A most lovely journey it is, for the line runs through and crosses a pass in the midst of the mountains, which look radiantly beautiful with their immense variety of foliage—dark evergreens, mingling with the yellower autumn tints. They are always the same, these mountains in Japan; conical in shape, with sharp-edged shoulders perfectly formed in miniature, rising very straight up from the level. There are numberless waterfalls, foaming torrents gushing down where the valley parts a little. At Gotemba we have two engines to the train, one behind to push, the other in front to pull, for the pass here rises to 1500 feet. Then we come out into an open valley where there are thousands of little yellow paddy fields, with many bamboo groves, whose light-green feathery fingers wave above heavier groups of dead-green cryptomerias; where the villages, with their heavy black roofs, nestle under the mountains, and tea-houses with their flag poles are perched on many a little eminence, and endless black torii lead to the temples, surrounded by groves of trees. I had often heard of the exquisite scenery of Japan, but this comes up to, and exceeds all expectation.
We journey on. Suddenly in the sky we see suspended a great purple cone. The base is cut off by a sky of clouds. It is the beautiful summit of Fujiyama.
Fuji dominates the island, and you have so many views of it from every side, that it seemed to me that we were constantly spending our time in looking for the cone amongst the clouds. It is very rare to have a perfectly unclouded view of the mountain, but this we now nearly succeeded in doing. Perhaps it is because it is so often veiled in clouds that the Japanese have surrounded it with such a sacred mystery. It seems such a familiar friend now, this cone of Fuji, for we have seen it depicted upon numberless scrolls and screens, on tea services and china plaques, on cloisonné and lacquer, since we came to Japan.
This view of Fuji is superb. The mountains break away and leave a vast plain, out of which it sweeps up solitary, colossal. The crater at the top looks like the jagged edges of a tooth, down which streams of lava have streaked their course. And as we follow the sweeping lines of the great pyramid up 13,000 feet of height, the clouds that lay half-way down, roll away. Only a few fleecy ones float ethereally along the summit, whilst the Sacred Mountain, deep purple pink, stands revealed in all the glory of a sunset evening, against a pale primrose sky, deepening into lilac overhead. Then we realize whence the Japanese acquire their idea of colour. Their artists are only reproducing the realities of nature as constantly present to them in the half tones of their island sky and sea, and it is from such sunsets as these that they faithfully copy the translucent shades of rose-pink, grey-blue, lilac and apple-green, that form the background of those beautiful cloisonné plaques and china vases. The halo of romance woven around this poetical mountain, the object of reverence to thousands of pilgrims, who painfully climb up the nine stages to enter the crater at the top, is increased by this view of it, which will, to me, at any moment recall the lovely splendour of Fuji.
The plain is formed of the rich alluvial deposits of lava from the many eruptions of Fuji, and is a splendid agricultural district, where that neat "carpet" cultivation is seen to perfection, and where the harvest is now in full swing. Columns of smoke, rising from the surrounding mountain sides, show this district is volcanic, and shocks of earthquake are frequent all over Japan, but particularly at Yokohama.
Soon the railway runs along the sea-shore, where there is just room for it between the pebbly beach and the deeply wooded mountains—a pretty bit of travelling. We look across the pale green bay to the little range of lilac hills opposite, and listen to the idle lapping of the waves, and see the sampans putting out to sea for the night's fishing, as darkness, the quickly falling dusk of a tropical climate, closes over all.
I must say that travelling in Japan presents an uncomfortable feature in being obliged to carry your provisions with you, as only Japanese eatables can be obtained at the stations. Fortunately the distances are not great, but when it happens, as on this occasion, that two parties, one of Germans, besides ourselves, all dined out of paper parcels, the car presents a very unpleasant appearance.
We reached Nagoya at midnight. Two jinrikishas bore us swiftly through the deserted streets, all dull and dark, because the paper lanterns of the passers-by are gone home, and there is no attempt at street-lighting. We are sent flying round a dark corner to be deposited before a barred and shuttered door. There is a great noise within, much whispering and unbolting of doors, rather a mysterious arrival, and then a stream of light pours forth, and shows the usual crowd of little bowing men and women, who escort us in a body up the polished stair to our rooms à la Japonaise, where we sleep with the light shining through the paper walls.
We are awakened the next morning by the shuffle of stockinged feet over the polished boards, and one of the waddling little waiting-maids, with the most brilliant pink and white cheeks, flicking the dust away with a wisp of papers tied on to a stick, two of the same escorting C. to the bath, a wooden tub of boiling water placed on an earthern floor.