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In the province of Canton, a few li from the city, lived door-to-door two wealthy Chinese gentlemen retired from business; the exact era matters little, as tales require no precise chronology. One was named Tou, the other Kouan. Tou had held high scholarly office. He was a Hanlin Academician and a scholar of the Chamber of Jasper; Kouan, in less elevated positions, had managed to amass both fortune and respect.

Tou and Kouan, distantly related, had once been fond of each other. In their younger days, they enjoyed gathering with some former classmates, and during autumn evenings, they would guide their brushes swiftly over the flower-patterned paper, celebrating the beauty of chrysanthemums with improvised verses while sipping small cups of wine. But their two characters, initially showing only almost imperceptible differences, became, over time, completely opposed. Like an almond branch that forks, its twigs close at the base yet diverge completely at the top, so that one spreads its bitter scent within the garden, while the other shakes its snowfall of flowers outside the wall.

Year by year, Tou grew more grave; his belly rounded majestically, his triple chin rested solemnly, and he composed only moral couplets fit to hang on pavilion posts.

Kouan, on the contrary, seemed to grow more sprightly with age, singing more joyfully than ever of wine, flowers, and swallows. His mind, freed from mundane cares, was as quick and alert as a young man's, and when the word needed for a verse was given, his hand did not hesitate for a single instant.

Gradually, the two friends conceived animosity towards each other. They could no longer converse without scratching each other with sharp words, bristling like two thorn hedges, full of spikes and claws. Matters reached such a point that they had no further dealings. Each hung, on his own side, a tablet on the façade of his house bearing the strict prohibition that any inhabitant of the neighboring dwelling, under any pretext whatsoever, should ever cross the threshold.

They would have dearly liked to uproot their houses and plant them elsewhere; unfortunately, this was not possible. Tou even tried to sell his property, but he could not get a reasonable price. Besides, it always costs dearly to leave behind carved paneling, polished tables, transparent windows, gilded trellises, bamboo seats, porcelain vases, cabinets of red or black lacquer, scrolls of ancient poems arranged with so much care. It is hard to yield to others the garden one planted oneself with willows, peach and plum trees, where one saw, every spring, the lovely mei flower bloom. Each of these objects binds a man's heart with a thread finer than silk, yet as difficult to break as an iron chain.

In the time when Tou and Kouan were friends, they had each built a pavilion in their garden on the edge of a water feature common to both properties. It was a pleasure for them to exchange familiar greetings from the balcony heights and to smoke a