by Ha Jin
This visit made Bai see that he did not belong to Chang’an and cemented his resolve to resign. He walked all the way back to the city, carrying a pannier of medicinal herbs, as he always did when he went out to the countryside. This was an old habit he had learned from his teacher Zhao Rui, and he would gather herbs whenever he was in the wilderness.
But before Bai submitted his request for resignation, he did something extraordinary, something that would save his life later on. One day, he joined a group of officials in an excursion to the north of Chang’an. Passing a small town, he saw a convict cart carrying a caged criminal with a narrow placard planted behind his head, followed by a group of troops armed with flat swords. By all appearances they were on their way to an execution ground. The criminal, strapping with a broad back, looked to be a junior officer. His eyes shone with defiance. Bai, who was well read in physiognomy, was struck by the man’s thick bone structure and square face.
He went up to speak to the leader of the troops and learned that the convict was Guo Ziyi, an assistant officer under General Geshu Han. Geshu was from a Turgesh tribe, in which his ancestors had been chiefs for generations, but he served China and had become a general in the Tang army under the command of Marshal Wang Zhongsi. The leader of the detail told Bai that Guo Ziyi’s troops had accidentally burned a large quantity of army provisions and numerous tents in the barracks, so Guo had been sentenced to death. Bai turned to speak with Guo, who answered his questions clearly and calmly like the officer that he was. Guo also said he had obtained his position via excelling in the military-service tournament.
Bai, as a court official, told the leader of the troops to halt and wait for him to return. He went to their headquarters to see General Geshu and attempted to convince him of his prediction that Guo could become an extraordinary officer. Geshu, who knew of Li Bai and admired his poetry, received him right away, but he could not make an exception and release Guo Ziyi because of the larger need to keep discipline among his men. Only the emperor could pardon such an offender. Bai implored him to at least postpone the execution, to which General Geshu agreed.
As soon as Bai returned to Chang’an, he drafted a petition to appeal to the emperor for Guo Ziyi’s life, writing that Guo might well become an exceptional warrior and could be very useful for the dynasty. His Majesty, despite all the slander against Li Bai, still cherished his talent and learning, so he agreed to grant Guo Ziyi a pardon. Guo was released and remained in service. A decade later, he became a major commander of the Tang army, confronting the rebel forces from the northeast and helping the royal family restore the shattered empire. Although no one could know this at the time, by saving Guo’s life, Bai had performed a great service to the central government.
Most Li Bai chronologies state that in the late spring of 744 he submitted to the emperor his request for resignation. Knowing that Bai’s presence would make Lady Yang unhappy and many others nervous, His Majesty approved it without the usual formality of urging him to stay. Although he admired Bai’s talent, he also feared that Bai, who got drunk so frequently, might divulge the court’s secrets and cause damage to the reputation of the royal family—it was better to let him leave and keep the palace in peace. His Majesty gave Bai a good amount of gold (more than a hundred ounces) as severance pay. In addition, Bai received the title of “Carefree Scholar.” Although this was a nominal honor, Bai alone was granted such a title, which allowed him to consume wine free of charge and to receive a gift of money at every county and prefecture on his way home.
As he was leaving the capital, Bai donned a Daoist cloak and hat, outwardly showing that he was no longer concerned with politics and would exist only in the religious order from now on. To some extent this was also a form of self-protection, because Bai knew that his political enemies could hound him wherever he went and even have him eliminated if they believed he still posed a threat. By wearing Daoist garb, he meant to demonstrate that he was no longer a rival of theirs. His enemies were happy to see him leave Chang’an, whereas his friends rode with him for many miles before turning back to the city.
In total, he had served at court for less than two years.
THE MEETING OF TWO STARS
Ashamed of his failure in the capital (“like a flying dragon that falls out of the sky,” in his own words), Li Bai didn’t return to his family directly and instead started a new period of wandering. Ultimately he wished to be inducted into the Daoist society by a master, but for the time being he would travel and see friends. His first stop was Luoyang, of which he had happy memories from the time he had spent in the city with his good friend Yuan Yan. Although Yan no longer lived there, Li Bai’s arrival caused a stir in the local literary community, and several old friends of his began organizing a dinner party to welcome him. They had learned of his resignation, which was becoming news in literary circles all over the country.
