The Banished Immortal Page 4

  Throughout his life, Li Bai often presented his magic with birds as evidence of his Daoist cultivation—he was capable of identifying with wild animals and plants and becoming one with the Dao. He was also learning from Zhao Rui the pursuit of longevity. Teacher and student would go deep into the nearby mountains to pick herbs, with which they tried to make the pills of immortality. Li Bai learned some basic alchemic techniques from his teacher and would continue to produce the elixirs for the rest of his life. The years he spent with Zhao Rui, from age seventeen to nineteen, were a happy period for him.

  Because it was understood that Li Bai could not pursue the civil-service examination, the next practical step for him to take was ganye—meeting with officials for patronage and opportunities. One day, Zhao, who occasionally descended the mountain to practice medicine in local communities, told Li Bai of the news he’d heard on one of his trips: the emperor had decreed that officials higher than the fifth rank could recommend talented men directly to court. In the Tang dynasty, there were roughly nine ranks in the official echelon; those who held the first rank were court chancellors and prime ministers, and at the bottom were magistrates of small counties. The fifth-rank holders were usually prefects and adjutant generals who had no commanding power. What Zhao said could be good news for Li Bai—an opportunity for him to seek office. But how could he get to know a high official?

  Zhao explained that there was a common practice called xingjuan: presenting one’s writings, essays or poems to an official. If the man was impressed by a youth’s work and took a liking to him, he might be willing to recommend him. If this happened, the door to the official world would be opened. But Zi Prefecture was such a small place that few important officials would pass through. Li Bai would have to go to a city where there were more opportunities to approach influential men. Following his teacher’s advice, he soon bid Zhao Rui and his wife a tearful farewell and set out for Chengdu, the metropolis of Sichuan at that time.

  * * *

  —

  In the fall of 719, as most sources suggest, Li Bai began to travel extensively within Sichuan. His destination was Chengdu, but he was unhurried and took a meandering route whenever he could. At the time, Chengdu was the capital of Yi Prefecture and served as the political and cultural center of the region. It was also the home base of Jiannan Circuit, a regional government that controlled a vast territory of more than thirty prefectures in southwestern China. The city had stood for more than four hundred years. Its layout was modeled after Chang’an (modern Xi’an), the capital of the Tang dynasty. Like Chang’an, it consisted of a South City and a North City and more than a hundred alleys. Chengdu was also a commercial center, where merchants from different lands flocked and mingled. Businesspeople from inland China would go there to purchase brocade and embroideries, both of which were well-known products of central Sichuan, and to acquire goods from Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent.

  Li Bai’s father had provided him with a deep trove of funds to see him through his journey, and so he was able to travel at leisure. He would wander to a town or a famous site along the way whenever a fancy struck him. He meant to visit noted men and see what the land was like. One day he and his pageboy, Dansha, arrived at Mount Emei, which had picturesque, breathtaking views. Bai was enchanted by the tranquil scenery, sensing that this must be a sacred place inhabited by xian. Deep in the mountain was a Buddhist temple called White Water (modern Wannian Temple). Bai immediately took to the peaceful surroundings—deer appeared then disappeared in the woods, monkeys howled here and there, birdcalls rose and fell, and hunters roamed with dogs in tow. Then from the temple came music that sounded like a stream falling on rocks. The wind mingled with the notes, rustling through the pinewoods, but Bai was unsure if it was the music or the wind that was stirring the branches. Perhaps both. He went over to the temple, where under an ancient cypress a monk sat, playing a lute. The monk stopped to greet Bai and introduced himself as Guang Jun, nicknamed Monk Jun. Bai sat down and started to converse with the man. The more they chatted, the more Bai took a liking to him.

