Chapter seven Sansara. For a long time Siddartha had lived the life of the world and of lust, though without being a part of it. His senses, which he had killed off in hot years as a samana, had awoken again. He had tasted riches, had tasted lust, had tasted power. Nevertheless, he had still remained in his heart for a long time a samana. Kamala, being smart, had realized this quite right. It was still the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting which guided his life.
Still, the people of the world, the childlike people, had remained alien to him, as he was alien to them. Years passed, surrounded by the good life, Siddartha hardly felt them fading away. He had become rich for quite a while, while he possessed the house of his own and his own servants, and a garden before the city by the river. The people
liked him. They came to him whenever they needed money or advice. But there was no one close to him except Kamala, that high, bright state of being awake which he had experienced that one time at the height of his youth. In those days after Gautama's sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart,
had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting, distant and quiet. The Holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within himself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the samanas he had learned from Gautama, he had learned from his father, the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards, moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge of the self and of his eternal entity,
which is neither body nor consciousness. Many a part of this he still had, but one part after another had been submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter's wheel, once it has been set in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowly lose its vigor and come to a stop. Thus, Zidarthur's soul had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of differentiation, for a long time,
still turning. But it turned slowly and hesitantly, and was close to coming to a standstill, slowly, like humidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly and making it rot. The world and sloth had entered Siddartha's soul. Slowly. It filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it to sleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive. There was much they had learned, much they had experienced. Siddartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people,
to enjoy himself with a woman. He had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice and on a chess board, to watch dancing girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan chair, to sleep on a soft bed. But he still had felt different from and superior
to the others. All was He had watched them with some mockery, some mocking disdain, with the same disdain which a samana constantly feels for the people of the world, when Camiswami was ailing, when he was annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his wiries. As a merchant, Si d Arthur had always watched it with mockery, just slowly and imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by, his mockery had become
more tired, his superiority had become more quiet, just slowly. Among his growing riches, Siddartha had assumed something of the childlike people's ways for himself, something of their childlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet he envied them, envied them just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied them for the one thing that was missing from him, and that they
had. The importance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being constantly in love. These people were all of the time in love with themselves, with women, with their children, with honors or money, with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out of all things, this joy of a child, and this foolishness of a child, he learned from them out of all things, the unpleasant ones which he
himself despised. It happened more and more often that in the morning, after having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for a long time, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became angry and impatient when Camuswami bored him with his worries. It happened that he laughed just
too loud when he lost a game of dice. His face was still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely laughed, and assumed one after another those features which are so often found in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent, of sickliness, of ill humor, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly, the disease of the soul which rich people have grabbed whole of him like a veil, like a thin mist. Tiredness came over, said Arthur, slowly, getting a bit denser every day,
a bit murkier every month, a bit heavier every year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautiful color in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, said Arthur's new life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, had grown old, lost color and splendor as the years passed by, was gathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom,
already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting, and hidden at bottom, already showing its ugliness here and there, pointment and disgust were waiting. Siddartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright and reliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time and had ever guided him in his best times, had become silent.
He had been captured by the world by lust, covetousness, sloth, and finally also by that vice which he had used to despise and mock them most as the most foolish one of all vices. Greed, property, possessions and riches also had finally captured him. They were no longer a game and trifles to him had become a shackle and a burden. In a strange and devious way, Siddartha had gotten into this final and most base of all dependencies by
means of the game of dice. It was since that time, when he had stopped being a samana in his heart, that Siddartha began to play the game for money and precious things, which he at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom of the childlike people. With an increasing rage and passion, he was a feared gambler. Few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were his stakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing and wasting his wretched money in the
game that brought him an angry joy. In no other way could he demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchant's false god more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with high stakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself. One thousands threw away, thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a
house in the country, one again lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifying fear which he had felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renew it, always increase it always get it to a slightly higher level. For in this feeling alone, he still felt something like happiness, something like an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in the midst of
his saturated, lukewarm, dull life. And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued the trade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, because he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering, continued demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddartha lost his calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not paid on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition for giving away and loaning money
to those who petitioned him. He who gamboled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed at it, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionally dreaming at night about money, and whenever he woke up from this ugly spell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom's wall to have aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing
into a numbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fled back into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointless cycle, he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill. Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spent the hours of the evening with Kamala in her beautiful pleasure garden. They had been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words,
