kupati se u reci sve dok se rana ne rashladi i sjedini sa rekom. Još dok je govorio, otvarao dušu i ispovedao se, Sidarta je sve više osećao da ga u stvari ne sluša Vasudeva, jedno ljudsko biće, već da ovaj pažljivi slušalac upija u sebe njegovu ispovest kao drvo kišu, da je njegov nepokretni sagovornik oličenje reke, sam bog, sama večnost. I tada Sidarta presta da misli na sebe i na svoju ranu, obuze ga saznanje o izmenjenom biću Vasudeve, a što je više osećao i ulazio u to, utoliko je sve postajalo manje neobično, utoliko mu je bivalo jasnije da je sve u redu i sasvim prirodno, da je Vasudeva već odavno, gotovo oduvek, bio takav, da to samo on nije do kraja sagledao, štaviše, da se on sam skoro i ne razlikuje od njega. Osećao je da on sada starog Vasudevu vidi kao što narod vidi bogove i da to ne može biti trajno; u srcu je počeo da se oprašta sa Vasudevom. Pri tom je još uvek govorio.
 
Kada je došao do kraja, Vasudeva uperi topli pogled malko oslabelih očiju u njega, bez reči, a iz njega su ćutke zračili ljubav i vedrina, razumevanje i spoznaja. Uhvativši Sidartu za ruku, on ga povede do njihovog sedišta na obali, sede zajedno s njim i osmehnu se reci.
 
- Čuo si je kako se smeje, - reče. - Ali, nisi čuo sve. Daj da oslušnemo, pa ćeš čuti više.
 
Oslušnuše. Blago se razleže višeglasna pesma reke. Sidarta uperi pogled u vodu, u njenom toku ukazaše mu se slike: pojavi se njegov otac, usamljen, u tuzi za sinom, pojavi se i on sam, usamljen, i on vezan okovima čežnje za dalekog sina; pojavi se njegov sin, usamljen i on, dečak, stremeći pun požude plamenom putanjom svojih mladalačkih želja, svaki od njih usmeren svome cilju, opsednut svojim ciljem, svaki od njih mučen patnjom. Reka je pevala glasom patnje, pevala puna čežnje i puna čežnje je proticala ka svom cilju, njen glas je ličio na tužbalicu.
 
- Čuješ li? - upita ga Vasudeva pogledom, bez reči. Sidarta potvrdi glavom.
 
- Slušaj pažljivije! - prošapta Vasudeva.
 
Sidarta se trudio da čuje bolje. Očeva slika, njegova sopstvena slika i slika sina slivale su se ujedno, pojavila se i Kamalina slika i rasplinula, Govindina slika i druge slivale su se i pretvarale u reku, sve su težile reci, ka cilju, pune čežnje, žudnje i patnje, a glas reke je takođe bio bremenit čežnjom, pun gorućeg bola i neutoljive želje. Reka je težila svom cilju, Sidarta vide kako hita reka, koja se sastojala od njega i od njemu bliskih i od svih ljudi koje je ikada video, svi talasi i vode lutali su, uz patnju, u susret cilju, mnogim ciljevima, vodopadu, jezeru, brzaku i moru, svi ciljevi su se dostizali, a iza svakog je sledio drugi, i voda je postala para i uzdizala se ka nebu, postala je kiša i padala s neba, postala je izvor, potok, reka i opet je stremila dalje, opet je proticala. Ali, čežnjivi glas se izmenio. Još uvek je odzvanjao pun patnje i traženja, ali su mu se pridružili drugi glasovi, zvuci radosti i žalosti, dobri i zli glasovi, smeha i tugovanja, stotine glasova, hiljade glasova.
 
Sidarta je osluškivao. Sav se predao i udubio u slušanje, prazan i bez ijednog drugog osećanja upijao je zvuke u sebe, osetivši da je do kraja naučio da osluškuje. Često je on već sve to čuo, brojne glasov e u reci, ali danas su oni bili sasvim novi. Sad više nije mogao da razlikuje te silne glasove, da odvoji smeh od plača, detinje glasove od muških, svi su sad odjekivali zajedno, tužbalica čežnje i smeh posvećenih, krik gneva i ropac samrtnika, sve je to bilo jedno, međusobno protkano i povezano, hiljadostruko isprepletano. I sve zajedno, svi glasovi, svi ciljevi, sve čežnje i patnje, sva zadovoljstva, sve dobro i zlo - sve to skupa bio je svet. Sve to zajedno bio je tok zbivanja, muzika života! I kad bi Sidarta pažljivo slušao reku, njenu pesmu sa hiljadu glasova, kad ne bi slušao tugovanku i smeh, kad svoju dušu ne bi vezivao za neki od glasova i ulazio u nju sa svojim ja, već čuo sve, celinu, čuo jedinstvo - onda se velika pesma sa hiljadama glasova sastojala od jedne jedine reci, a ta ja glasila om: savršenstvo.
 
- Čuješ li? - ponovo ga upita Vasudeva pogledom.
 
Vasudevin osmeh je blistao, nad svim borama njegovog staračkog lica lebdeo je sjaj, kao što je nad svim glasovima reke lebdeo om. Zablista njegov osmeh gledajući u prijatelja, a na Sidartinom licu zablista isti osmeh. Njegova rana je procvala, njegova patnja je zračila, njegovo ja se ulilo u jedinstvo.
 
U tom času Sidarta je prestao da se hvata ukoštac sa sudbinom, prestao da pati. Na njegovom licu se rascvetala vedrina spoznaje kojoj se više ne suprotstavlja nikakvo htenje, koja prepoznaje savršenstvo i saglašava se s tokom zbivanja, sa strujom života, puna samilosti, saradosti, predana tokovima u pripadnosti jedinstvu.
 
Kada se Vasudeva digao sa sedišta na obali i pogledao Sidarti u oči, kada je video da u njima zrači vedrina spoznaje, ovlaš mu rukom dodirnu rame, na njemu svojstveni, obazrivi i tanani način, pa reče:
 
- Očekivao sam ovaj čas, dragi. Sad kad je došao, pusti me da idem. Dugo sam očekivao ovaj čas, dugo sam bio splavar Vasudeva. Sada je dosta. Zbo gom ostaj, kolibo, zbogom ostaj, reko, zbogom mi ostaj, Sidarto!
 
Sidarta se duboko pokloni onom koji se opraštao.
 
- Znao sam, - reče tihim glasom. - Poći ćeš u šumu, zar ne?
 
- Da, odlazim u šumu, odlazim u jedinstvo, - progovori Vasudeva ozareno.
 
Ozareno je otišao, a Sidarta ga je ispratio pogledom. Gledao je za njim sa dubokom radošću i dubokom ozbiljnošću, video njegove korake pune spokojstva, njegovu glavu ovenčanu sjajem, njegovu pojavu obasjanu svetlošću. 

Govinda

Jednom je Govinda s ostalim monasima proveo vreme odmora u lugu koji je kurtizana Kamala poklonila sledbenicima Gotame. Čuo je da se govori o nekom starom splavaru, koji je dan hoda živeo na reci i koga su mnogi smatrali mudracem. Kada je Govinda opet krenuo na putešestvije, odabrao je put preko splava, željan da vidi tog splavara. Mada je ceo svoj život proživeo prema pravilima, veoma poštovan i od mlađih monaha zbog svojih godina i skromnosti, u njegovom srcu se ipak nisu ugasili nemir i traženje.
 
Stigao je do reke i zamolio starca da ga preveze, a kada su se na suprotnoj obali iskrcali iz čamca, obratio se starcu ovim rečima:
 
- Činiš mnogo dobra monasima i hodočasnicima, prebacio si preko reke mnoge od nas. Nisi li i ti, splavaru, jedan od onih koji tragaju za pravim putem?
 
Sidarta odgovori s osmehom u staračkim očima:
 
- Nazivaš li sebe čovekom koji traži, o prečasni, a već si duboko zašao u godine i nosiš ruho monaha Gotame?
 
- Jesam star, - reče Govinda - ali nisam prestao da tražim. Nikada neću prestati da tražim, izgleda da mi je to suđeno. Rekao bih, da si i ti tražio. Hoćeš li mi reći koju reč, poštovani?
 
Sidarta reče:
 
- Šta bih imao da ti kažem, prečasni? Možda to, da preteruješ u svom traženju? Da od silnog traženja ne stigneš da nađeš?
 
- Kako to? - upita Govinda.
 
- Kada neko traži, - reče Sidarta - lako se može
 
dogoditi da mu oko vidi samo ono što traži, da nije u stanju bilo šta da nađe, da primi u sebe, jer misli samo na ono za čim traga, imajući svoj cilj, opsednut je tim ciljem. Tražiti - znači imati cilj. Ti si, prečasni, možda odista jedan od onih koji traže, jer, težeći za svojim ciljem, mnogo toga ne vidiš što ti je neposredno pred očima.
 
- Ne shvatam te još sasvim, - zamoli ga Govinda, - kako to misliš?
 
Sidarta reče:
 
- Jednom davno, pre mnogo godina, bio si već na ovoj reci, prečasni, pa si na obali zatekao usnulog čoveka, seo si kraj njega i čuvao njegov san. Ali, nisi prepoznao usnulog, o Govindo.
 
Zapanjen i kao opčinjen, monah se zagledao u oči splavara.
 
- Jesi li ti Sidarto? ~ upita bojažljivo.
 
- Eto, ni ovog puta te nisam poznao! Od srca te pozdravljam, Sidarto, svim srcem se radujem što te ponovo vidim! Mnogo si se izmenio, prijatelju. - Postao si, dakle, splavar?
 
Sidarta se srdačno nasmeja.
 
- Da splavar sam, Govindo. Mnogi ljudi se moraju često menjati, Govindo, moraju da nose razne vrste odeće, a ja sam jedan od njih, dragi. Dobro mi došao, Govindo, provedi noć u mojoj kolibi.
 
Govinda je prenoćio u kolibi, spavao je na ležaju koji je nekad bio Vasudevin. Postavljao je mnogo pitanja prijatelju iz mladosti, pa je Sidarta morao da mu ispriča mnogo iz svog života.
 
Kada je sutradan ujutro došlo vreme da krene na put, Govinda izgovori, ne bez ustezanja, ove reči:
 
- Pre no što bih nastavio ovo putovanje, Sidarto, dozvoli mi još jedno pitanje. Imaš li neko svoje učenje? Imaš li neku veru ili neko saznanje koje slediš, koje ti pomaže da živiš i da postupaš onako kako je pravo.
 
Sidarta reče:
 
- Ti znaš, dragi, da sam još kao mladić, kada smo živeli u šumi kod isposnika, počeo da sumnjam u učenje i učitelje i da im okrećem leđa. I ostao sam pri tome. Pa ipak sam otad imao mnoge učitelje. Duže vreme je moja učiteljica bila jedna lepa kurtizana, jedan bogati trgovac bio je moj učitelj i nekoliko kockara. Jednom mi je i neki putujući sledbenik Bude bio učitelj; sedeo je kraj mene kada sam zaspao u šumi, na pokloničkom putovanju. Od njega sam takođe učio i njemu sam zahvalan, veoma zahvalan. Ali, najviše sam naučio ovde od ove reke i od mog prethodnika, splavara Vasudeve. Bio je prost čovek, taj Vasudeva, nije bio mislilac, ali znao je šta je neophodno, baš kao i Gotama, on je bio savršen, bio je svetac.
 
Govinda reče:
 
- Sidarto, ti još uvek pomalo voliš da se podsmevaš, kako mi se čini. Verujem ti i znam da nisi sledio jednog učitelja. Ali, zar nisi ipak i sam naišao, ako ne na učenje, a ono na izvesne misli, određena saznanja koja su tebi svojstvena i pomažu ti da živiš? Kada bi mi rekao nešto o tome, pričinio bi radost mom srcu.
 
Sidarta reče:
 
- Da, dolazile su mi misli i saznanja odvajkada. Katkad sam, u toku jednog časa ili dana osetio u sebi znanje, kao što se u srcu oseti život. Bilo je sijaset misli, ali bilo bi mi teško da ti ih saopštim. Čuj, Govindo, ovo je jedna od mojih misli koju sam otkrio: mudrost se ne može saopštiti. Mudrost, koju mudrac pokušava da saopšti, zvuči uvek kao ludost.
 
- Šališ se? - upita Govinda.
 
