by Ha Jin
Li Bai went to the mountain because he had heard of a female Daoist known as Master Jiao, who was said to be over two hundred years old but looked in her fifties. She was an expert in making pills of immortality. She was said to be in robust health despite her extraordinary age and her weak vegetarian diet, and was also said to be able to travel on foot more than two hundred miles a day. In every way she was imagined as a xian. For weeks Li Bai climbed the thirty-six hills of Mount Song in search of Master Jiao, but she was nowhere to be found. So he composed a poem both to express his admiration for this traceless master and to record his pilgrimage to her place. Although he had not found her, he firmly believed in her existence, because other poets of his day, such as Li Qi and Wang Changling, had written verses to her and about her, celebrating her accomplishments and even describing their meetings with her. Li Bai’s poem concludes with these lines: “If you can teach me your sacred knowledge / I will be your most devoted student” (“For Master Jiao of Mount Song”). Likely his recent frustrations had intensified his desire for the otherworldly existence that she exemplified.
There were a number of legendary sites on Mount Song, and Li Bai wandered around to visit them. By sheer luck, he came upon his friend Yuan Danqiu’s cottage at the foot of a hill. The encounter delighted both of them, and they stayed late into the night chatting and playing the lute. Before Li Bai had gone to the capital, the two of them had met and traveled together for more than ten days, but Bai hadn’t known that Danqiu moved here to pursue his religious cultivation. Bai admired his friend’s peaceful place and composed a new poem for him:
故人棲東山 自愛丘壑美
青春臥空林 白日猶不起
松風清襟袖 石潭洗心耳
羨君無紛喧 高枕碧霞裏
《題元丹丘山居》
My dear friend lives on a mountain in the east.
He loves the beauty of valleys and hills.
In the springtime he sleeps in empty woods
And won’t get up even though it’s already light.
The fresh pine breeze cleans his robe
While stone pools cleanse his mind and ears.
My friend, I admire your life without noise or strife,
Your head is pillowed on colored clouds.
“COMPOSED FOR YUAN DANQIU’S MOUNTAIN RESIDENCE”
As for Master Jiao, Danqiu assured him that he had only heard of such a woman and had never met her in person. She couldn’t possibly live on Mount Song. Ever warm and loyal to Bai, Danqiu mentioned that he had a cousin, named Yuan Yan, who was now in the nearby city of Luoyang. If Bai went there, he could stay with him. Two years before, on his way to Chang’an, Bai and Danqiu had spent a few days in Luoyang but hadn’t had time to explore, and Yuan Yan had not yet moved there. Now Bai indeed wanted to return to the city. He seemed intent on delaying his return to Anlu. Not having achieved anything since he’d left home, he surely felt ashamed to face his wife and in-laws.
Five days later, Bai bade Danqiu goodbye and departed for Luoyang, where he planned to stay a month or two if he liked it there. Although it was not a political center, the city, as the East Capital of the country, was as prosperous as Chang’an. The marketplace stretched for miles along the Luo River, which divided the city into its north and south halves. Some of the bridges on the river featured lively entertainments—music and songs, short plays, kung fu, acrobatics, stilt dances, dancers with painted faces and dressed in colorful satin and silk. Without difficulty, Li Bai found Yuan Yan’s home. The man was happy to play host: he took Bai around the city and also showed him the palace, which was somewhat deserted since most courtiers and the royal family lived in Chang’an.
Li Bai showed his host the poem he had composed for Danqiu. Yan admired it so much that—having heard from his cousin about Bai’s wonderful calligraphy—he asked the poet to write it out as a piece of artwork. Bai obliged him by inscribing the verse on a large piece of Xuan paper, used specially for painting. Bai’s calligraphy greatly impressed Yan, who said he would have it mounted right away and hang it in his main hall. The two of them had become close friends; they planned to meet again in the future so that they could travel together to eastern prefectures and to the south of the Yangtze. Unlike Bai, Yuan Yan was not eager to acquire office or pursue the Daoist religion. He simply admired Bai and wanted to spend more time with him.
