by Donald Keene
The Japanese ambassador in London was asked to determine what steps Britain intended to take in the face of the crisis. He was also directed to explain that Japan could not accept the arguments of those who sought to establish a republic in China. Japan favored a government that, though nominally in the hands of the Manchus, was actually run by Chinese.14
Concern over the situation in China continued to grow in Japan. General Yüan Shih-k’ai, named as premier by the Manchu court in a desperate gesture to maintain its existence, was well known to the Japanese. He had played a prominent role in Korea before the Sino-Japanese War and after the war had established a reputation by rebuilding the Chinese army. Now he seemed to be the monarchists’ last hope, but in fact he saw a chance to become the first president of China. British support of the Manchus wavered, and even within the Manchu government, some high-placed men were disposed to accept a republic.
Although the Japanese did not change their opinion that a constitutional monarchy was the best form of government for China, they realized that Japan could not be the only country to insist that China remain a monarchy, nor could Japan continue indefinitely to worry about China’s future. On November 27 the emperor opened the twentieth session of the Diet. In his rescript, he referred to the unrest in China: “I am deeply concerned over the disturbances in China. I hope that order will be promptly restored and peace prevail.”15 His constant references to his desire for peace in East Asia (as opposed, say, to Kaiser Wilhelm’s insistence on German glory) surely reflected his real feelings. That was why such men as An Chung-gun and Kōtoku Shūsui, despite their hatred of the Japanese government, had respected him.
On December 28, 1911, the Manchu government issued a statement appealing for an end to hostilities and calling for a fair election to determine whether the people desired a constitutional monarchy or a republic. The following day, without reference to this appeal, an election was held in Nanking for the president of the provisional republican government. Sun Yat-sen was elected and took office on January 1, 1912.
In the meantime, the Japanese minister plenipotentiary to China, Ijūin Hikokichi (1864–1923), and the Confucian scholar K’ang Yu-wei, who led the movement for creating a constitutional monarchy on the lines of the Meiji government, called on Yüan Shih-k’ai. They said they had been informed that no progress had been made in the negotiations between governmental and revolutionary forces. There were also rumors that the emperor would abdicate. They asked what was really happening. Yüan answered that negotiations with the revolutionary army had indeed reached a stalemate. The two sides could not agree even on where to open a parliament. The government proposed Peking, but the revolutionaries strongly objected. In any event, the government army’s financial situation was growing more desperate by the day, and there was no way to replenish the funds available for military expenses. Civil organizations and local officials in Shanghai and Hong Kong were demanding the speedy abdication of the emperor and the establishment of a republican form of government.
Faced with this opposition at home and abroad, the cabinet abandoned hope for a constitutional monarchy. Opinion among the nobles was divided, and the situation was chaotic. Yüan concluded by asking Ijūin to offer his advice.16
Ijūin replied that Japan had no easy solution to offer, but he conveyed the Japanese hope for a constitutional monarchy, even if this reduced the emperor to being a mere figurehead. He added that the Japanese government was unlikely to recognize any government unless it demonstrated it was capable of suppressing disturbances. Until such time, Japan would have no choice but to treat China as a country without a government. This response upset Yü an greatly.17
The end of the Manchu dynasty, after 300 years of rule, came a few weeks later. On February 12, 1912, the six-year-old Emperor Hsüan T’ung announced his abdication. Yüan Shih-k’ai formed a provisional republican government and was granted full powers to negotiate with the people’s army on unification. On the thirteenth Sun Yat-sen, recognizing Yüan’s military capability, offered his resignation as president to the Assembly in Nanking and proposed that Yüan Shih-k’ai be the new president. The Assembly agreed, and on March 10, in a ceremony held in Peking, Yüan took the oath of office as the first president of China.
