名著精讀:《悉達多》 在河邊(7)

Thus he praised himself, found joy in himself, listened curiously to his stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had now, so he felt, in these recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured up to the point of desperation and death, a piece of suffering, a piece of misery. Like this, it was good. For much longer, he could have stayed with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and let his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in this soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment of complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when he hang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbed to it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was still alive after all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he laughed, this was why his face was smiling brightly under his hair which had turned gray.
"It is good," he thought, "to get a taste of everything for oneself, which one needs to know. That lust for the world and riches do not belong to the good things, I have already learned as a child. I have known it for a long time, but I have experienced only now. And now I know it, don't just know it in my memory, but in my eyes, in my heart, in my stomach. Good for me, to know this!"
For a long time, he pondered his transformation, listened to the bird, as it sang for joy. Had not this bird died in him, had he not felt its death? No, something else from within him had died, something which already for a long time had yearned to die. Was it not this what he used to intend to kill in his ardent years as a penitent? Was this not his self, his small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled with for so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which was back again after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear? Was it not this, which today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, by this lovely river? Was it not due to this death, that he was now like a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?
Now Siddhartha also got some idea of why he had fought this self in vain as a Brahman, as a penitent. Too much knowledge had held him back, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules, to much self-castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal! Full of arrogance, he had been, always the smartest, always working the most, always one step ahead of all others, always the knowing and spiritual one, always the priest or wise one. Into being a priest, into this arrogance, into this spirituality, his self had retreated, there it sat firmly and grew, while he thought he would kill it by fasting and penance. Now he saw it and saw that the secret voice had been right, that no teacher would ever have been able to bring about his salvation. Therefore, he had to go out into the world, lose himself to lust and power, to woman and money, had to become a merchant, a dice-gambler, a drinker, and a greedy person, until the priest and Samana in him was dead. Therefore, he had to continue bearing these ugly years, bearing the disgust, the teachings, the pointlessness of a dreary and wasted life up to the end, up to bitter despair, until Siddhartha the lustful, Siddhartha the greedy could also die. He had died, a new Siddhartha had woken up from the sleep. He would also grow old, he would also eventually have to die, mortal was Siddhartha, mortal was every physical form. But today he was young, was a child, the new Siddhartha, and was full of joy.
He thought these thoughts, listened with a smile to his stomach, listened gratefully to a buzzing bee. Cheerfully, he looked into the rushing river, never before he had like a water so well as this one, never before he had perceived the voice and the parable of the moving water thus strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him, as if the river had something special to tell him, something he did not know yet, which was still awaiting him. In this river, Siddhartha had intended to drown himself, in it the old, tired, desperate Siddhartha had drowned today. But the new Siddhartha felt a deep love for this rushing water, and decided for himself, not to leave it very soon.

他就這樣讚美着自己，對自己很滿意，並且好奇地聽着肚子裏咕咕直叫。他覺得，在最近的時日裏，他已嘗夠了痛苦與煩惱，一直至絕望得要死。這樣也好。不然他還會在卡馬斯瓦密那兒待很久，賺錢，揮霍錢，填飽肚子，卻讓心靈焦渴難忍。不然他還會在那個溫柔的、軟綿綿的地獄裏住很久，那也就不會發生今天的事了：那個徹底失望和絕望的時刻，他懸在滾滾流淌的河面上，準備自盡的那個極端的時刻。他感受到了這種絕望，這種極深的厭惡，但是他沒有被壓倒。那隻鳥兒，那快樂的源泉和聲音，依然活躍在他心裏。他爲此而深感快樂，爲此而歡笑，花白頭髮下的臉爲此而容光煥發。
“這很好，”他想，“把應當知道的一切都親自嚐嚐。世俗的歡娛和財富並不是什麼好東西，這我從小就學過。我早就知道，可是現在纔算是親身體會到。現在我明白了，不僅是腦子記住了，而且是親眼目睹，心知肚明。好極了，我總算明白了！”
他久久地思索着自己的轉變，細聽鳥兒歡快的鳴囀。這隻鳥兒不是已在他心中死去，他不是感覺到鳥兒已經死了嗎？不，是別的什麼在他心中死去了，是某種早就渴望死去的東西。那不就是他以前在狂熱的懺悔年代裏想扼殺的東西嗎？那不就是他的自我，他的渺小、不安而又自負的自我，他曾與之搏鬥了多年卻總是失敗的自我，在每次抑制之後又再次出現、棄絕歡樂和帶來恐懼的自我嗎？那不就是今天終於在這河邊樹林裏死去的東西嗎？不正是由於這一死亡，他現在纔像個孩子，滿懷信心，無所畏懼，充滿了歡樂嗎？
席特哈爾塔還明白了，當年他作爲婆羅門，作爲懺悔者，在與自我的鬥爭中爲什麼會白費力氣。是太多的知識阻礙了他，太多的聖詩，太多的祭祀規矩，太多的苦修，太多的行動與追求！他原來十分高傲，自以爲總是最聰明，總是最熱誠，總是比所有人先行一步，總是博學和多思，永遠是僧侶或智者。他的自我就潛藏在這種僧侶氣質、這種高傲和這種睿智裏，在那兒紮根、生長，他還以爲能用齋戒和懺悔來抑制呢。現在他明白了，明白好祕密的聲音是對的，沒有任何老師能解救他。因此，他只好進入世俗世界，迷失在情慾和權力、女人和金錢之中，成爲一個商人、賭徒、酒鬼和財迷，直到僧侶和沙門在他心中死去。因此，他只好繼續忍受醜惡的歲月，忍受噁心，忍受空虛，忍受一種無聊的不可救藥的生活的荒唐無稽，直到結束，直到苦澀的絕望，直到荒浮選之徒席特哈爾塔、貪婪之徒席特哈爾塔能夠死去。他死去了，一個新的席特哈爾塔已從酣睡中醒來。他會衰老，將來有一天他也會死去，席特哈爾塔不是永恆的，任何生命都是短暫的。但今天他年輕，是個孩子，這個新的席特哈爾塔充滿了歡樂。
他思索着這些想法，含笑傾聽着肚子裏的聲響，心懷感激地聽到了一隻蜜蜂的嗡嗡聲。他愉快地望着滾滾流淌的河水，從沒有哪條河像這樣使他歡迎，他從沒聽過流水的聲音是這麼有力和悅耳。他覺得河水似乎想對他訴說什麼特別的東西，訴說什麼他還不知道、有待他領會的東西。席特哈爾塔曾想在這條河裏自溺，原來那個疲乏和絕望的席特哈爾塔今天已在這裏淹死了。而新的席特哈爾塔對這奔涌的河水感到一種深深的愛，心裏暗自決定，不再很快地離開它。