A trip to the Japanese Harrogate--A curious travelling companion--A Japanese inn--A mountain ride--At the sulphur springs--A sulphur bath--A night in a tea-house--Sad news.
As our passports seemed to permit us to go anywhere we liked, except to a fire on horseback, we decided, after much consultation with Idaka, to go by train to Karuizawa, and from there to visit the hot sulphur baths at Kusatzu, a place not generally known to globe-trotters, where we were told we should see much to interest us.
Accordingly the next morning we bade an affectionate farewell to our parents and also to the kind little manager of the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, and started for Kodzu in the quaint little train, which goes at the rate of, at least, ten miles an hour. Oh what a hot, steamy, journey it was! and we anything but looked forward to the five hours’ journey which lay before us. However, we rejoiced in having the carriage to ourselves, which was something to be thankful for. Idaka, very busy and important, travelled third class in charge of the luggage, clad in a marvellous costume, consisting of a scarlet and white blazer, thick homespun shooting stockings, patent-leather shoes rather the worse for wear, and a deer-stalking cap, all evidently ‘cast-offs’ of former employers. We quite regretted that we had nothing to give him to add to the collection.
Just, however, as the train was starting, much to our annoyance a stout little Japanese jumped into the carriage and took his seat at the opposite end of the compartment to where we were sitting. He was a pale-faced little man, dressed in a black frock-coat, dark trousers and a top-hat. He appeared very much oppressed with the heat, but that was not unnatural with a temperature of about 90° in the shade.
Finding our companion very quiet and inoffensive, we paid no further attention to him. An hour passed, Pauline was fast asleep, and I suppose I also must have closed my eyes, for presently, looking across the carriage, I saw to my astonishment, instead of the little black-coated man, a somewhat slighter figure, in a set of gray dittos and cap to match, quietly reading his Japanese papers as if nothing had happened, a neatly-folded suit of clothes on the seat beside him. I was somewhat startled at this curious transformation, and stories of disguised criminals rushed into my mind, when up jumped the little man and proceeded calmly to divest himself of his gray suit, folding up the garments he took off and placing them beside the black pile. Feeling extremely embarrassed, I gazed severely out of the window for several minutes. Pauline still slept. On hearing the rustle of a paper, I ventured to look round, and there sat our strange fellow-traveller, deep in his ‘nichi-nichi shimbun’ (Japanese newspaper), clad from head to foot in white duck and cricketing-cap to match. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘I should hope his toilette is completed.’ No such thing. After about half an hour the little man again seemed restless and overcome with heat, and after casting a despairing and perspiring glance around him, he got up and reaching down from the rack a small black bag, he pulled out a ‘ukata’ and ‘obi’ (the national dress of a Japanese). Seeing the same performance about to begin with regard to the white suit, I coughed violently; but that having no effect and escape being impossible I feigned sleep, and, when I again ventured to open my eyes, a little thin figure sat in the corner in correct Japanese attire. Three neatly-folded bundles lay at his side,--hat, boots, and all.
Fortunately, this was the last metamorphosis that our strange companion indulged in, and soon afterwards we changed trains, leaving him in full possession of the carriage; so I shall never know whether he redressed himself before the end of his journey, or how he disposed of the remainder of his wardrobe. It was certainly a novel way of carrying luggage.
Pauline was very indignant when I told her of the occurrence. She said had she been awake it would never have happened.
At last, after crawling along for five hours across the burning plain, we reached Kodzu; and after a short rest and a few little cups of yellow tea and some peppermint sticks at the tea-house in the village, we started off again in the little mountain train for Karuizawa. Thankful enough we were, after passing through twenty-six pitch-black tunnels reeking with sulphur and smoke, to arrive at last, exhausted and half-choked, but safe and sound at our journey’s end.
Karuizawa is situated on a large plain, formed by the lava from the great volcano Asama, and is about four thousand feet above the sea-level.
It is the strangest and weirdest spot imaginable. For miles and miles in every direction as far as the eye can reach stretches a vast plain covered with pampas-grass and wild-flowers of every description, and hemmed in by long ranges of blue mountains in the far distance. In the centre of the plain rises Asamayama like a great black pyramid, absolutely bare; and from the summit a thin column of smoke can be seen and an occasional flame, as if to give warning of the fires down below.
The village of Karuizawa, some little distance from the base, is composed of a collection of hideous little wooden houses, principally the summer residences of missionaries from all parts of Japan, a small English church, only lately built, and a long, straggling village street, with a few small native shops of a primitive nature.
Idaka had taken a room for us at the chief tea-house in the village, and, although the smell of the ‘daikon’ (fermented turnip) which permeated every corner was not conducive to appetite, we managed to make a fair supper of the tinned food we had brought with us, supplemented by some native rice and hot ‘saké’ (native drink).
