by Donald Keene
As the long procession of jinrikishas, stretching back more than 300 feet, entered Ōtsu, the crowds, like those in the other Japanese cities Nicholas had visited, cheered and waved flags. The procession headed first to the Miidera, where the royal guests were shown treasures of the temple and told of its long history. They enjoyed the views of Lake Biwa from the temple and presently were escorted to the shore of the lake, where they boarded the Hoan maru. The ship, gaily decorated with green leaves and flowers, sailed to Karasaki, where, as the foreign princes approached, daytime fireworks (invisible but audible) greeted them. After inspecting the display of armor in the shrine, they returned to the Hoan maru, which took them back to Ōtsu.20
The czarevitch had lunch at the prefectural office, and at half-past one he and his party set out on the return journey to Kyōto. The procession of jinrikishas was headed by four in which police and civil officials of Shiga and Kyōto rode. Nicholas was in the fifth jinrikisha, George in the sixth, and Prince Takehito in the seventh.21 There had been rumors that something untoward might happen to the Russian prince this day, and police were stationed along the way. The procession had traveled some six or seven chō from the prefectural office, barely making its way through the crowds on both sides of the narrow street, when suddenly a policeman leaped out and, aiming at the czarevitch’s head, attacked with his saber. The first blow lopped off the brim of the prince’s hat and dealt him a wound on the forehead. Nicholas recorded in his diary:
I was returning along the same street in a jinrikisha. Crowds were lined up on both sides of the street. We turned left on the narrow street. Just then I felt a sharp sensation on my right temple. I turned back and a policeman, so ugly as to turn my stomach, was swinging a saber in both hands and coming at me for a second attack. The next instant I jumped from the jinrikisha onto the paved road, shouting all the while, “What do you think you’re doing?” The reprobate came pursuing me. No one tried to stop the man. Pressing my hand against the bleeding wound, I ran as fast as I could. I wanted to hide in the crowd, but I couldn’t because the Japanese had panicked and were scattering in all directions.
As I ran I looked back once again, and I noticed George running after the policeman who was pursuing me. After I had run about sixty feet I stopped at the corner of a narrow lane and turned back. To my great relief, the attack was over. George, to whom I owe my life, had knocked the reprobate down with a blow from his bamboo whip. When I went up to the place, I saw our jinrikisha coolies and several police officers were dragging the reprobate by the legs, and one of them was cutting at the reprobate’s neck with a saber.
Everyone was standing there in a daze. I could not understand why George and I and the madman had been left alone on the street, why not one person had run up to help me and to stop the policeman. I could, however, understand why nobody in our escort had been able to help me. Prince Arisugawa, third in the line, couldn’t have seen anything. In order to reassure them, I deliberately remained on my feet as long as I could.22
Nicholas’s account should have been definitive, but the testimony of numerous other witnesses makes it clear that he erred in several particulars. He was incorrect in stating that George had knocked down the policeman and that nobody had helped him and George when they were threatened. At the trial, witnesses testified that George was indeed first to resist the attacker. He used the bamboo whip purchased that day as a souvenir. However, the whip did not cause the assailant to fall down; it only made him flinch, but that was long enough for Nicholas’s ricksha coolie to tackle him. The saber dropped from the policeman’s hand as he fell, and one of George’s coolies, picking it up, slashed the man’s neck and back. The vital role of the two rickshaw coolies in saving the Russian prince was soon recognized not only by the Japanese but also by the Russians.23
The mistakes in Nicholas’s account can be attributed to extreme agitation and to the effects of the wounds, but the reward he bestowed on the rickshaw coolies prove that he later came to recognize their courage. All the same, every year on May 11, the anniversary of the Ōtsu incident, in his prayers he thanked George (not the coolies) for saving his life.24
We may conjecture, however, that the sensation of being abandoned by a crowd that was more concerned with its own safety than with saving two unarmed men from a maniac may have embittered Nicholas toward the Japanese. There is no overt indication of this feeling in his diary; on the contrary, it mentions how moved he was to see Japanese kneeling along the streets, their hands clasped in prayer, apologizing for the disaster that had befallen him.25 Moreover, he assured Prince Takehito immediately after the attack that his trifling wounds would certainly not make him think ill of Japan.26
But in his memoirs, Count Witte interpreted the prince’s reactions quite differently:
It seems to me that the attack left the Tsesarevich with an attitude of hostility toward and contempt for Japan and the Japanese, as can be seen from official reports in which he refers to the Japanese as “macaques” [baboons].
If not for his belief that the Japanese are an unpleasant, contemptible, and powerless people who could be destroyed at one blow from the Russian giant, we would not have adopted a policy in the Far East that led us into the unfortunate war with Japan.27
Witte’s own “hostility and contempt” for Nicholas II may have colored his account, but he knew his sovereign well and it is unlikely that he invented the prejudices he attributed to him. The incident at Ōtsu, trivial as it may seem at this distance, may have marked a significant step toward the Russo-Japanese War thirteen years later.
The reports to reach Tōkyō of the attempted assassination were at first highly exaggerated. According to Mary Fraser, the very first message stated: “Two deep wounds on the head; recovery impossible.” Later, as additional telegrams came in, she was able to report, “He was very much hurt, poor young fellow; but not dangerously so, as in the terror of the moment somebody wired that he was.”28 But even when it had become clear that Nicholas would recover from his slight wounds, the shock to the Japanese was profound.
The primary emotion was probably fear. Many Japanese were convinced that the attack on the czarevitch would lead to war with Russia, a war in which Japan would be no match for the immense empire that stretched across Europe and Asia. There was also an awareness that a great blow had been dealt to Japanese prestige as a civilized, modern nation. Mary Fraser wrote about the attack:
Had it happened in Europe, it would have been looked upon as a great misfortune, but no more. No deductions would have been drawn from it; no enemies could have brandished its record in the stricken face of the nation to show that no civilised people should have friendship with her, that treaties were an absurdity, equality a dream. All that happened to poor Japan, smarting under the wound, to her the most bitter of all—a wound to her honour. The Emperor’s welcome guest had been betrayed.29
The first word of the incident at Ōtsu to reach Meiji was a telegram sent by Prince Takehito twenty minutes after the attack. It said that the Russian prince had suffered severe wounds and asked that the army surgeon General Hashimoto Tsunatsune be sent to the scene at once. An hour later Takehito sent a personal message to the emperor asking him to come to Kyōto. The emperor, alarmed by the shocking event, conferred with the prime minister and other cabinet members. He sent Prince Yoshihisa at once to Kyōto. He also ordered Dr. Hashimoto and several other doctors, including his personal physician, to go immediately to the wounded man’s side. He then informed Prince Takehito that he would go to Kyōto himself early the next morning to see the czarevitch. Meiji also sent a telegram to Nicholas expressing grief and outrage over the attack on his “dear friend” and prayers for his speedy recovery. The czarevitch in reply regretted that he had caused the emperor to worry and stated that he felt surprisingly well. Meiji also sent a personal message to Alexander III informing him that his son had been wounded. The empress sent a similar message to the czarina.30
The emperor set out for Kyōto as planned, l
eaving from Shimbashi Station at 6:30 A.M. That night, soon after his arrival, he went to the hotel where the Russian prince was recovering from the attack and asked to see him. The Russian minister refused, explaining that a visit late at night would not be good for the patient. This must have been one of the rare occasions in Meiji’s life when a request of his was refused, but he did not insist, saying he would return the next morning. In the meantime, the doctors sent by the emperor had asked to examine the prince’s wounds, but they were refused by the Russian doctors, who said that there was nothing unusual about the wounds and that they did not wish to have the bandages removed. They said that the prince was unwilling to be examined by other doctors. On the following day when the Japanese doctors returned, they were again refused, and because the prince was moved that day to the Pamiat Azova, they were never allowed to examine him.31
The next morning the emperor left the Gosho, where he had spent the night, and went to visit Nicholas at his hotel. He was met by Prince George, who led him to the wounded prince’s room. The emperor expressed his deep regrets over the incident and his sympathy for Nicholas’s parents, who, far from their son, were surely greatly worried. He assured the prince that the criminal would be promptly punished and expressed the hope that the prince, as soon as he recovered from his wounds, would visit Tōkyō and see scenic spots elsewhere in Japan. Nicholas replied that the slight wounds he had received would not cause any change in his gratitude for the many kindnesses shown him by the emperor and the Japanese people. As for a visit to Tōkyō, he would have to await orders from home.32
That day Nicholas was moved from Kyōto to Kōbe; by command of his mother, he was to recuperate aboard the Pamiat Azova. When the emperor learned that the prince was returning to his ship, he was shocked, realizing this meant the prince would not visit Tōkyō. He sent Itō Hirobumi to ask the Russian minister to persuade the prince to remain in Japan. The minister explained the Russian people’s great fears for the prince’s safety and, in particular, the czarina’s deep concern. Although the prince personally wished to go to Tōkyō, he had no choice but to obey his parents. Finally, the minister, in tears, begged Itō to ask the emperor to think of the prince as his own son and travel with him to Kōbe in order to ensure his safety.33 Itō agreed to transmit the minister’s request and predicted that the emperor, in his supreme benevolence, would grant it.
