二次收袖 Gathered in the Sleeve Again
他兄弟三眾各舉神兵,一齊攻打;那大仙只把蠅帚兒演架。那裡有半個時辰,他將袍袖一展,依然將四僧一馬並行李一袖籠去。返雲頭,又到觀裡,眾仙接著。仙師坐於殿上,卻又在袖兒裡一個個搬出:將唐僧綁在階下矮槐樹上;八戒、沙僧各綁在兩邊樹上;將行者捆倒。他兄弟三众各举神兵,一齐攻打;那大仙只把蝇帚儿演架。那里有半个时辰,他将袍袖一展,依然将四僧一马并行李一袖笼去。返云头,又到观里,众仙接着。仙师坐于殿上,却又在袖儿里一个个搬出:将唐僧绑在阶下矮槐树上;八戒、沙僧各绑在两边树上;将行者捆倒。
逐句解 Line by line
The three brothers each raised their divine weapons and attacked all at once; but the Great Immortal only parried with his fly-whisk.
And the whisk has been downgraded. 蠅帚兒, yíng zhǒu'r, is a fly-whisk — plain household equipment, where the poem a moment ago called it a 麈尾, the philosopher's emblem. Same object, and against three divine weapons the narrator now calls it what you would swat a fly with. 演架, yǎn jià, is going through the motions of a parry. The suffix 兒 is ér.
In scarcely half a shíchen, he gave his gown-sleeve a spread and, as before, bagged the four monks, the one horse, and the luggage into his sleeve.
A 時辰, shíchen, is a traditional Chinese hour, and it is twice as long as ours: the old day and night were divided into twelve of them, each covering two of our hours and each named after one of the twelve earthly branches. So half a shíchen is about one hour by the clock, and 那裡有半個時辰 means the fight did not even last that — nǎ lǐ as a rhetorical "hardly." This time the sleeve takes the luggage as well. 行李 takes 行 as xíng.
He turned his cloud, came again to the abbey, and the immortals received him.
又到觀裡, back at the abbey again, 觀 as guàn; 眾仙接著 takes 著 as zhe, the household coming out to receive him, exactly as before.
The immortal master sat down on the hall and drew them out of his sleeve again, one by one: he bound the Tang Monk to a low pagoda-tree at the foot of the steps; Bajie and Wujing he bound to trees on either side; and the Pilgrim he trussed up on the ground.
The arrangements have changed, and the change is the message. Sanzang goes to a low 槐樹, huái shù — a pagoda tree, the scholar-tree planted in courtyards — at the foot of the steps; Bajie and Wujing to trees on either side; and Wukong is 捆倒, trussed and laid on the ground, not tied to anything at all. Yesterday he was one prisoner among four. Today he is the prisoner. 袖兒裡 takes the diminutive suffix 兒, ér; 倒 is dǎo.
The second capture repeats the first with all the drama removed. Three weapons, one fly-whisk, less than an hour, and the sleeve again — and this time the luggage goes in too, which is almost insulting. The narrator even demotes the whisk from the poem's 麈尾, emblem of philosophical talk, to a plain 蠅帚兒, a thing for swatting flies.
The detail that matters is how they are tied. Sanzang to a pagoda tree at the foot of the steps, Bajie and Wujing to trees on either side, and Wukong trussed on the ground on his own. He has been separated out. Everything the rest of the chapter invents — the cloth, the lacquer, the cauldron — is being prepared for him alone.