We were escorted to our bedroom by the landlord. Either from mistaken politeness or curiosity, he declined to leave us, repeatedly bowing and apologizing for the want of comfort in his miserable establishment, and assuring us how highly he appreciated the honour of entertaining such distinguished guests. All this in the most excruciating English. Hints that we wished to retire to bed were of no avail; and at last Pauline, unable to restrain her impatience any longer, drew back the ‘shoji’ (sliding panel) and, with an imperious wave of her hand, pointed from our little tormentor to the door, and said: ‘Go, wretch!’ This had the desired effect. He departed, bowing even lower than before, still murmuring to himself ‘honourable distinction.’
‘Well,’ I said to Pauline as, closing the panel carefully, she turned towards me, ‘what about Japanese politeness? I thought it was the only thing that really was important out here. You have put your foot in it.’ Pauline’s face was a study. Notwithstanding her manner, which was most impressive, she was at heart extremely nervous and highly strung. It was some time before I could assure her that doubtless the little man was quite as glad to go as we were to get rid of him, and that there was no fear of his detaining us by force or showing any resentment.
At last, however, we settled ourselves as comfortably as we could on our ‘futons’ (Japanese mattresses) on the floor, and slept the sleep of the just. I have the impression that I saw a figure glide past the foot of my bed during the night, but I was too sleepy to rouse myself, and it may have been a dream.
The next morning we were off at sunrise. Pauline was meekness itself; and the little landlord had evidently made a very good thing out of us, as he presented us with some poisonous-looking cakes of a bright green colour to eat on the journey; the last we saw of him as we rode down the village street was a quaint little form bowing backwards and forwards repeatedly until we were well out of sight.
Our cavalcade consisted of Pauline in a rickshaw drawn by three men, two in the shafts and one pushing behind. I was on a solid-looking white pony which we had hired from the village carpenter. Idaka and the cook rode mules, and three other mules carried our provisions and baggage.
What a glorious morning it was! The sun had just risen, and the woods through which we passed for the first couple of hours of our journey seemed alive with the songs of birds and the hum of myriads of insects. The climb was a steep one, and we were glad to arrive on the open moorland, which stretched for miles around, covered with wild-flowers--poppies, marguerites, campanulas; red, yellow, and white lilies, and waving pampas-grass, all in wild profusion--a perfect blaze of colour. Certainly there is no place like Japan for wild-flowers.
We halted at a little rest-house far away from any other habitation. The air was very keen, and we sat round the open fire, built in the ground, whilst we ate our breakfasts. Our coolies kept up an incessant chatter the whole time as they gobbled up their little bowls of rice with their chopsticks. I think Pauline rather regretted having chosen a rickshaw instead of a pony, as the path was rough, and the springs of the ‘kurama’ had seen their best days; but after all, as I told her, a rickshaw was far more Japanese, so she could not complain.
After a few hours’ ride through a park-like country--quite different from anything else we had as yet seen in Japan--we arrived at a curious little village, and halted for tiffin in what is called the Town Hall of the place--a wooden hut built on long posts over a deep ravine. Three sides were open, except for a little balcony; the posts and the one wall were covered with Japanese advertisements--such strange-looking hieroglyphics. Here we rested an hour. Another steep climb, through scenery which gradually became wilder and more and more desolate, brought us about sunset to the village of Kusatzu (pronounced ‘Koosats’)--a place which has been noted for centuries for its mineral springs and baths, and where thousands of sick little Japanese come every year to try to get cured of various complaints. Foreigners rarely come to Kusatzu, and, as we passed down the village street, half the population turned out to look at us, staring with open eyes and mouths at the mad Englishwomen.
The village is built in a hollow and surrounded by bare and desolate hills, on which no vegetation of any kind or description grows. In the centre of the village a large enclosure is railed in, inside which is a seething, steaming mass of sulphur rocks and water at boiling heat. Round this enclosure are large open bath-houses, with water at different temperatures and with different mineral properties, as all sorts of diseases are treated here. The patients spend their entire day either in the water or standing just outside awaiting their turn. From time to time the most unearthly groans are to be heard proceeding from the baths--a chorus of long-drawn ‘Ohs!’ as the master of the ceremonies, the doctor of the bath-house, gives the word of command for the patients to enter the water. Then a tremendous splashing ensues, which is caused by the bathers beating the water to cool it. We were told that each bather has to beat the water over a hundred times before entering or leaving the bath. The temperature of the water in some of the baths is almost incredible, and the poor creatures must suffer torments. In the bath-house we passed, we saw rows of heads, each tied round with a blue handkerchief, rising out of the steaming, yellow water, and weird-looking figures were scrambling in and out, each holding a ‘beating board.’ It was a most depressing sight, and we were both glad to pass to the outskirts of the village, where Idaka had taken rooms for us.
I understand there are about two thousand patients generally under treatment in Kusatzu, chiefly for rheumatism and beri-beri. The lepers are separately treated at some baths two miles away.
