3

DIPLOMACY

Russia, having settled itself in Manchuria, was extending its reach to the northern part of Korea. Naturally, that conflicted with Japan’s national interests. “National interests”—no term has been so much used in the international arena from the early nineteenth to the early twentieth centuries as this one. For these one hundred years, diplomacy, conspiracies, and wars were carried on among the nations in its name. This period was the most brilliant time in world history for diplomats and military men.

The Industrial Revolution began in Great Britain in the eighteenth century and, of course, from the nineteenth century on, it changed the very nature of European culture, producing a kind of “Warring States” period centering on the industrialized nations of Europe. If they did not gain colonies and markets in the undeveloped world, these nations would go into a decline. This was the type of “physiology” the European nations had developed. In a word, “imperialism.”

Russia’s southward expansion was a geopolitical instinct on its part but also the result of the type of stimuli we are now talking about. The Russian Empire at this juncture, however, had not yet developed its industries to the point where it needed to find an external outlet for any surplus products. Nonetheless, history provided a great stimulus. We can say that the reception of this historical stimulus, added to a natural instinct to move southward, caused Russia to embark on its highly adventurous territorial expansion, which Witte rightly called an act of madness. When a nation once begins to move in this direction, the self-control needed to know when to stop is greatly weakened.

Korea was the place where Japan’s national interests were at stake. We must here take a few lines to explain: Korea was not Japan’s colonial territory. Militarily, though, it was a safety cushion against pressures on the Japanese archipelago from the continent. To be viewed in this way could not have been acceptable to the Korean people resident on the peninsula. A nation, however, is fundamentally limited by its geography. Geographical limitations form a fundamental portion of a nation’s character as well as a fundamental portion of its posture in regard to foreign nations. And, most unfortunately, countries give priority to such geopolitical considerations rather than to any good intentions they may have.

Japan not only regarded the Korean Peninsula as a defensive cushion but also wanted to make Yi dynasty Korea a market for its products. What the other powers had tried to do to China, Japan tried to do to Korea. Absurdly, even though it was some thirty years after the Restoration, Japan’s industrial capacity remained very immature with almost no products worth selling. Japan’s modus operandi was an imitation of the European powers’—it was “practicing” imperialism on Korea. Japan believed that it would in time transform itself into a powerful country by long and astute imitation of Europe. Naturally, then, in the civilization of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Korea became a country of vital importance to Japan.

Thus, the root causes of the Russo-Japanese War lay in Manchuria and Korea. Having taken Manchuria, Russia would move next against Korea. This is as clear as day. Had Japan lost the Russo-Japanese War, Korea would undoubtedly have become a Russian possession.

Can we then say that, had Japan lost, it would itself have been occupied by Russia? Entertaining various hypotheses regarding an epoch that is already past seems meaningless, but, looking back, it seems unlikely that Russia would have gone so far as to occupy Japan since there was a sea barrier in between. Perhaps only the British, as another island nation, would have understood the inner workings of this matter. There are indications that the British Foreign Office’s view at the outbreak of the war was that Russia probably would not take over Japan even if Japan lost. The reason was geographic: Japan was an island country and thus troublesome to take over without a land connection. On the other hand, Japan would surely have had to pay a huge indemnity to Russia that would have rendered its industrial economy stagnant until the 1950s or 1960s. In addition, Russia would have taken Hokkaido and the port of Tsuruga on the Sea of Japan. Tsushima Island near Korea would have been leased to Russia.

Through diplomacy, Itō Hirobumi tried to find a way to ease the intense pressure caused by Russia’s southward expansion, and came to the conclusion that an offensive and defensive alliance with imperial Russia would be best. This was unquestionably a leap in logic, akin to your being confronted with an armed gang of robbers who had pushed their way into the neighboring village and then your going with head bowed to negotiate with them, in the hope that perhaps they might leave just your village and the neighboring village alone. The robbers would think that you had some nerve to try such a thing, while the villagers would regard you as gutless.

Nonetheless, Itō felt there was no other course open to Japan. Itō was a supreme realist, so, in a situation like this, his fear remained simply fear. This was his weakness, and this was why he was labeled “The Russophobe,” which did not bother him one bit. “Russia will surely attack,” he said. “For a country like Japan, whose power and military resources don’t amount to even one of Russia’s little fingers, acting all high and mighty makes no sense.”

But Japanese have a fondness for outward display, one of the ways in which they resemble the French. Even though this may just be a kind of diplomacy for show, the Japanese have been fond of performing great feats and striking grand poses vis-à-vis much stronger foreign powers. At times, they have resorted to military means to challenge enemies whom they could hardly expect to win out against and thus sought to promote Japan’s status. And, in every period, those in opposition or out of power at the time have preferred those methods, while those in power have tried to suppress them. Thus, with regard to foreign relations, the more cautious policies of the authorities and the radical views of the opposition have been clearly opposed to one another.

Itō, in fact, had never been so badly thought of as during this period.

Naturally, the world of European diplomacy was shocked by the abnormal situation that existed at that time—the Far East fast becoming a Russian playground and all its resources Russia’s belongings. Yet Japan’s government seemed unaware of this fact. They believed that no other country would help Japan in the face of the Russian advance. The Japanese themselves regarded the Far East as a backward, provincial part of the world and thought that the European powers would not lift a finger to help even if the Russians ran wild in such a place.

In fact, Britain’s interest in the situation in the Far East was quietly on the rise. Gathering the world’s wealth, Britain had become the most highly developed industrial nation, and that had changed its ways of thinking.

When Europe had been laid waste by the Napoleonic Wars, a flood of products flowed from Britain, “the world’s factory,” to continental Europe. This vastly increased Britain’s wealth, strengthened its productive capabilities, and caused the demand for its ever-increasing stream of products to grow, as India and China became available markets for them.

Russia, however, was moving southward, not only in the Far East but in the direction of India as well. If something was not done to stop this, Britain would lose a major market, and its goods would pile up, unsold, in its warehouses. Britain’s basic attitude in its foreign policy was to nip in the bud each and every such threat to its interests.

In doing so, Britain employed shrewdness above all, avoiding as far as possible direct means like warfare, and, when war was unavoidable, using skillful diplomacy to have other countries do the actual fighting. And, if finally forced to commit its own troops, Britain made overtures to other countries with common interests and formed alliances with them, rather than fighting alone.