- Ne šalim se. Kažem ti šta sam otkrio. Saznanje se može saopštiti, ali ne i mudrost. Ona se može naći,- u njoj se može živeti i biti ponesen njome, sa njom se mogu stvarati čuda, ali se ne može iskazati i naučiti. To je ono što sam ponekad naslućivao kao mladić, što me je nagnalo da napustim učitelje. Otkrio sam jednu misao, Govinda, koju ćeš ti opet smatrati šalom ili ludošću, ali je to moja najbolja misao. Ona glasi: suprotnost svake istine je takođe istina! Naime, istina se može iskazati i zaodenuti u reči samo ako je jednostrana. A jednostrano je sve što se može mislima misliti i iskazati rečima, sve je to jednostrano, polovično, lišeno celine, zaokruženosti i jedinstva. Kada je uzvišeni Gotama u svom učenju govorio o svetu, on je morao da ga deli na sansaru i nirvanu, na varku i istinu, na patnju i izbavljenje. Ne može se drugačije i nema drugog puta za onog koji hoće da uči druge. Ali, sam svet, postojanje oko nas i u nama samim nikad nije jednostrano. Nikad jedan čovek, ili jedno delo nisu potpuno sansara ili potpuno nirvana, nikad jedan čovek nije sasvim svetac ili sasvim grešnik. Tako nam se čini, jer smo podložni varci da je vreme nesto stvarno. Govindo, ja sam to iskusio veoma često. I ako vreme odista nije stvarno, onda je i raspon koji na izgled postoji između sveta i večnosti, između patnje i blaženstva, između zla i dobra, takođe samo varka. 

 - Kako to? - upita Govinda usplahireno.
 
- Saslušaj me, dragi, slušaj pažljivo! Grešnik, kakav sam ja i kakav si ti, jeste grešnik, ali će jednom opet biti brama, dostići će jednom nirvanu, postaće Buda - ali vidi: to »jednom« je varka, samo je alegorija! Grešnik se nalazi na putu da bude Buda, on nije u toku svog razvoja, mada mi u svom misaonom svetu stvari ne umemo drugačije da zamislimo. U grešniku se, već sad i danas, nalazi budući Buda, njegova budućnost je sva tu, u njemu, u tebi, - u svakom biću koje nastaje treba da poštuješ mogućeg, skrivenog Budu. Svet nije nesavršen, niti se nalazi na sporom putu ka savršenstvu, prijatelju Govindo, ne, on je u svakom trenutku savršen, svi gresi već nose u sebi oproštaj, sva mala deca već nose u sebi starce, sva odojčad smrt, svi samrtnici večni život... Ne može nijedan čovek da vidi koliko je onaj drugi prevalio od svog puta, u razbojniku i kockaru živi Buda, u bramanu živi razbojnik. U dubokim meditacijama postoji mogućnost da se poništi vreme, da se istovremeno sagleda sav bivši, postojeći i budući život, i tu je sve dobro, sve savršeno, sve je braman. Zato mi se ono što jeste čini dobrim, smrt mi se čini kao život, greh kao svetaštvo, mudrost kao ludost, sve mora da bude tako, potrebni su samo moj pristanak, moja dragovoljnost, moja saglasnost, za mene je tako dobro i nikada mi ne može biti na štetu. Na svom telu i u svojoj duši sam iskusio da mi je greh bio preko potreban, bili su mi neophodni pohota, težnja za zemaljskim dobrima, bila mi je nužna i sujeta, a trebalo je da zapadnem u sramno očajanje da bih naučio da se ne protivim, da naučim da volim svet i da ga ne upoređujem sa nekakvim uobraženim svetom svojih želja, sa savršenstvom kakvo sam ja zamislio, već da ga pustim onakvog kakav jeste, da ga volim i da mu rado pripadam. - To su, o Govindo, neke od misli koje su mi pale na um.
 
Sidarta se saže i podiže kamen sa zemlje, odmeravajući ga zatim u ruci.
 
- Ovo je kamen, - reče poigravajući se njime, - a kroz izvesno vreme pretvoriće se možda u zemlju, iz zemlje će nastati biljka, ili životinja, ili čovek. Ranije bih bio rekao: »Ovaj kamen je samo kamen, bezvredan je, pripada svetu iluzija, međutim, njemu takođe pridajem važnost, jer će u krugu preobražaja postati čovek, ili duh.« Tako bih, kanda, rasuđivao ranije. Danas, naprotiv, mislim: ovaj kamen je kamen, on je i životinja, on je i bog, on je i Buda, ja ga ne poštujem i volim zato što bi jednom mogao postati ovo ili ono, već zato što je sve odvajkada bilo i jeste - i upravo zato što je ovo kamen, što mi se danas pojavljuje kao kamen, ja ga volim i vidim vrednost i smisao u svakoj njegovoj žilici i šupljini, u žutom, u sivom, u tvrdoći, u zvuku koji daje od sebe kad ga kucnem, u suvoći ili vlazi njegove površine. Ima kamena koji pri dodiru podsećaju na ulje, ili na sapun, drugi opet na lišće, ili pak pesak, a svaki je od njih nešto posebno i na svoj način obožava om, svaki je braman, ali istovremeno i kamen, od ulja ili sapuna, i baš mi se to dopada, izgleda mi čudno i dostojno obožavanja. - Ne traži da ti kažem nešto više o tome. Reči samo štete skriveni smisao, sve postaje odmah malo drugačije kada se izgovori, malo krivotvoreno, malo luckasto - a i to je dobro i veoma mi se dopada, potpuno se slažem da ono što za jednog čoveka predstavlja blago i mudrost, drugom uvek zvuči kao ludost.
 
Govinda ga je slušao bez reči.
 
- Zbog čega si mi govorio ono o kamenu? - upita nakon stanke oklevajući.
 
- U tome nije bilo nikakve namere. Ili možda sam time hteo da kažem da, eto, volim kamen, i reku, i sve stvari koje posmatramo i od kojih možemo da učimo. Mogu da volim kamen, a takođe i drvo, ili komad njegove kore. To su stvari, a stvari se mogu voleti. Reči se, međutim, ne mogu voleti. Zato razna učenja nisu za mene, ona nemaju čvrstinu, ni mekoću, nemaju boje, m rubove, niti miris ili ukus, ona sadrže samo reči. Možda je mnoštvo reči to što te sprečava da nadeš mir. Jer su i izbavljenje i vrlina, a i sansara i nirvana samo puke reči, Govindo. Ne postoji stvar koja je nirvana, postoji samo reč nirvana.
 
Govinda reče:
 
- Nije nirvana samo reč, prijatelju. To je misao.
 
Sidarta produži:
 
- Neka to bude misao. Moram priznati, dragi, da ne umem da pravim razliku između misli i reči. Iskreno rečeno, ne držim mnogo ni do misli. Više držim do stvari. Ovde, na primer, na ovom čamcu za prevoz bio je čovek, moj prethodnik i učitelj, pravi svetac, koji je dugi niz godina jednostavno verovao u reku, ni u šta drugo. On je čuo glas kojim mu se reka obraćala, od nje je učio, ona ga je vaspitavala i prosvećivala, za njega je reka bila bog, tokom dugih godina on nije došao do saznanja da su svaki vetar, svaki oblak, svaka ptica i svaka buba isto tako božanski, da znaju koliko i uvažena reka i da se od njih isto toliko može naučiti. Ali, kada je taj svetac otišao u šumu, on je znao sve, znao je više no ti i ja, bez učitelja, bez knjiga, samo zato što je verovao u reku.
 
Govinda reče:
 
- Ali, da li je to što ti nazivaš »stvarima« nešto stvarno, nešto suštastveno? Nije li to samo varka sveta iluzije, slika i pričina? Tvoj kamen, tvoje drvo, tvoja reka - jesu li oni stvarnost?
 
- Ne brinem se za to, - reče Sidarta. Neka su te stvari i pričine, ali onda sam i ja pričina i na taj način su one uvek jednake meni. To je ono zbog čega su mi drage i dostojne uvažavanja: one su sa mnom istovetne. Zbog toga mogu da ih volim. I, evo, sad jedne pouke, kojoj ćeš se smejati: čini mi se, o Govindo, da je ljubav od svega najvažnija. Prozreti svet, protumačiti ga i prezreti, to je stvar velikih mislilaca. Ali, meni je jedino stalo do toga da volim svet, da ga ne prezirem, da ne mrzim ni svet ni sebe, da na nj, na sebe i na sva bića mogu da gledam sa ljubavlju, i sa divljenjem, i sa strahopoštovanjem.
 
- To shvatam, - odgovori Govinda. - Ali, to je upravo ono što je Uzvišeni spoznao kao varku. On nalaže blagonaklonost, obzir, samilost i trpeljivost, a ne ljubav, on nam je zabranio da svoja srca vezujemo ljubavlju za nešto zemaljsko.
 
- Znam, - reče Sidarta; njegov osmeh je blistao kao suvo zlato. - Znam, Govindo. I eto nas usred čestara misli, u raspri oko reči. Jer, zbilja, ne mogu poreći da su moje reči o ljubavi u suprotnosti, na izgled u suprotnosti sa rečima Gotame. Upravo zbog toga sam veoma podozriv prema rečima, znajući da je ta suprotnost varka. Znam da se slažem sa Gotamom. Kako i On ne bi znao za ljubav! On, koji je čovečje bitisanje spoznao u svoj svojoj prolaznosti, a koji je ipak toliko voleo ljude da je jedan dugi, tegobni život utrošio samo na to da im pomogne, da ih uči! Kod njega, kod tvog velikog učitelja, stvar mi je milija od reči, njegovo delanje i život su mi važniji od njegovih govora, pokret njegove ruke značajniji od njegovih misli. Njegovu veličinu ne gledam u njegovom govoru i mislima, već u njegovom delanju i životu. 

 Dva starca su dugo ćutala. Zatim progovori Govinda, poklonivši se pri oproštaju:
 
- Zahvaljujem ti, Sidarto, što si mi ponešto rekao o svojim mislima. Delimično su to neobične misli, nisu mi sve u prvi mah postale razumljive. Kako bilo da bilo, ja ti zahvaljujem i želim ti spokojne dane.
 
(Krišom je međutim pomislio u sebi: Sidarta je čudan čovek, izgovara čudne misli, njegovo učenje zvuči luckasto. Drugačije zvuči učenje Preuzvišenog, jasnije, suštinskije, razumljivije, ono ne sadrži ništa neobično, luckasto ili smešno. Ali, Sidartine ruke i noge, njegove oči, čelo, mišice, njegov osmeh, njegov pozdrav i hod bitno odudaraju od njegovih misli. Otkako je naš uzvišeni Gotama ušao u nirvanu nisam nikada više nailazio na čoveka kod koga bih osetio: ovo je svetac! Jedino sam kod njega, Sidarte, to osetio. Neka je njegovo učenje i neobično, neka njegove reči zvuče luckasto, ali njegov pogled i njegova ruka, njegova koža i kosa, sve na njemu zrači čistotom, zrači spokojstvom, vedrinom, blagošću i svetošću, kakve od poslednje smrti našeg uzvišenog učitelja nisam video ni kod jednog drugog ljudskog bića.)
 
Razmišljajući tako, s oprečnim osećanjima u srcu, Govinda još jednom priđe Sidarti, privučen ljubavlju. On se duboko pokloni prijatelju koji je sedeo spokojno.
 
- Sidarto, - reče - postali smo starci. Teško da ćemo jedan drugoga ponovo videti u ovom liku. Vidim, voljeni, da si našao mir. Priznajem da ga ja nisam našao. Reci mi, uvaženi, samo jednu reč, daj mi da ponesem sobom nešto opipljivo, nešto što mogu da shvatim! Daj mi nešto za moj put. Često je tegoban taj moj put, Sidarto, često je mračan.
 
Sidarta je ćutao i gledao ga uvek istim, tihim osmehom. Govinda mu se uneo u lice ukočena pogleda, pun zebnje, pun čežnje. U njegovom pogledu odražavala se patnja i večno traženje, večno nenalaženje.
 
Sidarta je to video i smešio se.
 
- Prigni se meni! - šapnu Govindi na uvo. - Prigni se! Tako, još bliže! Sasvim blizu! Poljubi me u čelo, Govindo!
 
