MARRIED LIFE

Li Bai, by his nature, couldn’t be a good family man. He seemed to need to conserve time and energy for himself and for his work. His father-in-law often insinuated that he should try harder to enter civil service and even helped him get in touch with local officials, but the efforts still produced no result. Officer Ma, who had once admired Li Bai’s talent, fell under the sway of Bai’s brother-in-law and changed his mind about him. Even though Bai was now living away on the mountain, his brother-in-law continued to create obstacles for him, whispering that Bai was a devious, vainglorious man with a dubious family background.

All Li Bai chronologies indicate that late in 727 he heard from his friend Meng Rong. Bai was surprised by the formality of the letter: it came in the form of an official missive, delivered to him through the local government, as if his friend meant to emphasize the seriousness of its contents. In the letter Rong criticized him, saying Bai shouldn’t have stranded himself in North Shou Mountain, which was far too small a place for a man of his ability, and that he should instead redouble his efforts to promote himself in official circles. Rong spoke figuratively, writing that if the tiny mountain retained Bai for itself, it would fail in its duty to nourish, sustain, and eventually release his great talent to the world. It is likely that Bai’s father-in-law had complained to Meng Rong about his son-in-law’s stagnant career, prompting Rong to rebuke the poet.

Li Bai was perturbed and even a bit incensed. In reply, he picked up Rong’s figurative language and wrote a full essay in the voice of North Shou Mountain, describing himself as an accomplished Daoist: “He lounges around against clouds and with the mandolin in his arms; he drinks nectars and swallows elixirs of life.”1 The letter goes on to say that although North Shou Mountain was an obscure place, not much bigger than a hill, it could still “gather clouds and rain and provide shelter for deities.” The mountain ventures to claim, “Heaven does not secrete treasures, nor does earth conceal gems. If good talents do not excel, that is because the emperor’s supreme order has not prevailed yet.” The letter, in the mountain’s voice, assures the recipient that Li Bai is not lost. He is resolved to study books by the glorious ancients and will eventually emerge to restore the order and peace of the land. Once he has achieved that, he will leave his post for the wilderness, where he will enjoy himself in tranquility. As we have seen, this became Bai’s refrain throughout his life: a plan to succeed in the world and then withdraw to nature. It went beyond a conventional Daoist creed Li Bai had adopted; it evolved into a personal belief. “I have observed the sages of ancient times— / Whoever did not resign after success would suffer destruction” (“It Is Hard to Travel”); “Since ancient times, not retreating after success / Would bring about more suffering” (“Ancient Songs 16”).

Meng Rong seemed to understand the message contained in Bai’s reply; he became more sympathetic and—though he still worried that his friend was indulging his reveries—didn’t pressure Bai again.

Although he had sequestered himself on North Shou Mountain, by nature Li Bai was actually quite gregarious—he forced himself to stay on the mountain so that he could concentrate on his studies. Yet it was impossible for him to remain in total isolation and obscurity, especially as his poetry continued to gain popularity in the country. Whenever friends passed through Anlu, he would come out to meet with them and would also visit with his wife. In the spring of 728, his friend Meng Haoran informed him by letter that he was to make a trip to the region south of the Yangtze. Eager to see the older poet, Li Bai wrote back and asked to join Haoran in Jiangxia (modern Wuhan). They agreed to meet in the river town, more than sixty miles south of Anlu.

Li Bai was the first to arrive in Jiangxia. A young local scholar named Liao, a fan of Li Bai’s, turned up at the inn where Bai was staying. Liao treated Bai to dinner and volunteered to be his sightseeing guide. Bai accepted the offer and inscribed for him a short poem, a piece of calligraphy, as a keepsake. Liao knew many of Bai’s poems by heart—he was especially fond of those that had been set to music and were performed by singing girls along the river, such as “Spring Thoughts,” “Song of Ba Girl,” and “The River-Merchant’s Wife.” He asked Bai to share the secret of his poetic composition. Bai confessed to his new friend that his lines had come to him naturally and that he had simply recorded them—there was no secret at all. To show Liao how he had written the poems, Bai suggested going to the port in the north together, saying they might discover poetry there. Liao agreed and they started out the next afternoon. When they arrived, they took in the sights of the port, watching the boats as they sailed up and down the river. Then they entered a tavern.

As they were conversing over rice wine, a young woman walked in and asked a barmaid if a boat was coming in from Yangzhou. The girl told her there were boats from that city every other day. This meant that one would arrive tomorrow. At that, the young woman’s face clenched and she began to complain, saying that her man had promised to come back within a year, but now three years had elapsed and there had been no word from him. The bargirl sighed and said there were many women in her situation. She added that if their men hadn’t returned within a year, they might never come back. Li Bai listened attentively to their conversation. Another bowl of wine later, he and Liao left the tavern.

The next morning Liao asked him why they had not encountered any poetry at the port. Bai showed him a piece of paper that bore this poem:

憶昔嬌小姿 春心亦自持

爲言嫁夫婿 得免長相思

誰知嫁商賈 令人卻愁苦

自從爲夫妻 何曾在鄉土

去年下颺州 相送黄鶴樓

眼看帆去遠 心逐江水流

隻言期一載 誰謂曆三秋

使妾腸欲斷，恨君情悠悠。。。

《江夏行》

I recall my small waist and delicate limbs

And my young heart full of pride.

I wanted to marry you so that

We wouldn’t miss each other miserably.

Who could tell I chose a merchant

Only to sink myself in sadness and pain?

Ever since we became a couple

You’ve rarely been home.

Last year you left for Yangzhou

And I saw you off at Yellow Crane Tower,

Watching your boat sailing far away

While my heart was following the current.

You said you would be back within a year,

But three autumns have gone by.

You’ve filled me with worry and sorrow

And my hatred of you flows long like this water….

“JIANGXIA SONG”

This poem was somewhat derivative of Bai’s other works, similar in sentiment to his masterwork “The River-Merchant’s Wife.” It feels facile and slightly forced—Li Bai must have grown a little glib, given that there were so many of his songs loved by the folks along the Yangtze. Moreover, there is a temporal discrepancy in this poem: the woman says her husband left a year ago, but in the same breath she claims that “three autumns have gone by.” Li Bai seems to have composed the poem in haste, perhaps too eager to impress his new friend. Nonetheless, Liao couldn’t help but marvel at the poem and shower the poet with praises. He nodded as Bai explained that a poet must have a sensitive mind and a sharp ear to catch things others might miss.

A few days later, Meng Haoran arrived in Jiangxia. Bai and Haoran were overjoyed to see each other, and together they visited places and friends in town. Bai showed his new poems to Haoran, who liked them but didn’t comment in detail. Haoran was the more famous of the two, and so in spite of Bai’s brilliance Haoran treated him like a younger brother, a growing poet. He observed, “I can see that you are good at composing folk songs. Ancient poetry tends to be low in style and sentiment, while contemporary poetry is restricted by forms and metric patterns. Only folk songs can be flexible without a fixed form and have longer or shorter lines. My brother, you are a natural talent and this kind of poetry suits you best….I think that those who have written folk songs—both ancient and contemporary poets—tend to go so astray from the real art that they only end with the name of folk songs, as they just call their poems folk songs. Or they could be so dutiful in their composing that the songs are like mere imitations of ancient works. I believe that even though you want to learn from the old masters, it’s still better to start with the poetry within yourself….Brother, if you work hard on folk songs, in a matter of a few years you will be able to blaze your own path.”

Meng Haoran’s advice—“to blaze your own path”—stuck in Li Bai’s mind from then on.2

As planned, Haoran was to sail down the Yangtze River to Yangzhou. Bai went to the waterside to see him off. He stood below Yellow Crane Tower after his friend departed, watching Haoran’s boat bobbing away until it vanished beyond the horizon. This was the very spot where Bai had once attempted to write a poem but had stopped once he’d seen Cui Hao’s superlative work on the tower wall. But now, even though Cui’s masterpiece still stood there, Bai composed a more personal poem, one that didn’t emphasize historical awareness or the beauty and grandeur of the land. He simply chanted:

故人西辭黃鶴樓 煙花三月下揚州

孤帆遠影碧山盡 惟見長江天際流

《送孟浩然之廣陵》

My friend is sailing west, away from Yellow Crane Tower.

Through the March blossoms he is going down to Yangzhou.

His sail casts a single shadow in the distance, then disappears,

Nothing but the Yangtze flowing on the edge of the sky.

“AT YELLOW CRANE TOWER, SEEING MENG HAORAN LEAVING FOR GUANGLING”3

The poem became one of Li Bai’s best works. He could not have been unaware of the significance of those lines, knowing that he was still in some sense competing with Cui Hao. As the centuries have gone by, this four-line farewell poem has in a way outshone Cui’s, becoming part of the Chinese language. It is still quoted when people celebrate friendship and when they see their friends off, especially the last two lines.

On his way home, Li Bai stopped at Anlu to see his wife, and then took more books back to his cottage in North Shou Mountain. He continued with his studies, but often felt frustrated, at times even hopeless. Like most of the poets of his age, he was unable to escape the pressure of social hierarchy. There were very few ways for talented people to rise socially: peasants were bound to their land and had to pay heavy taxes, artisans were treated as mere handymen, and merchants were spurned by aristocrats and unprotected by the state. Like most men of his time, Bai had a strong sense of class—the stratification had already become a long-standing formation in Chinese society. This explains why Li Bai felt so proud of belonging to the royal clan despite the fact that, obscure and disadvantaged, he had to continue to hunt for office. There was simply no other outlet for his energy and gift. Even exiled, poets in ancient China couldn’t wander beyond the geographic borders of their country, which confined their ambition and vision. Li Bai was no exception, and like other underprivileged talents, he had to go out in search of opportunities. Even when he stayed home, he had to study books to equip himself with more learning to prepare himself for an official career.