On the eastern periphery of Luoyang was a village called Renfeng Hamlet, the home of another great poet, Du Fu. Thirty-three years old, eleven years Li Bai’s junior, Du Fu at the time was still unknown. Nine years earlier he had taken the civil-service examination but hadn’t passed. Like Li Bai, he traveled the country in search of a post, but without success—he had remained jobless and quite poor. He had recently married, however, and loved his wife. The couple had first made their home in another village about twenty-five miles east of Luoyang, but they had moved to stay with his aunt (who loved him as if he were her own child), and to be closer to the city so that he could enter its literary circle. His aunt had died of illness the year before, but her husband had insisted that the young couple stay with him. Du Fu was originally from an affluent family that for generations had produced officials and scholars. His clan had deep roots in Henan, in the central area of China; his grandfather, a noted poet and calligrapher, had been the mayor of Luoyang and his father a county magistrate, but Du Fu’s own career had stalled. He was excited to hear of Li Bai’s arrival in Luoyang. In his mind Bai was an august figure, not only because of his splendid verses and his role as an unofficial poet laureate, but also because of his fearlessness in confronting the servile, wicked top officials in Chang’an. Naturally, Du Fu felt nervous about meeting Li Bai in person. Would Bai greet him as a fellow poet? Would Bai, who hadn’t given a damn about the powerful men at court, look down on him? Would his own eagerness make Li Bai consider him a sycophant of sorts? Du Fu couldn’t stop wondering.
Nonetheless, he decided to go to Luoyang and attend the party held in Bai’s honor. Du Fu did have a growing literary reputation to lean on, with a handful of poems well received by other poets and men of letters. The previous year the essayist Li Yong and the poet Wang Han had written him to express their admiration for his poetry. This was the same Li Yong who had never responded to Li Bai’s request for an official recommendation two decades before when he had governed Yu Prefecture back in Sichuan (though few people knew of this incident). So Du Fu reasoned that he should not feel too diffident in front of Li Bai.
The party, held in a fancy restaurant downtown, its front door hung with large lanterns, was attended by dozens of guests. Du Fu was surprised to find Bai wearing a black gown made of hemp cloth and a white headscarf of the same fabric—they were the typical garments of a Daoist hermit, plain and unworldly. The banquet was so noisy that Li Bai could only exchange a few words with Du Fu. But Bai was polite and even said he admired Du Fu’s poem “Gazing Afar from Mount Tai.” Du Fu was delighted—at heart he knew that was his masterpiece.
The next day he called on Li Bai at his inn. Bai was more clearheaded than the previous night and even mentioned the two lines by Du Fu: “I should ascend the summit, / Below which all mountains will appear smaller.” Du Fu was flattered and moved. The two men talked and talked, each about the frustrations and difficulties they had encountered over the years. Du Fu had gone through a similar pattern to that of Li Bai’s early years and shared his disgust at the notori
ous courtiers Li Linfu and Gao Lishi and their like. Although he had never met them in person, Du Fu knew how they had blocked the way of young scholars not backed by them and how, if their own men did not pass the exam, they would lie to the emperor, saying none of the examinees was exceptional this year and there was no need to appoint anyone, just to save positions for their men. Now, as he and Bai talked, Du Fu felt that the distance between them was closing. They also discussed the art of poetry. Du Fu worshiped Li Bai’s imagination and energy, bold and unstoppable like an overflowing river. Li Bai in turn was impressed by Du Fu’s learning and swift perception and was pleased to hear that Du Fu’s grandfather was the well-known poet Du Shenyan.
