Work Text:
INTIMATE SIDELIGHTS ON PRINCE SAIONJI
By Kinkazu Saionji
By requesting me to write an essay on my grandfather, the Editor of Contemporary Japan is burdening me with a very difficult, even a cruel task; for it would be but an idle undertaking to limit the scope of the essay to the description of the private side of the Grand Old Man’s life, which it is as yet premature to dramatize; while, on the other hand, should a grandson dare attempt a critical study of his grandfather’s public activities, would it not create general consternation among the traditionalist groups?
Not to show one’s feelings externally has long been considered in this country as a virtue. My grandfather is, in this respect, a man well entitled to be called virtuous. There was, however, an incident which I remember very vividly. After the unfortunate 5.15 Incident, Prince Saionji left his villa in Okitsu, a place chosen by him for peaceful retirement and meditation, and came up to Tokyo burdened, as Genro, with the extremely difficult task of replying to His Imperial Majesty’s consultation on the matter of the succeeding Prime Minister. I was at the station to receive the Old Man. He was duly conducted, by the station-master and several police officers and other officials, to his car. And, as I proceeded towards his car, people hesitated whether to let me do so or not, which caused a little delay in the Prince’s departure. He then suddenly and most unexpectedly shouted at me. A fraction of a moment later, I was in his car. I realized, on retrospection, that he was supposed to drive alone in that car with his secretary, Baron Harada, and that the reason why he shouted at me was that he would not have liked to have anything private butt in before he had performed his important duty to the State. Between matters public and private, the Old Man is, and has always been, an uncompromising separationist.
I, too, then am going to drive away the private for the sake of the public, in the same spirit. For a grandson, it may be difficult to attempt a critical study of his grandfather; yet, for a public man, I see no moral difficulty in attempting a sketch of another public man.
It would be a mere extravagance to waste many words on how Prince Saionji spent ten of his most formative years in France for the purposes of education; how strongly he was impressed by Rousseau’s Contrat Social, which was indeed the most radical of political thoughts when he came back to Japan in 1881; how he tried to materialize his progressive thoughts, by means of becoming owner-editor of a newspaper and advocating both political and social reforms; how he has served four Emperors, either as courtier or courtier-general, or as minister or ambassador to several foreign courts, or as minister or Prime Minister and party-leader, or finally as Genro and guardian of the Constitution. All these have already been described in detail by abler hands than mine. It is at the same time interesting and wonderful that Prince Saionji is a contemporary and simultaneously a classic. There are a good many people still alive in Japan who collaborated with, or had contact with, Lord Balfour, Clemenceau, Marshal Hindenburg, President Wilson, etc., etc. However, it is wonderful even to think that there still is a man who has actually talked to Bismarck, had audience with Queen Victoria and President Grant, heard Liszt play his own music, and so forth. It is no wonder that Prince Saionji, a man who made his first appearance on the stage when New Japan was yet in embryo, should always be an Old Man to me.
At every ministerial crisis, or once yearly in early summer and once in early autumn, a photograph of an old man with his inevitable long bamboo cane appears in the papers. Sometimes, casual little stories, or even a menu for lunch or dinner, appear with the picture, but nothing else, so much does the Old Man dislike publicity. If left to himself, he would never have any story to give to the press reporters. His distaste for publicity has made a mystery man of him. What an anomaly for a man who has so long been a loyal fighter for the democratic cause in actual politics! As a matter of fact, mystery is one of the things which he defies most. Even a religious mystery does not seem to suit him: he has no religion. When it is the question of a choice between Logos and Mythos, it would infallibly be Logos that he would side with. When he has some trouble with his health, he tries to resort as much as possible to a most scientific cure, in defiance of any mystic or mysterious method which may quite possibly be recommended by a number of people of average intelligence. He is a firm believer in science and the scientific way of thinking and dealing with everything. His belief in science implies his confidence in human mental capacity. And it would not be too erroneous if I say that this is where his optimistic outlook on human community and politics originates. Observing the Old Man’s political moves during the past several years, I discover there a striking tendency towards conservatism, which sharply contrasts with his early radicalism or even subsequent liberalism. After the 5.15 Incident, I can clearly observe his policy of preserving the status quo in his selection of a succeeding Prime Minister. Conservatism, I think, lacks either imagination or courage, particularly when the conditions prevalent in a community are somewhat stagnant; though, of course, I have no intention to imply that all the members of any so-called “Conservative Party” are to be so described. As for the Old Man, I have never considered him as lacking either vision or courage. On the contrary, he