by Ha Jin
And flying snow blocks the foreign sky.
Lice infest our clothes and leather mail,
Yet we resolve to keep our banners aloft.
So many bitter battles won but without rewards,
Our devotion never recognized.
Who has ever taken pity on General Li the Swift,
Who lost his white head in the desert?
“ANCIENT SONGS 6”
General Li was the legendary commander of the Chinese army in the remote western reaches of the Han dynasty, the very man Li Bai’s father had claimed as their ancestor. The soldiers’ plight in Taiyuan must have reminded Bai of the unjust fate of the great general, who was never granted an official post despite his many victories on the battlefield, who had never been able to return home, and who out of despair had committed suicide in the frontier. So many heroic men had gone unrecognized and mistreated. The more Bai brooded about the injustice of their fates, the more despondent he became.
In recent decades, the border area had been frequented by poets who had served in the military. Li Bai greatly admired those men not only for their robust verses but also for the bravery and flair displayed by their poetic personas. He and Yan made trips to ancient battlefields, where they recited poems by the poets who, as officers, might have served and even fought in this region. They also chanted poems that had become popular songs, mostly the kind of frontier ballads called “Liangzhou Song-lyrics” (so named because they are all set in the border region). One poem goes:
葡萄美酒夜光杯 欲飲琵琶馬上催
醉臥沙場君莫笑 古來征戰幾人
Grape wine is poured in gleaming cups
And guitars urge us to drink before we ride away.
If I get drunk, I’ll doze on a battleground.
Don’t laugh at me. Since ancient times
How many men have returned from war?
—WANG HAN (687–726)
Another:
黃河遠上白云間 一片孤城萬仞山
羌笛何須怨楊柳 春風不度玉門關
The Yellow River rises into white clouds.
Beyond a lone fortress sits a mountain
That is tens of thousands of feet high.
The barbarian flute shouldn’t blame the trees
That haven’t turned green—
The spring breeze doesn’t reach Jade Pass.
—WANG ZHI-HUAN (688–742)
Although these two poems were written by contemporaries of Li Bai, he admired the music and the space of these verses so deeply that he regarded them as classics and their creators as already immortalized. He too tried to create vast spaces in his own works to give them more magnitude and grandeur.
After the last snow, the weather grew windier and the willows began to sprout buds on their drooping branches. Li Bai decided to return home. In addition to a farewell dinner, General Yuan gave him a large sum of funds for the road. Bai went back alone—Yan would stay on a little longer to help his father with some administrative work.
* * *
—
On his way back, Bai again ran into his devoted friend Yuan Danqiu. They both fell into raptures about the encounter in Luoyang City. Danqiu had gone on to Mount Emei in Sichuan and was on his way back to his retreat in Mount Song, which Bai had visited two and a half years before. Danqiu invited him to stay a few days at his hermitage on Yingyang Hill in Mount Song, but Bai was eager to go home, and so they parted ways. However, Bai had hardly gotten out of the city the next morning when a messenger from Danqiu caught up with him and handed him a letter, which said that a friend of Danqiu’s named Cen Xun was a longtime admirer of Bai’s poetry and would love to have him over for a few days. At the moment, Cen Xun was living near Danqiu in Mount Song, so Bai should come to Yingyang Hill again so that the three of them could meet.
Bai had heard about Cen Xun from Danqiu and knew that he was from a renowned family, but had chosen not to enter for the civil-service examination in spite of his comprehensive education in classics. We don’t know the dates of Cen Xun’s birth and death, but it is believed that he was younger than Li Bai, and was such a fan of his poetry that he had traveled hundreds of miles to Mount Song in the hope of encountering him there. Danqui had enclosed a poem written by Cen Xun, and Bai could tell that the man was a genuine poet—someone he would like to meet. He recalled that a scholar in Chang’an had also mentioned this remarkable young talent. Bai was touched to learn that Cen Xun was such an admirer of his own work.
Both Danqiu and Cen Xun were famous recluses and heavy drinkers, so Bai’s arrival made the wine flow. As the host, Danqiu gave a party, attended by just the three of them, which started in the afternoon. They drank in the yard in front of Danqiu’s cottage, cracking jokes and composing verses. Cen Xun was eager to witness Bai’s legendary poetic abilities, so he tossed out a line, and Bai spun a poem around it. Both Danqiu and Cen Xun were amazed by the swiftness of Bai’s composition. Together the three men continued to sing songs and chant poems and play the lute, the bamboo fife, and the zither, which Cen Xun could strum with skill. When the moon was high above the clouds, Cen Xun suggested calling it a night, but Bai wanted to continue. To entertain his two friends, he even performed a dance he had just learned in Taiyuan, kicking his heels and brandishing his arms. That made them laugh.
The three men decided to move the party to Cen Xun’s place on the other side of the hill; from there they could see the moon more clearly, and could catch the view of the Yiluo flowing east into the Yellow River. Although the water was hardly visible in the dark, the lanterns on the fishing boats glowed as they sailed back and forth. The men went up the slope to Cen Xun’s shack and resumed their merriment. As the night wore on and Li Bai got more drunk, he asked Danqiu to get out ink and a brush for a new poem that was brewing within him. Under coppery brown light thrown by a pair of oil lamps, he chanted it slowly while Danqiu transcribed:
君不見 黃河之水天上來 奔流到海不復還
君不見 高堂明鏡悲白髮 朝如青絲暮成雪
人生得意須盡歡 莫使金樽空對月
天生我材必有用 千金散盡還復來
烹羊宰牛且爲樂 會須一飲三百杯
岑夫子 丹丘生 將進酒 杯莫停
與君歌一曲 請君爲我傾耳聽
鐘鼓饌玉不足貴 但願長醉不復醒
古來聖賢皆寂寞 惟有飲者留其名
陳王昔時宴平樂 斗酒十千恣讙謔
主人何為言少錢 徑須沽取對君酌
五花馬 千金裘
呼兒將出換美酒 與爾同銷萬古愁
《將進酒》
Have you not seen the Yellow River flow down from heaven,
Rushing toward the ocean but never coming back?
Have you not seen the mirror in the lofty hall grieve the white hair
That is black in the morning but snowy in the evening?
When happy, we must enjoy ourselves to the full,
Not let our gold goblets empty to the moon.
Heaven begot a talent like me and must put me to good use
And a thousand cash in gold, squandered, will come again.
Boil a sheep and butcher an ox for our feast,
And let us drink three hundred cups at one go.
Mr. Cen and Sir Danqiu, drink without stop.
Let me sing a song, please give me your ears.
Drums and bells and sumptuous food shouldn’t be cherished.
What I want is to be drunk forever without sobering up.
Since ancient times saints and sages have been obscure,
But only drinkers have left behind their names.
Prince C
hen, throwing a banquet in the old days,
Got wine at ten thousand cash a gallon.
My dear host, why say you are short on cash?
Let us buy wine and enjoy it at any cost.
My dappled horse and gorgeous fur robe,
Let your boy take both to the shop
And exchange them for good wine
So we can drown our sorrow of ten thousand years.
“PLEASE DRINK”
Yuan Danqiu and Cen Xun were astounded by the energy and the madness of the poem. Looking over the transcription, they were overwhelmed by the poem’s emotional intensity that verged on mania. At one moment the lines seem laden with grief, but then the mood turns to ecstasy. It is sad yet vibrant with rapture. Awestruck, they remained wordless for a good while. Later, they told others how Li Bai had composed this poem, how they had seen him pouring out lines without premeditation. Every word, every line, and every rhyme were in place—the poem was perfectly wrought at the very first attempt. This was something only a deity could do, they said, and the verses must have come from heaven. Thereafter, whenever they talked about Bai, they felt pity for him: his genius seemed too great for any office in this world.
The next morning, Danqiu asked Bai to title the poem. Bai said it should be something related to drinking. Danqiu gave it some thought and then came up with “Please Drink.” The three of them liked the suggestion—it echoed a type of ancient song performed as an elaborate toast to urge people to drain their cups. Since then, the poem has become one of Li Bai’s most quoted works, and its lines are often tossed out at tables where people gather to drink.
Bai stayed at Mount Song for several days, visiting nearby Buddhist temples with his two friends. Before his departure home, he composed a few more poems for Yuan Danqiu and Cen Xun.
IN THE SOUTH
Most Li Bai chronologies indicate that he returned to Anlu in the spring of 737. His wife was pleased to see him back, though she scolded him for not sending her word ahead of his return. Bai was happy too, in part because he had brought back cash and other valuable items—damask, jade, medicinal herbs. Thanks to his increasing fame, as he had traveled home he had been generously treated by the governments of counties and prefectures, whose officials presented him with small gifts. With this experience, he realized that he could make money by traveling, enjoying the admiration of others and the hospitable events held in his honor. He told his wife about this, joking that they might even become rich someday. She did not believe him but was glad to learn that his popularity had increased.
Soon Bai became restless again, tormented by a poignant wanderlust. He was prone to depression and attempted to mitigate his despair with drinking. At heart he could not accept his failure in seeking office. He was only thirty-six, his mind keener than ever and his body still strong. He believed he had to trust his talent and knowledge and mustn’t give up. He wanted to try his fortune elsewhere again, convinced that eventually he would succeed. For months he had been thinking about the land south of the Yangtze, which, though he had been there before, was still slightly exotic to him. But for a trip to Yangtze, he would need to secure sufficient funds.
Since his household still depended on the rent collected from the few acres of farmland, it would be impossible for him to get the money needed for travel. He turned to his friends for help, but none was rich enough to assist him. Some offered to take him along to places where they were planning to go. Ever impulsive, Bai simply set out for Yangtze on his own, believing that his fame and ability would carry him there. He first went to Mount Song to see his friend Yuan Danqiu, who kept him there for several days. At the moment, Danqiu was short on cash as well and could only help Bai with a small sum. Bai took the money and continued south without delay.
