by Donald Keene
nomiwakete miru So enjoyed about liquor.
Both the emperor and the empress laughed at the poem.4 This rare description of their life en famille is endearing.
On October 23, after a long lapse, the emperor spent an hour in his study reading with Motoda Nagazane.5 Gradually his program of studies came once again to include lectures as well as readings. Believing that the works they read together provided models for the virtuous behavior of an emperor, Motoda explained the text in detailed but easily understood language, comparing it with recent history and citing examples of virtuous actions by rulers. Motoda always attempted—and generally succeeded—in arousing the emperor’s interest, although at first he was unable to understand what in particular might appeal to the emperor. One night, after the emperor had read how King Hsüan of Chou, moved by the remonstration of Queen Chiang, applied himself to matters of state, he asked his own consort to compose a poem on the theme of “moved by remonstrations, to devote oneself to governing”6 Meiji admired rulers who took remonstrations to heart and mended their ways.
Motoda was moved by the emperor’s newly awakened self-examination after the long period during which he had neglected his studies and also by his readiness to respond to his advisers’ criticism. A fuller program of studies was initiated on December 13.7 Not long before, at a chrysanthemum-viewing party at the Aoyama Palace, the emperor had impressed Motoda by the soundness and excellence of his opinions, particularly with respect to foreign countries. Motoda had never before heard the emperor speak so eloquently and wished that foreigners could have heard him.8
The emperor also resumed his frenetic horse riding. His renewed interest was at first welcomed by his advisers, but eventually they decided he was overdoing it, and they feared that out of exhaustion he might fall off his horse. Iwakura Tomomi spoke to him, but to no effect. Even though it rained steadily at the beginning of January 1878, the emperor rode every day on the track inside the palace grounds, not seeming to mind that he was muddy to the shins. The drivers and grooms of the imperial stables were exhausted. On January 12 two jiho,9 Hijikata Hisamoto and Takasaki Masakaze, broached the subject with the emperor. He listened with an amiable look on his face, and when the two men finished speaking, he said, “You have spoken well. From now on I will follow the opinions of the drivers.” The two jiho were so impressed by the speediness of his acquiescence that they shed tears of emotion.10
The next day the emperor went riding with Hijikata. While passing through a pine forest, Hijikata’s horse bolted and he was almost thrown. The emperor at once rode up and asked if Hijikata was all right. He was upset to think that just the day before he had been warned about his riding and now his companion was almost thrown. All who heard his words were struck with admiration for his generous and magnanimous nobility.
A subtle change occurred about this time in Meiji’s relations with other heads of state. His letter to Patrice de Mac-Mahon, the president of France, bore the superscription “Mutsuhito, Emperor of Japan by grace of Heaven, descendant of an unbroken line of ten thousand generations of emperors.”11 He had not previously used this overpowering title in foreign correspondence. Conversely, the letter sent to him by the emperor of China bore a superscription referring to himself as Great Emperor of the Great Ch’ing Country and to Meiji as Great Emperor of Great Japan,12 placing the two monarchs on terms of equality, an unprecedented concession from the Chinese court.
Meiji seems to have become consciously aware of Japanese history, whether in terms of the shell mounds discovered in September 1877 by the American scientist Edward Morse, or of the Satsuma Rebellion as an important part of the history of his own reign.13 He showed renewed interest especially in his ancestors.
The usual court formalities, exchanges of visits and presents, and composition of New Year poems opened the new year of 1878. Toward the end of January, the emperor issued a rescript on the importance of agriculture to the state. Now that all the rebellions had been quelled, the fundamental policies of a well-run state were reiterated.
Only occasionally do we get a hint of problems relating to the throne. The emperor’s professed respect for remonstrances seems to have encouraged the men around him to express (naturally in the most respectful terms) their disapproval of his actions. For example, on February 3 the jiho on duty, Yamaguchi Masasada begged permission to appear before the emperor, even though it was a Sunday. Braving the displeasure on the emperor’s countenance, Yamaguchi asked him to observe greater temperance in his drinking, pointing out that the beriberi from which he had suffered during the previous year might well recur.14 This year, with New Year and other celebrations, the emperor had been overindulging. At a party on January 10 he had kept drinking until 3 A.M., and just three days before he granted an audience to Yamaguchi his drinking had continued until 5 A.M. Yamaguchi implored the emperor not to drink so much, especially late at night.
