by Ha Jin
In the fall, the court finally returned to Chang’an. Throughout China people celebrated what appeared to be the restoration of the imperial reign. But the victory was dubious and even shameful: the emperor had not been able to take back the capital with the Chinese army alone. Instead, he had borrowed tens of thousands of troops from the Uighur State and let them attack the defending rebels. The Tang court made a pact with the Uighurs to divide the spoils: “When the capital is recaptured, all the land and people of high classes shall belong to the Tang government, whereas gold, silver, fabrics, women, and servants all shall go to the Uighurs.” This agreement also applied to Luoyang. As a result, the foreign troops sacked both cities and inflicted tremendous destruction.2 Nonetheless, the court wished the whole country to celebrate its return to Chang’an. Even convicts were given better food for a day. Li Bai also became infected by the excitement and wrote ten poems to sing his praises of the event. The series of poems was sent to the palace by his friends, who hoped that they would please the emperor enough that His Majesty would award Bai a position. The country needed an indispensable talent like Li Bai now more than ever, they argued.
Bai also wrote a self-recommendation to Song Ruosi and intended to have it passed on to the emperor. In the letter, he said that as a man who was deeply knowledgeable in the arts and capable of managing civilian affairs, he was still useful to the country. He implored, “Please grant me a post in the capital.” Even though already fifty-six, an old man by the standards of the time, Bai kept alive the dream of having a high position near the emperor. He believed that he deserved a reward now that he had been absolved of any misdeed. He also regarded himself as “a supremely cultured man,” a great celebrity whose presence could draw all kinds of talent to Chang’an. But although Song Ruosi dutifully dispatched the letter to court, he was unsure that Bai would be allowed to proceed to the capital: they were yet to hear from the emperor about how to handle Li Bai’s case, which was actually still pending despite Bai’s own conviction of his innocence. Bai was notorious throughout the country; only a few friends remained loyal and sympathetic to him. Du Fu was one of them and wrote several poems lamenting Li Bai’s fate. In one poem, he says, “People all want to have him executed, / But my heart alone aches for his gift.” In the same poem, Du Fu, trapped in Sichuan himself, summons Li Bai to return to his home region: “The quiet reading place on Kuang Mountain is the same. / Please come back despite your full head of white hair.”3
Then Bai wrote Song Ruosi a petition in which he suggested that the court move to Nanjing and make it the new capital. Indeed, Nanjing possessed a great cultural heritage and was perfectly situated, sitting in the north of the fertile Wu land, against a mountain to the south and the Yangtze to the north. The city was a natural fortress, Bai argued, a most auspicious place for the new capital. Many dynasties had set up their capitals in Nanjing, so Emperor Suzong should seriously consider moving east. In the petition, Bai spoke eloquently, like a classical state counselor, a role he had always dreamed of for himself. There were many advantages, he argued, in moving the capital to Nanjing, to which many rich families had fled from the north during the rebellion: the land was now the wealthiest area in the country. Bai must also have intended to remind the emperor of his sincerity and concern for the royal family and their dynasty.
In spite of all this, it was unlikely that Bai could have himself fully exonerated of his egregious misdeed, which had in fact arisen from a more deeply rooted cause. Ever since his studies with his teacher Zhao Rui in his youth, Li Bai had been possessed with the spirit of the migrant advisers and knights-errant of the Warring States, ready to seize any opportunity to help a sovereign expand his territory and conquer his neighboring countries. For those ancient statesmen, chaotic times usually presented the optimal moment for such action. Bai’s foreign origins also had influenced his blunder—the chieftains of the western tribes often ascended the throne by brute force, heedless of decorum and procedure. We can say that Bai’s act was in keeping with the core of his mind-set and character.
