二十九 母亲
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中文
二十九
致G. W. 海尔夫人
安尼斯夸姆
1894年8月23日
亲爱的母亲：
照片昨日已安全收到。我无法确定哈里森究竟是否应当多给我一些。他们在菲什基尔只寄来两张给我——而且并非我所订的那个姿势。
纳拉辛哈此时或许已经拿到了船票。无论他的家人是否给他钱，他都会很快拿到。我已写信给马德拉斯的友人，请他们关照此事，他们回信说会的。
若他皈依基督教、伊斯兰教或任何适合他的宗教，我都会十分欣慰；但我担心，就目前而言，没有任何宗教能适合我们这位朋友。只是若他成为基督徒，便有机会在印度再婚——因为那里的基督徒是允许再婚的。我实在痛心地得知，归根结底，正是这"异教印度的束缚"造成了所有这些祸端。我们活到老、学到老。于是我们竟一直无知而盲目地指责那饱经苦难、遭人迫害的圣洁友人纳拉辛哈，而所有过错其实皆因"异教印度的束缚"而起！！！！
但说句公道话，这异教印度一次又一次地给他提供钱财，让他得以再度放纵挥霍。而这一次，"异教印度"也将——或已经——把我们这位"开化"而备受迫害的朋友从眼前的困境中解救出来，而非"基督教美国"！！史密斯夫人的计划倒也不坏——将纳拉辛哈改造成一名基督的传教士。然而不幸的是，世界上许多许多次，基督的旗帜都被交托到这样的人手中。我斗胆补充一句，他到那时也不过是史密斯式美国基督教的传教士，而非基督之传教士。荒唐透顶！那种人来宣扬主耶稣！！！难道祂需要人去维护祂的旗帜吗？呸！这个念头本身便令人作呕。给印度行善？谢谢你的善心，把你的狗唤回去吧——正如那个流浪汉所说。把这样的好工作者留给美国吧。印度人自会对所有此类被逐出种姓者实施检疫隔离，以保护他们的社会。我衷心劝告纳拉辛哈去做基督徒——恕我失言，应说皈依美国主义——因为我深信，这样一块宝玉在贫穷的印度是卖不出去的。凡能换来价钱的，他都欢迎。你所提到的那位绅士我非常熟悉，你可以将任何关于我的信息告诉他。我不在乎四处散发剪报来为自己博取声名。那些来自印度的朋友已经为这些报纸上的废话够烦我的了。他们都是十分虔诚、忠实而圣洁的朋友。我现在手头没有多少这类剪报了。经过一番长时间的搜寻，我在一份《波士顿纪事报》上找到一小片。现寄给你。这种公众生活真是烦不胜烦，我几乎要疯了。
要逃往何处？在印度，我已变得极为引人注目——人群会跟随我、耗尽我的精力。我收到了兰茨贝格寄来的一封印度来信。名声的每一盎司，都只能用一磅的宁静与圣洁换来。此前我从未想到这一点。我已对这种大张旗鼓彻底厌倦，也对自己厌倦至极。主将为我指引通往宁静与纯洁之路。母亲啊，我向你坦白：没有哪个人——即便从事的是宗教方面的公众生活——能够置身于公众生活的氛围中而不偶尔让竞争的魔鬼将头伸入他内心的宁静之中。那些受过训练去宣扬某一教义的人永远感受不到这一点，因为他们从未真正认识宗教。但那些追求上主、而非追求世界的人，会立刻感受到：每一分名声与声望，都是以自身的纯洁为代价换来的。这与那完全无私、完全不在乎得失或名声的理想，相去甚远。主啊，助我。请为我祈祷，母亲。我对自己深感厌倦。唉，这世界为何如此，以至于人无法做任何事而不将自己推到前台；为何人不能在隐秘、不为人见、不受人注意的状态下行事？世界至今尚未越过偶像崇拜一步。人们不能从理念出发行事，不能被理念引领，而是需要人，需要个人、需要具体的人物。任何想要做成某事的人，都必须付出代价——毫无希望。世界的这种荒唐。湿婆，湿婆，湿婆。
顺便说一句，我得到了一本极为精美的《效法基督》版本。我多么热爱那位老修士。他捕捉到了一瞥"面纱之后"的奇妙光景——鲜少有人能得此一见。我的天，那才是宗教。没有世间的虚伪，没有犹豫推诿，没有高谈阔论，没有臆测——什么"我认为"、"我相信"、"我以为"。多么希望能随托马斯·坎佩斯离开这块人称美丽世界的彩绘虚幻——走向那彼岸、那超越之处，那只可意会、不可言传之境。
那才是宗教。母亲，上主存在。在那里，所有圣徒、先知与化身相聚一堂。超越《圣经》与吠陀的巴别塔之上，超越信条与技巧、受骗者与教条之上——在那里，光明遍在，爱意充盈，尘世的瘴气永远无法触及。啊！谁能带我前往彼处？母亲，你能与我共鸣吗？我的灵魂此刻正在我为它加诸的种种束缚之下呻吟。谁的印度？有谁在乎？一切皆属于祂。我们是什么？祂已逝去？祂在沉睡？祂——若无祂的旨意，一片叶子不会飘落，一颗心脏不会跳动；祂比我自身更近于我。这都是废话与胡言——做善事或做恶事，或做任何事，都无意义。我们什么也没做。我们不存在。世界不存在。祂存在，祂存在。唯有祂存在。别无他者。祂存在。
唵（Om），独一无二之主。祂在我内，我在祂内。我如一片玻璃，沉浸于光明的海洋之中。我不是，我不是。祂是，祂是，祂是。
唵，独一无二之主。
永远深情地属于您的，
辨喜（Vivekananda）敬上
English
XXIX
To Mrs. G. W. Hale
ANNISQUAM
23 August 1894
DEAR MOTHER
The photographs reached safely yesterday. I cannot tell exactly whether Harrison ought to give me more or not. They had sent only two to me at Fishkill[6]* — not the pose I ordered, though.
