後宅見女 The Girl in the Back Court
你看他揝著鐵棒,扯著高老道:「你引我去後宅子裡妖精的住處看看。」高老遂引他到後宅門首。行者道:「你去取鑰匙來。」高老道:「你且看看,若是用得鑰匙,卻不請你了。」行者笑道:「你那老兒年紀雖大,卻不識耍。我把這話兒哄你一哄,你就當真。」走上前,摸了一摸,原來是銅汁灌的鎖子。狠得他將金箍棒一搗,搗開門扇,裡面卻黑洞洞的。行者道:「老高,你去叫你女兒一聲,看他可在裡面?」那老兒硬著膽叫道:「三姐姐!」那女兒認得是他父親的聲音,才少氣無力的應了一聲道:「爹爹,我在這裡哩。」行者閃金睛,向黑影裡仔細看時,你道他怎生模樣?但見那:你看他揝着铁棒,扯着高老道:「你引我去后宅子里妖精的住处看看。」高老遂引他到后宅门首。行者道:「你去取钥匙来。」高老道:「你且看看,若是用得钥匙,却不请你了。」行者笑道:「你那老儿年纪虽大,却不识耍。我把这话儿哄你一哄,你就当真。」走上前,摸了一摸,原来是铜汁灌的锁子。狠得他将金箍棒一捣,捣开门扇,里面却黑洞洞的。行者道:「老高,你去叫你女儿一声,看他可在里面?」那老儿硬着胆叫道:「三姐姐!」那女儿认得是他父亲的声音,才少气无力的应了一声道:「爹爹,我在这里哩。」行者闪金睛,向黑影里仔细看时,你道他怎生模样?但见那:
逐句解 Line by line
See him now, gripping his iron rod and tugging Old Gao along. "Bring me to the back court," he said, "where the monster lodges, that I may look at it."
揝, zǎn, is to grip in the fist. Both 著 in this line are zhe, states kept up — gripping and tugging at once. 後宅子裡 is the inner court where the women of a household live; here it is a prison.
Old Gao led him to the door of the back court. The Pilgrim said, "Go and fetch the key."
門首 is the doorway. Having just shown that ordinary means do not apply to him, the Pilgrim asks for the key like anybody else.
Old Gao said, "Look at it first. If a key could serve, I should not have sent for you."
用得鑰匙: 得 is the dé of ability — if a key would serve. The old man's retort is his sharpest line in the chapter, and entirely just.
The Pilgrim laughed. "Old fellow, for all your years you cannot take a jest. I was only teasing you, and you took it in earnest."
不識耍 is cannot take a joke. 話兒 takes the little 兒, er. 當真 takes 當 as dàng, to reckon a thing as true. And 哄你一哄 wraps the verb round its own object — gulled you a gulling — a favourite vernacular shape.
He went up and felt the lock: it was one filled solid with molten copper.
銅汁灌的鎖子 is a lock with its keyway run full of molten copper. Squire Gao has not merely locked the door; he has made it impossible to open. And he has said nothing about it until this moment.
That so vexed him that he drove his golden-hooped rod at it once, burst the door leaves open — and within was pitch darkness.
狠得 is writing 恨得, so exasperated that; the 得 is the unstressed de. 黑洞洞 doubles its last character and turns the darkness into a thing you could walk into.
The Pilgrim said, "Old Gao, call your daughter once, and see whether she is inside."
He gives the father the office of calling, and stands back. It is the first considerate thing the Pilgrim has done since he entered the village.
The old man hardened his heart and called, "Third sister!"
硬著膽 is to stiffen your gall, and 著 is zhe. 三姐姐 addresses her by her rank among the sisters, third sister — the way you would address a child of the house, which is what she has become again.
The girl knew her father's voice, and with hardly breath or strength enough answered him once: "Papa — I am here."
認得 takes 得 as the unstressed de, recognised it. 應 is yìng, to answer, not yīng, ought. 少氣無力 is short of breath and without strength — and half a year behind a copper-sealed lock is accounted for in that one four-character phrase.
The Pilgrim flashed his golden eyes and looked carefully into the shadow. What manner of thing do you suppose he saw? Only this:
閃金睛: the fire-golden eyes flash open. 怎生模樣 takes 模 as mú. And 但見那 is the same formula that opened the spring rhapsody — it hands the description over to verse.
Cloudy tresses heaped in disorder, uncombed; a face of jade unwashed, and grimed with dust.
The portrait is a 詞, a lyric, in five units. 雲鬢 is cloud-tresses, one of the standard beauties. 無掠 is not smoothed down with the hand. 塵淄, with 淄 read zī, is a black grime: the jade face is not merely unwashed but stained.
The orchid heart within her is whole as ever; the tender bearing is ten parts fallen away.
蘭心, the orchid heart, picks up her own name and her sisters' before it. The force of the couplet is all in the contrast — what is inside her is untouched, what shows is ruined. 一片 takes yí by the ordinary tone rule.
The cherry lips have lost their blood and breath; the waist and limbs are bent, and huddled close.
櫻唇, cherry lips, is another of the standard beauties. 屈屈偎偎 doubles both its characters, bent and bent, huddled and huddled, and the doubling does what plain description could not.
Sorrow gathers upon her, and the moth-brows are pale;
The original joins this unit and the next with a semicolon; we set them as two lines. 蹙蹙, cù cù, is knitted and drawn together. 蛾眉, moth-brows, are the fine curved eyebrows of the 詩經, named for the antennae of a moth.
thin and shrinking she is, and the voice is low.
怯怯 is timid and shrinking. The lyric ends on 語聲低, three characters — and the reader has already heard that low voice answer her father out of the dark.
The copper-filled lock is the quiet horror of the passage. Squire Gao has spent the whole long middle of this chapter describing a son-in-law who works too hard and eats too much, and only now does it emerge, in passing, inside a subordinate clause, that the door of his daughter's room has been sealed shut with molten metal. He never says who sealed it. The Pilgrim, who asked for the key, is not told there is none until he asks.
The lyric is built entirely out of the vocabulary of female beauty — cloud-tresses, jade face, cherry lips, moth-brows — with every term cancelled in the second half of its own line. It is a portrait of a beauty painted in the terms of her ruin, and the one thing declared intact is 蘭心, the orchid heart, which is also her name. What the novel will not yet tell us is whether she was locked in by the monster or by her father.