Except for his new friendship with Yan, however, Li Bai felt somewhat let down by Luoyang. It was not the place of political opportunities that he had hoped for. Yet there was unexpected beauty: whenever Bai went out, he heard folk songs performed by girls and women in taverns, open-air theaters, and marketplaces. One day, listening to a tune played on the flute, he became reflective and composed this poem:
誰家玉笛暗飛聲 散入春風滿洛城
此夜曲中聞折柳 何人不起故園情
《春夜洛城聞笛》
From whose house are the flute notes floating?
They blend into the spring breeze all over Luoyang.
In the tune I heard expectant hands break willow twigs.
Who wouldn’t think of home at such a moment?
“LISTENING TO THE FLUTE IN LUOYANG CITY ON A SPRING NIGHT”
Conventionally, the breaking of willow twigs was a gesture of longing and nostalgia, and the music reminded Bai of his wife. He missed her all the more, so without lingering any longer, he headed south for Anlu.
* * *
—
He had been away for almost three years and was finally home. During his absence, his wife had sent him letters, but they had never reached him because he had no permanent address. She had also asked others who were going to the capital to find out how he was faring. Rarely had she heard from Bai—he had written her only once or twice a year. His return surprised and delighted her. But to Bai’s dismay, his father-in-law had died the summer before, and now his brother-in-law was fully in charge of the household. The man had inherited nearly everything Squire Xu had owned, leaving his sister and Bai only a few acres of poor farmland. The meager inheritance didn’t bother Bai much—he had told his brother-in-law long ago that he wished for nothing but the library of books, which his wife had kept for him.
Fortunately, Dansha and his wife remained at the household—they were loyal to the mistress and helped her manage the domestic work. In recent years, Miss Xu’s health had deteriorated and she had become frail. Li Bai took his wife to the calm, restful slopes of North Shou Mountain, the site of his former study. Against the cottage he and Dansha now added a lean-to, and in the front yard they set up a stone table with four stools around it. The small homestead was cozy and peaceful. It was already mid-fall, with tree leaves floating in the air and the weather turning chilly at night; Bai and his wife were happy there together and the days passed uneventfully.
But soon Li Bai became restless again. Now that his father-in-law was no longer around to help, it was imperative that he find a way of supporting himself and his wife. He went to visit his friend Meng Haoran in Xiangyang to seek advice. After the two of them had parted company at Yellow Crane Tower in Jiangxia four years before, Haoran had traveled to the south and eventually wandered to Chang’an. But when Bai had arrived in the capital the next summer, Haoran had left—the two men had just missed each other. Now they were happy to be together again. Having heard Bai’s account of his recent struggles, Haoran told him not to lose heart—a new opportunity might be on the horizon. An acquaintance of his, Han Chaozong, had just gone to Jing Prefecture, a neighboring region, to assume the role of its military commander—Bai should try his luck there. Li Bai had heard of Han, who was highly regarded for his straightforward honesty and for his generosity in helping young people. According to a popular saying, “You don’t need to seek to be a duke, so long as you get to know Han Jingzhou.” (Han Chaozong was nickn
amed Han Jingzhou—“Jing Prefecture”—implying that he embodied the entire region in his control and commanded a good deal of resources.)
Following Haoran’s advice, Bai set out for Jing Prefecture, about a hundred miles to the south. Unbeknownst to Bai and Meng, however, Han Chaozong was harboring an old grudge toward Meng Haoran. A few years back, Han and Haoran had agreed to meet in Chang’an so that Han could introduce him to a top courtier as a reputable poet, but when Han went to Haoran’s inn outside the palace to fetch him, he found his friend dead drunk, unable to speak coherently or recall their arrangement. Han had no choice but to give up the plan, and left in a rage. He felt slighted and could not forgive Haoran for such negligence. Worse yet, Haoran, absentminded by nature and unfamiliar with the decorum of official life, never sent him a word of apology or showed any signs of regret for his gaffe. None of this boded well for Bai’s visit. Now, like his friend, Bai had no awareness of the old grudge.
