by Ha Jin
棄我去者 昨日之日不可留
亂我心者 今日之日多煩憂
長風萬里送秋雁 對此可以酣高樓
蓬萊文章建安骨 中間小謝又清發
俱懷逸興壯思飛 欲上青天攬明月
抽刀斷水水更流 舉杯消愁愁更愁
人生在世不稱意 明朝散髮弄扁舟
《宣州謝朓樓餞別校書叔雲》
Yesterday, having left me, couldn’t be pressed to stay.
Today, still disturbing me, makes me more upset.
The long wind is sending the autumn geese far away,
And viewing them from this high tower, we should drink more.
Your essays are fresh and strong like those of the Han dynasty
While my poetry resembles Xie Tiao’s in vigor and beauty.
We both have lofty spirit, thinking of soaring
To the sky to grab hold of the clear moon.
I draw my sword to cut water, which won’t stop flowing,
And I raise my cup to douse my sorrow, which grows stronger.
Ah, life is such a sad thing that tomorrow
I will undo my hair and sail away in a little boat.
“SONG FOR ACCOMPANYING UNCLE HUA ON XIE TIAO’S TOWER”
Li Hua’s visit convinced Bai that he must not remain isolated for too long and should have more frequent contact with the outside world. So he began to travel north to Wuhu, where he could take a boat up and down the Yangtze, visiting cities that were more culturally active.
Yet Xuan Town had become his base. By now he had been there for more than a year but still hadn’t yet brought his family over. He must have realized that he needed to live in a city on the Yangtze so he could travel more easily and have more contact with other places, such as Nanjing and Yangzhou. Despite his intermittent longing to retreat into wild mountains and waters, he acted as though he were still eagerly waiting for an opportunity to return to court. He could not abandon the dream of getting back to the capital and restarting his political career. What made him hesitate to go there was An Lushan, who might launch his army inland anytime. Bai had to avoid the capital for now.
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
Li Hua left with Bai a critical poetry anthology, The Essence of Mountains and Rivers, which was compiled by Yin Fan and had recently become available at bookshops in the capital. Bookshops were very small at the time, usually each having just two or three shelves or stands in a shed or room. In some cases, a bookshop was just an open-air stand. Yin Fan was a literary scholar and a retired official, and his anthology, two volumes altogether, would become one of the most influential among the dozens that appeared in the Tang dynasty. Even today the book is still valuable for scholars in their study of Tang poetry, mainly because it offers a perspective on how poets were received by their contemporaries. Li Bai was pleased to find himself among the twenty-four included poets (many of whom were friends of his such as Meng Haoran, Cui Guofu, and Gao Shi), but was disconcerted to see that his thirteen poems were outnumbered by those of poets like Wang Wei (fifteen poems), Wang Changling (sixteen), and Chang Jian (a minor poet who had been allocated fourteen poems). Did this mean they were more famous than him? He was certain that he was one of the most popular among the poets in the anthology, but Yin Fan must have had his own agenda to push, promoting the poets he liked and setting his own criteria. There was no justification for including only six poems by Meng Haoran, a major poet by any standard. Worse still, in the commentary Yin remarked on Li Bai’s work with reservations, saying, “Like his personality lacking in restraint, his style is self-indulgent but extraordinary.” Although most of Bai’s thirteen poems were indeed his masterpieces, the editor’s comments irritated him. He tried to dismiss them from his mind. It was true that his genius was beyond the traditional boundaries of poetic art, and a pedant like Yin Fan must only be capable of assessing decorous rules, metrical patterns, and technical finesse. By no means should he take the editor’s words seriously.
Bai noticed that his friend Du Fu was not in the anthology at all, though he was far superior to most of the included poets. (In fact, some of them would fade into oblivion. Later Yin Fan added another volume to the original two and again left out Du Fu.) Although the editor had shown a certain amount of integrity by not including many poets who were high-ranking officials, Du Fu was, like Li Bai, radically different from the court poets, and his originality must have been difficult for Yin Fan to appreciate.
