Network of Knowledge: Western Science and the Tokugawa Information Revolution 9780824853594

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NETWORK OF KNOWLEDGE

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NETWORK OF KNOWLEDGE Western Science and the Tokugawa Information Revolution Terrence Jackson

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2016 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 20 ​19 ​18 ​17 ​16 ​15   

6 ​5 ​4 ​3 ​2 ​1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jackson, Terrence, author.   Network of knowledge : Western science and the Tokugawa information Revolution / Terrence Jackson.    pages cm   Includes bibliographical references and index.   ISBN 978-0-8248-5358-7 cloth : alk. paper    1. Otsuki, Gentaku, 1757-1827.  2. Physicians—Japan—Biography  3. Japan— Civilization—Dutch influences.  4.  Japan—Intellectual life—1600-1868  I.  Title.   R626.O84J33 2016  610.69'50952—dc23 2015028409 University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-­free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.

Contents

Ac­know­ledg­ments vii

Introduction The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 1

Chapter One Ōtsuki Gentaku: Network Facilitator 24

Chapter Two Creating Community: The Culture of Early Modern Salons 41

Chapter Three Bows and Laughs: The Civil Egalitarianism of Salons 58

vi Contents

Chapter Four Training / Reproducing the Network: Private Academies 77

Chapter Five A National Network: Travel and Correspondence 99

Chapter Six The Network in Action: Book Circulation and Publication 116

Chapter Seven Politicizing the Network: Civil Society in the Meiji Period 134

Conclusion The Historical Significance of Community 148

Notes  157 Bibliography  177 Index  191

Ac­know­ledg­ments

Network of Knowledge has been many years in the making, and along the way I have received an endless supply of guidance and support. Although I would be unable to name every person who played a role in shaping my research, I will try my best to offer gratitude. First, I want to express my thanks to the faculty of the Indiana University History Department and East Asian Languages and Cultures Department. My graduate mentors offered me care that I could never adequately repay. Foremost ­were George M. Wilson and Richard Rubinger. Dr. Wilson took me under his wing when I arrived at IU and never wavered in his kindness, enthusiasm, and support. I will miss him tremendously, as will all those who had the plea­sure of knowing him. I would never have conceived of this research topic w ­ ere it not for Dr. Rubinger, who suggested I consider examining Tokugawa intellectual networks during a meeting in his office in Goodbody Hall. In addition, Jurgis Elisonas, Lynn Struve, James Capshew, and Ann Charmichael provided welcome assistance on various aspects of my work. Generous support, financial and otherwise, from the Fulbright Program and the Japan–­United States Educational Commission allowed me to conduct research in Tokyo. While in Japan, Mitani Hiroshi made a place for me at Tokyo University and offered constant encouragement. Among his kindnesses was an introduction to Umehara Ryō, who helped me navigate the many libraries and patiently tutored me in ancient Japa­nese script. Rewriting and revising this book took place at Adrian College, a warm and supportive community. I am especially fortunate to work within the best department at any college. Deborah Field, Carissa Massey, Michael McGrath, vii

viii

Ac­k now­ledg­ments

and Stephanie Jass all read or heard various versions of chapters and kindly provided historical perspective from specialties outside Japan. Grants that I received from the college made it possible for me to present many aspects of this book. Feedback from those pre­sen­ta­tions helped me smooth rough spots. I thank all participants and attendees at Association for Asian Studies, Midwest Conference on Asian Affairs, and Midwest Japan Seminar sessions who pointed out problems and offered advice. In par­tic­u­lar, I must acknowledge Martha Chaiklin, Michael Laver, Marvin Marcus, Charles Andrews, and Greg Johnson for their boundless encouragement. During the publishing pro­cess, editor Stephanie Chun patiently answered my countless novice questions. This book would never have been written if it w ­ ere not for the excellent history teachers whose classes I have been fortunate enough attend. I am particularly grateful to David Kivela of Park Tudor School and Gary Leupp of Tufts University for inspiring my love for historical research. My biggest appreciation goes to my family, who looked out for me in so many ways while I worked on this book. Bill, Lynn, Lisa, and Marianna Jackson and Robert and Laurie Hochman supported me in innumerable ways. Thank you, Zoe, for demanding I take breaks while I researched this work and for being an intellectual inspiration. Thank you, Thai, for making me laugh as I worked on revisions and reminding me that there is more to life than dusty books. Lastly, but most importantly, thank you, Marni Hochman. Marni spent more time with this book than anyone ­else besides me. She carefully read draft after draft of every chapter, corrected my awkward writing and typos, was my sounding board, and provided me with more good ideas than I generated myself. Her name should really be on the cover page of this book next to mine. This book is dedicated to her.

I N T R O D U C T I O N

The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution

Scholars and nonscholars alike have long admired Japan as one of the few countries in the last half millennium that was able to confront the expansion of the West and fundamentally change its ways of thinking in order to thrive in a Western-­dominated world. What­ever value one chooses to place on that observation, the fact remains that from the time Japan opened itself to increased international contact in the 1850s, it quickly created Western-­ style institutions for governing and education and, by the end of the century, was joining the West in geopo­liti­cal games such as empire building. However, Japan did not enter that new world ignorant of Western ideas. As early as the sixteenth century, officials and scholars developed a curiosity for Western sciences and medicine. Interest continued but remained low until the last half of the eigh­teenth century, when the seed that had been planted two hundred years earlier began to grow roots. That root system germinated over approximately sixty years (1770–1830) in the form of what was known as rangaku (Dutch studies) anchoring the pursuit of Western knowledge to the landscape of Japa­nese intellect. This book takes that crucial period of germination as its subject. For years, historians of Japan have understood the last half of the Tokugawa period (1600–1868) as a time of dynamic intellectual activity. Although Neo-­Confucianism was the orthodox learning sanctioned by the government and retained its paradigmatic hold on Japa­nese intellect, politics, and society, the tension of other ideologies was increasingly visible as nativism (kokugaku), Mito loyalism (Mitogaku), new religions, and, of course, Dutch or Western studies gained followers. This being the case, scholars have spent a great number of pages investigating Tokugawa Japan’s intellectual 1

2 Introduction

world, recently focusing on the social lives of various communities of thinkers. Orienting research toward social practice is fitting for dealing with the development of Dutch studies during the period of 1770–1830, because it allows us to answer several important questions: Why ­were these years so important for the spread of rangaku? How was it able to spread with such limited contact with the West? And, how was it that individuals from such a diverse mix of social backgrounds ­were involved? This book examines the interplay between social structure and intellectual/cultural production among scholars of Dutch studies in order to answer those questions. Arguing that we cannot fully understand the spread and significance of rangaku by focusing exclusively on ideas, it investigates the issue of how social ties, power, and status shaped the production of knowledge. Social networks ­were crucial to the rangaku enterprise and reflected changes in information during the early modern period. THE DUTCH EAST INDIA COMPANY AND DESHIMA Although the term rangaku literally means Dutch studies or learning, it refers more widely to the study of Western knowledge—­primarily science, medicine, and military techniques, but also history, customs, and politics—­ during the Tokugawa period. Previously, Japan’s most substantial contact with Eu­rope was through Portuguese and Spanish traders and missionaries in the mid-­sixteenth century. Soon after those hairy, foul-­smelling men from the Iberian Peninsula landed on the coast of the main southern island of Kyushu, powerful and wealthy Japa­nese began to purchase objects of Western material culture, including clocks and firearms. Over time, some Japa­nese became curious about Western technical skills in surgery and navigation, and nanbangaku (Southern barbarian learning) was born. Alas, this line of study was not destined to last, as, through mea­sures intended to stabilize its rule, the government, known as the bakufu (tent government), would fully sever relations with the Spanish and Portuguese in the 1620s and 1630s. The Tokugawa regime did not, however, completely cut its ties with the West and would allow the regular entrance of Dutch trading ships throughout its rule. From the 1640s, for the next two centuries, the Dutch w ­ ere Japan’s window to the West. The Dutch first arrived in Japan in the spring of 1600 when the malnourished and diseased crew of the de Liefde dropped anchor on the northeastern coast of Kyushu. Exhausted and beaten by the sea, only twenty-­four of the original crew of 110 ­were still alive. Four companion vessels had been lost during the two-­year journey.



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 3

Intrigued by these arrivals, Tokugawa Ieyasu (1543–1616) ordered them to Edo, where government officials interrogated them. Despite the protests of Portuguese, who sought to jealously guard their position, Ieyasu recognized their informational value and allowed the Dutch to establish a presence. Five years later, the bakufu issued the Dutch a license to trade, and the Dutch East India Company, or VOC (de Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie), which had been formed recently in 1602, sent its first trade mission to Japan in 1609. They w ­ ere permitted to establish an outpost in Hirado in Kyushu where En­glish traders ­were also allowed a charter several years later. The VOC was primarily interested in Japan’s silver, but also copper, gold, camphor, porcelain, lacquerware, and tea. The copper trade would become particularly profitable for the Dutch. However, due to an initial trade imbalance, more silver and gold was leaving with the Dutch than was comfortable for the bakufu. While the Dutch sent scores of ships during the seventeenth century, the Shōtoku shinrei (New Shōtoku laws) of 1715 limited Dutch imports and reduced the permitted number of annual VOC vessels to two. These reductions and domestic copper shortages led to the steady dwindling of profits for the VOC. In exchange for the precious metals and camphor, the VOC brought the Japa­nese textiles, silk, spices, sharkskin, scented wood, and medicines from other parts of Asia. More importantly for rangaku scholars, though, ­were the Western books, scientific and medical instruments, and other objects of Eu­ ro­pean ingenuity such as glass bottles and clocks. These excited the imagination of scholars and commoners alike. In 1641, the bakufu ordered the Dutch to move their operations from Hirado to the island of Deshima in Nagasaki harbor. This man-­made island was financed five years earlier by twenty-­five wealthy Nagasaki townspeople to h ­ ouse the Portuguese, a government mea­sure to sequester Portuguese po­liti­cal and religious influence. Nagasaki had been controlled by the Jesuits for nearly a de­cade in the 1580s and thus had a history of international trade and Western presence. The Dutch’s relocation was one of several government mea­sures to contain foreigner, and particularly Roman Catholic, influence. In 1639, the bakufu issued the fifth of what would later be called “seclusion edicts,” expelling the Portuguese, banning Japa­nese subjects from traveling outside of the country, and effectively leaving the Dutch and Chinese as the only foreign ships allowed to enter Japan. Restricted to Deshima, except with special permission, the VOC was isolated and monitored.1 Ships ­were only allowed to anchor in Nagasaki for two months. At any given time, there ­were twelve to twenty Dutch residing on the island, where there ­were living quarters, ware­houses, a sales area, a kitchen, and offices. The company typically maintained a chief factor

4 Introduction

(opperhoofd), who by bakufu command could only be stationed in Japan on one-­year stints, an undermerchant or vice-­chief (onderkoopman), up to two secretaries (schrijver), a se­nior factory physician (oppermeester), up to two bookkeepers (boekhouder), a ware­house master (pakhuismeester), a variety of technical experts such as carpenters, and perhaps a couple dozen Indonesian slaves at Deshima. It was through the Deshima window and with the help of its residents that Dutch studies was possible. However, contact was not easy as VOC representatives and the Japa­nese ­were restricted from crossing the stone bridge that connected Deshima to the mainland without official permission, which was sparsely granted. A fence surrounded the three-­acre island and sentry boxes staffed with guards (saguriban) sat at either end of the bridge. In addition, watchmen (mawariban) closely monitored residents. The bakufu charged two officials known as otona (chiefs) with regulating visitors to the island, and in general only the otona, the Nagasaki magistrate (bugyō), official interpreters, konpura-­nakama (compradoors, Dutch) who acquired daily staples for the Dutch, and appointed prostitutes ­were allowed to make contact with the Dutch on a regular basis.2 Permission to cross the bridge was occasionally granted, but for the most part it was Japa­nese interpreters who had the greatest access to the Dutch. An important exception was when the VOC chief factor traveled to Edo every May to pay homage to Japan’s feudal leader, the shogun, beginning in 1633. These trips ­were mandated for the continuation of trade rights. Typically, the chief factor was accompanied by the company physician, a secretary, and some assistants, as well as various Japa­nese officials. This requirement continued until 1850, though the obligation was reduced to every other year in 1764 and every fourth year in 1790. The journey, known in Japa­nese as Edo sanpū, usually took about ninety days, and provided the Dutch with their only chances to observe the main island of Honshu and meet with Japa­nese outside of Nagasaki. While in Edo, they ­were ­housed in four rooms on the second floor of an inn known as the Nagasakiya in a bustling area of Edo called Nihonbashi, “Japan’s bridge.” Ironically, during the crucial years of rangaku growth that are the subject of this book, Dutch trade was much reduced due to a number of factors in Holland and Japan. Trade had been very profitable for the VOC in early years because the Japa­nese chiefly paid for coveted Chinese raw silk with silver and gold. And, the bakufu indicated its continuing interest with the establishment of a trade office or clearing­house (kaisho) in Nagasaki in 1695. However, a ban on the export of specie in the 1660s, limits on trade volume in the 1680s, and the trade laws of 1715 led to steady decline of trade. In addition, Dutch economic ventures ­were stifled by Napoleon’s invasion of the



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 5

Netherlands in 1795 and French annexation of the country in 1810, not to mention the loss of Batavia (now Jakarta), Holland’s base of operations in Asia, to Great Britain the following year. While this was occurring, the Dutch government took control of VOC operations in 1799 when the company was dissolved due to corruption and debt. If this was not damaging enough to Dutch-­Japanese economic relations, bakufu international policies became more rigid following a tense situation in 1808 during which a British ship, the Phaeton, entered Nagasaki harbor and demand supplies from the city at cannon-­point. DUTCH STUDIES AND ŌTSUKI GENTAKU, 1770–1830 Despite such obstacles, Dutch studies flourished between 1770 and 1830. The word rangaku was coined at the beginning of this period, and those who pursued it came to be known as rangakusha (“Dutch studies scholars”).3 Rangakusha studied medicine, astronomy, calendrical sciences, art, geography, foreign customs, military sciences, physics (natural philosophy), and the Dutch language. From around 1840, the term rangaku began to be replaced with the more general yōgaku, or Western studies, as primary interest among scholars shifted from medicine to military sciences, and as En­glish, French, and Rus­sian increasingly became media for study. While this book is interested in the rangaku community as a ­whole, it uses the scholar-­physician Ōtsuki Gentaku (1757–1827) as a lens through which to understand the relationship between social structure and intellectual development within the community. Gentaku played a significant role in the growth of rangaku during the formative years of its development. Most Japa­ nese today do not know the name Ōtsuki Gentaku. So, how important could he possibly be to understanding this significant intellectual movement of the early modern period? There are five factors that recommend Gentaku for an investigation into how socioeconomic changes allowed rangakusha to develop a far-­reaching network in the Tokugawa period. First, his social ties ­were extensive within the capital of Edo, where he lived during most of his adult life. He was a very well known intellectual figure of this time with an abundance of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. Second, as an employee of both a daimyo (feudal lord of a domain) and the bakufu, as well as the head of a school that attracted students from the samurai, farmer, merchant, and artisan classes, his ties w ­ ere socially diverse. Third, his school, his various trips, and his correspondences kept him in touch with scholars who lived in other important cultural/intellectual centers and in more culturally peripheral areas. Fourth, Gentaku was a doctor, the social group most

6 Introduction

responsible for the rangaku movement in its early stages, and he was an ­active participant in the formation of its national network. Finally, his career roughly coincided with a period of dramatic rise in interest in Dutch learning. Gentaku was a prolific writer, leaving behind over three hundred pieces of writing, including essays, books, diaries, and poetry, and established himself as the doyen of rangaku by the beginning of nineteenth century. His diaries and correspondences are useful for analyzing his relationship with others in the Dutch studies community. His essays and books provide insight into his attitudes about medicine and scholarly pursuits. In addition, his school and library registries provide information on whom he taught and with whom he exchanged books. CHIEF FACTORS, FACTORY PHYSICIANS, AND INTERPRETERS This book focuses largely on Gentaku’s Dutch studies community in the capital city of Edo, but it is important that the reader understand the cultural exchange between the Japa­nese and Dutch East India Company members. Gentaku wrote excited rec­ords of several meetings with Eu­ro­pe­ans. Indeed, the VOC’s chief factor and the se­nior factory physician ­were crucial to the history of rangaku in Japan. They tended to be the most educated of the Deshima staff, usually had an interest in learning more about Japan, and often could provide specialized knowledge on medicine and natural history. While this book focuses on networks among Japa­nese scholars, physicians, and interpreters, their relationships with company chief factors and physicians gave those networks an international dimension, placing rangakusha in a web that spread across Asia and the Pacific and to Eu­rope.4 As with all links in the rangaku network, the intellectual benefits for rangaku scholars and their VOC contacts ­were mutual. The Japa­nese received books, tools of science and medicine, and training. Company chiefs and physicians received information and books about Japan as well as various specimens of indigenous flora and fauna, with which they hoped to broaden cata­loging work begun by Eu­ro­pean scientists such as Carl Linnaeus.5 Given the rigidity of bakufu policies, these relationships w ­ ere not easily accomplished. Yet, beginning with physicians Caspar Schambergen (1623– 1706) in 1649, several Eu­ro­pean visitors stand out for having profound impacts on Japan’s understanding of the West. During his time in Nagasaki and an exceptional nine-­month stay in Edo, Schambergen trained a number of doctors in surgical techniques. Other noteworthy Eu­ro­pe­ans include ware­house master and chief factor Jan Cock Blomhoff (1779–1853) and ware­



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 7

house master Johannes van Overmeer Fisscher (1800–1848), who established close relations with Japa­nese scholars in the 1810s and 1820s. On request from the Dutch crown, the two built encyclopedic collections of Japa­nese books, tools, paintings, and natural history specimens. Their collections ­were purchased as inaugural items for the ethnographic museum Museum voor Volkenkunde in Leiden in 1837.6 However, five VOC members stand out as being particularly important to the rangaku network: Engelbert Kaempfer (factory physician, 1690–1692), Carl Thunberg (factory physician, 1775–1776), Isaac Titsingh (chief factor, forty-­four months between 1779 and 1784), Hendrik Doeff (chief factor, 1803– 1817), and Philipp Franz von Siebold (factory physician, 1823–1829). The latter four ­were in Japan during Ōtsuki Gentaku’s lifetime, though he did not meet them all, and will make frequent appearances in the chapters that follow. All of these men ­were keenly interested in learning about Japan and wrote books to introduce it to Eu­ro­pe­ans. Kaempfer’s (1651–1716) arrival in fall 1690 predates the years of focus for this book. However, his experience and accomplishments would influence Eu­rope’s understanding of Japan and prepare later VOC visitors. He was well-­and broadly educated, studying medicine, mathematics, astronomy, language, and history at various schools in Germany and Poland. Adventurous by nature and a scholar at heart, Kaempfer’s employment had taken him to Sweden, Rus­sia, Persia, southern India, and Ceylon. He eagerly sought out conversations with the Japa­nese on culture, customs, and politics, and through the friendships he developed was able to acquire plants and animals for study.7 In 1712, he published a massive learned tome, Amoenitates exoticae, based on observations from all his travels. His History of Japan, an English-­t ranslation of comments on Japan, became the authoritative text when it was printed posthumously in 1727 and was well-­k nown by subsequent chief factors and physicians who came to Deshima.8 Even Japa­nese scholars and government officials considered it valuable, and a partial Japa­ nese translation by interpreter Shizuki Tadao (1760–1806) actively circulated in manuscript form throughout the nineteenth century. With a copy of Kaempfer’s book in hand, Carl Peter Thunberg (1743–1828) arrived in Japan in 1775. Also well-­educated, Thunberg had studied medicine and anatomy and earned a doctorate of philosophy at the University of Uppsala under the mentorship of famed naturalist Carl Linnaeus. Like Kaempfer, Thunberg was adventurous and intellectually driven. In 1771, he entered VOC ser­vice as a physician.9 While in Japan, Thunberg studied fauna and amassed a huge botanical collection. In addition, he studied Japa­nese culture and customs. Despite the brevity of his stay, he was able to establish relationships with interpreters such as Inamura Sanbei and Nakamura

8 Introduction

Genjirō in Nagasaki that gained him access to information. He was also able to accompany the VOC embassy to Edo, during which time he gathered further information and made contact with scholars outside the southern port. In fact, he met and befriended Gentaku’s colleagues and close friends Nakagawa Junan and Katsuragawa Hoshū (1751–1809) while in the capital. Upon returning to Eu­rope, he published the scholarly botanical Flora Japonica in Latin and a more popularly accessible text titled Resa uti Europa, Africa, Asia, förrättad åren 1770–1779, which dedicated a considerable number of pages to Edo. Thunberg’s name was well known throughout the rangaku community, and he was an integral point of contact for the network. One example of the significance of this contact for the Japa­nese was the new methods for treating syphilis that Thunberg taught to several Japa­nese physicians. Gentaku’s friend the Nagasaki interpreter Yoshio Kōzaemon (1724–1800) made a fortune administering the treatment and actively exchanged information with Thunberg. Edoites Junan and Hoshū, too, proved to be useful friends, regularly corresponding with Thunberg even after his departure. Their correspondences included gifts such as animals preserved in bottles and tea seeds. As the exchange of preserved creatures was a common practice among Eu­ro­pean natural historians of the eigh­teenth century, art historian Timon Screech suggests that Thunberg was knowingly including them in a scholarly community that amounted to an international network.10 Whereas Thunberg’s stay was quite brief, chief factor Hendrik Doeff (1764–1837) spent an incredible eigh­teen years in Japan as a result of the chaos of the Napoleonic Wars. Doeff’s great contribution to the Dutch-­Japanese intellectual exchange was in language. In 1808, for example, he provided French lessons to a handful of Japa­nese students. More importantly, he became fluent in Japa­nese, and with the help of Japa­nese interpreters compiled a Dutch-­Japanese dictionary based on a second edition of Nieuw Nederduitsch en Fransch woordenboek published by François Halma (1653–1722) in 1729. Over his eigh­teen years in Japan, Doeff recorded numerous meetings with Japa­nese scholars, physicians, and interpreters during which he was questioned on Western science. Indeed, Gentaku discussed medicine and astronomy with Doeff at the Nagasakiya.11 Chief Factor Isaac Titsingh (1745–1812), who arrived in Deshima a few years after Doeff, held degrees in medicine and law. Rangaku scholars ­were thrilled to have such a well-­educated member of the VOC in Japan, and Titsingh, who was interested in studying Japan, knew the value of developing good relationships. Perhaps more than any other Eu­ro­pean before him, he established friendships and continued correspondence long after departing Japan. Titsingh deeply respected his scholarly friends and generously sup-



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 9

plied them with Eu­ro­pean books for their studies. He became a valued source of information and goods to the rangaku network. Finally, Philipp Franz von Siebold (1796–1866) served as Deshima’s physician from 1823 to 1829, when he was expelled for collecting materials such as maps that the bakufu deemed a threat to national security. The son of a learned family of physicians, Siebold had ambitions of adding to studies on Japan’s natural history. He arrived eager to gather information about Japan’s flora and fauna and to disseminate the benefits of Western medicine. He expanded the circle of Japa­nese contacts he had inherited from earlier VOC employees including physicians Jan Frederik Feilke and Nicolaas Tullinghsuch and Chief Factors Blomhoff and Doeff.12 In 1824, Siebold remarkably obtained permission to create a medical school, called Narutakijuku, just outside of Nagasaki. Students supplied him with gifts of flora, and he cultivated a botanical garden for his studies in medicinal herbs. Like his pre­de­ ces­sors, Siebold was able to travel to Edo and establish correspondences with many Japa­nese physicians and scholars, including Udagawa Yōan (1798– 1846) and Katsuragawa Hoken (1797–1844). Although Gentaku never met Siebold, they had mutual friends, such as astronomer Takahashi Kageyasu (1785–1829) who died in prison where he was sentenced for providing Siebold with a map of Japan. DUTCH INTERPRETERS Official communication happened through interpreters (tsūji). Before the creation of an official office of Dutch interpreters, the bakufu established a position for Chinese interpreter (tōtsūji) in Hirado in the first few years of the seventeenth century. More Chinese interpreters ­were soon added, and by mid-­century, an office was created in Nagasaki. Interpreters ­were significant links in the chain of information for the government. In earlier years, the government relied on Chinese-­language interpreters, who might be Chinese or Japa­nese, not just to translate between Chinese and Japa­nese, but also Portuguese and Dutch.13 However, as trade with the Hollanders grew, there was need for Dutch interpreters. During the Hirado years, both the Dutch and the bakufu employed interpreters, but in its efforts to severely circumscribe foreign contact with its subjects, the Tokugawa government denied petitions for VOC-­ employed interpreters when the company moved to Deshima. The bakufu relocated their own interpreters to Nagasaki. By the end of the century, there was a large body of interpreters known as the “interpreters board” (tsūji nakama) with a variety of ranks established in 1656, including se­nior interpreters (ōtsūji), ju­n ior interpreters (kotsūji), and interpreters-­i n-­t raining

10 Introduction

(keikotsūji and kuchigeiko).14 These posts w ­ ere filled by families with hereditary status. While there ­were a handful of prominent families, over twenty families held membership in the interpreter board and ­were thus eligible for appointments. Later, new ranks of assistant-­junior interpreter (kotsūji-­jo), lower-­junior interpreter (kotsūji masseki) and vice-­junior interpreter (kotsūji ­ ere added, with the entire body eventually reaching to well over one nami) w hundred. The Nagasaki governor’s office directly supervised official interpreters as it was ultimately charged with facilitating foreign trade. During trading season, roughly forty interpreters ­were on duty, with two (one se­nior and one ju­n ior) acting as liaisons, a system begun in 1695 and referred to as nenban. An interpreter-­i nspector (tsūji metsuke) monitored these posts. In addition, the office seasonally activated servant-­i nterpreters (naitsūji). As go-­betweens for scholars and physicians that wanted to learn more about Western knowledge from the Dutch, the interpreters would become crucial links in the rangaku network. We can see the importance of interpreters with a quick scan of how they impacted Gentaku’s professional life. Interpreter Motoki Ryōei (1735–1794) ­housed and trained Gentaku for four months during a study trip in 1786; interpreter Yoshio Kōzaemon (Kōsaku, Kōgyū) lent Gentaku books for ­research; former interpreter Ishii Shōsuke (Tsuneemon, 1743–?) helped Gentaku with various translations in the 1790s; former interpreter Shizuki Tadao trained Gentaku’s first son Genkan (1785–1837) in Dutch; and interpreter Baba Sajūrō acted as Gentaku’s assistant at the bakufu’s Astronomical Bureau when a translation office was created in 1811. RANGAKU PERIODIZATION AND THE TOKUGAWA INFORMATION REVOLUTION Gentaku’s career saw the establishment of Dutch studies as a conspicuous presence in the intellectual world of cities and towns across Japan. Although Dutch learning can be regarded in many ways as more marginal than some other contemporary schools of study—­including nativist studies, classical studies, and Neo-­Confucian studies—­during Gentaku’s lifetime, the number of rangakusha ­rose from tens to hundreds and the number of specialty schools for Dutch learning increased from none to approximately fifty.15 While Dutch interpreters in Nagasaki had clearly been conducting their own research and translations before this period, Dutch studies did not become a central topic of discussion in the cultural spaces of cities, inspire a trans-­ Japan following, and even garner the reluctant interest of Confucian-­ entrenched government officials until the end of the eigh­teenth century. As



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 11

we will see in the chapters to follow, this interest in rangaku became remarkably diverse socially and geo­graph­i­cally between 1770 and 1830. The rise of interest in rangaku at this time was related to sociopo­liti­cal changes. Timon Screech convincingly argues that fears of Western encroachment and of domestic social unrest between 1760 and 1829 became a significant motivating factor for broad cultural and intellectual activity, including Dutch studies. According to Screech, during these years a previously fractured Japa­nese culture gradually approached something more akin to integration.16 In addition, economic historian Tozawa Yukio points out a notable flowering of interest in the West among Edoites beginning in the 1770s, which he regards as the result of Shogunal Councilor Tanuma Okitsugu’s (1719–1788) liberal cultural policies and of demographic changes. According to Tozawa, bigger urban populations and higher population densities in the 1770s led to the construction of more meeting places with unpre­ce­ dented social diversity. Consequently, no single class monopolized cultural and intellectual production.17 In addition to all this, there w ­ ere significant changes in information, and those changes impacted the development of rangaku. An extensive examination of Tokugawa Japan’s information revolution is beyond the scope of this book. However, in order to understand the expansion of the Dutch studies network, we must understand how knowledge from the West fit within the broader transformations of systems for the compilation and circulation of ideas, data, and facts in Japa­nese society. Acute po­liti­cal, economic, and social reconfigurations over the course of the seventeenth century in Japan had a profound effect on how data was valued, gathered, and distributed. New po­liti­cal unity, economic integration, and social restructuring during the seventeenth century helped inspire these transformations. Transformations that occurred in availability, “readership,” dissemination, standardization, collection, preservation, and reor­ga­ni­za­tion ­were so significant that I believe we must consider this an information revolution. Historian Daniel Headrick argues that information systems did not truly exist in Eu­rope until the eigh­teenth century, and that their creation was revolutionary.18 My investigation of the rangaku community suggests that a similar transformation was happening in Japan and systematized in part around extensive social networks and the expanding demand for information among all classes. An increasing availability of formal education during the Tokugawa ­period was clearly one factor in these transformations in information. The shogunal college (Shōheikō), domainal schools (hankō), temple schools (terakoya), and private academies (shigaku) accommodated students of varying social backgrounds. Private academies served the educational demands of

12 Introduction

extraordinarily diverse intellectual pursuits. By the end of the eigh­teenth century, rangaku private academies ­were drawing students interested in the West to major cities. Expansions in formal education fueled growth in the textbook (oraimono) market, and even Dutch studies primers began to appear starting in 1788 with Gentaku’s Rangaku kaitei. Oraimono ­were, however, a modest portion of an unpre­ce­dented growth of the publishing industry from the late seventeenth century. Whereas only wealthy individuals and some religious practitioners had had access to books before the Tokugawa period, they became commodities enjoyed by a vast readership by 1700. The historical sociologist Eiko Ikegami has specifically labeled this change an “information revolution.”19 Indeed, it was revolutionary, for within just a few de­cades, publishers determined how to do mass printings using woodblocks, and book salesmen developed innovative methods, including mobile renting libraries (kashihonya), to reach the public. By 1808, kashihonya in Edo rivaled barbershops in numbers.20 In addition, the number of individuals who w ­ ere literate and wanted to acquire books expanded as Japan’s economy grew, education spread, and po­liti­cal and social conditions stabilized. Of course, the lifeblood of Japa­nese scholars had always been books, but the late eigh­teenth century rangaku movement found itself within this changing landscape and therefore was shaped by it. By the end of the seventeenth century, a “library of public information” oriented toward the wider population was firmly established.21 Even those specializing in Dutch studies became part of this and produced texts oriented toward general readership. The revolutionary increase in books, expansion of readership, and categorization of data that often crossed regional boundaries led to a shared cultural literacy among the general public. By the eigh­teenth century, the so-­called naïve and ignorant (dōmō) Japa­nese public was consumed with news-­gathering, and woodblock prints, advertisements, broadsheets (kawaraban), singing news-­vendors (yomiuri), and even artistic and product exhibitions (bussan-kai) thrived. This type of general public interest in greater and more varied access to information was a noteworthy cultural shift in Japan. This shift was most likely brought on by po­liti­cal stability, better communication and transportation infrastructure, social changes that necessitated more education for the samurai bureaucracy, tremendous urbanization, which created centers of diverse populations of extremely high density, and the general commercialization of the economy. As we will see in chapter 6, one result of information gathering was the growth of libraries, governmental and private. Long before the seventeenth century, religious institutions, the nobility, and prominent warriors had been



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 13

able to amass collections of books. However, with extended Tokugawa po­ liti­cal stability, more wealth from an increasingly commercialized economy, and the social transformation of samurai, enthusiasm for creating “book ware­houses” (bunko) exploded. Participation was disparate and included Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu and his descendants, daimyo, samurai, merchants, rural entrepreneurs (gōnō), and village headmen.22 The publishing industry raced to meet these needs, producing nearly eight thousand titles by just 1700! At the end of the century, texts related to Eu­ro­pean knowledge ­were making their way into libraries across Japan. Western knowledge was a specialized form of information, however, and it inspired interested groups to create new methods of acquisition. In the seventeenth century, the new Tokugawa regime was attempting to reunify the country after many years of chaos and disorder. Building on efforts initiated at the end of the sixteenth century, the bakufu formed systems for both managing information at home and collecting information from abroad as part of its program to ensure stability and control throughout Japan and to protect itself from domestic and international threats. The management of information was a difficult task. The bakuhan mode of governance, often called “centralized feudalism,” which dispersed regional rule into the hands of individual daimyo, impeded the government’s ability to directly control censorship across the country. In addition, the bakufu was slow to realize the power of commercial publishing, and its edicts on publishing ­were often evaded through circulated manuscripts, kawaraban broadsheets, unauthorized printings, and well-­crafted parodies. Nevertheless, the council of elders (rōjū) did install officials with duties that included information management. At the top ­were bakufu deputies (daikan), who reviewed information gathered by lower officials and summarized it for central government. City magistrates or governors (bugyō) kept an eye on publishing activities in large cities, and oversaw several town elders (machidoshiyori, four in Nagasaki) and hundreds of local officials ( jiyakunin), both of which ­were involved in information gathering. Se­nior and regular censor-­inspectors (ōmetsuke and metsuke) acted as intelligence officers, questioning and surveilling the Dutch and the Chinese. One of their important duties was to monitor religious affairs (shūmon aratame) including rooting out the presence of Christianity.23 In addition, in 1633, the bakufu had created traveling inspectors ( junkenshi), who ­were charged with make regular inquiries into the conditions of commoners throughout the feudal domains across Japan. The government paid close attention to the “four mouths” (yotsu no kuchi) of Nagasaki (China and Holland), Tsūshima (Korea), Satsuma (Ryūkyūs), and Matsumae (Ainu) from which information from abroad flowed and

14 Introduction

established specialized posts to monitor foreign and rangaku books. The central government appointed a book inspectorate (shomotsu aratameyaku) in Nagasaki in 1630 to enforce a recent ban on the importation of Christian and dangerous texts from China and Holland. Official interpreters of Dutch and Chinese in Nagasaki w ­ ere required to report any banned or unusual books that they encountered. Offending passages might be blackened out and banned books w ­ ere to be burned. A list of inappropriate texts was continually updated. Publishing guilds ­were put in charge of self-­monitoring their profession. Thus, the government constructed a complex system to regulate the circulation of Eu­ro­pean and other information throughout Japan and to provide the bakufu with useful information. Nevertheless, it should be noted that many with wealth, power, or connections discovered ways to circumvent these safeguards in order to get their hands on proscribed books. As indicated, one of the mea­sures the Tokugawa government took to establish control and assert authority in the seventeenth century was to ban unauthorized contact with foreigners and foreign countries and strictly regulate authorized contact. Paradoxically, while attempting to cut off its general populace from foreign contact, the government increasingly sought news from outside the country, especially as Eu­ro­pean states became more powerful. In this regard, the bakufu tried to monopolize news from Holland, Korea, China, and the Ryukyus Kingdom, its main foreign contacts. It believed that the acquisition of information concerning current po­ liti­ cal events close to home in East Asia and far away in Eu­rope was crucial to self-­ defense. An important component of their system for information management was the fūsetsugaki (literally, reports of rumors). Oranda fūsetsugaki and Tōsen ­ ere reports submitted by Dutch and Chinese traders, respecfūsetsugaki w tively, informing the bakufu of the latest po­liti­cal and international happenings, and they began as early as 1641. The bakufu made the annual submission of these reports a condition for Dutch trade rights. While the government considered this information as particularly valuable in determining foreign policy, it also impacted decisions of a domestic nature. Fūsetsugaki provided the Japa­nese government with its most valuable information from outside the country. For the first forty years, these reports ­were conducted orally between mediating-­interpreters (nenban tsūji) and the Dutch, done immediately upon annual arrival of Dutch ships in late summer. The Nagasaki magistrate would decide which information should be relayed to the bakufu and compile a report. The magistrate expected the Nagasaki town elder to report anything he might learn from the Dutch as well. In the 1660s, though, the Dutch ­were ordered to submit written reports. Given that the reports would need to be sent to the capital in Japa­nese, in-



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 15

terpreters worked closely with the Dutch. The Dutch chief factor prepared with letters sent from the Dutch governor-­general stationed in Batavia as well as what­ever newspapers he might be able to acquire. When the interpreters had finished a draft of the fūsetsugaki, they met with the incoming chief factor to go over the report and ask questions for clarification. This was all done in the presence of the Nagasaki otona, whose job it was to monitor the happenings at Deshima. Both incoming and outgoing chief factors w ­ ere required to sign it, though they would not be able to read the Japa­nese. It was finally given to the Nagasaki magistrate to relay to Edo. In its efforts to maintain control, the bakufu classified fūsetsugaki as top secret for select members of the central government, including se­nior councilors, great councilors (tairō), and ju­n ior councilors (wakadoshiyori). They ­were also available to inspectors of religions, who ­were tasked with guarding against the infiltration of Roman Catholicism. However, just as with book bans, information-­hungry individuals went to lengths to overcome obstacles such as this. Powerful daimyo and others quickly managed to obtain copies, and by the early nineteenth century, when the information revolution was in full swing, compilations of these reports even reached some interested commoners.24 Despite the peacefulness of the Tokugawa period, the nature of a centralized feudalism meant that domains continued to consider themselves in competition with each other and with the central government. Domainal lords realized that information and knowledge from the West could be valuable for the security and welfare of their domains (han). The degree of their interest can be noted from Renier Hesselink’s examination of the Daghregister ten Comptoire Nangasacki rec­ords kept by the VOC in Deshima. According to his survey, daimyo from eleven domains made twenty-­five visits to interview the Dutch at the Nagasakiya when VOC representatives made their annual obligatory reports between 1768 and 1787.25 After that time, the bakufu tightened up regulations for Nagasakiya visits in an effort to more exclusively control foreign information. The central and regional governments recognized that archiving and researching the massive amounts of information that they now gathered was important. One result was the expansion of governmental libraries with staff for managing and investigating the holding. The bakufu collected books from the Dutch and Chinese in its libraries to be used by official researchers. Appointees at the government’s Astronomical Bureau (Tenmongata) and medical school (Igakkan) also made use of Western books h ­ oused in their institutional libraries. The most focused government efforts to utilize Western books ­were the creation of the Bansho wage goyō (Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books) within the Astronomical Bureau (Tenmongata) in

16 Introduction

1811 and, later, the Bansho shirabesho (Office for the investigation of barbarian books) in 1856. Similarly to the bakufu, domainal lords viewed information from outside their domains (both domestic and foreign) as crucial to strengthening their han and gaining competitive advantages. In the nineteenth century, these daimyo promoted the collection of foreign information and the study of Western technology, medicine, and military sciences. Like the bakufu, they appointed domainal information officers, expanded libraries, patronized scholars, and sanctioned agents to obtain Eu­ro­pean texts. The expansive interest in information from the outside world was not contained to scholars and governments. Samurai and commoners became increasingly interested in Eu­ro­pean information in the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries. The Tokugawa government had instituted changes that transformed samurai from warriors to bureaucrats. In the pro­cess, the samurai class became ever more focused on education and on the accumulation of various information. As part of a competitive and expanding economy, both farmers and merchants often found their livelihood deeply affected by what they knew beyond their own cities or towns. In the nineteenth century, their interests came to include Eu­ro­pean knowledge. General curiosity also drew Japa­nese of all social levels to news of the West. SOCIAL NETWORKS AND INTELLECTUALS The circulation of news and information during this information revolution was largely accomplished through networks. Networks are crucial to understanding the social nature of all intellectual/cultural producers of this period. The socialization of rangaku scholars influenced their spread and production of knowledge and information, producing a socialized intellect. An investigation of Ōtsuki Gentaku and his professional life reveals that socioeconomic factors affected membership in the rangaku community, the community’s perpetuation, choice of research topics, and spread and access of information. Certainly there w ­ ere other factors involved, such as government policies and individual talents, but too often historians have prioritized those factors and have not made an effort to connect intellect to the socioeconomic environment of its producers.26 The growth of rangaku should be understood as the spreading of a social network. My conception of “network” is adapted from a so­cio­log­i­cal approach known as social network theory and from the work of Pierre Bourdieu. Proponents of social network theory regard social life as “a web or a network both at the micro and the macro levels of societal reality.” Daily life is



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 17

structured by opportunities and constraints determined by one’s networks.27 Networks are conceived as sets of “social nodes” connected by “social ties.” Nodes are agents acting within social systems, including individuals, groups, corporations, h ­ ouse­holds, or even nation-­states. Ties, on the other hand, are the channels through which material and nonmaterial resources flow, such as friendships, kinship, and contracts. What makes social network theory unique from other ways of viewing communities is its understanding of “relationships.”28 Sociologist Barry Wellman states that, “Social networks have important consequences for the way that we behave, the information we receive, the resources we exchange, the communities in which we are involved, the opportunities we try to pursue.”29 Conceptualizing the rangaku community as a social network aids our understanding of the way rangaku scholars acted, the flow of information throughout the community, and access to resources and opportunities within the rangaku field.30 Historian Bonnie Erickson suggests that there are two routes historians can take in using network theory. They can examine “­whole networks” by including all the members within a given community. Or they can examine “egocentric networks” by concentrating on a par­tic­u­lar member of a community, all ties to that member, and all ties among those members.31 The approach in the book might be regarded as the latter since it takes Gentaku as its center. However, my intent is to shed light on the w ­ hole network by using Gentaku as a lens. The importance of Gentaku’s presence and position within the development of the rangaku network makes this possible. My investigation stops short of adopting the statistical approach employed by most social network analysts and primarily uses the concept of a social network as a meta­phorical basis for understanding the rangaku community. I, then, incorporate the theories of Pierre Bourdieu in order to under­ stand how individuals within the community acted and interacted and how the network developed over time. In par­t ic­u­lar, I utilize four of Bourdieu’s concepts—­habitus, capital, field, and practice. “Habitus” refers to an individual’s predisposition toward certain actions and choices. A person’s past experiences and social background form the basis for his/her habitus, the (often) unconscious tendency to behave in a par­tic­u­lar way. Referencing Durkheim, Bourdieu writes, “In each of us, in differing degrees, is contained the person we ­were yesterday, and indeed, in the nature of things it is even true that our past personae predominate in us. . . . ​It is just that we don’t directly feel the influence of these past selves precisely because they are so deeply rooted within us.”32 Experiences and social background integrate into one’s worldview, creating a “mental habit” to make certain choices.33

18 Introduction

Bourdieu’s most concise explanation of “capital” is found in his essay “The Forms of Capital” in which he states, “Capital can present itself in three fundamental guises: as economic capital, which is immediately and directly convertible into money and may be institutionalised in the form of property rights; as cultural capital, which is convertible, on certain conditions, into economic capital and may be institutionalized in the form of educational qualifications; and as social capital made up of social obligations (“connections”), which is convertible, in certain conditions, into economic capital and may be institutionalized in the form of a title of nobility.”34 However, Bourdieu also asserts that economic, cultural, and social capital may take a fourth form: symbolic capital. “Symbolic capital” is capital that seems disinterested. “[It] is a form of power that is not perceived as power but as legitimate demands for recognition, deference, obedience, or ser­vices of others.”35 For example, the prestige, authority, or legitimacy that often comes with wealth or social connections are forms of symbolic capital.36 For Bourdieu, these various forms of capital circulate through “fields” (which I consider to be akin to networks), and actors within the fields struggle over their accumulation.37 Accumulated capital defines hierarchical position and power within the field and acquisition of that capital always motivates the members of the field. Fields are structured spaces or­ga­n ized around the production and circulation of status, ser­vices, knowledge, or goods in which actors struggle for control.38 The intersection of habitus (predisposition toward certain behaviors) and field (the realm within which those behaviors are possible) defines “practice,” or the decisions, tasks, and activities that actors choose. One’s position within the field is always in relation to others. For rangaku scholars, the combination of social background and experience with status within the network helped determine actions. BOOK OR­GA­NI­ZA­TION The following chapters investigate the importance of network development for rangaku by starting at the center and moving outward, from a description of Ōtsuki Gentaku’s life to an analysis of the creation of a pan-­Japanese, integrated network. I am particularly interested in the negotiations actors made through their social space and how those negotiations influenced the flow of information. The chapters move roughly in a chronological fashion, suggesting an order of development for the network. Chapter 1 provides a brief biography of the central figure in my study, Ōtsuki Gentaku. It then discusses his habitus by analyzing aspects of his social background and how they related to his activities as a rangaku scholar.



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 19

I argue that individuals have multiple social existences, and that expectations, assumptions, and duties associated with these social existences encourage actors to make certain choices in their lives and restrain them from other choices. In the case of Gentaku, I examine how his existence as a samurai, as a doctor, as a Tokugawa scholar, and as a family head influenced the way he practiced rangaku and involved himself in network development. In this analysis, the fact that Tokugawa society was feudal and patriarchal becomes important. Many of the strategic choices that Gentaku made as a rangaku scholar ­were in part determined because they benefited him as a samurai, doctor, or family head living in a feudal and patriarchal society. Born in a domain north of the capital Edo, as a young man Gentaku was able to move to the capital as a personal physician to his domainal lord in 1778. Eager and curious, he immediately established a relationship with the two most active rangaku scholars in the city, who would become his teachers. Gentaku was a prolific writer on Western science and medicine and would eventually be appointed to run the central Tokugawa government’s first significant attempt to mine Western books of valuable knowledge. However, his importance to Dutch studies and his fame ­were tied more to his role as an educator and network facilitator. He promoted rangaku as a noble cause for the good of Japan and insisted that scholars needed to work together in order to make notable contributions. In addition to discussing his background, this chapter introduces his close colleagues who, with Gentaku, ­were crucial figures in the expansion of the Dutch studies network. Chapter 2 takes on salons as the primary generative nexus for the Dutch studies network during the last half of the eigh­teenth century. Before rangaku became institutionalized through the development of schools, and before published texts ­were widely available, salon meetings in cities such as Edo provided the arena for the exchange of knowledge about the West. This chapter investigates the significance of salons in general for the cultural communities of eighteenth-­and nineteenth-­century Japan. Most rangaku enthusiasts w ­ ere part of a larger community known as bunjin. Literally “people of culture,” bunjin of the Tokugawa period had broad cultural and scholarly interests, and often belonged to several diverse salon groups. This chapter explores their interaction within rooms called zashiki, which are roughly equivalent to contemporary Eu­ro­pean salons. The chapter explores the cultural-­interactive importance of these spaces by discussing the architectural history of salons and the significance of salon décor. Salons, I argue, became performative sites for writers, artists, and scholars, where they positioned themselves within the cultural network. Within salons, actors negotiated mutually beneficial relationships through which some members provided patronage (economic capital) or important

20 Introduction

connections (social capital) to other members in exchange for translations and other forms of cultural capital. However, the material arrangement of these rooms shaped the social exchanges’ happenings. In the case of rangaku, salons became viewing rooms for various Western items such as clocks and chairs, which w ­ ere often displayed in such a way to help define legitimacy and authority within the network. Chapter 3 continues the discussion of salons, focusing more specifically on the social interaction and capital exchange within them. Curiously, an interesting feature of salon meetings was the diversity of social background of participants. Despite the Tokugawa government’s interest in maintaining an ordered and rigid Confucian hierarchy of samurai-­farmer-­merchant-­ artisan, the salon meetings in which Gentaku and many other bunjin took part had members from each one of these classes interacting as equals. Chapter 3 examines one of the several salon groups that Gentaku regularly attended. These took place at the home of a prominent Edo physician named ­ ere essential to the growth Katsuragawa Hoshū. Gatherings such as these w and maintenance of the Dutch studies network. I argue that salon groups, including Dutch studies groups, demanded that interaction be both civil and playful, and that that combination facilitated an egalitarianism that was conducive to socially and geo­graph­i­cally diverse network building. Within salons, participants negotiated relations that ­were mutually beneficial, exchanging intellectual, economic, and social capital for personal betterment and the success of the w ­ hole network. The central government showed little interest in Eu­ro­pean science, so in the absence of any supportive official institutions, salons ­were structurally crucial to the rangaku network. Chapter 4 moves on to private academies for Dutch studies. As knowledge about the West grew and more books became available, many individuals, such as Gentaku, who had taken part in rangaku salon meetings during the 1770s and  1780s, began to create private schools where students could study the Dutch language and Western medicine and science. These academies joined salons as arenas for network formation and maintenance, and enrollment in these schools became a strategy for developing social connections. Strong ties forged at schools would allow students to maintain access to the latest knowledge even after they returned to their homes, often far away from the major cities. These private schools ­were, in addition, places where teachers cultivated personal and textual authority. Gentaku opened Japan’s first rangaku academy in 1786, and soon after, several could be found in the Japan’s larger cities. These schools replaced salons as primary locations for network formation. The schools tended to be tied to one another through personal connections and formed their own educational network. From these schools, Gentaku and others defined a course of study for ran-



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 21

gaku, with Gentaku’s academy playing a leading role. As his academy and its reputation grew, so did Gentaku’s symbolic capital. As important as the school was for the spread of Dutch studies, it was also significant for maintaining and augmenting Gentaku’s position within the rangaku field. Chapter 5 uncovers the role of travel and correspondence for extending the network across Japan. Improved travel and postal infrastructures w ­ ere crucial components in the development of protonationalism during this period and impacted the activity of scholars. More than ever before in Japan’s history, travel became an educational and social strategy for scholars. Study trips, known as yūgaku, and letter-­writing allowed the network to function over a wide geographic area, and rangaku knowledge became less regionally specific. Study trips to Nagasaki, Edo, and other large cities became an essential component of rangaku training. Even scholars not engaged in Dutch studies made efforts to travel to the southern port in order to see the door through which foreign culture and knowledge entered Japan. The importance of study trips for rangakusha was not limited to the quest for Dutch knowledge, but was also intertwined with network building and social strategies. During study trips, exchanges of intellectual and economic capital helped strengthen bonds that allowed the rangaku community to grow. Similarly, correspondence among rangaku scholars and students was also used as an effective way to spread knowledge and maintain bonds that strengthened the network. This chapter focuses on these issues by looking at a study trip that Gentaku took to Nagasaki in 1785 as a young student-­scholar, and his frequent correspondence with a former student named Nagasaki Kōsai (1799–1864) later in life during the 1810s and 1820s. Chapter 6 uses the circulation of books as a case study for understanding how the Dutch studies network functioned and examines three issues related to the creation and circulation of books within the rangaku community: access to expensive and scarce Western books, circulation of work by Dutch studies scholars, and the importance of group research for the production of books. Importantly, scholars of rangaku used their network to create a “virtual library” system through which those without the means to purchase important rangaku texts could gain access to them. Scholars used the social ties forged through salon gatherings, schools, travel, and correspondence in order to circulate books. The rangaku community essentially created an “invisible college” by consciously and effectively encouraging its members to share their libraries with each other for the improvement of their field and of Japan. The social relationships within the network ­were also vital to rangakusha’s production of texts. For example, early in its development, many of the rangaku translations and treatises created ­were done as group efforts, thus necessitating network formation. While the network

22 Introduction

allowed wider access to books among its members, book-­lending, group translations, and the penning of forewords for books shaped connections and power relations within the network. Finally, chapter 7 moves forward in history by investigating the Meiji period (1868–1912) legacy to the network formation. Rangaku as a school of study eventually dissipated in the 1850s and 1860s, but networks such as Gentaku’s had a lasting impact into the modern age. In fact, the students of students and grandchildren of members of Gentaku’s most important salon group continued to meet a hundred years after Gentaku and his Edo friends began it. The Meiji group included very famous participants, such as Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901), who had a tremendous impact on knowledge, information, and politics. Interestingly, they operated their salon meetings quite similarly to the way their ancestors had. However, in this new age, the group became more politicized and members actively promoted a new public sphere guided by values that had been present in the salon for many years. Throughout this book, I assert that the new knowledge of rangaku entered Japan via a social network, aided by changes in media and gathering spaces, and filtered through practices that w ­ ere, in part, socioeco­nom­ically defined. In the pro­cess, rangaku became available to a diverse group of individuals across Japan, leaving behind the hiden tradition in which knowledge was secretly transmitted from master to student. Despite its slightly marginal position compared to Confucian and nativist scholars, during Gentaku’s lifetime, rangakusha ­were significant actors in the creation of an information network that took on po­liti­cal meaning during the last years of the Tokugawa period. However, the information network worked within the social network and should be understood as such. And it is the social formation of this network that is the subject of this book. This book, first, tells the story of a significant individual in the Tokugawa intellectual world. While histories available in En­glish refer to Gentaku as a “towering presence” in rangaku, or with other similar praise, no extended study of him has been available in En­glish. This book additionally provides a great deal of insight into the Katsuragawa family, who held a significant position in the scholarly and cultural world of Edo, but who have received slight attention in En­glish. Second, it provides a new understanding of Dutch studies based on social history. Most research on rangaku has focused on intellect history, but gaining a better understanding of how a cultural community interacts helps us understand its role in society. Third, it mea­sures one way in which the Tokugawa information revolution unfolded. A number of scholars have investigated the growing value of information during



The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution 23

the mid-­Tokugawa period, but none have mapped out that growth within a focused group. Fourth, it reveals how individuals, who ­were barred by Tokugawa law from creating politicized communities, formed groups that could be politicized when the opportunity arose following the Meiji restoration. This is significant for understanding Japan’s modernization.

