Siddhartha spared him and let him do as he pleased, he honoured his mourning. Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him, that he could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and understood that the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a mother’s boy, and that he had grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food, to a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha understood that the mourning, pampered child could not suddenly and willingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty. He did not force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly patience.
席特哈尔塔很关心他，对他不加干涉，尊重他的悲哀。席特哈尔塔明白，儿子不熟悉他，不可能像爱父亲那样爱他。他渐渐发现这个十一岁的少年是个娇生惯养的孩子，是妈妈的心肝宝贝，在富裕的环境里长大，吃惯了佳肴美食，睡慢了柔软的床铺，习惯了对仆人发号施令。席特哈尔塔明白，悲伤和宠惯的孩子不可能一下子就心甘情愿地满足于陌生和贫困的环境。他并不强迫孩子，而是为他做一些事，总是把最好吃的东西留给他。他希望通过友好的耐心来慢慢赢得孩子的心。
Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother’s funeral; gloomy and shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and welcomed him at his place in Vasudeva’s hut. Pale, he sat for many days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look, did not open his heart, met his fate with resistance and denial.
那孩子战战兢兢地哭着参加了母亲的葬礼。他脸色阴沉的害羞地听着席特哈尔塔认他这个儿子，欢迎他留在瓦苏代瓦的茅屋里。他一连多天面色苍白地坐在安葬他母亲的小山旁，不思饮食，紧闭双眼，也紧锁了心扉，苦苦地反抗命运。
For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to understand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For long months, Vasudeva waited, watching, waited and said nothing. One day, when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his father very much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken both of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside and talked to him.
席特哈尔塔等了很久，等了好几个月，盼着儿子能理解自己，接受自己的爱，对他的爱有所回报。瓦苏代瓦也等了好几个月，在一旁观望、期盼和沉默。一天，小席特哈尔塔又发怪脾气，折磨父亲，并且摔烂了两个饭碗。到了晚上，瓦苏代瓦把朋友叫到一边，跟他商议。
Rich and happy, he had called himself, when the boy had come to him. Since time had passed on in the meantime, and the boy remained a stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not pay his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva’s fruit-trees, then Siddhartha began to understand that his son had not brought him happiness and peace, but suffering and worry. But he loved him, and he preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy without the boy.
孩子来到他身边时他说自己很富有很幸福。随着时光流逝，孩子对他仍然疏远和冷淡，性情自负而固执，不愿干活儿，对老人不尊敬，还偷摘瓦苏代瓦树上的果子。席特哈尔塔开始意识到，儿子到来并没带来幸福与安宁，而是带来了烦恼与忧虑。可是他爱孩子，宁可忍受爱的烦恼与忧虑，那也比没有孩子的幸福和快乐要强。
Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old men had split the work. Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman all by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work in the hut and the field.
自小席特哈尔塔住进了茅屋，两位老人就分了工。瓦苏代瓦又独自承担起船夫的职责，席特哈尔塔则为了跟儿子在一起，负责屋里和田里的活儿。
“How could I part with him?” he said quietly, ashamed. “Give me some more time, my dear! See, I’m fighting for him, I’m seeking to win his heart, with love and with friendly patience I intent to capture it. One day, the river shall also talk to him, he also is called upon.”
“我能够和他分开吗？”他小声问，颇感惭愧。“再给我点时间吧，亲爱的！瞧，我正在争取他，争取他的心，我要用爱心和友好的耐心来捕获他的心。河水总有一天也会跟他讲话，因为他也是应召而来的。”
Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many wrinkles of which there was incessant cheerfulness.
席特哈尔塔忧心忡忡地望着他的和蔼可亲的脸，脸上那许多皱纹保留着经常的爽朗。
“Pardon me.” he said, “from a friendly heart, I’m talking to you. I’m seeing that you are tormenting yourself, I’m seeing that you’re in grief. Your son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me. That young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest. He has not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being disgusted and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all this behind. I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it. But the river laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking with laughter at out foolishness. Water wants to join water, youth wants to join youth, your son is not in the place where he can prosper. You too should ask the river; you too should listen to it!”
