Siddhartha

Siddhartha

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Title: Siddhartha
Author: Herman Hesse
Release Date: February, 2001 [EBook #2500] [Most recently updated: October 23, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, SIDDHARTHA ***

This etext was produced by Michael Pullen , with
original translations made by: Gunther Olesch, Anke Dreher, Amy Coulter, Stefan
Langer, Semyon Chaichenets. Proofreading corrections were done by Chandra Yenco
and Isaac Jones .

SIDDHARTHA
An Indian Tale
by Hermann Hesse

FIRST PART
To Romain Rolland, my dear friend

THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN
In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of
the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the
handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of
a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing,
performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured
into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred
offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked.
For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men,
practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service
of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to
speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while
exhaling, with all the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of
the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being,
indestructible, one with the universe.
Joy leapt in his father's heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge;
he saw him growing up to become great wise man and priest, a prince among the
Brahmans.
Bliss leapt in his mother's breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when
she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he who was walking on
slender legs, greeting her with perfect respect.

Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans' young daughters when Siddhartha walked
through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his
slim hips.
But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman.
He loved Siddhartha's eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decency of
his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was
his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew:
he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of offerings; not a
greedy merchant with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful
priest; and also not a decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda,
as well did not want to become one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of
Brahmans. He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to
come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the glorious, then
Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion, his servant, his spear-carrier,
his shadow.
Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a
delight for them all.
But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself.
Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of
contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance, sacrificing in the dim
shade of