名著精讀:《悉達多》 輪迴(5)

Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spend the hours of the evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure-garden. They had been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of him, how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tell her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said: "One day, perhaps soon, I'll also follow that Buddha. I'll give him my pleasure-garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings." But after this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the act of making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if, once more, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear to Siddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain by her side, and Kamala's face had been close to him, and under her eyes and next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never before, read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slight grooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just as Siddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed, here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was written on Kamala's beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, which has no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering, and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious anxiety: fear of old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die. With a sigh, he had bid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance, and full of concealed anxiety.
Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girls and wine, had acted as if he was superior to them towards the fellow-members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunk much wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired and yet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long time sought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought he could not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetrating his entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancing girls, the just too sweet scent of their hair and breasts. But more than by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumed hair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby tiredness and listlessness of his skin. Like when someone, who has eaten and drunk far too much, vomits it back up again with agonising pain and is nevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless man wished to free himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointless life and himself, in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the light of the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the street before his city-house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for a few moments a half unconsciousness, a hint of sleep. In those moments, he had a dream:
Kamala owned a small, rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird, he dreamt. He dreamt: this bird had become mute, who at other times always used to sing in the morning, and since this arose his attention, he stepped in front of the cage and looked inside; there the small bird was dead and lay stiff on the ground. He took it out, weighed it for a moment in his hand, and then threw it away, out in the street, and in the same moment, he felt terribly shocked, and his heart hurt, as if he had thrown away from himself all value and everything good by throwing out this dead bird.

這時，一個夢提醒了他。那天晚間，他在卡瑪拉那兒，在她那美麗的大花園裏。他們倆坐在樹下交談，卡瑪拉說了些引人深思的話，話背後隱含着某種悲傷和倦乏。她請求他講述戈塔馬，而且老是聽不夠，戈塔馬的眼睛如何純潔，他的嘴如何文靜優美，他的笑容如何親切，他的步態如何平穩。他不得不把這個活佛的事兒向她講了好久，然後卡瑪拉嘆了口氣，說道：“將來，或許要不了多久，我也會去追隨這位活佛。我要把我的大花園送給他，信奉他的學說。”可是接着，她又挑逗他，在愛情遊戲中懷着痛苦的熱情箍緊他，咬他，淌着淚，彷彿要從這空虛而短暫的情慾中再一次擠出最後一滴甜蜜來。席特哈爾塔忽然明白了，淫慾和死亡是多麼接受。然後，他躺在她身邊，卡瑪拉的臉緊挨着他，從她的眼睛下面和嘴角旁邊，他清晰地讀到了一種令人不安的文字，一種由細線和淺紋構成的文字，讓人聯想到秋天與老年，就像席特哈爾塔自己，年方四十，黑髮間卻已經出現了花白的頭髮。在卡瑪拉俊俏的臉上記得寫着疲倦，疲倦和業已開始的憔悴，以及有意掩飾的、還沒有說出的、也許還沒有意識到的不安：害怕衰老，害怕秋天，害怕不可避免的死亡。他嘆息着向她告別，心裏充滿了不快，充滿了隱祕的不安。
然後，席特哈爾塔回到自己家裏和舞女們飲酒消磨長夜，對與他同等地位的人擺出輕蔑的樣子，其實他已經沒什麼可自負的了。他喝了好多酒，午夜之後很晚才摸上牀，雖然疲倦卻很激動，真想大哭，幾乎絕望，想睡而又久不成寐，心裏充滿了一種他以爲無法再忍受的愁苦，充滿了一種他感到渾身難受的惡主，就像酒的那種溫吞吞的討厭味道，就像過分甜膩而單調的音樂，就像舞女們那過分柔媚的笑容，就像她們的秀髮和乳房那過分甜膩的芳香。但是，最讓他噁心的是他自己，是他的香氣撲鼻的頭髮，是他嘴裏的酒味，是他的皮膚的疲沓與不適。就好像一個人吃得太多或者喝得太多，難受得嘔吐出來，然後由於一身輕鬆而感到高興那樣，這個失眠者也希望能在一陣嘔吐之後擺脫這些享樂，擺脫這些習慣，擺脫這種毫無意義的生活，擺脫自己。直到天光大亮，他的住所門前大街上開始了喧鬧忙碌時，他才迷迷糊糊地睡着了，陷入一種半麻木的狀態，一種睡意蒙籠。就在這片刻之中他做了一個夢。
卡瑪拉養了一隻奇異的小鳥，關在一個金鳥籠裏。他夢見了這隻小鳥。他夢見這隻鳥兒變啞巴了，而平時早上它總是鳴囀不已。他發現了這點，就走到鳥籠前往裏瞅，小鳥已經死了，直挺挺地躺在籠子底。他取出死鳥，在手裏掂了掂，就把它扔了，扔到街上。他感到很害怕，心裏很難受，就好像他把一切價值和一切美好都跟這隻死鳥一起扔掉了。