Dok je Govinda, začuđeno, ali ipak privučen velikom ljubavlju i slutnjom, poslušao njegove reči i, prignuvši mu se, dodirnuo usnama njegovo čelo, zbilo se nešto čudesno. Dok su mu misli još bile zaokupljene Sidartinim neobičnim rečima, dok je uzaludno i opirući se težio da zamisli nepostojanje vremena, da nirvanu i sansaru predočava u sebi kao jedno, dok su se u njemu borili prezir prema rečima prijatelja sa ogromnom ljubavlju i strahopoštovanjem, evo šta se dogodilo:
 
Nije više video lik svoga prijatelja Sidarte, - umesto toga video je druge likove, drugi niz, čitavu reku likova, stotine i hiljade, koji su svi dolazili i nestajali, a ipak se činilo da su svi istovremeno prisutni, u neprekidnoj meni i preporodu, a ipak su svi oni bili Sidarta. Video je lik ribe, šarana sa beskrajno bolno razjapljenim ustima umiruće ribe, ugaslih očiju - video je lice novorođenog deteta, crveno i naborano, u plaču iskrivljeno - video je lice ubice, video kako zabada nož u telo nekog čoveka - u isti tren je video ubicu vezanih ruku, na kolenima, kako mu krvnik udarcem mača odseca glavu - video je naga tela muškaraca i žena u pozama i borbama ljubavne pomame - video je leševe gde leže opruženi, nemi, hladni, prazni - video je životinjske glave, glave divljih veprova, krokodila, slonova, bikova, ptica - video je bogove, video je Krišnu, Agni - sve ove pojave i likove video je povezane hiljadama međusobnih veza, oni su pomagali jedni drugima u ljubavi, u mržnji, uništavajući se, rađajući jedno drugo, svako od njih je težilo smrti, uz strasno i bolno priznavanje prolaznosti, a nijedno od njih nije umiralo, već su se stalno preobražavali ponovo rođeni, dobijajući uvek novi lik, a da između jednog i drugog lika nije ležalo vreme - i sve ove pojave i likovi mirovali su, proticali, oplođavali se, plutali i prelivali se jedno u drugo, i svi su bili prevučeni nečim veoma tananim, besuštastvenim pa ipak postojećim, kao tankim staklom, ili ledom, providnom kožom, kao posuda ili forma ili maska od vode, a ta maska se smešila, ta maska je bila Sidartino lice koje je on, Govinda, tog istog trenutka, dodirivao usnama. I tako je Govinda video taj osmeh maske, osmeh jedinstva iznad uskovitlanih obličja, osmeh istodobnosti iznad hiljade rodenja i smrti, a taj osmeh Sidartin bio je isti, potpuno istovetni tihi, tanani, nedokučivi, možda dobrohotni, a možda podsmešljivi, mudri, hiljadostruki osmeh Gotame - Bude - kakav je i sam stotine puta video pun strahopoštovanja. Govinda je znao, ovako se smeše samo savršeni.
 
Ne znajući više da li postoji vreme, da li je ovo viđenje trajalo trenutak ili sto godina, ne znajući više postoji li jedan Sidarta, jedan Gotama, postoje li ja i ti, pogođen božanskom strelom koja mu je u najunutarnjijoj biti zadala slatku ranu, opčinjene i razrešene duše, Govinda je još neko vreme ostao nagnut nad Sidartinim spokojnim licem koje je upravo poljubio, na kome su se pojavila sva obličja, sve što nastaje, sve što bivstvuje. To lice je bilo nepromenjeno, nakon što se ispod njegove površine ponovo zatvorio bezdan hiljadostrukosti, Sidarta se smešio spokojno, smešio se smireno i blago, možda veoma dobrohotno, a možda veoma podsmešljivo, isto kao što se smešio Uzvišeni.
 
Govinda se duboko poklonio, preko njegovog staračkog lica tekle su suze za koje on nije ni znao, dok mu je u srcu kao oganj gorelo osećanje duboke ljubavi, najskrušenijeg poštovanja. Poklonio se duboko, sve do zemlje, pred onim koji je sedeo nepomično, čiji ga je osmeh podsećao na sve što je u životu ikada voleo, što mu je u životu ikada bilo dragoceno i sveto. 

Narcissus and Goldmund

1

Outside the entrance of the Mariabronn cloister, whose rounded arch rested on slim double columns, a chestnut tree stood close to the road. It was a sweet chestnut, with a sturdy trunk and a full round crown that swayed gently in the wind, brought from Italy many years earlier by a monk who had made a pilgrimage to Rome. In the spring it waited until all the surrounding trees were green, and even the hazel and walnut trees were wearing ruddy foliage, before sprouting its own first leaves; then, during the shortest nights of the year, it drove the delicate white-green rays of its exotic blossoms out through tufts of leaves, filling the air with an admonishing and pungent fragrance. In October, after the grape and apple harvests, the autumn wind shook the prickly chestnuts out of the tree's burnished gold crown; the cloister students would scramble and fight for the nuts, and Prior Gregory, who came from the south, roasted them in the fireplace in his room. The beautiful treetop—secret kin to the portal's slender sandstone columns and the stone ornaments of the window vaults and pillars, loved by the Savoyards and Latins—swayed above the cloister entrance, a conspicuous outsider in the eyes of the natives.

Generations of cloister boys passed beneath the foreign tree, carrying their writing tablets, chatting, laughing, clowning, and squabbling, barefoot or shod according to the season, a flower or a nut between their teeth or a snowball in their fists. There were always newcomers; and the faces changed every few years, yet most of them resembled one another, if only for their blond and curly hair. Some stayed for life, becoming novices and monks; they had their hair shorn, donned habit and cincture, read books, taught boys, grew old, died. Others after finishing their studies were taken home by their parents to castles, or to merchants' and artisans' houses, and then went out into the world and lived by their wits or their crafts. They returned to the cloister occasionally as grown men, bringing their little sons to be taught by the priests, stood for a while smiling pensively at the chestnut tree, then vanished once more. The cells and halls of the cloister, between the thick round window vaults and the trim double columns of red stone, were filled with life, with teaching, learning, administration, ruling; many kinds of arts and sciences—the pious and worldly, the frivolous and somber—were pursued here, and were passed on from one generation to another. Books were written and annotated, systems invented, ancient scrolls collected, new scrolls illuminated, the faith of the people fostered, their credulity smiled upon. Erudition and piety, simplicity and cunning, the wisdom of the testaments and the wisdom of the Greeks, white and black magic—a little of each flourished here; there was room enough for everything, room for meditation and repentance, for gregariousness and the good life. One interest would usually outweigh another, predominating in accord with the personality of the incumbent abbot or the tendency of the day. At times the cloister's reputation for exorcism and demon-detecting would attract visitors; at other times the cloister would be known for its fine music, or for a holy monk who had the power to heal and perform miracles, or for the pike soup and stag-liver pies served in the refectory. And among the throng of monks and pupils, whether pious or lukewarm, fasting or fat, who came and lived there and died, there would always be one or another who was special, whom all loved or all feared, who seemed to be chosen, of whom people spoke long after his contemporaries had been forgotten.

Even now the cloister of Mariabronn had in its midst two persons who were out of the ordinary, one old and one young. Among the many brethren who flocked to the dormitories, chapels, and classrooms were two of whom all were aware, whom all respected: Abbot Daniel and Brother Narcissus. Though the latter had only recently entered on his novitiate, he had, because of his gifts, been appointed a teacher, mainly of Greek, against all tradition. These two, the aging Abbot and the novice, had special standing in the house; they aroused curiosity and were watched, admired, envied, and sometimes slandered.

Most brothers loved the Abbot for his kindness, simplicity, and humility. Only the learned were a trifle condescending in their affection for him, because, for all his saintliness, Abbot Daniel would never be a scholar. He had the simplicity of wisdom, but his Latin was modest and he knew no Greek whatsoever.

The few who permitted themselves an occasional smile at their Abbot's simplicity were all the more enamored of Narcissus, the handsome prodigy who possessed elegant Greek, impeccable manners, quietly penetrating thinker's eyes, and beautiful, sharply outlined lips. The scholars admired him for his extraordinary Greek; almost all the others, for his nobility and refinement. Many quite simply loved him, but there were inevitably those who resented his extreme reserve, self-control, and exquisite manners.

Abbot and novice, each bore his fate and ruled and suffered in his own way. They felt closer and more drawn to each other than to anyone else in the cloister, yet neither found the way to the other or felt at ease in the other's presence. The Abbot treated the young man with the greatest solicitude, worried about him as though he were a rare, sensitive, perhaps dangerously precocious younger brother. The young man accepted the Abbot's every order, counsel, and good word with perfect equanimity, never argued or sulked, and if the Abbot was right in finding that Brother Narcissus's only sin was pride, Narcissus was a master at concealing it. There was nothing to be said against him; he was perfect and no one was a match for him. Yet, apart from the learned, he had few friends; his distinction surrounded him like a chilling draft.

Once, after confession, the Abbot said to him: "Narcissus, I admit that I am guilty of having judged you harshly. Often I have considered you arrogant, and perhaps I have done you an injustice. You are very much alone, my young brother, you have admirers, but no friends. I wish I had reason to scold you from time to time, but I have none. I wish you would misbehave occasionally, as young people of your age often do. But you never misbehave. I worry about you a little, Narcissus."

The young novice fixed his dark eyes on the old Abbot.

"I wish above all not to worry you, gentle father. It may well be that I am arrogant. If so, I beg you to punish me. Sometimes I feel an urge to punish myself. Send me to a hermitage, father, or assign me lowly chores."

"You are too young for either, dear brother," said the Abbot. "Besides, you are eminently gifted in speech and thought. To assign you lowly chores would be wasting these God-given talents. In all probability you will become a teacher and a scholar. Is that not your own wish?"

"Forgive me, father, I am not certain what my own wishes are. I shall always take pleasure in study, how could it be otherwise? But I do not believe that my life will be limited to study. A man's wishes may not always determine his destiny, his mission; perhaps there are other, predetermining, factors."

The Abbot listened gravely. Still, a smile played about his old face as he said: "Insofar as I have come to know people, we all have a slight tendency, especially while we are young, to confuse our wishes with predestination. But tell me, since you believe that you have foreknowledge of your destiny, tell me what you believe yourself destined for?"

Narcissus let his dark eyes close until they disappeared in the shadows of his long black lashes. He did not answer.

"Speak, my son," the Abbot ordered after much waiting.

In a low voice, his eyes on the ground, Narcissus began: "I believe, gentle father, that I am destined above all else for cloister life. I believe that I shall become a monk, a priest, a prior, perhaps an abbot. I do not believe that this is because I wish it, I do not wish for offices. They will be laid upon me."

Both were silent for a long time.

"What gives you this belief?" the old man asked hesitantly. "What talent is there in you, other than learning, that expresses itself in this belief?"

"It is a capacity to sense the characters and destiny of people," Narcissus said slowly, "not only my own destiny, but that of others as well. It obliges me to serve others by ruling over them. Were I not born for cloister life, I should have to become a judge or a statesman."

"Perhaps," nodded the Abbot. "Have you tested your capacity to recognize people's characters and destinies? Have you examples?"

"I have."

"Are you willing to give me an example?"

"I am."

"Very well. Since I do not wish to pry into the secrets of our brothers without their knowledge, you might perhaps tell me what you think you know about me, your Abbot Daniel."

Narcissus raised his lids and looked the Abbot in the eye.

"Is that an order, gentle father?"

"An order."

"I find it difficult to speak, father."

"And I, my young brother, I find it difficult to force you to speak. And yet I do. Speak."

Narcissus bowed his head and said in a whisper: "I know little of you, gentle father. I know that you are a servant of God who would rather watch over goats and ring the bell in a hermitage and listen to peasants' confessions than head a large cloister. I know that you have a special love for the Holy Mother of God and that most of your prayers are addressed to her. Occasionally you pray that Greek and similar subjects that are studied in this cloister do not lead the souls in your care into confusion and danger. Occasionally you pray for continued patience with Prior Gregory. Sometimes you pray for a gentle end. And I think that your prayer will be heard and that your end will be gentle."

It was very still in the Abbot's small office. At last the old man spoke.

"You are a romantic and you have visions," said the old gentleman in a friendly voice. "But even pious, friendly visions may trick us; do not rely on them any more than I rely on them.—Can you see, my romantic brother, what I think about this matter in my heart?"

"Father, I can see that you have very friendly thoughts about it. You are thinking the following: 'This youthful scholar is slightly in danger. He has visions. Perhaps he meditates too much. Perhaps I could impose penance on him; it would do him no harm. But the penance that I shall impose on him, I will also impose on myself.' That is what you are thinking."

The Abbot rose and smiled. He waved to the novice to take his leave.