words behind which a sadness and a tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him to tell her about Gautama, and could not hear enough of him, How clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tell her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said, one day, perhaps soon I'll also follow that Buddha. I'll give him
my pleasure garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings. But after this she had aroused him and had tied him to her in the act of making love with painful fervor, biting and in tears, as if once more she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting pleasure. Never before it had become so strangely clear to Siddhartha how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain by her side, and Kamala's face had been close to him, and under her eyes, and next to
the corners of her mouth. He had, as clearly as never before, read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slight grooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age. Just as Siddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed here and there gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was written on Carmala's beautiful face. Tiredness from walking
a long path which has no happy destination. Tiredness and the beginning of withering and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious, anxiety, fear of old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die with a sigh. He had bid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance
and full of concealed anxiety. Then said Arthur had spent the night in his house with dancing girls and wine, had acted as if he were superior to them towards the fellow members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunk much wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired and yet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long time sought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought he could not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he
felt penetrating his entire body, like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancing girls, the just too sweet scents of their hair and breasts. But more than by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumed hair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby, tiredness and listlessness of his skin, Like when someone who was eaten and drunk far too much vomits it back up again with agonizing pain, and is
nevertheless glad about the relief. Thus, this sleepless man wished to free himself of these pleasures, these habits, and all of this pointless life, found himself in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the light of the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the street before his city house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for a few moments a half consciousness, a hint of sleep. In these moments he had a dream. Kamala
owned a small, rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird, he dreamt. He dreamt this bird had become mute, who at other times always used to sing in the morning. And since this arose his attention, he stepped in front of the cage and looked inside. There the small bird was dead and lay stiff on the ground. He took it out, weighed it for a moment in his hand, and then threw it away out
in the street. And in the same moment he felt terribly shocked and his heart hurt, as if he had thrown away from himself all value and everything good by throwing out this dead bird. Starting up from this dream, he felt encompassed by a deep sadness worthless. So it seemed to him worthless and pointless was the way he had been going through life. Nothing which was alive, nothing which was in some way delicious or worth keeping, he had left
in his hands alone. He stood there and empty, like a cast away on the shore, with a gloomy mind, said Arthur. Went to the pleasure garden he owned, locked the gate, sat down under a mango tree, felt death in his heart and horror in his chest. Sat and sensed how everything died in him, withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by he gathered his thoughts and in his mind. He once again went the entire path of his life, starting with the first days
he could remember. When was there ever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Oh, yes, several times he had experienced such a thing in his years as a boy. He has had a taste of it. When he had obtained praise from the Brahmans. He had felt it in his heart. There is a path in front of the one who has distinguished himself in the recitation of the Holy verses in the dispute with the learned ones as an assistant in the offerings. Then he had felt it in
his heart. There is a path in front of you, you are destined for the gods are awaiting you. And again as a young man, when the ever rising upward, fleeing goal of all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude of those seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new thirst in him. Then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the pain, felt this very same thing, go
on, go on, you are called upon. He had heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the life of a samana, and again when he had gone away from the samanas to that perfected one, And also when he had gone away from him to the uncertain. For how long had he not heard this voice anymore? For how long had he reached
no height anymore? How even and dull was the manner in which his path had passed through life for many long years, without a high goal, without thirst, without elevation, content with small, lustful pleasures, and yet never satisfied. For all of these many years, without knowing it himself, he had tried hard and long to become a man like those many like those children. And in all this his life had been much more miserable and poorer than
theirs, and their goals were not his nor their worries. After all, that entire world of the Kamaswami people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, a comedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him. But was she still thus? Did he still need her? Or she him? Did they not play a game without ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No? It was not necessary.
The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, ten times, but forever and ever over again. Then Saddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play it anymore. Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt something had died. That entire day, he sat under the mango tree, thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gautama. Did he have to leave them to become a Kamaswami.
He still sat there when the knight had fallen. When looking up he caught sight of the stars, He thought, here, I'm sitting under my mango tree, in my pleasure garden. He smiled a little. Was it really necessary? Was it right? Was it not a foolish game that he owned a mango tree, that he owned a garden? He also put an end to this. This also died in him. He rose, bid his farewell
to the mango tree, his farewell to the pleasure garden. Since he had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and thought of his house in the city, of his chamber and bed, of the table with the meals on it. He smiled tiredly, shook himself and bid his farewell to these things. In the same hour of the night, Siddartha left his garden, left the city, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people looked for him, thinking that he had fallen into the
hands of robbers. Kamala had no one look for him. When she was told that Siddartha had disappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Was he not a samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim, And most of all, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she was happy in spite of all the pain of the loss that she had pulled him so affectionately to her heart for this last time, that she had felt one more time to be so
completely possessed and penetrated by him. When she received the first news of Siddartha's disappearance, she went to the window where she held a rare singing bird captive in a golden cage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out, and let it fly. For a long time, she gazed after it the flying bird. From this day on she received no more visitors and kept her house locked. But after some time she became aware that she
was pregnant. From the last time she was together with sid Arthur end of chapter seven