Chapter 7 - Sansara - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse

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Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Chapter seven Sansara. For a longtime Siddartha had lived the life of the
world and of lust, though withoutbeing a part of it. His senses,
which he had killed off in hotyears as a samana, had awoken
again. He had tasted riches,had tasted lust, had tasted power.

(00:24):
Nevertheless, he had still remained inhis heart for a long time a samana.
Kamala, being smart, had realizedthis 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

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to him, as he was aliento them. Years passed, surrounded by
the good life, Siddartha hardly feltthem fading away. He had become rich
for quite a while, while hepossessed the house of his own and his
own servants, and a garden beforethe city by the river. The people

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liked him. They came to himwhenever they needed money or advice. But
there was no one close to himexcept Kamala, that high, bright state
of being awake which he had experiencedthat one time at the height of his
youth. In those days after Gautama'ssermon, after the separation from Govinda,

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that tense expectation, that proud stateof standing alone without teachings and without teachers,
that supple willingness to listen to thedivine voice in his own heart,
had slowly become a memory, hadbeen fleeting, distant and quiet. The
Holy source murmured, which used tobe near, which used to murmur within

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himself. Nevertheless, many things hehad learned from the samanas he had learned
from Gautama, he had learned fromhis father, the Brahman, had remained
within him for a long time afterwards, moderate living, joy of thinking,
hours of meditation, secret knowledge ofthe self and of his eternal entity,

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which is neither body nor consciousness.Many a part of this he still had,
but one part after another had beensubmerged and had gathered dust. Just
as a potter's wheel, once ithas been set in motion, will keep
on turning for a long time andonly slowly lose its vigor and come to

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a stop. Thus, Zidarthur's soulhad kept on turning the wheel of asceticism,
the wheel of thinking, the wheelof differentiation, for a long time,
still turning. But it turned slowlyand hesitantly, and was close to
coming to a standstill, slowly,like humidity entering the dying stem of a

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tree, filling it slowly and makingit rot. The world and sloth had
entered Siddartha's soul. Slowly. Itfilled his soul, made it heavy,
made it tired, put it tosleep. On the other hand, his
senses had become alive. There wasmuch they had learned, much they had

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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, tobathe in perfumed waters. He had learned
to eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry,

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spices and sweets, and to drinkwine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness.
He had learned to play with diceand on a chess board, to
watch dancing girls, to have himselfcarried about in a sedan chair, to
sleep on a soft bed. Buthe still had felt different from and superior

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to the others. All was Hehad watched them with some mockery, some
mocking disdain, with the same disdainwhich a samana constantly feels for the people
of the world, when Camiswami wasailing, when he was annoyed, when
he felt insulted, when he wasvexed by his wiries. As a merchant,

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Si d Arthur had always watched itwith mockery, just slowly and imperceptibly,
as the harvest seasons and rainy seasonspassed by, his mockery had become
more tired, his superiority had becomemore quiet, just slowly. Among his
growing riches, Siddartha had assumed somethingof the childlike people's ways for himself,

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something of their childlikeness and of theirfearfulness. And yet he envied them,
envied them just the more, themore similar he became to them. He
envied them for the one thing thatwas missing from him, and that they
had. The importance they were ableto attach to their lives, the amount

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of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being
constantly in love. These people wereall of the time in love with themselves,
with women, with their children,with honors or money, with plans
or hopes. But he did notlearn this from them, this out of

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all things, this joy of achild, and this foolishness of a child,
he learned from them out of allthings, the unpleasant ones which he
himself despised. It happened more andmore often that in the morning, after
having had company the night before,he stayed in bed for a long time,

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felt unable to think and tired.It happened that he became angry and
impatient when Camuswami bored him with hisworries. It happened that he laughed just
too loud when he lost a gameof dice. His face was still smarter
and more spiritual than others, butit rarely laughed, and assumed one after

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another those features which are so oftenfound 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 likea veil, like a thin mist.