Emperor Meiji’s reactions to the abdication of the Chinese emperor are not recorded, but he was undoubtedly more affected than, say, when he heard that the king of Portugal had been driven from his throne. Not only was China far closer than any European country, but his respect for China lingered despite the decisive defeat Japan had administered in the Sino-Japanese War. China may have lost its preeminence among the nations of East Asia, but when letters were exchanged between the emperor of China and the emperor of Japan, they both wrote in Chinese, and Meiji’s rescripts were dotted with Chinese words and phrases borrowed from Confucian texts.
Nationalists did not hesitate to say that the Japanese, rather than contemporary Chinese, were the true heirs to the ancient glories of Chinese civilization. The fall of the Chinese monarchy, breaking traditions of more than 2,000 years since the first emperor, could not be dismissed as most Japanese had dismissed the fall of the Ryūkyūan or the Korean monarchy as the unavoidable fate of a weak country in the modern world. During the next forty years or so, China was subjected by the Japanese military to humiliation and the ravages of war, but it continued to exercise a powerful attraction on Japanese intellectuals who felt that the Chinese past was in large part their own.
Although the emperor’s physical condition had plainly deteriorated, he maintained an active interest in the affairs of state. In October 1911, when the chief of the general staff, Oku Yasukata, who had been suffering from deafness, was about to retire, Yamagata Aritomo suggested to the emperor that Oku be succeeded by Nogi Maresuke. The emperor sent word the next day to Yamagata that he feared it might prove difficult to find a successor for Nogi as president of the Gakushū-in. This in fact may have been the emperor’s true opinion; he may have hoped that while at the Gakushū-in, his three grandsons would have the benefit of Nogi’s guidance.18 But the emperor was surely aware that Nogi would have been far happier to be appointed as chief of the general staff, the highest post to which a military man could aspire, than to remain as principal of the Gakushū-in. To deny Nogi this promotion was an unkindness. Perhaps the emperor still had not forgiven Nogi for the enormous loss of life at Port Arthur. Although Nogi was idolized by the Japanese public as the hero of the Russo-Japanese War and foreign governments had decorated him, he had been shunted aside to an educational post for which he had no qualifications apart from the excellence of his character.19 The emperor’s refusal to appoint Nogi as chief of the general staff was, of course, final, and Yamagata, withdrawing his recommendation, asked that General Oku be permitted to remain in his post.20
The new year, 1912, was the forty-fifth of the emperor’s reign. This year Meiji would celebrate his sixtieth birthday.21 In view of his ailments, however, there was not much likelihood of festivities.
The traditional New Year’s events were observed. The lectures of the year opened with one on Aristotle’s Politics. Arrangements for the first poetry gathering were complicated by the emperor’s dislike of the two topics suggested by Takasaki Masakaze: “Cranes by the Sea” and “Cryptomeria Before the Shrine.” Takasaki submitted two more topics, but the emperor did not like these either. He chose to compose a tanka on a topic of his own, “Crane in the Pines.”22
The most unusual feature of this particular gathering was the participation of the gon no tenji Sono Sachiko. The gon no tenji, the least prominent members of the court, normally did not take part in court functions, but perhaps the emperor wished to show special favor to Sono, who had given birth to his four surviving daughters. Perhaps also he sensed that this might be his last poetry gathering and wished it to be memorable. Three days later, his personal physician, Oka Genkei, recommended that, for the time being, the emperor not eat meat or fowl, shellfish, mushrooms, eels, or Western food
, and orders to this effect were passed on to the imperial kitchen.23
The emperor continued to observe his daily routine of granting audiences to members of the cabinet and foreign visitors, though in his weakened physical condition, this had become taxing. He also bestowed money on deserving and suffering people and attended such public functions as the graduation exercises at military schools. In April he (and 2,040 other people) attended the cherry-blossom viewing at the Hama Detached Palace.
In May the emperor attended graduation exercises at several navy and army colleges and on July 10 went to the exercises at Tōkyō Imperial University. The effort to climb stairs seemed to exhaust him, and he used his sword to support him.24 On the morning of the fourteenth when his physician paid his usual call, the emperor mentioned that he had felt some pain early that morning and was heavy in the stomach. He also complained of fatigue in his limbs and dozed off from time to time. All the same, he did not forget to send a palace officer to Prince Yi Eun with a message praising his diligence in his studies and urging him to keep up the good work while on summer vacation.
