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 the childlike people.  But now, since his son was here, now he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person, suffering for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love, having become a fool on account of love.  Now he too felt, late, once in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, was nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing.

He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, was a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source, dark waters.  Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was not worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being.  This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed.

Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving in to his moods.  This father had nothing which would have delighted him and nothing which he would have feared.  He was a good man, this father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a saint, all these there no attributes which could win the boy over.  He was bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable hut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with kindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak.  Much more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he had been abused by him.

A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting forth, and he openly turned against his father.  The latter had given him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood.  But the boy did not leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he was, thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father’s face.

“Get the brushwood for yourself!” he shouted foaming at the mouth, “I’m not your servant.  I do know, that you won’t hit me, you don’t dare; I do know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with your religious devotion and your indulgence.  You want me to become like you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise!  But I, listen up, just to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you!  I hate you, you’re not my father, and if you’ve ten times been my mother’s fornicator!”