The stone ape, beside himself with joy, drew back in haste and made for the outside; he shut his eyes again, crouched down, and leapt clear of the water.

石猿, "stone ape," varies the usual 石猴. 喜不自勝 — so happy he cannot hold it in — is an idiom still in use; read 勝 as shèng, "to bear," not shēng, and 不 shifts to bú before the falling tone of 自. 復 (fù) is "again": the same eyes-shut crouch that got him in now gets him out.

He gave two loud chuckles and cried: 'What luck! What luck!'

打了兩個呵呵 is "gave two great guffaws" (呵呵 hē hē). 造化 means Creation itself, the making and changing of things — the weighty word from the opening poem — but in ordinary speech it had worn down to "luck," and that is how the monkey uses it all through the book. Cosmic vocabulary, cheerfully misapplied.

The monkeys crowded round him, asking: 'What's it like inside? How deep is the water?'

圍住 is to crowd round, and 怎麼樣 (麼 the neutral me) is colloquial "what's it like?" Their first questions are practical and slightly craven — how deep is the water? — which keeps the comedy on the ground.

The stone monkey said: 'No water! No water! It turns out there's an iron-plate bridge, and on the far side of it a whole establishment made ready by Heaven and Earth.'

天造地設, "made by Heaven and laid out by Earth," is a chengyu still used for anything that seems purpose-built; a couple who suit each other perfectly are 天造地設. 家當 takes 當 as dàng, "property, household goods," not dāng — a wonderfully unromantic word for a grotto-heaven. He has found a fully furnished place going free.

The monkeys said: 'How can you tell it's an establishment?'

怎見得 (zěn jiàn de, with 得 toneless and doing no more than link the phrase together) is "how can you tell?" Their scepticism is what pulls the inventory out of him.

The stone monkey said with a laugh: 'This stream of water rushes through beneath the stone bridge and hangs down inverted to curtain the doorway.'

沖貫 is to rush through and pierce; 倒掛 takes 倒 as dào, hanging downward, not dǎo. The falling sheet 遮閉門戶, screens the doorway — the picture the name 水簾洞 comes from.

'By the bridge are flowers and trees, and there stands a house of stone.'

石房, "a house of stone." The elaborate 賦 of the last passage now gets retold by the monkey in the flattest words available, which is a joke in itself.

'Within the house are a stone recess, a stone stove, stone bowls, a stone basin, a stone bed, and stone benches.'

The inventory, ticked off item by item: 石窩 a stone nook (窩 wō), then stove, bowls, basin, bed, benches. Poetry in the last passage, an estate agent's list in this one.

'And in the middle, on a stone tablet, is carved: “Blessed Land of the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit; Grotto-Heaven of the Water-Curtain Cave.”'

鐫著 is "carved with" (鐫 juān, to carve; 著 the toneless zhe, which marks the carving as something that stands, still true right now). Inside his speech the inscription sits in single corner brackets. The two Daoist terms are the ones from the tablet itself: 福地 blessed land, 洞天 grotto-heaven.

'It is truly a place for us to settle. Inside it is roomy too, big enough to hold a thousand of us, old and young.'

安身之處 is a place to settle (處 the noun chù). 千百口 uses 口, "mouths," as the measure word for people, much as English once counted "souls," and 老小 is "old and young," the whole company. He is selling it as housing.

'Let us all move in and live there — that way we'll be spared the open sky's weather. In here:'

省得 (shěng de) is "so as to avoid having to." 受老天之氣 is literally "putting up with Old Heaven's temper" — being at the mercy of the weather, with a nice edge of grumbling at the sky. 這裡邊 cues the verse.

When the wind blows, there's a place to hide; when the rain falls, a good place to keep dry.

An eight-line verse in praise of a roof. 刮風 is "when the wind blows" (刮 = 颳), 有處躲 is "there's somewhere to hide" (處 the noun chù), and 躲 (duǒ) is to take shelter.

Of frost and snow not the least fear; the thunder's voice forever unheard.

No fear of frost or snow, no thunder ever heard. The lines rhyme in sense with 山中無甲子 a few passages back: that was a refuge from time, this is a refuge from weather. (不 keeps its bù tone before 聞.)

Mist and rosy cloud forever shining; auspicious vapours steaming up each day.

祥瑞 are lucky omens, and 蒸熏 (熏 = 燻) is to steam and waft upward. Blessed vapours rising off the place without a pause: the standing proof of a genuine 福地.

Pine and bamboo year by year in their prime; rare flowers fresh anew with every day.

秀 (xiù) here is "to flourish, to be at its finest." 日日新, "new day after day," faintly picks up a famous motto from the 《大學》 — 苟日新，日日新，又日新, said to have been engraved on a king's washbasin to remind him to renew himself every morning. Here it means nothing so strenuous. The flowers simply never look tired.

Hearing this, the monkeys were delighted, every one, and said: 'You go on first and lead us in — in, in!'

你還先走 uses 還 (hái) loosely, as "go on and…". The repeated 進去，進去 — "in, in!" — catches the childlike clamour of a crowd that was frightened of the water half a minute ago.

The stone monkey shut his eyes again, crouched, and sprang inward with a single leap, calling: 'Follow me in, all of you — come in!'

往裡一跳, one leap inward (一 in its yí tone before 跳). Eyes shut, crouch, spring — for the third time. What began as nerve has become a trademark.

Of the monkeys, the bold ones all jumped straight in;

膽大的, "the bold ones," go straight in. The sentence is deliberately left hanging. The timid ones are coming.

the timid ones craned their necks and drew them back, scratching their ears and rubbing their cheeks, shrieking aloud; after a deal of fuss, they too all went in.

Two stock four-character phrases, and one of them is why English speakers picture what they picture. 伸頭縮頸 is craning your neck and pulling it back; 抓耳撓腮 — scratching your ears and rubbing your cheeks (撓 náo, 腮 sāi) — is still the everyday Chinese idiom for anxious fidgeting, and here it is an actual monkey doing it. 纏一會 is "after a good deal of fuss" (纏 chán, to dither and delay).

Once across the bridgehead, every one of them snatched at the basins and bowls, seized the stoves and beds, hauling this here and shifting that there,

Four verbs of grabbing in a row — 搶, 奪, 佔, 爭 — and the sacred grotto turns instantly into a house move. The stately 賦 of the previous passage lasted exactly as long as it took the troop to get inside.

for such is the monkey's restless nature — never a moment's quiet — and they left off only when worn out and weary.

猴性頑劣, "the monkey's mischievous nature" (頑 wán, 劣 liè), names the trait the whole novel turns on. They cannot keep still — 再無一個寧時, not one quiet moment (寧 here níng) — and stop only when 力倦神疲, worn out in body and spirit. That restlessness is the comedy of the book and also its subject. It is what 心猿, the mind-monkey, means.