名著精讀:《悉達多》 戈文達(5) END

But while Govinda with astonishment, and yet drawn by great love and expectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched his forehead with his lips, something miraculous happened to him. While his thoughts were still dwelling on Siddhartha's wondrous words, while he was still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away time, to imagine Nirvana and Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt for the words of his friend was fighting in him against an immense love and veneration, this happened to him:
He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes--he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying--he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person--he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword--he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love--he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void-- he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds--he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni--he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face--and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness above the thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely the same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with great respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones are smiling.
Not knowing any more whether time existed, whether the vision had lasted a second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there existed a Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you, feeling in his innermost self as if he had been wounded by a divine arrow, the injury of which tasted sweet, being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost self, Govinda still stood for a little while bent over Siddhartha's quiet face, which he had just kissed, which had just been the scene of all manifestations, all transformations, all existence. The face was unchanged, after under its surface the depth of the thousandfoldness had closed up again, he smiled silently, smiled quietly and softly, perhaps very benevolently, perhaps very mockingly, precisely as he used to smile, the exalted one.
Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears he knew nothing of, ran down his old face; like a fire burnt the feeling of the most intimate love, the humblest veneration in his heart. Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, before him who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of everything he had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable and holy to him in his life.

戈文達很吃驚，但還是出於愛慕之情聽從了席特哈爾塔的吩咐，彎腰湊近他，用嘴脣親了親他的額頭，這時，忽然發生了不可思議的事。當他的思想還在琢磨席特哈爾塔的奇怪言論，他還在徒勞無益地極力拋開時間觀念，把涅槃和輪迴想象爲一體，甚至心裏對朋友的話懷着某種輕蔑，因而與一種深深的愛慕和敬重發生了衝突時，卻發生了這樣的事：
他看不見他的朋友席特哈爾塔的臉了，卻見到了別人的臉，許許多多，長長的一串，就像一條奔流不息的河，成百上千張臉，全都來了又去了，又似乎同時出現，全都在不停地變化和更新，然而又全都是席特哈爾塔。他看到一條魚的臉，一條鯉魚的臉，極其痛苦地咧開嘴，是一條垂死的魚，眼睛已經翻白——他看到一個新生嬰兒的臉，紅紅的，滿是皺褶，哭得變了形——他看到一個殺人兇手的臉，看見他將一把刀捅進了一個人的身體——就在這同一瞬間，他又看到這個罪犯被捆綁着跪在地上，他的頭被劊子手一刀砍了下來——他看到男男女女都光着身子，作出瘋狂作愛的姿勢——他看到直挺挺的屍體，無聲、冰冷和空虛——他看到動物的頭，有公豬的、鱷魚的、大象的、公牛的、鳥兒的——他看到神靈，看到克利什那神，看到阿耆尼神——他看到所有這些形體和臉龐，以上千種方式聯繫在一起，每一個都幫助另一個，愛它恨它，消滅它又讓它新生，每一個都是一種死的願望，是一種對短暫性的熱烈而痛苦的懺悔，可是又沒一個死去，每一個都只是變樣了，不斷地新生，不斷地得到一張新臉，而在一張臉與另一張臉之間並沒有時間差距——所有這些形態和臉龐都靜止、流動、產生、模糊和相互融合，上面始終籠罩着某種薄薄的、沒有實體可是又確實存在的東西，就好像蒙了一層薄玻璃或薄冰，就好像一層透明的皮膚，一個由水形成的外殼、模型或面具，這面具微笑着，這面具正是席特哈爾塔含笑的臉，正是戈文達剛纔用嘴脣親吻過的那張臉。戈文達看到，面具的這種笑，超越了涌現出來的形象的這種統一性的笑，超越了千千萬萬生老與死者的這種同時性的笑，席特哈爾塔的這種笑，正是戈塔馬的那種平靜的、文雅的、令人捉摸不透的、也許善意也許嘲諷的、聰明的、千變萬化的笑，就像他滿懷崇敬地千百次目睹過的那樣。戈文達知道，這正是完人的笑容。
戈文達不再知道是否有時間，這情景到底是持續了一秒鐘還是一百年，不再知道是否有一個席特哈爾塔，是否有一個戈塔馬，是否有我和你，內心深處好像被一支神箭射中了，而傷處卻是甜甜的味道，內心深處感到像着了魔似的，六神無主。他又站了一會兒，俯身望着那張他剛纔親吻過的席特哈爾塔的平靜的臉，那張剛纔還是一切形象、一切未來、一切存在的活動舞臺的臉。這張臉沒有變化，在外表下面深處的千變萬化已重新封閉之後，他平靜地笑着，輕柔地笑着，也許是好意，也許是諷刺挖苦，跟活佛的笑一模一樣。
戈文達深鞠一躬，淚水情不自禁地淌下他那蒼老的臉龐，而他卻渾然不知，就像有一把火在他心中點燃了最親密之愛與最謙恭之敬的情感。他深深地鞠躬，一躬到地，向端坐不動的席特哈爾塔敬禮，席特哈爾塔的笑容讓他憶起了自己一生中曾經愛過的一切，憶起了自己一生中認爲寶貴和神聖的一切。