This article was published in the journal Sekai no nihon on September 17, 1898.
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My dear friend Sansa, having read today’s issue of Sekai no Nihon, I congratulate you on the expansion of your battle lines. We must fight; countless enemies surround us. Our only path to forging our destiny is through a valiant struggle. Professional politicians cut off from the sentiments of the people; an academic establishment akin to the Papacy; ossified forces that at times resist progress and liberty; capitalists who embody the worship of gold; the vulgar masses who debase tastes and mores, are these not the very forces that challenge, persecute, and threaten us?
I am a recluse now, yet I cannot simply sit by and watch current events unfold. I wish, at times, to join your ranks and fight alongside you, though I know not if you would spare a position for me in your battle line. I have previously discussed Tokutomi Sohō in the daily edition of Sekai no niihon. Now, I wish to discuss him once more in the weekly edition. This essay is one I originally began drafting with the intention of submitting it to the Kokumin shimbun. However, upon reflection, I decided against sending it to that company. You may well hold a different view regarding my assessment of Sohō; yet, relying on your magnanimity, I trust you will permit me to discuss this brilliant talent in your pages. To discuss this matter is, in a sense, to discuss you yourself; I simply ask for the understanding of a noble gentleman regarding the subtle intent behind my words.
Rising at dawn today and reading the Kokumin shimbun, I saw an announcement that an open letter addressed to Sohō by Hitomi Ichitarō would be published. Reading this stirred deep emotions within me. When I traveled through the Tōhoku region last month, everyone who visited me at my lodgings invariably asked for my opinion on Sohō’s actions. I answered each of them by sharing my own perspective. As the inquiries were so frequent, I resolved to write a piece and submit it to the Kokumin shimbun to share my critique of Sohō with the public. While in Sendai, I took up my pen, but I could not quite capture my thoughts as I wished; ultimately, I tore up the draft I had produced and discarded it. As the rain falls, I am about to read the essay by my friend Hitomi; I cannot help but feel deeply moved. After all, he is surely the person who knows Sohō best,for he is, in effect, the living history of Kokumin no Tomo and the Kokumin Shimbun, having shared a close, long-standing bond of friendship with Tokutomi. Yet, I feel I cannot remain silent now. Let me set forth my own views on Sohō before I read Hitomi’s essay. Should my thoughts align with, or diverge from, Hitomi’s, please understand that this stems from the fact that the minds of both men are inherently impartial, rather than from any attempt to merely echo a friend’s sentiments. I ask this of that select few among my readers who possess an open and unbiased mind.
In the ten-plus years since Sohō first emerged as a commentator, his core principles have undergone a complete transformation. I say ‘complete transformation’ advisedly. When he first appeared on the public stage, the arguments he championed in brilliant essays such as Youth of New Japan and The Future of Japan were grounded entirely in the happiness of the free, liberated individual. While he embraced the concepts of national glory and prosperity, without dismissing them as mere empty vanity, he remained adamantly opposed to the jingoism that sought to sacrifice the individual to the idol of the State. He emerged as an advocate for liberty and peace; his banner bore the ideals of free trade, peaceful international relations, and democratic governance. In my view, he gave clear and powerful expression to the sentiments held by the intelligent young generation of that era. Prior to this, Taguchi Ukichi had already championed these same views, articulated in exquisite, gem-like prose, from the standpoint of Manchester School economics. Taguchi stands virtually alone as the forerunner who truly embodied the discourse of this new age. Yet, even then, I felt a touch of regret; Taguchi stood isolated, lacking allies, and, despite being a genius capable of shifting the intellectual currents of his time, his temperament was perhaps a shade too mild.
Observing Sohō’s journey through life, one sees a figure of boldness and brilliance; his energy seemed boundless, capable of confronting adversaries on every front. Naturally, I welcomed his role as a representative of this new ideology; indeed, his advocacy of ‘heimin-shugi’ (commoner-ism) stirred up a powerful new current of thought. Yet the times changed drastically. Even if one were to dispute his earlier views, the Japanese people had made immense strides in their awareness of the need for vigilance regarding their nation’s standing. Keenly sensitive to the shifting tides of the era, Sohō perceived that the issue of national survival, which he had initially treated as a secondary concern, was becoming far more urgent than the issue of individual rights. Consequently, he found himself, almost unconsciously, sympathizing with the very proponents of state power whom he had once vehemently attacked. Yet he still continued to champion ‘liberty at home’; he could not bring himself to abandon heiminshugi, the first great passion of his intellectual life. He was constantly provoked by the nation, a country that, due to international issues, compelled the majority of his sympathies to align with the ideal of ‘independence from external influence’. Katkov, known as Russia’s ‘uncrowned king’, underwent a similar transformation, shifting from a liberal to an advocate for the preservation of national character. Curiously, the prevailing currents of the times drove this champion of populism to become an advocate for national prestige, glory, and prosperity. The campaigns of 1877-78 further accelerated this trend. Sensing the shrinking of the world and the urgency of international relations, he called for the military expansion essential to national survival, drawing closer to military figures and engaging with diplomats.
