Kano Jigoro - Voyager without Return

In 1967, Maruyama Sanzō, a direct pupil of Master Kanō, published Sekai jūdōshi (World History of Jūdō), a monumental work of over 1500 pages. Among other things, it contains an entire chapter of material with first-hand accounts of Master Kanō's last hours. This is the first English translation of the material.

A sad telegram after good news

When Master Kanō left Tōkyō Station, where many came to bid him farewell, to attend the Olympic Congress in Cairo, it was the 23 February 1938, at 1pm.

However, this departure was provisional. Since the organising committee of the Tōkyō Olympics had decided to meet the following day, the 14th, the date of the master's departure had to be changed due to force majeure.

However, the master said that a sudden change in the departure date would cause problems on all fronts, so he made a provisional departure on 13 November as planned, attended a meeting of the organising committee on 14 November, secretly left Tōkyō Station at 9.40pm on 16 November after a simple goodbye from his family and sailed from Moji on the Hakozaki Maru on 21 December, at noon.

This was to be the departure for the eternal journey of the founder of the Kōdōkan jūdō, Jigorō Kanō Shihan.

At the Olympic Congress in Cairo, held on 12 March, Master Kanō, 79, fought hard against committee members from other countries and finally conveyed the good news to his country: that 'the 12th Olympic Games will be held in Tōkyō', causing the entire Japanese nation to rejoice.

After completing his difficult mission, he had a plan to leave Cairo on 22 March, tour the United States and return on 6 May, but from 28 April he developed a fever on board the Hikawa Maru; on the night of 1 May his illness suddenly worsened and on the 3rd he developed pneumonia. At 17:30 on the 4th, on the Pacific Ocean, he finally became a voyager without return.

On 6 May, the mail ship Hikawa Maru, on board which Master Kanō's remains were laid to rest, docked at dusk at the Sanbashi dock in Yokohama harbour after another postponement of its arrival due to stormy weather.

The postal company flag on the fluttered half-mast mournfully, and the public made no sound nor waved their hands. Has there ever been such a sad arrival of a cruise ship in the port of Yokohama?

His Majesty the Emperor of Japan was informed of Master Kanō's passing and sent the imperial envoy Makino to Kanō's residence in Otsuka, where he presented the family with a votive offering of paper strips[1]. The funeral service was held on 9 May at the Kōdōkan Dōjō, in the presence of 200 nobles and commoners, including the then President of the Privy Council, Hiranuma, and Foreign Minister Hirota Hiroki, and was held with condolences from all over the country. Let us now describe the circumstances of the Shihan's death from documents of the time.

A Sad Telegram

At 4 p.m. on 3 May 1938, Captain Kannauchi Haruma of the Hikawa Maru sent the following first report on Master Kanō's illness to the Naval Post.

"Mr.[2] Kanō Jigorō has shown signs of a cold since he came aboard and has been receiving medical treatment. On 1 May he suddenly developed a fever and showed signs of pneumonia. Today's condition: temperature 39.9 degrees, pulse 110, weak, breathing slightly shallow, but consciousness clear. They make us worried'. The Naval Post immediately reported this to Kanō Shihan's home in Ōtsuka by telephone the same day.

At 6.30am on the 4th, a new radio message from the captain of the Hikawa Maru: 'Mr. Kanō has been in critical condition since 4.30 am today (3.35 am Japan time)'.

Then at 7:10 am the same day, it was announced: 'Mr. Kanō passed away at 6:33 am on the 4th (5:38 am Japan time). We are deeply saddened by his passing. The Naval Post immediately communicated the news to Kanō's residence in Ōtsuka and sent a telegram to the ship's captain, stating that 'Kanō's remains should be treated with the utmost care'.

On his deathbed

In front of his grieving family, footman Motomiya Masafumi said the following about his master's face shortly before his sudden death.

"I can venture to say that he was a true champion of Japanese bushidō, an outstanding great master. Even when his illness advanced, if I brought him something on my own initiative, such as hot water, he would repeatedly scold me, saying, 'Why do you do what you are not ordered to do?' This too has now become a memory”.

Upon boarding from Vancouver, Master Kanō, who was showing some signs of a cold but was in as good a mood as could be, suggested to the five first-class passengers that they "all talk together about the most interesting thing we've ever done" at the tea party scheduled for the 29th, but at the time of the party he did not say a single word.

It seems that by then he was already enduring (a very painful condition, ed.). However, even in the midst of such suffering, he was seen getting up early on his own, assuming a demeanour full of dignity, and worshipping[3] the Imperial Palace far away, before the triumphant return home, for it was the Tenchō-setsu[4] festivity.