C H A P T E R

O N E

Ōtsuki Gentaku Network Facilitator

Ōtsuki Gentaku was born Ōtsuki Hiyoshi on November 9, 1757. His home was near the banks of the Iwaigawa River in the domain of Ichinoseki.1 The domain was in the east and known for its invigorating hot springs and breathtaking waterfalls along the Gembikei Gorge. A lesser domain, the Tamura family, a branch family of the much more powerful Date clan who occupied the daimyo seat in Sendai, ruled over it. Gentaku’s family was a samurai lineage of moderate, but not meager, status, and Gentaku’s father Genryō (1722–1784) was a domainal physician (han-­i).2 Genryō was a second son, and while his brother went into the family profession by becoming a city official (ōshōya, ōkimoiri), Genryō became a doctor. Despite a lack of any depth of knowledge of Western medicine, Genryō set himself up as a Dutch-­style physician in the Iwai county of Ichinoseki. Genryō practiced in this capacity as a town doctor for eleven years, until his success drew the attention of the Tamura daimyo who called him to ser­vice.3 The Ōtsuki w ­ ere a well-­educated and cultured family, and at a young age Gentaku took the name Shigekata as he began training in Confucian classics, a clan specialty. By the age of thirteen, he had acquired the necessary Confucian education for his father to enroll for training under Takebe Seian (1712–1782), a domainal physician considered the best medical teacher in the region.4 This was a rite of passage for Gentaku, and as he began studying for his inherited profession, he once again changed his name to Gensetsu. Although Gentaku’s father had fancied himself a Dutch-­style physician and probably administered ointments and medications that ­were Western-­ 24



Ōtsuki Gentaku

25

Figure 1.1. Portrait of Ōtsuki Gentaku (Artist: Oda Kaisen, 1827). Courtesy of Waseda University Library.

influenced, study under Takebe Seian marked Gentaku’s first steps on the road to Dutch studies. Seian had grown up in Ichinoseki and followed in his father’s footsteps to become a domainal physician.5 Around 1725, Seian began Chinese medicine training from a prominent Sendai doctor named Matsui Jutetsu. However, ten years later, he made a study trip to Edo, where he began to develop an interest in “red-­haired (kōmō),” or Dutch, medicine.6 His interest grew, but Western-­style medicine at that time was primarily limited to medicines, and Seian wanted more information on Dutch internal medicine and surgery. Thus, when he sent a student named Kinudome Hoken (1748–1807) to study in Edo in 1770, he entrusted him with a list of questions about Dutch-­style medicine to circulate among doctors in the capital. Initially disappointed by responses, Seian finally received a letter three years later that peaked his interest from Sugita Genpaku (1733–1817), an Obama domainal physician stationed in Edo.7 Genpaku had been working on a translation of a Western anatomical text in Dutch with several colleagues, most notably a Nakatsu domainal doctor named Maeno Ryōtaku (1723–1803). The dissection of human bodies had

26

Chapter One

traditionally been taboo, and no respectable doctor would take part in one. However in the mid-­eighteenth century, a handful of Japa­nese physicians began attending dissections at execution grounds. A famous story says that Genpaku had heard that the human anatomy matched up more closely to Dutch charts than to the Chinese charts that all Japa­nese doctors used. Therefore, in 1771, he borrowed a Eu­ro­pean anatomical text and got permission to witness the dissection of a criminal known as the “Green Tea Hag.”8 Convinced that the Dutch text was more accurate, Genpaku, Maeno Ryōtaku, and several friends worked for over three years translating the book, which was published in 1774 as the Kaitai shinsho (A new book of anatomy). This translation was well underway when Sugita Genpaku sent his replies to Seian’s inquiries in 1773. That letter was the beginning of a ten-­year correspondence on the possibilities of Western medicine, which was compiled and published as Oranda iji mondō (Questions and answers on matters of Dutch medicine) by Seian’s son in 1795. The publication became one of the early foundations of Western medical studies in Japan. After several years of basic medical training under Seian, Ōtsuki Gentaku was insistent on going to Edo to study under Sugita Genpaku.9 In 1778, the twenty-­t wo-­year-­old Gentaku left for the capital armed with a letter of introduction. Sugita Genpaku’s training was a mixture of Japanese-­, Chinese-­, and Dutch-­style medical techniques. Although Gentaku was also interested in medical research and studying the Dutch language, he had only received permission from his domain to be in Edo for two years, which made those ambitions unlikely.10 Despite some discouragement from his teacher Genpaku, Gentaku’s interest in the Dutch language grew, and he established training under Maeno Ryōtaku, whose language skills ­were superior to Genpaku’s. Even with such divided attention, Gentaku proved to be Genpaku’s top student. Years later, Genpaku praised his student’s serious commitment to academics and truth, “a man with the right character to study Dutch science (Oranda no kyūrigaku).”11 Because of this, Gentaku’s teacher, who was swamped with a successful medical practice, asked him to work on a translation of Lorenz Heister’s (1683–1758) Heelkundige Onderwijzingen (Instructions on Surgery, 1741). Over the next several years, Gentaku shuffled between Genpaku’s and Ryōtaku’s homes for assistance in his translation.12 He finished his manuscript sometime between 1790 and  1792 and called it Yōi shinsho (New treatise on wound treatment). It was Japan’s first translation of a specialized surgical text, and manuscripts ­were widely circulated and copied until it was finally published in 1825. In 1780, as Gentaku’s two-­year study period was coming to a close, he reached out to a friend, Sendai domainal doctor Kudō Heisuke (1734–1800),



Ōtsuki Gentaku

27

who helped him get a three-­year extension in Edo.13 Over those three years, Gentaku graduated from student to scholar, and in 1782, Gentaku began work on the Rikubutsu shinshi (New record of six things, 1786), a text that discussed pop­u ­lar materia medica of the time, including “unicorn horns,” “mermaids bones,” and saffron.14 Although his extension also expired that year, and he was forced to return home, Gentaku managed to get reassigned to Edo a few months later. At the age of twenty-­four, he gave himself the name Gentaku, which he is most commonly known by today, and took on the nom de plume Bansui.15 Unfortunately, this maturity was marked by tragedy when his father died two years later, and Gentaku assumed headship of the family and his father’s duties to the daimyo. Despite the new responsibilities, Gentaku obtained domainal permission for a one-­year trip to study under a Dutch interpreter in Nagasaki in 1785. During the trip south, he established important friendships with members of the rangaku and medical communities of Osaka and Kyoto. In Nagasaki, he resided in the homes of interpreters, studied Dutch from experts, and even visited the Dutch settlement on Deshima. However, his trip was cut short at six months, when he called back to Edo with a promotion and transfer to the position of Sendai domainal doctor in the summer of 1786.16 He would now serve the very powerful Date family, and his stipend significantly increased to 125 koku. This promotion was facilitated on the recommendation of Kudō Heisuke, who had aided Gentaku earlier in extending his stay in Edo. Heisuke supported Gentaku through influential connections to three high Sendai officials: the Sendai Councilor (karō) Hiraga Kurando, (kinshin) Mogi Hiromi, and Sendai liaison to the bakufu (rusuiyaku) Matsuzaki Chūtayū. Heisuke, a physician and domainal administrator, resided in Edo where he studied Japa­nese and Chinese classics and rangaku. The relationship between Heisuke and Gentaku was strengthened through three mutual friends, Katsuragawa Hoshū, Nakagawa Junan, and Maeno Ryōtaku.17 Heisuke had come to the bakufu’s attention a few years earlier in 1783 when he presented the report Akaezo fūsetsu kō (Report on Ezo), which advocated the colonization of the northern island of Ezochi (present-­day Hokkaido) as a step in national protection against Rus­sian encroachment.18 With this resume, he had the ears of several important Sendai officials, and therefore his recommendation of Gentaku carried a fair amount of weight. During the wake of his father’s death, the transfer to Sendai was wonderful news for Gentaku, who was now twenty-­nine years old. By this time, Gentaku was making a name for himself not just in rangaku circles, but also among officials in Sendai, who ­were hearing more and more about his successes as a scholar. They recognized the value of his studies, and after

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another brief stay in Ichinoseki and Sendai, Gentaku was permitted to leave for Edo so that he might continue those studies.19 Soon after his return to the capital, Gentaku set up what is considered the first rangaku school. It was located in the Shitamachi area of Edo in Kyōbashi, about a ten-­minute walk from the Sendai domainal mansion. A great success, the academy attracted students from all over Japan.20 He added to his reputation by penning several important translations of Dutch books and orchestrating the creation of the first Dutch-­Japanese dictionary. Among his most sought after works was the Rangaku kaitei (1788), a primer for the Dutch language. It was so well received that Gentaku became known to doctors in towns and cities far from Edo. Another book that he finished that same year, Ransetsu benwaku (An explanation of Dutch, not published until 1799) addressed a more general audience, and dealt with such issues as wine-­ making and funerals in the West.21 Gentaku was taking the mantle of rangaku community leader from his mentor Genpaku. Not only was he one of the most prominent rangaku scholars in the capital, but he also strongly influenced the growth of Dutch studies in many of the provinces and particularly in Osaka, Kyoto, and Sendai. As his reputation grew, Gentaku continued to produce translations and original manuscripts, including a revised version of the Kaitai shinsho and Enroku, a work on the culture and history of tobacco (1809).22 He also gained the bakufu’s permission to meet members of the Dutch East India Company when they came to Edo in the spring of 1794, 1798, 1802, 1806, 1810, and 1814, recording his experience in the Seihin taigo (Conversations with Western guests, 1794–1814). These accomplishments in the rangaku field gained him recognition from his feudal superiors. The government of his own domain called upon his expertise numerous times, and Gentaku was rewarded with several promotions. One example of the domain tapping his expertise was when it ordered him to interview a group of Sendai sailors who had been shipwrecked on the coast of Siberia and held in Rus­sia until repatriated in 1804. His report Kankai ibun (News from the surrounding seas, 1806) was considered extremely important due to increasing concerns over Rus­sian imperialism. The following year, the Sendai government sought Gentaku’s advice when it ­received a bakufu order to police and guard Ezochi in the north against Rus­sian encroachment.23 His usefulness was also recognized by the central government, which appointed him codirector of the newly created Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books (Bansho wage goyō) in 1811.24 This was the bakufu’s first attempt to direct and or­ga­nize the importation and translation of Western



Ōtsuki Gentaku

29

books, and Gentaku was an obvious choice as director. One of the main tasks of this office under Gentaku was the translation of a M. Noël Chomel’s (1633– 1712) Huishoudelijk Woordenboek (Home encyclopedia, 1768–1777) in order to aid manufacturing and production in Japan. Gentaku’s importance to this project is clear from the fact that many of the appointed translators ­were family members or former students, including Sugita Ryūkei (1786–1845), Ōtsuki Genkan, and Ōtsuki Bankei (1801–1878).25 Since Gentaku was not a bakufu retainer, the central government also appointed Baba Sajūrō (1787– 1822), a direct retainer and Nagasaki interpreter, as codirector. However, this choice was at the recommendation of Gentaku’s son Genkan.26 The title that Gentaku gave their collective translation was Kōsei shinpen (New compilation for the public welfare, 1811–1845). With this appointment, Gentaku also gained a rare audience with the shogun and was asked to report monthly to the shogunal palace.27 On the heels of this appointment, Gentaku returned home for the first time in twenty-­six years to be promoted to the rank of attendant (bantō) and to have a brocade conferred upon him in 1812. This promotion brought an increase in his stipend from 125 koku to three hundred koku annually, a considerable sum for a scholar of Dutch studies.28 Despite his successes as a scholar, he endured his share of personal pain. His homes in Edo burnt down several times (1796, 1806, 1816, and  1819), uprooting his family and school in each instance.29 In addition, he buried three wives within twenty-­five years. His first died in 1791 when their son Genkan was six. Just a year later, he remarried, but this new wife passed in 1795. That same year, he married again, but divorced this new bride soon after. He took a fourth in 1797, but lost her in 1803, two years after she bore him his second son Bankei in 1801. Finally, his fifth wife saw his death in 1827.30 The end of his life was spent teaching, writing, and researching. His school trained at least a hundred students, and during his last fifteen years, he wrote over one hundred essays and translations, focusing much of his attention on the encyclopedia project at the Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books. A Gentaku poem titled Byōchū sokuji (On the matter of being ill, 1827) expresses his commitment to his studies: For thirty days I have rested in sickness. Afflicted with the illness of old age makes it difficult to rise Must one necessarily question the end of his life? I have already lived so much at 70 years Aging to 70, I have been healthy And I still cling to my old memories and beliefs Though sick, my reading absorbs me And I will enjoy my remaining days in research.31

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During his waning years, Gentaku was able to meet Philipp Franz von Siebold. Many of the Japa­nese students that Siebold trained in Nagasaki would eventually steer the course of Western studies. However, when Gentaku died in 1827 at the age of seventy-­one, he sat at the helm, and many mourned his loss. THE SOCIALIZATION OF GENTAKU As the short biography indicates, Gentaku had a remarkable career. Although he was certainly prolific, he was neither the most proficient translator in Japan nor an active clinic doctor. His importance was as an or­ga­nizer and innovator for the rangaku network. As discussed in the introduction, in Pierre Bourdieu’s vision of intellectual fields, the choices that an actor makes within his field are strongly influenced by his habitus. Accordingly, Gentaku’s social background and experience shaped his per­for­mance as a rangakusha. In order to understand the impact of his habitus, the remainder of this chapter looks at several different aspects of his social existence: as samurai, as physician, as member of the Ōtsuki family, and as Confucian-­style intellectual. Comprehending these facets of his life within the context of Japan’s feudal and patriarchal systems is crucial for understanding his choices as a scholar. In order to work through the complexities of Gentaku’s multiple social existences, these four different aspects have been separated. However, the modes of social understanding associated with them are not necessarily mutually exclusive nor finite. GENTAKU THE SAMURAI In Tokugawa Japan, every individual had duties and obligations bounded by feudal rules of hierarchy. Those duties directly or indirectly affected all areas of social existence and shaped decisions and actions (practice). Gentaku was a samurai and a direct retainer to a daimyo. As a doctor in ser­vice to a domain, he was at the beck-­and-­call of the daimyo and domainal high officials, and where he lived was completely at their discretion. Some domainal doctors ­were stationed in Edo, where the daimyo’s family lived throughout the year; some w ­ ere stationed in the home province; and some traveled with the daimyo’s entourage every other year between the capital and the domain.32 Domainal physicians ­were not allowed to travel for any reason, including study, without the permission of the daimyo or domainal government. While they received stipends from the domainal government, some physicians operated medical practices or schools to supplement their income.



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Sugita Genpaku, for example, maintained a thriving private practice that brought him a nice income.33 Gentaku did not have much of a private medical practice, though he was able to bring in extra funds when he opened his academy. His appointment to director of the Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books added another ten silver coins annually to his purse.34 One’s activities within rangaku ­were sometimes restrained by financial capabilities. The books and other instruments used by rangakusha w ­ ere expensive, as w ­ ere school tuitions. Therefore, a sympathetic lord who provided loans or salary raises could make a difference in a scholar’s career. Daimyos Shimazu Shigehide (1745–1833) of Satsuma, Matsura Seizan (1760–1841) of Hirado, Mōri Takashina (1755–1801) of Chōshū, Kutsuki Masatsuna (1750– 1802) of Fukuchiyama, and Okudaira Masaka (1744–1780) of Nakatsu generously offered financial assistance to rangaku scholars within their domains. Shigehide ruled over a domain with one of the biggest land yields at 720,000 koku. Takashina’s was also quite large at 370,000 koku. Though lords of smaller domains, Masaka (100,000 koku), Seizan (60,000 koku, 100,000 after 1795), and Masatsuna (32,000 koku) still had incomes that allowed them to patronize intellectual and cultural pursuits. Although we do know that Gentaku received a loan of fifty gold pieces from the Sendai domain to prepare for audiences with the shogun, there are no rec­ords indicating that he ever received special funds for books and equipment. However, Daimyo Date Chikamune (1796–1812) did raise Gentaku’s salary to three hundred koku in 1812, which certainly aided Gentaku’s ability to purchase books.35 Within this system, one’s stipend was not the only concern that influenced scholarly pursuits. There was also the issue of time dedicated to one’s feudal duties and obligation. In addition to medical duties, domainal physicians ­were often expected to attend special functions, such as banquets, as well. Since domainal government and daimyo could determine how its doctors spent their days, it could limit a physician’s ability to study and socialize, profoundly affecting his scholarly development. Many rangakusha-­ doctors had to negotiate their position within the domainal system with this in mind. Many of Gentaku’s closest colleagues ­were domainal physicians, including Sugita Genpaku, Maeno Ryōtaku, Udagawa Genshin (Yasuoka Genshin, 1769–1834), and Udagawa Genzui (1755–1798). His friend Katsuragawa Hoshū was in a similar situation as a bakufu doctor (goten-­i). For all of them, their lords’ attitudes toward Dutch studies, their own abilities to navigate through the system of social connections, and their desires to succeed within the feudal hierarchy affected their scholarly development. Often they ­were confronted with the choice between duty and scholarship. Many of Gentaku’s colleagues ­were diligent in their feudal duties and only

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worked on Dutch studies in their limited free time. Some neglected those feudal obligations in order to study, and if they ­were lucky their lord indulged them. Even under the best circumstances, neglecting one’s duties usually meant a reduction in stipend and a frugal life. A few even asked for release from ser­vice in order to pursue Dutch studies, a choice with obvious financial risks. Within Gentaku’s circle, Katsuragawa Hoshū, domainal doctors Hiraga Gennai (1728–1780), Morishima Chūryō (1756–1810), Maeno Ryōtaku, and the former interpreter Ishii Shōsuke all confronted this dilemma. Katsuragawa Hoshū’s post as a bakufu physician kept his schedule busy, and he was forced to relegate rangaku to limited free time. Gennai actually begged out of ser­vice in order to devote himself to his studies.36 Chūryō, Hoshū’s brother, quit medicine so that he could pursue his rangaku, fiction writing, and other cultural activities. Shōsuke resigned as Nagasaki’s interpreter and went to Edo in order to devote more time to rangaku training.37 When he had found employment in Edo, he feigned illness in order to study.38 Ryōtaku sequestered himself and lived in near poverty in order to study. According to Genpaku, Ryōtaku “found enjoyment only in his work [of rangaku translations].”39 Navigating through feudal duties and intellectual desires was tricky, but Gentaku’s accomplishments impressed the Sendai lord so much that the scholar was allowed to remain in Edo and was released from the typical duties of a domainal doctor.40 He was only summoned to the daimyo’s mansion for questions concerning rangaku. Between the ages of thirty and fifty-­six, Gentaku would not even return to Sendai or Ichinoseki.41 Gentaku also had po­liti­cal savvy. When as a young man he wanted to travel to Edo to study in 1778, he received permission easily because his teacher, Takebe Seian, a well-­respected Ichinoseki domainal physician, vouched for him. Two years later, he was frantic to get an extension on his stay, but given his feudal status, he could not approach the Tamura daimyo of Ichinoseki directly. So, he had Kudō Heisuke, a prominent scholar and Sendai domainal doctor, act as intermediary, presenting a recommendation to the Ichinoseki government on his behalf. Heisuke’s aid was brokered through Gentaku’s teacher Ryōtaku, who had studied with Heisuke under Aoki Konyō (1698–1769), a famed early rangakusha. Ryōtaku remarked to Heisuke that sending such a talented student as Gentaku away from his studies in Edo would be a “regrettable waste.” Although he did not openly ask anything of Heisuke, such unusually high praise from Ryōtaku motivated Heisuke to action.42 Gentaku frequently depended on Kudō Heisuke’s help, including his recommendation for a transfer of ser­vice from Ichinoseki to the Sendai in



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1786. While Gentaku studied in Nagasaki, Heisuke contacted domainal officials Hiraga Kurando, Mogi Hiromi, and Matsuzaki Chūtayū to broker the move.43 Employment with a more prominent domain was essentially a promotion, and the increase in annual salary to 125 koku would allow him to continue his rangaku studies in the expensive capital. Gentaku’s social ties ­were inextricably linked to his career, and he utilized those ties to his advantage. In another instance, when he sought permission to travel to Nagasaki in 1785, he called upon domainal military officer (kumigashira) Matsuzaki Chūtayū, whom he had befriended in Edo, to approach the Ichinoseki daimyo. Sensitivity to the rules of rank was a valuable tool for Gentaku. The Tamura daimyo wanted to hear more about Gentaku’s plans, and so Gentaku was called to the domainal mansion in Edo, along with Chūtayū and other domainal officials such as Hiraga Kurando and Mitsui Genki, for a meeting.44 After the meeting, permission was arranged. It is unclear how Gentaku and Chūtayū established a relationship, but it certainly was a fortuitous one for Gentaku.45 Gentaku was overjoyed to be going to Nagasaki not just because it would put him into contact with Dutch interpreters, but it would also free him from his domainal duties for a year and allow him to focus on rangaku.46 His diary, “Kanto yōroku,” indicates that during his early years in Edo, he struggled to juggle his studies with h ­ ouse calls to domainal officials and their families. In an 1810 letter to his friend the powerful bakufu official Hotta Masaatsu (1758–1832), Gentaku sympathized that for years his colleagues could only “study in their spare time” because of familial and economic demands.47 Clearly, a pressing problem, Sugita Genpaku similarly noted in 1815, “Although there ­were many who entered training under me in order to study, some could not stay in Edo for long, others w ­ ere pulled away to official duties, some could not afford [to study], and others got sick or died young before reaching their goals.” 48 Clearly, the social, economic, and time constraints of the Tokugawa feudal system potentially impacted rangaku practice. GENTAKU THE DOCTOR Finances ­were a concern for doctors and, since the first significant development of rangaku occurred through the initiative of physicians, status as a doctor shaped one’s position within the rangaku field. Although students at Gentaku’s academy and other Dutch studies schools of this time came from various classes, by far the group most represented was doctors. A doctor’s status within Tokugawa society was unique. Medicine was one of the few professions that crossed social boundaries. Theoretically, anyone could

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become a physician as there was no clear licensing system. Almost every other profession was attached to a par­tic­u­lar social class—­bureaucrats ­were samurai status, shop own­ers ­were commoner status, and leather-­ workers ­were an even lower status. However, physicians ­were often described as being outside the social system, and their class background was diverse. Even their legal status was ambiguous, as they w ­ ere categorized as mongai no to (those outside society).49 Gentaku was from a samurai family, and his colleagues all had clear social origins as well—­some ­were samurai, some farmers, and some merchants. However, a doctor’s status in society was really defined more by whom he treated than the social background to which he was born. Domainal and bakufu doctors had high status because they treated high-­ ranking officials. Town doctors (known as machi-­i or ichi-­i) had lower status since they ­were not employed by the government and treated commoners. Nevertheless, town doctors could rise to the ranks of domainal or bakufu physicians if they developed a good reputation and had connections. Within the government-­appointed medical community, there ­were various ranks. Domainal doctors had several grades. Gentaku began his domainal physician career as a common doctor (narabi ishi) in 1786. Two years later, he was promoted twice, first to attending doctor (ban ishi) and then to personal physician to the daimyo (kinjū ishi). Finally, the daimyo appointed him to the rank of bantō, a relatively high nonmedical status.50 There ­were also grades for official bakufu physicians (goten-­i or baku-­i). At the top w ­ ere hōgen, hōin, and okuishi. Hōgen and hōin ­were originally Buddhist titles that ­were adopted and used by the bakufu in the Tokugawa period to confer the highest rank upon physicians, similar to advanced degrees.51 The title oku-­ishi (inner court physician) was more descriptive of a doctor’s duties. An oku-­ishi actually treated the shogun and his family. Other bakufu medical ranks included lesser court doctor (shōji-­i) and greater court doctor (daiji-­i).52 Although it was clearly easier for the son of a domainal doctor to become a domainal doctor himself, these government-­appointed ranks ­were not necessarily dictated by one’s social background. Their ambiguous status in the wider society fostered doctors’ involvement in rangaku in several ways. E. H. Norman rightly suggests that because they w ­ ere external to the defined social system, doctors had more intellectual freedom to pursue knowledge outside the traditional framework.53 In addition, because of their profession, medical families tended to value formal education, and thus looked more favorably on the investment of hours in school than other groups might have. Despite his status as a physician, Gentaku was clearly more of an intellectual and scholar than a clinical doctor. Yet, there ­were many students in rangaku schools of the first half of the nineteenth century who studied ran-



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gaku for very practical (and economic) reasons. They intended to return to their homes and put what they learned about Western medicine into practice. These doctors probably felt that they would become more effective medical practitioners by expanding their knowledge, but they could also anticipate very tangible gains in economic capital as a result of their involvement in Dutch studies. Domainal doctors had incomes ensured through their posts, but the financial well-­being of the majority of doctors during the Tokugawa period was a matter of attracting patients. Gentaku felt such worries compromised doctors’ ethics and wrote in several places about the role of money in the medical profession and the awkward position in which physicians ­were placed due to financial concerns. For example, in 1797, he penned a farcical commentary (gesaku) called “Isha akindo” (The doctor-­salesman), the story of a Tokugawa medical practitioner whose medical practice is guided by his quest to pay the bills. The work begins, “While we consider doctors of past generations quacks (katsu-­i) and thieves (tō-­i), we should consider those we call doctors today salesmen (shō-­i).”54 Later in the gesaku, he complains, “It is customary for these town doctors to make their living by negotiating between caring [for their patients] and flattery.” In other words, as healers they had compassion for their patients’ sufferings, but as businessmen they had to manipulate their patients’ pocketbooks. He continues, “We can not argue that as a rule doctors who do not have large practices are unskilled [in medicine]. Their way of speaking [with patients] is clumsy and they do not have the worldly skills [of handling others].”55 It took a smooth tongue to build up one’s practice and income. The blame for this situation was not just with doctors. In “Byōke sanfuji” (Three mistreatments of the sick, 1804) and “Byōke jugo” (Ten mistakes of the sick, 1804), Gentaku addresses a number of the problems with which a ­ ere ignorant, true physician must deal.56 Since the poor and uneducated w he writes, they can easily be duped by doctors who misrepresent diseases and sell medicines beyond their patients’ means. What is a real physician to do? In addition, from Gentaku’s point of view, because of their fickleness and ignorance, patients often switched doctors based on irresponsible and baseless rumors. These same patients, he observed, w ­ ere attracted to doctors with haughty attitudes, whether those physicians showed any skills or not.57 Gentaku criticized those doctors who had given in to the worldly temptation of money. He felt that doctors needed to have higher ethics, but also realized that economic matters could not be ignored. Physicians who pursued rangaku ­were committed to improve their skills and help their patients. Nevertheless, it did not hurt that town doctors who could claim Western

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training had a competitive advantage in attracting new patients. Sugita Genpaku’s reputation as a Dutch-­style physician resulted in a very successful practice. Regardless of how effective their Dutch-­style treatments proved, word that one was trained in both Chinese and Dutch medicine usually meant more patients. GENTAKU THE ŌTSUKI Just as the social expectations and obligations that came with status as a samurai or a doctor shaped choices, so too did familial factors. In Tokugawa Japan, families developed strategies in an effort to help maintain and strengthen the socioeconomic position of the lineage. Two prevalent strategies in this quest ­were the diversification of familial profession and adoption. These practices influenced all classes in Tokugawa Japan, and they affected the rangaku community as well.58 Gentaku made decisions as a rangaku scholar with an eye toward his family’s and children’s future in order to ensure social and economic stability and growth. Gentaku manipulated his son’s inclusion in the rangaku network in several ways: he arranged for his oldest son to be allowed to visit with the Dutch envoys when the trading company made its trips to Edo in the early 1800s; he passed the reins of his school over to his son; and he included him in meetings that he had with colleagues. These ­were acts aimed at continuing the high status of the Ōtsuki family as scholars in general and within the rangaku field. A tact that Gentaku took to ensure the Ōtsuki family’s general success was to encourage his sons to take slightly different paths in order to diversify the family’s interests. In fact, this had happened with his father a generation before as well. Although they ­were not wealthy, the Ōtsuki family was one of the preeminent scholarly families in the Ichinoseki domain in the eigh­teenth century. The influential Confucian scholar Matsuzaki Kōdō (1771–1884) wrote, “In the West [the family of learning and culture] is the Rai family, in the East it is the Ōtsuki family.”59 The Ōtsuki had gained that reputation not just because they ­were intelligent or had a strong work ethic, but also because they skillfully manipulated the family business. Although the Ōtsuki family had begun to gain a reputation as Confucian scholars in the early eigh­teenth century, when Gentaku’s grandfather and great uncle ­were born, the family pursuits took two directions. Gentaku’s great uncle continued the businesses of official ser­vice and Confucian studies. His offspring did so as well and eventually ran the domain’s official school, the Yōkendō. On the other hand, Gentaku’s father went into medicine.60 This split in professional endeavors helped spread out the Ōtsuki family’s cul-



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37

tural roots and brought income from two different sources, a move that aided the larger family’s success. Later, when Gentaku was at the head of his branch of the family, the Ōtsukis could boast the highest post for Confucianists in the Sendai (Gentaku’s cousin Heisen (1773–1850) ran the Yōkendō) and a leadership in Dutch studies and medicine. Although both of Gentaku’s sons became rangaku scholars and doctors, Gentaku made sure they w ­ ere well-­trained in Confucianism. A sound training in Confucianism was considered necessary for any cultured individual or scholar in Tokugawa Japan, and the Ōtsukis’ goal was not only to succeed in Dutch studies, but also to be considered a well-­rounded scholarly family. Genkan, the oldest son, was Gentaku’s true rangaku successor. He too became a doctor, took over control of his father’s school after Gentaku’s death, penned several influential works on the Dutch language, and worked as a physician for the powerful bakufu advisor Hotta Masaatsu. In addition, he attended the bakufu’s official school, the Shōheikō, at the same time as his cousin Ōtsuki Heisen did. The Shōheikō was the most elite Confucian institution in the country. Genkan’s brother Bankei attended it later and studied under Matsuzaki Kōdō. Bankei, too, was trained in rangaku, but he was never as successful in it as Genkan was. However, he did win a prestigious lectureship at the Yōkendō and eventually became its headmaster. Gentaku did not employ the strategy of adoption to aid his family’s continued success. It was unnecessary since he was blessed with two intelligent and talented sons. However, the practice was commonplace among his colleagues who had no son or lacked an heir talented enough to succeed in the family business. Sometimes the adopted son would marry a daughter, but not always. Regardless, the adopted son took the family name and was charged with maintaining or improving the family’s status and income. This became an especially important strategy in a society where primogeniture ruled and in which heredity often dictated profession and status.61 From another perspective, this was also a promising option for improving social and economic standing for those males who ­were not the first son in their family or ­were destitute. Gentaku’s teacher Genpaku adopted two sons. One was the son of his friend Takebe Seian, the other was Yasuoka Genshin, a talented rangaku student of meager means. Genshin actually had a falling out with Genpaku and was disowned, but he was then adopted by another rangaku medical scholar, Udagawa Genzui. Genzui’s adoption of Genshin was mutually beneficial. Genshin was living hand-­to-­mouth without any family support and Genzui had no heir. All of his teachers praised Genshin’s aptitude for rangaku, and later he would become the first great translator of Dutch medical texts. Thus, he was a good fit for continuing the Udagawa scholarly reputation

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and maintaining the family’s position as doctors for the Tsuyama domain. Among other colleagues of Gentaku that ­were adopted ­were his cosuper­ visor at the Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books, Baba Sajūrō; his professional patron, Kudō Heisuke; and his student, the translator Inamura Sanpaku (Unagami Zuiō, 1758–1811). Gentaku’s other Edo mentor, Maeno Ryōtaku, also adopted a son to carry on his work. GENTAKU THE CONFUCIAN INTELLECTUAL Another aspect of Gentaku’s habitus was his positioning within the Confucian world. His existences as samurai, physician, and scholar w ­ ere all shaped by the Tokugawa Neo-­Confucian paradigm. Yet the relationship between rangaku and Confucianism was complicated. In 1788, Gentaku wrote, “Ever since in recent years Dutch learning has risen, there has been a tendency for Confucian scholars to reject it, declaring that barbarian theories should not be adopted. What is the meaning of such criticism? Dutch learning is not perfect, but if we choose the good points and follow them, what harm could come of that? What is more ridiculous than to refuse to discuss the merits and to cling to what one knows best without hope of changing it?”62 Gentaku felt frustrated at the re­sis­tance coming from many in the Confucian community, a rejection that he felt was borne of ignorance. However, as his family was steeped in Confucian education, that community was his intellectual community as well. Gentaku’s attachment to Confucianism was typical for Dutch studies scholars. Many had come to rangaku as official interpreters (employees of a Neo-­Confucian central government) or had received a Confucian education from an early age. Thus, while they studied information from the West, their worldview was grounded in Confucianism, and they often couched their studies in Confucian terms.63 Despite making frequent criticism of Confucianists’ adverse attitudes toward Western knowledge and their blind Sinocentrism, Gentaku did not question the validity of Confucianism or consider it at intellectual or moral odds with rangaku. While Gentaku’s habitus was shaped by a Confucian education from a young age, even when he moved to Edo and began to focus his studies more exclusively on rangaku, he did not leave that habitus behind. His ability to operate within the scholarly world of Edo was reliant on his Confucian-­ paradigmatic communicative skills. Arai Hakuseki and Nishikawa Joken (1648–1724), and later Aoki Konyō and Noro Genjo (1693–1761), who all helped launch the study of Western knowledge in the Tokugawa period, ­were Confucian intellectuals. They understood their intellectual pursuits as Confucian pursuits. Later, many of the physicians of the eigh­teenth century, who



Ōtsuki Gentaku

39

­ ere the first to drive the expansion of Dutch studies for its medical promw ise, had been trained within the Confucian tradition, and it informed their medical knowledge. In fact, many physicians lectured on Confucianism, and under Tokugawa Confucian hegemony, some doctors developed what was referred to as jui, or Confucian medicine.64 Bob Tadashi Wakabayashi has argued that since both of Gentaku’s ­ ere “unmistakably ConEdo teachers Sugita Genpaku and Maeno Ryōtaku w fucian,” they felt the need to situate rangaku within that world. For Genpaku, who had studied Confucianism under Miyase Ryūmon (1721–1773), Confucian values should not be regarded as universally static, but relative to region. In this way, Confucian values could be located within knowledge from the West. He attacked Chinese medical practitioners, whose uncritical faith in China’s ancient sage doctors led to their continued use of in­effec­tive methods. This, he worried, deceived patients and violated the Confucian moral of ren (caring for other humans). Even more forcefully, Ryōtaku argued for the superiority of the Western understanding of nature and rejected Japa­nese Confucianism for its blinding adherence to Chinese authority. For him, the superiority of the West’s naturkunde naturally led to advanced morality.65 Though we may think of Confucianism application as largely moral and sociopo­liti­cal, and while it could encourage ethnocentrism and distrust of foreign ideas, one strand found in the Chu Hsi form of Confucianism so important to Tokugawa Japan was a rationalism that looked for constant principles of nature and society based on objective reasoning and investigation. Many rangaku scholars conceptualized their studies as falling within Chu Hsi’s steps to self-­cultivation through kakubutsu chichi, “investigation of things and extension of knowledge.” Chu Hsi considered the pursuit of knowledge as the key to uncovering the principles of the universe (li), and, as such, it was a virtuous act. With that in mind, many Dutch studies scholars considered their research a Confucian moral pursuit, one that could bring benefits to the people and the state.66 Accordingly, in the eyes of rangakusha, it deserved bakufu approval. Like his teachers Genpaku and Ryōtaku, Gentaku believed that Eu­ro­pe­ans had surpassed the Chinese in that pursuit. The first section of Gentaku’s textbook Rangaku kaitei defends Dutch studies and argues that it is an appropriate pursuit for the superior man (shi) defined by Confucianism.67 He and other rangaku scholars translated the Dutch term naturkunde (natural history) using the Confucian term kyūri (studying principle/pattern).68 Because of his family and educational background, Gentaku had the skills required to be an effective scholar within the Confucian world. This served him and the rangaku community as well because it allowed him to

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be an effective bridge between rangakusha and other intellectual fields. It also garnered him the respect of various members of the government, which privileged Confucian scholarship. Not only that, but because his Confucian-­ style education had included classical forms of writing, including Chinese kanbun, he could deftly repackage the research of the less classically trained interpreters from colloquial Japa­nese into a medium acceptable to scholars.69 The habitus that made up Gentaku’s social existence informed many of the decisions that he made as he pursued Dutch studies. All the identities that he took on—­samurai, doctor, family head, scholar—­formed a matrix from within which he acted. His colleagues and students operated within matrices defined by their own social backgrounds, though many of these w ­ ere similar to his. It was within these systems of social concerns and the strategies that they encouraged that the rangaku network was formed. In the remaining chapters, it will be important to consider how feudalism, patriarchy, and other aspects of Tokugawa society influenced the creation, growth, and maintenance of the rangaku network.

C H A P T E R

T W O

Creating Community The Culture of Early Modern Salons

Ōtsuki Gentaku’s world was one dictated by a habitus of feudal obligations, family, and profession. Working within the limitations and resources associated with his rank, name, and job, he situated himself into a nascent web of rangaku scholars in the 1770s and perhaps did more than anyone ­else to expand that web over the course of his life. One of the crucial spaces in the late eigh­teenth century for Gentaku and others to weave their intellectual web was the salon. Along with schools, salons ­were where Dutch studies saw its earliest growth as a community. This chapter investigates the social significance of salons by taking a semiotic approach. That is, I consider what the physical space of salons looked like as signifier and what they symbolized to Dutch studies scholars and the wider community as signified. In this way, we can come to understand in some mea­sure how the rangaku network operated from a social perspective. THE SEMIOTICS OF SEATED AND PERFORMATIVE INTELLECT Cultural salons proliferated during the last half of the eigh­teenth century in Japan, accommodating a mounting interest in the za arts and literature (za-­bungei). The literal meaning of za was “seat,” and the za arts (visual and literary) ­were performed within groups, which ­were presumably “seated” together. Za culture first appeared as early as the thirteenth century when the Emperor Go-­Toba held poetry gatherings in his salon (zashiki). In practice, za also referred to the physical space where these individuals gathered, and it is from that that the related term zashiki, or “sitting room” was derived.1 41

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Zashiki served a function similar to the early modern salons of Europe—as semiprivate spaces to entertain guests and enjoy cultural interaction. Za arts gatherings met within the homes of participants or patrons, but also in rented zashiki at temples and tea­houses. During their meetings, professionals and amateurs produced culture together. The epitome of this was renga poetry in which groups created linked-­verses. However, other types of cultural groups met in salons to design items such as woodblock prints and playful calendars, debate flower arranging, or discuss the latest bestsellers. Within these spaces, the emphasis was on group production and on the rights of all attendees to participate, regardless of social background. The atmosphere of zashiki gatherings combined civility, curiosity, playfulness, and camaraderie, which will be discussed in chapter 3. The distinction between artistic and intellectual pursuits had fuzzy boundaries during the Tokugawa period, and scholars largely operated within a social world similar to artists, poets, and fiction writers. One aspect of the ethos of the Tokugawa literati (bunjin), who ­were often actively involved in the scholarly world, was the u ­ nion of arts and intellect. Rangaku developed within that context. Thus salons became one of the primary sites where Dutch studies scholars exchanged knowledge and created communities. Salons ­were spaces of sociability and acted as nodes in the rangaku social network. That role as such was not lost on scholars, who arranged the physical spaces of their salons in specific ways to augment their own social and cultural capital, and occasionally that of their guests as well. The ways in which the za arts ­were conducted communally tended to encourage a performative aspect during gatherings, and salons functioned as stages. In her study of the social significance of aesthetic groups, Eiko Ikegami has labeled the renga of the medieval and early modern periods “performative literature.”2 Similarly, when rangaku scholars and enthusiasts held salon meetings, they engaged in what we might call “performative intellect.” Their per­for­mance was not merely concerned with information exchange, but also with position-­taking and the establishment of authority within the Dutch studies field. In addition, the props and audience ­were as important as the words used in this per­for­mance. As will be shown, an examination of the physical aspects of salons, referred to as either Oranda zashiki (Dutch salon) or Oranda beya (Dutch room) during the Tokugawa period, enables us to see how props in the form of salon decorations and per­for­mance among those props played a role in social maneuvering. One of the characteristics of salon groups of all types from the late eigh­ teenth century onward was a high degree of egalitarianism, as participants from different social and geo­graph­i­cal backgrounds mixed freely. Their tendency toward liberated exchanges is especially noteworthy when we re-



Creating Community 43

member that the rhetoric of the Tokugawa government pushed an agenda of strict class definition and separation in the name of social order. The reality was that this agenda’s effectiveness was uneven depending on location, time, and activity. Salons ­were one of the spaces where everyday class distinctions frequently broke down. However, an examination of the décor of salons also suggests that material objects played a role in the establishment of authority and position-­taking within the group that met there. In other words, participants disconnected themselves from their everyday social selves and created new persona within the salon. In addition, in the case of rangaku, salon decoration was sometimes an effort to legitimize the study of Western knowledge as an acceptable endeavor within a society that tended toward insularity. Chapter 3 will show that salon groups showed a great tolerance for the inclusion of members from each of the officially defined social classes (samurai, farmer, artisan, and merchant). However, entry was not completely free of social conventions. Access into a salon circle was predicated on the proper introduction to the host and central members of the group, no matter what one’s social status might be. Thus, social capital was important from first contact. By design, information flowed freely within salons, and each member was obligated to respect the rights of other members. Nevertheless, rangaku scholars competed for position within their intellectual community. A combination of one’s accumulated cultural/intellectual, social, and economic capitals determined rank within the rangaku field. Perhaps more than in any other cultural spaces, salons ­were sites where these coalesced capitals became apparent in terms of rank and ­authority. SALON-­DECORATING AND SOCIAL MANEUVERING Because salons had been in use since the thirteenth century, artists, poets, and writers had long established them as unique spaces for cultural interaction by the mid-­Tokugawa period. In the pro­cess of establishing the meaning of these spaces, selection and placement of décor came to define more than the personal aesthetic tastes of hosts. Informed by authoritative literature, these hosts arranged their rooms in carefully crafted ways, paying attention to their positions within their cultural fields. Originally, the term zashiki was loosely employed by elites to refer to spaces used for cultural entertainment, banquets, receptions, and interviews.3 In the fifteenth century, the term was more specifically used for tearooms, in which a high degree of civility based on proper aesthetic appreciation and manners was demanded. It was also during that century that

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Figure 2.1. Salon décor in fifteenth century. From Soami, Kundaikan sōchōki Meiji reprint (Tokyo: Yūrindō, 1884). Courtesy of the Japa­nese National Diet Library.

their popularity began to spread among the elite. Rules for the tasteful display of tea utensils, paintings, and Chinese items (karamono) within salons ­were codified when a connoisseurs’ manual titled Kundaikan sōchōki was written. Although not published, the manual circulated widely over the next century in manuscript form. The original is no longer extant, but roughly twenty versions are known today. Kundaikan included detailed instructions on salon decorating (zashiki kazari), accompanied by illustrations.4 The appearance of such a manual and its wide popularity signaled a change in the use of domestic space in Japan, introducing the element of display into what was earlier considered a private space.5 For a variety of motives, the display of objects in both private and public spaces would become increasingly important. A proper zashiki truly became a symbol of status by the end of the fifteenth century.6 This was especially true in the late eigh­ teenth century when an economy developed around the play of display with so-­called misemono and exhibitions.



Creating Community 45

Codes for interior decorating became so important during the fifteenth century that they significantly affected art forms under what one scholar has called a “policy of decoration.”7 The second and third sections of Kundaikan describe the proper construction of zashiki, the selection of items such as paintings and vases for the room, and the display of those objects. For example, it addresses the appropriate designs and utilizations of pressing boards (oshiita), staggered shelves (chigaidana), and built-in studies (shoin). While first written as a “secret text” (hiden-­sho) for the eyes of aesthetics experts known as dōbōshū, it soon circulated widely and inspired a decorative style that focused on display alcoves (toko), shelves (dana), study areas (tsuke shoin), and ornamental doorways (chōdai gamae). The authors of Kundaikan conceived of zashiki as a private home’s most public space, one that should be used for a per­for­mance that would impress guests with the host’s refined taste.8 Similar books followed, especially two hundred years later when the publishing industry began to boom. By the late eigh­teenth century, hinagata-­bon books on proper architectural construction sold well. These guides addressed such issues as the arrangement of tatami mats, ornamental shelves, door designs, and ceilings.9 The concerns expressed in these manuals ranged from the practical to the artistic to the religious, indicating that the Japa­nese expected zashiki to be versatile rooms for comfort, tasteful aesthetics, good luck, and the display of prized objects. Yet, above all, zashiki ­were for entertaining. During the medieval period, there was typically a formality to the space with very specific areas assigned for the host, the guest of honor, and the other guests.10 Similar attitudes of formality continued into the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries; however, these formalities ­were often relaxed during the regular meetings of salon circles. While books such as Kundaikan had offered connoisseurs guidance on Chinese items since the fifteenth century, the acquisition of Western goods in the Tokugawa period was a new activity, and thus there w ­ ere not yet any well-­established means available to collectors. Only a handful of Oranda zashiki decorated with items from the West existed in the Tokugawa era. Gentaku kept one of the most notable, as did his friends Katsuragawa Hoshū in Edo and Yoshio Kōzaemon in Nagasaki. They and a few others set up rooms with Western scientific instruments, books, and paintings. Gentaku’s mentor Sugita Genpaku pointed out a general curiosity for Dutch objects and remarked, “Those who w ­ ere considered even slight dilettantes collected both big and small items and never failed to admire [their collections].”11 Thermometers, clockworks, telescopes, and glassworks w ­ ere among the trea­sured acquisitions. This zeal for Dutch paraphernalia touched commoners as well. They crowded around the

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Nagasakiya, which ­housed the Dutch mission when it came to Edo, and ­were lured into the shops of import merchants in other cities that advertised their goods with the phrases “Direct from Holland.”12 However, the items that found their way into the homes of rangaku scholars and collectors ­were beyond the means of the average commoner. Economic resources and social connections ­were essential to obtaining the prized books and instruments from Holland. Rich merchants, so-­called Dutch-­addicted domainal lords (ranpeki daimyo), and elite rangaku scholars or interpreters ­were those best situated to obtain Western items. The most well-­k nown merchant collectors of Dutch items, such as Kimura Kenkadō (1736–1802), Hazama Shigetomi (1756–1816), and Yamagata Shigeyoshi (Masuya Heiemon, 1764–1836), ­were from the Osaka area. Ōtsuki Nyoden writes that Kenkadō bragged about his collection of books, maps, “curios of our country and foreign countries, minerals, precious stones, and plants of China and Eu­rope.”13 At the time of his death, Kenkadō had one of the largest private collections of books and other cultural, scientific, and natural objects in Japan. Hazama Shigetomi, a pawnshop owner, displayed Dutch anatomical texts in his salon and also collected Western-­style astronomical instruments such as telescopes and celestial globes that he had commissioned from local artisans. Yamagata Shigeyoshi was an affluent rice dealer who owned a worthy collection of Dutch books and translations of Eu­ro­pean books, as well as Dutch furniture, dining utensils, globes, astrolabes, telescopes, ­ ere clocks, and even a device for administering enemas.14 All three men w part of the rangaku social network and loaned books and other belongings to colleagues frequently. When the items w ­ ere not on loan, they ­were often displayed prominently in rooms for guests to view. Like merchants, some daimyo used their considerable wealth and connections to collect Dutch exotica for their homes. Kutsuki Masatsuna, daimyo of Fukuchiyama, was especially interested in numismatics and showed off his foreign coins and specie in a curio cabinet within the zashiki of his Edo mansion. Another daimyo, Shimazu Shigehide of Satsuma, went as far as to build a Dutch-­style mansion for his stays in Edo. He had developed an unusually close relationship to Isaac Titsingh, Hendrik Doeff, and Philipp Franz von Siebold and also lodged at his friend the interpreter Imamura Genuemon’s (Akinari, 1720–1773) home whenever he came to Nagasaki to visit the Dutch.15 This had, no doubt, given him some perspective on Western furnishings. In his Edo mansion, Shigehide kept Dutch glassware and hourglasses on his desk and bookshelves.16 Although their scholarly abilities ­were not always advanced, these daimyo actively maintained social ties within the rangaku network and invited colleagues to their homes regularly for conversations about their collections. Shigehide was even known to pro-



Creating Community 47

vide patronage to promising rangakusha to build their collections. He supplied interpreter Narabayashi Jūbei (1687–1756) with five hundred gold coins for just that, though it was unfortunately frittered away on drink.17 One of the functions of the display of these cultural items was to transform zashiki into “conversable spaces.”18 Salons ­were not hurried places, but rooms for lingering discussions, and décor was intended to inspire conversation. This characteristic of salons reflected an interest in display increasingly found in urban public spaces during the eigh­teenth century. For example, pop­u­lar interest in natural history (hakubutsugaku) and the economic success of “display events,” such as misemono and art exhibitions, set the scene for the appearance of herbal and product shows (yakuhin-­kai and bussan-­e).19 While salon displays did not have the same overt financial motivations, they did reflect similar impulses to these product shows in that items ­were used to inspire conversation, social networking, and intellectual exchange.20 Various members of rangaku salons, such as Hiraga Gennai, participated in those shows as well. The conversable aspect of salons was particularly important to serious scholars within the Dutch studies community. While Western items often served merchants and daimyo more as a conspicuous display of wealth and of powerful connections, for scholars, these displays ­were an opportunity to remind others of their learning. Describing the origins and uses of the items was, of course, a performative way to show off one’s knowledge. From books to furniture, these items created a symbolic display of knowledge that did not depend on speech. This is what Pierre Bourdieu refers to as “cultural capital in the objectified state,” embodiments of the scholars’ and artists’ intellectual and creative minds. In his view, “pictures, books, dictionaries, instruments, machines, e­ tc.” could be “appropriated both materially, which presupposes economic capital, and symbolically, which presupposes cul­ ere merely matural capital.”21 For many wealthy collectors, Dutch goods w terial possessions, but for rangaku scholars, such as Katsuragawa Hoshū, who could show off such prized possessions as a microscope, an electricity-­ generating machine (erekiteru), or Dutch clothes, they ­were symbolic appropriations of his knowledge and education. For an object such as a book or a telescope to become “objectified” cultural capital, the owner had to know how to use, read, or explain it. In order to accomplish that, the owner must have internalized cultural capital through studying the appropriate knowledge. This would have been the case for Hoshū, Gentaku, and Yoshio Kōzaemon, who invested years studying the Dutch language and medical and scientific knowledge. People who w ­ ere limited in cultural capital, such as Osaka merchant Yamagata Shigeyoshi or domainal lord Kutsuki Masatsuna, who could not

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read Dutch, could obtain embodied cultural capital by proxy if they utilized other forms of capital—­social or economic—to “hire” it. For example, Masatsuna owned a great number of Dutch books which he was unable to fully access because he had not invested enough time or labor to acquire the embodied cultural capital of Dutch literacy. Nevertheless, he was able to turn these books into objectified cultural capital by having experts such as Gentaku help him translate them in exchange for patronage. Once materials ­were accessed as objectified cultural capital, they became a symbolic extension of a person and added to his total accumulation of capital, thus allowing their display to become more meaningful. Through pro­cesses similar to this, all types of cultural salons became important sites for developing relationships of patronage through which men of wealth commissioned cultural experts. CRAFTING AUTHORITY AND LEGITIMACY ON NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATIONS While common sense says that cultivating authority would certainly be a matter of attaining a high level of scholarly production and educational influence, there ­were other unexpected factors involved in the pro­cess. The objects that decorated an individual’s salon could reinforce or augment his authority. In addition, since salons w ­ ere sites of networking, the “placement” of appropriate individuals within the salon made a statement about the host’s position within the field. The right mix of Western books and scientific instruments with suitable salon participants could be important for social maneuverings. An examination of the Dutch-­style New Year’s celebrations held by Yoshio Kōzaemon in Nagasaki and Gentaku in Edo reveals this point in practice. Kōzaemon, head Dutch interpreter, was considered to be the most knowledgeable person on the West during the mid-­eighteenth century. He had attained the type of authority that comes from expertise, teaching, and years of experience. In 1775, Kōzaemon constructed a Dutch-­style room on his second floor based on the chief factor’s room on Deshima. Almost immediately, it became a sightseeing spot for traveling scholars to Nagasaki and was known famously as the Oranda nikai (the Dutch second floor). The awe Kōzaemon inspired as a knowledgeable scholar was reinforced and augmented by this room. Natural phi­los­o­pher Miura Baien (1723–1789) recorded that one of his most memorable moments during a Nagasaki visit in 1778 was going to Kōzaemon’s home to see the interpreter’s various cultural, scientific, and technical “curiosities” (kika) from the West, including a violin, a telescope, a microscope, a celestial sphere, a globe, a thermometer,



Creating Community 49

and an octant. He was particularly amazed at the Western books that filled the shelves of the salon.22 The famous scholar Tachibana Nankei (1753–1805), who came a few years later, wrote, “Influenced by the Dutch, the home of the se­nior interpreter Yoshio Kōzaemon had one zashiki with a tiled floor, a room on the second story with a wooden floor, and a staircase with a blue-­ lacquered banister. When I visited Yoshio’s home it was like entering a Dutch ­house. But as there w ­ ere no tatami mats, guests and hosts all sat in chairs, which made it difficult to drink and eat comfortably.”23 A well-­k nown artist named Haruki Nanko had a similar reaction, so impressed that he exclaimed, “Yoshio’s Oranda zashiki is better than Deshima!” Apparently in his eyes, it was more authentic than the homes of the Dutch themselves, which he had seen several days earlier on rare trip onto Deshima.24 Even Gentaku wrote in his travel journal that Kōzaemon’s room “dazzled” him.25 Kōzaemon’s salon, typically used for small parties, group readings (kaidoku), or discussions with his numerous students and colleagues, was in fullest use on Dutch New Year’s day. The room had wood floors, not tatami, and in the center sat a large Dutch-­style table surrounded by chairs. During Kōzaemon’s New Year’s celebrations, there ­were also Western eating utensils and music.26 The display of Western curios was more than an expression of zeal for Dutch studies. Having written around forty rangaku works and trained scores of students, Kōzaemon was held in perhaps higher regard than anyone ­else in the rangaku community. His salon functioned as a very tangible reminder of that position. It displayed objects that only someone with his extensive contact with the Dutch could acquire. Indeed, Kōzaemon’s claim that Isaac Titsingh advised him on the furnishings added an air of authenticity.27 His act of entertaining in the midst of his Dutch collection was a per­for­mance that spotlighted his unique accumulation of cultural, social, and economic capital. In addition, as a sociable and clever host, this performative act helped legitimize his position in the field by augmenting his “charismatic authority.”28 Gentaku attended Kōzaemon’s New Year’s banquet in 1785, and ten years later introduced the celebration to Edo, making it an annual event in the salon of his private academy the Shirandō. His reasons for throwing the banquet ­were several. The most explicit is found in a commemorative statement for the party, in which he wrote, “Many wise scholars gathered at Shirandō to forge an alliance for translating Western books. From now on, if we are diligent and unfailing, [our endeavors] will achieve flowers and fruits.” Gentaku saw the party as a monumental moment in Japan’s intellectual history. He argued that a group, such as the one represented at his gathering, was necessary in order to overcome the deficiencies of Chinese medical books and bring new, useful knowledge to Japan.29 As another gesture to encourage

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commitment within the community, Gentaku’s party celebrated the on­ going work of his students who, at his urging, ­were compiling the first significant Dutch-­Japanese dictionary, the Haruma wage. He also wanted to commemorate the return to Japan of one of his guests, Daikokuya Kōdayū (1751–1828), a sailor who had been shipwrecked on the Siberian coast in 1787 and had lived in St. Petersburg. Gentaku and his fellow scholars saw Kōdayū as an invaluable source of information. The bakufu had charged Katsuragawa Hoshū, who was present at the banquet, with the task of conducting official interviews with Kōdayū. By having the most established scholars and promising students at this event, Gentaku was not only providing encouragement to the field, but also attempting to reinforce his own image as a unique authority and the most significant networker within the field.30 Therefore, it is not surprising that he commissioned an artist and former student named Ichikawa Gakuzan (1760–1847) to paint a portrait, which hung in his school as a reminder of his status within Dutch studies. ­ ere concerned In addition to authority, both Kōzaemon and Gentaku w with the related issue of legitimacy for their field of study. They wanted rangaku to be acknowledged as an acceptable, admirable, and beneficial activity. This meant that those excluded from salon meetings might play a role as audience. Kōzaemon’s New Year’s celebrations ­were notable affairs and drew street bystanders who watched the pro­cession of guests. As audience, they ­were involved in the pro­cess of legitimizing Dutch studies as a valid part of Tokugawa culture. On the occasion of his New Year’s party in 1785, Kōzaemon invited not only interpreters and other miscellaneous members of the Dutch learning community, but also two town elders. This was a hereditary position occupied by merchants who assisted the city magistrate. Since they w ­ ere powerful officials, whose office called on them to communicate between the magistrate and the merchants of the city, their presence at the banquet carried symbolic significance. Given this position, they provided both a bakufu and townsperson (chōnin) presence. Their attendance would have encouraged the Nagasaki public to view rangaku as a valid cultural endeavor—­sanctioned by local authorities, thus giving it legitimacy. This was more important than it may seem, since Dutch studies ­were based on foreign knowledge, and much of the population, while curious, ­were suspicious of the West. Similarly, further investigation of Gentaku’s painting Shirandō shigenkai-zu sheds light on the ways in which interior decoration was related to both the crafting of legitimacy for rangaku and shaping the authority of the host. ­Although it clearly does not conform to strict codes, Gentaku’s salon is similar in design to those represented in the fifteenth-­century manual



Creating Community 51

Figure 2.2. Painting of New Year’s gathering at Shirandō academy Shirandō shingenkai-­zu (Artist: Ichikawa Gakuzan, 1795). Courtesy of Waseda University Library.

