The Mirror of Matsuyama

Long ago, in the old province of Echigo in Japan, there lived a man and his wife who had been married some years and had one little daughter. She was the joy and pride of their lives, and they counted on her to make their old age happy.

They treasured every milestone of her growing up: the day she was thirty days old and her proud mother carried her to the temple in a ceremonial kimono to be placed under the protection of the family’s household god; her first Dolls’ Festival, when her parents gave her a set of dolls and their tiny belongings, to be added to every year; and, most important of all, her third birthday, when her first scarlet-and-gold obi, the broad brocade sash, was tied round her little waist as a sign that she had left babyhood behind. Now she was seven. She could talk and help her parents in all the small ways that loving parents cherish, and their happiness seemed complete. There was no happier little family anywhere in the island empire.

One day the household was thrown into excitement: the father had been suddenly summoned to the capital on business. In the world of this tale, the journey from Matsuyama to Kyoto was a serious undertaking. The roads were rough, and the father would travel on foot for a long distance. So the wife was anxious as she helped her husband prepare. She wished she could go with him, but it was too far for mother and child, and she planned to look after their home while he was away.

At last everything was ready, and the husband stood in the porch with his family around him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Take care of everything while I’m away, and especially of our little daughter.”

“We will be all right. But you must take care of yourself and not delay a single day in coming home,” said his wife, her tears falling like rain.

Only the little girl smiled, for she did not understand the sadness of parting and thought going to the capital was no different from walking to the next village, as her father often did. She ran to him and caught his long sleeve. “Father, I’ll be very good while I wait for you, so please bring me a present.”

As he turned for a last look at his weeping wife and his eager, smiling child, the father felt as if someone were pulling him back by the hair, so hard was it to leave them, for they had never been apart. But the summons could not be refused. With a great effort he stopped thinking, turned firmly away and walked quickly down the little garden and out of the gate. His wife snatched up the child and ran to the gate, and watched him go down the road between the pines until he faded into the haze and all she could see was his peaked hat, and then that too was gone.

“Now Father has gone, you and I must look after everything until he comes back,” said the mother as they went indoors.

“Yes, I’ll be very good,” said the child, nodding, “and when Father comes home, please tell him how good I’ve been, and then perhaps he’ll give me a present.”

“Father is sure to bring you something you want very much. I know, because I asked him to bring you a doll. You must think of Father every day and pray that his journey is safe until he comes back.”

“Oh yes! How happy I’ll be when he comes home!” said the little girl, clapping her hands, her face shining at the thought, and as the mother looked at her, she felt her love for her grow deeper still.

Then the mother set to work making winter clothes for all three of them. She set up her simple wooden spinning wheel and spun the thread before weaving the cloth, and between times she watched over the little girl’s games and taught her to read the old stories of their country. So she found comfort in work during the lonely days, and while time slipped quietly by, the husband finished his business and came home.

After about a month of travelling in all weathers, he was burned brown by the sun, and a stranger would hardly have known him. But his wife and child knew him at a glance and flew to meet him, each catching hold of one of his sleeves. It seemed to take forever, with mother and daughter both helping, to untie his straw sandals and take off his big umbrella hat, but at last he was sitting among them again in the familiar room that had felt so empty without him.

As soon as they had sat down on the white mats, the father opened a bamboo basket and took out a beautiful doll and a lacquer box full of cakes. “Here is a present for you,” he told his daughter, “a prize for looking after Mother and the house so well while I was away.”

“Thank you,” said the child, bowing her head to the floor. Then she stretched out her hand, like a little maple leaf with its fingers spread wide, to take the doll and the box. Both came from the capital and were prettier than anything she had ever seen. Her face looked as if it would melt with joy, and she had eyes for nothing else.

Then the husband reached into the basket again and brought out a square wooden box carefully tied with red and white string. “And this is for you,” he said to his wife.

She opened it carefully and took out a metal disk with a handle. One side was bright and shining like crystal; the other was decorated with raised figures of pine trees and storks, carved so finely they looked alive. Having been born and raised in the country province of Echigo, she had never seen such a thing. She gazed into the shining side and looked up in surprise. “I see someone looking at me in this round thing! What is it you’ve given me?”

Her husband laughed. “Why, it’s your own face you see. This is called a mirror, and anyone who looks into it sees themselves. There are none in this out-of-the-way place, but in the capital they have been used since ancient times, and every woman there thinks she must have one. There is an old saying: ‘As the sword is the soul of a samurai, so the mirror is the soul of a woman.’ People say a woman’s mirror shows what her heart is like; if she keeps it bright and clear, her heart is pure and good. The mirror is also one of the treasures that make up the Emperor’s regalia. So you must value it and use it carefully.”

