Today I spotted the following passage:
giogiyan bethei weihuken-i toksifi besergen de nikeme uculerengge, | This is what she sang as she leaned against the bed, softly tapping with her bound feet: | |
moo-i ninggude bisire u gio gasha mimbe hoššome dobori dulin de fakcabumbi, | “The black drongo bird atop the tree tricks me into leaving in the middle of the night. | |
siolehe sabu usihibuhe seme gasara ba akū, damu agu de simen ararangge akū ayoo sembi, | I have no reason to cry about having gotten my embroidered shoes wet, but I regret there will be no one to cavort with you.” | |
seme mudan jilgan narhūn ohongge sirgei gese arkan ilgame faksalaci ojoro adali, cibseme donjici šurdeme forgošoro getuken tomorhon-i šan jakade dosifi ele mujilen ašša[m]bi sehebi. | As she sang, her singing voice became as thin as a thread, so that he could barely pick it out, but when he listened quietly it fell on his ears, encircling and surrounding, distinct and clear, and his heart was all the more moved. |
This passage, it turns out, is from the Liáozhāi zhìyì, from a story called “The Girl in Green” (綠衣女). The Chinese runs as follows:
遂以蓮鉤輕點足牀, 歌云: | Then she tapped the bed with her feet, with her lotus crescents, and sang: |
「樹上烏臼鳥,賺奴中夜散。 | “The black drongo bird atop the tree / tricks me into leaving in the middle of the night. |
不怨繡鞋溼,祗恐郎無伴。」 | I don’t complain that my embroidered shoes are wet / but respectfully fear my lord will have no partner.” |
聲細如蠅,裁可辨認。 | Her voice was thin, like that of a fly, scarcely recognizable. |
而靜聽之, 宛轉滑烈, 動耳搖心。 | But he quietly listened to it, and it moved about sinuously, slippery and ardent, touching his ears and moving his heart. |
When we see “Manchu” and “Liáozhài” in the same sentence, we immediately think of Jakdan, but I can’t find this particular story in my copy of Jakdan’s translation of the Liáozhài.