Kundaikan sōchōki and more contemporary guides to salon arrangement. There are wall hangings and staggered shelves that display flower vases and books, all elements of design discussed in the early connoisseurial guide. In order to accommodate the large party, Gentaku placed three tables together at the center of the room. Unlike the banquet tables in Kōzaemon’s salon, Gentaku’s tables w ­ ere low in Japa­nese fashion and guests sat on the floor. The food was likely somewhat different, since Dutch-­style ingredients, such as pork, could not be obtained in Edo as easily as in Nagasaki. For the same reasons, Gentaku had more difficulty obtaining Western furnishings for his banquet. Yet Gentaku was clearly concerned with fashioning his room as an Oranda zashiki. Although the painting reveals only a few forks, knives, spoons, and Western-­style wine glasses, their placement was a gesture of authenticity, which, as we saw with Kōzaemon’s salon, could reinforce authority within the field.

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If we shift our focus from the dining setup to the rest of the room, a number of objects are worth noticing. One shelf displays Japa­nese and Western books, the latter a precious commodity to which few had access. Architectural historian Kawakami Mitsugu writes that during the Ashikaga period ­ ere increasingly attached to zashiki, books became decwhen shoin studies w orative elements, and that when placed on shelves, their appearance was more important than their content.31 This was only partially true for Gentaku. By 1795, Gentaku had one of the most desirable collections of Dutch books in Japan. While books performed the role of decorations, they also reminded others of his ability to obtain such works, and that he indeed had the cultural capital required to read them. Two pictures also adorn the walls. One hanging scroll is of a narwhal. For years the Dutch had imported animal horns and narwhal teeth to Japan, which w ­ ere often presented as those of unicorns. These horns ­were believed to have medicinal qualities. The origins of the horns had sparked debate within the rangaku and medical communities. Gentaku ended the debate when, in his first published book Rikubutsu shinshi (New record of six things, 1787), he established that the horns came from narwhals off the coast of Greenland. The wall hanging closely resembles the illustration of the narwhal found in his book. In his salon, it was a symbol of his accomplishments in the field and a reminder of his “intellectual authority.” The other hanging scroll has been difficult for scholars. The point of debate is whether it is a portrait of Hippocrates or Lorenz Heister. Those who argue that it is Hippocrates point to Gentaku’s strong interest in the “father of Western medicine,” which helped inspire an almost worshipful interest in Hippocrates among Dutch-­style physicians of the time.32 Heister, on the other hand, was the author of Heelkundige Onderwijzingen (Instructions in Surgery, 1741), a textbook on anatomy that Gentaku used for his first major translation, Yōi shinsho (New thesis on treatment of wounds). Those who argue that it is Heister counter that Gentaku states in his diary that he had never seen a portrait of Hippocrates until 1799, four years after the original New Year’s banquet.33 In either case, whether Hippocrates or Heister, the portrait would have acted as a symbol of legitimacy in the field. Gentaku had developed an interest in Hippocrates in the 1790s while revising the Kaitai shinsho (New treatise on anatomy) and translating the Heister book for his former teacher, Sugita Genpaku. When he interviewed VOC members in 1794 during their obligatory trip to Edo, he asked whether Hippocrates was the Western equivalent of the physician Shinnō who was revered by Japa­nese practitioners as the father/god of Chinese medicine. If we believe that the portrait in the



Creating Community 53

New Year’s painting is of Hippocrates, we can read the hanging as an effort to show that rangaku, like traditional Chinese medicine, was supported by an ancient sage who had passed on his wisdom. Rangaku scholars, thus, legitimized a new form of medicine (Dutch medicine, ranpō) by drawing comparisons between it and a traditionally accepted form of medicine (Chinese medicine, kanpō). Gentaku’s great-­grandson Ōtsuki Nyoden suggests that at the same time that Gentaku was trying to import new knowledge, he was consciously shaping the pursuit of that knowledge into a familiar form. Nyoden wrote, “The gathering [in 1795] was called an Oranda shōgatsu (Dutch New Year). Thereafter, a banquet was held and colleagues gathered every year on the eleventh day [sic] after the winter solstice. . . . ​In lieu of the midwinter Shinnō celebration, they celebrated Dutch New Year’s, and hung an image of Hippocrates, who was revered as the founder of Western medicine.”34 During midwinter, doctors and pharmacists in Tokugawa Japan traditionally displayed images (either portrait or statue) of Shinnō and celebrated throughout the day. Gentaku was thus fitting his Dutch-­style banquet into an existing tradition. Whether Hippocrates’s painting received any explicit reverence by Gentaku’s guests is not recorded. However, we might consider that during the haikai poetry salon meetings of the time, participants ­were required to pay homage to a portrait of Tenjin, the Shinto god of literary studies.35 With this element, salon members turned everyday space into sacred space and thus heightened the performative aspects of their meetings.36 As a visitor from the world of the dead (marebito), Tenjin was a symbolic, honored guest.37 Perhaps Gentaku considered Hippocrates an appropriate “patron saint” (i.e., marebito) to look after the gatherings of Dutch-­style physicians. This form of etiquette would have added a sense of civility shared by many za arts of Tokugawa Japan. It is clear from later paintings that Western-­style Japa­nese doctors came to equate Hippocrates with both Shinnō and Onanunshi no Mikoto, a Shinto god of healing. Whether the portrait was Heister or Hippocrates, the strategy involved pre­sen­ta­tion of a Western authority who literally watches over the party and sanctions the host’s salon décor and arrangements. However, whereas a portrait of Hippocrates would have helped create legitimacy through traditional ritual, the use of Heister would have been a symbol to help “authenticate” the pursuit of Western knowledge. The portrait would also have reminded guests that Gentaku had made an important translation in 1790 of a surgical text by Heister. This point was meaningful, because the book solidified Gentaku’s position at the top of the rangaku field. Thus, we can view a portrait of Heister as both a move toward legitimization of the ­whole rangaku enterprise and an individual legitimization of Gentaku’s status.

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Beyond the details of Shirandō shingenkai-zu, the painting itself served as a marker that such a stupendous and defining occasion in rangaku took place at Gentaku’s room. In commissioning the painting, Gentaku boosted his own “symbolic capital” (or charismatic authority) by ensuring that those who viewed it from then on would be reminded of his role in the growth of Dutch studies. In addition, Gentaku’s annual New Year’s parties in Edo became a medium for reproducing his social capital, as his son Genkan inherited the event, continuing it for ten years after the elder’s death. By holding the parties after Gentaku’s death, Genkan reminded the Dutch studies community of his familial link. The annual New Year’s celebrations augmented Gentaku’s charismatic authority, but Genkan’s continuation of them held the possibility of converting his father’s charismatic authority into a “traditional authority” held by the Ōtsuki family. Another rangaku family, the Katsuragawa, used their salon gatherings to do just that. Katsuragawa Hoshū put together a wonderful collection of Western items which ­were displayed and used in his salon. However, as will be discussed in chapter 7, long after he died, his progeny continued to use the zashiki, hosting various intellectuals and scholars until the end of the nineteenth century. In his autobiography, Fukuzawa Yukichi, a frequent visitor of the Katsuragawa salon during the early Meiji period, indicates that the family had crafted a traditional authority for itself within Dutch studies when he remarks, “[In the 1850s] there ­were none in the rangaku field throughout Japan who did not know the Katsuragawa name.”38 Thus, Gentaku’s painting and Hoshū’s salon gatherings helped perpetuate the scholarly authority of their family names. FROM PLAYBILLS TO POSITION-­TAKING Despite a salon spirit of egalitarian intellectual participation and unencumbered information flow, two documents titled Rangakusha shibai midate banzuke (Playbill for Dutch studies theater, 1797) and Rangakusha sumō midate banzuke (Playbill for Dutch studies sumo, 1799) indicate that status within ­ ere designed the rangaku field mattered. Similar to Gentaku’s painting, they w to mark the occasion of two of Gentaku’s New Year’s banquets. Modeled on posters that ­were hung throughout cities to publicize kabuki per­for­mances or sumo matches, the creation of mock playbills became a trend among cultural and hobby circles and professional groups in the late eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries.39 Kabuki and sumo playbills included the role of each actor or the rank of each wrestler, respectively, indicating who ­were the most and least significant participants. The parodies, such as that for Dutch studies, ­were products of Tokugawa Japan’s ludic age, during which play came



Creating Community 55

Figure 2.3. Mock theater playbill with rangaku scholars’ roles (Rangakusha shibai midate banzuke, designer: Morishima Chūryō, 1797). Courtesy of Waseda

Figure 2.4. Mock sumō playbill with rangaku scholars’ rankings (Rangakusha sumō midate banzuke, designer: Morishima Chūryō, 1799). Courtesy of

University Library.

Waseda University Library.

to permeate many aspects of life. The designer of the two rangaku playbills, Katsuragawa Hoshū’s brother Morishima Chūryō, was widely known for his wit and certainly had no serious objectives in using the playbills for the promotion of Dutch studies or individual scholars. They, nevertheless, do express a consciousness of rank and reputation within the community. The earlier of the two playbills was based on ones used for the plays of Sakurada Jisuke II, a well-­k nown playwright in Edo during the 1790s. For example, the name of the imaginary theater owner in Chūryō’s playbill, Miyako Ninnai, was adapted from an actual theater owner, Miyako Dennai of the Nakamura-­za play­house. The remaining seventy-­three names on the fake playbill, however, cast rangaku scholars as actors, authors, or troupe leaders. Sugita Genpaku is listed as “Sugita Genpachi” and the Dutch enthusiast and Fukuchiyama daimyo Kutsuki Masatsuna is “Fukuchiyama-­zaemon.” Scholars of higher regard are given more central roles in the imaginary play. Thus, rangaku pioneers and authors of the important Kaitai shinsho, Genpaku,

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Maeno Ryōtaku, and Ishikawa Genjō (1744–1816) are playwrights. Gentaku and Hoshū, rangaku’s most important network facilitators at that time, are troupe leaders. The remaining scholars are similarly placed in acting roles that matched their positions within the field. The second mock playbill, which marked a later New Year’s banquet, provides an indication of the status of eighty scholars by applying sumo ranks. Similarly, pioneers Genpaku and Ryōtaku are retired elders (toshiyori), Gentaku is a promoter (kanjinmoto), and Hoshū is an attendant (sashizoi). Others are given titles as champion (ozeki), second rank (sekiwake), third rank (komusubi), and common rank (maegashira) to indicate their statuses in the rangaku field. The arrangement of scholars suggests that key factors determining position ­were roles in patronage (economic capital), network facilitation (social capital), scholarly production (cultural capital), and se­niority (symbolic capital). Gentaku’s significance as a major educator in Edo is suggested by the inclusion of six of his students in the upper wrestling ranks. This concern with ranking should not be considered remarkable. Pierre Bourdieu’s research shows that participants in cultural fields are always in competition with each other to gain more capital, even when there is no outward animosity or hostility. While rangakusha seemed to be extremely collegial, higher status within the rangaku community meant greater access to students, patronage, social connections, and, for physicians, medical patients, allowing the holder to convert social capital into economic capital more easily than someone of lower position could. In addition, high status could lead to the establishment of a “great name,” inheritable by sons and protective of one’s legacy, thus reproducing status. For rangaku scholars, status was not just a matter of who held the most knowledge, although that was probably of primary importance. It was more generally a matter of who had a significant accumulation and greater proportion of all forms of capital (social, cultural, and economic).40 The “per­for­mances” put on in salons ­were, in part, acts to persuade guests of the value of the hosts’ accumulated capital.41 They aided his position within the field. SALONS AND NETWORK NAVIGATION Salons w ­ ere sites of serious cultural and intellectual conversations; they w ­ ere sites of playful interactions; and they w ­ ere even sacred sites where rules of decorum and ritual ­were often followed. However, in the midst of that, salons w ­ ere significant for the role they played in community formation. The Dutch studies community functioned as a social network, and salons w ­ ere social nodes. They w ­ ere crucial sites for maintaining and expanding the network; setting social positions; and reinforcing authority. Eiko Ikegami has



Creating Community 57

effectively argued that Tokugawa period cultural circles formed “enclave publics” or escapes from the social demands of the state. Salons ­were key spaces where individuals of varying backgrounds forged new types of social relationships within those “enclave publics.” The efforts that scholars made in the decoration of their rooms, as well as the procedures of their meetings and banquets, played a role in that pro­cess. As unique versions of salons, Oranda zashiki combined both established cultural paradigms with novel material items. Hundreds of years earlier, zashiki-­k azari, or salon-­ decorating, was codified in an effort to define the aesthetic appreciation of foreign items sought by Japan’s elites. In the Tokugawa period, there was an interest in new types of foreign goods. While a primary goal of the decorative rules of fifteenth-­century salons was an attempt to control aesthetic values, the rangaku versions showed an interest in legitimizing the new foreign study. By focusing on the display of personal belonging, cognoscenti of the medieval period effectively turned salons into spaces that could fluctuate between private and public. This made them powerful sites. Later Dutch studies scholars took advantage of that tradition and used their private possessions to secure their position within the larger intellectual network. While the display of curious items harnessed the economic potential of the public in the late eigh­teenth century through misemono exhibitions, for rangaku scholars, it wedded entertainment with information exchange and the serious business of social maneuvering.

C H A P T E R

T H R E E

Bows and Laughs The Civil Egalitarianism of Salons

The late eigh­teenth and early nineteenth centuries ­were a dynamic period in Japan. On the one hand, it was a time of traumas as a string of natural disasters impacted the lives of thousands upon thousands of people. On the other hand, it was a time of booming cultural production and consumerism that fueled a new urban energy while integrating the country. In the midst of all this, the central government struggled to maintain the order, authority, and legitimacy that it had labored so ingeniously to establish earlier. Cultural salons ­were a product of these conditions. They ­were not new per se; however, they proliferated beyond a small exclusive section of society to include a vast number of people. They became an ingrained part of cultural production at all levels of society. Various scholars have noted the appearance of circles and clubs dedicated to poetry, kabuki, and woodblock designs. However, this world was not limited to art and literature and included scholarly pursuits such as natural history, materia medica, and rangaku. During the latter half of the eigh­teenth century, salon culture impacted rangaku in various ways. First, salons became sites where information could be exchanged within an egalitarian framework. In essence, participants found in salons a communitas dictated by a unity based on mutual respect and interest.1 Salon-­goers ­were on equal footing when it came to participating in discussions and sharing knowledge and opinions. Second, as sites of information exchange, salons ­were also noninstitutional sites of education. Third, in addition to being places of serious discussions, they w ­ ere intellectual playgrounds, where participants spent time enjoying each other’s company. Fourth, salons ­were arenas of socialization where members of the 58



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field learned how to be Dutch studies scholars. In salons, many came to understand topics of interest and social positioning with the rangaku field. Finally, salons w ­ ere nodes for networking. They w ­ ere as important in generating a Dutch studies network as the private academies that w ­ ere beginning to appear at the same time. All of these characteristics ­were built upon a unique sociability present throughout Japan’s cultural world that combined civility, play, curiosity, imagination, and an obsession with information exchange. From the late half of the eigh­teenth century, this new form of sociability, though not exclusive to them, appeared as a key feature of salon interaction. Cultural sociability fostered faith in discussion, respect for others’ opinions, and recognition of the fruitfulness of social interaction and collective endeavor. In so doing, it inspired creative energy. This chapter traces the creation of Dutch studies salon gatherings at the home of the Katsuragawa family and pays close attention to the above-­mentioned characteristics. SALON CULTURE The proliferation of salon circles in the eigh­teenth century was part of the rise of “cultural societies” in early modern Japan. Whereas the term “civil society” indicates a space in which citizens use their social capital to interact cooperatively and collectively toward common goals of civic action, I envision “cultural society” as a space in which cultural producers use their social capital to interact cooperatively toward common cultural goals. As the last chapter indicated, the importance of group-­oriented cultural production had its roots in Japan’s za culture from the twelfth century. During the Tokugawa period, a new type of society developed as more individuals than ever before became involved in cultural pursuits, and as za culture expanded to include nonelites. By the eigh­teenth century, members of the military class, common townspeople, and farmers ­were actively involved in socially mixed cultural circles. This trend included intellectuals as well. Although the professional lives of modern scholars often seem solitary, consumed with silent hours of research, reading, contemplation, and writing, historically this has not necessarily been the case. As Dena Goodman points out, “Diderot and Bacon saw knowledge as emerging from association and collaboration rather than from the mind of the isolated reader.”2 Similarly, rangaku scholars, as well as other intellectuals, artists, and writers of the Tokugawa period or­ga­nized conversable spaces from which they would cooperatively generate knowledge and culture. As more individuals of varying backgrounds became involved in culture and intellect, there arose countless “social bridges” that connected their

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various networks together. In this way, networks in Tokugawa Japan ­were open systems. This abundance of social bridges was important, because, as Nan Lin writes, “bridges allow individual actors in one cluster to have access to resources embedded in nodes in another cluster that otherwise would not be accessible.”3 In the Tokugawa period, members of one cultural circle ­were usually members of several others. In a synergistic way, this strengthened any given group by multiplying social capital and extending resources via these bridges. It also tended to encourage shared cultural values and rules of civility. Japan’s cultural society engaged cultural producers and consumers in the city and countryside, and among all social classes, in dialogic creative pro­ cesses. In addition, as will be seen, cultural society led to community formation that was autonomous from the state, although the government did in­effec­tively attempt to control it in various ways and at various times. This formation of cultural society was a crucial element of Tokugawa and the information revolution.4 As the last chapter indicated, zashiki became physical repre­sen­ta­tions of these changes. Tanaka Yūko notes that during the Tanuma period (1760– 1780), more than ever before, homes became basic points of contact, and zashiki, in par­tic­u­lar, ­were sites where like-­minded individuals congealed as a group. Furthermore, the notable social and geo­graph­i­cal diversity of zashiki cultural gatherings challenged the government’s rigid conception of social hierarchy.5 In many ways, zashiki gatherings ­were similar to those in the salons of early modern Britain and France, though with far fewer women (salonnieres). Thus, zashiki are often referred to as saron (the Japanized pronunciation of “salon”) by Japa­nese historians. Like salon gatherings in Eu­rope, zashiki meetings w ­ ere cultural in nature, with discussion topics of art, literature, religion, ethics, medicine, and science. They ­were commonly held at the ­house of one of the participants, though some groups also rented spaces. Although zashiki meetings tended to be or­ga­nized around the common interests of the participants, such as haikai poetry or war novels, they usually had a high degree of informality, strikingly different from the social formality dictated by the government, and w ­ ere occasionally impromptu. Despite their often casual nature, zashiki became important sites for the expansion, maintenance, and regulation of cultural networks. For rangaku and other fields of the cultural society, urban areas ­were especially important. City-­dwellers put an unusual amount of energy into the production of art, literature, crafts, and knowledge during the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries. By then, Edo’s population had reached approxi-



Bows and Laughs 61

mately one million with a seemingly endless number of spaces in which to congregate and interact. In addition, social stability and economic maturity ­were creating a new type of townspeople who ­were less concerned with social ranks and privileges than ever before. These individuals became participants in an explosion of communicative sites influenced by the new commercial networks that stretched across the country. Using an expression current at the time, the city of Edo became a “cosmopolitan dustbin” (shokokunin no hakidame) where peoples of different regional and social backgrounds interacted daily on the streets and in markets, barber shops, and tea­houses. With Tokugawa urbanization, major cities had the variety of people, institutions, facilities, and resources to transform communities from merely store­houses of culture and knowledge to links through which culture and knowledge flowed and found new life. Edo, in par­tic­u­lar, was constituted with myriad cultural networks in the eigh­teenth century.6 Thus, cultural producers and scholars who migrated to urban areas such as Edo had a competitive advantage within their fields. THE KATSURAGAWA SALON During the latter half of the eigh­teenth century, rangaku grew from its early seeds to a complex network stretching across Japan. Honma Sadao has criticized the emphasis that history texts give to the development of Dutch studies in Edo and has argued that that emphasis can originally be traced to Sugita Genpaku’s biased pre­sen­ta­tion of the rangaku field in Rangaku kotohajime (1815). According to Honma, Genpaku was hostile (and perhaps snobbish) toward the significant contributions of interpreters in Nagasaki, and, conversely, overcelebratory of the contributions of Edo scholars. Historians, he contends, have too readily accepted Genpaku’s assessment and ignored the important role of interpreters.7 While this is certainly true from an intellectual standpoint, if we consider rangaku from a social perspective, Edo had become the center of that network, surpassing other major centers in Nagasaki, Osaka, and Kyoto by 1800. In the capital, a general feeling of unease and hesitancy about how the bakufu would react to the conspicuous study of rangaku was replaced by an eagerness to understand and import new knowledge from Eu­rope.8 Rangaku scholars formed salon circles that met regularly. ­ ere held in the salon of The most significant rangaku meetings in Edo w the Katsuragawa family, and began in the late 1750s when shogunal physician Katsuragawa Hosan (1730–1783) began hosting a small gathering.9

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Although not adept in Dutch, Hosan studied under Aoki Konyō, a pioneer in the study of Western medicine and sciences. A burial inscription for Hosan claims that he had two great loves, books and hosting friendly gatherings. According to the epithet, “when a guest arrived, the first thing [Hosan] did was offer them a cup of saké,” but even when libations ­were not on hand, there was always “great laughter.”10 In 1800, Sugita Genpaku fondly remembered a party held at Hosan’s h ­ ouse several de­cades earlier with other salon members, musing, “[We] gathered, sang, danced, filled wine cups and passed them around. We conversed eagerly, making the most of [our] host’s banquet.”11 Among frequent guests during the 1750s and  1760s ­were Nakagawa Junan, Hiraga Gennai, and Maeno Ryōtaku. Meetings often lasted late into the night as they drank and discussed Holland, medicine, and science. Ten years after Hosan began these gatherings, Genpaku, Junan, Ryōtaku, and Hosan’s son Hoshū would become core participants in the historic Kaitai shinsho anatomical translation.12 The Katsuragawa salon gatherings held by Hosan acted as training sessions for this collaborative translation work. Although not involved in the translation himself, Hosan seems to have felt invested in the project as he used his high status as a bakufu physician to help mediate the government’s smooth approval of the publication in 1774. This was significant, as just six years earlier, a collection of random information about the West, titled Oranda banashi (Tales from Holland), had been confiscated and destroyed because it included a chart of the Dutch alphabet. Hosan’s home, a large mansion of approximately eleven thousand square feet, in Tsukiji near Nihonbashi, was an ideal meeting place. Its location was significant. Physically, the Nihonbashi Bridge was a crossroads from which major highways, such as the famous Tōkaidō Road, originated and radiated. The area around the bridge, also known as Nihonbashi, was a bustle of economic, po­liti­cal, and cultural activities. The lively streets of Nihonbashi reflected a wider expansion and vitality of communicative networks stretching across Japan. A growing number of private academies and traveling students, so important to Tokugawa’s cultural world, w ­ ere quite conspicuous in Nihonbashi. In addition, the area was littered with cultural salons, which catered to everything from the literary arts and painting to medicine and natural history. In the late eigh­teenth century, Nihonbashi attracted Dutch studies scholars, students, and enthusiasts. The historian Nishiyama Matsunosuke rightly asserts that by the beginning of the nineteenth century Nihonbashi was the center of rangaku activity in Japan.13 Gentaku lived in the greater Nihonbashi area, as did Sugita Genpaku and famous writer and naturalist



Bows and Laughs 63

Map of important rangaku and cultural figures in Nihonbashi. Drafted by Bonnie Glendinning.

Hiraga Gennai. These men regularly interacted with other intellectuals, writers, and artists of the Nihonbashi salon scene, including comedic writer Ōta Nanpo (1749–1823), printmaker Suzuki Harunobu (1725–1770) and painter Sō Shiseki (1715–1786). Importantly for rangaku scholars, Nihonbashi was also the location of the Nagasakiya, a hotel that h ­ oused visiting Dutch

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emissaries every four years, and of the three main Edo publishers of Dutch studies works. After 1770, the gatherings that ­were originally hosted by Hosan ­were continued under his sons Hoshū and Morishima Chūryō. When Hosan’s parties first began in the 1750s, Hoshū and Chūryō ­were children, but they received much of their education from members of the salon group and ­were eventually absorbed into the meetings. Later, Hoshū, Chūryō, and their salon colleagues would pass the tradition to their own children and students, allowing the meetings to continue into the Meiji period. Chūryō’s pop­u­lar work Kōmō zatsuwa (Red-­hair miscellany, 1787) was partially based on what he learned in salon meetings and provides a glimpse of typical discussion topics. It consists of tales and information about the Dutch, which had been relayed to him from his brother, friends, and interpreters, often during salon gatherings. In addition to Hoshū and Gentaku, the text refers to at least four other individuals who ­were participants in the salon group, including Nakagawa Junan, Hayashi Shihei, Udagawa Genzui, and Kutsuki Masatsuna. Although these salon meetings from which he obtained his information ­were certainly playful places, as Johan Huizinga has pointed out, “play d ­ oesn’t exclude seriousness.”14 Thus, while meetings entertained, they also provided access to useful information and fostered mutually beneficial social relationships. THE LUDIC AGE Treating salons, even intellectual ones, as arenas of play helps make sense of some of their ability to generate information exchange and facilitate cultural and intellectual production. In his seminal work, Huizinga argues that play is a central feature of life, permeating all basic human activities, from myths and poetry to intellect and war. He maintains that it is both intimately entwined with civilization and a necessity for the generation of culture. Huizinga sees play as a thread that connects all human activities, something that provides the sparks of imagination. Literary theorist Jacques Ehrmann has condensed the commonalities in definitions of play found in the writing of Huizinga, Roger Caillois, and Emile Benveniste. According to his analysis, these scholars believe that play is done for amusement, freely engaged in, separated temporarily and spatially from reality, uncertain, unproductive, controlled, fictive, and with no material interest.15 While some of these characteristics clearly apply to the activities of rangaku salon-­goers, their play was, I argue, productive and did offer various benefits. Play came to have an unpre­ce­dented impact on culture, intellect, politics, and economics in Tokugawa Japan. Historian Nishimura Saburō calls



Bows and Laughs 65

this “the time most infused with the spirit of play (asobi no seishin) in Japa­ nese history.”16 And folklore scholar Michael Dylan Foster argues that Japan entered a “ludic mode” in the late eigh­teenth century in which playful forms of culture dominated society.17 The timing of this rise in play was not happenstance. The last half of the eigh­teenth century was a time of transformation and crisis. The country was now integrated through national roads, efficient and speedy postal systems, and networks of commercial interests; the populations of urban areas had soared, drawing people of diverse social and geo­graph­i­cal backgrounds together; and a series of famines, fires, and other disasters ­were devastating the countryside, leading to social unrest. The flowering of play-­form was, in part, the result of these circumstances. Scholars of the late Tokugawa period have pointed to the growing presence of play in seemingly disparate areas, such as religion, natural history, literature, and nativism. In all these cases, we see the quest of a discontented populace for new intellectual, spiritual, and social authorities.18 For example, Harry Harootunian asserts that various forms of play, such as gesaku (playful writing), w ­ ere an urban response to social, po­liti­cal, and cultural crises, and that they undermined the central government’s conception of social and po­liti­cal order by providing a new social imaginary for the people.19 Similarly, Susan Burns points out that, inspired by his understanding of the subversive quality of playful writing, nativist Ueda Akinari (1734– 1809) criticized the Tokugawa social world and imagined a new one by “focus[ing] on the power of ‘play’ to produce a new sense of community.”20 In the pro­cess, Akinari was creating a new form of historical authority. Salons ­were a vibrant part of this new ludic age. Even a cursory study of Tokugawa cultural salon meetings reveals an overwhelming presence of the play-­element. For example, many salon circles focused their cultural activities around good-­natured competitions and banquets.21 THE PLAY OF INFORMATION Play was important to rangaku salons for several interrelated reasons. It aided communication; broke down barriers, allowing more egalitarian interaction; and helped establish a level of trust needed for strengthening social ties and accumulating social capital. These w ­ ere all keys to network building. One obvious way in which play inspires information exchange is by making communication more enjoyable. Katsuragawa Hosan’s and his sons’ gatherings ­were events in which work and fun intertwined. This was a powerful combination, because salons could be regarded as places both of

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rationality, usefulness, and purpose, and of liberating excitement. During their lively discussions, topics that we might regard as frivolous mixed seamlessly with those we would deem practical or intellectual. The dust wrapper of Morishima Chūryō’s Kōmō zatsuwa suggests topics discussed within the salon, including Dutch books, “animals, plants, birds, insects,” and “objects like a microscope, electric machine, fountains and an air ship.”22 In addition, participants conversed on Eu­ro­pean medicines, handshakes and funerals, scientific instruments, etymology, and writing systems. The linkage of play and learning in the Katsuragawa salon is not unique; the Latin term ludus was used by the Romans to indicate play, school, and “place of training.”23 One repre­sen­ta­t ion of the playful fascination that energized the Katsuragawa salon was the erekiteru. The erekiteru, a machine that generated static electricity through friction, was first described to the Japa­nese public in Oranda banashi by Gotō Rishun (1696–1771) in 1765 as a Eu­ro­pean contraption used to treat illnesses. Five years later, Hiraga Gennai constructed one of his own, based on a broken machine he had obtained in Nagasaki. Gennai was the ultimate example of an intellectual “play-­boy,” constantly looking for ways to mix play with intellect and intellect with play. In fact, he shockingly asked his lord to be dismissed from samurai duties, so that he could free himself to pursue the activities he enjoyed most. Gennai was a scholar, but also wrote gesaku (playful writing) to make social commentary. In addition, he turned his love of natural history (honzōgaku) into entertainment by arranging expositions in Edo throughout the 1750s and 1760s for the public exhibition of curious products, discoveries, and inventions from across Japan. Once he had determined how to build an erekiteru, Gennai introduced it to the Katsuragawa salon as a parlor trick in which guests would conduct amusing experiments on each other. This machine began as an individual challenge to Gennai’s curiosity, but, once solved, he sought to entertain his friends. Eventually, the Katsuragawa family acquired one of their own, which they pulled out frequently when there ­were guests. However, in addition to the entertainment, salon-­goers ­were receiving an experiential education as they felt the charge tingle through their limbs and watched the jump of sparks. In Kōmō zatsuwa, Morishima Chūryō invited the Japa­nese public to take part in the Katsuragawa salon game by providing instructions for the construction of an erekiteru. Later, the “frivolous” machine was taken up by Udagawa Hoan (the adopted son and grandson of two important members of the Katsuragawa salon) and Hashimoto Sōkichi (a student of Gentaku’s) for “serious” experimentation. Sōkichi



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Figure 3.1. Playing with an electrostatic machine in the Katsuragawa salon (Morishima Chūryō, Kōmō zatsuwa [1787]). Courtesy of Japa­nese National Diet Library.

(1763–1836) published the results of this research in Oranda shisei erekiteru kyūrigen (1811).24 A playful enthusiasm for turning the latest scientific knowledge into a parlor game was occurring in Eu­rope and the United States during the same time period. One example of this was the “venus electrificata,” or “electric kiss,” with which (usually male) guests received a shock when touching an electrified female.25 University of Wittenberg professor Georg Matthias Bose is credited with designing the first electric kiss in the mid-­eighteenth century, but it soon became a craze in Eu­ro­pean salons, and eventually made its way to the United States. In the 1770s, Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), well-­k nown for his theatrical displays of science, drew large crowds when he began conducting such demonstrations in the great room of his home in Philadelphia. While Franklin’s motivation was largely entertainment, he also used the opportunity to test improvements made to the output of his electricity machine.26 Geoffrey Sutton has argued that parlor games fueled much of the enthusiasm that led to experimental advances in eighteenth-­century Eu­rope.27 Nishimura Saburō similarly argues that the amazing growth of interest in natural history among professionals and amateurs in Japan during the last half of the eigh­teenth century must be understood in the context

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of fun and games.28 Certainly, Eu­ro­pe­ans at this time would not have found the presence of play and entertainment in Japan’s scholarly world odd. Both professional and amateur natural historians in Eu­rope ­were heavily engaged in “the promotion of learned entertainment,” and natural history was as much a social pursuit as an academic one.29 The enthusiasm that play generated within the cultural and intellectual world of Tokugawa Japan manifested itself in various ways. It facilitated the synergetic linkage of cultural and economic practices. The most obvious example could be found in the interconnected world of kabuki, which included not just stage per­for­mances, but also fan club rituals, competitions, composition banquets, woodblock prints, poetry writing, and playbills. In C. Andrew Gerstle’s estimation, this synergy helped create a carnivalesque space of play, fantasy, and plea­sure in which social rank and the dichotomies of professional/amateur and performer/fan often became confused.30 Though certainly not to the same extent as kabuki, Dutch studies participants too experienced the stimulating interconnectedness of activities within the cultural world. For example, salon meetings generated book production. Kōmō zatsuwa was largely based on Katsuragawa salon discussions. In addition, many rangaku salon participants became actively involved in the natural history expositions (yakuhin-­kai or bussan-­e) held by Hiraga Gennai and others. These events attracted serious scholars, enthusiastic amateurs, and the curious. As discussed in the last chapter, even playful playbills, based on the ones used for kabuki per­for­mances and sumo tournaments, w ­ ere created to mark important rangaku salon meetings. The interesting mixture of cultural and economic mediums energized salon participants and inspired creativity. EGALITARIAN PLAY The play-­element was also involved in the important breakdown of social rank throughout Tokugawa Japan’s cultural society. As nodes within networks that retained autonomy from official schools and the government, salon gatherings did not enforce stiff distinctions of social backgrounds. As “enclave publics,” salons acted as refuges from the Tokugawa government’s regimented and hierarchical social system by allowing “free socialization in which people could temporarily suspend the application of feudal norms.”31 One of the most important features of these salons was the potential for heterophilous interaction, through which actors of dissimilar resources could each attempt to solve his relative deficiencies. Play contributed to blur-



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ring class distinctions in the cultural world. One reason for this was that no one class controlled play. Play existed outside the four classes in a space called the taiheiki, or “great peace.”32 Nishiyama Matsunosuke asserts that urban-­dwellers consciously “swarmed to the world of play” in order to escape the social limits placed on them by the government.33 One reason that this was possible was that play was often misrecognized as mere divertissement with little bearing on “real life.” In fact, one of the common features of play posited by both Johan Huizinga and Roger Caillois is entrance into a space separate from everyday realities. For example, writing on the plea­sure of taking part in Mardi Gras, Caillois states, “the mask conceals the social self and liberates the genuine personality [italics in original].”34 This statement is extremely telling if we are to think of Japan’s early modern cultural salons as sites of play. For those who entered the zashiki, the “social self” was the identity that the state expected them to uphold, defined by the rigid Neo-­Confucian concepts of social position. When entering into the salon world, it was possible for them to fantastically shed that social self. Hino Tatsuo remarks on the arena of Tokugawa-­period kyōka (parodic poetry), where, he argues, poets entered a fantasy, a utopia free from strict social demands.35 In much of Tokugawa Japan’s cultural world, individuals took pen names, thus symbolically relinquishing their everyday ego when initially entering cultural arts (yūgei) salons. The government was keenly aware of the subversive qualities of play that allowed individuals to cast aside their official, state-­defined identity. Thus, it issued rules regarding entertainment areas called akusho (literally, bad place) that demanded that patrons, who temporarily forgot serious responsibilities and entered a world of symbolic inversion, relinquish their fantasies when they left those spaces.36 In this same way, play allowed rangaku salon members to cross geo­graph­ i­cal and social barriers. Just as people of different classes mixed on the crowded streets of Nihonbashi, the Katsuragawa salon drew individuals of diverse habitus. Participants included a domainal lord, bakufu and domainal physicians, town doctors, a military expert whose family had been banished from samurai status, paint­ers, and pop­u­lar writers of commoner origins. More widely, the rangaku network associated with the Katsuragawa salon included merchants and farmers as well. This variety reflected the broader cultural world. According to Anna Beerens’s prosopographical study of intellectuals between 1775 and  1800, merchant and farmer involvement in cultural/intellectual circles was no longer uncommon and nearly 20  percent of the 173 literati she surveyed ­were of merchant background. In addition, Beerens has noted the geo­graph­i­cal diversity of the wider cultural

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community, noting that nearly 40 percent came from provinces rather than the metropolises of Edo, Kyoto, and Osaka.37 It is important to consider how these new groups operated under such a new, and perhaps revolutionary, social makeup. While social historian Eiko Ikegami has so brilliantly argued that cultural civility gave shape to salon meetings by providing a grammar of etiquette and standards of behavior through which egalitarian interaction could function smoothly, the picture is not clear without recognizing that the play-­element of those spaces also aided tremendously in freeing participants from social constraints and encouraged interaction. Civility and play complemented each other in shaping the egalitarian sociability of salons. NETWORK FORMATION Several sociologists have noted that “having access to a diversely composed collection of social ties and social resources increases the likelihood of accessing useful social capital.”38 Salons made this possible for rangakusha, and sociability within salons played a key role in the gelling of the diverse group into a well-­functioning network. Zashiki ­were generative nexuses within the Dutch studies field where important social ties ­were created. Gatherings introduced scholars, students, and patrons to the network and encouraged a sense of camaraderie. Sociability within salons was based on oral and experiential communication. While historians have rightly emphasized the importance of the publishing boom during the Tokugawa period and the rise of literacy, this was also an era when the growing number of urban spaces for conversational interaction was as important as books to the growth of culture and intellect. Borrowing a phrase that Hajime Nakatani applies to the medieval period in China, the Tokugawa period saw the expansion of “loquacious network[s] of sociability” throughout the country.39 Like the salons of early modern Eu­rope discussed by Habermas, the oral interaction and debate within Japa­nese salons fostered stronger personal bonds within the network than merely reading a book ever could. However, salons ­were not just sites of social bonding. Following the assertion of George Homans that, “interaction between persons is an exchange of goods, material and nonmaterial,” 40 we can understand salons as places where actors with varying access to resources negotiated exchanges for their own self-­interests.41 That is, scholars and novices traded the social, cultural, and economic capital necessary to maintain an active network that would benefit them. Without the establishment of those ties and their continuation, rangaku would never have been able to spread and grow throughout Japan.



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The salon activities of Gentaku are illustrative of the way these exchanges functioned to strengthen the network. Gentaku was a central figure in the rangaku field by the end of the eigh­teenth century. Gentaku was introduced to the Katsuragawa salon through his mentor Sugita Genpaku and became a frequent guest by the 1780s. His involvement in the salon group was crucial to his accomplishments in rangaku. Besides solidifying collegial relationships with important rangakusha such as Hoshū, Udagawa Genzui, and Hayashi Shihei, he was able to broker exchanges of capital, which proved significant for his training and position within Dutch studies. For example, it was there that he solidified a bond of mutual support with Kutsuki Masatsuna, the Fukuchiyama daimyo. Gentaku offered cultural capital to Masatsuna by translating Dutch books of interest. In return, Masatsuna offered economic and social capital, providing funds for Gentaku to make a study trip (yūgaku) to Nagasaki in 1785 and using his contacts to arrange meetings for the scholar with Dutch traders while there. In addition, Masatsuna helped pay for the establishment of Gentaku’s private academy the following year and the publication of Gentaku’s Dutch studies primer, Rangaku kaitei, two years later.42 Gentaku formed similar mutually advantageous bonds with other salon members. The ability of Dutch studies scholars to trade in various types of capital made it possible for salon members of divergent social statuses to interact on equal terms. This is significant for our understanding of salons as part of an “enclave public,” because whereas the government demanded the hegemony of social capital in the form of Neo-­Confucian hierarchy outside salon walls, the government’s social ideals did not trump other forms of capital within the salon. Admittedly, Gentaku was lucky to have a daimyo as a salon colleague. However, it was not at all uncommon for patronage relationships of various kinds to be forged in salons. Salons w ­ ere already established as sites of patronage in Japan by the fourteenth century. At that time, regional military leaders came to the capital of Kyoto and absorbed the culture of the court. Much of this took place in salons where both cultural producers and potential patrons mixed.43 Now in the late eigh­teenth century, while those in the Katsuragawa salon benefited from the inclusion of a daimyo, many Tokugawa salons found their patrons in the increasingly prominent merchant class. For rangaku circles, this was particularly the case in the Osaka area where individuals such as saké brewer Kimura Kenkadō and pawnshop owner Hazama Shigetomi w ­ ere constant salon entertainers who might aid a scholar with financial support, or the loan of a book or other Western item. Kenkadō’s salon gatherings, which focused on a variety of topics from

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painting to Chinese studies to natural history, w ­ ere particularly well-­known across Japan, and his patronage proved important to rangaku scholars. The cultural and economic exchanges taking place in salons ­were all predicated on an accumulation of social capital, and we must consider the role of play and civility. As I mentioned earlier, play and civility facilitated the creation of trust. Robert Putnam and others have indicated that a high level of trust is crucial to the accumulation of social capital.44 For rangaku scholars, as well as participants of other types of salons and cultural circles, civility and play facilitated the creation of that trust. While there was often a social and geo­graph­i­cal diversity of membership in these groups, civility and play helped promote an egalitarian form of trust, rather than the hierarchical type that was important within schools (i.e., master/teacher-­ student). A common civility, which provided basic rules through which individuals of differing backgrounds could interact, smoothed participation within the salon. The play-­element of salons put participants at ease, allowing them to let down their “social” guards. The significance of play in this regard points to a lacuna in Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of fields. While the Bourdieuian capitals are important tools for understanding socialization, they miss the importance of emotion in the establishment of social ties.45 Benedicte Gendron has argued that “since emotional competencies are crucial and useful to perform better socially, eco­nom­ically and personally, we have to consider them as capital.” 46 She includes trust among her six primary emotional competencies. The ability to inspire enjoyment, sadness, or any other emotion was a powerful emotional capital in Tokugawa salons, which could be used to forge new social ties and strengthen existing ties. Play is often viewed as something done for its own sake, and even Huizinga and Caillois characterize it as being unproductive and without pragmatic value. Yet if the concept of emotional capital is applied to the arena of play, we can see that play, especially among adults, serves the very practical purpose of strengthening social bonds. As Bourdieu has indicated, stronger bonds can lead to greater access to economic, cultural, and social capital.47 The more playful members of the Katsuragawa salon also tended to be the more sociable, and they established important social bridges to other networks. Sugita Genpaku’s diary reveals that he belonged to at least eight other cultural circles that discussed such topics as poetry, medicine, and military novels.48 Morishima Chūryō was a frequent guest at Hiraga Gennai’s gatherings of woodblock artists and met with famous artists and writers for calendar designing parties in other salons.49 Participation in multiple interconnected social circles, which Sean O’Reilly has aptly referred to as “inter-­networks,” was common among literati. As O’Reilly has indicated in



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Figure 3.2. Playful self-­portrait of Sugita Genpaku (Artist: Sugita Genpaku, 1811). Courtesy of Waseda University Library.

his study on Gentaku’s friend and patron Kimura Kenkadō, “the activities of any one member of a given salon [cannot] be understood without grasping the collaborative and inter-­network nature of their enterprises.”50 The importance of these types of bridges should not be underestimated, since they often play a role in controlling the flow of information throughout society.51 SALON ECONOMICS In Tokugawa Japan, adult play was largely found in five arenas that ­were intricately connected and overlapping: the world of entertainment (including sakariba, brothels, theaters, tea­houses, and restaurants), misemono (display of things, including sports, exhibitions, street entertainers), religious/communal events (such as festivals), literature and arts (such as gesaku playful writings, senryū comic verse, and woodblock prints), and cultural clubs (including renga groups, book clubs, and intellectual circles). All of these areas expanded tremendously during the Tokugawa period, but particularly

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over the last half of the eigh­teenth and early part of the nineteenth century. Some of these spaces could be more private than others, but within all of them we see play-­forms existing on a continuum between private and public, and sometimes in flux between the two. For intellectual and cultural communities, play ranged from private—as intimate salon gatherings—to public—as product exhibitions (bussan-­kai) or cultural competitions (awase) open to many. Once again, there was a synergy that connected participants to a wide range of cultural and economic opportunities. One of the forces that drove the expansion of play into public spaces during the eigh­teenth century was urbanization and the growth of a commercial economy. In Tokugawa cities, plea­sure (play) and work (economics) w ­ ere being newly combined in exciting ways, and play was commodified more than ever before. One interesting example of this was recorded by Akisato Rito (author) and Takehara Shunchosai (illustrator), who described the use of an electrostatic generator constructed by an artisan named Ōe at a Chinese merchant shop near Kyoto in the mid-1790s.52 Curiously, this is that same type of instrument that entertained Katsuragawa’s guests around the same time. Private salon games had bled out into the public, and the Kyoto merchant used his instrument to entertain clients while encouraging them to spend their coin.

Figure 3.3. Chinese merchant shop with electrostatic machine (Akisato Rito, Settsu meisho zue [Naniwa: Morimoto Tasuke, 1796–1798]). Courtesy of Japa­nese National Diet Library.



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Recognizing that salons ­were often the places where scholars tested their ideas and attempted to engage the collective mind to solve problems, publishers sought to harness the intellectual energy of these playful spaces for their own economic ends. Sensing economic opportunity, publishers or­ga­ nized salon meetings. They hoped to take advantage of the creative energy of salons by either establishing relationships with their members or or­ga­ niz­ing gatherings themselves.53 Publisher’s efforts proved successful, and many books, especially collections of poetry, ­were published based on those meetings. Individuals discovered that it was lucrative to become literary agents or talent scouts and traveled Japan setting up poetry contests with the goal of quickly publishing the results.54 Nihonbashi had many publishers, most notably the various Suwaraya shops, Nishimuraya, and Tsutaya. Suwaraya Ichibei’s (1762–1799) shop, known as Shinshōdō, specialized in books of maps, poetry, dictionaries, and fiction and was a leading publisher of Dutch studies works. Many of Ichibei’s clients ­were participants in Edo rangaku salon gatherings, and he facilitated the production of Dutch studies knowledge by inviting them to his salon. He hosted scholars from outside Edo as well, such as Gentaku’s former teacher Takebe Seian of Ichinoseki. Rangaku works did not make as much money as the wildly pop­u­lar poetry compilations, and Tanaka Yūko argues that publishers should be regarded as patrons of Tokugawa culture for publishing the low-­selling rangaku books.55 However, publishers ­were constantly looking for inroads to tapping literary and intellectual talent, and Ichibei’s rangaku connections ­were as much about that as about offering support to the group. This was the case when Ichibei decided to publish Kaitai shinsho, the anatomical translation that sparked rangaku growth from 1774. Before the translation was even completed, Ichibei had plans to publish it. Ichibei became acquainted with Sugita Genpaku, the leader of the translation project, through Hiraga Gennai, whose literary work Ichibei had already published. Gennai invited Genpaku to join Ichibei’s regular salon gatherings.56 In addition, since Gennai was Morishima Chūryō’s mentor, it is likely that he also introduced Chūryō to the publisher’s parlor meetings. Subsequently, Chūryō published three works under Ichibei in the 1780s and 1790s. Although Gentaku never published with him, he was attending Ichibei’s salon meetings by the 1780s, and did publish books with two other Suwaraya publishing ­house branches. Thus, salon play in this form was mutually beneficial to scholars and businessmen by connecting culture and economics. Gennai and Chūryō are perfect repre­sen­ta­tions of the fluid relationship between the scholarly world and the cultural world of Tokugawa Japan.57 Dutch studies was as much a part of the cultural society as kabuki was. Even

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Gentaku, whom Sugita Genpaku claimed frowned upon frivolity, wrote a ­ ere infused gesaku. As part of the cultural society, rangaku gatherings w with its spirit of interaction, play, and civility. Because law barred them from po­liti­cal discussions, the salons of this period did not lead to the formation of public spheres as did those studied by Habermas. However, the “cultural society” was an answer to Tokugawa rule, and offered alternative sociocultural authorities, that subtly threatened and undermined the central government. The state was aware of the danger to a certain extent and, with great difficulty, attempted to limit its size. But its efforts ­were ultimately in vain, for cultural society had a flexible longevity informed by play. The Katsuragawa salon lasted until the end of the nineteenth century, passed from generation to generation. Rangakusha salons filled an institutional vacuum and ­were thus extremely important to the development of the community. A sociability of play, civility, and enthusiastic discussion shaped the networks created by these scholars. However, these gatherings ­were not mere disvertissement.58 They challenged the minds of the participants and often ensured that the latest knowledge from the West was dispersed more rapidly than the publication of books ever could.

C H A P T E R

F O U R

Training/Reproducing the Network Private Academies

It was the appearance of salons in the last half of the eigh­teenth century that initiated the creation of rangaku networks. But by 1800, private schools, known as shijuku, ­were replacing salons as primary locations for network formation. Schools quickly became indispensable, not only for training doctors and intellectuals in Dutch learning, but also for forging bonds throughout the community and helping reproduce power relationships. Gentaku seems to have believed that the venture into rangaku required a fluidity or freedom that was not traditionally valued due to competition between schools. He and many of his colleagues envisioned rangaku as something untethered by detrimental traditions. He believed that students should be able to find the best teachers and that scholars should be able to trade the most useful knowledge without outdated obstacles. Complaining of these barriers, Gentaku wrote that, despite longstanding practices that encouraged mutual respect between students and teachers, for the sake of their education, medical students should be allowed to sever their obligations to teachers who w ­ ere young and unskilled. It should be perfectly natural for students to seek out gifted physicians to continue their training.1 Gentaku was concerned with reforming the education system for doctors in a way that would allow for fewer social restrictions, and he helped define rangaku education and create a network in support of it. Though there ­were, of course, various “houses” of rangaku medicine in competition; Gentaku’s mentality against exclusive schools of study was shared by many of his cohorts. Gentaku’s school, the Shirandō, which he created in 1786, is considered by most scholars to be the first rangaku private academy.2 Prior to this, there 77

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had certainly been schools that offered varying degrees of instruction in Dutch-­style medicine, and several interpreters offered language training to students in Nagasaki. But in general, as Richard Rubinger writes, “it was largely tutorial with a student apprenticing himself to a leading physician and Dutch scholar.”3 This was still an early stage in the history of private academies (shigaku). Before the eigh­teenth century, education was primarily set up as one-­on-­one exchanges by a master and student or through government-­created schools. Gentaku’s institution was the first concerted effort to bring students together from around the country for the sole purpose of rangaku study. He was in a unique situation of establishing the pedagogical course of Dutch studies in Japan. From the Shirandō, Gentaku created much of the curriculum and many of the textbooks for rangaku. Gentaku’s books inspired students from all over Japan to come to his school in Edo. Many of these students then took what they learned and set up their own schools, helping to create an element of ­ ere. the rangaku network that was more institutional than salon meetings w His students felt that they ­were embarking on something unique, and Gentaku forged rituals that encouraged that sentiment at his academy. The Shirandō helped place Gentaku at the center of rangaku education not only in Edo but elsewhere, especially in Kyoto, Osaka, and Sendai. RANGAKU SCHOOLS AS CLEARING­HOUSE AND CLUB­HOUSE In the late summer of 1786, when he returned from his study trip to Nagasaki, Gentaku received permission to live outside of the Sendai domainal mansion and found a home in Kyōbashi. In just a few months, he moved to Honzaimokuchō near Nihonbashi and established the Shirandō academy. The next year, he relocated again to a larger ­house in Sanjūkenbori in the Mizutanichō area of the Kyōbashi. His wife and two-­year-­old son Genkan remained in Ichinoseki until 1788, so Gentaku’s school initially had a very masculine air about it.4 In 1793, he moved his residence and school to another home in the same area. While the school lasted for forty-­five years, keeping a school physically running in the city seems to have been difficult given the frequent fires. Three years after opening his school, there was a great fire in Kyōbashi and Gentaku’s home and school burned down completely.5 He was forced to borrow a home in Kyōbashi for a short time, until an acquaintance named Uragami loaned him a plot of land in Kobikichō where he rebuilt. This new ­house served as his school for ten years, until a fire took it in 1806. Once again he borrowed land from a friend (this time named Honzaka) and constructed another school and residence in the same



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area. Tragedy struck yet again in another ten years when that h ­ ouse caught fire and was lost. He built a new h ­ ouse on the same location, but it burnt down again three years later. He finally moved into the vacant home of an acquaintance named Sakai in Tsukiji.6 The physical construction of his school buildings was very dependent on social ties that he had established through salon groups and travel. His schools in Honzaimokuchō and Mizutanichō ­were partially financed by salon mate Kutsuki Masatsuna. Rebuilding his school after the fire of 1797 was accomplished through a loan from rangaku enthusiast Yamagata Shigeyoshi, whom Gentaku had befriended after being introduced to him by his Sendai lord.7 Gentaku viewed the Shirandō as more than just a school. He saw it as both a training center and a clearing­house for information. He taught students there, provided textbooks that informed a generation of rangaku scholars, and even used the school as a printing and distributing center for rangaku work. In many respects, he helped define the flow of rangaku information at his academy. This placed him at the top of the Dutch studies community and extended his network ties. In addition, the way he operated his school expressed his desire to undermine the traditional hiden system of secret transmission of learning and culture. In all likelihood, the Shirandō functioned like a club­house as well, allowing students with similar interests to socialize and form personal bonds with classmates that helped strengthen network ties. Using Fukuzawa Yukichi’s autobiography as reference, Richard Rubinger discusses the freedom that students had at Western studies scholar Ogata Kōan’s (1810–1863) Tekijuku school in Osaka during the 1840s and  1850s. Students living at the Tekijuku stripped down to their underwear to study during the hot summers, drank saké in the dormitory, caroused in town, and set their own schedules at the school. Rubinger remarks, “If Fukuzawa’s account is not too greatly exaggerated, Tekijuku would seem to be exceptional in the degree of freedom and individual license permitted.”8 The informality at the Tekijuku is similar to that of the salon meetings discussed in the previous chapter. In general, school rules left behind by other academies seem to suggest that most rangaku shijuku ­were not as free as the Tekijuku. At the schools of Tsuboi Shindō (1795–1848) and Itō Genboku (1800–1871), students ­were actually forbidden from drinking, and we know that Gentaku’s school had a set schedule.9 However, socializing at all academies must have played a useful role in network formation. Gentaku makes no direct remarks about the type of socializing done by students at his school, but he does note that students who traveled from peripheral areas to study rangaku in large cities such as Edo, Osaka, Kyoto, and Nagasaki

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often became blinded by the big city lights. In “Goishi ikusai teian” (1810), he observes, “Doctors naturally think about studying in the cities. There are many who have not received [proper] training in their home provinces, and feel that they should head for the city [for further education]. Some go to Kyoto without any determined plan [for studying]. Even if they have a famous teacher or good friends . . . ​, while staying in Kyoto they become involved in debauchery, and, unable to [afford] to return to their province, call for travel money from home repeatedly.” Although no teetotaler, he complained that many students became less diligent in cities and might do better to seek out teachers in the countryside.10 Despite the trouble that Gentaku may have had with students neglecting their studies in order to run out to the bars, that type of socializing certainly had a significant role in forging network bonds. RECRUITMENT: CONNECTIONS AND REPUTATION Edo and Nagasaki w ­ ere the two best places to receive training in rangaku. According to Yoshio Kanamaru’s analysis, in 1811 46.4 percent of Western studies students w ­ ere in Edo and 10.9 percent in Nagasaki. Toward the end of the Tokugawa period the numbers w ­ ere 48.8 percent and 17.6 percent, respectively.11 Soon after Gentaku established the Shirandō, the number of students enrolled steadily grew. The enrollment was so promising that in 1789, after a few years of operation, Gentaku decided to create a registry for students to sign. Recruitment was primarily based on social ties to Gentaku and exposure to Gentaku’s growing number of books. Three of the first students to come to Gentaku for training ­were Fukuchiyama domain veterinarian Arima Bunchū, along with Osaka doctor Koishi Genshun (1743–1808) and his son Genzui (1784–1849). Bunchū was sent by Gentaku’s salon mate the daimyo Kutsuki Masatsuna. Similarly, Gentaku had forged a personal relationship with the Koishi father and son during a trip through the Osaka area in 1785. This pattern of social ties leading to enrollment continued. Koishi Genshun encouraged his students and colleagues in the Kansai area to study at the Shirandō. In one instance, Genshun and his friend Hazama Shigetomi actually paid for Hashimoto Sōkichi to study at Gentaku’s school in 1779.12 For entrance into Gentaku’s school, like most schools, one needed a letter of recommendation from a teacher, usually an acquaintance of Gentaku’s. Therefore social ties ­were essential for receiving training. For academies with a more local draw, those recommendations tended to come from a limited group of teachers who filtered their students into colleagues’ schools.



