Emperor of Japan

by Donald Keene

  Although Kuroda had been frustrated in his attempt to sell government properties, he was consoled by the dismissal of his enemy Ōkuma. He did not suffer any lasting disgrace despite his involvement in the scandal; indeed, in 1888 he became the prime minister. All the same, the incident, often referred to as the “political crisis of 1881,” was not forgotten. It was a peculiarly unsavory example of power politics.

  Meiji seems to have disliked most of the politicians involved. According to his chamberlain Ogi Masayoshi, who accompanied the junkō to the north, one night in the bath the emperor had expressed these opinions of the councillors: “Kuroda wants to become a minister and has the habit of pushing until he gets what he wants. He is utterly loathsome. Councillor Saigō [Tsugumichi] is always drunk, and when he speaks, he seldom makes sense. When Reed, a member of the British Parliament, came to Japan some years ago, Councillor Kawamura treated him in a way that was not at all what I intended.30 It is Kuroda’s practice not to attend court, alleging that he is ill, whenever his proposals are not carried out. And when he stays away, Saigō and Kawamura, for no reason, also stay away. It’s extremely difficult to understand.” Ogi added, “He is aware of Councillor Inoue [Kaoru]’s deviousness and dislikes him. As for the others, His Majesty commented that during the recent junkō, Ōki [Takatō] acted exactly like a wooden puppet. The only person he really trusts is Councillor Itō Hirobumi.”31

  From this time on, we can sometimes hear Meiji’s voice in both the stereotyped phraseology of the rescripts and the distinctive tones of a man who, having heard much, has decided that the time has come for him to speak.

  Chapter 35

  The year 1881 was when demands for a constitution and a national assembly reached such intensity as to make it seem likely that the advocates would soon be successful. Little progress had been made toward drawing up a constitution during the years since the emperor had promised one in September 1876. Needless to say, nobody openly opposed a constitution, for that would have defied the emperor’s stated wishes,1 but a policy of “gradualism” was advocated by many who hoped that the implementation of a constitution could be put off indefinitely. However, advocates of a constitution and a legislative body had become tired of waiting, and many demanded prompt action.

  There was pressure on the government, some of it from surprising quarters, to take concrete steps. In December 1879 Yamagata Aritomo had sent a long letter to the prime minister, Sanjō Sanetomi, stating his views on the advisability of constitutional government. After enumerating the various causes of discontent with the government—the loss of jobs, economic duress,2 and the abandonment of traditional morality and customs—all of which had alienated the people and encouraged the rise of the Freedom and Popular Rights movement, Yamagata stated his belief that the most urgent need was a reform of the legislative, administrative, and judicial powers; otherwise, there were sure to be more armed disturbances like those that had already occurred in Saga, Kagoshima, and elsewhere. He had become convinced that the only way to restore people’s confidence in the government was to promulgate a constitution. Such a constitution, given that it was likely to endure through many future generations, obviously could not be drawn up in a day and a night, but it was time to establish at least the basic principles. Once it became evident that the government as a whole and the various ministries in their different fields were conforming with these principles and that a future course had been determined, people would once again offer their allegiance.

  Yamagata stressed that nothing in the new constitution should be construed as infringing on the authority of the imperial line. As far back as his Oath in Five Articles, the emperor himself had promised that there would be progress toward constitutional government. Already, at lower levels—in the prefectures, counties, and districts—assemblies had been created. The most gifted members of these assemblies should be selected for a national assembly, which would be the plebeian counterpart to the Genrō-in.

  Sanjō approved of Yamagata’s proposal, which was seconded by Iwakura Tomomi. They presented the proposal to the emperor, who was pleased to accept it. He also asked each councillor to submit a statement of his views on constitutional government.3 Among the responses, Itō Hirobumi’s was the most detailed. After describing the samurai’s resentment of the changes that had occurred since the abolition of the domains, he contrasted the present situation with the days of the shoguns when the samurai were well educated, enjoyed stipends, and owned property. Despite the changes, the samurai class still considered that they should assume responsibility for affairs of state. When the samurai made political pronouncements, the common people were swayed: “If we may compare society to a human body, the samurai are like the muscles and bones; the common people are like the skin and flesh. When the muscles and bones move, the skin and flesh follow.”4

  Itō warned of the influence of the French Revolution, predicting that sooner or later every country would be affected. The notion of the government’s sharing power with the people had entered Japan along with books and other imports from Europe. New ideas of government had gained currency among both samurai and commoners, and in the past few years the influence had spread irresistibly to the cities and villages. Some agitators were startling listeners with their wild words. Others moaned, although they were not ill, and bewildered people with their displays of demented behavior, oblivious of the plans the sovereign might have. But all this was as inevitable as plants springing up after rain had moistened the soil, and it was not worth marveling at.5

  Itō seems to have accepted as inevitable the need to share with the common people the responsibility for government. He insisted, however, that plans for a parliament not be hastily drawn up, as some men advocated. This was to be an unprecedented change in Japanese polity, and it would take time to construct a firm foundation. Itō favored two houses of parliament, on the European model. The upper house (Genrō-in) would consist of 100 members chosen from among the nobility and samurai; its special function would be to support the imperial house and to preserve the Japanese heritage. Itō hoped that direct involvement in the government would mitigate the samurai’s antipathy.

  The lower house would consist of “inspectors” (kensakan) chosen from among members of local assemblies; its responsibilities would be limited to matters of finance. Obviously the upper house would be far more important than the lower house. Itō thought that this would make for stability and that the upper house would protect the lower house from radical tendencies.6 He concluded by stating that he hoped the emperor himself would preside over the gradual establishment of a parliamentary government.

  At first Councillor Ōkuma Shigenobu was reluctant to express his views, but the emperor asked Prince Taruhito to urge Ōkuma to disclose his thoughts concerning this crucial issue. Taruhito reported back that Ōkuma wished to present his views verbally, fearing that if he wrote them down, they might be leaked. The emperor, however, insisted on a written statement, and in March 1881 Ōkuma finally sent a memorial to the minister of the left, Prince Taruhito, asking that no one—not even the prime minister or the minister of the right—be permitted to see it before it was presented to the emperor. Taruhito agreed.

  Ōkuma’s memorial was in seven articles. The first called for a prompt public announcement of the date for the opening of the parliament, the selection of persons to draw up the constitution, and the commencement of construction of the parliament building.

  The second article provided that the appointment of high-ranking officials would take into account their level of support from the people. The parliament that would operate under the future constitution had to reflect the wishes of the people. Decisions by the parliament also had to be in accordance with the wishes of a majority of its members. The head of the political party that enjoyed the most popular support should head the parliament.7 The establishment of a constitutional monarchy would enable the emperor to find without difficulty the most suitable persons to assist him. By relying on elected officia
ls, he would be spared the trouble of examining the credentials of potential advisers. However, Ōkuma pointed out, a political party elected by the voters might in time lose popularity because of its inept administration. In that case, it would hand over the government to the party with the greatest strength. The emperor would then choose a prime minister from this party and ask him to form a cabinet.8

  Ōkuma’s third article established a distinction between those officials who changed with the party in power and those who retained their positions permanently, regardless of which party was in power. The latter, who constituted the great bulk of officials (all but the top-ranking positions), were not permitted to become members of parliament but had to remain politically neutral.

  As provided in the fourth article, the constitution would be promulgated by the emperor. It would be extremely simple, consisting entirely of general principles and combining a clarification of the responsibilities of administrative power and a similar clarification of the rights of the individual citizen. The fifth article proposed that a parliament be convened at the beginning of 1883, and in order to make this possible, a constitution should be promulgated in 1881 and the members of the parliament chosen by the end of 1882.

  The sixth article asked that the various political parties establish platforms and that contests among the parties be among their different platforms (rather than among personalities). The seventh article called attention to the need for political parties to be faithful to the spirit of constitutional government. If they followed the letter but not the spirit, this would be unfortunate for the nation but a disaster for the administrators and would stigmatize their rule for generations to come.9

  When Prince Taruhito read this document, he was astonished by the proximity of the date that Ōkuma suggested for opening the parliament. Disregarding his promise to Ōkuma, he secretly showed the memorial to Sanjō Sanetomi and Iwakura Tomomi and only then presented it to the emperor for his consideration. Hearing that a memorial from Ōkuma had been offered to the emperor, Itō Hirobumi asked Sanjō if he might see it. Sanjō obtained the document from the emperor and on June 27 showed it to Itō, who was enraged by the contents.10 Not only was the date for the opening of the parliament a bare two years hence—far too soon in his opinion—but the proposal that even the advisers closest to the emperor be men chosen by popular election seemed a total denial of the sovereign’s prerogatives. On July 1 Itō sent a letter to Iwakura stating his views and threatening to resign if Ōkuma’s proposal was accepted. He wrote Iwakura again on the following day, saying that he could not attend meetings of the councillors if Ōkuma was present.11

  After attempting without success to mollify Itō, Iwakura sent for Ōkuma and explained why he had showed the proposal to Itō and what Itō’s reaction had been. Ōkuma defended his radical proposals, using the analogy of a crowd trying to get through a locked gate. If the gate were only half open, there would be indescribable confusion as people pushed and shoved to get in. It was therefore better to open the gate all the way and allow people inside. His plan for opening the parliament in 1883, a bold and even radical step, corresponded to opening the gate all the way. Ōkuma and Itō subsequently met at Iwakura’s suggestion, and eventually their personal differences were reconciled and Itō again attended sessions of the cabinet, but they remained far apart on many political issues.

  Itō an advocate of gradualism, was intensely concerned about the emperor’s future role. The emperor’s personal decisions—against seeking a foreign loan and against making peasants pay taxes in rice—suggested that he might no longer be willing to play a passive or symbolic role but would insist on actively participating in major decisions. Itō feared that this tendency might lead to the emperor’s being held responsible for political actions or might even lead to controversy over the institution of the emperor. He therefore preferred that the emperor play the role of an entirely symbolic leader at the head of a cabinet serving him. Itō was particularly wary of palace advisers who, without bearing personal responsibility, might exert influence through the emperor, as he was sure this could only lead to instability in the government.12

  The one thing that drew Itō and Ōkuma together was a mutually shared dislike of Satsuma. When Kawamura Sumiyoshi, a Satsuma man, came up for appointment as navy minister, a position he had formerly occupied, Itō strongly opposed the appointment, although it was backed by the navy itself, and he was joined by Ōkuma. They deplored the tendency of Satsuma men to consider the navy as their private preserve and were sure that Kawamura was not capable of overseeing its future development. Kawamura was nevertheless appointed, mainly because of the desire of the other ministers to preserve peace in the cabinet by maintaining a balance between Chōshū and Satsuma men. They may have also hoped that if Kawamura were appointed, the other Satsuma councillors, who normally did not bother to attend cabinet meetings (in contrast to the diligent Chōshū councillors), would once again attend. The ministers had increasing cause to regret the loss of Kido and Ōkubo, who had maintained equilibrium between Chōshū and Satsuma in the cabinet.13

  Despite this setback, Itō remained the strongest man in the government. He enjoyed the confidence of both the emperor and the daijin (the three top ministers). Sasaki Takayuki noted in his diary, however, that he expected the cabinet to collapse in the not too distant future. He was pleased at this prospect because it would afford the emperor an opportunity to assume the reins of government, as Sasaki had long hoped. He urged the emperor to prepare for this eventuality. The emperor replied that he had expected the minister of the left (Prince Taruhito), as a member of the imperial family, to be superior to the other two daijin in his objectives, but now that he had become a cabinet member, Taruhito seemed to have lost the confidence he displayed during his Genrō-in days. Sasaki defended Taruhito, pointing out his good qualities but admitting he showed insufficient energy. The emperor then made a most telling comment: “Even though the daijin and councillors performed meritorious service—acts of military valor—at the time of the Restoration, they had no real knowledge of government and had not since then employed people skilled in political affairs. That is what has made inevitable the present difficulties within the cabinet. One can only hope that in the course of time, real statesmen will join the cabinet. The present situation is a product of the times, and all we can do is wait until a sufficiently ripe opportunity permits us to do something about it.”14

  Here was the crux of a problem that beset the Meiji government. A display of bravery on the battlefield was no guarantee of competence in political office, but most of the cabinet members had been chosen because of distinguished war service, not because of political acumen. The failure of the Satsuma councillors to attend cabinet meetings probably was due to their boredom when having to listen to administrative reports. Meiji’s dislike of the military men Kuroda Kiyotaka and Saigō Tsugumichi reflected his observation of their inability to apply themselves seriously to civil matters.

  The problem of military participation in the government would last well beyond the Meiji period, but at this time it became imperative to keep military men from meddling in politics and, worst of all, disobeying their sovereign. As early as 1874 Katō Hiroyuki had written an essay in Meiroku zasshi that opened, “In enlightened and civilized countries, it is regarded as best and most important for military officials to earnestly obey their sovereigns’ commands.”15 In the same year, three generals had resigned their commissions to express their disapproval of Ōkubo’s foreign policy.16 In reaction to these open displays of political views by the military and especially to the rebelliousness of the soldiers who had joined Saigō during the Satsuma Rebellion, in 1878 Yamagata had drawn up Gunjin kunkai (Admonitions to Military Men) for distribution to the troops. Among the principles he laid down was one forbidding military men to discuss the government or political events.17

  Despite this command, members of the military became involved in the political manifestations that spread throughout the countr
y at this time. In order to control demonstrations which (in its opinion) threatened public security, the government issued on April 5, 1880, sixteen regulations dealing with public gatherings. All manifestations—whether political addresses, attacks on the government’s policy of gradualism, or support of a parliament—would henceforth require police permission. In addition, members of the army, the navy, the police, and the teaching profession were prohibited from taking part in mass meetings or joining political parties.18 Military participation in the movement to obtain greater civil rights continued to be an issue: when the Imperial Rescript for Military Men was proclaimed in January 1882, the first article ordered soldiers and sailors not to be confused by public opinion and become involved in politics.19

  Perhaps because of this pressure on the military to refrain from political action the movement to secure “freedom and popular rights” was led entirely by civilians, mainly men of middle- or lower-rank samurai status. The first political party dedicated to this aim, the Jiyū-tō, or Party of Liberty, was founded on December 15, 1880.20 Well before this, however, political groups had been formed in many parts of the country, each with a distinctive and auspicious name but not necessarily any concrete objectives. Even those who called most vociferously for a constitution and the opening of a parliament gave little thought to what the constitution should contain or how the legislative body should be organized.21

  The Risshi-sha (Self-Help Society) in Kōchi was the most prominent of these groups of samurai activists. It was founded in 1874 by Itagaki Taisuke and other men associated with the movement to secure “freedom and popular rights,” but the name itself, derived from the title of Samuel Smiles’s popular book Self-Help (Saikoku risshi hen), suggested that originally it was more concerned with education and self-improvement for samurai than with the creation of a parliament.22 Perhaps that is why Itagaki founded in 1875 the Aikoku-sha (Society of Patriots), a specifically political group intended to create a link between the Risshi-sha and organizations working for freedom and popular rights.