長老勿罪 Pray Take No Offence
那老者卻才放心,笑云:「長老勿罪。我老漢一時眼花,不識尊顏。」行者道:「不敢。」老者又問:「令師在那條路上?」行者道:「那南首大路上立的不是?」老者教:「請來,請來。」行者歡喜,把手一招,三藏即同八戒、沙僧,牽白馬,挑行李近前,都對老者作禮。那老者却才放心,笑云:「长老勿罪。我老汉一时眼花,不识尊颜。」行者道:「不敢。」老者又问:「令师在那条路上?」行者道:「那南首大路上立的不是?」老者教:「请来,请来。」行者欢喜,把手一招,三藏即同八戒、沙僧,牵白马,挑行李近前,都对老者作礼。
逐句解 Line by line
Only then was the old man's mind at ease, and he said with a smile, 'Venerable Elder, take no offence.'
長老 is zhǎng lǎo, the respectful address for a senior monk — 長 here is the zhǎng of seniority, against the cháng of physical length in 山長水更長 in the autumn poem. Using 云 instead of 曰 for "said" is a small literary flourish in otherwise plain prose.
'This old fellow's eyes clouded for a moment, and I failed to recognise your honoured face.'
眼花, literally "flowery eyes," is the ordinary idiom for sight blurring with age. 尊顏, "your honoured face," is politeness laid on thick. The whole apology is a courteous fiction: he took Pilgrim for a monster because Pilgrim looks like one.
Pilgrim said, 'You are too kind.'
不敢, literally "I would not dare," is the standard way of brushing off a compliment or an apology. The exchange is pure formula, and its shortness is the joke.
The old man asked again, 'And which road is your master on?'
令師, "your honoured teacher" — 令 is lìng, the polite prefix you attach to another person's relatives. It is the same character that Sha Monk used a moment ago for the seasonal ordinances, in the same reading. 那條 asks which, nǎ.
Pilgrim said, 'Is that not he, standing there on the main road at the southern end?'
And now 那 points rather than asks — nà, against the nǎ of the question it is answering. 立的不是 is a colloquial tag question, roughly "that's him standing there, isn't it?"
The old man bade him, 'Ask him to come, ask him to come.'
教 is jiào in its "have someone do something" sense. Saying 請來 twice is ordinary spoken emphasis.
Pilgrim was delighted. He gave one wave of his hand, and Tripitaka came forward at once with Eight Rules and Sha Monk, leading the white horse and shouldering the baggage; and all of them made their bows to the old man.
把手一招, one beckon of the hand. 挑 is tiāo, to carry a load slung on a shoulder pole — which is Eight Rules' permanent job in this company.
The apology is a polite fiction and both men know it. The old man says his eyes clouded and he failed to recognise a distinguished face; in fact he saw exactly what was in front of him. The convention exists so the encounter can go forward, and Pilgrim's 不敢 accepts it without looking at it too closely.
The rest moves briskly through the mechanics of an introduction: where is your master, there he is on the road, ask him to come, and the party assembles. Nothing is dramatised. The interest is all in the change of footing — the man who was shouting at a monster four lines ago is now sending for the rest of the party so that he can feed them.
The bows at the end are the formal sign that the household has been entered. From here on the old man is a host, and everything the chapter needs from him — the name of the mountain, the eight hundred lǐ of fire, the fan and the person who owns it — will be handed over in the language of hospitality rather than dragged out of him. It is the last conversation of that kind for quite some time.