The Banished Immortal

by Ha Jin

  Bai agreed to let his wife go and join her master, and even accompanied her up to Mount Lu. He wanted to ensure that she could remain there safely. After seeing her settle in, he headed back. He felt like a homeless man, with very little to return to, so again he struck out on the road, trusting that he could always find food and lodging and even some money along the way. He went to Nanjing, the city he loved. But Nanjing was no longer the same. The war had razed thousands of villages and towns and killed millions of people (“white bones piled up like mountains,” as Bai witnessed). Refugees were everywhere, and everything was more expensive now. The prosperity of the south was gone, so the officials were no longer as generous as before in receiving ordinary guests. Worse yet, Bai, as a man with a criminal past, was a problematic presence to many of them. Nevertheless, because of his fame and his former position at the Imperial Academy, he was still invited to parties. He was also commissioned to compose poems and short essays, which earned enough for his keep. He could still afford to drink every day. At the parties and dinners, he often became swept up in the festivities, improvising poems that expressed his bitterness and his aspiration, but people did not respond to his work as they used to. In the public eye he was a bit passé. Brash young men would tease him and even offer him menial jobs, to which he would not debase himself to respond. Whenever he was commissioned to write an essay about an official’s deeds and virtues, he would try to attach himself to the official’s crew, but he was always paid promptly so that they could wash their hands of him. So whenever he received payment, Bai would only feel humiliated and blame himself for wasting his talent and time. As summer approached and the weather grew hot, his temper grew more irascible, and he often took off his felt hat and brandished it at others or threw it on the table.

  In May, both the Grand Emperor Xuanzong and the new emperor died within weeks of each other. The court was in chaos, and different factions began fighting fiercely for the throne. When the courtiers backed by the queen were defeated, they were either executed or imprisoned by the group supported by the eunuchs. Finally a new emperor, Daizong, was enthroned. For the entire summer the country was in disarray, and the rebels continued to resurge in the north. By now Li Bai was no longer interested in what happened at court, but then he heard that General Li Guangbi’s army was moving to Henan to take Shangqiu back from the rebels. Bai admired Li Guangbi for the victorious battles he had fought in recent years and for the discipline of his troops. Li Guangbi and Guo Ziyi had become the two great warriors the country now depended on.

  Bai and his wife had lived in Shangqiu; it was like their hometown, the site of happy times he had shared with Yuan Danqiu and Du Fu. So he decided to set off north to join General Li’s army. Although already sixty years old, Bai still viewed himself as a capable warrior and dreamed of serving as an officer or adviser to Li Guangbi. He redeemed his sword from a pawnshop, bought a spear from a weapon store, attached a scarlet tassel to its head, and donned the brocade robe Emperor Xuanzong had once granted him. He then borrowed an old horse from a friend. Without delay he started out north. By joining the imperial army, he intended to redeem himself. He explains in a lengthy poem, “I want to wipe away my shame / And earn favor and honor with valiant deeds” (“On Hearing General Li March Southeast with a Million Troops, Though a Feeble Man, I Want to Join Him”). He also held a sincere commitment to the nation: he confessed that every night he sighed, worried about his “great country.” It was very likely that he had been in touch with General Li Guangbi or had friends in Li’s camp who had agreed to help him.1

  Throughout Li Bai’s life, one of his great skills was his ability to forge genuine friendships with so many people. Wherever he went and however dire his circumstances were, he could always find help one way or another. But not even halfway to Henan, he fell ill and his horse collapsed from exhaustion. He lay in an inn for a few days, then gave up the trip. He at last admitted that he was too old to fight as a soldier.

