The Banished Immortal Read online

  Within a few days, the emperor summoned him to court. His Majesty was to give Li Bai an extraordinary reception. A eunuch led him to Gold Bell Hall in Grand Bright Palace. From its front steps Bai could see the cityscape in the distance: soaring eaves of the other palaces, ponds and lakes covered with lotus pads, weeping willows along the banks of the canal and rivers, white towers above the trees. When Bai entered the hall, he saw a man seated in the throne, dressed in a red brocade robe with an embroidered golden dragon on its front and a black hat adorned with a cut of white jade. The man had a soft face, with gray bags under his dull eyes. So this must be the emperor. At the sight of Bai, His Majesty stood and descended from his throne. He was struck by Bai’s physique and demeanor—his guest seemed perfectly at ease, as if he were already familiar with this hall. He motioned for Bai to sit on a couch next to him so they could converse and share a meal. Tea was served. As the servants turned away, Bai realized this was a private interview. Emperor Xuanzong evidently already knew Li Bai’s poetry and must also know they were relatives, members of the same clan. The sovereign was an accomplished composer, musician, calligrapher, and choreographer, so he treated Bai as a great poet whose lyrics would be helpful for his composition. He said to Bai, “You are without an official title, but your reputation has reached me nonetheless. If you did not possess great virtues, how could this happen?” His Majesty’s compliment delighted Bai. When a porcelain terrine was placed on the table, Xuanzong picked up a bowl and ladled soup into it. He stirred it with a spoon, then let Bai taste it. A small number of courtiers were present in the hall, though they kept at a distance from the table where the emperor and Bai sat. They were all surprised—His Majesty had never done this before, personally filling a bowl of soup for a guest. The emperor seemed to be so excited that he was acting out of character. Later they spread the word about the favor that the emperor had bestowed on Li Bai. It soon became a topic of the palace, then of the capital, and then of the country.

  Bai was assigned to the Imperial Academy in the palace. In spite of its lofty title, the institution was in fact composed of a miscellany of unusual men, some of whom made Bai uncomfortable and even embarrassed. In addition to the expected scholars, painters, calligraphers, and sculptors, there were also master monks, geomancers, experts on astrology and fortune-telling, and even a man who claimed that he was more than three thousand years old. All of them had no official rank and were kept by court like entertainers; though they were called “academicians,” they were in reality not much different from servants. Li Bai felt out of place and despised most of these “special talents.” In a poem about the academy, entitled “At the Imperial Academy, After Reading Books, I Voice My Feelings to My Fellow Academicians,” he writes, “It’s so easy to be tainted by flies / But so hard to find someone attuned to your thoughts.” He resolved to stay above them. It is difficult to imagine that a new arrival with this kind of contempt for his colleagues could remain unscathed for long. If only he could have worked under He Zhizhang in the Royal Library, but that was out of the question for now. In fact, the above poem was secretly held as a piece of evidence against Bai. Scholars believe that it was Zhang Ji, the man who had once fooled Bai by sending him to Princess Yuzhen’s villa in Zhongnan Mountain, who passed the poem on to the emperor.1

  However, on the surface Zhang Ji gave the appearance of warming up to Bai. As soon as Bai had arrived at the academy and settled in, Ji came to greet him, offering advice and instructions. Though he was in charge of the Imperial Academy and therefore quite senior, Zhang Ji treated Li Bai with courtesy because he had heard that the emperor admired Bai’s poetry and had even stirred soup for him personally. Ji told Bai that as an academician, he was expected to remain on duty at all times in case the court needed him, but that he was entitled to a day off every ten days so he could take a bath in a public bathhouse downtown. Bai liked the warm pools in those establishments, where he could steep and scrub himself alongside other men.