Narasimha has perhaps got his passage by this time. He will get it soon, whether his family gives him the money or not. I have written to my friends in Madras to look to it, and they write me they will.
I would be very glad if he becomes a Christian or Mohammedan or any religion that suits him; but I am afraid for some time to come none will suit our friend. Only if he becomes a Christian he will have a chance to marry again, even in India — the Christians there permitting it. I am so sorry to learn that it is the "bondage of heathen India" that, after all, was the cause of all this mischief. We learn as we live. So we were all this time ignorantly and blindly blaming our much suffering, persecuted, saintly friend Narasimha, while all the fault was really owing to the "bondage of heathen India"!!!!
But to give the devil his due, this heathen India has been supplying him with money to go on a spree again and again. And this time too "heathen India" will [take] or already has taken our "enlightened" and persecuted friend from out of his present scrape, and not "Christian America"!! Mrs. Smith's plan is not bad after all — to turn Narasimha into a missionary of Christ. But unfortunately for the world, many and many a time the flag of Christ has been entrusted to such hands. But I would beg to add that he will then be only a missionary of Smithian American Christianity, not Christ's. Arrant humbug! That thing to preach Lord Jesus!!! Is He in want of men to uphold His banner? Pooh! the very idea is revolting. Do good to India indeed! Thank your charity and call back your dog — as the tramp said. Keep such good workers for America. The Hindus will have a quarantine against all such [outcasting] to protect their society. I heartily advise Narasimha to become a Christian — I beg your pardon, a convert to Americanism — because I am sure such a jewel is unsaleable in poor India. He is welcome to anything that will fetch a price. I know the gentleman whom you name perfectly well, and you may give him any information about me you like. I do not care for sending scraps[7]* and getting a boom for me. And these friends from India bother me enough for newspaper nonsense. They are very devoted, faithful and holy friends. I have not much of these scraps now. After a long search I found a bit in a Boston Transcript. I send it over to you.[8]* This public life is such a botheration. I am nearly daft.
Where to fly? In India I have become horribly public — crowds will follow me and take my life out. I got an Indian letter from Landsberg. Every ounce of fame can only be bought at the cost of a pound of peace and holiness. I never thought of that before. I have become entirely disgusted with this blazoning. I am disgusted with myself. Lord will show me the way to peace and purity. Why, Mother, I confess to you: no man can live in an atmosphere of public life, even in religion, without the devil of competition now and then thrusting his head into the serenity of his heart. Those who are trained to preach a doctrine never feel it, for they never knew religion. But those that are after God, and not after the world, feel at once that every bit of name and fame is at the cost of their purity. It is so much gone from that ideal of perfect unselfishness, perfect disregard of gain or name or fame. Lord help me. Pray for me, Mother. I am very much disgusted with myself. Oh, why the world be so that one cannot do anything without putting himself to the front; why cannot one act hidden and unseen and unnoticed? The world has not gone one step beyond idolatry yet. They cannot act from ideas, they cannot be led by ideas. But they want the person, the man. And any man that wants to do something must pay the penalty — no hope. This nonsense of the world. Shiva, Shiva, Shiva.
By the by, I have got such a beautiful edition of Thomas à Kempis. How I love that old monk. He caught a wonderful glimpse of the "behind the veil" — few ever got such. My, that is religion. No humbug of the world. No shilly-shallying, tall talk, conjecture — I presume, I believe, I think. How I would like to go out of this piece of painted humbug they call the beautiful world with Thomas à Kempis — beyond, beyond, which can only be felt, never expressed.
That is religion. Mother, there is God. There all the saints, prophets and incarnations meet. Beyond the Babel of Bibles and Vedas, creeds and crafts, dupes and doctrines — where is all light, all love, where the miasma of this earth can never reach. Ah! who will take me thither? Do you sympathize with me, Mother? My soul is groaning now under the hundred sorts of bondage I am placing on it. Whose India? Who cares? Everything is His. What are we? Is He dead? Is He sleeping? He, without whose command a leaf does not fall, a heart does not beat, who is nearer to me than my own self. It is bosh and nonsense — to do good or do bad or do fuzz. We do nothing. We are not. The world is not. He is, He is. Only He is. None else is. He is.
Om, the one without a second. He in me, I in Him. I am like a bit of glass in an ocean of light. I am not, I am not. He is, He is, He is.
Om, the one without a second.
Yours ever affectionately,
VIVEKANANDA.
文本来自Wikisource公共领域。原版由阿德瓦伊塔修道院出版。