by Donald Keene
The sixth year of Ansei (1859) opened with the traditional New Year festivities at the palace. There were exchanges of presents, performances of bugaku, and the consumption of ritual food and drinks. Sachinomiya, now in his seventh year, was presented by the court with a cask of saké and appetizers; he had reached an age when he could participate in some court activities. On February 21 he witnessed bugaku for the first time in the company of the emperor and received, also for the first time, a cup of saké from the emperor’s hand.
On May 24 four nobles who had been arrested by Manabe Akikatsu in the previous year—Takatsukasa Masamichi, Konoe Tadahiro, Takatsukasa Sukehiro, and Sanjō Sanetsumu (1802–1859)—were granted their “request” that they be allowed to shave their heads and enter Buddhist orders. This was the shogunate’s punishment for the courtiers’ audacity in communicating directly with Tokugawa Nariaki. Takatsukasa Masamichi and his son Sukehiro had been among the few nobles to support opening the country to foreign trade, but they had been persuaded by “men of high purpose” (shishi), mainly lower-ranking samurai of nationalistic beliefs, to shift to favoring the closure of the country, thereby angering the shogunate.
Before the shogunate could pass sentence on these men, the Kyōto shoshidai Sakai Tadaaki (1813–1873) informed them that he wished them to commit suicide, but they refused to comply. Kōmei, taking pity on the men, sent a letter to the chancellor Kujō Hisatada asking him to intercede with Sakai and obtain a pardon for them, but Manabe proved to be adamant. He had firm proof that secret communications had been exchanged between these men and Nariaki. Court secrets had been passed to Mito samurai, and samurai of Mito and Fukui had been incited to subversive activity. It was possible that these men had been deluded by the wild ideas of vagabonds, but regardless of the reasons, they had acted in contravention of kōbu gattai.15
On April 9 Kōmei had secretly sent a letter to Sanjō Sanetsumu relating his special respect and affection for the accused men. During the reign of Emperor Ninkō, Takatsukasa Masamichi had served for a long period as chancellor, and when that emperor had suddenly died, bringing the inexperienced Kōmei to the throne, he had helped him in every conceivable way, acting almost as the regent. Kōmei could not bear to think of this man, who was now aged, being found guilty of a serious crime. Again, Konoe Tadahiro had been Kōmei’s tutor, his teacher of calligraphy, and the one who had placed the cap on his head when Kōmei had his gembuku ceremony. The other two men had also served diligently and well during the previous reign. When the foreigners came to Japan, all four men had done everything humanly possible to accord with his wishes. They may have made mistakes at times, but they could not possibly have entertained seditious plans regarding the shogun.16
Kōmei’s letter concluded with the hope that he might be able to persuade the shogunate to show leniency. Sanjō Sanetsumu received this letter at the village outside the capital where he was living in retreat. Although he was suffering from illness, he rose from bed, changed to a court costume and cap, and, after first purifying himself, read the letter. He wept at the graciousness of the emperor’s compassion. He felt sure that the praise for his services to the court would demonstrate that he had not been unfilial to the spirits of his ancestors and would save him from leaving a shameful name to his descendants. Nonetheless, Sakai sternly refused Kōmei’s plea for leniency, and even for a stay in implementing the punishment of the four men. Kōmei, still reluctant to order the men to shave their heads, asked them once again if this was really their wish. They answered that it was, no doubt resigned to their fate, and Kōmei finally had no choice but to issue the command.
Sakai Tadaaki appears as the villain in accounts describing how the Ansei purge affected the court, but he was only the agent of shogunate power in Kyōto. Behind his unfeeling rejections of every attempt by Kōmei to obtain leniency for men who had served him and his father was the decision by Ii Naosuke, the most powerful man in the shogunate, to erase all opposition. Ii began the purge almost as soon as he took office as tairō in 1858 and continued it until he was assassinated two years later. The purge was occasioned mainly by the need Ii felt to remove opposition to shogunate policies with respect to treaties with foreign powers, but it also had a domestic aspect, the naming of a successor to the office of shogun. The purge proved to be a total failure and ultimately contributed to the shogunate’s collapse, but the two years during which arrests and imprisonments were carried out would be remembered as a reign of terror.