  Back in Nanjing, he wondered what to do. Should he go back to Yuzhang, where his wife still had a cottage? He decided not to, certain that she wouldn’t return from Mount Lu without her master’s permission. From what Bai had seen in his last meeting with Li Tengkong, it was unlikely that the master would allow his wife to leave. The two women were as close as sisters, and his wife was more dedicated to her Daoist practice than ever. His son Boqin was not far away, in Xi Prefecture (Wu E had found Boqin in Shandong and succeeded in bringing him to the south), but Bai was unsure if Boqin could support him. Should he return to his hometown in Sichuan? That was out of the question—the shame and sorrow would break everyone’s heart, including his own. Having thought for many days, he decided to go to Dangtu County, where a relative of his, Li Yangbing, was the magistrate. Although there might in fact be no true blood tie between them, Bai had once written a poem for Li Yangbing in which he called him “my uncle,” praising him as one of the heroes of their clan and celebrating his calligraphy: “Your brush inscribes words in Zuan style / Shattering clouds and surprising people” (“For My Uncle Yangbing, the Magistrate of Dangtu County”). Indeed, Li Yangbing was one of the great calligraphers in Tang China, perhaps the greatest. He is regarded as “one in a millennium” by later generations.

  To Bai’s relief, Li Yangbing received him wholeheartedly, as kin. But as soon as Bai settled down in Dangtu, he fell ill—his ribs rotted open and he had to take to his bed. He must have had a chronic thoracic problem, aggravated by his drinking. Yangbing sent for doctors, but the affliction had been festering in Bai for so long that the doctors couldn’t cure him. It was already winter, and he stayed in bed day and night.

  At the end of 761, Yangbing’s appointment expired and he had to return to the capital for a new assignment, so he dispatched men to fetch Bai’s wife and son. Boqin came to Dangtu without delay to care for Bai. His wife never arrived; perhaps the messenger hadn’t been able to find her secluded dwelling in Mount Lu. Yangbing found Boqin a job at a local salt station and left Bai with all the cash he could gather. He also gave Bai a large bundle of his calligraphy so that the poet might be able to sell some of the pieces if the need arose. Although there was no market for artwork in the wake of the war, the calligraphy would gain value in the future. As a low-ranking official, Yangbing wasn’t rich; he simply did whatever he could for Bai.

  Having made these arrangements, Yangbing went to Bai to say goodbye. Bai sat up in bed and grabbed Yangbing’s hand and held it for a long time. Then he gave him all the poetry manuscripts he had with him. He sensed that his end was coming, so he began to tell Yangbing about his life. He spoke slowly and as concisely as though leaving behind a small autobiography, which could serve as the information needed for an epitaph. Yangbing wrote down his words.

  Yangbing promised to have the manuscripts published as one volume and to use Bai’s autobiographical account as a part of the preface to the book. He spent three nights editing and polishing his notes. Then he read it out to Li Bai. Bai nodded in approval and closed his eyes. Before leaving, Yangbing assured Bai that his talent would find no match. He was “unrivaled in the last one thousand years” and his work would last forever. It was his great honor and fortune for his life to have crossed with Bai’s. The two men bade farewell with tears.

  * * *

  —

  To everyone’s surprise, when spring came, Bai recovered. With a cane, he could move around on his own, and was invigorated by the news that the rebels had been quelled throughout the country and peace had finally prevailed. He began to go out to enjoy the spring: the birdsong, the leafing trees, the blooming orchids and azaleas, the babbling brooks. The air was filled with the scent of acacia blossoms. Occasionally he joined local farmers for a bowl of wine. He would stay in their adobe houses until dark. When he came home, he was pleased to find his son waiting for him in the front yard to help him into their cottage.

  As the spring deepened the color of the grass and t
rees, he remembered his nephew Li Zhao in Xuan Town, which was a mere fifty miles to the south and for which he always had a soft spot. Although unsure if Zhao was still there, Bai decided to return to the town. He set out, using a walking stick as he plodded along and hitching a ride on an oxcart whenever he could. But when he arrived, he found that Li Zhao had left for another post long before. The new man, who was in charge not only of the town but was also governor of the entire prefecture, was Ji Guangshen—the general who had once served Prince Yong and had then been permitted to return to the emperor’s fold in Gao Shi’s army. Now Ji Guangshen and his administrative personnel were all based in Xuan Town, while his troops were stationed in nearby counties.