From his uncle Li Bai had learned that Du Fu was still in the capital but had been unsuccessful in his efforts to seek office. Bai didn’t like this aspect of Du Fu, who seemed to him to follow the conventional way too earnestly and was much more Confucian than Bai. The man was a little prim, a paragon of virtue. Why had he put so much effort into the civil-service examination? With his talent and intelligence, he could excel through other ways. Bai knew that two years prior, at an imperial ceremony, Du Fu had composed three poetic essays (rhapsodies) that pleased the emperor greatly, but his opportunity for an appointment was time and again subverted by devious courtiers, some of whom even lied to the emperor, saying there was no qualified examinee in all of China for an important post that needed to be filled. The worst part was that His Majesty believed these lies. The system was so corrupt that it was understandable that Du Fu couldn’t succeed in his efforts. In his lifetime only one anthology contained his poems, and his work remained unknown until nearly half a century later when mid-Tang poets rediscovered him and began to mention him in the same breath as Li Bai. Some even considered Du Fu a greater poet than Bai. The poet Zhang Ji (767–830), of the younger generation, often hand-copied Du Fu’s poems, burned them, and then drank the ashes, hoping that the remnants might inspire his own poetry.
After Li Hua had left, Bai began to travel along the Yangtze extensively, mainly to the cities on the river, though he used Xuan Town as a retreat of sorts. He thrived on the social life of the cities; he must have been eager to keep in touch with the outside world and above all to maintain his audience and sustain his fame. His nature didn’t allow him to live in isolation for long—he needed engagement and recognition.
One summer day, while Bai was staying in Yangzhou, a young man came to call on him. The visitor, named Wei Hao, was a devoted fan of his poetry. He told Bai how he had been searching for his whereabouts and had finally found him. First he had gone to east Shandong, where he met Bai’s son Boqin and the woman of Lu. She told him that Bai was in Liang Park with his new wife. Hao then went to Henan, where Bai’s wife told him her husband was in the south, though she was no longer sure of his exact location. So Hao journeyed to the land of Wu, traveling from city to city—Hangzhou, Wenzhou (by sea), Nanjing, and many other places—hoping to pick up Bai’s tracks. At last he got word that Bai was in Yangzhou, so he had come here without delay. All told, Wei Hao had traveled more than a thousand miles in search of Li Bai. On hearing this, Bai observed the visitor more carefully: he looked trustworthy, a bit insouciant, and somewhat distracted, probably thanks to this miraculous meeting he had dreamed of for so long.
As their conversation continued, Bai learned that Hao loved the ancient writers and also wrote poetry himself. The two men shared a common taste and spirit. Bai was impressed by the young man’s sincerity and touched by his love for his poems, some of which he could recite. So he let Hao stay with him. They wandered together as a pair; their sojourns to nearby towns and cities and to mountains and rivers brought Bai much joy. Though there were more than twenty years between them, Bai treated Wei Hao as a younger brother and a kindred spirit. Hao wrote about their friendship in a poem: “One old man and one young man / Keep looking at each other like brothers.” Li Bai also wrote about his young friend: “Being together with you gives me boundless joy.” Wei’s words provide for us vivid physical descriptions of Bai: “His eye
s were piercingly bright while his mouth opened like a hungry tiger’s. He often tied a sash around him, which gave him a casual but elegant manner. Because he had been inducted into the Daoist society in Qi, he wore a black embroidered hat.”1
Bai wrote a poem about Wei Hao, which consists of 120 lines and is the only one Bai wrote about the man that has survived. It lists the places Hao had visited in search of him and gives an account of the delightful trips they made together. Bai describes Hao with great affection: “You wore a Japanese gown / With an air of detachment from earthly cares. / In May you came and we chatted tirelessly, / And I realized you were not a madman at all. / Then our joy in being together / Spread all over the streams and rocks where we lingered” (“Seeing Wei Hao, Hermit of Wang Wu, Returning to His Retreat”). Hao’s gown was an exotic garment, made of imported fabric given him by Chao Heng (698–770), a Japanese man serving as an official in the Tang government.
