漁樵敘別 The Parting and the Fatal Boast
他二人既各道詞章,又相聯詩句。行到那分路去處,躬身作別。張稍道:「李兄啊,途中保重,上山仔細看虎。假若有些凶險,正是『明日街頭少故人』。」李定聞言,大怒道:「你這廝憊懶!好朋友也替得生死,你怎麼咒我?我若遇虎遭害,你必遇浪翻江。」張稍道:「我永世也不得翻江。」李定道:「『天有不測風雲,人有暫時禍福。』你怎麼就保得無事?」張稍道:「李兄,你雖這等說,你還沒捉摸;不若我的生意有捉摸,定不遭此等事。」李定道:「你那水面上營生,極凶極險,隱隱暗暗,有甚麼捉摸?」張稍道:「你是不曉得。這長安城裡,西門街上,有一個賣卦的先生。我每日送他一尾金色鯉,他就與我袖傳一課,依方位,百下百著。今日我又去買卦,他教我在涇河灣頭東邊下網,西岸拋鉤,定獲滿載魚蝦而歸。明日上城來,賣錢沽酒,再與老兄相敘。」二人從此敘別。他二人既各道词章,又相联诗句。行到那分路去处,躬身作别。张稍道:「李兄啊,途中保重,上山仔细看虎。假若有些凶险,正是『明日街头少故人』。」李定闻言,大怒道:「你这厮惫懒!好朋友也替得生死,你怎么咒我?我若遇虎遭害,你必遇浪翻江。」张稍道:「我永世也不得翻江。」李定道:「『天有不测风云,人有暂时祸福。』你怎么就保得无事?」张稍道:「李兄,你虽这等说,你还没捉摸;不若我的生意有捉摸,定不遭此等事。」李定道:「你那水面上营生,极凶极险,隐隐暗暗,有甚么捉摸?」张稍道:「你是不晓得。这长安城里,西门街上,有一个卖卦的先生。我每日送他一尾金色鲤,他就与我袖传一课,依方位,百下百着。今日我又去买卦,他教我在泾河湾头东边下网,西岸抛钩,定获满载鱼虾而归。明日上城来,卖钱沽酒,再与老兄相叙。」二人从此叙别。
逐句解 Line by line
The two of them, having each recited their lyric pieces and then linked their verses couplet by couplet, came to the place where their roads divided, and bowed to take their leave.
The performance is over and the two are back on the road. 躬身 is to bow from the waist. (相 in 相聯 is xiāng, and 那 in 那分路 is nà.)
Zhang Shao said: 'Brother Li, take care on your way, and watch sharp for tigers as you climb. Should any peril befall you, it will be a case of "tomorrow on the street, one friend the fewer."'
A friendly word of warning that lands very badly. 明日街頭少故人, 'tomorrow on the street, one old friend the fewer,' is a proverbial line foreboding a death, and 少 here is shǎo, 'few, fewer.' Zhang Shao means it kindly; Li Ding hears a curse.
Hearing this, Li Ding flew into a rage: 'You lazy wretch! Good friends should stand in for each other even in life and death — how dare you curse me? If I should meet a tiger and come to harm, then you are bound to meet the waves and be capsized!'
這廝, 'this fellow,' is an insult, and 憊懶 is slovenly, good-for-nothing. In 替得 the 得 is the potential de, 'can stand in for.' Li Ding returns curse for curse — if a tiger takes me, the river takes you — and it is this flare of temper that goads Zhang Shao into saying far more than he should.
Zhang Shao said: 'I shall never in all my life be capsized.'
永世 is 'for all time,' and 不得, 'will never, cannot,' keeps 得 as dé. Flat, absolute confidence, of exactly the kind that invites someone to ask how you can possibly be so sure.
Li Ding said: '"The sky has winds and clouds none can foretell; a man has fortune and misfortune by turns." How can you be so sure of coming to no harm?'
天有不測風雲,人有暫時禍福 is a well-worn proverb on the caprice of fate: the sky has winds and clouds nobody can forecast, and a man has fortune and misfortune by turns. It is still in daily use, though the modern form speaks of fortune shifting between dawn and dusk where this one has 暫時. 得 in 保得 is the potential de, and 不 in 不測 is bú before the falling tone.
Zhang Shao said: 'Brother Li, say what you will, you have nothing sure to go on; whereas my trade has something sure to it, so I shall certainly meet no such fate.'
捉摸 is to get a firm grip on something, to be able to reckon on it; it survives mostly in the negative, 不可捉摸, said of anything unpredictable. 還 is hái, 'still, as yet,' and 不若 is 'unlike, not so much as.' Zhang Shao's certainty rests on a secret, and he is about to hand it over.
Li Ding said: 'That living of yours on the face of the water is perilous in the extreme, all murk and shadow — what could you possibly reckon on?'
那 is the pointing nà, and 甚 in 甚麼, 'what,' is shén. 隱隱暗暗 is dim and dark, all murk — Li Ding needling the fisherman about the one thing he cannot see, which is whatever lies under his own boat.
Zhang Shao said: 'You simply don't know. Here in Chang'an, on West Gate Street, there is a fortune-teller. Every day I bring him a golden carp, and he passes me a hexagram from his sleeve; go by the bearings he gives, and it is a hundred hits in a hundred casts. Today I went to buy a divination again, and he told me to cast my net on the east side of the bend in the Jing River and throw my hook on the west bank, and I would surely come home with a full load of fish and shrimp. Tomorrow I'll come up to the city, sell them for wine-money, and meet with you again, elder brother.'
Here it is, the boast that does the damage. Zhang Shao has an arrangement with a fortune-teller on West Gate Street: one golden carp a day, and in return 袖傳一課, a divination slipped to him from the sleeve. Follow the bearings, 依方位, and the result is 百下百著, a hundred casts and a hundred hits, with 著 read zháo, 'to strike home.' He is, in short, fishing on inside information. The diviner is 袁守誠, whose infallible art will shortly set a dragon against Heaven. 得 in 不曉得 is de, 長 in 長安 is cháng, and 相 in 相敘 is xiāng.
And with that the two took their leave of each other.
敘別 is to say your farewells. The pastoral overture closes on this quiet line, and everything that follows — a dragon's death, an emperor's death, a journey through hell — unrolls from words spoken on a riverbank by two men going home.
The long fisher-and-woodcutter overture ends on the hinge of the whole chapter. What has been a leisurely contest of poems turns, in a few lines of prose, into the machinery of a tragedy: Zhang Shao, stung by Li Ding's retort, boasts of the infallible diviner on West Gate Street who tells him exactly where to cast — a hundred hits in a hundred casts. It is an idle boast between friends, spoken at a parting on a country road.
But the trap has been quietly setting for some time. The two recluses who sang of 潛蹤避世 and 隱姓埋名, of hiding their tracks and burying their names, are exactly the men whose careless talk carries. And the one detail Zhang Shao lets slip — that the diviner sends him to the bend of the Jing River, 涇河灣頭 — is precisely the intelligence that will reach the dragon whose subjects those fish are. A whole ideal of the invisible life is punctured by one overheard sentence.