Anyone with a discerning eye for reading can trace the progression of this transformation in the pages of the Kokumin shimbun and Kokumin no tomo. Whether Sohō’s decision to abandon the Cobden-Bright doctrine was truly wise, or whether his shift toward advocating for national strength, prestige, and military expansion was ultimately to his advantage, these remain, for me, unresolved questions. To speak plainly, personally I belong rather to the camp that advocates for a ‘Little Japan’. I find little to admire in the political strategies typical of the South, or the ‘Kyushu style’, which emphasize national glory, territorial expansion, and the forceful pursuit of a seat at the table of great powers. Yet I do acknowledge, just as Sohō does, that the issue of national survival has grown increasingly critical as the center of the global balance of power shifts toward the Far East. Thus, I view Sohō’s change in stance as a logical and historically natural progression. My only concern is that, at times, he appears inclined to swing toward an extreme. However, the public, unaware of this evolution in his thinking, tends to view him as someone who simply sold out his principles overnight for personal gain. Although the evolution of his thought is clearly reflected in Kokumin no tomo and Kokumin shimbun, publications that mirrored his own views, critics often characterize his shifts in position as calculated and insincere, alleging that he advocated for ideas he did not truly hold while abandoning those he actually believed in. I cannot help but pity such public ignorance. As previously noted, over the course of a decade or more, he transitioned from a nationalist perspective to a different stance, while personally evolving from a man of letters into a politician. This is a fact that anyone discussing him must acknowledge. The early Kokumin no tomo was essentially the organ of a literary club, whereas the later Kokumin no tomo served as the mouthpiece for a politician. It is not my intention here to debate whether his eventual entry into the political arena was a wise choice for his own career. Nevertheless, he was a man who had harbored ambitions for public life from the very beginning. I, too, harbor aspirations for this age; I cannot help but associate with its brilliant talents and heroes, joining hands with them to put those aspirations into action.
There are, I believe, only two ways for a man of ambition to conduct himself in the world.
The first is to live independently and alone: to say what one wishes to say, to do what one wishes to do, to incur no one’s displeasure and to owe nothing to anyone. To walk through the world in a straight and uncomplicated fashion: this is the vocation of the religious man, the poet and the literary man. To keep company with a single volume of poetry, live in a small, thatched cottage, and sing one’s own feelings as naturally and freely as a bird singing in the autumn or winter air, there is surely something deeply satisfying about such a life.
But Sohō was not a man willing to pursue this course. He could not detach himself from the world, nor could he bear to do so. He sought to find like-minded allies and, together with them, engage in the great work of statecraft. To undertake such a task with others, one inevitably finds it necessary, to some degree, to compromise one’s own nature. One is compelled to follow a spiral path. At times, one must yield and act for the sake of others; this is the vocation of the politician, the path that the ambitious of that era were bound to take. Thus, he cultivated magnanimity, learned the art of persuasion, and studied how to appeal to the sentiments of others. In short, because he sought to employ others, he first mastered the art of being employed by them. Through this approach, he forged ties with the Satsuma elder statesmen, the ‘genro’, and became a close associate of Count Ōkuma. At the time, observers feared for him, seeing the danger in this course. It was akin to the saying about being ‘led by the ox to Zenkō-ji Temple’, a situation where one is drawn along a path not entirely of one’s own choosing. It was the very trap into which the brilliant Liu Zongyuan of old had once fallen. It is a common pattern in history. Owing to the treacherous nature of the human heart and the inscrutable cruelty of fate, that a brilliant young man, spirited and quick to pledge his word or act on impulse, often receives nothing but curses, mockery, and traps from the cunning political allies he serves. Thus, when he returned from Europe and was welcomed with lavish banquets by the gentlemen of the political world, another friend of mine remarked: “Look, this frivolous society intends to make a fool of him; he is in danger.” I, too, privately shared this apprehension. Sure enough, he became a target of scorn, sneers, and curses; he was subjected to insults that were rude, heartless, cruel, and barbaric.
I am one who laments the fickleness of the human heart. Yet, that is merely a personal sentiment. For him, this was likely something he had anticipated all along, and indeed, nothing more than an excellent trial, one that would allow him to advance a step further in the refinement of character befitting a statesman. When a man throws himself into the political fray as a statesman, he must be prepared to sacrifice himself to fate. Long ago, Zhuangzi likened high-ranking statesmen to the sacrificial ox, adorned in elaborate robes and patterns before slaughter. Yet it is not merely high ministers who are such sacrificial oxen; all politicians share this lot. One stakes one’s life to enter the ranks of heroes, vying for national power alongside the wisest, bravest, and most eloquent figures in the land. There are times one is betrayed by a close friend; times one walks a path of naked blades; times one is buried under a barrage of heated abuse and cold scorn. Victory and defeat are, after all, the common lot of the warrior.
Naturally, this is not the outcome Sōhō envisions for himself. In the life of Sōhō the statesman, the current misfortune is but a minor, initial obstacle on a journey spanning a thousand leagues. I was personally acquainted with Katsu Kaishū. While I did not necessarily admire every choice he made regarding his public career and conduct, I deeply respected the way he constantly strove to temper his character through the very circumstances in which he found himself. If Sohō truly takes to heart the lessons of adversity, the depth of his attainments will surely surpass anything seen to date. Viewed in this light, the way fate seems to be mocking him is, in reality, a process intended to refine and perfect him. I, too, ought to view my friend’s situation with a measure of magnanimity.
I do not know if these words will find favor with Hitomi. In the past, I defended Sohō during his time in government service and was regarded as his advocate; now, I discuss him as he sits amidst a storm of slander. I cannot say what judgment the blind world will pass. Lacking the authority to suppress public opinion, I leave the matter to the clamor of the petty-minded.
Written on the morning of the first Sunday in September, in a small villa in Shibaura.
