by Donald Keene
In January 1907 a daily newspaper, called like its predecessor Heimin shimbun, published 13,000 copies, priced at one sen. It insisted on freedom of speech and declared that it would not tolerate any interference, restraint, or restriction in what it published. It soon became apparent, however, that it was dominated by a direct-action “hard-line” faction, although Kōtoku declared that he would not attempt to force anyone to accept his beliefs. He insisted that revolution was a natural tendency, and as if in confirmation of his thesis, there was a series of spontaneous strikes at this time, including a major strike at the Ashio copper mines. The mine strike was put down by troops sent at the request of Hara Takashi, the interior minister.
On February 17, 1907, the Second Japan Socialist Party Congress was opened in Tōkyō. A serious division soon became apparent between the socialists, who revered Marx, and the anarchists (including Kōtoku), who turned to Bakunin. The Social Revolutionary Party, an organization of Japanese living in America, led the anarchists’ attacks. Its magazine published in late December 1906 a fierce attack on the rulers of the different countries, including a demand that the “mikado,” who represented the capitalist class, be speedily overthrown. In November 1907 a similar publication featured “An Open Letter to Mutsuhito, Emperor of Japan, from Anarchists-Terrorists.”44 This development could be traced back to Kōtoku, who had organized the Social Revolutionary Party while he was in the United States and wrote every month for its magazine.
Pressure against the socialists increased. In April 1907, after three months of publication, the daily Heimin shimbun was forced to close down, largely because of an article by Yamaguchi Koken urging readers to “kick their fathers and mothers”—an appeal to overthrow the establishment. Apart from the government pressure on socialists, the rivalry between Kōtoku and Katayama became increasingly bitter. Kōtoku’s faction was known as the “hard-line” and Katayama’s as the “soft-line,” the difference being Kōtoku’s refusal to compromise in their anarchist demands. Kōtoku defended anarchism, insisting that it was not an organization of assassins and declaring that its mission was “to demolish the foundations of tyrannical oppression and to ignite the divine fire of insurrection in the hearts of the timid.”45
In June 1908, while Kōtoku was recuperating from illness in Tosa Nakamura, members of the “hard-line faction” staged a demonstration in Tōkyō during which red flags inscribed with the words “anarchism” and “anarchocommunism” were paraded through the streets.46 The incident was relatively minor, but most of the anarchist leaders were arrested and their punishment was severe. It was symptomatic of the intensified stridency of the anarchists and the harshness of the police. Yamagata, the most vigorous opponent of socialism, decided that Saionji was too soft on the radicals and schemed to get the emperor to replace him with Katsura. He was successful: in July 1908 Katsura was asked to form a cabinet, which soon adopted extremely repressive measures to control the socialists.
Meanwhile, in many parts of Japan, anarchist opposition to the government was springing up. The daily Heimin shimbun had converted many of them to anarchism, but most, far from being intellectual theorists, were farmers, factory workers, or unemployed. Despite the police surveillance of suspected radicals, they managed to form small groups known as the “Kishū Band,” the “Hakone Band,” the “Shinshū Band,” and so on. In Hakone, for example, the Buddhist priest Uchiyama Gudō privately published a pamphlet called A Memento of Prison: Anarcho-Communism, which included such passages as
The present boss of the government, the one they call “the son of Heaven,” is not the child of the gods or anything of the kind, regardless of what you have been told by your elementary school teachers…. You tenant farmers have to struggle even to get enough to eat each day. You can’t be in the least grateful that Japan is the Land of the Gods or whatever it’s called…. And because you’ve been taught to spend your whole life working for and being used by a descendant of robbers who wears the mask of a god, you will never be able to free yourselves from poverty.47
The “enemy” in anarchist writings, whether in Japan or California, now stood revealed as the emperor rather than any corrupt politicians or greedy capitalists. The proposed weapon to be used in effecting change also had shifted from general strikes to bombs. Kōtoku argued that a successful assassination would not require many participants. He favored a suicide squad of fifty people.
