紫芝翳翳,白石蒼蒼 Purple Fungus, White Stone
他卻牽了馬,挑了擔,出山凹,行上路口。此時漸漸黃昏,只聽得路南山坡下有犬吠之聲。二人停身觀看,乃是一家莊院,影影的有燈火光明。他兩個也不管有路無路,漫草而行,直至那家門首。但見:他却牵了马,挑了担,出山凹,行上路口。此时渐渐黄昏,只听得路南山坡下有犬吠之声。二人停身观看,乃是一家庄院,影影的有灯火光明。他两个也不管有路无路,漫草而行,直至那家门首。但见:
逐句解 Line by line
So he led out the horse, took up the luggage-pole, came out of the hollow and up onto the road.
擔 again dàn, the load. 山凹, the hollow between hills, where Bajie has been lying since the wind began.
It was growing dusk by now, and they heard, from the southern slope below the road, the barking of a dog.
只聽得: 得 the resultative de of perception. A dog barking below the road is the standing sign, in this novel, that a house of some kind is near — and never a wholly ordinary one.
The two of them stopped and looked. It was a farmstead, and there was the faint shining of a lamp in it.
影影的, "faintly, dimly," a reduplicated adverb of the vernacular. The lamp is seen before the house.
Caring nothing whether there was a path or none, they went through the grass and came straight to the gate of the house. And this was the sight:
漫草而行 — to walk across the grass without a path. 但見: is the lead-in to the descriptive verse and stays in the prose segment.
Purple fungus in shadowed masses; white stone pale and bare.
紫芝 is the purple lingzhi, the fungus of immortality; 白石 the white stone of the recluse's hermitage. Both are borrowed straight from the Daoist eremitic vocabulary, and both are lies: this farmstead does not exist.
Purple fungus in shadowed masses, and green grass thick between; / white stone pale and bare, half of it under green moss.
The rhapsody unfolds its own opening line, four graphs becoming seven, exactly as the armour-rhapsody of P1 did. 綠苔: moss on the stone, the sign of a place long undisturbed.
A few points of firefly-light, glimmering; / a stand of wild trees, ranked close together.
數點小螢 — 數 is shù, "several." Fireflies and the dog's bark are the only living things in the description.
Fragrant orchid, richly scented; tender bamboo, newly set.
馥郁 and 新栽: the orchid is old and the bamboo new, which is what one would say of a place kept by someone.
A clear spring runs in a winding gully; an ancient cypress leans on the deep cliff.
曲 reads qū, "winding." Spring, gully, cypress, cliff — the standard furniture of the hermit's dwelling in landscape poetry.
The place is remote, and no traveller comes to it; / before the gate there is only the wild flower, opening.
更 is the adverb gèng. The closing couplet says, in the politest possible way, that nobody lives here; the pilgrims are about to knock at the gate and be let in.
The house-rhapsody is composed entirely of hermitage furniture — lingzhi, white stone, moss, orchid, bamboo, spring, cypress, cliff — and closes on the flat statement that no visitor comes there. Every element of it is a signal to the reader, and none of it is a signal to Bajie, who is hungry.
The pilgrims will discover in the morning that they slept on the bare grass, and that the farmstead was raised for a night by the dharma-protecting spirits who attend them. The poem, read again afterwards, is a joke of some subtlety: it describes not a farm but a picture of a farm, assembled out of the most conventional materials available, which is precisely what the spirits had to work with.