Despite his disappointment, the emperor agreed to the minister’s request. His carriage called at the prince’s hotel, and they rode to the railway station. They boarded the imperial train (omeshi ressha) together, accompanied by Prince George and Prince Takehito. The train was heavily guarded, and the route that the party would take between the railway station and the harbor where the Pamiat Azova was anchored was lined with soldiers. In Kōbe the emperor accompanied the czarevitch as far as the pier, where they shook hands.
This was not the last time the two men met. On May 16 Nicholas sent Meiji a letter informing him that he was obliged to leave Japan on the nineteenth by command of his father.34 The emperor invited Nicholas to lunch in Kōbe on the nineteenth, but he replied that his doctors had advised against his leaving the ship. Nicholas in turn invited the emperor to lunch aboard the Pamiat Azova, and the emperor accepted. When word of the invitation reached members of the cabinet, they were appalled. They remembered how the taewon’gun of Korea had been abducted by the Chinese, carried off on a ship, and kept a prisoner in China for three years. They were sure that the Russians (who had more ships in Kōbe harbor than the Japanese) would carry off their emperor. The emperor calmly replied to their protests that he would go nevertheless: the Russians were not barbarians, how could they do anything of the kind the ministers feared?
On May 18 the emperor, accompanied by Princes Taruhito and Yoshihisa, boarded the Russian ship. The meal went well. The Russian minister later reported that he had never heard the emperor laugh so loudly. The emperor apologized for the incident at Ōtsu, to which the czarevitch responded that there were lunatics in every country and that in any case his wounds were slight, nothing to cause the emperor worry. They both observed the Russian custom of smoking during the meal, each offering the other a cigarette.35 The emperor left the ship at two that afternoon, and the ship sailed for Vladivostok a few hours later. By command of the emperor, Prince Yoshihisa, aboard the Yaeyama, saw off the Russian ship as far as Shimonoseki.36
The visit to the ship had passed without incident. Probably it did much to bring the two men together and erase painful memories from Nicholas’s mind. It had required considerable courage on the emperor’s part, showing once again his determination to do what he thought necessary, regardless of his ministers’ opinions.
In the meantime, national agitation over the incident had mounted. Perhaps the most deeply affected person was the empress. Mrs. Fraser wrote:
Meanwhile there was one person who could do nothing to help the poor young Prince or to punish his assailant; the valiant gentle Empress forgot all the repressions of her up-bringing, all the superb calm which as a part of her rank she had shown in every circumstance of her life, and for the whole of that wretched night walked up and down, up and down, weeping her heart out in a flood-tide of grief … her only thought was for the boy—and his mother.37
The whole of Japan seems to have grieved. Lafcadio Hearn began “Yuko: A Remembrance” with this passage:
Strange stillness in the city, a solemnity as of public mourning. Even itinerant venders utter their street cries in a lower tone than is their wont. The theaters, usually thronged from early morning until late into the night, are all closed. Closed also every pleasure-resort, every show—even the flower-displays. Closed likewise all the banquet-halls. Not even the tinkle of a samisen can be heard in the silent quarters of the geisha. There are no revellers in the great inns; the guests talk in subdued voices. Even the faces one sees upon the street have ceased to wear the habitual smile; and placards announce the indefinite postponement of banquets and entertainments.38
Hearn went on to describe the “universal spontaneous desire to repair the wrong.” Rich and poor stripped themselves of their most valued heirlooms, their most precious household treasures, in order to send them to the Pamiat Azova.
