名著精讀:《悉達多》 輪迴(4)
He was a feared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were his stakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing and wasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in no other way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants' false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with high stakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands, threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a house in the country, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifying fear, which he felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renew it, always increase it, always get it to a slightly higher level, for in this feeling alone he still felt something like happiness, something like an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in the midst of his saturated, lukewarm, dull life.
And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued the trade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, because he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering, continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost his calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not payed on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition for giving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, who gambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed at it, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionally dreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from this ugly spell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom's wall to have aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into a numbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fled back into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointless cycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill.
他是個令人生畏的賭徒，一般人不大敢跟他賭，因爲他下賭注時特別多特別狠。他進行賭博是出於內心的困境，輸掉花光那些討厭的金錢使他得到一種發怒式的快樂，而用別的方式他就不能對商人奉爲偶像的財富表示出更清楚更尖刻的蔑視。因此，他毫不可惜地押大注，憎恨自己，嘲諷自己，一贏千金，又千金一擲，輸掉錢，輸掉首飾，輸掉別墅，然後再贏回來，又輸掉。他喜歡那種恐怕，那種賭博中因爲押上了大注而提心吊擔時感到的恐懼，那種可怕的令人窒息的恐懼，並且努力使這種恐懼不斷重現，不斷增強，被刺激得越來越強，因爲只有在這種感覺中他纔多少有點兒幸福，有點兒陶醉，在他那百無聊賴的、溫吞吞的、單調乏味的生活當中纔多少有點兒心安理得。
在每一次大輸之後，他都設法積累新年的財富，更熱心地做買賣，更嚴厲地逼迫債戶還帳，因爲他要繼續賭，繼續揮霍，繼續對財富表示他的輕蔑。席特哈爾塔在輸錢時失去了從容鎮定，對拖欠的債戶失去了耐心，對乞丐失去了同情，對施捨失去了興趣，也不再借錢給求貸者。他在豪賭中可以一擲萬金並且付之一笑，可是做起生意卻越發嚴厲，越發小氣，夜裏做夢有時也夢到錢！他常常從這種可憎的迷醉中醒來，常常從臥室牆上的鏡子裏照見自己的臉變老變醜了，羞愧和噁心常常襲擾他，於是他繼續逃避，逃到新的賭博之中，逃到肉慾和酗酒的麻醉之中，再從那兒回到攢錢和賺錢的本能之中。在這種毫無意義的循環中他疲於奔命，日漸衰老，病魔纏身。
