| 題名： | 琵琶行 |
| 作者： | 白居易 |
| 潯陽江頭夜送客，楓葉荻花秋瑟瑟。 主人下馬客在船，舉酒欲飲無管絃。 醉不成歡慘將別，別時茫茫江浸月。 忽聞水上琵琶聲，主人忘歸客不發。 尋聲闇問彈者誰，琵琶聲停欲語遲。 移船相近邀相見，添酒回燈重開宴。 千呼萬喚始出來，猶抱琵琶半遮面。 轉軸撥絃三兩聲，未成曲調先有情。 絃絃掩抑聲聲思，似訴平生不得志。 低眉信手續續彈，說盡心中無限事。 輕攏慢撚抹復挑，初為霓裳後綠腰。 大絃嘈嘈如急雨，小絃切切如私語。 嘈嘈切切錯雜彈，大珠小珠落玉盤。 間關鶯語花底滑，幽咽泉流冰下難。 冰泉冷澀絃凝絕，凝絕不通聲暫歇。 別有幽愁闇恨生，此時無聲勝有聲。 銀瓶乍破水漿迸，鐵騎突出刀槍鳴。 曲終收撥當心畫，四絃一聲如裂帛。 東船西舫悄無言，唯見江心秋月白。 沉吟放撥插絃中，整頓衣裳起斂容。 自言本是京城女，家在蝦蟆陵下住。 十三學得琵琶成，名屬教坊第一部。 曲罷常教善才服，妝成每被秋娘妒。 五陵年少爭纏頭，一曲紅綃不知數。 鈿頭銀篦擊節碎，血色羅裙翻酒汙。 今年歡笑復明年，秋月春風等閒度。 弟走從軍阿姨死，暮去朝來顏色故。 門前冷落車馬稀，老大嫁作商人婦。 商人重利輕別離，前月浮梁買茶去。 去來江口守空船，繞船月明江水寒。 夜深忽夢少年事，夢啼妝淚紅闌幹。 我聞琵琶已歎息，又聞此語重唧唧。 同是天涯淪落人，相逢何必曾相識。 我從去年辭帝京，謫居臥病潯陽城。 潯陽地僻無音樂，終歲不聞絲竹聲。 住近湓江地低溼，黃蘆苦竹繞宅生。 其間旦暮聞何物，杜鵑啼血猿哀鳴。 春江花朝秋月夜，往往取酒還獨傾。 豈無山歌與村笛，嘔啞嘲哳難為聽。 今夜聞君琵琶語，如聽仙樂耳暫明。 莫辭更坐彈一曲，為君翻作琵琶行。 感我此言良久立，卻坐促絃絃轉急。 淒淒不似向前聲，滿座重聞皆掩泣。 座中泣下誰最多？江州司馬青衫濕。 | |
| 英譯： |
One night, while maples and flowering reeds
Were rustling in the wind,
I saw a friend off by the Xunyang River
Having dismounted our horses and boarded his boat,
We raised our cups, in silence, having ordered no music,
To find that drunkenness could not dispel our grief at parting.
As the moon sank into the mist-covered river,
Suddenly upon the waters came the music of the pipa,
And I forgot my turning home, my friend his setting forth.
Following the sound, in a low voice I asked who played.
The 00 music halted, but the player would would not respond.
We relit the lanterns, replenished food and wine,
And moved the boat around to issue our invitation.
Only after much cajoling did she then appear,
Cradling the pipa, her face half hidden.
Just her turning of the frets to tune the instrument
Sang the depth of her emotion.
Every note and every chord
Gave utterance to a life of yearning.
With lowered head, she played as if at random,
Emptying her heart of endless passion.
Pressing, sliding, stroking, plucking,
First she played The Rainbow Skirts and then Six Minor Notes.
Loud as drumming rain, soft as whispered secrets,
Pearls of varied sizes cascaded on a tray of jade,
An oriole warbled from within the flowery branches,
A stream sobbed its way across its 00 $sandy$ shoals.
$The stream then turned to ice, the note to crystal,$
0
0
0
To a perfect crystal silence that spoke more loudly than sound.
As water gushes forth from a shattered silver bottle,
And armored steeds charge into clashing sword and spear
She swept her plectrum across the strings to make an end,
The four strings sounding together
Like a single piece of splitting silk.
All around us the boats were silent.
We could only see the mid-stream whiteness of the autumn moon.
Pensively, she slipped the plectrum back beneath the strings,
And, straightening her clothes, she rose with great solemnity.
