議親許女 The Three Daughters
那婦人道:「我是丁亥年三月初三日酉時生,故夫比我年大三歲,我今年四十五歲。大女兒名真真,今年二十歲;次女名愛愛,今年十八歲;三小女名憐憐,今年十六歲:俱不曾許配人家。雖是小婦人醜陋,卻幸小女俱有幾分顏色,女工針指,無所不會。因是先夫無子,即把他們當兒子看養,小時也曾教他讀些儒書,也都曉得些吟詩作對。雖然居住山莊,也不是那十分粗俗之類,料想也配得過列位長老。若肯放開懷抱,長髮留頭,與舍下做個家長,穿綾著錦,勝強如那瓦缽緇衣,芒鞋雲笠。」三藏坐在上面,好便似雷驚的孩子,雨淋的蝦蟆:只是呆呆掙掙,翻白眼兒打仰。那妇人道:「我是丁亥年三月初三日酉时生,故夫比我年大三岁,我今年四十五岁。大女儿名真真,今年二十岁;次女名爱爱,今年十八岁;三小女名怜怜,今年十六岁:俱不曾许配人家。虽是小妇人丑陋,却幸小女俱有几分颜色,女工针指,无所不会。因是先夫无子,即把他们当儿子看养,小时也曾教他读些儒书,也都晓得些吟诗作对。虽然居住山庄,也不是那十分粗俗之类,料想也配得过列位长老。若肯放开怀抱,长发留头,与舍下做个家长,穿绫著锦,胜强如那瓦钵缁衣,芒鞋云笠。」三藏坐在上面,好便似雷惊的孩子,雨淋的虾蟆:只是呆呆挣挣,翻白眼儿打仰。
逐句解 Line by line
The woman said, “I was born in the dīng-hài year, on the third day of the third month, in the hour of yǒu; my late husband was three years my senior, and I am this year forty-five.”
丁亥年 a sexagenary-cycle year; 酉時 the hour of the Cock (roughly 5–7 p.m.). 故夫 “my late husband.” The precise horoscope-data is the matchmaker's stock-in-trade, offered here of the bride herself.
“My eldest girl is named Zhenzhen, this year twenty; the second is named Aiai, this year eighteen; the third little one is named Lianlian, this year sixteen — and none is yet betrothed to any family.”
The daughters' names — 真真 (“True-true”), 愛愛 (“Love-love”), 憐憐 (“Pity-pity”) — are patly allegorical, of a piece with the false 賈/莫 surnames. 俱不曾許配 “none has yet been promised in marriage.”
“Homely though I am, my girls are lucky enough to have some measure of good looks, and in women's work — needle and thread — there is nothing they cannot do.”
醜陋 “plain, ill-favored,” the widow's conventional self-deprecation. 幾分顏色 “a few degrees of beauty”; 女工針指 “women's handiwork, needlework”; 無所不會 “skilled in everything.”
“Because my late husband had no son, I raised them as though they were sons; in their childhood I even had them read some Confucian books, and they all know a little of chanting verse and matching couplets.”
無子 here 子 is the noun zǐ (“son”); the following 兒子 takes the suffix zi — one segment, two readings. 當兒子看養 “to regard (them) as sons and rear them,” 當 the verb dàng (當作, “to treat as”). 都 dōu; 曉得 with structural de. 吟詩作對 “to chant poems and compose couplets,” a genteel accomplishment.
“Though we dwell in a mountain manor, we are not of the utterly coarse and vulgar sort; I should think we might well be a match for you gentlemen elders.”
那十分粗俗 — 那 nà; 十分 “utterly.” 配得過 “worthy to be matched with,” structural de; 列位長老, 長 zhǎng (“the several elders”).
“If you would but open your hearts, grow out your hair and keep a full head of it, and become masters of my house — wearing damask and silk brocade — it would be far better than begging-bowl and black robe, straw sandals and rain-hat.”
長髮留頭 “grow the hair long and keep it on the head” — abandoning the monk's tonsure; here 長 reads zhǎng (“to grow”). 家長 “head of household,” 長 zhǎng. 著錦 “to wear brocade,” 著 the lexical zhuó (“to wear”). 瓦缽緇衣,芒鞋雲笠 “clay bowl and dark robe, straw shoes and cloud-hat” — the monk's austere gear, set against the estate's silks.
Tripitaka sat above them, for all the world like a child startled by thunder, like a toad in a downpour: only stiff and staring, rolling up the whites of his eyes and tipping backward.
三藏 zàng. 雷驚的孩子,雨淋的蝦蟆 “a thunder-frightened child, a rain-drenched toad,” a paired comic simile (孩子, 子 the suffix zi) for Tripitaka's stupefaction. 呆呆掙掙 “dazed and rigid”; 翻白眼 “to roll up the eye-whites.”
The proposal now turns concrete. The widow lays out her horoscope like a matchmaker's card and parades the three daughters — their names, ages, looks, accomplishments — as a father might advertise sons: reared like sons for want of one, literate, versed in verse and needlework, and pointedly unbetrothed. The allegorical names — True, Love, Pity — mark them, with the 賈/莫 surnames, as the figments of a test rather than women of flesh.
The inducement is sharpened into a direct antithesis: grow out the tonsured hair, put on damask and brocade, become master of a great house — or keep to begging-bowl and black robe, straw sandal and rain-hat. The whole apparatus of the religious life is weighed, item for item, against the comforts of the world, and the widow presses her thumb hard on the scale.
Tripitaka's response is his most helpless yet, and the narrator renders it in pure farce — a child struck dumb by thunder, a toad in the rain, eyes rolled white and body tipping over backward. The comedy is exact: the saint's virtue here is not eloquent rebuttal but sheer, rigid incapacity to engage, a holiness that looks, from the outside, very like a fit.