[Illustration: THE GEYSER AT ATAMI.]
Presently a sudden turn revealed to us Hakone Lake,--a lovely sheet
of water surrounded by densely wooded hills. This is a summer resort
that rivals even Miyanóshita in popularity. The air is delightfully
invigorating here, twenty-four hundred feet above the sea, and in the hot
season, not only are all the Japanese tea-houses filled with guests, but
families from Tokio and Yokohama rent all the available cottages around
the lake. To some extent, indeed, this region has imperial patronage,
for, on a pretty hill which overlooks the water, is a palace built for
the Mikado. It must be said, however, that he has never occupied it,
since he rarely leaves his residence in Tokio, but we were told that the
Crown Prince, a lad of fourteen, had been here several times. In almost
every other country in the world the public is now permitted to enter
the abodes of royalty when their distinguished occupants are absent; but
not so here. These palace doors are closed inexorably to all travelers.
We were not allowed even to step within the grounds.
[Illustration: BY LAKE HAKONE.]
At length, descending to the level of the sea, our faithful bearers
brought us to Atami--a pretty town, famous for the manufacture of that
Japanese paper which seemed to me one of the most astonishing products
of the country. It is so fine and soft that it is used for handkerchiefs
and napkins, and takes the place of lint in surgery; yet is so firm
that it is manufactured into lantern-screens, brooms, air-cushions, and
umbrellas. Torn into strips, it also takes the place of string, while all
the inner walls of Japanese houses consist of screens of paper, divided
into squares, like panes of glass.
[Illustration: A MIXTURE OF STYLES.]
As we were one day walking through Atami, a sudden outburst of steam, on
the other side of a fence, came very near stampeding our entire party.
When we recovered sufficient breath to ask the cause of the explosion, we
learned that it was occasioned by a small geyser, which has a species of
convulsion every four hours, and each time pours out sulphurous vapor for
a space of fifteen minutes. It would appear that the people of Atami are
living on the lid of a volcanic tea-kettle, but evidently they have no
fear. They have enclosed the geyser with a fence like a wild animal in a
cage, and close beside it is a sanitarium, where patients with diseases
of the throat and lungs inhale the steam. It may be an excellent place
for sufferers from pulmonary troubles, but we concluded that nervous
occupants of this retreat must feel like the traditional darky on the
safety-valve of a Mississippi steamboat. The old-style doctors of Japan
are still in vogue in certain rural districts, though they are being
rapidly superseded by the young practitioners who have received a medical
education, in Europe or America. With the old Japanese physicians a
favorite mode of cure was sticking a long needle into the part of the
body supposed to be diseased. Another universal panacea was branding the
body with a burning weed called _moxa_. This was prescribed for troubles
as unlike as rheumatism and toothache. Women, at certain critical moments
in their lives, were thought to be relieved by having the little toe of
their right foot burned three times. We often noticed scars upon the
naked backs and limbs of our jinrikisha men, and learned that they had
been produced by this strange medical treatment.
[Illustration: A JAPANESE DOCTOR OF THE OLD STYLE.]
[Illustration: A JAPANESE LADY.]
[Illustration: DRESS AND UNDRESS.]
In traveling through the rural districts of Japan, the tourist soon
becomes accustomed to the peasant's lack of clothing. It is not the
exception here to be undressed--it is the rule. Even in the streets of
Tokio one will behold, on rainy days, thousands of men wearing neither
trousers nor stockings, walking about with tucked-up clothes and long
white limbs, which gives them the appearance of storks upon a river-bank.
Even those who have adopted the European dress will frequently, on
a muddy day, practice economy by discarding their trousers, and,
unconscious of any incongruity, will take their "constitutional" on
wooden clogs, with bare legs and feet, though having the upper part of
their bodies covered with a frock-coat and a Derby hat!