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Tiredness came over, said Arthur,slowly, getting a bit denser every day,
a bit murkier every month, abit heavier every year. As a
new dress becomes old in time,loses its beautiful color in time, gets
stains, gets wrinkles, gets wornoff at the seams and starts to show

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threadbare spots here and there, saidArthur's new life, which he had started
after his separation from Govinda, hadgrown old, lost color and splendor as
the years passed by, was gatheringwrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom,
already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting,

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and hidden at bottom, already showingits ugliness here and there, pointment and
disgust were waiting. Siddartha did notnotice 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 inhis best times, had become silent.

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He had been captured by the worldby lust, covetousness, sloth, and
finally also by that vice which hehad used to despise and mock them most
as the most foolish one of allvices. Greed, property, possessions and

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riches also had finally captured him.They were no longer a game and trifles
to him had become a shackle anda burden. In a strange and devious
way, Siddartha had gotten into thisfinal and most base of all dependencies by
means of the game of dice.It was since that time, when he

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had stopped being a samana in hisheart, 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 customof the childlike people. With an increasing
rage and passion, he was afeared gambler. Few dared to take him

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on, so high and audacious werehis 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'sfalse god more clearly and more mockingly.

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Thus he gambled with high stakes andmercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself.
One thousands threw away, thousands,lost money, lost jewelry, lost a
house in the country, one againlost again. That fear, that terrible
and petrifying fear which he had feltwhile he was rolling the dice, while

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he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to
always renew it, always increase italways get it to a slightly higher level.
For in this feeling alone, hestill felt something like happiness, something
like an intoxication, something like anelevated form of life in the midst of

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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, becausehe wanted to continue gambling, he wanted
to continue squandering, continued demonstrating hisdisdain of wealth. Siddartha lost his calmness

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when losses occurred, lost his patiencewhen he was not paid on time,
lost his kindness towards beggars, losthis disposition for giving away and loaning money
to those who petitioned him. Hewho gamboled away tens of thousands at one
roll of the dice and laughed atit, became more strict and more petty

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in his business, occasionally dreaming atnight about money, and whenever he woke
up from this ugly spell, wheneverhe found his face in the mirror at
the bedroom's wall to have aged andbecome more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust
came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing

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into a numbing of his mind broughton by sex, by wine, and
from there he fled back into theurge to pile up and obtain possessions.
In this pointless cycle, he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing
ill. Then the time came whena dream warned him. He had spent

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the hours of the evening with Kamalain her beautiful pleasure garden. They had
been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words,
words behind which a sadness and atiredness lay hidden. She had asked him
to tell her about Gautama, andcould not hear enough of him, How

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clear his eyes, how still andbeautiful 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 alsofollow that Buddha. I'll give him

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my pleasure garden for a gift andtake my refuge in his teachings. But
after this she had aroused him andhad 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 lastsweet drop out of this vain, fleeting

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pleasure. Never before it had becomeso strangely clear to Siddhartha how closely lust
was akin to death. Then hehad 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. Hehad, as clearly as never before,

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read a fearful inscription, an inscriptionof small lines, of slight grooves,
an inscription reminiscent of autumn and oldage. Just as Siddhartha himself, who
was only in his forties, hadalready noticed here and there gray hairs among

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his black ones. Tiredness was writtenon Carmala's beautiful face. Tiredness from walking
a long path which has no happydestination. Tiredness and the beginning of withering
and concealed, still unsaid, perhapsnot even conscious, anxiety, fear of

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old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die with a
sigh. He had bid his farewellto her, the soul full of reluctance
and full of concealed anxiety. Thensaid Arthur had spent the night in his
house with dancing girls and wine,had acted as if he were superior to

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them towards the fellow members of hiscaste, though this was no longer true,
had drunk much wine and gone tobed a long time after midnight,
being tired and yet excited, closeto weeping and despair, and had for
a long time sought to sleep invain, his heart full of misery which

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he thought he could not bear anylonger, full of a disgust which he
felt penetrating his entire body, likethe lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine,
the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of
the dancing girls, the just toosweet scents of their hair and breasts.

