History of Technology Volume 29: Volume Twenty-nine, 2009 9781441136114, 9781350019126, 9781441177087

Citation preview

HISTORY OF TECHNOLOGY

HISTORY OF TECHNOLOGY

Editor Ian Inkster INSTITUTE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH Senate House, University of London, London WC1E 7HU EDITORIAL BOARD Professor Hans-Joachim Braun Universitat der Bundeswehr Hamburg Holstenhofweg 85 22039 Hamburg Germany Professor R. A. Buchanan School of Social Sciences University of Bath Claverton Down Bath BA 7AY England Professor H. Floris Cohen Raiffeisenlaan 10 3571 TD Utrecht The Netherlands Professor Mark Elvin Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies Australian National University Canberra, ACT 0200 Australia Dr Anna Guagnini Dipartimento di Filosofia Universita di Bologna Via Zamboni 38 40126 Bologna Italy Dr Irfan Habib Department of History Aligarh Muslim University Aligarh (U.P.) 202001 India

Dr Richard Hills Standford Cottage 47 Old Road Mottram-in-Longendale Cheshire SK14 6LW England Dr Graham Hollister-Short Imperial College Sherfield Building London SW7 2AZ England Dr A. G. Keller Department of History University of Leicester University Road Leicester LE1 7RH England Dr Jerry C.-Y. Liu Department of International Affairs Wenzao Ursuline College of Languages 900 Mintsu 1st Road Kaohsiung 807 Taiwan Professor Simon Schaffer Department of History and Philosophy of Science University of Cambridge Free School Lane Cambridge CB2 3RH England

History of Technology Volume 29, 2009

Edited by Ian Inkster

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc LON DON • OX F O R D • N E W YO R K • N E W D E L H I • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2009 by Continuum International Publishing Group Copyright © Ian Inkster, 2009 The electronic edition published 2016 Ian Inkster has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4411-3611-4 ePDF: 978-1-4411-7708-7 ePub: 978-1-3500-1911-9 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Series: History of Technology, volume 29 Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN

Contents

Editorial The Contributors Notes for Contributors Special Issue: Chinese Technological History: The Great Divergence Edited by Jerry Liu and Kent Deng JERRY LIU AND KENT DENG

Introduction

vii xi xv 1

3

PATRICK K. O'BRIEN

The Needham Question Updated: A Historiographical Survey and Elaboration

7

JERRY C.-Y. LIU

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge during the Ming and Early-Qing China c. 1400±1700

29

KENT DENG

Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming±Qing Period

57

HARRIET T. ZURNDORFER

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800: A Review of Recent Revisionist Scholarship in Western Languages Special Issue: The Mindful Hand Edited by Lissa Roberts and Ian Inkster

81

103

LISSA ROBERTS

Introduction: Transcending Boundaries: Mindful Hands in the History of Technology History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

105

vi

Contents

ALETTE FLEISCHER

Into the Light: Crystals and the Recreation of Nature in Seventeenth-Century Garden Caves and Cabinets

113

CHANDRA MUKERJI

The Mindful Hands of Peasants: Construction of an Eight-Lock Staircase at Fonseranes, 1678±79

141

SIMON WERRETT

Enlightenment in Russian Hands: The Inventions and Identity of Ivan Petrovich Kulibin in Eighteenth-Century St Petersburg

161

LISSA ROBERTS

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan: Dutch±Japanese Trade in the Second Half of the Eighteenth Century

181

IAN INKSTER

The West Had Science and the Rest Had Not? The Queries of the Mindful Hand

205

Contents of Former Volumes

213

Editorial

This volume consists of two special issues. The first collection addresses problems relating to technological development in Imperial China. The common question from the Western point of view is of the sort: Why did China lose its early leadership of productive technologies to Europe during the early modern period? Answers to this seemingly clear enquiry vary from general cultural inwardness to the interferences of imperial governance. This collection surveys such theories but alters the issue by raising the notion that Chinese technologies did not so much fail as move along a path different from that of Europe. It is Europe that represents the anomaly. Our second collection on the Mindful Hand, also shifts common ground by querying and modifying accepted views of the links between knowledge and technique in early modern European development. Scientific or related knowledge was not brought to technique as a sociocultural gift from an educated elite to the working man. Rather, educated gents, practitioners, instrument makers, craftsfolk and technicians of all kinds intermingled both socially and in terms of their recognition of technical problems as well as in the assemblage of the mental, commercial and cognitive resources required to pursue innovative production projects. The technical hand was mindful of its knowledge context. It might well be that, in most cases, two Special Issues in one academic volume spells some confusion. For the reader, the question might be, Why these subjects? For the editor, which collection should go first? In the present case, however, there was no real quandary for the editor, and hopefully little real mystery for readers. The order of the two issues fell into place quite naturally. A great swathe of the literature on the so-called `failure' of China to advance further its earlier lead over the rest of the world centres upon links between governance, knowledge and technique. The famous Needham Paradox, posing the query as to why China should fall behind in technologies when it had possessed such a lead for such a time, is often required to yield to arguments about the inability of the Chinese system of governance to foster a culture that could support or induce a progressive relationship between the great Empire's knowledge-mongers and its hydraulic±agrarian systems of production. This argument from governance first emerged clearly in the European Enlightenment and petrified into an orthodoxy on China and the East; one which was visibly designed to define the advantages of the West. Thus, in 1880, Mons Dabry de Thiersant wrote: `The central government, without money, and we might say, without the

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

viii

Editorial power of repression, is at infinite pains to retain the obedience of its four hundred millions of subjects, who lay on its shoulders the blame of the disasters they have brought upon themselves. Moreover, it has to reckon with their superstitions and their time-honoured prejudices. In the provinces the governors exhaust every contrivance in order to procure the funds which are required of them every instant from Peking for the general needs of the State: whence come the traffic of offices, the sale of justice, the arbitrary raising of the customs (of which the collectors absorb the profits), and consequently general discontent, which is fostered by the ceaseless intrigues of secret societies, as well as by the words ands writings of the literary men ± that frivolous, ignorant and vain class which takes egotism to be patriotism, and only thinks of upsetting everything, instead of using its intelligence and influence for the good of the country. As to the common folk in general, given over to its instincts . . . It trembles as it thinks of the calamities which are in store for it in the future.'1

A form of governance that could support courts, hydraulics and fireworks, inefficient and corrupt and, essentially, poor, could not possibly mount any sort of an industrial revolution. Of course, as the collection edited by Liu and Deng shows clearly, this perspective has been much elaborated, altered by finer measurements and definitions, softened by theories of hydraulic society or Western imperialism. Yet this strain of thinking persists. A strong element that remains fairly untarnished is that in China, for whatever precise reasons, the distance between hand-workers and mind-workers was at all times considerable, and possibly even increasing from the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries. Thus merchant culture seems not to have functioned in the manner depicted by the Annales school for Europe ± rich, challenging, querulous, but trading off dollops of tax in exchange for equally measurable quantities of power. In China there may well have existed many rich merchants promoting novel commercial institutions and pushing more aggressive attitudes. But they did not generate a culture of street query, of shoptalk, of artizanry in which the learned could speak a language similar to that of technicians, in which social distinctions could be submerged inside micro-environs of both discussion and purchase. Herein may lie something salient within the enlightenment tradition as challenged by the contributors to the Liu and Deng collection. On this level the contrast with the West seems clear. Following Habermas, in their study of the cultural history of technological progress, Mikael Hard and Andrew Jamison refine an implicit position of the role of the Euro-state, where the foremost industrializing nations emerged amongst relatively liberal states that nurtured the growth of civil places of competitive intellectual endeavour that were by no means confined to a particular stratum of society. Later Western or Eastern followers did not attain such civil luxuries and depended on political hybridity, cultural protectionism in the case of Japan, Indian traditionalism combined with economic planning, centralized Marxism in the case of China, as means of technological advancement.2 Certainly, in late developers there is good evidence that large, civil engineering projects, such as the arsenals at History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Editorial

ix

Jiangnan or Yokosuka, were designed to deliberately foster close relations between existing handicrafts and artisanal skills and introduced machinery and formalized knowledge, and Meng Yue has referred to 'hybrid science' in just this regard.3 Thus the arguments and style of our Mindful Hand collection are by no means inevitably confined to Europe; apart from the Japanese comparative instance suggested by Lissa Roberts, we might here at least suggest that if a key to European industrial capitalism lies in sites of mindfulhandedness, then either a large scale comparative exercise or a global analysis might focus on the socio-cultural ingredients of such `liberal' hybridity. Did the efficacious workings of the mindful hand in Europe depend on a prior commercialization of urban living that had forced its way into the many interstices of proximate living? Did the strong artisan traditions in metal-working sit at the heart of technological change just because they were not so far distant (in every sense) from the intellectual puzzles of much wealthier and leisured folk? Of course, for historians the problem (and the orientalist danger) lies in transferring questions such as these from a broadly euro-context into one that might address, for instance, interpretations of Chinese economy and society. Juxtaposing two excellent essay collections cannot in itself satisfy or resolve such problems. But it is hoped that historians of technology will now further appreciate the nature of the task. Notes

1. Claude Philibert Dabry de Thiersant, author and traveller, has several books to his name on the indigenous peoples of South America, but also on China and the Far East, including from 1850s±1880s, Islam and Catholicism in China, its military capabilities and alliances, medicine and so on. See Thiersant, Le MahomeÂtisme en Chine et dans le Turkestan Oriental, (2 vols. Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1878). The passage above is quoted in the weekly newspaper Japan Weekly Mail, 21 August 1880, p.1075. 2. Hard, Mikael and Andrew Jamison, Hubris and Hybrids: A Cultural History of Technology and Science (London and New York, 2005); See also Hard and Jamison, The Intellectual Appropriation of Technology: discourses on Modernity, 1900±1939, (Cambridge Mass.: 1998). 3. Hashimoto T., `Introducing a French Technological System: The Origins and Early History of the Yokosuka Dockyard,' East Asian Science, Technology and Medicine, 1999, 16: 53± 72; Yue Meng, `Hybrid Science versus Modernity: The Practice of the Jiangnan Arsenal 1864±1897', EASTM, 1999, 16: 13±52.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

The Contributors

Kent G. Deng Reader LSE Houghton Street London WC2A 2AE United Kingdom Email: [email protected] Alette Fleischer, CPhil Centre for Science, Technology and Policy Studies University of Twente Post Box 217 7500 AE Enschede The Netherlands Email: [email protected] Jerry C.-Y. Liu Associate Professor Department of International Affairs Wenzao Ursuline College of Languages 900 Mintsu 1st Road Kaohsiung 807 Taiwan Email: [email protected] Chandra Mukerji Distinguished Professor of Communication and Science Studies Department of Communication 0503 University of California, San Diego 9500 Gilman Drive La Jolla, CA United States of America Email: [email protected]

Patrick K. O'Brien Professor of Global Economic History LSE Houghton Street London WC2A 2AE United Kingdom Email: [email protected]. ac.uk Lissa Roberts Professor of Long Term Development of Science and Technology Centre for Science, Technology and Policy Studies University of Twente Post Box 217 7500 AE Enschede The Netherlands Email: [email protected] Simon Werrett Assistant Professor History Department, University of Washington 315 Smith Hall Box 353560 Seattle, WA 98195-3560 United States of America Email: [email protected] Dr Harriet Zurndorfer Senior Research Scholar Department of Chinese PB 9515 Faculty of Humanities Leiden University 2300 RA Leiden The Netherlands Email: [email protected]

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Notes for Contributors

Contributions are welcome and should be sent to the editor. They are considered on the understanding that they are previously unpublished in English and are not on offer to another journal. Papers in French and German will be considered for publication but an English summary will be required. The editor will also consider publishing English translations of papers already published in languages other than English. Include an abstract of 150±200 words. Authors who have passages originally in Cyrillic or oriental scripts should indicate the system of transliteration they have used. Be clear and consistent. All papers should be rigorously documented, with references to primary and secondary sources typed separately from the text, double-line spaced and numbered consecutively. Cite as follows for: BOOKS 1. David Gooding, Experiment and the Making of Meaning: Human Agency in Scientific Observation and Experiment (Dordrecht, 1990), 54±5.

Only name the publisher for a good reason. Reference to a previous note: 3. Gooding, op. cit. (1), 43.

Titles of standard works may be cited by abbreviation: DNB, DBB, etc. THESES Cite University Microfilm order number or at least Dissertation Abstract number. ARTICLES 13. Andrew Nahum, `The Rotary Aero Engine', Hist. Tech., 1986, 11: 125±66, esp. 139.

Please note the following guidelines for the submission and presentation of all contributions: 1. Type your manuscript on good-quality paper, on one side only and double-line spaced throughout. The text, including all endnotes, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

xiv

2.

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10. 11.

Notes for Contributors references and indented block quotes, should be in one typesize (if possible, 12 pt). In the first instance, submit two copies only. Once the text has been agreed, then you need to submit three copies of the final version, one for the editor and two for the publishers. You should, of course, retain a copy for yourself. Number the pages consecutively throughout (including endnotes and any figures/tables). Spelling should conform to the latest edition of the Concise Oxford English Dictionary. Quoted material of more than three lines should be indented, without quotation marks, and double-line spaced. Use single quotes for shorter, non-indented quotations. For quotes within quotes, use double quotation marks. The source of all extracts, illustrations, etc. should be cited and/or acknowledged. Italic type should be indicated by underlining. Italics (i.e. underlining) should be used for foreign words and titles of books and journals. Articles in journals are not italicized but placed within single quotation marks. Figures. Line drawings should be drawn boldly in black ink on stout white paper, feint-ruled paper or tracing paper. Photographs should be glossy prints of good contrast and well matched for tonal range. Each illustration must have a number and a caption. Xerox copies may be sent when the article is first submitted for consideration. Please do not send originals of photographs or transparencies but, if possible, have a good-quality copy made. While every care will be taken, the publishers cannot be held responsible for any loss or damage. Photographs or other illustrative material should be kept separate from the text. They should be keyed to your typescript with a note in the margin to indicate where they should appear. Provide a separate list of captions for the figures. Notes should come at the end of the text as endnotes, double-line spaced. It is the responsibility of the author to obtain copyright clearance for the use of previously published material and photographs.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Special Issue: Chinese Technological History: The Great Divergence EDITED BY JERRY LIU AND KENT DENG

Introduction JERRY LIU AND KENT DENG

PATTERNS OF USEFUL AND RELIABLE KNOWLEDGE IN PREMODERN CHINA

In this special issue, we offer four articles on patterns of useful and reliable knowledge in premodern China. They are the fruits of the conference organized by the Global Economic History Network (GEHN) in Taiwan 2006, which concentrated on historical relations between regimes of useful and reliable knowledge (URK for short), technological change and material/industrial progress in world history. Theories and evidences on the connectivities of URK across great systems, and different methods in analysing, contrasting and comparing the material advancement among civilizations are newly introduced to explain patterns of divergence.4 The reason why we pay special attention to China is that, with the ongoing debate on the Great Divergence since 2000, there has been a surge of new discussion on the once seemingly settled topic of the `Needham Puzzle' in an effort to reconcile China's impressive early achievements in science and technology with China's lack of later scientific, military and industrial revolutions of the European type. Needham's own view in the conclusion of his Science and Civilization in China is that China's civil service examinations misled its literati, which made those revolutions impossible.5 This is by no means his only interpretation. However, Needham's verdict does not explain why and how China's achievements in science and technology were made in the first place during the period when China's civil service examination institutions were already socially well entrenched together with the Confucian literati. This problem invites further investigation into the paradox of China's limited development in science and technology. Patrick O'Brien's article represents the renewed energy in probing Needham's Puzzle from a Weberian viewpoint. It looks at the negative impact of the Confucian fundamentals, especially the perpetual attention of Confucianism to human behaviour in order to regulate it, instead of a study of nature in order to improve productivity unless it became absolutely necessary. What the article has argued is that the Chinese system did it so efficiently that Confucianism successfully removed the tension between China's political stability and intellectual creativity while such tension and its intensification induced human creativity to triumph in Western Europe. Such a triumph over-compensated for the social cost of periodical decline in social stability aÁ la Schumpeter's `creative destruction'. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

4

Introduction

Jerry Liu's article (unintentionally) provides rich empirical evidence for the O'Brien Thesis. Liu shows that moral guidance and social control were always given priority by both the imperial state and the literati. This led to the unique propensity towards specific useful and reliable knowledge in China. As a result, the Chinese elite, who were in the best position to accumulate and diffuse knowledge, always tended to improve social conditions and provision of public goods rather than improve their understanding of the natural world. This behavioural pattern can be seen as a `cultural trap'. The trouble is how to explain the occasional ingression of crude sciences and technology in China. Liu's article indicates that sciences and technology of the Chinese type were not sustainable because of the obvious lack of collective efforts and continued financial support. In this context, Chinese natural curiosity was cancelled out by Chinese social and moral pursuits. Liu, however, puts forward a cultural question, pointing out that while Europeans have been asking why China did not develop modern science and technology independently, the Ming and Qing Chinese were questioning why the advanced European practical knowledge was coupled with European violence and aggression, which were morally indefensible. For China, the European inability to develop an adequate moral protocol simply marred the utility of European scientific and technological knowledge. Kent Deng's article endorses Zurndorfer's view (below) that the Jesuit top-down model of knowledge diffusion before 1840 was confined to a very small number of imperial court elites inhabiting an ivory tower. The Jesuit-transmitted science and technology failed to impress the Chinese academy, which, not surprisingly, was submerged in Confucianism. Deng's survey for the dissemination and adoption of European useful and reliable knowledge in China from 1600 to 1910 indicates that foreign invasion was the key to push forward changes in China's old system. With a series of military defeats, Social Darwinism and pragmatism replaced Confucian culturalism and ushered in new movers and shakers of European knowledge for the reform of Chinese statecraft. Once the floodgate was opened up, the scale, scope and speed of changes turned out to be unprecedented. Western intrusion, thus argued, becomes a necessary condition for change in China, including capitalist industrialization. Harriet Zurndorfer takes the `Great Divergence' debate further by elucidating the Jesuits' `deliberately incomplete transmission' of European science to China before the nineteenth century. Chinese scholars never lacked curiosity. It was the out-dated knowledge introduced by the Jesuits, the primary brokers for European useful and reliable knowledge at that time, that was partly responsible for Chinese half-heartedness in accepting European mathematical and astronomical practices. On the Chinese side, the incompatible worldviews of Chinese intellectual tradition had effectively inhibited the Jesuit mathematical and astronomical knowledge from penetrating the Confucian unitary vision of man, ethics, politics and the universe. Zurndorfer suggests that it took considerable time for the Jesuit-conveyed knowledge to be incorporated into the corpus of Chinese History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry Liu and Kent Deng

5

metaphysics. And the European mathematical input was limited to calendrical calculation. It is our view that this volume will contribute to the ongoing debate surrounding the creation, diffusion and exchange of useful and reliable knowledge across cultural boundaries. Notes and References

1. Taking on the formulation of URK and material progress in Europe between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries, Inkster's article provides a valuable source of comparisons with the Chinese case of this edited volume. See I. Inkster, `Potentially Global: ``Useful and Reliable Knowledge'' and Material Progress in Europe, 1474±1914', The International History Review, 2006, 28(2): 237±86. 2. J. Needham, Science and Civilization in China, Vol. 7, Part II (Cambridge, 1954).

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

The Needham Question Updated: A Historiographical Survey and Elaboration PATRICK K. O'BRIEN*

I meditated upon this lack of certitude in traditional mathematics concerning the movements of the spheres and began to be annoyed that philosophers had discovered no sure scheme from . . . the movement of the marching of the world which had been built for us by the Best and Mostly Orderly Workman of All. (Copernicus, 1543) NEEDHAM'S PUZZLE AND THE GREAT DIVERGENCE: CHINA AND THE WEST

Recent syntheses in comparative global history proclaim that classical views (Smithian, Marxist and Weberian) that narrated the history of China as a history of cumulative economic retardation compared with the economic dynamics of Western Europe from, say, the accession of the Ming (1368) to the Opium War (1839) are no longer tenable. Two generations of post-colonial historical research on West, South and South-East and, above all, on East Asia have confirmed Marshall Hodgson's percipient observation of 1974 that historical explanations that `invoke pre-modern seminal traits for the long run economic success of the Occident can be shown to fail under close historical analysis'. Modern revisionists have also published a substantial volume of evidence to support Braudel's insights of 1982 that for, most, if not all, that period, the advanced economic regions of Eurasia are more appositely represented in the words of Ken Pomeranz as `a world of surprising resemblances'. Revisionism has, moreover, degraded the virtually unsupported assertions from a best-selling polemic from David Landes that `for the last thousand years Europe (the West) has been the prime mover of development and modernity'. Montesquieu, Hume, Smith, Malthus, Marx, Weber and their nineteenth and twentieth `Eurocentric' acolytes ± purveying histories of long-term Asian backwardness are now engaged in a scholarly and potentially heuristic debate in global economic history. Furthermore (and unless their Asiacentric counterparts happen to be ideologically convinced that histories of anything that might potentially lend support to new

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

8

The Needham Question Updated

anachronistic narratives of `Western triumphalism' are politically incorrect), the major discourse in global economic history that remains wide open for both discussion and research is the famous Needham's Puzzle. According to Needham and his school, for more than a millennium down to and some time after the Accession of the Ming (1338), the locus for most technical, organizational and institutional innovations promoting entirely gradual and, of course, cyclical economic progress (with `efflorescences' under the Tang and Song dynasties) can be located in the East and not in the West of the Eurasian Oikumene. At some conjuncture (still under debate) in early modern history, the locus for the generation and application of knowledge behind both process and product innovation shifted from the Orient to the Occident and has remained there down to the present time. Disagreements over the chronology for what can be represented as a climacteric in the discovery, development and diffusion of useful and reliable knowledge in China followed by the clear emergence of capacities for an accelerated rate of accumulation of such knowledge in Western Europe is probably not resolvable within any degree of precision. Nathan Sivin suggests that `Chinese civilization was much more efficient in applying natural knowledge to practical human needs' down to the fifteenth century. Needham himself traced the crossover to the centuries of Europe's classic scientific revolution but finds the antecedents for that revolution (as do modern historians of science) in the writings of natural philosophers, writing as early as the twelfth century. Since Needham launched his great project to integrate the contributions of China into global histories of science and technology, few historians have displayed the temerity to deny Chinese pre-eminence and precedence in the discovery, development and application of useful and reliable knowledge to problems of production and wealth that may have lasted for some 1500 years after the birth of Christ. Thus, Needham's famous question (once again under revived investigation and debate) is when, how and why did the Chinese empire lose its position of scientific and technological superiority to the West? FLOWS OF USEFUL AND RELIABLE KNOWLEDGE

To clarify and historicize that question, it is necessary by way of a preface to say something about how economists and modern economic historians analyse knowledge as on `input' into processes of production. Following classic texts from Schumpeter and Kuznets, they see economic growth (`sustained' rises in standards of living) as emanating from two basic mechanisms: (1) rising productivity of labour employed in agriculture, industry and services and (2) the reallocation of labour from sectors of production (usually agriculture), in which productivity per hour worked is lower, to sectors of production, in which productivity is higher (industry and urban services). Given this standard framework for the analysis of changes in rates of History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

9

growth and structures of output, historians proceed to ask: where does useful and reliable knowledge that allows for higher and sustained rises in labour productivity emanate from? Why did some civilizations (China) accumulate and diffuse such knowledge at more impressive rates than others (e.g. Western Europe)? When and why does the locus for the discovery and diffusion of knowledge change? Two classes of economic theory address these questions and are labelled as endogenous and exogenous. Endogenous growth theory certainly provides historians with a plausible way of explaining the diffusion of knowledge across any industry or economy once such knowledge has been perceived to be reliable and commercially profitable. Alas, serious difficulties remain in trying to account historically for the relative achievements of different countries, cultures or civilizations in the discovery and development of useful knowledge. Even economic historians (who are educated to explain its accumulation with reference to a tradition of thought drawn from classical, Marxist and neo-classical models in economic theory) remain dissatisfied with narratives that square circles by accounting for Europe's convergence to Chinese levels of scientific and technological efficiency, basically in terms of the outcome of shifts in demand for innovations emanating from higher rates of economic growth in the West. Interestingly, and as a `Christian Marxist', Needham himself equivocated between endogenous or demand-induced theories of knowledge accumulation and some rather ad hoc speculations that linked the shift in the locus of innovation to clear and profound cultural and theological contrasts between the East and the West in the appreciation, comprehension and manipulation of nature. In short, Needham suggests that variations across space and time in the accumulation of knowledge could `in some degree' be exogenous or autonomous ± not as fortuitous gifts from Athena, but rather as emanating in significant ways from the social, political and, above all, cultural realms of distinctive civilizations that can be represented as partially but loosely connected in diverse and complex ways to their economic foundations. Rejecting the insistence by mainstream economists on reifying distinctions between endogenous and exogenous forces, historians continue to recognize `loops of inter-connections' that are analogous to the components and circuits of the internal combustion engine that play their own particular and indispensible roles in moving economies at various speeds from one to another and superior level of efficiency. Whether the process is endogenous or exogenous or best represented by diagrams displaying arrows of inter-connections, it is not clear how historians might proceed systematically to compare something as amorphous and intangible as the discovery and diffusion of knowledge in China and Western Europe over long spans of time ± an evolution that, as they nevertheless recognize, led ultimately to significant differences in the standards of welfare afforded to the populations of these two civilizations. For a start (and unlike real income, output or other indicators of economic progress), they will never find a way of measuring the History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

10

The Needham Question Updated

accumulation of knowledge available for production in the East compared with the West. Historians must make do with impressions from scholars who know something about the quality of material life for populations residing at both ends of the Eurasian landmass, who have some understanding of the cultures and institutions that (along with favourable natural endowments) provided generations of Chinese with higher levels of welfare for more than a millennia of time. Even for those centuries from the accession of the Ming dynasty down to the Opium War (1368±1839), when extensions to the base of knowledge available to the Europeans and Chinese economies supposedly diverged, the knowledge in Needham's prism can neither be added up nor connected in systematic ways to economic progress. Furthermore, it emanated from a plethora of sites, sources, institutions, households and individuals (`proto' technologists and scientists) of great variety. Knowledge emerged in numerous forms: explicit and tacit, recorded and unrecorded, written and oral. In the future, historians may be able to impose some kind of taxonomical, even scalar, order upon the great mass of Chinese and European written and printed material that could be represented as potentially useful and reliable for purposes of production. At present, they can only investigate the contexts or regimes for the discovery, development and diffusion of such knowledge in order to make comparisons across civilizations that might help us to suggest when, why and to what degree the regime evolving in Europe became more promotional for production than the regime operating in China. In short and over these centuries when technological progress proceeded gradually, reciprocal comparisons (pace Marc Bloch) are the only method available to ascertain when and why Western economies moved (as many historians assert) up to and along a trajectory that eventually left the Chinese empire economically behind and vulnerable to geopolitical takeover. Such an exercise in history (involving the comparison of several connected but separable components of regimes for the discovery, development and diffusions of the knowledge upon which the relative economic performances of Europe and China depended) could never be conclusive. The widely shared assumption behind my argument (which is located in a larger narrative on divergence) is that technological innovation mattered for Europe's precocious transition to modern economic growth and that sources for its extension and deepening were contrasting systems or regimes for the production, development and diffusion of useful knowledge. With a specified comparison in place, I will now proceed to elaborate on connected but separable components of two regimes, but propose to allocate more space to Chinese and European cultures and cosmologies because modern historians assume that observed contrasts between Eastern and Western regimes reside, in some reductionist sense, in their cultural and cosmological foundations. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

11

SITES AND INSTITUTIONS FOR THE GENERATION OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE

Urban Sites Historically, most productive knowledge emerged from urban settings. Maritime towns and cities as nodes or poÃles de croissance have long been emplotted into histories of slow economic growth in early modern Europe. These narratives and proto-theories from historical sociology represent coastal and riverine sites as promotional: (1) for the establishment and maintenance of gilds, professional schools, universities and other institutions for the generation of knowledge, (2) for the exercise of mercantile aristocratic, courtly and ecclesiastical patronage for its formation; (3) for the employment of skilled artisans producing instruments used for the investigation of the natural world; (4) as locations for the embarkation and storage of knowledge imported on sailing ships and embodied in plants, primary products, machines, devices and information from ports along the Mediterranean and Baltic and North Seas surrounding Europe and, increasingly (after 1415), from Africa, Asia and the Americas; and (5) as political spaces offering some protection and toleration and autonomy visaÁ-vis the powers of conservative monarchs, seigneurs and bishops to control, tax and even repress potentially dangerous knowledge. Thus, historians of Europe have been educated to look for sites of comparable scale, scope and potential along the rivers, canals and coasts of the Ming and Qing empires. They do find hierarchies and networks of towns and cities all over China. Yet, for reasons that may well be basically political and geopolitical, the extent and depth of urbanization in China, as well as the character of Chinese towns, look relatively less conducive to the accumulation of knowledge than appears to have been the case in Western Europe. Higher Education A high proportion of innovative knowledge produced over these centuries has been `attributed' to lists of European and Chinese men who received some form of `higher education'. This component of the two regimes under comparison turns out to be one in which secondary sources allow historians to make some supportable comparisons constructed around several relevant questions, including: (1) ratios of the higher educated to total and to literate populations in Europe and China; (2) the relative openness of political elites to recruitment based upon merit; (3) degrees of centralized political and/or ecclesiastical control exercised over the institutions and the personnel involved with the delivery of all forms of higher education; (4) the scope of the curricula on offer to students at an impressionable stage in their lifecycles; (5) the status accorded to the study of nature; and (6) the encouragement of disputation and debate, both at university and across the cultures at large. For long stretches of its history and largely for political reasons, the Chinese empire probably offered higher education to a comparable, if not higher, proportion of its male population than Europe and, what is more, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

12

The Needham Question Updated

recruited entrants to positions of power and patronage upon a meritocratic basis. From a Euro-centred perspective, the empires and educational institutions emerge, however, as less plural, subject to tighter degrees of central control and offered, for reasons elaborated on below, a more circumscribed curricula for young men interested in the study of the natural world. Circulation of Knowledge Knowledge was, however, circulated in cheaper printed form in China several centuries before Europe. It is simply not possible to demonstrate either that the volume of printed natural and technical knowledge available for consultation in China fell below the total volume available in Europe or that the range of potentially useful branches of knowledge covered was more confined in scope or scale in the East. The Needham project's 18-volume compendia of Chinese investigations and analysis of (shi) things celestial, terrestrial, botanical, biological, zoological, geographical, optical, mineral, mechanical, chemical, agricultural, industrial, etc. degrades any Eurocentric suggestions of that kind. Furthermore, there seem to be no areas of knowledge in which Chinese publications failed to appear in printed form for year after year during either the Ming or Qing dynasties. Historians who have the credentials to engage seriously with the history of Chinese science deny the charge that the language is not precise enough for the communication of abstract science and technology. Another negative aspersion that the flow of words printed in China and devoted to yet another round of learned commentaries on Confucian classics in moral philosophy, to lessons in statecraft to exemplary forms of history, to literature, calligraphy and poetry exceeded the flow of useful knowledge by a larger margin than was the case in Europe has not been tested. Although the corollary that the authors of books on `things' (gewu) were not widely regarded within their own culture to be engaged in the promotion of morally and intellectually superior forms of scholarship, it may be the case. Large volumes of knowledge were, moreover, published in the form of state-sponsored encyclopaedias and manuals that made rather limited inroads into the curricula for higher education. Furthermore, historians of China have not exposed anything approximating to the scope and scale of an `associational culture' for any sustained discussion of natural philosophy of the kind that emerged across urban Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Indeed, there are suggestions that associations of intellectuals were less tolerated under the Qing (post-1644) than during the closing stages of the Ming dynasty. To sum up: at present, there is no evidence to show that the share of pages printed and circulated that could be classified as potentially useful and reliable knowledge (compared, say, to the volume of didactic books on religion and moral philosophy) was any higher in the West. Scholars who have surveyed China's fact-based literature leave an impression that it History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

13

displays a greater concern with agronomy, hydrology and medicine than with commerce or industry. These `unquantified' observations are just what one would expect from a physiocratic empire in which leading patrons for books included the state and its mandarinate concerned with jingshi or how to manage the age and the empire. Economic Incentives (Patents, Prizes, Rewards) How far innovatory knowledge in Europe and China was rewarded and/or protected its progenitors against plagiarism and exploitation by imitators, in order that the search and development for useful knowledge might become profitable for individuals, families or institutions making discoveries, remains another key question to pursue. Beginning in Venice (1415), European innovators received some (rather inadequate) measures of protection and/or rewards for novel and potentially productive ideas. Europe's state-run systems of protection were, however, neither universal, generous nor effectively enforced, and it could be the case that the maintenance of traditions of secrecy among kinship groups in China might just have provided incentives that were as efficacious as patents and rewards. CULTURES AND COSMOLOGIES FOR INNOVATION IN EUROPE AND CHINA

Families, Schools and Careers Mary Douglas defined culture `as a widely shared cluster of beliefs and values deployed implicitly and explicitly to promote, justify or restrain the collective actions of institutions and the behaviour of individuals'. Cultural historians (now in the ascendant in departments of history) `reconstruct!' cultures in order to `make sense' of the actions taken by organizations, institutions and people in the past. The goal of cultural history is to recover `outlooks and dispositions' of peoples as they were experienced, recorded and reflected upon at the time. They are aware that people, then and now, inhabited multiple cultures and that culture should not replace economies as another `reductionist' category for historical analysis. `Although' (as Marshal Sahlins observes), `actions and events are reordered by culture. Culture is also reordered by actions and events'. Cultures as `durable dispositions' were far more stable and resistant to change in early modern China and Europe than they are today. Historians looking for comparisons and contrasts in the dispositions of cultures towards the accumulation of knowledge and innovations should find the cosmologies and clusters of beliefs playing upon the relative propensities of Chinese and Europeans alive between 1368 and 1839 to develop useful and reliable knowledge heuristic to contemplate. Historical evidence will be hard to find and inferences difficult to draw. But, already, the relevant areas for future investigation and research in comparative history have been clearly mapped out by historians and social scientists. For example, innovators are born, raised and socialized within families and networks of kin who inculcate curiosity, desires for the acquisition of History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