At first there was little liaison among the different groups, each of which had arrived at its own program of action. Uchiyama Gudō had dynamite that could be used but thought it would be easier to kill the crown prince than the emperor. Miyashita Taikichi of the Shinshū Band had the most concrete plan: he proposed making bombs himself and using them on the emperor. But when Miyashita called on Kōtoku in February 1909, Kōtoku expressed doubts about his plan’s feasibility, although he admired Miyashita’s courage. Kōtoku was in poor health, and he wanted to complete other projects before he died, including the translation of Peter Kropotkin’s Conquest of Bread and a massive attack on Christianity. Perhaps, too, despite his reiteration of anarchist principles, his long reverence for the emperor made it difficult for him to join bomb throwers.48
Probably the most extreme anarchist was a woman, Kanno Suga. After being forced by her family into a loveless marriage, she ran away and lived for a time with the writer Arahata Kanson, who converted her to his leftist views. They both were arrested in the Red Flag incident, but she was released for lack of evidence. While Arahata was still in prison, Suga shifted from him to Kōtoku and eventually became his mistress. Kōtoku thought that he at last had found the wife of his dreams who shared his revolutionary ideals, but Suga was so fanatically determined to carry out the assassination that Kōtoku’s ardor was cooled and they separated.
Even after Kōtoku had made it clear that he would not take part in the assassination attempt, Miyashita was still determined to carry out his plan. He recruited three others—Kanno Suga, Niimura Tadao, and Furukawa Rikisaku. On November 3, 1909,49 he successfully exploded one of his bombs. On May 17, 1910, the four drew lots to decide each person’s role when the emperor’s carriage approached on its return from the military review on November 3, the emperor’s birthday. Suga drew the lucky number: she would throw the first bomb.
On May 20 the police, who had been suspicious of Miyashita for some time,50 raided his rooms and discovered two tin canisters. Next they searched the lumber mill where he worked and found chemicals and additional canisters. On the twenty-fifth a bill of indictment was issued, and five members of the Shinshū Band were arrested. Other arrests followed, including that of Kōtoku, on June 1. The arrests led from one group to another, with the last made on October 18.
The trial began on December 10 and ended on December 29. The twenty-six defendants were accused of having violated article 73 of the criminal code, which prohibited harming or intending to harm the emperor or the imperial family. During the trial, Kanno Suga insisted that only four persons were involved in the plot, and quite apart from her testimony, it was evident that Kōtoku had not been involved. Nevertheless, he was accused of having inspired the others with his anarchist teachings.51 The police were determined not to let him escape.
The verdicts were read on January 18, 1911. Twenty-four of the twenty-six defendants were sentenced to death, and the remaining two, to imprisonment. On January 19 in accordance with the emperor’s wishes, concerned judges and officials met to consider an amnesty. They recommended that the sentences of twelve defendants be reduced one degree to life imprisonment. This was accepted, but the remaining twelve (including Kōtoku) were executed by hanging on January 24 and 25.52
The harsh sentences passed even on persons who were only tangentially related to the grand treason plot shocked some in the Japanese literary world, and there were protests from abroad, but probably most people at the time believed that the anarchists’ plot was a loathsome act of rebellion for which the death penalty was fully justified.53 The trial and convi
ction of the twenty-six defendants satisfied the authorities who were eager to stamp out socialism. It would take another decade for the socialists to emerge from the winter of their discontent.
At this distance from the events, one tends to sympathize with the executed men and woman, who were motivated by ideals, not by a lust for power. The failure of the planned murder of the emperor makes it easy to forgive the would-be killers and deplore their execution. Unfortunately, this was not the last assassination plot planned or carried out in Japan, although the assassins of the next thirty years were not anarchists but fanatics of the extreme right.
Chapter 61
Once the excitement of the grand treason had died down, the forty-fourth year of Emperor Meiji’s reign was marked by few dramatic incidents. The noteworthy events included the signing of new treaties of commerce with America, France, Spain, and other countries, ending most of the economic and legal discrimination against Japan that had characterized earlier treaties. However, the question of Japanese immigration marred the generally friendly relations with the United States and remained a source of bitter feelings for years.
