by Ha Jin
Then Bai received a letter from Li Zhao, a distant cousin who was mayor of Xuan Town in east Anhui. Zhao invited Bai to come and spend some time in his small city. He described the place elaborately to entice Bai. He wrote that since ancient times Xuan Prefecture had been a renowned region: that it had rich soil and an abundant water supply, that it combined the advantages of both land and water, that it had gathered the cultural essence of different areas and times (even in small streets and alleys, in teahouses and taverns, songs and music and opera were performed every day), that Xuan Town sat against Lingyang Mountain, protected by two rivers, and that, more amazingly, during the Nanqi dynasty (479–502), the poet Xie Tiao had been in charge of the city and built his residence on top of Lingyang Mountain. His house and tower still stood there, attracting poets and scholars who wished to witness the beauty of the landscape below. Xie Tiao (464–499) had been one of Li Bai’s literary heroes throughout his life. Bai admired him for his natural yet rigorous poetic style and for his detachment from political affairs, despite his aristocratic origins and the official positions he had held. Li Zhao invited Bai to come enjoy his city and share the literary spirit of Xie Tiao. He was sure that Bai would find the place peaceful and would be inspired to write while he was there. The invitation seemed to Bai like an exciting opportunity, and he showed his wife the letter. Together the couple talked about what to do.
They decided that Bai should go to Xuan Town and see how he liked it. If the place was safe and peaceful, the rest of the family should follow him there. Though this seemed to be a natural decision, it meant that Bai would have to give up his dream of “pacifying the country and helping the common people,” as he declares in his poem “For Official Cai Xiong.” He had even thought of returning to the capital to do such work; he had expressed his wish to go there and personally report An Lushan’s plot to the central government, but his wife had dissuaded him. She was aware of the compromise he was making, but she was eager to keep him far from the political arena. From now on, he had better live as a Daoist like herself. This he wasn’t sure he could do, but he agreed to try his best to walk the path of faith and build a haven for himself and his family. He told his wife that once he found a good place in Xuan Town, he would come back to fetch her. Meanwhile, she should sell her family’s eateries and wine houses, which would be drastically devalued once rebellion broke out.
In the early summer he packed his bags, put on his Daoist outfit, and set out on the road. Xuan Town was more than three hundred miles to the south and he would travel by land. As before, along the way he encountered friends and acquaintances who kept him company and enticed him to stay as long as possible, taking him to noted sites and giving parties in his honor. Some would go out of their way to introduce others to him, clearly proud to have him as a friend. Bai enjoyed the festive gatherings, which made him feel honored. If a host was particularly considerate and generous, he often stayed a little longer. As a result, his progress south was unhurried.
In mid-fall he arrived at a place called Hengjiang Ferry on the Yangtze. The river as a whole flows from west to east, but at the foot of Mount Lu it turns northeast for more than a hundred miles, then swerves again to the south of Wuhu, running north all the way to Nanjing. Hengjiang Ferry was a spot north of Wuhu used by people for crossing the river. The water there was rapid and rough, and sometimes the ferry closed because of foul weather. When Li Bai arrived, it was windy and the river was roiling, impossible to cross, so he stayed at a nearby inn. Rain continued to fall over the next few days. Whenever there was a pause in the downpour, Bai would put on a cone hat made of bamboo skin and walk along the riverbank to gaze at the water. In the distance, waves rolled and surged, as if the river were an ocean partly enveloped in fog. He went to see the man in charge of the ferry and asked about the operating schedule, but was told that it would take several days for the boat to run again. The man said that because a storm was rising on the sea, more roaring winds and raging waves would be coming this way. His words made Bai reflective, reminding him of the larger situation of the country and of his life. His troubles had always seemed to be caused by something far away, beyond his control, and he felt that indeed a violent political storm was approaching.
Having nothing to do at the inn, he wrote a series of poems titled “Six Songs at Hengjiang Ferry.” Together they carry a considerable amount of allegorical resonance and express Bai’s disillusion and despair. They go as follows:
一
人道橫江好 儂道橫江惡
一風三日吹倒山 白浪高於瓦官閣
二
海潮南去過潯陽 牛渚由來險馬當
橫江欲渡風波惡 一水牽愁萬里長
三
橫江西望阻西秦 漢水東連揚子津
白浪如山那可渡 狂風愁殺峭帆人
四
海神來過惡風回 浪打天門石壁開
浙江八月何如此 濤似連山噴雪來
五
橫江館前津吏迎 向余東指海雲生
郎今欲渡緣何事 如此風波不可行
六
月暈天風霧不開 海鯨東蹙百川回
驚波一起三山動 公無渡河歸去來
《橫江詞》
1
People all say Hengjiang Ferry is a good spot,
But I say it is quite awful actually.
The wind blows for three days and can topple hills,
Huge whitecaps higher than a palace’s tiled roof.
2
The ocean tides are coming all the way to Jiujiang,
So Niu-chu and Ma-dang are too perilous to sail through.
