師徒問答 Master and Disciples
三藏聽言，心中暗道：「可憐啊！我弟子可是那等樣沒脊骨的和尚？」欲待要哭，又恐那寺裡的老和尚笑他，但暗暗扯衣揩淚，忍氣吞聲，急走出去，見了三個徒弟。那行者見師父面上含怒，向前問：「師父，寺裡和尚打你來？」唐僧道：「不曾打。」八戒說：「一定打來；不是，怎麼還有些哭包聲？」那行者道：「罵你來？」唐僧道：「也不曾罵。」行者道：「既不曾打，又不曾罵，你這般苦惱怎麼？好道是思鄉哩？」唐僧道：「徒弟，他這裡不方便。」行者笑道：「這裡想是道士？」唐僧怒道：「觀裡才有道士，寺裡只是和尚。」行者道：「你不濟事。但是和尚，即與我們一般。常言道：『既在佛會下，都是有緣人。』你且坐，等我進去看看。」三藏听言，心中暗道：「可怜啊！我弟子可是那等样没脊骨的和尚？」欲待要哭，又恐那寺里的老和尚笑他，但暗暗扯衣揩泪，忍气吞声，急走出去，见了三个徒弟。那行者见师父面上含怒，向前问：「师父，寺里和尚打你来？」唐僧道：「不曾打。」八戒说：「一定打来；不是，怎么还有些哭包声？」那行者道：「骂你来？」唐僧道：「也不曾骂。」行者道：「既不曾打，又不曾骂，你这般苦恼怎么？好道是思乡哩？」唐僧道：「徒弟，他这里不方便。」行者笑道：「这里想是道士？」唐僧怒道：「观里才有道士，寺里只是和尚。」行者道：「你不济事。但是和尚，即与我们一般。常言道：『既在佛会下，都是有缘人。』你且坐，等我进去看看。」
逐句解 Line by line
Tripitaka, hearing this, thought to himself: "How pitiful!"
心中暗道 is to say something silently in the heart. 藏 is zàng, 中 is zhōng.
"Am I, your disciple, that sort of spineless monk?"
沒脊骨 is literally "no backbone" and means in Ming vernacular exactly what it means in English — shameless, without self-respect. Remember the phrase; it comes back in two passages, aimed at somebody else. 脊 is jǐ; 那 is nà; 和尚 takes hé.
He wanted to weep, but feared the old monk of the temple would laugh at him; so he only secretly tugged his sleeve to wipe his tears, swallowed his anger in silence, hurried out, and found his three disciples.
忍氣吞聲 — swallow the anger, choke back the voice — is still the idiom for putting up with an injury in silence, and it is a small masterpiece of observation that he wipes his eyes on his sleeve first, in case the old monk is watching. 那 is nà; 和尚 takes hé.
The Pilgrim, seeing the anger in his master's face, came forward and asked: "Master, did the temple monks beat you?"
The register changes the moment the disciples open their mouths. 含怒 is anger held in the face; 那 is nà, 行 is xíng, 和尚 takes hé.
Tripitaka said: "They didn't beat me."
不曾 is the vernacular "did not, never did."
Bajie said: "They must have beaten you;"
Eight Rules goes straight to the worst case, as always. 一定 is "surely, certainly."
"if not, why the sound of blubbering?"
And he has evidence. 哭包聲 is a snivelling, cry-baby tone — the sound of somebody who has been crying and would rather you did not mention it, which Eight Rules mentions. 還 is hái.
The Pilgrim said: "Did they curse you?"
Wukong works down the list of possible injuries. 那 is nà, 行 is xíng.
Tripitaka said: "They didn't curse me either."
也不曾 continues the denial.
The Pilgrim said: "If they neither beat you nor cursed you, why are you so distressed?"
Neither beaten nor cursed, and still in tears — the interrogation stalls. 行 is xíng.
"Could it be you're homesick?"
好道 is "could it be, surely it isn't"; 思鄉 is longing for home. He is guessing at the wrong grief, though it is the one his master had an hour ago.
Tripitaka said: "Disciple, it isn't convenient here."
The most delicate euphemism in the chapter. 不方便 — "it isn't convenient here" — is the abbot's own dismissal, handed on without complaint.
The Pilgrim said with a laugh: "The folk here must be Daoists, I suppose?"
Wukong's theory: only a Daoist house would treat Buddhist pilgrims like this. 道士 is a Daoist priest; 行 is xíng.
Tripitaka said crossly: "It's abbeys that have Daoists; a temple has only monks."
And even in distress, Tripitaka corrects the terminology. A 觀, read guàn, is a Daoist abbey; a 寺 is a Buddhist temple; the two do not house the same people. 和尚 takes hé.
The Pilgrim said: "You're no use at this."
不濟事 is useless, no good at it, 濟 read jì. 行 is xíng.
"If they're monks, then they're of a kind with us."
一般 is "the same, of one sort." Which is the argument the abbot has just refused to accept.
"As the saying goes: 'All who are gathered beneath the Buddha's assembly are people bound by affinity.'"
佛會 is the Buddha's assembly; 有緣人 are people bound by 緣, the karmic affinity that brings lives into contact. Note what the proverb is doing here: it sounds like an appeal to fellowship, and it is being used as a licence to walk in uninvited. 佛 is fó, 都 is dōu.
"You sit here; let me go in and have a look."
Sit down, master. The polite approach has failed, and nobody expects the next one to be polite.
Tripitaka retreats to his disciples, swallowing the humiliation — he would weep, but the old monk might see — and the register shifts abruptly from pathos to comedy. Wukong and Eight Rules interrogate him with blunt, rapid questions: were you beaten? cursed? homesick? Eight Rules, hearing the blubber in his master's voice, is certain there was a beating. All Tripitaka can manage is a euphemism: it isn't convenient here.
The exchange restores the party's comic dynamic and turns the chapter toward its reversal. Wukong's guess that the inhospitable residents must be Daoists earns a prim correction — abbeys have Daoists, temples have monks — and his closing appeal, that everyone gathered under the Buddha is bound by affinity, sounds like fellowship and functions as a pretext. He tells his master to sit down and goes in himself. The meek approach has failed, and nobody expects the Great Sage's to be meek.