by Donald Keene
This was by no means the first time foreigners had seen Japanese in Western clothes. Japanese men had long ago realized that they would not be taken seriously if they persisted in wearing their quaint native garb. The women, too, particularly those of the upper classes, had enjoyed dressing in the European fashions of the day. But when Japanese, not content with wearing Western clothes as a sign of being modern, took to attiring themselves in the fancy dress typical of the Rokumeikan and practiced the etiquette appropriate to these clothes, the foreign guests laughed at these imitations of themselves.
A high point of the Rokumeikan culture was the costume ball staged two years later at the prime minister’s residence by Itō Hirobumi. More than 400 members of the nobility and high government officials, as well as foreign diplomats and their wives, sported fancy dress. Itō and his wife, Umeko, were attired as members of the Venetian nobility, and their daughter as an Italian peasant girl.13
The adoption of Western culture—even a peculiar example of Western culture like the costume ball—into the mainstream of Japanese culture was nevertheless a central event of the time. The naïveté of Japanese enthusiasm for the West at this time is likely to excite smiles today, but writers of more recent times have experienced nostalgia for the brief flowering of the Rokumeikan, a time when some Japanese boldly stepped from the shadows of upper-class society of the past into a brightly lit ballroom evoking the Paris of Napoleon III.
Inoue Kaoru’s ultimate objective of inducing foreigners to end extraterritoriality ended in failure, and in 1887 he resigned as foreign minister. Again and again, he had thought that treaty revision was near, only to be frustrated by the actions of some foreign power. As early as 1882, the Germans had expressed a readiness to give up extraterritoriality completely within eight to ten years if the Japanese would open up the entire country to foreign commerce and improve their legal system. The Americans had long since agreed to abolish extraterritoriality and control of customs, providing that other countries did the same. Both Germany and the United States were willing to make concessions over legal jurisdiction in return for commercial advantages.14 Even the British, the most unyielding advocates of extraterritoriality, showed signs that they might make concessions.15 A memorandum to Inoue in August 1884 from the British minister Francis Plunkett, Parkes’s successor, declared that it was not England’s intention to maintain extraterritoriality in perpetuity, that it would be abandoned just as soon as the Japanese government perfected its civil, commercial, and appeals laws and arranged to have them translated.16 By 1886 the Board of Trade in England was expressing concern lest Britain’s refusal to agree to Japan’s demands on extraterritoriality harm its trade with Japan.17
But these promising signs failed to bring immediate results. Foreigners in Japan, convinced that once they were at the mercy of Japanese justice, they would be arrested without cause and subjected to oriental tortures, resisted change. The Japanese struggle to end extraterritoriality continued until this system was finally terminated on August 4, 1899. Tariff autonomy was not achieved until 1911, but as one scholar has pointed out,
There is little doubt that the Japanese were anxious to recover tariff autonomy, but there is equally little doubt that the main thrust of the campaign against Bakumatsu-period treaties was the desire to end extraterritoriality and its slur on Japan’s rights as a sovereign state. It was not fortuitous that the Japanese were prepared to postpone full tariff autonomy until 1911 in exchange for the abandonment of extraterritoriality in 1894–1898.18
The year 1885 marked the height of the prestige and glamour of the Rokumeikan. Quite apart from the brilliance of the parties held there, this was one of the memorable years of Japanese cultural history. Major works of literature and criticism that appeared this year included The Essence of the Novel (Shō-setsu shinzui) by Tsubouchi Shōyō, Fortuitous Meetings with Beautiful Women (Kajin no kigū) by Tōkai Sanshi, and the remarkable translation of Bulwer-Lytton’s novel Kenelm Chillingly.
As far as Meiji was concerned, however, 1885 (like 1884) was a depressing year during which he found it difficult to concentrate on his work. Although he would be known in later years for the long hours he spent each day at his desk, at this time he spent barely two hours a day—from ten in the morning until noon—in his office. Moreover, much of his time was spent in casual conversation about palace affairs with the head chamberlain and others of his staff, even while ministers and councillors were kept waiting fruitlessly for an audience at which they planned to discuss state business. Even Itō Hirobumi, who not only enjoyed the emperor’s confidence but was responsible for palace affairs, could not have an audience with the emperor whenever he felt it was necessary. This so upset him that once again he expressed the intention of resigning his post as imperial household minister.
In a letter he wrote to Sanjō Sanetomi, Itō expressed fears that Meiji’s reputation for intelligence and wisdom might in the end prove to have been hollow. At a time of unprecedented changes that called for the emperor to provide a model for all ages to come, his idle frittering away of his time was unworthy of his ancestors and future members of the imperial line. The emperor was leaving decisions on state business to ministers and lesser officers and seldom examined in detail reports of cabinet meetings submitted to him. Even on the rare occasion when he looked over the reports, he never asked a question about them. Itō asked if it was possible for the emperor, for all his inborn wisdom, to obtain a complete grasp of the extremely complicated state of affairs of the times. The emperor’s chief confidants—Tokudaiji Sanetsune, the head chamberlain, and Motoda Nagazane, his Confucian tutor—were estimable men, but they were ignorant of the world situation and had no idea whether a particular policy was to Japan’s advantage or disadvantage. Moreover, they were not elected officials and were therefore not responsible to anyone for their actions. Itō warned that at this critical time in world history, an error of judgment or policy might result in disaster to Japan’s survival.19
It is not clear whether Itō actually sent this letter to Sanjō. It is not clear either why Meiji seemed so indifferent to state business. Perhaps the main cause was boredom. The matters that were of enormous importance to Itō probably did not excite the emperor. It might have done him good to attend a ball at the Rokumeikan, but that, of course, was beneath his dignity.20
Another cause of the emperor’s depression might have been his health. During the previous year, as we have seen, he at times refused to meet his cabinet, alleging illness, and this year, too, he again and again suffered from colds and fever. In April he was to go to Fukuoka to observe a large-scale maneuver of troops from the Hiroshima and Kumamoto garrisons, and on his return from the maneuvers, he would make a junkō of Yamaguchi, Hiroshima, and Okayama Prefectures. But illness kept him from attending the maneuvers, and the junkō was postponed. Inability to attend maneuvers, one of the emperor’s great pleasures, no doubt depressed him. He may have felt relieved not to have to make another junkō, but the people of the three prefectures expressed such disappointment that he promised to go later that month.
Another cause of depression may have been the unseasonable weather, particularly the heavy rains and wind that caused great damage to houses and crops. The emperor ordered that reports on damage to the crops—and on no other subject—be submitted to him. The news was dismal. The tea harvest was expected to be only half of normal, and of wheat, only 40 percent of normal. People recalled that it was just fifty years since the terrible famine that lasted from 1833 to 1836 and wondered uneasily whether they were to be afflicted with another one. In the spring and early summer, there were torrential rains, and the rivers overflowed their banks, causing flooding and much damage to houses.21
The emperor might have been cheered by his one surviving child, Prince Yoshihito, but the boy lived at the house of his great-grandfather, Nakayama Tadayasu, and Meiji probably saw little of him. Now that the prince had reached the age of seven years (by Japanese count), his education and health beg
an to concern the emperor, and it was decided in March that he should henceforth live in the palace. Two years earlier the minister of education, Fukuoka Takachika, had proposed that a kindergarten be established in the palace where the prince might begin his education. This proposal was carefully considered, but (because it represented a departure from the education traditionally given an heir to the throne) steps to implement the proposal were taken cautiously. A pavilion for the kindergarten was erected in the Aoyama Palace, and boys of Yoshihito’s age were selected as his classmates. He was of such delicate health, however, that the plan could not be carried out.22 All the same, a start had to be made on his education, and the emperor asked his old tutor, Motoda Nagazane, to prepare a curriculum and a program of study.
Motoda’s suggestions were surprisingly liberal. He recommended that the instructors not be bound by rules but give the prince informal guidance even while he was playing. The pace of instructing the prince should be set according to what was appropriate for gradual progress, rather than by a timetable. The prince would have two hours of instruction each morning in reading, writing, arithmetic, and morals and two hours of exercise each afternoon. In addition, every other day he would practice singing for half an hour.
The program was initiated in March 1885, but the prince’s health remained uncertain. In June he was allowed to return to Nakayama Tadayasu’s house for a visit. That night, back in the palace, he suddenly fell ill. He ran a high fever and suffered from convulsions. It took a month for him to recover.23 Perhaps the illness was psychosomatic, induced by his reluctance to leave the nostalgic warmth of the Nakayama house for the solemnity of the palace.
The emperor decided in September that Prince Yoshihito would enter the Gakushū-in in the following year, a break with the tradition of private instruction for children of the imperial family. Motoda and various others would be asked to prepare a curriculum for the prince’s education, and between fifteen and twenty boys of the imperial family and high-ranking nobility would be chosen as his playmates. Later that year, the emperor commanded Nishimura Shigeki, a scholar of Western learning, to take charge of the prince’s education, a reflection of his conviction that the old methods of education, based on the antiquated usages of the palace, were no longer viable. He wished Nishimura to give the future emperor an education suited to the modern age.24
On July 26 the emperor set out on his promised junkō of Yamaguchi, Hiroshima, and Okayama.25 This was probably the most wearisome and least pleasurable of his travels, mainly because of the extreme heat.26 People along the way wept with joy on beholding the imperial countenance, but the emperor himself was exhausted. Although he was normally ready to accept stoically the hardships of a journey, this time the blazing heat was too much even for him. When the imperial party reached Itsukushima, the emperor sent a chamberlain to worship at the shrine in his place, and when in the vicinity of Shizutani-kō, the Confucian academy founded in 1668 by Ikeda Mitsumasa—the kind of place Meiji normally most enjoyed visiting—he sent the chief chamberlain to make the inspection. Despite the heat, the emperor was obliged to meet local dignitaries and examine local products, however little appetite he may have had for such occasions.27
The emperor’s ship returned to Yokohama on August 12, greeted by salutes from ships and shore. His junkō had lasted only eighteen days, but every day he rose at four or five in the morning and he did not get to bed until midnight. The journey itself, whether on land or sea, had been painful because of the incredible heat. His travels had brought joy to his subjects, but he had not been permitted even one day of rest.
Back in Tōkyō, the emperor’s normal routine was resumed. King Kalakaua sent his portrait to the emperor, a mark of friendship and respect. Pope Leo XIII sent a letter expressing his thanks for the emperor’s generous treatment of Christian missionaries and asking for relations between Japan and the Vatican similar to those formed with the rulers of the major countries of Europe and America. After consultation, the emperor granted the pope’s envoy an audience at which he assured him that he intended Christian believers to enjoy the same protection as other Japanese.28 King Umberto of Italy asked for some Japanese deer, and he received a pair from the emperor. The court went into mourning for twenty-one days on receiving word of the death of Alfonso XII of Spain.
Probably the most satisfactory aspect of 1885 for the emperor was in foreign relations. The year began promisingly when King Kojong of Korea sent in February a formal apology for the incident of December 1884 in which Japanese had been killed.29
In the same month, Lieutenant General Takashima Tomonosuke and Rear Admiral Viscount Kabayama Sukenori, both of whom had seen service in Korea, submitted a document to the Court Council in which they contrasted the steady progress toward modernization Japan had achieved as the result of its adoption of the government, education, laws, and military systems of Europe and America with the obdurate clinging to the old ways of the Chinese. The two countries were headed in quite different directions, which had created in the Chinese feelings of envy and suspicion. Takashima and Kabayama recalled clashes between China and Japan in recent years, particularly the incidents of 1884 when the Chinese attacked Japanese units in Korea and inflicted casualties. They urged resolute action to clear away the sinister clouds and to eradicate the pestilential fumes; otherwise, there was no telling what disaster might occur between the two countries. They were sure that this was a unique opportunity to promote national power and to elevate the prestige of the imperial house.30
The Court Council’s response was to dispatch Itō Hirobumi to China as ambassador plenipotentiary in order to deal with the increasing rift between China and Japan. It was hoped he would be able to sign a treaty that would keep the Chinese from further interfering in Korea. Enomoto Takeaki, the Japanese minister to China, was secretly instructed to ask the good offices of Sir Harry Parkes (long the bane of the Japanese but now a potential friend as the British minister in Peking) in sounding out Li Hung-chang’s intentions. If Li refused to make arrangements with Japan concerning Korea, the Japanese government was prepared to seek satisfaction.
Itō was provided with credentials to be presented to the Chinese emperor and with instructions from the Japanese government describing its wishes for peace between the two countries but insisting that the Chinese meet two conditions: (1) the officer who commanded the troops involved in the December 6 incident should be punished; and (2) Chinese troops must be withdrawn from Seoul. If the Chinese accepted these terms, the Japanese were prepared to withdraw at the same time their troops guarding the Japanese legation in Seoul. If, however, the Chinese refused to sign such an agreement, the Japanese would be obliged to act in the interests of national self-defense. In that case, sooner or later there was bound to be a clash, and the responsibility would lie entirely with the Chinese.31
Itō and his party sailed for China on February 28. The emperor expressed full confidence in Itō’s ability to reach a peaceful settlement, but popular feelings had been aroused against China and there were calls for conquest. The atmosphere was so reminiscent of the era when an invasion of Korea had been urged that Prime Minister Sanjō felt it advisable to send a memorandum to ministers and other high-ranking officials emphasizing the emperor’s desire for peace.32
Itō arrived in Tientsin on March 14. The Chinese expected him to confer immediately with Li Hung-chang, who had been delegated with full powers, but Itō thought it advisable to proceed first to Peking for an audience with the emperor at which he might present his credentials. He hoped also to open discussions in Peking, but the Chinese ministers refused, pointing out that the emperor was still a child. They urged Itō to confer instead with Li in Tientsin. Itō and his party accordingly returned to Tientsin on April 2. The discussions between Itō and Li were difficult, but on April 15 they at last reached an agreement. They signed a treaty providing for the withdrawal of both countries’ troops from Korea. The commander of the Chinese troops at the time of the December 6 incident would no
t be punished, but alleged crimes against Japanese would be investigated, and Chinese soldiers who were found guilty of committing them would be punished accordingly. Itō accepted this modification of his original demands because, he said, of the emperor’s desire for peace in East Asia.33
When Itō returned to Tōkyō, he was warmly thanked by the emperor. The next day, the emperor sent word asking Sanjō whether Itō should be given the same reward (10,000 yen) that Ōkubo Toshimichi received after his successful negotiations in Peking concerning Taiwan or whether he should be promoted to first rank or perhaps given an annual stipend.34 Some at the court thought Itō deserved to be made a marquis. Sanjō apparently recommended that Itō be given 10,000 yen plus a set of gold cups,35 but during the following months, a horse, a gift from the emperor, was Itō’s chief material reward.36 He received an even more welcome sign of imperial approbation when on July 7 the emperor, together with more than twenty members of the nobility and high-ranking officials, visited Itō’s residence.37
There could be little doubt of the emperor’s high regard for Itō, although he did not share Itō’s unbounded enthusiasm for Western culture. In September the emperor resumed his Friday lunches with princes, councillors, and other high-ranking members of the government and the military, perhaps a sign he had shaken off his apathy. In November, Itō, in his capacity of imperial household minister, proposed that in view of the increasingly heavy demands on the emperor’s time, meals with Japanese and foreigners, evening parties, and balls be restricted to the period between chrysanthemum viewing and cherry-blossom viewing.