Yes, everyone loved Siddhartha. He aroused joy in everyone, he was a delight to all.
But Siddhartha was no joy to himself; he brought no pleasure to himself. Walking on the rosy paths of the fig garden,sitting in the bluish shadows of the meditation grove, washing his limbs on his daily baths of purification, performing sacrifices in the deep shade of the mango wood, perfect in the grace of his gestures, he was joy in his heart. Dreams came to him and restless river, glittered from the night stars, melted out of the rays of the sun. Dreams came and a restless mind, rising in the smoke of the offerings, wafting from the verses of the Rigveda, seeping into him from the teachings of the old Brahmins.