琵琶行

Song of the Pipa Player

In the tenth year of the Yuanhe era, I was demoted to the post of adjutant in Jiujiang Commandery. The following autumn, I was seeing a friend off—some versions say "seeing a friend off to"—the mouth of Penpu, when I heard someone playing the pipa on a boat at night. Listening to its sound, I found it resonant with the style of the capital. I asked who the player was and learned she had been a courtesan of Chang'an—some versions say "had originally been a courtesan of Chang'an"—who had studied the pipa under the masters Mu and Cao. Now that her youth and beauty had faded, she had given herself in marriage to a merchant. I ordered wine and had her play several pieces at a brisk tempo. When the music ended, she sat in pensive silence—some versions say "in a pensive manner"—and recounted the happy events of her youth. Now she was adrift, worn and haggard—some versions say "worn and wasted"—wandering from place to place upon the rivers and lakes. I had been serving outside the capital for two years, content and at peace with myself. But moved by her words, that evening I first felt the sorrow of exile. So I composed this long poem to present to her. In all it contains six hundred and sixteen characters, and I titled it "Song of the Pipa"—some versions say "Ballad of the Pipa."

At the head of the Xunyang River, seeing a friend off by night,

Maple leaves and reed flowers rustle in the autumn chill—some versions say "rustle and sigh."

The host dismounts, the guest is aboard the boat;

We raise our cups to drink but have no strings or pipes.

Drunk, we cannot find joy, sadly we are about to part;

At parting, the vast river is steeped in moonlight.

Suddenly I hear the sound of a pipa upon the water;

The host forgets to return, the guest does not depart.

Following the sound, I ask in the dark who is playing—

The pipa falls silent, as if reluctant to speak.

We move our boat closer and invite her to meet us,

Add wine, turn back the lamps, and reopen the feast.

After a thousand calls and ten thousand summons she finally emerges,

Still clutching—some versions say "holding"—the pipa, half hiding her face.

She turns the pegs and plucks the strings two or three times—some versions say "five"—

Before the tune is formed, feeling is already there.

Each string suppressed, each note full of longing,

As if telling of a life of thwarted hopes—some versions say "thwarted ambitions."

Brows lowered, her hands strummed freely, note after note,

She speaks of the boundless matters of her heart.

Lightly gathering, slowly rubbing, wiping, then plucking,

First playing "Rainbow Skirt," then "Green Waist"—some versions say "Liuyao."

The thick strings clatter and chatter like a sudden rain;

The thin strings whisper softly—some versions say "secretly"—like private murmurs.

Clattering and whispering—some versions say "secretly"—intermingled in play,

Like large pearls and small pearls falling upon a jade plate.

Like the smooth warbling of an oriole beneath the flowers,

Like a choked spring flowing—some versions say "a flowing spring"—beneath the ice, struggling—some versions say "beneath the water, struggling," "beneath the shoals," or "beneath the ice, struggling."

The icy—some versions say "cold"—spring grows chill and the strings congeal to stillness;

When the stillness reaches its peak, the sound pauses—some versions say "gradually"—for a moment.

Then a hidden sorrow—some versions say "hidden feeling"—and secret—some versions say "dark"—resentment are born;

In this moment, silence surpasses sound.

Like a silver vase—some versions say "jar"—suddenly bursting, water and liquid gushing forth,

Like armored cavalry charging forth, swords and spears clashing.

At the end of the tune, she draws the plectrum across the heart of the strings,

All four strings sound at once, like tearing silk.

The boats to the east and west—some versions say "boats"—are hushed and speechless;

Only the autumn moon's white reflection is seen—some versions say "there is"—in the heart of the river.

In pensive silence she sets down the plectrum and inserts it among the strings,

Smooths her garments and rises with a composed expression.

She says she was originally a girl of the capital,

Her home was in—some versions say "near"—the lower part of Hama—some versions say "Hamaling"—district.

At thirteen she had mastered the pipa,

Her name listed in the first division of the Imperial Music Academy.

When a piece ended, she had often—some versions say "regularly" or "always"—made the masters bow—some versions say "submit";

When her makeup was done, she was envied by the ladies of Qiuling.

The wealthy young men of Wuling vied for her favors with lavish gifts;

One song brought her bolts of red silk beyond counting.

Her jeweled hairpin with cloud—some versions say "silver"—comb was shattered keeping time,

Her blood-red silk skirt was stained by spilled wine.

This year's laughter and joy were repeated the next;

The autumn moon and spring breeze she passed in idle—some versions say "carefree"—ease.

Her brother left to join the army, her foster mother died;

As dusk gave way to dawn, her beauty faded.

Before her door grew cold and still, with few horses—some versions say "carriages"—passing;

Grown old, she became the wife of a merchant.

The merchant valued profit and took lightly to parting—some versions say "parting and separation"—;

Last month—some versions say "last year"—he went to Fuliang to buy tea.

He came and went, leaving her at the river's mouth guarding an empty boat;

The bright moon—some versions say "bright moon"—circled the boat, the river water cold.

Late at night she suddenly dreamed of affairs of her youth,

And waking from the dream, she wept, her rouged tears—some versions say "her weeping makeup and falling tears"—streaking her face.

When I heard the pipa, I already sighed;

Hearing these words, I sighed again.

We are both fallen souls at the ends of the earth—

If we meet, why must we have known each other before?

Since last year I left—some versions say "departed from"—the capital,

I have been exiled, lying ill—some versions say "ill and lying"—in Xunyang city.

Xunyang is remote—some versions say "a small place"—and has no music;

All year long I hear no sound of strings or bamboo.

I dwell near the Pen River, in low, damp—some versions say "moist"—ground,

With bitter yellow reeds and bitter bamboo growing around my house.

What do I hear from dawn to dusk?

The cuckoo weeping blood—some versions say "weeping"—and the mournful cry of apes.

On spring river mornings, on flower-filled nights and autumn moonlight nights,

I often take out wine and drink alone—some versions say "by myself."

Are there no mountain songs and village flutes?

Their croaking—some versions say "cawing"—and grating—some versions say "jarring"—sounds are hard to bear.

Tonight hearing your pipa's speech,

It is like hearing immortal music—my ears are momentarily brightened.

Do not refuse to sit and play one more piece;

Let me compose—some versions say "revise"—for you the "Song of the Pipa."

Moved by my words, she stood for a long time,

Then sat back down and tightened the strings, which grew more urgent.

The sound was mournful, not like before;

All who heard it in the hall covered their faces and wept.

Among those present—some versions say "among them"—whose tears—some versions say "wept"—fell the most?

The adjutant of Jiangzhou, his blue robe soaked.