母亲文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
苏雪林文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
一个人如其不是白痴，不是天生冷酷无情的怪物，他腔子里总还有爱情的存在。爱情必须有寄托的对象，小孩爱情的对象是父母，少年爱情的对象是情人，中年爱情的对象是儿女或者是学问与事业。老年爱情的对象是什么？我还没有到老年，不大知道。既被人挤出生活的舞台，现实中没有他用武之地，只好把希望寄诸渺茫的未来；而且桑榆暮景，为日无多，身后之计，不能不时萦心曲。那么，老年人爱情的对象也许是神和另外一个世界吧。文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
并非想学舜那样圣人五十而犹孺慕。不过我曾在另一篇文字里说过自己头脑里的松果腺大约出过毛病，所以我的性灵永远不成熟，永远是个孩子。我总想倒在一个人的怀里撒一点娇痴，说几句不负责任的疯话，做几件无意义的令人发笑的嬉戏。我愿意承受一个人对于我疾病的关心，饮食寒暖的注意，真心的抚慰，细意的熨贴，带着爱怜口吻的责备，实心实意为我好处而发的劝规……这样只有一位慈祥恺悌的慈母对于她的孩子能如此，所以我觉得世界上可爱的人除了母亲更无其他，而我爱情的对象除了母亲，也更无第二个了。文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
在母子爱的方面，我或者可以说没有什么缺憾。母亲未死之前，我总在她怀里打滚过日子。当时许多痴憨的情景，许多甜蜜的时光，于今回忆起来，都如雨后残花，红消香歇。不过旧作诗词里还保存一二，如20年前所作《灯前》小诗一首：文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
灯前慈母笑，道比去年长，底事娇痴态，依然似故常！文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/13294.html
又《侍母赴宜城视三弟疾》五古中间一段：
行行抵鹊江，西日在嵽嵲。解装憩逆旅，各各了饥渴，
投枕烂漫睡，哪知东方白。阿娘唤我醒，灯昏眼生缬，
衣衫为我理，头发为我栉；虽长犹孩痴，母笑且蹙额。
融融母子思，此味甜如蜜，我愿长嫛婗，终身依母膝。
这些诗句并不如何好，不过每一念着，慈母的声音笑貌仿佛可以追摹；而自己心坎里也会流出一种甜滋滋的味儿，所以我觉得这几句诗还算我旧作里的精华。
自从慈母弃我去后，我这颗心，就悬空挂起，无所依傍。幸而我实际上虽然没有母亲，我精神还有一位母亲。这位母亲究竟在哪里，我说不明白，但她的存在，却是无可疑的。她的精灵弥漫整个宇宙里，白云是她的衣衫，蓝天是她的裙幅，窈窕秋星有如她的妙目，弯弯新月便似她的秀眉，夏夜沉黑长空里一闪一闪的电光是她美靥边绽出来的笑。这笑像春日之花，一朵接着一朵，永远开不完。我又在春水里认识她的温柔，阳光中领略她的热爱，磅礴流行的元气里拜倒她伟大的魄力。这位母亲真有点奇怪，她有无量数的孩子，每个孩子都能得她全心的爱情。一个不为人所注意的孩子的痛苦，也能感动她的心使她流下眼泪。一个最渺小最不足齿数的孩子的吁请，也能获得她的允许和帮忙。她的母爱是无穷无尽的，正如浩瀚际天的海洋，每人汲取一勺都能解渴。而且还得着甘露沁心似的凉爽。
我自然是她许多孩子中之一，我却老疑心她对我有所偏私。我在睡梦里，常觉她坐守在我身旁。我病在榻上时觉得她常以温暖的唇印在我的额上。记得有一回，我不知受了什么大刺激，伤心绝望，至于极端，发狂般倒在床上痛哭。假如那时手边有一条绳，我可以立刻将自己挂在门上。一个人在极忧伤的时候，自己收拾自己原很容易的，是不是？当我痛哭的时候，窗外正刮着大风，树木被打得东歪西倒。远远的一株树上我恍惚看见我死去的母亲向我招手；我又恍惚觉得这不是我的母亲，却是我所说的另外一位。她的白衣放射光芒，她的云发丝丝吹散在长风里，她的双臂交抱在胸前，正如一个母亲想着她孩子受难而无法援救因而心头痛楚的模样。这幻象一刹那间就消失了，但是我的痛苦也随之而消失；而且也从此获得新的做人的勇气。因为我知道冥冥中有一位母亲以她的大爱随时羽翼我，保护我；以她的深情蜜意常常吻我，亲我，拥抱我。
那幻象的显现，说来真太神秘，也许有人疑心我神经有病，白昼做梦；或者故意呕人开心。是的，朋友，假如你相信我真瞧见什么幻象，你先就是个傻瓜。老实告诉你：我那时并非这么看见着，却是这么感觉着，直言之捉住那幻象的不是肉眼，是灵眼。你读过梭罗古勃《未生者之爱》没有？过于丰富的母爱能够在幻觉里看见她未曾诞育的婴孩并且看见他逐日长大；我念念不忘我那慈爱的母亲，在深哀极恸之际，恍惚见她显表，那又有什么奇怪。我深信我的母亲常在我身边，直到我最后的一日。
My Two Mothers
Su Xuelin
A man, if not an idiot, or born cold-blooded, must have the ability to love. Being capable of love, he must find someone or something to bear his love. A child’s love is his parents; a youngster’s love is his lover, while a middle-aged man’s love is his sons and daughters, or his interest and career. But what is the love of an old man? I haven’t reached that age, thus have no idea. But since he has been kicked out of the stage of life and retired from the reality, it is quite possible that he has to count on the future for hope. Besides, with the evening of life drawing on and his left days limited, it is almost unavoidable that the prospect of an afterlife would constantly echo in his mind. In view of this, the love of an old man might be God or the afterworld.
