名著精讀:《悉達多》 兒子(4)

"You're seeing into my heart," Siddhartha spoke sadly. "Often, I have thought of this. But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart anyhow, into this world? Won't he become exuberant, won't he lose himself to pleasure and power, won't he repeat all of his father's mistakes, won't he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?"
Brightly, the ferryman's smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha's arm and said: "Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it laugh about it! Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts in order to spare your son from committing them too? And could you in any way protect your son from Sansara? How could you? By means of teachings, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely forgotten that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about Siddhartha, a Brahman's son, which you once told me here on this very spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin, from greed, from foolishness? Were his father's religious devotion, his teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my dear, anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That perhaps your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment? But even if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the slightest part of his destiny upon yourself."
Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long time. Vasudeva had told him nothing, he had not already thought and known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon, stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so much to something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?
Siddhartha could not heed his friend's advice, he could not give up the boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of patience.
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.

“你真是看透了我的心，”席特哈爾塔悲哀地說，“我經常想到這些。可是你看，我該怎麼把他這個本來就心腸很硬的孩子送回那個世界去呢？他難道不會大肆揮霍，不會沉醉於享樂和權勢，不會重犯他父親的所有過失，不會完全迷失於輪迴之中？”
船伕的笑容粲然生輝；他輕輕撫摩着席特哈爾塔的胳臂說：“問問河水吧，朋友！你聽它正在笑哩！你真的相信你幹蠢事是爲了避免兒子幹蠢事？你能保護兒子不受輪迴之苦？你怎麼做呢？通過教誨，通過祈禱，通過勸誡？親愛的，難道你完全忘掉了那個故事，當然你在這個地方給我講過的那個關於婆羅門之子席特哈爾塔的發人深省的故事？是誰保護沙門席特哈爾塔免於輪迴，沒有墮入罪孽、貪婪和愚昧之中？他父親的虔誠，他教師的勸誡，他自己的良知，他自己的探索，這些能保護他嗎？有哪個父親、哪個教師能阻止他過自己的日子，以生活來玷污自己，自己承擔過失，自己啜飲生活的苦酒，找到自己的路呢？或許只有你的寶貝兒子，就因爲你愛他，因爲你想讓避開煩惱、痛苦和失望？但是，即使你爲他死十次，恐怕也不可能絲毫改變他的命運！”
瓦蘇代瓦還從來沒說過這麼多的話。席特哈爾塔向他誠懇地道謝，然後就憂心忡忡地走進了茅屋，但他久久仍無法入睡。瓦蘇代瓦說的這些話，他自己其實也想過，早就懂得。但那只是一種他無法做到的認識，而他對孩子的愛，他的柔情，他害怕失去孩子的恐懼，卻要比這種認識更強有力。以前，他可曾對什麼如此癡迷過？他可曾如此熱愛過某個人，如此盲目，如此痛苦，如此無奈而又如此幸福？
席特哈爾塔不能聽從朋友的忠告，他不能放棄兒子。他任憑兒子對他發號施令，任憑兒子瞧不起他。他沉默和等待，每天都進行默默的好心的鬥爭，進行無聲的耐心的鬥爭。瓦蘇代瓦也沉默和等待，友好、體諒和寬容地等待。在耐心方面他們倆都是大師。
有一次，孩子的臉使他想起了卡瑪拉。席特哈爾塔忽然想起了一句話，那是很久之前，在青春歲月裏卡瑪拉對他講過的一句話。“你不會愛。”她對他說。他同意她說的話，把自己比作一顆星，把那些孩子般的俗人比作飄落的樹葉，但他畢竟還是從那句話裏聽出了一種責備。實際上，他從來都沒能完全迷戀和委身於另一個人，忘掉自己，爲了愛另一個人而去做蠢事；他從來都不會這樣，正如他當時感覺到的那樣，這點正是把他與那些孩子般的俗人區分開的重大差別。可是如今，自從他的孩子來了，就連他席特哈爾塔也完全變成了俗人，爲了一個人而受苦，熱愛一個人，癡迷於一種愛，由於一種愛而成爲傻瓜。現在，雖然遲了些，但他畢竟在生活中感受到了這種最強烈最罕見的激情，深受其苦，苦不堪言，可是又很愉快，感到更活躍了，更充實了。