The roiling waves stop people at Hengjiang Ferry,
Where the river runs like a long flow of sorrow.
3
All I can do is gaze at the mountain in the west,
Then watch the Yangtze flowing east into the Chu land.
How can you cross over with white waves like hills?
The stormy wind makes men feckless under high sails.
4
As soon as the ocean tides pass, the wild wind arrives,
Waves smashing the cliffs of Heaven’s Gate.
Even Zhejiang is like this in the eighth month—
The waves are rolling over like mountains of snow.
5
The official in charge of the ferry points east,
Saying more clouds are gathering there.
“Mr. Li, why are you so eager to cross over?
You can’t go against such wind and waves!”
6
The moon is blurred by the wind and fog
While whales charge up and swerve around.
The huge waves leap and shake the mountains.
You mustn’t cross and had better turn back.
The time here would have been September, which by the lunar calendar is August, already mid-fall in that area. That is why the fourth poem says “the eighth month.”
After several days’ delay, Li Bai finally crossed the Yangtze and continued south. He arrived at Xuan Town when the leaves were turning yellow and red. Although it was already deep fall, the climate was dry and warm. The striking landscape reminded him of his home region in northern Sichuan. The Wan Brook just east of the town was shallow and limpid and resembled the Jian River outside his home village, Qinglian. Even the birdcalls, made by cuckoos and orioles, sounded familiar, bringing back childhood memories. As his cousin Li Zhao had written in his letter, the town was peaceful and charming and full of historic sites. Zhao was a good host and did his best to make Bai comfortable. As the mayor, he hoped that Li Bai would settle in the city permanently so that the great poet could become a cultural presence.
Bai began to feel at ease and even at home there.
Bai enjoyed visiting the historic sites with the new friends he’d made, and if the weather was bad, he would stay in his study reading Daoist texts. He mixed well with the locals. Not far from where he lived was a wine house named Deep Spring, which offered wine brewed by its owner, Old Ji. Li Bai soon started to frequent the place and got to know Old Ji well, who allowed him to get wine on credit. In fact, from time to time various local men settled Bai’s wine debts with Old Ji because Bai had written poems or short essays for them. He enjoyed sitting in the shop, which had a handful of tables, and chatting with others. The locals were impressed by his words, especially when he was tipsy and raving with abandon. Never had they met such a loquacious man, who often talked as if in tongues. Above all, Bai loved the wine Old Ji made. Most times when he was done drinking in the shop, he would bring a jar of Deep Spring back to his lodgings. The warmth of the local people was comfortable, but still he was unsure if he could live here for good.
* * *
—
To his cousin Zhao, Bai seemed content, though he still wouldn’t say if he had decided to move his family here and settle down. Every day Bai strolled around the town and its vicinity. He would also hike up a knoll called Jingting Hill and sit on top of it alone for as long as he could. Once, while on the hilltop, he heard someone piping a tune in the woods. The music sounded familiar; he remembered having heard it many times in Chang’an, though this tune was not exactly the same. Its robust exotic melody reminded him of “The Tune of Charging out of the Front,” a popular song performed in the capital at the time. As he listened, tears trickled down his cheeks. He composed a poem capturing the nostalgic moment:
胡人吹玉笛 一半是秦聲
十月吳山曉 梅花落敬亭
愁聞出塞曲 淚滿逐臣纓
卻望長安道 空懷戀主情
《觀胡人吹笛》
A man from the west blows the jade pipe—
Most tunes are from the land of Qin.
The mountains in Wu are clear in October
As plum blossoms are dropping at Jingting Hill.
In grief I hear the music of “Charging out of the Front,”
Tears soaking the ribbons of my hat.
Again I gaze at the way to Chang’an,
Full of useless feelings for my Lord.
“LISTENING TO A MAN FROM THE WEST BLOW THE JADE PIPE”
Peaceful and pleasant as the town was, Bai felt restless: the capital, the political center, still exerted a hold on him. He longed to return to Chang’an, to the emperor’s side. Yet he had genuine feelings for this place, especially Jingting Hill, which often gave him peace of mind and allowed him to enjoy a stretch of solitude. Occasionally the spot also brought him a sense of detachment and tranquility. He began to regard Jingting Hill itself as a companion of sorts. He wrote a short poem about the knoll, which became one of his finest works: “All birds have flown high and disappeared / While a lone cloud is floating away idly. / We two keep looking at each other, never bored— / Only Jingting Hill and I can do this” (“Sitting Alone on Jingting Hill”). The last two lines personify the knoll as a soul mate, and they also show, though only momentarily, Bai’s predilection for nature and for staying above earthly strife. He loved the hill so much that he boasted of setting up a home there, as he declared in a poem to his banished friend Cui Zongzhi: “My home is at the foot of Jingting Hill / So I can follow what Xie Tiao described. / Hundreds of years have passed between him and me, / But his style is fresh like yesterday’s. / I climb up this hill to get near the moon / And looking down, I see green hills around the town” (“A Letter to Cui Chengfu about My Climbing Jingting Hill”). The home Bai referred to might have been a temporary residence or a future one he had in mind. Although he longed for the capital, he had also been considering how to move his family here.