Observing Russia’s outrageous acts in the Far East, Britain wanted to nip this movement in the bud while not going to war with Russia. It tried to deal with the matter by diplomatic means so as to ensure “the balance of power in the Far East,” to use a favorite platitude of British diplomacy. Britain first thought of Germany, which, since robbing China of Jiaozhou Bay and building a military base in Qingdao, had acquired interests in the Far East. Why not an Anglo-German alliance against Russia as the hypothetical enemy? It was the German chargé d’affaires in Britain Hermann von Eckardstein who first suggested, “Even better would be an Anglo-German– Japanese alliance.” Britain did not have a high opinion of Japan’s power as a nation, but if the Germans were willing to join in, nothing could be better.

Britain was, at the time, being kept busy with the Boer War in South Africa, with little time or energy to deal with the Far East. If Germany, newly flourishing and with enhanced military power, would act to stabilize the Far East, Britain would be delighted.

This was an age of brilliant diplomats, but there were sometimes phony ones as well, and Chargé d’Affaires Eckardstein had something of the latter type about him. He had not received the standard training for a diplomat but had become one out of an amateur’s interest. Because he was trusted by the kaiser, who held immense, dictatorial power, Eckardstein was able to do this, even in highly bureaucratic Germany. He used his personal funds to entertain in the London diplomatic world and was rich enough to carry it off.

Eckardstein confided his idea about an alliance to Joseph Chamberlain, the British colonial minister. At first, he spoke only of an Anglo-German alliance, without mentioning Japan. “That is the only way to maintain the balance of power in Asia,” he argued, pointing out the need to check Russia. Hearing this, Chamberlain was clearly interested.

At the same time, however, Eckardstein was visiting Japan’s ambassador to Britain, Hayashi Tadasu, and suggesting something similar, only this time it was for a triple alliance of Britain, Germany, and Japan. “Through such an alliance, Japan would be guaranteed a free hand in Korea—because, in the event of war by one member of the alliance against a fourth country, the other two members of the alliance would agree to maintain neutrality.” Eckardstein clearly regarded war between Japan and Russia—Eckardstein’s “fourth country”—as inevitable.

To an isolated nation like Japan, no idea could have been more welcome. Hayashi immediately sought directives from his government.

The Japanese Foreign Ministry proceeded to discuss the matter with the German representative Georg von Wedel, just to be on the safe side. Wedel knew nothing about it and, amazed, asked Berlin for confirmation. The German Foreign Ministry knew nothing of the plan either. In short, Eckardstein had been putting on a one-man show.

Yet, even though this had been a deceptive drama staged by the overhasty Eckardstein, one could say that the Anglo-Japanese Alliance itself ultimately emerged as a result of this deception. Chamberlain took Eckardstein’s words seriously and cabled Kaiser Wilhelm II, thus opening direct negotiations via cable between the two powers.

The kaiser’s response was unexpected. “That would be counter to Germany’s interests. Russia is allied with France, and, if we make Russia our enemy, Germany would be caught between two hostile powers. In case of war, would Britain come to our aid? Your navy might be able to attempt some action in the Baltic Sea, but you would hardly be able to enter the Black Sea. Thus, Germany would be isolated, without military assistance from you. Even with Russia alone as our enemy, Germany’s position would be perilous. If we were then attacked by the French Army from the rear, our situation would be hopeless. For the security of the German Empire, I wish to remain friends with Russia.” This was the substance of the kaiser’s response.

So Germany’s negative attitude toward an anti-Russian alliance had become clear. Of course, the Japanese Foreign Ministry knew nothing about this exchange between Britain and Germany. To Japan, however, Germany seemed very close and reliable when it came to academic and strategic studies but distant when it came to foreign policy. Germany did not seem capable of assuming a major role under present conditions in the Far East, and Japan never had great hopes that it would do so in any case.

The question was Britain’s role. The Foreign Ministry wanted an alliance with Britain. But would that country with its preeminent national power and level of civilization agree to ally itself on an equal level with a country located in a Far Eastern backwater, a country just beginning to develop some industrial potential, a country whose foreign minister himself had characterized it as only “half civilized”?

The foreign minister in question was Aoki Shūzō. He was a native of the Chōshū domain and the son of the domain’s official physician. One of the first to study Western medicine, he served as a doctor in the Chōshū army during the shogunate’s second campaign against that rebellious domain. After the Restoration, he entered the Foreign Ministry and later became an ambassador. As such, he acquired more experience than anyone else in the ministry. He served as ambassador to Germany, Britain, Austria, Holland, and Denmark, and, during the three decades beginning in 1870, he worked hard to revise the unequal treaties, which had been the greatest task for the Japanese government since the beginning of the Meiji period.

Aoki served as foreign minister in 1889 and 1898. But, given Aoki’s impressive diplomatic career, his actual accomplishments as foreign minister were fewer than might have been expected. He remains something of a mystery. Aoki was an energetic reader. He himself said that his reading “ranged over the whole world,” going far beyond the limits of his specialties in politics and diplomacy to include even natural science. In terms of richness of knowledge of the world, he was far and away the best among the statesmen and military men hailing from the former Chōshū domain.

He did not, however, have much tolerance for other people. An extraordinarily arrogant man, he regarded Itō Hirobumi and Yamagata Aritomo as hopeless fools, though they were genrō—distinguished elder statesman—and also natives of Chōshū. And all the more so, then, did he disparage his colleagues and subordinates at the Foreign Ministry. In fact, the Japanese themselves seemed to him a barbarous people. Since these attitudes were mixed with a kind of troubled patriotism, quite naturally his words and actions tended toward hysteria.

When he was foreign minister in 1900, he addressed an unprecedented memorial to the emperor himself, without even consulting Prime Minister Yamagata. “Now, as Russia threatens Japan,” Aoki wrote,

what is the actual state of our nation? Though we won the war against the Qing and managed to become one of the powers, in reality we are only half civilized. Your subject’s residence and the Imperial Palace are only a short distance apart, but when I look from my carriage, I find that eighty to ninety percent of the Japanese who walk the streets are still clothed in barbarous traditional dress. In this semi-civilized state, we will certainly not be able to overthrow the oppression of the mighty Russian Empire. If we are to save the nation, a great reconstruction is needed. Petty diplomatic maneuvers will do nothing to resolve the critical state of Japan’s fortunes.

This was the essence of Aoki’s memorial. Though it may represent the kind of hysteria directed inward at one’s own country that is often found among diplomats, it does express an aspect of the actual state of Japan at the time.

