AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

Li Hua left with Bai a critical poetry anthology, The Essence of Mountains and Rivers, which was compiled by Yin Fan and had recently become available at bookshops in the capital. Bookshops were very small at the time, usually each having just two or three shelves or stands in a shed or room. In some cases, a bookshop was just an open-air stand. Yin Fan was a literary scholar and a retired official, and his anthology, two volumes altogether, would become one of the most influential among the dozens that appeared in the Tang dynasty. Even today the book is still valuable for scholars in their study of Tang poetry, mainly because it offers a perspective on how poets were received by their contemporaries. Li Bai was pleased to find himself among the twenty-four included poets (many of whom were friends of his such as Meng Haoran, Cui Guofu, and Gao Shi), but was disconcerted to see that his thirteen poems were outnumbered by those of poets like Wang Wei (fifteen poems), Wang Changling (sixteen), and Chang Jian (a minor poet who had been allocated fourteen poems). Did this mean they were more famous than him? He was certain that he was one of the most popular among the poets in the anthology, but Yin Fan must have had his own agenda to push, promoting the poets he liked and setting his own criteria. There was no justification for including only six poems by Meng Haoran, a major poet by any standard. Worse still, in the commentary Yin remarked on Li Bai’s work with reservations, saying, “Like his personality lacking in restraint, his style is self-indulgent but extraordinary.” Although most of Bai’s thirteen poems were indeed his masterpieces, the editor’s comments irritated him. He tried to dismiss them from his mind. It was true that his genius was beyond the traditional boundaries of poetic art, and a pedant like Yin Fan must only be capable of assessing decorous rules, metrical patterns, and technical finesse. By no means should he take the editor’s words seriously.

Bai noticed that his friend Du Fu was not in the anthology at all, though he was far superior to most of the included poets. (In fact, some of them would fade into oblivion. Later Yin Fan added another volume to the original two and again left out Du Fu.) Although the editor had shown a certain amount of integrity by not including many poets who were high-ranking officials, Du Fu was, like Li Bai, radically different from the court poets, and his originality must have been difficult for Yin Fan to appreciate.

From his uncle Li Bai had learned that Du Fu was still in the capital but had been unsuccessful in his efforts to seek office. Bai didn’t like this aspect of Du Fu, who seemed to him to follow the conventional way too earnestly and was much more Confucian than Bai. The man was a little prim, a paragon of virtue. Why had he put so much effort into the civil-service examination? With his talent and intelligence, he could excel through other ways. Bai knew that two years prior, at an imperial ceremony, Du Fu had composed three poetic essays (rhapsodies) that pleased the emperor greatly, but his opportunity for an appointment was time and again subverted by devious courtiers, some of whom even lied to the emperor, saying there was no qualified examinee in all of China for an important post that needed to be filled. The worst part was that His Majesty believed these lies. The system was so corrupt that it was understandable that Du Fu couldn’t succeed in his efforts. In his lifetime only one anthology contained his poems, and his work remained unknown until nearly half a century later when mid-Tang poets rediscovered him and began to mention him in the same breath as Li Bai. Some even considered Du Fu a greater poet than Bai. The poet Zhang Ji (767–830), of the younger generation, often hand-copied Du Fu’s poems, burned them, and then drank the ashes, hoping that the remnants might inspire his own poetry.

After Li Hua had left, Bai began to travel along the Yangtze extensively, mainly to the cities on the river, though he used Xuan Town as a retreat of sorts. He thrived on the social life of the cities; he must have been eager to keep in touch with the outside world and above all to maintain his audience and sustain his fame. His nature didn’t allow him to live in isolation for long—he needed engagement and recognition.

One summer day, while Bai was staying in Yangzhou, a young man came to call on him. The visitor, named Wei Hao, was a devoted fan of his poetry. He told Bai how he had been searching for his whereabouts and had finally found him. First he had gone to east Shandong, where he met Bai’s son Boqin and the woman of Lu. She told him that Bai was in Liang Park with his new wife. Hao then went to Henan, where Bai’s wife told him her husband was in the south, though she was no longer sure of his exact location. So Hao journeyed to the land of Wu, traveling from city to city—Hangzhou, Wenzhou (by sea), Nanjing, and many other places—hoping to pick up Bai’s tracks. At last he got word that Bai was in Yangzhou, so he had come here without delay. All told, Wei Hao had traveled more than a thousand miles in search of Li Bai. On hearing this, Bai observed the visitor more carefully: he looked trustworthy, a bit insouciant, and somewhat distracted, probably thanks to this miraculous meeting he had dreamed of for so long.

As their conversation continued, Bai learned that Hao loved the ancient writers and also wrote poetry himself. The two men shared a common taste and spirit. Bai was impressed by the young man’s sincerity and touched by his love for his poems, some of which he could recite. So he let Hao stay with him. They wandered together as a pair; their sojourns to nearby towns and cities and to mountains and rivers brought Bai much joy. Though there were more than twenty years between them, Bai treated Wei Hao as a younger brother and a kindred spirit. Hao wrote about their friendship in a poem: “One old man and one young man / Keep looking at each other like brothers.” Li Bai also wrote about his young friend: “Being together with you gives me boundless joy.” Wei’s words provide for us vivid physical descriptions of Bai: “His eyes were piercingly bright while his mouth opened like a hungry tiger’s. He often tied a sash around him, which gave him a casual but elegant manner. Because he had been inducted into the Daoist society in Qi, he wore a black embroidered hat.”1

Bai wrote a poem about Wei Hao, which consists of 120 lines and is the only one Bai wrote about the man that has survived. It lists the places Hao had visited in search of him and gives an account of the delightful trips they made together. Bai describes Hao with great affection: “You wore a Japanese gown / With an air of detachment from earthly cares. / In May you came and we chatted tirelessly, / And I realized you were not a madman at all. / Then our joy in being together / Spread all over the streams and rocks where we lingered” (“Seeing Wei Hao, Hermit of Wang Wu, Returning to His Retreat”). Hao’s gown was an exotic garment, made of imported fabric given him by Chao Heng (698–770), a Japanese man serving as an official in the Tang government.

Chao’s original name was Abe no Nakamaro; he had come to China at the age of nineteen as part of a cultural mission of young Japanese students. His was the eighth such mission that his country had dispatched to China. Its members were to learn crafts and study arts and various branches of knowledge so that they could bring back to Japan the achievements of the Chinese civilization. Nakamaro studied classics and literature, which in a few years he learned so well that he passed the civil-service examination at the first attempt. While most of his fellow students returned to Japan and became experts in various fields, Nakamaro stayed in China and took an administrative position with the seventh rank, quite high for a beginner. Later he was promoted to collator of texts in the Imperial Library, the same post that the great poet Bai Juyi would take half a century later.2 Nakamaro was a kind, sincere man who befriended many literary figures, including Li Bai, Wang Wei, and Chu Guangxi (700–760). He also became a friend and official companion of Prince Yi, the emperor’s twelfth son. In 753, the year before Wei Hao found Li Bai in person, Nakamaro obtained approval from the Tang court to return to Japan. He set sail from Ningbo, but soon his ship encountered a storm and was thrown off course, landing on the coast of Vietnam. Word came back to China that he had drowned in the ocean.

Li Bai was heartbroken upon hearing of his friend’s death and wrote this poem in memory of him: “My Japanese friend, Sir Chao, left the capital, / A lone ship sailing toward the celestial islands. / Like a bright moon he sank into the gray sea / And left white clouds and sorrow over the green mountains.” But to everyone’s surprise, Nakamaro had in fact survived the shipwreck and managed to return to China in 755. When he saw Li Bai’s poem mourning his death, he was so moved that he wrote a poem in response:

卅年長安住 歸不到蓬壺

一片望鄉情 盡付水天處

魂兮歸來了 感君痛苦吾

我更為君哭 不得長安住

《望鄉》

After living in Chang’an for thirty years,

I sailed back to the celestial islands but without success.

All my homesickness was thrown away

On the water that spread to the end of the sky.

My soul and myself now are back,

Touched by your pain over my disappearance.

I too weep, but for your sake—

You can no longer stay in Chang’an.

“LOOKING HOMEWARD”

Bai and Hao must have reminisced together about their remarkable Japanese friend. Hao’s wearing of the gown showed how much he cherished his friendship with Nakamaro.

Hao was especially grateful that Bai didn’t view him as a fool as others often did because he tended to appear arrogant and off balance. In fact, Bai trusted Hao and saw a bright future awaiting him. He told Hao, “Surely you will make a great name for yourself in our country. When that happens, don’t forget this old man and my son Little Bright Moon.” He gave Wei Hao all the manuscripts he had with him and asked his friend to edit a book of his collected writings.

Wei Hao would go on to live up to Li Bai’s expectations, passing the civil-service examination and becoming an official. After Bai died, Hao did compile his collected works; this compilation, unfortunately, has been lost, but Wei’s preface has remained. It is an essential source of biographical information on Li Bai and offers an intimate look at the great poet. From it, we know that Bai told Wei he had been summoned to the capital by the emperor in 742 not because of his poetry but because, as an accomplished Daoist fellow, he was recommended to His Majesty by Princess Yuzhen. This could be a boast, as Bai’s heart had never really left the palace and he might have felt attracted to the princess. He always longed to join the royal family as a way to justify his extraordinariness, and also to eclipse his humble origins. However, the biographical information the preface provides on his family’s origin and migration and his personal life is congruent with other sources and has become the basis of Li Bai scholarship.

The Tang poets had many loyal fans like Wei Hao; indeed, they were part of the poetic culture. In Jing Prefecture, a street policeman named Ge Qing was so devoted to Bai Juyi that he tattooed more than thirty of Juyi’s poems on his body, as well as drawings inspired by his verses. People called him “Bai Juyi’s Walking Poems and Pictures.” Jia Dao (779–843) had a fan named Li Dong who cast a small brass statue of Jia so that he could carry it with him and pray to it a thousand times a day. Li Bai must have had many other dedicated fans and disciples as well. One of them, Wu E, would risk his own life to help Bai rescue his family.