Although they admired each other, their approaches to poetry were quite different. Li Bai’s lines are fresh and supple but also full of iron whereas Du Fu’s are neat, tightly wrought, and somewhat austere. Unlike the Daoist Bai, Du Fu was a Confucianist, his imagination and moral vision confined within the social and dynastic order, his mind occupied by the empire and history. As the two men continued to converse, Bai appeared worried about his safety and mentioned several times that since he was a Daoist, his enemies in the capital could hardly harm him anymore. He and Du Fu disliked the noisy gatherings in Luoyang and wished they could have spent some quiet days together, but both were called by other plans. In the future, it might be possible to reunite: Du Fu was going to Kaifeng in the fall to pay his respects at his maternal grandmother’s grave and have an epitaph carved on a stone for her, and Li Bai was fond of Kaifeng’s Liang Park. But for now Bai needed to find a Daoist master in the north who could recommend him for the fellowship induction. The two of them agreed to meet in the Kaifeng area in a few months.
Although neither of them could have known it, this meeting of the two great poets was a monumental event in Chinese literature. Over the centuries, scholars and writers have speculated about this occasion—their paths would go on to cross repeatedly for another six months, then diverge. Poet Wen Yiduo (1899–1946), a graduate of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, describes the event as “the sun and the moon meeting in the clear sky,” “a sign of heavenly blessing, worshiped by people on earth.”1 Though hyperbolic, Wen’s words illustrate the magnificence of that encounter to the Chinese poets who would come after them.
Despite the age difference between Li Bai and Du Fu, the congeniality initiated their lifelong friendship. Du Fu was deeply attached to Li Bai, even in awe of him, perhaps because his own father had died long before, or because Bai possessed a free spirit more commonly expected in a younger romantic poet. Du Fu firmly believed that Bai’s poetry would “last forever and surpass others’.” In total, although they met only three times, all within a single year, Du Fu wrote fifteen poems for Li Bai. He even composed two poems about his dreams of Bai. He celebrated Li Bai’s art and lamented his fate with lines like these: “Ah, Bai’s poetry has no peer. / With a floating manner he thinks how to stand out”; “His brush starts to inscribe, arousing wind and rain, / And his poems can make ghosts and gods weep”; “Your gift is too great for you to succeed / While your virtues are too noble for others to share.” By comparison, Li Bai—likely due in part to his Daoist mentality—was more understated in his affections. He did compose several poems for his younger friend, but the verses are not as deep-felt as Du Fu’s for him. In “Teasing Du Fu,” he writes:
飯顆山前逢杜甫 頭戴笠子日卓午
借問別來太瘦生 總為從前作詩苦
《戲贈杜甫》
At the top of Fanke Mountain I run into Du Fu,
He dons a straw hat in the vertical sunbeams.
I ask him why he’s thinner than we last met.
He says he’s been working hard on his poems.
Indeed, unlike Li Bai, who was a master of ease and spontaneity, Du Fu always labored over his poetry. He made himself a principle of composition: “After drafting a new poem, I must keep humming it. / If the lines don’t surprise, I will revise them as long as I’m alive.” Their arts reflected their personalities—one free-spirited and unbound, the other prudent and disciplined.
* * *
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When Li Bai and Du Fu arrived in Kaifeng in the fall, they were joined by another poet, Gao Shi (704–765), who lived nearby. Gao Shi was known for his robust poetry about frontier life, especially the hardship of the soldiers’ lives and the suffering and bitterness of the peasants. He wrote in an esoteric, masculine style that distinguished him from his contemporaries. Li Bai didn’t seem to admire the formality of Gao’s verses, but he liked the manly confidence of his work and also respected his swordsmanship. Gao Shi was gallant, dignified, clearheaded. One of his poems, written for a musician friend and titled “Farewell to Dong Da,” was quite popular as a song: “Yellow clouds shade the white sun for hundreds of miles / While the north wind is blowing away geese with flying snow. / Do not worry about having no friends on the way. / Under heaven who doesn’t recognize your name?” Gao Shi seemed to adore Li Bai, both for his original poetic style and his defiant acts in the capital. He wrote, “Duke Li has an innate grandeur. / He’s strapping with a straight back. / His mind wanders through different worlds / While his robe and hat fit the current fashion here.”2 It is interesting that Gao Shi viewed Bai’s Daoist garb as something fashionable. Li Bai empathized with Gao Shi, sharing his pain and frustration. Both came from modest backgrounds—Bai’s father was a merchant and Gao Shi’s father a peasant. In his childhood, Shi had even gone begging in villages and towns. Neither of them had been able to access the civil-service examination and had had to bumble around seeking opportunities, though by now Gao Shi, like Bai, seemed to have lost his interest in an official career. Ironically, he would go on to hold a position in the central government higher than any other Tang poet and would embody the pinnacle of a literary man’s political success.
