Emperor of Japan

by Donald Keene

  The emperor secretly sent Iwakura and Tokudaiji to inform Katsura Tarō, the army minister, of his command to Ōkuma. Katsura passed the word on to the navy minister, and they debated the next step. If the emperor were to dismiss a minister without waiting for the prime minister’s request, the newspapers would be sure to feature it, and people would wonder what lay behind the dismissal.

  Soon there were rumors that Ozaki had been denounced by the chamberlains and others close to the emperor. Sasaki Takayuki bluntly asked Tokudaiji if this was true. The latter replied that although he had been greatly upset by Ozaki’s address, he had discreetly refrained from mentioning it to the emperor. However, the interior minister, Itagaki Taisuke, had been so shocked by the impropriety of Ozaki’s words that he had demanded Ōkuma take action against him.

  An editorial appeared in the reformist newspaper Yorozu chōhō denouncing fake royalists and fake loyal ministers, in this way referring to the “patriots” who had attacked Ozaki. Takada Sanae, an officer of the Ministry of Education, also delivered a speech along the lines of the Yorozu chōhō’s editorial. People guessed that Ozaki was behind the speech, and Itagaki ordered the Metropolitan Police Office to investigate. Although the police were unlikely to find positive proof of collusion, Itagaki was convinced that the Yorozu chōhō’s editorial and Takada’s speech stemmed ultimately from Ozaki, and he pressed Ōkuma to punish him.

  Itagaki, not obtaining satisfaction from Ōkuma, denounced Ozaki to the emperor, which led to the emperor’s command that Ōkuma get rid of Ozaki. When Sasaki asked Tanaka Mitsuaki, the imperial household minister, if it was true that Ozaki was dismissed because he had been denounced to the emperor by a chamberlain, he answered that the direct cause was Itagaki’s denunciation, and behind Itagaki were Katsura Tarō, the minister of the army, and Kawakami Sōroku, the chief of the general staff. Tanaka added that he had frequently been approached by Katsura and Kawakami to do something about Ozaki, but he always refused, saying that he did not think this was proper for someone in his position.

  Everyone whom Sasaki questioned agreed that it was Itagaki who had denounced Ozaki to the emperor.24 He had been incited by the military, whose aim was not simply the dismissal of Ozaki but the replacement of the Ōkuma cabinet by one headed by Yamagata. Katsura, the army minister, intimidated cabinet members by declaring (without presenting any evidence) that Ozaki’s “republic speech” had caused a disquieting atmosphere to spread among the armed forces throughout the country. Itagaki, the interior minister, sent out false reports of popular unrest.25

  Katsura recalled in his memoirs that he had urged Ōkuma to persuade Ozaki to make an abject apology to the emperor as soon as possible. He was sure that the emperor, in his magnanimity, would not hold a grudge against Ozaki. He also warned that any delay in apologizing might implicate the prime minister in the responsibility. Ōkuma told this to Ozaki, who went at once to the palace and apologized profusely for his crime. He made the mistake, however, of attempting to explain what had led him to speak as he had, sounding as if he were trying to justify his comments. This did not please the emperor. Ozaki finally resigned. Katsura wrote that he regretted not having been able to apologize for Ozaki. But this is unlikely, considering that it was Katsura who had deliberately inflated the scandal so as to get Ozaki dismissed.26

  Once Ozaki was out of the way, the next step was to appoint a successor as education minister. The two factions of the Kensei-tō could not agree. Itagaki proposed the educator Ebara Soroku, with the proviso that if Ōkuma did not favor Ebara, he could appoint anyone else he liked as education minister but, in return, would resign as foreign minister and give the position to Hoshi Tōru. Ōkuma brushed aside these suggestions. He went to the palace to report his choice of education minister, Inukai Tsuyoshi. The emperor approved, and Inukai was inducted on October 27. Ōkuma showed no sign of resigning as foreign minister.

  Itagaki, predictably, was furious. At an audience with the emperor, he denounced Ōkuma’s bad faith. He declared that in view of Inukai’s appointment as education minister, he and two other members of the cabinet had no choice but to resign. On October 29 at a mass meeting of the former Jiyū-tō, members voted to dissolve the existing Kensei-tō and to form a new party with the same name, from which members of the Shimpo-tō would be excluded.27 A memorial was submitted to the emperor detailing Itagaki’s grievances.

  The emperor was distressed by this development. Reluctant to lose Itagaki from the cabinet, he sent Chamberlain Iwakura Tomosada to ask Itagaki to remain. Unfortunately, the emperor’s usual adviser, Itō Hirobumi, was in China. Yamagata and Inoue also were out of Tōkyō. For want of better advice, he turned to Kuroda and Matsukata for help in dealing with the split in the Kensei-tō. He feared that if the three Jiyū-tō cabinet members who had resigned were replaced with Shimpo-tō men, the Jiyū-tō would create trouble. The question was, should a new cabinet be formed with both parties represented? Or would it be better to accept resignations from the entire cabinet and organize an new one?

  Ōkuma, unwilling to resign, wanted the cabinet to continue in power with replacements from the Shimpo-tō for the three Jiyū-tō men who had resigned. On October 29 he asked for an audience with the emperor to explain his views. The emperor did not approve of Ōkuma’s plan, favoring instead Katsura Tarō’s suggestion that Itagaki be persuaded to remain. Kuroda, however, wanted to end the party cabinet, and was delighted that Ozaki’s speech had afforded an opportunity. When Itagaki announced his resignation, Kuroda opposed allowing Ōkuma to remain as prime minister. He enlisted the help of the ministers of the army and the navy and finally succeeded in making Ōkuma resign on the thirty-first, citing (as usual) illness. His resignation was followed by that of all cabinet members belonging to the Shimpo-tō. Only the nonparty army and navy ministers were left. The emperor, accepting the resignations, asked the assistance of Kuroda, Matsukata, and Ōyama Iwao in planning future policy.28 The first party cabinet had failed.

  On November 1 Yamagata returned to Tōkyō and, on the following day, was summoned to the palace along with Kuroda, Saigō, Matsukata, and Ōyama to consider forming a new cabinet. The emperor posed several questions: Should a nonparty cabinet be formed and attempt, as in the past, to get the Diet to pass its legislation without depending on party assistance? Would passing legislation be easier if a new cabinet were formed of a combination of men from the strongest political party and elder statesmen? Not directly responding to the questions, Yamagata replied that he thought that everything depended on the emperor’s choice of a man to form a cabinet.

  When faced with difficult decisions, the emperor had often turned for advice to Itō, and this time was no exception. An urgent telegram was sent to Itō in China asking him to return immediately. Kuroda, afraid that when Itō got back, he might again advise appointing Ōkuma as the prime minister, persuaded Yamagata to join in recommending—without waiting for Itō’s return—that Ōkuma be dismissed immediately and a new prime minister appointed. The emperor finally agreed, with the understanding that Yamagata and Kuroda would inform Itō what had transpired.

  Yamagata was asked to form a cabinet on November 5, even though Ōkuma had not yet formally resigned. Still hoping for Itō’s support, Ōkuma sent urgent telegrams to China. Kuroda and Yamagata, on the other hand, recommended all possible haste in appointing a new cabinet in order that it would be functioning when the next session of the Diet began; they emphasized the need to have a cabinet that was above party lines. Believing that the old Jiyū-tō consisted essentially of uncomplicated, well-meaning men who could easily be manipulated, they hoped that members, now Ōkuma’s enemies, would support the new cabinet.29 On November 8 Yamagata informed the emperor of his choice of cabinet members. They included Aoki Shūzō as foreign minister, Matsukata Masayoshi as finance minister, and Saigō Tsugumichi as interior minister. Ōkuma, along with his cabinet (except Katsura Tarō), resigned the same day.

  As far as the emperor was concerned, 1898 was not a go
od year. Apart from the complicated political developments, in which he was more deeply involved than ever, the year was marked by his continuing concern about the crown prince’s health and education. The prince was twenty-one by Japanese count this year, meaning that he had attained his majority; but his education had been seriously delayed by repeated bouts of illness. Itō recognized that improving the prince’s health was a priority, but he insisted that the prince’s mental development not be neglected either. He therefore urged that the prince attend sessions of the Diet as a way of learning about political and military concerns.30 The prince showed signs of taking his new responsibilities seriously, and in June he gave his first reception to foreign diplomats, shaking hands and graciously conversing.

  On occasion, however, the emperor had cause to admonish his son. He was disturbed to learn that the crown prince had been telling people he intended to fire members of his staff because they were incompetent. The emperor reprimanded the prince, saying that this was not the proper way to treat his staff, that if he was dissatisfied with their service, he should report this privately to the imperial household minister and await orders from the emperor.31

  The crown prince was promoted to the ranks of major in the army and lieutenant commander in the navy. The emperor had refused to permit this promotion the previous year, saying that the prince had not been in grade long enough to warrant it, but this year he yielded.32 Needless to say, the prince did not perform the duties associated with these military ranks, although his health improved noticeably late in the year.33

  Probably the emperor’s most enjoyable experience this year was observing the Grand Maneuvers held in the Ōsaka area. He rose every morning at five and, regardless of the weather, traveled to the “front” to observe the mock warfare staged between the South Army (foreign invaders seeking to capture Ōsaka) and the North Army defending the city. After the maneuvers had ended, he expressed his satisfaction but, warning that rapidly changing world conditions did not permit a relaxation of preparedness, he exhorted the officers to make an even greater effort.34

  Unfortunately, we do not have a more personal expression of the emperor’s feelings. The poems he composed this year, though skillfully expressed, are conventional in sentiment, but perhaps the following tanka was meant to convey private emotions:

  samidare no A day that is spent

  oto nomi kikite Listening only to the sound

  kurasu hi wa Of the summer rain—

  miya no uchi dani How depressing it has been,

  ibusekarikeri Even within the palace.35

  Chapter 50

  The long struggle to end extraterritoriality at last bore fruit in 1899, bringing Japan equality among the nations of the world. As far as Emperor Meiji was concerned, however, the most important events of his forty-eighth year were personal and not related to treaty revision.

  The year began inauspiciously with the death in January of the last-born of his children, Princess Takiko. She died on the same day, exactly two years later, as Dowager Empress Eishō. Flags were flown at half-mast; teaching at public and private schools was canceled; and the usual order was issued prohibiting singing and dancing in Tōkyō and environs. However, the emperor’s New Year poem, on the subject “Smoke from a Country Chimney,” revealed no trace of grief.

  This year, for the first time, the crown prince participated in the first poetry meeting, an indication that having attained his majority, he was expected to compose poetry. The prince’s education would be much discussed during the year in terms of how to increase the content of his studies without impairing his health. His relations with his father remained formal and distant. Even when he and his sisters visited the palace, the emperor rarely granted them an audience. In February, when the two princesses were about to leave for Kamakura to escape the Tōkyō winter, they were taken to the palace to say goodbye to their father. He refused to allow them into his presence because of a cold, but the empress, although she was also ill, insisted on seeing them.1

  The court ladies found it impossible to understand why the emperor, whose love for his daughters was demonstrated even in such trivial matters as his care over the patterns of the kimonos he gave them, persisted in refusing to see them. They often pleaded with him to see his daughters from time to time, but he never took their advice.

  Sasaki Takayuki explained the emperor’s apparent coldness in terms of his Confucian education. He had revered the Chinese classics ever since childhood and had taken to heart their accounts of why certain countries prospered and others perished. His refusal to take the advice of court ladies may have been the result of reading the examples of disasters that had occurred when an emperor gave heed to his women. Sasaki admitted that the emperor may have been excessively cautious and at times seemed to reject good advice even from those closest to him, but Sasaki believed this was preferable to allowing the court to be swayed by opinions emanating from the women’s quarters of the palace. The emperor might even be said to be rectifying a long-standing evil. Perhaps Sasaki was correct, but Meiji seems to have taken the lessons of history too literally.

  In February 1899 the emperor’s personal physicians recommended that he spend time in Kyōto for his health. They asked Tokudaiji Sanetsune, the chief chamberlain, to persuade the emperor, but he was unsuccessful. Next, they asked the imperial household minister, Tanaka Mitsuaki (1843–1939), who, when received into the emperor’s presence, bluntly reported that the physicians believed the emperor was becoming obese. They warned that if he did not overcome his corpulence by exercise, the overweight was likely to affect his heart. Tanaka spoke with old-fashioned eloquence: “Your Majesty is the lord of the nation, the bulwark of the myriads of your people. Your body is Your Majesty’s own, but at the same time, it is not yours alone; it is not solely for Your Majesty’s sake that you must take good care of your body but for the sake of the people of the whole nation. However, in recent years you have allowed yourself to become exhausted under the pressure of state business. As long as Your Majesty remains in Tōkyō, there is little chance of your enjoying a moment’s respite. I have heard that in the twenty-eighth year of your reign, when negotiations to end the war with China had been concluded, you traveled from Hiroshima to Kyōto and rested there for a month. During that time you exercised morning and evening, and your health was extremely good. No doubt it is because Your Majesty was born in Kyōto and its mountains, rivers and landscapes are all familiar to Your Majesty that the site is particularly conducive to your health. It is true that thirty years have passed since you first took up residence in the castle of Tōkyō, but the castle formerly belonged to the shogunate, and even though the surroundings are not lacking in spacious gardens and charm, this is not Your Majesty’s old abode. It is, moreover, so strictly guarded as to make it difficult for you to enjoy a leisurely stroll. Last year, when you supervised the special army maneuvers on the Settsu-Izumi plain, Grand Headquarters were in Ōsaka, a mere twenty or twenty-five miles from Kyōto, yet you did not go there. People at the time wondered why Your Majesty went to Ōsaka but not to Kyōto. They asked, ‘Doesn’t His Majesty love Kyōto?’ But your long stay in 1895 demonstrated this was not the case. I humbly implore Your Majesty to take the advice of your physicians, and go to Kyōto for a vacation. You will surely regain your health.”

  Tanaka knew that his words were unwelcome. The emperor, his face coloring with anger, said, “I did not reject the chief physician’s advice without good reason. Kyōto is my old home, a place I have always loved, as you know. But just because I love the place, is it right for me to take a vacation there? It may be good for my health, but what will happen if state business falls hopelessly behind because I am not here? Last year, when I went to Ōsaka to supervise the Grand Maneuvers, I deliberately did not go to Kyōto. I was afraid I might get carried away by my love for Kyōto and, once settled there, might not wish to return to Tōkyō. Couldn’t you and your colleagues understand that? What you ask of me, of course, is not unreasonable, but
if I should neglect state business for even one day, the repercussions would affect every official. This is why I cannot neglect state business on my own account, not even for a single day. The one thing incumbent on me is to carry out diligently the Way of the emperor, fulfilling my Heaven-appointed mission. If this should bring about my death, I ask nothing more. I shall be content.”

  His expression gradually softened as he spoke. He went on, “You must stop worrying about me. From now on I will exercise and do what I can to restore my health. Don’t worry so much about me any more.” Afterward, he occasionally took a stroll in his private garden or performed exercises, but before long he abandoned these efforts.2

  The emperor was sensitive about his weight. According to Chamberlain Viscount Hinonishi Sukehiro, the emperor stopped reading newspapers because an article in the Chūō shimbun had stated that the emperor weighed more than 170 pounds. Angered by the article, he said, “It wouldn’t bother me if what they printed was the truth, but I can’t abide lies. I’ll never look at a newspaper again.”3

  All the same, a poem composed in 1905 indicates that the emperor continued to read newspapers, at least occasionally, although their mistakes continued to irritate him:

  minahito no How good it would be

  miru niibumi ni If in the newspapers that

  yo no naka no Everybody reads

  atonashigoto wa They didn’t write such falsehoods

  kakazu mo aranan About doings in this world.4

  The emperor’s weight was clearly related to his loss of interest in riding, which in the past had been his favorite diversion. The only thing that seemed to interest him now was his work. It is not clear how many hours he actually spent each day in his office, but it does not seem that, like his contemporary Emperor Franz Josef of Austria, he was at his desk from morning to late at night perusing official documents. He continued to drink heavily, although by this time he had switched from saké to wine. His appetite remained good, judging from the menus of the dinners he offered visiting dignitaries.5