Emperor of Japan

by Donald Keene

  Ōhara spoke without circumlocution, both because of his upright character, for which he was known at the court, and because at the age of sixty-five, he may have believed he had little to lose. All the same, this kind of courage had not often been witnessed at the Japanese court.

  Kōmei’s response was predictable: he demanded in a rage why he was being bothered by such insignificant matters. What, he asked, did the assembled nobles mean by referring to this as a national crisis? The real crisis had occurred in the winter of the previous year when he had been forced to consent to the treaties. If the nobles were now so deeply moved by patriotism as to ask for an audience with him, why did they not offer their advice at that time, when it was genuinely needed? They had remained silent and did not say one word. How dare they burst in on him in this way? This could only be considered a case of lèse-majesté.4

  The chancellor, a mild-mannered man, intervened, blaming himself for having aroused the emperor’s wrath. He explained that the unhappy state of the times had impelled Ōhara to make his plea. Why would a man speak so bluntly unless he were deeply moved by concern for the country? Nijō Nariyuki concluded by saying that he himself could not escape blame because as chancellor, he stood highest among the nobles.5

  Ōhara answered comfortingly, assuring the chancellor that he was not at fault; but when Prince Asahiko spoke in terms similar to Nijō Nariyuki’s, apologizing for his failure to offer good advice, Ōhara turned on him and said, “Yes, you really are to blame. You should resign and apologize to the whole country.”

  He then addressed the emperor: “Your Majesty, if I might have your reply, I will leave immediately.” The emperor answered that he would be willing to speak to Ōhara alone a few days hence. Obviously the prospect of another mass meeting was unwelcome. Prince Asahiko suggested that the emperor detain Ōhara and ask him to speak his mind in full, but the emperor said he needed more time to consider the three proposals. He dismissed the nobles, but after conferring with Prince Asahiko and others, he agreed to summon the daimyos and to meet with Ōhara on October 11. This information was passed on to the twenty-two nobles, who were still waiting for an answer, and they left at two in the morning.

  Perhaps we should see behind the events of that day the hand of Iwakura Tomomi, who had decided that imperial rule could not be restored as long as Nijō Nariyuki and Prince Asahiko were still in power. Iwakura had used Ōhara in his attempt to get rid of the two men, but he still had to contend with the emperor. On October 12 Nijō Nariyuki, faced with impeachment at the hands of the nobles, resigned, alleging ill health. The emperor refused to accept his resignation. Prince Asahiko also expressed a wish to be relieved of his post, saying that he was unequal to the heavy responsibilities, but the emperor calmed the prince’s anger and persuaded him to remain. These steps halted further action for the time being, for any attempt to push charges against Nijō and Asahiko would be construed as an attack on the emperor himself.

  Invitations to the conference were sent out on October 15 to twenty-four daimyos, urging them to take part in a discussion of matters of national importance in the presence of the emperor. Only three daimyos (plus the heirs of two others) had appeared in Kyōto by November, the rest claiming to be too ill to attend. So little enthusiasm was displayed that the conference seems not to have taken place.

  On November 25 the emperor issued a decree punishing Nakamikado Tsuneyuki, Ōhara Shigetomi, and the rest of the twenty-two nobles who had petitioned him, declaring they were guilty of lèse-majesté. Nakamikado and Ōhara were confined to their residences, and the others were ordered to refrain from attending court. Ōgimachisanjō Sanenaru, who was suspected of aiding the derelict nobles, was also ordered to remain in his house. The emperor had resorted to these measures in the hopes of stifling the nobles’ opposition to his policies.

  On January 10, 1867, the emperor conferred on Tokugawa Yoshinobu the title of barbarian-quelling great general, a gesture showing that his loyalty to the concept of kōbu gattai had not changed. This proved to be one of the last acts of his reign. A week later, on January 16, he attended a performance of kagura dances at the palace sanctuary, even though he had been feeling unwell for some days. The court doctors said his illness was nothing worse than a cold and not sufficient reason to miss the dances, but before the performance was over, he felt so poorly that he left. From this point on, his illness worsened. Two days later, he took to his bed with a high fever. On January 20, the physicians announced that he had smallpox. On investigation it was discovered that a page named Fujimaru had caught smallpox but, after a long illness, had finally been cured. Fujimaru had begun to appear at the court again, and it was suspected that the emperor had caught the sickness from him.6

  According to the courtier Higashikuze Michitomi, a friend from childhood days, Kōmei was blessed with an exceptionally fine physique. He was very strong and had never been sick before.7 It probably seemed unlikely to those who knew him that he would fall prey to illness. Even today, scholars are divided between those who believe Kōmei died of smallpox and those who believe he was poisoned. No one disputes the fact that he contracted smallpox, but it is strange that the source of his smallpox should have been a boy who had recovered and was presumably no longer infectious. Again, it is strange that the emperor was the only person at the court to contract the disease, especially because his contacts with Fujimaru were casual. These are a few of the mysteries relating to the death of the emperor at the early age of thirty-six.

  We can trace the course of Kōmei’s illness from the letters and diaries written by people who attended him, including Nakayama Tadayasu and Nakayama Yoshiko, the grandfather and mother of Prince Mutsuhito. The day after the emperor suffered his first attack of illness while watching kagura, he developed a fever, and he began to suffer from delirium and sleeplessness, as well as from a loss of appetite. On January 20, spots appeared on his hands, which on the next day spread to his face. The palace physicians diagnosed the illness as smallpox, and this was reported under the signatures of fifteen doctors.8 The illness followed its normal course, and after several days during which the emperor could swallow only mouthfuls of hot water, there was a noticeable change for the better, followed by steady improvement each day. On January 24 it was officially reported that the emperor had suffered an extremely light case of smallpox.9 It seemed that he was well on the road to complete recovery, and the priest Tankai, who had been commanded to recite prayers for seventeen days for the emperor’s recovery, was allowed to return to his temple.10

  A party was even scheduled to celebrate the emperor’s recovery; but on January 30 he suffered a violent bout of vomiting and diarrhea. Different accounts mention the purple spots that appeared on Kōmei’s face on that day, and the blood that issued from the “nine apertures.” He died in agony a short while later.11

  Thus far, all the accounts are in agreement, but the unexpected turn for the worse in the emperor’s illness, just when he seemed to be out of danger, soon led to rumors that the change was the result of arsenic poisoning. These rumors have persisted and have occasioned painstaking research into the characteristics of death by poison as opposed to smallpox. A curious blank in the official report of his illness, beginning on January 31, has suggested to some scholars that the relevant facts were deliberately erased. Some members of the court expressed doubts, even at the time, about the optimistic prognosis reports issued by the emperor’s doctors. The nobleman Yamashina Tokinaru wrote in his diary that he had heard that the emperor had suffered extreme pain on January 24 and that his illness was spreading to other parts of his body, despite the official announcements that his condition was improving.12

  Smallpox was by no means unusual in Japan at that time, but the particularly virulent, nearly always fatal variety (called hemorrhaging pustular smallpox or black smallpox)13 was much less common than the milder forms. Furthermore, the symptoms of the most dangerous forms of smallpox closely resemble those of arsenic poisoning, and this fact induced
some scholars to trace step by step the parallels between the course of Kōmei’s illness (as recorded in contemporary documents) and the symptoms of arsenic poisoning (as given in medical books). Even before 1945, when it first became possible to discuss such matters freely, a few scholars had expressed the belief that Emperor Kōmei was poisoned,14 and rumors to this effect go back as far as Sir Ernest Satow, who in A Diplomat in Japan, written largely between 1885 and 1887, recalled that in February 1867—not many days after Kōmei’s death—at the port of Hyōgo,

  I met some native traders, who were greatly interested in the approaching opening of the port, and discussed various suitable sites for a foreign settlement. They also conveyed to me the news of the Mikado’s death, which had only just been made public. Rumour attributed his decease to smallpox, but several years afterward I was assured by a Japanese well acquainted with what went on beyond the scenes that he had been poisoned. He was by conviction utterly opposed to any concession to foreigners, and had therefore been removed out of the way by those who foresaw that the coming downfall of the Baku-fu would force the court into direct relations with Western Powers. But with a reactionary Mikado nothing but difficulties, resulting probably in war, was to be expected. It is common enough in eastern countries to attribute the deaths of important personages to poison, and in the case of the last preceding Shōgun rumours had been pretty rife that he had been made away with by Shitotsubashi. In connexion with the Mikado I certainly never heard any such suggestion at the time. But it is impossible to deny that his disappearance from the political scene, leaving as his successor a boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age, was most opportune.15

  Satow’s remarks make it clear why scholars over the years have been attracted to the theory that some person or persons, despairing of progress under so reactionary a monarch, decided to get rid of Kōmei by poisoning him. It is obvious, as Satow said, that if Kōmei had continued to block the efforts of those who sought to overthrow the shogunate and create a new form of government in Japan, it certainly would have been far more difficult, perhaps even impossible. His successor, a fifteen-year-old boy, was quite another matter. Some of the leaders of the Restoration referred to him as a gyoku, a jewel in their hands that made possible the revolutionary changes they planned. Scholars, reflecting on this fact, have found the sudden death of a still young and energetic emperor too great a piece of luck to accept without skepticism; surely, they argue, it could not have been an accident.

  But if Kōmei was poisoned, the question is, who did it and how? Nezu Masashi, the most outspoken of the exponents of the assassination theory, believed that the poisoning was the work of nobles who had accepted bribes from the shogunate to promote the marriage of Kazunomiya; these men included Chancellor Kujō Hisatada, Minister of the Interior Koga Tatemichi, Iwakura Tomomi, and Chigusa Arifumi.16 He believed that these men suborned a court lady to administer the poison.

  The name that most frequently appears in discussions of possible poisoners is Iwakura Tomomi. One story has it that Iwakura, knowing that Kōmei was in the habit of licking his writing brush when pondering his words, put poison on two new brushes that were presented to the emperor the day before his mortal illness began.17 But this theory conflicts with other evidence concerning the progress of the emperor’s illness. If his illness was initially caused by poison that had an immediate and terrible effect, he would not have gradually shown symptoms of smallpox, nor would it have seemed a few days later that he was on the way to recovery. Obviously, this theory is hard to sustain.

  More common is the theory that Iwakura’s younger sister, Horikawa Motoko, administered the poison; but she entered Buddhist orders in 1863 and never returned to service in the palace, making it improbable that she could have gained access to Kōmei’s sickroom. Several other court ladies have been implicated, but it is not clear why only a woman could have fed the emperor the fatal dose.18

  The conjecture that Iwakura must have been behind the poisoning was doubtless inspired by his reputation as a schemer,19 but there is otherwise no evidence that he planned the assassination or even that the death of Kōmei was welcome to him. Indeed, it has been argued that Iwakura was confident that he could manipulate the emperor, a man whom he nevertheless respected and believed to be absolutely essential to the court’s reform. It is said that on learning of Kōmei’s death, his first thought was, “I am finished!” and he considered completely withdrawing from the world.20

  Haraguchi Kiyoshi, the leading proponent of the “death by illness” theory, has taken great care to establish that it was not in Iwakura’s interests for Kōmei to have died at this time.21 He has also painstakingly examined all the evidence concerning the symptoms of the emperor’s illness, as recorded in contemporary documents (including some used by proponents of the assassination theory), and compared these symptoms with those observed during the smallpox epidemic in Nagoya in 1946, when close to 18,000 persons were stricken.22 His conclusion was that Kōmei died of illness; consequently, no one administered poison and no one planned the deed. It is unlikely we shall know the cause of Kōmei’s death unless permission is granted to examine his remains for possible traces of arsenic.

  During the early stages of the emperor’s illness, Prince Mutsuhito had been in attendance each day at his father’s bedside, dressed in brightly colored clothes, perhaps to cheer the sick man. But once the doctors decided that the malady was smallpox, the emperor commanded that for fear of contagion, the prince not visit his sickroom until he had recovered. Mutsuhito, however, had been vaccinated against smallpox. Years before, when he was still living in the house of his grandfather, Nakayama Tadayasu, the latter asked a doctor of Dutch medicine to vaccinate the boy. When the emperor on his deathbed was informed, he expressed relief that there was no fear of contagion. Needless to say, Kōmei himself had refused to be vaccinated.23

  Emperor Kōmei’s death was kept secret for several days, perhaps because his illness had been so sudden that the court was not prepared for the funeral rites. During these days, the grief-stricken Prince Mutsuhito could not go into mourning—or succeed to the throne. Although the accession would have to take place soon, an unexpected problem immediately arose: the prince had not yet had his gembuku, and it was therefore unclear what costume he should wear when the accession ceremony was performed. An official commanded to search for precedents discovered that Emperor Kōkaku, who had come to the throne in 1779, had his accession ceremony while costumed as a boy. Accordingly, Mutsuhito’s hair was arranged in a suitably youthful style.

  The sudden death of his father must have come as a profound shock to the prince, and his daily life immediately changed. His clothes and food and even the place where he slept were unfamiliar, which must have been disquieting as well. On February 4 the emperor’s death was at last announced, and a period of mourning began. The following day the body of the late emperor was placed in a coffin, and the prince paid his final respects.

  Determined that the funeral conform to ancient precedents, members of the court asked Toda Tadayuki, an expert in such matters, to investigate. He reported that ever since middle antiquity, it had been the practice to cremate deceased emperors and to erect nothing more than a small stone pagoda at the spot where his ashes were buried. However, after the death of Emperor Gokōmyō in 1654, a more impressive funeral service had been held, consisting of a pretended cremation followed by burial. It was decided that Kōmei’s body would also be buried, within the precincts of the Sennyū-ji in Kyōto.24

  The new emperor’s accession took place on February 13, 1867. The ceremony was surprisingly simple. The prince appeared at four in the afternoon and seated himself at the prescribed place in the Hall of State Ceremonies. Two court ladies had already placed the regalia to the right of the emperor’s seat. The emperor commanded the former chancellor to serve as regent and to perform in his stead the duties of his office. Following this, the emperor withdrew to his private quarters. Announcements were read to the assembled nobles concerni
ng their privileges and prerogatives, which were to remain unchanged from the previous reign. Gifts were offered in honor of the accession by the widow of the shogun Iesada and by the wife of Tokugawa Yoshinobu but not by Princess Chikako, who was still in mourning for her husband, the shogun Iemochi.

  Perhaps the happiest person on this occasion was Nakayama Tadayasu. Like Fujiwara no Michinaga some 850 years earlier, he rejoiced that he was now the grandfather of an emperor. No doubt he was saddened by the death of Emperor Kōmei, but grief was probably not his prevailing emotion. He sent this poem to his daughter, Nakayama Yoshiko, describing his feelings:

  kanashiku mo Grief-stricken, and yet

  kanashiki uchi ni Even amid the sadness

  ureshiku mo There is also joy,

  ureshiki koto wa A happiness created

  kyō no hitokoto By what has happened this day.

  The young emperor also composed poetry on this occasion. Most of the forty tanka evoked his grief over his father’s death, but three also mentioned the heavy weight of responsibility he felt on becoming emperor. He showed the poems to Nakayama Tadayasu, who was moved to tears.25 Unfortunately these poems have been lost, but from this time on until the end of his life, poetry was very nearly the sole outlet for Emperor Meiji’s personal feelings.

  Chapter 12

  The year 1867 did not begin happily for Emperor Meiji. The court was in mourning, and the usual New Year’s festivities were canceled. Naturally, the young emperor felt grief over the death of his father, Emperor Kōmei. It is not clear to what degree the son and father had been spiritually compatible, but they saw each other frequently: for years it was the prince’s practice to go every afternoon to pay his respects to his father and to ask for criticism of his poetry. He had no reason to anticipate that Kōmei, still only thirty-six, would suddenly die; and his education, in the traditional mode, had not prepared him adequately for the responsibilities of the position of emperor, especially at this difficult time. The strain he experienced may account for the nightmares that troubled his sleep at this time. Letters and diaries by members of the court allude to his insomniac suffering. The courtier Chigusa Aribumi wrote to Iwakura Tomomi, “Night after night, something comes beside the pillow of the new emperor and threatens him, causing him great anxiety. Yesterday, as I told you, he commanded prayers to be said. The rumor seems to be true.”1