Canonical Classics ← 第三十八回
第三十八回
yīngérwènzhīxiézhèng
jīncānxuánjiànjiǎzhēn

The Infant Questions His Mother and Learns the Crooked from the Upright · Metal and Wood, Probing the Mystery, Perceive the False and the True

花園荒境
模式 Mode Read Study
拼音 Pinyin Off
字體 Script
原文 Original text 繁體 Traditional Reader's edition 含詞賦 With rhapsody

花園荒境 The Garden Fallen to Ruin

xíngzhědào:「xiōngashuōwèikànzhèxíngzhědào:「xiōngashuōwèikànzhè

cǎihuàdiāolánlángbèibǎozhuāngtíngwāicǎihuàdiāolánlángbèibǎozhuāngtíngwāi
shātīngliǎoànjìnchénmáisháoyàobàishātīngliǎoànjìnchénmáisháoyàobài
méiguīxiāngàndānbǎikōngkāiméiguīxiāngàndānbǎikōngkāi
róng槿jǐncǎogāigāihuìyōnghuàiróng槿jǐncǎogāigāihuìyōnghuài
qiǎoshíshānfēngdǎochítángshuǐshuāiqiǎoshíshānfēngdǎochítángshuǐshuāi
qīngsōngzhúgānchái滿mǎnróngrónghāoàiqīngsōngzhúgāncháimǎnróngrónghāoài
dānguìtáozhīsǔnhǎiliútánggēnwāidānguìtáozhīsǔnhǎiliútánggēnwāi
qiáotóujìngyǒucāngtáilěngluòhuāyuánjìngjiè。」qiáotóujìngyǒucāngtáilěngluòhuāyuánjìngjiè。」

逐句解 Line by line

xíngzhědào:「xiōngashuōwèi xíngzhědào:「xiōngashuōwèi

The Pilgrim said: 'Brother — you ask why I grew agitated?'

He was not shouting from fear. 發急為何: why he grew agitated — read wèi, 'for what reason.' The answer is the garden itself. = xíng.

kànzhè kànzhè

'Just look at this:'

你看這, 'just look at this' — the tag that hands the floor over to the descriptive set-piece that follows, a or rhapsody.

cǎihuàdiāolánlángbèibǎozhuāngtíngwāi cǎihuàdiāolánlángbèibǎozhuāngtíngwāi

The painted balustrades are wrecked, the jewel-dressed pavilions lean awry.

The catalogue of ruin opens with the architecture: 彩畫雕欄, painted and carved railings, now 狼狽, in wreckage; 寶妝亭閣, jewel-dressed pavilions, now 攲歪, leaning off true.

shātīngliǎoànjìnchénmáisháoyàobài shātīngliǎoànjìnchénmáisháoyàobài

Sedge-banks and knotweed shores lie wholly buried in dust; peonies and - roses have all decayed.

莎汀蓼岸: sedge-flats and knotweed banks, the planted waterside of an ornamental garden. 荼䕷 is the - rose, a late-spring rambler whose flowering traditionally marks the end of the season — a rare character in , met almost only in this plant's name. = jìn, 'wholly.'

méiguīxiāngàndānbǎikōngkāi méiguīxiāngàndānbǎikōngkāi

Jasmine and rugosa rose breathe a faded scent; tree-peony and lily bloom to no avail.

茉莉玫瑰: jasmine and rugosa rose. 牡丹百合: tree-peony and lily. 空開 — to bloom in vain — is the saddest phrase in the passage: the flowers are still doing their work, and there is nobody left to look.

róng槿jǐncǎogāigāihuìyōnghuài róng槿jǐncǎogāigāihuìyōnghuài

Hibiscus and rose-of-Sharon choke in rank grass; rare herbs and wondrous blossoms are smothered and spoiled.

芙蓉木槿: hibiscus and rose-of-Sharon. 異卉奇葩: rare herbs and wonderful blossoms. 垓垓 is rank and overgrown; 壅壞, choked and spoiled — smothered by the weeds that moved in.

qiǎoshíshānfēngdǎochítángshuǐshuāi qiǎoshíshānfēngdǎochítángshuǐshuāi

The cunning rockery peaks have all toppled; the pond has run dry and its fish grown feeble.

巧石山峰: the artfully piled 'peaks' of a rockery, the miniature mountains at the heart of any Chinese garden, now all fallen over (俱倒, = dǎo). 水涸魚衰: the pond dried out and the fish gone feeble. A garden is water and stone before it is anything else, and both have failed.

qīngsōngzhúgānchái滿mǎnróngrónghāoài qīngsōngzhúgāncháimǎnróngrónghāoài

Green pine and purple bamboo are like dry kindling; the paths are thick with tangled mugwort and wormwood.

似乾柴: like dry firewood ( = ; = gān, 'dry,' not qián, the trigram). 蒿艾, mugwort and wormwood, are the weeds that come up wherever nobody is tending.

dānguìtáozhīsǔnhǎiliútánggēnwāi dānguìtáozhīsǔnhǎiliútánggēnwāi

Cinnamon and green-fleshed peach have their boughs broken; pomegranate and kerria have their roots wrenched askew.

丹桂碧桃: cinnamon-osmanthus and green-fleshed peach. 海榴棠棣: pomegranate and kerria. 枝損根歪: boughs broken above, roots wrenched below.

qiáotóujìngyǒucāngtáilěngluòhuāyuánjìngjiè。」 qiáotóujìngyǒucāngtáilěngluòhuāyuánjìngjiè。」

At the bridgehead and along the winding path lies grey-green moss — such is the desolate compass of this garden.'

蒼苔: grey-green moss, the growth that arrives when feet stop coming. 冷落花園境界 — 'the cold, neglected compass of this garden' — closes the rhapsody by naming the whole scene at once.


總評 Commentary

Wukong's outcry turns out to be grief, not fear. The imperial garden, once the pride of the kingdom, lies in complete ruin, and the novel marks the discovery with a full descriptive rhapsody. It is a conventional set-piece — the ruined-garden catalogue was a standing form — but it is deployed to precise effect here: the desolation is the visible sign of the usurpation, the outward rot that answers the demon's hidden crime.

The method is accumulation. Couplet after couplet names flowers, trees, water and stone, and pairs each with a verb of destruction: buried, decayed, toppled, dried, broken, wrenched. The sheer richness of the planting — jasmine, peony, hibiscus, pomegranate, the - rose — makes the common ruin worse, and the relentless parallel structure enacts how total the collapse has been.

Read allegorically, the garden is the kingdom under false rule: cultivation gone to weeds, living water run dry. The true king lies drowned in this very garden's well, so what the pilgrims are looking at is both a literal wreck and an emblem — the ground of decay from which, once the impostor falls, everything will have to be started again.