The wife was delighted to learn so much that was new, and more delighted still with the precious gift, a sign that her husband had thought of her while he was away. “If the mirror stands for my soul, I shall treasure it and never use it carelessly,” she said. She raised it to her forehead in thanks, then shut it in its box and put it away.

Seeing that her husband was very tired, she served the evening meal and made him as comfortable as she could. The little family felt as if they had never known real happiness before, so glad were they to be together again, and that evening the father had much to tell about his journey and all the sights of the great capital.

Time passed peacefully, and the parents saw their dearest hopes come true as their daughter grew into a beautiful girl of sixteen. They had raised her with endless love, as a proud owner holds a priceless jewel, and now they were more than rewarded. What a help she was to her mother in the house, and how proud her father was of her, for every day she reminded him of her mother as she had been when they were first married.

But nothing in this world lasts forever. Even the moon loses its roundness, and flowers bloom only to fade. One day the gentle wife and mother fell ill. At first father and daughter thought it was only a cold and did not worry. But the days went by and she grew no better, only worse, and the doctor was puzzled, for whatever he did, she weakened day by day. Father and daughter were overcome with grief, and the girl never left her mother’s side, day or night. But nothing they did could save her.

One day, as the girl sat by the bed trying to hide her aching worry behind a cheerful smile, her mother roused herself, took her hand and looked lovingly into her eyes. Breathing with difficulty, she said, “My daughter, I am sure nothing can save me now. When I am gone, promise me you will look after your dear father and try to be a good and dutiful woman.”

“Oh, Mother,” said the girl, tears rushing to her eyes, “you mustn’t say such things. All you have to do is hurry and get well. That will make Father and me happier than anything.”

“I know, and it comforts me to see how much you long for me to recover. But it is not to be. Don’t look so sad. It was decided in my earlier life that I should die in this one at just this time, and knowing that, I am at peace. Now I have something to give you to remember me by.” From beside her pillow she took a square wooden box tied with a silk cord and tassels, untied it very carefully and lifted out the mirror her husband had given her long ago.

“When you were a little child, your father went up to the capital and brought me this treasure. It is called a mirror. I give it to you now. When I have left this life, if you are lonely and long to see me, take out this mirror, and in its clear bright surface you will always see me. So you can meet me often and tell me everything in your heart, and though I won’t be able to speak, I will understand and feel for you, whatever happens to you in the years ahead.” With these words she handed the mirror to her daughter. Her mind seemed at rest now, and sinking back without another word, she passed quietly away that same day.

Father and daughter were wild with grief. They could not bear to part with the woman who had filled their whole lives and lay her in the earth. In time the first frantic sorrow passed and they took hold of themselves again, crushed but resigned. Yet the daughter’s life seemed empty. Her love for her mother did not fade, and everything, even falling rain and blowing wind, reminded her of her mother’s death and all they had shared. One day, when her father was out and she was doing the housework alone, her loneliness grew more than she could bear. She threw herself down in her mother’s room and sobbed as if her heart would break, longing for just one glimpse of that dear face, one sound of the voice calling her pet name.

Suddenly she sat up. Her mother’s last words, dulled until now by grief, rang through her memory. “Mother told me that whenever I looked into the mirror I would be able to see her. I had nearly forgotten! How stupid I am. I’ll get the mirror and see whether it can really be true.”

She dried her eyes, took the box from the cupboard and, with her heart beating fast, lifted out the mirror and looked into its smooth face. Her mother’s words were true! There in the round mirror was her mother’s face, and, joy of joys, not thin and worn by illness, but young and beautiful, as the girl remembered her from her earliest childhood. The eyes in the mirror gazed back so earnestly that it seemed they must speak, and the girl almost heard her mother’s voice telling her to grow up a good woman and a dutiful daughter.

“It must be my mother’s soul I see. She knows how unhappy I am without her, and she has come to comfort me. Whenever I long for her, she will meet me here. How grateful I ought to be!”

From then on her sorrow was much lighter. Every morning, to gain strength for the day’s work, and every evening, for comfort before she lay down to sleep, she took out the mirror and gazed at the face that, in her simple, innocent heart, she believed was her mother’s soul. Day by day she grew more like her mother in character, gentle and kind to everyone and a dutiful daughter to her father.

A year of mourning passed in the little household, and then, on the advice of his relatives, the man married again, and the girl found herself under the authority of a stepmother. It was a difficult position, but her days spent remembering her mother and trying to be what her mother would wish had made her gentle and patient, and she resolved to be a loyal, obedient daughter to her father’s new wife in every way. For some time all seemed to go smoothly; no winds or waves of quarrels ruffled everyday life, and the father was content.

But the stepmother’s heart did not match her first smiles. As weeks became months, she began to treat the motherless girl unkindly and to try to come between father and daughter. She went to her husband with complaints about the girl, but he, expecting something of the kind, ignored them. Instead of loving his daughter less, as his wife hoped, he thought of her all the more and began to show more concern for his lonely child than before. This did not please the woman at all, and she began to scheme how she might drive her stepdaughter out of the house, so crooked had her heart become.

