A TRIP TO NIKKO
The Nikko mountains, one hundred miles north of Tokio, are the favorite
summer resort of foreign residents and Tokio officials. The railway
now reaches Nikko, and one no longer travels for the last twenty-five
miles in jinrikisha over the most beautiful highway, leading through an
unbroken avenue of over-arching trees to the village of Hachi-ishi, or
Nikko.
On the very hottest day of the hottest week of August we packed our
_koris_, the telescope baskets which constitute the Japanese trunk, and
fled to the hills. Smoke and dust poured in at the car windows, the
roof crackled in the sun, the green groves and luxuriant fields that
we whirled through quivered with heat, and a chorus of grasshoppers
and scissors-grinders deafened us at every halt. At Utsonomiya it was
a felicity to sit in the upper room of a tea-house and dip our faces
and hold our hands in basins of cool spring-water, held for us by the
sympathetic nesans. They looked perfectly cool, fresh, and unruffled in
their clean blue-and-white cotton kimonos, for the Japanese, like the
creoles, appear never to feel the heat of summer, and, indeed, to be
wholly indifferent to any weather. The same placid Utsonomiya babies,
whose little shaved heads bobbed around helplessly in the blaze of
that midsummer sun, I have seen equally serene with their bare skulls
reddening, uncovered, on the frostiest winter mornings.
Once out of the streets of this little provincial capital, the way
to Nikko leads up a straight broad avenue, lined on both sides for
twenty-seven miles with tall and ancient cryptomerias, whose branches
meet in a Gothic arch overhead. The blue outlines of the Nikko mountains
showed in the distance as we entered the grand avenue. The road is a fine
piece of engineering, with its ascent so slow and even as to seem level;
but at times the highway, with its superb walls of cryptomeria, is above
the level of the fields, then even with them, and then below them, as
it follows its appointed lines. Before the railway reached Utsonomiya,
travellers from Tokio had a boat journey, and then a jinrikisha ride
of seventy miles through the shaded avenue. This road was made two
centuries ago, when the Shoguns chose Nikko as their burial place, and
these venerable trees have shaded the magnificent funeral trains of
the old warriors, and the splendid processions of their successors,
who made pilgrimages to the tombs of Iyeyasu and Iyemitsu. In our day,
alas, instead of mighty daimios and men-at-arms in coats of mail, or
brocaded grandees in gilded palanquins, telegraph-poles, slim, ugly, and
utilitarian, impertinently thrust themselves forward before the grand
old tree-trunks, and the jinrikisha and the rattle-trap basha take their
plebeian way.
The cryptomeria has the reddish bark and long, smooth bole of the
California sequoia, and through the mat of leaves and branches, high
overhead, the light filters down in a soft twilight that casts a spell
over the place. After sunset the silence and stillness of the shaded
avenue were solemn, and its coolness and the fragrance of moist earth
most grateful. Two men ran tandem with each jinrikisha, and they went
racing up the avenue for ten miles, halting only once for a sip of cold
water before they stopped at the hamlet of Osawa. The villages, a row of
low houses on either side of the way, make the only break in the long
avenue. With its dividing screens drawn back, the Osawa tea-house was
one long room, with only side walls and a roof, the front open to the
street, and the back facing a garden where a stream dashed through a
liliputian landscape, fell in a liliputian fall, and ran under liliputian
bridges. At the street end was a square fireplace, sunk in the floor,
with a big teakettle swinging by an iron chain from a beam of the roof,
teapots sitting in the warm ashes, and bits of fowl and fish skewered
on chopsticks and set up in the ashes to broil before the coals. The
coolies, sitting around this kitchen, fortified their muscle and brawn
with thimble cups of green tea, bowls of rice, and a few shreds of
pickled fish. We, as their masters and superiors, were placed as far as
possible from them, and picnicked at a table in the pretty garden. After
the severe exertion of sitting still and letting the coolies draw us, we
restored our wasting tissues by rich soup, meats, and all the stimulating
food that might be thought more necessary to the laboring jinrikisha men.
