nonsense!” she exclaimed indignantly. But all the same, she did not worry me any more about it.
Two days afterward Saishō was talking about our excursion, and mentioned the fern-shoots that Akinobu had “plucked with his own hand.” The Empress was amused that Saishō seemed to have retained a much clearer memory of the refreshments than of anything else that happened during the expedition, and picking up a stray piece of paper she wrote: “The memory of a salad lingers in her head,” and bade me make a beginning for the poem. I wrote: “More than the cuckoo’s song that she went out to hear.” “Well, Shōnagon,” she said, laughing, “how you of all people can have the face to mention cuckoos, I cannot imagine.” I felt very crestfallen, but answered boldly: “I don’t see anything to be ashamed of. I have made up my mind only to make poems when I feel inclined to. If, whenever there is a question of poetry, you turn upon me and ask me to compose, I shall stay in your service no longer. When I am called upon like that, I can’t even count the syllables, still less think whether I am writing a winter song in spring, or a spring song in autumn. … I know there have been a lot of poets in my family; and it would certainly be very nice if, after one of these occasions, people said: ‘Of course, hers was much the best; but that is not surprising, considering what her father was.’ As it is, not having the slightest degree of special talent in that direction, I object strongly to being perpetually thrust forward and made to behave as though I thought myself a genius. I feel I am disgracing my father’s memory!” I said this quite seriously; but the Empress laughed. However, she said I might do as I pleased, and promised that for her part she would never call upon me again. I felt immensely relieved. …