  He was pleased to see Bai and treated him to dinner. He had a task for which a talented writer like Bai was needed. A vice governor under Ji Guangshen, one Mr. Liu, had recently done some praiseworthy deeds, which the governor wanted to report to the central government so that Liu could be promoted and rewarded. Li Bai believed that Ji Guangshen was treating him as a friend, so he wrote a long poem in praise of Mr. Liu. Bai imagined that the governor might let him stay somewhere near Jingting Hill, the place he had loved so much. But as soon as he presented the poem to Ji Guangshen, the governor merely praised the lines and handed him some cash, saying the money was for his expenses on the road. Clearly the official—who shared the same infamous association with Prince Yong—didn’t want to be associated with Bai in any significant way.

  For decades Bai had been torn between two worlds—the top political circle and the religious order—but had been unable to exist in either one. In his own words, “Trying to be prosperous and divine, / I have simply wasted my life in pursuing both” (“A Long Song”). He imagined each world as its own kind of heaven (“The palaces in Chang’an rise above the ninth heaven / Where I was once a courtier beside the emperor” [“In an Autumn Night and at the East Building in Shan County, Seeing My Cousin Shen Off to Chang’an”]), where he was unable to remain because he was doomed by his love for both. However, Bai’s conflicting pursuits stemmed from the same thing: his awareness of his limited life span as a human being. Wealth and fame would maximize his experiences, while Daoism was a way to extend his time on earth. Both of his pursuits produced only pain and loneliness. To dull the misery he resorted to drinking: “The divine world is more hallucinatory now, / So it will be more real to get drunk” (“Imitation of Ancient Poems [3]”).

  He roamed Xuan Town but couldn’t find any of his old friends. He remembered the wine house that used to sell the local brew Deep Spring. He missed that wine, which had a long aftertaste. He found the spot where the shop had once stood, but nothing was left there except for an aspen, which was half a foot thick now. He asked others about the owner, Old Ji, and was told that the man had died of illness a few years before. Remembering how kind and generous the shop owner had been to him, Bai wept and wrote a poem in memory of the wine-maker: “Even in the underworld / Old Ji still brews wine. / But Bai is not down there yet, / So who do you sell it to?” (“Mourning Old Wine-Maker Ji in Xuan Town”).

  He wandered to Nanling, an area just west of Xuan Town. The friends he’d once had there were all gone, and many of the fields were overgrown with weeds. The war had ruined the countryside as well. Fortunately he came upon a farming family, the Xuns, who let him in for the night. The head of the household, whom Bai had known, was already dead, and only the widow and her son remained. They were happy to see Bai and welcomed him as a guest, but there was no food left in the house and they couldn’t provide him with a decent meal, much less a cup of wine. The young man went into a shallow pond down the mountain and gathered wild rice plants. Once the ears of the rice were husked, which was an arduous process, the grains would be edible, but would need to be boiled for a long time. Still, the rice had a smooth texture and tasted much better than wild herbs and grain bran.

  As the widow was busy husking the rice, Bai began to talk with her and her son. From them he learned that taxes had not been reduced despite the poor harvest of the past several years, and that many people, unable to pay, had simply abandoned their properties and fled. This news made Bai pensive. If this fertile area was so poor now, what was the rest of the country like?

  Once the wild rice was cooked and served on plates, the widow urged Bai to eat, but he was so disheartened that he couldn’t muster even a hint of appetite. That night he composed a poem:

  我宿五松下 寂寥無所歡

  田家秋作苦 鄰女夜舂寒

  跪進雕胡飯 月光明素盤

  令人慚漂母 三謝不能餐

  《宿五松山下荀媼家》

  In the evening I stop at Five Pine Mountain,

  Where the village feels deserted and lonesome.

