罵路 Railing on the Road
嚶的一翅飛將去,趕上八戒,釘在他耳朵後面鬃根底下。那獃子只管走路,怎知道身上有人。行有七八里路,把釘鈀撇下,吊轉頭來,望著唐僧,指手畫腳的罵道:「你罷軟的老和尚,捉掐的弼馬溫,面弱的沙和尚,他都在那裡自在,捉弄我老豬來蹡路。大家取經,都要望成正果,偏是教我來巡甚麼山。哈哈哈,曉得有妖怪,躲著些兒走,還不夠一半,卻教我去尋他,這等晦氣哩。嘤的一翅飞将去,赶上八戒,钉在他耳朵后面鬃根底下。那呆子只管走路,怎知道身上有人。行有七八里路,把钉钯撇下,吊转头来,望着唐僧,指手画脚的骂道:「你罢软的老和尚,捉掐的弼马温,面弱的沙和尚,他都在那里自在,捉弄我老猪来蹡路。大家取经,都要望成正果,偏是教我来巡甚么山。哈哈哈,晓得有妖怪,躲着些儿走,还不够一半,却教我去寻他,这等晦气哩。
逐句解 Line by line
With a whir of his wings he flew off, caught up with Eight Rules, and fixed himself behind his ear, at the root of the bristles.
嚶, yīng, is the sound of the wings. 鬃根, zōng gēn, "the roots of the bristles" — he lands behind the ear, in the coarse hair, which on a pig is thick enough to hide in. 飛將去 takes 將 as the directional jiāng.
The blockhead just kept walking, never guessing he carried a rider.
只管, zhǐ guǎn, "to just carry straight on." 那 is nà. The line is doing something sly: it says he never knew there was a person on him, which is true, and lets the reader enjoy knowing better.
When he had gone seven or eight lǐ, he flung down his rake, turned his head about, and, gesturing back toward the Tang Monk, railed: "You spineless old monk; you nit-picking Bimawen; you soft-faced Sha Monk — they are all back there at their ease, while they put Old Hog to tramping the road.
Seven or eight lǐ along — a couple of miles — and out it all comes. 弼馬溫, Bì mǎ wēn, is the stable-groom post Heaven fobbed Pilgrim off with in the early chapters, and the title has followed him ever since as a permanent insult; the characters also sound like 避馬瘟, "keeps horse-plague away," which was one of the folk reasons for keeping a monkey in a stable. 罷軟, "limp, spineless"; 蹡路, "to trudge." 望著 takes 著 as zhe; 都 is dōu; 那 is nà. Note who he insults, and in which order, and that he does it with his back turned.
We are all fetching scriptures, all hoping to attain the right fruit — and yet it's just me they send off to patrol some mountain or other.
正果, zhèng guǒ, "the true fruit" — the attainment the whole pilgrimage is for. 都 is dōu; 甚麼 takes 甚 as shén. His grievance in one line: everybody gets the reward, so why does he get the walking?
Ha, ha, ha! Knowing there are fiends, one ought to give them a wide berth — and that's not the half of it: instead they send me to go looking for them. What wretched luck!
晦氣, huì qì, "rotten luck" — still current, and still said exactly like this. 曉得 takes 得 as de; 躲著 takes 著 as zhe; the 兒 of 些兒 is the light er; 還 is hái. His stated policy on monsters — if you know they are there, walk the other way — is the exact opposite of the job description, and he sees no problem with that at all.
With a gnat lodged in his ear bristles, Eight Rules walks a couple of miles and then, believing himself entirely alone, says what he really thinks. He works through the party one by one: the spineless old monk, the nit-picking Bimawen, the soft-faced Sha Monk, all of them lounging in comfort while he does the walking. It is worth noting that he waits until he is out of sight, and that he turns round to face back down the road before starting — even his mutiny is performed for an audience.
The complaint is not baseless. He really has been manoeuvred into this. But the reasoning underneath it is pure self-interest: everyone is going to get the true fruit, so why should he take the dangerous part? And the policy he proposes — if you know there are monsters, give them a wide berth, and instead they send me looking for them — is the exact inversion of what he was asked to do, delivered with the air of a man stating the obvious. In four lines the novel has fixed him as the pilgrim least committed to the pilgrimage.