In the midst of this secret but feverish hope for an alliance with Britain that prevailed among the leaders of the Japanese government at the time, Ambassador Hayashi Tadasu was doing his best in London. Hayashi Tadasu was a former vassal of the shogunate and thus quite unlike Aoki Shūzō, who was from the pro-imperial Chōshū domain. Hayashi was the adopted son of the vassal Hayashi Dōkai, and in his youth, toward the end of the shogunate, he had studied English in Yokohama. No doubt due to these early studies, he later acquired the reputation of being the best English speaker in the Foreign Ministry and the most skillful writer of English as well. When in 1866 the shogunate decided to send several young men to study in Britain, he was one of those chosen to go. He was only seventeen.

When the shogunate collapsed, Hayashi was ordered home. Arriving in Yokohama, he saw that Enomoto Takeaki, an admiral in the former shogunate’s navy, was at the head of a fleet anchored off Shinagawa. Hayashi seized the opportunity to join these shogunate-loyalist insurgents and went to Hakodate in Hokkaido, holing up in the Goryōkaku Fort. Judging from this, he must have been (to use a term popular in those days) “a man of passionate temperament.”

Enomoto, seeking international understanding, wrote a defense of his actions and had Hayashi translate it into English. This was then sent to Sir Harry Parkes, the British minister plenipotentiary to Japan. We may say that this marked the very start of Hayashi Tadasu’s diplomatic endeavors. He was just nineteen at the time, but Parkes, reading the English text, was so surprised at its quality that he concluded, “There must be an Englishman in among the insurgent forces of the former shogunate!”

In the end, the attempt at resistance was a failure, and Hayashi surrendered along with Enomoto and his men. He and some five hundred others were taken into the custody of the Tsugaru domain and confined in a temple in Aomori. But Kuroda Kiyotaka from Satsuma, who was a staff officer of the victorious imperial forces, learned that among the rebels held in confinement was a man named Hayashi who could speak and write English like an Englishman. Kuroda quietly summoned Hayashi and offered to send him alone for service under the new regime in Tokyo.

“If the others can be released along with me,” Hayashi said in refusal, “that’ll be fine, but if I’m the only one, I must decline.”

Once this encounter became well known, it created a very positive image of Hayashi Tadasu among important men from Satsuma and throughout his life led to his being regarded as a man one could trust. After becoming a diplomat, he greatly benefited from the patronage and protection of the Satsuma clique in the government, which made his work easier.

In 1891, Hayashi became vice foreign minister, in 1897, ambassador to Russia, and, in 1900, ambassador to Great Britain. As is clear from his career record, he was one of the most active men in the field of diplomacy prior to both the First Sino-Japanese and the Russo-Japanese Wars.

When Akiyama Saneyuki was sent to Britain by the navy, Hayashi was stationed in London as ambassador. In the United States, Saneyuki had had contact with Hoshi Tōru but was little influenced by him. By contrast, when he later came in contact with Komura Jutarō and then, in Britain, with Hayashi Tadasu, he was very much influenced by both men’s views of the modern nation-state. He was filled with admiration for Hayashi’s ability to judge a situation accurately and respond to it appropriately. “If you went into the military,” he told Hayashi, “you might well become the greatest of generals or admirals of the fleet.”

“Britain seems interested in an alliance,” Hayashi informed the Foreign Ministry. When he had been posted to Great Britain, Hayashi suspected that this issue would come up, and so he had gone to Itō Hirobumi before his departure and took care to sound him out on it. Since Itō was an advocate of a Russo-Japanese alliance, Hayashi was afraid that any efforts he made in London for an Anglo-Japanese alliance might be rendered pointless.

Unexpectedly, Itō’s response was “I don’t mind if you do that.”

Itō probably felt that the idea of negotiating for an equal alliance between Japan and a nation like Great Britain was too dazzling. It was the stuff of dreams, not of politics.

Mutsu Munemitsu, who had directed Japan’s foreign relations since the First Sino-Japanese War, had died of tuberculosis in August 1897, but, when the subject of an alliance between Britain and Japan came up, even he had always said, “The idea has a beautiful ring to it. But I wonder if it is really possible.” His conclusion was that it was not.

“Try thinking about this from Britain’s point of view,” he would suggest. Britain was no Don Quixote willing to sacrifice itself to save the foreign land of Japan from its troubles. Japan was looking to have its security guaranteed. Well then, Britain too would demand some guarantee of its own security. Was Japan powerful enough to provide that? Britain would, naturally, want Japan to defend Britain’s interests in Asia. But Britain’s interests in Asia extended from the Chinese mainland to Singapore and on to India, so Japan would need to have the power to dispatch its army and naval forces over that immensely wide area. Only when Japan had such power should an alliance with Britain be talked about. Seeking such an alliance at present would make Japan an international laughingstock. Such was Mutsu’s opinion.

Itō felt the same way, which was why he hoped for a Russo-Japanese alliance. If, however, Hayashi wanted to pursue the matter of an alliance with Britain, Itō would not object. If by any chance Hayashi’s attempt succeeded, that would be Japan’s great good fortune, so Itō did nothing to oppose Hayashi’s plans.

Hayashi was posted to London. Soon after his arrival, there were some faint hopeful signs—even if this was the doing of the overhasty German diplomat. Hayashi handled the matter adroitly and, having received permission from his government, immediately paid a visit to Lord Lansdowne, the foreign secretary. Lansdowne was a thin man with small eyes—he looked a bit like Japan’s own Komura Jutarō, in fact. He was not a political showman but, rather, of a scholarly bent.

Britain’s attitude seemed, to Japan, nearly miraculous. During Hayashi’s visit, Lord Lansdowne stated, “Britain too acknowledges the need for an alliance, as you have suggested.” At that time, Britain had no alliances with any European powers. Both Britain itself and other powers acknowledged its position of “honorable isolation.” If Britain was willing to change its foreign policy and make an alliance with Japan, it must have had real fears about Russia’s unlimited aggression in the Far East.

That was Hayashi Tadasu’s view. He thought that Britain might be more willing to go along with Japan’s proposals than could normally have been expected.

“However,” continued Lansdowne, “what about including Germany?”

This “what about?” was not a mere request for Hayashi’s opinion but rather clearly seemed to be an insistence that Germany be involved. The implication was that only if Germany’s army and navy participated would Asia be secure vis-à-vis Russia. Japan alone would be of little help.

