變作花腳蚊蟲 A Speckle-Legged Mosquito
他將身一縱,徑到他門首,門尚關著睡覺。行者不叫門,且不驚動妖怪,捻著訣,念個咒語,搖身一變,變做一個花腳蚊蟲,真個小巧。有詩為證。詩曰:他将身一纵,径到他门首,门尚关著睡觉。行者不叫门,且不惊动妖怪,捻著诀,念个咒语,摇身一变,变做一个花脚蚊虫,真个小巧。有诗为证。诗曰:
逐句解 Line by line
He gave his body a leap and came straight to the fiend's gate, and the gate was still shut, for they were sleeping within.
將身一縱: 將 the disposal marker jiāng. 關著睡覺 — 著 is zhe, the state maintained.
The Pilgrim did not call at the door, and would not disturb the fiends. He made the finger-sign, spoke a spell, shook himself, and changed into a speckle-legged mosquito, a very neat small thing.
捻著訣, to pinch the fingers into the sign; 著 again zhe. 花腳蚊蟲, a "flower-legged" or speckle-legged mosquito. 真個小巧, "truly neat and small," a phrase of approval.
There is a poem to prove it. The poem says:
有詩為證。詩曰: — the double verse tag, 為 reading wèi. Both clauses stay in the prose segment, per house rule.
A shape too small to trouble with, and a sharp proboscis; / a thin singing voice, and it comes like thunder.
擾擾, "swarming, bothersome," and 利喙, the keen bill. The poem never names the mosquito, which is the convention of the riddling descriptive verse.
Through orchid chamber and gauze bed-curtain it passes at its ease, / loving best the warm airs of the burning summer.
蘭房紗帳 — the orchid chamber and the gauze curtain are the furniture of a lady's bedroom in erotic poetry, and the mosquito passes them without hindrance. This unit and the next carry the two stray ASCII spaces of the 維基文庫 text, here removed.
It fears only the smoke and the beating fan, / and dotes upon the brightness of the lamp.
撲扇: 扇 reads shàn, the fan. The couplet is built on a pair of opposed verbs, 怕 and 憐 — the insect fears what men use against it and loves what draws it in.
Light, light, and small, small, and far too quick at boring in — / it flew into the fiend's cave.
忒 (tè) the intensifier again, as in Bajie's speech two passages back. 鑽疾, quick at boring through. The last clause drops the riddle and states the fact.
The mosquito-poem is a small tour de force of a genre this novel keeps quoting: the 詠物, the verse on a thing, which describes its subject exactly and refuses to name it. Every couplet is a pair of opposites — tiny shape against thunderous voice, gauze curtain against summer heat, feared smoke against beloved lamp — and only in the last line, when it flies into the cave, does the poem admit whose shape this is.
Note where the Pilgrim has been put. Two passages ago he could not see; now he takes the form of a creature that navigates by smell and heat in the dark, and goes in through a shut door. The chapter has taken his eyes from him and then, with the guardian spirits' ointment, given them back sharper than before — 比常更有百分光明 — so that he may use them at the size of an insect. This is the last thing the wind-demon would have wished for.