跳出一隻斑斕猛虎 Out Springs a Striped and Savage Tiger
說不了,只見那山坡下剪尾跑蹄,跳出一隻斑斕猛虎。慌得那三藏坐不穩雕鞍,翻根頭跌下白馬,斜倚在路傍,真個是魂飛魄散。八戒丟了行李,掣釘鈀,不讓行者走上前,大喝一聲道:「孽畜,那裡走!」趕將去,劈頭就築。那隻虎直挺挺站將起來,把那前左爪掄起,摳住自家的胸膛,往下一抓,滑剌的一聲,把個皮剝將下來,站立道傍。你看他怎生惡相?咦!那模樣:说不了,只见那山坡下剪尾跑蹄,跳出一只斑斓猛虎。慌得那三藏坐不稳雕鞍,翻根头跌下白马,斜倚在路傍,真个是魂飞魄散。八戒丢了行李,掣钉钯,不让行者走上前,大喝一声道:「孽畜,那里走!」赶将去,劈头就筑。那只虎直挺挺站将起来,把那前左爪抡起,抠住自家的胸膛,往下一抓,滑剌的一声,把个皮剥将下来,站立道傍。你看他怎生恶相?咦!那模样:
逐句解 Line by line
He had not finished speaking when, from under the slope of the mountain, with tail lashing and hooves flying, out sprang a striped and savage tiger.
說不了 takes 了 as the full verb liǎo, "to finish," which means the 不 in front of it is the plain bù. 剪尾跑蹄, tail scissoring and hooves running; 斑斕, striped and splendid, is the standard epithet for a tiger.
Sanzang was so alarmed that he could not keep his seat on the carved saddle: he went head over heels off the white horse and lay slumped beside the road, his soul flown and his spirit scattered.
慌得, the result-linking de. 翻根頭, to turn a somersault — the Tang Monk falls off his horse on very nearly every mountain of this journey, and the novel never tires of saying so. 魂飛魄散 is still the ordinary phrase for being frightened out of your wits, and it is worth knowing what it literally claims: the 魂 is the cloud-soul and the 魄 the body-soul, and to have both leave you is to be no better than dead. 路傍 writes 旁.
Bajie flung down the luggage, drew out his muckrake, and, not letting the Pilgrim get in front of him, roared aloud, "Cursed beast, where are you going?"
釘鈀, the muckrake, takes 鈀 as pá. 不讓行者走上前 — Bajie will not let his brother go first, and that is worth marking, because it is the pig who charges the tiger. 孽畜 takes 畜 as chù; 那裡走 is the question-word nǎ, "where do you think you are going."
He rushed at it and struck straight down at its head. But the tiger reared bolt upright, raised its left forepaw, and hooked its claws into its own breast;
趕將去 and 站將起來 both take the direction-marking 將, jiāng. 直挺挺站將起來 — the tiger rises onto its hind legs, which is the first sign that it is not a tiger. 摳住自家的胸膛: it takes hold of its own chest.
it drew downward with a single rip, and with a slithering sound peeled the whole hide away, and stood at the roadside.
滑剌的一聲: 剌 reads là, per the ruling of chapter 18 at 劃剌的一聲. 皮剝將下來 takes 剝 as bāo, the everyday "to peel," with 將 again marking direction. The image is unforgettable and completely literal: the beast unzips itself.
You may look at the evil shape of him. Ah! The look of him was this:
怎生惡相 takes 相 as xiàng, appearance; 模樣 takes 模 as mú. The cue 咦!那模樣: stays with the prose segment, as all verse cues do.
A body flayed raw and running with blood; legs and feet bowed round and hideously red.
Four couplets of eight characters against eight, each half opening on a doubled adjective plus 的: 血津津的, 紅媸媸的. That shape belongs to the 賦, not to regulated verse. 赤剝 takes 剝 as bāo, flayed bare.
Whiskers at either temple like flame, tangled and loose; brows stiff as driven stakes and standing bolt upright.
火燄燄, 硬搠搠 — 搠, shuò, is to thrust or to stake, and the brows stand up like driven stakes.
Four steel fangs, white and bristling; a pair of golden eyes with a glittering light.
白森森 of the fangs, 光耀耀 of the eyes. The catalogue works downward from blood and limbs to hair, brow, tooth, eye and finally voice, which is the order in which a thing coming at you arrives.
A breath of fury as he strained and roared aloud; a bristling manliness as he shouted in a savage voice.
雄糾糾 is written for 赳赳, and 糾 takes jiū by the borrowed-character rule, per chapter 19. The last two couplets give up sight for sound, and hand the passage straight on to the shouted challenge that opens the next one.
The tiger comes out of the rhapsody. Three passages back the mountain was said to hold, at dusk, a tiger of Ba's hills hunting out its lair; here it is on the road. And the moment it is threatened it does the one thing no tiger does: it stands up on its hind legs, hooks a forepaw into its own chest, and pulls its skin off in a single downward rip, 滑剌的一聲 — with a slithering noise. The sentence is one of the small horrors of the book, and it is written without a single adjective.
Notice who acts. Sanzang falls off his horse and lies in the road with his souls gone. The Pilgrim, who has just been smelling the wind and pronouncing on where it came from, does nothing whatever. It is Bajie — hiding-Bajie, proverb-quoting Bajie — who throws down the luggage, pulls out the muckrake, refuses to let his brother go first, and charges. He is answered by a thing that takes off its skin. The four couplets that follow give the reader the flayed shape, working from blood down to voice, and that voice is the first word of the next passage.