“请原谅，”他说，“我找你谈是出于好心。我看到你在折磨自己，看到你很苦恼。亲爱的，你儿子使你苦恼，也使我苦恼。这只小鸟过惯了另一种生活，住惯了另一种巢。他不像你出于憎恶和厌倦而逃离了富裕生活和城市，他是违背自己的意愿而不得不丢掉那一切的。我问过河水，朋友，我已经问过多次了。可河水只是笑，它笑我，笑我也笑你，对我们的愚蠢笑得前仰后合。水愿意找水，青年愿意找青年，你儿子现在可不是待在能够让他兴旺发达的地方呀！你也问问河水吧，听听它的意见嘛！”
“No, Vasudeva, I don’t do anything of this.”
“不，瓦苏代瓦，这些我都不会去干。”
Vasudeva’s smile flourished more warmly. “Oh yes, he too is called upon, he too is of the eternal life. But do we, you and me, know what he is called upon to do, what path to take, what actions to perform, what pain to endure? Not a small one, his pain will be; after all, his heart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err a lot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, my dear: you’re not taking control of your son’s upbringing? You don’t force him? You don’t beat him? You don’t punish him?”
瓦苏代瓦的笑容更加温和了。“哦，是的，他也是应召而来的。他也属于永恒的生命。可是我们，你和我，知道他的使命是什么吗？他该走什么路，该做什么事，该受什么苦？他的痛苦小不了，他的心高傲而坚硬，这种人会吃很多苦，走很多弯路，做很多错事，担很多罪孽。告诉我吧，亲爱的：你不调教你的儿子吧？你不强迫他吧？你不打他吧？你不责罚他吧？”
“I knew it. You don’t force him, don’t beat him, don’t give him orders, because you know that “soft” is stronger than “hard”, Water stronger than rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you. But aren’t you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn’t force him, wouldn’t punish him? Don’t you shackle him with your love? Don’t you make him feel inferior every day, and don’t you make it even harder on him with your kindness and patience? Don’t you force him, the arrogant and pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom even rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can’t be his, whose hearts are old and quiet and beats in a different pace than his? Isn’t forced, isn’t he punished by all this?”
“我知道。你不强迫他，不打他，不命令他，因为你知道柔能克刚。水胜过岩石。。爱心胜过暴力。很好，我赞美你。可是，你主张不强迫他，不责罚他，这难道不是你的一个失误么？这岂不是用爱心来捆绑他么？这岂不是每天都在用好心和耐心来减压他，使得他更加苦恼么？你难道没有强迫他，这个高傲和娇惯的孩子，强迫他跟两个老人挤住在一间茅屋里？两个老人把米饭当作美食，他们的想法不可能跟他一样，他们的心衰老而平静，连走路的姿势都跟也不同。难道这一切还不是对他的强迫，还不是对他的责罚吗？”
Quoth Vasudeva: “Bring him into the city, bring him into his mother’s house, there’ll still be servants around, give him to them. And when there aren’t any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for the teachings’ sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among girls, and in the world which is his own. Have you never thought of this?”
瓦苏代瓦说：“送他回城去，送他回他母亲的房子去吧，那儿还会有朴人，把他交给他们吧。要是那儿没人了，就给他找个教师，不是为了让他受教育，而是让他跟其他男孩、女孩在一起，回到他的世界中去。这些难道你从来没想过么？”
Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the ground. Quietly, he asked: “What do you think should I do?”
席特哈尔塔感到震惊地望着地面。他小声问：“你说我该做什么呢？”
Brightly, the ferryman’s smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha’s arm and said: “Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it laugh about it! Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts in order to spare your son from committing them too? And could you in any way protect your son from Sansara? How could you? By means of teachings, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely forgotten that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about Siddhartha, a Brahman’s son, which you once told me here on this very spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin, from greed, from foolishness? Were his father’s religious devotion, his teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my dear, anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That perhaps your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment? But even if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the slightest part of his destiny upon yourself.”
船夫的笑容粲然生辉；他轻轻抚摩着席特哈尔塔的胳臂说：“问问河水吧，朋友！你听它正在笑哩！你真的相信你干蠢事是为了避免儿子干蠢事？你能保护儿子不受轮回之苦？你怎么做呢？通过教诲，通过祈祷，通过劝诫？亲爱的，难道你完全忘掉了那个故事，当然你在这个地方给我讲过的那个关于婆罗门之子席特哈尔塔的发人深省的故事？是谁保护沙门席特哈尔塔免于轮回，没有堕入罪孽、贪婪和愚昧之中？他父亲的虔诚，他教师的劝诫，他自己的良知，他自己的探索，这些能保护他吗？有哪个父亲、哪个教师能阻止他过自己的日子，以生活来玷污自己，自己承担过失，自己啜饮生活的苦酒，找到自己的路呢？或许只有你的宝贝儿子，就因为你爱他，因为你想让避开烦恼、痛苦和失望？但是，即使你为他死十次，恐怕也不可能丝毫改变他的命运！”
“You’re seeing into my heart,” Siddhartha spoke sadly. “Often, I have thought of this. But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart anyhow, into this world? Won’t he become exuberant, won’t he lose himself to pleasure and power, won’t he repeat all of his father’s mistakes, won’t he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?”
“你真是看透了我的心，”席特哈尔塔悲哀地说，“我经常想到这些。可是你看，我该怎么把他这个本来就心肠很硬的孩子送回那个世界去呢？他难道不会大肆挥霍，不会沉醉于享乐和权势，不会重犯他父亲的所有过失，不会完全迷失于轮回之中？”
Siddhartha could not heed his friend’s advice, he could not give up the boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of patience.
席特哈尔塔不能听从朋友的忠告，他不能放弃儿子。他任凭儿子对他发号施令，任凭儿子瞧不起他。他沉默和等待，每天都进行默默的好心的斗争，进行无声的耐心的斗争。瓦苏代瓦也沉默和等待，友好、体谅和宽容地等待。在耐心方面他们俩都是大师。
Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long time. Vasudeva had told him nothing, he had not already thought and known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon, stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so much to something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?
瓦苏代瓦还从来没说过这么多的话。席特哈尔塔向他诚恳地道谢，然后就忧心忡忡地走进了茅屋，但他久久仍无法入睡。瓦苏代瓦说的这些话，他自己其实也想过，早就懂得。但那只是一种他无法做到的认识，而他对孩子的爱，他的柔情，他害怕失去孩子的恐惧，却要比这种认识更强有力。以前，他可曾对什么如此痴迷过？他可曾如此热爱过某个人，如此盲目，如此痛苦，如此无奈而又如此幸福？
At one time, when the boy’s face reminded him very much of Kamala, Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. “You cannot love,” she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had compared himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line. Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him apart from the childlike people. But now, since his son was here, now he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person, suffering for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love, having become a fool on account of love. Now he too felt, late, once in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, was nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing.
有一次，孩子的脸使他想起了卡玛拉。席特哈尔塔忽然想起了一句话，那是很久之前，在青春岁月里卡玛拉对他讲过的一句话。“你不会爱。”她对他说。他同意她说的话，把自己比作一颗星，把那些孩子般的俗人比作飘落的树叶，但他毕竟还是从那句话里听出了一种责备。实际上，他从来都没能完全迷恋和委身于另一个人，忘掉自己，为了爱另一个人而去做蠢事；他从来都不会这样，正如他当时感觉到的那样，这点正是把他与那些孩子般的俗人区分开的重大差别。可是如今，自从他的孩子来了，就连他席特哈尔塔也完全变成了俗人，为了一个人而受苦，热爱一个人，痴迷于一种爱，由于一种爱而成为傻瓜。现在，虽然迟了些，但他毕竟在生活中感受到了这种最强烈最罕见的激情，深受其苦，苦不堪言，可是又很愉快，感到更活跃了，更充实了。
Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving in to his moods. This father had nothing which would have delighted him and nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, this father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a saint, all these there no attributes which could win the boy over. He was bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable hut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with kindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Much more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he had been abused by him.
