hich you once told me here on this very
spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin,
from greed, from foolishness? Were his father's religious devotion, his
teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him
safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from
living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from
burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for
himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my dear,
anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That perhaps
your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would
like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment? But even
if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the
slightest part of his destiny upon yourself."

Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha
thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long
time. Vasudeva had told him nothing, he had not already thought and
known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon,
stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his
tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so much
to something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus
sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?

Siddhartha could not heed his friend's advice, he could not give up the
boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He
said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of
friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing
and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of
patience.

At one time, when the boy's face reminded him very much of Kamala,
Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time
ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. "You cannot
love," she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had compared
himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling
leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line.
Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to
another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love
of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as
it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him
apart from th