14

The Needham Question Updated

knowledge and attitudes towards risk into children. Secondly, primary schools not only provided the basis of literacy and numeracy required for higher forms of formal education, but reinforced or modified attitudes and aspirations acquired at home. Ambitions formed with families and at school led men towards careers that were selected among privileged minorities, placed to make choices in this matter, basically upon economic grounds, but were also chosen partly in response to cultures of approbation and disapprobation. For example, was it the case, as some historians have suggested, that a disproportionate (sub-optimal share) of young educated men in China, with potential for innovative thought, were attracted into the imperial civil service, in which their prospects for advancement rarely depended on the allocation of time and talent to the study of `things', let alone the taking of risks or the promotion of novelties? But did this ostensibly unproductive avenue for upward mobility represent really significant contrasts with the courtly, clerical and military careers open to men of ambition and talent in early modern Europe? All three institutions ± families, schools and careers ± demand much more rigorous and textured historical research than appears to be available on current bibliographies of comparative histories for the East and West. At present, the extant historiography allows historians to deal in far greater depth with potentially significant contrasts between Eastern and Western cultures at less micro tangible and more general levels, by reconstructing the cosmologies or basic beliefs about the natural world, as comprehended by Chinese and European elites, for, say, four centuries down to the Opium War. Such cosmologies were neither homogeneous nor stable through time, but they are represented by intellectual historians as cultures that prompted relevant political and wealthy elites to formulate policies, construct institutions and offer patronage that either promoted or restrained the accumulation of useful and reliable knowledge. My reading into the complex and contested histories of early modern European and Chinese developments in science and technology leads me to suggest that the modern bibliography supports Weber's position, namely that, over this period, Western Europeans reordered a traditional Christian cosmology in ways that became discernibly more conducive for the accumulation of knowledge. The maintenance and restoration of an altogether more neutral Confucian cosmology that prevailed under the Ming and Qing dynasties did little or nothing to promote any significant reconfiguration of elite cultures in China until much later in the nineteenth century. Reconfiguration of European Cosmology 1543±1727 This Weberian hypothesis is framed by dates that refer to the decades between the lives of Copernicus (1473±1543) and Newton (1642±1727) ± a period of scientific revolution when increasing shares of Europe's political, ecclesiastical and business elites began to comprehend the natural world in new ways that can be represented as analogous to a gestalt switch. Cultural and intellectual historians (including modern historians of History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

15

science) tend to narrate and analyse that switch by way of critical surveys of the protracted, acrimonious and often violent debates between ancients and moderns. The former, as stakeholders in charge of established institutions based upon biblical scriptural and Aristotlean bodies of knowledge, sanctified by religious authority, resisted claims from moderns for the validity of their own more reliable and useful forms of knowledge based upon: (1) systematic observation; (2) Baconian interrogations of nature deploying a variety of reliable and transparent experiments; and (3) above all, the formulation of mathematically rigorous and logically consistent models of how nature depicted as a single coherent system actually worked. In retrospect and after protracted and unsettled debates among specialists in the history of science, the scientific revolution may still be regarded as a progressive shift in the understanding of how and why phenomena in the celestial, terrestrial and biological spheres of the natural world operated as they did. That evolving comprehension of nature permeated gradually into the mentalities (not of the illiterate masses at large but) of Western Europe's educated political and economic elites (including craftsmen) with the powers, means and skills required to favour, sponsor and produce innovations in thought and practice. Of course, the proclivities of elites to embrace cosmologies favourable to sustained interrogations designed to extend possibilities for the comprehension and manipulation of nature did not change simply as the outcome of an intellectual debate between ancients and moderns. Furthermore, the antecedents and possibly the foundations for that change are to be found in Medieval Christendom. Indeed, evidence has now piled up to undermine ideologically biased histories that left chronologies and impressions of early modern Europe's history as one of pronounced discontinuities with its medieval past. Nevertheless, the four `Rs' of the period under review for purposes of this narrative in global history, namely the Reconnaissance, the Renaissance, the Reformation and the Revolution in Science, all operated in diverse and interconnected ways to extend and accelerate a pronounced shift in the conceptions held by Europe's elites about the natural world that surrounded and framed their privileged lives on Earth. For example, and although this conjecture cannot be quantified, the Renaissance of the Quartocentro, which continued during the lifetime of Copernicus, was marked (and more clearly marked after the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453) by a faster rate of recovery of classical (particularly Greek) knowledge about the natural world. Recovered, restored and translated texts by Plato, Archimedes, Heron, Democritus and others undermined extant canonical and beatified authorities for higher education derived from Aristotle, Ptolemy and Galen. Secondly, and what seems to have been seriously quantified by a generation of modern scholarship on the nature of the Reformation, are liberal, Weberian and Mertonian hypotheses that the Vatican resolutely opposed the recovery and assimilation of classical and Islamic knowledge. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

16

The Needham Question Updated

The long-established ideological view that the Roman Church (even in Spain) consistently and effectively stamped out investigations into natural phenomena repressed all speculations about the world that might somehow contradict or qualify the rather limited range of references to that natural world as embodied in Christendom's canonical texts, including new and old testaments, scripture, even the writings of Saint Paul and other saints, is no longer held as tenable by ecclesiastical history, let alone histories of science. All organized religions, Catholic and Protestant alike, remained hostile to the diffusion of `heretical' cosmological ideas that ecclesiastical authorities deemed to be potentially dangerous to established hierarchies of churches, clerics and their `sacred books'. For the advance of economies (our key interest), the Reformation left Europe with several institutionalized and competing religions and a multiplication of texts, printed in vernacular languages (mainly moral and theological), but containing a plurality of facts and hypothesis about the natural world. As the violence associated with the theological disputes gave way to co-existence, the notion that there could be any single and singular source of authority on the operations of the natural world became less and less credible to educated Christians of all persuasions. Provided their findings and inferences did not explicitly undermine the `words' of God, as interpreted by several of his chosen churches, natural philosophers as well as theologians became freer to investigate the basis upon which `their Gods' might have constructed the natural world that shaped the material lives of populations all over Europe. Finally, and as an outcome of the reconnaissances of the fifteenth century, Europeans established regular contacts and commerce with Africa, Asia and the recently rediscovered Americas. Voyages of discovery followed up by profitable commerce and colonization provided an enormous boost to European confidence. Europeans had acquired the scientific knowledge and technologies required to achieve a dramatic and ultimately profitable conquest over the most awesome parts of nature, namely the winds, tides and seas covering most of the world and surrounding their promontory on the edge of Eurasia. Western Europe's command of the oceans then generated accumulating flows of information about the geographies, peoples, institutions, flora, fauna, artefacts and commodities from all parts of an expanding world that gradually degraded received biblical, clerical and fantastical accounts and conceptions of nature, as it had supposedly operated outside the known, but narrow, geographical and intellectual compass of Western Europe. In numerous ways, these famous historical conjunctures ± the Reconnaissance, Renaissance and Reformation ± reordered the culture surrounding urban elites in the West and intensified their ambitions to promote, patronize and participate in systematic investigations of the celestial, terrestrial and biological spheres of the natural world. Despite all the scholarly debate and nuanced interpretations that now surround it, European historians may as well continue to label the programme of History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

17

investigation and development in natural philosophy as it proceeded between the times of Copernicus and Newton as a scientific revolution. The flow, validity and variety of new knowledge about the universe generated by natural philosophers researching with indispensible help from artisans and funded by princely aristocratic, mercantile and even ecclesiastical patrons will be too vast to summarize here. Furthermore, the purpose of the debate is not to reconstruct and evaluate the histories of modern specialized sciences in retrospect. Nor will I be concerned to trace either tangible or indirect connections between the knowledge diffused over this period to particular innovations. Instead, the rather general argument (pursued this far for whatever credence becomes available from an exercise in comparisons with China) makes two points: first, that a loosely connected programme of investigations into the celestial, terrestrial and biological spheres of the natural world was conducted within an otherwise conservative and often hostile social environment of Western Europe, and, secondly, and at propitious times in its early modern history, the knowledge generated by that programme penetrated into, and ultimately undermined, the traditional cosmological predispositions of that continent's political, economic and ecclesiastical elites. The foundations of elite culture had been based on Europe's conversion to Christianity, a religion that co-existed in tension with the sanctified pagan texts (Aristotle, Ptolemy and Galen), with `common sense' and with all kinds of heretic fantasies that the clerical establishment did its best to stamp out in favour of a unified view of nature as God's creation. In cultures permeated by monotheistic beliefs, in an afterlife and by heretical fantasies, it is, moreover, not surprising to observe that astronomy played the key historical role in a cosmological reordering of perceptions about the natural world. That `gestalt switch' could simply be illustrated by detailed investigations into the beliefs held by increasing numbers of educated men about the natural world after, say, the times of Copernicus compared with the comprehension of and attitudes towards nature held by preceding generations for, say, two centuries following the Black Death. Up for debate is the historical background to and representation of a scientific revolution as a `cosmological reordering' that led European elites (including skilled artisans) and eventually majorities among populations in the West to believe and expect that everything in the world can be explained rationally, demonstrated empirically and manipulated technologically. Cultures and Cosmologies for Innovation in the East Research to establish plausibility for a historical narrative about the possible significance of changes to the cosmological basis for the discovery and diffusion of useful knowledge around Western Europe can only be taken further by following Marc Bloch's advice to engage in reciprocal comparisons with China ± the West's leading contender for technological leadership ± then and, again, today. This strategy for the construction of global economic history upon a comparative basis bypasses `orientalist' History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

18

The Needham Question Updated

objections that Chinese culture is sui generis and the empire's regime for the accumulation of such knowledge had successfully proceeded along a trajectory, all of its own, for at least 1,000 years. Historians must also perforce ignore assertions that comparisons of this kind can be dismissed as `Eurocentric'. Several tentative and under-researched suggestions as to why the regime evolving in Western Europe may, in retrospect, be perceived as being on a relatively more efficient trajectory have appeared in print. Furthermore, an extensive historical literature on the rise and decline of national economies in the West has already documented the penalties (institutional and cultural constraints) attached to the early starts and temporary positions of technological leadership held by the Italian, Dutch, British and, latterly, the American economies, which could well apply to China before 1800. Until well into the eighteenth century, many features of the economies and societies of the Ming and Qing empires continued to be widely admired by enlightened European intellectuals of the day. At that time, the scale and scope of information about China that filtered into European perceptions through reports from Catholic missionaries (mainly Jesuits), travellers' tales and accounts from merchants were neither voluminous, representative nor accurate. Today, these valuable accounts are but a part of a much wider and deeper historiography written in Chinese, Japanese and European languages, concerned to ascertain with reference to primary sources what institutional or cultural capacities the empire possessed (or lacked) to sustain technological leadership when confronted by dimly perceived, but retrospectively clear, challenges from the West. Historians, with help from a far greater volume of evidence than contemporaries had at their disposal, have revisited seventeenth and eighteenth-century European debates that deal with representations of China as a model culture, polity and economy. Several have reaffirmed the objections raised by Montesquieu, Hume and Adam Smith, who disputed more favourable interpretations of the oriental empire by Montaigne, Barros, Bayle, Voltaire, Leibniz, Quesnay and others. This famous enlightenment discourse resonates into modern investigations into knowledge formation and innovation across different civilizations, including institutionalized incentives and scope for the operation of multiple sources and centres for state and private patronage for investigations into the natural world and the circulation of knowledge. In short and taking a lead from anthropology, modern historians have taken up Needham's suggestions to expose and analyse contrasts in cultures and cosmologies, playing upon the missions of Chinese institutions (including the imperial state) as well as the dispositions of China's educated and wealthy elites to support and patronize the development of potentially productive forms of knowledge. As wily Jesuits missionaries to China discovered, the differences between (Confucian) and Western (Christian) cultures as moral philosophies were neither profound nor (in their ultimately mistaken view) unbridgeable. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

19

Both cultures supported hierarchy, patriarchy, filial piety and proclaimed in favour of righteous, just, frugal and patient behaviour, although Christian practice had probably come further along the way towards an accommodation with the avaricious tendencies of those with sufficient wealth and power to lead more autonomous lives and display individualistic patterns of conduct. That contrast came about because Christianity had risen to a position of ideological hegemony in Europe as a functional component of the Roman Empire and as a quasi autonomous hierarchical organization with pretensions to a universal mission after the fall of Rome. Christian churches and their congregations existed under the benign protection of diverse and competitive secular authorities, kings, aristocracies and oligarchies to whom they offered the promise of compliant subjects. That promise was not idle. As parishioners, most Europeans believed that obedience to moral codes propagated by priests and participation in the rituals performed by the Church accorded to the will of a divine creator would secure their places in Heaven. In China, the political institutions of an empire that survived as a political unit and claimed sovereignty over populations and territory greater in scale, extent and complexity than Western Europe also rested on principles designed to maintain hierarchy, internal stability, external security and obedience, coupled with more commendable concerns for social welfare. These Confucian principles never evolved in a Western sense into religions that were expressions of a divine order interpreted by a universal church that, for centuries, sustained claims for a sphere of authority sanctified by God and separated from the secular power exercised by hereditary rulers of realms, republics and cities. In China, the principles underpinning the institutions of the empire (including families, farms, firms, merchant networks, gilds, schools, higher forms of education, the organizations of local, urban, regional and imperial governance) were all derived from a set of canonical texts as revised, interpreted and implemented by an elite of officials, recruited along meritocratic lines, operating in the name of successive dynasties of emperors, with mandates from Heaven. The Chinese recognized no god and provided no space for the authority of a church separated from the state. Power in the Chinese empire depended more heavily for the implementation of rules, policies and decrees emanating from emperors and their officials upon ideological persuasion than upon coercive, more costly forms of power deployed by rulers of Europe's smaller but more manageable set of warring polities. Under the Ming and Qing dynasties, Confucianism and the institutions and personnel most actively involved in the refinement, revision and diffusion of that all pervasive and effective moral code evolved into an extraordinarily powerful and relatively cheap way of obtaining compliance for the governance of a vast, heterogeneous complex and expanding empire. Confucianism's status as a primary source of power utilized by emperors, mandarinates, local officials and patriarchs to exercise authority emerged clearly during crises of internal order and interludes of dynastic History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

20

The Needham Question Updated

change when China's ruling elites turned again and again to purification of Confucian values to restore peace, harmony and stability to an empire that had, by the time of the Qing dynasty, survived for more than two millennia. As an ideology, designed and refined to maintain a common identity, cohesion, obedience and effective rule, Confucianism became of greater concern for the political authorities of China than religions (either Catholic or Protestant) ever became for the dynasties, aristocracies and oligarchies, governing polities of smaller scale and lower complexity in Europe. Apart from rituals of ancestor worship, deference towards age and greater veneration for ancient texts (all of which could be functionally conservative in their operation), the major contrast between Eastern and Western cosmologies resides in the more stable and coherent cluster of beliefs and perceptions that the majority of a well educated Chinese elite held about the natural world and the study of nature over the centuries between the accession of the Ming dynasty (1368) and the Opium War (1839). Both Christian and Confucian cosmologies can be depicted as anthropocentric in the sense that they reaffirmed and continually refined a foundational belief, namely that all institutions and personnel exercising power over the subjects of hereditary rulers should act in accordance with immutable moral-cum-spiritual precepts. Prescriptions for all forms of human behaviour in the spheres of familial, interpersonal, social, economic and political relations were pretty clear for both Chinese and European rulers and their subjects. One salient difference was that rulers of China, unlike their counterparts of the West, had refrained from embodying these principles (as expressed on their policies and decrees) into codes of law reinforced by precedents that applied across the empire. Law usually operates to constrain custom and the discretion of local officials to take personal and particular contexts into account. In their adjudications over all spheres of private and social behaviour, including the economic spheres, the Chinese managed without applicable reference to any universally applied system of imperial law. Both cosmologies also recognized that men not only interacted with others, but were also intensely preoccupied with the natural world that surrounded, sustained and afflicted their daily lives. Yet, the attention devoted and resources allocated to the systematic study of nature were neither a top priority nor accorded high status, either in China or Europe. Nevertheless, the historical record suggests that the Chinese accumulated a more impressive stock of useful and reliable knowledge down to some indeterminate period, marked by a climacteric that probably occurred under Ming emperors, when Confucian priorities for the conceptions and comprehension of nature and the methods used by Savants to investigate all natural phenomena (including the human body) seem (in retrospect) to have continued along a trajectory that accumulated useful and reliable knowledge at a low, rather traditional rate of advance compared to Western Europe. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

21

In this, our Europe mirror, Chinese savants neither envisaged nor institutionalized a separated quasi autonomous sphere for the study of nature, whereas Christian cosmology (with its felicitous origins in the Roman Empire) accommodated its theology, teaching and institutions to take in knowledge inherited from classical times. In forging that particular fusion, the `Roman' Catholic hierarchy left no space at all beyond its parameters and perimeters for alternative moral philosophies or interpretations of the words and commands of God. But the Church certainly encouraged the circumscribed study of an (albeit inferior) branch of pagan knowledge and learning, namely natural philosophy, concerned with systemic investigations into nature as a whole, but always as a reflection of the creation and works of God. For centuries in the West, natural philosophy as represented in the `expurgated' works of Aristotle, Ptolemy, Galen and a limited range of other pagan and Islamic texts existed within a tolerated but uneasy position of subordination with Christian theology, concerned with its own sanctified set of Latin texts and scriptures dealing with God and principles of moral behaviour. Unlike Christianity (or Islam), Chinese cosmology displayed no comparable divisions or tensions. Confucians never separated moral from natural philosophy. They formulated their overall view of the world as an integrated whole, embodying human behaviour, all socially and politically constructed institutions (especially the state) conceived to be organically related to the celestial, terrestrial and biological spheres of the natural world. For centuries, Chinese savants contemplated, studied and added impressively to the world's stock of knowledge about natural things (shixue), including stars, water, plants, animals, minerals, colours, medicines, topography, magnetism, optics, etc., etc. Their epistemological tradition accorded no credence, however, to speculations, let alone theories, about the operations of nature (li) as a cosmic realm detached from man, society or from emperors with their mandates from the heavens to rule over a large and successful empire. Nature, as a whole, seemed too multifaceted and alien an idea to grasp, let alone produce general theories about. It was perceived to display nothing more challenging and useful than harmonies and balances (ying and yang). As part of nature, men were advised by sages to go with and not against its grain. Furthermore, it would have been inept and dangerous for savants, employed by the state, to publicize speculations that questioned or undermined the harmonious cosmological foundations of the empire. Not only was it politically prudent and profitable to stay with mainstream moral philosophy, but the curious minority of educated Chinese who strayed into speculations about nature concentrated upon the classification of natural phenomena, detecting patterns and correlations and/or investigating problems of clear and immediate practical import. After all, their successful civilization flourished on this basis for more than a 1,000 years. As systems of belief that weave diverse perceptions of the universe into History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

22

The Needham Question Updated

some kind of coherent whole, there were similarities but also discernible contrasts between European and Chinese cosmologies and it is arguably the case that the wedge into Western cosmology that widened between the times of Copernicus and Newton placed investigations into the comprehension and manipulation of the natural world upon a more systemic and efficient basis for technological innovation. This `hypothesis', currently under debate among historians of science, cannot be construed to suggest that the accumulation of useful knowledge in China had been restrained from the beginnings of the Empire. Clearly (as Needham and his school have demonstrated), that had not been the case. And, as Mark Elvin observed, the Chinese were nothing other than almost entirely cognizant of (if not familiar with) the several methods and styles of investigation adopted for the study of natural phenomena in the West. Furthermore, only historians of particular problems or proto-sciences could detect and somehow sum up changes at frontiers of knowledge where Chinese levels of comprehension and potential for advance really lagged behind the West. The list of extant examples (which includes geometry, cartography, anatomy, astronomy and the use of scientific instruments) was never that long. On the basis of an established cosmology and indigenous institutions and traditions for enquiry, the Chinese continued to add to their own and the world's stock of useful and reliable knowledge. Neither intellectual stasis nor any deep-seated cultural antipathy to learn from and adapt advanced Western knowledge (offered to the Chinese state as part of a culturally unacceptable package of religious moral and natural philosophy by Jesuit missionaries) can be represented as an incontrovertible or highly significant part of scholarly answers to Needham's important question of why. China failed to keep up with the pace set by the West for the accumulation of knowledge from the times of Copernicus onwards. Tim Brooke, Dennis Twitchett, Jonathan Spence and Jean Genet, Ben Elman, John Henderson and other historians of Chinese intellectual traditions are currently constructing a narrative to suggest that `promising' developments in Confucian thought in both moral and natural philosophy occurred in the late Ming period, and may well have been cut short by the prolonged and protracted takeover of the empire by Manchu armies after 1644. They and other global historians are suggesting that decline of the East allowed for the rise of the West. Certainly, there seems to have been widespread destruction during this dynastic takeover by the Qing regime and sufficient and cultural repression for some time thereafter to provide support for the thesis of a lost cosmological moment in the long history of the empire. Needham's Unanswered Question Eurocentric and other historians from backgrounds in comparative history may remain more impressed with Needham's view that `China was overtaken by the exponential growth of modern science' and by Mary History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

23

Wright's classical study and its conclusion that `obstacles to the adaption to the modern world was not imperialist aggression or the accidents of history, but nothing less than the constituent elements of the Confucian system itself'. From several perspectives (which are shared by many Chinese scholars) is the view that what counted against China in its always difficult endeavours at unpropitious times to move onto a learning curve for the accumulation of knowledge comparable to the West was China's long tradition of success as an empire, reinforced by a set of cosmological-cumpolitical constraints that can be ranked for discussion and future research under the heading of Needham's Puzzle. At the top of that agenda for historical research must be the Chinese stance of incredulity towards the paradigm that had gripped the imagination of European natural philosophy, namely that all natural phenomena, including the human body, could be investigated, comprehended and interrogated as cases or instances of universal laws of nature. Furthermore, these laws (which explained how and why things operated as they did) were the manifestations of the intelligent designs of a divine creator. They could be exposed by transparent experimental methods and explicated rigorously in mathematical language. Natural laws that could be represented as divine in origin provided the West with a cosmology and a culture for elites of aristocrats, merchants, industrialists and craftsmen that rested on an acceptable, unproveable, but ultimately progressive supposition that God created a natural world that was rational and explicable, that its tendencies to afflict the lines of people's everywhere could be fixed or ameliorated and that matter could be manipulated to provide technologies to raise the productivities of labour. Confucian cosmology neither restrained nor promoted the interrogation of nature or the search for technological solutions to problems of production. What it did not provide for, even during the continued economic advance of the Qing empire, was that powerful promotional confidence that entered into the cultures of Western elites of a natural world that was the rational and explicable work of their God. As Needham observed, `there was no confidence that the codes of nature could be read because there was no assurance that a divine being had formulated a code capable of being read'. His point is intact and remains open for research and discussion. Bibliography of Books and Articles Consulted M. Adas, Machines and the Measure of Men: Science, Technology and Ideologies of Western Dominance (Ithaca, 1989). S. Adshead, China in World History, 2nd edn (Basingstoke, 1995). S. Adshead, Tang China, the Rise of the East in World History (Basingstoke, 2004). D. Aldcroft and A. Sutcliffe (eds), Europe in the International Economy 1500± 2000 (Cheltenham, 1999). S. Amin, Eurocentrism (New York, 1989). History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

24

The Needham Question Updated

M. Bagioli, Practice of Science in the Culture of Absolutism (Chicago, 1993). M. Bagioli (ed.), The Science Studies Reader (New York, 1999). E. Balazs, Chinese Civilization and Bureaucracy (London, 1964). J. D. Barrow, The Universe that Discovered Itself (Oxford, 2000). C. Bayly, The British of the Modern World 1780±1914 (Oxford, 2004). S. A. Bedini (ed.), Patrons, Artisans and Instruments of Science (Aldershot, 1999). R. Bin Wong, `The Chinese State and Useful Knowledge: Criteria, Intentions and Consequences', unpublished paper, UCLA. J. M. Blaut, Eight Eurocentric Historians (New York, 2000). D. Bodde, Chinese Thought, Society and Science (Honolulu, 1991). F. Braudel, Civilization and Capitalism, 15th±18th Centuries, three vols (London, 1982). T. Brook, `Communications and Commerce', in D. Twitchett and F. Mote (eds), Cambridge History of China, Vol. 8 (Cambridge, 1998). T. Brook, Science and Religion: Some Historical Perspectives (Cambridge, 1991). T. Brook and G. Blue (eds), China and Historical Capitalism, Genealogies and Sinological Knowledge (Cambridge, 1999). T. Brotton, The Renaissance Bazaar, from the Silk Road to the Sistine Chapel (Oxford, 2005). V. Bulloush (ed.), Universities, Medicine and Science in the Medieval West (Aldershot, 2004). D. Cardwell, The Fontana History of Technology (London, 1994). J. Chaffer, The Thorny Gates of Learning in Sung China: A Social History of Examinations (New York, 1995). S. Y. Cheng, `On Chinese Science: A Review Essay', Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 1997, 4: 395±407. A. Crombie, `Commitment and Styles of European Scientific Thinking', in History of Science, 1995, 33: 226±38. H. de Ridder Symoens (ed.), A History of the University in Early Modern Europe 1500±1800 (Cambridge, 1996). P. Dear, Revolutionizing the Sciences (Basingstoke, 2001). G. Deng, Chinese Maritime Activities and Socioeconomic Developments c. 2000BC± 1900AD (Westport, 1997). G. Deng, Maritime Sector, Institutions and Sea Power of Pre-Modern China (Westport, 1999). H. Dorn, The Geography of Science (Baltimore, 1991). M. Douglas, Cultural Bias (London, 1978). W. Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature: Books of Secrets in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Princeton, 1994). B. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China (Berkeley, 2000). B. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology (Cambridge, 1984). B. Elman, On Their Own Terms: Science in China 1550±1900 (Cambridge, MA, 2005). B. Elman and A. Woodside (eds), Education and Society in Late Imperial China 1600±1900 (Berkeley, 1994). History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

25

M. Elvin, `Chinese Cities since the Sung Dynasty', in M. Abrams and A. E. Wrigley (eds), Towns and Societies (Cambridge, 1978). M. Elvin, `Vale Atque Ave', in K. Robinson (ed.), Science and Civilization in China, Vol. 7.2 (Cambridge, 2004), 1±18. D. Faure and T. T. Liu (eds), Town and Country in China (Basingstoke, 2002). A. Feuerwerker, State and Society in 18th Century China (Ann Arbor, 1976). J. V. Field and F. A. James (eds), Renaissance and Revolution: Humanists, Scholars and Craftsmen in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, 1993). H. Floris Cohen, `Science', in D. R. Woolf (ed.), A Global Encyclopaedia of Historical Writing (New York, 1998), 816±19. H. Floris Cohen, The Scientific Revolution: A Historiographical Inquiry (Chicago, 1994). J. Gascoigne, Science, Politics and Universities in Europe (Aldershot, 1998). S. Gaukroger, The Emergence of a Scientific Culture (Oxford, 2006). J. Genet, A History of Chinese Civilization, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 1996). Global Economic History Network, unpublished papers presented by F. Cohen, K. Davids, S. R. Epstein, J. Goldstone, R. Iliffe, J. Liu, B. Wong and H. Zurdorfer to conferences 4 and 9 on the GEHN website: www.lse.ac.uk/collections/economichistory/GEHN. D. Goodman and C. Russell (eds), The Rise of Scientific Europe 1500±1800 (London, 1991). J. Goody, The Oriental, the Ancient and the Primitive Systems of Marriage and Family in Pre Industrial Societies of Eurasia (Cambridge, 1990). E. Grant, Science and Religion from Aristotle to Copernicus 400BC±AD1550 (Baltimore, 2004). J. S. Gregory, The West and China since 1500 (Basingstoke, 2003). L. Guohao et al. (eds), Explorations in the History of Science in China (Shanghai, 1982). A. R. Hall, Historical Essays on the Relations of Science, Technology and Medicine (Aldershot, 1994). J. B. Henderson, Scripture, Cannon and Commentary (Princeton, 1991). J. B. Henderson, The Development and Decline of Chinese Cosmology (New York, 1984). J. Henry, The Scientific Revolution and the Origins of Modern Science, 2nd edn (Basingstoke, 2001). M. Hodgson (ed.), Rethinking World History: Edmund Burke, III (Cambridge, 1993). C. O. Hucker (ed.), Chinese Government in Ming Times (New York, 1969). T. Huff, The Rise of Early Modern Science: Islam, China and the West (Cambridge, 1993). I. Inkster, Science and Technology in History: An Approach to Industrial Development (Basingstoke, 1991). M. Jacob, Scientific Culture and the Making of the Modern West (Oxford, 1997). A. Janison, `Technologies Theorists: Conceptions of Innovation in Relation to Science and Technology Policy', in Technology and Culture, 1989, 30: 505±33. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

26

The Needham Question Updated

A. Johns, The Nature of the Book: Print Knowledge in the Making (Chicago, 1998). J. Kaye, Economy and Nature in the Fourteenth Century (Cambridge, 1998). M. Kranzberg (ed.), `Science and Engineering', in a special issue of Technology and Culture, 1961, 2(4): 305±91. V. Lal, The History of History, Politics and Scholarship in Modern China (New Delhi, 2003). D. Landes, The Wealth and Poverty of Nations (New York, 1998). D. C. Lindberg (ed.), Science in the Middle Ages (Chicago, 1978). D. C. Lindberg (ed.), The Beginnings of Western Science: The European Scientific Tradition in Philosophical Religious and Institutional Context 600 BC AD 1450 (Chicago, 1992). D. C. Lindberg and R. L. Numbers (eds), God and Nature (Berkeley, 1986). D. C. Lindberg and R. S. Westman (eds), Reappraisals of the Scientific Revolution (Cambridge, 1990). J. Liu, `Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge, during Ming and Early Qing China c. 1400±1700', History of Technology, 2009: 29±56. G. Lloyd and N. Sivin, Adversaries and Authorities, Investigations into Ancient Greek and Chinese Science (Cambridge, 1996). G. Lloyd and N. Sivin, The Way and the Word: Science and Medicine in Early China and Greece (New Haven, 2002). G. Makdisi, The Rise of Colleges, Institutions of Learning in Islam and the West (Edinburgh, 1981). J. McClellan and H. Dorn, Science and Technology in World History (Baltimore, 1999). J. Mokyr, The Gifts of Athena (Princeton, 2002). J. Mokyr, The Lever of Riches: Technological Creativity and Economic Progress (Oxford, 1990). S. L. Montgomery, Science in Translation, Movements of Knowledge through Cultures and Time (Chicago, 2000). B. Moran (ed.), Patronage and Institutions, Science, Technology and Medicine at the European Court (Woodridge, 1991). D. Mungello, The Great Encounter, China and the West 1500±1900 (Oxford, 1999). S. Nakayama and N. Sivin (eds), Chinese Science: An Exploration of an Ancient Tradition (Cambridge, MA, 1973). S. Naqvin and E. S. Rawski, Chinese Society in the Eighteenth Century (New Haven, 1988). B. Nelson, On the Roads to Modernity, Conscience, Science and Civilizations (Towota, 1981). B. Nelson, `Sciences and Civilizations, East and West', in R. Seeger and R. Cohen (eds), Philosophical Foundations of Science (Dordrecht, 1974). D. F. Noble, The Religion of Technology: the Divinity of Man and the Spirit of Invention (London, 1999). J. North, The Fontana History of Astronomy (London, 1994). P. K. O'Brien (ed.), Urban Achievement in Early Modern Europe (Europe, 2001). History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Patrick K. O'Brien

27

R. Olson, Science Deified and Science Defied, the Historical Significance of Science in Western Culture, Vol. 2 (Berkeley, 1990). W. O'Malley (ed.), The Jesuits, Cultures, Sciences and the Arts 1540±1773 (London, 1999). M. Ostler (ed.), Science in Europe 1500±1800: A Secondary Sources Reader (Basingstoke, 2001). A. Pacey, Technology in World Civilization (Oxford, 1990). A. Peyrefitte, The Immobile Empire (New York, 1992). K. Pomeranz, The Great Divergence, Europe and the Making of the Modern World (Princeton, 2000). W.-Y. Qian, The Great Inertia (Becketon, 1985). E. S. Rawski, Education and Popular Literacy in Ching China (Ann Arbor, 1979). T. G. Rawski and L. M. Li (eds), Chinese History in Economic Perspective (Berkeley, 1992). D. Reynolds, `Redrawing China's Intellectual Map: Images of Science in Nineteenth Century China', Late Imperial China, 1991, 12(1): 27±61. P. S. Ropp (ed.), The Heritage of China (Berkeley, 1990). P. Rossi, The Birth of Modern Science (Oxford, 2000). G. Rozman, Urban Networks in Ching China and Tokugawa Japan (Princeton, 1973). G. Rozman (ed.), The East Asian Region, Confucian Heritage and its Modern Adaptations (Princeton, 1991). U. Rublack, Reformation Europe (Cambridge, 2005). V. Ruttan, Technology, Growth and Development: An Induced Innovation Perspective (New York, 2001). M. Sahlins, Culture in Practice, Selected Essays (New York, 2000). H. Selin (ed.), Encyclopaedia of Science, Technology and History of Medicine in Non-Western Cultures (Dordrecht, 1997). S. Shapin, The Scientific Revolution (Chicago, 1994). N. Sivin, Science in Ancient China: Researches and Reflections (London, 1995). G. W. Skinner, The City in Late Imperial China (Stanford, 1977). J. M. H. Smith, Europe after Rome: A New Cultural History (Oxford, 2005). R. J. Smith, China's Cultural Heritage, the Ch'ing Dynasty 1644±1912 (London, 1983). J. Spence, The Chan's Great Continent, China in Western Thought (New York, 1998). J. Spence, To Change China: Western Advisers in China 1620±1960 (New York, 1964). R. Temple, The Genius of China: 3000 Years of Science, Discovery and Invention (London, 1999). S. Toulmin, Cosmopolis, the Hidden Agenda of Modernity (Chicago, 1990). D. Twitchett and F. Mote (eds), The Cambridge History of China, Vols 7 and 8 (Cambridge, 1998). P. Wood (ed.), Science and Dissent in England 1688±1945 (Aldershot, 2004). M. Wright, The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism (Stanford, 1957). D. Yang, `China's Traditional Mode of Thought and Science', Studies in Chinese Philosophy, 1990±91, 22(2): 43±62. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

28

The Needham Question Updated

J. Young, Confucianism and Christianity, the First Encounter (London, 1983). M. Zelin et al., Contracts and Property in Early Modern China (Stanford, 2004). H. Zurndorfer, `La Sinologie Immobile', Etudes Chinoises, 1989, 7(2): 99± 120. H. Zurndorfer, `Learning, Lineages and Locality in Late Imperial China', Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 2005, 35: 209±37. Note

* I am honoured that the editors have invited me to contribute a historiographical introduction to this special issue of the History of Technology devoted to the publication of exemplary research, concerned with the comparative histories of science and technology in China, India, Islam and Japan. I am indebted to all my colleagues who participated in GEHN (Global Economic History Network, 2003±06) for the education they supplied that enabled me to construct this essay.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Introduction

29

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge during the Ming and Early-Qing China c. 1400–1700 JERRY C.-Y. LIU

ABSTRACT

Few would dispute that Europe had triumphed over China materially, scientifically and technologically in modern world history, although historians are still debating about the precise date, causes and courses. Global economic historians today ascribe China’s ‘failure’ of achieving an equal level of scientific and technological progress to its inability in creating, innovating, accumulating, transferring and diffusing sufficient useful and reliable knowledge, and to convert such knowledge into substantial material growth. A cultural historian who chooses to engage with the problem seriously, however, tries to avoid and neutralize the European triumphalism by contextualizing the outer cultural ambiances and identifying the inner cultural logics for the Ming and early-Qing China’s ‘non-doings’ in systematically institutionalizing ‘useful and reliable’ knowledge. Taking a cultural approach, the paper provides first a broad sketch of the regime of knowledge as a whole, and draws from it the regime of ‘useful knowledge’ during the Ming and early-Qing China. Through the historical mapping of the well developed network of sites of knowledge production and reproduction (interconnected official, independent schools and libraries and intellectual circles), as well as the storage, diffusion and categorization of knowledge in c.1400–1700, it suggests that factors of imperial polity, sites of knowledge production and reproduction, scientific and technological institutions alone cannot explain the Ming and early-Qing China’s ‘failure’ in adopting effectively useful knowledge. Rather, by deriving the cultural logics of the regime of useful knowledge, the paper illustrates how cultural motives, collective mentality, cosmological assumptions and style of thought

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

30

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

may play a significant role in defining the ‘usefulness’ and ‘uselessness’ of a certain genre of knowledge. The paper identifies the cultural logics through studies of the Ming and Qing Chinese scholars’ prefaces and postscripts to works of useful knowledge on medicine, agriculture, astronomy, calendar, commerce, mathematics, geometry, art of war, statecraft, weather forecast, botany, zoology, ethnology, topography and craft skill. Our analyses suggest the potent influence of China’s pro-humanistic way of thinking upon internal and external encounters of useful knowledge during the Ming and early-Qing era. INTRODUCTION

China had once led Europe in science, technology and material growth after the fall of the Romans to as late as the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Yet, most also agree that Europe had triumphed over China, at least after the nineteenth century, based on the direct testimony of the encounters of the two great civilizations. In the 1840s, China could hardly stand on its feet defending against the European invasions, whether the cause was Western opium or cannons. Global economic historians today ascribe China’s ‘failure’ of achieving an equal level of scientific and technological progress to its inability in creating, innovating, accumulating, transferring and diffusing sufficient useful and reliable knowledge, and to convert such knowledge into substantial material growth. Only the precise period, causes and courses for the EuroChinese divergence in material progress are still under debate. Many (Sinocentric) historians, however, ‘regard such a program for research in comparative history as contaminated by a potential (and possibly by an agenda) for the construction of yet another metanarrative of Western triumphalism’.1 Some consider the question malposed, since ‘China’s economy, policy and culture had developed along its own path dependant trajectories’, which had been very different from or even contradictory to the scientific or material centred (Eurocentric) one.2 A cultural historian who chooses to engage with the problem seriously, however, tries to avoid and neutralize the European triumphalism by providing the Chinese regime of knowledge a specific cultural–historical context. Such an engagement is significant in two senses. First, it is important to look into the established regime of knowledge in the Ming and early-Qing China, to depict the well developed intellectual networks of knowledge production, reproduction, storage and diffusion. There is the un-negligible fact that the Chinese regime of knowledge had been vivid and energetic before the great encounters. The sites of knowledge production include an interconnected official and independent school and library system at the capital, prefecture and sub-prefecture levels during the Ming and Qing China. The diffusion of ideas was achieved through the communication of central and local official apparatus and publishing houses. As intellectuals travelled for the itinerant public lectures and civil exams,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

31

and the state mobilized local artisans for public constructions, useful knowledge also flowed. In other words, there existed an established order of knowledge control and a vast amount of knowledge that was considered as ‘useful’ and important was produced, innovated, accumulated and diffused through the regime of knowledge. Secondly, given the well established intellectual networks and abundant knowledge production in the Ming and early-Qing China, but not so well achieved scientific and technological progress, it suggests that, besides the educational institutions, libraries and intellectual networks, some links are missing in explicating China’s relative underdevelopment. Here, the economic and cultural historians may ask the same questions: What is the mechanism of selection and perception of ‘useful’ knowledge? Why was a certain category of knowledge considered more useful and important than others, hence worth generating and diffusing? Why was scientific and technological knowledge not recognized as systematically useful and not adopted even for the ultimate socio-political aims of the leaders in China? And why was it not innovated to reach its high/wide level of usefulness? To us, there are certain logics underlying such regimes of knowledge production, accumulation and diffusion. The central task of a cultural historian thus is to contextualize the outer cultural ambiances and identify the inner cultural logics for China’s ‘non-doings’ in systematically institutionalizing the ‘useful and reliable’ knowledge during the Ming and early-Qing era (c. 1400–1700). Through studies of the Ming and Qing Chinese scholars’ prefaces and postscripts to works of useful knowledge on statecraft, art of war, medicine, agriculture, astronomy, calendar, mathematics, geometry, weather forecast, botany, zoology, ethnology, topography and craft skill, etc., the paper aims to identify how, in reality, Chinese scholars and intellectuals visualized their knowledge environment. Our analyses suggest the potent influence of China’s pro-humanistic way of thinking upon internal and external encounters of useful knowledge during the Ming and early-Qing era. REGIME OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE MING AND EARLY-QING CHINA

The Official and Independent Educational System China had developed a mature education system by the time of the Ming Dynasty. The Ming state divided its administrative system into 13 provinces and two municipal capitals (not including the ethnic minorities at the Chinese peripheries), which were subdivided into 393 prefectures (called fu (府) or zhou (州)) and 1,171 counties by 1382. A county could have as many as 20 cantons (xiang (鄉)), although the average was about eight.3 In order to train those young talents into loyal civil officers, the founding emperor of the Ming, Zhu YuanZhang, made a great effort in promoting the official schools and the civil examination system. At the central level, the Ming founded the

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

32

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

state universities, or guozijian (國子監), in the two capitals, while local official schools were also set up at the prefecture, county and even canton levels. In 1423, the guozijian in Nanjing alone had 9,900 students. Students and teachers in the official schools received monthly stipends from the state, and were provided with staple food, fish, meat and highquality clothes. Apart from classic learning and history, the official schools also taught subjects like imperial laws and judicial procedures, statecraft, mathematics and archery.4 The official schools were strictly supervised by the central and local governments both in the content of teaching and in administration. The other important school system in China was the independent teaching institutes that were called shuyuan (書院), whose origin may be traced back to the Tang and Song dynasties. The Chinese shuyuans were either founded by private owners, local officials and retired scholar-gentries, or they were jointly invested by local governments and private owners. Although, during the Ming times, more than 60% of shuyuans were established, owned or renovated by local officials and their disciples,5 they were independent from the official school system in respect of teaching and administration. In most cases, the Ming shuyuans were managed by private owners or school principals who were employed by, but not subjected to, the instructions of local officials. They received both private and official donations of money, books and sometimes even tenure lands. During the Jiajin (嘉靖) period (1522– 66), there were up to 1,239 shuyuans in China. In Jiangsu province alone, there were more than 18 of these independent teaching institutes and, in Anhui province, 39 shuyuans were renovated in the Jiajin era. During the Qing China, the number of shuyuan rose to more than 1,900. One of the key differences between official schools and shuyuans was the spirit of free lectures. Only a few of the Chinese shuyuans taught subjects that were directly related to the state civil examination system. Many of them criticized the current affairs, educational policy of official schools or even lectured against the doings of state officers.6 Such is the reason why the Ming state, though unsuccessfully, had made many attempts to destroy or even eliminate all the shuyuans. Thus, the first picture we have for the Ming regime of knowledge is that there was an interconnected network of more than 2,700 official and independent schools (not counting the canton schools) within the Ming territory in the early fifteenth century. Knowledge Production, Classification and Storage As O’Brien rightly notes, the sheer volume of publications of Ming China looks impressive, although it was dominated by editions, commentaries and elaborations on classical texts in moral philosophy (the analogue of theology and scripture in European publishing), followed by literature (plays, poetry, stories), as well as numerous gazettes, almanacs and manuals concerned with statecraft (administrative and judicial procedures).7

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

33

Between 1403 and 1408, the Ming court compiled the largest and the earliest encyclopaedia of the world. The Encyclopaedia of Yong Le collected some 8,000 pieces of work of different kinds from around the empire, and they were subdivided into 22,937 juans (卷).8 The bibliography of the encyclopaedia contained ‘useful’ knowledge on: geography, agronomy, hydrology, botany, zoology, natural history, medicines, optics, acoustics, pharmacology, silk, sugar, paper, printing, minerals, metals, chemicals, paints, glass, borax, dyes, alum, navigation, tides and winds, etc. The Ming and Qing works on statecraft, which include a vast amount of useful knowledge, should not be overlooked. A brief survey of the headings in the works of statecraft summarize the key genres of ‘practical’ knowledge of the Ming and Qing scholars: (1) Sacred (or Confucian) teachings, rites and ancestral instruction: The ruling principles of an emperor, on masters and colleagues, sacred teachings, the ancestral instructions, self-cultivation, ritual ceremonies, courtesies to the subjects; (2) Reclining luxuries, pleasures and tributes: Heresy and religious preferences, inspection tours, pleasures, tributary gifts, extra labours and exploitations; (3) Judiciary, honouring decency and impeaching misconducts: Correcting infringement, assisting integrity, jail and criminal, discipline, honouring loyalty and merits, treacherous officials and powers, impeachment; (4) Civil service and current affairs: Orders, state affairs, current policies, responding strategy, employment, accepting advises, selecting the able, assessment, civil service system; (5) Finance and taxation: Financial expense, taxation, labours, horse trading policy, land cultivation, taxation on salt, currency; (6) Infrastructure, welfare and social orders: Rivers and canals, water transportations, topography, famine and relief, good storage, astronomy and calendar, schools, customs, pacifying bandits, constructions and buildings; (7) Military and security: Military preparation, frontier defence, art of war, punitive expedition, river defence, coastal guards, pacifying and administering the foreigners; (8) Feudal awards and palace affairs: Crown prince, queens and concubines, suzerain and vassals, awarding noble titles, collateral relatives of the emperor, eunuch.9 As Fu rightly argues, unlike the classification of knowledge in the modern era, which systematically organizes knowledge according to the devalued utilitarian logics of different academic disciplines, the ancient Chinese categorization of knowledge paid little attention to such academic utilitarianism. In contrast, the principles of knowledge categorization in traditional China had been that of meaning and function of certain knowledge, and that of conformity of knowledge to people’s recognition of reality. In other words, the traditional categorization of knowledge in China focused, first, on the profoundness of values or implications that a given genre of knowledge might bring about to politics and the day-to-day life practices. Secondly, the arrangement for the order of knowledge had to conform to people’s recognition of reality. The importance of historic figures and events needed to be

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

34

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

reflected in their orders of appearance in an edited book. Thus, ancestral instructions and sacred teachings always precede statecrafts; thoughts of saints and sages go before knowledge of astronomy and topography; and accounts for lives of emperors headed those of civil officers and local merchants.10 Knowledge and even the classification of knowledge cannot be lifted above the existing structure of cultural values in ancient China. As for publishers, according to the calculation of Tu Xin-Fu’s (杜信孚) General Records of the Ming Wood Block Carvings (明代版刻綜錄), there were at least 4,993 wood block printing publishing houses in the Ming China. Counting five wood block carvers in each of the book publishers, it then amounted to 25,000 carvers during the Ming period, who were mainly scattered over the Suzhou, Xinan, Beijing, Nanjing, Hangzhou and Jianyang areas.11 The Ming regime of knowledge certainly looks prosperous in knowledge production. Book depositary infrastructure in China was composed of four main systems, namely the official (central and local) school library collection, privately owned library (cangshulo (藏書樓)) collection, monastic library collection and shuyuan library collection. Yung-Lo emperor seemed to value books far more than jewelleries. In 1404, the emperor ordered the Minister of Rites Zheng Si (鄭賜) to send those who know books well to search and purchase scattered books from the folk. He commanded: Do not bargain with the civilian about the price of the book, just offer whatever they want and bring back those rare books …. The folk people accumulate gold and jade for their sons and grandsons, I on the other hand collect these books for my offspring. The value of gold and jade is limited, yet is there a price for these books?12 Brook has rightly pointed out that ‘[i]mperial distribution initiated the collections of books that most schools had, but commercial circulation enabled them to grow beyond the canonical core’. When Chen FengWu (1475–1541), the Huguang Education Intendant, looked over the catalogue of books in the Wuchang prefectural school in 1505, ‘he was dismayed to find “only the editions of the classics issued by the court, but neither the writings of the philosophers nor the histories”’. So, Chen sent someone to Nanjing to buy commercial presses of classics, histories, the writings of the philosophers and literary collections to supplement the collections.13 Book collections and storages in the independent shuyuans and private cangshulos libraries had almost become a vogue and riches to be chased for the retired officials and local gentries. Monasteries, too, collected numerous numbers of sutras and contributed to the important site of knowledge storage. However, one should note that the book depositary system during Ming and earlyQing China had emphasized the storage, in a passive sense of accumulation, of books far more than the real utilization and circulation of

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

35

books (knowledge). In most cases, only civil officers, students in the official school or shuyuan and monks in the monastery were allowed to access to the books stored in these libraries. The Intellectual Networks and Knowledge Diffusion Apart from the civil examination that connected all the official schools, the independent teaching institutes, shuyuans, had developed among them a well established ‘system of public lecture meeting (講會制度)’ in the middle of the Ming. With the promotion and participation of some famous Ming scholars, like Zhan Ruo-Shui (湛若水), Wang ShuoRen (王守仁) and Zou Shuo-Yi (鄒守益), such a system of public lecture meetings flourished and was widely applied in the county and provincial levels during the Ming period. As the name of the public lecture meeting indicates, these meetings were systematically organized academic activities among the Ming intellectuals. They were held regularly in public, and the participants were not limited only to students of those shuyuans. Many scholars, local gentry and even common people would travel for hundreds of miles to attend the public lecture meetings. The lecture meetings might be held inside or outside the shuyuans; on many occasions, they had attracted up to thousands of participants.14 The Regulations of Lecture Meeting of Dong-Lin Shuyuan, of 1604, provide more detailed information about how the public lecture meetings were organized. Key points of the regulations were extracted and translated as follows:15 The grand meeting is to be held once a year, either in the spring or autumn. The exact date should be decided when the time comes nearer. Only the announcement and invitations should be sent half a month in advance. The minor meeting is to be held every month except for January, June, July and December …. Each meeting will last for three days. People may come voluntarily, and no individual invitations are needed …. The grand meeting should elect one Chairperson every year to preside over it. And the minor meeting should elect one Chairperson every month to preside over it …. In every meeting, one speaker is elected to lecture over one chapter taken from the Four Books. Apart from that, the lecture meeting takes questions when there are questions being raised, and discussions would be welcome when the participants feel need to …. During the meeting day, in order to wash away the inertia and to give more inspiration to the participants, it is proper to recite a poem or two after the long sitting …. The registry should be set up in every meeting. It registers the frequency of attendance of the students and scholars on the one hand, so as to check their diligence and laziness; and it registers the personal information of the outside participants on the other hand, so as to trace the careers and whereabouts of the attendants, and take them as models or lessons in the future …. Participants coming from different History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

36

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

provinces and counties should be arranged into a table of four people for lunch. The meal includes two vegetable dishes and two meat dishes. For dinner, six dishes of vegetable and meat dishes with some wine should be served. Apart from Dong-Lin Shuyuan, many other big shuyuans, including Zi-Yang (紫陽), Huan-Gu (還古) and Yao-Jiang (姚江), all held their regular lecture meetings monthly, seasonally and yearly at the county, provincial and inter-provincial levels. Famous speakers were invited for itinerant lectures, which had no doubt weaved among them an interconnected network of intellectual communication.16 Chinese shuyuans had actively sponsored the travels of the Ming and Qing intellectuals. Taking Bai Lu Dong Shuyuan (白鹿洞書院) as an example, between 1644 and 1662, 100 out of its 800 taels budget was used to provide for the travelling costs of the renown scholars annually. Distinguished intellectuals from distant locations would be paid 12 taels more per year than the locals, if they were to study or research in Bai Lu Dong Shuyuan.17 In his A Study on the Schools of Ming Scholars (明儒學案) of 1676, Huang Zong-Xi (黃宗羲) documented 17 different schools of Ming academics in the order of timeline. He listed more than 210 representative figures of the 17 academic schools of thinking and summarized the stream of thoughts and their major works. The scholastic origins, founding masters and localities of the schools were evidently traced, and Huang even commented on individual schools of thinking to account for the intellectual trends and their interrelations. Huang’s study again provides a clear mapping of close intellectual networks among scholars in the provinces of Jiangxi, Zhejing, Shanxi, Shaanxi, Huguang, Fujian, Guangdong, Guangxi, Henan and Huguang at the Ming times.18 Although there was not an open diffusion of scientific knowledge and academies in China as such, a centralized bureaucracy, together with local gentries, did serve a comparable function to the European scientific communities of that time. A frequent change of serving localities for civil officers was the common feature for Chinese governments of all dynasties. The statistical data for the movements of 53,270 civil bureaucrats at the county level in the Qing period provide strong evidence for such high-degree mobility. Accordingly, 74.1% of provincial magistrates (知府) and 78.8% of county magistrates (知縣) in Qing local governments served a term of less than three years, and nearly half of them stayed less than one. Within such position changes, 50% were simply swaps of serving locales.19 As Wong pointed out, when officials moved to new posts, information about crops and agricultural techniques that was successful in the former jurisdictions was taken to their new ones, with the hopes of persuading peasants to adopt them. Irrigation projects specifically and water control works more generally were intimately enmeshed within particular ecologies. Handicraft technologies were also promoted. Chen Hongmou, for instance, promoted History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

37

sericulture in mid-eighteenth-century Shangxi by establishing ‘silkworm bureaus’ in the provincial capital and a number of prefectures to demonstrate silk-weaving techniques.20 However, it should be noted that, unlike the European scientists and technologists, who gathered around in scientific societies from time to time and engaged in serious testing, debating, arguing and refining of useful knowledge, there seemed to be very limited scholastic interactions among Chinese academics of useful knowledge. During the Ming period, the state registered around 300,000 hereditary artisans. Among them, 20% were stationed artisans, who mainly served in the Capital city area for the production of weaponry and military necessities, and the other 80% were artisans in shifts who were called up from their residential areas to serve in the Beijing and Nanjing capitals for a term of 3 months every 3 years. In 1393, 62 different professions of artisans were categorized into five different shifting terms in order to meet the demands of various official departments. For instance, carpenters and tailors were called up every 5 years to serve for a period of 3 months; tilers, bricklayers, painters, blacksmiths and carvers were called up every 4 years; house builders, coppersmiths, weavers, dyers and brush pen makers were called up every 3 years; stonemasons, shipbuilders, oar makers, saddle makers, fan makers, wooden bucket makers, silversmiths, goldsmiths, pearl stringers and locksmiths were called up every 2 years; and mounters, foundry workers, embroider makers, arrow makers, bow makers, lazurite makers, printers, earthenware kiln workers were called up every year. During the Jiajin period (1522–66), the Ming state re-categorized the artisans into 188 different professions. For those who were called up from a far distance, it usually took them 3 or 4 months to travel.21 It logically follows that useful knowledge of manufacturing would flow with migrations of skilled artisans, though this was diffused in a radiating web format, which flowed among the two capitals and cantons. Based on such a powerful bureaucratic organization, China was able to overcome many difficulties with the process of knowledge diffusion and sustain a remarkable advanced level of science and technology in many areas (such as agriculture, manufacture and astronomy) before the seventeenth or even the eighteenth century. CULTURAL AMBIANCES OF THE MING AND EARLY-QING KNOWLEDGE REGIME

Cultural Logics of Chinese Intellectual Tradition Social, economic and political changes have to be understood through values that were embedded in or planted into everyday life. There are certain ‘deeper logics’ beneath cultural practices. By ‘cultural logic’ (or logics), here, we mean a stable pattern of value presentation,22 which, at an individual level, resembles what Confucius described as an attitude, manner or stance towards one’s life that he could hold on

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

38

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

persistently to face the world.23 At a collective level, the logic of culture is the way of thinking and behaving of a people, which, when it is accumulated over time, may constitute the mean-system of a culture. We agree with Brook and Luong that culture or ‘meaning systems are of great importance in relation to the material and political circumstances of daily economic life, both in the microscopic analysis of human action and in the macroscopic examination of system transformation’.24 Hence, they must be brought back into the theorizing of the interactive relations of culture and economy. With the cultural logics, people then formulate among them a collective mentality or worldview, which, when they were applied to the regime of knowledge, play a significant role in defining the ‘usefulness’ and ‘uselessness’ of the specific genre of knowledge. There exist disparate cultural logics in both Chinese and European regimes of knowledge. In China, a ‘pro-humanistic’ cultural logic was deeply embedded in the intellectual tradition by the Ming times. Such a moral, ethical and commonsensical-oriented way of thinking and behaving founded itself on the Confucian tradition, whilst it absorbed the Buddhist way of self-cultivation, Taoist mystic philosophy and a nomadic or peasant spirit of common sense at the same time. The Song scholars associated the Confucian concept of ‘benevolence’ with the Taoist metaphysical concept of ‘Tao’ and ‘universe’, which connected the nature of human reason with the law of natural phenomena, and injected moral and ethical meanings into the natural law. The ‘rationalistic school’ advocated the principle of ‘unity of the natural and humanity’, which affirmed the union of natural order and life philosophy in the Chinese worldview, and provided the basis for all interpersonal relations. Neo-Confucian scholars in the middle and late Ming period extended this moralized natural law even further. Wang Yang-Ming (1472–1528) asserted that human emotions, consciousness and common feelings of people should be taken as the basis of an ethical system, for ‘goodness’ and ‘sincerity’ in fact came from the inner heart of every human being. In this sense, virtuous sages or holy man rather than God, spiritual ideology or supernatural powers became the model for people to follow. The Song and Ming intellectual traditions provided solid philosophical ground for three analytical levels of the so-called ‘commonsense’, which, in turn, became the basic sources of Chinese cultural logics. Such a repository includes (1) the common or intuitive knowledge and obvious natural laws within the universe; (2) the common feelings of people or human emotions; and (3) the inner consciousness or sense of morality within a moralized world.25 Thus, it is important to note that ‘natural laws’ or ‘natural science’ in China differed hugely from that of the European tradition, for morality, ethic and human feelings or ‘nature’ under the principle of ‘unity of the natural world and humanity’ was indivisible from the ‘ethic-freed or neutralized natural world’ at the very first instance. Chinese intellectual

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

39

traditions up to the late-Ming period had been highly ‘rationalized’.26 Such a pro-humanistic way of reasoning operated in a very different ‘natural context’, which saw the wholeness of the natural world, ethics and humanity not as a burden of knowledge, but as an inborn and requisite integrity. As a benchmark of human reason, the prohumanistic cultural logic stresses less the objective goal, profit orientations or the scientific logic of a human behaviour. Rather, the case of the Neo-Confucianism in China during the Sui and Tang eras and later the Song and Ming periods deliberately emphasized the spirit of commonness, the self-generating moral senses and the spontaneous flow of human emotions. Differing from the dominant instrumental view in Europe,27 such a process prioritizes not the calculative, scientific or logical articulation of interest for an individual or a specific group, but a general and sympathetic understanding of human desires, minds and feelings as a whole. This humanistic course of rationalization consciously denied the ‘intellectual escape’ of pure reason from its integral moral–ethical traits. It emphasized the fusion of the nature, inborn human morality and pragmatic profit calculation. Cultural Ambiances of Regime of Useful Knowledge The existing inner cultural logics of Chinese intellectual traditions had potent influences upon the regime of useful knowledge during the Ming and early-Qing China. Such logics permeate the outer cultural ambiances of the regime, and generate certain conditions to the production and diffusion of useful knowledge. To have a more detailed portrait of the cultural ambiances of the knowledge regime, it is conducive that we conduct a broad survey of the prefaces and postscripts of works on useful knowledge of statecraft, art of war, medicine, astronomy, agriculture and gardening, calendar, mathematics, geometry, climate, botany, zoology, ethnology, topography and craft skill. Since the preface and postscript of a book usually extract the essence of its content, explain the author’s motives of writing, elaborate on the main arguments and narratives of the book and provide the background information of such narratives and the author’s personal history, the investigation may contribute to a better understanding of the specific cultural context in which the Ming and early-Qing scholars were situated.28 The textual analyses may provide a critical mapping on the motives and mindset of the authors or readers of these works, and reveal the underlying cultural logics of the regime of useful knowledge. The cultural ambiances of the Ming and early-Qing regime of useful knowledge can be contextualized in the following five analytical logics. To Be Useful and Pragmatic in Knowledge Production Perhaps, the best terms to convey the character of the knowledge project in which the Ming and early-Qing Chinese intellectuals were engaged are ‘jingshi zhiyong’ (經世致用), which means to manage the world or the age through classic learning so as to elaborate on its

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

40

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

pragmatic efficacy. The standard term for a school library in the Ming is Zunjing Ge (Pavilion for Revering the Classics), which, together with Cangjing Ge (Pavilion for Storing Classics), showed the attitude of the Ming scholars towards Confucian classics and Buddhist sutras. During the late Ming, there was a great shift in the study of Confucianism from the conventional exploration of the human mind and human nature to that of the pragmatic utility of the classics. Prefacing his Collected Royal Ming Documents on Statecraft (皇明經世文編), Chen Zi-Long (陳子龍) lamented that the intellectuals during his time learned no pragmatic knowledge, but produced an immense number of works on the verifications and explanations of ancient texts. ‘The scholars cared little about state policies concerning current affairs and the daily needs of people, but spent most of their time refining the glossary and polishing the sentences of literary works to make them look elegant and beautiful’. To Chen, these works carried no practical efficacy, but hollow literary grace. Thus, he compiled the book of statecraft by referring to the models of ancient sages and investigating the present experiences.29 The emphases on the notion of jingshi zhiyong are reflected in the emergence of a vast number of works concerning statecraft during that period. The influential ones include Huang Xun’s (黃訓) Collected Royal Ming Memorials of Famous Officials on Statecraft (皇明名臣經濟錄) of 1551, Wan Biao’s (萬表) Royal Ming Collections of Works on Statecraft (皇明經濟文錄) of 1554, Feng Ying-Jing’s (馮應京) Royal Ming Compilation of Documents on Statecraft and Pragmatics (皇明經世實用編) of 1603, Wan Ting-Yan’s (萬廷言) A Brief Outline on Statecraft (經世要略) of 1610, Chen Qi-Su’s (陳其愫) Royal Ming Selected Writings on Statecraft (皇明經濟文輯) of 1627, Chen Ren-Xi’s (陳仁錫) Royal Ming Exemplary Records on State Affairs (皇明世法錄) of 1630, and Chen Zi-Long et al. edited Collected Royal Ming Documents on Statecraft of 1639. The purpose for these enormous collections was to enhance the understanding of civil officers and Confucian scholars about the operation of real politics, in a sense that the classics can be very ‘useful’ in their practical application to state affairs. Explaining the relationship between classic learning, statecraft and the pragmatics of knowledge, Wang Guo-Nan’s (汪國楠) wrote:30 One should manage the world with Tao and protect Tao with classics. Classics are like the laws of natural phenomena and the warp of a loom in human society. Both are essential to the real world and they reflect its pragmatic functions. Such basic laws of the real world can be summarized as qian (乾) [the first divined token in the Book of Changes], which includes the four virtues of yuen (元) [beginning or sprouting in spring], heng (亨) [vigor and growth in summer], li (利) [collection or harvest in autumn] and zhen (貞) [storage or consolidating the foundation in winter]. The pragmatic functions help to nurture, to grow, to harvest, and to preserve the natural world. This is the so-called management. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

41

Chen Ren-Xi’s (陳仁錫) made it explicit that his Exemplary Records on State Affairs was meant to erect models for the later generations. By compiling scholastic works from self-cultivation to the coastal guard system, military preparation, judicial regulation and pacifying barbarians, Chen aimed to extend the practical functions of the classical text to its very extreme. As he stated:31 It [the book] promotes rites and music so as to reconcile the ties between the natural world and men; it rectifies the calendar and differentiate the seasons so as to provide references and guidance for self-cultivation; it shows the state’s sympathy to people so as to consolidate its foundation; it accumulates the resources so as to enrich the country; it emphasizes the punishments and judicial regulations so as to correct the custom; it keeps details of the canal and coastal guard system so as to enhance water communication; it takes records of the behaving of prime ministers and famous officials so as to set examples; it investigates into warfare so as to strengthen military preparation; and it surveys the four barbarians so as to show the state’s efforts of making conciliation. Evidently, the Ming scholars had perceived the need to associate classic learning with practical knowledge. As Feng Ying-Jing (馮應京) declared, ‘all in all, talking is empty, and behaving is substantial. Ideals are hollow, and doings are practical. Without substance and practice, what would the emptiness attach to?’32 Such powerful cultural logics of academic pragmatism and efforts in the production of useful knowledge during Ming and early-Qing China cannot be overlooked. Accumulative Innovation, Sharing and Diffusion of Useful Knowledge The second characteristic feature that can be extracted from the Ming scholars’ writing of useful knowledge is that there had been definite individual creativity, serious attempts of accumulative innovation and a strong intention concerning the sharing of useful knowledge. The Ming intellectuals had been working in diligence and made their efforts to borrow the teaching from their predecessors and apply it to the current situation. In the preface to the Records of the Unified Great Ming (大明一統志), the Ming Emperor Ying-Zong (英宗) expressed his will of widely diffusing the knowledge of topography so that the work ‘not only would impart my offspring and later generations the great accomplishment of their ancestors and knowing to preserve it with caution, but it would also help the country’s scholars with their investigation in verifying the facts of the past and present’.33 Qi Ji-Guang (戚繼光), on the other hand, recorded his efforts on accumulative innovation of useful knowledge. As he wrote in A Renovating Book of Effective Practice (紀效新書), ‘it selects only those useful and effective strategies [from previous works] to train the soldiers in respects of personnel selection, placement of orders, military strategies, mobility and camping, martial arts, post guarding and water battling’. The

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

42

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

book is ‘effective’, as it records no empty words, but only real practices. And it is ‘renovating’ because it bases itself on the previous military codes but is not constrained by them.34 Feng Shi-Ke (馮時可) documented in the Records of the Extensive Territory (廣輿記) that, on seeing the over-complexity or incompleteness of earlier works on topography, his friend, Lu Ying-Yang (陸應陽), spent more than ten years travelling around the country, collecting all possible information from other books and his own experiences. Lu ‘took up every detail of the Records of the Unified Great Ming; he researched and refined the work and eliminated all confusing information. Lu discarded the old records and brought in the new intelligence’.35 Apart from those cases, Ku Yen-Wu (顧炎武) went through more than 1,000 provincial and county gazetteers and completed his Records on the Exploitation of Territories (肇域志) in 20 years.36 In the preface of Dan Qian General Collection (丹鉛總錄) (which assembled refined studies and works of natural knowledge, such as astronomy, geography, climates, plants, animals, mineral and jewel mining, etc.), Yang Shen (楊慎) recorded that he had transcribed more than 1,000 juans of works of others since he started writing. ‘I only selected the essential one hundredth of earlier works, which I feel inspiring and innovative, and compiled them into four dan qian collections [dan qian here is taken in its metaphoric meaning for refined works],’ stated Yang.37 Li Tai (李泰), in his Collective Explications of Climates in the Four Seasons (四時氣候集解), claimed: I scrutinized a vast amount of books in my spare time … and compiled this collection accumulatively. Although it does not reveal all the profundity, it is certainly much more comprehensive than the previous versions. I dare not to hide it in private; and I wish to share it with friends and colleagues. If there is anything that I had missed, or had not explained clear enough, it is hoped that other learned scholars would contribute to improve it later on.38 All these clearly show the efforts at accumulative innovation and a strong will towards sharing useful knowledge during the Ming and early-Qing China. The Permeation of Moral–Ethical Teachings with Useful Knowledge The third analytical logic for the cultural ambiances of the Ming and early-Qing China’s regime of useful knowledge is the permeation of moral–ethical guidance with practical knowledge. Extending from the pro-humanistic cultural logics in the intellectual tradition, ethic and morality served as the ultimate benchmark of the Chinese knowledge regime. It left the pure pursuit of useful knowledge and its application to material progress not much ground for ethical justification, let alone breaking away from all moral burdens. In other words, all knowledge and professions were subordinated to the ethical order and should find their own position. The terms jishi zhiyong express the Confucian

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

43

commitment to applying practical solutions for improving the world, while carrying ‘simultaneously a moral orientation, a repertoire of practical activity, and a category of knowledge’.39 Cultural logic, in the sense of reasoning from ethics, benevolence, hard working, social justice, loyalty to the emperor and responsibility to the state and public, performed as underlying motives of Chinese scholars’ acquisition of useful knowledge. Knowledge production, to be ‘useful’, had to carry certain moral functions. Explaining the concepts of statecraft and the pragmatics of knowledge, Feng Ying-Jing argued that there could be a direct analogy between self-cultivation with virtue and state managing:40 To employ the talents beneath the heaven and maintain the order of the world, that is what we mean by managing the age [or the world]. People usually consider that only a seven foot tall human body is the physical body, but they did not know that the entire world can be taken as a human body too. If they understand that the entire world can be taken as a body, then managing the world is just like cultivating one’s own body. A person needs to train the body to become healthy; to behave in the principle of benevolence so as to fulfill oneself and become a good governor. He needs to refine the inter-personal relations so as to meet the principles of rites; to make good use of the material world so as to conform to the principle of righteousness; and to foster capable people so that they would gain enough wisdom to undertake state affairs. And by achieving all these, the world would then function subtly. Even the art of war had to conform to the moral principles. In Li JinXhin’s (李進行) preface to the General Principle to the Art of War (武經總要), he wrote that ‘the art of war is often full of villainous strategies, constant changes and deceptions, which are certainly denounced by the Sages. Only this work tends to constrain itself with benevolence and righteousness that are just like the rules and yardsticks of a great artisan’.41 Similarly, Wang Cheng (王卺) prefaced to his own An Essential Outline of the Art of War (綱目兵法) in 1500 that:42 While writing this book I would extract the main principle by the end of each section, or summarize the key points after several sections by my own judgments, sometimes to comment on the ancestors’ merits and demerits, and sometimes to express my own views on it. All these are nothing but to help grow the enduring moral principles and to embed the established ethical rules; to value the Chinese and devalue the barbarians; and to respect the virtuous people and despise the villains. Ethnological works could not have escaped from the moral–ethical spectacles of Ming intellectuals either. After Yan Cong-Jian (嚴從簡) had completed his famous book of Comprehensive Records on Foreign Territories (殊域周咨錄) in 1574, he asked his Uncle Yan Qing (嚴清) to preface it. Yan Qing described that the book collected the diaries of

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

44

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

travellers and gathered extensive information from envoys that were sent to other countries. However, what were valued most were not the detailed descriptions about the great expeditions of Zheng He, the exotic experiences, foreign customs and ethnographical knowledge. As Yan Qing put it: I read it in my spare time …. Since it sets the model for conciliating the peoples and vassals in peripheral areas with generosity and tenderness, would this not be classified as one of the nine classics beneath the Heaven? I am pleased with that this book conforms to my principle [of virtue] thus I wrote the preface to it.43 It seems evident that Chinese scholars had to work within a cultural framework, which preferred to praise moral reciprocity over pure pursuit of useful knowledge. For most Chinese intellectuals, there was something far more important than practical knowledge and material progress. Even if it meant adjusting oneself to the world rather than mastering the world, it was certainly necessary under such prohumanistic logics. Knowledge of Low Esteem: Irrelevant to Great Career in Civil Service The fourth analytical point to be made about the outer cultural ambiances of the Ming’s knowledge regime is the low esteem of the useful knowledge producers. Describing the progress of knowledge during the late-Ming China, Matteo Ricci (1552–1610) stated that Chinese ‘have not only made considerable progress in moral philosophy but in astronomy and in many branches of mathematics as well. At one time they were quite proficient in arithmetic and geometry, but in the study and teaching of these branches of learning they labored with more or less confusion’. However, Ricci concluded in his report: ‘The study of mathematics and that of medicine are held in low esteem, because they are not fostered by honors as is the study of philosophy, to which students are attracted by the hope of the glory and the rewards attached to it.’44 Ricci is probably right. Even the great Ming general, Qi JiGuang, had to justify his efforts on producing a military work. Qi wrote:45 The world often considers archery and horse riding as trivial skills, and the military arrays as a means to fool people. Do these people know the fundamentals of the world? The Yellow Emperor’s code was rooted in the pettiness; the warfare of the Emperor Tang and Wu was based on benevolence and righteousness. However, the rise of the pettiness and the emergence of benevolence and righteousness are originated from my mind. When Zhao Shi-Zhen (趙士禎) presented his The Manual of Celestial Weaponry (神器譜) with all the military weapons he produced for the Ming court, he was ‘mocked by some officials for being chasing after secular names’, as the work contained no elaborations of classical text

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

45

and moral philosophy.46 And, after transcribing more than 1,000 juans of earlier works, Yang Shen expressed his anxiety in the General Collection. ‘Maybe it will be laughed at by great scholars, and be considered as a petty route to learning. But am I not aware of that?’47 Spending 30 years to work on his The Travels of Xu Xia-Ke (徐霞客遊記), Xu Hong-Zu (徐宏祖) received his commentary from Yang Ming-Shi (楊名時) that:48 Those ancient scholars, who were famous of their dedications to astronomy and geography, had collected abundant secrecies and contemplated their profound subtlety. They visited the spacious landmass and probed into distant hidden places …. If not that one had the extraordinary inquisitive disposition, who would be willing to step into the extreme dangers and go to areas in distant barren only to exhaust his vigor. Given this said, if their findings are somehow verified by scholars and become helpful in broadening the eyesight of people, they would still serve some auxiliary functions. To the Ming intellectuals, a brilliant scholar’s ‘extraordinary inquisitive disposition’ and decades of hard working on ‘useful’ knowledge could only become valuable when it served some supplementary functions to classical learning. It is not difficult to perceive the traditional Chinese literati frustration towards the unaccommodating mainstream intellectual atmosphere for the pursuit of a pure (value-free) technological knowledge. As the Ming technologist, Song Ying-Xing (宋應星), remarked sarcastically, ‘I would advise those brilliant literati, who are longing for their great careers, to throw this book away from their desks, because this book is not going to have any tiny little relevance to the achieving of their scholarly honour, or the pursuit of their official ranks’.49 Knowledge that was not helpful to pass the official civil exam was held as trivial and of low esteem. Many academics only took on research after they were relieved from official posts. Retiring from his position, Wang Xiang (王象) wrote in his Records on Fragrant Flowers of Er Ru Pavilion (二如亭羣芳譜) that: Confucius said he was a lesser person than an old farmer and an old gardener. The secular people were astonished and stated that farming and gardening were but petty things for trivial people, a great man should reconcile the spirit of Ying and Yang and put all the beings of the world in order. What is the use of such a trivial thing? Wang argued enthusiastically that he wrote the botanical book not only to contribute to the living of people and as a reminder of the importance of the forgotten gardeners. And he had to defend himself by asking those so-called great men whether they consider the farming and gardening trivial things to do, and whether the ancient sages had ever sentimentally attached to official positions and fame.50

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

46

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

Likewise, Li Shih-Ying (李時英) prefaced to the Studies on the Rare Flowers, Plants, Birds and Animals in China and Barbarian Countries (華夷花木鳥獸珍玩考) that the learned people usually contributed their knowledge to the world when they were in high positions, and they tried to release their depression and angers through their articles when they were poor or unsuccessful: I recall that when I travelled to my official post that was ten thousand miles away from the capital, there were so many rare flowers, plants, and unusual birds and animals that I cannot even name them. I realized the profoundness of the world’s wild species and felt it a great pity that I did not know them before. Now that I have read this book and would applaud for it.51 Obviously, many officials had produced works on useful knowledge to preoccupy themselves in order to get away from the depression and experiences of an unsuccessful career. They then tried to justify their own efforts on the studies of those ‘petty’ things or trivial knowledge. ‘Unusual’ Knowledge: Lack of Private Resources and Scholastic Interactions The fifth point is that the Ming and early-Qing scholars who worked on useful knowledge such as weaponry, mathematics, astronomy, technological instrument, craft skill, etc. were considered ‘rare’, ‘extraordinary’, ‘unusual’ or even ‘abnormal’. For many, this rare knowledge should not bother the minds of brilliant scholars at all; some even argued that it would be sufficient for the unusual people or foreigners to research it. Prefacing to the Compendium of Astronomic Inquiries (天問略), Ko Zhen-Shi (孔貞時) wrote that, when seeing something rare, the ancient Chinese scholars used to exclaim in praise. But they argue that ‘for knowledge that fell outside the field of classical learning, there will be foreigners rather than Chinese officials or scholars to study them’. It is not necessary for the Chinese scholars or classics to record all those. Ko went on to explain that:52 Indeed I have met some unusual people who gave me books from the great West, and I was surprised by the remarkable articles and subtle principles that were beyond our knowledge. I first learned these unusual things with curiosity. But when I pursued further, I realized that there are natural laws that exist between the heaven and the earth. The western scholars discovered them, and the eastern scholars read about them. However, it is not because the western scholars were more capable of mastering the rare knowledge, but that the eastern scholars had never made real efforts in researching it. This book is one of the particular cases. Wu Wei-Zhong (武位中) was not at all happy about the Ming scholars’ reluctance to engage in the study of Western scientific and technological instruments. Timidity and shallowness of the Ming mandarins was

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

47

his verdict. In the postscript of the Selected Illustrations of Rare Instruments from the Far West (遠西奇器圖說錄最), Wu stated that:53 The very unusual things of the world are achieved by very unusual persons. The unusual persons wonder about them, but the petty mandarin scholars are timid and shallow and they try to cover up their ignorance with the Doctrine of the Golden Mean. By stating that if even the Doctrine of the Golden Mean cannot explicate them, wouldn’t they be abnormal? However, if one can accept marvelous articles in the literary circle; ingenious military moves on the battlefield, unusual methods in geomancy, exceptional persons in human society, rare animals in the mountain and the ocean, and inexplicable phenomena of ghosts and gods, why can he not accept rare things in instruments? Apart from being classified as rare and abnormal people, the Ming researchers of useful knowledge, though creative and diligent, had been working very much alone; and they had few private resources and patronage for research. After completing his famous piece, Song YingXing wrote: Recently I have written a book named The Exploitation of the Work of Nature. It is a pity that I am so poor that I do not have money to buy some rare books and rare crafts to validate my writings. I would love to invite people who share the same interest with me to discuss and verify the correct ones from the mistaken ones, but I do not even have a place to think about all these.54 Contrasting with the European case, it seems that private sites for the production of useful knowledge had been rare and relatively distant from one another, while private patronages for intellectuals who were engaged in technological innovation had been limited and scarce during the Ming times. The scarcity of site and patronage for the innovation of useful knowledge is a fact, yet the root for such a shortage was not the institution’s inability to mobilize sufficient resources and assets, but the society’s underlying logic of the ‘uselessness’ of such knowledge. The writings of the Ming technologists revealed that the ambiance for the research of useful knowledge was certainly not warm at all. Unlike the case of vigorous debates of classical teachings that occurred during the public lecture meetings of the Ming shuyuans, there lacked intimate interactions among scholars of useful technical knowledge. And there is no real evidence for the existence of any regular ‘scientific societies’ in the Ming China. Liu Shi-Xue (劉世學) lamented the efforts of Zhao Shi-Zhen for his The Manual of Celestial Weaponry that:55 He has been pondering about the usages of linen and handling the works of military instruments in the capital for decades, and no one seems to show any interest about them. Chang-Ji常吉 [Zhao] has been contemplating so seriously and working so diligently, yet History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

48

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

for decades he has got no one to share his expertise. When he met some learnt persons by accident, he would try to test the essence of his findings by all means. Similarly, Liang Zuo (梁佐), although he admired the profound work of his teacher, Yang Shen (on Dan Qian Collections), grieved that ‘the book was published, and was treasured in the artistic and literary circle. The pity is that it is difficult for people to find it’.56 Chen Jin-Mo (陳藎謨) also wrote in his Angle Measurement (度測) that the diagrams and explanations in the Western works are very clear and detailed. However, the minds of Chinese readers are perplexed because their eyes are blinded. They simply cover the books up and put them away in the cabinets; therefore, only very few scholars have thorough understandings about them.57 After 30 years of hard working, Li Shi-Zhen (李時珍) completed his Systematic Pharmacopoeia (本草綱目) in 1578, which was published later in 1593. In 1596, Systematic Pharmacopoeia was presented to the Ming court by Li’s son, who, however, received only a seven-word remark from the emperor that the court should ‘[k]eep the book for reference, and notice the Ministry of Rites’.58 Useful knowledge, although creatively produced, after all, was not systematically researched and collaboratively innovated during the Ming and early-Qing China as it was in Europe. CONCLUSION: ‘WHOSE’ AND ‘WHAT’ USEFUL KNOWLEDGE?

So, why was scientific and technological knowledge not recognized as systematically useful for and by Chinese elites? And why didn’t Chinese leaders adopt the ‘useful knowledge’ from Europe? Here, answers to these questions can be addressed in four different respects. First, most will agree that the successful story of European material progress via the production, innovation, accumulation and diffusion of useful knowledge and its later application in scientific and industrial revolution was by no means a pure teleological process. In other words, it is not some brilliant intellectuals or one small group of social, political elites in the fifteenth or sixteenth century who had actually designed for the entire progressive project, which brought about the dynamic consequence of the mid-nineteenth century (despite that some, like Francis Bacon and later Joseph Priestly, did predict what would happen in the nineteenth century in terms of immense material progress that we find no equivalent in the Ming China59). The European story was accidental in the sense that it was an unexpected, if not unintended, consequence that was achieved in collaborations of hundreds and thousands of mutually unknown or even unrelated socio-political elites, scientists, merchants, artisans and experts of different professions. What they shared together was never a clear portrait of a future scenario in the nineteenth century, but the diffused scientific institutions and a consequent routinization of European scientific culture. As Inkster History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

49

argues, the build-up of mental capital, or effective transfer and diffusion of knowledge and information through scientific communities and academies, had generated within Europe a particular cultural milieu that was conducive to the scientific and technological inventions and innovations in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.60 That scientific cultural milieu was not found in contemporary China (although other forms of academic institutions were). Secondly, it should be remembered that there had been a well established ethic-centric regime of knowledge (with a network of sites of knowledge production, reproduction, storage, diffusion and classification) in China by the Ming times. The implication of the well established regime of knowledge is that, in strictly institutional terms, China was more than ready to adopt and diffuse the (European) useful and reliable knowledge (science and technology) quickly, systematically and creatively through the existing intellectual networks. What was lacking, however, was the collective cognition or motive to do so. Why should things be changed if all seems to function well? The diffusion institutions and sites need more than assets; they need motivation. The pro-humanist-based Confucian cultural logic in China, unlike a religious-derived moral system in Europe, had never been challenged: not any artistic renaissance, not any sort of religious reforms, not the scientific disproval of the Earth as the centre of the Universe, and not even the doubt of God’s existence. Indeed, there had been innovative works of useful knowledge in the Ming and early-Qing China. Yet, under such an ethic-centric cultural milieu, it is difficult to alter or surpass the ultimate principle of value and moral judgment in the hierarchical Chinese regime of knowledge. Science and technology in China was not an end of its own, but a means to contribute to the ethic moralbased social order. Despite sporadic intellectual creativities of useful knowledge, China simply didn’t accumulate enough internal momentum to transform its knowledge regime fundamentally. It can be argued that culture had been influencing the practice of socio-political elites by saturating into their way of thinking and by containing them within certain value systems, within which a decision-making process is set into cultural debates. To ask China to change would require an extensive conversion of the collective psychology – what Reinert and Daastøl labelled as the ‘gestalt-switch’, or a fundamental change in Man’s worldview or mindset, as a necessary condition.61 This only came later, in the nineteenth century. Thirdly, major external encounters of China with Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries did not seem to have posed enough threat for China to consider a fundamental reform of its prohumanistic cultural logics, either. The Portuguese did not have the chance to meet Zheng He’s fleets, yet they did meet his successors in the sixteenth century. The Portuguese first arrived at a small islet outside Guangdong in 1514, and then 1516 and 1517 under Fernão Perez d’Andrade and Tomé Pires in the name of tribute, while applying, at

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

50

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

the same time, for trading permission. The first European embassy to China was not a success. The Ming government demanded the evacuation of Malacca, which was then a tribute state to China. On Pires’ refusal to discuss the question, he was imprisoned later in Guangdong (until he died in 1524), and the Portuguese were expelled by Ming navies in 1522. It was by informal agreement, paying bribery and full customs dues (20,000 taels per year) to local government that Portuguese ships were allowed to dry their cargoes in Macao.62 On similar grounds, the Dutch were refused to trade with China in 1601. However, they soon came with navies in 1607, and were quickly driven back. In 1622–24, the Ming imperial navy twice defeated the invading Dutch fleets (with the help of Portuguese, Spanish and the Jesuits) off China’s south coast at Macao and Amoy, and off the Pescadore Islands near Taiwan.63 The Hollanders reluctantly turned to Taiwan and were nonetheless ousted again by Zheng Cheng-Gong in 1662 after naval battles. It was not until 1729 that they were finally allowed to trade inside Guangzou by paying tribute every five years, which was deemed as a reward for helping the Qing government to ‘recover’ Taiwan. In other words, before the eighteenth century, in military or technological terms, the Europeans could hardly cast any serious doubts to Chinese bureaucracy that there was a need to change its existing regime of useful knowledge. Despite the Renaissance, Reformation and Scientific Revolution, the Europeans were not powerful enough yet, or at least were unable to prove themselves as superior enough for the Chinese to instigate a fundamental change in the persisting cultural form. China before 1800 was influenced very little by European political economy, by science and technology, and by Christianity. It held itself pretty well until the early nineteenth century.64 Lastly, it is probably an understatement that there was never a pure transfer of useful knowledge from Europe to China during the Ming and early-Qing times. The Jesuit activities in China may serve as an important indicator here. Chinese intellectuals, though they did not consider science and technology as a major component in the cultural system, were, after all, not indifferent to it. Michael Ruggiero arrived at Macao in 1579 with clocks, and Matteo Ricci arrived in China in 1582, introducing astronomy, mathematics, physics and geography to the Ming court. The Ming officials Xu Guang-Qi and Li Zhi-Zao, who worked intensively with the Jesuits, not only improved the Chinese calendars, but also translated many of the European scientific works (such as Euclides’s geometry and Archimedes’s physics) into China. The Qing emperor Kang-Xi learnt mathematics from the Jesuits, and even asked T. Pereyra and J. Bouvet to give him lectures in person.65 Nonetheless, nothing was ever simply a matter of diffusion of knowledge. The Catholic priests who brought them these machines and knowledge were salesmen of a special kind. ‘They sought to convert the Chinese to the one true Trinitarian God of the Roman Church, and the clocks served a twofold purpose: entry ticket and argument for Christian

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

51

superiority.’66 Against the Christian doctrines, Nicolas Longogardi, Emmanuel Diaz Junior and Jean Adam Schall von Bell helped the Ming court to build fire weapons and cannons in Beijing, and were directly involved in the wars with the Dutch.67 During the early-Qing period, the Jesuits even engaged heavily in palace politics. Despite the early success, the effectiveness of the Jesuits missions was suddenly paralysed from home for their acceptance of Chinese family rites and beliefs for honouring ancestors, and their sinicizing of Christian teaching since Matteo Ricci. It prompted the papal condemnation in 1704 (by Pope Clement XI) and later, in 1715 and 1742, of ‘improper flexibility in “accommodating” Christian teaching to Chinese custom’.68 Cultural and moral supremacy was then an unquestioned part of the mental world of the educated Chinese. The contradiction with such fundamental Chinese cultural logic could only result in the emperor Kang-Xi’s decree (in 1710) that ‘all missionaries must accept the Jesuit view or leave the country’. Following his father, and unsatisfied with the Jesuit’s interferences for his succession, the emperor Yong-Zheng banned Christianity strictly in 1723. All priests and missioners were expelled from China.69 Ostensibly, it was not the Chinese intellectuals or even emperors who had no curiosity for European science and technology, but the European missionaries and colonists in China had never kept power, war-likeness and their superior religion out of the pure diffusion of knowledge. Whilst Europeans were asking why the moral–ethical–commonsensical-based cultural logics and regime of knowledge in China could not have developed by itself or been adopted from the West’s modern science and technology to reach its high level of usefulness, the Ming and Qing Chinese, on the other hand, were asking why the Christian moral and ethical system could not have mastered their own science and technology, and why the European regime of useful knowledge could not have formulated a ‘useful’ moral–ethical system to constrain their aggressive expansionism and imperialist behaviours. In the Chinese cultural context, the inability to provide an adequate moral protocol only demonstrated the uselessness of European scientific and technological knowledge. True that, with the nineteenth century, everything changed. The 100 years of closure from 1710 had secluded China from a systematic diffusion of European knowledge. The Opium War of 1840–42 and the following two British and French military coalitions of 1857–60 relentlessly taught the Chinese a lesson. The misfortune of China is clear: it was that the European culture of science and technology especially was diffused (if it is still an appropriate term) to the Qing China in such a coercive and forceful way. Surely, humanistic reason had to play a significant role in China: anger, fear, panic, humiliation, abhorrence and unwillingness spilled over from the innermost mind to their pragmatic rationality. ‘Resistance’ there had been, yet it was only because the historical circumstances had left the Chinese no ground and no time to receive European knowledge in any reflective manner. Would the

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

52

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

outcome have been any different if those Europeans who had come to China had been real scientists, like Copernicus, Galileo or Newton, rather than missionaries and colonists? Notes and References 1. P. K. O’Brien, ‘Regimes for the Production and Diffusion of Useful and Reliable Knowledge in Western Europe and the Chinese Empire from the Accession of the Ming Dynasty to the First Opium War’, paper delivered in the 4th Global Economic History Network Conference, Leiden, Netherlands, 16–18 September 2004. 2. Ibid. 3. The 13 provinces include Zhejing, Jiangxi, Fujian, Shandong, Guangdong, Shanxi, Henan, Huguang, Shaanxi, Guangxi, Sichuan, Yunnan and Guizhou. And the two municipal capitals are South Zhili (Nanjing) and North Zhili (Beijing). Yang KuoChen (楊國楨) and Chen Chih-Ping (陳支平), The New Compiled History of the Ming (明史新編) (Taipei, 1999), 44, 53; T. Brook, The Chinese State in Ming Society (London and New York, 2005), 21, 34. 4. Guo Qi-Jia (郭齊家), Schools in Ancient China (中國古代學校) (Taipei, 1994), 110, 118. 5. Fan Ke-Zheng (樊克政), History of Chinese Shuyuan (中國書院史) (Taipei, 1995), 171. 6. Ren Ji-Yu (任繼愈) et al. (eds), Chinese Libraries (中國藏書樓) (Shenyang, 2001), Vol. I, chap. 1; Vol. II, 1157–8, 1536; Zhu Han-Ming (朱漢民), Shuyuan in China (中國的書院) (Taipei, 1993), 118–19; Xue Hai Publisher (學海出版社), History of Chinese Shuyuan (中國書院史話), (Taipei, 1985), 5–6. 7. P. K. O’Brien, op. cit. (1), 32. 8. One juan in the ancient Chinese work is, in most cases, an equivalent to a book chapter of the present day. Yao Guang-Xiao (姚廣孝) et al. (eds), d. 1408, Encyclopaedia of Yung-Lo (永樂大典) (Taipei, 1977, reprints), Preface; Zhang Lian (張璉), ‘The Publication under the Despotic Cultural Policy of the Ming’ (明代專制文化政策下的圖書出版情形), Sinology Research (漢學研究), 1992, 10(2): 355–69. 9. Sun Xun (孫旬) (ed.), d. 1584, Transcripts of the Royal Ming Memoranda (皇明疏鈔); Jia San-Jing (賈三近) et al. (eds), d. 1586, Transcripts on the Royal Ming Memoranda in the Reigns of Jiajing and Longqing (1522–1572) (皇明兩朝疏鈔); Zhang Han (張瀚) (ed.), d. 1551, Selective Compilations of the Royal Ming Official Letters (皇明疏議輯略), collected in Compilation of the Sequel to Complete Collection of the Four Treasuries (續修四庫全書), Vols 463–5 (Shanghai, 1995, reprints); He Chang-Ling (賀長齡) et al. (eds), d. 1826, Imperial Collections on Works of Statecraft (皇朝經世文編), Scripta Sinica (中研院漢籍電子文獻資料庫), available online at www.sinica.edu.tw/ftms-bin/ftmsw3. 10. Fu Rong-Xian (傅榮賢), A Study on the Classification of Books in Ancient China (中國古代圖書分類學研究) (Taipei, 1999), 17. 11. Quote from Cao Zhi (曹之), Studies on Versions of Ancient Chinese Books (中國古籍版本學) (Taipei, 1994), 532. 12. Tung Lun (董倫) and Hsieh Chin (解縉) et al. (eds), Veritable Records of the Ming (明實錄), Veritable Records of Tai-Tsung (太宗實錄), r. 1402–24, Vol. 53 (Taipei, 1984, reprints). 13. T. Brook, op. cit. (3), 109–10. 14. Fan Ke-Zheng (樊克政), op. cit. (5), 194. 15. Gao Ting-Zhen (高廷珍) et al., d. 1733, Records of Dong-Lin Shuyuan (東林書院志), quoted from Fan Ke-Zheng (樊克政), op. cit. (5), 197–8. 16. Guo Qi-Jia (郭齊家), op. cit. (4), 131–2. 17. Zhu Han-Ming (朱漢民), op. cit. (6), 122. 18. Huang Zong-Xi (黃宗羲), d. 1676, A Study on the Schools of Ming Scholars (明儒學案) (Taipei, 1962, reprint). 19. Jin Guantao (金觀濤) and Liu Qingfeng (劉青峰), Transformation in Opening Up (開放中的變遷) (Taipei, 1994), 50–1. 20. R. Bin Wong, ‘The Chinese State and Useful Knowledge: Criteria, Intentions and Consequences’, paper presented in the Conference of Regimes for the Generation

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

53

of Useful and Reliable Knowledge in Europe and Asia 1368–1815, Windsor Great Park, 14–16 April 2000. 21. The Globe Publisher (地球出版社), History of Chinese Civilization: Ming Dynasty (中國文明史：明代), Vol. 8, No. 1 (Taipei, 1991), 143–5. 22. J. C. Y. Liu, ‘Does Culture Matter? The Logics and Counter-Logics of Culture in State Finance, Taxation and Tributary Trade Policies during the Ming Times c. 1300– 1600’, The Icfai Journal of History and Culture, 2008, 2(1): 24–60. 23. Confucius said confidently that ‘my life philosophy (or Tao) is simply that all pervading consistency 吾道一以貫之’. See The Analects (論語), Section 4 (Taipei, reprints). 24. T. Brook and H. V. Luong, ‘Introduction: Culture and Economy in the Postcolonial World’, in T. Brook and H. V. Luong (eds), Culture and Economy: The Shaping of Capitalism in Eastern Asia (Michigan, 1999), 1–21, quote p. 14. 25. Jin Guantao (金觀濤) and Liu Qingfeng (劉青峰), op. cit. (19), Vol. I, chap. 3. 26. Tu Feng-Xian (杜奉賢), The Developmental Theory of Chinese History: A Comparison between Marx and Weber’s Theory on China (中國歷史發展理論: 比較馬克思與偉伯的中國論) (Taipei, 1997), 133–4. 27. O’Brien summarized it well that, in Europe, ‘from its very inception everything in the world could be represented as having been purposefully fashioned and rationally organized in ways that could: (a) be systematically investigated, validated by observation and controlled experiments and, (b) (and this powerful and productive notion emanated from Graeco-Roman-Christian traditions of intellectual representation) expressed in the logical and universally comprehensible and comprehendible language of mathematics. The gradual consolidation of a “belief” in natural laws provided an increasing minority of educated Europeans inclined to conduct systematic investigations into natural phenomena with the confidence required to recognize that success must crown their efforts …. Furthermore, by deploying a rhetorically powerful mathematical logic together with experimental methods, they gradually convinced political, economic and ecclesiastical elites in Europe that traditional understandings of the celestial, terrestrial and biological domains of nature (based either on scripture or upon established classical texts of Ptolemy, Aristotle and Galen, let alone Aquinas) had run into diminishing returns and provided an inadequate basis for the accumulation of more useful and reliable knowledge’, O’Brien, op. cit. (1), 38–40. 28. The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館) (ed.), The Collected Prefaces and Postscripts to The National Central Library’s Collections of Ancient Books (國立中央圖書館善本序跋集錄) (Taipei, 1993), Preface. 29. Chen Han-Ming (陳寒鳴), ‘The Confucian Studies of Statecraft and its Implications’ (儒家經世之學及其意義), Online Paper of the Website of Guoxue (國學), www.guoxue.com/newbook/gx/002.htm, retrieved in March 2006. 30. Wang Guo-Nan’s (汪國楠), d. 1603, ‘Preface to Royal Ming Compilation of Statecrafts and Pragmatics’ (皇明經世實用編), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 4, 31. 31. Chen Ren-Xi’s (陳仁錫), d. 1630, ‘Preface to Royal Ming Exemplary Records on State Affairs’ (皇明世法錄), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 4, 43. 32. Feng Ying-Jing (馮應京), d. 1603, ‘Preface to Royal Ming Compilation of Documents on Statecrafts and Pragmatics’ (皇明經世實用編), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 4, 32. 33. Ming Emperor Ying-Zong (英宗), d. 1461, ‘Preface to Records of the Unified Great Ming’ (大明一統志), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 3, 84. 34. Qi Ji-Guang (戚繼光), d. 1522–66, ‘Preface to A Renovating Book of Effective Practice’ (紀效新書), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 1, 260. 35. Feng Shi-Ke (馮時可), ‘Preface to Records of the Extensive Territory’ (廣輿記), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 3, 91.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

54

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

36. Ku Yen-Wu (顧炎武), d. 1659, ‘Preface to Records on Commencing Territories’ (肇域志), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 3, 91. 37. Yang Shen (楊慎), d. 1542, ‘Preface to Dan Qian General Collections’ (丹鉛總錄), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 2, 466, 467. 38. Li Tai (李泰), d. 1425, ‘Preface to Collective Explications of Climates in the Four Seasons’ (四時氣候集解), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 3, 53. 39. T. Brook, ‘The Milieux of Scientific Activity in Ming China’, paper presented in the Conference of Regimes for the Generation of Useful and Reliable Knowledge in Europe and Asia 1368–1815, Windsor Great Park, 14–16 April 2000. 40. Feng Ying-Jing (馮應京), op. cit. (32). 41. Li Jin-Shin (李進行), d. 1439, ‘Preface to the General Principle to the Art of War’ (武經總要), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 1, 249. 42. Wang Cheng (王卺), d. 1500, ‘Preface to An Essential Outline of the Art of War’ (綱目兵法), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 1, 251. 43. Yan Qing (嚴清), d. 1583, ‘Preface to Comprehensive Records on Foreign Territories’ (殊域周咨錄), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 3, 534. 44. B. A. Elman, ‘Jesuit Scientia and Natural Studies in Late Imperial China, 1600– 1800’, JEMH, 2002, 6(3): 209–32, quote p. 210. 45. Qi Ji-Guang (戚繼光), op. cit. (34). 46. Wang Yan-Shi (王延世), d. 1598, ‘Preface to The Manual of Celestial Weaponry’ (神器譜), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 1, 262–3. 47. Yang Shen (楊慎), op. cit. (37). 48. Yang Ming-Shi (楊名時), d. 1709, ‘Preface to The Travels of Xu Xia-Ke’ (徐霞客遊記), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. of History, No. 3, 484. 49. Song Ying-Xing (宋應星), d. 1637, The Exploitation of the Work of Nature (天工開物) (Taipei, 1986), Vol. I, Reprints, Preface, 13. 50. Wang Xiang (王象), d. 1621, ‘Prefaced to Records on Fragrant Flowers of Er Ru Pavilion’ (二如亭羣芳譜); and ‘Postscript to Records on Fragrant Flowers of Er Ru Pavilion’ (二如亭羣芳譜), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 2, 332, 336. 51. Li Shih-Ying (李時英), d. 1581, ‘Prefaced to Studies on the Rare Flowers, Plants, Birds and Animals in China and Barbarian Countries’ (華夷花木鳥獸珍玩考), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 2, 346. 52. Ko Zhen-Shi (孔貞時), d. 1615, ‘Preface to the Compendium of Astronomic Inquiries’ (天問略), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 2, 3. 53. Wu Wei-Zhong (武位中), d. 1627, ‘Postscript to Selected Illustrations of Rare Instruments from the Far West’ (遠西奇器圖說錄最), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 2, 375. 54. Song Ying-Xing (宋應星), op. cit. (49), Preface, 12. 55. Liu Shi-Xue (劉世學), d. 1599, ‘Preface to The Manual of Celestial Weaponry’ (神器譜), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 1, 263. 56. Liang Zuo (梁佐), d. 1554, ‘Preface to Dan Qian General Collections’ (丹鉛總錄), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 2, 467. 57. Chen Jin-Mo (陳藎謨), c. 1628, ‘Preface to Angle Measurement’ (度測), collected in The National Central Library (國立中央圖書館), op. cit. (28), Sec. Zi, No. 2, 40.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Jerry C. -Y. Liu

55

58. Li Jian-Yuan (李建元), d. 1596, ‘Memorial on Presenting the Systematic Pharmacopoeia’ (本草綱目), collected in Li Shi-Zhen, d. 1593, Systematic Pharmacopoeia (本草綱目), (中國檔案出版社) (1999, reprint). 59. I owe this to the insightful advice of the reviewer. 60. I. Inkster, Science and Technology in History: An Approach to Industrial Development (Hampshire and London, 1991), chaps 2 and 4. 61. E. S. Reinert and A. M. Daastøl, ‘Exploring the Genesis of Economic Innovations: The Religious Gestalt-Switch and the Duty to Invent as Preconditions for Economic Growth’, The European Journal of Law and Economics, 1997, 4(3/4): 233–83. 62. Guo Ting-Yi (郭廷以), The Guideline History of Modern China (近代中國史綱), Vol. I (Taipei, 1994), 17–18; and S. A. M. Adshead, China in World History (London and New York, 2000, first published in 1988), 204–5. 63. P. K. O’Brien et al. (eds), Philip’s Atlas of World History (London, 1999), 139; Kang Zhi-Jie (康志杰), ‘Reasons Why the Jesuits in Ming and Qing China Defied the Dutch’ (明清之際在華耶穌會士抵制荷蘭的原因), History Monthly (歷史月刊), 1999, May: 103–10. 64. Qien Mu (錢穆), An Introduction to Chinese Cultural History (中國文化史導論) (Taipei, 1993), 211–14. 65. Li Guo-Qi (李國祁), Chinese History (中國歷史) (Taipei, 1986), 304. 66. D. Landes, The Wealth and Poverty of Nations (London, 1998), 337. 67. Kang Zhi-Jie (康志杰), op. cit. (63). 68. J. M. Roberts, The Triumph of the West (London, 1985), 289. 69. Chen Jia-Yen (陳嘉言) and Yang Jing-Xien (楊靜賢), Chinese Modern History (中國近代史) (Taipei, 1988), 7–8.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

56

Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period 57

Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period* KENT DENG

The period of 1600–1910 is commonly viewed as one of decline in Chinese science and technology in world history. This article examines the movers and shapers of knowledge in China to show how the Chinese elite tried to catch up with the advancing West. They were not as stubbornly conservative as one might think. However, a degree of openness did not guarantee China’s ability to modernize. THE JESUIT PERIOD, c. 1600–1840

How Did It All Begin? The nineteenth century was a period when many twists and turns occurred in Chinese history. Changes undermined the old social order and upset the previous economic equilibrium. These shocks had come externally long before the nineteenth century, first in the form of persistent attempts by the Portuguese to settle in Macao (since l557) and by the Dutch to colonize Taiwan (1624–61).1 Secondly, changes were brought about by religious conversion by Jesuits such as Matteo Ricci (利瑪竇, 1552–1610), who reached Macao in 1582 and gradually worked his way to the top to obtain permission to enter Beijing in 1601.2 Giulio Aleni (艾儒略, 1582–1649) arrived in China in 1613 and followed the footsteps of Ricci.3 Both men spent the rest of their lives there. Thirdly, changes came from trade by the import of goods such as silver (especially via the Manila Galleon Trade of 1565–1815) and opium (from 1729 onwards) to China.4 So, by 1800, the Chinese had about 200 years’ experience of contact with Europeans and were exposed in a limited way to Western knowledge. Although increasingly frustrated by the Chinese ways of conducting * I wish to thank my LSE colleague Professor Stephan Feuchtwang for his invaluable comments on the final draft. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

58 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

business (such as the notorious Cohong trade monopoly and the kowtow to the throne) and the occasional naval skirmish between the Chinese and Europeans,5 no European force really challenged China’s sovereignty and its Asia-wide influence. Instead, a great deal of respect was paid by Europeans to the Celestial Empire of the Far East. Early Jesuits all learnt and mastered the Chinese language and customs. Chinese law was observed (or at least it appeared to be) by most foreigners.6 Those who managed to establish a relationship with China were only able to achieve what they did with extreme patience and readiness to take instructions from the Ming–Qing Confucian bureaucracy. The best example concerns the Portuguese stationed in Macao, who were used by the Chinese government as watch-dogs and mercenaries to drive away unwanted attention from other Europeans (such as the Dutch, Spaniards and British) – a tactic known as ‘using barbarians to check barbarians (以夷制夷)’.7 From the European point of view, they had to appear sinicized and to ingratiate themselves with the Confucian elite to get anywhere in China. From the viewpoint of the Celestial Empire, their confidence in dealing with Europeans was deeply rooted in China’s accumulated experience with nomads along its long frontiers over millennia. In the past, the empire successfully curbed those threats with ‘carrots’ (such as marriages, bribes and invitations to join the empire) and ‘sticks’ (e.g. military campaigns to drive Huns out of Central Asia during the Western Han Period). Confucian cultural assimilation played an important part (especially the Sinicization of the Manchus during the Qing).8 In this context, useful European knowledge was considered, at best, novel by the Chinese Confucian elite. Overall, very few took it seriously unless such knowledge served the empire directly to make public goods better for China’s traditional economy. European knowledge and instruments were strictly limited to almanacs (astronomy), water control and cartography (geometry). The employment of European Jesuit astronomers continued until Emperor Daoguang (道光, r. 1821–50) ended the practice in 1838.9 The late-Ming Establishment recruited these missionaries to work for the Imperial Observatory in designing a more accurate calendar system. Matteo Ricci and Diego de Pantoja (龐迪我, 1571–1618) set the precedent.10 Ricci was succeeded by Sabbatino de Ursis (熊三拔, 1575– 1620),11 followed by Johannes Schreck (鄧玉函, 1576–1630)12 and Johann Adam Schall von Bell (湯若望, 1592–1666).13 The Ming project gradually developed into the new Ming Imperial Almanac (大明崇禎曆書) during 1629–34.14 Others, such as Nicolas Longobardi (龍華民, 1565–1655年)15 and Jacques Rho (羅雅各, 1593–1638),16 joined by invitation. Schreck, von Bell and Rho were responsible for building at least three instruments of European technology for the observatory: a zodiac armillary sphere, a quadrant and a celestial globe. The trend continued in the early Qing, which inherited the Ming approach by employing Jesuits, including Johann Adam Schall von Bell

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

59

(for his second time), Ferdinand Verbiest (南懷仁, 1623–88),17 Thoma Pereira (徐日升, 1645–1708),18 Philippus Maria Grimaldi (閔明我, 1639–1712),19 Joachim Bouvet (白晉, 1656–1730),20 Jean Francois Gerbillon (張誠, 1654–1707),21 Bernard-Kiliam Stumpf (紀理安, 1655– 1720),22 Joseph Giuseppe Castiglione (郎世寧, 1688–1766),23 Ignatius Koegler (戴進賢, 1680–1747),24 Andre Pereira (徐懋德, 1690–1743),25 Augustin de Hallerstein (劉松齡, 1721–74)26 and several others.27 Increasingly, those Jesuits who worked in Beijing had little to do with the religious mission that they were meant to accomplish. Amongst them, von Bell was the most successful politically. Despite his connection with the Ming, von Bell was trusted by the Manchus after 1644 and consequently appointed the Director of the Imperial Observatory (欽天監正). From 1651 to 1658, he was promoted from Official of the Fifth Rank in Waiting (從五品) to Official of the First Rank Proper (正一品), reaching the very top of the bureaucratic ladder.28 During the early Qing, there was a continuation of the knowledge flow from the missionaries to the Imperial Court, which circulated exclusively within the court itself. A recent television programme by China Central Television claimed that Emperor Kangxi (康熙, r. 1662– 1722) was a keen learner of European science (mathematics in particular), and had a close relationship with von Bell, Verbiest, Bouvet and Gerbillon. Like Kangxi, Emperor Qianlong (乾隆, r. 1736–95) also developed a taste for European artefacts and hired a group of Europeans as court officials. Those Jesuits who became officials were in the minority. Also, they depended heavily on the support of Chinese scholar-officials who were able to appreciate their technical knowledge and skills, meaning that they had to find their opposite numbers in the Qing bureaucracy in order to prise the door ajar. Apart from those highly specialized fields of study, such as mathematics and astronomy, the Jesuits led the horse to water but couldn’t force it to drink their religious ideologies. So, judged by the end result of knowledge formation, dissemination and impact, they were qualified as ‘marginal movers and shapers of knowledge’ in China. They were, at best, ordinary knowledge providers instead. Why Did Western Knowledge Not Take China by Storm before 1800? To employ foreigners and foreign knowledge was not unprecedented by the time of the Ming and Qing. During the first century AD, Buddhism was introduced to China from India. During the Mongol Yuan, the bureaucracy hired Muslim astronomers and adopted and an Islamic Almanac (回回曆), which was used to compliment China’s own Almanac (大統曆) from the early Ming. So, it was logical for the Ming– Qing authorities to recognize the utility of European astronomers and the Christian Almanac. After all, China was an empire that appreciated input from different ethnic groups.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

60 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

In terms of cultural influence measured by religious conversion, what the Jesuits achieved was marginal compared to the Buddhist monks. Many emperors converted to Buddhism but none to Christianity. It is documented that a few officials were converted by the Jesuits, but only at the end of the Ming period. The best example was Xu Guangqi (徐光啟, AD 1561–1633), who was born into a merchantlandlord family in Shanghai County (now Shanghai). He received strict traditional Confucian training and took the traditional route to officialdom. In 1581, at the age of 19, he passed the Imperial Examinations at the level of Cultivated Talent (秀才) and earned a living by teaching, first in his home town and then in Guangdong and Guangxi, two of the southernmost provinces of China, where he came into contact with missionaries. In 1597, at the age of 36, he passed the Examinations at a higher level and became a Recommendee (舉人); at the age of 42, he passed the highest level of the Examinations to obtain the degree of Presented Scholar (進士), after which he was selected to be a fellow of the Imperial Academy. In 1607, he was appointed Examining Editor (檢討), a formal rank for scholars in the Academy. It took him another 21 years to progress to History Tutor to the Emperor in 1628, a position reserved exclusively for high-ranking scholar-officials. In 1630, he was accorded the title of Imperial Academician (翰林院學士) and, 2 years later, at the age of 70, he was appointed Minister of the Rites (禮部尚書) with the title of Second Grade Grand Secretary (東閣大學士), which was the de facto Premier at that time. In 1633, he was finally promoted to First Grade Grand Secretary (文淵閣大學士), the highest position a scholar could hold. He was also dubbed ‘Grand Guardian of the Heir Apparent’ (太子太保), an honour granted to only a few outstanding ministers. Xu died at his post later that year and was posthumously honoured by the emperor with the title of Most Wise Literate Administrator (文定).29 Through his life, Xu always kept abreast of science and technology.30 By 1600, he had met Matteo Ricci, who attracted him to Christianity and Western science and technology developed since the Renaissance. Xu converted to Catholicism on 15 January l603 and adopted the name of Paul, studying Western astronomy, geography, water control and philosophy under Ricci’s tutelage in 1604. From 1606 to 1607, he cooperated with Ricci to translate Fundamentals of Geometry (幾何原本) in order to enlighten his Chinese contemporaries. In 1612, with the collaboration of Sabbatino de Ursis, an assistant of Ricci, he completed a translation of Western Irrigation Methods (泰西水法) and produced some new astronomical equipment for a more accurate calendar. When in charge of amending the calendar in 1629, he built three telescopes, just 21 years after its European invention. In short, Xu worked as a contact (關係) for the Jesuits and European knowledge to make some modest progress at the time. Even so, Xu Guangqi is best known in Ming–Qing history as a promoter of best practice in agriculture because he believed that China’s

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

61

problems resulted ultimately from the regression of the rural economy.31 In this context, Xu’s search for alternatives in effective almanac making and water control was logical according to his Confucian training; that Jesuit missionaries became a source of information was serendipitous. Even if we consider his conversion to Christianity, the motivation was to ‘compliment Confucianism with Christian learning’ (天學補儒) instead of replacing the former with the latter or absorbing the latter purely due to curiosity. There was a political agenda. On this point, it is questionable whether Xu was ever truly converted. However, Xu’s approach was echoed two centuries later during the later Qing by ‘Chinese knowledge as the foundation and Western knowledge for utility’ (中學為體西學為用). Along with Xu, there were two other Ming ranking court officials who took a similar route: Li Zhizao (李之藻, 1565–1630), who was Deputy Minister of Public Works (工部員外郎) and converted to Catholicism on 3 March 1610, adopting the name of Leo, and Yang Tingjun (楊廷筠, 1557–1627), who was Imperial Inspector (監察禦史) and converted to Catholicism during Easter of 1613 with the adopted name of Michael.32 Also, compared with Xu, Li and Yang were less technologically intrigued by European knowledge. However, Xu Guangqi, Li Zhizao and Yang Tingjun should be considered exceptions rather than the rule: open conversions of high-ranking bureaucrats to Christianity were rare in the following Qing period.33 On the flipside, those Jesuit missionaries in China had to join the Ming–Qing bureaucracy and behave like Confucians as a prerequisite. They had no choice but to convert to Confucian bureaucracy; Matteo Ricci called himself a ‘Western Confucian’ (西儒) to identify himself with the Chinese code of conduct.34 It is important to note that, before 1800, joint efforts were made between scholarly Jesuit missionaries and Qing scholarly officials to translate European books or co-write textbooks in Chinese. Preliminary research indicates that 400–700 such works were produced,35 of which 120 were works on science and technology.36 Ricci, a productive man, was involved in 24 such works. Thirteen were included in The Qing Imperial Complete Collection of Books (四庫全書) of 3,470 titles in all.37 Even so, European knowledge had only occasional publicity, subject to approval at the highest level. For example, the second edition of the Ming calendar received the title The New Western Almanac (西洋新法曆書), only with the endorsement of Emperor Shuizhi (順治, r. 1644–61). Given that a long time lag often appeared before adoption, it has remained unclear how readily available these works were across the empire, or how well the knowledge in these works was actually absorbed by the Chinese. The Ming Imperial Almanac project was in fact abortive: by the time it had received permission for use from Emperor Chongzhen (崇禎, r. 1628–44), the Ming Dynasty was doomed. So the almanac was never put into practice under the Ming.38 Also, there is no

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

62 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

evidence that the European water control technology recorded in Western Irrigation Methods (泰西水法) jointly by Xu Guangqi and de Ursis was ever put into practice on China’s soil until the end of the Qing. Some very straightforward European techniques such as perspective in painting were missing with even most talented Chinese court artists, despite works of Joseph Giuseppe Castiglione, who was Emperor Qianlong’s favourite.39 Overall, for about two centuries from c. 1582, when the first Jesuit group was allowed to enter mainland China, until 1773, when the Jesuit missions were finally ended by Pope Clement XIV, the European influence on China’s knowledge stock was hardly noticeable (quantitatively speaking). By 1800, there was no sign that China had been persuaded to adopt European knowledge on a large scale. There was no sign either that European knowledge was able to fundamentally affect ordinary Chinese life. Meanwhile, China continuously and comfortably enjoyed trade surpluses with Europe and America. Emperor Qianlong claimed in a letter of 1793 to King George III of England (r. 1760–1820) that the Celestial Dynasty of the Qing was so abundant that it relied on no goods from those Western countries, which, in contrast, lived on China’s exports of tea, porcelain and silk and that he was doing the West a favour in permitting sea trade at Macao.40 No one seemed to dispute Qianlong’s conclusion at that time. The Emperor is criticized for his attitude of complacency and arrogance, or Sino-chauvinism, but not for the veracity of the claim. By the same token, China did not need European knowledge in most areas. After all, it had developed independently a cluster of technologies that allowed it to lead the world from c. 100 BC to c. AD 1550, according to Joseph Needham.41 Also, until the arrival of the Jesuits, China was a donor of technology to Europe, at least indirectly with sometimes very long time lags.42 Needham was adamant that: The word ‘stagnation’ was never applicable to China at all; it was purely a Western misconception. Continuing general and scientific progress manifested itself in traditional Chinese society, but it was violently overtaken by the exponential growth of modern science after the Renaissance in Europe.43 In Ricci’s phrase, ‘the Chinese believe that they themselves are the only people to possess real sciences and technology’.44 Thus, traditional Chinese science and technology still had some ‘shelf-life’ by 1800. With it came opportunity costs for change: ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ This determined the slow and patchy dissemination of European knowledge to China, even with the help of influential court officials.45 It also determined a new trend in which European knowledge became a spiritual refuge for Chinese intellectuals during the early Qing period.46

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

63

THE WESTERNIZATION PERIOD, 1840–1910

What Changed the Old Pattern, Rebellions on An Invasion? It is a commonly held perception that, at the turn of the nineteenth century, the Manchu rule over China was in big trouble internally, as the Qing Empire was struck repeatedly by natural and man-made disasters, which, in turn, led to ‘local militarization’, social unrest and rebellions,47 as if all of these were unprecedented in the history of China.48 But, from the viewpoint of the long-term history of rebellions, uprisings in the entire nineteenth century under the Qing were by no means the most frequent, the most lasting or on the largest scale. In effect, it was one of the quietest periods since the Yuan Mongol rule.49 In other words, the Qing social unrest and rebellion were well within the threshold of tolerance for a major dynasty. Speaking of the possible causes for unrests and rebellions, there was no evidence that the Qing state was more rent-seeking than the Ming. Overall, the Qing state performed better than its Ming counterpart in tax burden control and disaster relief. Astonishingly, the Qing total rural tax revenue was frozen from 1715 to 1840 (永不加賦), unprecedented in both China’s history and the history of Asia.50 In the absolute sense, the highest annual tax revenue collected in grain under the Qing (in 1820) was only 29% of its counterpart under the Ming (in 1502). In relative terms of tax burden per unit of land, the highest rate under the Qing (in 1661) was only 17% of the peak of the Ming (1542).51 More strikingly, the per capita tax burden in 1766 was merely 8% of that in 1381 under the Ming.52 So, surpluses of unprecedented quantities were left in private hands. In addition, public goods were better provided by the Qing than that of the Ming seen from the scale of the Qing disaster aid.53 Hence, there was no reason why the Qing state could not put up with those rebellions and continue to rule the country longer than the Ming. Clearly, what did change China was not internal unrest that formed a backdrop for the empire anyway, but foreign invasion. It was not an invasion from northern nomads, but from Europe in the form of the Opium War in 1840. The defeat, humiliation and heavy costs of the Opium War served as a wake-up call for the pragmatic part of Chinese culture in general and that of Confucianism in particular. Indeed, Confucianism justifies changes if the country faces critical crises and challenges. The vision of modernity and Westernization began to undercut China’s timeless Physiocracy at both the ideological and mundane levels. Indeed, frequent changes became something that was unchanged in Chinese history between 1840 and 1940. Confucian pragmatism allowed the Qing system to be malleable and avoid brittleness. New Ideology of Social Darwinism vs. Old Confucian Culturalism The lesson that the Qing elite learned from the Opium War defeat was very different from what China had experienced previously. Before that History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

64 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

war, the Chinese had accepted their fate when under alien attacks and conquests at least three times: under the Jin Tartar (1115–1234), the Mongols (1271–1368) and the Manchus (1644–1911). The Confucian ideology aimed at gradual cultural assimilation of the alien conquerors known as ‘cultivating the barbarians’ (以柔克剛, literally ‘removing the rough edges with softness’). This was a game of ‘Confucian culturalism’, a competition of good behaviour according to a strict code of conduct, rather than of military strength and brutality. The game of Confucian culturalism was playable only on the condition that the alien conquerors accepted their cultural inferiority and that they wanted to become something higher. The tactic had worked repeatedly for the Chinese. All students of the Confucian classics know the description of the Zhou system of ‘five-level circles’ (五服) in the chapter ‘Tribute to King Yu’ (禹貢) of Confucius’s The Book of History (尚書).54 According to this system, the capital city of the Zhou régime was considered the centre of civilization with its immediate domain of 500 li in radius (1 Zhou li is equivalent to 346.5 metres55), called the King’s Land (甸服). Secondly, as one moved outward, there were two circles under the names of the Lords’ Land and Vassals’ Land (侯服), both being parts of the civilized world, with the outer boundary 1,500 li away from the Zhou capital. Thirdly, there was a ring of the frontiers (綏服) where the Zhou civilization ends. Fourthly, it was a Semi-barbarians’ Land (要服), a periphery with half-civilized inhabitants, a half-way house between Chinacentred civilization and the aliens called the ‘barbarians’. Finally, there was the True Barbarians’ Land (荒服), where the population did not read or write, nor observed any of the rites observed by the Chinese. In this system, Chinese civilization created a centripetal force, which, given sufficient time, would materialize the goal of the Confucian ‘Great Commonality’ (大同).56 Indeed, the orthodox Confucian concept of being Chinese meant little in terms of ethnicity but a great deal regarding culture. In other words, a ‘Chinese’ person in the Confucian vocabulary is merely a cultural being. Thus, ‘Confucianized’ outsiders of non-Han origin were not only accepted into Chinese society, but were also absorbed by the officialdom, including the aforementioned Europeans, such as Matteo Ricci and Sabbatino de Ursis. On the other hand, those Chinese who left China to live in foreign lands were regarded as the ‘de-Sinicized’ and considered automatically to be ‘abandoned by the Celestial Empire’ (天朝棄民). It is worth noting that there exist some common misconceptions regarding the Chinese view of the world order, much coming from the interpretation, word for word, of Zhongguo (中國), literally meaning ‘the centre/middle kingdom/empire’. Almost all Western writers have accepted such a judgment from which one can infer a vision of a tightly closed, xenophobic attitude. But it would be wrong to assume that the Chinese elite were always in the dark: from the fifteenth century, the Chinese closely noted and

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

65

documented the rise of European colonialism along their traditional trading routes in Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean region. They were well aware of European technology in the form of ship design and weaponry.57 Studies were conducted of the Europeans themselves. This is evident in Chen Lunjiong’s (陳倫炯) Travels of the Seas (海國聞見錄), written in as early as 1730. The Qing elite were aware that the invaders of the Opium War were different. Unlike the Jesuits, who were willing to learn from China and hence tacitly accept China’s cultural superiority, the British refused to submit culturally. This alone threw the game of Confucian culturalism out of the window. On the other hand, the Qing elite did not want China to become a European colony. But everyone agreed that China was weak; something needed to be done fast, before it was too late. History proved that the Qing elite were pragmatic and the Qing system was flexible, so changes began. First and foremost, together with Confucian culturalism, the preference for benevolent rule and the distaste for military government had to go. Rather than promoting competition for the most civilized, best mannered and most highly respected, the new religion was Social Darwinism – although Charles Darwin’s book was not yet published at the point of the Opium War – meaning the survival of the fittest by wars in a new world of competition for hegemony amongst races. The Qing elite were also fully aware that the means to achieve a victory were modern arms in the form of strong ships with powerful cannons (堅船利炮). Undoubtedly, Social Darwinism changed China’s statecraft. It was the key catalyst for all changes in post-Opium War China.58 This change in ideology ushered in an era of changes for which China was sometimes unprepared. New Movers and Shapers in the Era of Changes, c. 1840–1910 The 1840 Opium War marked a failure of the Manchu regime, as the Qing state was unable to maintain China’s national security. The Pax Manchuriana was over. This alone undermined massively the ever shaky legitimacy of Manchu rule. To allow China to be colonized by any foreign group would have meant the end of the Manchu ruling clique, and it was vital for them to be seen as ‘flawless’. They deliberately chose Han Chinese to carry out reforms; if they were successful, the Manchus claimed credit and, if not, they blamed the Han. This determined that all the new movers and shapers of knowledge during the Era of Changes were ethnically Han Chinese. In 1839, on the eve of the Opium War, Lin Zexu (林則徐, 1785– 1850), Imperial Commissioner (欽差大臣) in charge of the ban on the opium trade from 1838 to 1840, began to have European knowledge and information collected and translated into Chinese, including newspapers and magazines published in Portuguese-controlled Macao,59 Emericide Vattel’s Law of Nations (滑達爾各國律例) written in

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

66 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

c. 1758, Hugh Murray’s Encyclopaedia of Geography (四洲志) published in 1834 and Algernon S. Thelwall’s moralizing essay on the British opium trade with China, entitled The Iniquities of the Opium Trade with China (對華鴉片貿易罪過論) published in 1834. Immediately after the Opium War, there was a surge of information about Europe, such as Wei Yuan’s (魏源) A Comprehensive Survey of Off-Shore Countries (海國圖志) written in 1841,60 Chen Fengheng’s (陳逢衡) A Brief History of England (英吉利記略) written also in 1841, Wang Wentai’s (汪文泰) A Study of England of Red-haired Barbarians (紅毛番英吉利考略) written in 1842 and Liang Tingnan’s (梁廷楠) Four Essays on Off-Shore Countries (海國四說) in 1846, Xu Jishe’s (徐繼舍) Records of Lands and Peoples Overseas (環瀛志略) in 1848 and Xia Xie’s (夏燮) Main Events between China and the West (中西紀事) in 1850. It is important to note that, compared with the early works of the Jesuits, which involved religious pursuit and pure science and technicality in their ivory tower, the new trend in the 1840s was for a wider range of mundane and tangible information concerning Europe, especially in terms of humanities (customs, values, law and social conditions). There was also heated discussion on how to play the game of Social Darwinism against the Westerners. Lin Zexu, who had first-hand experience in dealing with the invading British forces, pointed out that naval warfare was the British trump and that it would be self-defeating if China did not build a modern navy with gunboats.61 Xu’s contemporary, the scholar Wei Yuan (魏源, 1794–1857), changed the term yi (夷, meaning ‘barbarians’) to yang (洋, meaning ‘sea-borne’ or ‘foreign’) in his work written in the 1840s entitled Punitive Expedition of Foreign Fleet under the Daoguang Reign [1821–50] (道光洋艘征撫記), in which he urged ‘learning from Europe in order to turn foreign strength into China’s strength to build a rich country with strong armed forces’ (盡轉外國之長技為中國之長技, 富國強兵).62 Earlier, in 1841, Wei Yuan put forward the slogan of ‘learning advanced technology from Europeans to fight against them’ (師夷之長技以制夷).63 In 1858, the Deputy Minister of Wars (兵部左侍郎), Wang Maoyin王茂蔭, asked permission from the throne to circulate A Comprehensive Survey of Off-Shore Countries amongst all court officials and the royal circle. He argued that ‘although hard, it is not impossible to resist against the Europeans’ (夷難禦，而非竟無法之可禦).64 All this was the prelude of the pathbreaking Westernization Movement, which commenced in 1860. In a historical twist, the strongest push for change to take place occurred internally, when the pseudo-Christian Taiping Rebellion (太平天國起義) and Nian Rebellion (撚軍) both broke out in 1851 to threaten the foundation of the Qing rule. Out of desperation, Zeng Guofan (曾國藩, 1811–72) and his subordinate, Li Hongzhang (李鴻章, 1823–1901), both provincial officials at that time, were permitted to organize local armed forces: the Hunan Army (湘軍, formed in 1854) and the Anhui Army (淮軍, formed independently also in 1854), which were financed independently by local taxes.65 They each

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

67

ran large personalized quasi-government institutions called mufu (幕府, meaning ‘personal staff’). Each mufu employed at any given time several dozen highly qualified people for different tasks.66 This was the de facto franchizing of the Qing state (administration and defence). From then on, the Qing court could no longer monopolize the armed forces. These new armies proved to be more efficient than the Qing standing army of the Eight Banners (八旗): Zeng’s Hunan Army eventually put down the Taipings in 1864, while Li’s Anhui Army eliminated the Nians in 1868. During the military confrontations, both men appreciated the effectiveness of the European arms in life-or-death situations. This ushered in Westernization and modernity led by military technology. By now, Wei Yuan’s slogan from the 1840s of ‘learning from Europe in order turn foreign strength into China’s strength to make China a rich country with strong armed forces’ had a more poignant meaning.67 The shift of political power and military command to the Han Chinese was highly rational, at least in the short run, for the Manchu ruler. However, such a division of labour put the Manchus in a bad light as, inevitably, they appeared inadequate in a changing world. Also, things did not always turn the way the Manchus initially wanted, as the use of Han Chinese to pioneer changes cut both ways: it created an alternative military-power centre in the Qing bureaucracy in the hands of the Han Chinese. Nevertheless, it proved that traditionally trained Chinese scholar officials were fully capable of looking to learn new ideas and new tricks. On the other hand, the crack-down on both the Taiping and Nian rebellions who once controlled a vast area and intended to drag China backwards to its traditional agrarian growth path cleared a main obstacle at the grassroots level for dramatic changes to be implemented.68 Now, the reformers had undisputed leadership for changes to take place. The most significant developments occurred during the entire period of 1860–1910, when changes were pushed peacefully to rebuild China’s strength. The emphasis was on the combination of maintaining Chinese ideology as the foundation and introduction of Western knowledge for utility (中體西用) in the ‘Self-Strengthening Movement’ and ‘Westernization Movement’ (1860–94), and the ‘One-Hundred-Day Reform’ (1898), all aiming at altering China’s growth trajectory towards modernity. The masterminds of these changes were known as the Westernizers (洋務派), whose members were all ranked Qing officials, well educated in Confucian tradition: Zeng Guofan, Li Hongzhang, Zuo Zongtang (左宗堂, 1812–85, Zeng’s subordinate), Shen Baozhen (沈葆楨, 1820– 79, also Zeng’s subordinate) and Zhang Zhidong (張之洞, 1837–1909, Li’s subordinate). Their spiritual leader was Feng Guifen (馮桂芬, 1809–74), who advocated the need for adopting Western knowledge and producing Western tools and machines (采西學, 制洋器).69 The group gained support from Prince Yixin (奕, 1833–98). From time to

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

68 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

time, the Dowager Empress Cixi (慈禧太后, 1835–1908) also cut in to offer her half-hearted support. The Westernizers were succeeded after the 1894 Sino–Japanese War by a more radical group called the Reformers (維新派), headed by Yan Fu (嚴複, 1854–1921), Kang Youwei (康有為, 1858–1927), Tan Citong (譚嗣同, 1865–98) and Liang Qichao (梁啟超, 1873–1929), who launched the ‘1898 Reform’ (戊戌 變法 ), also known as the ‘100-day Reform’ (百日維新), in a bid to re-mould China into a European model. They were even more Western than the Westernizers and backed by Emperor Guangxu (光緒, r. 1875–1908). The ‘Self-Strengthening Movement’ and ‘Westernization Movement’ took place first in those provinces in which Westernizers were in charge, while the Reformers worked exclusively top-down. Opening the Floodgate for European Knowledge During the Jesuit period, European knowledge trickled to China mainly through the handiwork and services of the missionaries themselves. The Chinese were yet to be fully convinced that there was a need to Westernize for modernity. This changed after China’s historical defeat in the Opium War. For the first time, the floodgate of European knowledge was opened up and kept open. Firstly, a new government organ, the Foreign Affairs Department (總理各國事務衙門), was established in early 1861. Apart from diplomacy, the department dealt with customs, naval defence and the procurement of arms. The Foreign Affairs Department marked the beginning of modern foreign relations and diplomacy in China, in which China related to other nations as equals and recognized the importance of trade with them.70 Secondly, there was a drive for knowledge modernization. The Foreign Affairs Department spearheaded the pro-active diffusion of advanced knowledge from Europe by running the Capital Foreign Language Academy (京師同文館) and schemes for Chinese students to study in the West. The academy ran an open system of recruitment to ensure the authenticity of knowledge from the West. In 1869, it appointed William A. Martin (丁韙良, 1827–1916), a Yale-educated missionary, as Dean (總教習). Martin served in that capacity for 25 years. In the south, the Translation Division of the Jiangnan (Kiangnan) Arsenal in Shanghai (江南製造局翻譯館) was established in 1868 and became the main source of written information regarding European knowledge.71 In the same year, it hired John Fryer (傅蘭雅, 1839–1928), a Briton, as Translator in Chief. Thirdly, the stock of European knowledge increased steadily after 1860. Under Martin’s leadership, international law received priority in both the curriculum and the translation projects of the Capital Foreign Language Academy – something China urgently needed in engaging with the West.72 Twenty-four textbooks were produced by translation or

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

69

compilation including law (× 6), mathematics (× 3), astronomy (× 3), chemistry (× 3), linguistics (× 3), physics (× 2), medicine (× 2), economics (× 1) and world history (× 1).73 Outperforming Martin in Beijing, Fryer was involved in the production of 129 books in his threedecade-long service in the Jiangnan Arsenal. He also established the first popular modern scientific journal in China called Magazine of Nature (格致彙編) in 1875 and ran it until 1892.74 In Translated Works from the Last Forty Years with Brief Descriptions (江南製造局譯書提要) published in 1909, the technical subject areas covered included mathematics (calculus and analytical geometry), electricity, metallurgy, chemistry, medicine, physics, astronomy, geology, geography and cartography. Countries covered included the British Empire, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, Austria, Hungary, Greece, Poland, Russia, Turkey, Egypt, Persia, India, United States, Mexico, Peru and Brazil. There were also specific publications on foreign armed forces: the British, French, German, Italian, Austrian, Russian, Persian, Indian and Japanese, regarding steam-engine ships, shipyards, marines, weapons, communication, navigation, sea routes, naval warfare, coastal defence, ship deployments, battle formation and annual budgets.75 According to Liang Qichao’s (梁啟超) statistics in 1896, there were 352 translated Western books available in China overall, under the three categories of knowledge (學), politics (政) and morals (教).76 By then, China had a decent range of the European knowledge. Also, a critical mass had built up to change the knowledge structure of the Chinese elite. Fourthly, the formation and improvement of human capital became the priority. It is documented that, in 1866, Zuo Zongtang sent his appeal to the Foreign Affairs Department that to learn from the West ‘depends much on education, …. After the training China will have the right specialists to supervise production of ships and to navigate a fleet; and everything will work for China’.77 This target was largely realized in China’s new educational system. The aforementioned Capital Foreign Language Academy, designed to introduce European knowledge systematically, was the beginning of modern education in China, which departed gradually from the old Confucian tradition.78 It had an eight-year system to train competent linguists and diplomats. On the military front, the first naval academy (馬尾船政學堂) was established in 1867 in Majiang (馬江), Fujian Province, to train officers. The academy employed several dozen French instructors to train ten Chinese youngsters.79 This trainer–trainee ratio demonstrates just how serious the Chinese authorities were when dealing with naval affairs. The second naval academy was established in Tianjin (天津) in 1880; the third in Huangpu (黃埔), Guangdong Province, in 1887; the fourth in Nanjing (南京) in 1890; and the fifth in Yantai (煙臺) in 1903.80

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

70 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

The training in those academies was predominantly Western. According to Regulations of the Northern Sea Fleet (北洋海軍章程), a governmental publication in c. 1890, the Northern Fleet Training School (水師學堂) ran 4-year courses to train young cadets. The basic subjects included (1) English, (2) geography, (3) mathematics (extraction of a root, algebra and logarithms), (4) geometry, (5) physics, (6) chemistry, (7) astronomy and (8) meteorology. The specialized courses included cartography, steam-engine operation, hydromechanics, calculation of longitude and latitude, reckoning, pilotage, artillery and surveying.81 The Northern Fleet Seamen’s Training Centre (練勇學堂) adapted the British standard in training 16 and 17year-olds with minimum literacy but knowledge of cables and knots, handling of sails, steering, use of the compass, rowing, swimming and use of firearms and swords.82 Moreover, from 1876 onwards, naval cadets were sent to foreign naval academies and shipyards in Western Europe, mainly Britain and France, to learn the latest technology and crafts. From 1905 onwards, naval cadets were also sent to Japan for the same purposes. Foreign advisers and technicians, often in their dozens, were always on the payroll of the Chinese naval establishments, some reaching the rank of admiral of the Qing navy.83 However, progress was not always made in a linear fashion. There were hiccups even amongst the most devoted Westernizers. In the wake of the Opium War until the beginning of the Westernization Movement, there was a period when efforts were made to upgrade China’s technology without the help of Westerners or their knowledge. In 1841, local officials in Guangzhou built a human-powered paddlewheel boat in an attempt to make it look like a British steamboat used during the Opium War.84 In the following year, two more ships of the European appearance were built, one with a copper-clad hull and the other with a primitive engine. Neither ship seemed sea-worthy.85 This was low-level, almost child-like imitation that did not show any understanding of the essence of steamboat technology. Twenty years later, in 1861, Zeng Guofan established China’s first factory, the Anqing Arsenal (安慶內軍械所), in Anhui to produce fire arms of the European style. It employed only Han Chinese and its production depended on small-scale traditional handicrafts. In 1862, it hired four technicians – Xu Shou, Xu Xianyin, Hua Hengfang and Hua Shifang (徐壽, 1818–84; 徐建寅, 1845–1901; 華蘅芳, 1833–1902; 華世芳, 1854–1905) – to experiment on steam-engine design by guesswork. The factory eventually managed to build China’s first woodenhulled steamer, the Huanghu (黃鵠) in 1865.86 But the performance of the ship was deeply disappointing: according to Zeng Guofan’s judgment, the ship was useless: ‘... too slow in manoeuvring and not quite getting it right.’87 So, the first attempt to reinvent the wheel without the input of proper knowledge did not succeed in opening the black-box of European steam-engine design and shipbuilding.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

71

Zuo Zongtang thus reached the conclusion that copying from the Europeans was the way out if China still wanted to be in the Social Darwinian race.88 A new approach began in 1866, when Zuo sent a report to the throne to ask permission to hire European technicians in Qing shipyards.89 Soon, in 1868, John Fryer joined the Jiangnan Arsenal in Shanghai. Thanks to the Translation Division of the Arsenal, Xu Shou and Xu Xianyin (now transferred from the Anqing Arsenal) were in close partnership with John Fryer, who functioned as a channel of reliable information on European technology. The partnership soon paid off: in 1868, the Huiji (惠吉), a 60-metre-long (180 chi), 600-ton gunboat (eight cannons) with nearly 400 horsepower, was launched. It was the first functional modern naval vessel built on Chinese soil.90 In the following decade, until 1876, seven more steamships were built in the Jiangnan Arsenal. The largest was the Yiyuan (馭遠), with a displacement of 2,800 tons. Also in 1866, the Fuzhou Shipbuilding Bureau (福州船政局) and the Fuzhou Shipyard (福州造船廠or馬尾造船廠) were established by Shen Baozhen, the Minister of Naval Affairs (船政大臣) at that time. More radical measures were taken during the first decade (until 1875) to get access to European technical knowledge by not only hiring French technicians, but also putting them in charge of all the technical aspects of the shipbuilding operation. The gamble paid off: during the first 10 years, the shipyard launched 15 large steam ships with an aggregate displacement of 170,000 tons. The shipyard became the backbone of the Qing modern shipbuilding. It went on to build another 25 ships from 1876 to 1907 with a total displacement of 300,000 tons. Qing shipbuilding easily matched that of the Meiji Japan by 1885 (see Table 1). Before the 1894–95 Sino–Japanese War for Korea, China’s ownership of modern warships was not too far behind that of Meiji Japan, either.91 Finally, the Westernizers also took a shortcut by importing ships and arms from Europe (and later Japan), which accounted for 55% of all naval ships in the new Qing navy (Table 2). Difference Made by the New Movers and Shakers: The Case of a New Navy The Westernizers were responsible for the establishment of a wide array of modern industries and infrastructure ranging from cotton textiles, shipping, railroads and banking. But their priority was always given to modern arms, which provides a good case for us to see the effectiveness of the new movers and shapers. Firstly, from 1865 onwards, the Jiangnan Arsenal mass-produced modern arms, soon becoming the largest arms production centre in East Asia and one of the largest in the world at that time. Secondly, the Qing navy came a long way from its humble start with only 30 traditional warships.92 By 1875, China had a new navy with two

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

72 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

Table 1 Chinese and Japanese naval shipbuilding compared, 1870–85. Name

Hull

Length

Beam

Draught

Horse power

Wooden Wooden Wooden Wooden

205.5 chi 300.0 300.0 225.3

30.6 chi 42.0 42.0 36.0

11.0 chi 19.0 21.0 14.3

605 1,800 1,800 1,900

Wooden Wooden Wooden Wooden Wooden

203 ft 153 249 210 210

35 ft 25 31 32 35

13 ft 12 14 16 17

443 659 1,450 1,267 1,267

A. Shanghai (Jiangnan Arsenal) Weijing (威靖1870) Hai-an (海安1872) Zhiyuan (致遠1875) Baomin (保民1885) B. Yokohama Seiki (1876) Banjo (1880) Jingei (1881) Kaimon (1884) Tenryu (1885)

Source: (1) Chinese ships: based on Wei Yungong (魏允恭), A History of the Jiangnan Arsenal (江南製造局記) (Shanghai, 1905); Wang Er-min (王爾敏), Rise of the New Arms Industry during the Qing Period (清季新興兵工業的興起) (Taipei, 1963), 82. (2) Japanese ships: H. Jentschura, D. Jung and P. Mickel, Warships of the Imperial Japanese Navy, 1869–1945, translated by Antony Preston and J. D. Brown (Annapolis, 1977).

Table 2 Modern naval ships obtained by the Qing Navy, 1862–81. Year

Imports

Locally built

Total

Br

Fr

Gm

US

FZ

JN

SY

1862–71

13

1

1

–

2

2

1

20

1872–81

12

–

3

2

18

3

–

38

Total (1)

25

1

4

2

Total (2)

32 20

5

1

26

Source: Based on Hao, A Naval History (Beiping, 1929), 9–185. Br, Britain; Fr, France; Gm, Germany; USA, United States; FZ, Fuzhou Shipyard; JN, Jiangnan Arsenal; SY, individual shipyards.

modern fleets – equipped with modern ships and Western methods of recruitment, training and management: the Northern Sea Fleet (北洋海軍) and the Southern Sea Fleet (南洋海軍).93 There were also provincial naval forces in Fujian and Guangdong Provinces. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

73

Table 3 Qing Naval Tours, 1870–1911. Year

Places visited

1870

Singapore, Pinang, Korea Bay

1875

Singapore, Pinang, Luzon, Japan

1886

Pusan, Hungnam, Nagasaki, Vladivostok, Inch’on, Seoul

1887

Korea

1890

Korea

1891

Tokyo

1907

Singapore, Saigon

1909

Singapore, Batavia (Jakarta), Surabaya, Pontianak, Yogyakarta, Ujung Pandang, Saigon

1911

South China Sea, Saigon, Batavia, Portsmouth and London*

Source: Based on Hao, A Naval History (Beiping, 1929), 10, 12, 54, 59, 65, 71, 75, 172, 176, 186–7. * For the occasion, in May 1911, of the coronation of George V (r. 1910–36), King of the United Kingdom and Emperor of India.

Such progress impressed Western observers. In the 1870s, they reported that ‘China was rapidly becoming a formidable adversary’, ‘Chinese military power was vastly different from what it had been in 1860’, ‘the output of factories and shipyards was impressive’, ‘Chinesebuilt warships would soon equal the highest European standards’ with ‘the whole official class determined to restore China’s international position’.94 Overall, China was reported as having fire power that could vie with the most powerful nations in Europe.95 Soon, the new navy began to show off in foreign and international waters. Table 3 contains the main events of its overseas tours. On the 1886 and 1891 tours, the fleet had two cruisers accompanied by three to four frigates.96 These tours demonstrated the sailing range of the fleet. China had its first opportunity to try out its new navy in 1873 after Japan sent 3,000 marines to invade South Taiwan. The Minister of Naval Affairs, Shen Baozhen, led a fleet with 7,000 marines to force the Japanese to withdraw.97 During the Franco–Chinese War in 1883–85 and the Sino– Japanese War in 1894–95, the new Qing navy caused severe damage to the French and Japanese fleets, respectively. In the case of the Franco–Chinese War, the Qing navy threw more war matériel than the French and thus won the sea battle. China lost the war only due to its diplomatic failure. In the Sino–Japanese War of 1894–95, Japan won

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

74 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

the war by a narrow margin, with heavy losses on its side. Japan triumphed by its military tactics (with the help of the British military advisers) rather than its firing power.98 In comparison with the days during the Opium War in 1840, when the naval advantage was so completely on the British side, during the 1880s and 1890s, China became a naval power for the industrial world to recognize. In 1899, the Italian navy sent six warships to China with an ultimatum to establish a concession in the coastal Zhejiang Province. After sizing up the Italians, Qing officers convinced the Imperial Court that the Qing navy was fully capable of defeating the invaders. The Italians withdrew empty-handed. It is important to note that the Qing naval capacity was not destroyed after these two wars. After the 1911 Revolution, as many as 41 of the ships were inherited by the navy under the Nationalist government, with a total displacement of 39,795 metric tons and a total propulsive force at 126,200 units of horsepower, 370 cannons and 47 torpedo tubes. These ships continued their services into the 1930s.99 FINAL REMARKS

During the Ming–Qing period, there were two patterns of knowledge diffusion from Europe to China. The first was a Jesuit-centred top-down pattern. It proved to be very slow. From the year that Matteo Ricci arrived in Beijing in 1601 to the Opium War in 1840, the Jesuits’ efforts, at very best, reached the Imperial Court circle but more or less were confined to the ivory tower. For two-and-a-half centuries, knowledge from Europe failed to make a significant difference in a society that was submerged in Confucianism and was obsessed with a competition for the best behaviour in a neatly woven structure. Among many things, it did practically nothing to help China’s national security. A new group of elites who acted as movers and shapers of knowledge emerged only after the Opium War, with the adoption of Social Darwinism. The new ideology marginalized the need for a moral high ground of benevolence in the later Qing social policies. Only then was the floodgate for practical European technology and knowledge to flow quite freely in society and tackle more immediate and tangible challenges. So, in terms of the scale, scope and speed of changes, the 50 years of the post-Opium War period (1840–90) broke all the records in the history of the empire of China. This observation implies that China did not have the necessary conditions to develop its indigenous capitalistic industrialization. Capitalism and industrialization had to be introduced from the outside. Notes and References 1. After da Gama established a cross-ocean sea route to Asia in 1498, it took about 15 years for Portugal to trade directly with China: around 1513, Jorge Alvares became the first European merchant to reach Da-ao (or Tamao) near the Guangdong coast; see J. M. Braga, ‘The Tamao of the Portuguese Pioneers’, T’ien Hsia (World Monthly), 1939, 5: 420–32; also

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

75

Hao Peiyun, A Naval History of Modern China (中國海軍史) (Beiping, 1929), 163, 175, 178. It took another 4 years for the Portuguese under Fernão Peres de Andrade to establish relationships with Canton officials and to send their first ambassador, Tomé Pires, to Beijing; see C. R. Boxer (ed.), South China in the Sixteenth Century (London, 1953), xx. 2. He got his work permit to stay in Beijing as a clock-repairing artisan, not as a Jesuit missionary; see M. Ricci (利瑪竇), c. 1610, Matteo Ricci’s Diary on China (利瑪竇中國劄記), translated by He Gaoji (何高濟) (Beijing, 1983), 582. Ricci was mentioned in the official history of The History of the Ming Dynasty (明史); see Zhang Tingyu (ed.), 1735, ‘Entry Biography 214, Foreign 7’ (列傳二百十四, 外國七), in The History of the Ming Dynasty (明史) (Beijing, 1974, reprint). 3. Francis Xavier (1506–52) attempted to establish a mission in Macao. He did not succeed in entering mainland China. 4. It is stated that 1571 was the year when the first recorded commercial shipment of silver from the West arrived in China; see D. O. Flynn and A. Giráldez, ‘Cycles of Silver: Global Economic Unity through the Mid-Eighteenth Century’, Journal of World History, 2002, 2: 391–427. However, von Glahn sets the date as far back as 1550; see R. Von Glahn, Fountain of Fortune: Money and Monetary Policy in China, 1000–1700 (Berkeley, 1996), 140. In 1729, the Portuguese shipped the first recorded 200 chests of opium to Macao, ushering in the age of the opium trade with China; see J. Phipps, A Practical Treatise on the China and Eastern Trade (Calcutta, 1835), 208. The first British opium cargo arrived half a century later, in 1773; see E. H. Pritchard, Anglo–Chinese Relations during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (Urbana, 1929), 150. 5. Small-scale naval friction between the Chinese and the Portuguese and then the Dutch first took place in the first half of the seventeenth century; see ZBK (Zhongguo Dabaike Quanshu Chubanshe (Encyclopaedia Sinica Publisher)), ‘Chinese History’ (中國歷史), in Encyclopaedia Sinica (中國大百科全書) (Beijing and Shanghai, 1992), 676. 6. The Ming judiciary system was considered fair by Europeans. During Zhu Wan’s anti-smuggling campaign in China’s East Coast, the unlawful Portuguese traders captured in Zhejiang were sent into exile in Guangxi Province, some 1,200 kilometres away. Only four were executed for their killing of Chinese soldiers. The Portuguese offenders were very impressed by their fair trial in the Chinese Court; see Boxer, op. cit. (1), xxix. 7. The Ming state created an incentive by treating the Portuguese differently from other Europeans so long as the Portuguese were ‘well behaved’ by Chinese standards; see H. B. Morse, The Chronicles of the East India Company Trading to China, 1635–1834, Vol. 1 (Oxford, 1926–29), 29, 47; see also W. L. Schurz, The Manila Galleon (Manila, 1938, reprint 1985), 61 and chap. 3. 8. See G. Deng, The Premodern Chinese Economy: Structural Equilibrium and Capitalist Sterility (London and New York, 1999), chap. 5. 9. Gaetano Pires Pereira (畢學源) (?–1838), a Portuguese Jesuit who died in his post as the Director, was the last foreigner employed by the Imperial Observatory. 10. Diego de Pantoja, a Spanish-born Jesuit, is believed to have accompanied Ricci to Beijing after 1599 to work for the Ming government. 11. Sabbathin de Ursis, an Italian-born Jesuit, first came to China in 1606 under the recommendation of Matteo Ricci. He succeeded Ricci in 1611 to take charge of the Imperial calendar project. 12. Johannes Schreck, a German-born Jesuit, first came to Macao in 1619, entered China in 1621 and reached Beijing in 1623. He died on his post as Officer of the Ming Imperial Observatory working on the new Ming Imperial Almanac (大明崇禎曆書). 13. Von Bell, a German-born Jesuit, came to China in 1622. He was the successor of Johannes Schreck by the invitation of the then Ming Premier Xu Guanqi (徐光啟) in 1630. In 1623, he took advantage of repairing a piano for Emperor Chongzhen to try, unsuccessfully, to persuade the Emperor to convert to Christianity. His biography was included in Zhao Erxun, ‘Entry Biography 59’ (列傳五十九), in Draft of the History of the Qing Dynasty (清史稿) (Beijing, 1927, reprint 1977). 14. (明史·曆一): ‘時帝已深知西法之密 … 詔西法果密，即改為 (大統曆法)’. See Zhang, op. cit. (2), chap. ‘Imperial Almanac One’. 15. Nicolas Longobardi, an Italian-born Jesuit, was another successor of Matteo Ricci. It remains unclear when he first entered China.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

76 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

16. Jacques Rho, an Italian-born Jesuit, first came to China in 1624. He was invited to Beijing in 1630 to join the Ming Imperial Observatory. 17. Ferdinand Verbiest, a Belgian-born Jesuit, entered China in 1659. He was involved in the Qing firearms design in 1675. Like von Bell, Verbiest was appointed the post of Director of the Imperial Observatory in 1669. He supervised the construction of six new instruments for the observatory from 1670 to 1674: a zodiac armillary sphere, an equatorial armillary sphere, two altazimuths, a quadrant and a celestial globe. His biography was included in Zhao, op. cit. (13). 18. Thoma Pereira, a Portuguese-born Jesuit, came to China in 1672. He worked in the Imperial Observatory in the 1670s and 80s. He worked for the Qing as one of the official translators and interpreters for the 1689 Sino–Russian Treaty of Nerchinsk (尼布楚條約). It was documented that he did all he could to protect China’s interests against the Russian attempt to encroach its territory. Incidentally, the treaty has been commonly regarded as an equal and fair treaty for China, very rare during Qing history. 19. Philippus Maria Grimaldi, an Italian-born Jesuit, was the successor of Ferdinand Verbiest to work for the Imperial Observatory. 20. Joachim Bouvet, a French-born Jesuit, first arrived in China in 1688 and was employed by the Qing state from 1707 to 1717 to map the entire Qing Empire with the European technology of cartography. 21. Jean Francois Gerbillon, a French Jesuit, first arrived in China also in 1688 and was employed by the Qing court in 1689 as an official interpreter and translator for the Sino–Russian Treaty of Nerchinsk. 22. Bernard-Kiliam Stumpf, a German Jesuit, was employed by Emperor Kangxi in 1696 to build China’s first glass-making factory. He joined the Qing Imperial Observatary in 1715 and was responsible for building a European-style theodolite. 23. Joseph Giusepp Castiglione, an Italian Jesuit, arrived in China in 1715 and was employed almost immediately as the court artist for 50 years until the end of his life. He held the post of Official of the Third Rank (三品) of the Qing. 24. Ignatius Koegler, a German Jesuit, arrived in China in 1716 and reached Beijing in 1717 to take up his position in the Imperial Observatory. He was promoted to Director of the Imperial Observatory (欽天監正) in 1725. 25. Andre Pereira, a Portuguese Jesuit, worked in the capacity of Deputy Director of the Imperial Observatory alongside Koegler. 26. Augustin de Hallerstein, an Austro–Hungarian Jesuit, was the successor of Ignatius Koegler in charge of the Imperial Observatory. 27. They did mainly house-keeping for the Imperial Observatory: Antonius Gogeis (鮑友管, 1701–71), Fé1ix da Rocha (傅作霖, 1713–81), José de Espinha (高慎思, 1722– 88), José Bernardo de Almeida (索德超, 1728–1806), André Rodrigues (安國寧, 1729– 96), Alexandre Gouveia (湯士選, 1787–1807), Vervissimo Monteiro da Serra (高守謙, ?) and, finally, Gaetano Pires Pereira (畢學源, ?–1838). 28. His fast-track promotion eventually got him into trouble. He was imprisoned on death row in 1664 after the death of Emperor Shuizhi, but Emperor Kangxi (康熙, r. 1662–1722) pardoned him in 1669. 29. Zhang, op. cit. (2), Vol. 251, No. 9. 30. H. Bernard, Matteo Ricci’s Scientific Contribution to China, translated by E. C. Werner (Westport, CT, 1973), 67–93; F. Bray, ‘Section 41: Agriculture’, in J. Needham (ed.), Science and Civilisation in China, Vol. 6. (Cambridge, 1984), 64–9. 31. Kang Chengyi (康成懿), An Enquiry into the Literature Sources Quoted in the ‘Nongzheng Quanshu’ (农政全書中徵引文獻探源) (Shanghai: Agriculture Press, 1960), 7. 32. They were later called the ‘Three Pillars of the Catholic Church in China’ (天主教三柱石), due to Church propaganda rather than their actual impact on Chinese society. 33. The best known case was Wei Yiji (魏裔介, 1616–86), a Qing official of the First Rank (一品). 34. See Xu Haisong (徐海松), Chinese Literati and Western Knowledge during the Early Qing (清初士人與西學) (Beijing, 2000), 90. 35. The lower figure comes from Li Nanqiu (黎難秋), A Draft History of Translated Science Literature in China (中國科技文獻翻譯史稿) (Hefei, 1993), 61. The higher figure is

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

77

based on Xu Zongze (徐宗澤), Abstracts of Translated Works by Jesuit Missionaries during the Ming–Qing Period (明清間耶穌會士譯著提要) (Beijing, 1989). 36. Hou Wailu (侯外廬), A General History of Thought in China (中國思想通史), Vol. 4 (Beijing, 1960), 1254. 37. See Ji Jun (紀昀) (ed.), The Qing Imperial Complete Collection of Books (四庫全書) (Taipei, 1772, reprint 1983), The Third Category (子部). 38. 明史·曆一: ‘八月, 詔西法果密, 即改為(大統曆法), 通行天下. 未幾國變, 竟未施行’. See Zhang, op. cit. (2), chap. ‘Imperial Almanac One’. 39. To be fair, Chinese artisans did copy rather religiously European designs for export porcelain pieces. But they may not have been able to create their own. See E. Gordon, Treasures from the East, Chinese Export Porcelain for the Collector (Pittstown, 1984); C. Clunas, Art in China (Oxford, 1997), 194–8. 40. It reads ‘天朝物產豐盈, 無所不有, 原不藉外夷貨物以通有無. 特因天朝所產茶葉, 瓷器, 絲斤為西洋各國及爾國必需之物, 是以加恩體恤, 在澳門開設洋行, 俾得日用有資, 並沾餘潤;’, see Anon., Veritable Records of Emperor Gaozong of the Qing Dynasty (清高宗實錄), Vol. 1435 (Beijing, 1985, reprint), 15. 41. Needham developed a chart to show how science and technology evolved in China and Europe. In his conclusion of his life-time of work on science and civilization in China, Needham asserted that it was Galileo who marked the turning point, after which Europe overtook China gradually; see J. Needham (ed.), Science and Civilisation in China, Vol. 7 (Cambridge, 2004), 28, 217–24. 42. See Needham, ibid., 214. 43. See Needham, op. cit. (41), 20. 44. See Ricci, op. cit. (2), 94. 45. It is commonly known as西學東漸, literally ‘Western knowledge trickling to China’; see Xu, op. cit. (34), chap. 1. 46. Including Huang Zongxi (黃宗羲, 1610–95), Fang Yizhi (方以智1611–71), Zhang Erqi (張爾岐, 1612–77), Gu Yanwu (顧炎武, 1613–82), Wang Fuzhi (王夫之, 1619–92), Wei Xi (魏禧, 1624–80) and Lü Liuliang (呂留良, 1629–83). 47. For example, P. A. Kuhn advocated the hypothesis of an irreversible crisis across the empire; see P. A. Kuhn, Rebellion and Its Enemies in Late Imperial China: Militarization and Social Structure, 1796–1864 (Cambridge, MA, 1970). 48. Attempts have been made even to provide archival data to support the theory of crisis; see Chen Zhenhan (陳振漢) (ed.), Economic History Materials from Veritable Records of the Qing Dynasty (清實錄經濟史資料) (Beijing, 1989), passim. 49. See Deng, op. cit. (8), 223–5. 50. Zhao, op. cit. (13), 467. 51. G. Deng, Maritime Sector, Institutions and Sea Power of Premodern China (New York, London and West Port, 1999), 124. 52. Liang Fangzhong (梁方仲), Dynastic Data of China’s Households, Cultivated Land and Land Taxation (中國歷代戶口田地田賦統計) (Shanghai, 1980), 428. 53. P.-E. Will and R. B. Wong, Nourish the People: the State Civilian Granary System in China, 1650–1850 (Ann Arbor, 1991). 54. Wu Genyou (吳根友) (ed.) The Annotated Four Books and Five Classics of Confucianism (四書五經) (Beijing, 1993), 118–19. 55. See Liang, op. cit. (52), 540–4. 56. Datong (大同) is commonly translated into ‘Great Harmony’. 57. See F. W. Drake, China Charts the World: Hsu Chi-Yü and His Geography of 1848 (Cambridge, MA, 1975), chaps 8–9. 58. It is commonly agreed that Social Darwinism was the corner-stone of all political thought in China during the post-Opium War period; see J. R. Pusey, China and Charles Darwin (Cambridge, MA, 1983); J. A. Fogel and P. G. Zarrow, Imaging the People, Chinese Intellectuals and the Concept of Citizenship, 1890–1902 (Armonk, NY, 1997), 15; A. Ong and D. Nonini, Ungrounded Empires: The Cultural Politics of Modern Chinese Transnationalism (New York and London, 1997), 46; K. Wang, Modern China: An Encyclopaedia of History, Culture and Nationalism (New York, 1998), 321; E. S. Rawski, The Last Emperors: A Social History of Qing Imperial Institutions (Berkeley, 1998), 2; T. Brook and T. B. Wakabayashi, Opium Regimes: China, Britain, and Japan, 1839–1952 (Berkeley, 2000), 71; H. Harrison,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

78 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

China (London, 2001), 73; K.-W. Chow, K. M. Doak and Poshek Fu, Constructing Nationhood in Modern East Asia (Ann Arbor, 2001), 53–4; G. Wei and Xiaoyuan Liu, Exploring Nationalisms of China: Themes and Conflicts (Westport, CT and London, 2002), 12; S. L. Glosser, Chinese Visions of Family and State, 1915–1953 (Berkley, 2003), 2; G. Arrighi, T. Hamashita and M. Selden, The Resurgence of East Asia: 500, 150 and 50 Year Perspectives (London and New York, 2003), 54; A. D. Voskressenski, Russia and China: A Theory of Inter-State Relations (London, 2003), 91; K.-C. Liu and R. Shek, Heterodoxy in Late Imperial China (Honolulu, 2004), 17; P. F. Williams and Y. Wu, The Great Wall of Confinement: The Chinese Prison Camp through Contemporary Fiction and Reportage (Berkeley, 2004), 13. 59. They included The Chinese Repository (澳門月報), The Canton Press (澳門新聞紙) and The Canton Register (廣州記事報). 60. The main body of text was Lin Zexu’s Encyclopaedia of Geography (四洲志). It was introduced to Japan in 1854 and became an instant best-seller. 61. It reads ‘洋面水戰, 系英夷長技;’ ‘剿夷而不謀船炮水軍, 是自取敗也’; see Yang Guozhen (楊國楨), Collection of Lin Zexu’s Letters, Enlarged (林則徐書簡) (增訂本) (Fuzhou, 1985), 193. 62. Wei Yuan (魏源), n.d., ‘Military Glory’ (聖武記), in Punitive Expedition of Foreign Fleet under the Daoguang Reign (1821–50) (道光洋艘征撫記, 下), Vol. 10 (Shanghai, 1936, reprint), 336. It is important to note that Meiji Japan copied exactly the same approach from Qing China after their 1868 Restoration, despite that fact that the kanji (富國強兵) was pronounced as fokoku kyohei. 63. See Preface of his A Comprehensive Survey of Off-Shore Countries (海國圖志). 64. See Jia Zhen and Bao Yun (賈楨, 寶鋆), Qing Diplomacy with the West, 1851–61 (籌辦夷務始末, 咸豐朝), Book 3, Vol. 3 (Beijing, 1979, originally published 1862), 1049. 65. This was ‘local militarization in Qing China’. 66. Li Zhiming (李志茗), Four Major Mufu in the Late Qing (晚清四大幕府) (Shanghai, 2002). See also Ling Linhuang (淩林煌), ‘Investigation of the Total Number of Zeng Guofan’s Mufu and Its Related Organisations’ (曾國藩幕府並相關組織成員總數探微), in Special Issue of the Association of Chinese History (中國歷史學會史學集刊), 1997, 29: 363–91. 67. Prince Yixin (奕訢) wrote to the throne in 1860 that learning from Europe would help fight against the peasant rebellions; see Shi Zhongwen (史仲文), Records of Prominent Figures in Early Modern China (中國近代名人思想錄 · 建業者言) (Beijing, 1997), 46. 68. The Taiping Rebellion, the most powerful rebellion since 1368, swept the richest regions in the 1850s; the Qing government lost as much as 90% of its regular revenues. 69. Association of Chinese History (中國史學會), ‘Protests from the Xianbin Hut, On Adopting Western Knowledge’ (馮桂芬, ‘校邠廬抗議, 采西學議’), in Chinese Early Modern History Series, 1898 Reform, One (中國近代史資料叢刊, 戊戌變法, 一) (Shanghai, 1957), 27–31. 70. See R. Gilbert, The Unequal Treaties, China and the Foreigner (London, 1929), 54–5. 71. The Jiangnan Arsenal was established by Li Hongzhang in 1865. 72. Martin spoke fluent Chinese. His first Chinese translation was Henry Wheaton’s 1836 work of Elements of International Law (萬國公法), which was first published in 1864. This work was re-translated into Japanese in 1865. He went on to translate two more law textbooks – Outline of International Law (公法便覽) and Guide to International Law (公法會通) – and wrote two of his own – Essence of Foreign Diplomacy (邦交提要) and International Law in Ancient China (中國古世公法論略). See Xiong Yuzhi (熊月之), Western Knowledge Approaching China and Late Qing Society (西學東漸與晚清社會) (Shanghai, 1994), 322; Wang Tieya (王鐵崖), Encyclopaedia of Law, International Law Section (中華法學大辭典) (國際法學卷) (Beijing, 1996), 101; Wang Jian (王健), Western Knowledge Approaching China – Foreigners and Law Changes in Early Modern China (西法東漸 – 外國人與中國法的近代變革) (Beijing, 2001), 11; and Zou Zhenhuan (鄒振環), ‘Capital Foreign Language Academy and Its Translation Output’ (京師同文館及其譯書簡述), in History of the Press (出版史料), 1989, 2: 83. 73. W. A. Martin (丁韙良), Translated Titles by Translation Division of the Jiangnan Arsenal in Shanghai (同文館題名錄) (Shanghai, 1989). See also Tian Tao (田濤), The

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Kent Deng

79

Introduction of International Law and Late Qing China (國際法輸入與晚請中國) (Jinan, 2001), 59. 74. Wang Yangzong (王揚宗), John Fryer and Scientific Enlightenment in Early Modern China (傅蘭雅與近代中國的科學啟蒙) (Beijing, 2000). 75. Anon., Translated Works from the Last Forty Years with Brief Descriptions (江南製造局譯書提要) (Shanghai, 1909). 76. Liang Qichao (梁啟超), 1896, ‘Bibliography of Western Learning’ (西學書目表), in Liang Qichao (梁啟超), Readings for Ice Drinkers’ Hut (飲冰室合集), Vol. 1 (Beijing, 1936, reprint 1989), 122–5. 77. It reads ‘仍歸重于設學堂, … 學成而後, 督造有人, 管駕有人, 輪船之事, 始為一了百了’; see Zuo Zongtang (左宗堂), c. 1885, ‘Report to The Foreign Affairs Department’ (上總理各國事務衙門), in Anon., Collected Materials of China’s Early Modern History, Archives of Coastal Defence, Fuzhou Shipyard (中國近代史資料彙編, 海防檔乙, 福州船廠), Vol. 2 (Taipei, reprint 1957), 53. 78. In 1876, the curriculum of the Academy included English, French, Russian, German, mathematics, physics, chemistry, astronomy, navigation, international law, politics, world history and world geography. It merged in 1902 with the newly established Capital Academy (京師大學堂), the predecessor of Peking University (北京大學). 79. Hao, op. cit. (1), 8. 80. Hao, op. cit. (1), 17, 65, 71, 167. 81. See Anon., Regulations of the Northern Sea Fleet (北洋海軍章程) (Taipei, c. 1890, reprint 1968), 179–97. 82. See Anon., ibid., 199–204. 83. Hao, op. cit. (1), 12, 13, 18, 20, 41, 45, 70, 82, 159, 170–1, 174–5, 218, 222. 84. It is documented that the vessel was 67 chi long, 20 chi beam, equipped with 36 oars and two paddle-wheels. It took ten men to paddle the wheels; Wei Yuan (魏源), A Comprehensive Survey of Off-shore Countries (海國圖志), Vol. 84 (c. 1841), 23. 85. It is reported that one ship was launched in a river but it did not steer well (‘放入內河, 不甚靈便’); see Wen Qing (文慶), Qing Diplomacy with the West, 1821–50 (籌辦夷務始末, 道光朝) (Beijing, 1964, reprint), 711, 2470–1. 86. The ship had one cylinder steam engine, about 18 metres long (55尺, chi), 25 tons’ displacement. It travelled at a speed of about 10 kilometres (20里, li) per hour. 87. It was reported as ‘行使遲鈍, 不甚得法’; see Zen Guofan (曾國藩), ‘Report of New Ship’ (新造輪船折), in his Complete Works of Zen Guofan, Memorials to the Throne (曾文正公全集, 奏稿), Vol. 27 (Shanghai, c. 1876, reprint 1936), 10. 88. Zuo believed that by copying European technology, China would be able to remove Europe’s comparative advantage and fight back ‘奪彼族之所恃,’ ‘師其長以制之’; see Luo Zhengjun (羅正鈞) (ed.), n.d., Chronicle of Zuo Zongtang (左宗棠年譜) (Changsha, reprint 1983), 113. 89. See Zuo Zongtang (左宗堂), ‘Memorial to the Throne on Purchasing Machines and Employing Foreign Technicians to Build Steam Ships’ (擬購機器雇洋匠試造輪船先陳大概情形拆), in Complete Collection of Zuo Zongtang’s Works, Memorials to the Thrones (左宗棠全集, 奏稿), Vol. 18 (Shanghai, c. 1885, reprint 1986), 5–6. 90. See Hao, op. cit. (1), 8–9. 91. T. C. Smith, Political Change and Industrial Development in Japan: Government Enterprise 1868–1880 (Stanford, 1955), 9. 92. Hao, op. cit. (1), 1. 93. See Xia Zhengnong (夏征農) (ed.), Encyclopaedia (辭海) (Shanghai, 1989), 157, 382. 94. M. C. Wright, The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism (Stanford, 1957), 220. 95. See Wright, ibid., 212. 96. Hao, op. cit. (1), 75. 97. Hao, op. cit. (1), 11. 98. Wright, op. cit. (94), 220. 99. See Hao, op. cit. (1), 227–9.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

80 Movers and Shakers of Knowledge in China during the Ming–Qing Period

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800: A Review of Recent Revisionist Scholarship in Western Languages HARRIET T. ZURNDORFER

ABSTRACT

The first part of this study considers both general and specific publications that have re-framed the way China specialists and others have conceived Chinese science and attempts to relate these representations to diverging patterns of economic development between China and Europe before the nineteenth century. In the second part, this essay focuses on the Jesuit transmission of European science to China, and its consequences. It argues that the Ming and Qing governments' efforts to control the Jesuittransmitted knowledge in these fields stimulated ever more interest among local scholars in Chinese traditions of mathematics and astronomy, which culminated in the eighteenth-century `evidential research' movement. But because the scientific knowledge the Jesuits conveyed was already out of date, before their arrival in China, local scholars never had the possibility to make a complete reassessment of their own mathematical and astronomical practices. As the primary and ± at times, the only ± translators of Western scientific thought to China, the Jesuits had an enormous historical impact on how Chinese scholars became trapped in a pre-Copernican universe in which Chinese natural philosophy, with its focus on metaphysical interpretations of the natural world, remained entrenched until the nineteenth century. INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF CHINESE SCIENCE IN A GLOBAL PERSPECTIVE: OLD AND NEW DEBATES

In 1603, the famous Chinese intellectual and Christian convert, Xu Guangqi (1562±1633), offered the local magistrate of his native Shanghai county a proposal outlining the methodology to measure the length, width,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

82

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

depth and water flow of a river. Xu's document (later printed in his collection, Nongzheng quanshu (Comprehensive Treatise on Agricultural Administration, comp. 1639), employed conventional surveying practices as well as calculating techniques based on the Pythagorean theorem. Although it is tempting to attribute Xu's achievement here as a direct consequence of his meeting the Jesuit Matteo Ricci (1552±1610) in Nanjing that same year, it is not certain from extant documentation that this encounter with the European was the defining influence on his water study. Growing up in a region of well connected networks of waterways and extensive wall-building, Xu had already, at an early age, acquired an interest in water control and military matters, pursued mathematical study in that regard and familiarized himself with relevant sixteenthcentury Chinese mathematical texts. But it does seem that this proposal, featuring an illustration of a circle divided into 360 degrees, did demonstrate some Western influence. Xu would go on to translate with Ricci the first six books of Christophorus Clavius' edition of Euclid's Elements, known in Chinese as Jihe yuanben (Geometry by Euclid; 1608), an accomplishment that would earn him distinction and respect among Chinese and European scholars alike.1 Recent modern scholarship on Xu Guangqi has depreciated Eurocentric portraits of this polymath transmitted in the first instance by the Jesuit mission in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and conveyed later, in twentieth-century secondary writings, as a `component in the master narrative of the European civilization mission in China'.2 Instead, as Timothy Brook advocates, Xu's life should be viewed in a `Mingcentred approach', with his science and his religion considered integral to `a knowledge system that prized practical solutions to worldly problems, and a world view that strengthened (Confucian) statecraft concerns with a desire for salvation'.3 In other words, Xu Guangqi was a man of his times: a talented scholar and a dedicated Confucian official committed to the propagation of agricultural knowledge, the relief of subsistence crises, the encouragement of military defence and, not least, the promotion of free trade between China and Japan as a way of curbing piracy.4 According to Brook and other critical scholars, one needs to regard Xu primarily as a member of that stream of late-Ming-dynasty (c. 1580±1644) thinkers who endorsed concrete solutions to concrete problems, namely shixue (concrete studies). Thus, in this context, the significance of Xu Guangqi's exploits lies less with what impact Jesuit science had on him, and more with how he may have attempted to solve a number of contemporary problems by utilizing facets of the knowledge conveyed by the Jesuits. This revisionist scholarship may be judged as one more step in overcoming the `Great Divide' that has castigated the `scientific West' against the `exotic, intuitive East' or, in other words, the `single-minded historical teleology of Western European ``success'' and non-Western ``failure'' '.5 The preoccupation with the economic, social and political transformation that constitutes the recent history of Western Europe and North America has frequently indicted other regions and, in particular, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

83

China for not fulfilling the potential to modern realizations in the spheres of industrial production or military prowess before the nineteenth century.6 In this way, modernity and the diffusion of science (such as that once propagated by the well known historian of science, George Basalla) become a unilinear narrative expressed in rigid models of centre/ periphery or metropole/colony.7 Invariably, such accounts point to the role of science and scientific-related technologies used in agricultural and industrial production as the West's triumph, and even rightful privilege. Such thinking has met a provocative challenge with Kenneth Pomeranz's volume, The Great Divergence, in which the role of science in the making of the modern world economy is quietly set aside.8 Pomeranz has argued persuasively that economic data are sufficient to demonstrate the foundation on which European industrialization was built. He compares the constraints on China's richest and most productive region, Jiangnan, with similar factors affecting the English economy in the eighteenth century. Pomeranz demonstrates how Jiangnan's problems with the growing population's demand on food, fuel, housing and handicrafts prohibited sustainable growth there, and contrasts England's advantages in the last decades of the eighteenth century. Britain benefited from the `geographical accident' of having accessible deposits of coal and iron, profited from its acquisition of colonies in the New World with its wealth of resources, and thereby overcame its own limitations to develop an industrial economy. But this kind of refutation is exceptional and, until the last few decades of the last century, the study of China's path to modern development was an opportunity to cast praise for what Europe developed and possessed, and blame for what China did not, and, in particular, science. The positivistic view of science favours the notion of the transmission of science as transparent: since scientific knowledge is positive, how can one resist it? And so, when the first Europeans visiting Ming China expressed how adeptly officialdom supervised practical matters such as salt production, iron manufacture, flood control and agricultural development, they also voiced surprise that these administrators achieved their responsibilities through an examination system testing moral and literary values. In his letters to Europe, Ricci communicated about this matter and noted that the Chinese were `trapped' in a humanist civilization that valued literary ideals exclusively. As he commented, `The study of mathematics and that of medicine were held in low esteem, because they are not fostered by honours as is the study of philosophy, to which students are attracted by the hope of the glory and the rewards attached to it'.9 Thus, beginning with Matteo Ricci's writings, and continuing well into the eighteenth century with proclamations such as those uttered by the director of the Academy of Sciences in Paris, Jean-Baptiste Dortous de Mairan, or even Voltaire, there has been a continuous repudiation of China's failure to generate `science', namely a certain kind of mathematical and theoretical reasoning along with systematic experimentation.10 In this regard, the disavowals made in the first half of the twentieth century History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

84

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

were particularly vociferous. For example, Bertrand Russell, after a year's lecturing in East Asia, wrote in his 1922 volume, The Problem of China, that until European influence had reached that region, there had been neither science nor industrialization.11 Russell's assertions were repeated 20 years later in the writings of the Yale University philosophy professors, Filmer Northrop and Wilmon Sheldon, and a decade after that in a well known letter written in 1953 by Albert Einstein, who communicated his astonishment that the Chinese sages did not make the steps `[to] invent the formal logical system (i.e. Euclidean geometry) nor to find out [the] causal relationship by systematic experiment'.12 It was against this kind of intellectual disclaimer that Joseph Needham (1900±95) began his Science and Civilization in China project, which has culminated in more than 30 volumes documenting China's contributions to mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology and to mechanical, civil and nautical engineering.13 Needham proposed that Chinese attainments in these fields were part of a `grand titration' in which China was an equal contributor among the tributaries that flowed into the river of modern science.14 Instead of a radical civilizational divide between the West and China, Needham emphasized that there had been a radical temporal break between `primitive science' (originating both in ancient China and ancient Greece) and `modern science', which he claimed culturally universal but uniquely Western in origin. Over time, his study of this divide became known as the `Needham problem': why did modern science, the mathematization of hypotheses about Nature, with all its implications for advanced technology, take its meteoric rise only in the West at the time of Galileo?15 While Needham will always be credited for his most important breakthrough, namely to put European inventiveness in a wider perspective, he also attracted critics and even during his lifetime. Aside from those historians of science, such as the late A. C. Crombie or Derek de Solla Price, who became even more convinced of science as a uniquely Western accomplishment after familiarizing themselves with Needham's work,16 the most important challenge has been the critique by the China scholar, Nathan Sivin. On the one hand, Sivin censured `the excesses' of Needham's rehabilitation of Chinese science and, on the other hand, he doubted the usefulness of attempts to compare the science and technology of civilizations in their entirety.17 In Sivin's perception, there were many diverse traditions ± `from techniques, to institutional settings, to views of nature and man's relation to it' ± originating in various locations, which `interacted . . . continuously until they were replaced by local versions of the modern science that they all helped to form'.18 Moreover, in contrast to Needham, who dismissed the contribution of Confucian scholars to science, Sivin has demonstrated the specific achievements of a number of literati (e.g. Wang Xishan (1628±82)) in mathematics and astronomy, and directed attention to the importance of careful analysis of their written works. He views the primary preoccupation of this tiny, educated elite to be the preservation and revivification of its own culture and, in that way, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

85

their interest in science and, in particular, mathematics as integral to the history of Chinese intellectual development. Sivin's own path-breaking work, which still goes on, has also been enriched by the important publications of Benjamin Elman.19 Elman has demonstrated the centrality of the concepts of appropriation, translation and innovation to the history of science in China, and that the establishment of Western science in China was a complex narrative, rather than a singular historical teleology of European triumph over Eastern diffidence. Sivin's reproach of Needham has also extended to the matter of his synthesis of science and technology. The second part of the `Needham problem' asks why, between the first century BCE and the fifteenth century CE, Chinese civilization was much more efficient than occidental in applying human natural knowledge to practical human needs. But Sivin discounts the role of science in technology and argues that during these 1600 years or so, science and technology were separate entities (technology not being `applied science') and that Chinese superiority in technology was not indicative of more advanced science. He believes technology and manufacturing techniques were matters of craft traditions inherited from one generation to the next without written instruction, while science was carried out on the whole by members of the minority of educated people in China, and transmitted in books.20 Thus, the written history of China's agricultural practices and industrial arts, such as that illustrated in the Tiangong kaiwu (The Exploitation of the Works of Nature; 1637), originated not with those people who fired porcelain or spun cotton and weaved cloth, but from literati observers eager to communicate the achievements of the lower orders. In that regard, it is interesting to point out the differences between how Qing China and Tokugawa Japan diffused agricultural knowledge.21 While both regimes printed agricultural handbooks (nongshu (Chinese)/ no-sho (Japanese)), the Japanese aimed these manuals at the educated peasant who would have found the level of technical information comprehensible. In the case of China, where official government policy was indeed to encourage agriculture (quannong), these books were written by bureaucrats for bureaucrats, and the dissemination of improved agricultural knowledge probably followed the age-old process of person-toperson, word-of-mouth that paralleled the bureaucrats' communication. Recent revisionist modern scholarship has also raised the significance of the role of magic to the development of Chinese science. Despite the Confucian self-image of a secular and pragmatic society, most of China's most well known inventions, ironically, originated in the mantic arts.22 Writing probably grew from the requirements of divination; printing from the desire to gain merit by multiplying prayers and chants; magnetism, geology and the navigator's compass from the geomancer's arts; gunpowder from the use of fireworks to scare off evil spirits; astronomy from astrology; and, not least, chemistry from alchemy.23 And, as for the latter, it is noteworthy that the world's richest depository of knowledge about chemical reactions and their products up to around the year 1200 may be found in Chinese alchemy texts.24 History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

86

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

Finally, we should regard another facet of this revisionist scholarship of the last decades, namely the focus on China's `fertile relations' with other cultures in a global concourse. China could boast about long-term experience with the world-wide flow of useful and reliable knowledge that sometimes came `bundled' with foreign religion.25 Buddhism originating in India was the most important stimulus in China for printing. The reproduction of identical Buddha images led to the use of wooden blocks to publish Buddhist sutras, and eventually to the printing of the Confucian classics as well as vernacular literature, and the creation of the well known book industry that flourished from the eleventh century.26 And Islam, so closely connected to international trade, brought China in contact with astronomers, mathematicians and medical doctors of other civilizations. But, unlike these two religions, which acquired social and economic functions in China and thereby integrated into local life, Christianity was never institutionalized in such ways. New revisionist scholarship on the Jesuit mission in China has also cast a critical eye on the entire venture and, in particular, the so-called `superior technical and scientific training' the Jesuits were supposed to have introduced to a small, educated elite.27 Liam Brockey's work, which finds the efforts of the China Jesuits a tribute to the genius of the Society's publicity enterprise, has raised a number of serious questions about this mission. And so, given how much attention Westerners have paid to the Jesuit project in China with regard to the transmission of European science, we should now probe more deeply into the circumstances of this contact and how revisionist scholarship has exposed the difficulties that ensued. In this paper, we will focus on three aspects of the encounter between the Jesuits and their Chinese interlocutors: how the Chinese authorities accommodated the Jesuit mission for their own purposes; how the Jesuits controlled what `useful and reliable knowledge' they conveyed to Chinese scholars; and how Chinese intellectuals re-evaluated their own scientific legacies in relation to what the Jesuits communicated with them. In the process, we hope to dispel a number of myths and illusions about Chinese science and mathematics as well as to demonstrate the centrality of politics in late imperial China to the propagation and reproduction of knowledge. JESUIT SCIENTIFIC MISSION IN CHINA: FLATTERY AS STRATEGY

As is well known, the first Jesuit mission arrived in China in 1583 with the aim of converting the Chinese masses to Christianity. The Jesuits were among the best educated men in sixteenth-century Europe and, as contenders to the Reformation's humanist scholars, `they made learning, both religious and secular, a major tool in the defence and propagation of Catholicism'.28 They established numerous schools and colleges in which they emphasized mathematical skills so as to prove that they stood at the frontiers of modern knowledge. The 236 Jesuit colleges scattered around various regions in Southern Europe and Germany as well as in the Spanish History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

87

and Portuguese colonies in Latin-America and Asia made this Order's educational programme truly a global enterprise. Although other Catholic orders ± Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians and the secular French Society of Foreign Missions ± also entered China in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it was the Society of Jesus that dominated, but with finite success. With a total of some 900 Jesuits working in China during this period, the Society could claim only limited numbers of converts ± probably no more than 200,000 in sum over the two centuries (out of a total population of some 300 million). And yet, this relative accomplishment was also the key to the Jesuits' long-term problems: as Brockey convincingly argues, with ever more converts, but a dwindling number of new priest recruits, there was not enough trained manpower and the entire operation became `a massive house of cards'.29 At the start of the mission, however, there was promise of success. It was Ricci who, after having become fluent in written classical Chinese and spoken Mandarin, first set the parameters by which the Jesuits established their undertaking. His strategy consisted of three main principles: propagation from the top down, namely focusing on the Chinese literati elite; secondly, maximal `accommodation' to the lifestyle of that elite which included a certain tolerant attitude towards the Chinese ritual tradition; and, thirdly, `indirect propagation', namely combining the religious message with elements of Western science and technology that should serve to impress educated Chinese with the superiority of Western culture. Interestingly, because the first decades of the Jesuit mission in China coincided with a major Buddhist revival that attracted literati sympathy but official condemnation, the Ming authorities did not halt the Jesuit efforts in their religious propagation to negate Buddhism and, to a lesser degree, Daoism. But Ricci himself had difficulty with these circumstances. According to the modern scholar, Jacques Gernet, Ricci did not understand the stakes involved in the anti-Buddhist reaction of the period, which he used to form alliances with educated Chinese. Nor did he comprehend the cosmic mysticism of neo-Confucianism or the philosophical aspects of Buddhism.30 The very first Chinese scholars whom Ricci entertained believed him to be an alchemy wizard who could extract silver from quicksilver mercury.31 But he did not turn these potential converts away, and amused them by demonstrating his prowess in the fields of astronomy, mathematics, cartography and mechanics. For example, in 1584, he arranged to have a mappa mundi (based on Mercator's 1569 and Ortelius's 1570 maps) issued, which showed China at the centre of the world and with all the place names transcribed in Chinese.32 This mappa mundi also attracted imperial attention: the Ming Wanli Emperor (r. 1573±1620) ordered a gigantic version composed of six panels, each over 6 feet wide, for display in the inner chambers of his Beijing palace.33 Ricci's map went through seven more editions before 1609. Through extensive discussions with these Chinese literati, Ricci began to perceive their knowledge of astronomy and concluded, as he wrote to his History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

88

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

Jesuit superiors, the `absurdities' (le cose absurde) of their conceptions. By the time he died in 1610, he had developed a well versed programme for flattering the tastes of the Chinese scholar elite for the science, technology and arts of Europe while he communicated with his Jesuit brothers `his opinion . . . that the Chinese possess the ingenuous trait of preferring that which comes from without to that which they possess themselves, once they realize the superior quality of the foreign product. Their pride, it would seem, arises from an ignorance of the existence of higher things and from the fact that they find themselves far superior to the barbarous nations by which they are surrounded'.34 And so Ricci laid one of the first stones in the vast edifice of European belief that the Chinese were rich, arrogant and incompetent.35 One of the goals that Ricci had achieved for himself before his death was to gain the right to residence in the capital. There, he had further opportunity to convert several high-ranking officials and, not least, to secure permission to bring more Jesuits to Beijing. This second cohort of missionaries also stationed themselves in some of China's leading intellectual centres in the Lower Yangzi region (Nanjing, Hangzhou, Shanghai) and in Fujian and Shaanxi provinces, where literati were known to congregate for scholarly exchange and intellectual pleasure. A number of Ricci's successors were expressly recruited by Nicolas Trigualt (1577±1628) for their accomplishments in the calendrical arts. Catholic Europe's own major 1582 calendrical reform, which had institutionalized the intercalculating leap year, had prepared these missionaries for their work in China, and gave them impetus to gain further acceptance in imperial circles and thereby the power and opportunity to acquire the faithful ± a process that Jonathan Spence has described as `to God through the Stars'.36 The second cohort, who entered China in the early seventeenth century (including Adam Schall von Bell (1592±1666); Johann Terrenz (d. 1630) and Giacomo Rho (1590?±1638)), got their breakthrough in 1629, when Xu Guangqi, by then holding the influential office of vice-president of the Board of Ceremonies, arranged a comparison of solar eclipse predictions by the conventional Chinese, Muslim and newly introduced European methods. Although the matter of Ming dynasty calendar reform had an extensive history long before Ricci's arrival, these previous efforts to eradicate errors had all ended in failure.37 Because the European method proved to be the only accurate one, imperial approval was granted for reform of the Chinese calendar according to the Westerners' calculating procedures. From then onwards, a team of Jesuits and Chinese scholars under Xu's direction began an extensive programme of the manufacture of instruments and translation of scientific books at court. In a certain sense, imperial patronage of the Jesuits in this way followed a long-standing convention of appointing foreign `technicians' for calendrical work. Like the Indian astronomers of the Tang dynasty (618±906), or the Persians and Central Asians recruited by the Mongols during the Yuan dynasty, the Jesuits were utilized by the Chinese because they were outsiders. Since History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

89

astronomy and calendrical science had great politico-religious importance in China ± with the Emperor regarded as the mediator between Heaven and Earth, and the calendar issued in his name ± it was more prudent to designate foreigners to oversee time-keeping and other calendrical matters than local experts, who might use the opportunity to usurp the throne. For their part, namely lending their scientific expertise, the Jesuits also expected returns from their Chinese hosts, but such a presumption was not outrageous, given the mores of the times. The practice of giving `scientific marvels' to gain social status and patronage or to acquire access to a network of communication was common among the learned in the Renaissance courts.38 In that way, the Jesuits were not initiating something new with their behaviour in China. Although the Ming authorities allowed the Jesuits to help to prepare the calendar, the Europeans remained under the authority of the Muslimled Directorate of Astronomy. It was only with the collapse of the Ming dynasty that the Jesuits could overcome their subordinate status; in their haste to assume power, the Manchus called upon their expertise in mathematics and astronomy to consolidate their claims to the Mandate of Heaven with an accurate calendar. The new Qing dynasty (1644±1911) accepted the evidence of Adam Schall's superior skills at predicting solar and lunar eclipses, and therefore made him director of the Bureau of Astronomy.39 But, before Schall ascended to this new position, he had shared with Ming officials another of his talents: his ability to cast cannon. During the last months of the dynasty, in the hope to defend the capital against attack, Ming officials asked the Jesuit to improve the indigenous cannon, which were too heavy to wield in rapid deployment. Schall produced more than 500 `forty-pounders' and, with a Chinese colleague, wrote a work on gunnery, the Huagong jieyao (Essentials of Gunnery).40 This would not be the first occurrence a European was requested to share `useful and reliable knowledge' about weaponry, and it would seem that both the Ming and Qing authorities, no matter what they thought about Western science and technology or the general ineffectiveness of firearms in warfare on the steppe, did perceive the advantages of European fire power when the occasion arose.41 By yielding to this `call to arms', the Jesuits were once again forced to accommodate their hosts. In his new position in the Qing government, Schall took advantage by demanding that all those working under him in the Bureau would have to convert to Christianity. But it was only a matter of time (actually, some 20 years) before his enemies, led by a nativist literatus, Yang Guangxian (1557±1669), would have him vilified and threatened with death for spying, intrigue and, not least, scientific incompetence in 1664.42 Even after he was proved innocent of the latter accusation, thanks to the help of another Jesuit, the newly arrived Ferdinand Verbiest (1623±88), the other charges were never dropped; Schall died a broken, shattered man, Catholicism became proscribed and all the missionaries banned to Macao. Schall's Christian foes, who also were exiled, circulated the joke `One History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

90

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

Adam having driven us out of Paradise, another has driven us out of China'.43 Verbiest spent his early years in China under house arrest but obtained the chance to change his status when the accuracy of the calendar, now under the charge of Schall's successor, Yang Guangxian, and the Moslem official, Wu Mingxuan, became doubtful. In the same way that Schall had proved his astronomical skills in 1644, Verbiest dared to demonstrate to the Manchu authorities the errors of Yang and Wu. The young Kangxi Emperor (r. 1662±1722) ordered the accuracy of Verbiest's calculations confirmed and, on that basis, assigned him in 1664 to the directorship of the Astronomy Bureau. He gained further favour with the throne when he helped cast cannon (like Schall had done in 1644) that helped support the Manchu arsenal. Verbiest also carried on the Jesuit tradition of cartography and produced another world map; it synthesized new knowledge and updated the geographical treatise that another Jesuit missionary, Guilio Aleni, had produced in 1623.44 Verbiest and the Emperor enjoyed a good relationship that culminated in his appointment as personal tutor to the monarch; in that capacity, the Jesuit taught him Euclidean geometry and, later, spherical trigonometry, and supervised for him practical experiments in astronomical observation and terrestrial measurement. Nevertheless, the Qing ruler continued to restrict the religious activities of the mission, overcoming any papal attempts to subjugate the missionaries or their converts during the Rites Controversy (1705±07); this Emperor even claimed personal control over the calendar. Spence sums up Verbiest's years of imperial service as dominated by trivia: At the Emperor's request he spent weeks on end perfecting a system of pulleys to lever giant stones over a rickety bridge, making gay sundials and a water clock, building pumps to raise the water in the royal pleasure gardens, and painting tiny trompe d'oeil figures to be viewed through a prismatic tube.45

Nevertheless, to his dying day, Verbiest remained convinced that the monarch, in the face of such delights, as well as the insights of Western astronomy, would swing to the faith behind the science. Neither the Kangxi Emperor's son, the Yongzheng Emperor (r. 1723± 36), nor his grandson, the Qianlong Emperor (r. 1736±95), flaunted much interest in science or mathematics and both descendants had little patience with the proselytizing activities of the Europeans. The Yongzheng Emperor expelled all foreign missionaries to Macao except those who rendered technical services to the court; and the Qianlong Emperor continued to issue edicts banning Christians in the provinces. It was during the reign of Qianlong that the extent to which the Jesuits had misled Ming and Qing authorities about the true nature of the universe was first revealed. In 1760, the Jesuit Michel Benoist (1715±74) informed the Emperor on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday of the heliostatic world model. Sivin reports the Emperor's reaction as simple and dismissive: `In Europe you have your way of explaining the celestial phenomena. As for

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

91

us, we have ours too, without making the earth rotate.'46 As missionary influence in China steadily declined, the Society of Jesus also lost support in Europe. In 1773, the Pope suppressed the organization around the world. Thus, by the time the famous Macartney mission from Britain arrived in China in 1793,47 the Qing court had long ceased any specific fascination for European products.48 Although the purpose of this particular embassy was quite different from that of the Jesuit mission, namely to establish free trade relations and a permanent embassy in Beijing, the British strategy here was not all that different from the missionaries'. Like the Jesuits, Macartney and his government believed a demonstration of the superiority of the European sciences would access them favour and eventually power in China. HELPING TO MAKE THE EARTH STAND STILL: THE JESUIT AGENDA AND CHINESE PRIORITIES

Modern scholars who have examined closely the extensive (and, not least, difficult-to-read) Chinese documentation on the Jesuit scientific enterprise in China have disagreed on how to interpret Chinese efforts to master, in their own terms, what they called Western learning (Xixue) in the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries. From a broad perspective, the debate falls into two camps. On the one hand, Nathan Sivin has argued that the Jesuits, by withholding the knowledge of the Copernican system, did not introduce modern science to China. The Church's injunction of 1616 against the teaching of heliocentrism led the Jesuits to present the Tychonic system as the most modern but which, in its essentials, had not gone beyond the bounds (set) by Ptolemy.49 According to Sivin, not only did the Jesuits not translate any work by Copernicus or Galileo, Kepler or Newton, Descartes or Huygens, but they also `strategically' simplified and rewrote the texts of occidental astronomy to conform much more to their own priorities. `To the very end of their presence in China, the Jesuits presented the rivalries of cosmologies as that between one astronomical innovator and another, for the most convenient and accurate methods of calculation.'50 Thus, by the eighteenth century, when Newton's great Principia Mathematica was being popularized throughout Europe, and Newtonian mechanics and continental calculus were common foci of scientific study in Europe, the Chinese remained convinced of a pre-Copernican universe. Sivin has also argued that the Jesuit presentation of Western astronomy made it incomprehensible. Chinese mathematics and astronomers who pursued cosmological study found inconsistencies and contradictions.51 In sum, China's first encounter with modern science from the West was incomplete because of Jesuit distortions. The other camp of modern experts who, too, have researched the extensive contemporary record in Chinese (born out of Jesuit-transmitted knowledge) has laid emphasis on the common and shared concerns of the missionaries and their Chinese interlocutors but also the ultimate History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

92

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

incompatibility of their world views, which inhibited further scientific development in China. The French scholar Jean-Claude Martzloff regards the Jesuits as responsible for stimulating Chinese interest in, and use of, European-imported reckoning techniques, including calculating instruments, plane and spherical trigonometry and, to a certain level, infinite series.52 In his view, the Europeans and Chinese shared the ideals of a common conception of time and space as measurable and quantifiable elements, and of the validity of astronomical prediction based on the correspondence between calculation and observation. But this does not mean, as Martzloff makes clear, that the Chinese mathematicians and astronomers appreciated the value of reasoning by discourse in mathematical theorizing. For example, the popular Chinese version of Euclid's Elements was expurgated of nearly all the demonstrative discourses. In the eyes of the shixue proponents of Euclidean geometry, such discourses were `reminiscent of religious quibbling, whether Christian or Buddhist . . . and the root of all evil in view of its uselessness and indulgence'.53 Martzloff adds that discursive logic did not form a part of the astronomer Wang Xishan's treatises. In conclusion, Martzloff believes that the Chinese authors of mathematical and astronomical studies acknowledged the utility of European predictive systems but refused, at the same time, to endorse the conceptual structure on which they were built. Martzloff's analysis complements Jacques Gernet's well known argument that late-Ming/early-Qing China lacked the motives and the peculiar intellectual framework that led to the development of classical science in Europe.54 His focus on the linguistic barriers between the Europeans and Chinese has a philosophical basis: `. . . in Chinese, it is so difficult to express how the abstract and the general differ fundamentally, and not just occasionally, from the concrete and the particular.'55 This means, in Gernet's view, that the Jesuits could not be expected to penetrate the Chinese (Confucian) unitary vision of man, ethics, politics and the universe. Gernet sums up this divergence with the observation: Chinese thought at that time [i.e. seventeenth century] knew only of one sort of time, which was evolutionary, of one physics, heavenly as well as terrestrial (that of the combinations of yin and yang), of very long durations in astronomy [and] in [the history of] the earth and of man. It appears modern to us in its independence from any dogma and in the importance it attached to change, but at the same time, devoid of the motifs and of the very peculiar intellectual framework that in Europe allowed for the development of experimental science.56

These contrasting points of view between Sivin and Martzloff/Gernet are not necessarily exclusive, and other modern contributors have pursued the course of other forms of Jesuit-generated knowledge in China. Richard Smith, in his penetrating and provocative studies of Chinese cartography, has concluded that `despite a long tradition of sophisticated geographical cartographic scholarship, an equally long history of foreign exploration (and conquest), . . . the ``outer'' world remained relatively unimportant to History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

93

the vast majority of Chinese ± elites and commoners alike'.57 He argues that unlike the West, where the great voyages of discovery ignited flames of interest, Zheng He's dramatic naval expeditions from 1405 to 1431, which sailed through the seas of Southeast Asia to India, to Hormuz in the Persian Gulf, and as far as Malindi on the east coast of Africa, met no such reaction. Smith also refers to the surveying techniques first conveyed by Verbiest that enabled the Qing dynasty in the early eighteenth century to create a far more mathematically `accurate' map of the empire than had ever been produced: the Huangyu quanlan tu (Map of a Comprehensive View of Imperial Territory; 1718) remained the most authoritative atlas of the realm for nearly two centuries. He argues that such cartography was appreciated for its military and strategic value, but had little effect on Chinese mapmaking in the long term. He claims that Chinese mapmakers borrowed little of cartographic substance from the Jesuits, and preferred to arrange foreign locations topologically rather than topographically. Moreover, Chinese scholars saw the various mappa mundi as evidence of the Jesuits' recognition of the centrality of Chinese culture in a universe in which everyone paid tribute to the Emperor. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE FIRST ENCOUNTER: INTELLECTUAL DEAD END?

Modern scholars have also observed that one of the effects of China's first encounter with European scientific knowledge was the genesis of a nativist movement to retrieve the ancient Chinese mathematical and astronomical traditions, and to help revive them.58 Benjamin Elman argues that Xu Guangqi inspired a later generation of Ming thinkers associated with the Fushe (Return (to Antiquity) Society) to reject Confucian philosophical speculation, and to reaffirm the original Confucian texts and doctrines. Such intellectual `purification' in the spirit of `concrete studies', he claims, became the basis for the kaozheng (evidential research) movement of the eighteenth century, which stressed exacting research, rigorous analysis and the collection of evidence drawn from ancient artefacts and historical documents and texts. According to Elman: . . . abstract ideas and a priori rational argumentation gave way as the primary objects of discussion among literati scholars to concrete facts, verifiable institutions and historical events. This research program placed proof and verification at the centre of the organization and analysis of the classical tradition.59

Henderson has suggested that for seventeenth and eighteenth-century Chinese literati, the more accurate astronomy brought by the Jesuits along with geometry became a model for the classical scholarship of phonology, philology and textual criticism. With these disciplines, scholars now had a way of gauging the degree or quality of their intellectual and moral enlightenment.60 The question arises as to what extent Chinese intellectuals re-evaluated their own scientific legacies in relation to what the Jesuits conveyed to

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

94

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

them. As we have indicated earlier, mathematics and calendar reform were important concerns among Ming literati before the arrival of the Europeans and, thus, the Jesuits did not `rescue' Chinese science from decline. Elman's study of the Chinese examination system asserts that during the Ming dynasty, candidates were expected to demonstrate many of the technicalities of the calendar, astronomy and music. Questions on methods to measure time, to predict eclipses or to evaluate mathematical harmonics were common on Ming-era examinations.61 Moreover, as Elvin has shown, in his study of the Wu za zu (Fivefold Miscellany; 1605) by Xie Zhaozhe (1567±1629), there was evidence already then of a kind of experimental-style thinking and `hints of hypothetical modelling, and a certain insight into the problem of taxonomies'.62 Such revisionist scholarship has helped us to reconsider how much `science' was available in Ming China. While the first Qing rulers banned any focus in the civil exams on astronomical portents and the calendar, probably because they pertained to Qing dynasty legitimacy, they did not dismiss the value of scientific study. The Kangxi Emperor institutionalized mathematical calculation and calendrical studies by creating a special academy in which he could converse informally with scholars versed in mathematics and science. In the Studio for the Cultivation of Youth (Mengyangzhai), first established in 1712±13 on the model of the Parisian Academy of Sciences, he invited Qing literati and Manchu bannermen only (and, thus, not Jesuits, to ensure undue foreign influence) to explore Chinese mathematics and sciences, with the goal to promote native talent. In this regard, he also initiated a project to update Ming compendia on mathematics inspired by the Jesuits, and another to issue new compilations that introduced European algebra and logarithms to the base 10, again in the spirit that local scholars could improve their knowledge of both Western and Chinese calculating techniques.63 In a certain sense, it was the Kangxi Emperor who `domesticated' Western learning. He appealed to scholars like Mei Wending (1633±1721), a leading mathematical astronomer who already in 1680 had written a treatise Zhongxi suanxuetong (The Synthesis of Chinese and Western Mathematics), to find the correspondences between the orthodox Confucianism (daoxue) of the Song dynasty and Jesuit astronomy. In effect, what the Emperor did here was to propagate the idea that Western science had Chinese origins (Xixue Zhongyuan) ± a concept that generally became accepted among eighteenth-century scholars. Here, again, there was a clear political purpose: by endorsing Western science in this way, the Manchu monarch attempted to convince Han Chinese that he was not advocating something `foreign', but rather restoring the most authentic Chinese traditions. He was asking them to consider how the ancients' lack of trigonometry was remediable; he stimulated the literati to reconstruct a new line of transmission from ancient China to contemporary Jesuit astronomy.64 Such authorization helped `civilize' the Jesuit importation of science and mathematics into native status and, with the incorporation of a number of History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

95

Jesuits into China's first formal collection of 280 life histories (including 37 Europeans) of those well versed in mathematics and astronomy, the Chouren zhuan (Biographies of Mathematicians and Astronomers; 1796±99) by Ruan Yuan (1764±1849), the assimilation of Western science into the Chinese record took on its final formal encapsulation.65 Such official endorsement of native science also allowed Chinese scholars to question openly the scientific value of what knowledge the Jesuits had conveyed. For example, Xu Guangqi's preface to a study on practical arithmetic translated by Ricci, which claimed the superiority of the Western mathematics over earlier Chinese works, was removed and the volume itself, Tongwen suanzhi (Translations of Guidelines for Practical Arithmetic; 1611?), was no longer printed in the eighteenth century. It was Mei Wending who set the tone of the Xixue Zhongyuan movement with complaints about the internal contradictions of European astronomy, many of which later Chinese scholars were to demonstrate emanated from the Jesuits' failure to teach heliocentrism.66 Mei's work was `followed-up' by Jiang Yong (1681±1762), an intellectual well versed in the complexities of practical astronomy, who expressed the demerits of Chinese methods of calculation and the merits of Western computing techniques while he disdained the conceptions upon which they were built.67 It was for the men of the following generation, those of Ruan Yuan's time, that the contradictions between the exacting measurements of Western mathematics and astronomy and Chinese cosmology became central in kaozheng discourse. With Ruan, Qian Daxin (1728±1804) helped to complete the incorporation of the technical aspects of Western astronomy and mathematics into the Confucian tradition. Qian proclaimed the legitimacy of Western mathematical methodology for the reconstruction of antiquity, revising ancient writings and broadening the literati tradition, thus reversing centuries of Confucian scholars' focus on moral and philosophical problems. In that way, Qian and his colleagues discouraged any potential to view `science' as an independent field of inquiry.68 Unlike seventeenth-century English practitioners of mathematics, who dedicated their writings especially to artisans, seamen and craftsmen, Qian and company aimed to elevate and to situate the study of measurement with classical learning. This meant that by the mideighteenth century, knowledge of mathematics and related disciplines in China would continue to remain the exclusive preserve of a relatively tiny, literate elite.69 Finally, a few words should be said about the particular environment in which Chinese intellectuals communicated with each other and the implications thereof. As mentioned above, the Kangxi Emperor favoured academies as a vehicle for intellectual communication and, consequently, he encouraged provincial officials to establish local institutions in which literati could exchange information and participate in the massive literary projects he initiated, and which his grandson, the Qianlong Emperor, would continue. Both the gigantic officially sponsored compilations Qinding Gujin tushu jicheng (Imperially Approved Synthesis of Books and Illustrations Past History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

96

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

and Present; 1726±28, consisting of 852,408 pages divided into 6,109 subsections) and the Siku Quanshu (The Complete Library of the Four Branches of Literature; 1783, incorporating 2.3 million (hand-written) pages) encouraged literati to commit to `evidential research', and to do so in the flood of academies that emerged by the mid-eighteenth century. Academies became the framework in which textual scholarship was debated, deliberated and discussed.70 Although academies were located all over the empire, the regions of the Lower Yangzi and the southeast coast (Fujian and Guangdong provinces), where a flourishing commercialized economy sustained intellectual life, had the highest concentration of these institutions.71 And, interestingly, the native place of many of the intellectual giants (including some of those named above) who attended these academies in the Lower Yangzi area was one particular region, namely Huizhou. Huizhou was a locale famous for its merchants and their far-reaching empire-wide trading and business activities.72 The extended families of Huizhou literati, commonly organized in corporate lineages, were known to mobilize their economic and cultural resources to support academies, libraries, book production and special learning institutes, with the result that the major forms of knowledge production and reproduction in eighteenth-century China were in the hands of this relatively small group of people who were bounded together through marriage, patronage and friendship. It would not be until the mid-nineteenth century that the intellectual transformation of China's second encounter with `useful and reliable knowledge' through Protestant missionaries would exceed the intellectual boundaries of textual scholarship and China's `intellectual map [would be] redrawn'.73 In the process, the narrow confines of the small Chinese intellectual elite would dismantle, but the institutional structure for the creation of modern science would still await the twentieth century and the `third encounter' with Western science. Moreover, the transfer of Western technology did not fare much better in China during the first half of the nineteenth century. On the one hand, Europeans would still seek the technological secrets for silk production, textile weaving, porcelain-making and large-scale tea production from the Chinese.74 As late as 1849, another of Xu Guangqi's most important studies, his compendium on silk manufacture and the cultivation of the mulberry tree, was still being translated into French and English. And, on the other hand, Westerners tried without much success in the mid-nineteenth century to convince Chinese manufacturers of the advantages of machines.75 After 1861, when the British import±export firm of Jardine, Matheson and Co. established a steam-powered silk-reeling filature in Shanghai, Chinese entrepreneurs and silk guild leaders would shut the foreign plant down after a few years by making sure the foreigners had an inadequate supply of silk cocoons, and thereby protecting their own industry from encroachment. Similar Chinese organizational efforts curtailed foreign intrusion into the soybean packing industry in north China in the 1870s.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