在这段时间里，儿子尽让他干蠢事，让他每天都忍气吞声地忍受儿子的坏脾气。这个父亲既没有让儿子喜欢的东西，也没有让儿子惧怕的东西。这个父亲是个好人，是个善良、温和的好人，或许是个很虔诚的人，还说不定是个圣人——然后这些品德并不能赢得孩子的心。儿子觉得父亲把他困在这间可怜的茅屋里真烦人，他讨厌父亲，至于父亲对顽皮报以微笑，对辱骂报以友善，对恶行报以宽容，则正是这个老伪君子的最可恨的阴谋诡计。孩子倒宁可受到他的恐吓，受到他虐待。
He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, was a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source, dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was not worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being. This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed.
他清楚地感到，这种爱，这种对儿子的盲目的爱，是一种激情，是符合人性的，它就是轮回，一股混浊的泉，一股捉摸不透的水。但同时他又觉得，它并非毫无价值，而是必不可少的，它来源于自己的天性。这种乐趣也应满足，这种痛苦也得品尝，这种蠢事也该干干。
A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting forth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter had given him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy did not leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he was, thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father’s face.
一天，小席特哈尔塔的这种思想终于爆发，公开反对起父亲来。父亲分派他干一件活儿，叫他去拾些干柴枝，可是孩子却不肯出屋，执拗、恼怒地站在那儿，用脚跺地，攥紧拳头，朝父亲劈头盖脸地吼叫仇恨和轻蔑的话。
“Get the brushwood for yourself!” he shouted foaming at the mouth, “I’m not your servant. I do know, that you won’t hit me, you don’t dare; I do know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with your religious devotion and your indulgence. You want me to become like you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But I, listen up, just to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you! I hate you, you’re not my father, and if you’ve ten times been my mother’s fornicator!”
“你自己去拾干柴枝吧！”他暴跳如雷，“我才不是你的奴仆！我知道你不会打我，根本就不敢！我知道你想用你的虔诚和宽容来不断地惩罚我，想让我自卑。你想让我成为像你一样的人，也那重头戏虔诚，那么温和，那么明智！可是我呢，你听着，我要让你全都，我宁可做抢劫犯和杀人凶手，下地狱，也不做像你这样的人！我恨你，你不是我父亲，哪怕你当过十次我母亲的情人！”
Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in a hundred savage and evil words. Then the boy ran away and only returned late at night.
他满腔愤怒与怨恨，向父亲咒骂了上百句粗野而恶毒的话。然后，孩子就跑掉了，直到夜里很晚才回来。
“I must follow him,” said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with grief since those ranting speeches, the boy had made yesterday. “A child can’t go through the forest all alone. He’ll perish. We must build a raft, Vasudeva, to get over the water.”
“我得去追他。”席特哈尔塔说，尽管他昨天听了孩子那些骂人话后难过得直发拌。“一个小孩子可没法独自穿过大森林。他会丧命的。咱们得扎个筏子，瓦苏代瓦，渡过河去。”
“We will build a raft,” said Vasudeva, “to get our boat back, which the boy has taken away. But him, you shall let run along, my friend, he is no child any more, he knows how to get around. He’s looking for the path to the city, and he is right, don’t forget that. He’s doing what you’ve failed to do yourself. He’s taking care of himself, he’s taking his course. Alas, Siddhartha, I see you suffering, but you’re suffering a pain at which one would like to laugh, at which you’ll soon laugh for yourself.”
“那就扎一个筏子吧，”瓦苏代瓦说，“也好把孩子弄走的渡船划回来。不过，你还是放孩子走吧，朋友，他不再是小孩子了，他会救护自己的。他要找到回城的路，他做的对，别忘了这点。他做的恰恰是你误了做的事。他想要自己照顾自己，走自己的路。啊，席特哈尔塔，我看出你很难受，但你所受的苦却是别人会笑话的，也是你自己不久就会笑话的。”
But the next morning, he had disappeared. What had also disappeared was a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which the ferrymen kept those copper and silver coins which they received as a fare. The boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it lying by the opposite bank. The boy had ran away.