"All right," he said. "Do not take your visions altogether too seriously, my young brother, God demands much else of us besides visions. Let us assume that you have flattered an old man by promising him an easy death. Let us assume that, for an instant, the old man was glad to hear this promise. That is sufficient for now. You will say a rosary tomorrow morning, after early mass. You will say it humbly and with devotion, not superficially. And I shall do the same. Go now, Narcissus, there have been words enough."

On another occasion Abbot Daniel had to settle a disagreement between the youngest of the teaching fathers and Narcissus on the point of the teaching method. Narcissus passionately urged the introduction of certain changes and justified them with convincing arguments; but out of a kind of jealousy Father Lorenz refused to hear of any changes, and each new discussion would be followed by days of ill-humored silence and sulking, until Narcissus, who was sure he was right, would broach the subject once more. Finally Father Lorenz, mildly offended, said: "Well, Narcissus, let us put an end to this quarrel. As you know, the decision is mine and not yours. You are not my colleague, you are my assistant, you must do as I say. But since this matter seems so important to you and since I am your superior only by rank and not by knowledge or talent, I will not take the decision upon myself. We shall submit the matter to our father the Abbot and let him decide."

This they did. Abbot Daniel listened with gentle patience as the two learned men argued about their conceptions of the teaching of grammar.

After each had stated his point of view and defended it, the old man looked at them with an amused air, shook his gray head softly, and said: "My dear brothers, neither of you thinks that I know as much of these matters as you do. I commend Narcissus for having a keen enough interest in the school to want to improve the teaching method. However, if his superior holds a different opinion, Narcissus must be silent and obey, because no improvement of the school would make up for the slightest disturbance of order and obedience in this house. I reprove Narcissus for not knowing how to give in. And I hope that you two young scholars may never lack superiors who are less intelligent than you; it is the best cure for pride." With this amiable jest he dismissed them. But during the next few days he did not forget to keep an eye on the two teachers to see if harmony had been restored.

And then it happened that a new face appeared in this cloister which had seen so many faces come and go, a new face that did not pass unremarked and unremembered. An adolescent, previously enrolled by his father, arrived one day in spring to study at the cloister school. Father and son tethered their horses under the chestnut tree; the porter came out to meet them.

The boy looked up at the tree still bare with winter. "I've never seen a tree like that," he said. "What a strange, beautiful tree. I wonder what it is called."

The father, an elderly gentleman with a worried, slightly pinched face, paid no attention to his son's question. But the porter, who liked the boy immediately, told him the tree's name. The young man thanked him in a friendly voice, held out his hand, and said: "I am Goldmund, I'll be going to school here." The porter smiled and led the newcomers through the portal and up the wide stone steps, and Goldmund entered the cloister with confidence, feeling that he had already met two beings in his new environment with whom he could be friends, the tree and the porter.

Father and son were received first by the priest who headed the school, then, toward evening, by the Abbot himself. Both times the father, who was in the service of the Emperor, introduced his son Goldmund and was invited to stay for a while as a guest of the cloister. But he accepted only for a night, saying that he had to ride back the next day. He offered one of his two horses to the cloister as a gift, and it was accepted. His conversation was courteous and cool; but both abbot and priest looked with pleasure upon the respectfully silent Goldmund. They had taken an immediate liking to the delicate, good-looking boy. Without regret, they let the father depart the following day; they were glad to keep the son. Goldmund was taken to see the teachers and given a bed in the students' dormitory. Sad-faced and respectful, he said goodbye to his father and stood gazing after him until he had disappeared through the narrow arched gate of the cloister's outer wall, between the granary and the mill. A tear hung on his long blond lashes when he finally turned away; but the porter was there to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Young master," he said consolingly, "don't be sad. Most everyone is a little homesick at first, for his father, his mother, his brothers and sisters. But you'll see: life isn't bad here either, not bad at all."

"Thank you, brother porter," said the boy. "I have no brothers or sisters, and no mother; my father is all I have."

"You'll find schoolmates here to make up for him, and books and music and new games you never played before, all kinds of things, you'll see. And if you feel the need for a friend, come to me."

Goldmund smiled at him. "Thank you very much. Would you do me a favor then, please, and show me where I can find the horse my father left behind. I'd like to say hello to him and see if he is happy here."

The porter led him to the stable beside the granary. The lukewarm twilight smelled strongly of horses, manure, and oats, and in one of the stalls Goldmund found the little brown horse that had carried him to the cloister. He wrapped both arms around the neck of the animal, which was stretching a long head toward him in greeting; he put his cheek to the wide dappled forehead, caressed it tenderly, and whispered into an ear: "Hello there, Bless, my dear, my good horse, are you happy? Do you love me still? Have you been fed? Do you still remember our home? Bless, my little horse, my friend, I'm so glad that you've stayed, I'll come to see you often." From the cuff of his sleeve he pulled a slice of bread that he had hidden there, broke it into small pieces, and fed it to the horse. Then he said goodbye and followed the porter across a courtyard as wide as the marketplace of a large city, shaded in places by linden trees. At the inner gate he thanked the porter and shook his hand. Then he realized that he no longer knew the way to the classroom he had been shown yesterday, laughed a little, blushed, and asked the porter to take him there, which the porter was glad to do. He entered the classroom, where a dozen boys and young men were sitting on benches, and the assistant teacher, Brother Narcissus, turned his head.

"I am Goldmund," he said, "the new scholar."

Narcissus nodded to him, and briefly, without a smile, indicated a seat on the rear bench and went on with the lesson.

Goldmund sat down. He was surprised to find the teacher so young, only a few years older than himself, surprised and deeply delighted to find this young teacher so handsome and refined, so stern, yet so charming and likable. The porter had been nice to him; the Abbot had given him a friendly reception. Not far away in the stable was his Bless, a little bit of home, and now there was this surprisingly young teacher, grave as a scholar, polished as a prince, with his cool, controlled, matter-of-fact yet compelling voice. He listened gratefully, although without at first understanding the subject of the lesson. He began to feel happy. He was among good, likable men and was ready to seek their friendship. In his bed that morning he had awakened with a feeling of anguish, still tired from the long journey. And saying goodbye to his father had made him cry a little. But now all was well, he was happy. Again and again, for long moments, he looked at the teacher, took pleasure in the straight, slender figure; the cool, sparkling eyes; the firm lips that were forming clear, precise syllables; the inspired, untiring voice.

But when the lesson was over and the pupils stood up noisily, Goldmund started and realized a little shamefacedly that he had been asleep for quite some time. And he was not the only one to realize it; the boys on the bench beside him had noticed too and passed it on in whispers. As soon as the young teacher had walked out of the room, they nudged Goldmund and pulled at him from all sides.

"Had a nice nap?" asked one of them with a grin.

"A fine scholar!" jeered another. "He's going to be a true pillar of the church, falling asleep during his first lesson!"

"Let's put the baby to bed," proposed another. And they seized his arms and legs to carry him off with mocking laughter.

Goldmund was startled; it made him angry. He struck out at them, tried to free himself, got punched several times, and was finally dropped to the ground, one of the boys still holding him by a foot. He kicked himself free, threw himself upon the boy who happened to be standing nearest, and was soon involved in a violent fistfight. His adversary was strong; everyone watched the fight eagerly. When Goldmund stood his ground and landed a few well-aimed blows, he made a few friends among his classmates before he knew a single one by name. But suddenly they all scattered and were hardly gone when Father Martin, the head of the school, entered and faced the boy, who was still standing on the same spot, alone. Astonished, he looked at the boy, whose embarrassed blue eyes were looking out of a flushed, somewhat scarred face.

"What has happened to you?" Father Martin asked "Aren't you Goldmund? Have they been rough with you, the scoundrels?"

"Oh no," said the boy. "I got even with him."

"With whom?"

"I don't know. I don't know anyone by name yet. One of them had a fight with me."

"He did? Did he start it?"

"I'm not sure. No, I guess I started it myself. They were teasing me and I got angry."

"An auspicious beginning, my boy. Now you listen to me. If I catch you once more fighting in the classroom, you'll be punished. Now off with you to supper!"

With a smile he watched the embarrassed Goldmund run off, trying to smooth his tousled blond hair with his fingers as he ran.

Goldmund thought that his first act in the cloister had been ill-mannered and foolish; rather dejectedly, he looked for his classmates at the supper table. But they welcomed him with friendship and respect. He made an honorable peace with the enemy and from that moment on he felt that he belonged to the school.

2

Although he was on good terms with everyone, he had not made a real friend. There was no one among his classmates for whom he felt any particular affinity, let alone fondness. And to their amazement, the others discovered in the fistfighter they had first taken for a rowdy a peace-loving companion, a model student who seemed to be striving for scholarly laurels.

There were two men in the cloister to whom Goldmund's heart reached out, who filled his thoughts, whom he admired and revered: Abbot Daniel and the assistant teacher, Brother Narcissus. He felt that the Abbot was a saint. He was immensely attracted by his kind simplicity, his clear, concerned eyes, by the way he gave orders and made decisions, humbly, as though it were a task, by his good, quiet gestures. He would have liked to become the personal servant of this pious man, to be in his presence constantly, obedient and serving, to bring him the sacrifice of all his youthful need for devotion and dedication, to learn a pure, noble, saintly life from him. Goldmund wished not only to finish the cloister school but to remain in the cloister, indefinitely perhaps, dedicating his life to God. This was his intention, as it was his father's wish and command and, most likely, God's own decision and command. Nobody seemed aware of the burden that lay upon the handsome radiant boy, an original burden, a secret destiny of atonement and sacrifice. Even the Abbot was not aware of it, although Goldmund's father had dropped several hints and clearly expressed the wish that his son remain in the cloister forever. Some secret flaw seemed attached to Goldmund's birth, something unspoken that sought expiation. But the Abbot felt little sympathy for the father, whose words and air of self-importance he had countered with polite reserve, dismissing the hints as not particularly important.

The other man who had aroused Goldmund's admiration had sharper eyes and a keener intuition, but he did not come forward. Narcissus knew only too well what a charming golden bird had flown to him. This hermit soon sensed a kindred soul in Goldmund, in spite of their apparent contrasts. Narcissus was dark and spare; Goldmund, a radiant youth. Narcissus was analytical, a thinker; Goldmund, a dreamer with the soul of a child. But something they had in common bridged these contrasts: both were refined; both were different from the others because of obvious gifts and signs; both bore the special mark of fate.

Narcissus took an ardent interest in this young soul, whose character and destiny he had been quick to recognize. Fervently Goldmund admired his beautiful, outstandingly intelligent teacher. But Goldmund was timid; the only way he knew to court Narcissus was to exhaust himself in being an attentive, eager student. But more than timidity held him back. He sensed a danger to himself in Narcissus. It was impossible to emulate simultaneously the kindly humble Abbot and the extremely intelligent, learned, brilliant Brother Narcissus. Yet every fiber of his youthful soul strove to attain these two incompatible ideals. It caused him much suffering. There were days during his first months at the cloister school when Goldmund's heart was so torn, so confused, he felt strongly tempted to run away or to take his anguish and anger out on his classmates. Sometimes a bit of innocent teasing or a prank would stir such a wild rage inside this warm-hearted boy that the utmost control was required to hold it in; he would close his eyes and turn away, silent and deathly pale. Then he would go to the stable to find Bless, lean his head against the horse's neck, kiss him and cry his heart out. Gradually his suffering increased and became noticeable. His face grew thinner; his eyes became dull; he rarely laughed the laugh all liked so much.

He didn't know what was happening to him. He honestly wished, was honestly determined, to be a good scholar, to begin his novitiate as soon as possible, and after that to become a quiet, prayerful monk of the cloister. He firmly believed that all his strength and talent drove toward this mild, pious goal; he knew nothing of other drives. How strangely sad then to find this simple, beautiful goal so difficult to attain. Occasionally he would be discouraged, bewildered to detect hateful moods and tendencies in himself: he'd feel distracted, unwilling to learn. He'd daydream or drowse through a lesson, rebel with sudden distaste against the Latin teacher, be cranky and impatient with his classmates. And what was most confusing was that his love for Narcissus seemed to fight his love for Abbot Daniel. Yet at moments he felt almost certain that Narcissus loved him also, that he was concerned about him, was waiting for him.

