At an altitude of nearly three thousand feet on the north-eastern slope of Mount Haruna, an extinct volcano, stands the picturesque village of Ikao. Half the houses are hotels and most have balconies, which command a view of the Tonegawa Valley and sublime Akagi San. The main street climbs from terrace to terrace, a natural staircase, between châlets equipped with bamboo pipes, through which the hot yellow water pours incessantly. Proximity to the capital makes this health resort very popular, yet access is not altogether easy. After five hours’ train to Mayebashi, another five hours are required of rather rough rickshaw travelling: at one point the Tonegawa must be crossed by means of a rope ferry; at others the traveller must dismount, so steep is the road. Yet he will be well rewarded at his journey’s end by a panorama of rare extent and beauty. Behind him, and eighteen hundred feet above, soars Soma-yama, from which the summit of Fuji is just visible; opposite stretch the Mikuni and Nikkō ranges; at his feet are wooded valleys and foaming torrents. The Kindayu Hotel, under most courteous and capable management, combines two great advantages. It supplies the foreigner with such food and general comfort as his habits generally render indispensable; at the same time, it accommodates so many Japanese of all classes, that exceptional opportunities are afforded of becoming more intimately acquainted with the latter than would be possible in their own homes, where various duties and claims absorb their time. Here they seek only health and pleasure: no obstacle but the easily surmounted barrier of language hinders mutually delightful intercourse. At least, the writer formed more friendships and obtained more glimpses of native life during a month at Ikao than at any other period of his stay in the country.
Bathing is, of course, the centre round which existence revolves. Half-a-dozen small baths, fitted with hot and cold water, that the temperature may be modified to suit each bather, enable the stranger to bathe in the solitude he prefers. But more than two dozen others, in which from three to thirteen people can bathe together, are more characteristic of the place. The largest has a hot douche, and the temperature is often as high as 115° Fahrenheit. Here the native guests return two or three times a day to soak and to gossip. In this al fresco salon laughter reigns and conversation flows as freely as the water. Surprised indeed would the bathers be to learn that a costume is deemed essential by more prurient races, whose artificial manners divorce simplicity from decency. Yet Western prudery is beginning to corrupt the upper classes, who tend to convert these social gatherings into family parties, without going so far as to adopt a bathing-dress. The water is rather turbid and yellow. It contains iron and sulphate of soda. Most of the patients suffer from rheumatism or barrenness, and look on a course of treatment as a sovereign remedy. Some also drink of the mineral spring which lies at the end of the Yusawa ravine, where seats and swings line a well-shaded avenue. Probably they derive more benefit from the pleasant promenade than the unpleasant beverage.
The first friend I made was a silk merchant and a poet. I shall call him Yamada San. I had gone one day a few hundred yards down the precipitous path leading to Shibukawa, when my attention was arrested by a very pretty tableau. To the left of the road lay a lute-shaped pond, traversed by little bridges and dotted with islands on which stone lanterns and wooden shrines proclaimed the owner’s piety. The deeper end of the lakelet was overshadowed by a balcony, on which sat two serious young men with rod and line, while a daintily-dressed girl reclining beside them was preparing bait—that is, crumbling a soft bread-cake with delicate fingers. The fish seemed wary, and I remarked one astute leviathan among gold-fish that succeeded in snatching the bait and swimming away with an impudent cock of the tail that would have exasperated a less patient angler. Remarking my interest, the fishermen politely invited me to join them; and then I discovered two curious features of this gentle angling—its cheapness and its humanity. The proprietor was willing to provide all accessories and implements for three-farthings, on one condition: any fish which had the imprudence to be hooked must be tenderly replaced in the water. Thus he reconciled Buddhistic kindness to animals with encouragement of sport, and the fish obtained a maximum of food with a minimum of risk. It seemed that Yamada San was also staying at Kindayu’s. We therefore returned together, while O Mitsu, his charming child-wife, walked submissively behind. Woven silk filled his business hours, but woven sentiments his leisure. Before the hotel was reached he confided to me the poem which had just germinated in his mind that afternoon. He had really been fishing for fancies.
“Yioyeyama
Kasanaru kumono
Ōkunaron
Honokani moreru
Saoshika no koye.”
Range above range, piled up to the clouds, what numberless mountains!
Faintly between escapes from afar the voice of the roebuck.