The emperor took the “remonstration” with good grace, and, it is reported, he was never again seen with a drunken face.15 There is no indication why Meiji drank so heavily. Various people who knew him testified to his love for drink, even long afterward. General Takashima Tomonosuke, who had served in the Satsuma Rebellion, recalled,
The tone of the palace at the time was one of virility and martial prowess. The emperor drank very heavily. At times he would assemble favorite members of the court and stage drinking parties. I have not much capacity for liquor, and although it embarrasses me to admit it, I always made my escape and hid. But Yamaoka Tesshū and Major Counselor Nakagawa were heavy drinkers, and they would invariably be summoned when the emperor had a drinking party. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to drink cup after cup of saké, listening to the tales of deeds of bravery that went with the drink. The cup he used at that time was not the usual small size, but one as big as a drinking glass, and he had it filled to the brim.16
Viscount Hinonishi, who became a chamberlain in 1886, wrote that even after the emperor had drunk his coffee at the end of a meal, he would not withdraw to his private quarters as long as there was any liquor left on the table.17
Remonstration of a quite different nature was made by the emperor’s chief Confucian adviser, Motoda Nagazane. It was proposed about this time (February 1878) that following European models, forestland be attached to the Crown. But Motoda opposed this plan, arguing that the imperial household depended for its preservation not on land but on the ties with the hearts of the people created by “divine virtue and great benevolence.” He recalled that in ancient times, the government took only a small portion of the products of the land by way of taxes. Then, moving to the rights of the sovereign and the people, Motoda declared that if there was some right that the people, having performed their duties faithfully, deserved to obtain, the sovereign should bestow it. If there was some right that the sovereign, having ruled virtuously, deserved to obtain, the people should offer it. However, in the present instance, the government was trying to take away what should be the property of the people and to make it the private possession of the imperial household. This represented in effect a struggle for advantage between the imperial household and the people on equal terms, and it did harm to imperial authority. A portion of land taxes should be set aside for the maintenance of the imperial household. Then if the government ruled the people with supreme virtue and great benevolence, they would respond with ever greater love for the imperial household. But if the people’s hearts were alienated, even if the imperial household possesses all the land in Japan, the people would fight to take it away.18
Motoda’s words were heeded, and the plan of co-opting lands for the Crown was not carried out. This instance suggests the power that Confucian remonstration still possessed, but sometimes a would-be remonstrator, enlightened by the emperor’s superior virtue, would withdrew his criticism. On one occasion the emperor asked a chamberlain to have his shoes repaired. The chamberlain secretly conferred with two jiho, Sasaki Takayuki and Takasaki Masakaze, asking why the emperor sh
ould have commanded that his shoes be repaired rather than discarding them in favor of new ones. They replied that this might seem a trivial matter, but it had important implications for the ruler’s virtue. If the emperor asked to have his shoes repaired because he respected the value of economy, his command was truly to be admired. However, if he were motivated by stinginess, this was most to be regretted. Takasaki asked the emperor his reasons. He replied that he was planning to give the shoes to the acting chamberlain Fujinami Kototada, but noticing that they were a little worn, he had asked to have them repaired so as to spare Fujinami the expense. Takasaki, realizing how much the emperor loved his ministers, wept with emotion.19