Narcissus's thoughts were far more occupied with Goldmund than Goldmund imagined. He wanted the bright boy as a friend. He sensed in him his opposite, his complement; he would have liked to adopt, lead, enlighten, strengthen, and bring him to bloom. But he held himself back, for many reasons, almost all of them conscious. Most of all, he felt tied and hemmed in by his distaste for teachers or monks who, all too frequently, fell in love with a pupil or a novice. Often enough, he had felt with repulsion the desiring eyes of older men upon him, had met their enticements and cajoleries with wordless rebuttal. He understood them better now that he knew the temptation to love the charming boy, to make him laugh, to run a caressing hand through his blond hair. But he would never do that, never. Moreover, as a mere tutor, with the rank but not the position or the authority of a teacher, he had become especially cautious and watchful. He was used to conducting himself with pupils only a few years younger than himself as though he were twenty years their senior, to forbidding himself sternly all partiality toward a pupil, to forcing himself to particular fairness and concern for those pupils who were naturally repugnant to him. His was the service of the mind, and to that he dedicated his strict life. Only secretly, during his most unguarded moments, did he permit himself the pleasure of arrogance. No, no matter how tempting a friendship with Goldmund seemed, it could only be a danger; he must never let it touch the core of his existence. The core and meaning of his life was to serve the mind, to serve the word: the quiet, superior, self-negating guidance of his pupils—and not only of his pupils—toward high spiritual goals.

For a year or more, Goldmund had been a student at the cloister school of Mariabronn. He had played some hundred times with his classmates under the linden trees in the courtyard and under the beautiful chestnut tree—ball games, races, snowball fights. Now spring had come, but Goldmund felt tired and sick and often had headaches; he found it hard to stay awake in class, hard to concentrate.

Then one evening Adolf came up to him, the classmate he had first met during a fistfight and with whom he had begun to study Euclid that winter. It was in the hour after supper, an hour of recreation when the boys were permitted to play in the dormitories, to walk and talk in the outer cloister yard.

"Goldmund," he said, pulling him down the stairs after him, "I want to tell you something, something funny. But you're such a model student—you'll probably end up a bishop one of these days. First you must give me your word of honor that you won't tell the teachers on me."

Goldmund immediately gave his word. There was cloister honor and student honor, and occasionally one contradicted the other, Goldmund was well aware of that. But, as anywhere else in the world, the unwritten law defeated the written one; he would never try to evade student laws and codes while he was himself a student.

Adolf dragged him outside the arch under the trees. There was, he whispered, a group of good, strong-hearted classmates—he himself was one of them—who were carrying on an old student tradition, of reminding themselves that they were not monks. They would occasionally steal away from the cloister for an evening in the village. It was the kind of prank or adventure no decent fellow could avoid taking part in; later during the night they would sneak back again.

"But the gates are locked at that hour," Goldmund objected.

Of course they were locked. Precisely. That was the fun of the whole thing. But there were secret ways to get back inside unnoticed; it wouldn't be the first time.

Goldmund recalled hearing the expression: "going to the village." It stood for boys' nocturnal escapades, for all kinds of secret adventures and pleasures which were forbidden on pain of heavy punishment. He froze inside. "Going to the village" was a sin, something forbidden. At the same time he understood only too well that that was precisely why the "regulars" considered it a point of honor to take the risk and that it was a certain distinction to be asked to join in this adventure.

He would have liked to say no, to run back and go to bed. He felt tired and weak; his head had ached all afternoon. But he felt slightly embarrassed in front of Adolf. And who could tell: perhaps there would be something new, something beautiful outside the cloister, something that might make one forget headaches and listlessness and all kinds of pain. It was an excursion into the world—although secret and forbidden, nothing to feel proud of. Still, perhaps it would bring release, be an experience. He stood undecided while Adolf continued to talk; suddenly he laughed and said yes.

Unobserved, they slipped out under the linden trees in the vast darkening courtyard; the outer gate had already been locked. Adolf led him to the cloister mill through which one could easily sneak out, unseen in the twilight, and unheard because of the constant whirring of wheels. In complete darkness they climbed through a window onto a pile of slippery-wet planks, one of which they pulled out and used as a bridge to cross the little stream. And now they were outside, on the pale glistening road that disappeared into the dark forest. All this was exciting and secret; he enjoyed it very much.

At the edge of the forest they found a third classmate, Konrad; they waited for a long time and were joined by a fourth, big Eberhard. All four tramped through the forest. Nightbirds rose above them in a rustle of wings; a few stars peeked wet and bright through quiet clouds. Konrad chattered and joked. Occasionally he'd make the others laugh, but there hung above them the solemn anxiety of night that made their hearts beat faster.

After barely an hour they came to the village on the other side of the forest. It seemed asleep. The low gables shimmered faintly, criss-crossed by dark ribs of timber; there wasn't a light anywhere. Adolf led the way. Silent, on tiptoe, they circled several houses, climbed a fence, stood in a garden, sank into the soft earth of a flower bed, stumbled over steps, stopped by the wall of a house. Adolf knocked at a shutter, waited, knocked again. There was a sound inside. Soon a light shone, the shutter opened, and one after the other they climbed into a kitchen with a black hearth and an earthen floor. A tiny oil lamp was standing on the stove, its feeble flame flickering on a thin wick. And there was a girl, a haggard servant girl, who stood holding out her hand to greet the intruders. Another girl stepped out of the shadows behind the first one, a young thing with long black braids. Adolf had brought gifts for them, half a loaf of white cloister bread, and something in a paper sack, a handful of stolen incense perhaps, thought Goldmund, or candle wax or the like. The young girl with the braids went out of the kitchen, groped her way through the darkness to the door, stayed away for a long while, returned with a jug of gray clay with a blue flower painted on it and offered the jug to Konrad. He drank from it, passed it on. They all drank; it was strong apple cider.

In the light of the tiny lamp they sat down, the girls on rigid little stools and the students around them on the floor. They spoke in whispers, with interruptions for sips of cider, Adolf and Konrad making most of the conversation. From time to time one of them would get up and caress the hair and neck of the older girl, and whisper into her ear; no one touched the younger girl. The big one was probably the maid, Goldmund thought, and the smaller, pretty one the daughter of the house. But what difference did it make. It was none of his business and he would never come back here. The secrecy of the escapade, the walk through the night forest had been beautiful, out of the ordinary, exciting but not dangerous. Forbidden yes, but even so the transgression did not burden one's conscience. Whereas this, visiting girls at night, was more than just forbidden; he felt it was a sin. Perhaps for the others even this was only a small adventure, but not for him; he knew that he was destined for the ascetic life of a monk, and playing with girls was not permitted him. No, he would never come back here. But his heart pounded with anguish in the flickering half light of the poor kitchen.

The others were showing off in front of the girls and spiking their talk with tidbits of Latin. The servant girl seemed to like all three; they would sidle up to her with their awkward little caresses, a timid kiss at most. They seemed to know exactly how much was permitted. And since the whole conversation had to be held in whispers, there was something rather silly about the scene, but Goldmund did not see it that way. He crouched on the floor and stared into the flickering flame of the lamp, not saying a word. Occasionally a slightly eager side glance would catch one of the caresses the others were exchanging. Stiffly he stared straight ahead again. More than anything else he would have liked to look at the younger girl with the braids, at no one but her, but that especially he forbade himself. And every time his will slackened and his eyes strayed to the sweet quiet face of the girl, he found her dark eyes riveted on his face, staring at him as though she were spellbound.

An hour may have passed—never had Goldmund lived through a longer hour. The students had exhausted their conversation and caresses; they sat in embarrassed silence; Eberhard began to yawn. The servant girl said it was time to leave. They stood up, shook her hand—Goldmund last. Then they shook hands with the younger girl—Goldmund last. Konrad was first to climb out through the window, followed by Eberhard and Adolf. As Goldmund was climbing out, he felt a hand hold him back by a shoulder. He could not stop; once outside on the ground he slowly turned his head. The younger girl with the braids was leaning out of the window.

"Goldmund!" she whispered. He stood and waited.

"Are you coming back?" she asked. Her timid voice was no more than a breath.

Goldmund shook his head. She reached out with both hands, seized his head; her small hands felt warm on his temples. She bent far down, until her dark eyes were close before his.

"Do come back!" she whispered, and her mouth touched his in a child's kiss.

Quickly he ran through the small garden, toppled across the flower beds, smelled wet earth and dung. A rosebush tore his hand. He climbed over the fence and trotted after the others out of the village toward the forest. "Never again!" commanded his will. "Again! Tomorrow!" begged his heart.

Nobody surprised the night owls. Nothing hindered their return to Mariabronn, across the little stream, through the mill, across the square of linden trees, along secret passageways, over gables, around window columns, into the cloister and the dormitory.

Big Eberhard had to be punched awake in the morning, he was sleeping so heavily. They were all on time for early mass, morning soup and assembly in the auditorium; but Goldmund looked pale, so pale Father Martin asked him if he were ill. Adolf shot him a warning glance and Goldmund said he felt all right. But during Greek, around noon, Narcissus did not take his eyes off him. He, too, saw that Goldmund was ill, but said nothing and watched closely. At the end of the lesson he called him, sent him on an errand to the library to avoid rousing the students' curiosity, and followed him there.

"Goldmund," he said, "can I help you? I see you are in trouble. Perhaps you're not feeling well. In which case we shall put you to bed and send you some soup and a glass of wine. You have no head for Greek today."

For a long while he waited for an answer. The pale boy looked at him out of troubled eyes, hung his head, raised it again. His lips quivered; he wanted to speak but could not. Suddenly he sank to one side, leaned his head on a lectern, between the two small oak angels' heads that framed the lectern, and burst into such violent weeping that Narcissus felt embarrassed and averted his eyes for some time before touching the sobbing boy to raise him up.

"All right," he said in a voice that was friendlier than Goldmund had ever heard from him. "All right, amicus meus, you just weep; it will soon make you feel better. There, sit down; there is no need to speak. I can see that it has been too much for you. It was probably difficult for you to stay on your feet all morning without letting anyone notice; you've been very courageous. Weep now, it is the best you can do. No? All finished? Back on your feet so soon? All right, we'll go to the infirmary then and you'll lie down, and by evening you'll feel much better. Let's go."

He led Goldmund to the sick room, careful not to pass any study halls on the way. He pointed to one of two empty beds and left the room when Goldmund obediently began to undress, and went to the superior to have the boy put on the sick list. He also ordered the promised soup and a glass of wine at the refectory, two special treats the cloister habitually allowed the ailing, who enjoyed it greatly when they did not feel too sick.

Goldmund lay on the bed in the sick room, trying to think himself out of his confusion. Something like an hour ago he could perhaps have explained to himself why he felt so indescribably tired today, what deathly strain on the soul drained his mind and made his eyes burn. It was the desperate, constantly renewed, constantly failing effort to forget last night—but not the night itself, not the foolish, enjoyable escapade from the locked cloister, or the walk through the forest, or the slippery makeshift bridge across the little black stream behind the mill, or the climbing over fences in and out of gardens, through windows, sneaking along passageways, but the single second outside the dark kitchen window, the girl's words, her breath, the pressure of her hands, the touch of her lips.

But now something new had occurred, another shock, another experience. Narcissus cared for him, Narcissus loved him, Narcissus had taken trouble over him—the refined, distinguished, intelligent young teacher with the narrow, slightly sarcastic mouth—and he, Goldmund, had let himself break down in front of him, had stood before him in stammering embarrassment, and had finally started to bawl! Instead of winning this superior being with the noblest weapons, with Greek and philosophy, with spiritual heroism and dignified stoicism, he had collapsed in disgraceful weakness. He'd never forgive himself for it. Never would he be able to look Narcissus in the eye again without shame.

But his weeping had released the great tension. The quiet loneliness of the room and the bed were doing him good; the despair had lost more than half of its impact. After an hour or so, one of the lay brothers came in, brought a gruel soup, a piece of white bread, and a small mug of red wine which the students normally drank only on holidays. Goldmund ate and drank, emptied half the plate, pushed it aside, started to think again, but couldn't, reached for the bowl once more, ate a few more spoonfuls. And when, somewhat later, the door quietly opened and Narcissus came in to look after his patient, Goldmund was asleep and a rosy glow had already returned to his cheeks. Narcissus looked at him for a long time, with love, curiosity, and also a slight envy. He saw that Goldmund was not ill; there would be no need to send him wine tomorrow. But he knew that the ice was broken, that they would be friends. Today it was Goldmund who needed him, whom he was able to serve. Another time he himself might be weak and in need of assistance and love. And from this boy he would be able to accept it, were it to come to that some day.