When Ms Strong[5], who is making a journey around the world from Seattle, said, 'In the United States, the Tōkyō Games in September are going to be a problem,' he retorted in English, of which he was an expert: 'In August, Japanese athletes are used to the heat, so they would win everything. That wouldn't be fair play, would it?" He also said, 'Tōkyō's bid for the Olympics was my great mission,' and until the end he did not say a single word about his personal affairs. The captain of the Hikawa Maru said:

"We took him familiarly[6] by the hand and accompanied him to the end of his life. His words, with their character and meaning, became for all of us a final lesson[7] worthy of respect'.

The ship's doctor, Dr Ueno Hiromichi, thus spoke of the strength of the master's spirit, which overcame all kinds of pain:

"When I visited him on the 28th, he had a high fever of 38 degrees, but on the 29th, which was the Tenchō setsu his temperature remained normal (on the 30th it was not because of the 180-degree meridian crossing[8]). and the following day he came to the Sukiyaki Evening. From that evening his illness worsened, but the following day he continued to do his best,[9] saying, "I will go to the dining room, but on my way home, please take my hand," which was of course accepted, but on the third day his fever became even higher and he developed pneumonia.

When asked if he was in pain, the master replied: 'I am not in pain. By the way, I have developed the strength to live through any pain'. He kept his hands clasped on his chest and did not move a muscle in his face, not even when he was given an injection of saline solution, which is accompanied by severe pain. Thus, on the 4th, he calmly took his last breath.

His passing was as peaceful and quiet as that of a great sage. I bowed in recalling the extent of the temper of his spirit and physique. Even when he had a high fever, he would say: 'It is very good to take pictures of jūdō kata. The executive committee will decide tomorrow, then come and take pictures." He spoke of jūdō even in delirium, and entered into eternal rest, causing those who accompanied him to cry standing up.

What follows is a detailed account of Shihan's last days, written with great sorrow on the morning of his death by Hirasawa Kazushige of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (now an NHK commentator), who was the only Japanese among the first-class passengers aboard the Hikawa Maru besides Shihan.

The master and I

This is not the first time I have met Dr Kanō. The first time was when he came to Washington with his son last autumn, when I picked him up from the station with my colleague Mr T and drove him to the Shoreham Hotel. My first impression when I saw him getting off the train with his pillow in his hand was that he looked much weaker than I had expected.

When they arrived at the hotel and smoked a cigarette, Mr.T. said, 'Master, you are tired,' to which he replied, 'Tiredness is because you are not using your vigour righteously. To say, "You are tired" is equivalent to saying, "You have not used your vigour in the most righteous way".

I remember as if it happened on this date that T. was completely overwhelmed by the teacher's greeting: "People like me, who always try to use their vigour in the most righteous way, never get tired".

I knew that he would fly to the next conference in Cairo and that he would return via the USA, but I did not know by which ship he would return.

When we arrived in Seattle, Master also discovered for the first time that it would be the Hikawa Maru and was happy to be the only first-class Japanese passenger on board. The second time I met Master was at the 15th annual Japan-America Society dinner in Seattle, held that evening at the Olympic Hotel, where I told him, "Master, it's been a long time. This time we will be on the same ship'.

The next day, early in the morning of 22 April, he went to Vancouver and I sailed from Seattle the same afternoon. The ship arrived in Vancouver early in the morning of 23 April. I went to the consulate to say goodbye to him just before setting sail and met him at the rendezvous point where he left early.

Setting sail from Vancouver

The ship set sail at noon. When I returned to the ship, I found the master standing alone at the stern with a farewell ribbon in his hand, which had been thrown to him by the many disciples who had greeted him. When I approached him, he handed me a bundle of ribbon that he was holding tightly, saying "please hold this for a moment" and went to attend to something, but before long the ship began to move silently.

The people who saw him disembark were too embarrassed and impatient to say a banzai or take a photograph, and I just felt sorry for him as I held the tape. Fortunately he returned before the boat could move too fast and everything ended well. More than a dozen strips of red and white ribbon fluttered from the master's clenched left fist.

He took a white handkerchief from his right pocket and waved it long and hard. The wind in Vancouver Harbour was cold and the mountains surrounding the bay stood tall, capped in snow.

Dining together

Since our cabins were next to each other and we shared the same dining table, we were happy to talk to each other for the thirteen days to Yokohama. The first-class passengers on board were, in addition to the two of us, a German engineer, an elderly American lady and a young American businessman, and the journey was smooth and pleasant.

