Emperor of Japan

by Donald Keene

  Detring arrived in Kōbe on November 26, 1894. He requested an interview with Itō through the governor of Hyōgo Prefecture, but Itō categorically refused to meet him, citing Detring’s lack of proper qualifications as an emissary from a country at war with Japan.2 His rejection of an emissary on technical grounds suggests that Japan was basically uninterested at this stage in ending a war that was developing so strongly in its favor.

  In the meantime, the First Army, under the command of General Yamagata Aritomo, had advanced beyond the Yalu River into China. His supply lines were extremely extended, and he was faced with a difficult decision—whether to continue the advance or to go into winter quarters. Imperial headquarters favored the latter, believing it was advisable at this point to shift from the attack to defense, but hoping to rival the victory of the Second Army at Port Arthur and fearful that a protracted period of waiting might seriously impair morale, the senior officers of the First Army were eager to penetrate deeper into Chinese territory. Yamagata had already (on November 3) submitted three possible plans of future action to the imperial headquarters and expressed his readiness to carry out whichever one they chose. The plans were (1) landing in the vicinity of Shanhaikuan and securing a base for an attack on Peking, (2) massing his forces in the Port Arthur peninsula and establishing a supply base at an ice-free port on the coast, or (3) marching to the north and attacking Feng-t’ien (the present Hsien-yang).3

  Imperial headquarters rejected all three plans, but Yamagata, dissatisfied with this response, on November 25 issued an order to the Third Division to attack Hai-ch’eng, a strategic communications junction. Itō Hirobumi, enraged by Yamagata’s disregard of imperial headquarters, persuaded the emperor to issue a rescript on November 29 recalling him to Japan. The official line was that Yamagata was suffering from a stomach ailment and that the emperor was concerned about his health, but the central message was the command that Yamagata return to Japan at once, ostensibly so that the emperor might hear from him personally about the situation at the front.4

  By this time, however, the First Army had already reached the area of Hai-ch’eng, where it encountered the stiffest Chinese resistance to date. Japanese troops occupied Hai-ch’eng on December 13, but the Chinese, in sharp contrast to their actions after earlier battles of the war, did not resign themselves to losing the city. They tried five times to take back Hai-ch’eng,5 and it was with the utmost difficulty that the Japanese repelled these attacks. For a time it even seemed that the Chinese might reverse the tide of the war.6 The most serious threat came toward the end of February when the Chinese commanding general, Liu K’un-i, drew up a plan to mobilize 100,000 men and use this force to encircle and destroy the Japanese army at Hai-ch’eng. The plan was opposed by the Chinese imperial headquarters, and permission from the emperor was not obtained. The failure of the Chinese high command to implement Liu’s plan may have saved the Japanese from a disastrous battle.

  The Japanese troops at the front suffered more from the cold than from enemy action. Hundreds of soldiers were stricken with frostbite. On December 19 troops of the Third Division left Hai-ch’eng at dawn to attack Chinese forces heading toward Niu-chang. There was more than a foot of snow on the roads, which severely hampered their movements. The Japanese fought well, taking several fortified places, but Chinese resistance was strong, and by the end of the day the Japanese were exhausted by the fighting and the cold. As it grew dark, the commanding officer, Katsura Tarō, ordered the troops to return to Hai-ch’eng at once, but they were so worn out that it was not until the next morning that they straggled back to Hai-ch’eng.

  Among the innumerable nishikie executed during the Sino-Japanese War, the most affecting are those that show soldiers in the intense Manchurian cold and snow, sometimes gathered around a fire, sometimes lying in the snow as they aim their rifles, sometimes mounted on horses that are suffering as much as the men from the cold.7 At first the Japanese troops, despite the intense cold, were dressed in summer uniforms because winter uniforms had not caught up with them, and the feet of horses that carried men over the icy surfaces were not protected by horseshoes. But the advance continued.

  After Detring’s failure to meet with Itō, the Chinese sent messages through the American minister to China, Charles Denby, and the American minister to Japan, Edwin Dun, asking for a summary of Japanese peace terms and saying that they could not appoint an envoy without this knowledge. The Japanese reply stated that they would not state their terms until after they had met with a plenipotentiary delegate equipped with the proper credentials.8 Once again using American ministers as their intermediaries, the Chinese informed the Japanese that they would follow the Japanese suggestion and appoint plenipotentiaries, and they requested a meeting with Japanese delegates in Shanghai. The Japanese replied that the meeting must take place in Japan. The Chinese proposed Nagasaki as the site because of its proximity to China, but the Japanese insisted on Hiroshima. They promised that a meeting would take place within forty-eight hours after the arrival of the Chinese.9

  Despite the urgency of Chinese appeals to end the war, their representatives did not reach Hiroshima until January 31. The Japanese government appointed Itō Hirobumi and Mutsu Munemitsu to meet with their opposite numbers, but from the outset there were complaints that the Chinese delegates were of comparatively minor office and rank, giving rise to doubts as to whether the Chinese were sincerely interested in negotiating. It was further discovered that they did not bear certificates of investiture with full powers but only what they called an official paper and an order from the Chinese emperor appointing the two men to the mission. The powers of these men to negotiate were not plainly stated. The Chinese emperor clearly expected them to report by telegram each development and to await his commands before proceeding. The Japanese asked the Chinese to reply in writing whether they in fact possessed plenipotentiary powers in conducting negotiations for peace. In the note they submitted on February 2, they admitted that they lacked the authority to make decisions on their own. Itō thereupon declared that further negotiations were not possible.10

  Even while these meetings were taking place, Japanese troops, which had landed January 20 at Ying-ch’eng Bay on the northern coast of the Shantung Peninsula, were advancing on Weihaiwei, the last stronghold of the Chinese fleet. On February 2 the Second Army occupied the city of Weihaiwei without resistance, and the Japanese Combined Fleet succeeded in bottling up the remainder of the Chinese North Sea Fleet in the bay.11 There was still severe shelling from Chinese batteries on Liu-kung Island, hampering action against the Chinese fleet. Japanese torpedo boats managed to sneak past the island on the night of February 5 and, approaching to 150 or 300 feet of their targets, were able to sink or heavily damage three of the principal Chinese warships.12 Another attack, carried out on the night of the sixth, damaged two more warships. On the seventh, Japanese warships bombarded two islands in the bay, Liukungtao and Jih-tao. The ammunition depot on Jih-tao was hit and exploded. This disaster seems to have destroyed the Chinese will to resist.13

  About noon on February 9, a Japanese shell hit the magazine of the warship Ching-yüan, causing it to explode. When the captain of the Ting-yüan saw this happen, he ordered his ship (which had been damaged) to be scuttled and then turned his pistol on himself. On the following day the captains of the surviving Chinese warships urged Admiral Ting Ju-chang to surrender. Ting sent word commanding them to fight to the finish, but not one officer concurred. Admiral Ting, having no choice, sent word to Admiral Itō Sukeyuki (1843–1914) asking to surrender. Earlier, Admiral Itō had proposed surrender to Admiral Ting. His letter, written in English in order to permit Admiral Ting’s foreign advisers to participate in the discussions for surrender, read in part:

  Honored Sir: The unfortunate turn of events has made us enemies; but as the warfare of today does not imply animosity between each and all individuals, we hope that our former friendship is still warm enough to assure Your Excellency that these lines, which we addr
ess to you with your kind permission, are dictated by a motive higher than that of a mere challenge to surrender.14

  When Admiral Itō received the message from Admiral Ting indicating that he wished to surrender, he sent back wine, champagne, and dried persimmons in a gesture of consolation and politesse. On the morning of February 12, the Chinese gunboat Chen-pei, raising a white flag, approached the Matsushima, flagship of the Combined Fleet, with a message from Admiral Ting to Admiral Itō formally asking to surrender. He sought a guarantee of safety for the Chinese troops and foreign advisers in exchange for the surrender of ships and arms in the Weihaiwei area. On the sixteenth, Admiral Ting composed a poem in which he took responsibility for the loss of the Chinese navy and then drank poison.

  Admiral Ting’s final gesture earned him the respect of the Japanese. His last moments before drinking the poison were depicted sympathetically by artists of the nishikie. In Mizuno Toshikata’s print, Admiral Ting, holding the glass of poison in his hand, looks out on the ships burning in the harbor; Migita Toshihide’s print of the same moment shows a much heavier man, slumped in his chair, a vial of poison on a nearby table, as he reads over his final testament.

  On learning of Admiral Ting’s death, Admiral Itō ordered the ships of his fleet to display flags of mourning and to refrain from playing music except for ceremonies. He asked a Chinese officer who was arranging details of the surrender which of the Chinese ships could carry the most men. The officer replied that because all but the Kuang Chi were warships, they were not intended to carry troops; however, the Kuang Chi was originally a transport and could probably carry 2,000 men. Itō then revealed that he had been discussing with other Japanese officers what should be done with Admiral Ting’s coffin. They suggested that it be loaded aboard a Chinese junk with other coffins and taken out to sea, but Admiral Itō replied, “He was the supreme commander of the Northern Sea Fleet…. Even though he has been defeated, a son of Japan could not bear to allow the coffin of a commodore to be loaded aboard a mere junk. As a mark of my esteem for his soul, I will exempt the Kuang Chi from impounding and will allow you to dispose of it as you see fit. After the commodore’s coffin is loaded aboard, if there is room for others, I will not prevent you from taking aboard other military personnel.”15

  A foreign observer reported, “The Japanese fleet paid a touching tribute to the memory of a brave opponent. As the ship steamed out of the harbor, all the vessels had their flags at half-mast, and from Count Itō’s flagship minute guns were fired for some time after the vessel sailed. The European warships at Weihaiwei also lowered their flags, as a testimony to the bravery exhibited by the late admiral.”16

  Admiral Itō was extraordinarily generous to his fallen foe. He not only authorized the Chinese to evacuate as many soldiers as could be accommodated aboard the Kuang Chi but permitted civilians to leave Weihaiwei if that was their choice. The battle for Weihaiwei had ended not only in a Japanese victory but also with a vindication of the Japanese code of the samurai after the horrors of Port Arthur.

  As commander in chief, the emperor undoubtedly learned of the victory soon afterward, but his days seem otherwise to have been passed monotonously. He attended many policy sessions, but (as was true of his presence at meetings at which the constitution was hammered out), he apparently never said a word. On New Year’s Day 1895, none of the usual palace ceremonies was performed, but the emperor watched others play kemari17 and had an officer read to him passages from the Tale of the Heike. This was probably the first time the traditional lecture delivered before the emperor at the beginning of the year consisted of a work of his own choice.

  In December, Prince Taruhito was stricken with typhoid fever. Again and again he seemed to be recovering, only for the illness to return. He left Hiroshima to recuperate at his villa on the coast at Maiko, but the change of air did him no good. The emperor bestowed decorations on the dying man, including the Order of the Golden Kite; Taruhito was the first recipient of this award. Despite the medical attentions showered on him, Taruhito died on January 15. His illness had been kept a secret, for fear it might have an adverse effect on the troops, but on the twenty-third, it was officially announced that he was in critical condition. His body was sent back to Tōkyō, but not even the emperor was informed that Taruhito was dead. On the twenty-third an officer he sent to inquire after Taruhito’s health first learned of his death. A state funeral was held on January 29. The emperor sent a pair of sakaki branches to the funeral, the first time this gift was made to a person who was not an imperial prince or princess.18

  The emperor’s emotions on learning of Taruhito’s death are not known, but surely it was a blow to lose another of the figures who had been by his side at the time of the Restoration. Taruhito’s successor as chief of the general staff was Prince Akihito.19

  On March 19 the empress arrived in Hiroshima. Those serving the emperor at imperial headquarters knew how inadequately he was cared for by his chamberlains20 and had long hoped that the empress would pay a visit, and the emperor had at last consented. The empress traveled with a retinue of palace ladies, including Chigusa Kotoko and Sono Sachiko,21 the emperor’s favorites among his concubines. Gon no tenji almost never left their quarters in the palace; it was unprecedented for them to travel so far.

  It is hard to think of a European woman making so magnanimous a gesture. The empress, solicitous of her husband’s needs, brought him women who, she knew, would take her place in his bed. Nothing in the official accounts suggests that the emperor had female companionship in Hiroshima before this time, and there is no indication of his reactions on seeing the two concubines. Viscount Hinonishi Sukehiro recalled that during the empress’s stay in Hiroshima she lived in a building behind imperial headquarters but that for nearly a month after her arrival, the emperor did not visit her, continuing to live as before in his solitary room. One night he had occasion to visit her house, and from then on he went there every evening, not returning until morning to imperial headquarters.

  The day after she arrived in Hiroshima, the empress expressed the wish to visit the hospitals where wounded men were recuperating. Her doctors advised her to rest after the fatigue of the long journey, but beginning on March 22 she went every other day to a hospital to comfort the wounded soldiers. Nishikie depict the empress solicitously visiting a ward where bandaged patients crouch on their beds in attitudes of profound awe. The empress remained in Hiroshima for more than a month.

  On the same day that the empress arrived in Hiroshima, a Chinese delegation headed by Li Hung-chang arrived in Shimonoseki to open negotiations with the Japanese for the conclusion of the war. This time there could be no question of the qualifications of the delegate: Li was the chief minister of the Chinese government. Shimonoseki had been chosen by the Japanese partly because the name was familiar in the West ever since allied warships bombarded the city in 1864.22

  The negotiations began the day after the Chinese delegation’s arrival. The Japanese side was represented by Itō Hirobumi, Mutsu Munemitsu, and others. Credentials were exchanged, this time without incident. On the same day Li formally requested an armistice along the lines proposed some months earlier by the American minister to Peking.

  On March 20 Itō laid down his conditions: Japan was to occupy Taku, Tientsin, Shanhaikwan, and the fortifications surrounding these three cities. Chinese units at these places were to surrender to the Japanese all their military equipment and supplies. Japanese military officials were to have jurisdiction over the railway between Tientsin and Shanhaikwan. During the period of the armistice, the Chinese would be responsible for the expenses of the Japanese army. If the Chinese took exception to any of these provisions, they would have to submit their own armistice conditions; the Japanese would not revise theirs. Li Hung-chang was stunned by the severity of the provisions but asked for three days to consider the Japanese proposal.

  On March 24 Li, Itō, and their staffs met in Shimonoseki. Li withdrew his proposal of a cease-fire, replacing i
t with a request to enter immediately into negotiations for a treaty of peace. Itō promised to submit a plan for a treaty the next day. After the meeting Li was on his way back to his hotel when a deranged man named Koyama Toyotarō fired a pistol at Li, wounding him in the face.23

  When word of the attempted assassination reached imperial headquarters in Hiroshima, the emperor was at once informed. He was greatly upset by the news and sent two high-ranking army physicians to Shimonoseki to minister to Li. The next morning, the empress sent a nurse to Shimonoseki along with bandages that she herself had made. On the following day the emperor issued a rescript expressing his profound grief and regret—even though Japan was at war with China—that such an attack had occurred. He declared that the assailant (who had been captured) would be punished according to the law and enjoined all his subjects to strive to the utmost to keep from further besmirching the honor of Japan.24

  Until the attempt on his life, Li Hung-chang had been depicted in nishikie as a doddering old man, a fit representative of the weak yet deceitful Chinese people, and there were songs mocking him. But the attack created immense sympathy, and a steady stream of presents and messages of condolence flooded into Shimonoseki. Mutsu Munemitsu recalled, “Many of the same people who had used the most abusive language conceivable in personal attacks on Li Hung-chang suddenly spoke in laudatory terms approaching sheer adulation as they expressed their sorrow over the assault on him. Some even went so far as to recapitulate all of his past achievements and to assert that peace in the Far East hinged on whether he could recover from his wound.”25