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07 - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse · Adventure Books Collection

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