Another aspect of the emperor’s sovereignly virtue was revealed on April 23 when he donated 20,000 yen to Tōkyō Prefecture for building a hospital to treat beriberi. Having suffered himself from this disease the previous year, he sympathized with others who were afflicted. If his own illness were to recur, it was likely that the doctors, as usual, would prescribe a change of air. Iwakura Tomomi, foreseeing this, proposed building a detached palace for the emperor at some elevated spot with a healthful atmosphere. The emperor replied, “Yes, a change of air is a good cure. But I am not the only one to suffer with beriberi. This illness is common to our whole people. It would be easy enough for me to move to another place, but surely one can’t expect the whole population to move. For the sake of our entire people, I want to consider other means of preventing this sickness. When I traveled to the north, I noticed that dozens of soldiers in the garrison were suffering from beriberi, even though their post was on high ground. In my opinion, moving to a better place is not enough to escape the disease. I have heard that this sickness does not exist in the West but is found only in our country. If that is true, the cause must be eating rice. I have heard that a physician of Chinese medicine, Tōda Chōan, cures patients by having them eat beans or wheat instead of rice. I am sure there must be something to it. Chinese medicine should not, however, be discarded wholesale as being outdated. Western medicine and Chinese medicine both have their good points. Japanese medicine is not to be discarded either.”20
Iwakura, struck dumb with admiration, withdrew. Later Ōkubo Toshimichi also recommended that the emperor move to another location and received the same reply. One cannot be sure that these were the emperor’s actual words, but it may have been his first recorded pronouncement of this length. The hospital for which he gave money was opened on July 10. He later gave money for the construction of an insane asylum in Tōkyō, the first ever built in the city.
The emperor had an aversion to the doctors who remained with him to the end of his life. He particularly disliked being examined. In the previous year when he was suffering from beriberi, he had not told the doctors serving him that he felt unwell, and by the time the doctors learned this, the illness was already far advanced. His strong physique generally permitted him to pay little attention to his health. For their part the court doctors still relied on traditional, sometimes unenlightened, practices. When, for example, Princess Chikako contracted beriberi in August 1877, the best the doctors could do was to recommend a change of air. She accordingly went to Hakone, where she died three weeks later on September 2, in her thirty-third year.21 This tragic end to the life of an unhappy woman, the sister of an emperor and the wife of a shogun, seems to have intensified Meiji’s distrust of doctors. It was only after two hours of persuasion by Sasaki Takayuki (1830–1910) that he consented to a physical examination.
The various remonstrances of his advisers, and his own willingness to follow (after an initial show of resistance) what they advised, seem to have brought a new maturity to the emperor. Fortunately he was surrounded by men of extraordinary ability who showed the persistence and even courage required to guide the emperor, who had not yet completely thrown off the effects of his early education in the Gosho.
Among these advisers, probably the most gifted, though the least popular, was the interior minister, Ōkubo Toshimichi. He was undoubtedly the most powerful man in the government, responsible only to the emperor. Ever since he returned from America and Europe in 1873, Ōkubo’s aim had been to strengthen the country politically and economically in order to compete on terms of equality with the advanced countries of the West. His methods were often high-handed, and he had aroused the hatred of adherents of both the right (who blamed him for the rejection of the invasion of Korea and the defeat of Saigō Takamori) and the left (who believed that his conservatism had blocked the advance of people’s rights). He was unjustly accused of leading a life of luxury while the majority of the Japanese (especially the samurai) were in dire financial straits. Disgruntled samurai in all parts of the country, mouthing slogans reminiscent of those used by sonnō jōi advocates of the late Tokugawa period, had made Ōkubo the particular target of their resentment.
A group of samurai in Kanazawa began to plan his assassination. Kanazawa was an unexpected place for a plot. First, the Kaga domain had played an extremely inconspicuous role in the Restoration. Furthermore, the Maeda family enjoyed the largest income of any daimyo—1 million koku—and the city of Kanazawa had developed as a center of cultural activity. This prosperity may explain the lack of turbulent political activity at a time when other parts of Japan were deeply involved in the changes of the first ten years of Emperor Meiji’s reign.
