擒進洞 Borne into the Cave
原來是道路不平,未曾細看,忽被蓏蘿藤絆了個踉蹌。掙起來正走,又被一個小妖睡倒在地,扳著他腳跟,撲的又跌了個狗吃屎。被一群趕上按住,抓鬃毛,揪耳朵,扯著腳,拉著尾,扛扛擡擡,擒進洞去。咦!正是:原来是道路不平,未曾细看,忽被蓏萝藤绊了个踉跄。挣起来正走,又被一个小妖睡倒在地,扳着他脚跟,扑的又跌了个狗吃屎。被一群赶上按住,抓鬃毛,揪耳朵,扯着脚,拉着尾,扛扛抬抬,擒进洞去。咦!正是:
逐句解 Line by line
Now the ground was uneven, and, not having looked carefully, he was of a sudden tripped by a trailing vine into a stagger.
The retreat turns into slapstick immediately. 蓏蘿藤, luǒ luó téng, a trailing creeper; 絆了個踉蹌, "tripped into a stagger," with 踉蹌 read liàng qiàng — the word is still exactly what you say of someone lurching about.
Struggling up and setting off again, he was brought down by a little fiend lying flat on the ground, who caught him by the heel, so that he pitched forward — flop! — into a dog's-dinner sprawl.
And again. 睡倒在地, shuì dǎo zài dì, "lying flat on the ground," 倒 read dǎo — a little fiend has simply lain down and grabbed his heel. 狗吃屎, "a dog eating dung," is the standard and very unlovely Chinese phrase for going down flat on your face; English would say sprawling headlong, but the Chinese is ruder and funnier and everyone still uses it. 扳著 takes 著 as zhe.
A whole troop caught up and pinned him — clutching his bristles, yanking his ears, hauling his feet, dragging his tail — and, heaving and lugging, bore him captive into the cave.
The capture, in six verbs. 扛扛擡擡, káng káng tái tái, "heaving and hoisting" — the doubling makes it a scramble rather than a procession. 擒進洞, "carried captive into the cave." 扯著 and 拉著 both take 著 as zhe. Bristles, ears, feet and tail: they have taken hold of every part of him at once.
Ah! Truly it was a case of:
咦, yí, is the storyteller clearing his throat — a small exclamation of "well now," not of grief. 正是, "and so it was a case of," is the standard cue for a closing couplet, and one follows.
A body's worth of demon-troubles, hard to be undone; ten thousand kinds of calamity arising, not easily removed.
Two lines of seven to shut the chapter. 一身魔發, yì shēn mó fā, "demon-trouble breaking out over a whole body"; 萬種災生, "ten thousand kinds of calamity arising." The couplet lifts a pig being dragged into a hole up into the general language of the pilgrimage — the obstacles that the rake, one passage ago, was supposed to clear away.
The capture is pure physical comedy, delivered in two falls. First a creeper catches him and he lurches; then a little fiend lying flat on the ground grabs his heel and he goes down face-first in what Chinese bluntly calls a dog eating dung. The indignities escalate in exactly the register that has governed his entire episode — the woodpecker on the lip, the snout in the robe, and now this.
Then the swarm: bristles clutched, ears yanked, feet hauled, tail dragged, and the whole heaving mass of them carries him into the cave. And the chapter's closing couplet lifts the scene up out of farce into the pilgrimage's own language — demon-trouble breaking out over a whole body, ten thousand calamities not easily got rid of. These are the very obstructions the rake-poem boasted of clearing away, one passage earlier. The Wood-Mother of the chapter title has met his disaster.