  The academy was in a large courtyard, planted with flowers and various types of bamboo. In the beginning Bai was quite conscientious about his job, which consisted simply of sitting in his office and waiting for summonses. Every day he would review the classics that he had already read many times, and once in a while he would stumble upon a sentence or passage that made him smile or laugh. But rarely was anyone here summoned to court, so when Bai grew bored with reading, he would revise and polish his essay “A Grand Plan for Our Dynasty.” He also wrote poems that showed how he missed his untrammeled life outside the court. Many people would call on him, currying favor and asking for a poem inscribed in his calligraphy; he was also habitually invited to dinner parties. At the outset, he was excited and enjoyed the gatherings and the wine and food, which were also his meal tickets now that he wasn’t paid enough to buy two full meals a day. Most of the academicians were quite poorly paid; it was assumed that they would receive bribes, fees, and favors, but Bai, a poet and a new arrival, lacked the power and influence to attract such income. Yet soon he tired of constantly eating at banquets with strangers. He was reluctant to mingle with the snobs and sycophants of the court and preferred to be alone. Unlike the other academicians, he didn’t know how to fraternize with government officials, unable to walk the line between congeniality and obeisance. In short, he was completely out of place.

  Meanwhile, he continued to expect the emperor to summon him to court again so he could present to His Majesty his essay on national policies. But instead of an audience, he was ordered to leave with the royal retinue for Mount Li, about twenty miles northwest of Chang’an. The area was warm in winter and cool in summer, ideal for a seasonal resort. A large palace sat at the foot of a hill there, and pools were fed by hot springs. The royal family would stay at the mountain palace during the hottest and coldest months. Now that winter was approaching, the emperor and Lady Yang were on their way there.

  At first, Li Bai was happy at the prospect of getting away from the academy. He believed that by staying close to the emperor, he would have an opportunity to directly express his political ambition and views to His Majesty. He hated to think of himself as a mere poet and longed to become a consequential statesman. But the trip turned out to be only a great fanfare. Along the way to Mount Li, colored banners and pennants celebrating the emperor flew so thickly that they seemed to block out the sky. A large army of royal guards rode before and after the royal entourage, and trumpets and drums played frequently. Li Bai was told to write a poem about this procession to record the splendor.

  As soon as Bai was settled near the palace at Mount Li, he went about composing this poem, which he completed on his first night there. Instead of the daytime pageant, he chose to set the poem in a nocturnal scene:

  羽林十二將 羅列應星文

  霜仗懸秋月 霓旌卷夜雲

  嚴更千戶肅 清樂九天聞

  日出瞻佳氣 蔥蔥繞聖君

  《侍從遊宿溫泉宮作》

  Twelve generals of the Royal Guards

  Ride in order like stars arranged in the sky.

  Frosty halberds raise the autumn moon

  While banners wave with floating clouds.

  A curfew keeps thousands of houses quiet

  As music rises heavenward from the palace.

  At sunrise the fine air gets more pure,

  Encircling our Sagacious Lord.

  “COMPOSED AT THE HOT SPRING PALACE WHILE ACCOMPANYING THE EMPEROR”

  The poem is noticeably subdued and falls below Li Bai’s best efforts, lacking the exuberance and energy that mark his strongest work. Despite the somewhat forced last couplet, the emperor liked the poem and rewarded Bai with a fur robe. Bai was elated by the poem’s reception and hoped there would be more such opportunities to bring him closer to His Majesty.

  The palace in Mount Li was gorgeous—everywhere Bai turned, he saw luxury. Even the
food was better than back in the academy, and wine flowed at every meal. A few days after their arrival, the emperor granted all the officials in his entourage three favors: they were summoned to partake in a sumptuous banquet, to climb the hills surrounding the palace with His Majesty on the following day, and then to bathe in the pools fed by the hot springs. Most of the officials felt fortunate and enjoyed the royal treatment, but Li Bai only grew more restless. He asked the servants when the emperor would grant an audience.

  They looked bewildered by his question. The emperor and Lady Yang had come here to rest, they replied, so there would be no interview or audience. Bai should simply enjoy himself like everybody else. As for political and military affairs, Chancellor Li Linfu and Master Gao Lishi, the head eunuch, could handle them back in Chang’an. Bai mustn’t meddle with the routines here or he might get in trouble.