Following convention, Bai composed a long essay in anticipation of his meeting with Han. He piled praises on him, calling him a savior of countless young scholars and aspiring statesmen. Han’s writings, Bai wrote, were like the work of a deity, and his virtues were powerful enough to move heaven and earth. Bai heaped praises on himself as well: he had become an expert swordsman at fifteen and had begun to converse with local officials in his late teens; at thirty, he had met many great men in the country. He was loyal, grateful, and righteous. If Han gave him an opportunity, he would surely go a long way in his career. When Bai found his own success, “soaring into the splendid clouds,” he would bring honor to Han too. Bai went on to celebrate Han as a demigod who could shower favors and kindness on people with abandon. He implored his potential benefactor to try him, offering to compose an essay or a lengthy poem right in front of him—he could produce ten thousand words of fine prose in a single day. And also, he wrote, please treat him to dinner so that he could speak in person about his vision and aspirations.1 He even challenged Han indirectly, asking, “Why should dukes and marquises cherish the tiny squares of ground in front of their doorsteps so much as to prevent Bai from standing in one of them, giving utterance to my heart and letting my spirit soar toward the clouds?”
The passionate essay indeed impressed Han, who could see that Bai was an extraordinary talent, full of energy and imagination, but he was also unsettled by Bai’s grandiloquence. He worried that Bai might be impulsive, impertinent, self-centered. He had heard that, unlike other members of the local gentry, Bai did not follow the prevalent custom to bow or kowtow to high officials. What if he made trouble with his insubordination after he took a post? Then Han would be held responsible. Han tossed the essay aside and refused to receive Bai. The refusal, an affront to Bai’s pride, was a crushing blow that for many years put an end to his quest for office.
Li Bai’s talent was so prodigious that whenever an opportunity presented itself, he couldn’t help but demonstrate a level of brilliance that unnerved others. He was too great an artist to be useful in a worldly way. Crestfallen by Han’s rejection, he returned to his wife in North Shou Mountain and fell back into drinking. He abandoned his hopes for a career and sighed, “A hundred years have thirty-six thousand days / And every day I must drink three hundred cups.”
In spite of these lines, that winter Bai didn’t drink as heavily as he once had—he didn’t have the money or the company of friends. His family’s income mainly came from the rent collected from the poor farmland, and the Lis could barely make ends meet. Bai had to live modestly so that the others in the household would not starve. By springtime, his wife’s health had improved, and their life became more stable and domestic. The truth was that even if Li Bai had wanted to embark on a new trip, there were no longer funds available to finance his travel. Later, reflecting on this period of his life, he would say that he “wasted ten years, drowned in alcohol,” meaning he had stopped making efforts to seek office. Ironically, however, this uneventful time, more than any other period of his life, most closely resembled the reclusive retirement he had always dreamed of. His wife’s love and generosity provided a haven for him in the midst of adversity.
IN THE NORTH
One day in the late spring of 735, Li Bai received a letter from Yuan Yan, the friend he had made in Luoyang eighteen months before. Yan wrote that he now held the position of inspector in Haozhou, Henan. It was an inconsequential job, but it enabled him to travel. At the moment, he was planning to go to Taiyuan, a northern frontier city, where his father was serving as a military commander, guarding the border against Mongolians and other tribesmen. Yuan Yan invited Li Bai to join him on this trip, generously offering to cover all expenses. If Bai was interested, they should meet in Luoyang City and from there they would travel north. Bai, who had always longed to see the northern frontier, jumped at the invitation. Two months later, he went to join Yuan Yan in Luoyang, and without delay they set off for Taiyuan.
