by Donald Keene
During the first half of 1883, Itō Hirobumi was still in Europe studying various constitutions in the hopes of finding suitable models for the future Japanese constitution. He spent most of his time in Germany and Austria, believing that their constitutions best fitted Japan’s needs. He was especially impressed by two scholars of constitutional law, Rudolf von Gneist10 and Lorentz von Stein,11 and invited Stein to accompany him when he returned to Japan to serve as an adviser in both preparing the constitution and establishing an educational policy for Japanese universities.
Stein declined the invitation, citing his advanced age, which made it impossible for him to travel abroad, and also his belief that a country’s system of law must be based on the traditions of that country. He believed that if a people felt it advisable to borrow laws from another country, it must, first of all, trace back to their sources the reasons for the existence of these laws, to consider their history, and then to judge whether or not they were applicable to their own country.12
Itō was all the more impressed by Stein on reading this response, but it was clear he would not travel to Japan. Itō asked Bismarck if he could recommend someone else to take Stein’s place. After highly praising Japan’s progress, Bismarck mentioned three scholars. Itō at once cabled the cabinet for authorization to invite them. The foreign minister, Inoue Kaoru, sent Itō a cable giving him permission to make the appointments but warning that Japan must not be unduly influenced by Bismarck and German power. He recalled how French officers, invited to train the Japanese army, had insisted on following French procedures in all matters, resulting in dissension with the army minister. In any case, Inoue said, it was not the government’s intention to adopt a purely German style of constitution and laws. German advisers should be chosen who, in the capacity of Japanese civil servants, would be capable of performing effectively under the terms of their contracts.
Despite this apparent lack of enthusiasm for his project, Itō did not abandon hope of receiving advice from German and Austrian legal experts. On October 10 the emperor agreed to appoint Stein as a member of the Japanese legation in Austria, to serve as an adviser on questions pertaining to the Japanese legal system.13
Itō returned from Europe early in August along with members of his mission. He had spent a year and a half visiting Germany, Austria, England, France, Russia, and Italy, studying their constitutions. He informed Iwakura that he had learned the general principles of state organization from Gneist and Stein and had obtained the essential knowledge to establish the foundations of the imperial house. He believed that the time had arrived to establish a constitutional monarchy, to perfect the imperial rule, and to establish legislative and judicial systems. He was aware that many in Japan had been seduced by the extreme liberalism of England and France, but he was convinced that such people could be kept under control by adopting his proposals.
Itō’s thoughts were so much occupied with the future of Japan that he seemed not to notice that Japanese traditions were rapidly eroding despite efforts to revive festivals and other manifestations of traditional beliefs.14 The death of Iwakura Tomomi on July 20 represented perhaps the sharpest break with the past. Iwakura had been appointed as a chamberlain to Emperor Kōmei in 1854, when Meiji was only two years old, and he probably figured in the emperor’s earliest memories. Iwakura had played a vital part in almost every important event affecting the monarchy ever since that time. Although he came from the lower ranks of the nobility, he was a noble, a distinction that set him off from most members of the Meiji government. This distinction at times led to clashes with the samurai,15 but it also enabled Iwakura to enjoy a special relationship with the emperor. He was a more active member of the Meiji government than other nobles, such as Prince Taruhito or Sanjō Sanetomi, although both were of higher status than himself.
Iwakura had gone to Kyōto in May to supervise plans for restoring the imperial palace. The emperor had become increasingly concerned over the dilapidation not only of the palace but of the entire city, and he readily agreed when Iwakura proposed that steps be taken to arrest further decay.16 The emperor sent Iwakura and other officials to Kyōto to survey the situation.
Iwakura’s plans included the establishment of a branch office of the Imperial Household Ministry to administer the palace, the imperial gardens, the detached palaces, and the tombs. An office would be created to deal with shrines and temples in the region. Festivals would be renewed and a shrine erected in the Gosho to the memory of Emperor Kammu, revered as the founder of the city of Kyōto. The area around the Gosho, where once the houses of the nobles stood, would be divided by roads; trees would be planted; and clean water would be sent flowing through the gutters. Unnecessary buildings would be removed. The Shugaku-in Detached Palace would be repaired, and Nijō Castle officially recognized as a palace. Western-style buildings would be erected in the area of the Kamo River as places where distinguished visitors from abroad might stay.17
These plans were eventually carried out, helping reverse the city’s steady deterioration. Iwakura’s enthusiasm for the project compelled him to remain at his task even after he began to feel chest pains and such acute stricture of the stomach that he was unable to eat or drink. When word reached the emperor of Iwakura’s illness, he was greatly concerned and at once sent his personal physician, Itō Hōsei, to examine Iwakura.
Iwakura’s condition improved sufficiently for him to return to Tōkyō, only to suffer a relapse after arriving. On July 5 the emperor, worried about Iwakura’s health, expressed his intention of paying a visit to the sickroom. Overcome by awe and trepidation, Iwakura sent his son to decline the honor, but it was too late: the imperial carriage had already arrived. Iwakura, hastily changing clothes, left his sickbed and, supported by two sons, approached the emperor to convey his gratitude. At the sight of Iwakura’s frail condition, the emperor was moved to tears.
A week later the empress, learning that Iwakura still showed no signs of recovery, wished to comfort him. “However,” she said, “the minister of the right places great importance on showing the proper deference. If he hears I am coming he will unquestionably make every effort to welcome and send me off, regardless of the harm it may do him in his illness. This is not what I intend. I shall visit him today as Ichijō Tadaka’s daughter, and we shall meet without his getting out of bed.”18
The emperor visited Iwakura for the second time on July 19. As he was about to leave the palace, he told Tokudaiji Sanetsune, “I am going to take my last farewell of the minister of the right.” He called for his palanquin and, not waiting for his full escort, left the palace. An equerry preceded the emperor. He informed Iwakura that the emperor would be coming. Iwakura sobbed and shed tears of gratitude. When the emperor arrived, Iwakura tried to raise himself and bow, but he was now so stricken that his body would not obey him. All he could do was join his hands to express his gratitude. Seeing Iwakura’s condition, the emperor wept and could barely ask how he felt. Iwakura was unable to reply. For a few moments the emperor and his minister gazed at each other without words, and then the emperor departed. That day Iwakura’s request to resign his office was granted. He died on July 20.
The emperor, deeply grieved, canceled all court business for three days and granted Iwakura a state funeral. In his eulogy, he bestowed on Iwakura the title of dajō daijin, the highest position a subject could attain. After praising the achievements that made Iwakura a “pillar of the state,” he wrote movingly of his personal relationship: “I ascended the throne when I was still a child. I depended on him completely for guidance, and I imbibed the wisdom he unstintingly gave me. The kindness of my teacher was the same as a father’s. Heaven did not spare him; how can I overcome these feelings of bitter grief?”19
Most of Meiji’s official utterances consisted mainly of stereotyped phrases, but these words reveal his unmistakable grief over the loss of his mentor.20
The emperor bade farewell not long afterward to another person who for many years had figured importan
tly in his life: Sir Harry S. Parkes was being transferred to China. During the farewell luncheon, offered at the palace, the emperor delivered a rescript in which he expressed his regrets that Parkes was leaving Japan after eighteen years of service. The emperor graciously thanked Parkes not only for his efforts to cultivate relations between his country and Japan but also for having supported the Meiji Restoration and recommending many beneficial projects. In recognition of these services to Japan, the emperor had intended to give Parkes the Grand Order of the Rising Sun, but the British government would not permit this. Instead, he gave Parkes two of his own possessions, an incense burner and a flower vase. He said it would please him if Parkes cherished them as mementos of deep feelings.21
Here, too, the emperor’s words have a ring of sincerity, for this was not the language he normally used when saying goodbye to foreign dignitaries. It is surprising, all the same, that the emperor spoke so warmly of Parkes, who was generally arrogant and irritable in his dealings with the Japanese and who at this time (according to Sir Ernest Satow) was “the bugbear of the Japanese public,” as much hated and feared as Napoleon had been by the English.22 Parkes’s recent opposition to ending extraterritoriality surely did not endear him to the emperor, but he managed to surmount any feelings of annoyance to render a generous tribute. Satow, often critical of Parkes, also expressed admiration:
Japan herself owes to his exertions a debt which she can never repay and has never fully acknowledged. If he had taken a different side in the revolution of 1868, if he had simply acted with the majority of his colleagues, almost insurmountable difficulties would have been placed in the Mikado’s restoration, and the civil war could never have been brought to so speedy a termination.23
During the following year, 1884, the emperor figured surprising little in the major events. Most of his activities were repetitions of the previous year’s. Perhaps the action that gave him the greatest pleasure was bestowing on the father of Emperor Kōkaku the posthumous title of Emperor Kyōkō.24 Emperor Kōkaku had attempted for years, as an act of filial piety, to obtain for his father the title of daijō tennō (retired emperor), even though he had never reigned. The shogunate did not concur in Kōkaku’s plan and finally (in 1792) ordered the emperor to postpone action. Among the nobles who supported Kōkaku, the most prominent was the former major counselor Nakayama Naruchika, the great-grandfather of Meiji’s maternal grandfather, Nakayama Tadayasu. He was summoned to Edo for questioning and later placed under house arrest by the shogunate.25 Meiji no doubt believed that in bestowing the title Emperor Kyōkō, he had rectified a long-standing injustice to his ancestors.
In April war broke out between China and France over the possession of Annam. The Japanese government decided to cooperate with three other neutral nations (Germany, the United States, and England) in protecting the lives and property of their citizens in the areas affected by the war. This was the first time the Japanese had cooperated abroad in this fashion with other countries.26
Nothing is recorded of the emperor’s reactions to this war, but probably he was pleased when the Chinese seemed to be holding their own against the French. As his conversation with the king of Hawaii revealed, he deplored the encroachments of the European powers in Asia. But at this time, Japan’s relations with China were strained because of the Ryūkyū issue, and any pleasure in Chinese victories would have been muted.
In any case, it is unlikely that the emperor gave much thought to the Sino-French conflict. From the latter part of April, he frequently failed to attend cabinet meetings because of illness. The imperial household minister Itō Hirobumi, was greatly worried and asked the emperor to send for his physician, Ikeda Kensai. The emperor had always disliked doctors, and so when urged to have a doctor examine him, he refused, saying he was suffering from nothing worse than a cold. Only after Itō had repeatedly begged the emperor to see a doctor did he at last reluctantly consent.27
There is no indication what illness was troubling the emperor. It may be that he was suffering less from a physical ailment than from depression. The chamberlain Fujinami Kototada (1852–1926) late in life recalled how unapproachable the emperor had been at this time.28 He mentioned how after sending word that he was indisposed, the emperor often failed to attend cabinet meetings. Even when Itō Hirobumi requested an audience with him in order to report on some court or national business, the emperor sometimes refused to see him. Palace rules prescribed that except in a great emergency, not even the prime minister might visit the emperor’s sickroom, and Itō wondered whether the emperor was actually ill.
Itō was understandably upset. He was a minister and had matters of importance to report personally, but he was refused permission to appear before the emperor. Even supposing the emperor was indisposed, the illness seemed not to be so serious that he could not meet his ministers. Itō was convinced that urgent affairs of state must not be neglected even briefly. He wondered if the emperor found him personally offensive and for this reason was indisposed to discuss governmental business with him. Itō finally decided he could no longer bear the heavy responsibility of his office and, handing to an attendant his letter of resignation, left the palace.
Yoshii Tomozane (1828–1891) and others of Itō’s staff, learning what had happened, were alarmed. Yoshii sent for the chamberlain, Fujinami Kototada. He told him, “His Majesty is indisposed and refuses to see the imperial household minister. He is hardly likely to see any of us. There is nothing we can do about this, so we are asking you to think of a way of enabling the minister to have an audience.” He chose to make this request of Fujinami because he knew that he had served the emperor ever since he was a boy and that the emperor gave him free access to his private quarters.
Fujinami did not welcome the suggestion: “Reporting such matters is no part of a chamberlain’s duties. If I did mention them, I would be forced to some extent to admonish the emperor. My job does not permit this.”
Yoshii replied, “I understand your position. However, if speaking to the emperor makes him angry with you, we will do everything in our power to help you.29 We are asking you to risk your life by speaking to him.”
Faced with this appeal to his courage, Fujinami made up his mind to speak to the emperor. First he informed the empress of his resolution. Later, he also told the ladies-in-waiting. Watching for the right moment, he finally managed to have a private audience with the emperor. He said, “Recently the imperial household minister, Itō Hirobumi, has requested again and again an audience with Your Majesty to discuss state affairs, but you have refused to see him, saying you are confined by illness to your bed. Your Majesty is surely aware in your wisdom that affairs of state must not be neglected even for a day. I believe that it would also be highly improper for Your Majesty to learn from a third person what the minister wishes to report to you. I have read that the holy sovereigns of the past adjusted their dress and listened respectfully when their ministers made reports, but this is not possible under present conditions. I beg Your Majesty to grant Hirobumi an audience.”
The emperor colored with anger and reprimanded Fujinami, “You are in no position to tell me anything of this kind. Bear in mind the nature of your duties.”
Fujinami spoke again: “I am aware that addressing such matters to Your Majesty is in contravention of my duties, but for the sake of Your Majesty, for the sake of the nation, I cannot keep silent. That is what has possessed me to speak of such matters. I am ready to accept whatever punishment is due me, however severe. But I beg you with bended head to change your mind.”
The emperor, in a rage, got up from his seat without a word and went directly into his bedroom. The empress indicated to Fujinami that he should go, and he left.
The next morning, after inquiring about the emperor’s health, Fujinami set about performing his duties in his customary manner. When he went to another room, the emperor asked a page to see if Fujinami was still about. Fujinami told the page to inform the emperor that he had left. The emperor sudden
ly commanded: “Send for the imperial household minister!”
Itō went to the palace as soon as word reached him, and he was granted an audience with the emperor. Itō’s face showed no sign of his irritation over the failure of his previous attempts to see the emperor, and the emperor did not allude to them. Itō described the state business that had piled up and left after requesting the emperor to give these matters his attention. Itō, realizing it was owing to Fujinami that he had been able to see the emperor, thanked him for his faithful service.
One day, about two months after this incident, the emperor called to Fujinami, who was on duty in the corridor. He said, “The other day you spoke very well on my behalf. I am extremely pleased with you. If in the future the same sort of thing should occur, do not hesitate to do the same. These are mere trifles, but I give them to you.” He presented Fujinami with a gold watch and a bolt of silk. Fujinami wept profusely with gratitude.
This story fits in with the relative scarcity of mentions of the emperor’s activities during the period from April into the summer of 1884. However, this period was by no means a total blank: not only did the emperor give audiences to foreign visitors and the like, but on June 25, when the railway line from Ueno to Takasaki was completed, he rode the train to Takasaki. All the same, compared with other years, the entries relating to the emperor are so skimpy as to suggest that the emperor may not have been giving full attention to state business. Fujinami’s recollections of the incident were related long after the events, and he may have confused what happened at this time with Itō’s attempt to resign as minister in July 1885 after the emperor had refused to see him when he had urgent business.30 But surely Fujinami, even in old age, would not have invented the gift of the gold watch.