The Song of the Pipa, with Preface (Bai Juyi, The Song of the Pipa, with Preface)

In the tenth year of the Yuanhe reign, I was demoted to the position of Adjutant in Jiujiang Commandery. The following autumn, while seeing off a guest at the mouth of the Penpu River, I heard someone playing a pipa in a boat at night. The sound had a clear, tinkling quality with the accent of the capital region. Upon inquiry, she turned out to be a former singer from Chang’an who had studied the pipa under the masters Mu and Cao. As she aged and her beauty faded, she married a merchant. I then had wine set out and asked her to play a few pieces freely. After finishing, she looked melancholy and told of her joyful youth, her subsequent drifting and decline, her haggard appearance, and her wanderings among the rivers and lakes. It had been two years since I left the capital for an official post, and my mind was at ease. But moved by her words, I felt for the first time that night the bitterness of exile. So I wrote this long poem to give to her. It totals six hundred and sixteen characters and is titled "Song of the Pipa."

At night by the Xunyang River I saw off a guest;

Leaves of maple and reed rustled in the autumn wind.

I, the host, dismounted; the guest was in the boat;

We raised our cups to drink, but there was no music to cheer.

Drunken but not yet deep, sorrowful at parting;

At parting, the vast river was bathed in moonlight.

Suddenly we heard the sound of a pipa from the water;

The host forgot to return, the guest did not set out.

Following the sound, we quietly asked who was playing;

The pipa stopped, and the player hesitated to speak.

We moved the boat closer and invited her to meet;

Adding wine, relighting lamps, we set out the feast again.

After a thousand calls and ten thousand entreaties, she came out,

Still holding the pipa half-hiding her face.

She turned the tuning pegs and plucked the strings two or three times;

Before the melody formed, feeling was already there.

Each string was laden with oppression, each note full of thought,

As if telling the frustrations of a lifetime.

Bowing her head, she played on freely,

Speaking of infinite matters in her heart.

Lightly she pressed, slowly she rubbed, then swept and plucked;

First she played "Rainbow Robe," then "Green Waist."

The thick strings rattled like a sudden downpour;

The thin strings whispered like secret confidences.

Rattling and whispering interwove,

Like large and small pearls falling onto a jade plate.

Like an oriole warbling smoothly beneath the flowers,

Or a spring stream flowing with difficulty, choking and sobbing.

The spring stream grew cold and astringent, the strings seemed to freeze and break;

Frozen and broken, the sound was temporarily cut off.

Another kind of hidden sorrow and secret hatred arose;

At this moment, silence was more powerful than sound.

Suddenly, a silver bottle burst, water gushed forth;

Armored horsemen charged, blades and spears clashed.

When the piece ended, she swept the pick across the strings;

All four strings sounded at once, like tearing silk.

On the east and west boats, all was silent;

Only the autumn moon shone white in the heart of the river.

She sighed, put down the pick, and inserted it among the strings;

Straightening her clothes, she stood up and composed her face.

She said she was originally a girl from the capital,

Her family lived beneath the Hama Mound.

At thirteen, she mastered the pipa,

Her name ranked first in the Music Bureau's troupe.

Her playing once made the masters admire;

Her looks often made the beauties jealous.

The young gallants of Wuling vied to give her gifts;

For one tune, she received countless rolls of red silk.

Silver combs with gold flowers were broken by the beat;

Crimson silk skirts were stained by spilled wine.

This year brought laughter, next year brought laughter;

Autumn moon and spring breeze passed easily by.

Her brother went to war, her aunt died;

Morning came, evening went, her beauty slowly faded.

Before the gate, few carriages and horses came;

Growing older, she married a merchant as his wife.

The merchant valued profit over parting;

Last month he went to Fuliang to buy tea.

After he came and went, she kept the empty boat at the river mouth;

Around the boat, the moonlight was bright, the river cold.

Deep in the night, she suddenly dreamed of her youthful days;

In her dream, she wept, her rouged tears streaming down.

Hearing the pipa, I had already sighed;

Hearing her words, I was even more moved.

We are both outcasts drifting to the world's end;

Meeting, why need we have known each other before?

I left the capital last year,

Demoted and ill in Xunyang City.

Xunyang is remote, without music;

All year, I hear no sound of strings or pipes.

My dwelling is near the Pen River, low and damp,

With yellow reeds and bitter bamboos growing around the house.

What do I hear morning and evening?

The cuckoo's bloodied cry, the gibbon's mournful wail.

On spring mornings with blooming rivers and autumn nights with bright moons,

I often take up wine and drink alone.

Are there no mountain songs and village flutes?

But their sound is harsh and grating, truly hard to bear.

Tonight, hearing your pipa song,

It seemed like celestial music, my ears were suddenly cleared.

Do not refuse, but sit and play once more;

I will compose a "Song of the Pipa" for you.

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

Then returned to her seat, tightened the strings, and they became urgent.

Sad and mournful, not like the previous sound;

All in the hall, hearing it again, covered their faces and wept.

Among the guests, whose tears fell the most?

The Jiangzhou Adjutant's blue gown was soaked through.