Among these scantily-clad people one often sees a somewhat better dressed
but melancholy man, who, with his downcast eyes and shaven head, appears
to have lost his friends together with his hair. He represents a useful
class of people in Japan--the masseurs, or professional manipulators
of the body. One should not hastily conclude that he is smoking. It is
true, the article between his lips is usually a pipe, but it is not the
kind that holds tobacco. It is a reed-like instrument, on which he blows
two plaintive notes to advertise his presence. In every Japanese town
we always heard at night the mournful call of the masseur. The laughter
which their appearance at first provokes, gives place to pity when one
learns that nearly all of these men are blind. It is a calling which,
notwithstanding their infirmity, they can follow, and they are said to be
adepts at it.
[Illustration: A MASSEUR.]
[Illustration: MASSAGE.]
To appreciate a Japanese masseur, it is necessary to see one of them
at work. This, it is true, is more than he himself can do, since he
is blind; but our pity is soon diverted from him to the person he is
treating, not so much because of the pinching to which he subjects his
victim as on account of the pillow on which the patient's head reclines.
It makes one think of Anne Boleyn or Mary Stuart, with their necks upon
the fatal block; for a Japanese pillow is a wedge-shaped piece of wood,
about a foot in length, on top of which is tied a wad of cloth, about the
size of a Bologna sausage. To try to sleep with neck supported in this
fashion would seem to most Americans as hopeless as to woo slumber with a
fence-rail for a pillow. One shudders to consider the discomfort, under
these conditions, of turning over in bed, and trying to locate the neck
on such a diminutive support.
[Illustration: JAPANESE COIFFURE.]
[Illustration: A JAPANESE PILLOW.]
[Illustration: IN THE BOUDOIR.]
Yet, after all, we are creatures of habit, and forty million people
in Japan use just such pillows every night, without suffering from
insomnia. It is even claimed that Japanese women delight in them, since
they do not disarrange the hair. Nor does this appear strange, when one
scrutinizes their methods of coiffure. They are something marvelous. The
hair of Japanese women is, with few exceptions, as black as ebony, and
very abundant. Moreover, it is usually profusely oiled, and glistens
like a raven's wing. Through these polished tresses are invariably drawn
hairpins of gold, strings of coral, or ornaments of tortoise-shell. But
as to how the ladies of Japan produce in their coiffures their black
crescendos and diminuendos, their sharp staccato puffs and portamento
water-falls, the writer dares not hazard a conjecture. Yet of one thing
we may be sure: if we were to venture into a Japanese lady's boudoir, we
should find that help is needed to produce them. The toilette-stand and
looking-glass might seem to us a trifle low; but we must bear in mind
that Japanese domestic life is regulated by a level three feet lower
than our own: in other words, where we use chairs, they seat themselves
on the floor. This furnished us a key to much that hitherto had seemed
puzzling in their habits. Whether a thing be sensible or not depends upon
the point of view,--in this case, the height at which we seat ourselves.
Once regard an exquisitely clean floor of cushioned matting as an immense
divan, and taking off our muddy boots becomes a matter of course; and
tables and lamps and mirrors will be placed at a height adapted to our
needs.
[Illustration: THE LAST TOUCHES.]
[Illustration: THE OBI.]
When a foreigner beholds for the first time a Japanese lady seated on her
heels, as is the custom, he fancies that she has the small of her back
supported by an enormous cushion. But when he subsequently sees this lady
walking down the street, attended by her maid, he perceives that what
appeared to him a sofa-pillow is really a regular part of her costume.
It is a heavy silken sash, extremely long and often very elegant, which
keeps the robe itself in place. This _obi_, as it is called, is the most
precious article of a Japanese lady's wardrobe. Its usual length is
fourteen feet, and when its material is silk or gold brocade it will be
seen that it has some value. These sashes exhibit, of course, a great
variety of color, and one can scarcely find a prettier sight than that
of several well-dressed Japanese ladies, grouped together in the vivid
sunlight. They look as radiant and attractive as a bouquet of flowers.
[Illustration: A JAPANESE BEAUTY.]
American ladies who have tried the Japanese dress say that the tying
of the _obi_ is extremely difficult. But here, as in the art of
hair-dressing, a lady's maid is almost indispensable. The bow, although
arranged in different styles, is always worn behind, thus spoiling, in
some measure, the outline of the form. When a Japanese lady becomes a
widow, she makes no change in the position of the _obi_, unless she
wishes publicly to announce that she will never marry again. In that
case, it is said, she ties the bow in front. Whether this wards off all
proposals may be doubted; but gossip relates that, once in a while, the
widow comes to look at life a little differently, and then the bow works
gradually round again to its original position.