"In the capital I was born, 00 just below Xia Muoling.
Mastering the pipa at thirteen
I was ranked among the most accomplished in the land.
Famed masters listened spellbound to my playing.
Made up, I was the envy of all the other courtesans.
Young dandies vied to give me silk.
In a single performance I don't know
How many bolts of silk they threw me,
How many precious things they broke while beating time,
How many blood red robes of silk they ruined spilling wine.
Year after year I spent in ceaseless gaiety,
Minding neither spring wind nor autumn moon.
My brother went to war, my aunt died;
As dawn yields to dusk my beauty faded,
And before my gate the carriages were few.
Too old, I married a merchant,
Who values profit and makes light of parting.
Last month he went to Fuliang to buy tea;
By the river's mouth I've waited on an empty boat,
Chill moonlit water my only company.
Deep in the night I'll dream suddenly of youth,
And dreaming, stain rouged cheeks with tears."
Already, the pipa's song had made me sigh,
But these words made me utterly forlorn.
Both losers in this wide world,
By chance both here,
It mattered not that we had never met before.
"Last year I left the capital.
$Demoted,$ 00 lying ill in Xunyang,
0
Throughout the year I've been deprived of music.
I live by the River Pen, in a low, damp place,
Surrounded by yellow reeds and bitter bamboo.
Morning to evening nothing can be heard
But cuckoos' bloody cry, and the lonely wail of apes.
On flowery spring mornings or moonlit autumn nights
I take my wine $along the riverside$ and drink alone.
0
Of course there are the caws and grunts and whoops
$That they call music here, $
But tonight 00000 it seemed that fairy music sharpened my senses once again.
Please don't refuse to sit and play another piece,
And for you I'l write the Song of the Pipa.
Moved by my words, she stood long in silence,
Then sat down to play with great intensity,
And with even greater sadness than before,
So that we hid our tears behind uplifted sleeves.
Among us, none wept more bitterly than I:
Drenched with tears were the robes of office
Of the Assistant Prefect of Jiujiang.
BY night, beside the river, underneath 0 The flower-like maple leaves that bloom alone In autumn's silent revels of decay We said farewell. The host dismounting sped The parting guest whose boat $(rocked under him)$, And when the circling stirrup-cup went round No light guitar, no lute was heard again; But on the heart aglow with wine there fell Beneath the cold bright moon the cold adieu Of fading friends—when suddenly beyond The cradled waters stole the lullaby Of some faint lute: then host forgot to go, Guest lingered on: all, wondering at the spell, Besought the dim enchantress to reveal Her presence; but the music died and gave No answer dying. Then a boat shot forth To bring the shy musician to the shore. Cups were refilled and lanterns trimmed again, And lo the festival went on. At last, Slow yielding to their prayers, the stranger came Hiding her burning face behind her lute; And twice her hand essayed the strings and twice She faltered in her task; then tenderly, 0 As for an old sad tale of hopeless years, With drooping head and fingers deft she poured Her soul forth into melodies. Now slow The plectrum led to prayer the cloistered chords, 0 Now loudly with the crash of falling rain, Now soft as the leaf whispering of words, Now loud and soft together as the long Patter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dish Of marble. Liquid now as from the bush Warbles the mango bird; meandering Now as the streamlet seawards. Voiceless now As the wild torrent in the strangling arms Of her ice lover lying motionless Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound. 0 Then as the water from the broken vase Gushes, or on the mailéd horseman falls The anvil din of steel, as on the silk The slash of rending, so upon the strings Her plectrum fell. Then 0 silence over us. $(No sound broke the charmed air.)$ The autumn moon Swam silver o'er the tide, as with a sigh 0 The stranger stirred to go. 0 $("I passed," said she)$ "My childhood in the capital, my home Was near the hills. A girl of twelve I learnt The magic of the lute, the passionate Blending of lute and voice that drew the souls Of the great masters to acknowledgment. And lovely women envious of my face Bowed at the shrine in secret. The young lords Vied for a look's approval. One brief song Brought many costly bales. Gold ornaments And silver pins were smashed and trodden down And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wine $(In oft times echoing applause.)$ And so I laughed my life away from year to year While the spring breezes and the autumn moon Caressed my careless head. Then on a day My brother sought the battles in Kansuh: My mother died: nights passed and mornings came And with them waned my beauty. Now no more My doors were thronged: few were the cavaliers That lingered by my side: so I became A trader's wife, the chattel of a slave Whose lord was gold, who parting little recked Of separation and the unhonoured bride. Since the tenth moon was full my husband went To where the tea-fields ripen. I remained To wander in my little lonely boat Over the cold bright wave o' nights and dream Of the dead days, the haze of happy days And see them again set in dreams and tears." Already the sweet sorrows of her lute Had moved my soul to pity; now these words Pierced me the heart. "O Lady fair," I cried, "We seem companions in distress and need No ceremony to be friends. Last year I left the Imperial City, banished far To this plague-stricken spot where desolation Broods on from year to heavy year, nor lute Nor love's guitar is heard. By marshy bank 0 Girt with tall reeds and dwarf bamboos I dwell. Night long and day no stir, no sound, Only the lurking cuckoo's blood-stained note, The gibbon's mournful wail. 0 0 Hill songs I have And village pipes with their discordant twang. 