When we started again, with all the tea-house staff singing sweet
sayonaras, a glow in the east foretold the rising moon, and a huge stone
torii at the end of the village loomed ghostly against the blackness
of the forest. The glancing moonlight shot strange shadows across the
path, and we went whirling through this lattice of light and darkness
in stillness and solitude. The moon rose higher and was hidden in the
leafy arch overhead, and before we realized that its faint light was
fading, came flashes of lightning, the rumble of approaching thunder,
and a sudden crash, as the flood of rain struck the tree-tops and poured
through. The hoods of the jinrikishas were drawn up, the oil-papers
fastened across us, and through pitch darkness the coolies raced along.
Vivid flashes of lightning showed the thick, white sheet of rain, which
gusts of wind blew into our faces, while insidious streams slipped down
our shoulders and glided into our laps. Putting their heads down, the
coolies beat their way against the rain for two more soaking miles to
Imaichi, the last village on the road, only five miles from Nikko. The
tea-house into which we turned for shelter was crowded with belated and
storm-bound pilgrims coming down from the sacred places of Nikko and
Chiuzenji. All Japanese are talkative, the lower in station the more
loquacious, and the whole coolie company was chattering at once. As the
place was too comfortless to stay in, we turned out again in the rain,
and the coolies splashed away at a walk, through a darkness so dense as
to be felt. At midnight our seven jinrikishas rattling into the hotel
court, and fourteen coolies shouting to one another as they unharnessed
and unpacked, roused the house and the whole neighborhood of Nikko.
Awakened sleepers up-stairs looked out at us and banged the screens
angrily, but no sounds can be deadened in a tea-house.
To the traveller the tea-house presents many phases of comfort, interest,
and amusement altogether wanting in the conventional hotel, which is,
unfortunately, becoming common on the great routes of travel. The
dimensions of every house in the empire conform to certain unvarying
rules. The verandas, or outer galleries of the house, are always
exactly three feet wide. A foreigner, who insisted on a nine-feet-wide
veranda, entailed upon his Nikko carpenter many days of painful thought,
pipe-smoking, and conference with his fellows. These mechanics were
utterly upset in their calculations. They sawed the boards and beams
too long or too short, and finally produced a very bad, un-Japanese
piece of work. The floors of these galleries are polished to a wonderful
smoothness and surface. They are not varnished, nor oiled, nor waxed,
but every morning rubbed with a cloth wrung out of hot bath-water which
contains oily matter enough to give, in time, this peculiar lustre.
Three years of daily rubbing with a hot cloth are required to give a
satisfactory result, and every subsequent year adds to the richness of
tone and polish, until old tea-houses and temples disclose floors of
common pine looking like rosewood, or six-century-old oak.
The area of every room is some multiple of three feet, because the soft
_tatami_, or floor-mats, measure six feet in length by three in width.
These are woven of common straw and rushes, faced with a closely-wrought
mat of rice-straw. It is to save these tatami and the polished floors
that shoes are left outside the house.
The thick screens, ornamented with sketches or poems, that separate
one room from another, are the _fusuma_; the screens shutting off the
veranda, pretty lattice frames covered with rice-paper that admit a
peculiarly soft light to the rooms, are the _shoji_, and in their
management is involved an elaborate etiquette. In opening or closing
them, well-bred persons and trained servants kneel and use each thumb
and finger with ordered precision, while it is possible to convey
slight, contempt, and mortal insult in the manner of handling these
sliding doors. The outer veranda is closed at night and in bad weather
by _amados_, solid wooden screens or shutters, that rumble and bang
their way back and forth in their grooves. These amados are without
windows or air-holes, and the servants will not willingly leave a gap
for ventilation. “But thieves may get in, or the _kappa_!” they cry, the
kappa being a mythical animal always ready to fly away with them. In
every room is placed an andon, or night-lamp. If one clap his hands at
any hour of the twenty-four, he hears a chorus of answering _Hei! hei!
hei’s!_ and the thump of the nesans’ bare feet, as they run to attend
him. While he talks to them, they keep ducking and saying _Heh! heh!_
which politely signifies that they are giving their whole attention.