[Illustration: TYING THE OBI.]
[Illustration: FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.]
[Illustration: A JAPANESE SHOP.]
Japanese ladies make a serious mistake when they exchange their national
style of dress for that of foreigners, for, as a rule, their charm and
beauty leave them when they appear in European garments. On two occasions
we saw some thus arrayed, and the effect was painful. If most of them had
put on each other's dresses by mistake, they would have looked about as
well; and in the absence of corsets their little figures seemed as much
out of place as children in their mother's wrappers.
[Illustration: A BOAT-RIDE IN JAPAN.]
[Illustration: GEISHA GIRLS.]
Some years ago a letter signed by Mrs. Cleveland and many other prominent
women of America was addressed to their sisters in Japan, urging them
not to risk their health and comfort by adopting European dress. It was
of little avail. The die was cast. In 1885 the Japanese Empress and her
suite appeared for the last time in public in the tasteful costumes
of the past. Since then, the order has gone forth that all ladies who
present themselves at court must do so in European dress; and it is
to be feared that, ere a score of years have passed, the lovely and
appropriate robes of old Japan will have disappeared forever. Until quite
recently, the universal rule for Japanese women, when they married, was
to shave their eyebrows, pull out their eye-lashes, and stain their teeth
jet-black. Even the present empress did these things at her marriage. The
idea seems to have been to make themselves look hideous, so as to have no
more admirers, despite the fact that the average husband, as we all know,
appreciates his wife better if he perceives that other men are aware of
her attractions. But under the new _régime_ this sad disfigurement is
rapidly disappearing, and at present the younger ladies of Japan, at
least, show rows of pearly teeth when laughter parts their lips.
[Illustration: A DANCING-GIRL.]
[Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE.]
The richest toilettes that we saw in the land of the Mikado were worn
by _geisha_ girls, without whom Japanese festivals are incomplete. Some
of these dainty creatures form an orchestra while others dance. Their
instruments of sound (one can hardly call them instruments of music)
consist usually of two kinds of drums and a long, three-stringed banjo,
called the _samisen_. Sometimes a flute also is used. We frequently
disputed as to which of these was the least excruciating, but on the
whole we preferred the drums. When to this combination a human voice was
added, our teeth were set on edge.
Young as they look, these _geishas_ are professionals, and
training-schools exist in Tokio and Kioto, where they are sometimes
taught when only seven years of age. A Japanese dancing-girl forms a
charming picture. Her long _kimono_ of the richest silk is beautifully
embroidered with such a wealth of lovely flowers, that she herself
resembles a bouquet in motion. Her broad _obi_ is of the heaviest crape,
and falls upon a petticoat of gorgeous color.
[Illustration: A JAPANESE FAMILY MOVING.]
[Illustration: ON THE JAPANESE COAST.]
Black lacquered sandals half conceal her tiny, white-socked feet, and
in each hand she holds a decorated fan. Do not expect from her the
slightest approach to Lottie Collins. The dance of "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,"
performed by a _geisha_ girl, would make a subject of the Mikado, if he
were unprepared for it, faint away. Nor will the spectator see the least
exposure of her personal charms. For, strangely enough, the Japanese, who
will at other times dispense with all the clothing possible, conceal a
dancer's form with rigid severity. There is not much expression in these
dancers' faces. One feels that they are not women, but girls to whom
intense emotions are as yet unknown. They merely represent in graceful
pantomime some song or story, flitting about like pretty butterflies, or
swaying back and forth like flowers in a summer breeze. Leaving Atami,
we had a charming ride of seven miles beside the ocean. The road (which
may be called the Japanese Cornice) is passable for jinrikishas; and
while on one side we looked off upon the Pacific, on the other we found
that every valley had a background of well-rounded mountains, covered
with verdure soft as velvet, from which at intervals a stream of crystal
water rushed to meet the sea. The scenery of Japan may not be grand,
but for a charming combination of the elements which make a country
beautiful, enlivened constantly by natives in their novel occupations,
the seven-mile drive from old Atami can hardly be surpassed.