Our table consisted of the master, the captain and the chief engineer.  The master to the captain's right, me to his left and the chief engineer to the master's right, sitting opposite me.

The first evening, as I feared, he came to the dining room dressed in his kimono with the coat of arms, but from the next day he came without changing.

When I first saw him, he had seemed very weak, but I was surprised to see how strong he was. He usually ate twice as much as I did, and ate beefsteaks even in the morning.

He seemed very interested in the cuisine and ordered the waiters to keep the daily menus, saying things like 'where do these ingredients come from', 'the cuisine on this ship is better than on other ships' and 'I will do a comparative study when I return'. On departure, he brought a bottle of soy sauce powder, a gift from Professor Uzawa's daughter-in-law, into the dining room and encouraged us to try it, saying he wanted to share his kindness with as many people as possible.

When he was about to eat an orange, I saw him take a small pair of scissors out of his chest and remove the white peel, and I looked at him wondering if this was also his way of using his vigour in the most righteous way.

Although the master ate in silence, after the meal he would often talk about the Cairo Conference, or his trips to Europe in the past, or the period immediately following the Meiji Restoration. He was so interesting that sometimes all four of us would stay at the table for almost an hour after dinner. From time to time he had a cough, but he seemed much better after two inhalations a day, morning and evening.

'At the Cairo conference I got completely tired'

When I heard him say: 'At the Cairo meeting I got completely tired', I thought back to T's scolding in Washington a day ago, and I had a strange feeling. "I wasn't really in shape until I arrived in Naples'.

I remember him saying: 'Meetings are tiring even if there's nothing going on, after all one is tense even for that'. It was interesting to hear the news about the conference, for example that China had asked to attend the conference as a delegate, but was not taken seriously, and that the Austrian delegate lost his right of representation due to the merger of Germany and Austria[10] during the conference, which was unfortunate.

He also often said, suddenly speaking to himself, 'I am surprised that you managed to confirm that the Olimpic Games would be held in Japan'.

He also recalled how, when rickshaws first appeared at the beginning of the Meiji era, he rode in one on his way home from school and was scolded by his father when he said 'I came by car, please pay'; how, in his twenties, he was vice-principal of Gakushūin for several years and worked hard for reform; how, after going abroad, he worked at the Ministry of Education for a while and soon became a high school headmaster; how he devoted himself to education for more than twenty years and how, at Zhāng Zhīdòng's request[11], he began to take care of Chinese students, saying: 'It's like a dream', with his kind eyes shining.  For someone like me, born after the Russo-Japanese War, it was like listening to a historical tale. That too was two, three days ago.

Anyone who goes abroad for the first time is easily impressed. When I heard that, although he had graduated in English, he had never gone to the UK before, but had gradually gone to Germany, France and the UK, gradually shortening the length of his stay, I looked back and wondered whether I had 'fallen in love with America' or not. I wondered if I had been 'taken by America’.

Since the chief engineer was from Gunma Prefecture, the two of them talked about various things, such as the area around Tanigawa where Master Kanō has a villa with hot springs. He asked questions like, "What are those big trees that are everywhere?" as if he was remembering them.

The secrets against seasickness

The ship was very strong. A few days after we set sail, we encountered a very strong storm, and for two whole days we were so upset that we had to tie the bed and the table together and wedge the table, but even then he ate as usual. I was also told at the time that his strength on board was the result of his training.

"At the beginning I was weak, that's not good. What is it ever to be seasick? It's vulgar talk, but it means vomiting. If I get over the nausea, I won't be seasick any more. Thinking like this, when I got seasick I would go back to my room and vomit, then eat again, vomit again, eat again, until at some point I stopped vomiting.  In other words, I conquered seasickness'. When he told us his secret, I was surprised and impressed by his such a drastic trick.

However, the shaking was severe, and the captain was worried that he might fall, so he ordered the footmen to follow him between the master's room and the dining room, but the master scolded him again and again saying 'don't follow me, don't follow me'. The sight of the one walking behind him was almost comical. He was so sure of his own body.

However, as soon as we set sail from Vancouver, I could not help but notice that we were counting down the days with each meal and looking forward to our arrival in Yokohama, which was scheduled to arrive much earlier than planned at noon on 6 May, as we had a very smooth passage for the first few days. However, after the ship was hit by a storm, at one point it was doubtful that it would arrive on 6 May.

