Chapter 016: Wang Wei’s Gossip Chronicles (Please Recommend!)

Li Zaixing lifted the teacup and only took a symbolic sip, showing little genuine interest. On the road, he had already tasted the so-called tea, including the decoction method vigorously promoted by the Sage of Tea, Lu Yu, but found himself unmoved.

Du Fu, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying his tea, to the point of neglecting his own composure. Fortunately, from the moment Li Zaixing first laid eyes on Du Fu, he had never sensed the aura of a “Saint of Poetry” about him and was no longer surprised by such behavior.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” After downing three cups, Du Fu finally noticed Li Zaixing’s lack of interest and hurriedly said, “The tea from Bodhi Temple is quite famous—you really should give it a try!”

Li Zaixing concealed a smile and replied, “I’ve grown used to tea brewed with mountain spring water at Prajna Temple. I can’t quite get accustomed to this well water tea.”

Du Fu froze for a moment, then smiled ruefully. “The finest tea, after all, is made by the meditative monks. Your master is a reclusive sage, naturally skilled in the art of tea. With famous mountains and clear springs for brewing, the flavor is bound to be exquisite. I must have embarrassed myself before a true connoisseur.”

Li Zaixing raised a hand to rub his brow. Du Fu must have been living in considerable frustration at Bodhi Temple, rarely having a chance to enjoy such tea. Today, having eaten and drunk his fill, his pride was once again rearing its head. Seizing the moment, Li Zaixing changed the subject and said to Lu Hu, “Ahu, you and Zhiyuan stay here and brew tea. I’ll take Brother Du to admire some other paintings. Brother Du, please!”

Du Fu rose and walked forward with Li Zaixing. After admiring Wu Daozi’s painting of the “Ritual Skeleton Immortal,” they entered a side hall. Holding up a lamp to illuminate the mural on the wall, Du Fu smiled softly, “Brother, do you know who painted this masterpiece?”

Li Zaixing examined it closely. He had little knowledge of art and could only judge with a layman’s eye what looked good and what did not. As for Tang Dynasty painters, he only knew of Wu Daozi—his reputation as the Sage of Painting was so resounding that even outsiders had heard of him. As for the others, he was completely in the dark. With Du Fu asking, he could only humbly seek instruction.

Du Fu chuckled, “This is the work of an advanced scholar from the ninth year of the Kaiyuan era.”

Li Zaixing was still baffled. Who was that illustrious scholar from the ninth year of Kaiyuan?

Seeing Li Zaixing’s confusion, Du Fu prompted further, “This man’s poetic fame is no less than that of Brother Taibai.”

Li Zaixing smiled awkwardly, “I grew up in the mountains. Other than Brother Taibai and you, I know few poets.”

Du Fu, finding it a little dull, scratched his head and gave a wry smile. “Speaking of this man, I am hardly worth mentioning. Even Brother Taibai might pale in comparison. Wang Wei, styled Mojie—surely you’ve heard of him?”

Li Zaixing was taken aback and silently cursed in his heart. What sort of place was this Bodhi Temple, to not only have Wu Daozi’s work but also Wang Wei’s? Wang Wei he had heard of—surely even the most unlettered person knew the lines, ‘The solitary smoke straight in the vast desert, the long river round as the setting sun.’ Yes, it was said he was also skilled at painting, though not as renowned for it as for his poetry.

“Wang Wei was also an advanced scholar in the ninth year of Kaiyuan?”

“Indeed.” The smile on Du Fu’s face faded, replaced by a touch of bitterness. “You said just now that I am a late bloomer, but I know you only said that to comfort me. I am already thirty-nine this year—next year I’ll be forty, the age of no doubts—but I see no hope of becoming truly accomplished. My father and grandfather have both passed away. I cannot rely on inherited privilege to enter officialdom, and though I have taken the civil service exams many times, my learning is shallow, my years wasted, and I have gained nothing. But what of it, even if one does become an advanced scholar? Wang Mojie won fame young, passed the exams, yet I fear he must regret it now.”

“Why is that?”

“Heh, let me tell you Wang Mojie’s story, so you’ll have a more direct impression of the civil service examinations.”

Wang Wei gained fame as a prodigy, passing the exams at twenty—truly extraordinary. The civil service exams weren’t easy; as the saying goes, ‘At thirty, old to pass the classics; at fifty, still rare to become an advanced scholar.’ Passing at twenty was exceedingly rare. But even after passing, Wang Wei’s official career was rocky. The reason? Simple—he offended someone, someone to whom he owed a debt.

The emperor’s own sister, Princess Yuzhen.

Princess Yuzhen was originally Wang Wei’s benefactor. The year before, Wang Wei had sat for the exams and failed, but later, introduced by Prince Qi, he displayed his talents before Princess Yuzhen, who immediately recognized his worth and recommended him. That very year, he passed the exams. With her patronage, he was appointed Assistant Director of the Imperial Music Bureau, an eighth-rank post, surpassing the usual starting rank for new advanced scholars. It was an excellent beginning.

“But he didn’t hold the position long before being demoted,” Du Fu said with a wry smile. “The official reason was absurd—some actors danced the Yellow Lion, and as Assistant Director, he was implicated. The real reason, though, was that he was too pleased with himself after passing the exam, and then got married soon after.”

Li Zaixing looked at Du Fu in surprise, thinking that the so-called Sage of Poetry was not only free of any saintly aura but even a bit gossipy. What was he suggesting, that Wang Wei was Princess Yuzhen’s lover? Could it be that a great poet, ranked alongside Li Bai, was actually a royal favorite?