Some samurai in Kanazawa, however, felt frustrated by the conciliatory tactics that had enabled Kaga to thrive at a time when other domains were embroiled in political disputes.22 They were embittered particularly by the refusal to send Saigō to Korea and sided with him in his unsuccessful war against the government. One architect of the assassination plot, Chō Tsurahide, journeyed twice to Kagoshima to meet Saigō and to study at a private school.23 The center of antigovernment activity in Kanazawa was a group of samurai known as the Sankō-ji faction.24 This faction never possessed the discipline of a political party but advocated the use of militarism and violence to obtain its ends. The leader, Shimada Ichirō (1848–1878), was the central figure in the assassination. At times the Sankō-ji cooperated with a much larger group, the Chūkoku-sha, which favored popular rights. Although the ideals of the two groups were quite dissimilar, they were alike in opposing the oligarchy headed by Ōkubo. After the crime, some of the Chūkoku-sha’s populist beliefs were incorporated in the manifesto sent to the newspapers.25
During the Satsuma Rebellion the sympathies of these men were with Saigō. They were enraged when they learned of the supposed plot to kill him, rejoiced over his early victories, and were disconsolate as it became evident that his cause was lost. Toward the end of April 1877, Shimada and Chō visited Kuga Yoshinao (1843–1916), a leader of the Chūkoku-sha, and asserted that they could not stand by indifferently now that Saigō had been defeated.26 They had concluded that the two men most responsible for Saigō’s death, Kido Takayoshi and Ōkubo Toshimichi, must be killed. Kuga did not agree with the proposed assassination but said he would think it over and asked the two men to return a few days later. He hoped that the wait would cool their ardor, but their resolve only grew fiercer. But because Kido then died on May 26, the assassination plot would henceforth be focused on one man, Ōkubo Toshimichi.
Shimada went about recruiting co-conspirators. At first he was cautious about revealing his intention, but by November he was discussing plans freely with would-be associates. It is astonishing that no one betrayed him to the police. No doubt he counted on samurai class loyalty, but on occasion in order to throw potential betrayers off the track, he also announced that he had abandoned plans to kill Ōkubo.27
On March 25, 1878, Shimada left for Tōkyō. The poems he composed on leaving his family reveal that although he was intent on killing Ōkubo and undoubtedly sincere when he declared he had no regrets over giving up his life, it was painful to think that he would never again see his wife and children. He composed two poems of parting. The second was “I had known from before that this day would come, but how sad parting makes me no
w.”28 Although Shimada’s poems had no literary distinction, they came from the heart. It is hard to imagine an assassin in any other country but Japan composing poetry before he set out on his deadly mission. No doubt for Shimada, who clearly foresaw his death, these were his farewell poems to the world.
The disappearance from Kanazawa of both Shimada and Chō aroused the suspicions of prefectural authorities that the two men, both known to be extremists, might be plotting something. The central government was also on the lookout for both dissident samurai and members of the movement for freedom and popular rights and had sent innumerable plain-clothes men to every region. As interior minister, Ōkubo Toshimichi controlled the network of police dispatched in all parts of the country, but he may have decided not to pay much attention to peaceful Ishikawa Prefecture.
The first task for the leaders after arriving in Tōkyō was to draw up a statement giving their reasons for wanting to kill Ōkubo. They were following the tradition, going back to the late Tokugawa period, of attaching explanatory notes to the heads or bodies of the victims of assassinations.29 The assassination statement began as follows:
Shimada Ichirō, a samurai of Ishikawa Prefecture, and his confederates, making profound obeisance and braving death, looking upward offer our words to His Majesty, the emperor, and looking downward to the 30 million and more of his subjects, make this proclamation. A careful examination of the situation prevailing in the realm has convinced us that the administration and laws neither originate with imperial wishes nor do they stem from public discussion by the people. They are determined exclusively by the assumptions and unilateral decisions of a handful of influential officials.
As these words suggest, the conspirators (like many others both earlier and much later) insisted that they were acting in consonance with the emperor’s true wishes, that they would rid him of the corrupt officials surrounding him who prevented him from ruling personally. At the same time, somewhat contradictorily, they also wanted the people’s wishes to be heard in the form of public discussion, which was probably a concession to the freedom and popular rights philosophy of Kuga Yoshinao, who framed this vindication of the assassination.