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Figure 4.1. Student pledge at the head of the Shirandō Academy registry (Shirandō monjinsho). Courtesy of Waseda University Library.

For example, eight teachers supplied almost 60 percent of the seventy-­eight students who signed Inamura Sanpaku’s registry between 1808 and 1810.13 In Gentaku’s case, students came from all over Japan, and this was at least partially a result of his broad social ties and fame. He had students from at least thirty-­four of the Japan’s current forty-­seven prefectures.14 In addition to personal ties, many students w ­ ere drawn to Gentaku’s academy after reading his Dutch studies textbook Rangaku kaitei. Rangaku kaitei is important for understanding the growth of Dutch studies, not only because it was the first text to go beyond explaining the basics of the Dutch language and established a course of study for the Dutch language, but also because it motivated students to enter rangaku training. Gentaku completed his manuscript in 1785. It addressed the history of Dutch studies in Japan and some of the basics of the Dutch language. Rangaku kaitei remained unpublished for several years, but it was eventually printed in 1788 as the result of his social capital. His salon friend, the daimyo Kutsuki Masatsuna, donated the initial funds to get the work published. It became the first primer for Dutch studies available to a wide audience. Earlier grammatical texts by individuals such as Maeno Ryōtaku remained in manuscript form and circulated among a small readership. However, Gentaku’s work was published and sold in the Edo and Osaka-­Kyoto regions by the large established book companies run by Suwaraya Ihachi (1762–1799) and Matsumoto Heisuke of the Keijudō ­house. Although it was printed for a large audience,

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it was more than just a random collection of novelties about Holland and the West as ­were some of the other pop­u­lar works of the time. Though not overly ambitious, it offered a systematized approach to the Dutch language. As the first published primer on the Dutch language, it inspired established scholars and beginning students alike. Sugita Genpaku claimed that “there ­were more than a few who ­were deeply moved (funpi) [by Gentaku’s textbook] and became newly determined [to learn Dutch].”15 Inamura Sanpaku was among the students that showed up at Gentaku’s doorstep after reading the book. For many others who could not make the trip to Edo, Rangaku kaitei became a means for self-­study. Tsuji Ranshitsu (1756–1835), the son of a doctor in ser­vice to a court aristocratic family, began his Dutch language study by using Rangaku kaitei and corresponding with Gentaku.16 His studies w ­ ere so fruitful that Ranshitsu wrote a text on Dutch grammar called Rango hassen (Eight keys to the Dutch language, 1795) and is considered the first Kyotoite to conduct research in the Dutch language.17 Although students at the Shirandō and other rangaku schools of this time came from various classes, the group most represented by far was doctors. Of the seventy-­t wo students in Gentaku’s registry on whom we have information, fifty-­five ­were physicians.18 The discrepancy between Chinese anatomical understanding and that which doctors confronted in Dutch books and at dissections motivated many of the most intelligent and ambitious physicians of the day. They w ­ ere prompted to look more closely at Western medicine and how it might augment their abilities. And because of the ambiguous social position of doctors in Tokugawa society, they had more freedom than others did in their intellectual pursuits. “A LIGHT IN THE DARK NIGHT”: TRAINING AT THE SHIRANDŌ Gentaku actually wrote very little about the day-­to-­day operations of his academy, but the physician Nagasaki Kōsai, a student of Gentaku’s for about four months, provides clues as to what a typical day at the Shirandō was like in “Tōyō shōroku.”19 “Tōyō shōroku” was the title that Kōsai gave to the two notebooks that he left behind from his stint at the Edo school.20 In 1817, at the age of nineteen, the doctor-­in-­training appeared at Gentaku’s gate with a letter from his mentor Takamine Kōan, who knew Gentaku. He had originally intended to study with Sugita Genpaku at the Tenshinrō Academy, but the old master was on his deathbed and passed away only a week after Kōsai’s arrival. Unable to accommodate him, Genpaku sent Kōsai to Gentaku’s school. With the letter from Takamine Kōan and the recommenda-



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tion of Genpaku, Gentaku accepted Kōsai into Shirandō, but also encouraged him to return to Genpaku’s academy and enroll as a student under Genpaku’s son Ryūkei.21 This double enrollment helped Kōsai make the most of his time in Edo and was in line with Gentaku’s wishes for fluidity in education. This situation was similar to the education that Gentaku himself had undergone as he shuffled between Genpaku’s school and Maeno Ryōtaku’s home, receiving medical training from Genpaku and Dutch language training from Ryōtaku. The double enrollment of students in the Shirandō and the Tenshinrō was not uncommon. Gentaku felt that students would receive a more thorough education in Dutch studies if they trained under several teachers in Edo. The bond between the Sugita and Ōtsuki was deep. Genpaku had, of course, been Gentaku’s teacher; Gentaku watched Sugita Ryōkei grow up and helped Genpaku teach the boy rangaku; and Genpaku’s adopted son Hakugen (1763–1833) was the biological son of Takebe Seian, Gentaku’s original medical teacher in Ichinoseki. In fact, Hakugen and Gentaku had originally come to Edo together to study under Genpaku. They w ­ ere close, and old, friends. This arrangement meant that students benefited from access to the libraries at both schools.22 Almost immediately after his first introduction on spring of 1817, Kōsai started attending Gentaku’s lectures. Lectures ­were grueling, lasting four hours from noon to approximately 4:00 p.m.23 During the four months that Kōsai attended these lectures, Gentaku split his time between teaching Dutch-­style medicine and the Dutch language. Whereas Sugita Genpaku’s school was foremost a medical school with training in Dutch-­style medicine, Gentaku’s school focused on medicine and language, with frequent side instruction in Western culture, astronomy, and geography.24 Like later students at Ogata Kōan’s Tekijuku Academy in the 1840s, students at the Shirandō ­were expected to know Chinese. After all, rangaku schools such as Gentaku’s w ­ ere specialty schools for students who had already been educated largely in Confucian classics, and at this time most ­ ere in Chischolarly work, including most rangaku works and translations w nese. Gentaku’s Rangaku kaitei was a rarity in that it was written in a Japa­ nese syllabary. Books ­were usually written in Japa­nese script when they ­were intended for a pop­u­lar audience, and scholars often snobbishly avoided publishing in it. One of Gentaku’s colleagues and friends Udagawa Genzui wrote, “If you don’t know Chinese, you’ll definitely not be able to [handle] the Dutch language.”25 And before enrolling and becoming one of the Shirandō’s star students, Udagawa Genshin (then known as Yasuoka Genshin), studied Chinese with Genzui in order to improve his language skills to the level expected of a scholar.26

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Very few students came to Gentaku’s door with much experience in the Dutch language, their meager knowledge achieved with copies of the Gentaku’s Rangaku kaitei. Training began at a basic level. When Yamamura Saisuke (1770–1807), later to become a famous geographer, enrolled in the Shirandō in 1789, his knowledge of Dutch language was so rudimentary that Gentaku had to start with the Dutch letters.27 Between teaching, conducting research, and performing his duties as a domainal physician, Gentaku was very busy. Therefore, not unlike his advice to Nagasaki Kōsai to double enroll, he recommended that some students supplement their language studies by seeing a tutor. As a favor, Gentaku’s friend Ishii Shōsuke, who had been an interpreter in Nagasaki before leaving his post and accompanying Gentaku to Edo in 1786, taught Dutch to several of Gentaku’s best students, including Inamura Sanpaku and Udagawa Genzui. It is unclear whether Gentaku used sodoku, “plain reading,” in order to train his students in Dutch. Sodoku was a traditional method of education that demanded repeated reading without necessarily any comprehension. However, we do know that Gentaku’s students ­were similarly required to copy Dutch book after Dutch book from the time they entered the school. Udagawa Genshin was required to do this even before beginning his Dutch training.28 Whereas the goal of sodoku “was to learn the system of notations through which, by changing the order of words and adding particles and inflections, Japa­nese could comprehend Chinese,” requiring Shirandō students to copy Dutch texts served to expose the students to the Dutch script without the worry of comprehension.29 A second goal was to reproduce books that could be sent to colleagues or kept by the student. This exercise also points to Gentaku’s emphasis on language education for the sole purpose of translation. While Gentaku’s language teacher Maeno Ryōtaku taught Dutch conversation, Gentaku followed Sugita Genpaku’s lead by dispensing with spoken Dutch and teaching for translation alone.30 He obviously felt that the time necessary to learn conversational Dutch could be better spent by students and scholars in Edo, where the chances of conversing with VOC members was slim, on translating Dutch medical and scientific texts. The reputation that Gentaku developed for being the father of rangaku education was based on more than the establishment of his school. It was also connected to his role in the production of dictionaries and Dutch language textbooks for study in rangaku academies. Dictionaries became indispensable for translating, and once they ­were available, Gentaku quickly introduced his students to the various Dutch-­Japanese dictionaries that w ­ ere compiled at the end of the eigh­teenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries including the Haruma wage (The translated Halma, 1796) diction-



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ary, the Yakken (Keys of translation, 1810), and the Rangaku yakusen (Selections for translating the Dutch language, 1810).31 The first was compiled by Gentaku’s students under his initiative. The Nagasaki interpreter Nishi Zenzaburō (1715–1768) had begun the compilation of a Dutch-­Japanese dictionary based on a Dutch-­French dictionary by Pieter Marin. He passed away before its completion and some of his students, including Maeno Ryōtaku, tried to finish the dictionary, but their work was never published and very few ever saw the incomplete dictionary.32 At Gentaku’s request, his students Udagawa Genshin, Udagawa Genzui, and Inamura Sanpaku worked with his friend Ishii Shōsuke and with Okada Hosetsu and eventually Yasuoka Genshin to compile a new, and complete, Dutch-­Japanese dictionary, also based on Dutch-­French dictionaries by Pieter Marin and François Halma. Initially untitled, Gentaku referred to it as Tōzai inkai, but Haruma wage came to be more commonly called the Edo Haruma. Although just thirty copies ­were printed due to its length (twenty-­seven volumes), it became an invaluable tool for this early stage in translations. Yakken was compiled by Fujibayashi Fuzan (1781–1836), who studied under Gentaku’s student, Inamura Sanpaku, in Kyoto. Yakken was an abridged version of Haruma wage and thus was more affordable and practical. Rangaku yakusen’s authors also had connections to Gentaku. It was largely compiled by Baba Sajūrō, who was Gentaku’s codirector at the Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books, and who trained both Gentaku’s friend, Sugita Ryūkei, and the compiler of the Yakken, Fujibayashi Fuzan. Worth noting is that Gentaku’s prize student Udagawa Genshin also studied at Baba Sajūrō’s academy, the Sanshindō.33 Although Gentaku himself did not create a dictionary, he was closely linked to the existence of several. In addition to these dictionaries, Gentaku used his own Rangaku kaitei extensively at the Shirandō. It was probably the most widely used textbook for the Dutch language in use in Japan at that time and was referred to by many as “anya no hi,” a “light in the dark night.” It is or­ga­nized in two volumes. The first provides brief descriptions of the origins, history, and background of Dutch studies in Japan, similar to Genpaku’s Rangaku kotohajime, and defended rangaku against Confucian critics. The second focuses on the Dutch language with sixteen chapters on subjects such as letters, numbers and mea­sure­ments, phonetics, transcribing, rhetoric, exegesis, interpreting and translating, basic vocabulary, synonyms, idioms, punctuation, and auxiliary particles. Each of the chapters gives only brief descriptions, and the Rangaku kaitei was clearly meant to be an introductory primer. Although a student could learn the alphabet through this book, it was not intended to give that student everything he needed to read and understand Dutch. It addresses very little

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vocabulary (thirty-­t wo Dutch words) and includes few sample sentences (approximately ten) from which to learn.34 Although Gentaku seems to have consulted Egbert Buys’s (1725–1769) Nieuw en volkomen woordenboek van kunsten en wetenschappen (New and complete dictionary of arts and sciences), Pieter Marin’s Nouvelle méthode pour apprendre les principes et l’usage des langues Françoise et Hollandaise (New method for the learning of the principles and usage of French and Dutch languages) and Groot Nederduitsch en Fransch Woordenboek (Great Dutch and French dictionary), a Dutch children’s primer of vocabulary called Trap der Jeugd (Ladder of youth), and Aoki Konyō’s Oranda moji ryakukō, the text of Rangaku kaitei mostly relies on brief summaries of what Gentaku had learned of the Dutch language from Maeno Ryōtaku and Nagasaki interpreters. He quotes Ryōtaku’s Oranda yakubun ryaku (Shorter Dutch translations, 1771) and Oranda yakusen (Keys to translating Dutch, 1785) liberally. In a country where most students had no exposure to Dutch grammar and alphabet, the Rangaku kaitei inspired many individuals to pursue or fine-­tune their understanding and was crucial to the development of Dutch studies.35 Although less well known, Gentaku also wrote a book that served as an “intermediate” Dutch language primer and that was specifically written for use at the Shirandō. This work, titled Rangaku haikei, was first published in 1796, eight years after the Rangaku kaitei. Like the Rangaku kaitei, this primer introduced the letters and various fonts and scripts that one might come across while reading Dutch. It also discusses pronunciation and provides vocabulary and sample sentences, though more extensively than the Rangaku kaitei did. The foreword, written by Yoshikawa Ryōyū, a former Shirandō student from Gentaku’s hometown, states that Gentaku had written the Rangaku kaitei to “indicate [to his students] how to get started in rangaku,” but that as the number of Dutch works useful for “astronomy, calendrical sciences, medicine, and mathematics” entered the country, he was moved to write the Rangaku haikei so that he might help students who ­were “having difficulty catching the gist” of these new works.36 It was so useful to rangaku students that it was published again in 1811 with an addendum written by Gentaku’s son Genkan. Genkan’s work on the Rangaku haikei paved the way for him to write a textbook on Dutch grammar that would also be used at the Shirandō and purchased widely across Japan. Genkan also published Rangakuhan (Basics of rangaku) in 1816, based on lectures by the ex-­ interpreter Shizuki Tadao.37 Despite his busy schedule, Gentaku supplemented textbooks by lecturing directly to all of his students regularly.38 Richard Rubinger remarks that explanatory lectures at Ogata Kōan’s rangaku academy ­were often given by



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“monitors,” and that Kōan only instructed the most advanced students.39 However, the Shirandō student body was significantly smaller than that of the Tekijuku, and perhaps for that reason, Gentaku was able to include the ­whole of his student body at his lectures. It is possible that this may have helped forge stronger personal relationships between teacher and students. When his funds w ­ ere drying up, Udagawa Genshin felt comfortable enough in his relationship with Gentaku to ask to move in with his teacher.40 Although Gentaku declined the request, it is clear that personalized education was very important at the Shirandō. On Nagasaki Kōsai’s second day of school, Gentaku lectured on the Kaitai shinsho. On his seventh day, it was Dutch books.41 Gentaku’s favorite subject of lecture was Dutch medicine. Kōsai’s notes contain Gentaku’s remarks on chapters 14 through 27 of Kaitai shinsho (including the sections on “lungs,” “heart,” “arteries,” “blood vessels,” “abdomen,” “stomach and intestines,” “pancreas,” “pregnancy,” and “sexual organs”).42 Since he had performed an extensive revision of the Kaitai shinsho at Sugita Genpaku’s request, Gentaku knew Johan Adam Kulmus’s Anatomical Tables (Ontleedkundige tafelen, 1734) better than anyone ­else in Japan, including Genpaku. The establishment of the first rangaku academy in Japan necessitated the creation of apparatus for that education. Gentaku built on the work of other, most notably his own, teachers Takebe Seian in Ichinoseki, Genpaku and Ryōtaku in Edo, and Yoshio Kōzaemon and Motoki Ryōei in Nagasaki. But he also wrote and helped facilitate the creation of textbooks and dictionaries that w ­ ere essential for any educational enterprise to move forward and placed him at the center of rangaku education. His lectures further served to display his expertise and justify his position within the community. In this way, he set a course for education that he hoped would continue for generations and benefit students and the progress of science and medicine. RITUAL, SYMBOLISM, AND REPRODUCTION IN RANGAKU EDUCATION Those who entered the Shirandō ­were excited at the opportunity to train under Gentaku. Despite Gentaku’s commitment to tearing down traditional barriers to effective importation of Western knowledge into Japan, his school was not without tradition. Rituals, for example, marked the momentous occasion of a student’s entrance into the academy. Rather than impede the pursuit of knowledge, these types of ceremonies ­were used to strengthen his students’ bonds to the academy, which ultimately benefited the growth of the rangaku network.

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Japa­nese students who had studied with Dutch East Indian Company doctors sometimes received diplomas, a form of cultural capital that served as a material reminder of legitimacy and position. For instance, Hoshū and Nakagawa Junan requested a diploma after they had several meetings in Edo in 1776 with the Swedish physician Thunberg.43 Siebold also issued degrees to students who completed training at his school in Nagasaki. He even required students to write dissertations. As far as is known, Gentaku did not give out any letters of accomplishment to his students. Instead he provided them with continued support through his contacts (social capital), loans of books (cultural capital), and pure knowledge (cultural capital). However, he did hold an event at the beginning of most of his students’ studies at the Shirandō that provided them with a form of legitimacy. This was the signing of the academy’s registry, the Shirandō monjinsho. Students recorded the date, their name, and feudal assignment in the registry, and then pricked their finger, pressing their bloody fingerprints over their names. They did not take away a material reminder of their enrollment such as a diploma, but this ritual symbolically tied them to the rangaku community with the bond of blood and legitimized their place within it. Before they marked their signature, they read the statement at the head of the registry: All the teachers and schools of our country who pass on learning to their students have scrolls that serve that include written oaths. [Students] swear these [oaths] before a demon [enforcer] god and must, therefore, take [their oath] in earnest. Those entering into the teachings cleanse themselves, wear their finest clothes, respectfully bow, and recite [the oath] aloud. Then, they record the year, month, day, and hour of their enrollment and sign names. Next, they prick their fingers to draw some blood and press [their fingers] on their signatures. [This act] is referred to as “contract with a deity” [shinmon] or, alternatively, a “written pledge” [seishi], and displays [the students’] respect for their teachers and knowledge of [those teachers]. [It] insists that they not break their oath. I [Ōtsuki Gentaku] am descendant from several generations of doctors, and every time I received a [new] teacher’s instruction, I began by swearing an oath. In that vein, henceforth, those who enter my gate to become my students, even though they may be industrious in the extreme, have no other choice but to take this oath. For that reason, I crafted this scroll. Let those who come to study take this to heart: receive these teachings with respect, maintain these arts with all your might, and never stray!44

Unlike the other schools Gentaku mentions, though, his aim was not to use this oath to bind students his school exclusively and silence them from sharing its secrets. His oath makes no demands that students keep their lips sealed and threatens no repercussions for traitors. Rather, its importance lies



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at its end where he demands their dedication and diligence in studying rangaku. This oath insisted on their seriousness as students. Pierre Bourdieu has criticized sociologists who take a technical or functional view of modern education and instead has argued that scholars must pay attention to ritual and symbolism within the educational system. He finds Durkheim’s approach to religion useful in this respect and states that modern secular schools are “a religious instance.” He contends that in much the same way as religious institutions, modern schools socialize students through the use of rituals and symbolism, creating a secular “priesthood,” an educated elite held up as “sacred beings.” 45 Ritual and ceremony in schools set the students and faculty apart from the rest of society and create what is akin to a secular religious order. Looking at one example, Gentaku’s requirement that students tie themselves to the “order” of rangaku through a bond of blood performed that same function. Similarly, the rules of other rangaku academies, such as Tsuboi Shindō’s and Itō Genboku’s, which forbid students from drinking, staying out all night, consorting with women, and reading anything but Dutch books or translations of Dutch books remind one of the oaths that an initiate might take when joining a priesthood or monastery. Through such school rituals and rules, teachers could transform the study of rangaku into a holy cause and elevate themselves to the status of pope or bishop. Thus, this pro­cess of inculcation allowed power relationships to be established within the rangaku community. It also, on a subconscious level, helped draw students into the enterprise of cultural reproduction as defined by their teachers. THE “FOUR HEAVENLY KINGS” AND A NETWORK OF SCHOOLS Many of the best known and most productive scholars of the early generations of Dutch studies came out of Gentaku’s academy, and those scholars would be important for the expansion of the network across the country. Among those, the so-­called Shirandō no Shi-­tennō, “Four Heavenly Kings of the Shirandō,” took on legendary status at the school. They ­were Inamura Sanpaku, Hashimoto Sōkichi, Yamamura Saisuke, and Udagawa Genshin. Shi-­tenno was a Buddhist term that referred to the Four Heavenly Kings of the four directions. These gods guarded north, south, east, and west; protected Buddhist law; watched over humankind; and ­were usually depicted as warriors. Similarly, Sanpaku, Sōkichi, Saisuke, and Genshin w ­ ere large figures at the Shirandō Academy, studying diligently, protecting Dutch studies at the academy, and watching over the other students. Two of them

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established successful academies of their own and helped perpetuate Gentaku’s course of training, promote his legacy, and legitimate his position at the pinnacle of Dutch studies. Like the Buddhist Heavenly Kings who each occupied a different direction, Gentaku’s “Heavenly Kings” each excelled in a different direction of rangaku study: Sanpaku in the Dutch language, Sōkichi in astronomy and surgery, Saisuke in geography, and Genshin in internal medicine. In addition, Shirandō’s “Four Heavenly Kings” represented the diverse social mix of the rangaku network introduced in the previous chapter. Sanpaku was a town doctor, outside of the traditional four-­layer system of samurai-­farmer-­ merchant-­artisan; Sōkichi was originally from the artisan class; Saisuke had relatively high rank as his family had served the Tsuchiya daimyo family for generations; and Genshin was from the samurai class but spent several years in Edo living a rōnin hand-­to-­mouth existence. Inamura Sanpaku (1759–1811) was the son of a village doctor (machi-i) from Tottori in western Japan. Like his father, Sanpaku became a doctor, studying under the famous Confucianist and physician Kamei Nanmei in Fukuoka on the southern island of Kyushu. At the age of twenty-­four, he moved to Kyoto where he was first exposed to Gentaku’s Rangaku kaitei in 1791, three years after it was initially published. Sanpaku became extremely excited about the prospect of learning the Dutch language and Dutch medicine, and at the end of 1791, he received permission to travel to Edo to study with Gentaku.46 In the spring of 1792, he finally arrived in Edo and enrolled at the Shirandō, the fourth signature in Gentaku’s school registry. His time in Edo was limited, but he was eager to learn Dutch, so Gentaku arranged for Sanpaku to study with the former Nagasaki interpreter Ishii Shōsuke.47 Sanpaku had strongly urged Gentaku to compile a Dutch-­Japanese dictionary, but his teacher was much too busy. However, seeing Sanpaku’s enthusiasm, Gentaku encouraged Sanpaku to compile a dictionary with Shōsuke.48 The result was the Haruma wage. After leaving the Shirandō, Sanpaku continued to research the Dutch language and taught for the rest of his life. Hashimoto Sōkichi (1763–1836) was originally an artisan who painted crests on umbrellas in the Kita Horie section of Osaka. However, in 1783, at the age of twenty-­one, he borrowed a Western electrostatic generator (erekiteru) from a neighbor named Yamanaka. He conducted his own experiments with the machine, and his interest in Western science quickly took off. During his studies, he developed a reputation for having an amazing memory, which was a well-­respected trait in a country where so much learning was rote. In 1789, his interest in Dutch studies and his pneumonic prowess came to the attention of the doctor Koishi Genshun and the mer-



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chant Hazama Shigetomi, and they decided to offer him the financial assistance and social connections necessary for studying with Gentaku in Edo. They funded both his trip expense and his family’s living expenses in Osaka.49 His strength in memorization became legend at the Shirandō as well, and in the introduction to Sōkichi’s Ranka naigai sanpō hōten (Three methods of internal medicine and surgery, 1804), Koishi Genshun marvels that Sōkichi had memorized forty thousand Dutch words in his first four months at Gentaku’s academy.50 What­ever the validity of that claim, Sōkichi became one of the great Dutch-­Japanese translators of his time. In Oranda iwa (Discussion of Dutch medicine, 1805), the interpreter Narabayashi Jūbei observed that Sōkichi’s reading of Dutch “flows like water.”51 When, after his training in Edo, Sōkichi returned to the Osaka area, he did translations for his benefactors Hazama Shigetomi and Koishi Genshun for years. He also opened up a medical and rangaku school called Shikandō. Sōkichi’s specialty was surgery, but he also wrote manuscripts on astronomy, calendrical sciences, and geography. Udagawa Genshin (1769–1834) was born Yasuoka Genshin in Kyoto. At a young age, he traveled to Edo, where he received training in Chinese from Udagawa Genzui. Impressed by Genshin’s intelligence, Genzui introduced him to Gentaku.52 Genshin was a diligent student, but he struggled financially. Luckily, he was able to live off of the kindness of the medical and scholarly community in Edo, essentially “futon surfing” between the homes of several individuals, including a domainal doctor from Takazaki named Mine Shuntai and Hoshū, whom he also studied medicine under. Genshin eventually managed to convince Sugita Genpaku to adopt him, but they had a falling out, and, once again, Genshin wandered from ­house to ­house until Udagawa Genzui finally adopted him.53 He was best known for his work in internal medicine, penning one of the most widely used anatomical texts of the first half of the nineteenth century, Oranda naikei ihan teikō (Medical examples in outline, 1805), and an accompanying anatomical atlas. He also worked at the bakufu’s Astronomical Bureau in 1813, and was one of the cocompilers of the Haruma wage.54 Yamamura Saisuke (1770–1807) entered Gentaku’s school in 1789. Of the “Four Heavenly Kings” of Shirandō, he came from the highest social standing, serving a daimyo family at a castle town called Tsuchiura in the southern region of present-­day Ibaraki prefecture. He came from a learned, physician family, not terribly different from Gentaku’s.55 Perhaps this is one of the reasons that Gentaku took a liking to him. Saisuke was prompted to enter the Shirandō after reading the geo­graph­i­cal tract Sairan igen (1713) by

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Arai Hakuseki. Saisuke’s revision of this work (Teisei zōyaku sairan igen, 1802) was the largest rangaku-­influenced geo­g raph­i­cal work of the Tokugawa period and was the only world geography text available during the period. He used numerous Dutch, Japa­nese, and Chinese sources to complete it, and although it never was printed, it circulated throughout intellectual communities and among government officials.56 The inclusion of a foreword by Gentaku, once again, legitimated Gentaku’s role in rangaku education beyond the medical. These “Four Heavenly Kings” of the Shirandō ­were strongly associated with the school and went on to noteworthy careers in rangaku. Their presences in Edo and Osaka helped spread Gentaku’s reputation as a Dutch studies educator, and they ­were fiercely loyal to their teacher. They ­were involved in the formation of an informal network of rangaku education, which had the Shirandō as its center, as two of the “Heavenly Kings,” as well as several other students of the Shirandō, opened academies upon their return home. These schools ­were naturally connected to Gentaku’s. Koishi Genshun, a Kyoto doctor who was one of Gentaku’s first students, opened the Kyūridō Academy in the summer of 1801 at the age of fifty-­nine. Gentaku and Genshun had become friends through Genpaku, meeting for the first time in Edo in 1785.57 Genshun marveled at Gentaku’s understanding of the Kaitai shinsho. Even after Genshun had finished his studies in Edo, the two corresponded, and Gentaku kept Genshun informed about what he was teaching at the Shirandō. In a letter penned by Gentaku around 1790, he informed Genshun that he was currently lecturing on the work of Yamawaki Tōmon, the son of the doctor who wrote the famous text Zōshi (1759), which helped spark interest in anatomical research among doctors in Japan.58 Gentaku and Genshun traded letters quite often until the latter’s death in 1808. In this way, Genshun attempted to stay current with the teachings at the Shirandō. In addition, Genshun sent his own son to study at the Shirandō in 1799 and encouraged many of his students to do the same.59 Saitō Hōsaku (1771–1849), Genshun’s student in 1789, studied with Gentaku in 1799–1800.60 Hōsaku eventually set up his own medical school in Osaka, the Tsukasajuku, which can be added to the list of academies connected to the Shirandō. Although we do not know the extent of contact Hōsaku had with the Shirandō after 1800, he did maintain links with Sasaki Chūtaku (1790–1846), a Shirandō classmate and prominent rangaku educator in Sendai, and the two often discussed developments in Dutch-­style medicine. After Koishi Genshun’s death in 1808, his son Genzui tended the relationship with the Shirandō until Gentaku’s death in 1827. The Kyūridō prospered and surpassed the Shirandō in number of students, training approximately a



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thousand pupils over its years of operation.61 The curriculum at the Kyūridō was not as broad as that at the Shirandō. According to the “Kyūridō gakuki” (Educational standards at the Kyūridō), Genshun, and then his son, offered students lectures in a combination of Dutch-­and Chinese-­ style medicine.62 Genshun’s classes on the Kaitai shinsho ­were especially well received, and he gave talks on the anatomical text all over the Kansai region. He became well-­k nown for his lectures on Seisetsu naika senyō, a groundbreaking translation on internal medicine by another one of Gentaku’s students, Udagawa Genzui, which he undoubtedly was first exposed to while studying at the Shirandō. Genshun never mastered Dutch, so the little exposure that the students at the Kyūridō received in the language came from Gentaku’s Rangaku kaitei. When Hashimoto Sōkichi, whose training was paid for by Genshun, returned to Osaka following his time at the Shirandō, he opened a rangaku academy as well. His Shikandō offered study in medicine with a specialty in surgery and had an attached clinic. In addition, Sōkichi taught Western astronomy, calendrical sciences, and geography. Like Genshun, Sōkichi highly valued the experience of studying with the master Gentaku and worked to retain a connection with the Shirandō. His choice of names for his academy made this apparent. Unlike Genshun, Sōkichi’s Dutch skills ­were excellent, and he made frequent use of Gentaku’s Rangaku kaitei at the Shikandō. He also shared students with Gentaku, notably Naka Tenyū (1783–1835), a physician from the Kyoto area. Naka Tenyū traveled to Edo in the summer of 1805 and entered Gentaku’s academy, where he studied for one year. The next year, after returning to Kyoto, he enrolled in the Zuiōjuku Academy before entering the Shikandō in 1809.63 Zuiōjuku was the school of “Heavenly King” Inamura Sanpaku (known since 1803 as Unagami Zuiō). Strongly influenced by the teachings of Gentaku and Sanpaku, Naka Tenyū opened his own rangaku academy, the Shishisaidō, in Osaka in 1817. While his academy did provide a medical education and he was a doctor, it seems that he was less interested in medicine than his wife was, who was a well-­respected “female doctor” ( joisha). Instead, Tenyū put his energy into teaching the physical sciences. His sole reason for enrolling in Hashimoto Sōkichi’s academy, the Shikandō, for two years was to improve his knowledge of Western physics.64 Among Tenyū’s most famous students was Ogata Kōan, who attended in 1826. After his studies there, Tenyū encouraged Kōan to travel to Edo to train with Udagawa Genshin, another “Heavenly King.” While in Edo, Kōan additionally enrolled in the academy of Tsuboi Shindō, one of Tennyū’s former students.65 Koishi Genshun’s second son, Chūzō, attended Tsuboi Shindō’s school around the same time (1836–1839),

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Network of Rangaku Private Academies School

Date of establishment

School head

Academy where head trained

Shirandō (Edo)

1786

Ōtsuki Gentaku

Kyūridō (Kyoto)

1801

Koishi Genshun and Koishi Genzui

Studied at Shirandō

Shikandō (Osaka)

1801 (approximately)

Hashimoto Sōkichi

Studied at Shirandō

Zuiōjuku (Kyoto)

1805

Inamura Sanpaku (Unagami Zuiō)

Studied at Shirandō

Tsukasajuku (Osaka)

1805 (approximately)

Saitō Hōsaku

Studied at Kyūridō and Shirandō

Komorijuku (Kyoto)

1807

Komori Tōo

Studied at Zuiōjuku

Shishisaidō (Osaka)

1817 (approximately)

Naka Tenyū

Studied at Shirandō, Shikandō, and Zuiōjuku

Nisshōdō (Edo)

1832

Tsuboi Shindō

Studied at Kyūridō

Tekijuku (Osaka)

1838

Ogata Kōan

Studied at Shishisaidō, Kyūridō, and Nisshōdō

tightening the network connections. Ogata Kōan, of course, would open what is probably the most famous Western studies academy, the Tekijuku, in Osaka in 1838. Sanpaku’s Zuiōjuku was opened in Kyoto in 1805. His Shamei roku (enrollment record) includes 130 names, but it is likely that he trained at least two hundred or three hundred students.66 One of his students, the Kyoto physician Komori Tōo, established his own Dutch medicine school in Kyoto in 1807, after a year of training at the Zuiōjuku. Tō­o’s register shows that he taught approximately three hundred students Dutch-­style medicine.67 Enrollment in many of these other schools dwarfed the Shirandō. However, it sat at the center of a network of rangaku and medical academies (shigaku) that linked Edo, Kyoto, Osaka, and Nagasaki. This meant that Gentaku’s influence on students indirectly reached thousands.



Training/Reproducing the Network 95

GENTAKU AND RANGAKU EDUCATION IN SENDAI Gentaku’s influence also extended to Sendai, as he was connected to two of the domain’s official schools, the Yōkendō and the Igakkō. The Sendai daimyo allowed Gentaku to remain in Edo for the rest of his life. However, as a domainal doctor with a prominent rangaku school in the capital, he naturally influenced medical education in his home domain. The Ōtsukis had a long history as educators in Sendai, and even while living miles away, Gentaku fulfilled that familial obligation. He offered recommendations for medical training in Sendai, trained physicians who subsequently taught in Sendai, and donated books to Sendai schools as encouragement for the development of rangaku. In the summer of 1810, Gentaku wrote “Goishi ikusai teian” (Petition for the education of doctors) to commemorate the promotion of his second cousin, Ōtsuki Heisen, to head of the Yōkendō domainal school. Gentaku had close ties to Heisen since the cousin had studied both Confucianism at the bakufu’s Shōheikō and rangaku in Nagasaki with Gentaku’s son Genkan.68 The Yōkendō was originally founded by order of daimyo Date Yoshimura (1689–1752) in 1737 under the name Meironkan Yōkendō.69 Its name was shortened to Yōkendō in 1781. Heisen’s ascension to headship was an important occurrence, because it signaled significant changes in the Sendai education system. Immediately after taking charge, Heisen enacted reforms, and began work on building a bigger facility that was completed in 1817.70 Heisen was not a doctor by training, he was a Confucian scholar. Since the Yōkendō included training in medicine, Gentaku’s petition, the “Goishi ikusai teian,” had two purposes. First, it was a letter of support for his second cousin in general. By 1810, Gentaku’s reputation as a scholar and doctor was well-­established across Japan, and therefore his statement of support for Heisen’s program of reform carried weight. Second, it specifically recommended the seventeenth article of Heisen’s reforms, which called for removing medical education from the school and the establishment of an in­de­pen­dent medical school and pharmaceutical department. Based on Heisen’s reform plan, the medical school was separated from the Yōkendō two years later and given the name the Igakkō.71 It was the center for medical training in Sendai and began offering a course of study in Western-­style medicine in 1822. Sendai was a pioneer among Japan’s domains in encouraging the study of Western-­style medicine. Many other domains did not take mea­sures to encourage Dutch or Western studies until the early 1840s, motivated by worries of Western imperialism. Although students at the Igakkō might have received some exposure to Dutch medicine

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before 1822, there had been no concerted effort to offer training within the domain. Not surprisingly, Gentaku had a hand in this transition. Based on the recommendation of Gentaku and his friend Katsuragawa Hoken, Gentaku’s former student Sasaki Chūtaku was made an assistant instructor at the Igakkō.72 Chūtaku had trained under Gentaku’s first medical teacher, Takebe Seian. He was very interested in Dutch-­style medicine, and Seian was impressed with him. Since Seian was not as knowledgeable about Dutch-­style medicine as Gentaku was, he decided to send Chūtaku to Edo for training. Armed with a letter of reference, Chūtaku entered the Shirandō in 1815. At Gentaku’s suggestion, Chūtaku also studied with Gentaku’s Bansho wage goyō codirector Baba Sajūrō and Hoshū’s son Hoken. In 1817, Chūtaku returned home and became an Ichinoseki domainal doctor. He practiced medicine in that capacity for five years until his appointment to the Igakkō. For the next three years, Chūtaku created a new course of study at the domainal school, teaching surgery and giving lectures on Western-­style medicine. Chūtaku was close to Gentaku, and, in fact, married one of his second cousins.73 In addition, he helped his teacher with numerous rangaku medical texts, including Yōka seisen (Detailed selections on wound treatment, 1820), Rangō sensei shikkenhō dairyaku (Abbreviated testing methods of Dr. Rangō, unknown date), and Zōyaku hasshi seiyō (Revised translation of eight methods of medical treatment, 1825). We can no doubt imagine that Gentaku’s influence on medical training in Sendai was significant. In 1819, under the direction of Ōtsuki Heisen, the Yōkendō began offering more training in rangaku as well. Heisen ordered various Dutch studies books for the school’s library, among them translations by Gentaku’s student Yamamura Saisuke and his friend Baba Sajūrō. Also, as part of the program to strengthen its offering in rangaku, the Yōkendō appointed Gentaku’s son, Genkan, as a counselor (sōdanyaku) in 1823. Genkan donated further Dutch studies books, including his Rangakuhan and Oranda setsuzoku shikō, both works on translating Dutch. And, of course, the Yōkendō made sure to obtain a copy of Gentaku’s Rangaku kaitei. Gentaku has a similar impact on the library of the Igakkō. Among the important books acquired by ­ ere two copies of his Rangaku kaitei, the Igakkō during the 1810s and 1820s w three copies of his work on tobacco in the West (Enroku, 1806), thirteen copies of his revision of the Kaitai shinsho anatomical text, and many copies of the medical works by his students Udagawa Genzui and Udagawa Genshin.74 In addition, Gentaku donated a copy of Kōsei shinpen (Newly edited text for public welfare), the bakufu-­directed translation of M. Noël Chomel’s Huishoudelijk Woordenboek (Home encyclopedia). This was a significant acquisi-



Training/Reproducing the Network 97

tion for the Sendai domain, because it was not supposed to be for distribution. Sendai students had access to the monumental work long before it was available in most other regions of the country. Gentaku’s students at the Shirandō also had an impact on the state of rangaku in Sendai. Among the ninety-­four names listed in the Shirandō registry are twelve from the Sendai or neighboring Ichinoseki, which was ruled by a branch family of the Sendai daimyo.75 At the Shirandō, Gentaku truly nursed the seeds of rangaku in Sendai that his former teacher Takebe Seian had planted in the 1770s. His educational influence was strong in Edo, Kansai, and Sendai, because he had created a clearing­house for information and a center for network formation. The schools that Gentaku, his colleagues, and students created ­were indispensable for training doctors and scholars and for forging bonds throughout the community and helping reproduce power relationships. Gentaku’s work at the Shirandō and his textbooks led to a network of schools, and he held a prominent place within it. Before the Kaitai shinsho was published in 1774, rangaku knowledge was often guarded and restricted. As Sugita Genpaku remarks, “These schools each had their own secret books (densho).”76 Densho described medical treatments and ­were hereditarily passed to each new school head. There ­were several schools of medicine that used Western techniques in their treatment of ailments, and often these methods ­were only available to special initiates. This type of secret transmission of knowledge played an important role in Japa­nese education for hundreds of years and continued to be used. Among schools of Western-­influenced medicine ­were the Kurisaki, Caspar, Nishi, Narabayashi, and Katsuragawa. Within these schools, medical information was primarily transmitted by mouth, with the occasional use of restricted texts. Although their understanding of Western medicine was slim, and their secrets amounted to little more than how to mix salves, these schools considered themselves in competition and ­were slow to let outsiders learn their techniques. This tradition helped keep rangaku regionally contained for many years. However, the growth of shijuku and private academies at the end of the eigh­teenth century and beginning of the nineteenth century led to a breakdown in this hiden system in certain areas of learning. Gentaku was clearly concerned about educational traditions that he felt impeded learning. Gentaku questioned a system in which students’ social obligations toward their teachers restricted them from pursuing the best possible training. His belief in a more open style of education helped encourage the network of academies that are described in this chapter.

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The Shirandō and the other academies associated with it showed a breadth of knowledge and fluidity, in which similar books ­were used, students moved between schools, and academy heads communicated. Although the Shirandō oath does suggest a distinction between insiders and outsiders, this was not an issue of competition between schools or a desire to be secretive, but a call to arms for the pursuit of knowledge. There ­were procedures for entrance into an academy. One did need a suitable introduction to the school head. In his registry, Inamura Sanpaku lists those who provided the introduction for every student who entered his academy for the years 1808–1810, for example.77 Yet the door for entrance into these shijuku was much wider than ever before.78 This is evident when we consider that at least one fourth of Gentaku’s registered students and 70–80 percent of his students’ students w ­ ere commoners.79 During Gentaku’s lifetime, the Shirandō sat at the center of an educational network and Gentaku wove his own web of influence, tying together the rangaku community through educational institutions. His strongest influence in education was felt in Edo, Kyoto, Osaka, and Sendai, but with the new opportunities for travel and correspondence (to be discussed in the next chapter) and with the publication of several of his books (especially the Rangaku kaitei), his prominence in rangaku training stretched across a much wider area. Despite the strength of the Ōtsuki family in rangaku education during Gentaku’s lifetime, his academy only lasted a few years after his death, and his son Genkan closed it in 1833. This fate was not unusual for educational institutions that ­were so linked to a par­tic­u­lar personality. The educational network of Western studies shifted around the time of Gentaku’s death, and came to be dominated by the influence of Philipp Franz von Siebold, the first Westerner permitted to open a school in Japan. The closing of the Shirandō did not end the Ōtsuki family’s prominence in Western studies, however. Gentaku had made sure to include his sons in all of his affairs, from translating and teaching to socializing with other scholars. Therefore, they ­were well-­equipped to carry on the Ōtsukis’ scholarly reputation for generations. Genkan worked as a translator for the bakufu and continued to publish important works on medicine and the Dutch language. Gentaku’s other son, Bankei, also worked for the bakufu and in 1862 became head of the Yōkendō in Sendai. One grandson, Fumihiko (1847– 1928), compiled work on En­glish studies. And another grandson, Nyoden, helped heap symbolic capital upon the family by writing and researching about the importance of his family in the development of science and Western studies in Japan, preserving for posterity the Ōtsuki name.80

C H A P T E R

F I V E

A National Network Travel and Correspondence

Sugita Genpaku had grand dreams for the spread of rangaku beyond the walls of salons. In 1815, reflecting on the years since the completion of his anatomical text translation, he congratulated himself, “Following [Kaitai shinsho], Dutch studies spread like a drop of oil, which when cast upon a wide pond, disperses to cover its entire surface.”1 The first inklings of that spread occurred years before his publication, though, when the shogun Tokugawa Yoshimune (1684–1751) sent two scholars to study with the Dutch who w ­ ere in Edo on their obligatory visit in 1740. However, as Genpaku rightly asserts, it was not until the last twenty-­five years of the eigh­teenth century that the seeds of a thriving Japan-­wide community started to appear. Expansion continued until the 1820s, when it could be found throughout Japan. The present chapter investigates the motivations for expanding the network, the methods of accomplishing and maintaining expansion from Edo and Nagasaki outward, and the impact network expansion had on rangakusha as cultural producers. The primary vehicles for the spread of rangaku ­were schools, as previously discussed, and travel and correspondence, which are the subject of the present chapter. Social and economic factors during this time influenced the way that the field of Dutch studies moved into regions beyond Edo, Kyoto, Osaka, and Nagasaki. This was a crucial period for rangaku, but was also a dynamic time in many ways for Japan as a ­whole. In The Shogun’s Painted Culture, Timon Screech observes that a “Japa­nese culture” was reified between the years 1760 and 1829, in which “the loose strands that made up the diverse culture” across the nearly three hundred daimyo domains experienced a homogenization and tightening. The development of a rangaku network stretching 99

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across Japan was certainly part of this pro­cess. However, while Screech argues that the motivation for reification was fear brought on by changing social patterns within Japan and increasing foreign intrusion from outside, Gentaku’s experiences show a primacy of other factors. Rangaku pursuits at that time centered on the trinity of medical knowledge, language studies, and astronomy. Concern of Western encroachment certainly does appear in some rangaku work of this period, such as in Hayashi Shihei’s military tract Kaikoku heidan (Military discussion for a maritime country, 1791). However, that fear was not a significant motivator for most rangaku pursuits until news of the Opium Wars reached Japan at the end of the 1830s, after which the driving force of Dutch studies shifted to Western military science and gunnery. If not fear, then how do we explain the timing of rangaku’s growth beyond the central cities of Nagasaki and Edo? One reason was certainly the in­ formation revolution discussed in the introduction. In addition, there w ­ ere some obvious historical changes and po­liti­cal conditions that we must consider: the extended domestic peace, the expansion and development of a travel and postal infrastructure, the bakufu’s policy of alternate attendance (sankin kōtai), increased commercialization and economic integration, and the bakufu councilor Tanuma Okitsugu’s policies of cultural cultivation. These factors made extraregional growth of culture much more plausible than ever before. By the mid-­eighteenth century, Japan was experiencing its longest period of relative peace across its four main islands, and passage from one region to another was at its safest. This peace was largely the result of various Tokugawa policies put in place to encourage stability and keep the central government in power. One policy, sankin kōtai, made travel a central feature of many samurai’s lives. Gentaku, like his teacher Genpaku, was stationed in Edo to accommodate his lord. Many other physicians who ­were studying rangaku traveled in ser­vice whenever their daimyo did. This situation created a regular flow of educated individuals between regions. While there ­were clearly many limitations on travel including govern­ ment-­required travel permits and checkpoints, not to mention financial considerations, travel of all kinds increased significantly during the Toku­ gawa period as even commoners traveled en masse for pilgrimages, business, or pure recreation (yusan tabi). The swelling interest in travel by all sectors of the population led to a thriving business in various cultural genres such as travel journals, guides, and poetry. Daimyo became increasingly interested in encouraging the flow of cultural and intellectual information from Nagasaki and the three metropolises (santo) of Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto to their home domains. The Tokugawa



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government allowed daimyo to maintain residences in the three metropolises. All maintained residences in Edo and nearly half did so in Kyoto. These mansions ­were maintained year-round by managers known as rusuiyaku who also acted as information officers. These officers introduced visiting domainal students to teachers in the cities and relayed up-­to-­date cultural information back home. In addition, over two hundred domains had programs for sending students to study outside the domain by the end of the Tokugawa period. While most of these programs w ­ ere generated after news of the Opium Wars reached Japan, there is evidence of various domains sending students to other domains to study as early as the seventeenth century.2 Bakufu policies that had removed samurai from farmland and required daimyo to reside for periods in Edo also created a boom in urban dwelling and tremendous expansion of a consumer market. These changes added to the general flow of bodies and objects across the islands of Honshu and Kyushu and became significant to cultural production in various ways. The rise in commodity production and domestic commerce stimulated improvements and expansion of the existing transportation system. Although eco­ nom­ically motivated, the better transport and communication systems increasingly allowed access to education and study for scholars and intellectuals. Travel and letter writing became increasingly important to scholars. In addition, traveling merchants carried more than rice along the roads and waterways of Japan. They brought news and knowledge, encouraging geo­graph­i­cal expansion of information as a w ­ hole. Cultural producers found themselves working in a world that was less regional. For rangakusha, this helped transmit information not only from city to city but from urban to rural areas. In addition, a by-­product of this economic growth was that many of the merchants who became affluent through transregional commercialization within Japan acquired the means to pursue or patronize cultural and intellectual pursuits, including rangaku. Facilitated and encouraged by the po­liti­cal and economic expansion, Dutch studies spread rapidly during the later eigh­teenth century. The fuel that powered this spread was a combination of geography and the growing value of rangaku. Rangaku entered the country via Dutch traders in Nagasaki, but the most developed cultural, educational, and publishing centers of Japan ­were far off in Edo, Kyoto, and Osaka. If, instead of Nagasaki, Edo had been the entrance point, the spread of Dutch studies would likely have occurred much differently. Many aspiring scholars of Dutch learning quite reasonably felt that studying with the Nagasaki interpreters, and the chance of making the acquaintance of the Dutch there, was an important part of training. Between

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1770 and 1830, any aspiring rangakusha who could arrange the proper introductions and permits, and who had the funds, made a trip to the southern port. Many who could not manage the trip due to other obligations sent their students as representatives. Nearly all those training in Dutch studies during that period undertook at least one major educational trip to Edo, Osaka, or Nagasaki. Traveling scholars did more than set up lines of contact between the big cities. Because many came from peripheral regions or stopped frequently at towns en route between their homes and the cities, they ­were able, as a result, to cast a net of social ties that spread out from the big cities. The importance of travel was also a result of a reconfiguration of the value of rangaku that occurred among scholars from the eigh­teenth century. Traditionally, historians have sought the value of Dutch studies in terms of scientific and medical knowledge that was new and practical. It is true that ­ ere very interested in developing their most of the early rangaku scholars w medical skills or learning Western concepts of astronomy. Nevertheless, at the same time, individuals w ­ ere enticed to enter the ranks of rangakusha by social and other cultural factors. Travel and correspondence within the Dutch studies community was governed by the same considerations as the salon meetings discussed earlier, and in a real sense, they helped create an informal “salon network” that stretched the length of Japan. An analysis of travel practices and correspondence among scholars reveals an economy of exchange of not just knowledge, but also of economic support, social status, recommendations, and access to cultural institutions, people, and work. Study trips and letter writing effected an increase in these intellectual, economic, and cultural exchanges beyond what urbanites could support in their local salons. STUDY JOURNEYS All areas of the cultural world ­were affected by the spirit of travel during the Tokugawa period. One example of this was the traveling bunjin, such as Gentaku’s friend Shiba Kōkan (1747–1818), who conducted trips in order to obtain patronage for their work.3 Although most rangaku scholars did not travel in search of patronage, travel touched all of them in various ways. For Japa­nese scholars in general, and especially rangakusha, the new mobility was increasingly important for training and interaction. Some also visited distant colleagues and did lecture tours (yūreki).4 As discussed in the previous chapter, many traveled to the cities to attend private academies. Yūgaku, the term commonly used for study travel, was one of many educational options available to students of the Edo period. In her quantitative



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study of 173 cultural figures in the late nineteenth century, Anna Beerens has determined that 68 percent of those not born in provinces traveled to large cities to study.5 Although it had existed in some form for hundreds of years, study travel became more systematized as early as the seventeenth century when travel scholarship programs w ­ ere set up in the isolated domains of Tōhoku and Kyūshū. Richard Rubinger estimates that by the end of the Edo period, roughly 91 percent of the various domains had systems for sending students away to study, including selection examinations and rules of conduct.6 Since the bakufu and domainal governments ­were slow to incorporate rangaku into the curriculum of their official schools, travel was imperative for its study. In 1800, young students of Dutch studies flocked to Edo, Nagasaki, Osaka, or Kyoto from peripheral regions. Later, when Dutch learning had established itself in all areas of Japan, students continued to seek training in the cities, where the most well-­respected scholars lived. By the Meiji restoration in 1868, there had been at least forty prominent schools for Dutch or Western studies established in Japan.7 Students and scholars actively used social ties throughout the network in order to obtain introductions and travel support. This system of education encouraged the flow of knowledge and people across Japan. Rubinger argues that yūgaku and private academies, more than any other educational options, helped break down regional barriers, leading to a more unified and integrated culture across Japan.8 Although historians continue to debate the question of how integrated Japa­nese culture was in the early modern period, travel and correspondence certainly enabled strong network ties between the Three Metropoles, Nagasaki, and the periphery.9 Travel influenced Gentaku’s career enormously. He initially came to Edo under the permission of his lord so that he could study Western medicine, though he ended up residing there for the rest of his life. Later, he undertook a study trip to Nagasaki, circulating his travel log Keiho kikō to friends and colleagues upon his return so that they might learn from his experience. He also benefited from travel whenever representatives of the VOC came to the capital or a new student knocked on his academy’s door. For Gentaku, social ties ­were essential to obtaining the funds to travel to Nagasaki early in his career, and his study trip to Nagasaki broadened his network connections, strengthening his position within the community. GENTAKU’S NAGASAKI YŪGAKU Gentaku documents his six-­month trip to Nagasaki in Keiho kikō. It was just before daybreak on a crisp fall day in 1785, when the twenty-­nine-­year-­old physician exited the gates of his teacher Genpaku’s academy the Tenshinrō.

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The day promised to be a sunny one. Despite the early hour, as he stared west down Nihonbashi road in the direction of Nagasaki, Gentaku recorded his excitement in a poem: I see the morning sun reflecting off the mountains in Takawa And I love the rustling of the maple leaves on the slopes.10

His mentor Genpaku, though sick, came to the door to bid him farewell as did several of his friends such as Nakayama Jun’an. They all knew that a trip to Nagasaki was an important occasion for a rangaku scholar and offered last minute advice on whom he should visit during his journey.11 This was a lifelong dream. Gentaku departed with two companions at his side, both rangaku scholars. His entry for that day reads, “We left Sugita Genpaku’s school together at the crack of dawn. Sugita Hakugen and I set our sights on Enojima.”12 Until he reached Kyoto, his journey was mostly on the famous Tōkaidō Road. Along the way, Gentaku passed through the station towns, staying at both established inns and at the homes of local literati and notables. Occasionally, he made side excursions to see places of cultural interest such as the remains of the poet Saigyō’s home in Ōiso.13 After two weeks on the road, he arrived in Kyoto, a fairly typical duration for that journey. Gentaku remained in the Kyoto-­Osaka area for over two weeks in order to make social calls on local scholars, at least partially at the insistence of his teacher Genpaku, who felt that relationships with those individuals would benefit Gentaku in the future. Gentaku finally left Osaka approximately a month after he had departed Edo and arrived in Nagasaki eight days later. At roughly fifty thousand inhabitants, Nagasaki was tiny compared to the capital. However, because it was the entry point for Eu­rope and China, Nagasaki’s cultural presence was massive, drawing cultural and scholarly visitors regularly from across the country. Luckily, since his teacher Sugita Genpaku had social ties with head interpreters Motoki Ryōei and Yoshio Kōzaemon, Gentaku could easily set up training and accommodations. Gentaku moved into the home of a Ryōei, where he would stay for the next four months, until called back to Edo. While in Nagasaki, Gentaku was able to study with other young scholars, and Ryōei praised Gentaku’s tireless dedication to rangaku. However, he also managed to have the time of his life, visiting the Dutch on Deshima, experiencing a Dutch-­style New Year’s celebration, witnessing the dissection of a human body and the slaughter of a pig, frequenting the Maruyama red light district, and even visiting the Chinese settlement.14 Gentaku finally left Nagasaki at the end of the third month of 1786, when he was called back



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by his lord to assume his new post for the Sendai domain. He returned to Edo a month and a half later. Gentaku had two explicit reasons for his trip. First, he hoped that Ryōei could help him complete a translation of Lorenz Heister’s surgical text Heelkundige Onderwijzingen. He also wished to study under the famous Dutch interpreter Yoshio Kōzaemon, who was considered the most knowledgeable rangakusha in Japan. Unfortunately for Gentaku, both men ­were so busy with their official duties that they could not offer much focused attention. That meant that Gentaku made very little headway on his translation. Although he was able to take part in some “group readings” of Dutch material while in Nagasaki, the direct educational benefits of his trip ­were minimal. However, his trip served another broader purpose. Gentaku acted as an agent for extending and maintaining the social ties that held the rangaku community together. In this sense, he was acting not only on his own behalf, but also on the behalf of his teachers and colleagues in Edo and his benefactor for the trip. Gentaku was specifically instructed by Genpaku to visit three very different individuals while en route, Kyoto residents Koishi Genshun, Kimura Kenkadō, and Shibano Ritsuzan (1736–1807). Meeting these men helped Gentaku extend his social connections. Since he brought letters of greeting from Genpaku, it also helped his teacher to maintain ties. These encounters had a long-­lasting effect on Gentaku’s career in rangaku studies. The first person, Koishi Genshun (1743–1808), was a Kyoto town doctor whom Genpaku had developed a correspondence with several years earlier on the subject of Dutch medicine. Genshun was born in Yamashiro, near Kyoto, and at the age of ten began studying medicine in Osaka. In 1769, he set up a practice in Osaka, but soon after he moved to Kyoto.15 Genshun and Sugita Genpaku had first crossed paths at an inn on the Tōkaidō Road, and encouraged by Genpaku, Genshun performed a dissection in 1783. That same year, Genpaku introduced him to Gentaku in Edo.16 When Gentaku arrived in Kyoto two years later, the Kyoto physician was eager to meet and discuss the Kaitai shinsho anatomical text. In the preface to his essay “Gen’en” (1786), Genshun writes, “In the fall of 1785, Shigetaka (Gentaku) traveled to Kiyō (Nagasaki). He learned [from Sugita Genpaku] the way to my home and visited on both his way [to Nagasaki] and back. We bonded as friends.”17 Gentaku was fast becoming a leading authority on the Kaitai shinsho, and this attracted prospective scholars of Dutch studies to him like moths to a flame. In fact, Genshun was so impressed with their meetings at his home in Kyoto that, despite being fourteen years Gentaku’s se­nior, he enrolled in the latter’s newly established Shirandō Academy a year later. Genshun also recommended that his students and colleagues do the

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same, registering his own son at the Shirandō. As a result, Gentaku became the strongest influence on this first wave of rangaku scholars in Kansai, as indicated in the previous chapter. While in Kyoto, Gentaku also called upon Kimura Kenkadō (1736–1802), a wealthy saké brewer from Horie (near Osaka) who was a writer, botanist, and patron of learning. Kenkadō had keen interests in rangaku, natural history, and medicinals, but his circle of friends was extremely diverse. Gentaku met with Kenkadō on the return leg of his Nagasaki trip six months later. Like Genshun, the brewer seemed delighted to meet Gentaku and even allowed him to stay at his luxurious home in Kita Horie.18 Kenkadō wanted to discuss the Kaitai shinsho, but more importantly, he had heard that Gentaku had studied Dutch references to unicorns and a medicine known as ikkaku, subjects that fascinated Kenkadō.19 While discussing these topics, the saké brewer offered to privately publish one of Gentaku’s works, Rikubutsu shinshi (New record of six things), which happened the following year. Since most rangaku works ­were circulated in manuscript, this was a stroke of luck for Gentaku. Making the visit even more beneficial, Kenkadō loaned Gentaku several rare Dutch books.20 Though Gentaku never made a trip to Osaka after 1786, he continued an active correspondence with Kenkadō until the saké brewer’s death in 1802. ­ ere eager to engage in corresponMost members of the rangaku network w dence in order gain information and maintain connections. Gentaku and Kenkadō ­were quite active letter-­writers and regularly wrote to scholars in a variety of fields. Their correspondence with each other began almost immediately, and Gentaku even rec­ords receiving letters from Kenkadō several times while in Nagasaki.21 The saké brewer’s interests ­were encyclopedic, and he accordingly asked questions in letters to Gentaku ranging from Western products and their prices to specifics on the translation of Western terms in books such as Dodonæus’s Cruydt-­boeck.22 Finally, on Sugita Gentaku’s advice, Koishi Genshun escorted Gentaku to the home of Shibano Ritsuzan. Ritsuzan was a po­liti­cally and intellectually important Confucianist. He studied at the bakufu’s Confucian university, the Shōheikō in Edo, and in Kyoto. In 1788, at the direction of shogunal advisor Matsudaira Sadanobu (1759–1829), he was appointed to the prestigious position of instructor at the Shōheikō.23 From that post, Ritsuzan was connected to the highest people in the central government and worked at the premiere school in Japan. With a letter of introduction from his teacher in hand, Gentaku entered Ritsuzan’s Kyoto home and enjoyed a conversation over tea and other refreshments.24 This meeting makes sense if we remember that the Tokugawa scholarly world operated within a Neo-­Confucian paradigm. Gentaku’s education,



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like all his colleagues’, had been grounded in Confucianism from an early age. Therefore, establishing a relationship with one of the most learned Confucian scholars in Japan had its benefits. Of course, Ritsuzan was a very powerful man who could help Gentaku. All of Gentaku’s sons attended the Shōheikō, and there is little doubt that Gentaku’s relationship with Ritsuzan helped gain them entrance.25 In addition, Gentaku’s meeting with Ritsuzan helped his teacher Genpaku solidify a relationship with the Confucian teacher. This was important because Genpaku eventually sent one of his sons, Hakugen, to study under Ritsuzan in Kyoto. Valuable cultural capital within the Dutch studies community did not always come in the form of Western knowledge. Outside of these individuals, Gentaku established new ties that helped bring others into the rangaku network. For instance, he befriended a prominent Osaka pharmacist named Konishi Chōbei who, along with Koishi Genshun, accompanied him around Osaka on calls to Kenkadō and others.26 In Nagasaki, Gentaku formed relationships with some of the younger interpreters who had not been to Edo and who craved news of the capital. One of these interpreters, Ishii Shōsuke even left his post in Nagasaki and went to Edo with Gentaku in 1786, where he eventually established strong scholarly relationships with the students at Gentaku’s academy. Another was Shizuki Tadao, who is now considered by many historians to be Japan’s most important Dutch translator and linguist of the Tokugawa period. Gentaku and Tadao would maintain contact, and the interpreter would train Gentaku’s son Genkan in Dutch in 1804. Though it would seem natural to view study trips as merely educational opportunities, for Gentaku, the social capital that he gained through social networking assumed primary importance. The relationships that he generated on this trip affected his influence on scholars and physicians outside of Edo, helped ensure the success of his academy when it was opened in 1786, and forged a connection that eventually helped him place his sons in Japan’s top school. TRAVEL PATRONAGE: THE ECONOMICS OF LEGITIMACY Gentaku’s trip to Nagasaki helped him establish new important social ties, but existing ones ­were also very important for enabling him to afford the trip in the first place, and it is worthwhile to analyze the connections between patronage and travel for rangakusha. In her 1983 dissertation, Yoko Woodson argues that despite their noble intellectual and cultural quests, money was important to bunjin, and that an examination of the socioeconomic

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issues related to patronage practices give us a fuller understanding of early modern literati and their production.27 Others have followed her lead, noting that art is produced out of par­tic­u­lar historical and social settings that included economic concerns.28 Nevertheless, historians have continued to neglect the role of patronage for intellectuals and scholars in Tokugawa Japan. Researchers in the West have tended to associate the term “patronage” with the arts. Most rangakusha, of course, did not create objects of art that could be displayed or commissioned. And, unlike Woodson’s bunjin, who retired from official life and other regular jobs, many rangakusha tended to find their way to Dutch learning as a result of their professions or official appointments, whether as a physicians, pharmacists, interpreters, or astronomers. Following this line of ­ ere supported by thinking, we might assume that their rangaku activities w their salaries or stipends. Those rangakusha whose entrance into Dutch studies was not related to their job or office sometimes came to it as a result of the leisure that their financial status could afford. These rangakusha tended to be wealthy merchants, such as Kimura Kenkadō, or daimyo, such as ­Kutsuki Masatsuna, who ­were attracted to the novelty of Western science and culture. However, similar to natural historians and phi­los­o­phers of Eu­rope, many scholars of Dutch learning could not have studied, or even gotten their hands on the rare Dutch books, without economic or material support. Patronage was essential to rangakusha for training and access to information. It was one of the important ser­vices within the Dutch studies network. At various times in his career, Gentaku received patronage from individuals in the form of money or access to books. His Nagasaki trip was only possible because of a donor. In 1784, when Gentaku received permission from his lord to travel, there was no certainty that he could afford it. His family was by no means wealthy. They w ­ ere appointed as domainal physicians, but they continued to occupy relatively modest positions as retainers to a small clan. In addition, the death of his father that same year placed extra financial burdens on Gentaku. Although his lord Tamura Murasuke (1763–1808) was impressed with what he had heard about the young physician and actually called Gentaku in for an interview before the trip, he offered no funds. Teachers Genpaku and Ryōtaku could provide a little money, but it was not nearly enough. Luckily, the social ties within the rangaku community worked to support him, and, as related in chapter 3, the Fukuchiyama lord Kutsuki Masatsuna happily offered financial assistance when Genpaku approached him on Gentaku’s behalf. Since Masatsuna was a member of the same group of Edo rangakusha as Gentaku, Yoko Woodson would refer to him as an “in-­group patron.”29 More



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specifically, she would categorize Masatsuna as a “major in-­group patron,” or “someone who gave their support and assistance to their friends and colleagues beyond what they received in return.”30 However, if we contemplate the relationship between Masatsuna and Gentaku as an economy of exchange of Bourdieu-­defined capital, we gain a different perspective. Masatsuna’s support to other members benefited him as well. The social network of rangaku scholars worked as an economy of exchange in which money, introductions, recommendations, and scholarly assistance flowed back and forth. In patronizing Gentaku’s trip, Masatsuna was exchanging economic capital for symbolic capital. This act of support, which he alone of Gentaku’s group could bestow, legitimated his inclusion in the group and certainly would have encouraged other scholars to tend their ties with him thoughtfully and diligently. Beyond financial patronage, Masatsuna also contacted his friend H. W. Dronsberg, a member of the Dutch company in Deshima, to arrange an amicable welcome for Gentaku in Nagasaki. He recommended Gentaku as a serious scholar and asked the Dutch to look after him.31 The friendship between Masatsuna and Gentaku stayed strong until the former’s death in 1802. When Gentaku set up a school in 1786, Masatsuna enrolled one of his own domainal doctors as one of the first students. The patronage that Gentaku received did not end with Masatsuna, though. In addition, there existed a modest, though quite helpful, “roadside patronage” that assisted scholars in lightening their expenses en route. Living in or near most of the station towns on the Tōkaidō Road ­were local bunjin who put scholars, artists, and writers up for the night, fed them, and treated them to banquets or intimate parties at tea­houses. While not directly supporting cultural and intellectual production, they acted as patrons in that they lessened financial burdens for traveling scholars. It, too, was an economy of exchange. In return for their hospitality, these locals heard the latest news from the cities, ­were able to discuss intellectual issues with learned men, could show off their collections of books and other artifacts, and, very importantly, received a cultural pedigree within their region and beyond. It was a matter of pride to these individuals, many of whom ­were from the merchant or farmer class, that their name might become recognizable in the learned circles of big cities and among samurai. While journeying from Edo to Osaka, Gentaku stayed at the homes of several men who fit this category. The most well known was Kimura Kenkadō whom I mentioned earlier. He had close ties with many of the cultural figures of the day, including poets, artists, and phi­los­o­phers. He invited hundreds of traveling scholars, artists, and poets to stay at his home and participate in his salon discussions, which ­were quite famous across

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Japan.32 Two lesser-­k nown roadside patrons to Gentaku w ­ ere a man named Iuemon, who made his wealth as a w ­ holesaler of rice, and a saké shop owner named Matsuya. As a man of wealth, Iuemon had been able to establish himself as a leader in the community.33 His invitations to cultured men traveling the Tōkaidō ­were a way of distancing himself from his merchant origins and elevating his position in the eyes of his community. More than likely, there ­were a number of scholars in Edo familiar with his name. Matsuya, the sake shop owner, certainly had similar aspirations, but also enjoyed showing off his zashiki, where he carefully displayed works of art and pottery. Gentaku notes that Matsuya was especially eager to show off his room to travelers with the cultural capital to fully appreciate it. Matsuya would have been happy with Gentaku’s journal entry, “I can see that the master of this establishment is a man of refined tastes. He has put thought and purpose into the arrangement of his zashiki.”34 In this regard, Matsuya’s salon functioned as symbolic capital, justifying Matsuya’s position as a cultural leader in his region. The hospitality of many of these roadside patrons was known within Edo, Kyoto, and Osaka cultural circles, and perhaps Matsuya’s name was occasionally mentioned in the capital. Study trips ­were heavily dependent upon social and economic capital, but could also promise the accumulation of such capital. In this way, we might compare them to modern academic conferences, which, though potentially costly, promise the opportunity to meet with old colleagues and forge bonds with new ones, to pitch books to publishers, and to search for potential funding. EPISTOLARY TIES Like travel, we should regard letter-­writing as an economy of social exchange important to the flow of rangaku information. If yūgaku trips to Nagasaki, Edo, or Osaka initiated many from peripheral areas into the wider rangaku community, letter-­writing kept them tied to the network. It was an essential link to information. Maintaining strong social relationships through letters ensured the exchange of ideas. If done properly, personal correspondence established concrete bonds that bridged spatial and social distances.35 Remarking on the community of naturalists in early modern Italy, historian Paula Findlen argues, “Epistolary transactions w ­ ere carefully crafted attempts to establish and maintain friends and patrons, obtain news, disseminate opinion and, in the case of collectors, acquire new and wonderful things.”36 A similar situation existed with scholars and intellectuals of the Tokugawa period. Letter exchange was often used as a substitute for travel, and certainly its combination with yūgaku created a vital connection for



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scholars in the local villages and lesser cities. It is important to note that letter exchange was tied closely with a system of gift-­giving that proliferated within the intellectual community, as it did within Japa­nese society generally.37 As in the Western case, letter and gift exchange was a system of honor and prestige that determined social identity within the community. In these ways, letter-­writing, for Gentaku and most cultural producers of Tokugawa Japan, was a strategy for success, and one that could bring status and money. MEN OF LETTERS: GENTAKU AND NAGASAKI KŌSAI Gentaku kept a running correspondence with intellectuals across Japan. One in par­tic­u­lar, named Nagasaki Kōsai, is useful for investigation since historians have been able to compile the letters exchanged between the two over a ten-­year period.38 This correspondence sheds light on the importance of social ties between cities and more peripheral areas for the spread of Dutch studies. Letters ­were used by those in outlying areas to maintain their social connections in the network, receive information on Dutch science and medicine, and learn general news from the cities. On the other end, those who lived in the centers of Dutch learning realized that letter exchange not only helped spread knowledge, but also strengthened the community as a ­whole. In addition, by providing valuable information from the city, these individuals augmented their status in the field. More than forty years Gentaku’s ju­nior, Kōsai was born in 1799 in the city of Takaoka, on the western coast of Japan about 250 kilometers from Edo. He, like Gentaku, succeeded in a line of physicians, though his father was a town doctor. Kōsai inherited a tradition of Dutch-­style medicine and surgery stretching back to the early eigh­teenth century. However, he also eagerly studied Confucian and Chinese learning as well. Kōsai began his official medical training at the age of fifteen with a doctor in Echigo named Takamine Koan, who included Western-­style techniques in his repertoire. His access to Koan was brokered through family ties and letter-­writing as his father had studied ran’i (Dutch-­style medicine) and was an acquaintance of several well-­k nown rangakusha including Gentaku.39 Kōsai’s tutelage under Koan was his first formal step toward becoming linked into the wider rangaku network because his teacher frequently traveled to Edo where he visited with Gentaku, Genpaku, and Hoshū. After four years of study with Koan, Kōsai went to study with Genpaku. While Kōsai sent a requisite letter of recommendation for Koan, sadly his timing was bad, for Genpaku died four days later. Learning of Genpaku’s illness when he arrived, Nagasaki Kōsai headed to Gentaku’s home, letter

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and gifts in hand.40 Gentaku welcomed the young student and, vouching for Kōsai, arranged for him to coregister at Genpaku’s school as a student of Sugita Hakugen. His training in Edo continued for four months. Gentaku and Kōsai’s correspondence began soon after the pupil returned home in 1817 and continued until 1826, a year before Gentaku’s death. The letters perpetuated the master-­student relationship, as Kōsai repeatedly asked for Gentaku’s guidance, knowledge, and insight. The subject of Kōsai’s questions ranged from the proper use of medicines to new fads in Edo. Gentaku seemed happy to help his former student and frequently asked him about Etchū, a subject with which he would not necessarily be expected to be familiar. INTELLECTUAL, MATERIAL, AND SOCIAL EXCHANGE A central line of questioning in Kōsai’s letters concerned new medicines and the treatment of disease. For example, in a letter dated November 5, 1823, Kōsai asks whether Western doctors ­were using the medicine ikkaku, which was made from the ground horn of a narwhal. Gentaku replied to the affirmative, but he noted that there was much debate on how to prepare and administer the drug. In the same letter, Gentaku also offered suggestions for the treatment of cholera and asked Kōsai about the spread of infectious diseases in Etchū.41 This type of information exchange was valuable and helped support the need for a geo­graph­i­cally dispersed network. Gentaku was eager to hear how Dutch studies was being received and how Dutch medicine was being administered outside of the capital. Of course, he was also eager to influence the growth of rangaku and letters aided him in doing that. One aspect of that influence was the information he conveyed regarding new rangaku translations and treatises. Each year Gentaku received tens of letters from former students asking medical questions and inquiring into the research of other scholars and doctors. Gentaku and Kōsai, for example, discussed nearly thirty different Dutch studies texts in their correspondences.42 These exchanges began in letters soon after Kōsai left Gentaku’s academy. In the winter of 1820, he sent a missive hoping to learn how Genpaku’s Yōjō shichifuka on basic health, along with Gentaku’s addendum to it “Byōke sanfuji,” could help him treat patients in his town. Gentaku’s response describes the contents of the two books and suggests that Kōsai also consult Hoshū’s useful translated pharmacopoeia titled Oranda yakusen (Selections of Dutch medicines).43 With correspondences such as these, Gentaku



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continued to perform the duties of a teacher long after his students had returned to their hometowns. As will be discussed more fully in the next chapter, these inquiries into books and manuscripts from outside the city often turned into requests that Gentaku send copies. Despite the growth in the publishing business during the Tokugawa period, Dutch studies scholars outside of Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto still had to order books from the cities. It was con­ve­nient to have a contact in the city who could arrange for payment and shipping of the latest publications. Maintaining connections with colleagues living in the city through active correspondence was essential for keeping current in the field, especially as the rate of book and manuscript production escalated from year to year. Among the important books that Kōsai sent money to Gentaku in order to obtain ­were Ensei ihō meibutsukō (Treatise on Western medications) by Udagawa Yōan, Chōtei kaitai shinsho (Expanded and improved Kaitai shinsho), Yōi shinsho (New treatise on wound treatments), and Ran’en tekihō (Picking blossoms from a field of orchids) by Gentaku.44 However, these letters showed a concern for more than books and medical and scientific knowledge. Kōsai was eager to learn about the professional and personal circumstances of Gentaku’s students and other rangaku colleagues. Knowing other scholars’ locations, activities, and topics of study was essential for those living outside Edo, Osaka, and Nagasaki in order to maintain their social capital within the network. Even news that might seem trivial aided them in feeling as if they ­were a part of the community and might prove valuable in relating to those within the network in the future. Accordingly, when Gentaku reported in a letter in 1824 that several rangaku scholars had been able to see a camel in the capital, Kōsai enthusiastically passed the news on to his colleagues in Etchū. Similarly, Kōsai often shared his thoughts on the local culture of Etchū, such as its special techniques for producing paper and unique rocks to be found.45 These types of exchanges ­were a means of establishing a common love of culture and information, which, in turn, strengthened their social tie. So when the two traded numerous letters regarding a famous rock in Etchū known as the tengu no tsune ishi (Demon-­claw rock), we may see this as far from trivial. However, this relationship was clearly not one of equality. While Kōsai’s questions to Gentaku often dealt with rangaku and medicine, the teacher rarely asked his student similar questions. The master-­student hierarchy did not allow that. Besides, Gentaku was clearly one of the experts of rangaku and probably felt little need for insight from a young scholar. Though Kōsai was knowledgeable about Confucianism, a subject of great interest to Gentaku, the teacher never broached the subject in letters. This, too, would have

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challenged the structure of their master-­student relationship. Instead, Gentaku’s inquiries ­were usually concerned with local culture, as was already mentioned. One of the ways that this epistolary relationship, and its hierarchy, was maintained was through gift-­g iving. Gift-­g iving between Gentaku and Kōsai not only symbolized the value of the relationship, but also reinforced social hierarchy between the two as well. As the teacher, Gentaku was the superior. Therefore, Kōsai often sent gifts in thanks for Gentaku answering questions. Almost every one of thirty extant letters from Kōsai mention the inclusion of a gift, such as writing material, special paper, books, saké, wood, and rare rocks. Presents of writing utensils and inkstones ­were common among scholars and a reminder that the sender and receiver occupied the same cultural world.46 Some of the paper sent by Kōsai was given to Gentaku as a display of pride in the production technique in Etchū. Other paper had a more functional purpose and was intended to be used by ­Gentaku’s students to copy rangaku manuscripts, which would be sent back to Kōsai. Gifts of special woods and rocks w ­ ere sent to appeal to Gentaku’s interest in natural history and provide future fodder for letter exchanges. In these ways, gifts strengthened their social tie and promised its continuation. Gentaku did not send as many gifts to Kōsai. The onus of gift-­giving fell more heavily on the inferior party. Nevertheless, Gentaku occasionally sent items as a show of his well-­rounded cultural tastes. These items fell into two categories: material and creative. Besides a few books, he sent material gifts on only three occasions. They ­were tea, a fan, and a calendar. More frequently, he sent poems or paintings that he had created. Since Gentaku was a well-­k nown intellectual and scholar by this time, art by his pen was a trea­sured item, and, because of the time and care involved, the poems and paintings ­were a sign of his personal commitment to the relationship. More than travel, letter-­writing and gift-­giving was an efficient and eco­nom­ical way to maintain social ties and exchange capitals across great distances. Although scholars of all ages ­were involved in both travel and correspondence, travel was obviously much more viable for young scholars-­ in-­t raining. Therefore, letter-­writing was an important activity for established se­nior scholars who ­were concerned with maintaining their social position and intellectual influence in the field. The extension of the rangaku network beyond the cities, and across the ­whole of the country, was a product of social, economic, and po­liti­cal changes during the Tokugawa period. This time of increased social and economic fluidity enabled intellectuals and others of all sorts to extend their community



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beyond specific regions. Such was the case with nativism and new religions as well. The growth of the rangaku network was part of a larger pro­cess in which geographic barriers w ­ ere breaking down and the regional knowledge of the past gave way to knowledge that ran up and down the highways and roads connecting cities, towns, and domains. As mentioned in the previous chapter, before the 1770s, students of Dutch studies operated in a world of hiden, or secret transmission of learning. Since knowledge was transferred orally and access was really only available by gaining the confidence of a master, it was quite natural for many forms of culture to remain regionally tied. But the expanding network of rangaku practitioners sounded the death knell for such limitations in studying the West. The rangaku field was perhaps at the forefront of this pro­cess of the deregionalization of culture and knowledge. Of note in regard to rangaku expansion is the absence of the hand of the government during its early stages. The central government and the domainal governments did not establish any substantial systems to facilitate the spread of Dutch studies until fairly late in the Tokugawa period. Perhaps because of that, rangaku community formation remained unusually autonomous from official influence. Just as the government had difficulties in limiting commercial development during the Tokugawa period, it had little effect on the day-­to-­day spread of knowledge in Dutch studies. As this examination of travel and correspondence indicates, that spread of knowledge was strongly dictated by the pursuit of social and economic capital.

C H A P T E R

S I X

The Network in Action Book Circulation and Publication

In The Order of Books, Roger Chartier relates the celebrated architect Etienne-­ Louis Boullée’s (1728–1799) proposal to reconstruct the Bibliothèque du Roi in 1785. Responding to rising literacy and inspired by the idea that the state should take the lead in collecting information and making it available, he developed a visionary plan. The concept called upon the creation of a reading room the size of an amphitheater, the most spacious in Eu­rope, in which books ­were within the grasp of strolling readers or could be obtained “by means of a human chain of ‘persons placed on various levels and distributed so as to pass the books from hand to hand.’ ”1 In glorifying information and books, the plan argued that there should be a space where as many texts as possible ­were near at hand. It also realized the need for cooperation in acquiring those that w ­ ere just out of grasp. In mid-­Tokugawa Japan, while the new scholars of Eu­ro­pean science and medicine ­were unable to create any exhaustive private libraries and the state had no intention of maintaining a grand archive for the public’s use, rangakusha too turned to a “human chain” through which individuals of differing resources could pass books “from hand to hand” for the benefit of their field. In essence, they created a “library without walls” that stretched the country.2 The utility of this library was dependent on face-­to-­face contact and active letter correspondence between members. Information gathering and community formation ­were bound together out of necessity. The significance of books to the rangaku movement can be seen in the tendency of historians to date its origins to the publication the Kaitai shinsho in 1774. While there ­were certainly scholars interested in Western knowledge

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long before that year, it is true that this groundbreaking translation of a Western anatomical text tremendously boosted a swelling enthusiasm among physicians in par­tic­u­lar. Before its publication, Dutch studies was predominantly based on conversations and lectures. However, after the Kaitai shinsho appeared, rangaku became increasingly dependent on Dutch books and Japa­nese treatises and translations based on those books. The utility of many Western texts became so apparent that, despite his concerns over the frivolity of imported books in general, even Matsudaira Sadanobu, the conservative chief councilor to the bakufu, issued orders to the magistrate’s office in Nagasaki indicating the technological and scientific usefulness of Western books. While he had grave misgivings about foreigners and the bad influence some Eu­ro­pean ideas might have in Japan, he himself began purchasing books with the idea of making them available to able scholars, notably Ishii Shōsuke who he employed beginning in the late 1780s, for the benefit of the state.3 Dutch studies moved from a field based on the oral transmission of knowledge and hands-on training (especially in the case of doctors) during the seventeenth and early eigh­teenth centuries to one reliant on Dutch books, and monographs based on those books, by the end of the century, and scholars clamored to get the most recent publications. When one bibliographer asked a Dutch studies scholar in 1821 how to determine the worth of Eu­ro­ pean books, he was told “a book is good if it was imported sometime after 1800, and of little interest if it arrived earlier than that. The [medical and scientific] theories in books which have been imported more recently are unknown [in Japan], so, as with everything, new is good.” 4 By 1800, Eu­ro­pean texts ­were necessary for developing skills as a Dutch-­style physician, artist, geographer, or astronomer, and the most up-­to-­date books, though difficult to obtain, ­were actively sought. To fully understand how Dutch studies moved from an oral to a textual endeavor, and how Western books became more available, allowing the field to expand, it is necessary to look at book circulation and production in the context of information change and of network formation. In this regard, two significant points stand out. First, as discussed in the introduction, during the Tokugawa period, remarkable developments occurred in the nature of information; who wanted information; and how that information was collected, or­ga­nized, and made accessible. These developments ­were significant to the growing presence of books in the rangaku world in the mid-­Tokugawa period. Second, Dutch studies created a complex and widespread network that became an “invisible college” or what I call a “virtual kashihonya,” encouraging and facilitating book circulation and production.5

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EU­RO­PEAN BOOKS AND DUTCH STUDIES Rangakusha created comprehensive systems for obtaining books from Eu­rope. Physicians wanted books in order to add Eu­ro­pean medical knowledge to their Chinese and Japa­nese repertoire. Scholars of astronomy, calendrical sciences, botany, zoology, geography, the physical sciences, optics, and mechanical sciences sought both practical knowledge and curious information. Access to and publication of books was strongly connected to learning, productivity, and status within the rangaku field, and they used their complex social network to ensure that rare texts from Holland and unpublished Japa­nese manuscripts based on those texts could reach the hands of all members of the community. Dutch books ­were not easy to obtain, especially in the 1770s when rangaku was taking off. A handful of well-­placed officials, such as Se­nior Censor-­ Inspector Inoue Masashige and Elder Inaba Masanori, imported a handful of medical works in the mid-­seventeenth century. But restrictions on foreign trade after 1640 hampered possibilities for book imports. While the bakufu never directly prohibited the import of Western books on science and medicine, in 1630, it issued a kinsho mokuroku (list of prohibited books) that expressed concerns regarding Chinese translations with references to Christianity. (Chinese was a language accessible to highly educated Japa­nese.) Despite the narrowness of these edicts, the common assumption until the mid-­eighteenth century was, as expressed by Genpaku, that “possessing a Dutch book was not permitted” and that “the language needed for communicating [with the Dutch], both reading and writing, was forbidden.”6 Although the shogun Tokugawa Yoshimune encouraged the study of Western science and medicine in the 1720s and 1730s, this perception largely continued. Historian Liu Jianhui argues that as a combined result of Yoshimune’s support and the Qing emperor Yongzheng’s simultaneous restrictions on Jesuits, Japan replaced China in East Asia at the forefront in the gathering of Western information.7 However, few Japa­nese, including interpreters, could initially read Dutch writing in even a rudimentary way, and, as Genpaku remembered, “[our doctors of Dutch-­style surgery] did not learn by reading the horizontal script (i.e., Dutch), but by watching the Dutch practice hands-on [medicine], and by taking notes on the medicines they heard prescribed.”8 Until the end of the eigh­teenth century, the VOC only recorded a few scientific or medical texts in its imports log each year. Since Dutch studies ­were primarily oral and experiential, the few translations done before the 1770s w ­ ere mostly by official interpreters at the request of the bakufu. Gradually, these interpreters tackled translations on their own, without direction from the government, but outside of the interpreter



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ranks, scholars did not receive such official encouragement and w ­ ere less likely to risk trouble by tackling Western books. Any uneasiness scholars had about the government’s position seemed confirmed when, in the late 1760s, rumor spread that the woodblocks for a miscellany on the West called ­ ere seized and destroyed for the Oranda banashi (Tales of Holland, 1765) w inclusion of the “Dutch” alphabet. Thus, there was little scholarly demand for Dutch books until the late 1700s. In addition, most books ­were too expensive for buyers other than the shogun, daimyo, and some merchants, who occasionally acquired them as novelties. They held little economic promise to inspire Dutch importation.9 The government did attempt to systematize book importation when it created the translation office that Gentaku directed in 1811, but it was not until the 1850s, after the signing of trade agreements with Eu­ro­pean powers, when a specific shop dedicated to sales of Western books opened in Edo that they became more widely available. Books entered the country either as regular cargo (motokata nimotsu) or, much more commonly, as side cargo (waki nimotsu). The latter ­were privately sold or traded by members of the VOC. Collectors could acquire books from the Dutch through so-­called eis requests or kambang auctions.10 However, the ability to order books or attend auctions was usually contingent on affiliations with the bakufu or on daimyo status. This included the shogun’s family, Nagasaki city elders, and individuals within the bakufu’s information management systems, such as daikan, bugyō, and interpreters.11 In fact, there are no VOC rec­ords of anyone other than the bakufu and the Nagasaki interpreters ordering books from the Dutch until 1773, when Satsuma daimyo Shimazu Shigehide received two natural history texts.12 The few books listed in the company logs during these early years ­were primarily scientific and medical texts or reference books. The VOC rec­ords show an emphasis on Dutch almanacs for the bakufu’s Momijiyama bunko library and dictionaries for the interpreters in Nagasaki. The interest in Western almanacs and dictionaries mirrored the demands of the general public for almanacs, dictionaries, gazetteers, and encyclopedias from Japa­nese publishers. But also Western almanacs helped the Astronomical Bureau with calendrical revisions, and dictionaries ­were a necessity for the training of interpreters. The scientific works that show up most frequently in import logs during the seventeenth and eigh­teenth centuries ­were Dodonæus’s Cruydt-­boeck, a Dutch translation of Lorenz Heister’s work on war­t ime surgery, Johann Hübner’s work on geography, and Johannes Jonstonus’s (1603–1675) zoological treatise.13 Though increasingly outdated in Eu­rope, these four texts became the basis for much medical and geo­graph­i­cal study in Japan until the early nineteenth century. Part of

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the attraction of the Dodonæus (1517–1585) and Jonstonus texts ­were their brilliant illustrations. In the early years of rangaku, getting one’s hands on a Dutch medical or scientific text was a matter of social connections, money, and luck. On occasion, books made their way into the country as gifts for government officials or scholars. The company brought books on natural history or natural philosophy to present as official offerings to the shogun or as tokens of friendship for the rangaku scholars who interviewed them when envoys came to the capital. This gift-­giving practice was intended both as a method of solidifying relations and as a display of the brilliance of Western knowledge, and it seems to have begun in 1659 when Chief Factor Zacharias Wagenaer presented a copy of Dodonæus’s Cruydt-­boeck (Herb book) to the shogun Tokugawa Ietsuna.14 While there are official rec­ords of shoguns and interpreters placing book orders with the Dutch as early as 1652, they ­were few during these early years.15 However, not all of the books that entered Japan ­were listed in shipping and order logs as either regular cargo or side cargo. Neither Johann Adam Kulmus’s Ontleedkundige tafelen (Anatomical tables, Amsterdam, 1734) nor Caspar Bartholin’s Anatomia nova (New anatomy), both important for the Kaitai shinsho translation project, are included in the VOC rec­ords, nor is one of the references on which the translators relied. Some omissions may have been an oversight. For example, although physician Carl Thunberg presented five books to Japa­nese visitors when he made a trip to Edo in 1776, two of them are not listed in the Dutch import rec­ords.16 After the turn of the century, a greater variety of books began to enter the country, though there would be an interruption in the early 1810s when the Napoleonic Wars disrupted Dutch trade. In 1800, the interpreters’ board received copies of Carl Linnaeus’s Natuurlyke historie of uitvoerige beschryving der dieren, planten en mineraalen (Natural history) and even J. F. Martinet’s Katechismus der natuur (Catechism of nature, Amsterdam, 1789), a children’s book on natural history and natural philosophy with religious undertones.17 Some interpreters began to build personal collections and a modest library accumulated in the interpreters’ office just outside the bridge leading to Deshima. Although the majority of imported books still tended to be linguistic in nature, from this time on, scholars and officials ­were able to acquire a wider offering of scientific and medical texts. There was also a tradition of smuggling goods, known as nukeni, and so it is possible that some books made their way to Japan clandestinely. However, the increasing availability of Dutch books at the end of the eigh­teenth century might more accurately be considered the result of “quasi-­legal” activity not formally sanctioned.18 Thunberg remarks in his journal that sail-



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ors sold books secretly to the Japa­nese for a profit.19 These sales ­were not part of any plans to actively promote the importation of books by the Dutch, and many imported books ­were not listed in the Dutch logs. Just as scholars had initially been leery of working with Dutch books without explicit bakufu permission, these transactions by the Dutch may not have been recorded for fear of confiscation (by the Japa­nese or the VOC). When revealed, Japa­nese perpetrators ­were typically dealt with much more severely than the Dutch in matters of illicit trade. For example, authorities sentenced a ju­nior interpreter named Namura Keisuke to death when they discovered a letter from him to the Dutch regarding the smuggling of medicine.20 Nevertheless, beginning as early as Engelbert Kaempfer’s term as chief factor at the end of the seventeenth century, the VOC policed its own ­ ere brought importation of books for fear of losing its trading rights.21 Texts w to Japan as the personal effects of Dutch individuals and w ­ ere given as gifts or sold to the Japa­nese. And, members of the VOC crew ­were allowed a limited amount of personal trade. However, the cost of books in Eu­rope was usually far beyond the means of a common sailor to turn this type of quasi-­ legal sales into a side business. Social connections to Nagasaki interpreters and Dutch traders were indispensable for scholars wanting to gain access to Eu­ro­pean books. Official interpreters ­were in charge of compiling purchase requests for the VOC. They w ­ ere also best situated to buy Dutch books since they w ­ ere the first line of potential consumers in quasi-­legal transactions. In the late eigh­teenth century, the head interpreter Yoshio Kōzaemon was one of the first in Japan to compile a private library of Dutch books and is the only customer mentioned by name in the VOC’s transaction rec­ords who was not a high-­ranking official or a daimyo.22 When a chief factor named Olphert Elias died in 1771, Kōzaemon purchased several books from the personal effects. He did the same fifteen years later when Jan Fauvarcq, a VOC employee, died.23 Like Kōzaemon, other interpreters, such as Motoki Ryōei, acquired Eu­ro­pean books through personal relationships with VOC staff. In par­tic­u­lar, Kōzaemon relied upon his friendship with Isaac Titsingh, who frequently equipped Japa­nese acquaintances with books.24 For his part, Titsingh was quite conscious of the mutual benefit of supplying his Japa­nese colleagues with books. In a letter to his friend Sir Joseph Banks in 1797, Titsingh remarks that he gave badly needed texts on “natural history, Botany, Physick & Surgery” to Japa­nese scholars, and in gratitude they presented him with books, information, and natural history specimens in exchange.25 In par­tic­u­lar, he expressed appreciation for Katsuragawa Hoshū’s gifts. Rangaku scholars across Japan established contact with interpreters and the Dutch during the regular journey to Edo made by VOC representatives.

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In the late eigh­teenth century, it was during those interactions that scholars from outside the southern port had their best chance to procure books. It became customary for the Dutch envoy to tote books to Edo every spring, not just as gifts to the shogun, but also to show to the interested scholars who visited them at the Nagasakiya. The Dutch occasionally presented books to well-­respected rangaku scholars as a sign of friendship or to garner favor during their visits to the capital. Hoshū received books in this way in 1776 and 1794.26 Gentaku also was given books by a member of the VOC in 1810.27 VOC representatives also sold books to scholars in Edo. The famous writer and naturalist Hiraga Gennai purchased several books from a Dutch physician visiting Edo in 1761. Gennai’s story is illustrative of the importance that friendship played in these early acquisitions of books. Gennai met the Dutch doctor at a drinking party at the Nagasakiya. When the doctor challenged Japa­nese guests to open a bag that had been secured with a “puzzle-­ lock,” Gennai was the only one able to do so. From that moment, Gennai and the doctor became fast friends.28 He was then able to acquire books through his new friend. Gennai eagerly anticipated the arrival of the Dutch to Edo every spring as an opportunity to augment his book collection, purchasing a total of seven on these occasions during the 1760s.29 Other Edo scholars used the Dutch visits similarly. For instance, Gentaku bought a geo­ graph­i­cal work and atlas from a VOC member in Edo in 1787.30 The keys to success in acquiring books during the Dutch visits to Edo ­were threefold: gaining access to the Dutch, establishing a relationship, and having adequate funds. Access usually entailed an invitation and permission from the bakufu to visit the Nagasakiya, where the Dutch stayed. The bakufu kept a close eye on this. However, in the 1760s, Hiraga Gennai was able to visit the Nagasakiya without official permission. By the 1790s, the government grew increasingly strict, and it became more difficult to arrange unofficial visits. However, those with rank might be able to arrange a secret interview (naibun). Gennai’s many invitations to visit the Dutch ­were based on relationships that he had established with high ranking rangaku scholars in the area and with the interpreters who accompanied the VOC. Once he had manipulated his official contacts to gain access to the Dutch, his ability to develop a friendship with the Dutch physician made it possible to trade various Japa­nese items for the Dutch books. Despite the high cost of Dutch books, they w ­ ere so dear to Gennai that, as a colleague reported, he “sold off his family’s bedding” in order to purchase Johannes Jonstonus’s book on quadrupeds in 1768.31 Like his friend Gennai, Sugita Genpaku also went to great lengths to acquire books when visitors came from Nagasaki. When an interpreter arrived in 1771 hoping to sell copies of Johann Adam Kulmus’s



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Ontleedkundige tafelen (Anatomical tables) and Caspar Bartholin’s Anatomia nova (New anatomy), Genpaku convinced his lord to provide the funds. On another occasion, Genpaku claimed to have offered twenty barrels of saké for a book.32 Some scholars made costly trips to Nagasaki in order to get Dutch books from the VOC or the interpreters. Edoite Maeno Ryōtaku was able to purchase several texts from an interpreter, including Kulmus’s anatomical text, Steven Blankaart’s Nieuwe hervormde anatomie (Newly revised anatomy), Ambroise Paré’s Brieve collection de l’adminstration anatomique (The collection of the anatomy administration in Paris), and Pieter Marin’s Dutch-­ French dictionary. Another resident of the capital, the artist Shiba Kōkan, received three books from Titsingh while in Nagasaki.33 The Osaka saké brewer and rangaku patron Kimura Kenkadō, an avid bibliophile, made several trips to Nagasaki in order to augment his collection. Not only did he acquire Dutch books such as the Halma dictionary, but he also purchased various banned Chinese books related to Christianity from Chinese interpreters.34 Physician Udagawa Yōan too placed orders directly with the Dutch for books while in Nagasaki. Of course, even when one had the social capital to manipulate opportunities for the purchase of a book, there was still the question of economic capital. Merchants and daimyo patrons who ­were tied into the Dutch studies network sometimes helped, and, as indicated, rangaku scholars could be ingenious in generating the funds for books. However, regardless of whether Dutch books ­were received as gifts or purchased, social capital played a tremendous role. Luck, ingenuity, and hard work in establishing social ties with the Dutch and other key individuals was a must for any scholar hoping to obtain Dutch books. A BOOK NETWORK Because the window for obtaining Dutch books was so small, and also because the cost of books was often prohibitively high, rangaku scholars circulated prized Dutch texts via their social network. Even well-­placed interpreter-­scholars in Nagasaki w ­ ere forced to request books from colleagues outside the port city. Shizuki Tadao, for example, wrote a letter to his friend Gentaku, inquiring “Could you send me any book you have there that describes stimulating and interesting theories of physics or astronomy, whether in Chinese or a Western language?”35 The network connected the private libraries of rangaku scholars and enthusiasts together in a web that stretched from Nagasaki to Edo, between cities and into the countryside, making sure that scholars could acquire

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Dutch books regardless of location and financial means. In essence, this network functioned as a “virtual kashihonya.” True kashihonya of the Tokugawa period w ­ ere “renting libraries” created by enterprising booksellers in the late seventeenth century in response to a growth in the reading public. Unfortunately, those kashihonya did not cater to scholars, especially ones studying rangaku, because there was little money in it. Rangaku scholars purposely forged ties with collectors of Dutch books and pulled them into the network. Social and cultural capital became means to Dutch books. In several ways, the rangaku “virtual kashihonya” functioned like the “invisible college” through which natural historians and natural phi­los­o­phers of early modern Eu­rope passed the latest knowledge. In early modern Eu­ rope, new scientific knowledge was generated so quickly that it outstripped the speed with which formal mediums could make it available. Consequently, informal routes, such as correspondences, coffee shops meetings, and salon parties, became the most expeditious means to learn of recent discoveries and information. Informal exchanges solidified social ties within the community, creating an “invisible college.”36 In the case of rangaku, the growing demand for new knowledge outstripped the availability of books and the capacity of scholars to pay for those books by the end of the eigh­teenth century. Before the 1770s, Dutch books ­were a collector’s item, and the few individuals who studied them ­were in ser­vice to the bakufu, typically as officials in the Astronomical Bureau or as Nagasaki interpreters. Government astronomers, physicians, and interpreters had access to either the bakufu library or the Dutch directly, but those avenues ­were not available to most Japa­nese. After the publication the Kaitai shinsho generated increasing interest among scholars, especially in Edo, this virtual kashihonya helped meet growing demands for books. The dynamics of the network w ­ ere shaped by the revolutionary changes in information discussed earlier. Scholars used the postal system to maintain contact with those who could get them books; they utilized salons and private academies to establish social bonds; they published (in both printed and manuscript form) treatises on what they learned from Dutch books; and, of course, the Tokugawa zeal for accumulating libraries meant that there ­were a variety of useful private collections. The network’s informal lending system connected together many of those private collections. In fact the celebrated project to translate the Dutch version of Johann Adam Kulmus’s Ontleedkundige tafelen (Anatomical tables) that resulted in the Kaitai shinsho publication is an early example of book sharing among rangaku scholars. Two leaders of the project, Sugita Genpaku and Maeno Ryōtaku, each had a copy of Kulmus. However, the group also pooled nine other Dutch medical books from its members to use as references. Genpaku



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supplied Caspar Bartholin’s Anatomia nova (New Anatomy, Latin version) and Volcher Coiter’s Externarum et interarum principalium humanis corporis partium tabulae (External and Internal Principles of the Human Body with Tables, Latin version), and Ryōtaku had Ambroise Paré’s De Chirurgie ende Opera van alle de Werken (The Book of Surgery) and Steven Blankaart’s Anatomia practica rantionalis (The Practice of Rational Anatomy). Katsuragawa Hosan made available copies of Anatomia nova, Thomas Bartholin’s Anatomia, ofte, Ontledinge des menschelijken lichaems (Anatomy, or the Dissection of the Human Body), and Steven Blankaart’s Nieuwe hervormde anatomie (Newly Revised Anatomy). Nakagawa Junan, Ishikawa Genjō, and shogunal physician Yamawaki Tōmon brought copies of Gerardus Blasius’s Anatome animalium (Animal Anatomy), Muskel-­anatomie (Human Anatomy), and Johan Vesling’s Konstige ontledingh des menschelijken lichaems (Dissection of the Human Body), respectively, to translation ­meetings. Late-­eighteenth-­century rangaku scholars ­were aware that the field’s success depended on the sharing of texts, and leaders urged others to work together to make texts widely available. Sugita Genpaku wrote, “You could say that I have collected many Dutch books over the years, and that that portion of my library has become large. . . . ​I have not read all the books ­myself, but if I lend them to my students and the students of others, those students will uncover rangaku as much as I would.”37 Conversely, Ōtsuki Gentaku urged young scholars to look for access to the Western books held in the personal libraries of wealthy families and other scholars. He even provides readers with a list of texts that he knew to be in private collections across Japan.38 While incomplete, the list includes twenty-­n ine books grouped in categories such as astronomy, obstetrics, geography, surgery, medicine, and h ­ orse care.39 Gentaku’s eagerness to aid researchers with his library is indicated in another of his publications when he wrote that he kept the rare multivolume dictionary on his shelf “available to students and scholars for checking their translations or references.” 40 The private collections of which he wrote ­were primarily those of important scholars, daimyo, and wealthy merchants, though many interpreters amassed personal ones as well. The motivations for creating these libraries ranged from simple curiosity of Western exotica, as was the case with daimyo Mōri Takashina, to the active promotion of Western science and medicine, as was the case with Sugita Genpaku. Scholars’ collections could be found across Japan, but the better ones tended to be in Edo, Osaka, and Nagasaki. In addition, domainal lords known as ranpeki, “Dutch addicts,” collected books and ­were often willing to loan them to vassals or to others as an act of patronage. Several daimyo asked for translations in return for book loans, a trade of economic capital for cultural capital. The fact that many

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of them kept their Dutch texts at their mansions in Edo meant that scholars in the capital had ample opportunity to borrow. On the other hand, the most important merchant libraries w ­ ere in the Osaka area. However, since many rangaku students from the Osaka area traveled to academies in the capital, Edo scholars w ­ ere able to create ties to Osaka that allowed them access to the merchants’ collections. Like daimyo, merchants also asked for translations of Dutch passages in exchange for their loans. Gentaku’s spirit for breaking down what he saw as secretive and selfish scholarly traditions can be seen in the rangaku community’s active promotion of book sharing. Having spent years and great expense developing a collection, Sugita Genpaku’s books ­were so dear to him that he fireproofed a store­house in which to protect them from the conflagrations that often razed sections of Edo. Yet, despite their value, Genpaku and his adopted son Hakugen often loaned Dutch books to colleagues or promising disciples. For example, Genpaku eagerly provided his prized copy of Algemeene geographie (General geography) by Johann Hübner (1668–1731) to Gentaku and Hoshū for their research in 1794,41 the latter subsequently using it as reference in his revision of Shiba Kōkan’s Chikyū zenzu (Complete maps of the world). After Genpaku’s death, his son Hakugen followed suit and loaned various Eu­ro­pean books on internal medicine to Udagawa Genshin, who used them to write the widely read Oranda naikei ihan teikō (Medical examples in outline, 1805), a simple text on anatomy, physiology, and pathology, and its companion volume Naishō dōbanzu (1808).42 As one of Genpaku’s most admired students, Gentaku had perhaps greater access than anyone outside the Sugita family. One of the more important works he borrowed was a copy of Lorenz Heister’s book on wounds and surgery.43 Recognizing its value, Genpaku originally requested the book from Yoshio Kōzaemon when the Nagasaki chief interpreter visited Edo in 1767. Although VOC rec­ords show the interpreters’ board imported Heis­ ere ter’s book in 1757, 1761, and 1762, most rangaku scholars and doctors w unaware of it.44 When Genpaku’s progress in translating the book slowed due to other commitments, he selflessly encouraged Gentaku to take the book and complete the work.45 Once finished, Gentaku circulated the final translation, Yōi shinsho (New treatise on the treatment of wounds), as a hand-­ written manuscript (shahon) in 1792. Thus, in an effort to increase Western knowledge in Japan, Heister’s book circulated among three members of the Dutch studies network. Scholars widely admired Kōzaemon, who provided the Heister text to Genpaku, for his eagerness to advance the field through book loans and gifts. He regularly provided texts to some of the six hundred students he was reported to have trained at his Dutch-­style medical school in Nagasaki.46 In addition,



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Kōzaemon made gifts of Engelbert Kaempfer’s History of Japan to Hirado daimyo Matsura Seizan and presented other rare books to a daimyo from Ise for research by scholars in their domains.47 Gentaku, the beneficiary of Kōzaemon’s and Genpaku’s generosity in lending books, eagerly did the same for others. Soon after purchasing Nieuwe Atlas, Inhoudende de vier Gedeeltens der Waereld (New atlas, showing the four corners of the world) by J. Covens and C. Mortier from a Dutch physician in 1787, he passed it on to illustrator and geographer Shiba Kōkan as a reference for Chikyū zenzu (Complete maps of the world).48 He also supplied Nederduits woordenboek to the group of scholars he encouraged to compile the Haruma wage dictionary in 1796.49 Gentaku, like all with libraries, was regularly contacted by other scholars with requests of book loans.50 Similarly, Hiraga Gennai invited others to use his library. Gentaku, Shiba Kōkan, Motoki Ryōei, Nakagawa Junan, Katsuragawa Hoshū, and Morishima Chūryō regularly consulted Gennai’s collection, which included works by Rembertus Dodonæus, Johannes Jonstonus, Ambroise Paré, Emanuel Sweerts, and Jan Swammerdam, for their translations and treatises.51 Perhaps even more than money, social ties ­were the capital that gained scholars access to books. Thus, if those ties ­were damaged, book collectors could restrict the availability to their libraries. For example, though he did so for others, Genpaku unfortunately seems to have refused to loan Hübner’s geo­graph­i­cal texts to Yamamura Saisuke. Saisuke hoped to use it for his revision of Sairan igen (Reports on a foreigner’s story, 1713), the celebrated five-­volume world geography compiled by Arai Hakuseki.52 Despite success in circulating Eu­ro­pean books throughout the community, most scholars did not possess the financial capital to build large libraries. So it was important to their field to forge bonds with those who did and embrace nonscholars as members of their network. Wealthy merchants and daimyo, who became enthusiastic collectors of myriad objects during the Tokugawa period, purchased Western books for various reasons. Most notably, they held unfamiliar content and had beautifully detailed illustrations. While he had a respectable collection of Dutch books himself, Gentaku was not a wealthy man, and, as we have seen, frequently depended on his social connections to obtain books. Gentaku initially established these contacts when he passed through the Kansai region en route to Nagasaki in 1785, but strengthened them by subsequently training many students from Osaka at his academy in Edo. Among the Osaka merchants who supplied him and others throughout Japan with Eu­ro­pean texts ­were the saké brewer Kimura Kenkadō, the moneylender Yamagata Shigeyoshi, and pawnshop owner Hazama Shigetomi. Kenkadō had a vast library with an extensive collection of Dutch books on subjects such as herbology and medicine. Like

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Genpaku and Kōzaemon, the freedom with which he lent books helped him garner a reputation as a patron of learning.53 The famous poet and writer Ōta Nanpo, for example, marveled at the frequency with which Kenkadō in Kyoto and Morishima Chūryō in Edo sent books to each other.54 Yamagata Shigeyoshi, another merchant in the Osaka area, was able to amass a library of 504 books, spending a considerable amount on his thirteen Dutch texts.55 Shigeyoshi’s book log indicates that he loaned his books to a number of rangaku scholars in the Osaka area.56 His most significant loan was M. Noël Chomel’s massive Huishoudelijk Woordenboek (Home encyclopedia) to Gentaku, who recommended that the central government support its translation for the benefit of the country.57 Finally, Hazama Shigetomi also was able to use his profits from his Osaka pawnshop to finance an interest in Dutch studies. Like Kenkadō and Shigeyoshi, he built a library that included Eu­ro­pean books. Shigetomi opened it to local scholars, but most frequently to Hashimoto Sōkichi, who pursued experiments with electricity based on those texts.58 In addition to these merchants, the libraries of daimyo and high bakufu officials w ­ ere crucial to the network of book-­lending. Five daimyo—­Kutsuki Masatsuna of Fukuchiyama domain, Okudaira Masaka of Nakatsu domain, Shimazu Shigehide of Satsuma domain, Matsura Seizan of Hirado domain, and Mōri Takashina of Saeki domain—­were particularly important during the late eigh­teenth and early nineteenth centuries, when the rangaku network expanded at its most rapid rate. Surprisingly, the conservative shogunal councilor Matsudaira Sadanobu also ordered books used by Dutch studies scholars. Kutsuki Masatsuna, who has already been mentioned numerous times in this book, was both patron and scholar of Dutch studies. Under the bakufu’s alternate attendance edict, daimyo ­were required to spend half of their time in Edo. When in Edo, his attendance at Katsuragawa salon gather­ ings led to relationships with several scholars to whom he lent books. In addi­tion to the financial support that he offered Gentaku, Masatsuna also occasionally supplied him with books. In return, Gentaku helped the Dutch-­ illiterate Masatsuna with translations of foreign texts. Gentaku was especially helpful in assisting Masatsuna’s research for Taisei yochi zusetsu (Illustrated explanations of Western geography, 1789). Gentaku likely borrowed the copy of Johannes Jonstonus’s natural history, which he consulted for works such as his materia medica Rikubutsu shinshi (New treatise on six things), from Masatsuna. Though outdated in Eu­rope by the end of the eigh­teenth century, Jonstonus’s text had a profound impact on rangaku scholars such as Gentaku. The book’s route through the network is illustrative. In the 1780s, VOC member Cornelis Chastelein gave it to Katsuragawa Hoshū as a gift. Hoshū then loaned it to the curious



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Masatsuna, who shared it later with Gentaku.59 Gentaku would use it repeatedly for his treatises on Eu­ro­pean knowledge. In this way, the book network functioned to further the field of study. Convinced that it would strengthen their domains, other daimyo encouraged their vassals’ research on the West by purchasing books. Okudaira Masaka immediately passed several Eu­ro­pean medical texts, such as Practijk der medicine (The practice of medicine), to his vassal the highly respected rangaku scholar Maeno Ryōtaku, after purchasing them and affixing his seal.60 Other daimyos with noteworthy book holdings ­were Shimazu Shigehide, Matsura Seizan, and Mōri Takashina. Shigehide used friendships with Titsingh and Siebold to acquire books on Western herbology, zoology, and calendrical studies.61 Seizan’s Kan’ondō library in Edo and Mōri Takashina’s Saeki library in Bungo, contained thousands of Japa­nese and Chinese texts, but also included various rare Western volumes imported through the ­ ere so zealous about Dutch.62 Several daimyo and merchant book collectors w their hobby that they occasionally gathered to admire each other’s rarities.63 Though he despised the so-­called Dutch-­addicted daimyo, whose activities he regarded as frivolous, and cared little for the beauty of the foreign tomes, bakufu councilor Matsudaira Sadanobu believed that Eu­ro­pean science and medicine held practical benefits for the nation and initiated the purchase of several texts. He was especially interested in books that could improve agricultural output, animal husbandry, mineral production, and national defense. Sadanobu made his and the central government’s collections of Western books available to rangakusha Ishii Shōsuke, Morishima Chūryō, Maeno Ryōtaku, and Motoki Ryōei in hopes that their research might benefit the country and ultimately the government.64 MANUSCRIPTS AND THE PERIPHERY Just as rangaku scholars depended on the network to overcome the dearth and expense of Eu­ro­pean books, they also relied on it to circulate their own translations and treatises. As discussed earlier, books became everyday commodities during the Tokugawa period due to increased urbanization and commercialization. However, the number of rangaku texts printed by large publishers relative to the number of written manuscripts was small. Some publishing ­houses avoided rangaku works, because they (or the booksellers’ guild) feared that the government would have po­liti­cal objections.65 But, for the most part, publishers did not want to invest in cutting woodblocks and in printing scholarly works with a small readership. Large publishers, such as Suwaraya Ichibei in Edo, occasionally took a financial risk with a book that had a potential market outside the Dutch studies community. Such was the case with Chūryō’s Kōmō zatsuwa (Red-­hair

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miscellany, 1787) and Gentaku’s Ransetsu benwaku (Clarification of misunderstandings about the Dutch, 1797), both general guides to curious information about Eu­rope. Once in a while, scholars found backers to underwrite portions of the publisher’s costs. Father and son Udagawa Genzui and Udagawa Genshin published their influential medical texts Seisetsu naika senyō (Western internal medicine, eigh­teen volumes, 1793–1810) and Oranda naikei ihan teikō (Medical examples in outline, 1805), respectively, in this way when a daimyo took an interest in their research.66 Finally, private publications ­were a possibility. As a daimyo, Kutsuki Masatsuna had the means to publish his works on geography and numismatics.67 Kimura Kenkadō, a wealthy saké brewer, paid for private printings of Gentaku’s pharmacopeia Rikubutsu shinshi (New treatise of six things) and his own Ikkaku sankō. Gentaku also managed to privately publish works through his school.68 However, private printings ­were small runs and only intended for close friends and colleagues. Lack of publishing opportunities and limited print runs made the network necessary, and members of the community found alternative ways to proliferate texts. For example, the cost of producing the twenty-­seven volume Haruma wage was so high that the publisher printed only thirty copies. However, Osaka merchant Yamagata Shigeyoshi purchased two sets at great cost with the intention of loaning them to young scholars in Osaka.69 Gentaku had initiated the compilation of the dictionary, encouraging students and friends to take on the challenge. Once completed, Ishii Shōsuke gave Gentaku one of the precious copies. Despite the im­mense size of the dictionary, several of Gentaku’s students hand copied it to keep as a reference.70 The circulation of personal and hand-­copied manuscripts (shahon) was commonplace and ultimately more important than the increase in publishing h ­ ouses during the Tokugawa period. Like Eu­rope’s “invisible colleges,” personal ties ­were vital for rapid information flow. Japa­nese scholarship had a tradition of manuscript circulation.71 Manuscript copying had helped support the practice of “secret transmission” (hiden) in education and was common among Dutch interpreters in the seventeenth century.72 However, during the eigh­teenth century, and especially after the Kaitai shinsho appeared in 1774, hand-­written copies of texts on medicine, geography, astronomy, and language w ­ ere exchanged quite freely throughout the rangaku ­ ere precious within the community, and some network.73 Manuscripts w seemed to have preferred to keep their works in that form.74 Ryōtaku, Hoshū, and many other leading scholars made their research available exclusively in manuscript form.75 Even books that ­were eventually published might circulate as manuscripts for years before making it to print, such Gentaku’s treatise on tobacco.76 Similarly, at least ninety manuscripts of



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Shizuki Tadao’s Sakoku-­ron (1801) had been copied, and many of those put in circulation throughout the network, long before there was a failed attempt to publish in 1850.77 Collectors of Western books, such as Kenkadō, ­were interested in obtaining hand-­copied rangaku manuscripts, and, once they did, made them available to friends and colleagues.78 The importance of hand-­copied manuscripts to the rangaku field cannot be overstated. As we will see, Dutch books and rangaku texts circulated until they reached outside the major cities into peripheral areas. In addition, the circulation of manuscripts and the copying of those manuscripts ensured that scholars and patrons could get the most recent work with minimal wait. Often scholars did not wait for requests, but actively sent their manuscripts through the network as soon as possible. There was deep faith in the network’s efficacy. Indeed, the network extended throughout much of Japan, and beginning in the late eigh­teenth century, Dutch learning spread beyond cities to peripheral regions. Those living in local towns and villages who wanted to stay current in the field needed to maintain strong relationships with individuals in the large cities. Until the 1850s, they ­were dependent on those network ties to obtain both published works and hand-­copied manuscripts. These relationships typically began on yūgaku study trips. Students feverishly copied books from their teachers’ libraries while in the cities.79 However, once home, they found it crucial to maintain relationships with scholars in the cities through correspondence and occasional travel in order to keep abreast of the latest information. Scholars in the countryside frequently requested that their colleagues in the cities send books and manuscripts, and once the items arrived, they ­were circulated through local networks of scholars and physicians. Physicians Nagasaki Kōsai and Takahashi Keisaku (1799–1875) serve as examples of this. Kōsai traveled from the Hokuriku region, far from Japan’s scholastic and publishing centers, to Edo in order to study rangaku and Western-­style medicine in 1817. He eventually became a student at the Shirandō academy. While it was possible to order books directly from publishers at great distances, when Kōsai returned home, he found that the pro­ cess went much more smoothly with Edo contacts to make the purchase and shipping arrangements. He therefore repeatedly wrote to Gentaku to ask for assistance in the matter. In addition to commercially published books, Gentaku sent Kōsai hand-­copied manuscripts that had recently appeared in the capital.80 In fact, Gentaku and other teachers often assigned their students the task of hand-­copying manuscripts in order to send them to distant scholars. In a letter to Kōsai in 1820, Gentaku writes, “You asked that Sugita [Genpaku’s] Rangaku kotohajime (The dawn of Dutch studies, 1815) be

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copied and sent to you. I got to it immediately and [my students] have finished [the copy]. So I have included it [with this letter]. Please send money for the ink. . . . ​In addition, when the biography of Ranka (Maeno Ryōtaku) and other early [rangaku] teachers is complete, I will send it.”81 Kōsai even made an indirect request for a book loan from the Sugita library through Gentaku. Historian Katagiri Kazuo, who has compiled extant correspondences between the two, lists twenty-­five occasions when Gentaku sent Kōsai letters that contained books, manuscript copies, or essays.82 Various historians have shown that intellectuals and doctors who ­were interested in Dutch studies developed their own local and regional networks in towns far from major metropolises during the nineteenth century. They used these networks to share information and resources, including books and manuscripts that they obtained from the cities. Ellen Nakamura, in par­ tic­u­lar, provides a glimpse of how a circle of scholars in Kōzuke interacted with each other, trading knowledge in order to both stimulate each other’s minds and develop practical ideas to benefit their local community. In addition to the purchase and exchange of books, they remained connected to those outside the locality through letter-­writing, traveling drug peddlers, and lectures by visiting scholars.83 Interestingly, scholars outside the large cities also formed interregional connections, often with fellow students from other locations who they met while attending schools in cities. They thus developed an intellectual web that stretched across Japan. The rec­ords of physicians Takahashi Keisaku and Itō Chūtai show regional and interregional networks in action.84 Al­ ere active in a slightly later period than has though Keisaku and Chūtai w been discussed, the local circulation of books in which they ­were involved was, presumably, similar. In 1831, Keisaku traveled from the Kōzuke domain to Edo for training in Western medicine under the famous Takano Chōei (1804–1850). He remained at Chōei’s academy for six years, eventually becoming its principal. He then returned to his home village of Yoko’o within the Kōzuke domain, but he remained in close contact with Chōei and other important rangaku figures. Itō Chūtai, on the other hand, was from the town of Saku in the nearby Shinano domain. He received his medical training in Kyoto and Edo at the end of the eigh­teenth century, but, as a successful dry-­ goods merchant, he traveled a lot.85 That gave him opportunities to copy books on his journeys to larger cities. Chūtai, Keisaku, and other physicians in the region worked together to build their individual collections and spread copied manuscripts of rangaku and medical works throughout the region.86 Chūtai’s and Keisaku’s libraries contained tens of hand-­copied texts. They frequently wrote, visited, and exchanged manuscripts with one another.87 Many of these ­were the unpub-



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lished work of former teachers. Chūtai used every trip he took as an opportunity to copy books in others libraries. Keisaku’s book log, which includes entries for the years 1826–1874, lists approximately 102 loans and 66 borrows, mostly of medical texts. Most exchanges w ­ ere done with students or colleagues from the relatively close areas of Ōtsuka, Koitobashi, Shiritaka, and Hiramura. Through these transactions, he was able to copy such works as Tōki Masabōchō’s Iji tōgo and Johannes de Gorter’s Gezuiverde Geneeskonst, of kort onderwijs der meeste inwendige ziekten (1744).88 Keisaku made copies of all the important books he was able to borrow and then quickly made those copies available to others. Interregional ties such as those discussed ­here completed a web of book-­ lending that stretched from the Dutch and their interpreters in Nagasaki to scholars, merchants, and daimyo in major urban areas and finally into peripheral regions. It was not until the Meiji period (1868–1912), when publishing became a more viable outlet for works on Western knowledge, that book circulation and access transformed from a social matter to a commercial one, and, consequently, the network, and thus personal ties, lost much of its importance as a conduit for books. However, for the Dutch studies scholars of the late eigh­teenth and early nineteenth centuries, success was dependent on the social ties of its virtual kashihonya. This virtual kashihonya was like Boullée’s library in that it relied on a “human chain” to make as many books as possible available. The interdependence that book circulation necessitated strengthened bonds within the rangaku field. Book accessibility was reliant on visible face-­to-­face interaction. The rangaku scholars’ awareness of the importance of their connections with one another is indicated by the choices that they made to open up their libraries, write each other regularly, and make frequent visits to libraries in the cities. Networking was a necessity for the field. In her study of cultural circles in the Tokugawa period, historian Eiko Ikegami writes, “Books do more than convey knowledge through text and images; they also bring together various groups of people and fields of knowledge in a dynamic manner.”89 The rangaku network allowed for a broad production and circulation of books, and need for books within the rangaku community demanded the creation, expansion, and continual maintenance of that network. While written culture was an integral aspect of the spread of Western scientific and medical knowledge, its importance went beyond the dissemination of knowledge. It helped establish the social connections necessary for an active intellectual community. The means by which scholars produced and gained access to books reinforced social relationships and kept the lines of communication open throughout the rangaku world.

C H A P T E R

S E V E N

Politicizing the Network Civil Society in the Meiji Period

When Ōtsuki Gentaku died in 1827, he was firmly positioned as the leader of the Dutch studies communities. He left behind a prolific pile of publications, the first rangaku school, tens of students and even more like-­minded friends, an annual New Year’s party, and accomplished sons. While his sons tried to maintain what their father had built, the school eventually faded and the New Year’s feasts ­were soon discontinued. So what was the legacy of Gentaku and his cohorts? Rangaku did not die with Gentaku, but during the subsequent de­cades it did change drastically. Other rangaku academies continued and more ­were created, but after the 1840s, they widened their interests beyond the Dutch medium and focused on yōgaku (Western studies), and whereas medical knowledge had greatly driven Dutch studies during Gentaku’s years, other interests, such as military sciences, predominated later. The numbers of those interested in studying Western knowledge grew tremendously. And, the central and domainal governments finally committed themselves to meaningful importation of Eu­ro­pean knowledge. When the country more fully opened its doors to the world following Matthew Perry’s (1794–1858) arrival in 1854 and the Meiji Restoration in 1868, even greater changes occurred in Japan’s intellectual interest in the West. Despite these changes, the salon sociability of Gentaku and his friends curiously remained and influenced ­modernization. Nineteenth-­century Japan saw a transformation of sociability that had profound consequences for cultural and po­liti­cal development. As chapter 3 revealed, a new form of cultural sociability had appeared in the salon groups and hobby clubs by 1800. The development of this sociability had implications beyond an increased production of culture. It survived into the Meiji 134



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period and informed a new po­liti­cal sociability, which would be important for the creation of public spheres. In considering the long-­term importance of the formation of the rangaku networks, this chapter traces the transition of sociability from the cultural to the po­liti­cal through the Katsuragawa family salon. The significance of sociability has been a topic of considerable interest among historians of the Eu­ro­pean Enlightenment, most of whom argue that a new and pervasive form of sociability helped create a revolutionary social space from which demo­cratic thought sprang. This sociability emphasized pleas­u r­able, egalitarian interaction among individuals of various social backgrounds; it supported sanctuary from everyday social demands, as well as separation from the state;1 and it taught new norms and customs for social interaction, making individuals feel safe even outside their families or corporate milieus. The cultural sociability of the mid-­Tokugawa period did the same thing. In addition, it idealized information exchange, and thus encouraged social interaction and collective endeavor as fruitful activities. Its importance was such that members of cultural and intellectual groups ­were constantly looking to create new sites of sociability through salon meetings, artistic contests, and exhibitions. While the sociability of these groups placed faith in oral interaction, when impeded by distance, they enthusiastically turned to correspondence and travel. Ultimately, cultural sociability carried within it the conviction that interactive discussion was of value to both the lives of those engaged in it and society as a ­whole, and that the importance of culture transcended differences among people. As I have argued in chapter 3, this cultural sociability of Tokugawa Japan was based on the alchemy of play, civility, and faith in information. The play-­element provided flexibility and adaptability while the civil-­element gave structure and resilience. Information was the substance that motivated interaction. One eventual result of this combination was that cultural sociability endured and was transformed into a po­liti­cal sociability.2 By providing shared modes of communication and rules of interaction, civility strengthened the stability of salons. It smoothed out inequalities in social, economic, and cultural capital among individuals. While civility gave a mea­sure of stability that salons might have lacked as noninstitutional spaces, play provided a number of other qualities. Gesaku, kabuki, monogatari, and various religious practices signal Japan’s entrance into a ludic age in the late eigh­teenth century. Society combined play with urban, economic pursuits in new ways. The result was a new social imaginary that reflected a disregard for state social rank and both implicitly and explicitly criticized the government’s promotion of social barriers.3 In so doing, play fostered

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relationships of patronage and mutual aid and led to social networks within cultural fields. Play also inspired creative energy and promoted the flow of information by transforming sites such as salons into “conversable spaces.” 4 THE CULTURAL SOCIETY AND THE ORIGINS OF CULTURAL SOCIABILITY As discussed in chapter 3, salons w ­ ere one of many sites that inhabited Tokugawa Japan’s “cultural society” in which cultural producers used social capital for the purpose of bonding together for common cultural goals. Japan’s cultural society was governed by cultural sociability, and its rise in the eigh­teenth century was dependent upon the information and network revolutions occurring at the same time.5 The cultural society was a realm of reciprocity and trust. Although it did not always lead to civic action, as civil societies do, it did encourage community formation at levels and breadths never before seen in Japan. The cultural society stood autonomous from the government, although the government attempted to co-­opt, coerce, and control it in various ways and at various times. Salons ­were an important part of the cultural society. As we learned in chapter 3, Katsuragawa Hosan began some of the earliest rangaku salon meetings in Edo in the 1750s. Hosan’s salon and his zeal for hosting cultural gatherings ­were passed down from son to son until the Meiji period retaining a mixture of play, civility, and intellect.6 Dutch studies salons had no specific institutional etiquette. However, salon manners ­were based on the basic concepts of aesthetic civility, as defined by Eiko Ikegami that could be found in artistic and literary circles.7 Members of the Katsuragawa salon attended other types of salon gatherings, and they w ­ ere accustomed to operating within this world of aesthetic civility. While there w ­ ere various forms of civility present in early modern Japan, including a civility that reinforced state-­defined social hierarchy, aesthetic civility encouraged detailed attention to politeness without the obligation of official hierarchy, a perfect situation for egalitarian values. Civility offered a common grammar through which individuals of different social backgrounds could interact, and it enabled groups to become “enclave publics,” through which actors escaped everyday social demands.8 The play-­ element within these spaces helped create the fantasy that those actors ­were no longer bound by those everyday social demands.9 Salon-­goers ­were attracted to the “alternate realities” supplied by these types of cultural spaces, where they could shed the Neo-­Confucian social obligations pressed upon them by the state and define their positions based on scholarly and



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cultural interests. Often this switch of ego was marked in the playful world of Tokugawa culture by the use of a so-­called geimei or artistic name. Georg Simmel argues that “sociability is . . . ​the play-­form of association.” In sociability, he sees significant similarities to play, such as “the chase and cunning, the proving of physical and mental powers, the contest and reliance on chance and the favor of forces which one cannot influence.”10 For Simmel, sociability was a form of “artistic play” in which wealth, social position, learning, reputation, and individual talents melted away, and the most important element for all is that they enjoy interacting together on an equal basis. This pure state of sociability would be “an ideal so­cio­log­i­cal world.”11 Of course, purity does not exist in reality, and rangaku scholars did seek to acquire economic resources, social ties, education, and reputation within salons. Nevertheless, the play-­element of the salons led to nonrecognition of these egotistical pursuits and ultimately trust among participants. Guests interacted in less restrained ways, let their “social guards” down, and created social bonds that strengthened the network. As addressed in chapter 3, during the early modern period, playfulness facilitated enthusiasm for intellectual interaction and, to a certain extent, freed the mind to think about issues in novel ways. One example of this was the static electricity machine. These machines w ­ ere not used merely as toys within salons, but eventually became experimental tools. The jovial discussions concerning medical, scientific, and other topics pursued within the Katsuragawa salon paralleled the appearance of scientific jokes in sixteenth-­ century Eu­rope. According to Paula Findlen, these jokes indicated a playfulness that gave science the flexibility to combine knowledge in ways that had not been done before.12 A similar spirit drove interest in natural history in Japan as well.13 In regard to Tokugawa salon gatherings such as those of Katsuragawa, we should recognize a couple more issues that would impact the modern period. First, these sites tended to be liminal and fluctuated between private and public. Salons ­were part of both the “cultural society” and an emergent public sphere. In addition, the levity within the Katsuragawa salon was one element that encouraged guests to see the creation of knowledge as a collaborative project. Within the context of civility and play, these early salon-­goers placed a great deal of emphasis on the importance of exchanging cultural and intellectual knowledge. Their salons closely fit Habermas’s definition of “the public sphere in apo­liti­cal form,” or the literary public sphere. Like the literary public spheres of early modern Eu­rope, Tokugawa period salons ­were often the places where scholars tested their ideas or attempted to engage others in solving problems. Cultural sociability valued the pro­cess of developing collective answers to problems.

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TOWARD PO­LITI­CAL SOCIABILITY The Katsuragawa salon continued until the end of the nineteenth century. As Tokugawa rule came to an end and the Meiji period began, it was the meeting place for several famous and influential men, including Katsuragawa Hoshū II (1826–1881), Fukuzawa Yukichi, Mitsukuri Shūhei (1825–1886), Narushima Ryūhoku (1837–1884), Yanagawa Shunsan (1832– 1870),14 Kanda Takahira (1830–1898), Utsunomiya Saburō, Ishii Kendō (1840– 1882), and Ōtsuki Fumihiko.15 It consisted of journalists, writers, translators, an economist, and a chemist. These individuals played a tremendous role in shaping the general public’s new image of the West and of Japan itself. Like its earlier version of the 1750s, this group of salon friends first gathered in order to translate Western documents. Katsuragawa Hoshū II, Yanagawa Shunsan, and Kanda Takahira began meeting in 1855 to work on the Oranda jii (Collected Dutch words), an expansive Dutch-­Japanese dictionary.16 Over the next few years, others, some of whom w ­ ere colleagues at the government translation bureau, joined the gatherings. Conversation dealt with science, politics, economics, education, and the West. And like the earlier salon meetings, there existed a belief that the interactive space of the salon could benefit the country. THE USEFULNESS OF PLAY: NARUSHIMA RYŪHOKU While many discussions dealt with issues that ­were ultimately of serious importance, these newer salon gatherings continued to thrive on play. Ōtsuki Fumihiko, Gentaku’s grandson, touched on this in a speech that he gave to the Tokyo Educational Discussion Group (Tōkyō-­shi kyōiku enzetsu), titled “The misuse of characters” (moji no goyō) in 1901. He remarked on the difficulties that his salon group met when coining new words to translate the flood of scientific and technical texts during the Bakumatsu period. He mused that playing around and joking often led to ingenious ways to overcome these difficulties. In addition, he remembered that a certain amount of play-­acting was necessary to convince government officials and daimyo patrons of the naturalness of the new words that ­were created. One example of this was when the group was attempting to determine an appropriate translation for the term “systematic.” They had already determined that the Japa­nese word sōshiki worked for “system,” but they struggled with an equivalent for the adjective form. Joking around, they decided to add the Japa­nese suffix teki solely because it sounded like the “tic” in systematic, not



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because the meaning fit.17 It stuck and is still attached to the ends of nouns to convert them to adjectives. Like the earlier salon meetings, play was an essential element in loosening up conversations and breaking down social pretenses. It helped put participants on equal footing and fostered a belief in the free flow of information. Yanagawa Shunsan points to this in his description of the founding of the salon group: We created a group we called the Tenkōsha, and we made Keisho [Katsuragawa Hoshū II] our leader for its duration. . . . ​[W]hen we met, there was without a doubt unreserved conversation. [Staying up all night,] we greeted the day by candlelight, and the laughter made us forget about sleep. It was a place to converse intimately (shachū), and we established a mood that was altogether jovial. Our style of speech was largely similar to that of a rakugo (comic storytelling) performer, and at the same time there was no one that made the space unreasonably argumentative and no one who made it unpleasant.18

Even the use of entertaining demonstrative tools to pass along knowledge in a playful way continued within the Meiji period salon. The “Father of Modern Chemistry in Japan,” Utsunomiya Saburō, was a member of the Katsuragawa salon and regularly performed experiments for his colleagues’ amusement and education.19 Thus, play, which was so strongly identified in earlier cultural salons with egalitarian and unrestrained information exchange, continued as a central feature. Yet play also shaped and encouraged private interaction to become public. No member of the Meiji era salon exemplified the continuation of that belief in play more than the writer Narushima Ryūhoku did. His activities showed a similar melding of knowledge and play as found among earlier members of the Katsuragawa salon in the late eigh­teenth century. Ryūhoku was introduced to the Katsuragawa salon group by coworkers at the Bansho shirabesho (Bureau for the Translation of Barbarian Books) in the late 1850s. From their first meeting, he and Katsuragawa Hoshū II became fast friends, as both ­were deeply dedicated to making play a significant part of their lives. For years they w ­ ere regular companions to the red-­light districts of Yanagibashi in Edo. Imaizumi Mine (1855–1937), Hoshū II’s daughter, recalled that “whenever [Ryūhoku] visited, we rolled about the ­house with laughter.”20 Ryūhoku was an influential writer of stories, poetry, and news articles, who mixed serious interest in the West and the policies of the government with healthy doses of fun. He was a dogged and playful critic of authorities.21 In 1863, when the government once ordered him into confinement

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for two years, he did not let it interfere with his amusement and invited the Katsuragawa group to meet at his home regularly for En­glish studies (eigaku).22 Ryūhoku had dedicated a corner of his home to his collection of Western coins, firearms, and thermometers, providing the opportunity to turn the room into a conversable space in the same way that the erekiteru had for earlier Katsuragawa salon meetings.23 The play in which he was involved in the salon frequently bled into his writing, and one of his most famous pieces, Itsumadegusa, was a collection of poems, stories, and ideas written by him and his friends during their salon gatherings.24 In other writings, such as Ryūkō shinshi, he applies his playful nature to critical observations of the economic and social policies of the new Meiji government and laments the decline of the Edo plea­sure districts. For Ryūhoku, culture and play ­were inroads to public concerns. He and others, such as members of the Edokai (Edo Society), became extremely worried with the preservation of Tokugawa culture in the face of Westernization and modernization and turned it into a point of public debate in the 1880s and 1890s.25 While these efforts of Ryūhoku and the Edokai might be regarded as antiquarian, their voices w ­ ere new public ones. In this way, cultural concern led to po­liti­cal participation. The imminent historian Maeda Ai provocatively argues that Ryūhoku’s immersion in play at this time liberated his mind in ways that led him to become more critical of the economic and social policies of the new Meiji government.26 Ironically, Ryūhoku labeled himself a muyōsha, a “useless man,” claiming that he had no ambitions beyond fun, and that his work was of no import and should not be taken seriously. This cult of uselessness permeated literary circles of the late Tokugawa period. Yet, Ryūhoku employed the concept of “useless man” to criticize Meiji politicians in the closing pages of his book Ryūkō shinshi, writing: The individuals currently in charge of this country’s government are granted high titles, devour huge stipends; have a variety of powers; and are aflame with pride. Why have they not yet established justice in our country or passed along benefits to the citizens? Haven’t they done nothing more than created a spirit of negligence, as they fail to exert themselves to serve the country?27

In the same book, he reacts in frustration to the Tokugawa government’s censorship in 1835 of a satire of life in Edo, Edo hanjoki, and the later confinement of its author, Terakado Seiken: A while ago, Seiken wrote hanjoki. Government officials of that day, angered by such critical words, confined him to prison and banned his book. They



Politicizing the Network 141 decried his crime, pursuing it to the end. Recent newspapers printed in Western countries give voice to numerous harsh criticisms [of their governments], but the rulers [of those countries] do not charge [the journalists] with crimes, officials do not blame them, cultured men do not grow angry at them, and simple ones do not resent them.28

His anger at this censorship was very personal, since he was confined to ­ ouse arrest for taking the Meiji government to task in various newspaper h articles as editor of the Chōya shinbun. He bitterly asks, “Like my book, newspapers are useless things. Why is so much concern made of them [by the gov­ ernment]?” Interestingly, though his words show little understanding of the potential subversiveness of newspapers, literature, and play, he is ultimately defending the emergent public sphere that those media are generating. THE POWER OF INFORMATION: YANAGAWA SHUNSAN Ryūhoku and his colleagues continued to champion the ideal so prevalent in the cultural sociability developed earlier—­that the free flow of information was necessary to answer important questions and create informed opinions. His salon comrade Yanagawa Shunsan clearly shared this belief for he worked actively to promote it to the public. One historian has remarked that Shunsan “seems from the first to have sensed the inherent power of information.”29 But that sense was not unusual at the time. In fact, as argued earlier in this book, Japan underwent an information revolution in the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries as information became more prized. Shunsan’s cohorts had grown up during a time in Japan when the “power of information” was quite apparent. Shunsan applied this belief to his professional life when he worked at the Tokugawa government’s Institute for Western studies (Kaiseisho) by constructing methods to encourage himself and others to collect information for the benefit of all Japa­nese. He advocated for workers at the bureau to combine each of their social capitals in order to gather the most up-­to-­date knowledge.30 A consciousness of the usefulness of social capital and networking, which had developed in the salon groups of the late eigh­teenth century, is exemplified in his endeavors.31 After leaving the Western studies bureau, he expanded his efforts to make information available to the wider public by creating a magazine and a newspaper. Access to information, he asserted, was essential in a new Japa­nese society that called individuals into public participation. In his editorial notes from the inaugural issue (October 1867) of the Seiyō zasshi (Western miscellany), Shunsan wrote, “We announce [the publication of

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the Seiyō zasshi] to gentlemen everywhere. The intentions of this miscellany (zasshi), which will be like a magasein (a variety of newspapers) that is put out monthly in Western countries, are to gather curious reports from all over the world and to inform of new things. So, please do not hesitate to submit items of translation which would benefit [our] society—­from the scientific, naturally, to various other issues.”32 While Yanagawa’s magazine has been criticized as merely a collection of translated Western sources and while he himself was a Tokugawa loyalist primarily interested in the most cultured and educated segment of the population, this invitation for readers to provide material expresses his hope that the Japa­nese might join the efforts of information sharing.33 This seems an especially poignant act if we remember that at the time of the magazine’s founding, 1867, Japan was in the midst of a transformative and traumatic period as Tokugawa rule was replaced by Meiji rule. In the opening of the magazine, he announces that a few of his friends will be providing translations, and indeed two salon mates, Kanda Takahira and Utsunomiya Saburō, are among them. When his magazine folded after a few months, he started a newspaper called the Chūgai shinbun. This slim newspaper came out every two to three days and focused largely on po­liti­cal issues. In an editorial from spring of 1868, he wrote that newspapers should collect opinions from all over and should attempt to cultivate a large readership among the public (seijin) in order to expose many to these views.34 Once again, he makes apparent his belief in the power of collecting information, a sentiment we investigated in the salon meetings of the late eigh­teenth century. Shunsan’s enthusiasm for newspapers was shared by his salon mate Fukuzawa Yukichi, who comments at length in Seiyō jijō on the ability of newspapers in Western countries to inform public opinion. Notably, Fukuzawa was involved in the most successful of early Meiji period magazines, the Meiroku zasshi. However, Shunsan’s and Fukuzawa’s conviction of the importance of exchanging and spreading information was, in part, born out of the values of cultural sociability found in Tokugawa salons. Newspapers may have been a Western vessel, but the spirit of the flow of information had been percolating in Japan for years. THE POLITICS OF INTERACTION: FUKUZAWA YUKICHI Of all the Katsuragawa salon members, Fukuzawa Yukichi was considered the least playful and most civil by his friends.35 However, intimidated students marveled that when they finally spent time in groups with him,



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Fukuzawa was both casual in manner and courteous to all, no matter what their status, and created an environment wholly suited to the free flow of conversation.36 Their descriptions show him to embody the core elements of Tokugawa cultural sociability. On a philosophical level, Fukuzawa understood the usefulness of play, and, in fact, Maruyama Masao argues that he recognized play to be a substantial part of life, that life was nothing but a game (tawamure).37 However, it was the interactions, discussions, and debates within the salon that seem to have inspired him most. And it was those aspects that he attempted to promote in the public realm. Fukuzawa maintained that the first steps to education should be effective oral discussion before one ever opened a book.38 Of all the members of the salon, Fukuzawa was the most committed to inspiring the nation to understand the value of oral communication and to take mea­sures to create spaces for new forms of interaction. This was, of course, what salon gatherings ­were all about. However, while salons ­were private spaces, Fukuzawa sought to inspire the same esprit in the public sector. The Meiji government’s Charter Oath of 1868 seemed to encourage this with its statement that “all [governmental] mea­sures shall be decided by public discussion.”39 In his famous Bunmeiron no gairyaku, Fukuzawa makes a comment that can easily be regarded as both a description of the attitude of salon-­goers a hundred years earlier as much as a promotion of the public sphere in his own day: Evils [caused by the frictions between men] will naturally be eliminated as man’s knowledge progresses, but the most effective way to eliminate them is through constant social intercourse among men. What I mean is that, if there is any opportunity for two people to come together—­whether it be in business or in academic circles, even in a drinking bout or in a legal dispute—­a nd to express frankly in word and deed what is in their hearts, then the feelings of both parties will be soothed, and each will, in effect, open both eyes and be able to see the other fellow’s merits. The reason intellectuals today are advocating the creation of pop­u­lar assemblies, speech clubs, a better road system, freedom of the press, and the like is that these are of par­tic­u­lar importance as aids to intercourse between men.40

Fukuzawa believed that discussions (and arguments based on informed opinions) ­were a basis for civilization. In the introduction to a pamphlet titled Kaigi-­ben from 1874, he rhetorically asks about the benefit of meetings. In answer he writes, “Exchanging knowledge results in drawing out hidden talents in each other.” 41 He felt that discussion meetings ­were particularly important for developing social ties among scholars, business people, and politicians, but he also believed that knowing how to be an effective oral communicator would benefit every individual and would further the pro­cess

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of civilization (bunmei) in Japan. He writes that, no matter how intelligent, a person is “useless to society unless he can reach problems through group discussions.” 42 Thus, his purpose in this pamphlet is to outline basic rules for holding assemblies and meetings. He introduces the idea of Western-­style speeches (enzetsu) and debates (tōron) and encourages what he calls benron-­kai, or speech get-­togethers, which included free discussion ( jiyū tōgi).43 In Kaigi-­ben, Fukuzawa states that group discussion had been neglected in Japan, and that in order for oral interaction to become more efficient and effective it was necessary to formalize discussion in a similar manner to that of the West. However, the sociability he experienced in salons must have played a role in developing his faith in the value of conversation and debate. After all, jiyū tōgi was essentially the guiding principle of salon meetings. Similar to Tokugawa period salon meetings, the first gatherings of what would eventually become the Mita Enzetsukai debate society began as intimate discussions among approximately ten individuals in a room on the second floor of a home on Fukuzawa’s estate.44 In 1874, the Mita Enzetsukai would become an official or­ga­ni­za­tion with a mission to spread the infrastructure for public discussions at his Keio University. Though he does not mention salon interaction, it is interesting that in his “Remembrance at the 100th meeting of the Mita Enzetsukai,” Fukuzawa sees the roots of the society generating from the activities of Maeno Ryōtaku, Katsuragawa Hoshū, and Sugita Genpaku, all participants in the earliest Katsuragawa salon meetings.45 In addition, Fukuzawa’s conviction that the Japa­nese could develop effective public communication seems to rest on the type of discussion found in salons. For example, he writes, “If individuals of one nation are able to converse freely in the language of their country, there is not the slightest reason they cannot have discussions in the public realm (kōshū).” 46 Thus, while clearly encouraged by what he witnessed in the West, it is quite possible that his belief in the benefits of discussion for the public was inspired in part by his experience at the Katsuragawa ­house. In 1880, Fukuzawa took his interest in public discussion beyond Keio and created a po­liti­cal society called the Kōjunsha, or “Society for Interactive Consultation.” According to its bylaws, its goal was to provide a space for its members to discuss public affairs (seimu). Interestingly, it was one of his Katsuragawa salon mates, Utsunomiya Saburō, who secured the first meeting place for the society, and another salon mate, Mitsukuri Shūhei was one of the first initiated members.47 Similar to the way in which Tokugawa salons served as nodes to generate cultural networks, the society was to have a central headquarters with many regional groups.48 Echoing Yanagawa’s



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intentions for the journal Seiyō zasshi, Fukuzawa hoped that the Kōjunsha would become a central institution for the gathering and dispersal of information and ideas for the benefit of the entire country.49 However, for Fukuzawa, it was essential to discuss and debate news and knowledge orally with others, and in the midst of the Meiji transformation, it was important to do so in an expanding public. In his inaugural speech for the society, Fukuzawa explains that the society’s purpose is to bring together individuals of diverse backgrounds in order to exchange ideas for the betterment of society. This, of course, is how salons worked within the Tokugawa cultural world. While the societal network he was creating would aid the spread of ideas, he notes that once a group of individuals generate answers to problems through their discussions, they can use new communication technology to get their ideas out to more people than ever before.50 In 1881, he built a hall in Ginza to serve as a meeting place for his “Society for Interactive Consultation.” It was a place where prominent journalists, politicians, scholars, businessmen, lawyers, and farmers conversed on matters of public policies and private rights.51 However, Fukuzawa predicted that others would soon want to be involved in this conversation on a national level, increasingly wanting to share their po­ liti­cal opinions and to obtain po­liti­cal power.52 Fukuzawa saw the Keio University debate hall and the Kōjunsha as efforts to craft a public sphere based on examples from the West. Scholars have referred to the debate hall and the Kōjunsha as “a New En­gland meeting-­house” and “an eighteenth-­century En­glish ‘coffeehouse’-­like or­ga­ni­za­tion,” respectively. However, this interpretation ignores the foundation that Tokugawa salon meetings had provided.53 Fukuzawa correctly predicted a growing interest in a po­liti­cal voice among the population. According to the historian Irokawa Daikichi, it is possible that there w ­ ere more than a thousand educational and po­liti­cal groups concerned with public policy popping up across Japan in the 1880s. Irokawa observes, “They provided places where people ­were really able to breathe the air of the new age, to experience true self-­government, and to dream of their future in an ideal Japan. . . . ​If there ­were one thousand such associations in the Meiji era, think of the latent intellectual and cultural potential that must have been present.”54 The socialization of the Japa­nese populace that occurred in salons was a key factor in creating that latent potential. Much of what Fukuzawa advocated, such as the rules of speech outlined in his writings and even the architecture of his hall for public speaking in Ginza, w ­ ere based on examples that he drew from the West. However, he grew up in a culture of discussion and debate based on a sociability informed by civility, play, and informational interaction. Years of wide

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exposure to this culture shaped the Japa­nese reception of Western ideals of public opinion and democracy and helped create new “public men.”55 As public figures, the three individuals discussed in this chapter ­were a mixture of continuity and change. Ryūhoku was interested in Western sciences and new forms of media, but clung to Tokugawa culture; Yanagawa attempted to widen social networks in the interest of creating a larger, informed public sphere, but was a Tokugawa loyalist and placed most of his attention on the well-­educated segment of society; and Fukuzawa worked for the rise of a public sphere, but doubted that the majority of the population was mature enough to be ready for a hand in governance. This mixture of old and new elements was, however, characteristic of the many cultural spaces of public discourse created during the Meiji period. The socialization that occurred in salon meetings such as those attended by Ōtsuki Gentaku a century earlier was one of the most important “old” elements that helped generate those spaces. Rangaku salons ­were key elements of that generation. Jürgen Habermas viewed the salons of Eu­rope as centers for critical discussions of culture that gradually turned into debates on public policy.56 The salons of nineteenth-­century Japan helped effect a similar transformation. Although they rarely aspired to be po­liti­cally active, Japa­nese salons of the late eigh­teenth and early nineteenth centuries ­were inherently subversive. Like the salons of eighteenth-­century Paris described by Habermas, the egalitarian ethos of Japa­nese salons, supported through sociability, ran contrary to government-­sponsored ideology based on strict and legal segregation by class, profession, and region. Salons, and other spaces governed by cultural sociability, created networks that offered an alternative to the social values of the state. And they did that in the midst of crises such as natural disasters, a faltering government, and the threat of Western encroachment. The mixture of civility, play, and information flow in salons and other spaces was powerful because it created an environment of rationality, usefulness, and purpose, and of liberating excitement. This cultural sociability enabled the rise of a new hybrid class of men, who saw their ability to shape a better society as more important than the one that birth or state conferred upon them. As time wore on, cultural sociability within salons became one of several mediums for imagining a stable system of information exchange. Salon gatherings ­were one of many types of events that socialized Japa­nese broadly into the belief that urbane discussions and opinions regarding information, cultural production, and aesthetics mattered. It should be noted that there was a diversity of salons during the Tokugawa period. And, in all likelihood, the perspectives toward public en-



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gagement would have been different for individuals coming from the traditions of nativist or Chinese studies salons. The public sought by members of the Katsuragawa salon, such as Ryūhoku, Yanagawa, and Fukuzawa, was one that emphasized participation outside the state but with active discussion of state issues.57 There ­were also various publics being crafted as well, from the grassroots communitarian form examined by Irokawa Daikichi to an “imperial” form focused on the emperor.58 However, the saturation of sociability throughout the cultural and intellectual world suggests that the values of communication and interaction w ­ ere not exclusive to Dutch/Western studies salons as it permeated other salon groups and eventually shaped the public spaces created during the Meiji period. The sociability that was defined in spaces such as salons helped to create a new public man by the end of the Tokugawa period. Though usually ­housed in private spaces, salons ­were never contained to the private. The cultural and intellectual concerns of salons left those salons in various ways. With the dawn of the Meiji period, members of the Katsuragawa salon helped carve out new public spheres through newspapers and debate and speech clubs. While these activities clearly received inspiration from the new po­ liti­cal environment and the influx of Western ideas concerned with public opinion and po­liti­cal participation, the values on which these activities w ­ ere based was largely visible in the cultural sociability defined earlier. The salons of the mid-­Tokugawa period w ­ ere training grounds for the practice of intellectual and cultural interaction, while the salons of the Meiji period connected that interaction to public debate. The importance of salons as a cultural and intellectual force continued for so long because they filled an institutional vacuum for scholars and artists, both professional and amateur. However, while members of salons, such as Fukuzawa Yukichi, became publicly involved, they contributed to the death of those salons by creating and expanding access to the institutions and organizations that replaced them.

C O N C L U S I O N

The Historical Significance of Community

Despite years of scattered interest in Western knowledge, rangaku was still in its nascency with only a handful of students and teachers in the capital when Ōtsuki Gentaku first strolled across the Nihonbashi Bridge in 1778. Outside Edo, the only other place that could boast a noticeable group of rangaku scholars was the port of Nagasaki, the point of contact with Dutch traders. Nearly fifty years later as Gentaku lay on his deathbed, Dutch studies was in all the Japa­nese domains. One of the most remarkable features of its spread was the development of a highly integrated network of practitioners over such a wide geographic area. Informal and unsystematic as it was, it functioned remarkably well to accommodate its members. This network, which connected the great cultural centers of Japan to each other and to peripheral locales, facilitated the growth of rangaku studies, provided strength to the community of practitioners, and took on a po­liti­cal significance during the closing years of the Tokugawa reign. It was the conduit through which information, friendships, patronage, and various other forms of support continuously flowed. SOCIOLOGY AS A GUIDE While rangakusha would certainly have been unfamiliar with a term such as “network formation,” they ­were certainly conscious of the benefits that strong ties within the community brought them. The network was initiated through spontaneous and casual salon meetings in major cities, which allowed for a diversity of social backgrounds. The mixture of daimyo, samu-

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rai, physicians, and merchants within these salons was conspicuous and flew in the face of government-­promoted class separation. From the walls of the zashiki, rangaku then spread to the cities of Edo, Osaka, Kyoto, and Nagasaki with the help of new private schools that drew students from all over Japan. Many of the earliest schools for Dutch studies ­were linked through personal connections. And it was Gentaku’s academy that wielded the most significant influence at the beginning of the nineteenth century. His students opened their own schools to convey what they had learned to the next generation, and they continued to be interested in what Gentaku was doing at the Shirandō. Travel and correspondence facilitated the spread of Dutch studies to new regions and allowed those living far away from the rangaku centers to remain actively connected. This not only benefited those individuals, but strengthened the community as well. One of the benefits to members of the Dutch studies network was that social ties within their field could be used to offset the difficulties of acquiring Dutch books and the lack of published rangaku texts. Social network formation defined in­ formation flow. Earlier studies concerning the entrance of Western knowledge into Japan have almost exclusively been concerned with Japan’s march to modernization. Therefore, the authors have focused on how well the Japa­nese understood Eu­ro­pean science and medicine, whether they ­were able to accomplish a scientific revolution like Eu­rope’s, and to what degree the science they learned prepared them for the arrival of the Western “barbarians” in the 1850s. However, by moving away from modernist thinking and approaching the growth of rangaku so­cio­log­i­cally, we are able to uncover important aspects of community growth and to identify rangaku’s importance within the Tokugawa cultural landscape. During the late eigh­ teenth and early nineteenth centuries, vital and important network formation strengthened the intellectual community of Japan in general and Dutch studies in par­t ic­u­lar. Rangaku was relatively small compared to some of the other cultural communities, and we should guard against Western bias placing undue import on these scholars merely because they studied Eu­ro­pean knowledge. Nevertheless, its members ­were quite visible and prominent cultural figures across Japan. Thus, the rangaku network not only benefited from the communicative structures of the wider community, but strongly shaped them as well. Several historians of Japan have noted the important growth of intellectual/cultural groups in Tokugawa Japan and the networks that accompanied their growth, but this book reveals the significant role that Dutch studies played within that.

150 Conclusion

As the research of Herman Ooms, Samuel Yamashita, Steven Carter, and Mark McNally has already made clear, application of so­cio­log­i­cal concepts of community formation bares fruit for understanding Japa­nese history. In order to understand a deeper significance of rangaku, Bourdieuian and other so­cio­log­i­cal concepts are invaluable. They provide a framework that reveals structures, motives, and actions, which are not apparent with a traditional analytical approach that depends on formal institutions as its focus. This leads to an assessment of the role of rangaku scholars that is not tied exclusively to their intellectual product, which is often criticized as disappointing. By incorporating the idea of habitus, for example, into the investigation of Gentaku’s life, we move away from a mere biography of a scholar-­physician to a clearer delineation of social factors and financial concerns that influenced his development as a student of rangaku. Applying the concept of habitus goes beyond telling us about just one individual, though. It also provides us a better social understanding of physicians in early modern Japan, an important subject given their ambiguous position in the Tokugawa social schema. Intellectual and cultural developments during the Tokugawa period ­were as much about routes of communication and information exchange as they ­were the books and artwork produced. Research on the interaction between scholars and enthusiasts within the rangaku field proves that the dearth of Western books in Japan during the mid-­Tokugawa period was not as big a hindrance to information flow as might be thought. Libraries ­were made collectively accessible through the network of social ties. Inquiry into these issues is dependent on sources such as journals, correspondences, and even paintings, often ignored by historians of Dutch studies. Given the relationship between information and social ties, they are extremely valuable research materials. A social history of rangaku calls into question claims made by intellectual historians that have dismissed Dutch studies as insignificant because it lacked the numbers similar to other intellectual movements, such as nativism. We can see that, despite numbers, Gentaku and his colleagues created a system of information transfer that strengthened the community beyond its size. However, it should also be noted that this type of network formation was not exclusive to Dutch studies and appeared throughout Japa­ nese society. The type of network formation, indicative of the rangaku field, was similar to that of the communities of nativists, Confucianists, and classicists. The spread of salons, improvements in roads and the postal system, and the appearance of private academies strongly influenced social network formation in all of these cultural fields.



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COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT AND INFORMATION FLOW Community development through patronage, position-­taking, legitimacy, familial reproduction, and educational reproduction affected the way that Western science and medicine ­were studied in Japan during the late eigh­ teenth and early nineteenth centuries. Status and power relations played a significant role in how individuals within the rangaku community interacted with one another, and with other cultural groups, which ­were truly resources for rangaku’s success. Not all rangakusha needed patrons for their studies, but many did. As discussed in the first four chapters, the daimyo of Fukuchiyama Kutsuki Masatsuna, Sendai doctor Kudō Heisuke, ju­nior councilor Hotta Masaatsu, and saké brewer Kimura Kenkadō provided Gentaku patronage in various forms. Without their support, Gentaku may not have been able to take his study trip to Nagasaki, become a Sendai physician, build his academy, publish several of his books, or head up the Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books. These w ­ ere all milestones in his illustrious career, and they w ­ ere all dependent on social ties that he had formed within the rangaku network. It was his accumulation of cultural capital that allowed him to gain that patronage. This was a pattern that was apparent in the relationships of others within the network as well. There was Hashimoto Sōkichi, for instance, who traded translations for the financial support of the doctor Koishi Genshun and the merchant/scholar Hazama Shigetomi in Osaka. Lines of mutual support w ­ ere some of the benefits of the network. Exchanges of capital also helped define power relationships within the Dutch studies community. Although Gentaku would never be as wealthy as a daimyo such as Kutsuki Masatsuna, he became one of the most powerful members of the rangaku network. His accumulated cultural and social capital (in the form of knowledge of Dutch language and science, and of connections to influential individuals inside and outside of the community) reached a level with which few other rangaku scholars could compete. This accumulation of capital became the basis for “position-­taking” within the network.1 Therefore, while mutual support was a key characteristic of the ties in this network, we can assume that there was also competition over capital. Within the rangaku field, position-­taking was necessarily connected with legitimacy. As the previous chapters have shown, the problem of legitimacy was twofold. As a new type of scholarly pursuit, and one that was foreign, Dutch studies was in danger of being considered an illegitimate form of study. Historian Yokoyama Yoshinori tells the story of an event that involved

152 Conclusion

the rangaku artist and geographer Shiba Kōkan and the se­nior councilor Matsudaira Sadanobu in the late eigh­teenth century. Kōkan, who was a friend of Gentaku’s, completed the draft of a geo­g raph­i­cal text based on Dutch sources. Probably worried that the bakufu might disapprove of it, Kōkan submitted the draft to Sadanobu for review before publishing it. Thrilled with the permission to print his work, “Kōkan boasted of his special relationship with the authorities to emphasize his own social position.”2 Yokoyama claims that most Dutch studies scholars would not have bragged in this way. However, Kōkan’s reaction seems quite understandable when we consider the struggle that rangaku faced in order to be considered a valid and legitimate form of study, especially in the face of powerful, state-­endorsed Neo-­ Confucianism. For this reason, as noted in chapter 2, the mere presence of influential officials at the home of such Dutch studies scholars as Gentaku and the interpreter Yoshio Kōzaemon could offer a conspicuous opportunity for legitimacy. The other important aspect of legitimacy was within the field itself. Being viewed by other rangakusha as a legitimate member and deserving of one’s status within the community was essential for position-­taking. Praise and recognition in the forewords and postscripts of rangaku texts, the special oath students took when entering the Shirandō, and the gatherings orchestrated by Gentaku, are all examples of how Gentaku’s elite position was reinforced. Scholars of Dutch studies ­were not merely interested in helping bring new knowledge to Japan and bettering their own minds. They wanted success, and the ingredients for success included more than a good understanding of Western science or medicine. Gentaku’s status was related to his intellectual accomplishments. However, his legitimacy as a leader among rangakusha, and the Ōtsuki family’s continuing position within the field, ­were also reinforced by his family’s involvement in recording the narrative of Dutch studies in Japan. Gentaku’s mentor Sugita Genpaku began writing this story in Rangaku kotohajime (Dawn of Dutch studies, 1815), but ill and near death, Genpaku passed on the duty of finishing his work to Gentaku in 1815. Rangaku kotohajime contained Genpaku’s recollections of how he and his colleagues came to translate the Kaitai shinsho, as well as some brief information on early rangakusha in Edo. Gentaku finished this work for his teacher, but he had already begun documenting the development of Dutch studies in Japan in his Rangaku kaitei. His son, Genkan, added an addendum to the Rangaku kotohajime called Rantō kotohajime that expanded upon Genpaku’s original story. Ōtsuki Nyoden, Gentaku’s grandson, took the story into the twentieth century by collecting and publishing some of Gentaku’s writings in Bansui sonkyō, writing a biography of Gentaku, titled Ōtsuki Bansui, that was sold as part



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of a series aimed at inspiring young men in Meiji Japan, and compiling an extensive chronology of Western studies, Shinsen yōgaku nenpyō, that is still used regularly by historians. The Ōtsuki family effectively took over the role of historians of Dutch and Western learning, and thus preserved Gentaku’s position in Dutch studies for posterity. The Ōtsuki narrative was inspired by familial reproduction. Like others in the rangaku community, Gentaku created strategies to help maintain his family’s cultural and intellectual position in Tokugawa society. He took his sons to meetings with members of the VOC; he sent them both to Nagasaki to study and to mingle with interpreters, the Dutch, and city officials; and he enrolled them in the most prestigious school in Japan, the Shōheikō, the bakufu’s Confucian academy. All of this was designed to give his sons sufficient training in rangaku and Confucianism and to ensure that they could occupy an elite place in the intellectual world. Finally, Gentaku’s pioneering work in rangaku education led to a reproduction of many of his ideals. He created a course of study for rangaku by writing textbooks, operating a central school, and accumulating an impressive library that was available to his students. The result was that his students and his students’ students established schools of their own, spreading Dutch studies beyond Edo. These schools mirrored his academy in many ways and formed an informal network, perpetuating his curriculum. Thus, the way that the network formed/functioned (and, thus, the way that Western science and medicine were practiced) was culturally specific. The formation of the Dutch studies network was governed by social rules and historical developments par­tic­u­lar to the Tokugawa period. The habitus that students of rangaku came with profoundly affected their community, and Tokugawa Japan’s brand of patriarchy, feudalism, and other social relationships helped created a network with characteristics unique to its time and place. The network did change in various ways over the course of time, but Gentaku and his colleagues ensured its strength and stability and enabled it to withstand the grand historical changes of 1850s and 1860s in Japan. AFTER GENTAKU When Gentaku died in 1827, rangaku did take a turn. Most obviously, the focus of study shifted from medicine to military sciences and techniques. This was the result of growing fear of Western encroachment fueled by news of the Opium Wars. As early as the 1790s, some Tokugawa officials became concerned when Rus­sia began pressing Japan for the opening of formal relations. That event was followed by occasional confrontations with the British

154 Conclusion

and Americans. The entrance of a British frigate into the Nagasaki harbor in 1808 was particularly worrisome. In addition, with Gentaku gone and his academy closed, Western studies education was increasingly taken over by the students of the Philipp Franz von Siebold. Despite being expelled from Japan in 1829, Siebold’s presence there had a lasting effect, and two of his students, Itō Genboku and Kō Ryōsai (1799–1846), opened successful rangaku academies that continued Siebold’s legacy.3 Gradually after Gentaku’s death, Dutch studies became Western studies, as interest in other languages increased and the bakufu established the Bansho shirabesho (Office for the Investigation of Barbarian Texts) with departments in French, Rus­sian, and En­glish. Despite these changes, the network that Gentaku helped form and that continued with the work of with his colleagues’ sons and students remained significant as a conduit for information flow. Recently, several scholars argued for the historical significance of information flow during the waning years of the Tokugawa regime, known as the Bakumatsu period. The Tokugawa era had been a dynamic time that resulted in remarkable urbanization, a very active communication and trade system based on improved road and postal systems, and a new mass culture fed by a thriving publishing industry.4 These scholars argue that when those changes combined with the crisis of a faltering regime in the 1840s to 1860s, information reached a premium. The various domains ­were trying to determine what action to take under the shadow of the bakufu’s declining fortunes, and the populous in general craved information about domestic conditions. Scholars of Western learning found themselves in the midst of all this.5 Long before Commodore Matthew C. Perry arrived in 1853, officials and scholars, who ­were not specialists in rangaku, became increasingly interested in information from the West.6 This interest came both from the fear of encroachment and from the desire to learn what the West might have to offer Japan militarily and otherwise. While the network in which Gentaku was a member may not have been po­liti­cally charged to any great extent, after his sons and students inherited it, that same network became a channel for crucial information that was sought by the bakufu and domainal governments. The Sendai daimyo essentially charged Gentaku’s son Bankei as an intelligence officer in 1828 when Bankei made a trip to Nagasaki. The daimyo hoped that Bankei would be able to establish access to the bakufu’s official reports on foreign lands, and relay the information back to Sendai. With the weight of the Ōtsuki name, Bankei was successful in gaining the confidence of Nagasaki authorities and acquiring these confidential reports.7 Shibata Hōan, a Western-­style physician who trained under one of Siebold’s former students, was sent on a study



The Historical Significance of Community 155

trip to Nagasaki by the Mito domain for the exact same purpose.8 In the Bakumatsu period, another scholar of Western learning, Yokio Shonan (1809– 1869), set out on study trips throughout Japan, during which he met with VIPs and intellectuals in various regions with the clandestine purpose of evaluating the politics of those regions.9 Forced to adapt to a changing world, domainal governments recognized the value of rangakusha such as Bankei, Hōan, and Shonan as intelligence gatherers. In addition, rangaku scholars ­were becoming increasingly interested in politics, and the network served as an arena for the exchange of valuable information. Indeed, as chapter 7 has shown, the descendants of Gentaku and his cohorts politicized their Meiji generations network in unexpected ways. The increased flow of information in Tokugawa Japan went hand-­in-­ hand with what Richard Rubinger argues was the breakdown of regional barriers and “the development of a more unified, integrated, and ‘national’ culture” during the last half of the Tokugawa period.10 The rangaku community was one of the groups at the forefront of the breakdown of regionalized knowledge. Evidence suggests that although the hiden system of ­exclusive and secret education had been strongly present in medicine, including Western-­style medicine, well into the eigh­teenth century, rangaku had largely shed this tradition by the beginning of the nineteenth century. Although there was certainly competition among schools, Gentaku’s attitude that the best way to train students was to allow them to freely seek out the best teachers and to encourage the movement of information throughout the network was an unspoken creed of Dutch studies during the nineteenth century.11 He and others encouraged students to attend more than one school in order to train from a selection of experts. However, rangaku was not alone in its creation of a network that stretched across Japan. The period from the end of the eigh­teenth century and beginning of the nineteenth century was a time of coagulation in which various cultural/intellectual groups (including nativism, Mito loyalism, and new religions) formed strong communities that reached vast portions of the country. Although these groups had different interests, they shared two significant traits. They all tended to make use of the new possibilities for communication and placed a great significance on the accumulation of information. More importantly, they all seceded from the Tokugawa center and sought strength mainly from their own community, not through affiliation with the central government. For this reason, the rather late and certainly hesitant decision of the bakufu to encourage rangaku through institutional means is noteworthy. Dutch studies had already undergone a period of gestation, and rangaku scholars had created for themselves a solid and active community by the time the central government half-­heartedly

156 Conclusion

opened the Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books (Bansho wage goyō) in 1811. The sons and students of Ōtsuki Gentaku’s generation inherited their fathers’ network, and it remained strong and autonomous from the government, though work at the Bansho wage goyō continued. Aspects of network formation over the last half of the Tokugawa period created a social situation that was subversive. Because of the in­de­pen­dent strength that these groups ­were able to establish, at least partially, through their networks, they offered an alternative for social stability to which people could cling during the chaos of the Meiji Restoration. The rangaku network was based on very strong and stable social relationships that allowed it to endure and remain its own entity. It was an established, visible, and pan-­ Japanese social network. A momentum for pan-­Japanese cultural integration was building by the end of the eigh­teenth century at the same time that individuals and groups w ­ ere creating spaces for secession away from the center. While none of the individuals discussed in this book would have considered themselves subversive, the rangaku field remained autonomous despite the government’s best efforts at control following the Siebold affair in the 1820s. Thus, rangaku should be considered part of the “secession” space that inherently questioned the orthodoxy. The nature of the network that it created made it an important player in the “ruptural unity.”12 The rangaku network was an example of a unified entity (which included members from a variety of social classes) ruptured from (or at least not fully connected to or dependent upon) the government. It can be argued that over the last part of the Tokugawa period, a proliferation of stable social institutions, such as the rangaku network, created their own form of continuity (and unity) across Japan, but w ­ ere not tied to (i.e., ruptured from) the central government. The change of government during the 1860s in Japan lacked the amount of social upheaval that is historically typical, and stable social alternatives, such as the rangaku network, may in part help account for the ease of transition. In the aftermath of rupture, the Meiji version of the network looked toward stability by attempting to maintain the values of civility, egalitarianism, and inquiry that w ­ ere foundations of their great-grandfathers’ community. With few exceptions, scholars of Dutch studies in Japan have traditionally focused their efforts on determining how well rangakusha understood Western science and medicine, whether they understood the scientific revolution, and what role they may have placed in the intellectual modernization of Japan. No doubt these w ­ ere important endeavors. However, moving beyond those concerns toward an examination of the social factors related to the development of Dutch studies can take us in new and significant directions.

Notes

Introduction: The World of Dutch Studies and an Information Revolution  1. ​ Isabel Tanaka-­ van Daalen, “Communicating with the Japa­ nese under Sakoku: Dutch Letters of Complaint and Attempts to Learn Japa­nese,” in Large and Broad: The Dutch Impact on Early Modern Asia, Essays in Honor of Leonard Blussé, eds. Leonard Blussé and Nagazumi Yōko (Tokyo: Tōyō Bunko, 2010), 100. Also see Nagazumi Yōko, “Foreign Intelligence and Its Interpreters,” in Engelbert Kaempfer: Werk und Wirkung, Vorträge der Symposien in Lemgo (19.–22.9.1990) und in Tokyo (15.–18.12.1990), ed. Detlef Haberland (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1993), 30.   2. ​For more on the Deshima otona, see Yoko Matsui, “The Factory and the People of Nagasaki: Otona, Tolk, Compradoor,” Itinerio 37, no. 3 (Dec. 2013): 139–152.   3. ​Grant Goodman, Japan and the Dutch, 1600–1853 (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 2000), 5.   4. ​See Siegfried Huigen, Jan L. Deong, and Elmer Kolfin, eds., Dutch Trading Companies as Knowledge Networks (Leiden: Brill, 2010); and Harold Cook, Matters of Exchange: Commerce, Medicine, and Science in the Dutch Golden Age (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007).  5. ​ Cook, Matters of Exchange, 71–73.  6. ​ Rudolf Effert, Royal Cabinets and Auxiliary Branches: Origins of the National Museum of Ethnology, 1816–1883 (Leiden: CNWS Publications, 2008), 64–69.   7. ​Beatrice M. Bodart-­Bailey, Kaempfer’s Japan: Tokugawa Culture Observed by Engelbert Kaempfer (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1999), 5–6.   8. ​Beatrice M. Bodart-­Bailey, “Introduction: The Furthest Goal,” in The Furthest Goal: Engelbert Kaempfer’s Encounter with Tokugawa Japan, eds. Beatrice Bodart-­Bailey and Derek Massarella (Sandgate, Kent: Japan Library, 1995), 1.  9. ​Timon Screech, Japan Extolled and Decried: Carl Peter Thunberg and the Shogun’s Realm, 1775–1796 (London: Routledge, 2005), 2–8. 10. ​Ibid., 36, 38–48. 11. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, Seihin taigo (Tokyo: Nichiran Gakkai, 1978), n.p. 12. ​Harmen Beukers, The Mission of Hippocrates in Japan: The Contribution of Philipp Franz von Siebold (Amsterdam: Foundation for Four Centuries of Netherlands-­Japan Relations, 1997), 40, 48.

157

158

Notes to Pages 9–17

13. ​Patrizia Carioti, “Focusing on the Overseas Chinese in Seventeenth Century Nagasaki: The Role of the Tōtsūji in the Light of the Early Tokugawa Foreign Policy,” in Large and Broad, 66–68. 14. ​Katagiri Kazuo, Oranda tsūji no kenkyū (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1985). 15. ​Yoshida Tadashi regards the period 1774–1839 as a physician-­led, second phase in Dutch studies, which followed an era during which study of Western knowledge was predominantly the domain of interpreters in Nagasaki. Yoshida Tadashi, “Rangaku to rangakusha,” in Edo kōki no hikaku bunka kenkyū, ed. Minamoto Ryōen (Tokyo: Perikan-­sha, 1990), 299. For an alternative periodization, based on institutions, see Yoshio Kanamaru, “The Development of a Scientific Community in Pre-­Modern Japan” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1980), 25–30. 16. ​Timon Screech, The Shogun’s Painted Culture: Fear and Creativity in the Japa­nese States, 1760–1829 (London: Reaktion Books, 2000). 17. ​Tozawa Yukio, Edo ga noziota (Tokyo: Kyōiku Shuppan, 1999). 18. ​Daniel Headrick, When Information Came of Age: Technologies of Knowledge in the Age of Reason and Revolution, 1700–1850 (Cambridge: Oxford University Press, 2002). 19. ​Eiko Ikegami, Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Po­liti­cal Origins of Japa­nese Culture (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 291. 20. ​Peter Kornicki, The Book in Japan: A Cultural History from the Beginnings to the Nineteenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 258. 21. ​Mary Elizabeth Berry argues that new forms of books carry­i ng social, cultural, po­ liti­cal, and economic information appeared during the sixteenth century and constituted a “quiet revolution in knowledge.” Mary Elizabeth Berry, Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 209. 22. ​Ono Noriaki, Nihon toshokan-­shi (Kyoto: Genbunsha, 1970), 100–110. 23. ​On the role of ōmetsuke in intelligence gathering, see Nagazumi, “Foreign Intelligence and Its Interpreters,” 30. 24. ​Liu Jianhui, “Birth of an East Asian Information Network: Shifts in the ‘Informationally Advanced Nations,’ ” trans. Joshua A. Fogel, Sino-­Japanese Studies 16 (2009): 62, http://­ chinajapan​.­org​/­articles​/­i ndex​.­php​/­sjs​/­article​/­view​/­6​/­7. 25. ​Renier H. Hesselink, “A New Guide to an Old Source,” review of The Deshima Diaries: Marginalia 1740–1800, eds. Leonard Blussé, Willem Remmelink, Isabel van Daalen, and Cynthia Viallé, Monumenta Nipponica 60, no. 4 (2005): 520–521. 26. ​Earlier histories of rangaku have tended to be biographies, intellectual histories, or po­liti­cal histories. More recently, historians have taken a social approach and examined development in peripheral areas (chihō) of Japan. 27. ​Raj P. Mohan and Arthur S. Wilke, International Handbook of Contemporary Developments in Sociology (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1994), 357. 28. ​Stanley Wasserman and Katherine Faust, Social Network Analysis: Methods and Applications (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 6; and Barry Wellman and Charles Wetherell, “Social Network Analysis of Historical Communities: Some Questions from the Present for the Past,” History of the Family 1, no. 1 (1996): 98. 29. ​Barry Wellman and S. D. Berkowitz, eds., Social Structures: A Network Approach (Greenwich, CT: JAI Press, 1988), xiii, 4. 30. ​For various studies on Tokugawa cultural networks, see Takahashi Hiromi, Kyōtō gei’en no nettowāku (Kyoto: Perikansha, 1988); Tanaka Yūko, Edo wa nettowāku (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1993); and Kobori Kazumasa, Kinsei Ōsaka to chishikijin shakai (Osaka: Seibundō, 1996). 31. ​Bonnie H. Erickson, “Social Networks and History,” Historical Methods 30, no. 3 (Summer 1997): 150.



Notes to Pages 17–27

159

32. ​Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, trans. Richard Nice (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990), 56. Emile Durkheim, The Evolution of Educational Thought (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1977), 11. 33. ​Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, 53–56. 34. ​Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. John G. Richardson (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1986), 243. 35. ​Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), 75–76. 36. ​Another example of symbolic capital is the obligations that one gains from others when giving them gifts. The act seems to be without self-­interest, but in most societies presses an obligation or an indebtedness upon the receiver. See David Swartz, Culture and Power: The Sociology of Pierre Bourdieu (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 90–91; and Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, 112–121. 37. ​Pierre Bourdieu and Loic J. D. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 97. 38. ​Swartz, Culture and Power, 117–118.

Chapter 1: Ōtsuki Gentaku  1. ​ Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku shū, ed. Sugimoto Tsutomu (Tokyo: Waseda Daigaku Shuppan-bu, 1994), 2:353. Genkan, Gentaku’s son, recorded “Senkō kōjitsu,” a brief biography of his father, in 1827, the same year as Gentaku’s death. More recent biographical information on Ōtsuki Gentaku can be found in Ōshima Eisuke, Tsukiyumi no haru (Ichinoseki, Iwate-­ken: Iwate Nichinichi Shibunsha, 1999); Sugimoto Tsutomu, Edo jidai Rangogaku no seiritsu to sono tenkai (Tokyo: Waseda Daigaku Shuppan-bu, 1981), 4:403–476; Satō Shosuke, “Ōtsuki Gentaku shōden,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku no kenkyū, ed. Yōgakushi Kenkyūkai (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1991), 3–44; and Grant Goodman, Japan and the Dutch, 119–146. Gentaku’s grandson, Nyoden (1845–1931) also published a biography on Gentaku called Ōtsuki Bansui (Tokyo: Hakubunkan, 1902) in a reading series for young men.  2. ​Ōtsuki Nyoden, Bansui sonkyō ed. Ōtsuki Shigeo (Tokyo: Ōtsuki Shigeo, 1912), 5.   3. ​Ugai Sachiko, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” in Miyagi no kenkyū, ed. Watanabe Nobuo (Osaka: Seibundō Shuppan, 1983), 5:240, 244.  4. ​ Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 354.  5. ​Numata Jirō et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten (Tokyo: Yushodo Shuppan, 1984), 435.  6. ​ Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 244.  7. ​ Numata et al., Yōgakushi jiten, 435.  8. ​Sugita Genpaku, Rangaku kotohajime, ed. Ogata Tomio (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1998), 34.  9. ​ Satō, “Ōtsuki Gentaku shōden,” 4. 10. ​ Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 359. 11. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 55. 12. ​Yoshida Tadashi, “Haisuteru ‘Yōi shinsho’ no honyaku,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku no kenkyū, 53–63. 13. ​Heisuke would prove a useful friend to Gentaku. He had an extensive network based on his wide range of interests and participated in cultural salons like Gentaku did. Among the individuals who ­were members of both Heisuke’s and Gentaku’s social circles w ­ ere rangaku scholar Maeno Ryōtaku, interpreter Yoshio Kōzaemon, shogunal physician Katsuragawa Hoshū, and scholar Hayashi Shihei (1738–1793). Heisuke was well-­k nown even outside of Edo, where he was stationed. Bettina Gramlich-­Oka, “Kirishitan Kō by Tadano

160

Notes to Pages 27–32

Makuzu: A Late Tokugawa Woman’s Warnings,” Bulletin of Portuguese/Japa­nese Studies 8 (2004): 67, 70–76. 14. ​Nakamura Shiichirō, Kimura Kenkadō no saron (Tokyo: Shinchosha, 2000), 450–453. 15. ​Although it has often been suggested that the name Gentaku came from combining his Edo teachers’ names Genpaku and Ryōtaku, Gentaku was not an uncommon name for doctors, and it is probably more likely that his use of “Gen” was in homage to his father Genryō. See Sugimoto Tsutomu, Edo jidai Rangogaku, 4:410. On the name Bansui, Gentaku’s son Ōtsuki Genkan writes, “Since our family had made its home on the shore of the Iwaigawa (whose first character is also pronounced ban), he called himself Bansui (literally ‘the waters of Iwai’).” See Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 353. 16. ​ Ō tsuki Gentaku, “Kanto yōroku,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku shū, ed. Sugimoto Tsutomo (Kyoto: Waseda Daigaku Shuppanbu, 1994) 1:18. “Kanto yōroku” is a journal that Gentaku kept from 1785 until his death. 17. ​ Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 361–362. 18. ​Numata et al., Yōgakushi jiten, 228. 19. ​ Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 362. 20. ​See Tasaki Tetsurō, “ ‘Shirandō’ ‘Shosendō’ monjinchō todōfugen-­betsu ichiran,” Nihon Yōgakushi no kenkyū 7 (1985): 251–270. 21. ​Grant Goodman, “A Translation of Ōtsuki Gentaku’s Ransetsu Benwaku,” Occasional Papers: Center for Japa­nese Studies 3 (1952): 71–99. 22. ​Sugita Genpaku asked Gentaku to revise the Kaitai shinsho, which was completed in 1799 under the title Chōtei kaitai shinsho. Gentaku’s work on tobacco can be found in Bansui sonkyō. 23. ​Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 251–252. 24. ​Gentaku’s friend Hotta Masaatsu was one of the government officials involved in creating this office within Astronomical Bureau (Tenmongata) in 1811. Numata Jirō, Western Learning, trans. R. C. J. Bachofner (Tokyo: The Japan-­Netherlands Institute, 1992), 106–111. 25. ​Numata, Western Learning, 109–110. 26. ​Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 254. 27. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku no kenkyū, 321. 28. ​Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 363–364. 29. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Kanto yōroku,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku shū, 1:310–311; “Kanto yōroku,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku shū, 2:35, 56; and Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 363–364. 30. ​Yōgakushi Kenkyūkai, ed., “Ōtsuki Gentaku nenpu,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku no kenkyū (Kyoto: Shibunkaka Shuppan, 1991), 319–321. 31. ​Poem provided in Ōshima, Tsukiyumi no haru, 298. 32. ​Under the Tokugawa government’s sankin kōtai system, provincial lords (daimyo) ­were required to leave their families in Edo all year and alternate their own attendance every year between their domain (han) and Edo. 33. ​See Sugita Genpaku, Sugita Genpaku nikki: Isai nichiroku, ed. Sugi Yasusaburō (Tokyo: Seishisha, 1981). 34. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Kanto yōroku,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku shū, 1:321. 35. ​Ibid.; and Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 363–364. A koku is a unit of volume equal to about 180 liters that was used to mea­sure quantities of rice. 36. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 60–61. 37. ​Numata et al., Yōgakushi jiten, 52. He was hired by Matsudaira Sadanobu to translate Rembertus Dodonæus’s natural history shortly after arriving in Edo. 38. ​Harada Hiroji, “The Motoki House of Dutch Interpreters,” in Bridging the Divide: 400 Years, the Netherlands-­Japan, eds. Leonard Blussé, Willem Remmelink, and Ivo Smits (Leiden: Hotei Publishing, 2000), 124. 39. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 45.



Notes to Pages 32–39

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40. ​Keizo Shichinomiya, Michinoku Rangaku kotohajime (Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Oraisha, 1977), 170. 41. ​Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 255. 42. ​Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 360–361. 43. ​Ibid., 361–362. 44. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Kanto yoroku,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku shū, 4:4–5. 45. ​It is possible that Matsuzaki Chūtayū was the father of famous Confucian scholar Matsuzaki Kōdō (1771–1844) who was friends with various members of the Ōtsuki family and wrote a eulogy for Gentaku. Kōdō taught Gentaku’s son Bankei at the bakufu’s school Shoheiko in 1817 and was particularly close with Gentaku’s cousin Ōtsuki Seishin, a top graduate of Shōheikō. His diary Yūtō sūroku makes clear that he considered Gentaku a friend. Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 242, 248. 46. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Kanto yōroku,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku shū, 4:5. 47. ​Yokoyama Yoshinori, “Tension in East Asia in the Nineteenth Century,” in Bridging the Divide, 177. 48. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 56–57. 49. ​Richard Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1982), 110. 50. ​Yōgakushi, ed., “Ōtsuki Gentaku nenpu,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku no kenkyū, 319–321. 51. ​ Kokugo daijiten (Tokyo: Shōgakukan, 1976), 18:7 and 27. 52. ​ Kokugo daijiten, 9:348. 53. ​E. H. Norman, “Andō Shōeki and the Anatomy of Japa­nese Feudalism,” The Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan 3, no. 2 (Dec. 1949): 18. 54. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, Isha akindo (Edo: Shirandō, 1797) unnumbered, fourth page. Seikadō Literary Archives in Setagaya-ku. 55. ​Ibid., n.p., fourth and fifth pages. Han and bakufu doctors w ­ ere not immune to money influencing their treatment of patients either. Gentaku calls them “mansion doctors” (yashiki-­i) because their only duty was to be on-­call at the homes of officials. “Stealing a government stipend,” he muses, “is the duty of the yashiki-­i. They occasionally must see [their lord] when there is a light illnesses, and with that ser­vice receive income.” Their position was ensured, so they did not need to bother with developing their skills. 56. ​The two essays are collected under the title “Seisei yugen,” in Ōtsuki Gentaku, Bansui sonkyō. 57. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Seisei yugen,” 3–4. 58. ​Isoda Michifumi, “Shakai no yōshi to kaisō idō,” Bulletin of International Research Center for Japa­nese Studies 19 (June 1999): 221–239. 59. ​Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 238. 60. ​Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 240. 61. ​Isoda, “Shakai no yōshi to kaisō idō,” 221. 62. ​Translation from Donald Keene, The Japa­nese Discovery of Eu­rope, 1720–1830 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1969), 25. 63. ​Numata Jirō, Bakumatsu yōgakushi (Tokyo: Tōkō Shoin, 1951), 25–27, 48–49; and Tadashi Yoshida, “The Rangaku of Shizuki Tadao: The Introduction of Western Science into Tokugawa Japan” (PhD diss., Prince­ton University, 1974). 64. ​Takashi Shogimen, “Imagining the Body Politic: Meta­phor and Po­liti­cal Language in Late Medieval Eu­rope and Tokugawa Japan,” in Western Po­liti­cal Thought in Dialogue with Asia, eds. Takashi Shogimen and Cary J. Nederman, Global Encounters: Studies in Comparative Po­liti­cal Theory Series (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2008), 288. Also, see Hattori Toshirō, Edo jidai igakushi no kenkyū (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1978), 23–34. 65. ​Bob Tadashi Wakabayashi, Anti-­Foreignism and Western Learning in Early-­Modern Japan: The New Theses of 1825 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 40–51.

162

Notes to Pages 39–47

66. ​A nnick Horiuchi, “When Science Develops Outside Patronage: Dutch Studies in Japan at the Turn of the Nineteenth Century,” Early Science and Medicine 8, no. 2 (2003): 158. 67. ​Keene, Japa­nese Discovery of Eu­rope, 25. 68. ​Tsukahara Tōgo, “Kagaku/Kyūri: Science,” trans. Matt Fargo and Jordan Sands, Working Words: New Approaches to Japa­nese Studies Series (Berkeley: University of California), 1; https://­escholarship​.­org​/­uc​/­item​/­4gd8v00m. Albert Craig argues that the introduction of Western science created a tension within the Chu Hsi understanding of knowledge and virtue, eventually leading to its decline. Albert Craig, “Science and Confucianism in Tokugawa Japan,” in Changing Japa­nese Attitudes toward Modernization, ed. Marius Jansen, 133–160 (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1965). 69. ​Henk W. K. de Groot, “The Study of the Dutch Language in Japan during Its Period of National Isolation (ca. 1641–1868)” (PhD diss., University of Canterbury, Christchurch, 2005), 126. Kanbun carried a symbolic cultural weight. In physician’s training, kanbun literacy was also of practical importance in order to read Chinese text. Daniel Trambaiolo argues that “writing in kanbun also allowed Japa­nese doctors to think of their works as contributions to the medical literature of East Asian region as a ­whole.” Daniel Trambaiolo, “The Languages of Medical Knowledge in Tokugawa Japan,” in Rethinking Asian Languages, Vernaculars, and Literacies, 1000–1919, ed. Benjamin A. Elman (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 148.

Chapter 2: Creating Community   1. ​For zashiki’s etymology, see Yoshida Takako, Zashiki no hanashi (Tokyo: Kajima Shuppan-­kai, 1998), 2–3.  2. ​ Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 85.  3. ​ Yoshida Takako, Zashiki no hanashi, 12–15.   4. ​Murai Yasuhiko, ed. Kundaikan sōchōki (Tokyo: Sekai Bunka-­sha, 1983); and Sōami, Kundaikan sōchōki (Tokyo: Yūrindō, 1884), 22.   5. ​Kanō Hiroyuki, “Seikatsu no naka no kazari—­hyōgen·ningen·kankyō,” in Dentō geinō no tenkai, ed. by Kumakura Isao, vol. 11 of Nihon no kinsei, ed. Shimanaka Yukio (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron, 1993), 299.  6. ​ Yoshida Takako, Zashiki no hanashi, 15.   7. ​Gail Capitol Weigl, “The Reception of Chinese Painting Models in Muromachi Japan,” Monumenta Nipponica 35, no. 3 (Autumn 1980): 259–260.   8. ​Kanō, “Seikatsu no naka no kazari,” 299. On authorship, see Weigl, “Reception of Chinese Painting Models,” 270. On the po­liti­cal uses of zashiki in the late sixteenth century, see section 2 of Takemoto Chizu, Shokuhō-ki no chaikai to seiji (Kyoto: Shibunkan Shuppan, 2006).  9. ​Okamoto Mariko, Zashiki hinagata no kenkyū (Kyoto: Tairyūdō Shoten, 1985), 584. 10. ​Robin Noel Walker, Shoko-­ken: A Late Medieval Daime Sukiya Style Japa­nese Tea-­house (New York: Routledge, 2002), 138–149. 11. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 23–24. 12. ​ Ōtsuki Nyoden, The Infiltration of Eu­ro­pean Civilization in Japan during the 18th Century, trans. C. C. Krieger (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1940), 60. 13. ​Ibid., 66. 14. ​Suenaka Tetsuo, “18/19 seki ni okeru Ōsaka shōnin to rangaku,” in Rangaku to Nihon bunka, ed. Ogata Tomio (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppan-­kai, 1971), 378–379. 15. ​Grant Goodman, Japan and the Dutch, 157. 16. ​Oka Yasumasa, “Exotic ‘Holland’ in Japa­nese Art,” in Bridging the Divide, 143. 17. ​Timon Screech, Secret Memoirs of the Shoguns: Isaac Titsingh and Japan, 1779–1822 (London: Routledge, 2006), 25. 18. ​This term is taken from Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 100.



Notes to Pages 47–56

163

19. ​Tatsurō Akai, “The Common People and Painting,” in Tokugawa Japan: The Social and Economic Antecedents of Modern Japan, eds. Chie Nakane and Shinzaburō Ōishi (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1990), 175–177; Andrew L. Markus, “The Carnival of Edo: Misemono Spectacles from Contemporary Accounts,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 45, no. 2 (Dec. 1985): 499–541; and Peter Kornicki, “Public Display and Changing Values: Early Meiji Exhibitions and Their Precursors,” Monumenta Nipponica 49, no. 2 (Summer 1994): 172–180. 20. ​Nishimura Saburō, Bunmei no naka no hakubutsugaku, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Kinokuniya Shōten, 1999), 133–140. 21. ​Bourdieu, “Forms of Capital,” 243, 247. 22. ​Miura Baien, Baien zenshū, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Kodokan, 1912), 1066. 23. ​Tachibana Nankei, Tozai/Hokusō sadan (Tokyo: Yūhōdō, 1927), 155. 24. ​Haruki Nanko, Saiyū nichibo (Tokyo: Beizandō, 1926), n.p., entry for Tenmei 8/10/24. Haruki’s journal entry for five days earlier (Tenmei 8/10/19) indicates that he was able to go to Deshima and enter one of the Dutch h ­ ouses there. 25. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Teiho kikō,” in Bansui sensei zuihitsu, vol. 3, Rare Books Collection, Waseda University Library, Tokyo, MS (photocopy), entry for Tenmei 5/11/25. 26. ​Ibid., entry for Tenmei 5/12/2. 27. ​ Ōtsuki Nyoden, The Infiltration of European Civilization, 94. 28. ​Max Weber defines “charismatic authority” as being emotionally based upon the charisma of an individual. Max Weber, “The Types of Legitimate Domination,” in Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology, eds. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 212–262. 29. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Bansui mansō,” in Bansui sonkyō, 53–54. 30. ​For an analysis of probable guests, see Reinier H. Hesselink, “A Dutch New Year at the Shirandō Academy: 1 January 1795,” Monumenta Nipponica 50, no. 2 (Summer 1995): 189– 223. 31. ​Kawakami Mitsugu, Nihon chūsei jutaku no kenkyū (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2002), 431. 32. ​See Ogata Tomio, Nihon ni okeru Hipokuratesu sanbi (Tokyo: Nihon Iji Shinpōsha, 1971), 106–125. 33. ​Nakano Misao, “Shingenkai-­zuchū no seitetsuzō ni tuite,” Rangaku shiryō kenkyū 17 (1957): 157–164; and Hesselink, “A Dutch New Year at the Shirandō Academy,” 201–202. 34. ​ Ōtsuki Nyoden, The Infiltration of European Civilization, 66 (my italics). 35. ​Tenjin was the posthumous kami name for the poet and politician Sugawara no Michizane (845–903). Although Tenjin’s image was the most common, there w ­ ere other legendary poets or writers whose portraits might appear instead, such as the Manyoshu poet from the seventh century Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (662–710). See Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 173, 408. 36. ​Hama Mo­ritarō, “ ‘Wagiogi’ no seishin,” Nihon bungaku 36, no. 8 (Oct. 1987): 2–3. 37. ​Tanaka Yūko, “Ren: The Mechanism of Linking in Japa­nese Culture” (paper presented at the Nissan Institute, Oxford University, Oxford, 1993). 38. ​Fukuzawa Yukichi, “Fukuo jiden,” in Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshū, ed. Koizumi Shinzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1959), 7:86. 39. ​Hayashi Hideo and Aoki Michio, Banzuke de yomu Edo jidai (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shōbo, 2003), 8–40. 40. ​Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984), 128–129. 41. ​For a discussion of the importance of persuasion in the pro­cess of attaching relative values to various accumulated capitals, see Nan Lin, Social Capital: Theory of Social Structure and Action (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 30.

164

Notes to Pages 58–65

Chapter 3: Bows and Laughs  1. ​By communitas, I mean an unstructured, egalitarian community that has been able to overcome differences and interact in a fellowship through commonalities and mutual obligations. See Percival Goodman and Paul Goodman, Communitas: Means of Livelihood and Ways of Life (New York: Vintage Books, 1960); Victor W. Turner and Edith L .B. Turner, Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives (New York: Columbia University Press, 1978); and Roberto Esposito, Communitas: The Origin and Destiny of Community, trans. Timothy Campbell (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2010).  2. ​ Dena Goodman, The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French Enlightenment (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994), 25.  3. ​ Lin, Social Capital, 71.  4. ​O n information during the Tokugawa period, see Ichimura Yuichi and Oishi Shinzaburō, Sakoku, yuruyaku na jōhō kakumei (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1995); Berry, Japan in Print, 209; and Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 131–134.  5. ​Tanaka Yūko, “Toposu toshite no Edo kiiwaado,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kyōzai 35, no. 9 (1990): 107.  6. ​ Tanaka, Edo wa nettowāku.   7. ​Honma Sadao, “Nagasaki Rangaku and the History Textbooks,” in “The Patriarch of Dutch Learning Shizuki Tadao (1760–1806), Papers of the Symposium Held in Commemoration of the 200th Anniversary of His Death, Nagasaki, November 18–19, 2006,” ed. Willem Gerrit Jan Remmelink, special issue, Journal of the Japan-­Netherlands Institute 9 (2008): 24–48. Also, Horiuchi, “When Science Develops Outside Patronage,” 165–169.  8. ​While Shogun Tokugawa Yoshimune issued a decree encouraging the study of Western knowledge, there remained uneasiness among scholars about studying it in an overt manner, because, while only texts mentioning Christianity ­were banned, scholars ­were unclear about official restrictions.   9. ​Haga Tōru, “Jūhachi seiki Nihon no chiteki senshitachi,” in Sugita Genpaku, Hiraga Gennai, Shiba Kōkan, ed. Haga Tōru, vol. 22 of Nihon no meicho (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron-­sha, 1971), 15–19. 10. ​Imaizumi Genkichi, Rangaku no ie Katsuragawa no hitobito (Tokyo: Shinozaki Shorin, 1965), 1:153. 11. ​Sugita, Sugita Genpaku nikki, 421. 12. ​Translation work was done in the homes of Genpaku and Ryōtaku. The 1774 Japa­ nese translation of a Dutch version of Anatomische Tabellen (Anatomical tables, originally in German) by Johann Adam Kulmus (1689–1745) is widely regarded by historians as inspiring a watershed of rangaku activity after a period of relative stagnancy. With the publication of Kaitai shinsho, Japa­nese doctors had easy access to the ideas of Western medicine for the first time, and their understanding of anatomy based on Chinese medical training was challenged on a wide scale. 13. ​Nishiyama Matsunosuke, Edo bunkashi (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1987), 87–88. 14. ​Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-­Element in Culture (Boston: Beacon Press, 1955), 291. 15. ​Jacques Ehrmann, “Homo Ludens Revisited,” Yale French Studies 41 (1968): 33. 16. ​Nishimura, Bunmei no naka no hakubutsugaku, 1:102. 17. ​Michael Dylan Foster, Pandemonium and Parade: Japa­nese Monsters and the Culture of Yōkai (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008). 18. ​Nishimura, Bunmei no naka no hakubutsugaku, 1:102; and Nam-­lin Hur, Prayer and Play in Late Tokugawa Japan: Asakusa Sensōji and Edo Society (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 1999), 28–29.



Notes to Pages 65–70

165

19. ​H. D. Harootunian, “Late Tokugawa Culture and Thought,” in The Emergence of Meiji Japan, ed. Marius B. Jansen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 55–57. The eminent scholar Maeda Ai has also suggested that, during the early modern period, play had the potential to “diminish, confound, and resist the state.” James A. Fujii, ed., “Refiguring the Modern: Maeda Ai,” in Texts and the City: Essays on Japa­nese Modernity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004), 10. 20. ​Susan Burns, Before the Nation: Kokugaku and the Imagining of Community in Early Modern Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003), 118–125. 21. ​For more on these activities see Nishiyama Matsunosuke, Edo no seikatsu bunka (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1983), 3:225–226; Haruko Iwasaki, “The World of Gesaku: Playful Writers of Late Eigh­teenth Century” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1984), 61–73, 219–233, 308–311; Adam Kern, Manga from the Floating World: Comicbook Culture and the Kibyōshi of Edo Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 67; and Tanaka Yūko, Edo no sōzōryoku: 18 seiki no media to hyocho (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1986). 22. ​Translated in Margarita Winkel, “A Close Look at Morishima Chūryō’s Kōmō zatsuwa” (paper presented at Symposium on Dutch-­Japanese Relations in the Edo Period, Tokyo University, Tokyo, October 23, 2000), 1. 23. ​Walter Ong, Fighting for Life: Contest, Sexuality, and Consciousness (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981), 132–133. 24. ​Hashimoto Sōkichi, Oranda shisei erekiteru kyūrigen (Tokyo: Hashimoto Dansai Sensei Hyakunen Kinen-­kai, 1940). 25. ​Arthur Elsenaar and Remko Scha, “Electric Body Manipulation as Per­for­mance Art: A Historical Perspective,” Leonardo Music Journal 22 (2002): 18–19. 26. ​Joyce E. Chaplin, The First Scientific American: Benjamin Franklin and the Pursuit of Genius (New York: Basic Books, 2006), 112. Also see Paola Bertucci, “Sparks in the Dark: The Attraction of Electricity in the Eigh­teenth Century,” Endeavour 31, no. 3 (Aug. 2007): 88. 27. ​Geoffrey V. Sutton, Science for a Polite Society: Gender, Culture, and the Demonstration of Enlightenment (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1995), 8. 28. ​Nishimura, Bunmei no naka no hakubutsugaku, 1:100–103. 29. ​P. Fontes da Costa, “The Culture of Curiosity at the Royal Society during the First Half of the Eigh­teenth Century,” Notes and Rec­ords of the Royal Society of London 56, no. 2 (May 2002): 156. 30. ​C. Andrew Gerstle, “The Culture of Play: Kabuki and the Production of Texts,” Oral Tradition 20, no. 2 (2005): 194. 31. ​Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 76. 32. ​Harootunian, “Late Tokugawa Culture and Thought,” 57. 33. ​Nishiyama Matsunosuke, Edo Culture: Daily Life and Diversions in Urban Japan, 1600– 1868, trans. Gerald Groemer (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997), 62. 34. ​Quoted in Ehrmann, “Homo Ludens Revisited,” 37. 35. ​Hino Tatsuo, Edojin no yūtopia (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbun-­sha, 1977), 63–64. 36. ​Gerstle, “The Culture of Play,” 194. Also, see Moriya Takeshi, Genroku bunka—­yugei, akusho, shibai (Tokyo: Kōbundō, 1977). 37. ​Anna Beerens, Friends, Acquaintances, Pupils, and Patrons. Japa­nese Intellectual Life in the Late Eigh­teenth Century: A Prosopographical Approach (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2006), 180, 194. 38. ​Martin van der Gaag, Mea­sure­ment of Individual Social Capital (Groningen, the Nether­ lands: ICS Dissertation Series, 2005), 47. Also see, Hendrik Flap, “Social Capital in the Production of In­e­qual­ity: A Review,” Comparative Family, Health, and Education 20 (1991): 6182. 39. ​Hajime Nakatani, “The Empire of Fame: Writing and the Voice in Early Medieval China,” Positions 14, no. 3 (2006): 537.

166

Notes to Pages 70–79

40. ​George Homans, “Human Behavior as Exchange,” American Journal of Sociology 63 (May 1958): 597. 41. ​On exchanging capitals, see James S. Coleman, Foundations of Social Theory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 37–38. 42. ​Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Bansui mansō,” in Bansui sonkyō, 35–36, 40. 43. ​Tanaka Yūko, “Edo bunka no patoroneeji,” in Dentō geinō no tenkai, ed. Kumakura Isao, vol. 11 of Nihon no kinsei, ed. Shimanaka Yukio (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 1993), 144–145. 44. ​Robert D. Putnam, with Roberto Leonardi and Raffaella Y. Nanetti, Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1993). 45. ​H. Nowotny asserts that emotional capital should be considered an important aspect of Bourdieu’s concept of social capital. H. Nowotny, “Women in Public Life in Austria,” in Access to Power: Cross National Studies of Women and Elites, eds. Cynthia Fuchs Epstein and Rose Laub Cosner (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1981). 46. ​Benedicte Gendron, “Why Emotional Capital Matters in Education and in Labour?: Toward an Optimal Exploitation of Human Capital and Knowledge Management,” Les Cahiers de La Maison des Sciences Economiques, série rouge, 113, no. 1 (2004): 9. 47. ​Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” 243. 48. ​See Sugita, Sugita Genpaku nikki. 49. ​Nishiyama, Edo no seikatsu bunka, 225–226. 50. ​Sean O’Reilly, “Japan’s Forgotten Eigh­teenth Century: Kimura Kenkadō and the Case for Biographical History,” Prince­ton Journal of East Asian Studies 3 (Fall 2012): 27. 51. ​Lin, Social Capital, 27–28; and Ronald Burt, Structural Holes: The Social Structure of Competition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992). 52. ​Akisato Rito, Settsu meishozue, vol. 4 (Naniwa: Morimoto Tasuke, 1796–1798). 53. ​Marcia Yonemoto, “Nihonbashi: Edo’s Contested Center,” East Asian History 17/18 (1999): 66. 54. ​Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 179–182. 55. ​Tanaka, “Edo bunka no patoroneeji,” 166. 56. ​Konta Yōzō, “Kaitai shinsho no hanmoto: Ichibei no koto,” Rekishi chiri kyōiku 247 (Feb. 1976): 46–51; and Konta Yōzō, Edo no honyasan (Tokyo: Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1977), 96. 57. ​Haruko Iwasaki examines the versatility of cultural producers such as Santō Kyōden (1761–1816), Ōta Nanpo, and Hiraga Gennai to easily move between genre and mediums, and she argues that it led to the hybridization of literary forms and art, such as kibyōshi. Her point about the creation of multiple identities within the cultural world is important. Iwasaki, “The World of Gesaku,” 351. 58. ​Antoine Lilti has argued that disvertissement was the goal of Eu­ro­pean salons of the eigh­teenth century. See Antoine Lilti, Le Monde des Salons (Paris: Fayard, 2005).

Chapter 4: Training/Reproducing the Network  1. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Goishi ikusai teian,” in Bansui sonkyō, 3–4.   2. ​Grant Goodman, Japan and the Dutch, 119–146; and Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 106–151.  3. ​ Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 107.  4. ​ Yōgakushi, ed., Ōtsuki Gentaku no kenkyū, 320.  5. ​ Ōtsuki Genkan, “Senkō kōjitsu,” 363.  6. ​ Yōgakushi, ed., Ōtsuki Gentaku no kenkyū, 320.  7. ​ Fujikawa Yū, Fujikawa Yū chosakushū (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1982), 10:263. Also see Arisaka Takamichi, Yamagata Bantō to Masuya (Osaka: Sōgensha, 1993), 220.  8. ​Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 133–134.



Notes to Pages 79–88

167

 9. ​Ibid., 119–120. 10. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Goishi ikusai teian,” 5–7. 11. ​Kanamaru, “Development of a Scientific Community,” 181–182. 12. ​Yamamoto Shirō, Koishi Genshun (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1967), 125; and Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobo, 1994), 296. 13. ​Sugimoto Tsutomu, Edo jidai Rangogaku, 4:745–750. 14. ​Suzuki Yukihiko, “Shirandō no monjintachi: rangaku no chiikiteki hirogari o chūshinni,” Kokuritsu rekishi minzoku hakubutsukan kenkyū hōkoku 116 (Feb. 2004): 384. 15. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 56. 16. ​After reading the Kaitai shinsho, doctors Koishi Genshun and Horiuchi Chui began correspondence training in Dutch-­style medicine with Sugita Genpaku. Otsuka Yasuo, “A Study on the Medical Practice in the Latter Half of the Tokugawa Period with Reference to the Horiuchi Documents,” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 18, no. 1 (March 1972): 29. 17. ​Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, 245. 18. ​Suzuki Yukihiko, “Shirandō no monjintachi,” 381–383. 19. ​Katagiri Kazuo provides transcriptions of the two sections of this notebook, “Tōto zatsuji roku” (Record of various things in Edo) and “Tōto iji roku” (Record of medical matters in Edo). Katagiri Kazuo, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1993), 13–55. 20. ​Ibid., 13. 21. ​Ibid., 228. 22. ​Gentaku had students work on his Dutch books as soon as they w ­ ere capable. For example, Udagawa Genshin was given a Dutch pharmacopoeia to look through not long after he enrolled. Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 63–64. 23. ​Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku, 20. 24. ​Grant Goodman, “A Translation of Ōtsuki Gentaku’s Ransetsu Benwaku,” 71–99. 25. ​Ogata Tomio, Edo jidai yōgakushatachi (Tokyo: Shinjinbutsu Ōraisha, 1972), 107. 26. ​Numata et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten, 79. 27. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 59. 28. ​Ibid., 63. 29. ​Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 52. 30. ​Harada, “The Motoki House of Dutch Interpreters,” 124. 31. ​Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku, 229. 32. ​Masayoshi Sugimoto and David Swain, Science and Culture in Traditional Japan (Rutland, VT: Charles E. Tuttle Co., 1989), 332. 33. ​Ogata Tomio, Edo jidai yōgakushatachi, 149. 34. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Rangaku kaitei,” in Yōgaku (jō), ed. Hirose Hideo et al.(Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1976), 361–364. 35. ​For more on the Rangaku kaitei, see Groot, “Study of the Dutch Language in Japan,” 127–140. 36. ​Sugimoto Tsutomu, Rangogaku to sono shūhen (Tokyo: Ofusha, 1979), 136–137. 37. ​Numata et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten, 750–751. 38. ​For example, “Tōto iji roku,” in Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku, 45. 39. ​Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 137. 40. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 62. 41. ​Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku, 20. 42. ​Ibid., 40–47. He also discussed Udagawa Genshin’s important work on internal medi­ cine, Ihan teiko. 43. ​Catharina Blomberg, “ ‘Rerum Memorabilium Thesaurus,’ A Trea­sury of Memorable Things,” in Dodonæus in Japan, eds. Willy van de Walle and Kazuhiko Kasaya (Kyoto: Leuven University Press, 2001), 336.

168

Notes to Pages 88–101

44. ​This translation is based on that of Hesselink, “A Dutch New Year at the Shirandō Academy,” 205. The Japa­nese text can be found in Ōtsuki Nyoden, Nihon yōgaku hennenshi (Tokyo: Kinseisha, 1965), 257–258. 45. ​Pierre Bourdieu et al., State Nobility: Elite Schools in the Field of Power (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998), 164. 46. ​Numata et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten, 62. 47. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 61. 48. ​Ogata Tomio, Edo jidai yōgakushatachi, 107. 49. ​Nakano Misao, Ōsaka rangaku shiwa (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1979), 41. 50. ​Yamamoto, Koishi Genshun, 125. 51. ​Ogata Tomio, Edo jidai yōgakushatachi, 110. 52. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 62. 53. ​Ibid., 62–63. 54. ​Sugimoto and Swain, Science and Culture in Traditional Japan, 335. 55. ​Ayusawa Shintarō, Yamamura Saisuke (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1959), 1–12. 56. ​Ibid., 170, 172. 57. ​Yamamoto, Koishi Genshun, 87, 187, 250. 58. ​Ibid., 122. 59. ​Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, 150. 60. ​Nakano, Ōsaka rangaku shiwa, 90. 61. ​Ibid., 91. 62. ​Miyashita Saburō et al., Kyūridō no shiryō to kaisetsu (Kyoto: Kyūridō Bunko, 1978), 32–47. 63. ​Numata et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten, 521. 64. ​Nakano, Osaka rangaku shiwa, 126. 65. ​Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, 115. 66. ​Unagami Zuiō (Inamura Sanpaku), “Shamei roku,” in Miyashita Saburō et al., Kyūridō no shiryō to kaisetsu, 349–353. 67. ​Miyashita et al., Kyūridō no shiryō to kaisetsu, 354–372. 68. ​Sendaishi-­shi Hensan Iinkai, Sendai shishi (Sendai: Sendaishi Yakujo, 1975), 4:489. 69. ​Yūki Rikurō, “Edo jidai no kyōiku fukyū jōkyō,” Kyōiku to igaku 219, no. 1 (Jan. 1981): 45. 70. ​Nihon Rekishi Daijiten Henshū Iinkai, Nihon rekishi daijiten (Tokyo: Kawade Shobo, 1968–1970), 9:460. 71. ​Yamagata Takakazu, “Ōtsuki Gentaku to Sendai han Igakkō,” Sendai-­gō kenkyū 13, no. 7 (July 1943): 5. 72. ​Takeachi Hiroshi, ed. Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, 173. 73. ​Ugai, “Ōtsuki-ke no hitobito,” 2­ 41. 74. ​Sendaishi-­shi, Sendai shishi, 488, 491, 501. 75. ​Tasaki, “  ‘Shirandō’ ‘Shosendō’ monjincho todōfugen-­betsu ichiran,” 253. 76. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 15–16. 77. ​Sugimoto Tsutomu, Edo jidai Rangogaku, 4:745–750. 78. ​Miyashita et al., Kyūridō no shiryō to kaisetsu, 229, 412; and Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, appendix. 79. ​Suzuki Yukihiko, “Shirandō no monjintachi,” 377. 80. ​Takeachi Hiroshi, ed. Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, 79–83.

Chapter 5: A National Network  1. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 68.  2. ​ Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 25, 30.



Notes to Pages 102–110

169

  3. ​Yoko Woodson, “Traveling Bunjin and Their Patrons” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1983).   4. ​For example, Takano Chōei subsidized his income in this way when he made a lecture tour in the Nagano area in the 1830s.  5. ​Beerens, Friends, Acquaintances, Pupils, and Patrons, 184.  6. ​ Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 25, 27.   7. ​Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, xiv–­xviii.  8. ​Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 15–16.   9. ​Mary Elizabeth Berry, “Was Early Modern Japan Culturally Integrated?” Modern Asia Studies 31, no. 3 (July 1997): 547–581. 10. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” 9th page. 11. ​Ibid., 1st–8th pages. 12. ​Ibid., entry for Tenmei 5/10/7. Only the name of Genpaku’s adopted son Sugita Hakugen is provided. 13. ​Ibid., entry for Tenmei 5/10/8. 14. ​Ibid., entries for Tenmei 6/1/3 and 6/1/18. 15. ​Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, 149. 16. ​Yamamoto, Koishi Genshun, 86–90. 17. ​ Ōtsuki Nyoden includes Genshun’s preface in Ōtsuki Nyoden, Nihon yōgaku hennenshi (Tokyo: Kinseisha, 1965), 252. 18. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” entry for Tenmei 5/10/28. Kenkadō also recorded their meetings for Tenmei 5/10/24, 5/10/25, 5/10/26, 5/10/28, 5/11/4, 5/11/6, 6/4/16, and 6/4/21 in his diary. Kimura Kenkadō and Mizuta Toshihisa, Kenkadō nikki (Osaka: Kenkadō Nikki Kankokai, 1972), 156, 157, 170. 19. ​Nakamura, Kimura Kenkadō no saron, 431–444. 20. ​Ibid., 431; and Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” entries for Tenmei 5/10/28, 5/10/29, and 5/11/2. 21. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” entry for Tenmei 6/1/5. 22. ​Kontonkai/Kimura Kenkadō Kenshōkai-­hen, ed., Kimura Kenkadō raikanshū: senjin kyūkō shotoku (Osaka: Nakao Matsu Shōsendō Shoten, 2004); and Arisaka Michiko, “Kimura Kenkadō no kōyū to chishiki jōhō,” Kokuritsu rekishi minzoku hakubutsukan kenkyū hōkoku 116 (Feb. 2004): 115–122. 23. ​Takayanagi Mitsutoshi and Takeuchi Rizō, Kadokawa Nihonshi jiten (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1995), 444. 24. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” entry for Tenmei 5/10/21. “After breakfast, I met my guide, and then dropped in on Ritsuzan for lunch [at his home] on Horikawa dōri street.” 25. ​Takeuchi Hiroshi, ed., Nihon yōgaku jinmei jiten, 79, 83. 26. ​A representative of the Suwaraya bookstore’s Osaka shop named Suwaraya Hikotarō also showed Gentaku around the area. As chapter 4 indicates, Gentaku was familiar with the owner of one of the Edo Suwaraya branches. Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” entry for Tenmei 5/10/24. 27. ​Woodson, “Traveling Bunjin and Their Patrons,” 1. 28. ​Steven D. Carter, ed., introduction to Literary Patronage in Late Medieval Japan (Ann Arbor: Center for Japa­nese Studies, The University of Michigan, 1993), 1. 29. ​Woodson, “Traveling Bunjin and Their Patrons,” 24. “Minor in-­g roup patrons” are those who “extended patronage to their friends on a ‘give and take’ basis.” 30. ​Ibid., 123. 31. ​Koide Susumu, Jōhō daimyō Kutsuki Masatsuna (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1994), 251. 32. ​Diary entries Tenmei 6/4/16, and 6/4/21 in his diary. Kenkadō nikki, 170. 33. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” entry for Tenmei 5/10/9. 34. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Keiho kikō,” entry for Tenmei 5/10/10.

170

Notes to Pages 110–119

35. ​Correspondences between Takebe Seian and Sugita Genpaku ­were published as Oranda iji mondō (Questions and answers on matters of Dutch medicine) in 1795. 36. ​Paula Findlen, “The Economy of Scientific Exchange in Early Modern Italy,” in Patronage and Institutions: Science, Technology, and Medicine at the Eu­ro­pean Court, 1500–1750, ed. by Bruce T. Moran (Suffolk: The Boydell Press, 1991), 8. 37. ​Natalie Z. Davis, “Beyond the Market: Books as Gifts in 16th Century France,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 5, no. 33 (July 1983): 69–88; and Sharon Kettering, “Gift-­ giving and Patronage in Early Modern France,” French History 2 (1988): 133–151. 38. ​Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku. 39. ​Kōsai’s father did not know Gentaku well; in 1816, he did receive a letter with the book Yōi shinsho as a gift from the latter. Ibid., 221–225. 40. ​As the “obligatory” gift, he brought a box of sweets from his home area, three bottles of wine, and 204 pieces of gold. Ibid., 225–227. 41. ​Ibid., 89–93. 42. ​Ibid., 250–252. 43. ​Ibid., 83–85. Oranda yakusen was a translation based on Nacolaes Lemery’s Woordenboek de algemeene verhandeling der enkele droogeryn. 44. ​Ibid., 104, 108, 112. 45. ​Ibid., 255–266. 46. ​For example, see letters dated Bunsei 4/2/11, 4/3/20, and 6/10/3 in Ibid., 70, 76, 90.