Chao’s original name was Abe no Nakamaro; he had come to China at the age of nineteen as part of a cultural mission of young Japanese students. His was the eighth such mission that his country had dispatched to China. Its members were to learn crafts and study arts and various branches of knowledge so that they could bring back to Japan the achievements of the Chinese civilization. Nakamaro studied classics and literature, which in a few years he learned so well that he passed the civil-service examination at the first attempt. While most of his fellow students returned to Japan and became experts in various fields, Nakamaro stayed in China and took an administrative position with the seventh rank, quite high for a beginner. Later he was promoted to collator of texts in the Imperial Library, the same post that the great poet Bai Juyi would take half a century later.2 Nakamaro was a kind, sincere man who befriended many literary figures, including Li Bai, Wang Wei, and Chu Guangxi (700–760). He also became a friend and official companion of Prince Yi, the emperor’s twelfth son. In 753, the year before Wei Hao found Li Bai in person, Nakamaro obtained approval from the Tang court to return to Japan. He set sail from Ningbo, but soon his ship encountered a storm and was thrown off course, landing on the coast of Vietnam. Word came back to China that he had drowned in the ocean.
Li Bai was heartbroken upon hearing of his friend’s death and wrote this poem in memory of him: “My Japanese friend, Sir Chao, left the capital, / A lone ship sailing toward the celestial islands. / Like a bright moon he sank into the gray sea / And left white clouds and sorrow over the green mountains.” But to everyone’s surprise, Nakamaro had in fact survived the shipwreck and managed to return to China in 755. When he saw Li Bai’s poem mourning his death, he was so moved that he wrote a poem in response:
卅年長安住 歸不到蓬壺
一片望鄉情 盡付水天處
魂兮歸來了 感君痛苦吾
我更為君哭 不得長安住
《望鄉》
After living in Chang’an for thirty years,
I sailed back to the celestial islands but without success.
All my homesickness was thrown away
On the water that spread to the end of the sky.
My soul and myself now are back,
Touched by your pain over my disappearance.
I too weep, but for your sake—
You can no longer stay in Chang’an.
“LOOKING HOMEWARD”
Bai and Hao must have reminisced together about their remarkable Japanese friend. Hao’s wearing of the gown showed how much he cherished his friendship with Nakamaro.
Hao was especially grateful that Bai didn’t view him as a fool as others often did because he tended to appear arrogant and off balance. In fact, Bai trusted Hao and saw a bright future awaiting him. He told Hao, “Surely you will make a great name for yourself in our country. When that happens, don’t forget this old man and my son Little Bright Moon.” He gave Wei Hao all the manuscripts he had with him and asked his friend to edit a book of his collected writings.
Wei Hao would go on to live up to Li Bai’s expectations, passing the civil-service examination and becoming an official. After Bai died, Hao did compile his collected works; this compilation, unfortunately, has been lost, but Wei’s preface has remained. It is an essential source of biographical information on Li Bai and offers an intimate look at the great poet. From it, we know that Bai told Wei he had been summoned to the capital by the emperor in 742 not because of his poetry but because, as an accomplished Daoist fellow, he was recommended to His Majesty by Princess Yuzhen. This could be a boast, as Bai’s heart had never really left the palace and he might have felt attracted to the princess. He always longed to join the royal family as a way to justify his extraordinariness, and also to eclipse his humble origins. However, the biographical information the preface provides on his family’s origin and migration and his personal life is congruent with other sources and has become the basis of Li Bai scholarship.
The Tang poets had many loyal fans like Wei Hao; indeed, they were part of the poetic culture. In Jing Prefecture, a street policeman named Ge Qing was so devoted to Bai Juyi that he tattooed more than thirty of Juyi’s poems on his body, as well as drawings inspired by his verses. People called him “Bai Juyi’s Walking Poems and Pictures.” Jia Dao (779–843) had a fan named Li Dong who cast a small brass statue of Jia so that he could carry it with him and pray to it a thousand times a day. Li Bai must have had many other dedicated fans and disciples as well. One of them, Wu E, would risk his own life to help Bai rescue his family.
ESCAPING FROM THE REBELS
In November 755, An Lushan, after repeated provocations by Chancellor Yang Guozhong, launched his rebellion against the central government. His army assembled in Hebei and swiftly marched inland. His men were well trained, his generals loyal and capable, and they took one prefecture after another as they advanced. The two hundred thousand troops were simply unstoppable.
Li Bai was in Nanjing when the news of the rebellion came. War refugees had begun to appear on the Yangtze, crossing the river and fleeing farther south, and Bai worried about his wife in Henan and his son Boqin in Shandong. His disciple of many years, Wu E, came to Nanjing from the coastal area to ensure that Bai was safe. On hearing about his family’s predicament, Wu E volunteered to go to rescue his son—the rebels would surely seize Shandong soon. Wu E was a knight-errant skilled in martial arts, bold but also coolheaded. Bai was terribly anxious about his family’s safety. Without delay he and Wu E started out north together. After a hundred miles or so, they parted ways: Bai headed west to Henan to fetch his wife, while Wu E made for Shandong to look for Boqin. Bai recorded Wu E’s adventure in his poem “For Wu Seventeen,” composed to express his gratitude to the young man.