Hayashi was careful not to enter into too deep a discussion of Germany’s participation, however, and merely showed mild interest, nodding and remarking, “I see.” If Britain could bring Germany along and form a tripartite alliance, this would be the best outcome for Japan as well.

At any rate, the fundamental issue was settled. There was no need to speak at greater length at this point. Lansdowne ended by saying, “After Japan presents a concrete plan regarding the nature of the alliance, our side will give it the most serious consideration,” and the two men parted.

On his way home, Hayashi had a thought: “So, in the event of war between Japan and Russia, even if we don’t actually win, we won’t suffer a crushing defeat.”

When, later, Hayashi tried to broach the issue, Britain was no longer interested in discussing an invitation to Germany to join the alliance. The matter seemed to have been totally forgotten. Hayashi did not know, of course, about the exchange of telegrams between Colonial Secretary Chamberlain and the German kaiser. Britain’s offer had been refused by Germany. This involved a loss of face, and Britain kept it secret for a long time.

At any rate, Britain was willing to form an alliance even with Japan alone. Hayashi had sent a long telegram to Japan when the Anglo-German–Japanese alliance was under discussion, and at this point he sent a still more detailed telegram to his government.

Around this time, there was a change of cabinets in Japan. When the discussion of a possible tripartite alliance took place, the cabinet was under the direction of Itō Hirobumi, but it dissolved after six and a half months, to be replaced by the Katsura Tarō cabinet. Japan had been pushed to the brink of bankruptcy by its exorbitant military budget, and this was the underlying cause of the dissolution of the Itō cabinet. It was Hayashi’s great good luck that Prime Minister Katsura, an advocate of an Anglo-Japanese alliance, was the recipient of his telegram suggesting just that.

Katsura Tarō first became prime minister on June 2, 1901, after Itō Hirobumi dissolved his cabinet. Katsura was from Chōshū and had participated in the Boshin War, though only as an ordinary, anonymous young officer. Later, he entered the national army and was gradually promoted. During this period, he worked to make the Japanese Army model itself on the German one. He was more suited to military administration than to action on the field and would have been more suited to a political than a military career.

People later harshly criticized Katsura as being like “a professional jester with a saber at his waist,” and it is true that he was always ready to show a smiling face in order to bring others around. That plus his habit of slapping people on the back to show his amiability earned him the nickname “Smile and Slap.” He was a master “fixer.”

Katsura was not one of the eminent genrō of the Meiji period. The forming of cabinets was almost always left to the genrō, and from their perspective, as well as that of the wider society, allowing such a young, inexperienced man to become prime minister was dangerous.

Someone complained about this to Saigō Tsugumichi, who was a kind of semi-genrō at the time, suggesting that Katsura didn’t have the weight to be prime minister.

“As for ‘weight,’” replied Saigō with a laugh, “if you dress him in a formal tailcoat and put him in a carriage drawn by the requisite number of horses, the weight will come of itself. That’s all that’s required, I believe!”

Katsura, at any rate, became prime minister against the background of this sort of general unease, and this feeling only increased after he formed his cabinet. Being so young himself, he was unable to persuade major figures to join his cabinet—the members were all minor ones. “Young and ardent” would be a positive way of describing them.

Katsura chose his foreign minister from the ranks of ambassadors, naming Komura Jutarō to this position. (Finance Minister Sone Arasuke shared this responsibility for a time.) The home minister was Utsumi Tadakatsu, the communications minister, Yoshikawa Akimasa, the agriculture minister, Hirata Tōsuke, the justice minister, Kiyoura Keigo, the education minister, Kikuchi Dairoku. These were all relative unknowns, and hence the Katsura cabinet was termed “second rate” and “a junior cabinet.” Yet this youthful cabinet carried out the successful war against Russia.

Katsura had four troublesome “mothers-in-law”: the distinguished genrō Yamagata Aritomo, Itō Hirobumi, Matsukata Masayoshi, and Inoue Kaoru. Each of them regarded himself as a protector of the new prime minister, but they all had different personalities and political views, and Katsura, as the “new bride,” must have found it hard to faithfully serve them all. Nonetheless, he managed to win them over with great skill.

At just this time, a telegram came from Ambassador Hayashi Tadasu in London asking if he should proceed with arrangements for an alliance with Britain. Now, truly, Katsura had to win the genrō over. Particularly difficult would be the task of persuading Itō Hirobumi away from his advocacy of a Russo-Japanese alliance.

“The hardest part of foreign relations,” Komura Jutarō said in describing this period, “is the domestic rather than the foreign part.” How true that was!

Katsura Tarō, employing his considerable skills in conciliation, was quite circumspect in gaining control of Itō Hirobumi. As soon as the telegram came from Hayashi Tadasu in London, he rushed to Ōiso to show it to Itō right away. (Itō was living in the Sōrōkaku villa in Ōiso at the time.)

Having read the telegram, Itō said, with a look of surprise, “When I was in office, this same man Hayashi sent a telegram proposing an Anglo-German–Japanese alliance. Now, not long after, he is talking about an Anglo-Japanese alliance, without Germany. Something must have happened in the meantime.”

Katsura nodded vigorously. The realities of European politics were always hard for Japan to grasp, however, and Katsura was unable to give a proper response to Itō’s doubts. Itō, for his part, understood the situation and did not demand a response from the newly appointed prime minister. He had been, in effect, talking to himself when he made that last remark.

“I wonder if we should take the contents of this telegram seriously?”

“Since Hayashi himself is handling it, I think there can be no mistake about it.”

“But what does Britain really intend?” This was the point in doubt. “Mr. Katsura, they are, you know, Anglo-Saxons, an extremely proud race. Will they really abandon their famed policy of ‘honorable isolation’ and form an alliance with another country? An equal alliance? And with members of the ‘yellow race,’ to boot? It would be an unprecedented step in the history of British diplomacy.”

It seemed incredible to Itō, realist that he was, that Britain would make such a historic leap.

“But Britain seems to have burned its fingers quite a bit over the Boer War in South Africa. I daresay this proposal is a side effect of that,” suggested Katsura. “These are facts. So Britain finds itself too occupied elsewhere to spend much energy on the Far East, and most likely wants Japan to fill that void and stop Russia’s unlimited advance southward there. The British believe they can use Japan for their benefit. Why should Japan not similarly use Britain?”

“If all this is true,” commented Itō.

