Song of the Pipa

At Xunyang River's edge we part in the dark autumn night, / Where maple leaves and withered reeds tremble in the frost. / The host dismounts, the guest boards the drifting vessel's height, / We lift the cup to drink, but not a single string is tossed. / Drunk without joy, our parting steeped in heavy grief, / The vast river swallows the moonlight in the chilly tide. / Then suddenly across the waves a pipa's notes give brief / Release, and host and guest forget where they must ride.

We track the sound, and softly ask who plays this hidden tune; / The notes fall still, reluctant words delay. / We draw our boat alongside underneath the autumn moon, / Add wine and turn the lamp to drive the dark away. / A thousand calls, ten thousand pleas compel her to step forth, / Her face half-hidden by the lute held to her breast. / She tunes the pegs and plucks a chord or two of quiet worth, / Before the melody awakes, her soul is manifest.

String after string restrained and low, like deep, unspoken sighs, / She tells the story of a life where fortunes went astray. / Her brow bent low, her flying fingers improvise, / To voice the endless sorrows buried in her clay. / Lightly pressed and slowly twisted, sliding to and fro, / She shifts from Rainbow Skirts to grand Six Yaos' refrain. / The thicker strings crash loud and deep like sudden squalls of snow, / The slender strings weave secret griefs like soft and private rain.

Now mixed together, loud and soft, the notes rise fast and clear, / Like pearls of varied size dropped on a polished plate of jade. / An oriole warbles through the flowers, liquid to the ear, / A mountain spring runs cold across a rocky river glade. / The water chokes upon the stone, the music seems to die, / In silence absolute, the breathless notes suspend. / Then hidden sorrows wake anew beneath the quiet sky, / And this profound and voiceless hush outspeaks what notes intend.

As when a silver pitcher breaks and floods the thirsty ground, / Or armated iron horsemen charge where spears and sabers ring, / The final stroke across the heart brings down the soaring sound, / Like tearing sheets of heavy silk across the four-stringed string. / The eastern and the western boats are wrapped in absolute repose, / While in the river's center gleams the autumn moon's white spark. / She lays the plectrum in the strings as meditation grows, / Then straightens out her robes and stands with quiet, solemn mark.

She tells us she was born and bred within the capital's embrace, / A dweller close by Toad Mound's aristocratic gate. / At thirteen years she mastered every classical lute grace, / The foremost of the Shu performers, envied by her state. / The master players bowed their heads when she had played her part, / And beauties burned with jealousy before her finished art. / The noble youths of districts five vied for her favoring glance, / And bolts of crimson damask fell to pay each brilliant dance.

The silver combs and golden hairpins shattered on the floor, / The crimson skirts were stained with wine spilled in the revelry. / Thus spring winds and autumn moons swept past us by the score, / Until her brother joined the ranks and fell her family. / Her aunt died too; the shifting morn and eve drained youth away, / And horses left her rusting gate as beauty went to gray. / Grown old, she wed a merchant man who traded far for gain, / Who loved his profits more than home and left her to her pain.

Last month he went to Fuliang town to buy his autumn tea, / And left her in an empty boat beside the freezing shore, / To watch the moonlit water wrap its chilling arms round me, / And dream of golden girlhood days she would behold no more. / In dreams she wept, her rouge-stained tears running red and dry. / Hearing her tale, I heave a sigh, then let my sorrows blend: / Two outcasts wandering the earth beneath a hostile sky, / Why should we need to meet before as sister and as friend?

Since last year when I left behind the imperial capital's domain, / I have been banished to this town, struck down by lingering ill. / Xunyang has no music here, and all my months are vain, / Without a string or fluted reed to comfort any hill. / I dwell beside the river flats where swamps and reeds abound, / Where partridges cry out in blood and gibbons mourn the night. / Through spring's bright flowers and autumn moons, no solace can be found, / Except to pour my solitary wine away from light.

Though village flutes and mountain songs are heard upon the breeze, / Their harsh and grating stammers only mock the ear with pain. / But hearing your pipa tonight upon the flowing seas, / Is like celestial music making all my senses plain. / Do not refuse to sit again and play another strain, / And I will pen a ballad for your lute to sing aloud.
Moved by my words, she stood awhile as if caught in a chain, / Then sat and tightened up the strings to thrill the silent crowd.

The music now was sadder still than what had gone before, / And every listener bowed his head and wept behind his sleeve. / And who among the gathered throng was weeping most and sore? / It was the Jiangzhou Subprefect, whose robe was wet to leave.