A DEAD SECRET

A long time ago, in the province of Tamba (1), there lived a rich

merchant named Inamuraya Gensuké. He had a daughter called O-Sono. As

she was very clever and pretty, he thought it would be a pity to let

her grow up with only such teaching as the country-teachers could give

her: so he sent her, in care of some trusty attendants, to Kyōto, that

she might be trained in the polite accomplishments taught to the ladies

of the capital. After she had thus been educated, she was married to a

friend of her father’s family—a merchant named Nagaraya;—and she lived

happily with him for nearly four years. They had one child,—a boy. But

O-Sono fell ill and died, in the fourth year after her marriage.

On the night after the funeral of O-Sono, her little son said that his

mamma had come back, and was in the room upstairs. She had smiled at

him, but would not talk to him: so he became afraid, and ran away. Then

some of the family went upstairs to the room which had been O-Sono’s;

and they were startled to see, by the light of a small lamp which had

been kindled before a shrine in that room, the figure of the dead

mother. She appeared as if standing in front of a _tansu_, or chest of

drawers, that still contained her ornaments and her wearing-apparel.

Her head and shoulders could be very distinctly seen; but from the

waist downwards the figure thinned into invisibility;—it was like an

imperfect reflection of her, and transparent as a shadow on water.

Then the folk were afraid, and left the room. Below they consulted

together; and the mother of O-Sono’s husband said: “A woman is fond of

her small things; and O-Sono was much attached to her belongings.

Perhaps she has come back to look at them. Many dead persons will do

that,—unless the things be given to the parish-temple. If we present

O-Sono’s robes and girdles to the temple, her spirit will probably find

rest.”

It was agreed that this should be done as soon as possible. So on the

following morning the drawers were emptied; and all of O-Sono’s

ornaments and dresses were taken to the temple. But she came back the

next night, and looked at the _tansu_ as before. And she came back also

on the night following, and the night after that, and every night;—and

the house became a house of fear.

The mother of O-Sono’s husband then went to the parish-temple, and told

the chief priest all that had happened, and asked for ghostly counsel.

The temple was a Zen temple; and the head-priest was a learned old man,

known as Daigen Oshō. He said: “There must be something about which she

is anxious, in or near that _tansu_.”—“But we emptied all the drawers,”

replied the woman;—“there is nothing in the _tansu_.”—“Well,” said

Daigen Oshō, “to-night I shall go to your house, and keep watch in that

room, and see what can be done. You must give orders that no person

shall enter the room while I am watching, unless I call.”

After sundown, Daigen Oshō went to the house, and found the room made

ready for him. He remained there alone, reading the sûtras; and nothing

appeared until after the Hour of the Rat.[1] Then the figure of O-Sono

suddenly outlined itself in front of the _tansu_. Her face had a

wistful look; and she kept her eyes fixed upon the _tansu_.

The priest uttered the holy formula prescribed in such cases, and then,

addressing the figure by the _kaimyō_[2] of O-Sono, said:—“I have come

here in order to help you. Perhaps in that _tansu_ there is something

about which you have reason to feel anxious. Shall I try to find it for

you?” The shadow appeared to give assent by a slight motion of the

head; and the priest, rising, opened the top drawer. It was empty.

Successively he opened the second, the third, and the fourth drawer;—he

searched carefully behind them and beneath them;—he carefully examined

the interior of the chest. He found nothing. But the figure remained

gazing as wistfully as before. “What can she want?” thought the priest.

Suddenly it occurred to him that there might be something hidden under

the paper with which the drawers were lined. He removed the lining of

the first drawer:—nothing! He removed the lining of the second and

third drawers:—still nothing. But under the lining of the lowermost

drawer he found—a letter. “Is this the thing about which you have been

troubled?” he asked. The shadow of the woman turned toward him,—her

faint gaze fixed upon the letter. “Shall I burn it for you?” he asked.

She bowed before him. “It shall be burned in the temple this very

morning,” he promised;—“and no one shall read it, except myself.” The

figure smiled and vanished.

Dawn was breaking as the priest descended the stairs, to find the

family waiting anxiously below. “Do not be anxious,” he said to them:

“She will not appear again.” And she never did.

The letter was burned. It was a love-letter written to O-Sono in the

time of her studies at Kyōto. But the priest alone knew what was in it;

and the secret died with him.