焦心欽限 Anxious for the Imperial Term
正話間，又見僮僕來安桌子，請吃粥。粥罷之後，雪比早間又大，須臾，平地有二尺來深。三藏心焦垂淚。陳老道：「老爺放心，莫見雪深憂慮。我舍下頗有幾石糧食，供養得老爺們半生。」三藏道：「老施主不知貧僧之苦。我當年蒙聖恩賜了旨意，擺大駕親送出關，唐王御手擎杯奉餞，問道：『幾時可回？』貧僧不知有山川之險，順口回奏：『只消三年，可取經回國。』自別後，今已七八個年頭，還未見佛面，恐違了欽限；又怕的是妖魔兇狠：所以焦慮。今日有緣得寓潭府，昨夜愚徒們略施小惠報答，實指望求一船隻渡河。不期天降大雪，道路迷漫，不知幾時才得功成回故土也。」陳老道：「老爺放心，正是多的日子過了，那裡在這幾日？且待天晴，化了冰，老拙傾家費產，必處置送老爺過河。」正话间，又见僮仆来安桌子，请吃粥。粥罢之后，雪比早间又大，须臾，平地有二尺来深。三藏心焦垂泪。陈老道：「老爷放心，莫见雪深忧虑。我舍下颇有几石粮食，供养得老爷们半生。」三藏道：「老施主不知贫僧之苦。我当年蒙圣恩赐了旨意，摆大驾亲送出关，唐王御手擎杯奉饯，问道：『几时可回？』贫僧不知有山川之险，顺口回奏：『只消三年，可取经回国。』自别后，今已七八个年头，还未见佛面，恐违了钦限；又怕的是妖魔凶狠：所以焦虑。今日有缘得寓潭府，昨夜愚徒们略施小惠报答，实指望求一船只渡河。不期天降大雪，道路迷漫，不知几时才得功成回故土也。」陈老道：「老爷放心，正是多的日子过了，那里在这几日？且待天晴，化了冰，老拙倾家费产，必处置送老爷过河。」
逐句解 Line by line
They were still talking when the boy-servants came again to set the table and invite them to take gruel.
桌子 ends in the light zi; 正話間: 間 is jiān.
After the gruel the snow came heavier than it had in the early morning, and in a little while it lay two chǐ deep on the level ground.
粥罷: 罷 is bà, the verb "to finish." 尺 stays as chǐ rather than being swapped for a foot, since English has no borrowed name for it; a Ming 尺 ran to roughly a third of a metre, so two of them puts the drift above the knee.
Tripitaka's heart burned in him and he shed tears.
心焦, the heart scorched. Anxiety as burning is a standing figure in this novel, and Tripitaka draws it more than anyone.
Old Chen said: 「Set your mind at rest, your reverence, and do not distress yourself at the depth of the snow.
The old man has misread the tears, and is about to prove it.
I have a few dàn of grain in my house, enough to keep your reverences half a lifetime.」
舍下: 舍 is shè, "dwelling" — a modest way of saying "my place." 幾石: 石 is dàn here, the grain measure, not shí, "stone." And 供養 is gōng in this line, "to provide for, to keep" — set it against 常來供養受用的 at the temple, where the very same two characters were the sacrificial gòng. One word, two entirely different kinds of feeding. 供養得…半生: 得 is the light de that hooks a verb to how far it goes, on the pattern of 夠得半飽, enough to be half full.
Tripitaka said: 「Old benefactor, you do not know this poor monk's trouble.
The correction is gentle and complete. The difficulty is not provisions.
In that year I received the imperial favour and was granted the rescript; the great carriage was drawn out and His Majesty saw me in person beyond the pass, raised the cup in his own hand and gave me the parting draught, and asked: 『In what time may you return?』
當年: 當 is dāng, "in that year" — different again from the dàng of 停當 at the shrine. 奉餞, to offer the cup of farewell. The emperor poured it with his own hand, and that is the detail Tripitaka cannot get out of his head.
I, a poor monk, knowing nothing of the perils of mountain and river, answered off-hand: 『Three years only, and I may fetch the scriptures and return.』
順口回奏, to answer the throne with whatever came to the lips. The confession is inside the phrase: the promise was made carelessly.
Since that parting seven or eight years have gone by, and I have not yet seen the face of the Buddha; I fear I have run past the term the throne set me;
還未見: 還 is hái, "still not." 佛 is fó, a reading fixed across this edition. 欽限 is the term fixed by imperial command — office language, and Tripitaka means it as office language. He is a man overdue on a deadline.
and I fear too the ferocity of the fiends — and therefore I am in anguish.
Two fears are named, and the deadline comes first.
Today I have had the good fortune to lodge in your mansion, and last night my foolish disciples did you some small service by way of return, and I truly looked to ask for a boat and cross the river.
得寓: 得 is dé. 潭府, "deep mansion," is a courteous word for another man's house. 求一船隻 keeps 一 at yì before a rising tone.
I never looked for Heaven to send down a great snow, with the roads lost in the drift, and I do not know at what time I shall finish the work and return to my own soil.」
天降大雪: 降 is jiàng. 才得功成: 得 is dé. The irony is exact, and the monk has no way of hearing it: the snow did not come down from Heaven at all.
Old Chen said: 「Set your mind at rest, your reverence. So many days have gone by already; what do these few signify?
那裡 is nǎ — "where is the harm in a few days?" — a question expecting no answer, not a pointing word. 日子 ends in the light zi.
Wait for clear weather and the melting of the ice, and this old fellow will beggar his house and spend his whole estate to arrange your reverence's crossing.」
處置: 處 is chǔ, the verb, "to manage, to arrange" — not the chù, "place," that this chapter uses everywhere else. 老拙, "this old clumsy one," is how an elderly man refers to himself politely.
This is the passage in which the trap closes, and it closes on a virtue. Tripitaka weeps; Old Chen reasonably assumes he is afraid of being snowed in and hungry, and offers grain. The monk corrects him, and the correction is one of the most revealing speeches he is given anywhere on the journey.
What torments him is not danger and not hunger but a deadline. He recalls the scene at the pass: the rescript granted, the great carriage drawn out, the emperor lifting the parting cup in his own hand and asking when he would be back — and his own answer, given 順口, straight off the lips, three years. Seven or eight have gone. The term he has broken is 欽限, the limit fixed by imperial command, and the word belongs to the language of officials explaining a delay.
The Mandarin-Fish Dame had read him exactly: 取經之心甚急, his heart is set desperately hard on the scriptures. Here is that haste from the inside, and it turns out not to be impatience but shame — a promise made lightly to a man who trusted him, and years of failing to keep it. Before the chapter is over, this feeling will put him on the ice. Old Chen's reply, that so many days have gone and a few more are nothing, is the plain good sense that the whole machinery of the chapter exists to overcome.