第二天早上，孩子又不见了。另外，一个用两种颜色的树皮编成的小篮子也不见了，篮子里藏着船夫摆渡得到的铜钱与银币。小船也不见踪影，后来席特哈尔塔才发现它已泊在对岸。孩子逃走了。
Vasudeva said: “It might have been possible that the oar of our boat got lost.”
瓦苏代瓦说：“咱们船上的桨有可能已经丢了。”
“Why did you take the axe along?” asked Siddhartha.
“你干吗随身带着斧子？”席特哈尔塔问。
But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking. He thought, the boy would have thrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and in order to keep them from following him. And in fact, there was no oar left in the boat. Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the boat and looked at his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say: “Don’t you see what your son is trying to tell you? Don’t you see that he doesn’t want to be followed?” But he did not say this in words. He started making a new oar. But Siddhartha bid his farewell, to look for the run-away. Vasudeva did not stop him.
可是，席特哈尔塔知道他的朋友在想什么。他在想，孩子会把船桨扔掉或者弄断，为了报复，也为了防止他们追赶。果然，小船里没有了船桨。瓦苏代瓦指指船底，微笑地望着朋友，似乎要说：“你没看出儿子要跟你说什么吗？你没看出他不愿被人追踪吗？”不过，他并没把这话说出来。他动手制作了一支新船桨。席特哈尔塔同他道别，去找逃跑的孩子。瓦苏代瓦没有阻拦他。
When Siddhartha had already been walking through the forest for a long time, the thought occurred to him that his search was useless. Either, so he thought, the boy was far ahead and had already reached the city, or, if he should still be on his way, he would conceal himself from him, the pursuer. As he continued thinking, he also found that he, on his part, was not worried for his son, that he knew deep inside that he had neither perished nor was in any danger in the forest. Nevertheless, he ran without stopping, no longer to save him, just to satisfy his desire, just to perhaps see him one more time. And he ran up to just outside of the city.
席特哈尔塔在森林里找了很久，才意识到他的搜寻毫无用处。他寻思，孩子说不定早就走出了森林，已经回到城里了，要是他还在路上，那么他看见追踪者就会躲起来。他继续想，发现自己并不为儿子担心，他内心深处知道，儿子既不会丧命，也不会在森里遇到危险。不过，尽管如此，他还是不停地赶路，不再是为了救孩子，而只是出于想再见孩子一面的渴望。他就这样一直赶到了城市。
Siddhartha did not answer. He already held the axe in his hands and began to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva helped him to tied the canes together with ropes of grass. Then they crossed over, drifted far off their course, pulled the raft upriver on the opposite bank.
席特哈尔塔没答话。他已经拿起了斧子，动手造一个竹筏，瓦苏代瓦则帮他用草绳捆扎竹筏。然后，他们划向对岸，可是筏子被河水冲下去很远，他们奋力逆流而进才使筏子到了对岸。
When, near the city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entrance of the beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, where he had seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair. The past rose up in his soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded, naked Samana, the hair full of dust. For a long time, Siddhartha stood there and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.
他走近城市，踏上宽阔的大街，来到那个原来属于卡玛拉的漂亮花园大门口站住了。他就是在这儿子第一次看见了坐在轿子里的卡玛拉。当时的情景又浮现在脑海中，他依稀看见自己站在那儿，年纪轻轻，一个胡子拉碴、赤身露体的沙门，满头尘土。席特哈尔塔伫立了很久，从敞开的大门往花园里望，看见身穿黄僧衣的和尚们在茂密的树下走动。
For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening to the story of his life. For a long time, he stood there, looked at the monks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking among the high trees. Clearly, he saw himself being served food and drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of desire his worldly life. He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala’s song-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathed Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, felt once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the holy Om.