Chapter 6: The Network in Action  1. ​Roger Chartier, The Order of Books, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Cambridge, MA: Polity Press, 1994), 62.  2. ​ Roger Chartier, The Cultural Origins of the French Revolution, trans. Lydia  G. Cochrane (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991), 32.   3. ​Wim J. Boot, “The Transfer of Learning: The Import of Chinese and Dutch Books in Tokugawa Japan,” Itinerario 37, no. 3 (Dec. 2013): 197–198.  4. ​Taguchi Akiyoshi, Tenseki shinkyō, bekkan (Tokyo: Yumani shobō, 1984), 388.   5. ​On the “invisible college,” see D. J. Price, Science since Babylon (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975). Starting in the eigh­teenth century, Kashihonya ­were traveling libraries through which individuals could borrow books for a fee.  6. ​ Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 16, 29.   7. ​Liu, “Birth of an East Asian Information Network,” 62.  8. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 12.   9. ​Harmen Beukers, “Dodonæus in Japa­nese: Deshima Surgeons as Mediators,” in Dodonæus in Japan, ed. Willy van de Walle and Kazuhiko Kasaya (Kyoto: Leuven University Press, 2001), 286. 10. ​See Martha Chaiklin, Cultural Commerce and Dutch Commercial Culture: The Influence of Eu­ro­pean Material Culture on Japan, 1700–1850 (Leiden: Research School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies, Leiden University, 2003). 11. ​Nagasaki was one of several cities over which the bakufu retained direct control. Some examples of Nagasaki officials who received book orders ­were the City Magistrate Tsuchiya Kii no Kami; the City Elders Takashima Shiobi, Goto Sōtarō, and Goto Sōzaemon; and others, such as Steward Takaki Sakuemon. See J. MacLean, “The Introduction of Books and Scientific Instruments into Japan, 1712–1854,” Japa­nese Studies in the History of Science 13 (1974): 14–32. 12. ​MacLean, “The Introduction of Books,” 17. 13. ​Lorenz Heister, Heelkundige onderwyzingen (Instructions in surgery) translated into Dutch by Hendrik Ulhoorn (Amsterdam, 1718); Johann Hübner, Kort Begrip der Oude en Nieuwe



Notes to Pages 120–125

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Geographie, (Brief concepts of old and new geography, Amsterdam, 1675); and Johannes Jonstonus’s Naeukeurige Beschryving van de Natuur der Viervoetige Dieren . . . ​(1660). 14. ​In 1663, VOC chief Hendrik Indijck also presented Jonstonus’s natural history to the shogun. 15. ​Sugimoto Tsutomu, Edo jidai Rangogaku, 4:253. 16. ​Johannes Jonstonus’s natural history (Latin version), Rembertus Dodonæus’s Cyrudtboeck (Herbal), Johannes Jacob Woyt’s Gazophylacium Medico-­physicum (Trea­sury of medicine), a Dutch translation of Heister’s surgical text, and Muntingh’s Plantes (Plants). MacLean, “The Introduction of Books,” 18. 17. ​Ibid., 21–22. 18. ​Chaiklin, Cultural Commerce and Dutch Commercial Culture, 12–13. 19. ​Timon Screech, “The Visual Legacy of Dodonæus in Botanical and Human Categorization,” in Dodonæus in Japan, 222. 20. ​Tadashi Yoshida, “The Rangaku of Shizuki Tadao,” 56. 21. ​Numata, Western Learning, 16–17. 22. ​See Matsuda Kiyoshi, “The Reception and Spread of Dodonæus’ Cruydt Boeck in Japan,” in Dodonæus in Japan, 194. 23. ​MacLean, “The Introduction of Books,” 27, 37. 24. ​Titsingh gave Kōkan Abraham Bosse’s Tractaet in wat manieren men op root koper snijden ofte etzen zal (Tract on how to carve copper-­plate ­etchings, Amsterdam, 1662), Gerard de Lairesse’s Groot Schilderboek (The great book of paintings, 1740), and Kunst Schilddren Boek (Art paint­ers book, date unknown). Takigawa Yoshikazu, Kimura Kenkadō no rangaku shikō (Tokyo: Kagaku Shoin, 1985), 32. He also gave the interpreter Narabayashi Jūbei Noël Comel’s Dictionnaire oeconomique, and his friend Kutsuki Masatsuna Nicholas Sanson’s Atlas nouveau, and Johannes Martinet’s Katechismus der Natuur. Screech, Secret Memoirs of the Shoguns, 23, 33–34. 25. ​Isaac Titsingh, The Private Correspondence of Isaac Titsingh, ed. by Frank Lequin (Amsterdam: J. C. Giebon, 1990), 1:450. 26. ​Hoshū and Thunberg established a friendship and the bakufu physician visited Thunberg nearly every day for three weeks at the Nagasakiya Inn to hear lectures concerning the books. They corresponded even after the chief’s return to Eu­rope. 27. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, Seihin taigo, n.p. Chief Hendrik Doeff gave him a book of Dutch poetry during a visit to the capital in 1810. Ōtsuki Nyoden, Nihon yōgaku hennenshi, 346. 28. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 21, 28–29. 29. ​Hiraga Gennai, “Bussan shomoku,” in Hiraga Gennai, ed. Jōfuku Isamu (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1971), 46. 30. ​Numata et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten, 448. 31. ​Shiba Kōkan, “Shunbarō hikki,” in Sugita Genpaku, Hiraga Gennai, Shiba Kōkan, ed. Hara Tōru, vol. 22 of Nihon no meicho (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron-­sha, 1971), 426. 32. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 24, 25, 29–30. 33. ​Kōkan met Titsingh in Edo in 1780. See Shiba Kōkan, “Seiyo gadan,” in Sugita Genpaku, Hiraga Gennai, Shiba Kōkan, 22:475. 34. ​Takigawa, Kimura Kenkadō no rangaku shikō, 49, 68. 35. ​Quoted in Marius Jansen, Japan and Its World (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1995), 31–32. 36. ​Price, Science since Babylon, 102, 126–127. 37. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 63–64. 38. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Rangaku kaitei,” in Yōgaku (jō), 366. 39. ​Sugimoto Tsutomu, Edo jidai Rangakugo, 4:254–258. 40. ​Yoshida Tadashi, “The Rangaku of Shizuki Tadao,” 137.

172

Notes to Pages 126–129

41. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Bansui mansō,” in Bansui sonkyō, ed. Ōtsuki Shigeo (Tokyo: Ōtsuki Shigeo, 1912), 38–39 42. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 65–66. 43. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Rikubutsu shinshi daigen,” in “Bansui mansō,” in Bansui sonkyō, 7. 44. ​MacLean, “The Introduction of Books,” 15–16. 45. ​Yoshida Tadashi, “Haisuteru ‘Yōi shinsho’ no honyaku,” 53–56. 46. ​Timon Screech, The Lens within the Heart: The Western Scientific Gaze and Pop­u­lar Imagery in Later Edo Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2002), 15. 47. ​Takigawa, Kimura Kenkadō no rangaku shiko, 69. 48. ​Numata et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten, 448. 49. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 61. 50. ​Watanabe Kurasuke, Oranda tsūji Shizuki-­shi jiryaku (Nagasaki: Nagasaki Gakkai, 1957), 43. 51. ​The interpreter Motoki Ryōei borrowed Gennai’s copy of Emanuel Sweerts’s book of floral engravings for a translation. Morishima Chūryō refers to those texts in his miscellany Kōmō zatsuwa (Red-­haired miscellany), and Gentaku used them in compiling Rikubutsu shinshi (New record of six things, 1786). Kōkan borrowed Gennai’s copies of Jonstonus’s natural history text and Jan Swammerdam’s Historia insectorum generalis, ofte Algemeene verhandeling van de bloedeloose dierkens (General history of insects . . . ​). See Numata et al., eds., Yōgakushi jiten, 142; Kimura Yojirō, Nihon shizenshi no seiritsu (Tokyo: Chuo Koronsha, 1974), 38; Yabe Ichirō, Edo no honzō (Tokyo: Saiensusha, 1984), 152; and Matsuda Kiyoshi, Yōgaku no shoshiteki kenkyū (Kyoto: Rinsen Shoten, 1998), 28. 52. ​Matsuda, Yōgaku no shoshiteki kenkyū, 29. 53. ​Takigawa, Kimura Kenkadō no rangaku shiko, 38. Also see Ono Noriaki, Nihon bunkoshi kenkyū (Kyoto: Rinsen Shoten, 1979), 2:452–485. 54. ​Takigawa, Kimura Kenkadō no rangaku shiko, 88. From Ota Nanpō, Ichiwa ichigen, Nihon zuihitsu taisei series 2 (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1978), 359. Kenkadō was also particularly forthcoming in book loans to Gentaku. His copy of Johan Anderson’s Greenland natural history was used for Rikubutsu shinshi (Record of six things, 1787). See Nakamura, Kimura Kenkadō no saron, 442; and Ōtsuki Gentaku, Keiho kikō, entry for Tenmei 5/11/2. 55. ​Nakano, Ōsaka rangaku shiwa, 24, 259. 56. ​These included Hashimoto Sōkichi, Fujita Kenzō, and Hazama Shigetomi. Arisaka Takamichi includes Yamagata Shigeyoshi’s book log, “Shomotsu mokuroku,” in Arisaka Takamichi, Yamagata Bantō to Masuya (Osaka: Sōgensha, 2005), 219–220. Shigeyoshi also made loans to scholar Fuseya Soteki. Nakano, Ōsaka rangaku shiwa, 259–260. 57. ​Yamagata Kazu, “Ōtsuki Gentaku to Kōsei shinpen,” Nihon ishi zasshi 27, no, 4 (1981): 305. Gentaku’s relationship with Shigeyoshi was in part built on the fact that the merchant was a daimyōgashi (daimyo creditor) to Gentaku’s Sendai lord and that the two had met on several occasions in 1795 and 1813 at the Sendai domain’s mansion in Edo when Shigeyoshi was there during business dealings. Suenaka Tetsuo, “18/19 seiki ni okeru Osaka shōnin to rangaku,” 378. 58. ​Numata, Western Learning, 90. 59. ​Matsuda, Yōgaku no shoshiteki kenkyū, 27. 60. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 45. Masaka also allowed Ryōtaku and Genpaku to work on the Kaitai shinsho project at his Edo estate. According to Genpaku, Masaka frequently endured Ryōtaku’s neglect of duties so that the scholar could pursue his rangaku passion. 61. ​Ono Noriaki, Nihon toshokan-­shi (Kyoto: Genbunsha, 1970), 131. 62. ​Ono Noriaki, Nihon toshokan-­shi, 123, 128. Shigehide also had a library in Satsuma known as the Rakusaidō, but according to Ono, his Dutch books ­were mostly kept in Edo. The interpreter Matsumura Genko used Seizan’s library in order to do translations for the



Notes to Pages 129–132

173

daimyo. See Matsuda, “The Reception and Spread of Dodonæus’ Cruydt Boeck,” 196. Wim J. Boot speculates that Shizuki Tadao too borrowed books from Seizan’s library, including a second edition of Engelbert Kaempfer’s Beschrijving van Japan (History of Japan). Seizan claimed that he had one of only two Dutch copies of the book in Japan, which he purchased from Yoshio Kōzaemon in 1782. This was a rare book, and his making it available to scholars such as Tadao would have been important for the rangaku field. Wim J. Boot. “Shizuki Tadao’s Sakoku-­ron,” in “The Patriarch of Dutch Learning Shizuki Tadao (1760–1806), Papers of the symposium held in commemoration of the 200th anniversary of his death, Nagasaki, November 18–19, 2006,” special issue, Journal of the Japan-­Netherlands Institute 9 (2008): 90–91. Also, Takahashi Kageyasu, borrowed thirteen books from the Rakusaidō for astronomical work. Matsuda, Yōgaku no shoshiteki kenkyū, 402. 63. ​Takigawa, Kimura Kenkadō no rangaku shiko, 30, 32. 64. ​Yamaguchi Keiji, Matsudaira Sadanobu to rangaku (Tokyo: Rakuōkō Itoku Kenshō-­kai, 1967), 3–6. 65. ​The bookseller Suwaraya Ichibei was eventually ruined by his choice to publish a text that advocated the strengthening of naval and coastal defenses, and lauded Western military and legal systems. Eight months after the treatise appeared in 1791, the government deemed it in violation of criticizing the government, arrested the author, confiscated and destroyed the woodblocks, and hit the publisher with a staggering fine. 66. ​ Ōtsuki Nyoden, Nihon yōgaku hennenshi, 276. 67. ​ Taisei yochi zusetsu was later published by Ichimojiya Ichibei in 1789. 68. ​ Ōtsuki Nyoden, Nihon yogaku hennenshi, 344 and 418. 69. ​Ibid., 286. 70. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, Bansui sonkyō, vol. 1, 27. 71. ​Kornicki, The Book in Japan, 99–101. 72. ​I n addition to protecting their knowledge from competing scholars, interpreters often made translations at the request of the bakufu and thus ­were not at liberty to share their research through publication. 73. ​Beukers, “Dodonæus in Japa­nese,” 285. 74. ​Maeno Ryōtaku avoided publication of his works, and circulated Oranda yaku bunryaku (Short Dutch translations), Rango zuihitsu (Miscellany of Dutch language), and Oranda yakusen (Keys to the translation of Dutch) as manuscripts. 75. ​Sugita, Rangaku kotohajime, 60–61. 76. ​The Dutch studies community circulated Gentaku’s surgical translation, Yōi shinsho, for over 30 years until it was finally published by Suwaraya Mohee in 1825. 77. ​Boot, “Shizuki Tadao’s Sakoku-­ron,” 92. 78. ​Hand-copied manuscripts made up a sizable portion of the estimated ten thousand to twenty thousand texts in Kenkadō’s library. Takigawa, Kimura Kenkadō no rangaku shiko, 49, 68, 126. 79. ​Uchiyama Kengo, a student at the Western-­style medical academy Kyūridō in Kyoto, spent nearly every day copying pages of text for his own use. Miyashita et al., Kyūridō no shiryō to kaisetsu, 62–75. 80. ​Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku, 62, 73. Among the important rangaku books Kōsai acquired through Gentaku ­were Ensei ihō meibutsukō (Treatise on Western medicaments, 1822) by Udagawa Yōan and Chōtei kaitai shinsho (completed 1798, published 1826), Yōi shinsho (1820), and Ran’en tekihō (1817) by Gentaku. 81. ​Letter from Bunsei 8/8/19. Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku, 61. 82. ​Katagiri, Rangaku, sono Edo to Hokuriku, 85, 248. 83. ​Ellen Nakamura’s fascinating chapter on “The Kōzuke Physicians,” in Ellen Gardner Nakayama, Practical Pursuits: Takano Chōei, Takahashi Keisaku, and Western Medicine in Nineteenth- ­Century Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2005), 71–103.

174

Notes to Pages 132–140

84. ​Kanai Kōsaku, ed. Takahashi Keisaku nikki (Maebashi, Gunma: Takahashi Keisaku Nikki Kankō-­kai, 1995). Keisaku practiced medicine in the Kōzuke domain. Chūtai was a Chinese studies scholar with rangaku interests living Haruhi village north of Nagoya. 85. ​Nangai taught a number of notable physicians, including Hanaoka Seishū and Kagawa Genetsu. 86. ​Another particularly important individual in this regional network was Yanagita Kanezō. Like Keisaku, Kanezō was also a former student of Takano Chōei. Aoki Toshiyuki, Zaison rangaku no kenkyū (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1998), 203–204. 87. ​Ibid., 193, 200, 203. 88. ​Kanai, Takahashi Keisaku nikki, 525–547. Udagawa Genzui used Gorter’s work years earlier for his important tract on internal medicine, Seisetsu naika. 89. ​Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 288.

Chapter 7: Politicizing the Network  1. ​Daniel Gordon, Citizens without Sovereignty: Equality and Sociability in French Thought (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1994), 33.   2. ​On the importance of flexibility in French salons, see Stephen Kale, French Salons: High Society and Po­liti­cal Sociability from the Old Regime to the Revolution of 1848 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins, 2004), 2–4.  3. ​Lilti argues that the raison d’etre for Enlightenment salon was disvertissement. Lilti, Le Monde des Salons.   4. ​This term is borrowed from Findlen, Possessing Nature, 100.  5. ​For research on Tokugawa period changes in information, see Marcia Yonemoto Mapping Early Modern Japan: Space, Place, and Culture in the Tokugawa Period, 1603–1868 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003).  6. ​ Morishima Chūryō, Kōmō zatsuwa (Tokyo: Kowa Shuppan, 1980).  7. ​ Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 209–211.   8. ​Ibid., 12–19, 37–40.   9. ​See Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 13; and Roger Caillois, Man, Play, and Games, trans. Meyer Barash (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2001), 21. 10. ​Georg Simmel, “The Sociology of Sociability,” trans. by Everett C. Hughes, American Journal of Sociology 55, no. 3 (Nov. 1949): 255. 11. ​Ibid., 257, 261. 12. ​Paula Findlen, “Jokes of Nature and Jokes of Knowledge: The Playfulness of Scientific Discourse in Early Modern Eu­rope,” Re­nais­sance Quarterly 43, no. 2 (Summer 1990): 292– 296. 13. ​Nishimura, Bunmei no naka no hakubutsugaku, 1:102. 14. ​Yanagawa began publishing Seiyō zasshi (Magazine on the West) and Chūgai shinbun (Domestic and foreign news) at the beginning of the Meiji period. He also had friendly gatherings to discuss various issues at his home in Yokohama, some of which are recorded in Tenkōsha kaiwa (Conversations at the Tenkōsha). 15. ​Imaizumi Mine, Nagori no yume (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1963), 5–6. 16. ​Maeda Ai, Narushima Ryūhoku (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbun-­sha, 1976), 135. 17. ​ Ōtsuki Fumihiko, Fukken zassan, ed. Suzuki Hiromitsu (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2002), 251. 18. ​Maeda, Narushima Ryūhoku, 132. 19. ​Imaizumi Mine, Nagori no yume, 6. 20. ​Ibid., 3. 21. ​Matthew Fraleigh, “Ryūhoku (Narushima Ryūhoku),” in Modern Japa­nese Writers, ed. Jay Rubin (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 2001), 313. 22. ​Itasaka Gen, Chōnin bunka no kaika (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1975), 204.



Notes to Pages 140–145

175

23. ​Maeda, Narushima Ryūhoku, 135. 24. ​Ibid., 135, 319. 25. ​Ogi Shinzō, Tōkyō shomin seikatsushi kenkyū (Tokyo: Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1979), 11–23; and Carol Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1985), 24. 26. ​Maeda, Narushima Ryūhoku, 131. 27. ​Narushima Ryūhoku, “Ryūkō shinshi,” in Edo hanjoki, Ryūkō shinshi, ed. by Hino Tatsuo (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1991), 419. 28. ​Ibid. 29. ​James L. Huffman, Creating a Public: People and Press in Meiji Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997), 31. 30. ​Ono Hideo, Yanagawa Shunsan (Tokyo: Jiji Tsūshinsha, 1962), 32. 31. ​There is evidence that based on their salon friendship, Fukuzawa and Katsuragawa Hoshū II exchanged books in the 1860s to further their individual studies. In addition, Hoshū probably helped Fukuzawa obtain En­glish instructions from Moriyama Takishiro, a much sought after teacher. See Fukuzawa Yukichi, The Autobiography of Fukuzawa Yukichi ed. Eiichi Kiyooka (Tokyo: Hokuseidō, 1981), 106. 32. ​Yanagawa Shunsan, “Fukkei” from Seiyō zasshi no. 1 (1867) in Meiji bunka zenshū, ed. Yoshino Sakuzō (Tokyo: Nihon Hyōronsha, 1930), 18:7–8. 33. ​Huffman, Creating a Public, 43. 34. ​Yanagawa Shunsan, Editorial from Chūgai zasshi, no. 9 (Keiō 4/4/28) in Meiji bunka zenshū, ed. Yoshino Sakuzō (Tokyo: Nihon Hyōronsha, 1930), 17:233–234. 35. ​However, in her memoirs, Imaizumi Mine remembers that Fukuzawa played card games and told stories in the salon. Imaizumi Mine, Nagori no yume, 33–35. 36. ​Ishikawa Mikiaki, Fukuzawa Yukichi den (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1943), 4:558, 568. 37. ​Maruyama Masao, “Fukuzawa Yukichi no tetsugaku: toku ni sono jiji hihan no kanren,” in Gendai Nihon shisō taikei, ed. Hidaka Rokurō (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1964), 34:85– 87. Also, see Fukuzawa Yukichi, Fukuo hyakuwa (Tokyo: Jiji Shinpōsha, 1916). See especially essays 7, 8, 12, and 95. 38. ​Fukuzawa Yukichi, Preface to “Kaigiben (Methods for a conference),” in Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshū, ed. Koizumi Shinzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1958), 1:56. 39. ​Andrew Barshay, State and Intellectual in Imperial Japan: The Public Man in Crisis (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 5. 40. ​Fukuzawa Yukichi, An Outline of a Theory of Civilization, trans. David A. Dilworth and G. Cameron Hurst (Tokyo: Sophia University, 1970), 9. 41. ​Fukuzawa Yukichi, Obata Atsujirō, and Koizumi Shinkichi, “Kaigi-­ben,” in Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshū, ed. Koizumi Shinzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1958), 3:616. 42. ​Ibid. 43. ​Norio Tamaki, Yukichi Fukuzawa, 1835–1901 (New York: Palgrave, 2001), 148. 44. ​Ishikawa, Fukuzawa Yukichi den, 2:201–202. In 1876, Fukuzawa would also construct what amounted to a public salon called the Banraisha, so that clubs at Keio University could hold informal discussions. See ibid., 2:257–259. 45. ​Fukuzawa Yukichi, “Mita Enzetsukai Dai-­hyakkai no ki,” in Fukuzawa yukichi zenshū, ed. Koizumi Shinzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1959), 4:476. 46. ​Fukuzawa, Preface to “Kaigiben (Methods for a conference),” 58. 47. ​Ishikawa, Fukuzawa Yukichi den, 4:767, 770. 48. ​Wayne H. Oxford, The Speeches of Fukuzawa (Tokyo: Hokuseido, 1973), 52. 49. ​Fukuzawa Yukichi, “Kōjun hakkai no enzetsu (Opening speech of the Society for Interactive Consultation),” in Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshū, ed. Koizumi Shinzō, (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1962), 19:660. 50. ​Fukuzawa, “Kōjun hakkai no enzetsu,” 659–661.

176

Notes to Pages 145–156

51. ​Tamaki, Yukichi Fukuzawa, 146; and William de Lange, A History of Japa­nese Journalism (Kent, En­gland: Japan Library, 1998), 119. 52. ​Fukuzawa Yukichi, Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshū (Complete collection of Fukuzawa Yukichi) (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1958), 1:64. 53. ​Dallas Finn, Meiji Revisited: The Sight of Victorian Japan (New York: Weatherhill, 1995), 29; and Tamaki, Yukichi Fukuzawa, 139–140. 54. ​Irokawa Daikichi, The Culture of the Meiji Period, trans. Marius B. Jansen (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1985), 196–197. 55. ​On “public men,” see Andrew Barshay, State and Intellectual in Imperial Japan; and Morris Low, Science and the Building of a New Japan (New York: Palgrave Press, 2005). 56. ​Benjamin Nathans, “Habermas’s ‘Public Sphere’ in the Era of the French Revolution.” French Historical Studies 16, no. 3 (Spring 1990): 624. 57. ​Barshay labels this an “outsider” public. Barshay, State and Intellectual in Imperial Japan, 8–9. 58. ​Irokawa, The Culture of the Meiji Period, 19; and Barshay, State and Intellectual in Imperial Japan, 8–10.

Conclusion: The Historical Significance of Community   1. ​On position-­taking, see Pierre Bourdieu, Practical Reason, ed. Randal Johnson (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998), 4–8.   2. ​Yokoyama, “Tension in East Asia in the Nineteenth Century,” 175.   3. ​Sugimoto and Swain, Science and Culture in Traditional Japan, 342–347.  4. ​Katsuhisa Moriya, “Urban Networks and Information Networks,” trans. Ronald Toby, in Tokugawa Japan: The Social and Economic Antecedents of Modern Japan, ed. Chie Nakane and Shinzaburō Ōishi (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1990), 97–123.   5. ​Maruyama Yasunari, ed. Jōhō to kōtsu (Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha, 1992), 133–180.   6. ​Katagiri Kazuo, “Bakumatsu no kaigai jōhō,” in Nenpō/kindai Nihon kenkyū (Tokyo: Yamagawa Shuppansha, 1990), 12:1–22; and Iwashita Tetsunori, “Kinsei goki no kaigai jōhō to sono kenkyō,” in Kinsei Nihon kaigai jōhō (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 1997).   7. ​Nagao Masanari, “Ōtsuki Bankei ni tsuite no ichikōsatsu,” Nichiran gakkai kaishi 16, no. 2 (1992): 1–16.   8. ​Numakura Nobuyuki, “Rangakusha no Nagasaki yūgaku to kaigai jōhō,” Nichiran gakkai kaishi 16, no. 2 (1992): 59–80.  9. ​ Mitani Hiroshi and Yamaguchi Teromi, 19 seiki Nihon no rekishi (Tokyo: Hōsō Daigaku Kyōiku, 2000), 60–61. 10. ​Rubinger, Private Academies in Tokugawa Japan, 15. For more on Tokugawa cultural integration between city and periphery, see Berry, “Was Early Modern Japan Culturally Integrated?” 11. ​ Ōtsuki Gentaku, “Goishi ikusai teian,” in Bansui sonkyō, ed. Ōtsuki Shigeo (Tokyo: Ōtsuki Shigeo, 1912), 3–9. 12. ​H. D. Harootunian argues that the “simultaneous discourse” of nativism, the Mito school, and other cultural entities, while not working together consciously to undermine the government, formed “ruptural unity” that opposed central authority. See H. D. Harootunian, Toward Restoration: The Growth of Po­liti­cal Consciousness in Tokugawa Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), xvi.

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Index

Akaezo fūsetsu kō (Report on Ezo), 27 Algemeene Geographie (General geography), 126 alternate attendance policy. See sankin kōtai anatomical studies, 82, 91, 92, 93 Anatomische Tabellen. See Ontleedkundige tafelen Aoki Konyō, 32, 38, 62, 86 Arai Hakuseki, 38, 92, 127 Arima Bunchū, 80 Astronomical Bureau, 10, 15–16, 91, 119, 124, 160n.24 astronomy: books on, 86, 91, 123, 125, 130, 173n.62; Dutch, 7; instruments of, 46; Japanese study of, 5, 8, 83, 90, 93, 100, 102, 118 authority, 18, 20, 48, 56; charismatic, 49, 54, 163n.28; historical, 65; intellectual, 52; traditional, 54 Baba Sajūrō, 10, 29, 38, 85, 96 bakufu: attitude toward Dutch studies, 61, 62, 103, 118, 173n.72; information management, 13–15, 27, 28, 119, 154; institutional support for Dutch studies, 28–29, 98, 124, 154, 155; relations with the Dutch, 2–5, 6, 9–10, 28, 170n.11 bakuhan, 13 Bansho shirabesho, 16, 139, 154 Bansho wage goyō, 15, 28, 96, 156 Bansui sonkyō, 152, 160n.22

banzuke. See playbills benron-kai (speech get-togethers), 144 Bibliothèque du Roi, 116 Blomhoff, Jan Cock, 6, 9 boekhouder (bookkeepers), 4 Boullée, Etienne-Louis, 116, 133 Bourdieu, Pierre, 56, 72, 89, 109, 150, 166n.45 bugyō (magistrates, governor), of Nagasaki, 4, 10, 13, 14–15, 50, 117, 119, 170n.11 bunjin (person of letter), 19, 20, 102, 107–109 Bunmeiron no gairyaku (An outline of a theory of civilization), 143 bussan-kai. See product exhibits Buys, Egbert, 86 “Byōke jugo” (Ten mistakes of the sick), 35 “Byōke sanfuji’ (Three mistreatments of the sick), 35, 112 Caillois, Roger, 64, 69, 72 capital (Bourdieu), 17, 18, 72; access to, 72; accumulation of, 43, 49, 56, 72, 115, 151, 163n.41; conversion of, 56; cultural, 20, 42, 52, 88, 107, 110, 124, 151; economic, 19, 35, 123, 127; embodied, 47; emotional, 72, 166n.45; exchange of, 21, 70–71, 109, 113, 114, 125, 151; intellectual, 21; networking and, 56, 113, 135, 136, 141; objectified cultural, 47–48; social, 20, 42, 43, 54, 59–60, 65, 70, 81, 107, 127; symbolic, 18, 21, 54, 98, 110, 159n.36

191

192 Index censorship, 13–14, 123, 140, 141, 164n.8, 173n.65 Charter Oath of 1868, 143 Chartier, Roger, 116 chief factor. See opperhoofd Chikyū zenzu (Complete maps of the world), 126, 127 Chinese books, 14, 15, 27, 49, 92, 118, 123, 129, 162n.69 Chinese interpreter. See tōtsūji Chinese medicine (kanpō), 25, 52–53 Chomel, M. Noël, 29, 96, 128 Chōya shinbun (Chōya newspaper), 141 Christian books, 13–14, 118, 133, 164n.8 Chūgai shinbun (Domestic and foreign news), 142, 174n.14 Chu Hsi, 39, 162n.68 civility, 43, 53, 59, 60, 70, 72, 76, 135–137, 145–146, 156; aesthetic, 136 civil society, 59, 136 closed country policy (sakoku), 3, 157n.1 commercialization, 12, 100–101, 129 communitas, 58, 164n.1 community formation, 56, 60, 115–116, 136, 150 Confucianism, 113; education, 1, 37, 95, 107, 153; rangaku and, 38–40, 152 conversable spaces, 47, 59, 136, 140 copper trade, 3 court journeys. See Edo sanpū Cruydt-boeck (Herb book), 106, 119–120, 160n.37, 171n.16 cultural sociability, 59, 134–137, 141–143, 146–147 cultural society, 59–61, 68, 75–76, 136 Daghregister ten Comptoire Nangasacki, 15, 118 daikan (bakufu deputies), 13, 119 Daikokuya Kōdayū, 50 daimyo (domainal lords), 13, 20, 32; information gathering, 15–16, 100–101, 154; Western knowledge and, 31, 108, 119, 121, 123, 125–129, 130, 151, 172n.62; ranpeki (Dutch-addicted), 46–47 Date Chikamune, 31 Date daimyo, 24, 27 Date Yoshimura, 95 de Liefde, 2 Deshima: establishment of, 9, 15; Japanese visits, 27, 104, 109, 163n.24; life on, 2–4; staff, 6, 7, 8

Deshima diaries. See Daghregister ten Comptoire Nangasacki dissections, 82, 104, 105, 125; taboo against, 25–26 doctors. See physicians Dodonaeus, Rembertus, 106, 119, 120, 127, 160n.37, 171n.15 Doeff, Hendrik, 7, 8, 9, 46, 171n.27 domainal schools. See hanko Dutch East India Company. See VOC Dutch language training, 5, 20, 26, 28, 37, 47, 81–86, 90 Dutch-style medicine (ranpō), 25, 53, 95, 96, 131, 155, 167n.16 Edo, 11–12, 19, 21–22, 48–49, 60–64, 80, 139–141 Edokai (Edo Society), 140 Edo sanpū, 4 education, access to, 77, 83, 97, 130; Confucian, 24, 38, 48; experiential, 66; medical families and, 34; networks of, 20–21; noninstitutional, 58; physical sciences, 93; samurai and, 16; standards, 93; symbolism in, 89; Tokugawa period transformation, 11–12, 78, 84. See also shigaku; yūgaku egalitarianism, 20, 42, 54, 58, 65, 68–70, 72, 135–136, 139, 146, 156, 164n.1 egocentric networks, 17 eis requests, 119 enclave publics, 57, 68, 71, 136 Enroku, 28, 96 enzetsu (western-style speeches), 144 erekiteru (electro-static generator), 47, 66–67, 90, 140 Erikson, Bonnie, 17 Ezochi, 27, 28 feudal duty, 19, 28, 30–33, 88 fields (Bourdieu), 18 Findlen, Paula, 110, 137, 162n.18, 174n.4 Fisscher, Johannes van Overmeer, 7 Flora Japonica (Japanese flora), 8 Foster, Michael Dylan, 65 Four Heavenly Kings (of the Shirandō), 89–94 Franklin, Benjamin, 67 Fujibayashi Fuzan, 85 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 22, 54, 79, 138, 142–147, 175n.31, 175n.35, 175n.44 fūsetsugaki, 14–15

geography, 5, 83, 90–93, 101, 118–119, 125–128, 130 Gerstle, C. Andrew, 68 gesaku, 35, 65, 66, 73, 76, 135 gift-giving: European practices, 111; government, 120, 122; rangaku, 112, 114, 159n.36, 170n.39; with the Dutch, 8, 9, 121, 122, 123, 128 “Goishi ikusai teian” (Petition for the education of doctors), 80, 95 gōnō, 13 Gotō Rishun, 66 Green Tea Hag, 26 group reading, 49, 105 Habermas, Jurgen, 70, 76, 137, 146 habitus: explanation of, 17–18, 41, 69, 150, 153; Ōtsuki Gentaku’s, 30, 38, 40 Halma, François, 8, 85 hanko (domainal schools), 11, 95, 96 Harootunian, Harry, 65, 176n.12 Haruma wage (Halma dictionary), 50, 84–85, 90, 91, 123, 127, 130 Hashimoto Sōkichi, 66, 80, 89, 90–91, 93, 94, 128, 151, 172n.56 Hayashi Shihei, 64, 71, 100, 159n.13 Hazama Shigetomi, 46, 71, 80, 91, 127, 128, 151, 176n.56 Heelkundige Onderwijzingen (Instructions in Surgery, Dutch Translation), 26, 52, 105, 170n.13 Heister, Lorenz, 26, 52–53, 105, 119, 126, 171n.16 Hesselink, Renier, 15, 168n.44 hiden (secret transmission), 22, 79, 97, 115, 130, 155 hiden-sho (also densho), 45, 97 hinagata-bon, 45 Hippocrates, image of, 52–53 Hirado, 3, 9, 31, 127, 128 Hiraga Gennai, 32, 47, 62, 66, 68, 72, 75, 122, 127, 166n.57, 172n.51 History of Japan, 7, 127, 173n.62 Hokuriku, 131 honzōgaku (natural history, Japanese), 47, 58, 62, 65, 66, 67, 72, 106, 114, 119, 137 Hotta Masaatsu, 33, 37, 151, 160n.24 Hübner, Johann, 119, 126, 127, 170n.13 Huishoudelijk Woordenboek (Home encyclopedia), 96, 128 Huizinga, Johan, 64, 69, 72

Index 193 ichi-i (town doctor). See physicians Ichikawa Gakuzan, 50–51 Ichinoseki, 24, 25, 28, 32–33, 36, 75, 78, 83, 87, 96, 97 Igakkō Academy, 95–96 Iggakan Academy, 15 Ikegami, Eiko, 12, 42, 56, 70, 133, 136 Imaizumi Mine, 139, 175n.35 Imamura Genuemon (Akinari), 46 Inamura Sanbei, 7 Inamura Sanpaku (Unagami Zuiō), 38, 81, 82, 84, 85, 89, 90, 93, 94, 98 information revolution, 11–16, 22–23, 60, 141 in-group patrons, 108–109, 169n.29 interpreters (tsūji): access to European books, 119, 120, 121, 125, 126; as bakufu officials, 4, 14–15, 118–119, 173n.72; board of (tsūji nakama), 9–10; interaction with the Dutch, 7; language training, 78, 101, 118, 138; prominent families of, 10; rangaku activities, 8, 10, 38, 85, 158n.15, 172n.62; role in trade, 4 invisible college, 21, 117, 124, 130 Irokawa Daikichi, 145, 147 Isha akindo (“The doctor-salesman”, 1797), 35 Ishii Kendō, 138 Ishii Shōsuke (Tsuneemon), 10, 32, 84, 85, 90, 107, 117, 129, 130 Ishikawa Genjō, 56, 125 Itō Chūtai, 132–133, 174n.84 Itō Genboku, 79, 89, 154 Itsumadegusa, 140 jiyū tōgi (free discussion), 144 Jonstonus, Johannes, 119, 120, 122, 127, 128, 171n.13, 171n.14, 171n.16, 172n.51 jugaku (Neo-Confucianism studies), 1, 37, 38–40, 95, 107, 113, 152–153 Kaempfer, Engelbert, 7–8, 127 Kaigi-ben, 143–144 Kaikoku heidan (Military discussion for a maritime country), 100 Kaiseisho Institute, 141 Kaitai shinsho (A new book of anatomy): circulation, 124; European references, 120; impact of, 75, 99, 116–117, 130, 164n.12; lectures on, 87, 93; publication, 75; revision, 28, 52, 96, 113, 160n.22; translation work, 26, 62, 152, 172n.60

194 Index kakubutsu chichi (investigation of things and extension of knowledge), 39 kambang auctions, 119 Kanamaru, Yoshio, 80 kanbun (Chinese writing), 40, 83–84, 111, 162n.69 Kanda Takahira, 138, 142 Kankai ibun (News from the surrounding seas, 1806), 28 “Kanto yōroku”, 33 kashihonya (mobile lending libraries). See libraries Katagiri Kazuo, 132, 167n.19 Katsuragawa Hoken, 9, 96 Katsuragawa Hosan, 61–62, 64, 65, 125, 136 Katsuragawa Hoshū: bakufu physician, 31; book collection, 122, 126, 127, 128, 130; collection of European objects, 45; interaction with the Dutch, 88, 171n.26; interview with Daikokuya Kōdayū, 50; relationship to Ōtsuki Gentaku, 8, 27, 32, 71, 159n.13; salon, 54, 61–65 Katsuragawa Hoshū II, 138, 139–140, 175n.31 Keiho kikō, 103 Keio University, 144–145, 175n.44 Kimura Kenkadō: as rangakusha, 108; collecting, 46, 123, 127–128, 131, 173n.78; correspondence, 106; patronage, 106, 130, 151, 172n.54; salons, 71–72, 109 kinsho mokuroku (list of prohibited books), 118 Kinudome Hoken, 25 kōgaku (classical studies), 10 Koishi Chūzō, 93 Koishi Genshun, 80, 91, 92, 93–94, 105–106, 107, 151, 167n.16 Koishi Genzui, 80, 92, 94 Kōjunsha (Society for Interactive Consultation), 144–145 kokugaku (nativist studies), 1, 65, 115, 147, 150, 155, 156 Kōmō zatsuwa (Red-hair miscellany, 1787), 64, 66–67, 68, 129–130, 172n.51 Kō Ryōsai, 154 Kōsei shinpen (New compilation for the public welfare, 1811–1845), 29, 96 Kōzuke domain, 132, 174n.84 Kudō Heisuke, 26, 27, 32–33, 38, 151, 159n.13 Kulmus, Johann Adam. See Ontleedkundige tafelen

Kundaikan sōchōki, 44–45, 51 Kutsuki Masatsuna: exchange of capitals, 47–48, 71; patronage of rangaku, 31, 79, 80, 81, 108; position in rangaku community, 108; salon participation, 64; scholarly activities, 46 Kyōbashi, 28, 78 Kyoto, 27, 28, 71, 74, 80, 81, 85, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 101, 104–107, 132 kyūri (studying principle/pattern), 26, 39 Kyūridō Academy, 92–94, 173n.79 legitimacy, 18, 20, 88, 92, 109, 151–152; rangaku and, 48–54; patronage and, 107–110 letter-writing, 21, 101, 102, 106, 116, 123; between Ōtsuki Gentaku and Nagasaki Kōsai, 111–113, 131–132, 170n.39; between Sugita Genpaku and Takebe Seian, 26; information flow and, 110–111; recommendation letters, 82–83, 95, 96, 102, 105, 106 libraries, 12–13, 83, 119; bakufu libraries, 15–16, 119, 124; daimyo libraries, 125; Hazama Shigetomi’s, 128; Hiraga Gennai’s, 127–128; Igakko Academy library, 96; interpreters’ libraries, 120; kashihonya, 12, 117, 124, 170n.5; Kimura Kenkadō’s, 127–128, 173n.78; Matsura Seizan’s, 129, 172n.62; Mōri Takashine’s, 129; network of, 116, 123–129, 150; Ōtsuki Gentaku’s, 153; Shimazu Shigehide’s, 172n.62; Sugita Genpaku’s, 124–125, 126, 132; Yamagata Shigeyoshi’s, 128; Yōkendō Academy library, 96; Yoshio Kōzaemon’s, 121, 127 “library of public information”, 12 literacy, 70, 116; cultural, 12; Dutch, 48; kanbun (Chinese-writing), 162n.16 machi-i (town doctor). See physicians Maeno Ryōtaku (Ranka), language knowledge, 81, 84, 86; library of, 123, 124, 129; position in rangaku community, 56; salon participation, 144, 159n.13; training of Ōtsuki Gentaku, 26, 83; translation work, 25–26, 173n.74 magistrates. See bugyō manuscript copying/circulation, 7, 13, 26, 81, 106, 113–114, 126, 129–133, 173n.74, 173n.78

marebito, 53 materia medica, 27, 58, 128 Matsudaira Sadanobu, 106, 117, 128, 129, 152, 160n.37 Matsui Jutetsu, 25 Matsumoto Heisuke, 81 Matsura Seizan, 31, 127–129, 172n.62 Matsuzaki Chūtayū, 27, 33, 161n.45 Matsuzaki Kōdō, 36–37 medical studies, 26 Meiroku zasshi, 142 mermaid bones, 27 metsuke (censor-inspectors), 10, 13, 118 military sciences, 2, 5, 16, 100, 124, 153 misemono, 44, 47, 57, 73 Mita Enzetsukai Debate Society, 144 Mitsukuri Shūhei, 138, 144 Miura Baien, 48 Miyase Ryūmon, 39 Momijiyama Bunko Library, 119 Morishima Chūryō, 32, 55, 64, 66, 67, 72, 75, 127–129, 172n.51 Mōri Takashina, 31, 125, 128, 129 Motoki Ryōei, 10, 87, 104–105, 121, 127, 129, 172n.51 Museum voor Volkenkunde, 7 Naeukeurige Beschryving van de Natuur: appeal of, 119–120; entry to Japan, 119, 171n.14; circulation in Japan, 128, 171n.13, 171n.16, 172n.51; purchase of, 122 Nagasaki: bakufu’s control, 4, 10, 13, 14–15, 119, 170n.11; European presence, 3, 6, 9, 30; interpreters’ presence, 8, 9, 10, 48, 78, 158n.15; trade through, 4, 13–14; trips to, 27, 33, 46, 71, 103–104, 123, 154; rangaku training in, 80, 88, 95, 126 Nagasaki Kōsai, 21, 82–84, 87, 111–114, 131–132, 173n.80 Nagasaki magistrate. See bugyō Nagasakiya, 4, 8, 15, 46, 63, 122, 171n.26 Nakagawa Junan, 8, 27, 62, 64, 88, 125, 127 Nakamura Genjirō, 8 Naka Tenyū, 93–94 nanbangaku (Southern barbarian learning), 2 Napoleonic Wars, 4–5, 8, 120 Narabayashi Jūbei, 47, 91, 97, 171n.24 Narushima Ryūhoku, 138–141 Narutakijuku Academy, 9 naturkunde (natural history, Dutch), 39 nenban, 10, 14

Index 195 networks. See social network newspapers, 140–142, 147 New Year’s Parties, 48–54, 56, 104, 134 Nieuw Nederduitsch en Fransch ­ woordenboek, 8 Nihonbashi, 4, 62–63, 69, 75, 78, 104, 148 Nishikawa Joken, 38 Nishimura Saburō, 64, 67 Nishimuraya Publishing House, 75 Nishiyama Matsunosuke, 62, 69 Nishi Zenzaburō, 85 Norman, E.H., 34 Noro Genjo, 38 Office for the Investigation of Barbarian Books. See Bansho shirabesho Office for the Translation of Barbarian Books. See Bansho wage goyō Ogata Kōan, 79, 83, 86, 93, 94 Okudaira Masaka, 31, 128, 129 ōmetsuke (senior censor-inspectors), 13, 118, 158n.23 Ontleedkundige tafelen (Anatomical tables), 87, 120, 123, 124, 164n.12 Opium Wars, 100, 101, 153 opperhoofd, 3, 4, 6–9, 15, 48, 120, 121 oraimono, 12, 153 Oranda banashi (Tales from Holland), 62, 66, 119 Oranda beya (Dutch-style rooms), 42 Oranda iji mondō (Questions and answers on matters of Dutch medicine), 26, 170n.35 Oranda jii (Collected Dutch words), 138 Oranda naikei ihan teikō (Medical examples in outline), 91, 126, 130, 167n.42 Oranda shoseki wage goyō. See Bansho wage goyō Oranda yakubun ryaku (Shorter Dutch translations), 86 Oranda yakusen (Keys to translating Dutch), 86, 112, 170n.43, 173n.74 Oranda zashiki, 42, 45, 49, 51, 57 Osaka, 27, 28, 46, 61, 71, 79, 81, 92–94, 100, 102 Ōta Nanpo, 63, 128, 166n.57 Ōtsuki Bankei, 29, 37, 98, 154–155, 161n.45 Ōtsuki Fumihiko, 98, 138 Ōtsuki Genkan (Banri), 10, 29, 37, 54, 78, 86, 95, 96, 98, 107, 152, 159n.1, 160n.15 Ōtsuki Genryō, 24, 160n.15

196 Index Ōtsuki Gentaku: bakufu appointment, 19; booklending, 125–129; correspondence, 111–112; early years, 24; education of, 24–27; family, 36–38; interaction with interpreters, 10; interaction with the Dutch, 8, 9; New Year’s banquet, 50–54; participation, 20, 45, 64, 71; patronage of, 108–109; physician, 33–36; position in rangaku, 22, 28, 56, 71, 84, 90, 92; productiveness, 6; publishing, 75, 81–82; research, 27, 28, 29, 85–86; role in rangaku growth, 5, 80–81, 98; salon samurai status, 31–33; scholar, 38–40; school, 20–21, 28, 77–78, 94; Sendai and, 28, 95–97; teaching, 78, 83, 84; travel, 21, 103–107 Ōtsuki Heisen, 37, 95, 96 Ōtsuki Nyoden (Shunji), 46, 53, 98, 152, 159n.1 patronage, 19, 47–48, 56, 71–72, 102, 107–110, 135–136, 148, 151, 169n.29 performative intellect, 41–43 performative literature, 42 Perry, Matthew C., 134, 154 Phaeton Incident, 5 physicians: attending doctor (ban ishi), 34; bakufu physicians (goten-i, baku-i), 31; common doctor (narabi ishi), 34; Confucian physicians (jui), 39; daimyo’s personal physician (kinjū ishi), 34; domainal physicians (han-i), 30–31, 34, 69; Dutch-style, 24, 36, 52, 53, 117; income, 35; Ōtsuki family as domainal physicians, 24, 25, 27, 84, 91, 95; ranks (hōgen, hōin, okuishi, shoji-i, and daiji-i), 34; status of, 33–34; town doctors (machi-i, ichi-i), 24, 34–36, 69, 90, 105, 111; quacks, 35 play: definition, 64, 72; egalitarianism and, 68–70, 72; information exchange and, 65–68; Meiji period, 138–141, 143, 165n.19; sociability of, 137; Tokugawa culture an, 65 playbills, 68; Rangakusha shibai midate banzuke (Playbill for Dutch studies theater), 54–55; Rangakusha sumō midate banzuke (Playbill for Dutch studies sumo), 55–56 Portuguese trade, 2–3 position-taking, 42, 43, 54–56, 151, 152, 176n.1 private academies. See shigaku

product exhibits, 12, 47, 68, 74 protonationalism, 21 publishers, 12, 64, 75, 110, 119, 129–130, 131, 13n.65; guilds, 14, 129 Putnam, Robert, 72 rangaku (Dutch studies): as a network, 2, 5, 6, 17, 20, 40, 69, 106; and books, 21; community, 27, 36, 151–153; definition, 1, 2; diversity within, 77; during the decline of the Tokugawa government, 155–156; historical treatment of, 158n.28; legitimization, 50–53; periodization of, 10–11, 158n.15; position within, 21, 27, 28, 43, 53–57, 88; promotion of, 19, 104; rangakusha (Dutch studies scholars), 3, 5, 16, 31, 101, 108; relationship with VOC, 6, 7–10; schools, 22, 28, 77–78, 87, 94, 95, 103; social background, 18, 69; spread of, 16, 21, 61, 99–100, 114–115, 149 Rangaku haikei (Understanding Dutch studies), 86 Rangakuhan (Basics of Dutch studies), 86, 96 Rangaku kaitei (Ladder of Dutch studies), 39, 98, 152; circulation of, 90, 93, 96; use as a primer, 12, 28, 81–86 Rangaku kotohajime (Dawn of Dutch studies), 61, 85, 131, 152 Rangaku yakusen (Selections for translating the Dutch language), 85 Rango hassen (Eight keys to the Dutch language), 82 ranpeki daimyo (Dutch-addicted daimyo). See daimyo Ransetsu benwaku (An explanation of Dutch), 28, 130 recommendation letters. See letter-writing renga (linked-verse poetry) circles, 42, 73–74 Rikubutsu shinshi (New record of six things), 27, 52, 106, 128, 130, 172n.51, 173n.54 roadside patronage, 109–110 Roman Catholicism, 3, 15 ronin (masterless samurai), 32, 90 Rubinger, Richard, 78, 79, 86, 103, 155 ruptural unity, 156, 176n.12 rural entrepreneurs. See gōnō Russian encroachment, 27 rusuiyaku (domainal residential liaison officers) 27, 101

saffron, 27 Sairan igen (Reports on a foreigner’s story), 91–92, 127 Saitō Hōsaku, 92, 94 sakoku. See closed country policy Sakoku-ron (On the closed country), 131 salons: Chinese studies salons, 147; décor, 43–45, 50–53; European salons, 42, 60, 146, 166n.58, 174n.2, 174n.3; diversity within, 43, 58; Katsuragawa salon, 61–64; Meiji period, 138–140; parties, 48–50; performance within, 56; play within, 64–68; salon socialibility, 42, 134–136; sites of network formation, 19, 41, 56–57, 70–73; za culture, 41, 59–61; zashiki (definition), 41–42 sankin kōtai, 100, 128, 160n.32 Santō Kyōden, 166n.57 Sasaki Chūtaku, 92, 96 Schambergen, Caspar, 6, 97 school oaths, 88–89, 98, 152 Screech, Timon, 8, 11, 99–100 seclusion edicts. See closed country policy secret texts. See hiden-sho Seihin taigo (Conversations with Western guests), 28 Seisetsu naika senyō (Western internal medicine), 93, 130, 174n.88 Seiyō zasshi (Western miscellany), 141–142, 144–145, 174n.14 Sendai: and the Ōtsuki family, 24, 37, 98, 104–105, 154; and rangaku, 28, 92; education in, 95–98; influence of Ōtsuki Gentaku, 28, 78, 95–97; support of Ōtsuki Gentaku, 27–28, 31, 32 senior factory physician (oppermeester), 4, 6–7, 9, 88 “Senkō kōjitsu,” 159n.1 Shiba Kōkan, 102, 123, 126, 127, 152, 171n.24, 171n.33, 172n.51 Shibano Ritsuzan, 105–107, 169n.24 shigaku (private academies), 62; and networking, 20, 59, 124, 150; importance to rangaku education, 77–78, 94, 102; social and regional diversity in, 11–12, 97, 103; See also Shirandō Shimazu Shigehide, 31, 46–47, 119, 128, 129, 172n.62 Shinnō, 52–53 Shinshōdō Bookstore, 75

Index 197 Shirandō, 49–51; information flow and, 78–80; opening, 20, 31, 71, 77; training at, 82–87; recruitment to, 78, 80–82; social significance of, 87–89; students, 89–97 Shirandō monjinsho (Shirandō registry), 80, 81, 82, 88, 90, 97 Shirandō shingenkai-zu (Portrait of Shirandō New Year’s gathering), 50, 54 Shishisaidō Academy, 93, 94 Shitamachi, 28 Shizuki Tadao, 7, 10, 86, 107, 123, 131, 173n.62 Shōheikō Academy, 11, 37, 95, 106–107, 153, 161n.45 shomotsu aratameyaku (book inspectorate), 14 Shōtoku shinrei trade laws (1715), 3 shūmon aratame, 13 Siebold, Philipp Franz von, 9, 88, 98, 129, 154, 156 Simmel, Georg, 137 sociability, 42, 59, 69, 70, 76, 134–147 social bridges, 59–60, 72 social class, 34, 43 social maneuvering, 42, 43, 48, 57 social network: and salons, 56–57; circulation of books, 118, 123; definition, 16–17; exchange of capitals through, 109; importance to rangaku, 22; Meiji period, 146, 149; theory, 16–17 social nodes, 17, 42, 56, 59, 60, 68, 144 social practice (Bourdieu), 2, 17, 18, 30, 33, 68 social reproduction, 89, 151, 153 social self, 69 social ties: across Japan, 102, 11, 114; benefits to rangaku community, 46, 80, 103, 105, 149–150; creation of, 21; definition, 17; importance of trust, 65, 72; Meiji period, 143; Ōtsuki Gentaku’s, 5, 33, 79, 103, 104, 108; relationship to social capital, 70, 127; with the Dutch, 123 Sō Shiseki, 63 stipends: Ōtsuki Gentaku’s, 27, 29; physicians’, 30, 31, 32, 108 study trips. See yūgaku Sugawara no Michizane (Tenjin), 53, 163n.35 Sugita Genpaku: biases toward interpreters, 61; Confucianism of, 39; diary, 72; correspondences, 105, 167n.16; diary, 72;

198 Index Sugita Genpaku: (cont.) home, 62; library, 118, 122–123, 125–128; medical activity, 31, 36; position within rangaku, 55–56; promotion of rangaku, 95, 152; relationship with Takebe Seian, 25–26, 170n.35; teaching, 26, 82–83, 160n.22; translation group, 62, 71; translation work, 25–26, 52, 75, 164n.12, 172n.60 Sugita Hakugen, 83, 104, 107, 112, 126, 169n.12 Sugita Ryūkei, 29, 83, 85 Suwaraya Ichibei, 75, 129, 173n.65 Suwaraya Ihachi, 81 Suwaraya Publishing House, 75, 129, 169n.26 Suzuki Harunobu, 63 Tachibana Nankei, 49 Takahashi Kageyasu, 9, 173n.62 Takahashi Keisaku, 131–133, 174n.84, 174n.86 Takano Chōei, 132, 169n.4, 174n.86 Takebe Seian, 24–26, 32, 37, 75, 83, 87, 96–97, 170n.35 Tamura daimyo, 24, 32–33 Tamura Murasuke, 108 Tanaka Yūko, 60, 75 Tanuma Okitsugu, 11, 100 Tekijuku (Tekitekisaijuku, Tekitekijuku), 79, 83, 87, 94 temple schools, 11 Tenkōsha salon group, 139, 174n.14 Tenmongata. See Astronomical Bureau Tenshinrō Academy, 82–83, 103 Terakoya. See temple schools Thunberg, Carl Peter, 7–8, 88, 120 Titsingh, Isaac, 7–9, 46, 49, 121, 129, 171n.24, 171n.33 Tōkaidō Road, 62, 104, 105, 109, 110 Tokugawa Ieyasu, 3, 13 Tokugawa Yoshimune, 99, 118, 164n.8 Tokyo Educational Discussion Group (Tōkyō-shi kyōiku enzetsu), 138 tōtsūji (Chinese interpreters), 9, 123 town elders (machidoshiyori), 13, 50, 119 Tozawa Yukio, 11 traveling inspectors (junkenshi), 13 travel permits, 100 Tsuboi Shindō, 79, 89, 93–94 Tsuji Ranshitsu, 82 Tsutaya Publishing House, 75

Udagawa Genshin (Yasuoka Genshin), 91, 93, 96, 126, 130, 167n.22, 167n.42; adoption of, 37; education, 83–84, 85, 89; relationship with Ōtsuki Gentaku, 87 Udagawa Genzui, 93, 96, 130, 174n.88; and social reproduction, 37–38; education, 83–84, 85, 89; salon participation, 64, 71 Udagawa Yōan, 9, 113, 123, 173n.80 Ueda Akinari, 65 unicorn horn (ikkaku), 27, 52, 106, 112, 130 Utsunomiya Saburō, 138, 139, 142, 144 virtual kashihonya, 21, 117, 124, 133 VOC (de Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie), 2–5, 9 Wellman, Barry, 17 Western studies. See yōgaku Western-style medicine. See Dutch-style medicine whole networks, 17 Woodson, Yoko, 107–108 Yakken (Keys of translation), 85 yakuhin-kai. See product exhibits Yamagata Shigeyoshi (Masuya Heiemon), 46–47, 79, 127–128, 130, 172n.56, 172n.57 Yamamura Saisuke, 84, 89–92, 96, 127 Yanagawa Shunsan, 138, 139, 141–142 yōgaku, 5, 134 Yōi shinsho (New treatise on wound treatment), 26, 52, 113, 126, 170n.39, 173n.76, 173n.80 Yōka seisen (Detailed selections on wound treatment), 96 Yōkendō Domainal School, 36–37, 95–98 Yokio Shonan, 155 Yoshida Tadashi, 158n.15 Yoshikawa Ryōyū, 86 Yoshio Kōzaemon, 8, 10, 45, 47–48, 87, 104, 121, 126, 152, 13n.13, 173n.62 yūgaku (study trips): and networking, 131; Ōtsuki Gentaku’s trip to Nagasaki, 103–107; patronage of, 71, 107–110; significance to education, 21, 102–103 za culture, 41, 59–61 zashiki. See salons zashiki kazari (salon decorating), 43–48, 57 Zuiōjuku Academy, 93–94, 96

About the Author

Terrence Jackson is associate professor of history at Adrian College. He earned a PhD in East Asian history at Indiana University. His research ­focuses on the early modern and modern periods, particularly women’s history and the history of science.

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