  Gradually, Bai realized that there would be no opportunity for him to express his political vision, regardless of how close to the emperor he might seem to be. More disheartening, His Majesty might be uninterested in listening to other voices, especially those that jar his ears. He relished praises and reveled in pleasures. Bai had no choice but to remain quiet like the others.

  * * *

  —

  Most Li Bai chronologies suggest that he was back in the capital in the spring of 743. Bai made bold to present to Chancellor Li Linfu, via an intramural messenger, his “Grand Plan for Our Dynasty.” Li Linfu (683–753) was from the royal clan and therefore considered a distant relative of Bai’s, but he was not inclined to give the poet an audience. He was crafty and manipulative and kept a good part of the court in his clutches. He always blocked others, especially those who were capable but did not belong to his clique, from approaching the emperor. Yet Bai still hoped against hope that his essay would be passed along to His Majesty.

  Li Linfu was knowledgeable about music and could appreciate Li Bai’s poetic genius, but when he read “A Grand Plan for Our Dynasty,” he flew into a rage, believing it was just bravura without real substance. He told his underlings that Bai was nothing but an entertainer and must not style himself as a great statesman. Bai’s universe was his study—the moment he stepped out of the academy, he would make a fool of himself. Li Linfu’s assessment of Bai’s essay undoubtedly had some truth to it: although the text has been lost, the essay was said to be a barrel of clichés and hot air. Bai didn’t know how to compromise or navigate official circles; his political vision, such as it was, came mainly from antiquated books. The chancellor’s underlings suggested disciplining Bai immediately as a warning to others, but Li Linfu restrained them. In his eyes, Bai was merely a bookworm, incapable of any political action. As long as they kept him quiet and under control, there was no chance he could make waves, so Li Linfu put the long essay aside without passing it along.

  Bai didn’t know that the emperor would not personally read any writing that reached him. A petition or essay would be read out to him by a courtier at his side. If it was long, it would be condensed to give the royal ears a summary of the contents. It is unlikely that the emperor ever heard about “A Grand Plan for Our Dynasty.”

  Li Linfu was one of the most hated courtiers at the time. He and Gao Lishi (684–762), Yang Guozhong (?–756), and others have been condemned throughout history for their deceit and treachery. Gao was a eunuch with great physical strength—he was over six feet tall, and skilled in managing military affairs. He had helped the emperor suppress several rebellions and was eventually promoted to grand general. The emperor allowed him to handle most military matters independently, and he would only report to His Majesty when necessary. In spite of his notoriety, Gao Lishi was a devoted, loyal servant to the emperor, and the absolute trust His Majesty placed in him was earned. All the princes called him “older brother,” royal family members of the younger generation called him “Uncle Gao,” and the emperor’s sons-in-law simply called him “Lord Gao.”

  Yang Guozhong was also trusted by the emperor, though he was much less capable than Gao. He was a distant cousin of Lady Yang’s, and the emperor used him to counterbalance Li Linfu’s power at court. As a result, Yang Guozhong headed fifteen key offices and eventually held more than forty positions. This seemed incredible, considering that most officials had just one. But multiple-office holders have been common throughout Chinese history; even today President Xi Jinping heads fourteen offices. Yang Guozhong had expensive taste and always spent lavishly to please the emperor.

  As for his cousin Lady Yang (719–756), she was plump but beautiful, and over the centuries she has become a symbol of beguiling beauty in China. Originally she had been the concubine of one of the emperor’s sons. The emperor was thirty-four years older than her; she first caught his eye when she was twenty-four. Five years later, he persuaded his son to give her up so that he could take her as his own. This was a turning point in the emperor’s life: prior to her, he had been a diligent and conscientious monarch, but after she became his, he began to ignore his duties and indulge in sensual pleasures, spending most of his time with her. It is said she had bewitched him completely.