Sometimes when he grew restless, he would go and visit villages and county seats near Xuan Town. After winter had passed, he often set out alone. The vice magistrate of Nanling County was a friend, so Bai went there to see him. The official received him enthusiastically. Together they visited Five Pine Mountain and the copper mine owned by the government. Bai also went to Qipu and Qingyang towns, where the locals were hospitable and accompanied him on his sightseeing. Then Bai arrived at Jing County; its magistrate, Wang Lun, was a cheerful scholar and a lover of poetry. He had been a fan of Li Bai’s for a long time, so Bai’s arrival was a great event for him. Lun invited Bai to spend a few days in a scenic village called Peace Blossom Pond; together the two of them had a festive time there. Bai got drunk every evening, but Lun remained sober so that he could be an attentive host. Three days later, when Bai was departing and about to board a boat, a band of villagers, invited by Wang Lun, suddenly arrived and began to perform a folk dance called Ta-ge in Bai’s honor. They sang, waved their arms, and clapped their hands while their feet tapped the sandy bank, smiling at Bai happily. Their performance was a way to say farewell to him. Bai was so touched that he composed a poem on the spot:
李白乘舟將欲行 忽聞岸上踏歌聲
桃花潭水深千尺 不及汪倫送我情
《贈汪倫》
I, Li Bai, get on a boat, about to leave—
Suddenly I hear Ta-ge performed on the bank.
The water of Peach Blossom Pond is a thousand feet deep,
But it’s nothing compared to Wang Lun’s feelings for me.
“FOR WANG LUN”
Despite the good times that Bai found in Xuan Town and its vicinity, he was yearning to hear news about the capital. Here he felt isolated and even bereft. He couldn’t stop lamenting this isolation and even declared his grief so immense that his hair had grown “white and three thousand feet long.”
Fortunately, a distant uncle of his, Li Hua, was passing through Xuan Town on an official journey to the southeast. Li Hua was an inspector of the eighth rank. Though only a petty official, he was noted for his literary writings, and being from the capital, he was well connected and well informed. When he traveled, local officials treated him respectfully. Bai was excited about the older man’s arrival and accompanied him to scenic sites in and outside Xuan Town. Li Hua brought news of the palace, all of which was dismal. Chancellor Yang Guozhong had become very hawkish in handling foreign affairs and had started expeditions at random. Two years earlier, he had dispatched an army to attack Nanzhao Kingdom (part of modern Yunnan Province, Burma, Laos, and Vietnam). The Chinese troops reached the Hei-er River but were defeated roundly. Yang covered up the loss and dispatched another army, which was again destroyed by Nanzhao’s forces. In total, the Chinese suffered nearly two hundred thousand casualties. Even more outrageously, it was whispered among officials who had inside information that this war had been sparked by a love affair between the queen of Nanzhao and a local Chinese governor, who had attempted to blackmail her husband and had been ruthless in collecting levies. The king of Nanzhao was so outraged that he launched an attack at the local government, killed the governor, and seized almost the entire Yunnan region, causing war to break out.
The Tang court was not aware of the true cause—the whole of China was ignorant of it, all believing that Nanzhao Kingdom must be punished for its aggression. Although Nanzhao sent emissaries to China in pursuit of peace, the Tang court would not accept a truce. But the Chinese army lost one battle after another, and many more troops were killed by disease. Eventually the military had to give up the expedition. The Tang emperor, unaware of the cause of the war and the magnitude of the catastrophe, only sought pleasure with total abandon—the palace was filled with endless parties and entertainments. The siblings of Lady Yang all received major appointments and titles, and top officials competed to consume delicacies of land and sea. Common people, meanwhile, lived in deplorable conditions: in recent years a severe fami
ne, caused by heavy rains and floods and then by locusts, had struck the central land, and the price of grain had risen tens of times. Many starved to death, and bodies littered the streets in every city Li Hua had visited. Even cannibalism had occurred in some far-off regions.
Li Hua himself, though a royal inspector, could hardly do anything to curb the misdeeds and wrongdoings of local officials. He knew it was useless to expose them, so he had grown a bit jaded. Whenever he tried to dig into a case, he would find the involvements of the higher-level governments and senior officials in the capital. He attempted to be conscientious and even made bold to report a number of cases to court, but it was clear his honest efforts might only bring trouble to himself. He couldn’t help but feel a demotion or banishment looming over his head. In short, the dynasty was already rotten to the core.
Bai recited some of his recent verses to his uncle. The older man praised the new work and was particularly fond of the one titled “Battling South of the Town,” which Li Hua believed was a masterpiece. Bai also composed a poem for Li Hua, which became another of his signature works:
