The Banished Immortal

by Ha Jin

  There was also the draw of the Qi region. Throughout history, Lu and Qi have traditionally been mentioned together: they were adjacent to each other, and both regions once had many Confucianists. The learned men in Qi remarkably differed from those in Lu, however. The famous men of Qi were not only notable thinkers, but also men of action, such as Sun Tzu—the general who wrote The Art of War—and the great strategist Lu Zhonglian.

  Lu Zhonglian (305–245 BC) was Li Bai’s ultimate hero because he had overcome his humble and even destitute origins to become a legendary strategist and an eloquent negotiator on behalf of the State of Qi. But despite his immense services, Lu Zhonglian never accepted a reward from his rulers, who offered him titles, money, riches, even towns and cities. As soon as his greatest feat was accomplished—writing a letter to the commander of the invading Yan army so persuasive that the enemy troops withdrew from the occupied capital of Qi State (the Yan commander committed suicide out of shame)—Lu Zhonglian fled to the East China Sea, simply vanishing without a trace. He had always said that he preferred the freedom of a commoner to the restrictions of aristocratic life—that was how he managed to survive, and that was why, a thousand years later, he became Li Bai’s idol and model. He exemplified Bai’s belief that after success, one must retreat or one might suffer destruction.

  Bai praised Lu Zhonglian in more than a dozen poems. In one of them, he even pictures himself achieving a similar feat: “I too can shoot a letter into Liao Town / And break the siege and throw the enemy back” (“Moving to East Lu in May and Answering the Man on the Wen River”). Lu Zhonglian’s association with the lands of Lu and Qi made Bai feel he was following in his hero’s footsteps, as he wrote in a poem addressed directly to the great statesman: “I am also a detached man, / Ready to float away like you” (“Ancient Songs 10”).

  Another reason for moving to Lu was a new approach in his pursuit of officialdom. Ever since his conversation with Wang Changling the previous fall, Li Bai had been thinking about how to serve in the military—he believed he could make an excellent officer. General Pei Hao, regarded as the era’s greatest master of the sword, was currently stationed in Lu Prefecture. The Tang empire was said to have three treasures: Wu Daozi’s paintings, Zhang Xu’s calligraphy, and Pei Hao’s swordsmanship. Pei had fought many victorious battles on the northern and western frontiers and was considered one of the emperor’s favorite officers. Bai was eager to learn the art of the sword from Pei, under whose tutelage he dreamed of becoming a master himself. Before he’d left Anlu, he had written to the general to express his wish to become his disciple, but despite Bai’s poetic reputation, somehow Pei had made no reply.

  After arriving in Lu, Bai didn’t bother to look for a house and simply put up his family at his uncle’s residence in Ren County. Without delay he went to call on General Pei. Pei happened to be observing mourning for his mother, who had recently passed away. The grieving period would last three years, during which he was required to shun all work and entertainment. Nevertheless, he received Bai briefly, probably because of the young man’s literary fame. Also at the meeting was the general’s nephew Pei Zhongkan, who knew Li Bai’s poetry and was excited to meet him. Yet General Pei, though he treated his guest cordially, seemed to avoid the topic of Bai’s request to study with him. After the initial visit, Bai would continue to see Zhongkan, who became his close friend. The young man was known for his gallantry and for keeping his word. He was a local power of sorts, and thanks to his excellent reputation, he often mediated for others.

  Li Bai’s uncle, with whom his family had been staying, was leaving Ren County, where his appointment was about to end. After this term of office, the older man would return to the capital for a new assignment. Bai had no choice but to turn to his two cousins for help. Li Yi and Li Lie served in Shanfu and Xiaqiu counties as accountants in the local governments. They were both proud of Bai’s accomplishment as a poet and helped him acquire a house surrounded by a small yard on the west bank of the Si River.