Not until the end of 757 did the emperor’s reply come. It decreed Li Bai’s punishment: “Banish him to Yelang for three years.” Yelang was a far-flung county in the southwest, more than a thousand miles away. Everyone was stunned: his wife cried for days and Bai was devastated. Such a banishment, however, was a light punishment compared to what the emperor had originally had in mind for him. His Majesty viewed Li Bai as an accomplice of Prince Yong, which meant that he should have been sentenced to death. But General Guo Ziyi, the officer Bai had saved from execution thirteen years before, implored Emperor Suzong to spare the poet. It is said that Guo was willing to sacrifice his own position in exchange for Bai’s life. Guo was a brilliant warrior who had led his army back from the northeast and helped retake Chang’an from the rebels. By now he had become a linchpin of the country, so the emperor relented and showed mercy to Bai.
Zong Jing, Bai’s brother-in-law, joined his sister to see Bai off at Sugong Town. They accompanied him south for twenty miles to Jiujiang, where he boarded a boat to sail up the Yangtze. Then sister and brother turned back and returned to Henan. Because of his fame, Bai was treated decently by his guards; his wife had also given them each a piece of jewelry to ensure they would not be rough with him (though he had to wear irons at all times). By rule they were to arrive at Yelang within a year, but an additional clause to the rule also said, “Extension may be allowed for exceptional circumstances.” So they let Bai proceed at his own pace—he could stay in a town or port as long as he wanted on their travel up the river—the guards could report that the convict was ill and had to pause from time to time. After a year’s imprisonment, Li Bai had indeed grown very frail and bony. He had also aged considerably and now had the gray hair of an old man.
The journey was slow and arduous. Fortunately, they could take breaks on occasion. As on his previous travels, Bai would run into friends in the towns and cities along the river; though in disgrace now, he didn’t always meet hospitality as before. Some friends would host him and keep him for days, sometimes even a month. When they reached Jiangxia (modern Wuhan), its governor, Wei Liangzai, who was a friend of Bai’s, received him as an honored guest. Liangzai persuaded Bai to stay in his city for two months so that he could recuperate. In August when they arrived at Hanyang, a port town in Hubei, another friend of Bai’s from his days in the capital, Zhang Wei, kept him in his home for a whole month. In mid-fall they reached Jiang-ling, where again friends and local officials hosted Bai for several days. The guards themselves enjoyed the journey to a degree because they were treated to fine dinners and had time to relax.
Not until winter did they enter the Three Gorges. As they traveled up the river, the mountains on both sides grew higher and higher and the hilly landscape turned to rocky walls and cliffs. The waterway narrowed and flowed more rapidly. Bai had traveled this way when he had left Sichuan at the age of twenty-four, but on that journey he had been sailing down the river. Now they were going up against the current, and the boat had to be pulled by trackers. They proceeded so slowly that the pace surprised and frustrated Bai. At Yellow Oxen Mountain, the boat hardly moved at all. Weary and bored, Li Bai wrote this poem:
巫山夾青天 巴水流若茲
巴水忽可盡 青天無到時
三朝上黃牛 三暮行太遲
三朝又三暮 不覺鬢成絲
《上三峽》
Going up the river, we enter Wu Mountain,
Where hills hold the gray sky in between.
The water suddenly seems to end,
Although the sky stretches ahead endlessly.
Three mornings we’ve gone up the Oxen Gorge
And three evenings we still sail in it.
For three full days we cannot get out of it.
This pace makes my hair grow white and sparse.
“GOING UP TH
E THREE GORGES”
It took them two months to emerge from the Three Gorges. Not until the early spring did they reach Fengjie, the ancient Baidi Town. From there they would turn south and head down toward Yelang. This was Bai’s first time back in his homeland of Sichuan. The dialect was refreshing and comforting to his ears, the food tasted spicier and more peppery, and everything reminded him of his youth. Even the butterflies and dragonflies looked as familiar as if he had met them before. His hometown in the northwest wasn’t far away, but he needed to follow his course, trudging south by land. For more than three decades he had dreamed of returning home; now finally he was back in the land of Shu, but only as a criminal. Even if he had been allowed to continue northwest, he wouldn’t have let his family and neighbors see him in such a condition. He would only have brought them disgrace and heartbreak. Besides, his parents had died long before.
