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