謹言謹言 Mind Your Tongue
三藏捻他一把道:「謹言,謹言。我們不與他相識,又不認親,左右暫時一會,管他怎的?」說不了,進了二門,只見那正殿謹閉,東廊下坐著一個道士,在那裡丸藥。三藏捻他一把道:「谨言,谨言。我们不与他相识,又不认亲,左右暂时一会,管他怎的?」说不了,进了二门,只见那正殿谨闭,东廊下坐着一个道士,在那里丸药。
逐句解 Line by line
Tripitaka gave him a pinch. "Mind your tongue. Mind your tongue."
捻 is niǎn, to pinch or twist between finger and thumb — a small, private, entirely recognisable gesture, and the Tang Monk's usual way of managing his loudest disciple in public. The doubling of 謹言 is how spoken Chinese does urgency: say it twice and it becomes a hiss.
"We are not acquainted with the man, and we are no kin of his. Either way it is a short call — what business is he of ours?"
相識 takes 相 as xiāng, mutually: to be known to each other. 左右 is not left and right here but "in any case", "either way" — a small vernacular hinge that survives into modern speech. And 管他怎的 is as close as the Tang Monk comes to slang: never mind him, what does it matter.
Before he had finished speaking they were through the inner gate, and there they saw the main hall shut fast, and under the eastern gallery a Daoist sitting rolling pills.
Two 了 within seven characters, and two different words. 說不了 is liǎo, to finish — he had not finished speaking. 進了 is le, the little marker that an action has happened. Then the detail that should stop a reader: 正殿謹閉, the main hall shut fast, in a house that has just advertised itself on its gate. 丸 is doing duty as a verb — to roll into pills — and 坐著 takes 著 as zhe, sitting there and going on sitting.
The pinch is the whole relationship in one gesture. Tripitaka cannot control Pilgrim by authority and both of them know it, so he manages him the way a parent manages a child in a shop — a squeeze on the arm and a whispered word, twice. His reasoning is impeccable and entirely beside the point: we do not know him, we are not related to him, we will not be long. Every clause of that will be false within the hour.
Then the staging turns. The main hall is shut — the one room a religious house keeps open — and the master of the place is not in it. He is off to the side, under a gallery, making pills. A Daoist rolling pills is the most ordinary sight imaginable and also, in a book where every poison arrives as medicine, a loaded one. The narrator does not comment. He simply puts the man where you can see his hands.
Hold on to the shut hall. It opens later in the chapter, and what is behind it is the three pure ones on an altar, in front of which this Daoist will offer his guests tea.