For a long time, Siddhartha 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; heless 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 by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly felt them fading away. He had bee rich, for quite a while he possessed 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, whehey needed money or advice, but there was nobody close to him, except Kamala.
That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experiehat oime at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotamas sermon, after the separatiovinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alohout teags and without teachers, that supple willio listen to the divine voi his ow, had slowly bee a memory, had beeing; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within himself. heless, 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 meditatio knowledge of the self, of his etery, which is her body nor sciousness. Many a part of this he still had, but one part after another had been submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potters wheel, o has bee in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowly lose its vigour and e to a stop, thus Siddharthas 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 aantly and was close to ing 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 Siddharthas soul, slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it to sleep. Oher hand, his senses had bee alive, there was much they had learned, much they had experienced.
Siddhartha had learo trade, to use his power over people, to enjoy himself with a woman, he had learo wear beautiful clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learo eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, eve and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and fetfulness. He had learo play with did on a chess-board, to watch dang 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 mog disdain, with the same disdain which a Samana stantly feels for the people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing, when he was annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his worries as a mert, Siddhartha had always watched it with mockery. Just slowly and imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by, his mockery had beore tired, his superiority had beore quiet. Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumed something of the childl