Years passed by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly felt them fading away. He had become rich, for quite a while he possessed2 a 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 nobody 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 Gotama's sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing4 alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple5 willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart, had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting6; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur7 within himself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, he had learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditation8, secret knowledge of the self, of his eternal entity9, 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 vigour10 and come to a stop, thus Siddhartha's soul had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism11, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of differentiation12 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 sloth14 had entered Siddhartha'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.
Siddhartha 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 poultry15, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice16 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 still he had felt different from and superior to the others; always he had watched them with some mockery, some mocking disdain17, with the same disdain which a Samana constantly feels for the people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing18, when he was annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed19 by his worries as a merchant, Siddhartha 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, Siddhartha 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 honours 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 Kamaswami 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-humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly the disease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of him.
Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over Siddhartha, slowly, getting a bit denser20 every day, a bit murkier21 every month, a bit heavier every year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautiful colour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams, and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus Siddhartha's new life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, had grown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed by, was gathering22 wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting. Siddhartha 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, covetousness23, sloth, and finally also by that vice3 which he had used to despise and mock the most as the most foolish one of all vices24: greed. Property, possessions, and riches also had finally captured him; they were no longer a game and trifles to him, had become a shackle25 and a burden. On a strange and devious26 way, Siddhartha 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 Siddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, which he at other times only joined with a smile and casually27 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 brought him an angry joy, in no other way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants' false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with high stakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands, threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry28, lost a house in the country, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifying29 fear, which he 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 intoxication30, something like an elevated form of life in the midst of his saturated31, lukewarm, dull life.
And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued the trade more zealously32, forced his debtors33 more strictly34 to pay, because he wanted to continue gambling35, he wanted to continue squandering36, continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost his calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not payed on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition37 for giving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, who gambled 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 aged38 and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment39 and disgust came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into a numbing40 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 spend 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 tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama, 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 exalted41 Buddha42, 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 fervour, 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 akin13 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 inscription43, an inscription of small lines, of slight grooves44, 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 Kamala's beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, which has no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering46, and concealed47, 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 reluctance48, and full of concealed anxiety.
Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girls and wine, had acted as if he was 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 misery49 which he thought he could not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetrating50 his entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive51 taste of the wine, the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancing girls, the just too sweet scent45 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 has eaten and drunk far too much, vomits52 it back up again with agonising pain and is nevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless53 man wished to free himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointless life and 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 unconsciousness, a hint of sleep. In those 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 encompassed54 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 castaway on the shore.
With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha 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, withered55 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 bliss56? 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 distinguished57 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 destined58 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 wrestled59 in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled60 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 any more, for how long had he reached no height any more, 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 elevation61, content with small lustful62 pleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of these many years, without knowing it himself, he had tried hard and longed to become a man like those many, like those children, and in all this, his life had been much more miserable63 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 an 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 for ever and ever over again?
Then, Siddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play it any more. 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 Gotama. Did he have to leave them to become a Kamaswami? He still sat there, when the night 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 as 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 chamber64 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, Siddhartha left his garden, left the city, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people look for him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala had no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha 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 penetrated65 by him.
When she received the first news of Siddhartha's disappearance66, 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 Siddhartha.
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1
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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4
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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7
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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20
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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21
murkier
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| adj.阴暗的( murky的比较级 )；昏暗的；（指水）脏的；混浊的 | |
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22
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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23
covetousness
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24
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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shackle
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| n.桎梏，束缚物；v.加桎梏，加枷锁，束缚 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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29
petrifying
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| v.吓呆，使麻木( petrify的现在分词 )；使吓呆，使惊呆；僵化 | |
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30
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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31
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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32
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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36
squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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37
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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40
numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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41
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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42
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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43
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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44
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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45
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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46
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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47
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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48
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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49
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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50
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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51
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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52
vomits
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| 呕吐物( vomit的名词复数 ) | |
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53
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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54
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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55
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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56
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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57
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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58
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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59
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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60
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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61
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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62
lustful
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| a.贪婪的；渴望的 | |
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63
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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64
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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65
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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66
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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