  Naturally Li Bai disliked these powerful people, but they were all well above him and he had no direct contact with them. He grew less attentive about his duty at the Imperial Academy and began to spend time with a group of drinking friends. Among them were his advocate, the old poet He Zhizhang (who had a sparse goatee), the master calligrapher Zhang Xu (with a balding crown), and five others. They often gathered downtown and indulged in benders. Zhizhang adored Bai—although he was forty years older, he treated Bai as his peer and even acknowledged his poetic superiority. When the two men had met for the first time in a restaurant the previous fall, at the end of the meal it turned out that neither Zhizhang nor Bai had enough cash on them for the bill. The older poet took his amulet, a little gold turtle, off his neck and left it at the establishment as their payment. Now they met more often, together with other poets and artists. This coterie soon became a legend in the capital, not only for their drinking but also for the art they produced under the influence of alcohol. One of them was a prince, Li Jin (?–750), who admired Bai’s work and personality. Du Fu, though much younger and not present at any of the drinking binges, wrote a poem to celebrate these “eight divine drinkers.” He describes some of them as follows:

  李白斗酒詩百篇

  天子呼來不上船

  長安市上酒家眠

  自稱臣是酒中仙

  知章騎馬似乘船

  眼花落井水底眠

  張旭三杯草聖傳

  脫帽露頂王公前

  揮毫落紙如雲煙

  宗之瀟灑美少年

  舉觴白眼望青天

  皎如玉樹臨風前

  LI BAI

  After a gallon of wine

  Li Bai can spin a hundred poems,

  Then sleeps in a downtown tavern.

  Even summoned by the Son of Heaven,

  He won’t get on the boat,

  Saying “I’m a drinking xian.”

  HE ZHIZHANG

  When drunk, Zhizhang rides a horse

  Wavering like on a boat.

  Eyes bleary, he falls in a shallow well

  But keeps slumbering in the water.

  ZHANG XU

  After three cups, Zhang Xu displays

  His feat of calligraphy.

  He takes off his hat,

  His bald crown shiny in front of everyone,

  Then he wields his brush, stirring up

  Smoke and clouds on paper.

  CUI ZONGZHI (POET)

  Zongzhi is a handsome young man.

  He raises his whitish eyes

  To gaze at the blue sky.

  He is so elegant

  Like a jade tree in the breeze.2r />
  I quote here only half of the long poem. The last portrait, above, describes a young man who has a fine figure. From this verse, the image of a jade tree in the breeze, yu shu lin feng, has become an idiom in the Chinese language, one that has endured for more than a millennium. Today people still use it to refer to a handsome, refined man.

  Li Bai composed many poems at the drinking parties. His creative power seemed to become amplified by drink, and the poems he produced often amazed and even startled his friends. In fact, some of the poems were old work, but he would toss them out among the new verses to enliven the atmosphere. On one occasion, to urge others to drink more without qualms, he chanted, “If Heaven didn’t like wine / There would be no Wine Star up there. / If Earth didn’t like wine / There would be no such a place called Wine Spring. /…Three cups will lead you to the great Dao / And a jar will merge you into nature. / Let us enjoy the fun in the cups. / There’s no need to share it with sober souls” (“Drinking Alone in the Moonlight [2]”).

  * * *

  —

  For all of spring and the early summer the court had been rehearsing “The Rainbow and Feather-Garment Dance.” The dance was designed by the emperor, who had once dreamed of wandering in a palace on the moon and decided to re-create the celestial beauty and splendor he had encountered there. The performance involved more than two hundred people—choreographers, composers, dancers, musicians, singers, costume designers, and of course poets. The project was also meant to delight Lady Yang. Li Bai didn’t take part until the rehearsal period was nearly over. One day, as he slept, dead drunk, on a couch at Prince Li Jin’s residence, a group of men arrived, saying they had been searching for him everywhere. Among the group was Li Guinian, the composer in chief at court. Guinian told the others that the emperor had stopped the boys’ choir from singing that morning because he wanted new songs for them, so he sent for Li Bai, who must come immediately to write the lyrics.