0 But now I listen to thy lute methinks The gods were parents to thy music. Sit And sing to us again, while I engrave Thy story on my tablets." Gratefully (For long she had been standing) the lute-girl Sat down and passed into another song, Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the song Of now ago. Then all her hearers wept In sorrow unrestrained: and I the more, Weeping until the pale chrysanthemums Upon my darkened robe were starred with dew. By night, beside the river, underneath The flower-like maple leaves that bloom alone In autumn's silent revels of decay, We said farewell. The host, dismounting, sped The parting guest whose boat rocked under him, And when the circling stirrup-cup went round, No light guitar, no lute, was heard again; But on the heart aglow with wine there fell Beneath the cold bright moon the cold adieu Of fading friends—when suddenly beyond The cradled waters stole the lullaby Of some faint lute; then host forgot to go, Guest lingered on: all, wondering at the spell, Besought the dim enchantress to reveal Her presence; but the music died and gave No answer, dying. Then a boat shot forth To bring the shy musician to the shore. Cups were refilled and lanterns trimmed again, And so the festival went on. At last, Slow yielding to their prayers, the stranger came, Hiding her burning face behind her lute; And twice her hand essayed the strings, and twice She faltered in her task; then tenderly, As for an old sad tale of hopeless years, With drooping head and fingers deft she poured Her soul forth into melodies. Now slow The plectrum led to prayer the cloistered chords, Now loudly with the crash of falling rain, Now soft as the leaf whispering of words, Now loud and soft together as the long Patter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dish Of marble; liquid now as from the bush Warbles the mango bird; meandering Now as the streamlet seawards; voiceless now As the wild torrent in the strangling arms Of her ice-lover, lying motionless, Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound. Then as the water from the broken vase Gushes, or on the mailed horseman falls The anvil din of steel, as on the silk The slash of rending, so upon the strings Her plectrum fell.... Then silence over us. No sound broke the charmed air. The autumn moon Swam silver o'er the tide, as with a sigh The stranger stirred to go. "I passed," said she, "My childhood in the capital; my home Was near the hills. A girl of twelve, I learnt The magic of the lute, the passionate Blending of lute and voice that drew the souls Of the great masters to acknowledgment; And lovely women, envious of my face, Bowed at the shrine in secret. The young lords Vied for a look's approval. One brief song Brought many costly bales. Gold ornaments And silver pins were smashed and trodden down, And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wine In oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed my life away from year to year While the spring breezes and the autumn moon Caressed my careless head. Then on a day My brother sought the battles in Kansuh; My mother died: nights passed and mornings came, And with them waned my beauty. Now no more My doors were thronged; few were the cavaliers That lingered by my side; so I became A trader's wife, the chattel of a slave Whose lord was gold, who, parting, little recked Of separation and the unhonoured bride. Since the tenth moon was full my husband went To where the tea-fields ripen. I remained, To wander in my little lonely boat Over the cold bright wave o' nights, and dream Of the dead days, the haze of happy days, And see them set again in dreams and tears." ...... Already the sweet sorrows of her lute Had moved my soul to pity; now these words Pierced me the heart. "O lady fair," I cried, "We are the vagrants of the world, and need No ceremony to be friends. Last year I left the Imperial City, banished far To this plague-stricken spot, where desolation Broods on from year to heavy year, nor lute Nor love's guitar is heard. By marshy bank Girt with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboos I dwell. Night long and day no stir, no sound, Only the lurking cuckoo's blood-stained note, The gibbon's mournful wail. Hill songs I have, And village pipes with their discordant twang. But now I listen to thy lute methinks The gods were parents to thy music. Sit And sing to us again, while I engrave Thy story on my tablets!" Gratefully (For long she had been standing) the lute girl Sat down and passed into another song, Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the song Of now ago. Then all her hearers wept In sorrow unrestrained; and I the more, Weeping until the pale chrysanthemums Upon my darkened robe were starred with dew. By night, beside the river, underneath The flower-like maple leaves that bloom alone In autumn’s silent revels of decay, We said farewell. The host, dismounting, sped The parting guest whose boat rocked under him, And when the circling stirrup-cup went round, No light guitar, no lute, was heard again; But on the heart aglow with wine there fell Beneath the cold bright moon the cold adieu Of fading friends—when suddenly beyond The cradled waters stole the lullaby Of some faint lute; then host forgot to go, Guest lingered on: all, wondering at the spell, Besought the dim enchantress to reveal Her presence; but the music died and gave No answer, dying. Then a boat shot forth To bring the shy musician to the shore. Cups were refilled and lanterns trimmed again, And so the festival went on. At last, Slow