The three poets rode to Liang Park on horseback. There they composed poems for the occasion and recited other verses they had written recently. The immense park held many historic sites and abounded with wild animals. After wandering the area, they rode to Chang Prefecture to hunt in Da-ze Marshland. Whenever Li Bai shot down a goose, he would celebrate, kicking his heels in a little jig. By comparison, Gao Shi was a more skilled hunter, patient and cool, and didn’t show much excitement over his kills. Bai was impressed to find Du Fu a capable archer, able to shoot accurately even while riding. Once Bai became so carried away when landing a goose that he rode after the wounded bird for miles until his horse galloped into a neighboring town. Du Fu and Gao Shi, afraid he might get lost, caught up and found him already drunk in a wineshop.
Despite Li Bai’s carefree exterior, Du Fu gradually came to sense his pain and agitation. At night, he heard Bai sigh and even shout in his dreams. Bai was troubled by his memories of the palace and worried that his powerful enemies would be after him. In his poem “For Li Bai,” Du Fu addresses him directly: “Every day you drink and sing with abandon. / You show all defiance and spunk, but for whose sake?” He felt for his friend and worried about Bai’s mental state. Nevertheless, the three poets had a grand time, which Du Fu remembered fondly and described in his poem “Expressing What Is on My Mind”:
憶與高李輩 論交入酒壚
兩公壯藻思 得我色敷腴
氣酣登吹臺 懷古視平蕪
芒碭雲一去 雁鶩空相呼
《遣怀》
I remember being with Gao Shi and Li Bai.
We went into a tavern to converse nonstop.
They both had exuberant thoughts
That made me flush with happiness.
Still hung over, we went up a legendary terrace,
Where we thought about ancient times
And gazed at the vast grassland.
When the old clouds wandered away
Geese and ducks were still crying.
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After the three men had roamed the lands of Liang and Song (modern Henan Province), Du Fu and Gao Shi parted ways with Li Bai, though they would later meet him in Yangzhou, where Bai’s home was. The three of them planned to spend more time together in the Lu area before the cold weather set in. Having said farewell to his friends, Li Bai went north to make arrangements for his Daoist induction.
LIFE IN TRANSITION
The following year—from the winter of 744 to the spring of 746—has often been skipped or sparingly depicted by Li Bai’s biographers, mainly because few written records of his life from this period have survived. However, 745 seems to have been a crucial year for Bai and is deserving of more attention.
Shangqiu, Henan, where Li Bai, Du Fu, and Gao Shi had just parted ways, was less than two hundred miles from Bai’s family home in Yanzhou, Shandong. Bai could have made a trip to see his children in just a handful of days, but instead he traveled to Hebei to request help from a Daoist master for his induction. The master, Gai Huan, agreed to recommend him and wrote a letter on his behalf to Grand Master Gao Rugui in Jinan, the head of the Daoist society in the Qi region who was in charge of the induction there. Li Bai had known Gai Huan for some years and was delighted that he was willing to be his endorser, which was required for the induction. Master Gao Rugui then planned the schedule for Bai’s induction and agreed to guide him through the process, which would be elaborate and arduous. Why didn’t Bai go home to see his children first? Why was he so tardy in returning to his family? We can only surmise that he must have held deep trust in the woman of Lu and understood that his children were in safe, caring hands.