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.