Taiyuan was a large city, nicknamed the North Capital, though it was not as prosperous and grand as Chang’an or Luoyang. Li Bai found the landscape around the city quite unusual. The land was flat and vast, with grassy plains stretching to the edge of the horizon. Bands of camels were passing south and north. The southbound caravans were loaded with furs, nuts, and medicinal herbs, while the northbound ones carried grains, fabrics, salt, bricks of tea, and utensils. It was already summer but hot only around midday—a cool breeze always flowed from the Mongolian steppe, and the air turned cool after sunset. At night Bai had to cover himself with a thick blanket. He was told that fall came early in this area, in late August. Autumn was the best season for hunting, which was a major sport among the locals. He noticed that the people of Taiyuan were more straightforward and quick-tempered, likely because of the influence of the tribal folks in the north. The region was especially significant to the Tang rulers because it was their ancestral land—before the Lis seized the throne, they had lived here. So in a way, Li Bai, as a “relative” of the royal clan, might have felt that this was a kind of homecoming. He would carry deep memories of this trip and write about them in his poetry.
General Yuan, Yan’s father, was in his late forties with a weather-beaten face, but he was still sturdy and spirited, physically nimble and acute in his perception. He was delighted by the arrival of his son and Bai. By then Li Bai, despite his isolation and financial struggles, was well known, his poetry cherished by many fans as the work of a genius (although few thought of him seriously as a soldier or a statesman, as Bai viewed himself). General Yuan presented him with a marten robe, worth hundreds of pieces of gold, and a dappled steed. With the horse, Bai could go to the prairie and the border with Yan, and wearing the fur robe, he could attend parties and banquets as a respectable guest. His presence in the city brought honor to the general, who presented him to the local dignitaries. Bai was invited to many gatherings, at which he composed poems and short essays in honor of the hosts. Soon he became popular among some of the officers. He admired their dedication and bravery and often went to watch them drill their troops. He even practiced archery, of which he was already a master of sorts. In one poem, he even claims that he once killed two tigers with a single arrow—most likely a boast, though it shows his pride in his archery.
One day he found a few gray hairs on his head and realized that he was thirty-four—already more than halfway through his lifetime by the standards of the era. This realization saddened him and made him pensive. He wondered if it might be better for him simply to stay in the Taiyuan area, serving in the army. He was good with a sword and knowledgeable about military strategies and tactics, and believed he could be a capable officer, useful to General Yuan.
But when Bai broached the topic with Yan, his friend was opposed to it, saying Bai was unaware of the hardships that his father’s soldiers had been suffering. Yan went on to explain that the central government had no consistent policies for border defense, and as a result, battles and expeditions wer
e often started at the frontier at random, regardless of long-term consequences. Worse still, the court had not been fair in issuing rewards and meting out punishments. His father’s troops had been garrisoned in this area for more than a decade, but there was still no word about transferring back inland. Some men had grown too feeble to fight any longer. In fact, those who had stayed behind, safe and comfortable in the central land, might never come to the front. Yan feared that his father might die in the Taiyuan region without ever seeing their hometown again. That was why the general had insisted that Yan, his only son, hold a civilian job elsewhere, as a way to preserve their family’s bloodline. It was not too much to say that the men stationed here were in a hopeless situation—Bai must not be misled by the officers’ brave faces.
Yan’s words were a revelation to Li Bai, who gave up the thought of staying in the frontier permanently. He began to observe the soldiers more carefully and saw their predicament and hardships with new eyes. He wrote poems that empathize with their misery. Here is one, written in the style of ancient songs, fresh and realistic and straightforward:
代馬不思越 越禽不戀燕
情性有所習 土風固其然
昔別雁門關 今戍龍庭前
驚沙亂海日 飛雪迷胡天
蟣虱生虎鶡 心魂逐旌旃
苦戰功不賞 忠誠難可宣
誰憐李飛將 白首沒三邊
《古風其六》
The northern horses don’t think of the south
Where animals cannot long for the north.
Their indigenous habitats have shaped
Their habits and lives.
Long ago we came out of Goose Pass
And ever since have stayed in the barbarous land.
Sandstorms distort the view of the sun and the steppes