As Bai was about to depart from Fengjie, suddenly word came that he had been pardoned. No one had expected such wonderful news, and Li Bai was astounded, unable to understand what had happened. In fact, his pardon came from an unlikely and impersonal source. A severe drought had been plaguing the central land, and so the court, in its efforts to combat the natural disaster and unite the country, granted amnesty to all exiled convicts. Bai was ecstatic and believed the pardon signaled the end of his troubles. All the evil chancellors who had once hounded him were dead now, and even the head eunuch, Gao Lishi, had been expelled from the palace. Bai had no more enemies at court. His path to the capital was finally open, he believed, and in all likelihood he could ascend again.
Without delay he boarded a small boat, sailing down the river swiftly. His buoyant mood inspired him to compose a verse, which would become another masterpiece of his:
朝辭白帝彩雲間 千里江陵一日還
兩岸猿聲啼不住 輕舟已過萬重山
《早發白帝城》
In the morning I leave Baidi Town hidden in colored clouds,
Sailing three hundred miles back to Jiangling in a single day.
Before the gibbons on both shores can stop screaming,
My light boat has passed ten thousand hills.
“LEAVING BAIDI TOWN IN THE MORNING”
The beauty and fluidity of these lines is charged with political resonance. The swift boat is unstoppable, no matter how the gibbons leap and clamor. Bai is darting back to the central land. In his mind, this sudden twist of fate foreshadowed his imminent ascent.
He misunderstood the pardon, which stemmed from a general amnesty, believing instead that the emperor had been so impressed by his writings that he had granted him a personal favor of clemency. Therefore he decided not to immediately return to his wife and instead stayed in the region near Dongting Lake, waiting for the new appointment that would bring him back to the capital.
DISILLUSION AND THE END
All Li Bai chronologies find him returning to Jiangxia (modern Wuhan) in the spring of 760. Azaleas and cherry flowers were in bloom, swallows darted back and forth, and the streets bustled with activity. The city was in a festive mood: people believed that the rebels had finally been suppressed and that the central government was restoring peace and order throughout the country. Bai too was in good spirits, expecting to be summoned to the capital. Jiangxia was now a political center in the south, home to many high officials. They often invited Bai to their banquets and parties, mainly to impress their guests of honor with the presence of such a well-known artist (though to some people his reputation was tarnished by the stain of treason). But Bai would get drunk and act as if he were a host or one of the honored guests. He composed poems that boasted of his ability and aspiration. On one occasion he compared himself to a great fish trapped in a roadside puddle, dreaming of returning to the ocean. On another, he said he hoped to become a great roc able to soar into the sky. He would dance and perform sword routines for the other guests, but his performances were pale versions of his former abilities. His behavior tended to embarrass his hosts.
Then he composed a long poem titled “Song of the Divine Horse,” an allegory that depicts the life of a beautiful celestial steed from a western region. In his youth the horse is full of strength, fast, and handsome, but when he grows old, his feet cannot move as swiftly as before, though he still dreams of drawing his master’s carriage through the clouds. Now the horse has been harnessed as a draft animal, transporting salt up hilly roads. How he hopes someone will recognize the great horse within him! Even without his former vigor and speed, he can still serve as a grand symbol up in heaven when a dance is performed at the side of a jade pool where he had often stood before. The poem echoed Bai’s own life too well, and as a result, he didn’t know to whom he could present it. Bai felt bewildered by such uncertainty: all his life he had given poems as gifts, which had invariably been cherished by the recipients. Now he couldn’t think of anyone who might appreciate this poem.
The mayor of Jiangxia, Wei Liangzai, was preparing to depart for a new post. He had done good deeds for the city, so the local powers initiated a project of erecting a monument that would record his virtues and accomplishments. They commissioned Li Bai for the text to be carved on the stone. The mayor was a friend of Bai’s, so the poet worked hard on the short essay; later, he even wrote a lengthy poem for Liangzai personally. In the poem he told the departing man, “You are going to ascend to the phoenix pool, / But don’t forget the talent of a struggling scholar…./ Every night I sigh four or five times, / Worried about our great country” (“For Jiangxia Mayor Wei Liangzai—Memories of the Separation from My Family and the Exile Granted by the Emperor”). He implored Liangzai to recommend him for a post in the capital. Such a request was beyond his friend’s ability, so before leaving, Liangzai gave Bai a cane with a jade handle as a gift, which seemed to be the best way he could thank him for his work. Bai realized that again his efforts to return to the capital had gotten nowhere. In spite of the pardon from the emperor, he was still a semi-criminal in many people’s eyes and was even viewed as a madman by others.