  Bai liked the location of his new home, which was on a sandy hill near the eastern gate of Xiaqiu Town (modern Yanzhou). Yi and Lie also helped him buy several acres of farmland on the east side of the river. Bai let his two servants, Dansha and his wife, take care of the fields, sowing, weeding, and harvesting the crops. From his house he could see the Si River flowing between his farmland and his homestead. The water was shallow but quite wide, and a stone path stretched across its surface. A short waterfall, about five feet high, dropped from the path like a white curtain, and its sound accentuated the quiet of the surroundings. Li Bai was content with the arrangements and began to live a stable, self-sufficient life. By now his wife was pregnant with their second child and, despite her unwieldy body, often went to spend time with the two servants across the river.

  One day Pei Zhongkan, the general’s nephew, came to invite Bai to dinner at his uncle’s residence. Bai was surprised because during his mourning period, the general was not supposed to host parties. Zhongkan said this was an exception and Bai must come and see why.

  Bai went to the general’s and found a shining table set in the courtyard. Beside it a large bowl of ink was sitting on a stone drumstool. As he wondered what this could be for, the host stepped out together with a scrawny old man wearing a long white beard and a black hat. General Pei introduced him to Li Bai as Wu Daozi. At the mention of the master painter’s name, Bai was overwhelmed. He hadn’t known that the two masters, of the sword and of the brush, were close friends. The general explained that he had invited Mr. Wu to paint a mural in his courtyard in memory of his mother. The painter, more than twenty years Bai’s senior, had heard of Bai but was unfamiliar with his poetry. He was pleased to see Bai and liked the poet’s sparkling eyes, strong-boned face, and natural demeanor.

  As the dinner continued, Master Wu asked the general to give a sword performance, saying he needed to see the spirit of Pei’s swordsmanship to get the right rhythm for his own brushstrokes. Pei said he hadn’t touched a sword for a long time because he was in mourning, but to make the party lively he would do what he could. He put on his leather mail and took his sword and began to perform in the middle of the courtyard.

  Bai could hardly follow the swift movement of the sword, which whirled and glittered as Pei wielded it. The weapon seemed to be another limb of his, thrusting and chopping and slinging as his body danced about. As the spectators, including some servants, applauded, Bai realized how shabby and crude his own swordsmanship was. This only made him more eager to learn and master the art.

  The moment Pei put the sword back into its sheath, Master Wu rose and went up to the blank wall prepared for him. Two servants placed the ink bowl and a set of brushes near the foot of the wall. Wu dipped a brush into the ink and began to paint. His strokes seemed to be as vigorous as Pei’s sword and to move just as rapidly. Soon hills, august trees, and human figures began forming on the wall. People watched with bated breath. A few moments later, the mural was done, although the master said he would add some final touches and also some colors early the next morning.

  General Pei was delighted with the painting, saying his mother’s soul would surely love the piece, especially the pair of cranes in flight. He nodded to thank the painter.

  Li Bai was also moved: after an evening of anticipation, he had at last witnessed the two great masters at work. He stood up and again begged General Pei to teach him the art of the sword. Pei smiled and said Bai shouldn’t treat the banquet room as a drill ground. His remark set the whole table laughing.

  Afterward, Bai asked Zhongkan why General Pei wouldn’t take him as his disciple. Was he not good enough to learn from the master? Zhongkan shook his head and told Bai that he misunderstood his uncle, who wasn’t only a sword master but also a military strategist. He had once guarded the frontiers and accomplished great deeds, but now he was a general in name only, without any real authority to command. His superiors had al
ways been jealous of him and kept him under their thumbs. Eventually he was forced to retire before he had even turned fifty. A few years earlier, the emperor had summoned him to Luoyang to give a sword performance. Although His Majesty greatly admired General Pei’s swordsmanship and granted him gifts to show his appreciation, Pei became downcast after he returned to Lu, because he had become a mere performer when what he wanted was to serve as a commanding general.

  Zhongkan also revealed to Bai that his uncle had in fact taught him how to use a sword. Zhongkan had mastered every skill and routine that his uncle had taught him, but he still felt hopeless in his career, which remained stagnant in spite of his young age. It would have been better if he had learned how to compose poetry instead. So, he said, Bai should be patient, because with his poetic talent, someday he would gain the recognition he deserved. Bai smiled bitterly and realized that every man had his own peculiar quandary. Indeed, wherever he turned, he saw failure and disappointment.