  Li Bai decided to stay at White Water Temple. For a period of months, he would read books and listen to Monk Jun play his instrument every day. Life went on peacefully, and sometimes, between different pieces of music, Jun would talk to him about Buddhism, which Bai, instead of objecting as he had in the past, now found fascinating and enlightening. According to legend, which is probably inspired by Li Bai’s poem on Guang Jun, one night when the two of them sat on a pond, Bai asked Monk Jun, “Does the music you play on the lute also contain the sound of your preaching?” The monk replied, “Buddha’s words are everywhere, in every sound of the universe.” Bai was about to dismiss this as a stock answer, but then, as if on cue, frogs in the water burst out croaking. Monk Jun threw back his head and laughed, and Bai was amazed.

  He stayed at the temple for three or four months, and then resumed his journey toward Chengdu. The time he spent with Monk Jun left him with fond memories. More than three decades later, when Li Bai heard that Guang Jun had passed away, he recalled the holy man and composed this poem in memory of him:

  蜀僧抱綠綺 西下峨眉峰

  為我一揮手 如聽萬壑松

  客心洗流水 餘響入霜鐘

  不覺碧山暮 秋雲暗幾重

  《聽蜀僧浚彈琴》

  The monk in Shu holds his lute,

  Sitting below the peak of Emei Mountain.

  For me, he plucks away while I hear

  The wind shaking the pines in the valley.

  My soul is again cleansed afresh

  As the lingering sound is still touching

  The bell glazed with autumn frost.

  I haven’t noticed the green mountain

  Cloaked in the sunset as the clouds

  Turn darker than a moment ago.

  “LISTENING TO MONK JUN PLAY THE LUTE”

  Li Bai arrived in Chengdu in early spring. He had heard that the new royal inspector, Su Ting, a revered minister at the central government, had come to the city to take charge of Jiannan Circuit. Most people viewed Su Ting’s departure from the capital as a kind of demotion or even banishment, but the man himself believed that his new appointment embodied the emperor’s utmost trust in him, because he now governed a vast southwestern territory that was vital to the safety of the country. Before Su Ting left the capital, the emperor had told him to watch for standout talents in Sichuan, a region known for having produced numerous historical figures.

  After arriving in Chengdu, Su Ting worked diligently to increase the government’s revenue and to improve people’s livelihoods by promoting the production of salt, iron, porcelain, fabrics, tea, and other local goods. He also tried to reduce the government’s administrative expenses and avoid starting construction projects. He was practicing the old way of governance—“ruling without action”—based on the Daoist principle that advocates peace and laissez-faire as the way of nurturing and fulfilling the potential of the populace. His wise policies earned him the respect of the locals. He was also known as a writer. Writers were rather common among the Tang officials, some of whom were highly literary. Li Bai knew Su Ting’s writings, especially his essays, which were masterly, though Bai didn’t have a high opinion of the man’s poetry. Now that Su Ting governed the whole of southwestern China, Bai by any means should try to seek this man’s favor first.

  Although it would be difficult for Li Bai to get access to the highest official in Chengdu, he was determined to present a piece of his writing to him. Bai had recently written two rhapsodies, “The Bright Hall” and “The Great Hunt,” and he picked the latter to show to Su Ting.

  “The Great Hunt” is a rhapsody, a lengthy poetic essay. In lyrical language, it expresses the young author’s political ambition and his views on the art of writing. Indulging in hyperbole, Bai declares at the ou
tset, “Rhapsodies are a branch of ancient poetry. The more splendid their words are, the further their meanings can reach. Otherwise, how could they be magnificent enough to move heaven and gods?” The essay goes on to cite examples of great rhapsodies and to speak about Bai’s own political principles and aspirations. He uses hunting as a metaphor for managing a country, which, he writes, is like a hunting ground wherein the emperor is the supreme hunter. But his language is so excessively poetic that the meanings become opaque and detached from the actual affairs of the dynasty. As the rhapsody progresses, the poet’s mind travels around the whole of the universe and through ancient times, and finally ends with these sentences: “The emperor then has the banners furled and returns to the royal carriage. On his way back, he visits immortals to find the Dao and searches for gods in their mystic caves. He tries to uncover precious pearls in the Chi River, though nobody in the world knows what he has been doing.” Here Li Bai casts his own Daoist ideal onto the emperor, portraying His Majesty as a supreme hero who can give up all worldly attachments and return to the wilderness in search of the True Way.

