人參大樹 The Great Ginseng Tree
走過菜園，又見一層門。推開看處，呀！只見那正中間有根大樹，真個是青枝馥郁，綠葉陰森，那葉兒卻似芭蕉模樣，直上去有千尺餘高，根下有七八丈圍圓。那行者倚在樹下，往上一看，只見向南的枝上露出一個人參果，真個像孩兒一般。原來尾間上是個扢蒂，看他丁在枝頭，手腳亂動，點頭幌腦，風過處似乎有聲。行者歡喜不盡，暗自誇稱道：「好東西呀！果然罕見，果然罕見！」他倚著樹，颼的一聲，攛將上去。那猴子原來第一會爬樹偷果子。他把金擊子敲了一下，那果子撲的落將下來。他也隨跳下來跟尋，寂然不見；四下裡草中找尋，更無蹤跡。走过菜园，又见一层门。推开看处，呀！只见那正中间有根大树，真个是青枝馥郁，绿叶阴森，那叶儿却似芭蕉模样，直上去有千尺余高，根下有七八丈围圆。那行者倚在树下，往上一看，只见向南的枝上露出一个人参果，真个像孩儿一般。原来尾间上是个扢蒂，看他丁在枝头，手脚乱动，点头幌脑，风过处似乎有声。行者欢喜不尽，暗自夸称道：「好东西呀！果然罕见，果然罕见！」他倚着树，飕的一声，撺将上去。那猴子原来第一会爬树偷果子。他把金击子敲了一下，那果子扑的落将下来。他也随跳下来跟寻，寂然不见；四下里草中找寻，更无踪迹。
逐句解 Line by line
Passing through the vegetable garden, he came to yet another gate.
Three gates now, each opening on something stranger than the last.
He pushed it open to look — ah!
呀 as yā again, standing alone as an exclamation.
— there in the very midst stood a great tree, its green boughs richly fragrant, its dark leaves deep-shadowing; the leaves were shaped like a plantain's, and it rose straight up above a thousand chǐ, its trunk seven or eight zhàng round at the root.
The tree is given in exact numbers: over a thousand chǐ tall, and seven or eight zhàng — some twenty-five metres — around the trunk. Leaves like a plantain's, broad and paddle-shaped. 中間 takes 間 as jiān, "amid," distinct from the jiàn of 間壁, "next door," a few passages back. 卻似 takes the comparative sì.
Pilgrim, leaning below the tree, looked up, and saw on a south-facing branch a single ginseng-fruit peeping out — truly just like a child.
And there it is on a south-facing branch, looking like a child. The reader has been told this twice already; this is the first time anyone sees it.
Its rump-end, it turned out, bore the little stem; and there it hung nailed to the bough, its hands and feet stirring, its head nodding and rolling, and as the wind passed it seemed almost to make a sound.
The detail that makes it unbearable. 扢蒂, gē dì, is the stem-knot — and it grows from the fruit's rump, so the stalk is where the navel would be. 丁在枝頭, fixed to the branch-tip like a nail. Then the limbs stir, the head nods and rolls, and in the wind it very nearly makes a sound. Whatever Tripiṭaka thought he was refusing, the text has just conceded he had a point.
Pilgrim, delighted past measure, praised it to himself: "What a fine thing!
Pilgrim's reaction to a fruit that looks like a struggling infant is uncomplicated delight. 歡喜不盡 carries another 不 → bú. 呀 here is the closing ya, not the exclamation.
Rare indeed, rare indeed!"
罕見, hǎn jiàn, seldom seen — doubled, in the chapter's habit.
Leaning on the tree, with a whoosh he shot up it.
颼的一聲, with a whoosh; 攛將上去 takes 將 as jiāng, the directional syllable.
Now this monkey was, above all, a first-rate hand at climbing trees to steal fruit.
The narrator's driest line in the chapter. This monkey was, above all else, a first-rate hand at climbing trees to steal fruit — which is both a joke about his species and a precise reference to the Peach Garden of chapter 5, where he did exactly this and brought Heaven down on himself. He has learnt nothing.
He gave it one rap with the golden striker, and the fruit came tumbling down with a plop.
One rap, and it falls. 撲的, with a plop; 落將下來 takes 將 as the directional syllable again.
He leapt straight down after it to search — but it was utterly gone; he hunted through the grass on every side, and found not a trace.
And it is gone. 寂然不見, vanished without a sound; 更無蹤跡, not a trace anywhere. He has just destroyed something ten thousand years in the making by not asking one more question.
Through a third gate stands the tree, and the novel finally shows the reader what it has twice only described. Over a thousand chǐ high, seven or eight zhàng round the trunk, leaves broad as a plantain's — and on a south-facing branch, one fruit.
The description that follows is the most unsettling thing in the chapter. The stem grows from the fruit's rump, so the stalk sits where a navel would be. It hangs nailed to the branch-tip. Its hands and feet stir. Its head nods and rolls. And when the wind passes it very nearly makes a sound. Whatever we thought of Tripiṭaka's horror three passages ago, the text has quietly conceded that he had a point.
Pilgrim's response to a fruit that looks like a struggling infant is delight, and the narrator lands the chapter's driest line: this monkey was, above all else, a first-rate hand at climbing trees to steal fruit. That is a joke about his species and a pointed reference to the Peach Garden of chapter 5, where he did precisely this and brought Heaven down on himself. He shoots up, raps once — and the fruit falls and is simply gone. Not in the grass, not anywhere. Ten thousand years of growth destroyed because he did not ask one more question.