Pauline was rather anxious to pay a visit to the lepers, as she remarked, ‘When one is in for a thing it is best to miss nothing.’ But I stoutly refused to go. The memory of the poor crippled, deformed and suffering creatures I had seen in the streets of Kusatzu was quite enough. In fact, I found sleep almost impossible that night. The groans of the unfortunate bathers rang in my ears, and my dreams were peopled with visions of horrors of every description.
We were lodged in a quaint little cardboard house, innocent of furniture, but, fortunately, comparatively clean, and we made ourselves fairly comfortable on a couple of ‘futons’ which Idaka secured for us; and we were too tired after our long day to find fault with our quarters.
The next morning I thought I would try the effects of a warm sulphur swimming-bath attached to the house. Milky-looking water bubbled up out of the white rocks, and the sensation as I plunged in was rather pleasant. After swimming and floating about for a few minutes, I heard a splash, and looking round, I saw, to my horror, a dark head rising out of the water at the other end of the bath. What on earth to do I knew not. As long as I was in the water at my end of the bath it was all very well, but, unfortunately, I had left my clothes hanging on a nail on the door at the other end! I waited, hoping the intruder might recognise my predicament and have the grace to depart. On the contrary, he seemed prepared to spend hours at his morning ablutions. Apparently he paid not the smallest attention to poor me, but went through strange contortions in the water, accompanying his movements with a weird incantation I suppose he considered music. Feeling desperate, as the strong sulphur water was rapidly making me faint, I waved my arms frantically in his direction and pointed to my garments on the door. Then my companion evidently grasped the situation, and a wide grin spread over his countenance as he dived down into the water. I waited a moment, but, as he did not reappear, I scrambled as fast as I could on to the rocks, rushed to the door, tore on my clothes, and vanished. Whether the grinning little face ever appeared again on the surface I know not, but when I reached my room, breathless and exhausted, I vowed that nothing on earth would again tempt me to take a sulphur bath.
After breakfast, although still feeling very sleepy and tired from the effects of my prolonged swim, Pauline and I started for a walk, escorted by Idaka, to the ‘Valley of the Iced Winds.’ What a desolate spot it was! The rocks were of every conceivable shade and colour--some orange, some green, others bright yellow and red, encrusted with the mineral deposit from the little streams with which they were intersected. Some of the streams were boiling hot, others icy cold, but all had a strong sulphurous smell; and we were surprised to see vegetation growing almost to the edge of the water. In one place, however, the fumes of sulphur were so strong that no bird could pass above without being killed, and we were glad enough to get away, feeling half suffocated.
During the rest of the day we explored the village and made friends with some of the patient sufferers, who live most of their time when not at the baths sitting on the rocks in the sun. Some come every year to Kusatzu, spending all their hard-earned savings in the hope of deriving benefit by the treatment; but many looked far too weak and feeble for such drastic remedies.
The following morning we left at 7 a.m. for the Shibu Pass, a stiff bit of riding; and the cold at the summit was very piercing--a height of over seven thousand feet. We were very glad of our tiffin in a little rest-house, seated close to a peat fire. Pauline and I had at last accomplished the trick of eating rice with chopsticks--not an easy matter to the uninitiated. With that and some hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches we managed to fortify ourselves for our downward journey.
After a brisk tramp of about three hours, we reached Shibu, a pretty little town situated in a valley, surrounded by mountains. We found the tea-house so full, on account of the arrival of a party of pilgrims on their way to Asamayama, the great sacred volcano, that we had to do with very small accommodation--in fact, a large blue mosquito-like cage only separated us from the rest of the lady visitors at the tea-house. There being only two spare rooms, one was reserved for the ladies and the other for the gentlemen of the party.
How we laughed as we lay in our blue cage and watched the little ladies preparing for the night! Sleep was practically impossible, owing to the mosquitos and other lively inhabitants of the room and the incessant tap-tap of the little Japanese pipes which, even in her slumbers, a Japanese lady seems to require.
However, as Pauline said, such an experience of the inner life of the Japanese was worth a little discomfort, and in the abstract I fully agreed with her.
We were glad to be up betimes the next morning, and started off again--all in rickshaws--for a pretty, though hot, ride down to Nagano, where we took the train. The heat in the plains was intense, but fortunately, ice was obtainable at all the stations, and by putting pieces on our heads and in our mouths we managed to keep alive.
It was evening again before we reached Yokohama, travel-stained, brown and weary, but very well pleased with ourselves and our trip to the Japanese Harrogate.
Soon after our return Pauline and her father left Yokohama for Shanghai. I missed my friend terribly, and at first felt quite lost without her. We parted with many promises to write every week to each other and made numerous plans as to our future meetings in England. But, alas, how little we can foresee or direct the future! After three or four long and cheery letters from my friend, she suddenly ceased writing, and my letters to her remained unanswered. Some time afterwards we learnt that she had caught typhoid fever in Shanghai, and died after a week’s illness. I suppose her poor old father had not the heart to write and tell us the sad news, but we heard that he had left for England almost immediately after his daughter’s death.