She watched the girl closely, and one early morning, peeping into her room, she thought she had found a sin serious enough to tell the father about, though what she saw frightened her a little too. She went straight to her husband, wiped away some false tears and said sadly, “Please give me permission to leave you today.”

The man was taken completely by surprise. “Do you find my house so unpleasant that you can’t stay any longer?”

“No, no! It has nothing to do with you. I have never dreamed of wanting to leave you. But if I go on living here, my life is in danger, so it is best for everyone that you let me go home.” And she wept afresh.

Her husband, upset to see her so unhappy and hardly able to believe his ears, said, “Tell me what you mean. How is your life in danger here?”

“Since you ask, I will tell you. Your daughter hates me for being her stepmother. For some time now she has shut herself in her room every morning and evening, and from what I have seen when I pass by, I am sure she has made an image of me and is trying to kill me by magic, cursing me every day. It isn’t safe for me to stay. I must go away. We cannot live under the same roof any longer.”

The husband listened to this dreadful tale but could not believe his gentle daughter guilty of such wickedness. He knew that people believed one could slowly kill another by making an image of the hated person and cursing it every day, but where would his young daughter have learned such a thing? It was impossible. And yet he remembered noticing that she spent a great deal of time in her room lately and kept away from everyone, even visitors. Putting this together with his wife’s alarm, he thought there might be something behind the strange story. Torn between doubting his wife and trusting his child, he did not know what to do. He decided to go at once and find out the truth from his daughter. He comforted his wife, told her that her fears were groundless, and went quietly to the girl’s room.

The girl had been unhappy for a long time. She had tried with kindness and obedience to win over the new wife and break down the suspicion that had grown between them, but it was no use. The stepmother never trusted her and twisted everything she did, and the girl knew very well that she often carried unkind and untrue stories to her father. She could not help comparing her misery now with the time, little more than a year ago, when her own mother was alive. Morning and evening she wept at the memory, and whenever she could she went to her room, slid the screens shut, took out the mirror and gazed, as she believed, at her mother’s face. It was her only comfort in those wretched days.

That was how her father found her. Pushing aside the sliding door, he saw her bent intently over something. She looked round, surprised to see him, for he usually sent for her when he wanted to talk to her, and flustered at being caught with the mirror, for she had never told anyone of her mother’s last promise but kept it as the sacred secret of her heart. Before turning to him, she slipped the mirror into her long sleeve. Her father saw her confusion and saw her hide something, and he said sternly, “Daughter, what are you doing here? And what have you hidden in your sleeve?”

The girl was frightened. He had never spoken to her in such a tone. Her face went from scarlet to white, and she sat speechless and ashamed. She certainly looked guilty, and her father, thinking his wife’s story might be true after all, spoke angrily. “So it really is true that you curse your stepmother every day and pray for her death? Have you forgotten that I told you to be obedient and loyal to her, even though she is your stepmother? What evil spirit has got into your heart to make you so wicked? You have changed, my daughter. What has made you so disobedient and faithless?” And his eyes filled with tears at having to scold her like this.

She did not understand what he meant, for she had never heard of the belief that praying over an image could kill a hated person. But she saw she must speak and clear herself somehow. She loved her father dearly and could not bear his anger. She laid her hand on his knee pleadingly. “Father, Father, don’t say such dreadful things to me. I am still your obedient child, truly I am. However foolish I may be, I could never curse anyone who belongs to you, much less pray for the death of someone you love. Someone must have told you lies, and you are confused and don’t know what you’re saying, or else some evil spirit has got into your heart. As for me, I know nothing, not so much as a dewdrop, of the wicked thing you accuse me of.”

But her father remembered that she had hidden something as he came in, and even this earnest denial did not satisfy him. He wanted his doubts settled once and for all. “Then why are you always alone in your room these days? And what have you hidden in your sleeve? Show it to me now.”

Shy as she was of admitting how she had cherished her mother’s memory, the girl saw that she must tell him everything to clear herself. She drew the mirror from her sleeve and laid it before him. “This is what you saw me looking at.”

“Why,” he said in astonishment, “this is the mirror I brought your mother from the capital all those years ago! You have kept it all this time? But why do you spend so much time in front of it?”

Then she told him her mother’s last words and how she had promised to meet her child whenever she looked into the glass. Still the father did not grasp how innocent his daughter was, that she did not know the face in the mirror was her own. “What do you mean? How can you meet your mother’s soul by looking in this mirror?”

“It really is true,” said the girl, “and if you don’t believe me, look for yourself.” She held the mirror up in front of her, and there, looking back from the smooth metal, was her own sweet face. She pointed to it gravely. “Do you still doubt me?” she asked, looking earnestly up at him.