yielding to their prayers, the stranger came, Hiding her burning face behind her lute; And twice her hand essayed the strings, and twice She faltered in her task; then tenderly, As for an old sad tale of hopeless years, With drooping head and fingers deft she poured Her soul forth into melodies. Now slow The plectrum led to prayer the cloistered chords, 0 Now loudly with the crash of falling rain, Now soft as the leaf whispering of words, Now loud and soft together as the long Patter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dish Of marble; liquid now as from the bush Warbles the mango bird; meandering Now as the streamlet seawards; voiceless now As the wild torrent in the strangling arms Of her ice-lover, lying motionless, 0 Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound. Then as the water from the broken vase Gushes, or on the mailèd horseman falls The anvil din of steel, as on the silk The slash of rending, so upon the strings Her plectrum fell. . . . Then silence over us. No sound broke the charmed air. The autumn moon Swam silver o’er the tide, as with a sigh The stranger stirred to go. “I passed,” said she, “My childhood in the capital; my home Was near the hills. A girl of twelve, I learnt The magic of the lute, 0 the passionate Blending of lute and voice that drew the souls Of the great masters to acknowledgment; And lovely women, envious of my face, Bowed at the shrine in secret. The young lords Vied for a look’s approval. One brief song Brought many costly bales. Gold ornaments And silver pins were smashed and trodden down, And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wine In oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed my life away from year to year While the spring breezes and the autumn moon Caressed my careless head. Then on a day My brother sought the battles in Kansuh; My mother died: nights passed and mornings came, And with them waned my beauty. Now no more My doors were thronged; few were the cavaliers That lingered by my side; so I became A trader’s wife, the chattel of a slave Whose lord was gold, who, parting, little recked Of separation and the unhonoured bride. Since the tenth moon was full my husband went To where the tea-fields ripen. I remained, To wander in my little lonely boat Over the cold bright wave o’ nights, and dream Of the dead days, the haze of happy days, And see them set again in dreams and tears.” • • • • • • Already the sweet sorrows of her lute Had moved my soul to pity; now these words Pierced me the heart. “O lady fair,” I cried, “We are the vagrants of the world, and need No ceremony to be friends. Last year I left the Imperial City, banished far To this plague-stricken spot, where desolation Broods on from year to heavy year, nor lute Nor love’s guitar is heard. By marshy bank Girt with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboos I dwell. Night long and day no stir, no sound, Only the lurking cuckoo’s blood-stained note, The gibbon’s mournful wail. 0 0 Hill songs I have, And village pipes with their discordant twang. But now I listen to thy lute methinks The gods were parents to thy music. Sit And sing to us again, while I engrave Thy story on my tablets!” Gratefully (For long she had been standing) the lute girl Sat down and passed into another song, Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the song Of now ago. Then all her hearers wept In sorrow unrestrained; and I the more, Weeping until the pale chrysanthemums Upon my darkened robe were starred with dew. I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Hsün-yang River, Where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn. I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat, And we raised our cups and wished to drink—but, alas, there was no music. For all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other, When the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon— We had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water. Host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way. We followed where the melody led and asked the player's name. The sound broke off ... then reluctantly she answered. We moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us, Summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet. Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us, Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar. ... She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings; We could feel what she was feeling, even before she played: Each string a meditation, each note a deep thought, As if she were telling us the ache of her whole life. She knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music, Little by little letting her heart share everything with ours. She brushed the strings, twisted them slow, swept them, plucked them— First the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones. The large strings hummed like rain, The small strings whispered like a secret, Hummed, whispered—and then were intermingled Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade. We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers. We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand.... By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament, Told even more in silence than they had told in sound ... A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water, And out leapt armoured horses and weapons that clashed and smote— And, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke, And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk.... There was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west, And we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart. ... When she had slowly placed the pick back among the strings, She rose