  I have simplified the quoted sentences to make them comprehensible, because most of the language in the essay is so laden with allusions that a word-for-word translation would be too convoluted to elaborate on clearly. In brief, the entire rhapsody reads like a flight of poetic indulgence, though the power of imagination and the linguistic strength are fantastically original. It shows Li Bai’s singular talent, but contains little meaningful discussion of politics.

  Li Bai went to Su Ting’s residence and announced himself. To avoid being turned away at the door, he asked a servant to take his writing in to his master first. A few moments later, the man came back and led Bai into the main hall, where Su Ting received him. The governor, in his early fifties, had a heavyset square face and wore a long, sparse gray beard. He was courteous, clearly impressed by Bai’s rhapsody, and over tea they talked about the art of writing and ancient literary masters. Bai said that for him writing was secondary and that his ambition was to serve the country and make it safe, strong, and prosperous. He believed that one should earn one’s name through accomplishing great deeds in the political arena or the battlefield, not just with a writing brush. Su Ting was pleased and said he would consider recommending Bai to a post, but that Bai must be patient for now. Before the visit was over, a group of local officials arrived. Su Ting introduced Li Bai to them, saying, “This young man is exceptionally talented and can write effortlessly without stop.” The officials were curious about the young visitor and began to ask him questions, but on hearing that Bai’s father was a businessman from the backwaters, they turned so contemptuous that they secretly had Bai dismissed.

  Nonetheless, for days Li Bai was hopeful. He believed that Su Ting would keep his promise. Good news might come at any time, so he decided to stay and wait. It was mid-spring: Chengdu was warm and filled with white pear blossoms, and the mild climate enabled him to go sightseeing during the day. Accompanied by his pageboy, he visited the terrace where the rhapsodist Sima Xiang-ru had often played the zither eight centuries before, and to the marketplaces, not to shop but to experience the energy of the setting. He ascended many towers and pavilions on hill slopes, and from them he scanned the cityscape and watched salt wells spitting out white steam in the distance. He also paid a visit to the shrine of Zhuge Liang (181–234).

  To Li Bai, Zhuge was the ideal political figure, a hero whom he and his teacher Zhao Rui had often discussed. Zhuge had been a great statesman in the period of Three Kingdoms (220–280), a chaotic era ravaged by wars and peasant uprisings, and as the prime chancellor of Shu State, Zhuge helped its king, Liu Bei, establish his kingdom in Sichuan. His devotion to his master and his brilliance in statecraft earned him a reputation as the most loyal and foresighted chancellor in Chinese history. In China, he has been revered and lionized as a model statesman and military strategist who was virtuous and erudite and prescient. He meant even more to Li Bai personally, because Zhuge Liang was also a local figure, a great son of the kingdom he’d helped establish in Sichuan.

  Then Li Bai went to the Tower of Scattered Flowers on the city wall and lingered there. He gazed at the limpid Mohe Lake, the cityscape—the waves of rooftops, the distant wooded mountains and rivers. Moved by the scene, he composed a poem in pentasyllabic verse with strictly regulated metrics and rhymes. In it he begins with the sight that struck him when he came to ascend the city wall in the morning, then jumps to the afternoon as if he had been up on the tower for many hours:

  日照錦城頭 朝光散花樓

  金窗夾繡戶 珠箔懸銀鉤

  飛梯綠雲中 極目散我憂

  暮雨向三峽 春江繞雙流

  今來一登望 如上九天遊

  《登錦城散花樓》

  The morning sun is shining on the city wall,

  Light splashed on the Tower of Scattered Flowers.

  Golden windows embrace pretty doors

  And pearl curtains are held aside by jade hooks.

  The soaring steps stretch into the green clouds

  And I climb up to gaze afar to dispel my worries.

  The afternoon rain is moving away to the Three Gorges

  While the two rivers curve around Shuang-liu Town.

  Today I have come up to get a distant view

  As if I am touring nine heavens.