With a cry of sudden understanding, the father struck his hands together. “How stupid I am! Now I understand. Your face is as like your mother’s as the two halves of a melon, and all this time you have been looking at your own reflection, thinking you were face to face with your lost mother! You are truly a faithful child. At first it seems a foolish thing to have done, but it isn’t really. It shows how deep your love for your mother is and how innocent your heart. Living with her always in your thoughts has made you grow like her in character. How wise she was to tell you to do this! I admire and respect you, my daughter, and I am ashamed that for one moment I believed your suspicious stepmother’s story and came here meaning to scold you severely, when all the while you have been so true and good. I cannot look you in the face. I beg you to forgive me.”

And the father wept, thinking how lonely the poor girl must have been and how much she must have suffered at her stepmother’s hands. Her patience and sweetness, her faith and simplicity kept whole in such hard circumstances, made him think of the lotus, which lifts its dazzling flower out of the mud of moats and ponds, a fitting picture of a heart that stays clean as it passes through the world.

All this while the stepmother, anxious to know what would happen, had been standing outside the room, and growing more and more interested, she had gradually pushed the sliding screen back until she could see everything. Now she suddenly came in, dropped to the mats and bowed her head over her outspread hands before her stepdaughter.

“I am ashamed! I am ashamed!” she cried brokenly. “I did not know what a loving daughter you were. It was not your fault. I have been jealous and have disliked you all along, and hating you so much, I naturally thought you hated me too. So when I saw you go to your room so often, I followed you, and when I saw you gaze into the mirror for so long every day, I decided you had found out how I felt and were trying to kill me by magic in revenge. As long as I live I will never forget how I wronged you by misjudging you and making your father suspect you. From this day I throw away my old wicked heart and put a new one in its place, clean and full of sorrow for what I have done. I will think of you as a child I bore myself, and love and cherish you with all my heart to make up for the unhappiness I have caused you. So please throw all that has gone before into the water, and give me, I beg you, some of the love you have given your own lost mother.”

So the unkind stepmother humbled herself and asked forgiveness of the girl she had wronged. And such was the girl’s sweet nature that she forgave her willingly and never afterward felt a moment’s resentment toward her. The father could see from his wife’s face that she was truly sorry, and he was greatly relieved to see the terrible misunderstanding wiped away by both the one who had done wrong and the one who had been wronged.

From then on the three of them lived together as happily as fish in water. No such trouble ever darkened the home again, and in the tender love and care her stepmother now gave her, the girl little by little forgot that unhappy year. The adults’ change of heart finally gave her the kindness and security she had needed all along.

About this story

“The Mirror of Matsuyama,” which Ozaki subtitles “A Story of Old Japan,” is the tenth tale in Yei Theodora Ozaki’s Japanese Fairy Tales. Ozaki describes this girl’s childhood through particular ceremonies: the visit to the temple at thirty days old, the first Dolls’ Festival, and the scarlet-and-gold obi tied on at three.

The husband explains the mirror with an old saying Ozaki quotes: as the sword is the soul of a samurai, so the mirror is the soul of a woman. He adds that the mirror is one of the treasures of the Emperor’s regalia, and later compares his patient daughter to the lotus that blooms out of the mud.

Read the original: Japanese Fairy Tales (Project Gutenberg)

Reading guidance: older children with an adult available for discussion. The story includes a mother’s death, intense grief, prolonged mistreatment by a parent, and a false accusation of wishing someone dead.

A reflection, an accusation and an apology

The mirror means something different to each person. The mother treasures a gift; the daughter finds comfort in a resemblance she does not understand; the stepmother imagines a threatening image. The same private act is read as affection or malice according to what the observer already believes. The father nearly repeats that error when he treats his daughter’s fear as evidence of guilt.

The resolution begins when the girl can explain the object and both adults acknowledge their mistakes. Her patience alone has not protected her. The adults have responsibilities to listen and stop the mistreatment; a child does not have to earn safety by being perfectly obedient. Likewise, resemblance to a loved parent can carry memory without a mirror literally containing a soul.

Draw three speech bubbles beside a picture of the mirror: what the daughter thinks, what the stepmother assumes, and what the father learns. Then identify the sentence in each apology that accepts responsibility. What would the adults need to do afterward to make those words trustworthy?

Questions to ask

• Why had the mother never seen a mirror before?
• Whose face does the girl really see in the mirror, and why does it look like her mother?
• Why does the stepmother think the girl is cursing her, and how does she make up for it?

You may also like

• The Story of Princess Hase — another Ozaki tale of a patient daughter and a jealous stepmother
• The Bamboo-Cutter and the Moon-Child — a beloved daughter and a parting that cannot be stopped
• The Tongue-Cut Sparrow — a Japanese tale where a hard heart is changed in the end