“Yes—assuming this is Britain’s true intention. How do you feel about it, Excellency? Can you give your support to the plan?”

“Of course. I advocated a Russo-Japanese alliance because I believed it was the more likely to be realized. But, if Britain is serious about an alliance, that would of course be even better.”

This was all Katsura needed to hear. If Itō chose to hinder the plan, then, no matter how well negotiations were going in London, it would all come to naught in Japan.

Katsura returned to Tokyo. There would be a meeting of the genrō the next day at Katsura’s villa in Hayama. It was August 4, at the very height of the summer heat. Just as the dew was vanishing in the strong rays of the morning sun, those elder statesmen arrived.

Katsura’s villa was newly built, and the trees in the groves around the pond were not yet very attractive. Yamagata Aritomo had come from his summer retreat in Ōiso. Waka and designing traditional gardens were his hobbies, and as soon as he arrived, he toured the garden, giving his opinion of its various features. Katsura, as owner of the villa, trailed along after him, nodding gratefully at each comment.

Itō Hirobumi came from his villa in Kanazawa near Yokohama; Inoue Kaoru, from Okitsu. These three genrō were all from Chōshū, while Matsukata Masayoshi was from Satsuma. He had come from his summer retreat in Kamakura.

Before the group had seated themselves to begin discussion, Katsura, wishing to ingratiate himself with Itō, asked, “Excellency, could I ask you to give a name to this humble villa of mine?” Since Itō did not seem at all averse to the idea, Katsura brought out a brush, inkstone set, and a piece of silk for him to write on. Itō was quite proud of his calligraphy. He thought for a while about an appropriate name and then, taking up the brush, wrote in large characters “Chōunkaku”—the Pavilion of Eternal Clouds.

This put Itō into a good mood, and, when Katsura exclaimed his praise for the name, Itō was even more pleased and wrote an extempore Chinese poem for Prime Minster Katsura Tarō, the owner of this newly constructed villa, dashing it off on a piece of ordinary writing paper that was at hand.

What will be, will be—public opinion is like tangled threads.
When you have seen the great ocean, this disturbance seems like one in a small pond.
Why should the prime minister not have days and months of leisure?
Let us leave off talk of military things and discuss only poetry!

“Well done indeed!” said Yamagata, who was skilled in waka since he was a descendant of a family specializing in the Japanese classics. But he had recently been devoting himself to the study of classical Chinese poetry, later going on to become a regular contributor to the Chinese poetry journal the Balustrade of a Hundred Flowers.

At last, the meeting began. Itō started out rather aggressively. Though he had said just the previous day that he had no objection to an alliance with Britain, he began to voice views that seemed hostile to the idea, much to Katsura’s surprise.

“An Anglo-Japanese alliance is all very well, but won’t it seem as if we are viewing Russia as the hypothetical enemy?” He was worried about injuring the feelings of Russia more than was absolutely necessary. That’s how afraid of Russia Itō was.

But this was an odd argument to make. Making an offensive and defensive alliance with Britain would naturally offend Russia. That should have been understood all along. Besides, Russia would keep on advancing even if there were no alliance between Japan and Britain. Since Japan would have to fight Russia at some point, by itself if need be, it would only be to Japan’s benefit if Britain would agree to an alliance. Katsura explained all this in a roundabout way so as not to injure Itō’s pride.

In the end, Itō agreed. The other three elder statesmen had been advocates of the alliance with Britain from the very beginning, so of course there were no objections. The meeting ended with the decision to move toward such an alliance.

As one of the genrō, Itō Hirobumi had formally agreed to the negotiations with Britain. But this great realist could not rid himself of the feeling, “Is an alliance with Britain actually possible?” He quietly decided that he himself should carry on personal negotiations with the Russians, leaving the Japanese government out of it for the time being. Here we see one of Itō’s most intriguing characteristics.

A complete realist in politics can never be anything more than a second-rate politician—indeed, we should perhaps call him not a politician but a businessman. The quality of the man is determined by what kind of ideals he holds, but, since politics cannot be separated from realities, a man who gives too much weight to ideals tends to end as a mere wishful thinker, or a poet, or a hysterical zealot who denies the realities of the situation.

Itō was a realist, but as evidence that he was not one to carry on the business of politics only through realism, we have only to look at his earlier actions. When, near the end of the shogunate, xenophobic ideas were the “reality” of the radical faction in his native Chōshū, Itō boldly explained world realities to his countrymen and made them enter into negotiations with the combined fleet of the four foreign nations, which they had earlier attacked and which had devastatingly bombarded them in return.

Then, in the late 1870s and 1880s, surrounded by leading figures who detested the idea of popular rights, he was the coolest and strongest advocate of constitutionalism, and after the establishment of the Meiji Constitution, he became the founder of one of the political parties that Yamagata Aritomo, for example, so much disliked. Thus, ideals and realities were always kept in harmony in Itō’s case.

With regard to the great diplomatic issue then confronting Japan, Itō agreed that an alliance with Britain would be the best option for Japan, but he regarded this as no more than an unrealistic hope. Why would Great Britain enter into an offensive and defensive alliance, accepting as an equal a prvincial Asian country like Japan?

Itō thought that an alliance with Russia was more feasible. Though it possessed the largest army in the world, Russia was still culturally underdeveloped, at least from a Western European point of view. In that respect, Russia’s situation was not so very different from Japan’s, and so Japan should find Russia more approachable. In addition, Russia, the direct offender in its continued oppression of Asia, would be more quickly and easily persuaded to moderate its criminal conduct through direct negotiation. This was what Itō believed.

“Fortunately, I am no longer Japan’s prime minister.” He was free to act. Moreover, “Itō Hirobumi of Japan” was well known in international political circles, and other countries would not treat Itō’s initiatives cavalierly even though they were undertaken “by a private individual.”

Itō decided he would go to Russia. But he told only Prime Minister Katsura Tarō about his secret plan, not saying a word about it to the Foreign Ministry. Katsura, however, was not happy about this sign of Itō’s tendency to decide things entirely on his own.

Luckily for Itō, he already had plans for a trip abroad. Yale University in the United States, as part of its one-hundredth-year celebrations, had chosen to award honorary doctorates to distinguished people from various countries, and Itō was one of those selected. Itō used the award as an excuse to go first to the United States and then planned to visit Russia on his way home.

