名著精讀:《悉達多》 唵(2)

And one day, when the wound burned violently, Siddhartha ferried across the river, driven by a yearning, got off the boat and was willing to go to the city and to look for his son. The river flowed softly and quietly, it was the dry season, but its voice sounded strange: it laughed! It laughed clearly. The river laughed, it laughed brightly and clearly at the old ferryman. Siddhartha stopped, he bent over the water, in order to hear even better, and he saw his face reflected in the quietly moving waters, and in this reflected face there was something, which reminded him, something he had forgotten, and as he thought about it, he found it: this face resembled another face, which he used to know and love and also fear. It resembled his father's face, the Brahman. And he remembered how he, a long time ago, as a young man, had forced his father to let him go to the penitents, how he had bed his farewell to him, how he had gone and had never come back. Had his father not also suffered the same pain for him, whichhe now suffered for his son? Had his father not long since died, alone, without having seen his son again? Did he not have to expect the same fate for himself? Was it not a comedy, a strange and stupid matter, this repetition, this running around in a fateful circle?
The river laughed. Yes, so it was, everything came back, which had not been suffered and solved up to its end, the same pain was suffered over and over again. But Siddhartha want back into the boat and ferried back to the hut, thinking of his father, thinking of his son, laughed at by the river, at odds with himself, tending towards despair, and not less tending towards laughing along at himself and the entire world.
Alas, the wound was not blossoming yet, his heart was still fighting his fate, cheerfulness and victory were not yet shining from his suffering. Nevertheless, he felt hope, and once he had returned to the hut, he felt an undefeatable desire to open up to Vasudeva, to show him everything, the master of listening, to say everything.
Vasudeva was sitting in the hut and weaving a basket. He no longer used the ferry-boat, his eyes were starting to get weak, and not just his eyes; his arms and hands as well. Unchanged and flourishing was only the joy and the cheerful benevolence of his face.
Siddhartha sat down next to the old man, slowly he started talking. What they had never talked about, he now told him of, of his walk to the city, at that time, of the burning wound, of his envy at the sight of happy fathers, of his knowledge of the foolishness of such wishes, of his futile fight against them. He reported everything, he was able to say everything, even the most embarrassing parts, everything could be said, everything shown, everything he could tell. He presented his wound, also told how he fled today, how he ferried across the water, a childish run-away, willing to walk to the city, how the river had laughed.
While he spoke, spoke for a long time, while Vasudeva was listening with a quiet face, Vasudeva's listening gave Siddhartha a stronger sensation than ever before, he sensed how his pain, his fears flowed over to him, how his secret hope flowed over, came back at him from his counterpart. To show his wound to this listener was the same as bathing it in the river, until it had cooled and become one with the river. While he was still speaking, still admitting and confessing, Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no longer Vasudeva, no longer a human being, who was listening to him, that this motionless listener was absorbing his confession into himself like a tree the rain, that this motionless man was the river itself, that he was God himself, that he was the eternal itself. And while Siddhartha stopped thinking of himself and his wound, this realisation of Vasudeva's changed character took possession of him, and the more he felt it and entered into it, the less wondrous it became, the more he realised that everything was in order and natural, that Vasudeva had already been like this for a long time, almost forever, that only he had not quite recognised it, yes, that he himself had almost reached the same state. He felt, that he was now seeing old Vasudeva as the people see the gods, and that this could not last; in his heart, he started bidding his farewell to Vasudeva. Thorough all this, he talked incessantly.
When he had finished talking, Vasudeva turned his friendly eyes, which had grown slightly weak, at him, said nothing, let his silent love and cheerfulness, understanding and knowledge, shine at him. He took Siddhartha's hand, led him to the seat by the bank, sat down with him, smiled at the river.