I have no intention to imitate the sage Shun who, in his fifties, still craves for his father’s love like a child. But as I once wrote in an article, there might be something wrong with my pineal gland, which had prevented me from growing into a mature adult. I have always wished to lean on someone’s arm like a spoiled child, saying something wanton and doing something idle and fun. And I always feel the need of someone who can inquire after my illness and health, who are soothing and attentive, and will scold me in a doting way and offer genuine suggestions for my own good. But nobody can do all this except a kind, great mother to her child. For this reason, nobody in the world is more beloved to me than mother; and I can give my love to nobody but mother.
Coming to maternal love, I’m convinced that I shall be termed fortunate. Before mother passed away, most of my childhood days were spent wallowing in her bosom. It’s a pity that many cozy experiences and happy moments then have been buried in the dust of time which, when recollected now, are just like withered flowers after a storm, long deprived of their vividness and scent. To my solace, I can still trace some of the scenes in my old works, such as the one preserved in a poem composed twenty years ago, which was titled By the Oil Lamp,
By the oil lamp sat my mother smiling,
Happy that I had grown one year older.
Yet frowning, she couldn’t help whispering
“Why my girl remains as childish as ever?”
In another poem titled Accompanying Mother to See My Sick Brother in Yicheng, Hubei Province, I wrote,
When slowly we reached the Magpie River,
The sun already set behind a perilous peak.
Unloading the luggage, we found a local inn,
And treated ourselves to good food and drink.
Exhausted, I soon fell sound asleep,
And slept the night away in a sweet dream.
With reluctance, mother woke me up;
I rubbed my eyes, yet another dawn had come.
Dressing me neatly by the dim oil lamp,
She gave my hair a beautiful braid and comb.
Catching me not grown with my years,
She showed both a frown and a smile.
O generous is a mother’s love to her child,
And sweet is the heart of the child loved.
I would be a girl as childish as ever,
And cling to her soft knees forever.
These verses may not be good, but because each line of them could bring mother’s smile and voice back to me and fill my heart with her sweet love. I still consider them the gem of my previous works.
Ever since mother left me, my heart has been held in suspension, with nowhere to lean on. Fortunately, although I have lost my real mother, I still have another mother in spirit. I cannot name definitely where she is, but that she exists there is undoubtedly. Her breath runs in the whole sphere. The white clouds are her shirt, the blue sky is her dress, the scarce stars of autumn her beautiful eyes, the crescent moon her arched eyebrows, and the flashes of lightning in the dark summer sky her very smiles. Like the spring flowers, her smiles come one cluster after another, in eternal bloom. I also know her mildness in vernal water, her warmth in the sunlight, and her greatness in the dynamic atmosphere. Unlike other mothers, she has countless children, and each of them can get her whole love. Even a neglected child’s sorrow can move her to tears, and the meanest and most insignificant child’s prayer can get her answer. Her love is as great as the immense ocean, with refreshing, cool sweetness, a mere spoon out of which shall be enough to ease the thirst of any child craving for care.
Of course, I am only one of her many children, but I wonder if she is partial with me. When closing my eyes, I feel she is sitting beside me, ready to attend me. When confined to bed with illness, I feel her kissing me on the forehead. Once, a great disaster almost broke down the spirit of mine and sent me to despair. In a frenzy of emotions, I threw myself onto the bed and cried my eyes out. If a rope were available at hand, I might have taken my own life in an instant. It is easy for someone in desperation to end himself, isn’t it? But through the tears I saw outside the window the wind was blowing strongly, and the trees were swaying violently. In illusion I seemed to behold my deceased mother standing by a distant tree, beckoning to me. Or she might not be my real mother, but my other mother in spirit. Her white shirt was glittering with gold, and her streaks of hair were fluttering in the wind; she pressed her arms to her bosom, very much like a helpless mother whose heart was aching because her child was suffering while she could do nothing. The illusion was soon gone, and my distresses, too, disappeared together with it. Moreover, I had inquired new courage to live on, for I found the existence of such a mother, who would offer me shade and shelter, though in a mysterious way perhaps; and whenever I needed her, she would be there kissing me, caressing me and soothing me.
The occurrence of such an illusion is too mysterious a thing to be creditable. Someone might doubt there must be something wrong with my nerves, or I must be making up stories to amuse people. Yeah, my friend, it would be too foolish of you if you were to believe it. The real truth is, I didn’t see it; I felt it. Or in other words, what caught the vision is not the physical eye but the inner eye. Have you ever read Fyodor Sologub’s The Kiss of the Unborn? The abundant love of a mother will help her see the unborn child of hers in illusion, and allow her to watch him grow up day by day into adulthood. There has never been such a day when I stopped missing my mother and her soothing love, and then is there anything strange that I would dream of her coming to rescue me in the tight corners of my life? I am convinced that mother has been with me, and will never leave me until the last moment of my life.
（李珍 译）