Hearn was moved most of all by “a serving-maid named Yuko, a samurai name of other days, signifying ‘valiant.’” He wrote,
Forty millions are sorrowing, but she more than all the rest. How and why no Western mind could fully know. Her being is ruled by emotions and by impulses of which we can guess the nature only in the vaguest possible way.39
On May 20 Yuko stabbed herself to death in front of the prefectural office in Kyōto. She was twenty-seven. On her body, people found letters, one (in Hearn’s words) “praying that the Tenshi-Sama may be petitioned to cease from sorrowing, seeing that a young life, even though unworthy, has been given in expiation of the wrong.”40 A monument was later erected to her memory.41
People from all over the country sent gifts to the Pamiat Azova, so many that “it seemed likely to sink with gifts.”42 There were tens of thousands of messages sent to the prince conveying the shame and regret of the Japanese people over the incident.43
In contrast to the overpowering sympathy expressed for the Russian prince, the Japanese had nothing but hatred for Tsuda Sanzō, the would-be assassin. The village of Kanayama in Yamagata Prefecture even passed an ordinance prohibiting anyone living in the village from bearing the surname Tsuda or the personal name Sanzō.44 Tsuda, although only a policeman, was of a samurai family that had served the daimyos of Iga in the hereditary capacity of physicians. Sanzō was born in the twelfth month of 1854 (or late January 1855 by the solar calendar).45 He had attended the domain school where as a samurai boy he studied the Chinese classics and the military arts. In 1872 he entered the army and subsequently served with distinction in the Satsuma Rebellion, winning a seventh-class decoration and a promotion to sergeant.46 In 1882 he was demobilized and became a policeman, at first in Mie and later in Shiga
Prefecture. People remembered him as an unsociable man of few words.47
The question immediately arouse as to Tsuda’s motivation. Dr. Baelz offered the simplest explanation:
Probably the offender was only a sort of Herostratus, craving for notoriety.48 There can be no doubt, however, that the Japanese hatred of the Russians, which has gradually been increasing for several years, must have played a contributory part. Russia is continually expanding, and swallows up her smaller neighbours. This makes the Japanese anxious.49
Other sources mention Tsuda’s indignation over the ceding of Sakhalin to the Russians; his conviction that the Russian prince had come to Japan as a spy, in preparation for invading the country; and his anger that Nicholas had gone to Nagasaki and Kagoshima to amuse himself instead of proceeding first to Tōkyō for an audience with the emperor.50 The most intriguing explanation of Tsuda’s motivation originated in the rumor that Saigō Takamori, who had not really died, had returned to Japan with the Russians. Tsuda, who had fought in the Satsuma Rebellion, did not welcome Saigō’s return. He even feared that he might be deprived of the honors he had won during the war.51
At his trial, Tsuda revealed that he had first decided to kill the Russian prince while on duty earlier that day at the Miidera. In order to get a better view of the scenery, Nicholas and George had climbed in their jinrikishas a hill known as Miyukiyama, or Imperial Visit Mountain, commemorating Meiji’s visit to the site in 1878. A monument stood there, erected to the memory of soldiers from Ōtsu who had died in the Satsuma Rebellion. Tsuda, seeing the inscription, contrasted his time of glory during the war with his present humble status as a policeman, and this aroused irritation with the foreign visitors. He thought of killing the Russian prince in order to dissipate his feelings of frustration. Just at this time two foreigners appeared. They showed not the slightest respect for the monument to the dead but asked the jinrikisha coolies about the scenery. Tsuda interpreted their questions as proof that they were engaged in spying, and his anger grew the more intense. He was not sure, however, which of the two foreigners was the Russian prince, so he decided to put off action, remembering the words of the police chief who had stressed to his men the importance to the emperor of the prince’s visit.52 Later, at Karasaki, he was close enough to assault Nicholas but delayed. But when Nicholas and his party were about to leave Ōtsu, Tsuda realized that this was his last chance, and if he allowed Nicholas to leave unscathed, he would one day return as an invader. This was why he struck.53