On July 15 a secret treaty between Japan and Russia was signed in St. Petersburg, setting boundaries on the spheres of influence of the two countries in Manchuria and Inner Mongolia. Before the meeting of the Privy Council at which the treaty was to be discussed, the emperor summoned Yamagata Aritomo and gave him a rescript expressing pleasure that the causes for conflict between Japan and Russia were to be removed, thereby ensuring peace in East Asia. Despite his indisposition, he attended the session of the Privy Council. Normally, the emperor’s bearing was solemn and serene, and once he had taken his seat, he hardly stirred for long periods, but today his posture was slovenly, and at times he dozed off, to the consternation of ministers and advisers. After the emperor returned to the palace, he told people that he had made the effort to attend the meeting because the subject of discussion was of particular urgency, but he was so fatigued that without realizing it, he had fallen asleep two or three times.25
From this day on, the emperor’s pulse was irregular and skipped beats, but even though he was not feeling well, he continued to go as usual to his office. His periods of drowsiness, however, became more pronounced. When he was offered refreshments in the afternoon or his favorites tunes were played on the phonograph, he did not take his usual pleasure in either. He looked absolutely exhausted.26
On July 17 he was examined by Dr. Oka, who noted skipped beats in his pulse, hardening of the liver, and pain in the legs beneath the knees. The emperor walked extremely slowly but went as usual to his office.
From July 18 the emperor suffered a loss of appetite. He did not attempt to go to his office, spending the entire day in a daze. In the evening he asked that the phonograph be played and seemed to enjoy it, but kept dozing off. At night, however, he did not sleep soundly.
The emperor’s suffering was intensified by the exceptionally hot summer. For days, the temperature did not drop below 90 degrees, and on the nineteenth it reached 94 degrees. At the dinner table after drinking two glasses of wine, he complained of pain in his eyes. He left his chair, only to stagger and fall. Everyone was alarmed, and a temporary bed was quickly made where he fell. He was running a high fever and in a coma. At two in the morning, the empress and three officials were sent for.
The next morning, the empress suggested that two physicians (both professors at Tōkyō University) who had not previously examined the emperor be summoned. They diagnosed his illness as uremia. The two physicians, along with the chief of the Court Medical Bureau, informed the assembled genrō, ministers, members of the Privy Council, generals, and admirals of the emperor’s condition. That afternoon, they issued a statement disclosing to the nation for the first time that the emperor was seriously ill. The report mentioned that he had suffered since 1904 from diabetes, to which in 1906 chronic hepatitis had been added. These two ailments had continued to afflict him, sometimes acutely. Since July 14 he had been suffering from gastroenteritis and since the fifteenth from a tendency toward lethargy, which had grown more pronounced. There had been a loss of appetite, and from the nineteenth, brain fever had left him in a state of daze. His temperature, urination, and breathing were described in detail.