Itō Hirobumi left for the United States on September 18, 1901. At the end of October, he attended the awards ceremony for the honorary degree at Yale and then boarded a steamship in New York for the passage to Europe. Since negotiations for an alliance between Britain and Japan were then going on in London, it would have been natural for him to go to Britain, but instead he made directly for France.

After taking lodgings in Paris, he sent a cable to Ambassador Hayashi Tadasu in London, ordering him to come at once to Paris to let Itō know how the negotiations with Britain were going. Hayashi came, and Itō learned from him how things stood. Negotiations with Great Britain were going so smoothly that Itō was stunned. Learning that the details of which country would do what in terms of the alliance were already being discussed, Itō made a face and said, “Hayashi, you’re getting us in ridiculously deep, you know.”

“What do you mean, Excellency?”

“Never mind about that—the point is, I’m on my way to the Russian capital to see if negotiations with the Russians are possible or not.”

Hayashi was so surprised he almost leaped from his seat. He was carrying on the negotiations in London in accordance with the wishes of his government, and the negotiations had been almost entirely successful. So what could be the meaning of Japan’s most powerful statesman (even given that Itō was no longer prime minister) criticizing what Hayashi had done and declaring that he himself was on his way to Russia?

“But, Excellency,” began Hayashi, proceeding to explain again that the Anglo-Japanese Alliance was on the point of becoming a fact. And, if Great Britain learned that Japan was also negotiating with Russia, Britain’s great enemy in the area of Asian diplomacy, Britain’s attitude would immediately change for the worse, and Japan would lose face and the trust of the European nations.

“All right, then,” said Itō with a slight smile. “I’ll give up my plans to negotiate with Russia.” Skill in shifting his position in accordance with the actual situation was one of Itō’s salient political characteristics. He went on to say that he would not even go to St. Petersburg.

Hayashi thought, however, that that would not do. Having once informed the Russian government that he would be coming, for Itō now to cancel his visit without good reason would be impolite by international standards. So Hayashi advised Itō to go as planned.

“Why not just exchange courtesies with the Russians as a private individual? It might actually be . . . ” Hayashi went on to say that Itō might actually aid in the ongoing Anglo-Japanese negotiations, because the British were proving to be quite stubborn regarding the details of who would be responsible for what. Hayashi was doing his best, but the negotiations had come to a standstill on these fine points. He told Itō that if “Prince Itō of Japan” were seen to go to Russia, Great Britain might hurry a bit to find a compromise solution.

So that was what Itō intended to do. After spending a few days in Paris, he set off for St. Petersburg.

Itō Hirobumi’s ultimate goal was to avoid a Russo-Japanese war, thus saving Japan from destruction, but conditions in Russia at the time were such that Russia was not at all likely to accede to Itō’s wishes. First of all, the court and the military were quite carried away by “Invade the Far East” fever. At court, Bezobrazov, labeled a “wicked minister” by Witte, had worked his way into the confidence of the tsar and, under cover of imperial authority, had begun treating the other ministers like his messenger boys.

This soldier turned adventurer thought of the empire as a large-scale business venture (as so many military men are prone to do), and imperialism was to him the sole product of this venture. He had formerly been the manager of the Yalu River Lumber Company, with the backing of the local army. At the same time, he was a dreamer who proposed the most splendid of grand plans to the tsar.

“Britain’s present prosperity is due to its absorption of India. Imperial Russia’s control of the globe will be possible only if Manchuria, the Primorsky Region, and Korea can become our India!”

Before speaking to the tsar, Bezobrazov had contacted all the members of the imperial family with influence at court, as well as their wives, and spread the news of this “patriotic enterprise.” Moreover, he made these imperial relatives advisors to, or stockholders in, his own business on the Yalu. In short, he made sure that their support for his “patriotic enterprise” would also result in a flow of wealth into the imperial family’s coffers. The tsar not only approved Bezobrazov’s plans regarding expansion, but he also became one of the most eager fans of this great Russian patriot. And so the future course of the Russian Empire was decided.

The military too followed along the same course. When, in its naïve way of thinking, the military of any country or any age becomes enthusiastic about some invasion, it tends to treat politicians or ordinary citizens who are opposed to that invasion as if they were unpatriotic. During this period, even War Minister Kuropatkin, whose political posture was relatively moderate, took that view.

All the Russian military, of course, realized that a war with Japan was bound to occur if these plans were carried out. It went without saying that the Russians would smash Japan militarily. The military would be responsible for this defeat of Japan, yet, strangely, not a single Russian military expert made an accurate judgment of Japan’s military power. No one had even bothered to make an objective analysis of the situation.

When a nation’s military is mad for an invasion, it may neglect to undertake a military analysis of the enemy country, though precisely that should be its special concern. Even an attempt at such an analysis may come to seem like foolishness in the eyes of those in the grip of political fervor. The Russian military’s evaluation of the strength of Japan’s army and navy, as a result of its observation and analysis, was as given below.

The military attachés at the various embassies were of course responsible for on-the-spot observation and analysis of the other nation’s military strength. Army Colonel Vannovsky was the military attaché at the Russian embassy in Tokyo from 1900 until the start of the war. He reported to the Russian War Ministry that “The Japanese Army is in its infancy . . . It will take a hundred years for the Japanese Army to build the moral foundation that would allow it to reach the level of even the weakest army in Europe.” Vannovsky is talking not about the Japanese Army’s equipment or battle readiness but about the military morale that is behind all of that.

“Morale” here means the officers’ and men’s spirit of loyalty to their country and the ethics of command within the military—for example, the willingness to obey one’s superiors and the organization as a whole. Vannovsky claimed that, in respect to these vital matters, Japan not only ranked below the weakest of European nations but would require one hundred years to catch up!

In fact, the spirit of loyalty and obedience was almost excessive in the Japanese military of the day, yet Vannovsky lacked the ability to observe even this most evident of facts, and his report became the basis of the Russian military’s view of Japan from then on.

In 1903, an influential observer came from Russia to assess Japan’s navy. In April, a grand naval review was held in Kobe, and the cruiser Askold was sent from Russia to observe it. Captain K. A. Grammatchikov was in charge of the cruiser, and, after observing the naval review, he told the Russian ambassador Roman Rozen, “To be sure, the Japanese Navy has purchased warships from abroad and is thus materially well equipped. But their spirit as naval military men is by no means equal to ours. And their operational and transport skills are infantile.”