For Kōmei, the purge was a source of personal humiliation. Surely it was not necessary for the security of the shogunate that old men who had faithfully served Kōmei and his father before him should be made to enter Buddhist orders merely because at some stage they had expressed opposition to the treaties. But Ii was determined to make an example of each, even if this meant incurring Kōmei’s hatred. Rarely has the contradiction between the reality and the actuality of imperial authority been so clear. It must have been galling for the emperor, performing the prescribed rituals in the robes of his office, to recall that there was not a single command he could pronounce that might not be contravened by the shogunate.
The chronicle of the year 1859 mentions also epidemics and other disasters that affected the whole country. A third daughter was born to Kōmei, only for the second daughter to die, perhaps a victim of the epidemic. For Kōmei there seems to have been one comfort, his son, Sachinomiya, and the process of his gradually becoming a worthy heir to the throne provided the only bright spots in a year otherwise marked by calamities.
Chapter 6
Sachinomiya’s schooling began in 1859 when Prince Takahito (1812–1886) was appointed as his calligraphy teacher. The fact that Sachinomiya’s first teacher was a calligrapher suggests the importance attached to being able to write a distinguished hand. Although calligraphy was of only minor importance to a European prince, in Japan it was an indispensable element in the education of the aristocracy. A member of the imperial family was required to display his skill as a calligrapher on relatively few occasions, but it was essential that whenever he did write, his handwriting would be not merely acceptable but an imposing mirror of his character. It is difficult to say how proficient Emperor Meiji eventually became, however, because so little survives in his handwriting.1
Sachinomiya had actually begun calligraphy practice during the previous year, but this instruction was apparently casual; now that he was in his eighth year, he was expected to study calligraphy (and other subjects) systematically under appropriate tutors. Prince Takahito was chosen to teach the prince calligraphy because his family had long been renowned for its penmanship. On May 5 he brought the Naniwazu poem as a model for the writing of kana,2 and Prince Takahito and his pupil exchanged gifts, each presenting a box of fresh tai (bream) to the other. The first formal lesson in calligraphy was a most important step in the education of a prince, and that no doubt was why tai, a traditional feature of celebrations, were exchanged.3
From this time on, Prince Takahito came several times a month on appointed days to offer calligraphy instruction to Sachinomiya. On June 4 the pupil presented for his teacher’s approbation some characters of which he had made fair copies, an occasion for a further exchange of gifts. By August 10 the young prince, apparently pleased with his own progress, was presenting to attendants samples of his calligraphy—one or two characters each, most frequently naka and yama.4
In the meantime, he had commenced another kind of study, reading the Confucian classics. On May 29 Fusehara Nobusato (1823–1876) was appointed as his reading tutor. During the first session with his pupil, he read a passage from the Classic of Filial Piety three times. Naturally, a boy of seven could not be expected to understand a Chinese philosophical text, even when read in Japanese pronunciation; but before long, Sachinomiya was able to recognize characters and read them aloud, following his teacher. This method of learning, known as sodoku, was surprisingly effective, as we know from the generations of Japanese who learned Chinese in this way an
d were later able to read and write it competently; but it must have been excruciatingly boring for a boy to recite by the hour words that meant nothing to him.
As soon as Sachinomiya completed the sodoku reading of the Classic of Filial Piety, Emperor Kōmei commanded that he begin reading the Great Learning.5 In a sodoku class of boys of the same age, there might at least have been the pleasure of friendly emulation or perhaps fun shared at the expense of the teacher, but Sachinomiya at first had little companionship in his lessons. The nobleman Uramatsu Tarumitsu (1850–1915) became Sachinomiya’s sole school playmate in 1861, when he was eleven and the future emperor Meiji was ten (by Japanese count). He recalled in conversation,
I waited on him every day, morning until evening, never leaving his side whether he was studying or exercising, until it was time for him to go to bed. The prince generally wore a kimono with long sleeves of colored silk crepe and trousers of white silk. He did not wear new clothes each day but dressed very simply. His hair was so arranged that his frontlocks were swept over his sidelocks on both sides and was arranged on top in a boyish style. The only difference between my way of doing my hair and his was that his sidelocks were puffed out.
