Honeysuckle said: “Yes. It does not matter. But the greater comfort in which we travel now is only natural. In Spring the leaves are a pleasant green, as they will be soon, for it is the fifth day of the first moon. In Autumn the leaves are russet. So, if you travel the same road as a fleeing Emperor (although we did not know so at the time) you cannot expect greater comfort than that of hired carrying-chairs, whereas now, in the proximate wake of one who feels himself a new fledged Spring-Emperor, we endure the not very marked discomfort of one of his own carriages, drawn by two excellent Government horses. I have never before been so comfortably near the three flowers branded on the horse’s rump, though I remember when I was a child being snatched by my careful nurse from a too close inspection of what might have been those very three flowers.”
Clear Rain replied: “Well if you will play the dog’s game . . .”
Ahead of them, the two other carriages rolled steadily along the level road, escorts on each side. The nearer of the two held An Ching-hsu’s recognisable plumpness: in the further, a tall burly figure, An Lu-shan himself, held the reins gathered in his left hand.
“I want to wave something,” Clear Rain said, “but my hands are too busy.” She looked down at Honeysuckle. “Is it not like the days when we were young? Or perhaps you cannot remember that, you who are always planning. I did not mean that.”
Honeysuckle said: “And yet my heart is not happy. Everything is happening as we wanted it to happen; we are being taken at no cost to the place to which we wished to go, by the men whom we fished to take us, and yet my heart is not happy. I do not know why this should be.”
Clear Rain answered: “You have been eating something, and your stomach does not like the jolting. For me it is easier to be happy, for if you stand up as I am doing, with the wind in your hair and your knees a little bent, your stomach does not feel anything. Besides, I did not eat as much as you did before I started.”
Honeysuckle said: “You are quite wrong about the food. No, it is my heart that is sad, and since a heart between two doors is the character for sadness, I can only think that this journey, with its departure from our house and its departure from the finer rules of behaviour, is responsible for my mood. What is there for me to lay at the door of sadness? Money, ease, comfort and pleasant companions—these things should not make me feel as I do feel. Let me drive a little, so that I, too, may feel as if I wanted to wave something other than a funeral cloth.”
They exchanged places and Clear Rain went to sleep. Honeysuckle, standing as Clear Rain had stood, saw the road coming towards them, the latent buds awaiting their particular spring, the small, fleecy clouds ahead in the sky, and a single goose flying south. She was remembering that single geese could carry messages of love tied to their legs, and realised that there was no one to whom she would wish to send a message.
Although she bent her knees a little, she felt more unhappy than she wanted to feel.
At the gates of the estate of Peng Yeh, the escort halted and came together. The three carriages assembled behind the escort. There were the sound of scraping hoofs and the jostling of leather.
An Lu-shan, descending from his carriage, said: “When I am impatient, as now, I am unfilial enough to blame the emotion on my father and my father’s father, for I cannot accustom myself to this intolerable Chinese habit of shutting a door first, in order to open it with courtesy. I am not a Chinese and I cannot think wholly like a Chinese.”
Honeysuckle was conscious that, for a moment, they were all grouped like motionless actors, awaiting the climax of a tragedy. She cried: “I think I hear men behind the gate, about to open it.”
An answered: “I have an almost irresistible desire to break it down. In my country such is the treatment of those who shut doors in my face. And I must learn to do all the things that Chinese do in order to have the door opened—to call, to bribe, to intrigue, to distract the gate-keeper’s attention—it is all too indirect for me. You, my son, could probably manage it without effort—I have often noticed how much more you resemble your mother than you resemble me. Some of my other sons, now, show promise of being tall, brusque men, like their father. If it were not . . .”
He broke off, for the gate opened and Peng Yeh came out towards the group. Peng Yeh’s face was set and stern, and his empty hands twitched at his sides.
An said: “You see! He hates me.”
Peng Yeh asked: “What do you desire?”
An replied: “First, courtesy. That is the cheapest commodity here. Today I come only as a visitor, so we need have no further trouble about titles. My son and these two girls, whom I think you know.”
Clear Rain said: “We poured wine for you when we met last.”
Peng Yeh took no notice of her.