Observations by British naval officers around the same time, however, were quite the opposite, stating that Japanese operational and transport skills were at so high a level that only the British Navy itself could compare with them on a world level. And the truth of the British evaluation was proved by the destruction of the Russian Baltic Fleet by Japan shortly thereafter.

Again, in June 1903, Kuropatkin, regarded as the best general in the Russian Army, arrived in Japan and observed the Japanese Army in the most detailed way, and judged Japan to have one of the weakest militaries in the world. “One Russian soldier will serve to deal with three Japanese. Our army could assemble four hundred thousand men in Manchuria within thirteen days, and we are prepared to do so. This is three times larger than the number necessary to defeat the Japanese Army. The war that is likely to come will be not so much a real war as a military pleasure stroll!”

One wonders what part of their brains these Russian military men were using when they made these observations and judgments. Military men of whatever nation tend to be captive to fixed ideas, and the Russians certainly were no exception to this rule.

It was in this atmosphere, or under such historical conditions, that Itō Hirobumi went to St. Petersburg, with only faint hopes of success. He had virtually staked his life on avoiding war between Russia and Japan.

The Russian side, however, showed an unexpected attitude toward him: they warmly welcomed him. The day Itō arrived at his St. Petersburg hotel Witte paid him a visit. It would have been customary for the foreign visitor to inquire about a convenient day and time, and then pay the Russian minister a visit. But Witte ignored all that and went to see Itō on his own.

Witte was the only member of the Russian government who was eager to avoid war with Japan, and he knew, of course, that Itō held the same view. He must have wanted to make sure that Itō had the right ideas in his mind when he met the other major Russian policymakers starting the following day.

“I am very happy that Your Excellency has come here,” Witte began when he met Itō in a private room at the hotel. “I’d like us to speak with complete frankness about the problems in the Far East.”

Good-natured Itō, disarmed by Witte’s attitude, gave his views on how peace could be preserved in the Far East and criticized Russia’s aggressive policies.

“I completely agree,” Witte answered calmly, much to Itō’s surprise. “But you know, Excellency, that in Russia, as in every country, there are conservative and more radical groups struggling for political power.” By “radical,” Witte meant the opportunistic imperialists who had gained favor with the tsar. They were led by Vyacheslav Plehve and Aleksandr Bezobrazov. “With their radical ideas, they are trying to lay their hands on Korea, but even they are not contemplating an invasion of Japan.”

That might be so, thought Itō, but if such radical ideas took hold, an invasion of Japan itself could well follow.

“They have gained favor with the tsar, but the most honorable of the ministers are wary of them. We might call them ‘the men of good sense.’ These include, for example, the newly appointed foreign minister Vladimir Lamsdorf and the war minister Alexei Kuropatkin. They are eager to continue good relations with Japan.”

“Ah, I see . . . ” thought Itō. Knowing full well that the essence of diplomacy lay in letting the other party know clearly one’s own intentions, feelings, and interests, Itō said, “But talk of good relations between Russia and Japan is too abstract to be helpful. Such abstractions won’t solve the present crisis in Korea.” Itō went on to say that the only real solution would be for Russia to withdraw from Korea.

The next day, Itō met Foreign Minister Lamsdorf. His predecessor Count Muravyov had, under pressure from the military, been responsible for adoption of the drastic policy of seizing Port Arthur and Dalian from China. He was, however, an easygoing man, like many Russians, and a heavy drinker. One evening, drinking champagne at someone’s home, he drank so much that he burst a blood vessel and died on the spot.

Lamsdorf succeeded him. In Witte’s opinion, he was a businesslike man with none of the frivolity of his predecessor. Witte did not think he would go along with the military’s more radical plans, but Itō’s impression upon meeting him was quite different. Lamsdorf seemed to have been influenced by the aggressive tendencies that prevailed at the time and showed no signs of the conciliatory attitude that Witte had spoken of the previous day.

“Prince Itō,” Lamsdorf said, “your views on Korean security and independence suggest to me that Japan plans to take over Korea completely and leave Russia with nothing. That would make an agreement between our two countries next to impossible.” Lamsdorf seemed to be suggesting that, fundamentally, Russia wanted to take over approximately half of the Korean Peninsula.

Still, Lamsdorf spoke throughout of his desire for Russia and Japan to settle the Korean crisis through diplomacy rather than military action, and sought to make that clear to Itō, who was very pleased to hear this. But we must note here that Lamsdorf’s words on this occasion were nothing more than a diplomatic gambit.

Behind Lamsdorf stood the Russian military, whose commander in chief, War Minister Kuropatkin, was not the advocate of peace between Russia and Japan that Witte made him out to be, a fact made clear in Witte’s own memoirs. Actually, Kuropatkin had suggested that Lamsdorf “offer Itō ‘the bread of peace.’” For, if war broke out, a vast number of troops would have to be sent to the presumed battlefields in Manchuria via the Trans-Siberian Railway, and its construction would not be completed within the year. War must be avoided at all costs until the completion of the railroad. Peace between Russia and Japan would be a strategic necessity until then.

Itō, it goes without saying, knew nothing of all this. He left Russia full of confidence that a crisis between Japan and Russia over Korea could be avoided through peaceful diplomatic means. He went to Germany and sent a cable to Prime Minister Katsura from Berlin, advising, “Postpone signing the Anglo-Japanese treaty. An agreement with Russia seems possible.”

Both Prime Minister Katsura Tarō and Foreign Minister Komura Jutarō were dumbfounded at this private diplomacy of Itō’s.

Itō waited at his Berlin hotel. During his visit to Russia, the Russians had promised that they would respond in writing to Itō’s diplomatic feelers. Experienced diplomat though he was, Itō waited hopefully. “It will certainly be good news . . . ” He was as naïvely hopeful as a young girl.

At last, the news came, via the Russian embassy in Berlin. Reading the text of the message as translated by the Japanese embassy, Itō felt a chilliness quite different from the atmosphere of a few days earlier in St. Petersburg: “Russia is free to take what actions it wishes in Manchuria.” This was a decisive expression of the fact that Russia recognized no limits on its own right to invade in that area.

In exchange, Russia acknowledged “only a limited freedom of action” on Japan’s part in the Korean Peninsula. The grand principle of imperialism, that a great power is always free to act while a small power is always limited in its freedom, was being taught by Russia to Japan, as a schoolmaster teaches a lesson to a primary school pupil.