一天，這傷口痛得厲害，席特哈爾塔受不了思念之苦就渡過河去，下船之後打算去城裏找兒子。河水在輕柔地流淌，當時正是旱季，但河水聲有點兒特別：它在笑！它在清清楚楚地笑。河水在笑，在清脆響亮地嘲笑這個老船伕。席特哈爾塔停下了，他彎腰俯到水面上，想聽得更清楚些。他看見自己的臉映在靜靜流淌的水面上，這張臉使他憶起了什麼，憶起了某些已經淡記的東西。他忖思，終於發現：這張臉跟中一張他熟悉、熱愛但又畏懼的臉很相似。它很像他父親的臉，那個婆羅門的臉。他回憶起多年以前，他還是個年輕人，他怎樣迫使父親同意他出門苦修，怎樣同父親告別，離家後又怎樣再也沒回去。他父親豈不是也爲他受了同樣的苦，就像他現在爲兒子所受的苦一樣？他父親不是早就死去了嗎，孤孤單單地再也沒能見到兒子？他自己又何嘗不會遭遇到同樣的命運？這種重複，這種繞着一個倒黴的圈子旋轉的循環，難道不是一出喜劇，一件奇特而荒唐的事？
河水在笑。是的，事情正是如此，只要還沒有熬到頭，還沒有得到解脫，一切都會這樣重複，再三經受同樣的痛苦。席特哈爾塔重又登上小船，返回了茅屋。他思念父親，思念兒子，被河水嘲笑，與自我爭執，傾向於絕望，也同樣傾向於大聲嘲笑自己以及整個世界。

啊，傷口還沒有開花，他的心還在同命運抗爭，他的痛苦還沒有放射出喜悅和勝利的光芒。可是他感覺到了希望，他回到茅屋後感覺到了一種不可抑制的願望，要向瓦蘇代瓦敞開心扉，向他坦述一切，向這位傾聽的大師訴說一切。
瓦蘇代瓦正坐在茅屋裏編一個籃子。他已經不再撐船了，因爲他的視力已開始衰退，不僅他的眼睛，他的胳臂和手也不行了。只有他臉上的歡樂和開朗的善意沒有改變，依然神采奕奕。
席特哈爾塔坐在老人身邊，開始慢慢地講述。他現在講的是過去從來沒講過的事，講他當年進城之行，講那灼痛的傷口，講他見到別的幸福父親時的嫉妒，講他知道這種願望的愚蠢，講他進行的徒勞無益的鬥爭。他什麼都講，什麼都肯講，哪怕是最最難這情的事，他什麼都說，什麼都可以暴露，什麼都可以講出來。他展示自己的傷口，也講了今天想逃走的事，講他如何渡過河去，他這個幼稚可笑的逃跑者，打算去城裏，以及河水如何嘲笑他。
他講啊講，講了很久，瓦蘇代瓦臉色平靜地傾聽着。席特哈爾塔覺得瓦蘇代瓦此刻的傾聽比他以往感到的更強有力，他感覺到了自己的痛苦、自己的憂慮如何傳過去，他的隱密的希望如何傳過去，再從老人那邊傳回來。向這位傾聽者展示自己的傷口，就像他們在河裏洗澡一樣，一直洗到渾身都涼快了，與河水融爲一體。席特哈爾塔一直在講述，滔滔不絕地坦白和懺悔，他越來越感到聽他講的不再是瓦蘇代瓦，不再是一個人，這個一動不動的傾聽者吸取了他的懺悔，就像是一棵樹吸足了雨水，這個一動不動的人就是河水，就是神，就是永恆。當席特哈爾塔不再想自己以及自己的傷口時，這種認爲瓦蘇代瓦已改變了本質的認識支配了他，他越是感受到這點，越是深入探究，就越是不奇怪，越是認識到，一切都很正常和自然，瓦蘇代瓦早就是這樣，幾乎一直是這樣，只不過他自己沒有完全認識到而已。是的，他自己也幾乎沒有什麼不同。他覺得，他現在這樣看待老瓦蘇代瓦，就像凡人看待神，這是不會長久的；他已開始開始在心裏向瓦蘇代瓦告別。而與此同時，他仍然在一直不停地講述着。
他講完之後，瓦蘇代瓦便用他那親切的、有些昏花的目光望着他，不說話，只是默默地向他傳送着愛與快樂，傳送着理解與體諒。他拉起席特哈爾塔的手，帶着他來到河邊的老地方，和他一起坐下來，笑着面向河水。