The Anglo-Japanese Alliance was renewed for a third time in July 1911, though weakened by modifications of the original provisions. The Americans, dismayed over the buildup in the Japanese navy and Japanese expansion in Korea and Manchuria, blamed the alliance for these unwelcome developments and were doubtless hoping that the alliance would be terminated.1 The British could not completely ignore American objections, if only because they were about to sign a treaty with the United States providing for compulsory arbitration in the event of differences between the two countries. Compulsory arbitration, however, contradicted the terms of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance. If Japan and the United States went to war, Britain would be obligated by the alliance to join Japan in fighting the United States; but if Britain were bound to submit to arbitration, the arbitrators might rule against participation in a war. For their part, the Japanese refused to submit to arbitration their differences with other countries. Experience had taught them that whenever a conflict arose between a country of the white race and a country of the yellow race and it was submitted to arbitration, the country of the white race always won.2
In the end, however, the Japanese saved the alliance by agreeing that in the event the Japanese went to war with a country with which Britain had concluded a treaty of arbitration (for example, the United States), Britain would not be obligated to support the Japanese.3 The Japanese made this concession because they still believed that the alliance helped preserve peace in the Far East, but the alliance had in fact lost much of its original importance to the Japanese, both as a symbol of equality with a European power and as a bulwark against Russian aggression.
There were signs also that the intensely pro-Japanese feelings that had swept through Britain when the alliance was first proclaimed had cooled, especially since the Russo-Japanese War. Antipathy toward the Japanese, possibly originating in latent racial and religious prejudices, took the form of fears over the development of Japanese commerce and industry, concern that Japan was using the alliance to its own advantage, and a growing conviction that Japan had violated China’s territorial integrity and (despite its professed adherence to the Open Door policy) was monopolizing vital interests in Manchuria.4 Some in Britain called for an end to the alliance, but Sir Edward Grey, the foreign secretary, favored renewal because he felt the Japanese navy was needed to counter the growing German navy.
About this time, in July 1911, Yamagata Aritomo presented a memorial to the throne deploring the laxness that had crept over the Japanese since the Russo-Japanese War. He urged rearmament, pointing out that Russia had recovered from the war, that the Chinese army was far more effectual than in the past, and that (although it was hard to imagine) war was sure to occur sooner or later between Japan and the United States because the latter’s Pacific Ocean policy so frequently clashed with Japanese interests.5
Despite such dire prospects, the prevailing atmosphere in Japan was peaceful. There was even leeway for thinking about the hitherto neglected parts of the population. For the first time, the emperor demonstrated his awareness of the plight of those who had been left behind in the rapid development of the Japanese economy. On February 11 he issued a rescript to Katsura Tarō (once again the prime minister) containing these words:
One matter causes me constant concern—the possibility that there may be needy people, with no one they can turn to, who are unable to live out their natural span of life because they lack medical care. I intend therefore to broaden the channels for saving lives by providing free medicine and medical care. I shall give funds for this purpose from my private purse, to be used as capital. I call on you to implement my wishes and take the proper steps so that our entire people will always have something they can depend on.6
That day, the emperor informed the minister of the treasury that he intended to give 1.5 million yen for medical care for the poor. This was not the emperor’s first gift to poor people in need of medical attention. In 1878, distressed by the prevalence of trachoma in Niigata, he had given money for treatment.7 Whenever there was a fire, a flood, or an earthquake anywhere in Japan (and sometimes abroad), he had made donations to the victims. But the scale this time was so much larger than before that it seemed an entirely new kind of concern. Perhaps as the emperor himself began to feel the weight of old age and illness, his thoughts had turned to others who bore the same burdens.
This year the emperor began to cancel appearances if they seemed likely to prove harmful to his health. On April 20, for example, he and the empress were scheduled to attend a cherry-blossom viewing at the Hama Detached Palace, but a strong wind was raising dust, and he decided not to go.8 He had never enjoyed garden parties, where he had to be cordial to whoever attended, and he may have felt as if he had shaken hands a sufficient number of times with foreign diplomats, but he had always submitted to these irksome duties. Now, however, not even his Confucian training enabled him to overcome physical weariness.