  Soon after settling down in Xiaqiu County, Bai had begun to associate with local scholars. Most of them were Confucianists, bookish and starchy even on casual occasions. Some of them were also very careful about how they dressed, down to the last detail. Bai, carefree and a little arrogant, often found himself at odds with these men. Once after a gathering, he composed a poem to mock the Confucianists, portraying them like this:

  魯叟談五經 白髮死章句

  問以經濟策 茫如墜煙霧

  足著遠遊履 首戴方山巾

  緩步從直道 未行先起塵。。。

  《嘲魯儒》

  The old men in Lu love the five classics,

  Sticklers for words and all white haired.

  If you ask them how to run a government

  They’ll go blank like in a fog.

  They always wear shoes designed for long trips

  And headscarves made in Fangshan.

  Slowly they walk on straight roads,

  But before they lift their feet, dust goes up.

  “MOCKING CONFUCIANISTS IN LU”

  The poem outraged many local Confucianists, who regarded themselves as capable men, truly learned and virtuous. Their outcries were so persistent and overbearing that Li Bai was forced to withdraw for a time. He retreated to an area near Julai Mountain and mingled with a circle of local literary figures there. These men were all noted for being reclusive, refusing to serve in office and secluding themselves in the wilderness. Soon Bai and five other men gained the name “Six Hermits of the Bamboo Creek.” Together they drank, played chess and musical instruments, and chanted poems on the mountain. Bai enjoyed their company and admired their life, detached from worldly strife.

  Occasionally he still went to the local government to see if he might procure a post. Most officials either ignored him or paid lip service to his request. Only a petty official in Zhongdu, a small county, treated him with respect. They met for the first time one afternoon when the young man saw Li Bai sitting outside an eatery. He approached the poet, greeting Bai with a deep bow. Bai didn’t know the man, who bowed again, saying he had been waiting to meet him for a long while. He placed a pair of live fish, apparently just bought from a vendor nearby, and a jar of wine on the corner of the table and introduced himself as Feng Seven, a devoted fan of Bai’s poetry. He wanted to treat the poet to a meal because he had known Li Bai for many years, he claimed. Surprised, Bai could not recall where they had met. Feng Seven explained that he had cherished Bai’s poems for so long and knew them so well that it was as if he had been with the poet himself all these years. Delightedly Bai accepted his gift of fish and wine; they had the fish cooked at the eatery and together they regaled themselves.

  Feng Seven asked Li Bai a favor—to write a poem for him. Already tipsy, Bai wielded a brush and dashed off these lines:

  魯酒若琥珀    汶魚紫錦鱗

  山東豪吏有俊氣 手攜此物贈遠人

  意氣相傾兩相顧 斗酒雙魚表情素

  雙鰓呀呷鰭鬣張 蹳剌銀盤欲飛去

  呼兒拂幾霜刃揮 紅肌花落白雪霏

  為君下箸一餐飽 醉著金鞍上馬歸

  《酬中都小吏攜斗酒雙魚于逆旅見贈》

  The wine in Lu has the color of amber

  And the fish from the Wen have purple scales.

  The official of Shandong is truly gallant,

  Carrying these gifts over to entertain me.

  The friendship is mutual and

  We open the jar of wine and clean the fish

  Whose gills still open and close noisily，

  Making the plate jump about.

  We call the waiter to come with a knife—

  One stroke reveals the red fat and white flesh.

  Let us eat and drink to our fill

  Then leap into the saddles and head home.

  “IN RETURN FOR A SMALL OFFICIAL IN ZHONGDU, WHO BROUGHT ALONG A JAR OF WINE AND A PAIR OF FISH TO WINE AND DINE ME ON THE ROADSIDE”

  Although Feng Seven was thrilled to see the poem unfolding right in front of him, Li Bai felt he hadn’t yet done enough to repay his new friend’s kindness. So he picked up the brush again and wrote on another piece of paper:

  蘭陵美酒鬱金香 玉碗盛來琥珀光

  但使主人能醉客 不知何處是他鄉

  《客中作》

  The fine wine of Lanling gives off a fragrance—

  Held in a jade bowl, it shines with amber light.