“From your expression, you must not believe me,” Du Fu anticipated. “Let me lay out the timeline: In the second month of Kaiyuan nine, Wang Mojie passes the exams; in March, he’s appointed Assistant Director of the Music Bureau; in June, he marries; by October, he’s demoted to Assistant Storehouse Officer of Jizhou. In the fourteenth year of Kaiyuan, he resigns and returns to the capital for a period of leisure; in the nineteenth year, his wife passes away, and for twenty years since, Wang Mojie has remained unmarried. In the twenty-third year, he’s appointed Censorate Secretary, and the next year, Supervising Censor…”

After hearing about Wang Wei’s career, even though Li Zaixing was not familiar with the Tang bureaucracy, he could smell the stench of power and desire. He couldn’t help but exclaim. Wang Wei’s demotion had nothing to do with any “Yellow Lion” dance—it was simply that his marriage displeased Princess Yuzhen, so she made him suffer. Later, his promotions came only after his wife died and he remained unmarried. Why not remarry? Perhaps not unwilling, but afraid. In short, an advanced scholar was nothing but a pampered pet kept by Princess Yuzhen—live or die at her whim.

What of poetry, art, or musical accomplishment? If the princess is displeased, you’re out in an instant.

Li Zaixing teased, “You seem to know Wang Mojie very well, Brother Du.”

Realizing Li Zaixing had caught his meaning, Du Fu gave a deep sigh. “Wang Mojie and I are both poets; though not close, we are acquainted. More importantly, I tell you this not to disparage him behind his back—he’s actually a pitiable man. What I really mean to talk about is myself.” He glanced around and began recounting his own struggle for office.

Du Fu’s grandfather had long since passed, and his father’s official rank was limited—at most a county magistrate, nothing sufficient to bring Du Fu into office by inherited privilege. So he was left with two choices: to pass the civil service exams himself, or to seek favor from the powerful.

He had sat for the exams several times, never passing. The most disheartening was in the sixth year of Tianbao, when the treacherous minister Li Linfu, fearing that new graduates would speak ill of him to the emperor, refused to select a single candidate, claiming before the throne that “the world is well-governed; there are no hidden talents in the wilds.” With a single offhand remark, he dashed the hopes of thousands—including Du Fu.

If Princess Yuzhen could control Wang Wei’s fate, Li Linfu could determine the lives of many more. What did it matter to be an advanced scholar in such a world?

“My good friend Cen Shen passed the exams in the third year of Tianbao and was appointed Staff Officer to the Right Commandant’s Office, but after several years, promotion proved hopeless. Seeking a better path, he went west last year to Anxi, serving under Gao Xianzhi as chief secretary. Who knows if he’ll return alive? Another friend, Gao Shi, nearly fifty, only last year passed the exams and was appointed magistrate of Fengqiu. His recent poems speak of endless social obligations and of being worn out in body and spirit…”

Du Fu rambled on, describing for Li Zaixing the fates of various advanced scholars he knew. Li Zaixing had heard similar accounts from Li Mi before, but hearing them from Du Fu now, with mention of those who would become famous poets in later generations—Du Fu himself, Cen Shen, Gao Shi, all celebrated frontier poets—made the impression much more vivid. Even after passing the exams, their official careers remained fraught with difficulty.

No wonder Du Fu cared little for the exams and focused instead on currying favor with the powerful. It wasn’t a matter of resignation, but of necessity. Winning the exams would sound impressive to later generations, but at this point in history, it was little more than a carrot dangled before the literati—perhaps it could help foster a new ethos, but as things stood, it was little more than a meager consolation, of limited practical effect.

If this was true for Du Fu, then even more so for Li Bai, whose family background was unclear and who didn’t even have a chance to try his luck. No wonder he never considered it, seeking wealth and rank solely through strategy and talent.

“So in that case, the civil service exams… are indeed rather useless, aren’t they?”

“Not entirely,” Du Fu sighed. “For the children of officials, the exams are nothing but a dispensable chicken rib. But for ordinary folk, it is at least a chance, however slim. Before the exams existed, commoners didn’t even have that.”

Li Zaixing sighed as well. “When there is flow, there is no pain; when there is pain, there is no flow.”

“What?” Du Fu asked, surprised.

“I mean, when the path to office is blocked, the untalented occupy high posts while the capable have nowhere to go. That’s a hidden danger.” Staring at Wang Wei’s painting on the wall, Li Zaixing found he no longer had any interest in admiring it. Instead, a strange restlessness welled up within him. This painting, like Wu Daozi’s, might not survive much longer. The Tang dynasty, resplendent as a firework, had reached its brightest moment; next would come a heap of ashes. Whether Chang’an or Luoyang, both would become brutal killing fields.

Where should I go from here?

Du Fu mulled over Li Zaixing’s words, deeply moved. The statement was plain, not at all profound, yet it cut straight to the heart of the matter. Comparing the court’s crisis to the human body, using a medical analogy to describe the state—nothing could be more apt. Wasn’t the crisis of the state caused by blocked channels of speech and blocked paths to office? When scholars found no way forward, not only did they fail to serve the country, but they also became a danger to it. If Cen Shen could travel thousands of miles to serve under Gao Xianzhi, would others not go as far as Fanyang to join An Lushan’s staff, offering him counsel and schemes?

Wasn’t this precisely what Li Zaixing meant by “no flow, then pain”—and this pain would be no small ache, but one that cut to the very bone.

The more Du Fu thought about it, the more afraid and uneasy he became.