Meiji put himself to what would be a final test of endurance later that year when he attended the Special Grand Army Maneuvers in Fukuoka Prefecture. He left Tōkyō by train on November 7 and, after stops on the way at Shizuoka and Himeji, arrived on the ninth at Mitajiri in Chōshū, where he was the guest of Mōri Motoaki. They were joined by a number of distinguished Chōshū men, including Yamagata Aritomo, Katsura Tarō, and Hara Takashi. That night, Mōri offered entertainment calculated to please the emperor—musical ballads played on Satsuma and Chikuzen biwas commemorating heroic deeds of the past, followed by motion pictures, probably the first he had seen. The films showed whaling off the Aomori coast, a skit about a badger turning into a man, and travel down the rapids in deepest Africa. A member of the emperor’s party provided explanations.9
The emperor left the next day for Shimonoseki, where he boarded a naval vessel for Moji and from there went by train to Kurume, the site of Grand Headquarters. On November 11 the emperor left Kurume and traveled by train and carriage to the site of the maneuvers. He was able to climb to an observation post on the top of a hill, thanks to a flight of sixty wooden steps up the hill that had been built for his convenience. A bamboo railing on which he could lean as he climbed was provided along the stairs. It was evident to everyone that the climbing exhausted him, but he reached the top and observed maneuvers for about two hours.
A photograph of the emperor bending over a map was taken at this time by an army photographer.10 This profile photograph was published after his death along with a facsimile of his signature, but the posture was rotated ninety degrees to make him stand straight. It probably was the first photograph taken of the emperor in thirty-nine years, since he posed for Uchida Kuichi in 1873.11
On the return journey the emperor again received hospitality from Mōri Motoaki at Mitajiri and was entertained by music and a mixture of informative and humorous films. The emperor learned after his return to Tōkyō that a man who h
ad been responsible for temporarily derailing the emperor’s train on November 10, causing a delay of one hour, had atoned for his mistake by throwing himself under the wheels of another train. The emperor sent 300 yen to his family.12
In February 1912, plans for the annual autumn Grand Maneuvers were presented to the emperor for his approval. They specified that he would spend only the second night of maneuvers in Kawagoe and that on the remaining three nights he would return to Tōkyō. This provision was obviously made out of concern for the emperor’s failing health.
The emperor was unusually slow to approve the plans. When the general staff could wait no longer, the chief of the General Affairs Department visited the palace and asked (through the senior chamberlain) the emperor’s wishes. He replied, “When I looked at the plans for the maneuvers, I saw I was to spend only one night in Kawagoe. The troops are to sleep in the open, regardless of whether it is windy or raining, and then carry out actual warfare. How could I be the only one to sleep happily in the palace? I can’t approve such plans.” The plans were accordingly revised to provide that the emperor would spend the full period of the maneuvers in Kawagoe. When the new plans were submitted, he approved them on the same day.13 The emperor insisted (as he had during the Sino-Japanese War) on sharing the hardships of the soldiers and was unwilling to admit that observing maneuvers might prove a strain on his health.
Soon after the emperor’s return to Tōkyō from Fukuoka, he received word of major disturbances in China. The Japanese government was inclined to watch developments for a time rather than act precipitously, but of late the haplessness of the Chinese court had been all too apparent, and hopes that it might restore order without foreign intervention had more or less disappeared. Reports stated that revolutionary forces seeking to overthrow the Manchu regime had established bases in various places, but they lacked unity. Internal dissension among the rebel leaders and the lack of training of their hastily mustered troops vitiated their strength, and it was doubtful they could maintain order in the areas they occupied. If the disturbances continued over a long period of time, they would interfere with trade and might also revive Boxer-style xenophobia. In view of this tense situation, the Japanese government concluded that countries with major concerns in China could not merely watch with folded arms.