3

It was a curious friendship that had begun between Narcissus and Goldmund, one that pleased only a few; at times it seemed to displease even the two friends.

At first it was Narcissus, the thinker, who had the harder time of it. All was mind to him, even love; he was unable to give in to an attraction without thinking about it first. He was the guiding spirit of this friendship. For a long time he alone consciously recognized its destiny, its depth, its significance. For a long time he remained lonely, surrounded by love, knowing that his friend would fully belong to him only after he had been able to lead him toward recognition. With glowing fervor, playful and irresponsible, Goldmund abandoned himself to this new life; while Narcissus, aware and responsible, accepted the demands of fate.

For Goldmund it was a release at first, a convalescence. His youthful need for love had been powerfully aroused, and at the same time hopelessly intimidated, by the looks and the kiss of a pretty girl. Deep inside himself he felt the life he had dreamed of up to now, all his beliefs, all the things for which he felt himself destined, his entire vocation, threatened at the root by the kiss through the window, by the expression of those dark eyes. His father had decided that he was to lead the life of a monk; and with all his will he had accepted this decision. The fire of his first youthful fervor burned toward a pious, ascetic hero-image, and at the first furtive encounter, at life's first appeal to his senses, at the first beckoning of femininity he had felt that there was an enemy, a demon, a danger: woman. And now fate was offering him salvation, now in his most desperate need this friendship came toward him and offered his longing a new alter for reverence. Here he was permitted to love, to abandon himself without sinning, to give his heart to an admired older friend, more intelligent than he, to spiritualize the dangerous flames of the senses, to transform them into nobler fires of sacrifice.

But during the first spring of this friendship he ran up against unfamiliar obstacles, unexpected, incomprehensible coolness, frightening demands. It never occurred to him to see himself as the contradiction, the exact opposite of his friend. He thought that only love, only sincere devotion was needed to fuse two into one, to wipe out differences and bridge contrasts. But how harsh and positive this Narcissus was, how merciless and precise! Innocent abandonment, grateful wandering together in the land of friendship seemed unknown and undesirable to him. He did not seem to understand, to tolerate dreamy strolls on paths that led in no particular direction. When Goldmund had seemed ill, he had shown concern, and loyally he helped and advised him in all matters of school and learning; he explained difficult passages in books, opened new horizons in the realm of grammar, logic, and theology. Yet he never seemed genuinely satisfied with his friend, or to approve of him; quite often he seemed to be smiling, seemed not to take him seriously. Goldmund felt that this was not mere pedantry, not just the condescension of someone older and more intelligent, but that there was something else behind it, something deeper and important. But he was unable to recognize this deeper something, and this friendship often made him feel sad and lost.

Actually Narcissus recognized his friend's qualities only too well; he was not blind to the budding beauty, the vital force of nature in him, his flowering opulence. He was no pedant bent on feeding Greek to a fervent young soul, on repaying an innocent love with logic. On the contrary, he loved the blond adolescent altogether too much, and this was dangerous for him, because loving, to him, was not a natural condition but a miracle. To fall in love was not permitted him; he could not be content with the joyful contemplation of those eyes, with the nearness of this golden light. Not even for a second could he let this love dwell upon the senses. Because where Goldmund felt himself destined for monkish asceticism and a lifelong striving for saintliness, Narcissus was truly destined for that life. To him, loving was permitted only in its highest form. Narcissus did not believe in Goldmund's calling to be an ascetic. He knew how to read people more clearly than most, and here love increased his clarity. He recognized Goldmund's nature and understood it deeply, in spite of the contrasts, because it was the other, the lost half of his own. He saw that this nature was armored by a hard shell, by fantasies, faults of upbringing and paternal words; he had long sensed the whole, uncomplicated secret of this young life. He was fully aware of what he must do: reveal this secret to its bearer, free him from the shell, give him back his true nature. It would be hard, and the hardest was that perhaps it would make him lose his friend.

With infinite caution he drew closer to his goal. Months went by before a serious approach became possible between the two, a deep-reaching conversation. In spite of their friendship, they were so far apart, the bowstring was so taut between them: a seeing man and a blind man, they walked side by side; the blind man's unawareness of his own blindness was a consolation only to himself. Narcissus made the first breakthrough when he tried to discover what the experience had been that had driven the boy toward him at a weak moment. It turned out to be less difficult than he had expected. Goldmund had long felt the need to confess the experience of that night, but there was no one, outside the Abbot, whom he trusted enough, and the Abbot was not his confessor. And when Narcissus reminded his friend, at a moment he judged favorable, of the very beginnings of their bond and gently hinted at the secret, Goldmund immediately said, "If only you were an ordained priest and able to confess me; I would have liked to free myself of that matter in confession and I would gladly have done penance for it. But I couldn't tell my confessor."

Carefully, shrewdly, Narcissus dug deeper; the vein had been found. "You remember the morning when you seemed to be ill," he ventured. "You can't have forgotten, since that was when we became friends. I think of it often. Perhaps you didn't notice, but I was rather helpless that morning."

"You helpless!" cried his friend, incredulous. "But I was the helpless one! It was I who stood there, swallowing, unable to utter a word, who finally began to weep like a child! Ugh, to this day I feel ashamed of that moment; I thought I could never face you again. You had seen me so disgracefully weak."

Narcissus groped ahead.

"I understand," he said. "It must have been unpleasant for you. Such a firm, courageous boy breaking into tears in front of a stranger, and a teacher at that, it was quite out of character. Well, that morning I merely thought you were ill. In the throes of a fever, even a man like Aristotle may behave strangely. But you were not ill. You had no fever! And that is why you feel ashamed. No one feels ashamed of succumbing to a fever, does he? You felt ashamed because you had succumbed to something else, to something that overpowered you? Did something special happen?"

Goldmund hesitated a second, then he said slowly: "Yes, something special did happen. Let's pretend you're my confessor; sooner or later this thing must be told."

With bowed head, he told his friend the story of that night.

Smilingly, Narcissus replied: "Well yes, 'going to the village' is of course forbidden. But one can do all kinds of forbidden things and laugh them away, or one can confess them and that is that; they need no longer concern one. Why shouldn't you commit these little foolishnesses like other students? What is so terrible about that?"

Angrily, without holding back, Goldmund burst out: "You do talk like a schoolmaster! You know very well what it is all about! Of course I don't see a great sin in breaking the house rules for once, to play a student prank, although it's not exactly part of the preparatory training for cloister life."

"Just a moment, my friend," Narcissus called sharply. "Don't you know that many pious fathers went through precisely that kind of preparatory training? Don't you know that a wastrel's life may be one of the shortest roads to sainthood?"

"Oh, don't lecture!" protested Goldmund. "It wasn't a trifling disobedience that weighed on my conscience. It was something else. It was that girl. I can't describe the sensation to you. It was a feeling that if I gave in to the enticement, if I merely reached out to touch the girl, I'd never be able to turn back, that sin would swallow me like the maw of hell and not give me up ever. That it would be the end of every beautiful dream, of all virtue, of all love of God and good."

Narcissus nodded, deep in thought.

"Love of God," he said slowly, searching for words, "is not always the same as love of good, I wish it were that simple. We know what is good, it is written in the Commandments. But God is not contained only in the Commandments, you know; they are only an infinitesimal part of Him. A man may abide by the Commandments and be far from God."

"But don't you understand?" Goldmund complained.

"Certainly I understand. You feel that woman, sex, is the essence of everything you call 'world' or 'sin'. You think yourself incapable of all other sins; or, if you did commit them, you think they would not crush you, that you could confess them and be whole again."

"Yes, that is exactly how I feel."

"You see, I do understand. You're not so terribly wrong after all; the story of Eve and the serpent is certainly no idle tale. And yet you are not right about this, my dear friend. You would be right if you were the Abbot Daniel, or your baptismal saint, the holy Chrysostom, or a bishop, or a priest, even a simple monk. But you aren't. You are a student, and although you wish to remain in the cloister for life, or your father wishes it for you, still you have not taken any vows; you have not been consecrated. If some pretty girl were to tempt you one of these days and you were to give in to the temptation, you would not have broken any vows."

"No written vows!" Goldmund cried heatedly. "But an unwritten one, the most sacred, something I carry inside me. Can't you see that this may apply to many others but not to me? You have not been consecrated either, nor have you taken any vows yet, but you would never permit yourself to touch a woman! Or am I mistaken? Isn't that how you are? Or aren't you the man I thought you were? Didn't you long ago, in your heart, make the vow that has not yet been made with words before superiors, and don't you feel bound by it forever? Aren't you exactly like me?"

"No, Goldmund, I am not like you, not in the way you think, although I, too, am keeping an unspoken vow—in that respect you are right—but I am in no way like you. Some day you will think of what I am going to say to you now: our friendship has no other purpose, no other reason, than to show you how utterly unlike me you are."

Goldmund was stunned; Narcissus's expression and tone permitted no contradiction. He was silent. Why had Narcissus said these words? Why should Narcissus's unspoken vow be more sacred than his own? Didn't he take him at all seriously? Did he see nothing but a child in him? The confusions and griefs of this strange friendship were beginning all over again.

Narcissus no longer had any doubt about the nature of Goldmund's secret. It was Eve who stood behind it, the original mother. But how was it possible that the awakening of sex met with such bitter antagonism in such a beautiful, healthy, flowering adolescent? There must be a secret enemy who had managed to split this magnificent human being within himself and turn him against his natural urges. This demon had to be discovered, had to be conjured up and made visible; only then could it be defeated.

Meanwhile Goldmund had been more and more neglected by his classmates, or rather they felt neglected by him, betrayed. His friendship with Narcissus pleased no one. The slanderers, those who had themselves been in love with one or the other, said the whole thing was against nature. Even those who were certain that no vice could be suspected here shook their heads. No one wanted to see these two friends together. It seemed that they were setting themselves apart from the others by this friendship, arrogantly, as though they were aristocrats for whom the others were not good enough; that was unbrotherly, not in keeping with the cloister spirit, not Christian.

Many things about the two—rumors, accusations, slander—reached Abbot Daniel. He had seen many friendships between young men in over forty years of cloister life; they belonged to cloister life and were a pleasant tradition, sometimes amusing, sometimes a danger. He waited, watched, did not intervene. Such a violent, exclusive friendship was rare, probably not undangerous, but since he did not for an instant doubt its purity, he decided to let it take its course. If it had not been for Narcissus's exceptional position among students and teachers, the Abbot would not have hesitated to place a few separating rules between the two. It was not good for Goldmund to have withdrawn from his classmates and to be in close association only with someone older, with a teacher. But was it permissible to disturb the extraordinary, highly gifted Narcissus, whom all teachers considered their equal if not their superior, in his privileged career and relieve him of his teaching position? Had Narcissus not proved himself as a teacher, had this friendship led to partiality and neglectfulness, the Abbot would have demoted him immediately. But there was nothing to be held against him, only rumors and others' jealous suspicions. Moreover, the Abbot knew of Narcissus's special gifts, of his curiously penetrating, perhaps slightly presumptuous, insight into people. He did not overestimate these gifts, he would have preferred Narcissus to have other gifts; but he did not doubt that Narcissus had noticed something unusual in the student Goldmund, that he knew him far better than he, or anyone else in the cloister. He himself, the Abbot, had not noticed anything unusual about Goldmund, apart from his winning nature, and perhaps a certain eagerness, a somewhat precocious zeal that made him conduct himself, still a student and a boarder, as though he belonged to the cloister and was one of the brothers. He saw no reason to fear that Narcissus would encourage this immature though touching zeal or that he would spur it on. He feared rather, for Goldmund, that his friend might infect him with a certain spiritual pride and erudite arrogance; but this danger seemed unlikely for this particular pupil; it was all right to wait and see. When he thought how much simpler it was for a superior, how much more peaceful and comfortable, to rule over average rather than strong or exceptional characters, he had to sigh and smile. No, he was not going to let himself be infected by suspicions; he did not wish to be ungrateful for the two exceptional human beings entrusted to his care.

Narcissus pondered a great deal about his friend. His special gift of spotting and emotionally recognizing the nature and destiny of others had long since told him about Goldmund. All that was alive and radiant in this young man spoke only too clearly: he bore all the marks of a strong human being, richly endowed sensually and spiritually, perhaps an artist, but at any rate a person with a great potential for love, whose fulfillment and happiness consisted of being easily inflamed and able to give himself. Then why was this being with such rich and perceptive senses so set on leading the ascetic life of the mind? Narcissus thought at great length about it. He knew that Goldmund's father favored his son's determination. Could the father have inspired it? What spell had he cast over his son to make him believe that this was his destiny, his duty? What sort of a person was this father? Narcissus had often intentionally touched on the subject of this father—and Goldmund had frequently spoken of him—and yet he could not imagine him, could not see him. Was it not strange and suspicious? Whenever Goldmund told a story about a trout he had caught as a boy, when he described a butterfly, imitated the call of a bird, spoke of a friend, a dog, a beggar, he created a vivid picture. Whenever he spoke of his father, one saw nothing. No, if his father had really been such an important, powerful, dominant figure in Goldmund's life, he would have been able to describe him differently, to conjure up vivid images of him. Narcissus did not think highly of this father, he did not like him; sometimes he wondered if he were really Goldmund's father. But what gave him such power? How had he succeeded in filling Goldmund's soul with dreams so alien to his soul?

Goldmund also brooded a great deal. He did feel warmly loved by his friend, and yet he often had the unpleasant sensation of not being taken seriously, of being treated a little like a child. And what did it mean when his friend insinuated, again and again, that he was not like him?

Yet thinking did not fill all of Goldmund's days. He was not able to think for too long at a time. There were other things to be done in the course of a day. He often went to see the friar porter, with whom he was on excellent terms. He'd beg and coax for an opportunity to ride the horse Bless for an hour or two, and he was very popular with the few nearby cloister tenants, especially with the miller. He'd often stalk otters with the miller's man, or they'd bake pancakes with the finely ground prelate's flour, which Goldmund could tell from all other kinds of flour, eyes closed, just by the smell of it. Although he spent time with Narcissus, there still remained a number of hours in which he pursued his old habits and pleasures. And usually the service was also a joy to him. He loved to sing in the student choir; he loved to say a rosary in front of a favorite altar, to listen to the solemnly beautiful Latin of the mass, to see the gold of the receptacles and ornaments glitter through clouds of incense, and the quiet venerable saints' figures standing on columns, the evangelists with the beasts, St. Jacob with his hat and pilgrim's satchel.

He felt drawn toward these wood and stone figures; he liked to think that they stood in secret relationship to him, perhaps like immortal, omniscient godfathers who protected and guided his life. He felt the same secret bond and love for the columns and capitals of the windows and doors, for the altar ornaments, for the beautifully profiled staves and wreaths, for the flowers and thickets of sprouting leaves that burst from the stone of the columns and unfolded so eloquently and intensely. It seemed a valuable, intimate secret to him that, outside of nature with its plants and creatures, there existed a second, silent, man-made nature: these men, beasts, and plants of stone and wood. He spent many of his free hours copying these figures, animal heads and leaf clusters; sometimes he also tried to draw real flowers, horses, human faces.

And he was very fond of the hymns, especially of those in honor of Mary. He loved the firm severe pace of these songs, their constantly recurring rhythms and praises. He could follow their reverent meaning adoringly, or he could forget their meaning and become engrossed in the solemn cadence of the verses and let himself be filled by them, by the deep, drawn-out notes, the full sound of the vowels, the pious refrains. Deep down in his heart he had no love for learning, grammar, and logic, although they, too, had their beauty. His real love was for the image-and-sound world of liturgy.

And every so often, for brief moments, he'd break the estrangement that had set in between him and his classmates. It annoyed and bored him in the long run to find himself surrounded by rejection and coolness. Every so often he'd make a grumpy bench companion laugh or start a taciturn bed neighbor chatting; he'd work at it for an hour, ingratiating himself and winning back a couple of friends for a while. Twice these approaches brought him, much against his intention, an invitation to "go to the village." Then he'd become frightened and quickly draw back. No, he was not going to the village again, and he managed to forget the girl with the braids, never—or almost never—to think of her any more.

4

Narcissus's long siege had not succeeded in bringing Goldmund's secret out into the open. For a long time he had apparently labored in vain to awaken him, to teach him the language in which the secret could be told.

Goldmund's description of his home and childhood gave no clear picture. There was a shadowlife, faceless father whom he venerated, and then there was the legend of a mother who had vanished, or perished, long ago, who was nothing but a pallid name. Narcissus, the experienced reader of souls, had gradually come to recognize that Goldmund was one of those people part of whose lives have been lost; pressure of circumstances or some kind of magic power has obliterated a portion of their past. He realized that nothing would be gained by mere questioning and teaching, that he had overestimated the power of logic and spoken many useless words.

But the love that bound him to his friend and their habit of spending much time together had not been fruitless. In spite of the vast differences of their characters, each had learned much from the other. Beside the language of reason, a language of the soul had gradually come into being between them; it was as if, branching off the main street, there are many small, almost secret lanes. Gradually the imaginative power of Goldmund's soul had tracked such paths into Narcissus's thoughts and expressions, making him understand—and sympathize with—many of Goldmund's perceptions and feelings, without need for words. New links from soul to soul developed in the warm glow of love; words came later. That is how, one holiday, in the library, there occurred a conversation between the friends that neither had expected—a conversation that touched at the core and purpose of their friendship and cast new, far-reaching lights.

They had been talking about astrology, a forbidden science that was not pursued in the cloister. Narcissus had said that astrology was an attempt to arrange and order the many different types of human beings according to their natures and destinies. At this point Goldmund had objected: "You're forever talking of differences—I've finally recognized a pet theory of yours. When you speak of the great difference that is supposed to exist between you and me, for instance, it seems to me that this difference is nothing but your strange determination to establish differences."

Narcissus: "Yes. You've hit the nail on the head. That's it: to you, differences are quite unimportant; to me, they are what matters most. I am a scholar by nature; science is my vocation. And science is, to quote your words, nothing but the 'determination to establish differences.' Its essence couldn't be defined more accurately. For us, the men of science, nothing is as important as the establishment of differences; science is the art of differentiation. Discovering in every man that which distinguishes him from others is to know him."

Goldmund: "If you like. One man wears wooden shoes and is a peasant; another wears a crown and is a king. Those are differences, I grant you. But children can see them, too, without any science."

Narcissus: "But when peasant and king are dressed alike, the child can no longer tell one from the other."

Goldmund: "Neither can science."

Narcissus: "Perhaps it can. Not that science is more intelligent than the child, but it has more patience; it remembers more than just the most obvious characteristics."

Goldmund: "So does any intelligent child. He will recognize the king by the look in his eyes, or by his bearing. To put it plainly: you learned men are arrogant, you always think everybody else stupid. One can be extremely intelligent without learning."

Narcissus: "I am glad that you're beginning to realize that. You'll soon realize, too, that I don't mean intelligence when I speak of the difference between us. I do not say, you are more intelligent, or less intelligent; better or worse. I merely say, you are different."

Goldmund: "That's easy enough to understand. But you don't speak only of our difference in character; you often speak also of the differences in fate, in destiny. Why, for instance, should your destiny be different from mine? We are both Christians, we are both resolved to lead the life of the cloister, we are both children of our good Father in heaven. Our goal is the same: eternal bliss. Our destiny is the same: the return to God."

Narcissus: "Very good. True, in the view of dogma, one man is exactly like another, but not in life. Take Our Saviour's favorite disciple, John, on whose breast he rested his head, and that other disciple who betrayed him—you hardly can say that they had the same destiny."

Goldmund: "Narcissus, you are a sophist. We'll never come together on that kind of road."

Narcissus: "No road will bring us together."

Goldmund: "Don't speak like that."

Narcissus: "I'm serious. We are not meant to come together, not any more than sun and moon were meant to come together, or sea and land. We are sun and moon, dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to become each other; it is to recognize each other, to learn to see the other and honor him for what he is: each the other's opposite and complement."

Goldmund was perplexed. He bowed his head, and his face was sad.

Finally he said: "Is that why you so often don't take my thoughts seriously?"

Narcissus hesitated before he answered. His voice was clear and hard when he said: "Yes, that is why. I take only you seriously, dear Goldmund; you'll have to get used to that. Believe me, there isn't an intonation in your voice, not a gesture, not a smile that I don't take seriously. But your thoughts I take less seriously. I take seriously all that I find essential and necessary in you. Why do you want particular attention paid to your thoughts, when you have so many other gifts?"

Goldmund smiled bitterly: "You've always considered me a child; I've said it before."

Narcissus remained firm: "Part of your thought I consider a child's thought. Remember what we said earlier: an intelligent child need not be less intelligent than a learned scholar. But when the child wants to assert its opinion in matters of learning, then the scholar doesn't take it seriously."

Goldmund said with violence: "You smile at me even when we don't discuss matters of learning! For instance, you always act as though all my piety, my efforts to advance my studies, my desire to become a monk were so many childish fantasies."

Narcissus looked at him gravely: "I take you seriously when you are Goldmund. But you're not always Goldmund. I wish nothing more than to see you become Goldmund through and through. You are not a scholar, you are not a monk—scholars and monks can have a coarser grain. You think you're not learned or logical or pious enough for me. On the contrary, you are not enough yourself."

Perplexed and even hurt, Goldmund had withdrawn after this conversation. And yet a few days later he himself wished to hear more. And this time Narcissus was able to give Goldmund a picture of their different natures that he found more acceptable.

Narcissus had talked himself into a fever; he felt that Goldmund was accepting his words more openly and willingly, that he had power over him. His success made him give in to the temptation to say more than he had intended; he let himself be carried away by his own words.

"Look," he said, "I am superior to you only in one point: I'm awake, whereas you are only half awake, or completely asleep sometimes. I call a man awake who knows in his conscious reason his innermost unreasonable force, drives, and weaknesses and knows how to deal with them. For you to learn that about yourself is the potential reason for your having met me. In your case, mind and nature, consciousness and dream world lie very far apart. You've forgotten your childhood; it cries for you from the depths of your soul. It will make you suffer until you heed it.

"But enough of that! Being awake, as I've already said, makes me stronger than you. This is the one point in which I am superior to you and that is why I can be useful to you. In every other respect you are superior to me, my dear Goldmund—or rather, you will be, as soon as you've found yourself."

Goldmund had listened with astonishment, but at the words "you've forgotten your childhood" he flinched as though pierced by an arrow. Narcissus didn't notice; he often kept his eyes closed for long moments while he spoke, or he'd stare straight ahead, as though this helped him to find his words. He did not see Goldmund's face twitch suddenly.

"I … superior to you!" stammered Goldmund, feeling as though his whole body had been lamed.

"Why, yes," Narcissus continued. "Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate senses, the soul-oriented, the dreamers, poets, lovers are almost always superior to us creatures of the mind. You take your being from your mothers. You live fully; you were endowed with the strength of love, the ability to feel. Whereas we creatures of reason, we don't live fully; we live in an arid land, even though we often seem to guide and rule you. Yours is the plenitude of life, the sap of the fruit, the garden of passion, the beautiful landscape of art. Your home is the earth; ours is the world of ideas. You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses; ours is the danger of suffocating in an airless void. You are an artist; I am a thinker. You sleep at the mother's breast; I wake in the desert. For me the sun shines; for you the moon and the stars. Your dreams are of girls; mine of boys …"

Goldmund listened, wide-eyed. Narcissus spoke with a kind of rhetorical self-intoxication. Several words struck Goldmund like swords. Toward the end he grew pale and closed his eyes, and when Narcissus became aware of it and asked with sudden fear what was wrong, the deathly pale boy said: "Once I broke down in front of you and burst into tears—you remember. That must not happen again. I'd never forgive myself—or you! Please go away at once and let me be alone. You've said terrible words to me."

Narcissus was overcome. His words had carried him away; he had felt that he was speaking better than usual. Now he saw with consternation that some of his words had deeply affected his friend and somehow pierced him to the quick. He found it hard to leave him at that moment and hesitated a second or two, but Goldmund's frown left him no choice. Confused, he ran off to allow his friend the solitude he needed.

This time the extreme tension in Goldmund's soul did not dissolve itself in tears. He was still, feeling deeply, desperately wounded, as though his friend had plunged a knife into his breast. He breathed heavily, with mortally contracted heart, a wax-pale face, limp hands. This was the old pain, only considerably sharper, the same inner choking, the feeling that something frightful had to be looked in the eye, something unbearable. But this time there was no relief of tears to overcome the pain. Holy Mother of God, what then could this be? Had something happened? Had he been murdered? Had he killed someone? What had been said that was so frightful?

