廣謀火計 Guangmou's Fire
內中又有一個小和尚，名喚廣謀，就是那廣智的師弟，上前來道：「此計不妙。若要殺他，須要看看動靜。那個白臉的似易，那個毛臉的似難，萬一殺他不得，卻不反招己禍？我有一個不動刀槍之法，不知你尊意如何？」老僧道：「我兒，你有何法？」廣謀道：「依小孫之見，如今喚聚東山大小房頭，每人要乾柴一束，捨了那三間禪堂，放起火來，教他欲走無門，連馬一火焚之。就是山前山後人家看見，只說是他自不小心，走了火，將我禪堂都燒了。那兩個和尚，卻不都燒死？又好掩人耳目。袈裟豈不是我們傳家之寶？」那些和尚聞言，無不歡喜，都道：「強，強，強，此計更妙，更妙。」遂教各房頭搬柴來。唉！這一計，正是：内中又有一个小和尚，名唤广谋，就是那广智的师弟，上前来道：「此计不妙。若要杀他，须要看看动静。那个白脸的似易，那个毛脸的似难，万一杀他不得，却不反招己祸？我有一个不动刀枪之法，不知你尊意如何？」老僧道：「我儿，你有何法？」广谋道：「依小孙之见，如今唤聚东山大小房头，每人要干柴一束，舍了那三间禅堂，放起火来，教他欲走无门，连马一火焚之。就是山前山后人家看见，只说是他自不小心，走了火，将我禅堂都烧了。那两个和尚，却不都烧死？又好掩人耳目。袈裟岂不是我们传家之宝？」那些和尚闻言，无不欢喜，都道：「强，强，强，此计更妙，更妙。」遂教各房头搬柴来。唉！这一计，正是：
原來他那寺裡有七八十個房頭，大小有二百餘眾。當夜一擁搬柴，把個禪堂前前後後，四面圍繞不通，安排放火不題。原来他那寺里有七八十个房头，大小有二百余众。当夜一拥搬柴，把个禅堂前前后后，四面围绕不通，安排放火不题。
逐句解 Line by line
Among them was yet another young monk, Guangmou by name, brother-disciple to that same Guangzhi, who came forward and said, "That plan is not good.
廣謀, "Broad Scheming," is brother-disciple to 廣智, "Broad Wisdom." 中 is zhōng. He objects to the plan not because it is wicked but because it is risky, and the objection is the more chilling for it.
"If we mean to kill them, we must first see how matters stand.
看看動靜, "observe how things stir" — reconnaissance. Nothing in his speech will ever touch the question of whether the thing should be done.
"The white-faced one looks easy; the hairy-faced one looks hard. If we should fail to kill him, would we not bring the disaster back upon ourselves?
似 is sì, twice. 白臉的 and 毛臉的 — the white-faced one and the hairy-faced one: precisely as much as the monks have understood of their guests. 殺他不得 takes the potential dé. 反招己禍, "bring the calamity back on oneself" — this is the whole of his moral reasoning.
"I have a method that uses neither knife nor spear. I do not know how it strikes your honoured mind?" The old monk said, "My son, what method is this?"
不動刀槍之法, "a method that does not move knife or spear." The euphemism is exquisite; nothing will be moved but firewood. 小孫, "this little grandson," continues the family idiom.
Guangmou said, "By this small grandson's reckoning: summon now the heads of every quarter, great and small, of the eastern hill, and let each man bring a bundle of dry firewood;
乾柴 is gān chái, dry firewood. 房頭 are the quarters, or sub-cloisters, into which a large monastery was divided, each under its own head — a bureaucracy, and one that can be mobilised in an hour.
"give up those three rooms of the meditation hall, set them alight, and leave them no door to escape by — horse and all consumed in a single fire.
捨 ("to give up, to sacrifice") is a word from the vocabulary of almsgiving: the monastery will donate its meditation hall to the fire. 教 is causative jiào. 連馬一火焚之 — even the dragon-prince, still a horse, is included in the accounting.
"And should the households before and behind the hill see it, we need only say that he was careless himself, that a fire got away from him and burned our meditation hall down.
將 is the coverb jiāng; 都 is dōu. The lie is prepared before the fire is lit, and it is a good lie: a careless traveller, a lamp knocked over, a hall lost. Guangmou has thought about what will be said afterwards, which is more than Guangzhi did.
"As for those two monks — will they not both be burned to death? And it covers over men's eyes and ears. Will not the cassock be our family's treasure handed down?"
掩人耳目, "to cover men's eyes and ears." The rhetorical question 豈不是我們傳家之寶？ repeats Guangzhi's phrase exactly — the plan has changed, the object has not.
Hearing him, not one of the monks failed to rejoice. "Strong! Strong! Strong!" they all said. "This plan is better still, better still."
強，強，強 ("Strong! Strong! Strong!") is a shout of vernacular approval, answering the 好，好，好 with which the old monk greeted the first plan. Two hundred and thirty men have now assented to burning two guests alive, and the text records not one dissenting voice.
So each quarter was ordered to fetch its firewood. Alas! This plan of theirs — it was just as the saying has it:
唉！ The storyteller's sigh, and then 正是 — "it was precisely as the saying goes" — which introduces the capping couplet. The tag-line stays with the prose; the couplet that follows is verse.
Contriving it so that a long-lived old monk should meet his appointed end, and the Chan cloister of Guanyin be turned to dust.
A 正是 tag-couplet, embedded in the prose but verse in kind. 弄得 takes the neutral de; 該命盡, "his fated life was to be exhausted" (盡 always jìn); 化為塵, "turned to dust," with 為 read wéi. The couplet is a death-notice served two hundred graphs before the death, and it names both victims: an old man, and a house dedicated to the Bodhisattva of Compassion.
Now, in that monastery of theirs there were seventy or eighty quarters, and its inmates, great and small, numbered above two hundred.
The census is placed here, immediately after the couplet, and it does the work of a verdict: 七八十個房頭，大小有二百餘眾. Not two conspirators and a weeping abbot, but a community of more than two hundred.
That night, in one throng, they carried firewood, and heaped the meditation hall about, before and behind, hemming in all four sides so that nothing could pass; and there they made ready to set the fire — of which no more for now.
當夜 takes dāng. 一擁, "in a single press of bodies." The verbs are the verbs of monastic labour — carrying, heaping, encircling — and the four-sided enclosure they build is the exact shape of the walls of a meditation hall. 不題 closes the thread.
Guangmou improves on Guangzhi in every particular, and the improvements are all technical. Knives are risky: the hairy-faced one may not die. Fire is not risky: it kills the horse as well, it needs no strong men, and it comes with a story ready-made — 只說是他自不小心，走了火, "we need only say he was careless, and a fire got away." He has considered the survivors' testimony, the neighbours' testimony, and the disposal of the evidence. He has not, at any point, considered the two men. His single ethical utterance is 卻不反招己禍 — "would we not bring the disaster back on ourselves?" — and it is a question about consequences, not about wrong.
And then the assent: 那些和尚聞言，無不歡喜. Not one of them failed to rejoice. The narrator, who has been scrupulously neutral through two plans and a weeping abbot, breaks his silence here with a single syllable — 唉！ — and a couplet that reads like an obituary written in advance. The census that follows is the last stroke: seventy or eighty quarters, above two hundred souls. This is not a conspiracy within a monastery. It is a monastery. The verb the text gives them for what they do to the hall is 圍繞, "to encircle in reverence" — the word for circumambulating a stūpa.