A JAPANESE HARROGATE
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.
[Illustration: WE START FOR KODZU (_p._ 33.)]
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.
[Illustration: IDAKA, THE GUIDE.]
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.
[Illustration: PREPARED FOR THE NIGHT (_p._ 49).]
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.