菜園蔬圃 The Kitchen Garden
那行者觀看不盡,又見一層門,推開看處,卻是一座菜園:那行者观看不尽,又见一层门,推开看处,却是一座菜园:
行者笑道:「他也是個自種自吃的道士。」行者笑道:「他也是个自种自吃的道士。」
逐句解 Line by line
Pilgrim, looking on without cease, saw yet another gate; pushing it open, he found a vegetable garden:
觀看不盡 — the verb guān, and the fourth and last of the chapter's 不盡 phrases, with 不 rising to bú before 盡.
Planted with the greens of all four seasons — spinach, celery, chard, ginger-shoots and taro;
The register drops through the floor, and deliberately: after jasper orchids and gentleman-bamboo, a list of vegetables. 佈種 takes 種 as zhòng, the verb "to sow," not zhǒng, "seed" or "kind." 莙薘, jūn dá, is chard.
bamboo-shoots, yams, gourds and calabashes, and water-bamboo; scallions, garlic, coriander, leeks and shallots.
茭白, jiāo bái, water-bamboo — the swollen stem of a wild rice grass, still a common Chinese vegetable and unfamiliar to most English readers. 芫荽, yán suī, coriander; 韭薤, chives and shallots.
Water-mallow, tong-wormwood, and bitter dock; bottle-gourd and eggplant must be set out too;
窩蕖, a marsh plant; 童蒿, a wormwood; 苦藚, bitter dock. 須栽, must be planted — the line is written like a gardener's memorandum.
turnip and radish buried round like sheep-heads; red amaranth, green pak-choi, purple mustard.
蔓菁 is mán jīng, turnip — 蔓 takes mán only in this compound, against màn in 蔓延 and 蔓草. 蘿蔔, luó bo, radish, with the second syllable neutral. 羊頭埋, buried round like sheep-heads, describes how the roots sit half out of the soil. 青菘, qīng sōng, is pak-choi.
Pilgrim said with a laugh, "So he's a Daoist who plants his own and eats his own."
Pilgrim's deflating one-liner. After two rhapsodies of paradisal splendour, the immortal grows his own dinner. 自種自吃 takes 種 as zhòng again.
A second gate, and the register falls straight through the floor. After jasper-sand orchids and gentleman-bamboo, here is a list of about two dozen vegetables — spinach, chard, water-bamboo, coriander, chives, shallots, dock, turnip, radish, pak-choi, mustard — set out in the same rhapsodic couplet-metre as the flower garden, and reading rather like a gardener's memorandum.
Pilgrim's one-line verdict punctures the whole preceding splendour: so he's a Daoist who plants his own and eats his own. It is a peasant's joke about a landowner, and it lands, because it is true — even a paradise-abbey has to get dinner from somewhere. The comic timing is exact: two passages of celestial grandeur, then cabbages.