Bai found his wife in Liang Park, which the marauding troops had already reached. Unsure if Wu E would succeed in rescuing Boqin, Bai and his wife decided to join the refugees fleeing south. They headed back toward Nanjing, where, as planned, Bai would wait for Boqin and Wu E. Along the way they encountered bodies scattered on roadsides and saw beggars everywhere. Beacons of war sent up smoke in the distance. Country people abandoned their homes, scrambling for places where the old social order might remain intact. The rebels killed and plundered at random, burning villages and towns. Their savagery terrified people, many of whom fled blindly toward Chang’an: in the public eye, His Majesty still embodied the governing power and the prospect of order and peace. The common people couldn’t see how disarrayed the central government truly was. The stunned emperor, by now seventy years old, was too feeble to organize an effective counterattack. He and Lady Yang could not believe that An Lushan, their beloved “son,” would make war to topple the dynasty.
In just one month the rebels captured Luoyang City. Then, in January 756, An Lushan established a shadow government in Luoyang and declared himself the emperor of Great Yan, his new dynasty. He would advance west all the way to Chang’a
n in the name of “clearing the side of His Majesty,” which meant eliminating the courtiers he hated. The main corps of his troops moved west along the Yellow River and continued to conquer towns and cities. In desperation, Emperor Xuanzong announced that he would personally lead the imperial army to confront the rebels, but then realized his health was too frail. Instead, he ordered Geshu Han, the grand Turgesh general serving in the Tang army, to march out of their current position at Tong Pass and lead the counterattack. He also ordered Guo Ziyi, commander of the Northern Army (and the very man Li Bai had saved from execution), to attack the rebel forces from the rear.
Marshal Geshu was experienced in military operations and revered by the common people. A popular folk song eulogized him as a great power that alone could stabilize the frontier: “The Big Dipper hangs high in the sky / And Geshu carries a sword at night. / The barbarians can only watch our horses in the pasture, / Not daring to invade our borderland” (“Song About Geshu”). However, Geshu was old and no longer had the valor and vigor he’d possessed in his prime. He was not optimistic about the present situation. He argued with the emperor, saying that his central army should continue to defend Tong Pass, the last stronghold on the rebels’ path to Chang’an, rather than take the offensive. If the rebels breached Tong Pass, there would be no place remaining in which to build a defense line and Chang’an would be completely open to assault. But the emperor refused to listen, so Geshu had no choice but to decamp and head for the enemy. He was ambushed on the way and caught by An Lushan’s men, his army routed. He later died in the rebels’ prison, an absurd and pathetic end to a glorious career.
When Geshu lost his army, the emperor was still under the illusion that the enemy was far away. Then the beacon smoke rose in the east, the capital was thrown into turmoil, and people were scrambling to flee. A chief counselor offered the emperor an odd piece of advice: he should grant sweeping administrative powers to four of his sons and make them fight to save the shattered empire. Strangely enough, His Majesty accepted the advice: he appointed his third son, Li Heng, as the marshal of the central army overseeing the vast territory north of the Yellow River; his sixteenth son, Li Lin, as the ruler of many southern prefectures; his twenty-first son, Li Qi, as ruler and military commander of several eastern prefectures; and his twenty-sixth son, Li Feng, as ruler of the prefectures around the capital. However, the twenty-first and the twenty-sixth sons would continue to stay at court, ruling their territories from a distance, so their appointments were meaningless. Prince Li Heng, the third son, was already the mainstay in organizing the counterattack forces: he directly commanded generals whose troops were engaging the rebels competently, including Guo Ziyi in the northeast and Li Guangbi in central China. His brother, Li Lin, Prince Yong, had also been resisting the rebels, building defenses along the Yangtze while occupying the fertile Wu land. The emperor’s decree stated clearly that all four princes had the right to levy taxes, appoint officials, and raise armies within their territories. This meant they would become actual rulers. The emperor did not foresee the unintended consequences of this decree, which would divide the empire.