In the fall, he went to Baling on the southwestern side of Dongting Lake. It was a small town with a long cultural history, and was frequented by visitors, especially literary figures. There Bai met his poet friend Jia Zhi, who had recently been banished from the capital. Then a distant uncle of Bai’s, Li Ye, arrived to visit Baling. Ye was a new exile, too, but had been ordered to a more remote place in the southern borderland and was on his way to his new place and only passing through. The three men talked about the news in Chang’an and the nefarious nature of official life. From his uncle, Bai learned that the rebels were still active in some areas. The emperor had ordered Generals Guo Ziyi and Li Guangbi to move their forces about at random, an order that rendered them unable to fight effectively and thus caused them to lose a major battle to the rebels, incurring tens of thousands of casualties. Bai also learned that An Lushan’s follower Shi Siming had again occupied large parts of Hebei and Henan and proclaimed himself the new ruler of Great Yan. The so-called restoration, which had kept officials at all levels busy with celebrations, was in Li Ye’s opinion a joke.
Together the three of them went boating on the lake and climbed up Yueyang Tower, where many poets had left their lines inscribed on the walls. It was drizzling and the rain soured their mood. As Bai spent more time with the two men, he saw that neither Jia nor his uncle expected to be called back to the capital despite the fact that some exiles had returned after they served their terms of banishment. Jia was afraid he might have to spend the rest of his life in Baling, which he viewed as a godforsaken town. Bai tried to comfort him, but to no avail. Ye, despite his advanced years, was in a better mood; he didn’t seem to care where he might end up, and even claimed that he’d count himself lucky if he didn’t live out his final days in poverty. By now Bai was convinced that he himself had no chance of returning to the palace, and that it was silly for him to expect s
uch a favor from the emperor.
Bai departed Baling for Yuzhang (modern Wuchang), where his wife now lived. But conflict blocked his path: a group of local officials in Rangzhou had rebelled against the central government, and the fighting cut off the roads. So Li Bai wandered in the area east of Dongting Lake. He traveled to a town near Yueyang to see his old friend Cui Zongzhi, who was yet another exile from the capital. To his dismay, he found his friend had died. Zongzhi had been a handsome man with a sonorous singing voice, and the fond memories of him saddened Bai. Zongzhi had left a manuscript of poems, Lakeside Songs. Li Bai wrote a preface for it, stating that his friend, a good honest man, had been persecuted to death.
Having met so many exiles, none of whom had returned to the capital, Bai wanted only to go home, join his wife, and live out his life in peace. He waited for the suppression of the new rebels and for the roads to reopen. Not until the spring of 761 did he manage to reach home.
* * *
—
Bai found his wife’s hair had grayed considerably. She was aged and pallid, perhaps owing to malnutrition: there had been a famine caused by drought, and most people were living hand to mouth. She was happy to see him back and even pawned some of her jewelry to give him a fine dinner for the reunion. Li Bai was sixty-nine years old now and felt ashamed, still without a regular income to his name. Their remaining properties in Shandong and Henan had been lost in the war, reducing the couple nearly to paupers. Bai’s brother-in-law had invited them to join his family again in Liang Park, but they were reluctant to accept the offer because it would be very hard for Zong Jing to support both of them. Jing was a petty official of the ninth rank, hardly able to provide for his own family on his meager salary. Then a letter came from Bai’s wife’s master, Li Tengkong, summoning her disciple up to Mount Lu. The master had settled in a Daoist convent there and resumed practicing folk medicine and producing the elixir of life. She wanted Bai’s wife to come and help her with war-refugee relief work and to continue their religious cultivation.