  So long as the host can make me drunk

  I’ll have no idea where my hometown is.

  “SONG OF BEING A GUEST”

  This second poem might have actually been composed on a previous occasion—Li Bai may have written it out as if it were new in order to please Feng Seven. Despite our uncertainty about its origin, it has become one of his most enduring masterpieces. Even today it is often quoted by people gathering to drink.

  WOMEN

  According to the chronology compiled by Zhan Ying, in 741 Li Bai’s wife gave birth to their second child, a son. Bai was delighted by the new arrival and named him Boqin. He also gave him a pet name, Ming-yue Nu, which means “Little Bright Moon.” As with his daughter, the choice of name reflected Bai’s high expectations for his new child: Ming-yue Nu was the courtesy name of the great archer Hu Luguang (515–572), a local hero in Shandong whose valor and prowess Li Bai admired.1 A courtesy name is an additional moniker one adopts, which conventionally expresses one’s aspiration and disposition and even profession—to highlight a unique desired identity. Bai must have hoped that his son would become a great warrior, although the boy would not be able to live up to his expectations, as few sons with extraordinary fathers can.

  After the second childbirth, his wife’s health deteriorated rapidly, and soon she died. Li Bai was thrown into deep grief. We don’t have any poems from him that express his mourning, but this doesn’t mean he didn’t write any. A great portion of his poetry is lost, and there is no way we can accurately gauge the depth of his grief. But we can say for certain that he knew he had let his wife down. She surely died with a broken heart, having seen her husband’s career fraught with setbacks and failures and having led a troubled and lonely married life.

  Although he was the quintessential romantic poet, Bai didn’t seem to love any real woman with the level of passion that appeared in his verses. He loved his wife in his own way, which was willful and somewhat selfish. He had spent so many of his prime years pursuing his aspirations in politics and Daoism (though his religious zeal fluctuated according to his situation) that he had often neglected his familial responsibilities. Moreover, women didn’t seem to form an essential part of his life. In the few poems addressed to his wife when she was alive, we can find no sense of passionate love or hear
tfelt pain caused by their separation. At most, Bai admits he drank too much to be able to fulfill a husband’s duties. Beyond question, when he traveled in search of an official post he encountered other women, often singing girls and courtesans, especially those in Nanjing. (He was also fond of foreign women, hunȕ and huji, which is made clear in his poems.) He spent money on them regardless of his means and wrote hundreds of poems about them, showing sympathy and understanding of their hardships and heartbreaks; yet he didn’t give enough love and attention to the woman closest to him. He wandered through the world as though he did not belong to it and was merely passing through. He had little sustained attachment to anyone except his children, whom he missed and even wept for when they were separated from him. Perhaps a genius of his caliber, full of demonic power and extravagant visions, needed to conserve the bulk of his energy and time for his art. Still, could his profound detachment be justified by his talent and artistic achievement? From the viewpoint of his family, probably not.

  With his wife gone, his home felt desolate. Wherever Bai turned, he was reminded of her absence. Because his children were now without a mother, Li Bai would no longer travel as extensively as he had before. He still often wandered the lands of Lu and Qi, but within a short time he would return to his daughter and son. He loved his children, and in a number of poems he expresses his attachment to them. Yet he was not a man who stayed home for long—the freedom he yearned for was found only on the road. For now, more than anything, he needed a woman who could take care of his children, particularly his baby son. Soon he began to look around for a suitable match.

  A young woman living next door caught Bai’s eye. She was pretty and from a distance she often listened to him chanting his poems. Sometimes she would smile at him as if to indicate that she fully understood his poetry in spite of his heavy Sichuan accent. In her yard grew a bush of pomegranate flowers that had just begun to bloom, and when a breeze blew, the scent of the flowers would waft over to Li Bai’s study. As a result, he was often reminded of her even though she was absent from view. His awareness of her was reinforced by the greetings they would exchange every morning.