他伫立了很久，沉思着，似乎看见了一幅幅画面，听见了自己的生活故事。他伫立了很久，望着那些和尚，仿佛看到的不是他们，而是年轻的席特哈尔塔，是年轻的卡玛拉在大树下走。他清晰地看到自己如何受到卡玛拉款待，如何得到她的第一个吻，如何自豪而又轻蔑地回顾他的婆罗门生涯，自豪而又渴望地开始他的世俗生活。他看到了卡马斯瓦密，看到了仆人们，那些盛宴，那些赌徒，那些乐师，看到了那只被卡玛拉关在笼子里的小鸟，再一次体验了这一切，充满了轮回之念，于是再一次衰老和疲倦，再一次感到恶心，再一次感受到那种寻求解脱的愿望，再一次靠着圣洁的“唵”才恢复了健康。
After having been standing by the gate of the garden for a long time, Siddhartha realised that his desire was foolish, which had made him go up to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was not allowed to cling him. Deeply, he felt the love for the run-away in his heart, like a wound, and he felt at the same time that this wound had not been given to him in order to turn the knife in it, that it had to become a blossom and had to shine.
席特哈尔塔在花园门口伫立了很久，才意识到驱使自己来到此处的希望是愚蠢的，他并不能帮助儿子，他不该拽住儿子不放。他内心深深感到对逃亡者的爱，这就像一个创伤，可是他同时也感到，这创伤并不是让他哀叹感慨的，它势必会开花结果，大放光彩。
That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour, made him sad. Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here following the runaway son, there was now emptiness. Sadly, he sat down, felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy any more, no goal. He sat lost in thought and waited. This he had learned by the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience, listening attentively. And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listened to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice. Many an hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell into emptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path. And when he felt the wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with Om. The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many hours, and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him and placed two bananas in front of him. The old man did not see him.
然而，此记得这创伤还没有开花结果，还没有大放光彩，这使得他很伤心。促使他来到这儿追寻失踪的儿子的目标既已消失，取而代之的便是一片空虚。他悲伤地坐下，感到心中有什么正在死去，感到空虚，看不到欢乐，看不到目标。他坐在那里出神，等待着。这是他在河边学会的本领：等耐，有耐心，倾听。他坐在大街上的尘土中倾听，倾听自己的心如何疲乏而悲哀地跳动，期待着一个声音。他坐在那儿倾听了几个钟头，再也看不见以往的情景，陷入空虚之中，听任自己沉沦，看不到一条路。他感到作品灼痛时就默诵“唵”，以“唵”来充实自己。花园里的和尚看见了他，因为他已坐了好多个钟头，花白头发落满了灰尘。于是，有一个和尚走过来，在他面前放下了两个芭蕉。老人没看到他。
From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand touching his shoulder. Instantly, he recognised this touch, this tender, bashful touch, and regained his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva, who had followed him. And when he looked into Vasudeva’s friendly face, into the small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing but his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too. Now he saw the bananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave one to the ferryman, ate the other one himself. After this, he silently went back into the forest with Vasudeva, returned home to the ferry. Neither one talked about what had happened today, neither one mentioned the boy’s name, neither one spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about the wound. In the hut, Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after a while Vasudeva came to him, to offer him a bowl of coconut-milk, he already found him asleep.
一只手碰了碰他的肩，把他从这种麻木中唤醒了。他马上就认出了这触碰，这温柔、扭怩的触碰，苏醒过来。他站起身，向来找他的瓦苏代瓦问好。他望着瓦苏代瓦那和蔼可亲的脸，望着那溢满了笑容的细密的皱纹，望着那双开朗的眼睛，也笑了。这时，他看见了面前的芭蕉，递一个给船夫，自己吃了另一个。随后，他默默地跟着瓦苏代瓦返回了森林，返回了渡口。谁也不说今天发生的事，谁也不提孩子的名字，谁也不谈他的逃走，谁也不点到那伤口。回到茅屋里，席特哈尔塔躺到自己的床上。过了一会儿，瓦苏代瓦来到他身边，端给他一碗椰子 汁，却发现他已经睡着了。
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