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Ward, they could not help laughing. Presently the Empress asked about our poems, and we were obliged to explain that we had not made any. “That is very unfortunate,” she said. “Some of the gentlemen at court are bound to hear of your excursion, and they will certainly expect something to have come of it. I can quite understand that on the spot it was not very easy to write anything. When people make too solemn an affair of such things, one is apt suddenly to feel completely uninterested. But it is not too late. Write something now. You’re good for that much, surely.” This was all true enough; but it turned out to be a painful business. We were still trying to produce something when a messenger arrived, with a note from the Captain. It was written on thin paper stamped with the white-flower pattern, and was attached to the spray that he had taken from our carriage. His poem said: “Would that of this journey I had heard. So had my heart been with you when you sought the cuckoo’s song.” Fearing that we were keeping the messenger waiting, her Majesty sent round her own writing case to our room, with paper slipped into the lid. “You write something, Saishō,” I said. But Saishō was determined that I should write, and while we argued about it the sky suddenly grew dark, rain began to pour, and there were such deafening peals of thunder, that we forgot all about our poem, and frightened out of our wits ran wildly from place to place, closing shutters and doors. The storm lasted a long time, and when at last the thunder became less frequent, it was already dark. We were just saying we really must get on with our answer, when crowds of visitors began to arrive, all anxious to talk about the storm, and we were obliged to go out and look after them. One of the courtiers said that a poem only needs an answer when it is addressed to someone in particular, and we decided to do no more about it. I said to the Empress that poetry seemed to have a bad karma today, and added that the best thing we could do was to keep as quiet as possible about our excursion. “I still don’t see why some of you who went should not be able to produce a few poems,” she replied, pretending to be cross. “It isn’t that you can’t; of that I am sure. You have made up your minds not to.” “The time has passed,” I said. “One must do those things when one is in the right mood.” “Right mood? What