禪堂夜靜 曉赴南海 Night in the Meditation Hall; Departure at Dawn
是夜在禪堂歇宿。那三藏想著袈裟,那裡得穩睡?忽翻身見窗外透白,急起叫道:「悟空,天明了,快尋袈裟去。」行者一骨魯跳將起來,一見眾僧侍立,供奉湯水,行者道:「你等用心伏侍我師父,老孫去也。」三藏下床,扯住道:「你往那裡去?」行者道:「我想這樁事都是觀音菩薩沒理,他有這個禪院在此,受了這裡人家香火,又容那妖精鄰住。我去南海尋他,與他講一講,教他親來問妖精討袈裟還我。」三藏道:「你這去,幾時回來?」行者道:「時少只在飯罷,時多只在晌午,就成功了。那些和尚可好伏侍,老孫去也。」是夜在禅堂歇宿。那三藏想著袈裟,那里得稳睡?忽翻身见窗外透白,急起叫道:「悟空,天明了,快寻袈裟去。」行者一骨鲁跳将起来,一见众僧侍立,供奉汤水,行者道:「你等用心伏侍我师父,老孙去也。」三藏下床,扯住道:「你往那里去?」行者道:「我想这桩事都是观音菩萨没理,他有这个禅院在此,受了这里人家香火,又容那妖精邻住。我去南海寻他,与他讲一讲,教他亲来问妖精讨袈裟还我。」三藏道:「你这去,几时回来?」行者道:「时少只在饭罢,时多只在晌午,就成功了。那些和尚可好伏侍,老孙去也。」
逐句解 Line by line
The River of Heaven shows its image; the jade vault is without a mote.
銀河, the Silver River, is the Milky Way; 玉宇 the jade vault of heaven. The rhyme runs in -en and -un: 塵 · 痕 · 昏 · 聞.
The sky is filled with glittering stars; one stream has drawn in the traces of its waves.
收痕 — the water has drawn in its own ripples. The sandhi of 一 before the third-tone 水 gives yì.
Ten thousand hollow voices are stilled; on a thousand hills the birds are gone.
萬籟, the ten thousand pipings of the earth, comes from the second chapter of the Zhuangzi.
By the brook the fishing-fires are out; on the pagoda the Buddha-lamp burns low.
佛燈: 佛 is fixed globally at fó. A monastery lamp burning low, seen from outside, over a monastery that burned last night.
Last night the acharya's bell and drum resounded; tonight one round of weeping is all that is heard.
闍黎 transliterates Sanskrit ācārya, a preceptor; 闍 reads shé, not the dū that pypinyin supplies. The couplet sets last night's bell and drum against tonight's weeping, and is the only mourning the dead abbot receives in the chapter. It is given to the landscape and not to any person in it.
That night they lodged in the meditation hall. Sanzang, thinking on the cassock — how should he sleep sound?
想著 takes zhe, a state maintained. 那裡得穩睡 is interrogative nǎ, and 得 the potential dé: how should he get a sound sleep?
Turning suddenly, he saw whiteness through the window, and rose in haste, calling: "Wukong, it is light! Go quickly and find the cassock."
天明了 — the particle 了 reads le. pypinyin gives liǎo here, as it does at 便了, and it is wrong both times.
The Pilgrim rolled up out of his bed in one bound, and saw the monks standing in attendance with hot water offered ready.
一骨魯 is onomatopoeic and written variously (一骨碌, 一骨鹿); having no privileged target graph, it keeps the pypinyin default gǔ lǔ, per the exception to the loan-graph rule. 跳將起來: 將 is the verbal particle jiāng. 供奉 takes gòng.
The Pilgrim said, "Do you serve my master with a will. Old Sun is off."
伏侍, to wait upon. He gives his orders to the monks and not to his master.
Sanzang got down from the bed and caught hold of him. "Where are you going?"
那裡 is interrogative nǎ. Sanzang has to physically restrain him to find out where he is going.
The Pilgrim said, "I reckon this whole business is Guanyin's fault.
沒理, in the wrong; 沒 reads méi. Having burned the cloister himself, the Pilgrim has arrived at the view that its patroness is at fault.
She keeps this meditation cloister here, she takes the incense of the households hereabouts, and yet she suffers that fiend to live next door.
鄰住, to live as a neighbour. The complaint is essentially one of zoning: the Bodhisattva has let a fiend settle beside her own foundation and taken the incense of the district regardless.
I shall go to the Southern Sea and find her, and have a word with her, and make her come herself to demand the cassock of the fiend and return it to me."
講一講 — the doubled verb makes the interview sound casual. 教 is the causative jiào, and 還 the verb huán. He proposes to make a Bodhisattva run his errand.
Sanzang said, "If you go, when will you return?" The Pilgrim said, "At the least, before breakfast is cleared; at the most, by noon — and the thing is done.
時少 and 時多: at the least, at the most. 少 reads shǎo. He gives an estimate accurate to the meal.
Let those monks serve you well. Old Sun is off."
可好伏侍 — the last thing he says before flying to the Southern Sea is a reminder to the monks about breakfast.
Fifty graphs of night, and the last couplet of them is the only elegy the abbot of the Guanyin Temple receives: 昨夜闍黎鐘鼓響,今宵一遍哭聲聞。 Last night the preceptor's bell and drum; tonight, the sound of weeping. The mourning is not assigned to a mourner. It is heard, as the stilled birds and the low lamp are seen, by nobody in particular — and the two men lying awake in the meditation hall are thinking about a garment.
The Pilgrim wakes and announces his conclusion, which is that Guanyin is to blame. 他有這個禪院在此,受了這裡人家香火,又容那妖精鄰住。 She keeps a cloister, takes the incense, and lets a fiend live next door. Every clause is true. That the fire was his, that the showing-off was his, that the theft followed from both, does not enter the reckoning; and he proposes to fly to the Southern Sea and 教他親來問妖精討袈裟還我 — make the Bodhisattva go and ask the monster for it herself. Then he tells the monks to look after breakfast.