Although Li Bai stayed in North Shou Mountain most of the time, his brother-in-law continued to scheme against him. By the end of 728, Officer Ma had left Anlu for a new appointment elsewhere. A local official, Deputy Prefect Li Jingzhi, took charge of the Anlu government. Li Bai’s father-in-law urged him to try his luck with the deputy prefect and even managed to have Bai introduced to him. Li Bai attended parties held in honor of Li Jingzhi and official visitors. At these gatherings, he often composed poems, which were praised by the attendees. Sometimes he also performed a sword dance, which was also well received. Everyone was convinced that he was a remarkable talent, and the deputy prefect told him that he would do his best to recommend him to a suitable post. In return for the official’s heartening words, Li Bai eulogized him excessively in front of others. He didn’t know that his brother-in-law had already gone ahead of him by cultivating a personal relationship with Li Jingzhi, in whose eyes Bai gradually became an inveterate troublemaker with a reckless temper, an impertinent attitude, and an unclear background.

One night Li Bai went to a party, a gathering attended by a few friends. They drank heavily and did not break up until after midnight. Bai was tipsy, and as he was walking back to the Xus’, he saw a carriage with lanterns dangling on both sides coming toward him on the road. Rather than step aside to let it pass, he went up to the vehicle—he had caught sight of the deputy prefect Li Jingzhi and meant to greet him. His approach startled one of the horses, and the carriage plunged aside and nearly veered off the road. Two bodyguards dismounted and seized Li Bai: by law, any pedestrian had to keep a distance of a hundred feet from a high official’s vehicle (such a practice is still common in China, where the police keep pedestrians aside to open the way for senior officials’ cars), so Bai’s act was criminal. Worse still, he was also in violation of curfew, which throughout the country forbade anyone to roam the streets after midnight. A commoner who committed such crimes would be flogged in public, but Li Bai was a scholar, a member of the local gentry, so they would not manhandle him. He apologized to Li Jingzhi, who flew into a fury, saying Bai had no respect for officials and had intentionally startled his horse. The deputy prefect left without accepting Bai’s apologies.

Li Bai feared this wasn’t over yet and talked to his wife. She was alarmed and so was her father. At their urging, Bai went to the prefecture’s administration the next day and wrote out profuse apologies, using language like “I was frightened spiritless,” “I should have knelt in front of your Excellency to receive a thorough flogging,” and “now I am willing to accept any punishment.” It was humiliating, but he had to bow to the powerful man. In appearance the deputy prefect seemed appeased, but Bai knew that his chance for an official recommendation was dashed.

Fortunately, it happened that Li Jingzhi transferred to another post soon afterward. Li Bai was relieved and even elated when he heard that the new appointee to the office was Pei Kuan, who was well known for promoting young men and often threw parties at which everyone was welcome. On September 8, 729, the date of the emperor’s forty-fifth birthday, celebrations were held throughout the country, so Pei hosted a sumptuous party as well. Li Bai attended the event and performed a sword dance, which was applauded. He met Pei at the festivities and had a good feeling about him.

At his father-in-law’s suggestion, Li Bai wrote Pei to introduce himself. He was still mortified by his brother-in-law’s backstabbing and by the treatment he’d received at the hands of Pei’s predecessor. Afraid that there might still be negative words about him in the government files, he could hardly maintain his composure in the letter. He asserted that he had aristocratic ancestors and was from the royal clan, that he had been generous to others—especially young scholars in need—and loyal to his friends. He wrote that he had studied devotedly for many years, learned from his teacher Zhao Rui how to remain detached from earthly affairs, and traveled thousands of miles to see the country, often wearing his long sword on the road. He listed the praises others had sung of his writings. He went on to flatter the official, saying Pei Kuan was “keen like an eagle and dignified like a tiger,” his “teeth white like two neat rows of shells” and his “gait sturdy and striking.” He continued to mention many great virtues and honors that people believed Pei possessed.

As he continued his letter, Bai could no longer hold back his anger at the rumors against him. One by one he tried to refute them. His writing grew at once more extravagant, more servile, and more arrogant. He ended the letter with, “I hope you will grant me a great opportunity. If you are delighted by me, please continue to bestow favors on me and increase my gratitude. Bai shall certainly do everything in return for your kindness and shall spare no cost or effort. If you are displeased, even angry, and will not allow me to follow you, I still will kneel in front of you to thank you. Then I will depart like the yellow crane that vanished in the sky. At which lord’s gate can’t one dance with a long sword?” (“Letter to Deputy Prefect Pei of Anzhou”). To “dance with a long sword” is a figure of speech referring to putting one’s ability and ambition into practice.

Unsurprisingly, Deputy Prefect Pei was disturbed by the letter and felt that Bai was unstable—perhaps unreliable as well. In spite of his talent, the young man seemed full of himself, as if this prefecture were too small a pond for a big fish like him. So Pei Kuan didn’t bother to respond. Although the court often urged local officials to recommend talents, whoever endorsed a problematic man could stain his own career and might even be held responsible if the recruit misbehaved in his office. Pei simply wouldn’t have wanted to run such a risk.

Pei’s silence discouraged Bai. It became clear that he was still a problematic man to the local government. Soon Bai concluded that it simply wouldn’t be possible to find an official post in a small, claustrophobic place like Anlu and that he had better go elsewhere.