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But more than by anything else,he was disgusted by himself, by his
perfumed hair, by the smell ofwine 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 backup again with agonizing pain, and is

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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 activitiesin the street before his city house,

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he had slightly fallen asleep, hadfound for a few moments a half consciousness,
a hint of sleep. In thesemoments he had a dream. Kamala
owned a small, rare singing birdin a golden cage. Of this bird,
he dreamt. He dreamt this birdhad become mute, who at other

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times always used to sing in themorning. And since this arose his attention,
he stepped in front of the cageand looked inside. There the small
bird was dead and lay stiff onthe ground. He took it out,
weighed it for a moment in hishand, and then threw it away out

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in the street. And in thesame moment he felt terribly shocked and his
heart hurt, as if he hadthrown 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

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pointless was the way he had beengoing through life. Nothing which was alive,
nothing which was in some way deliciousor worth keeping, he had left
in his hands alone. He stoodthere and empty, like a cast away
on the shore, with a gloomymind, said Arthur. Went to the

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pleasure garden he owned, locked thegate, sat down under a mango tree,
felt death in his heart and horrorin his chest. Sat and sensed
how everything died in him, witheredin him, came to an end in
him. By and by he gatheredhis thoughts and in his mind. He

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once again went the entire path ofhis life, starting with the first days
he could remember. When was thereever a time when he had experienced happiness,
felt a true bliss? Oh,yes, several times he had experienced
such a thing in his years asa boy. He has had a taste

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of it. When he had obtainedpraise from the Brahmans. He had felt
it in his heart. There isa path in front of the one who
has distinguished himself in the recitation ofthe Holy verses in the dispute with the
learned ones as an assistant in theofferings. Then he had felt it in
his heart. There is a pathin front of you, you are destined

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for the gods are awaiting you.And again as a young man, when
the ever rising upward, fleeing goalof all thinking had ripped him out of
and up from the multitude of thoseseeking the same goal, when he wrestled
in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new

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thirst in him. Then again hehad, in the midst of the thirst,
in the midst of the pain,felt this very same thing, go
on, go on, you arecalled upon. He had heard this voice
when he had left his home andhad chosen the life of a samana,

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and again when he had gone awayfrom the samanas to that perfected one,
And also when he had gone awayfrom him to the uncertain. For how
long had he not heard this voiceanymore? For how long had he reached
no height anymore? How even anddull was the manner in which his path
had passed through life for many longyears, without a high goal, without

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thirst, without elevation, content withsmall, lustful pleasures, and yet never
satisfied. For all of these manyyears, without knowing it himself, he
had tried hard and long to becomea man like those many like those children.
And in all this his life hadbeen much more miserable and poorer than

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theirs, and their goals were nothis nor their worries. After all,
that entire world of the Kamaswami peoplehad only been a game to him,
a dance he would watch, acomedy. Only Kamala had been dear,
had been valuable to him. Butwas she still thus? Did he still

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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 playonce, twice, ten times, but

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forever and ever over again. ThenSaddhartha knew that the game was over,
that he could not play it anymore. Shivers ran over his body, inside
of him, so he felt somethinghad died. That entire day, he
sat under the mango tree, thinkingof his father, thinking of Govinda,

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thinking of Gautama. Did he haveto leave them to become a Kamaswami.
He still sat there when the knighthad 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

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necessary? Was it right? Wasit not a foolish game that he owned
a mango tree, that he owneda garden? He also put an end
to this. This also died inhim. He rose, bid his farewell
to the mango tree, his farewellto the pleasure garden. Since he had
been without food this day, hefelt strong hunger, and thought of his

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house in the city, of hischamber and bed, of the table with
the meals on it. He smiledtiredly, shook himself and bid his farewell
to these things. In the samehour of the night, Siddartha left his
garden, left the city, andnever came back. For a long time,

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Kamaswami had people looked for him,thinking that he had fallen into the
hands of robbers. Kamala had noone look for him. When she was
told that Siddartha had disappeared, shewas not astonished. Did she not always
expect it? Was he not asamana, a man who was at home

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nowhere, a pilgrim, And mostof 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 shehad pulled him so affectionately to her heart
for this last time, that shehad felt one more time to be so
completely possessed and penetrated by him.When she received the first news of Siddartha's

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disappearance, she went to the windowwhere she held a rare singing bird captive
in a golden cage. She openedthe door of the cage, took the
bird out, and let it fly. For a long time, she gazed
after it the flying bird. Fromthis day on she received no more visitors

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and kept her house locked. Butafter some time she became aware that she
was pregnant. From the last timeshe was together with sid Arthur end of chapter seven