From that day, his four daughters and the crown princess took turns watching by his bedside. The crown prince could not be present because he was suffering from chicken pox. The empress sent the court ritualist Miyaji Iwao to the Ise Shrine to pray for the emperor’s recovery, but his condition continued to deteriorate. There was a steady stream of visitors, but he was incapable of speaking to them. Everyone blamed the emperor’s physicians for not having prescribed treatment after his illness of 1904. The physicians defended themselves, claiming that although they went every morning to the palace intending to examine him, he always refused, saying he did not need an examination. They had not dared to oppose his commands.27
Even when the emperor, realizing that he was definitely suffering from some ailment, had consented to let a doctor examine him, he was always an unwilling patient. Chamberlain Hinonishi Sukehiro recalled that he had been taken ill while in Hiroshima during the Sino-Japanese War. “We thought it was just a cold, but later on we discovered it was pneumonia.” Hinonishi continued, “He had had trouble with his eyes and teeth from some time back, but he never complained to anyone. He had difficulty seeing things at a distance…. When he ate he was always very careful about what he put in his mouth and absolutely refused anything hard. But he never had any dental care. He put up with the pain…. He avoided doctors as much as possible.”28
Those serving him had begged him to listen to the doctors’ advice. At the time of the Grand Maneuvers in Kurume, his extreme fatigue was apparent to everyone. On the way back, going from Mitajiri to Nagoya, the rocking of the train had bothered him. He blamed the clumsy engineer for making the train go too fast. “Tell him to go slower,” he commanded. Chamberlain Bōjō Toshinaga, who was in attendance, said that the train was traveling at normal speed, to which the emperor responded sharply, “You’re taking the side of the railways.” The train slowed down, and it arrived an hour late in Nagoya.29
Such outbursts by the emperor were extremely rare. Whatever physical pain he might be experiencing, he had endured, trying not to let others see. His stoical acceptance of suffering, like his indifference to summer heat or winter cold, was an integral part of his conception of what it meant to be an emperor. Moreover, he felt that he must not only accept hardship but also deny himself pleasure. He once told Saionji Kinmochi, “I love Kyōto. That’s why I don’t go there.”30 But inevitably there were moments of weariness. In the privacy of his private quarters he was heard to say after his return from Kyūshū, “What will become of the world when I am gone? I wish I were already dead.”31
Meiji’s interpretation of how a Confucian ruler should behave explains his sometimes puzzling behavior. His determination to observe the maneuvers in Kurume at a time when he was suffering from a heaviness in his limbs that made walking, let alone climbing, difficult, is otherwise hard to understand, but he willingly accepted physical pain as a part of his duties. He did not feel sorry for himself, and when he refused to accept the proposed easy schedule for the maneuvers in Kawagoe, he was not being masochistic. Rather, he was convinced that it was his duty to share the hardships of his soldiers. The long journey to Kyūshū made little sense in terms of what he actually did while observing maneuvers. Although he was the supreme commander, he did not utter a word of command or try in any way to display his knowledge of warfare. He went because he believed that his position demanded it and because he knew the effect that his presence would have on the maneuvers. The soldiers, aware that he was watching, would do their best, determined not to disgrace themselves in his presence. He knew that he could inspire them without resorting to oratory or insisting on his own importance. Duty was his primary concern: he had no desire for glory and did not worry about how history would judge him.
The emper
or’s end occurred shortly after midnight on the morning of July 30, 1912. The immediate cause was heart failure. The news was announced jointly by the minister of the imperial household and the prime minister. At one in the morning, the home minister went to the Hall for State Ceremonies bearing the sacred sword and jewel, the imperial seal, and the seal of state. The ceremony of transmission of the sword and jewel was performed, and the new emperor in an imperial rescript announced that his reign-name would be Taishō.32
The next morning, Bōjō Toshinaga helped Emperor Taishō put on his clothes for the accession ceremony. He had been wearing a lieutenant general’s uniform but changed now to that of the supreme commander. After the ceremony the new emperor went to an inner room where he prayed before his father’s remains. Empress Shōken, who was now the dowager, wished to yield the place of honor in the room to her son, considering that he ranked higher than herself. He insisted that she keep her place, but she said in gentle but firm tones, “You have acceded to the position of the sovereign of the entire realm, and you must sit in the place of honor.” Although Taishō wished to manifest to the full his respect for his mother, he quietly bowed and took his seat in the place of honor, from which he delivered a few words on ascending the throne.33
Soon after Meiji’s death, men who had known him best were asked to relate their recollections.34 All commented on his insistence on simplicity, his exceptional powers of memory, his concern for other people, but their comments somehow failed to create a portrait of the man. The reason is probably to be found in the statement made at the time by the politician and diplomat Makino Nobuaki:
