法門寺夜 A Night at the Temple of the Dharma Gate
卻說三藏自貞觀十三年九月望前三日,蒙唐王與多官送出長安關外。一二日馬不停蹄,早至法門寺。本寺住持上房長老,帶領眾僧有五百餘人,兩邊羅列,接至裡面,相見獻茶。茶罷進齋,齋後不覺天晚。正是那:却说三藏自贞观十三年九月望前三日,蒙唐王与多官送出长安关外。一二日马不停蹄,早至法门寺。本寺住持上房长老,带领众僧有五百余人,两边罗列,接至里面,相见献茶。茶罢进斋,斋后不觉天晚。正是那:
逐句解 Line by line
Now Sanzang, on the third day before the full moon of the ninth month in the thirteenth year of the Zhenguan reign, had been seen out beyond the passes of Chang'an by the Tang king and his many officers. For a day or two his horse never stayed its hooves, and he came early to the Temple of the Dharma Gate. The abbot of the upper hall, at the head of more than five hundred monks, drew up his community in two ranks, received him within, and after the exchange of greetings offered tea. When the tea was done they went in to the vegetarian meal; and when the meal was over, evening had come before they knew it. It was just like this:
貞觀十三年 — the thirteenth year of Zhenguan, the reign-period of Emperor Taizong (about 639 CE); 望 (wàng) is the full moon, so “three days before 望” falls near the twelfth of the month. 法門寺 is the historical Famen Temple west of Chang'an, famed for its relic of the Buddha's finger-bone. 齋 (zhāi) is the monastic vegetarian meal; 正是那 (“it was just like this”) is the storyteller's formula ushering in descriptive verse.
Shadows stir, and the River of Stars draws near; the moon shines bright, without a single mote of dust.
星河 (xīng hé), the “Star River,” is the Milky Way; the couplet paints the pure, clarified night of a temple at rest.
Wild geese cry out against the far sky; the note of the fulling-block sounds from the neighbour to the west.
遠漢 (yuǎn hàn), the “far Han [River of Heaven],” is again the night sky. 砧 (zhēn) is the stone on which cloth was pounded; its autumnal sound is a stock signal of the season, and of longing, in classical verse.
Homing birds roost in the withered trees; the Chan monks expound the Brahmā-sounds.
梵音 (fàn yīn), the “Brahmā-sounds,” is the pure, resonant voice of Buddhist chanting and scripture — the sound of the Dharma itself.
On the rush cushion, upon a single couch, he sits until the night is about to divide.
蒲團 (pú tuán) is the woven rush mat for seated meditation. 夜將分 — the night “about to divide” (將 jiāng, “on the point of”), drawing toward the small hours when the watches change.
The narrative proper begins with a careful anchoring in calendar and place — the Zhenguan reign, the ninth month, the historical Famen Temple — a documentary specificity that lends the fabulous journey the air of chronicle. The evening at the temple is rendered not by incident but by a five-word regulated poem whose four couplets compose a still, luminous nightscape: the clarified moon, the crying geese, the sound of chanting, the lone meditator. The passage exemplifies a characteristic rhythm of the book, brisk prose narration giving way, at a moment of repose, to lyric description introduced by the tag 正是那. The verse is not mere ornament; its imagery of purity and stillness quietly figures the monastic ideal against which the coming horrors of the road will stand in violent contrast.