By now, the Tang dynasty was at the peak of its prosperity—most counties and prefectures had full granaries and were flush with cash. The farmland south of the Yangtze was fertile; the local governments had grown rich collecting taxes and didn’t hesitate to spend money entertaining visitors, especially officials from the north and the central land. Known for his splendid poetry, Li Bai was treated decently in most of these places, where he would attend dinner parties given by officials. Without fail he would compose verses in honor of his hosts and recite his other poems. Most officials, vain but generous with public funds, valued Bai’s presence at their gatherings as someone extraordinarily artistic, someone who could offer them entertainment of a different order from the common dances and songs performed by girls and courtesans. Some officials, usually friends of Bai’s, would put him up for ten days or even a month. By now he seemed to have friends everywhere thanks to his poetic reputation. Most officials were highly literate and often knowledgeable about literature and the arts, so they sought the company of a literary luminary like Li Bai. Before he left, they would present him with a small amount of cash for the road. He now considered such money as earnings that he should be securing regularly, and always saved a portion for his family. Indeed, he was more careful about his expenditures than before.
But gradually he discovered that he was still just a poet, with talent and showmanship but no power or influence, and so even as his popularity grew, officials would rarely receive him as a truly important guest. Above him, there were always personages that they would lavish with flattery and gifts. At times these honored guests were merely sons of powerful officials in the central government, incapable and ignorant with no achievements of their own. Bai couldn’t help but feel resentful whenever he came upon such young dandies.
* * *
—
After revisiting Nanjing, where contrary to his expectation he didn’t find any friends, Li Bai arrived at Yangzhou in July. There he wanted to see Meng Rong, his old friend who had introduced him to his wife, but he soon learned that Rong was no longer in the city. He had been transferred west, Bai was told, but no one was sure of his exact whereabouts. Bai was disappointed, unable to find out anything more about his friend. Then a number of admirers and well-wishers, having gotten word of Bai’s arrival, came to his inn, eager to see him. His literary reputation had spread widely now, even preceding him on the road, and some of his short poems were known all over the country. A few of these visitors were especially friendly and invited Bai to restaurants and taverns. There was a sense of warmth and familiarity: Bai knew a number of the men already, from his previous visit more than a decade back, and even those who hadn’t met him before felt connected to him because one of his most famous poems, “Reflection in a Quiet Night,” had been composed in this very city twelve years before. Li Bai remembered the difficult time he had been going through then, ill and penniless in a downtown tavern. It had been his dear friend Meng Rong who had cared for him and helped him recover. Where was that sweet man now? How Bai wished to see him again!
As they reveled about town, the local literary figures, who were meeting Bai for the first time, asked him about his friends, particularly those to whom he had dedicated his poetry. They loved the farewell poem he had composed on seeing Meng Haoran off at Yellow Crane Tower and the short verses titled “Midnight Songs.” Bai was flattered, not having expected to meet so many fans in the city. When the wine had loosened his tongue, he told his new friends about his humiliating experience in the capital, how Zhang Ji had taken him in and dispatched him to Zhongnan Mountain. They were offended on his behalf, cursing the vainglorious and duplicitous men in the palace.
After a heartening stay in Yangzhou, Bai sailed down the Yangtze, continuing toward the coast. He wanted to reach the end of the land, to see the ocean for the first time. His destination was Wenzhou, the east end of this land, though he might wander elsewhere. He wanted, indeed, to see the entire country, believing that his mind would be expanded and that, in turn, his poetry would gain greater spirit and depth. For him, travel was not simply entertainment; it was how he learned and grew. He was determined to make hi
mself more capable, to become a better poet and a wiser statesman. He still clung to his political ambitions, though his quest for an official post had, after years of rejection, become halfhearted and he was somewhat detached.
After a few days on the water, he arrived at Jingkou (in modern Zhenjiang). From there he took a skiff west to Jin Hill and Jiao Hill, which lay in the middle of the river. The pair of hills, thickly wooded, were a kind of resort frequented by visitors. The land and feel of Jiao Hill resonated deeply with Bai; there he composed this poem while gazing at another island far away that had a hill on it too.
石壁望松寥 宛然在碧霄
安得五彩虹 駕天作長橋
仙人如愛我 舉手來相招
《焦山望寥山》
From the cliff I’m watching Songliao Hill
Feeling like I am standing in clouds.
I’d like to grab hold of a colored rainbow
And raise it as a celestial bridge.
If a goddess is fond of me
She will surely wave me over.
“GAZING AT SONGLIAO HILL FROM JIAO HILL”
He continued to sail down from Jingkou, and soon the estuary came into view. He could see the two waters of the river and the sea, pushing at each other and tossing wavelets and eddies. In the distance rose a few dark reefs that resembled tiny knolls. Seabirds—petrels and gulls—glided in the air and let out their cries. Far away, the horizon shifted with the tumbling water. Bai was enchanted by the endless waves and couldn’t help imaging the world beyond the ocean in the east. He had heard of Japan, which to him seemed a wonderland inhabited by gods and spirits. Someday he thought he might take a boat sailing that way, or ride a crane there as a xian. In his mind, the celestial sphere would always be accessible to him once he was done with his life on earth. He would be able to accompany the divine bird through the universe without any attachment to this earthly existence.