[Illustration: LOVERS OF NATURE AND ART.]
Moreover, the people, as we met them on these journeys, pleased us
greatly. They were invariably courteous and gentle in their manners, and
no boorishness was visible, even among the lower classes. They always
seemed to be good-natured. However stormy the weather, however heavy the
load, however bad the roads, we never heard a Japanese complain, nor saw
one in a bad humor. If the foreigner becomes angry with them, they laugh
as if he were making himself ridiculous; and presently he feels that they
are right, and that violent anger is in truth absurd.
[Illustration: A JAPANESE AT PRAYER.]
Yet, just as beneath the smiling landscapes of Japan still lurk the
terrible volcanic forces of destruction, so underneath the sunny
dispositions of the Japanese are all the characteristics of the warrior.
Their history has thoroughly established that they are a manly,
patriotic, martial race. Their gentleness, therefore, comes not from
servility, but is the product of inborn courtesy and refinement.
[Illustration: THE GUARDIANS OF TRAVELERS AND LITTLE CHILDREN.]
The Japanese are naturally of a happy disposition. A smile illumines
every face. Apparently their past has no regrets, their present no
annoyances, their future no alarms. They love the beautiful in nature
and in art. They live simply; and how much that means! Their wants are
few. The houses of the wealthy do not differ much from those of the
poor. Hence life for them is free from almost all those harrowing cares
and worriments which sometimes make existence in the Occident a long,
incessant struggle to keep up appearances. If they are sad, they seldom
show their sadness in public. They evidently believe with the poet:
"Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone."
In some provinces of Japan, when a new bridge is opened, not the richest,
but the happiest, persons in the community are chosen to pass over it
first, as a favorable omen.
[Illustration: A JAPANESE HEARSE.]
Strange as it may appear, however, these qualities of the Japanese have
been regarded by some travelers as faults. A tourist once solemnly
remarked to me: "The great trouble with the Japanese is that they are too
happy."
"What!" I exclaimed, "can any one be too happy in this world?"
"Certainly," was the reply; "the Japanese are too light-hearted to learn
with advantage the lessons of adversity. If a calamity befalls them, they
often smile and say, 'Well, it can't be helped,' and then try to think no
more about it. Worst of all," he continued, "they do not worry about the
future, but actually meet death fearlessly and calmly."
[Illustration: A BARBER SHOP.]
"My friend," I answered, "if to enjoy as much as possible this world that
God has given us, if to smile bravely in adversity, and if to die without
fear, are faults, it would be well if many other people possessed them,
too. You remind me of the old lady in New Hampshire, who exclaimed sadly,
'The Universalists tell us that all men are to be saved, but--we hope for
better things!'"
In fact, a remarkable characteristic of the Japanese is the cheerful,
almost jovial, way they have of announcing a calamity. An English
resident of Japan called our attention to this fact soon after our
arrival, and our experience confirmed his testimony. Whether the cause
be nervousness or a dislike to give one pain, the fact remains that the
Japanese will often preface a bit of dreadful news with laughter, or at
least with a chuckle. Thus, whenever our guide called our attention to a
funeral, his face would wreathe itself in smiles.
Still more extraordinary was the manner of a barber in the hotel
at Yokohama. As he was shaving me one morning, after a moderate
earthquake-shock the night before, he suddenly remarked, with what
appeared to be a burst of unpremeditated merriment: "Oh, last night's
shock was nothing. Why, a few years ago, in Tokio, my father and mother
were killed outright by an earthquake (Ha! Ha!); the house fell right on
top of them (He! He!), and crushed them both to death (Ha! Ha! Ha!)."
[Illustration: A RUINED VILLAGE.]
