老黿求問 The Turtle's Question
卻說那師父駕著白黿，那消一日，行過了八百里通天河界，乾手乾腳的登岸。三藏上崖，合手稱謝道：「老黿累你，無物可贈，待我取經回謝你罷。」老黿道：「不勞師父賜謝。我聞得西天佛祖無滅無生，能知過去未來之事。我在此間整修行了一千三百餘年，雖然延壽身輕，會說人語，只是難脫本殼。萬望老師父到西天與我問佛祖一聲，看我幾時得脫本殼，可得一個人身？」三藏響允道：「我問，我問。」那老黿才淬水中去了。却说那师父驾着白鼋，那消一日，行过了八百里通天河界，干手干脚的登岸。三藏上崖，合手称谢道：「老鼋累你，无物可赠，待我取经回谢你罢。」老鼋道：「不劳师父赐谢。我闻得西天佛祖无灭无生，能知过去未来之事。我在此间整修行了一千三百余年，虽然延寿身轻，会说人语，只是难脱本壳。万望老师父到西天与我问佛祖一声，看我几时得脱本壳，可得一个人身？」三藏响允道：「我问，我问。」那老鼋才淬水中去了。
逐句解 Line by line
Now we tell how the master, riding the white turtle, in less than a day passed over the eight hundred li of the River That Reaches to Heaven, and stepped ashore with dry hands and dry feet.
卻說 picks the thread back up. 那師父 points, nà; 駕著 keeps 著 as zhe; 黿 yuán; 那消一日 points, nà; 行過了 keeps 行 as xíng and 了 as le; 八百里 stays in Chinese measure as eight hundred lǐ, something over four hundred kilometres. Both occurrences of 乾 in 乾手乾腳 are gān, "dry" — the same character names the first trigram of the 易經, where it is qián, and that is the reading most likely to intrude. And dryness is the whole point of the line. The ice soaked him and nearly drowned him; the turtle puts him down without a wet foot.
Tripitaka went up the bank, joined his palms, and gave thanks: "Old turtle, I have troubled you, and have nothing to give you. I'll thank you when I come back with the scriptures."
三藏 keeps 藏 as zàng; 稱謝 takes 稱 as chēng; 老黿 keeps 黿 as yuán. The bare 罷 at the end of the sentence is the softening tag, read ba — this is the one place in the chapter where the character takes that reading, against the full-toned bà of 罷了 and 也罷 earlier. It is the ancestor of today's 吧. His promise to repay on the way home is what opens the door for the turtle's request.
The old turtle said: "No need for the master to give thanks.
老黿 keeps 黿 as yuán. He wants no gift. What he wants is of an altogether different order.
I have heard that the Buddha-Patriarch of the Western Heaven is without death and without birth, and knows the things of past and future.
聞得 keeps 得 as dé; 佛祖 keeps 佛 as fó. 無滅無生, without extinction and without birth — the turtle's grasp of what the Buddha is, and the whole basis of the question he is about to ask.
I have been at my cultivation here for over one thousand three hundred years. Though my span is lengthened and my body grown light, and I have learned to speak human speech, I still cannot shed my original shell.
此間 keeps 間 as jiān; 修行了 keeps 行 as xíng and 了 as le; 難脫 takes 難 as nán, "hard to"; 本殼 takes 殼 as ké, the shell. Thirteen hundred years of practice have bought him length of life, lightness of body and human speech, and left him still a turtle. That is the one transformation he cannot manage.
I earnestly beg the old master, when you reach the Western Heaven, to ask the Buddha-Patriarch on my behalf: when shall I be able to shed my shell and win a human body?"
佛祖 keeps 佛 as fó; 看我 keeps 看 as kàn; 得脫 and 可得一個人身 both keep 得 as dé; 本殼 keeps 殼 as ké. His entire fee for the crossing is a question carried west — when will I get out of this shell, and may I have a human body?
Tripitaka gave his ready promise: "I will ask, I will ask."
三藏 keeps 藏 as zàng; 響允 is to agree loudly and at once. Note how easily it is given, and how quickly. It is a promise the master will forget, and the novel will make him pay for it in a way no reader forgets.
Only then did the old turtle plunge down into the water and go.
那老黿 points, nà; 黿 yuán; 淬水中 keeps 中 as zhōng; 去了 takes 了 as le. He goes back under on the strength of a word, and the crossing ends on that word still unredeemed.
The turtle asks for no payment, only a question. After thirteen hundred years he has lengthened his life, lightened his body and learned to speak, and the one thing he cannot do is 脫本殼, get out of his own shell and into a human form. He believes the Buddha, being 無滅無生 and knowing what is past and what is to come, can tell him when it will happen. That so great a service should be repaid with a single question carried west is entirely in keeping with the novel's economy of merit: his whole hope rests on somebody else's destination.
Tripitaka's promise is given twice and given lightly — 我問，我問, I'll ask, I'll ask — and readers of the whole book know it as one of its most consequential loose threads. Near the end of the journey the pilgrims will recross the Tongtian on this same turtle's back, and Tripitaka will have to admit he forgot; the turtle will tip the lot of them into the river, and the scriptures they have crossed the world for will come out soaked.
The seed of that disaster is planted right here, on a riverbank, in an easy assent given to a creature already submerging on the strength of it. The chapter sets it down without any emphasis at all — a small promise, readily made — and the novel lets it sit and wait for its reckoning.