  “ASCENDING CHENGDU’S TOWER OF SCATTERED FLOWERS”

  This is a typical example of Li Bai’s early poems, lacking in the fresh suppleness, the overflowing energy, and the spontaneity that characterize his mature work. Yet other key elements of his style are already in place: he disregards the order of time in the poem while highlighting the splendorous, vast poetic space, which is one of the hallmarks of his poetry—the space is imagined, often beyond the field of view. The Three Gorges, about five hundred miles away to the east, would have actually been absent from sight, but he mentions them as if they were visible. There are also the temporal and spatial leaps that his poetic mind is fond of performing, from morning to afternoon and from the cityscape to the Yangtze River flowing east.

  Yet despite comparing the experience to a heavenly tour so as to show his freedom from the earthly world, Bai in fact could not escape his worries. He was anxious to hear from Su Ting, the man he saw as his best hope. It was a long wait. In the evenings Bai would strum the lute while Dansha would play the bamboo flute. They were both skilled with their instruments: the pageboy was able to mimic all kinds of bird cries with the flute, and Bai could play the lute as well as he could wield a sword. But now the two of them were playing simply to kill time as they waited. It had been a lonesome month, and good news from Su Ting seemed less and less likely.

  In fact, Governor Su had decided not to recommend Li Bai, primarily because the young poet had begun to gain notoriety for his questionable practice of prescribing remedies for the sick though he lacked the proper training. Whenever Li Bai encountered someone who was ill, he would feel the person’s pulse, offer some medical advice, and prescribe a remedy, usually medicinal herbs. He had learned some rudimentary medicine from Zhao Rui, and enjoyed practicing it in Chengdu. But in doing so, he couldn’t help but mix with all sorts of people in streets and alleys and was very openhanded with money. Such behavior smacked of quackery and imprudence to Su Ting. That, combined with Bai’s modest background, caused Su to have misgivings about Li Bai’s suitability as a protégé. Su Ting’s caution was justified from his point of view, because the court would hold the advocate accountable if the man he had recommended caused trouble. No official would put his own career at risk by endorsing someone he didn’t fully trust.

  Meanwhile, Bai continued to network with noted local figures. Most of them, however, were not welcoming toward him. When he recited his poems to them at dinner parties, they would shake their heads and sigh, saying he
hadn’t followed the rules of versification and would ruin his art if he persisted in such a way. He often argued with them heatedly, regardless of their titles and fame, and even said that he abhorred the stiff poetry produced by poets in the capital and wanted to write something new and unique. But his arguments only made him appear more arrogant. Occasionally he was able to impress others with his wide knowledge and quick mind, but their compliments were always measured, if not stingy. Wherever Bai turned, he encountered the same contempt in people’s eyes, which seemed to say that he was nothing but a country bumpkin in an expensive robe. Soon he began to lose heart.

  Finally, he decided to give up waiting and leave Chengdu.

  He thought of returning home, but changed his mind and headed toward Yu Prefecture (modern Chongqing). He knew that Li Yong (674–746) was in charge of the government there, and wanted to try his luck with him. Li Yong’s father had been a well-known man of letters and had compiled an anthology, Zhaoming Selected Masterpieces, that was widely used by students and aspiring young scholars. It was the very anthology Bai had imitated three times during his childhood studies. Li Yong’s own work also had a sterling reputation. He was a great calligrapher—an original master in the cursive script, caoshu—and he also specialized in composing commemorative essays for stone tablets. Most important for Li Bai, he was famous for befriending and supporting literary young men in their endeavors.

  As soon as Li Bai arrived in Chongqing, he went to see the prefect. He had learned from his failed effort with Su Ting, so this time he presented his poetry instead of a rhapsody. On his way to Chongqing, he had collected folk songs from the people he encountered and even written poems in the same style because the songs were so full of life and raw experience. He had begun to think about how to give his poems the same kind of fluidity, how to render them as spontaneous as natural speech while also maintaining a high level of energy and intensity. He imagined a style that seemed regulated but not burdened by restrictive rules, free but in good order.