by Donald Keene
Messages were exchanged from time to time between the emperors of Japan and Korea, always expressing joy over the ever-deepening friendship between the two countries.43 When Meiji was informed that the Korean crown prince was to be married, he sent the imperial household minister to the wedding with presents for everybody. Perhaps Meiji actually believed in the pledges of friendship he exchanged with Kojong, but Itō’s report to the emperor in April 1907 painted a gloomy picture of unrest. He mentioned assassination plots directed against cabinet ministers who had voted for the treaty and hinted that the Korean emperor might be deeply involved. People suspected of implication had been arrested and questioned, and many had confessed, but the investigation continued.44
Kojong last attempted to resist the Japanese by sending a three-man delegation to the Second International Peace Conference held in The Hague in June 1907. The delegates were Yi Sang-sol, the former vice prime minister; Yi Chun; and Yi Wi-jong, all men who had resigned in protest against the Convention of 1905. They secretly made their way from Seoul to Vladivostok, where they met the missionary Homer Hulbert. They traveled together on the Trans-Siberian Railway to St. Petersburg and from there to The Hague. The Koreans’ attempts to get a hearing at the conference were largely rebuffed, although Yi Wi-jong was invited to present his case before a meeting of journalists that took place at the same time. He claimed that (1) the Convention of November 15, 1905, had never been agreed to by the Korean emperor and was therefore invalid; (2) Japan consequently had no authority to control Korea’s foreign relations; and (3) Korea therefore had the right to send delegates to international conferences.
Yi Sang-sol was allowed on July 5 to present the Korean petition to the conference. His address so moved the delegates that they decided to send a telegram to Seoul to verify that the delegation actually represented the views of the Korean government, but the service was controlled by the Japanese and the telegram fell into the hands of Itō Hirobumi. He went to the palace and confronted the emperor with the telegram. Itō demanded how Kojong could have violated the treaty so flagrantly. Rather than reject Japan’s protection, he might better have declared war. The chagrined emperor replied in a low voice that he knew nothing about it. This avowal was all Itō needed: he sent a reply to the effect that the Korean government had not authorized the delegation. On the motion of the British delegate (loyal to the Anglo-Japanese Alliance), the Korean appeal was rejected.45
The Japanese government could not allow the emperor’s action to pass unpunished. Itō, accompanied by Hayashi Gonsuke, the Japanese foreign minister, called on Emperor Kojong on July 18 and demanded that he abdicate. He refused but, bowing to intense pressure, agreed late that night that the crown prince might serve as his regent. Kojong’s refusal to abdicate was ignored by the Japanese, who announced that the feeble-minded Sunjong had succeeded to the throne.46 On July 21 Emperor Meiji sent his congratulations, but despite his promise to maintain the security and dignity of the Korean monarchy, the dynasty was in its death throes.
Chapter 57
The Japanese victory in the Russo-Japanese War gave rise to powerful repercussions in many parts of the world. As the first military victory of an Asian country over a European power in modern times, it captured the imagination of people living in Asian and African countries that were under the yoke of a European conqueror.1 Within Japan itself, however, the wartime exhilaration and sense of triumph stemming from the defeat of a powerful enemy rapidly faded. Even during the war, some intellectuals had expressed doubts about the necessity of fighting Russia. In August 1904 Arishima Takeo wrote in his diary, even as Japanese troops were pressing in on Port Arthur, “They spend an average of 500,000 dollars a day on war expenses. Is this not to be wondered at? They could build a splendid university with the money saved from two days of war. I don’t know whether or not the present war is necessary. But war is unnecessary.”2
Ishikawa Takuboku, who at the outset of hostilities with Russia had burned with enthusiasm for the war, wrote in his diary in December 1906, “When I teach my pupils that Russia, which lost the war is a finer country than Japan which won it, I wonder what kind of human beings I am trying to create.”3 Takuboku did not explain why he had taught his pupils that Russia was superior to Japan; perhaps he was indirectly expressing the disillusion that he and other Japanese intellectuals felt when they realized that the acclaimed wartime victories had been hollow. The Japanese had paid a very heavy price for the meager territorial acquisitions, and the threat from Russia was by no means ended. The satisfaction of having gained recognition as a power, thanks to the victory, did not compensate for the terrible loss of Japanese lives during the battles at Port Arthur and Mukden.
Emperor Meiji composed poems during the war, most of them lacking in the kind of fervor typical of European wartime poems. One of his best-known tanka, said to have been admired by President Theodore Roosevelt,4 even expressed puzzlement (real or feigned) over why there should be such things as wars:
yomo no umi In this world of ours
mina harakara to Where all within the four seas
omou yo ni Should be as brothers,
nado namikaze no Why is it that waves and wind
tachisawaguran Should rise and cause such tumult?5
Another poem described the effects of the war on those at home:
kora wa mina All his sons have
ikusa no niwa ni Quit their home, on their way to
idehatete The theater of war;
okina ya hitori Only the old man is left
yamada moruran To guard the hillside paddies.6
Meiji’s poems by no means expressed jubilation even after the naval victory in the Tsushima Strait or the army victory at Mukden. Foreign monarchs acclaimed these successes as being unparalleled in world history, but he soberly commented:
mukashi yori In battles like these,
tameshi mare naru Whose likes have rarely been seen,
tatakai ni Throughout the ages,
Mku no hito wo How many of our soldiers
ushinaishi kana Have we lost in the fighting!7
Years later, when General Nogi committed suicide in 1912 following Emperor Meiji’s death, the overwhelming majority of Japanese believed that he had been moved by remorse over the tens of thousands of the men who had died in the repeated all-out attacks he had ordered during the battle for Port Arthur.8 At the time of the victory celebration in Tōkyō in January 1906, Nogi wrote a kanshi expressing shame, not exultation, over Japan’s success:
ōshi hyakuman kyōryo wo sei su
kōjō yasen shikabane yama wo nasu
hazu ware nan no kambase atte furō ni kan sen
gaika konnichi ikunin ka kaeru9
Imperial troops, a million strong, conquered the
arrogant enemy;
But siege and field warfare left a mountain of corpses.
Ashamed, what face can I show to old parents?
How many men have returned this day of triumphal song?
The celebrated poem by Yosano Akiko, “Kimi shinitamau koto nakare” (Do Not Die, My Brother), is often praised as an expression of antiwar sentiment, although in its day it was attacked for this very reason. In fact, Akiko, who was not a pacifist and insisted on her family’s tradition of loyalty to the throne, intended to convey in the poem not pacifist convictions but fears for the safety of a brother about to leave for the front in China. Even if the poem actually had no political overtones, one can hardly imagine a similar poem being published during the Sino-Japanese War (a relatively easy campaign with few casualties), let alone during the Pacific War (when the press operated under totalitarian controls that allowed no deviation from state policy).
The naturalist movement in literature, a literature of disillusion, developed immediately after the Russo-Japanese War. A typical example of naturalist fiction, Tayama Katai’s story “Ippeisotsu” (One Soldier), based in part on his experiences as a war correspondent in China, was considered to be so antimilitaristic tha
t for years it could be printed only with passages excised.
The generation that grew to maturity during the years after the Russo-Japanese War seemed to be alienated. This alienation often began with shock at the wartime casualties and disappointment over the results of the war but later took such forms as socialism in politics. This in turn caused the older generation to express gloom over the loss by the young of their traditions. Yamazaki Masakazu characterized the times as “the morose era.”
Oka Yoshitake wrote of the same period, “Some youths were swallowed up by scepticism and despair in the course of their search for meaning in life. In fact, that tendency had showed signs of emerging even before the Russo-Japanese war, but it became much more apparent following the cessation of hostilities.”10
One might suppose that victory in the war and the admiration voiced abroad would have made the Japanese self-confident, if not proud, but critics of the time worried about the “anxious pessimism” that had become fashionable among young men and women.11 This pessimism, ironically, may have contributed to the extraordinary flourishing of literature during the ten years after the conclusion of the Russo-Japanese War.
On the whole, 1906 was an uneventful year for the emperor, now in his fifty-fifth year. In January he commanded Saionji Kinmochi to form a cabinet after Katsura Tarō resigned. It probably pleased the emperor to have a member of the nobility as prime minister, for in recent years the nobles had played a minor role in the government.
At the end of January a delegation of members of the Chinese imperial family visited Tōkyō. At their audience with the emperor, the chief of the delegation, Prince Tsai Tse, informed him that they had been sent by the Chinese emperor to study the Japanese political system. He declared that the emperor’s martial glory and civic virtues shone throughout the five continents and that he and his colleagues had been deeply impressed by the manner in which politics and education in Japan were daily being perfected. Prince Tsai Tse hoped that the emperor would recognize their sincerity and, displaying his compassion, enable them to study the excellent technology and other praiseworthy features of Japan. They intended to make Japanese civilization a model for China, hoping in this way to ensure the future security of East Asia and to promote the happiness of the people.12
Of course, these compliments can be discounted as mere flattery, but it is nonetheless true that a Chinese prince had addressed the Japanese emperor in terms that would have been inconceivable at any previous time during the long relationship between the two countries. Meiji seems to have been pleased: he offered the prince a chair, something he rarely did to visitors.13 He also invited the Chinese delegation to lunch and later sent the chief chamberlain to the Shiba Detached Palace (where the Chinese were staying) with decorations for the visitors and other gifts.14 The delegation, a small-scale Chinese replica of the Iwakura mission, after inspecting facilities in Japan and studying the Japanese constitution, left for America (and Europe) on February 13. The Chinese government genuinely seemed eager to modernize, and although other countries were also studied, Japan offered the examples most easily adopted by the Chinese.
Later that month, a delegation arrived from Korea, headed by a high-ranking officer, Yi Chae-wan. He brought with him a letter from Emperor Kojong thanking Emperor Meiji for having sent Itō Hirobumi to Korea. There were lavish gifts for the emperor, empress, crown prince, and crown princess. The next day, the emperor sent decorations to all members of the delegation, the level determined by the station of each.15
In February a British delegation arrived for the presentation of the Order of the Garter, as described in an earlier chapter. These attentions from foreign governments undoubtedly pleased the emperor, in contrast to developments at home. In March, for example, the foreign minister, Katō Takaaki (1860–1926), resigned over differences with other members of the cabinet concerning a bill recommending government ownership of the railways. Katō opposed the bill as an invasion of private rights, and when the bill passed despite his opposition, he submitted his resignation to Prime Minister Saionji. Members of the government who resigned invariably gave failing health as the reason, but Katō stated his real reasons.
The emperor, always a stickler for precedents, asked Saionji why Katō had disregarded custom. Saionji explained that when a man who asks to resign gives poor health as the reason, he may or may not be telling the truth. He implied that Katō was a rare example of an honest man; in any case, he asked the emperor to forgive Katō’s action and accept his resignation. The emperor was persuaded, and as a consequence Saionji, in addition to being prime minister and minister of education, temporarily became foreign minister.16
That year, natural disasters occurred in various parts of the world. There was a major earthquake in Taiwan on March 27 in which more than 1,100 people died. On April 11 Mount Vesuvius erupted in Italy with considerable loss of life. And on April 21 there was the celebrated San Francisco earthquake. The imperial family, as they always did in the case of major disasters, contributed money for the relief of the victims—10,000 yen for the victims in Taiwan and 200,000 yen for those in San Francisco.17 Possibly the size of the latter gift was meant to reflect Japanese gratitude for American support in the negotiations after the Russo-Japanese War.
In July the emperor was faced with a decision of somewhat less than earthshaking importance. It was vigorously debated at the time whether the boundary stone between Japanese and Russian territory in Sakhalin should be decorated with a rising sun or a chrysanthemum. On July 5 the emperor offered his decision: it should be a chrysanthemum.18
Nothing much happened for the rest of the year until December 11, when a Korean delegation was granted an audience with the emperor. They brought a letter from the Korean emperor and verbal messages of eternal friendship between the two countries. The Korean emperor also expressed the deepest trust in Itō Hirobumi and deplored rumors that Itō would be replaced as governor general. A change of governor general would not only be untimely but cause the government and the people to lose heart for the future. He begged the emperor not to replace Itō.19 At this distance from the events, we can only marvel that the Korean emperor, who detested Itō, was capable of such politic lies.
On December 28 the emperor officially opened the Diet. An American visitor to the Diet that day, Professor George Ladd of Yale University, recorded his impressions:
The occasion was the opening of the Diet by the emperor in person…. None might enter the House later than ten o’clock, although His Majesty did not leave the palace until half-past this hour.
As soon as His Majesty arrived, all those who had been waiting were conducted to their proper chambers in the gallery of the Peer’s House,… Not more than five minutes later His Majesty entered, and ascending to the throne, sat down for a moment; but almost immediately rose and received from the hand of Marquis Saionji, the Prime Minister, the address from the throne inscribed on a parchment scroll. This he then read, or rather intoned, in a remarkably clear but soft and musical voice. The entire address occupied not more than three minutes in the reading. After it was finished, Prince Tokugawa, President of the Peers, went up from the floor of the House to the platform, and then to a place before the throne; here he received the scroll from the Emperor’s hand. After which he backed down to the floor again, went directly in front of His Majesty and made a final bow. The Emperor himself immediately descended from the throne and made his exit from the platform by the door at which he had entered, followed by all the courtiers.20
Ladd characterized himself:
I am only a teacher; and I have had no ambition for any higher title than that of “teacher,” no desire for any more imposing kind of service. But His Majesty’s painstaking to recognise, and to signalise with his favour before the nation, his appreciation for any service rendered to the “moral education” of his people, has been as unmistakably sincere as it has been distinctive. And there is abundant reason to believe that this painstaking regard for the moral and other welfar
e of his people, irrespective of considerations of diplomatic policy, or rank, or expectation of similar favours in return, characterises throughout the Imperial rule of the present Emperor of Japan. One would have to search hard among the world’s present day rulers to find another so affectionate, so solicitous, so self-sacrificing, where the interests of his people are concerned, as Mutsuhito.21
The fortieth year of Meiji’s reign, 1907, opened without special celebrations of the anniversary. As had been true for many years, the emperor did not perform the prescribed worship of the four directions, and he had a deputy perform other traditional acts of reverence.
On January 8 the emperor went to the Aoyama parade grounds to review the troops. He had always performed the review on horseback, but this time an order was issued to open the hood of his carriage, and he reviewed the troops without leaving the carriage. It had also been customary for him to grant audiences to elder statesmen, ministers, and foreign diplomats who had come to witness the review, but this year the practice was discontinued, and the reception of visitors was left to the Ministry of War. It has been suggested that the change was made because so few foreign visitors attended the review this year,22 but perhaps the emperor, whose state of health was unknown because of his dislike of being examined by doctors, was feeling the fatigue of age or of incipient illness.
Another sign of a deterioration of the emperor’s health may be found in his decision, because of bad weather, not to attend, as planned, the graduation ceremonies at the military academy.23 In the past, the emperor had always been indifferent to even the worst storms.
A curious, and similar, incident occurred just before the emperor’s visit to the Special Festival of the Yasukuni Shrine on May 3 of the same year. The weather was fine that day, and the emperor was dressed in full regalia for the occasion. Tanaka Mitsuaki, the imperial household minister, hoped that the emperor would allow the families of men killed during the war (and other spectators) to see his “dragon countenance” as his carriage passed along the streets to and from the Yasukuni Shrine. With this in mind and without asking permission beforehand, Tanaka ordered the master of the horse to open the hood of the carriage. The day was hot and humid, but the emperor had not asked to have the windows of the carriage, much less the hood, opened. On two or three occasions in recent years when he was to pass through the foreign settlements or was on his way to an exposition, he had granted the pleas of officials that the hood be removed so that people could see him; but this time, when he was about to leave the palace, he noticed that the hood was open. He called to Chief Chamberlain Tokudaiji and ordered him to shut the hood, standing by the carriage until this was done.24