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I took the paper and looked at the Chinese characters. They made an agreeable pattern upon it.
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“Won’t you also give me a translation?”
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“Traductore—tradittore,” he answered. “You cannot expect me to betray myself. Ask one of your English friends. Those who know most about China know nothing, but you will at least find one who is competent to give you a rendering of a few rough and simple lines.”
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I bade him farewell, and with great politeness he showed me to my chair. When I had the opportunity I gave the poems to a sinologue of my acquaintance, and here is the version he made. I confess that, doubtless unreasonably, I was somewhat taken aback when I read it.
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“You loved me not: your voice was sweet;
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Your eyes were full of laughter; your hands were tender.
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And then you loved me: your voice was bitter;
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Your eyes were full of tears; your hands were cruel.
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Sad, sad that love should make you
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Unlovable.”
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* * *
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“I craved the years would quickly pass
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That you might lose
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The brightness of your eyes, the peach-bloom of your skin,
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And all the cruel splendour of your youth.
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Then I alone would love you
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And you at last would care.”
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“The envious years have passed full soon
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And you have lost
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The brightness of your eyes, the peach-bloom of your skin,
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And all the charming splendour of your youth.
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Alas, I do not love you
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And I care not if you care.”
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Notes
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Tibet， 西藏．
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