His studies began with sodoku reading of the Four Books and the Five Classics. I was his partner. We were taught by the late Fusehara Nobusato, but occasionally Ano Okumitsu substituted. The textbooks were written in fair copy by Mr. Fusehara. When we finished one book, he would present His Majesty with the next. We read aloud in unison, in the manner of an old-fashioned temple school.6
Thus far the instruction had been considered to be informal, meaning that Sachinomiya and his companion studied in private with their tutor, but on June 25, 1862, their formal instruction began. Emperor Kōmei commanded the master of yin-yang divination Tsuchimikado Hareo to determine the proper hour for the initiation. Everything was to follow the precedent set in 1839 when Kōmei underwent the same formalities. The most distinguished members of the court witnessed the ceremony, which had for its climax Fusehara Nobusato’s reading three times lines from the preface to the Book of Filial Piety.
Sachinomiya was not an especially diligent pupil. Anecdotes about his dislike of study have been preserved, and he himself recalled in later years that his mother, Nakayama Yoshiko, had been quite strict with him, not giving him lunch until he had finished that day’s assignment.7 Still later, in 1905, he composed a poem recollecting those long-ago days:
tenarai wo How I regret now
monouki koto ni My childish disposition
omoitsuru When I decided
osanagokoro wo That writing practice was
ima kuyuru kana Such a boring waste of time.
The following poem was composed about the same time:
takeuma ni I remember now
kokoro no norite Those days when I neglected
tenarai ni My writing practice
okotarishi yo wo Because my only interest
ima omou kana Was riding a bamboo horse.8
Another anecdote relates how Nakayama Tadayasu, then in charge of Sachinomiya’s education, lost his temper when in the midst of a lesson, his pupil suddenly stood up and went without explanation to his private quarters. Tadayasu decided that there was no point in continuing his instruction, to which he devoted his every effort, if the prince behaved in so undisciplined a manner. He penned a note resigning his post and saying he did not intend to appear again before the prince. Tadayasu’s son, Takamaro, pleaded that the prince was still too young to realize what he was doing, but the enraged Tadayasu would not listen. Just then a messenger came from the palace asking Tadayasu to return immediately, but he obstinately refused. Takamaro, insisting that refusal was in contravention of a subject’s duties, finally succeeded in persuading his father to relent. When Sachinomiya saw Tadayasu, he apologized, saying he was at fault, and promised never to behave that way again. He said, “Please don’t lose your temper, but look after me as before.” Tadayasu was deeply moved. When he saw Takamaro later that day, he said, “His Highness is an enlightened prince. I was too hasty. It was my fault.” He wept aloud.9
The story has a pleasant ending, but it implies that Sachinomiya was capable of thoughtless and even cruel behavior. We know from the testimony of his childhood playmate, Kimura Teinosuke, that even as a child, Sachinomiya was fully aware of his power over subordinates:
His Majesty had an extremely impetuous streak that went with his unyielding disposition. If ever anything occurred that failed in some way to please him, he would usually at once clench his little fists and strike whoever was at fault. I can’t tell you how many times I was the recipient of blows from his gracious fists. At any rate, I tended to be insufficiently in awe of him, perhaps because I was a year younger, and I was always venturing to do something contrary to his wishes, and each time he deigned to strike me smartly.