  The peasant families have to work hard.

  The woman next door keeps pounding rice in the cold.

  My hostess kneels to serve me wild rice,

  Moonlight shining on the full white plate.

  She makes me feel so unworthy that

  I thank her three times and still cannot eat.

  “SPENDING THE NIGHT AT WIDOW XUN’S AT FIVE PINE MOUNTAIN”

  This is another Li Bai, one we have rarely encountered. He had once been a man full of contempt, arrogance, and self-righteousness, but here we find him humbled by the hardship and generosity of the poor woman and her son. He had seen all kinds of extravagance in his life, but the offer of a plate of wild rice so overwhelmed him that he seemed not to know how to accept it. Although different from many of his more stylish and sublime poems, this plain verse is also a masterpiece, a unique one that shows Li Bai closer to his self.

  Unable to find another person whom he had known in the Xuan Town area, Bai headed back to Dangtu to join his son. This was the end of his wandering; he felt it in his bones. Indeed, this was his last trip, a trip back to his family. We don’t know when and how he died. His son buried him in a shabby grave, the public unaware of the disappearance of this great genius. Like a star in the sky, he burned out and vanished soundlessly. But we do know that during his final days he often chanted this poem, which was his last song:

  大鵬飛兮振八裔 中天摧兮力不濟

  餘風激兮萬世 遊扶桑兮掛左袂

  後人得之傳此 仲尼亡兮誰為出涕

  《臨終歌》

  The great roc has been soaring all over the sky,

  But it breaks a wing mid-flight.

  Its spirit will inspire a thousand generations,

  Though the divine tree in heaven catches its left wing.

  People in the future will spread this story,

  Yet all saints are dead—who will shed tears for me?

  “THE FINAL SONG”

  The great roc had been his personal symbol from his youth to his last days. It signified a heavenward journey he had attempted but finally failed. Now he was grounded, unable to take off again.

  AFTERWORD

  In January 764, a court decree came to Dangtu County. It appointed Li Bai as a counselor to the emperor. It was an honorary title, but still a significant post in the palace. At long last Bai had been summoned to the capital once more: when the new emperor had demanded that officials at all levels recommend talents to court, someone (perhaps also several others) had submitted Li Bai’s name. The decree threw the government of Dangtu County into commotion, because no one knew where Li Bai was. By now he had been dead for more than a year.

  Li Bai’s friend Wei Hao was also unaware of his death. In 763, fulfilling the promise he had made to Bai nine years before, he published a book of the poet’s writings, Collected Works of Academician Li. In addition to the manuscripts that Li Bai had entrusted him with, Wei Hao added other poems of Bai’s that he had come across since 754. In his preface, Wei believes that his friend is still alive: “Li Bai is still
writing, and I will leave this project in the hands of my son, who will bring out a new edition of Li Bai’s poems.” Wei Hao’s edition was neglected and soon lost. Not until 1068 was it rediscovered. Around the same time as the appearance of Wei Hao’s book, Bai’s uncle, Li Yangbing, published his own collection of Bai’s poems, Straw Cottage Collection. In the preface, Yangbing writes, “Nine out of ten of his poems are lost. What this book contains are mainly the poems written during Bai’s last eight years, as well as poems that Bai had got back from others.” During his later years, Li Bai asked people to give him copies of the poems he had written for them so that he could collect as many of them as possible. These two collections have formed the basis of his works we have today, which in total are about a thousand poems and essays.1

  In the decades following Li Bai’s death, the public seemed to forget him, but the younger generation of Tang poets cherished and celebrated his poetry. Some even went to visit his grave. Bai Juyi was one of them. In 799 Juyi, twenty-nine years old, arrived in Dangtu to pay homage to Li Bai. He managed to find his grave among the weeds and brambles on a riverside and wrote this poem: