Emperor of Japan

by Donald Keene

  On September 5 when Iwakura visited the acting British minister, F. O. Adams, to inform him personally of the changes, the latter expressed his congratulations for the successful completion of a highly dramatic action. He said it would be quite impossible for a government in Europe to achieve a change of similar magnitude in fewer than several years and without the use of military force.2

  The impetus for returning the registers had come from the domains themselves, but haihan chiken was an imperial command imposed on the domains. There might well have been opposition to the destruction of a system that had lasted (with various modifications) since the end of the twelfth century, a system that guaranteed many privileges to the daimyos and their retainers, but not a voice was raised against the imperial command. This was largely the result of careful preparatory planning. Ōkubo Toshimichi, one of the chief proponents of the plan, had traveled to Satsuma to obtain the cooperation of Saigō Takamori. Saigō was revered as both the chief architect of the Restoration and a man of unsullied reputation; his advocacy of haihan chiken was indispensable and, once obtained, influenced many daimyos who might otherwise have protested.

  The need for abolishing the domains had by this time become clear to men like Ōkubo as an administrator and to Yamagata Aritomo (1838–1922) as a military man. Yamagata had just returned to Japan after a year in Europe where he had studied different military systems. Although the government seemed not to be menaced by any immediate threat of an uprising, it was obvious that like any other government, it needed military forces to deal with whatever unforeseen crises might arise. William Elliot Griffis said of the government of that time: “Without one national soldier, it possessed only moral power, for the revolution had been carried through because of the great reverence which the Mikado’s name inspired.”3

  The funds available to the government were also so limited that the need for cash had become desperate. The replacement of the domains, which had been more or less autonomous, by prefectures under the control of the central government seemed to reformers the only solution, but it was by no means easy to effect. Not only was it likely that the samurai class would fight for what it considered to be its rights, but the common people, most of them unaware of any higher authority than the daimyo, would hardly oppose a daimyo if he chose not to obey the emperor. The daimyo’s influence was pervasive, touching the daily lives of all who dwelled in his domain.

  Griffis was present when the decree abolishing the domains was received in Fukui, the seat of the Echizen daimyo:

  I had full opportunity of seeing the immediate effect of this edict, when living at Fukui, in the castle, under the feudal system. Three scenes impressed me powerfully.

  The first was that at the local Government Office, on the morning of the receipt of the Mikado’s edict, July 18, 1871. Consternation, suppressed wrath, fears and forebodings mingled with emotions of loyalty. In Fukui I heard men talk of killing Yuri, the Imperial representative in the city and the penman of the Charter Oath of 1868.

  The second scene was that in the great castle hall, October 1, 1871, when the lord of Echizen, assembling his many hundreds of hereditary retainers, bade them exchange loyalty for patriotism and in a noble address urged the transference of local to national interest.

  The third scene was on the morning following, when the whole population, as it seemed to me, of the city of 40,000 people, gathered in the streets to take their last look, as the lord of Echizen left his ancestral castle halls, and departed to travel to Tōkyō, there to live as a private gentleman, without any political power.4

  Similar scenes were no doubt enacted in many others of the 270 domains, great and small. It is extraordinary that the daimyos, faced with a loss of hereditary privileges and compensated by only titular recognition as governors of the domains where they had reigned, accepted haihan chiken so calmly. The Meiji Restoration had shifted the apex of Japanese society without changing its structure. Haihan chiken had a far greater impact: close to 2 million people—the samurai class—had lost their income, formerly granted by the daimyos, and were faced with the prospect of permanent unemployment. Several years later they received lump-sum grants of money from the government to compensate for their loss of positions in the hopes they would use the money to start new careers. But most samurai, unaccustomed to trade and other occupations of the new Japan, soon exhausted the money, and many were forced to perform humble, even menial labor. Ōnuma Chinzan’s poem in Chinese, Shafuhen (The Ricksha Man), describes one such samurai. It is in the form of a dialogue between a ricksha man and his customer. The customer speaks first:

  “Ricksha boy, why up so early?”

  “To wipe the dust from my ricksha.

  My customers still haven’t come,

  But I got up at dawn to be ready.”

  “What did you do in the old days?”

  “I was a shogunate retainer with 3,000 koku.

  When I left home I rode in a chair or on horseback,

  Proud I was a samurai of high rank.

  Today I have forgotten all that;

  I gladly carry merchants in my ricksha.

  I pull people east, west, south, north,

  All day long, for a couple of strings of cash.

  My wife and children are waiting for firewood and rice,

  And what money’s left I gladly drink up in saké.”5

  It is true that many of the samurai class subsequently found employment in government offices, and they continued for fifty years or more to form the backbone of the intelligentsia,6 but some never managed to accommodate themselves to the changes. The former samurai who is reduced to pulling a ricksha (or performing some equally disagreeable labor) is a familiar figure in literature of the time, and it was rumored that young women of the samurai class had found employment in the Yoshiwara brothels.

  The emperor’s authority was obviously greatly enhanced by the change. In principle at least, he was now the sole ruler of the entire country, replacing numerous feudal lords, some of whom had governed their domains more or less independently. The change affected him personally, but he probably was even more directly affected by another change that occurred very soon afterward. In the same month as the haihan chiken, the Ministry of the Imperial Household and the emperor’s private quarters underwent a major shake-up. Until this time only members of the high-ranking nobility (dōjō kazoku) could serve at court, and in keeping with their ancient lineage, it was their practice to cling to precedents and conventions. The emperor’s living quarters were dominated by female officials of the nobility, most of them held over from the previous reign. They were unyielding in their conservatism and used their influence over the emperor to forestall changes.7 Members of the government, even noblemen like Sanjō Sanetomi and Iwakura Tomomi, lamented this situation and attempted to reform it, but practices that had built up over the centuries were not to be altered in a single day.8

  Saigō Takamori, who had traveled to Tōkyō to support haihan chiken, decided that the time had come for change. He insisted that it was essential for “delicate and effeminate old aristocrats” to be replaced by “manly and incorruptible samurai” as the emperor’s mentors. After consulting with Ōkubo and Kido, he made a formal proposal to Sanjō and Iwakura, asking for a prompt decision. On August 19 the decision was reached: Yoshii Tomozane (1828–1891), a Satsuma samurai, was appointed as chief of the staff, charged with reforming the Ministry of the Imperial Household and the emperor’s private quarters. The nobleman Tokudaiji Sanetsune, long an advocate of change, was commanded to serve the emperor personally in the capacity of a member of the Ministry of the Imperial Household.

  Recommendations for reform were soon presented. Henceforth, persons would be appointed as chamberlains without respect to whether they belonged to the nobility or the samurai class. It was hoped that even if there were only a few samurai among the chamberlains, they would eliminate abuses of long standing. The chamberlains were also given a new duty, keeping the emperor informed of matter
s old and new, Eastern and Western. Senior chamberlains would assist in the emperor’s intellectual growth. The changes did not affect only the emperor: it was decided that the empress and her ladies also needed to be familiar with both old and new conditions in Japan, China, and the West and that they therefore should be allowed to listen to lectures delivered before the emperor.9

  Men in the emperor’s staff with aristocratic names like Sanjōnishi, Uramatsu, and Ayanokōji were replaced by samurai with names like Murata Shimpachi.10 On September 15 all the female officials were dismissed and replaced with younger women.11 Saigō Takamori, in a letter he sent on January 20, 1872 to his uncle, Shiihara Yosanji, wrote with evident satisfaction,

  Among the many changes of every kind, those most to be rejoiced over and prized relate to the emperor’s person. Up to now, no one who was not a noble was permitted to come into the presence of His Majesty. Even officials of the Ministry of the Imperial Household who happened to be of the samurai class could not enter his presence. But these bad practices have all been changed, and members of the samurai class have been chosen to serve even as chamberlains. Nobles and samurai have been selected without distinction, and the emperor shows particular favor to chamberlains appointed from the samurai class, a truly admirable development.

  The emperor intensely dislikes being cooped up in the women’s quarters and remains all day, from morning to evening, in his office. He and the chamberlains read and discuss together the learning of Japan, China, and the West. He is so occupied with his studies that he dresses much more simply than was customary with daimyos up until now. His diligence in his studies is exceptional, far greater than the average man’s. The emperor today cannot be as emperors were in the past. Even their lordships Sanjō and Iwakura say that he must be far more active. Fortunately, he is of a brave and wise nature, and he has an extremely robust constitution. The nobles say there has not been so healthy an emperor in recent generations. He goes riding every day that the weather permits, and he has said that he intends shortly to drill one platoon each of his personal guards every other day. It is reported that he is determined to lead a battalion and to be his own grand marshal.12

  Later in the same month, the cabinet was reorganized, and the offices of minister of the left, minister of the right, and major councillor were abolished, along with various lesser offices. The government was divided into three branches: the executive (shōin), headed by the emperor; the legislative (sa-in); and the judicial (u-in).

  Once these major domestic changes had been made, greater attention could be paid to international developments. First in importance was the establishment of the northern frontier. The settlement of Ezo (or Hokkaidō, as it came to be called in September 1869) was an urgent concern lest the Russians get there first. Important officials were sent to administer Hokkaidō and Chishima, which were divided into eleven provinces and eighty-six counties.13 On October 5, 1869, Ōkunitama was established as the principal god to be worshiped by those engaged in the development of Hokkaidō, and a ceremony of enshrinement was carried out. Major temples encouraged parishioners to emigrate to the new territory.

  The chief problem in establishing the frontier between Japan and Russia related to Sakhalin. Both Russia and Japan had established settlements on the island, and the boundary between the two was by no means easy to draw. In March 1870 a commission for the development of Sakhalin was appointed, but in the absence of diplomatic relations between Japan and Russia, it was not possible to negotiate. On March 3 Terashima Munenori (1832–1893), Ōkuma Shigenobu, and Itō Hirobumi met with the American minister resident Charles E. De Long to discuss the question of Sakhalin. The officious De Long, stressing the great importance to the rest of the world in settling the boundary, proposed himself as the mediator. He pointed out the close relations between the United States and Russia and promised that if entrusted with this mission, he would spare no pains in reaching a solution.14 The Japanese accepted the offer with the proviso that the border be established along a degree of latitude: north of 50 degrees would be Russian territory, and south of 50 degrees, Japanese.

  Despite De Long’s self-confidence, his negotiations failed to produce a settlement. Minor clashes between Japanese and Russians continued, and the Japanese still had not made up their minds what policy to adopt. They had at least three choices: (1) to pay the Russian settlers a sum of money in return for leaving Sakhalin and then rule the whole island; (2) to divide the island and move Russian settlers north of the boundary, giving them some money for their expenses; and (3) to yield the entire island to Russia, receiving compensation in return.15

  In June 1871 Soejima Taneomi was sent to negotiate with the Russians in the Russian part of Sakahalin. When he was about to leave, the emperor told him:

  Russia is the country closest to our own, and it is therefore highly desirable that we maintain friendly relations. This is particularly true of Sakhalin where our two peoples live together, coming and going in the course of earning their livelihoods. How could we fail to devote our efforts to preserving this situation? In the past, as far back as 1852, the Russian czar sent an ambassador plenipotentiary to discuss how the border might be settled, but because of circumstances on both sides, the discussions did not bear fruit. Later, in 1867, a treaty was provisionally signed in St. Petersburg, providing for mixed occupation by both peoples. When I examine now the situation on Sakhalin, it makes me wonder whether because of the differences in language and intent, suspicion and even hostility are not likely to arise in people’s hearts, leading to hostility and finally to a disruption in the friendly relations between the two countries. It is most urgent that the border be determined. This is a deep concern not only of myself but of the czar of Russia who has been gravely concerned. For this reason I command you, Taneomi, to go with the full powers delegated to you, and negotiate to determine the boundary. I hope that you will profit by this opportunity to settle this matter and enable the people of both countries to continue enjoying their blessings and that our friendship [with Russia] will be ever closer and long lasting. See to it, Taneomi, that you take my words to heart.16

  It is noteworthy that the emperor spoke of the czar as sharing his concern with achieving a peaceful solution to the border problem; he declared that their mutual desire was peace, which would permit their subjects to continue earning their livelihoods undisturbed. This statement suggests that the emperor now was aware of both the duty of a sovereign toward his people and the desirability of sovereigns of different countries acting in concert.

  During the next few months Soejima Taneomi met the Russian envoy Evgenii Karlovich Biutsov many times, but their negotiations failed to settle the status of Sakhalin.17 In February 1873 Kuroda Kiyotaka, the vice president of land development in Hokkaidō, presented a memorandum urging that Japan abandon Sakhalin completely, declaring that funds would be better spent on developing the huge tracts of land available in Hokkaidō than on attempting to develop the wastelands of Sakhalin. He claimed it was unlikely that the income derived from the sale of grain, coal, or fish produced in Sakhalin would ever sustain the population and praised the Russians for their wisdom in having sold Alaska to the Americans in 1868 for similar reasons.18

  The situation was not resolved until May 1875 when a treaty was concluded between Minister Plenipotentiary Enomoto Takeaki and the Russian Plenipotentiary Alexander Gorchakov providing that His Majesty, the emperor of Japan, would yield all rights over the entire island of Sakhalin to His Majesty, the czar of all the Russias, in return for the latter yielding to the emperor of Japan the eighteen islands of the Kurile chain. The border between the two countries was established between Shumshu Island, the northernmost of the chain, and Lopatka, at the southern tip of Kamchatka.19

  In the meantime the emperor’s attention was diverted to events occurring far from Japan. Soon after the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War, fought between July 1870 and May 1871, the Japanese government sent four senior samurai as observers. By the time they reach
ed Europe, the Prussians had been victorious in every battle and were besieging Paris. The Japanese observers went to Paris where they compiled minutely detailed reports on the fighting, the strengths and weaknesses of the combatants, the merits and demerits of the weapons used, the causes of victory or defeat, as well as general conditions in Europe. Without exception, they were deeply impressed by the strength and battle tactics of the Prussian military. Until this time the Japanese had followed French models in organizing a modern army, but the French defeat in the war induced the Japanese to change their mentors: henceforth, the German army would provide the model.20

  The emperor took an exceptional interest in the war. Takashima Tomonosuke, an army officer, recalled years later how the emperor had carefully examined reports reaching him of the Franco-Prussian War and questioned his advisers about the strategies adopted by the two armies. Soon after the war ended, a German warship called at Yokohama, and the captain offered the emperor photographs of the war. The officer asked permission to explain the photographs, which the emperor readily granted. He listened with great interest as the officer described not only what was shown in the photographs but all that had happened up to the conclusion of the war. Takashima reported that “the dragon face looked unusually pleased as he listened.”21

  The date of this incident is not clear, but needless to say, it was unheard of for the emperor to admit a foreigner into his presence for such a purpose.22 The emperor again broke precedent when he granted an audience to Adams, the acting British minister, who was being transferred to a superior post. The emperor expressed his pleasure that the value of his services had been recognized by his sovereign but regretted that Adams was leaving. Under the circumstances, he could not detain him but hoped that he would take good care of himself on the voyage home.23 There was nothing in the least remarkable in the emperor’s words, but they indicated with what rapidity the court had accustomed itself to European usages.