He panted, pushing his breath away from him. Like a person who has been poisoned, he was bursting with the feeling that he had to free himself of something deadly, deep inside him. With the movements of a swimmer he rushed from his room, fled unconsciously to the quietest, loneliest parts of the cloister, through passages, down stairways and out into the open. He had wandered into the innermost refuge of the cloister, into the court of the cross. The sky stretched clear and sunny over the few bright flower beds; the scent of roses drifted through the cool stony air in sweet hesitant threads.

Without knowing it, Narcissus had accomplished his long-desired aim: he had named the demon by which his friend was possessed; he had called it out into the open. One of his many words had touched the secret in Goldmund's heart, which had reared up in furious pain. For a long time Narcissus wandered through the cloister, looking for his friend, but he could not find him.

Goldmund was standing under one of the massive stone arches that led from the passageway out into the little cloister garden; on each column three animal heads, the stone-carved heads of dogs and wolves, glared down at him. Pain was raging inside him, pushing, finding no way toward the light, toward reason. Deathly fear clutched at his throat, knotted his stomach. Mechanically he looked up, saw the animal heads on the capital of one of the columns, and began to feel that those three monstrous heads were squatting, glaring, barking inside him.

"I'm going to die any moment," he felt with terror. "I'll lose my mind and those animal snouts will devour me."

His body twitched; he sank down at the foot of the column. The pain was too great; he had reached the limit. He fainted; he drowned in longed-for oblivion.

It had been a rather unsatisfactory day for Abbot Daniel. Two of the older monks had come to him, foaming with excitement, full of accusations, bringing up petty old jealousies, squabbling furiously. He had listened to them altogether too long, had unsuccessfully admonished them, and dismissed them severely with rather heavy penances. With a feeling of futility in his heart, he had withdrawn for prayer in the lower chapel, prayed, and stood up again, unrefreshed. Now he stepped out into the court a moment for some air, attracted by the smell of roses. There he found the pupil Goldmund lying in a faint on the stones. He looked at him with sadness, frightened by the pallor and remoteness of the usually winsome face. It had not been a good day, and now this to top it all! He tried to lift the young man, but was not up to the effort. With a deep sigh the old man walked away to call two younger brothers to carry Goldmund upstairs and to send Father Anselm to him, the cloister physician. He also sent for Brother Narcissus, who soon appeared before him.

"Have you heard?" he asked.

"About Goldmund? Yes, gentle father, I just heard that he has been taken ill or has had an accident and has been carried in."

"Yes, I found him lying in the inner court, where actually he had no business to be. It was not an accident that he fainted. I don't like this. It would seem to me that you are somehow connected with it, or at least know of it, since you are so intimate. That is why I have called you. Speak."

With his usual control of bearing and speech, Narcissus gave a brief account of his conversation with Goldmund and of its surprisingly violent effect on him. The Abbot shook his head, not without ill humor.

"Those are strange conversations," he said, forcing himself to remain calm. "What you have just described to me is a conversation that might be called interference with another soul, what I might call a confessor's conversation. But you're not Goldmund's confessor. You are no one's confessor; you have not been ordained. How is it that you discussed matters with a pupil, in the tone of an adviser, that concern no one but his confessor? As you can see, the consequences have been harmful."

"The consequences," Narcissus said in a mild but firm voice, "are not yet known to us, gentle father. I was somewhat frightened by the violence of his reaction, but I have no doubt that the consequences of our conversation will be good for Goldmund."

"We shall see. I am not speaking of the consequences now, I am speaking of your action. What prompted you to have such conversations with Goldmund?"

"As you know, he is my friend. I have a special fondness for him and I believe that I understand him particularly well. You say that I acted toward him like a confessor. In no way have I assumed any religious authority; I merely thought that I knew him a little better than he knows himself."

The Abbot shrugged.

"I know, that is your métier. Let us hope that you did not cause any harm with it. But is Goldmund ill? I mean, is anything wrong with him? Does he feel weak? Has he been sleeping poorly? Does he eat badly? Has he some kind of pain?"

"No, until today he's been healthy. In his body, that is."

"And otherwise?"

"His soul is ailing. As you know, he is at an age when struggles with sex begin."

"I know. He is seventeen?"

"He is eighteen."

"Eighteen. Well, yes, that is late enough. But these struggles are natural; everybody goes through them. That is no reason to say that he is ailing in his soul."

"No, gentle father. That is not the only reason. But Goldmund's soul has been ailing for a long time; that is why these struggles hold more danger for him than for others. I believe that he suffers because he has forgotten a part of his past."

"Ah? And what part is that?"

"His mother, and everything connected with her. I don't know anything about her, either. I merely know that there must lie the source of his illness. Because Goldmund knows nothing of his mother apparently, except that he lost her at an early age. I have the impression that he seems ashamed of her. And yet it must be from her that he inherited most of his gifts, because his description of his father does not make him seem a man who would have such a winsome, talented, original son. Nothing of this has been told me; I deduced it from signs."

At first the Abbot had smiled slightly at this precocious, arrogant-sounding speech; the whole matter was a troublesome chore to him. Now he began to think. He remembered Goldmund's father as a somewhat brittle, distrustful man; now, as he searched his memory, he suddenly remembered a few words the father had, at that time, uttered about Goldmund's mother. He had said that she had brought shame upon him and run away, and that he had tried to suppress the mother's memory in his young son, as well as any vices he might have inherited from her. And that he had most probably succeeded, because the boy was willing to offer his life up to God, in atonement for his mother's sins.

Never had Narcissus pleased the Abbot less than today. And yet—how well this thinker had guessed; how well he really did seem to know Goldmund.

He asked a final question about the day's occurrences, and Narcissus said: "I had not intended to upset Goldmund so violently. I reminded him that he does not know himself, that he had forgotten his childhood and his mother. Something I said must have struck him and penetrated the darkness I have been fighting so long. He seemed beside himself; he looked at me as though he no longer knew himself or me. I have often told him that he was asleep, that he was not really awake. Now he has been awakened, I have no doubt about that."

He was dismissed, without a scolding but with an admonition not to visit the sick boy for the time being.

Meanwhile Father Anselm had ordered the boy put to bed and was sitting beside him. He had not deemed it advisable to shock him back into consciousness by violent means. The boy looked altogether too sick. Out of his kind, wrinkled face, the old man looked fondly upon the adolescent. Meanwhile he checked his pulse and heartbeat. The boy must have eaten something impossible, a bunch of sorrel, or something equally silly; that kind of thing happened sometimes. The boy's mouth was closed, so he couldn't check his tongue. He was fond of Goldmund but had little use for his friend, that precocious, overly young teacher. Now it had come to this. Brother Narcissus surely had something to do with this stupid mishap. Why had this charming, clear-eyed youngster, this dear child of nature, picked the arrogant scholar, the vain grammarian, who valued his Greek more highly than all living creatures of this world!

When the door opened much later, and the Abbot came in, Father Anselm was still sitting beside the bed, staring into the boy's face. What a dear, trusting young face this was, and all one could do was to sit beside it, wishing, but probably unable, to help. It might all be due to a colic, of course; he would prescribe hot wine, perhaps some rhubarb. But the longer he looked into the greenish-pale, distorted face, the more his suspicions leaned toward another cause, a much more serious one. Father Anselm was experienced. More than once, in the course of his long life, he had seen men who were possessed. He hesitated to formulate this suspicion even to himself. He would wait and observe. But if this poor boy had really been hexed, he thought grimly, we probably won't have to look far for the culprit, and he shall not have an easy time of it.

The Abbot stepped up to the bed, bent over the sick boy, and gently drew back one of the eyelids.

"Can he be roused?" he asked.

"I'd rather wait a bit longer. His heart is sound. We must not let anyone in to see him."

"Is he in danger?"

"I don't think so. There aren't any wounds, no trace of a blow or fall. He is unconscious because of a colic, perhaps. Extreme pain can cause loss of consciousness. If he had been poisoned, he'd be running a fever. No, he'll come to and go on living."

"Do you think it could be his soul?"

"I wouldn't rule that out. Do we know anything? Has he had a shock perhaps? News of someone's death? A violent dispute, an insult? That would certainly explain it."

"We know of nothing. Make sure that no one is allowed to see him. Please stay with him until he comes to. If anything should go wrong, call me, even if it's in the middle of the night."

Before leaving, the old man bent once more over the sick boy. He thought of the boy's father, of the day this charming blond head had been brought to him, how everyone had taken to him from the start. He, too, had been glad to see him in the cloister. But Narcissus was certainly right in one respect: nothing in the boy recalled his father. Ah, how much worry there was everywhere, how insufficient all our striving! Had he perhaps been neglectful of this poor boy? Was it right that no one in the house knew this pupil as thoroughly as Narcissus? How could he be helped by someone who was still a novice, who had not yet been consecrated, who was not yet a monk, and whose thoughts and ideas all had something unpleasantly superior about them, something almost hostile? God alone knew whether Narcissus too had not been handled wrongly all this time? Was he concealing something evil behind his mask of obedience, hedonism perhaps? Whatever these two young men would some day become would be partly his responsibility.

It was dark when Goldmund came to. His head felt empty, dizzy. He knew that he was lying in bed, but not where. He didn't think about that; it didn't matter. But where had he been? From what strange land of experience had he returned? He had been to some far-away place. He had seen something there, something extraordinary, something sublime, but also frightful, and unforgettable—and yet he had forgotten it. Where had it been? What was it that had appeared to him, huge, painful, blissful? That had vanished again?

He listened deeply inside him, to that place from which something had erupted today, where something had happened—what had it been? Wild tangles of images rose before him, he saw dogs' heads, the heads of three dogs, and he sniffed the scent of roses. The pain he had felt! He closed his eyes. The dreadful pain he had felt! Again he fell asleep.

As he awoke from the rapidly vanishing dream world that was sliding away from him, he saw it. He rediscovered the image, and trembled with pain and joy. His eyes had been opened: he saw Her. He saw the tall, radiant woman with the full mouth and glowing hair—his mother. And at the same time he thought he heard a voice: "You have forgotten your childhood." But whose voice was that? He listened, thought, found it. Narcissus's voice. Narcissus? In a flash everything came back: he remembered. O mother, mother! Mountains of rubbish collapsed, oceans of forgetfulness vanished. The lost woman, the indescribably beloved, was again looking at him with her regal light-blue eyes.

Father Anselm had dozed off in the armchair beside the bed; he awoke. He heard the sick boy stir, he heard him breathe. Gently he stood up.

"Is someone in the room?" Goldmund asked.

"It is I, have no fear. I'll put the light on."

He lighted the lamp, its glow fell over his well-meaning, wrinkled face.

"But am I ill?" asked the boy.

"You fainted, son. Hold out your hand, let's take a look at your pulse. How do you feel?"

"Fine. Thank you, Father Anselm, you're very kind. Nothing's wrong with me now, I'm just tired."

"I bet you are. And you'll go right back to sleep. But first you'll have a sip of hot wine; it's all made and ready. Let's drain a mug together, my boy, to good fellowship."

He had kept a small pitcher of hot wine in readiness.

"So we both bad a nice nap," laughed the physician. "A fine night nurse, huh, who can't keep awake. Well, we're all human. Now we'll take a sip of this magic potion, my boy. Nothing's more pleasant than a little secret drinking in the middle of the night. Prosit."

Goldmund laughed, clinked cups, and tasted the warm wine. It was spiced with cinnamon and cloves and sweetened; he had never tasted such a drink before. He remembered his previous illness, when Narcissus had taken care of him. Now it was Father Anselm who was caring for him. It was all so pleasant and strange to be lying there in the lamplight, drinking a mug of sweet warm wine with the old father in the middle of the night.

"Have you a pain in your stomach?" the old man asked.

"No."

"I thought you probably had the colic, Goldmund. You don't then. Let's see your tongue. Well, fine, your old Anselm's proved his ignorance once again. Tomorrow you'll stay in bed and I'll come and take a look at you. Already through with your wine? Fine, may it do you good. Let's see if there is more. Half a mug each, if we share and share alike.—You really gave us a scare, Goldmund! Lying in the court like a child's corpse. And you really have no stomach ache?"

They laughed together and shared what was left of the convalescent wine. The father joked; gratefully, delightedly Goldmund looked at him. His eyes were clear again. Then the old man went off to bed.

Goldmund lay awake awhile longer. Again the images rose up inside him; his friend's words flamed up again. The blond radiant woman, his mother, appeared again in his soul. Like a warm south-wind, her image swept through him: like a cloud of life, of warmth and tenderness and innermost enticement. "O my mother! How was it possible, how was I able to forget you!"