One day a certain daimyo presented him with a goldfish bowl with five or six goldfish swimming in it. I was greatly intrigued and watched the fish by His Majesty’s side, but when he went into the next room I immediately put my hands inside the bowl and chased the fish until I actually succeeded in catching one. The goldfish died, much to my consternation, and while I was wondering helplessly what to do, His Majesty came back into the room and saw what had happened. He flew into a rage, and with a cry of “Tei-bon!” he clenched his fists and struck my head three times. I ran away, but he came running after me, and favored me with another blow, as I recall….
And although I don’t recall the reason, on another occasion I was the recipient of his anger for some mischief I had done, and I was hit in the head nine times in succession. When I think back on it now, I realize that my mischief had caused me to trouble the imperial mind, and even now I feel the cold sweat oozing from my armpits.10
Another unappealing anecdote relates how an elderly noble who had been placed in charge of Sachinomiya from the time of his birth began to feel that the boy was too active for him to handle. He was thinking of asking to be replaced by a younger noble when one day he saw Sachinomiya playing by a pond in the Gosho. The boy called out, “Grandpa, come have a look! See all the carp in the pond!” The old man went to the pond but could not see any carp. He asked politely where they might be, to which Sachinomiya replied, “There, over there!” The old man stooped over to get a better look, whereupon the boy gave him a shove from behind, and the old man tumbled into the water. The pond was extremely shallow, but being an old man, he had trouble getting back onto the bank. Thereupon His Majesty called out in a loud voice, “Come, everybody! The old man’s turned into a carp!” People rushed up and helped pull the man out of the water. It is related that the mud-stained garment that he wore when he fell into the pond became the greatest treasure of his family.11
It may be wondered why such anecdotes are included even in works ostensibly compiled to enhance Emperor Meiji’s glory. Probably the harshness—even brutality—with which he treated a playmate and a harmless old man was considered to be a necessary quality, enabling a prince, who not only was raised by women but for years was dressed and painted like a girl, to be transformed into the stern ruler of the nation. It is related that after the old man suffered the humiliation of being pushed into a pond, he sent Iwakura Tomomi a letter asking to be replaced. But Iwakura summoned him and said, “You have served His Majesty ever since the day he was born, but you still do not understand his greatness. I am well aware of the efforts his training has cost you now that you are old, but I believe that because you yourself were raised as a noble, your only concern has been to make sure that he was well behaved. But Japan is now in a critical state. Imperial power will unquestionably revive. At that time, it will not suffice for the emperor to be well behaved. I can see in this young prince a manly disposition that is capable of maintaining its equilibrium no matter what kind of crisis it may encounter, and I rejoice in my heart. I am returning your letter asking to be relieved of your position.”12
The manliness of the little prince, read
y to use his fists against anything that displeased him, has been emphasized by anecdotalists who prefer not to portray Sachinomiya as a remote figure, hidden by screens from the eyes even of members of the court, or as a prince whose delicate health was a constant source of worry to those around him. They seem to be saying that even if pushing an old man into a pond was not in itself admirable, it was a demonstration of a virile personality.
In other respects, however, Sachinomiya’s education, whether provided by tutors or by observation of life at the court, was traditional. He began to compose waka poetry even before he had formal instruction.13 One poem composed at this time survives:
tsuki mireba / kari ga tonde iru / mizu no naka ni / mō utsuru narikeri
When it sees the moon, the wild goose comes flying; it is already reflected in the water.
This poem does not scan, and the imagery is confusing, but it is of interest as the earliest example of his poetry. A tanka composed a couple of years later shows greater awareness of the metrics:
akebono ni In the light of dawn
kari kaerite zo The wild geese are returning
haru no hi zo On this day in spring;
koe wo kikite zo I listen to their voices—
nodoka narikeri They sound so very peaceful.
The repeated use of the emphatic particle zo, mainly to fill out the meter, is likely to amuse a modern reader, but this sign of the prince’s awareness of metric requirements demonstrates that he had made some progress. From this time, it became usual whenever Sachinomiya had an audience with his father to receive a list of topics on which to compose tanka. He would show the results to Emperor Kōmei, a skilled poet, who would correct them. This is how he modified the prince’s poem:
