"
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.
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