The Japanese bed is the floor, with a wooden box under the neck for a
pillow and a futon for a covering. To the foreigner the Japanese landlord
allows five or six futons, or cotton-wadded comforters, and they make a
tolerable mattress, although not springy, and rather apt to be damp and
musty. The traveller carries his own sheets, woolen blankets, feather or
air pillows, and flea-powder, the latter the most necessary provision
of all. The straw mats and the futons swarm with fleas, and without a
liberal powdering, or, better, an anointing with oil of pennyroyal,
it is impossible to sleep. These sleeping arrangements are not really
comfortable, and, after the fatigue of walking and mountain-climbing,
stiffen the joints. By day the futons are placed in closets out of sight,
or hung over the balconies to air, coming back damper than ever, if the
servants forget to bring them in before sunset. The bedroom walls are
the sliding paper screens; and if one’s next neighbor be curious, he may
slip the screen a little or poke a hole through the paper. A whisper or a
pin-drop travels from room to room, and an Anglo-Saxon snorer would rock
the whole structure.
At ordinary Japanese inns the charge for a day’s accommodation ranges
from a half-yen upward. A Japanese can get his lodgings and all his
meals for about thirty cents, but foreigners are so clumsy, untidy,
and destructive, and they demand so many unusual things, that they are
charged the highest price, which includes lodging, bedding, and all the
tea, rice, and hot water they may wish. All other things are extra. In
the beaten tracks bread and fresh beef may always be found, and each
year there is less need of carrying the supplies formerly so essential.
Chairs and tables, cots, knives and forks, and corkscrews have gradually
penetrated to the remotest mountain hamlets. At the so-called foreign
hotels at Nikko and other resorts, charges are usually made at a fixed
price for each day, with everything included, as at an American hotel.
Foreigners travelling away from the ports take with them a guide, who
acts as courier, cooks and serves the meals, and asks two and a half
yens a day with expenses. Thus accompanied, everything goes smoothly and
easily; rooms are found ready, meals are served promptly, show-places
open their doors, the best conveyances await the traveller’s wish, and
an encyclopædic interpreter is always at his elbow. Without a guide or
an experienced servant, even a resident who speaks the language fares
hardly. Like all Orientals, the Japanese are impressed by a retinue and
the appearances of wealth. They wear their best clothes when travelling,
make a great show, and give liberal tips. The foreigner who goes to the
Nakasendo or to remote provinces alone, trusting to the phrase-book,
finds but little consideration or comfort. He ranks with the class of
pilgrims, and the guest-room and the choicest dishes are not for him. The
guide may swindle his master a little, but the comforts and advantages
he secures are well worth the cost. All the guides are well-to-do men
with tidy fortunes. They exact commissions wherever they bring custom,
and can make or break landlords or merchants if they choose to combine.
Some travellers, who, thinking it sharp to deprive the guides of these
percentages, have been left by them in distant provinces and forced to
make their way alone, have found the rest of the journey a succession of
impositions, difficulties, and even of real hardships. After engaging a
guide and handing him the passport, the traveller has only to enjoy Japan
and pay his bill at the end of the journey. The guides know more than
the guide-book; and with Ito, made famous by Miss Bird, Nikko and Kioto
yielded to us many pleasures which we should otherwise have missed. An
acquaintance with Miyashta and his sweet-potato hash made the Tokaido a
straight and pleasant way; and Moto’s judicial countenance caused Nikko,
Chiuzenji, and Yumoto to disclose unimagined beauties and luxuries; and
Utaki always marshalled the impossible and the unexpected.