老死鬼的不是 It Was the Old Dead Ghost
那眾僧見了，一個個戰兢兢的，上前跪下勸解，三藏才合口不念。行者一骨魯跳起來，耳朵裡掣出鐵棒，要打那些和尚，被三藏喝住道：「這猴頭，你頭痛還不怕，還要無禮？休動手，且莫傷人，再與我審問一問。」眾僧們磕頭禮拜，哀告三藏道：「老爺饒命。我等委實的不曾看見。這都是那老死鬼的不是。他昨晚看著你的袈裟，只哭到更深時候，看也不曾敢看，思量要圖長久，做個傳家之寶，設計定策，要燒殺老爺。自火起之候，狂風大作，各人只顧救火，搬搶物件，更不知袈裟去向。」那众僧见了，一个个战兢兢的，上前跪下劝解，三藏才合口不念。行者一骨鲁跳起来，耳朵里掣出铁棒，要打那些和尚，被三藏喝住道：「这猴头，你头痛还不怕，还要无礼？休动手，且莫伤人，再与我审问一问。」众僧们磕头礼拜，哀告三藏道：「老爷饶命。我等委实的不曾看见。这都是那老死鬼的不是。他昨晚看著你的袈裟，只哭到更深时候，看也不曾敢看，思量要图长久，做个传家之宝，设计定策，要烧杀老爷。自火起之候，狂风大作，各人只顾救火，搬抢物件，更不知袈裟去向。」
逐句解 Line by line
Seeing this, the monks were every one of them trembling and shaking; they came forward, knelt, and pleaded for him, and only then did Sanzang close his mouth and cease.
戰兢兢, trembling with fear. They kneel to intercede for the man who burned their house, because he is being tortured in front of them. It is the only disinterested act any of them performs in the chapter.
The Pilgrim sprang up with a roll, drew the iron rod from his ear, and would have laid about him among the monks,
一骨魯, all at once, with a roll of the body — the same vernacular adverb used of him springing off the bed at midnight. 耳朵裡掣出鐵棒: the cudgel lives in his ear.
but Sanzang shouted him down. "Monkey-head! Your skull aches, and still you are not afraid? Still you would be insolent?
這猴頭, "this monkey-head," is Sanzang's term of exasperation. Both instances of 還 are hái. The rebuke is correct, and it is delivered by a man who has just made his disciple's skull ache on purpose.
"Stay your hand. Do no man harm. Let me question them once more."
休動手，且莫傷人 — "stay your hand; harm no one." Sanzang's compassion is intact, and it arrives, as always, one instrument too late.
The monks knocked their heads and made their obeisance, imploring Sanzang: "Your Worship, spare our lives! We truly and honestly never saw it.
饒命, spare our lives; 委實的, truly and in fact.
"It is all the fault of that old dead ghost.
那老死鬼 — "that old dead ghost." The patriarch they called 公公, grandfather, and 師祖, grand-patriarch, has been dead perhaps ten minutes.
"Last night he sat looking at your cassock and wept until the watches were deep; he never once dared even to look at it properly,
看著你的袈裟 takes zhe; 更深 is gēng shēn, the deep watches of the night. 看也不曾敢看 — "he never even dared to look at it" — is the most exact thing anyone says about him. He wept over a bundle he could not bring himself to open.
"but thought how to keep it for ever, and make it the treasure handed down in the family, and laid his plans and settled his scheme to burn your Worships to death.
思量 takes liáng; 長久 takes cháng. 傳家之寶 once more, the fourth time in the chapter. The monks recite the plot as if they had merely overheard it.
"From the moment the fire arose, a violent wind sprang up, and every man of us thought only of fighting the fire and snatching out the goods; and we know nothing of where the cassock has gone."
狂風大作, "a violent wind sprang up." They do not know where it came from, and they never will; the creature who raised it is standing over them with a rod. Their last words are a perfect summary of the house: 只顧救火，搬搶物件 — we thought only of the fire and of snatching out the goods.
The monks kneel to save Wukong from Sanzang, which is the one selfless thing done by anyone in this monastery, and they do it for the creature who burned it down. Then, when the pain stops, they turn on their dead master: 這都是那老死鬼的不是. "It is all the fault of that old dead ghost." The man was 公公 to them an hour ago. Wú Chéng'ēn lets the sentence stand without gloss, and it does more damage to the house than the fire did.
But their account of him is, unexpectedly, the truest portrait in the chapter. 他昨晚看著你的袈裟，只哭到更深時候，看也不曾敢看 — he sat looking at your cassock and wept into the deep watches, and never once dared to look at it properly. That is the whole of the man. He had the thing in his hands, under a lamp, all night, and could not open it; what he wanted was never to see it but to have it, and the wanting was so complete that seeing became impossible. He then burned two hundred and thirty men out of their beds to secure a bundle he had not untied, and this morning he ran at a wall because he could not find it. 損人利己一場空 — the poem has already said it, and the monks, without knowing what they are saying, have now proved it.