“You’re seeing into my heart,” Siddhartha spoke sadly.  “Often, I have thought of this.  But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart anyhow, into this world?  Won’t he become exuberant, won’t he lose himself to pleasure and power, won’t he repeat all of his father’s mistakes, won’t he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?”

Brightly, the ferryman’s smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha’s arm and said:  “Ask the river about it, my friend!  Hear it laugh about it!  Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts in order to spare your son from committing them too?  And could you in any way protect your son from Sansara?  How could you?  By means of teachings, prayer, admonition?  My dear, have you entirely forgotten that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about Siddhartha, a Brahman’s son, which 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.