I couldn't help but worry that he kept asking the captain, over and over again at every meal, "How many hours will we be late?" It's a normal state of mind for any passenger to want to get to port as soon as possible, and the captain didn't seem to be particularly bothered, but I could clearly sense that the master had no energy in his body, in no particular point in his body, and that his spirit had weakened.

It was an ominous premonition. Even thinking about it now, I cannot help but feel a sense of dread and wonder. From the coast of Alaska to the Aleutian Islands, the waters of the North Pacific were freezing cold, even though it was spring. It was cold, to the point that it was impossible to walk on deck without a cloak.

On 29 April, the day of the Tenchō setsu Festivity, when everyone went out on deck to sing the Kimigayo and say prayers for the long life of the Sovereign, it was very cold. He changed into his morning clothes and went out on deck, but I felt sorry for him because the ceremony was already over. However, knowing that he had caught a cold since the day before, I thought it was fortunate that he did not have to stay on deck too long.

The lunch table that day contained an invitation from the captain for tea, much to the delight of us passengers. The master suggested: 'Why don't we discuss, one by one during the tea-party, which was the most interesting thing we have ever done? Let's choose someone, even the office manager, to start the conversation with." He was so enthusiastic that he repeated his request three times, so much so that I went to the tea party trying to find an excuse to refuse.

However, there master hardly spoke, did not eat much and was the first to get up, so I who had taken his proposal for lunch so seriously could not help but find it a little unusual. However, in hindsight, I think he didn't feel very well from then on. At the time, I didn't think there was anything wrong with his body. I thought maybe there was something that had upset him.

That evening, at dinner, he was very happy that half the journey was over, but although we usually always talked calmly after meals, that was the only time he immediately returned to his room as soon as he had finished eating. It was at that moment that a tinge of doubt and anxiety finally crossed our minds. The three of us left behind were all worried as we left the dining room.

"Maybe he's feeling sick?" were the words of the chief engineer. "He seems to have a cold," was my reply. As always, the captain remained silent and replied, 'Hmm, oh yes'.

For the first time, he did not participate in the dinner.

When the ship crossed the 180-degree line, it was not 30 April and on the morning of 1 May the vestiges of the stormy weather had finally disappeared and the weather was clear with a slight breeze and the water was as cold as usual. That morning I could finally not see the teacher at all in the dining room. It was the first time this had happened since we had set sail.

At lunchtime, we asked the captain and he told us that for several minutes the temperature had risen to thirty-eight degrees, so we began to worry seriously because his body was old. In spite of that, he told us that he would go to the dining room at all costs, and around 10:30 he had breakfast there, but when he heard that he had lost that too, I prayed that he would not overdo it.

Sukiyaki dinner

That evening there was sukiyaki dinner on the tatami. When I went down to the dining room, I found four cushions scattered on the table. I was surprised and asked the captain, "Kanō-san, will he come?" I was simply amazed to hear the reply: "He told me he absolutely wants to. It seems he doesn't listen to me."

As the three of us were starting to cook, the master was taken by the footman's hand and we saw him in the dining room, but he looked much weaker than when we met last night, and he was pale, and I wondered why on earth he had come. He looked so gaunt and dull that I was bitter about it.

He said, "It's very cold," and when I looked at the master, who was sitting on the mattress with unsteady legs, I saw that he was wearing two layers of clothes and shivering from the cold. In retrospect, that was not the appearance of a living person.

As soon as I thought he had consumed a slice of sashimi, a slice of meat and even a glass of nihonshū, he began to feel nauseous. The sight (of the master quietly ordering the waiter to bring him some kind of container as he struggled (to contain himself, ed.) was so terrible that I couldn't bear to look at him.

The atmosphere darkened slightly, but the captain, unusually, started talking and told us the news that 80 Japanese and Chinese planes had engaged in a major air battle in the skies over Hànkǒu, and 50 enemy planes had been shot down.

He also said that there had been a reception for Ambassador Nagai at the New Grand, which he had heard on the radio that morning, and that Mr. Nagai had reported on the Cairo conference, but I am in doubt as to whether or not the master had heard these conversations.

Perhaps he was unable to listen what people were saying. The chief engineer remained depressed and silent. Later the master took a glass of sake, some pickled plums and okayu, but ate nothing else. He was also very slow in bringing the bowl to his mouth, and even when he picked it up with a spoon, he could not bring it to his mouth.

The footman asked him twice "will you go back to the room?", but he refused in a soft voice, saying "not yet", which was so pitiful that I still can't get it out of my head. He stayed in the dining room until we had almost finished eating, and then went back to the room, making sure to lean on the footman. We were even filled with pity for him, wondering why he had bothered to do such a thing.

From the following day, I was relieved that the master's table had not been prepared, and that he had changed his mind about being served in his room. However, when it came the time for the meal, he told the footman "I'll go alone on the way out, you’ll accompany me on the way back, then I’ll retire", but he was prevented (from doing so, ed.).

Because he had overexerted himself the previous evening by coming to the dining hall, he came down with a high fever close to 40 degrees on the 2nd of May. The ship's doctor immediately applied a compress to his chest to prevent pneumonia and, of course, expected no further setbacks.

Then, it seems, his condition was communicated to Tōkyō by telegram. I heard that, thanks to the treatment he received, his temperature had dropped to thirty-eight degrees the next day, May 3, and I continued to pray with all my heart that he would somehow return to a normal temperature before arriving in Yokohama.

On the third night of critical condition, that is, last night, the German engineer on the same ship organised a party and all those who saw each other every day at the dining room were invited. The ship's doctor appeared briefly and then immediately withdrew, but I didn't realise that this (behaviour, ed.) had such significance.

The captain and the second were not in a good mood and the evening was a bit mired in gloom, so I tried to be cheerful on my own, but I couldn't help feeling a bit discouraged.

The captain and the others soon retired, and it was past twelve when the last three remaining men saw the bottom of the Rhine wine and returned to their cabins. A waiter was sitting in front of the master's cabin, next door. Perhaps the doctor was inside.

However, I still did not consider it a serious problem and went back to my cabin, which was between the master's room and the bathroom, and soon fell asleep. At that point, I had no idea that the wheels of fate were spinning the last hours of Master Kanō's 80 years of life in this nearby room.

However, when I left my room at 8:30 this morning as usual at the breakfast announcement and greeted the office manager in front of the office, the surprise when I was told that "At last, Mr. Kanō is gone" was completely unimaginable. He said 'at last', but it didn't sound like 'at last' to me at all, because I had no idea that the situation had already become so serious.

I was simply stunned by how sudden it was. When, at the table, I saw the captain's red eyes and wide, unshaven cheeks, I couldn't help but feel my voice drop at the thought of all the feelings that must have been hiding behind his clenched mouth.

It seems that the master died as if asleep, without being conscious. His remains rest peacefully in the room next to the one in which I am writing. I know nothing about the organisation of the Tōkyō Olympics. I don't even know why he had to make such a hectic journey without his private secretary. But I do know this. Japan's national reputation would have been destroyed if the Olympics, which were almost certain to come to Japan, had been prevented by the machinations of other countries rather than Japan's decision to withdraw.

Of course Kanō did not do this on his own, but the fact that he was able to come to Cairo as a representative and successfully conclude the conference is a source of great satisfaction for Japan and must be considered the master's greatest achievement. It is a ship that has embarked on its maiden voyage.

I hope that when the Olympics are held in Tōkyō, we will be able to do it in style and leave America and Europe speechless. When I think of the master, who left on a mission and died suddenly on his way back, just two days after arriving in Yokohama, I cannot help but be filled with many thoughts.

I, who by a strange fate spent the last eleven days of his brilliant eighty-year life with him, as I wrote, I who now recognise the flow of my thoughts, such as they are, in the next room where his remains lie, cannot help but pray from the bottom of my heart for the success of the Tōkyō Olympics.

The ship is travelling 250 miles east of Hokkaidō, carrying the master's remains, through a thick fog that has closed over its surface, and is racing towards Yokohama. The mournful tone of the whistle, which is emitted at intervals, shakes the fog in the North Pacific Ocean along with the sound of ancient waves, as if in mourning for his spirit and in bitterness at his passing.

Written on the Hikawa Maru on the morning of 4 May 1938

 

[1] 幣帛 heihaku strips of white paper resembling the shape of a lightning bolt, used to signal the sacredness of a place or object.

[2] 殿 gift: a term in classical Japanese for someone superior in degree.

[3] 遙拝yōhai indicates the action of worshipping something from a distance

[4] 天長節 The Emperor's Birthday Party

[5] Perhaps Anna Louis Strong, an American journalist later close to the Chinese communist revolution to Mao Zedong, but there is no way to know for sure.

[6] 親しくda 親しい shitashii, "to be familiar with", "to feel close to..."

[7] 遺訓 the last teaching left at the point of death

[8] The line of determination of the Date Change

[9] 頑張れ strive, do your best

[10] Anschluss, the annexation of Austria to Nazi Germany that occurred on 13 March 1938

 

Translation and notes by Emanuele Bertolani