It is difficult to explain this peculiarity otherwise than by supposing
it to be a nervous mannerism; for, as a race, the Japanese are very
affectionate, and filial reverence is a religious duty. In this instance
I was so astonished at the man's hilarity, that I very nearly fell out of
his chair. We thought of this incident again, when, some weeks later, we
found ourselves in the Japanese province which had suffered most from the
calamitous earthquake of October, 1891. Thousands of houses, we found,
had been wrecked by that catastrophe, and in one place the railway tracks
had been violently bent and twisted, like a chain irregularly thrown upon
the ground. The motion lasted less than a minute; but what cannot an
earthquake do in forty seconds? There came one mighty shock,--and over
an extent of many miles the buildings fell like packs of cards. Great
blocks of solid masonry were tossed about like dice. Trees lay around
like jackstraws.
[Illustration: SCATTERED BY AN EARTHQUAKE.]
[Illustration: TWISTED BY AN EARTHQUAKE.]
Large manufacturing towns were ruined. Thousands of husbands, wives,
and children who, but an instant previous, had been happy at their
work or play, were suddenly crushed by falling roofs, mangled by heavy
timbers, buried alive in the debris, or burned to ashes by fires caused
by overturned braziers. By chance we traveled through this region on the
first anniversary of that great calamity, and many people, we were told,
felt anxious till the day was over. But earthquakes in Japan, alas! are
limited to no special dates. Their visits are extremely numerous and
quite impartial as to months and days. Our earth is said to be quieting
down in its subterranean disturbances; but poor Japan still has no less
than fifty-one volcanoes labeled "active," and experiences every year,
on an average, five hundred seismic shocks, besides numerous destructive
typhoons or hurricanes. Most of them are, of course, mere tremors; but
once in a while there comes a stroke that causes fearful devastation,
as when in Tokio, in 1703, thirty-seven thousand lives were lost.
Such terrible manifestations of volcanic power remind one of the more
appalling scenes that must have been enacted here, when Nature brought
these islands from the sea, pouring them from her fiery crucible.
[Illustration: EFFECT OF A TYPHOON AT KOBE.]
In planning a journey through the interior of Japan, the tourist
naturally inquires where and with what accommodation he is to spend
the nights upon the trip. He need not have the least anxiety. In
the four prominent cities,--Tokio, Yokohama, Kobe, and Kioto,--there
are first-class hotels, with rooms and food adapted to the tastes of
foreigners. In many smaller places, too, like Miyanóshita and Atami,
the hotels, although simpler, are both comfortable and well-managed.
One suffers no discomfort in any of these localities. But in the
country villages (which need not be included in the traveler's route
unless he so desires), he must adopt the Japanese mode of sleeping in a
tea-house--that is to say, in a regular Japanese hotel.
[Illustration: HOTEL AT KOBE.]
[Illustration: THREE OF A KIND.]
As our jinrikishas drew up before one of these, we saw a pretty, modern
building of two stories, adorned as usual with paper lanterns. At
intervals, on the edge of every balcony, were tall, rectangular boxes
reaching from floor to ceiling. These upright cases contain wooden
shutters, about as large as the leaves of a dining-table, which are at
night taken out, and pushed along in grooves, to make an outside wall for
the entire house. When that is done, each balcony of course becomes an
inside corridor. Thus every Japanese dwelling consists, as it were, of
two houses, one within the other, enclosed in separate cases,--the inside
one of paper, the outer one of wood. As we alighted here, the landlord
and his servants hurried out to greet us, dropped on their knees, and,
with their hands spread out, palms downward, and their foreheads almost
touching the floor, they bowed repeatedly, like the "three little maids
from school." What a contrast was here between the Orient and the
Occident. Imagine a hotel clerk in America down upon his knees! In our
hotels the traveler's first duty is to register his name. Here there is
something even more important to attend to, namely, removing his shoes.
Off they must come before he steps upon the delicate mattings and the
glistening floor, just as with us a muddy overshoe would not be tolerated
on a parlor carpet. In fact, on entering the hall, one sees what in
America would be called a hat-rack, but which is here designed for
holding shoes.
[Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE.]
The tourist, therefore, should invariably carry with him in Japan a pair
of soft, felt slippers, for otherwise he will be frequently obliged to
walk about in hotels, shops, and temples, with merely stockings on his
feet.
[Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE VESTIBULE.]