and smoothed her clothing and, formal, courteous, Told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital, Living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads, And had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen, With her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians, Her art the admiration even of experts, Her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers, How noble youths of Wu-ling had lavishly competed And numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song, And silver combs with shell inlay been snapped by her rhythms, And skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine ... Season after season, joy had followed joy, Autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding, Till first her brother left for the war, and then her aunt died, And evenings went and evenings came, and her bcauty faded— With ever fewer chariots and horses at her door; So that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant Who, prizing money first, careless how he left her, Had gone, a month before, to Fou-liang to buy tea. And she had been tending an empty boat at the river's mouth, No company but the bright moon and the cold water. And sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs And be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears. ... Her very first guitar-note had started me sighing; Now, having heard her story, I was sadder still. "We are both unhappy—to the sky's end. We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter? I came, a year ago, away from the capital And am now a sick exile here in Kiu-kiang— And so remote is Kiu-kiang that I have heard no music, Neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year. My quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp, With bitter reeds and yellowed rushes all about the house. And what is to be heard here, morning and evening?— The bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes. On flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone, Of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes, But they are crude and strident, and grate on my ears. And tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar, I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairy-music. Do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again. And I will write you a ballad to the tune you have just sung." ... Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment, Then sat again to her strings—and they sounded even sadder, Although the tunes were different from those she had played before ... The feasters, all listening, covered their faces. But who of them all was crying the most? This Kiu-kiang official. My blue sleeve was wet. BY night, at the riverside, adieus were spoken: beneath the maple's flower-like leaves, blooming amid autumnal decay. Host had dismounted to speed the parting guest, already on board his boat. Then a stirrup-cup went round, but no flute, no guitar, was heard. And so, ere the heart was warmed with wine, came words of cold farewell, beneath the bright moon glittering over the bosom of the broad stream . . . . . when suddenly, across the water, a lute broke forth into sound. Host forgot to go, guest lingered on, wondering whence the music, and asking who the performer might be. At this, all was hushed, but no answer given. A boat approached, and the musician was invited to join the party. Cups were refilled, lamps trimmed again, and preparations for festivity renewed. At length, after much pressing, she came forth, hiding her face behind her lute; and twice of thrice sweeping the strings, betrayed emotion ere her song was sung. Then every note she struck swelled with pathos deep and strong, as though telling the tale of a wrecked and hopeless life, while with bent head and rapid finger she poured forth her soul in melody. Now softly, now slowly, her plectrum sped to and fro; now this air, now that; loudly, with the crash of falling rain; softly, as the murmur of whispered words; now loud and soft to- gether, like the patter of pearls and pearlets dropping upon a marble dish. Or liquid, like the warbling of the mango-bird in the bush ; trickling, like the streamlet on its downward course. And then like the torrent, stilled by the grip of frost, so for a moment was the music lulled, in a passion too deep for sound. Then, as bursts the water from the broken vase, as clash the arms upon the mailed horseman, so fell the plectrum once more upon the strings with a slash like the rent of silk. Silence on all sides: not a sound stirred the air. The autumn moon shone silver athwart the tide, as with a sigh the musician thrust her plectrum beneath the strings and quietly prepared to take leave. “My child- hood,” said she, “was spent at the capital, in my home near the hills. At thirteen, I learnt the guitar, and my name was enrolled among the primas of the day. The maëstro himself acknowledged my skill: the most beau- teous of women envied my lovely face. The youths of the neighbourhood vied with each other to do me honour: a single song brought me I know not how many costly bales. Golden ornaments and silver pins were smashed, blood-red skirts of silk were stained with wine, in oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed on from year to year, while the spring breeze and autumn moon swept over my careless head. “Then my brother went away to the wars: my mother died. Nights passed and mornings came; and with them my beauty began to fade. My doors were no longer thronged: but few cavaliers remained. So I took a husband, and became a trader's wife. He was all for gain, and little recked of separation from me. Last month he went off to buy tea, and I remained behind, to wander in my lonely boat on moon-lit nights over the cold wave, thinking of the happy days gone by, my reddened eyes telling of tearful dreams.” The sweet melody of the lute had already moved my soul to pity, and now these words pierced me to the heart again. “O lady,” I cried, “we are companions in misfortune, and need no ceremony to be friends. Last year I quitted the Imperial city, banished to this fever-stricken spot, where in its desolation, from year's end to year's end, no flute nor guitar is heard. I live by the marshy river-bank, surrounded by yellow reeds and stunted bamboos. Day and night no sounds reach my ears save the blood-stained note of the cuckoo, the gibbon's mournful wail. 