has much more of both than the majority of people possess. Then what is the explanation? Probably the fact that, being the only surviving Genro, he has to fill this extremely important and difficult office all alone. But I think there is another, more psychological reason—that is, optimism emanating from his confidence in human rationality. He seems to have a firm confidence in the natural progress of the community because of fundamental human rationality. Therefore, has it not been this confidence in the final victory of human rationality over some mystic or unscientific forces that recently has persuaded this rational Old Man to adopt a policy of preserving the status quo? Should a deterrent policy be taken against a certain unscientific force ostensibly inspired by some mystic doctrine, it would enable the public to cool down and to make a rational judgment in the meantime, and consequently to follow a more natural, therefore a more reasonable, course of development. This is presumably what was in the Old Man’s mind. Whether or not he is justified in carrying his implicit confidence in human rationality into the field of actual politics yet remains to be judged by those who will read the political and social history of Japan of the days we are now living in. At any rate, his is a noble soul, an enlightened soul. His ideals are logical, earnest, and honest. When he talks about such things, for instance, as social and international justice, he genuinely means it. His idealism is well based upon his highly developed reasoning. But for that very reason, would not there be a possibility that less logical or less developed minds, without being able to conceive anything comprehensible in his idealism, might resort, in opposition to him, to less logical means and wander into less enlightened, or even unjustifiable, directions? Probably it would be impossible to find the golden mean between the two, unless either the Old Man should again be able to get into direct contact with the present state of affairs of the community and feel by his own senses the thoughts, sentiments, and tendencies of the various strata and groups of the community; or, on the other hand, the wisdom and enlightenment of the latter should attain to a standard similar to that of the Old Man’s. Unfortunately, however, neither of the two cases is at all likely. Prince Saionji is a man of great mental capacity; so is this New Japan of ours. But, after all, a man develops more quickly than a nation; his development is bound to slow down, so to speak, sooner than that of a nation. While, and so long as, the development of the one keeps pace with that of the other, there exists reciprocal sympathy; any effort on one side is responded to by the other. The result is opportune and effective, quite likely satisfactory for both. Should this pace, however, be once broken, everything would become at once discordant and difficult. This is particularly true, I think, from a methodological point of view.
I often compare Prince Saionji with Prince Konoe. I vaguely feel that a justification of my argument is found in the difference between these two statesmen. I am quite sure that they are in perfect agreement as regards, for instance, on what line Sino-Japanese relations should be established. Their unanimous and genuine answer will be peace and co-operation divorced from territorial design. But their respective methods to achieve these noble ends will, I am also sure, not be identical. I sympathize with them both, but in two different ways: in the case of the younger Prince simply because it is a difficult task; in the case of the elder Prince, because it must be very difficult to comprehend the acuteness of the intricate sentiments and thoughts of the present community.
Often I hear people say: “Prince Saionji has lived too long; my heart bleeds when I think of the acute pain which the Prince must feel in the depth of his heart to see all that he has striven so hard to construct crumble down in front of his eyes.” Never mind. He is a brave optimist; he himself says that there are inevitably ups and downs on the long path on which a man or a nation has to proceed, and if there is a steep, undesirable valley, then there will also be a high, serene peak. Here again I can perceive his steady and constant confidence in human rationality. But it is rather a shame that the Japanese nation should need, and rely upon, such an unbelievably long service as the Old Man has given. Once I asked an old man, who was still going strong in the actual management of our community, whether his generation in this country had no intention ever of giving a chance to the younger generation. His reply was, indeed, in the affirmative—and I wondered, with a certain suspicion. On the other hand, I often hear the younger generation say: “We are well prepared to stand up when occasion requires!” I wonder once more—but this time with a certain sense of shame.
Some years ago, I spent one summer day with my grandfather at his mountain villa in Gotemba. We were talking about the books which we both had recently read. He said: “There seems to be a lot of talk about Marx again. So I have re-read his Capital. In French, of course, as I cannot, unfortunately, understand German. It is enlightening, in a way.” He makes tremendous efforts to keep pace with the sentiments of the day, for the purpose of forming the fairest possible judgment thereon. Yet I cannot help wishing that he could be left in peace with the kind of books which he so dearly loves, and with the birds and flowers and trees which so deeply appeal to the cultured sense of beauty in this grand Old Man of Japan.