Page:Anthology of Japanese Literature.pdf/148

144 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. …