'Hill songs I have, and village pipes with their harsh discordant twang. But now that I listen to thy lute's discourse, methinks ’tis the music of the Gods. Prithee sit down awhile and sing to us yet again, while I commit thy story to writing.” Grateful to me (for she had been standing long), the lute-girl sat down and quickly broke forth into another song, sad and soft, unlike the song of just now. Then all her hearers melted into tears unrestrained; and none flowed more freely than mine, until my bosom was wet with weeping. One night by riverside I bade a friend goodbye, In maple leaves and rushes autumn seemed to sigh. I, the host, dismounted and saw the guest in the boat, We wished to drink but there was no music afloat. Without flute-songs we drank our cups with heavy heart, The moonbeams blent with water when we were to part. Suddenly o'er the stream we heard a pipa sound, I forgot to go home and the guest stood spell-bound. We followed where the music led to find the player, But heard the pipa stop and no music in the air. We moved our boat near the musician's to invite Her to drink at our feast replenished by lamplight. We urged her time and again to appear until She came, half-hiding her face behind a pipa still. She turned the pegs and tested twice or thrice each string. Before a tune was played we heard her feelings sing. Then note on note she struck with pathos deep and strong, It seemed to say she'd missed her dreams all her life long. Head bent, she played with unpremeditated art On and on to pour out her overflowing heart. She lightly plucked, slowly stroked and twanged loud The song of "Green Waist" after that of "Rainbow Cloud". The thick strings loudly thrummed like the pattering rain; The fine strings softly tinkled in a murmuring strain. When loud and soft notes mingling were together played, 'Twas like large and small pearls dropping on a plate of jade. Now liquid like orioles warbling in flowery land, Then sobbing like a stream running along the sand. But the stream seemed so cold as to congeal the string And from congealed strings no more sound was heard to ring. Still we heard hidden grief and vague regret concealed, Then music expressed far less than silence revealed. Suddenly we heard water burst a silver jar And the clash of spears and sabres come from afar. She made a central sweep when the music was ending, The four strings made one sound, as of silk one is rending, There was silence in the east boat and in the west, We saw but autumn moon white in the river's breast. And mutely she slid the plectrum between the strings, Smoothed out her dress and rose with a composed mien. "I have spent in the Capital my early springs, Where at the foot of Mount of Toads my home had been. At thirteen I learned on the pipa how to play, And my name was among the primas of the day. My skill the admiration of the masters won, And my beauty was envied by desert'd fair one. The gallant young men vied to shower gifts on me, One tune played, countless silk rolls were given with glee. Beating time, I let silver comb and pin drop down, And spilt-out wine oft stained my blood-red silken gown. From year to year I laughed my joyous life away On moonlit autumn night or windy vernal day. My younger brother left for war, and died my maid, Days passed; nights came, and my beauty began to fade. Fewer and fewer were cabs and steeds at my door, I married a smug merchant when my prime was o'er. The merchant cared for money much more than for me, One month ago he went away to purchase tea, Leaving his poor wife alone in an empty boat, So, shrouded in moonlight, on cold river I float. Deep in the night I dreamed of happy bygone years And woke to find my rouged face criss-crossed with tears." Listening to her sad music, I sighed with pain; Hearing her sad story, I sighed again and again. "Both of us in misfortune go from shore to shore. Meeting now, need we have known each other before? I was banished from the capital last year To live degraded and ill in this city here. This city's too remote to know melodious song, So I have never heard music all the year long. I dwell by river-bank, on a low and damp ground, In a house yellow reeds and stunt'd bamboos surround. What is to be heard here from daybreak till night-fall But gibbons' sad cry and cuckoo's home-going' call? By blooming riverside and under autumn moon, I've often taken wine up and drunk it alone. Of course I've mountain songs and village pipes to hear, But they are crude and strident and grate on the ear. Listening to you playing on pipa tonight, With your music divine e'en my hearing seems bright. Will you please sit down and play for us one tune more? I'll write for you an ode to the pipa I adore." Moved by what I said, the player stood there for long, Then sat down, tore at the strings and played another song. So sad, so drear, so different, it moved us deep, All those who heard it hid the face and began to weep. Of all the company at table who wept most? It was none other than the exiled blue-robed host. |
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