“This is not what Witte said the other day,” thought a somewhat dazed Itō after having put down the translated letter. “Perhaps Witte was not consulted when this was drafted.” In such matters, Itō was too honest a man to understand the real situation. In fact, Witte himself had consulted with War Minister Kuropatkin while the latter was drafting the letter. In short, Witte too had caved in to the army.

The fact of the matter was that Witte had explained to the cabinet that “Japan was on the brink of bankruptcy due to its huge military budget.” He went on to suggest that if Russia lent Japan the much-needed money, with appropriate collateral security, of course, Japan would no doubt feel a sense of gratitude and obligation to Russia. The army and other ministers, however, rejected this proposal as “absurd.”

“If indeed Japan is on the verge of bankruptcy, that’s all to the good! It can hardly wage war under such circumstances, or, if by chance it did, it would fall like a rotten tree blown down by the wind. In short, conducting diplomatic relations with Japan as our equal is totally meaningless.”

This was the view of Kuropatkin and others, and, given their support for Russia’s expansionist policies, this probably made a lot of sense. The Russian letter had been written on the basis of this assessment of the situation in the Far East and Russia’s mood at that time. Witte had no choice but to knuckle under to the pressures of the times in Russia. Itō was greatly disappointed.

By contrast, Katsura Tarō and the other top leaders in the government felt a strange sense of relief. For this brought an end to Itō’s private diplomacy—so unwelcome to the government—and meant that Japan’s diplomatic course would have a single, unified direction from then on. The aim would be an alliance with Britain.

Itō had failed. When he came back to Japan, deflated, Tani Tateki, who had never liked him, went about crowing, “Itō has come back like a waterlogged rat, and, by way of contrast, the government’s head has swelled to the bursting point.”

The foreign minister at the time was Komura Jutarō. Prime Minister Katsura left all diplomatic decisions to him. “Itō is too simple and trusting,” Komura remarked. “For Japan to take Russia’s hand now would be like a young girl allowing herself to be bound hand and foot, only to be violated. And as for the promised marriage, her suitor kicks the idea aside and makes a neat escape.” The Russians are a good-natured people but they are willing to tell the most incredible lies regarding affairs of state—such was the general opinion in international political circles in Europe.

Komura had no particular liking for Great Britain and knew better than almost anyone about Britain’s shrewdness and cunning in diplomacy. But in choosing between an alliance with Russia or an alliance with Britain, he wanted to make his decision on the basis of the relative level of trust that could be accorded to the two countries.

When he had his subordinates investigate the diplomatic history of both Russia and Britain with respect to their alliances with other nations, he discovered to his surprise that Russia had almost made a habit of unilaterally discarding its alliances with other countries. Great Britain, on the other hand, had never done so, always faithfully maintaining its foreign alliances. Furthermore, Europeans often said that “the Russian national instinct is to plunder.” For a militarily weak Japan to convince Russia to restrain its “instinct to plunder” at the negotiating table by earnest entreaties would be quite impossible.

After the Triple Intervention, when Russia, as one of the parties, took control of Manchuria, Komura Jutarō asked Yamaza Enjirō, chief of the Political Affairs Bureau at the Foreign Ministry, if he knew how the Ainu people of Hokkaido captured bears alive. The Ainu would first set out a large amount of herring roe to dry on the seashore. A bear would come. It would gobble up as much of the herring roe as possible and then, feeling terribly thirsty, would plunge its head into the incoming waves and drink its fill of sea water. The sea water would make its thirst even more intense, and the bear would go on drinking. Finally, the herring roe in its stomach would swell up, rendering the bear unable to move. The Ainu would then approach and capture the bear without difficulty.

The bear in Komura’s little parable is Russia. The Ainu are Japan. The herring roe represent Manchuria, and the salty water, the Korean Peninsula. When the bear begins to drink the water of Korea, the Great Powers will not remain silent. In Komura’s view, Japan should then get the aid of a Great Power and drive the bear away. This parable proved true, and Great Britain made its appearance as the star performer in this drama.

Itō Hirobumi’s failure to establish a Russo-Japanese alliance did serve some purpose. In London, Hayashi Tadasu was holding those frequent discussions about the contents of a possible alliance with Britain with Lord Lansdowne. Naturally, each side tried to make its own country’s duties as light and its benefits as great as possible, and they were at a stage where neither side was prone to give in.

But here suddenly was a factor that made Britain uneasy—namely, Itō Hirobumi, who was on his way to Russia. The British thought that, as the negotiations dragged on, the Japanese may have grown impatient, and suspected that they might be “preparing the way for a Russo-Japanese alliance and thus playing a double game.”

Foreign Minister Lansdowne spoke to Ambassador Hayashi about the matter. “Prince Itō’s actions are hard to understand. With these important negotiations going on here in London, he ought to have come directly from Paris to London, yet he went to Russia instead. What’s behind this?”

Hayashi didn’t know how to reply. He could hardly say that it was just arbitrary “diplomatic play” on the part of a senior advisor to the Japanese government. Finally, he felt forced to tell a transparent lie. “It’s just a matter of Prince Itō’s personal health. He knows that winter is the harshest season of the year in London and wished to avoid it.”

Lansdowne looked irritated. “That’s strange. I’ll grant that London’s winters are not conducive to health, but I’ve never heard it said that the Russian winter is healthy either!” He went on. “I must warn you that the Russians are habitual offenders against the principles of trust and fidelity. They always treat their treaties as so much wastepaper. Please urge Prince Itō on my behalf not to immerse himself too much in the pleasures of the Russian winter.”

Hayashi had already realized that the British were more eager for the alliance than were the Japanese themselves, and that was why he worked so hard at the treaty negotiations, which extended over one and a half months, doing his very best to make sure that the conditions were favorable to Japan.

But to return to Itō. Having returned to Berlin from Russia, he then went to Britain at Hayashi’s urging. Itō himself could not have foreseen what happened as a result of his activities. Great Britain made major concessions regarding the contents of the treaty and hastened to conclude the alliance with Japan.

The Anglo-Japanese Alliance was formally concluded on January 30, 1902. Itō had already left London, arriving in Nagasaki on February 25. At a welcome reception given by the city of Nagasaki, he gave a speech entitled “The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and National Preparedness,” and in it he stated, “Foreign relations transcend the issues of political parties or factions. They are a matter for the whole nation. If pro-British or pro-Russian groups should emerge among us and divide us, it would lead to incalculable misfortune for our nation.” Thus, he announced in the most public fashion that he had now abandoned all plans for a special relationship with Russia.