97

SOME FURTHER OBSERVATIONS

In this paper, we have reviewed the conditions in which China first experienced `useful and reliable knowledge' from the West. Although China had, for centuries, incorporated technological and scientific discoveries from other regions into its material and intellectual well-being, the Jesuit transmission of European science only really confirmed that there existed alien ways of thinking. A deliberately incomplete transmission of European astronomy, mathematics and other scientific information coupled with a foreign religion that lacked a certain appeal, and that ignited repulsion by the imperial authorities (despite their tolerance of the creed up to a point), formed the background to this encounter. The Ming and Qing governments treated the Jesuit missionaries like they did all foreign `technicians', as minions to serve the court and to support the astronomical, military and geographical needs of the regime.76 And, in a political environment in which the manipulation of scholarship was the norm, it was only a question of time before native scholars would incorporate the Jesuit-conveyed `useful and reliable knowledge' into the corpus of local learning, and thereby exclude the possibility of European science becoming freed from the entrenchment of Chinese metaphysics. Finally, we have tried to elucidate the limitations of the knowledge discourses that preoccupied Chinese intellectuals on the eve of the `Great Divergence'. The question remains of how we can evaluate this encounter between Europe and China in the context of contemporary global and local developments. One answer to this question may be found in the observations of the modern scholar P. E. Will, who views China in the eighteenth century experiencing modernization `but without science'. Will proposes that in the more dynamic regions of the empire, then, there were certain conditions that hinted of transformation, places where we have something not unlike what certain historians, dealing with early modern Western Europe, have termed `Smithian growth' ± a multifaceted process including market expansion, more complex and more efficient trade organizations, regional specialization of production and increased monetization of social relations, a process that does not necessarily entail any scientific breakthroughs, or even any significant increase in per-worker or per-acre activity.77 Will also points to the efficacy of the eighteenthcentury Sino-Manchu state's fiscal and bureaucratic reforms to construct a better integrated, more efficient and more productive society. Moreover, this state did not discourage individual initiative, namely the efforts by ambitious peasants, landowners or merchants to promote crop specialization, expand handicraft production or generate new market organizations. Ironically, he suggests, it may have been the very success of this state flexibility and widespread integration that made a dismantling of traditional social and economic relations in the nineteenth century more problematic. Certainly, in the matter of China's absorbing the transfer of European technology up to the twentieth century, as mentioned above, the problem of `success' seems paramount. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

98

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

In other words, Will's presentation leaves us with the thought that there is sufficient evidence to argue the framework of China's indigenous modernization before the nineteenth century, but without the abstract reasoning so often associated with the speculative sciences of the West.78 While the best Chinese minds did employ European mathematical science to revitalize their own traditions, they could not see its potential for other uses, except calendrical calculation. Notes and References

1. P. Engelfriet, Euclid in China: The Genesis of the First Translation of Euclid's `Elements' in 1607 and Its Reception Up to 1723 (Leiden, 1998). 2. T. Brook, `Xu Guangqi in his Context: The World of the Shanghai Gentry', in C. Jami, P. Engelfriet and G. Blue (eds), Statecraft and Intellectual Renewal in Late Ming China: The Cross-Cultural Synthesis of Xu Guangqi (1562±1633) (Leiden, 2001), 72±98, citation from p. 72. 3. Ibid., 97. 4. T. Brook, `Japan in the Late Ming: The View from Shanghai', in J. A. Fogel (ed.), Sagacious Monks and Bloodthirsty Warriors: Chinese Views of Japan in the Ming±Qing Period (Norwalk, CT, 2003), 42±62. 5. B. Elman, `Jesuit Scientia and Natural Studies in Late Imperial China, 1600±1800', Journal of Early Modern History, 2002, 6(3): 209±32, quotation from p. 209; cf. H. T. Zurndorfer, `La Sinologie immobile: Note critique', EÂtudes chinoises, 1989, 8(2): 99±120. 6. D. Landes, The Wealth and Power of Nations: Why Some Are So Rich and Some So Poor (London, 1998). 7. G. Basalla, `The Spread of Western Science', Science, 1967, 156: 611±22; cf. Fan Fa-ti, `Redrawing the Map: Science in Twentieth Century China', Isis, 2007, 98: 524±38. 8. K. Pomeranz, The Great Divergence: China, Europe and the Making of the Modern World Economy (Princeton, 2000). 9. L. J. Gallagher, trans., China in the Sixteenth Century: The Journals of Matteo Ricci 1583± 1610 (New York, 1953), 32. 10. M. Adas, Machines as the Measure of Men: Science, Technology, and Ideologies of Western Dominance (Ithaca, 1989). 11. B. Russell, The Problem of China (London, 1922). 12. Quoted in A. F. Wright, `Review of Science and Civilisation in China vol. 2: History of Scientific Thought', American Historical Review, 1957, 62(4): 918±20, quotation from p. 918; cf. R. Hart, `Beyond Science and Civilization: A Post-Needham Critique', East Asian Science, Technology, and Medicine, 1999, 16: 88±114. 13. H. T. Zurndorfer, `Oecumenical or Parochial? Reflections on Recent Publications Concerning the History of Chinese Science', EÂtudes chinoises, 1992, 11(1): 141±56. In recent years, Needham's personality and oeuvre have come under scrutiny. See J. Goody, `Science and Civilization in Renaissance Europe', in his book, The Theft of History (Cambridge, 2006), 125±53; and S. Winchester, Bomb, Book and Compass: Joseph Needham and the Great Secrets of China (London, 2008). 14. J. Needham, The Grand Titration: Science and Society in East and West (London, 1969). 15. The `Needham problem' has been the topic of much scholarly discussion and debate. See G. Blue, `Science(s), Civilization(s), Historie(s): A Continuing Dialogue with Joseph Needham', in S. Irfan Habib and D. Raina (eds), Situating the History of Science: Dialogues with Joseph Needham (New Delhi/Oxford, 1999), 29±72, esp. 47±51. 16. A. C. Crombie, Styles of Scientific Thinking in the European Tradition: The History of Argument and Explanation Especially in the Mathematical and Biomedical Sciences and Arts, three volumes (London, 1996); D. de Solla Price, Science since Babylon (New Haven, 1961); for a brilliant refutation to Crombie, see M. Elvin, `Some Reflections on the Use of ``Styles of Scientific Thinking'' to Disaggregate and Sharpen Comparisons between China and Europe from Song to Mid-Qing Times (960±1850 CE)', History of Technology, 2004, 25: 53±103; and M. Elvin, `Vale Atque Ave', in K. G. Robinson (ed.), Science and Civilisation in China, Part 2: `General Conclusions and Reflections' (Cambridge, 2004), xxiv±xliii. 17. N. Sivin, `Why the Scientific Revolution Did Not Take Place in China-Or Didn't

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

99

It?', Chinese Science, 1982, 5: 45±66; N. Sivin, `Max Weber, Joseph Needham, Benjamin Nelson: The Question of Chinese Science', in E. V. Walter (ed.), Civilizations East and West: A Memorial Volume for Benjamin Nelson (Atlantic Highlands, NJ, 1985), 37±49. 18. N. Sivin, `Science and Medicine in Chinese History', in P. S. Ropp (ed.), Heritage of China: Contemporary Perspectives on Chinese Civilization (Berkeley, 1990), 164±96, quotation from p. 164. 19. In particular, B. Elman, On Their Own Terms: Science in China, 1550±1900 (Cambridge, MA, 2005) and B. Elman, A Cultural History of Modern Science in China (Cambridge, MA, 2006). 20. Sivin, op. cit. (17) (1982). 21. P.-EÂ. Will, `Modernisation Less Science? Some Reflections on China and Japan before Westernisation', in K. Hashimoto, C. Jami and L. Skar (eds), East Asian Science: Tradition and Beyond (Osaka, 1995), 33±48. 22. R. J. Smith, Fortune-Tellers and Philosophers: Divination in Traditional Chinese Society (Boulder, CO, 1991). 23. E. Wilkinson, Chinese History: A Manual (Cambridge, MA, 2000), 666. 24. Sivin, op. cit. (18), 186. 25. J. Waley-Cohen, The Sextants of Beijing: Global Currents in Chinese History (New York, 1999), chap. 1. 26. T. Barrett, The Woman Who Discovered Printing (New Haven, 2008); L. Chia, Printing for Profit: The Commercial Publishers of Jianyang, Fujian (11th±17th Centuries) (Cambridge, MA, 2002). 27. L. Brockey, Journey to the East: The Jesuit Mission to China, 1579±1724 (Cambridge, MA, 2007); and see Jonathan Spence's important discussion of Brockey's book in the The New York Review of Books, entitled `The Dream of Catholic China', appearing in Vol. 54, No.11 (June 28, 2007). Brockey's volume is a major critique of Jesuit missionaries in China. 28. Engelfriet, op. cit. (1), 11. Cf. J. Spence, The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci (New York, 1984). 29. Spence, op. cit. (27), uses this expression to refer to the Jesuit enterprise. 30. J. Gernet, `La socieÂte chinoise a la fin des Ming', Recherches de science religieuse, 1984, 72: 27±36. 31. W. Peterson, `Learning from Heaven: The Introduction of Christianity and Other Western Ideas into Late Ming China', in D. Twitchett and F. W. Mote (eds), The Cambridge History of China, Vol. 8, The Ming Dynasty, 1368±1644, Part 2 (Cambridge, 1998), 789±839, esp. 797; see also Spence op. cit. (28), 185±6. 32. Elman, op. cit. (19) (2006), 127±30. 33. Spence, op. cit. (28), 96±7. 34. J. Spence, To Change China: Western Advisers in China, 1620±1960 (Boston, 1969), 6. 35. J. Spence, `The Dialogue of Science', Isis, 1984, 75: 180±9. 36. Spence, op. cit. (34), 3±33. 37. W. Peterson, `Calendar Reform Prior to the Arrival of Missionaries at the Ming Court', Ming Studies, 1986, 21: 45±61. 38. M. Biagioli, `Galileo's System of Patronage', History of Science, 1990, 28: 1±62, esp. 22±5; P. Findlen, `The Economy of Scientific Exchange in Early Italy', in B. T. Moran (ed.), Patronage and Institutions: Science, Technology, and Medicine at the European Court, 1500±1750 (New York, 1991), 5±24. 39. H. T. Zurndorfer, `One Adam Having Driven Us Out of Paradise: Another Has Driven Us Out of China: Yang Kuang-hsien's Challenge of Adam Schall von Bell', in L. Blusse and H. T. Zurndorfer (eds), Conflict and Accommodation in Early Modern East Asia (Leiden, 1993), 141±68. 40. Waley-Cohen, op. cit. (25), 118. 41. Cf. H. T. Zurndorfer, `Ming China, the Imjin Waeran, and the Dynamics of Peace and War in East Asia 1550-1600', Leidschrijft: Historisch Tijdschijft, 2004, 18(3): 17±31; and see also P. Lorge, The Asian Military Revolution: From Gunpowder to the Bomb (Cambridge, 2008), 66± 87. 42. Zurndorfer, op. cit. (39). 43. Spence, op. cit. (34), 22. 44. Elman, op. cit. (19) (2006), 32. 45. Spence, op. cit. (34), 28.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

100

China and Science on the Eve of the `Great Divergence' 1600±1800

46. N. Sivin, `Copernicus in China', Studia Copernicana (Warsaw), 1973, 6: 63±122, quotation from p. 98. 47. J. L. Cranmer-Byng and T. H. Levere, `A Case Study in Cultural Collision: Scientific Apparatus in the Macartney Embassy to China, 1793', Annals of Science, 1981, 38: 503±25 claim that Macartney never presented to the imperial court the pulleys, air pump, chemical and electrical contrivances or even steam-engine models that his ship had on board. Instead, the apparati were returned to the British East India Company or to the ship's mechanic and mathematician James Dinwiddie (1746±1815), who gave demonstrations to Chinese merchants in Guangzhou. See also B. Elman, `Who Is Responsible for the Limits of Jesuit Scientific and Technical Transmission from Europe to China in the Eighteenth Century', in C. Wing-chung Ho (ed.), Windows on the Chinese World: Reflections by Five Historians (Lanham, MD, 2009), 45±66, esp. 59±60. 48. H. T. Zurndorfer, `Comment la science et la technologie se vendaient aÁ la Chine au XVIIIe sieÁcle: Essai d'analyse interne', EÂtudes chinoises, 1988, 7(2): 59±90; J. Waley-Cohen, `China and Western Technology in the Late Eighteenth Century', American Historical Review, 1993, 98: 1525±44; M. Berg, `Britain, Industry and Perceptions of China: Matthew Boulton, ``Useful Knowledge and the Macartney Embassy to China 1792±94''', Journal of Global History, 2006, 1: 269±88. 49. Sivin, op. cit. (46), 66±70. 50. Ibid., 63. 51. See Zurndorfer, op. cit. (48). 52. J.-C. Martzloff, `Space and Time in Chinese Texts of Astronomy and of Mathematical Astronomy in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries', Chinese Science, 1993±94, 11: 66±92. 53. Ibid., 71. 54. J. Gernet, La Chine et christianism: action et reÂaction (Paris, 1982); J. Gernet (J. Lloyd, trans.), China and the Christian Impact: A Conflict of Cultures (Cambridge, 1985); cf. H. L. Goodman and A. Grafton, `Ricci, the Chinese, and the Toolkits of Textualists', Asia Major (3rd series), 1990, 3(2): 95±148. 55. Gernet, ibid. (1985), 239. 56. J. Gernet, `Introduction', in C. Jami and H. Delahaye (eds), L'Europe en Chine: interactions scientifiques, religieuses et culturelles aux XVIIe et XVIIIe sieÁcles (Paris, 1993), v±xiii, quotation from p. xii; cf. H. T. Zurndorfer, Review of C. Jami and H. Delahaye (eds), L'Europe en Chine: interactions scientifiques, relegieuses, et culturelles aux XVIIe et XVIIIe sieÁcles in EÂtudes chinoises, 1995, 16(2): 262±5. 57. R. J. Smith, `Mapping China's World: Cultural Cartography in Late Imperial Times', in Wen-hsin Yeh (ed.), Landscape, Culture, and Power in Chinese Society (Berkeley, 1998), 52±105, citation from p. 95; cf. R. J. Smith, Chinese Maps: Images of `All under Heaven' (Hong Kong and Oxford, 1996). 58. J. Henderson, `The Assimilation of the Exact Sciences into the Ch'ing Confucian Tradition', Journal of Asian Affairs, 1980, 5: 15±33; J. Henderson, The Development and Decline of Chinese Cosmology (New York, 1984); B. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China (Cambridge, MA, 1984); Elman, op. cit. (19) (2005); Elman, op. cit. (19) (2006). 59. B. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China (Berkeley, 2000), xxvi. 60. Henderson, op. cit. (58) (1984). 61. Elman op. cit. (59) (2000), 477±81. 62. M. Elvin, `The Man Who Saw Dragons: Science and Styles of Thinking in Xie Zhaozhe's ``Fivefold Miscellany''', Journal of the Oriental Society of Australia, 1993±94, 25/26: 1± 41, quotation from p. 39; cf. M. Elvin, `Space and Time: Science and Religion in the Encounter between China and Europe', Chinese Science, 1993±94, 11: 93±102. 63. Elman, op. cit. (19) (2005), 180. 64. Hu Minghui, `Provenance in Contest: Searching for the Origins of Jesuit Astronomy in Early Qing China, 1664±1705', The International History Review, 2002, 24(1): 1±25. 65. Bai Limin, `Mathematical Study and Intellectual Transition in the Early and MidQing', Late Imperial China, 1995, 16(2): 23±61; J. Porter, `The Scientific Community in Early Modern China', Isis, 1982, 73: 529±44; Wei P'ei-t'i (Betty), Ruan Yuan, 1764±1849: The Life

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Harriet T. Zurndorfer

101

and Work of a Major Scholar in Nineteenth Century China before the Opium War (Hong Kong, 2006). 66. Zurndorfer, op. cit. (48) (1988), 80±3. 67. Ibid., 83±6. Cf. Chu Pingyi, `Ch'eng-Chu Orthodoxy, Evidential Studies and Correlative Cosmology: Chiang Yung and Western Astronomy', Philosophy and the History of Science, 1995, 4(2): 71±108. 68. Elman, op. cit. (58) (1984), 81±3. 69. Bai, op. cit. (65); Horng Wansheng, `Chinese Mathematics at the Turn of the 19th Century: Jiao Xun, Wang Lai, and Li Rui', in Cheng-Hung Lin and Daiwie Fu (eds), Philosophy and Conceptual History of Science in Taiwan (Dordrecht, 1993), 167±208. 70. Elman, op. cit. (58) (1984), 121±9. 71. H. T. Zurndorfer, `Lineages, Learning, and Locality in Late Imperial China: A Comparative Study of Education in Huichow (Anhwei) and Foochow (Fukien) 1600±1800', Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 1992, 35(2/3): 109±44, 209±38. 72. H. Zurndorfer, Change and Continuity in Chinese Local History: The Development of HuiChou Prefecture, 800±1800 (Leiden, 1989). 73. D. Reynolds, `Redrawing China's Intellectual Map: Images of Science in Nineteenth Century China', Late Imperial China, 1991, 12(1): 27±61; D. Wright, Translating Science: The Transmission of Western Chemistry into Late Imperial China, 1840±1900 (Leiden, 2000). 74. Elman, op. cit. (5) (2002), 209. 75. H. T. Zurndorfer, `The Transfer of Industrial Technology from the West to China 1780±1870: Some Theoretical and Practical Considerations', in Y. Keiji (ed.), The Transfer of Science and Technology between Europe and Asia, 1780±1870 (Kyoto, 1994), 79±94. 76. Elman, op. cit. (5) (2002), 229. 77. P.-EÂ. Will, `DeÂvelopment quantitatif et deÂvelopment qualitatif en Chine aÁ la fin de l'eÂpoque impeÂriale', Annales: Histoire et Sciences sociales, 1994: 863±902; P.-EÂ. Will, op. cit. (21); cf. H. Zurndorfer, `Review of P. EÂ. Will, ``DeÂvelopment quantitatif et deÂvelopment qualitatif en Chine aÁ la fin de l'eÂpoque impeÂriale''', Annales: Histoire et Sciences Sociales, 863±902, in Revue bibliographique de sinologie, 1996, 14: 110. 78. Cf. J. Mokyr , The Gifts of Athena: Historical Origins of the Knowledge Society (Princeton, 2002).

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Special Issue: The Mindful Hand EDITED BY LISSA ROBERTS AND IAN INKSTER

Introduction: Transcending Boundaries: Mindful Hands in the History of Technology LISSA ROBERTS

SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY?

Time once was when the history of science was dominated by intellectual histories of theoretical formation and application. The history of technology was about engineers and inventors and the objects they built. In the past few decades, however, historians of technology have launched other visions of their field. Edward T. Layton, for example, is often cited for urging that technology be seen as `science's mirror-image twin'. He and others have taken pains to argue against the image of technology as tinkering by portraying it as `knowledge' and `technologists' as knowledgemakers. This collection of essays, however, isn't concerned to set technology on a par with science, to raise its status by associating it with knowledge rather than `mere' material production or, even, to demonstrate its power over science.1 Rather, it has a double agenda. First is to recover the practical entanglement of material production and knowledge production between the late Renaissance and early industrialization ± an entanglement that belies the very supposition that science and technology are historically separable into spheres of reflective inquiry and material invention. Second is to trace the historical struggles during the same time period whereby the work of reason came to be seen as separate from and superior to know-how (henceforth identified pejoratively with manual labour) ± a distinction put to work by elites as a way to organize and manage both material and knowledge production. This special issue is an outgrowth of a volume published in 2007 entitled The Mindful Hand: Inquiry and Invention from the Late Renaissance to Early Industrialization, which traces these twin processes in detail. Co-edited by Lissa Roberts, Simon Schaffer and Peter Dear, and featuring an epilogue by Ian Inkster, it charts the hybrid nature of material and knowledge production in Europe between the sixteenth and early nineteenth centuries.2 Both involved a two-fold, intimate collaboration ± between natural inquiry and invention and between mind and hand ± that the book's essays discuss in terms of `the mindful hand'. But the book simultaneously traces the asserted separation of knowledge production History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

106

Introduction: Transcending Boundaries

from material production, as well as the separation of contemplation from manual labour, revealing how elite claims to the ownership of reason and its dominion over physical work were used to buttress attempts to gain control over the processes of production. Hence, readers encounter artisans and skilled labourers whose work manifested the intimate interplay of mental and manual dexterity. These were individuals who regularly relied on mathematics, models and various other forms of abstraction and representation, picking them up as instruments in combination with the other tools of their trade. Readers are also re-introduced to more famous figures ± natural philosophers such as Descartes, Galileo and Newton, whose deliberations not only brought them into contact with those usually identified as `hand-workers'. Their active collaborations frequently transgressed the declared divisions between philosophy and craft, between reflection and physical labour. Descartes' oeuvre thus rested as much on his own hands-on experiences with grinding lenses, drawing and manipulating diagrams, performing anatomical examinations and other such activities, as it did on his advertised reliance on `clear and distinct ideas'. But, at the very same time that natural inquiry and invention were interlocked endeavours, both engaging the hand and mind, socio-cultural dynamics fed the realization of separate, hierarchically arranged realms, often projected as the pristine world of polite, gentlemanly examination and the rough, dirty world of work. Already present in the practical collaborations that co-existed with the institutional divisions of early modern European society, this tension visibly heightened by the early nineteenth century as reason was increasingly wielded as a managerial weapon with which to discipline both nature and labour, the elements of which were so often characterized in mechanical terms.3 Chances are that readers of this journal are most familiar with the lastmentioned facet of this story ± that is, with the disciplining of labour in contexts of increasing mechanization and standardization. Our challenge here is to point to ways in which that understanding can be profitably joined to the other facets of this project's historical outlook. But, especially because The Mindful Hand is already published, we would also like to use this special issue as an opportunity to take up some points that were either neglected or treated only implicitly in the book. The four essays in this issue are situated in a broad range of geographical locations, from Dutch gardens and French streams to Russian academies and Japanese markets. They likewise span from the early seventeenth century to the dawn of the nineteenth and introduce us to a wide range of actors, none of whom can be pigeon-holed as belonging strictly to the history of science or the history of technology as these disciplines are more narrowly construed. Rather, these essays examine episodes that transcend recognized boundaries and feature both actors and artefacts whose careers were shaped by the tensions described above. They are joined by an afterword that explores the implications of considering the patterns and processes of innovation ± both past and future ± in terms of `mindful handedness'.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

107

STUDIES OF THE MINDFUL HAND

The first essay, by Alette Fleischer, anatomizes the resonant relations between the seemingly distinct realms of material and knowledge construction by examining the tripartite career of some seventeenthcentury crystals. Beginning with their extraction by mine workers from `the bowels of the earth', she analyses how they were simultaneously implicated in the construction of a garden grotto on the estate of a Dutch nobleman and in the composition of Christiaan Huygens' Traite de la LumieÁre, one of the most important texts in the history of optics. One might assume that mining crystals was strictly a technical matter. But Fleischer reveals how local miners and craftsmen combined hard-won knowledge with artful skill to extract and fashion crystals as objects that simultaneously embodied claims of nature's fertility (crystals were understood to `grow' in their natural habitat), market value and the added value of symbolic worth. Once freed from their earthy womb, some of these crystals were transported to new and seemingly quite different homes ± an artificial grotto in a nobleman's garden and the Parisian study of a natural philosopher. We normally think of a garden as the product of nature's transformation by a combination of artful design and varyingly skilled labour. But, if this already opens the door for recognizing the hybrid nature of art and skill, both of which engage the tools of contemplation and manual dexterity, Fleischer goes farther to show that the construction of a seventeenth-century garden harnessed the processes of material construction and knowledge production to enhance and deepen each other. For the guiding purpose of contemporary garden architecture was to artfully re-sculpt and augment the environment so as to reveal the beautiful, law-bound order with which God originally undergirded her creation. Once this marriage of natural inquiry and inventive work was in place, visitors could marvel at the beauty and wisdom displayed in a pleasurable setting. Likewise, Huygens and his network of collaborators did more than sit and ponder the natural knowledge embodied in the crystals he collected. An extended and difficult process of cutting, polishing, modelling and measuring, corresponding and contemplating, drawing diagrams and fabricating formulae went into the composition of Huygens' justly famous treatise on light. Ironically, to return to the key role of crystals in this story and the importance of their various settings, Huygens was ultimately unable to tame all his crystals to the point that the divine law governing their structure was revealed, leading him to suppress this topic from his final publication. It was their resplendent setting in a garden grotto that did most to illustrate the underlying regularity claimed to reside in nature's bounty. Even more ironically, perhaps, this seeming inversion of the revelatory powers of art and natural philosophy was countered by elite insistence that gentlemanly pursuits were separate from and superior to the work done by physically engaged labour and that knowledge production was best pursued in increasingly institutionalized locations. Natural History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

108

Introduction: Transcending Boundaries

philosophy remained enshrined in elite institutions and leather-bound texts that outlived the transient character of garden structures, leaving us with the impression that, indeed, here lies the source of wisdom and truth. The second essay of this issue, by Chandra Mukerji, takes us back to a subject area that is no doubt more familiar to historians of technology, as it examines the construction of a portion of the Canal du Midi in the late seventeenth century. But Mukerji's story likewise holds a number of surprises whose mysterious presence can only be resolved by recourse to an in situ analysis of `mindful-handedness'. The focus of her essay centres on the building of an extremely complicated eight-lock staircase that was needed to convey water-borne traffic across a particularly hilly area in southwest France. As the story unfolds, readers are introduced to this phase of the larger canal project as simultaneously a technical and political challenge. Canal building was generally the site of much technological innovation during the seventeenth century, but much of this took place in the relatively flat lands of the Netherlands and Lombardy's plains. And, most staircase locks connected no more than two or three basins. This project, on the other hand, called for the construction of eight succeeding steps in highly inauspicious terrain. But not only were the engineering challenges enormous. The entire Canal du Midi project was an ongoing drama that pitted the aspirations and resources of its managing entrepreneur Pierre-Paul Riquet against those of Louis XIV (represented by his minister, Colbert) and various local governing interests. This particular phase in the project came at a point when resources, reputations and trust were already stretched to the limit. And yet, amazingly, this demanding engineering and construction task was placed in the hands of two apparently uneducated brothers and their crew of largely peasant women. Management of such a complex engineering undertaking called on hybrid skills that ranged from practical mathematics and hands-on engineering expertise to the ability to negotiate with and manage both employees and patrons. Because the written sources provide limited details of just what this entailed in the case of the brothers Medailhes, Mukerji makes recourse to evidence embodied in the project itself, situated as it was in a broader culture of Ancien Regime engineering practice. This is even more so for the recovery of details regarding work carried out by the project's predominantly female crew and, here, Mukerji acquits herself masterfully. We learn that women from the Pyrenees (whence these workers must have come) had a long tradition of expertise in hydraulics, with roots going back to Roman engineering, the traces of which could still be found under the centuries-old layers of adaptations engineered by local women. Combined with the equally local experience of their male coworkers, who brought their hard-won expertise in mining and forestry to bear on the task of domesticating the forbidding slopes through which the canal and its locks would have to pass, this workforce achieved just the engineering feat that Riquet needed to keep his project afloat. Of special interest here is that Mukerji chooses to equate these workers' History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

109

`mindful-handedness' with the more common term `tacit knowledge'. This is explicitly intended to open the door to discussions with sociologists of science and technology who recognize that skill embodies more than practical abilities garnered by rote. But tacit knowledge is generally taken to be local in nature and, as such, remains opposite to the kind of knowledge taken to be entailed in universal laws and standards. Does this threaten to return us to the very sort of divisions that our `mindful hand' project is intended to overcome? As explained in the preface to our volume, the answer is a historically grounded no. For, between the local geographies of tacit knowledge and the universalizing urges of laws and standards lies the historical field of cunning intelligence, known already to the ancient Greeks as metis.4 Greek commentators argued that it was the very nature of things that granted cunning intelligence its power. Because the phenomena of nature and society were multiple and shifting, their mastery required multiply shifting skills. Standards for shipbuilding, for example, were well and good, but individual ships had to carry different loads and sail the constantly changing seas. While cunning methods continued to be denigrated by the Platonizing tradition of separating out and granting priority to reason over practice (a view still embodied in much current intellectual history), it remains the case that the historical engagement of metis with the recalcitrance of local circumstances and materials was coupled with its involvement with the very sorts of projects from which standardization sprouted and universal laws were induced. Mukerji's locally situated history of engineering practice and management can and should be seen as an episode of this larger history. The gist of our third essay, written by Simon Werrett, is somewhat different. By focusing on the multi-faceted biography of a single individual, Werrett is interested to demonstrate that the categories of `mind' and `hand' are, in fact, historically and geographically contingent ± the unstable products of specifically located socio-cultural claims and negotiations. The complicated career trajectory of the eighteenth-century Russian instrument-maker and inventor, Ivan Petrovich Kulibin, shows him to have been a man on the move, frequently crossing apparent boundaries of practical, social and cultural engagement as he took on new positions and projects. Thus, he was, in turn, a provincial craftsman, an urban instrument-maker, the St Petersburg Academy of Sciences' foremost inventor and a semi-independent entrepreneur who managed the `mechanical labour' of others. As Werrett explains, each of these positions practically demanded the collaborative engagement of mind and hand. And yet, they simultaneously situated Kulibin in successive local economies of both practical and socio-cultural negotiation in which `philosophical contemplation' and `mechanical work' were key labels for defining and evaluating the worth of one's activities. Within such a geography, success depended on fashioning convincingly awe-inspiring instruments and automata, on one hand, and an equally convincing persona on the other. Understanding the well timed and locally determined need to project one's identity as an exotic craftsman, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

110

Introduction: Transcending Boundaries

pliant servant or philosophical inventor was crucial to advancing Kulibin's career. But the choice of identifying characteristics ± especially one's asserted position on the continuum sliding from mental to manual engagement ± could not be solely determined by the individual. The micro-cultures of court patronage, academy politics and market dynamics were replete with their own hierarchies and aspirants to status who assertively ascribed identities to others. Mind and hand, then, were not simply markers for the opposition between knowledge and skill or contemplation and material engagement. They were all too abbreviated stand-ins, whose analysis helps us recover a practical world in which one almost always acted in concert with the other, and a cultural geography in which identifying ascriptions located individuals and their activities on a managerial map of hierarchical value. Werrett mentions one identifying category in passing that might deserve further attention as we seek to come to terms with the history of minds and hands and mindful-handedness. What is the significance of ascribing the status of `genius' to someone? In the case of Kulibin, this label created a space that individualized him and his work, setting them beyond the calculation of value that opposed mind and hand. Though seen by some as a materially engaged, untutored artisan, Kulibin's reputation as a genius could yet place him on a par with those contemplative souls who sullied their hands with nothing more than pen and ink. Isn't this the very same ruse used to glorify `great' inventors such as James Watt and Thomas Edison, the same vehicle placed on the alter of nineteenth-century Romanticism as a way to free individuals from the claimed constraints of Enlightenment reason?5 Might a companion historical analysis of genius help us fill out our historical understanding of natural inquiry and invention as key elements in the interactively material and cultural developments that we usually speak of as the history of science and technology? The fourth and final essay, written by Lissa Roberts, opens with a criticism of The Mindful Hand for its predominantly Eurocentric focus. Noting that the history of natural inquiry and invention between the sixteenth and early nineteenth century cannot properly be seen as exclusively European, she cautions that this should not be read as a call for a comparative history that examines contemporary developments in other parts of the world. Rather, if the intimately related arenas of material and knowledge production engaged the hybrid exertions of mindful-handedness, so too did they depend on a global network of material and knowledge exchange through which European-based endeavours were inextricably linked to resources and activities in various parts of the world.6 The body of her essay, however, focuses on consumption rather than production and poses a set of questions that link Europe and the world in another way by asking what happened when material goods and embodied knowledge bearing the stamp of European provenance were exported and taken up by local goals and circumstances. What became of their identities and the identity of the European culture History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

111

they were often taken to represent? Did the historical tension between the mind and hand's practical collaboration and assertively official claims of their hierarchical separation give way to other visions as exploration and commerce spread Western captains, commodities and concepts around the world? The vehicle for this essay's analysis is the exclusive trade carried on between the Dutch East Indies Company (VOC) and Japan during the second half of the long eighteenth century; between 1641 and 1853, the Netherlands was the only Western nation allowed to enter and trade with Japan. Along with resident Chinese traders, the VOC was the only conduit through which European texts and artefacts reached the Japanese. Of special interest is the fact that among the post popular European exports to Japan were optical and other scientific instruments, eye glasses, glassware, mirrors and books dealing with topics such as natural history, anatomy and artisanal techniques. As recorded by the work of contemporary Japanese artists and authors, this trade clearly left its mark in arenas ranging from urban markets and theatres to court discussions, popular literature and medical reform. But the central point of the essay is to show that the mark it left gained form, not through the influence of Western knowledge and know-how so much as through highly complex processes of local demand and appropriation. This sort of story used to be told (and too often still is) frequently in terms of science and technology `transfer' and `diffusion' ± words that imply a level of passivity on the part of foreign `consumers'. Such conceptions project producers as inhabiting active centres for the creation of ideas and goods, which move uni-directionally to peripheral areas where they are adopted and consumed (or not). Not surprisingly, such centreperiphery talk carries with it claims of (relative) advancement and superiority. As a model for inter-cultural relations, it suggests the need/ reality of peripheral emulation (or perverse rejection) of Western culture, science and technology ± the measure of which is expressed in terms of `progress'. But, if revamping the history of science and technology as a history often inhabited by `mindful hands' helps to overcome the organizing claim of reason's practical dominance over manual skill, revising the related history of global exchange as one of local demand and appropriation can help to free us from simplistic narratives of the diffusion of `Western' science and technology to other parts of the world. The `mindful hand' approach eschews the kind of comparative history entailed in identifying (natural) knowledge production with `science', which is simultaneously projected as `Western' and universal. In his intriguing afterword, however, Ian Inkster argues that rather than closing off any possibility of global comparison, the `mindful hand' actually offers a more fitting (because it is non-Eurocentric) frame for evaluating local differences in the patterns and processes of innovation around the world, both past and future. If productive material innovation is neither dependent on the application of previously produced `scientific' knowledge nor the result of organizing the production of knowledge directly in History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

112

Introduction: Transcending Boundaries

`contexts of application', examining past performance and advising for future growth demand a different mode of investigation.7 If we identify material productivity with sites in which contemplation and manipulation are practically intertwined, might it be possible to evaluate local regimes of production and governance in terms of the extent to which unfettered and minimally hierarchical collaboration between the mind and hand is either stimulated or hindered? If so, the `mindful hand' is promising on three important fronts. It holds the key to understanding the politics and practice of material and knowledge production in European history. It opens the door to developing a similar history on a global scale that is not based on Eurocentric categories. And, finally, it offers a new analytic framework for strategic foresight studies that seek to chart future challenges and productive possibilities. We look forward to the responses that our project elicits. Notes and References

1. E. T. Layton, `Mirror-Image Twins: The Communities of Science and Technology in Nineteenth-Century America', Technology and Culture, 1971, 12: 562±80; E. T. Layton, `Technology as Knowledge', Technology and Culture, 1974, 15: 31±41. The most recent variation on this theme is P. H. Smith, The Body of the Artisan (Chicago, 2003), in which she argues that what she calls `artisanal epistemology' was actually a crucial resource for the Scientific Revolution. For an insightful critique of technology as knowledge, see M. Hard, `Technology as Practice: Local and Global Closure Processes in Diesel-Engine Design', Social Studies of Science, 1994, 24: 549±85. 2. L. Roberts, S. Schaffer and P. Dear (eds), The Mindful Hand: Inquiry and Invention from the Late Renaissance to Early Industrialization (Amsterdam, 2007). The volume is available for free download at www.knaw.nl/cfdata/publicaties/detail.cfm?boeken__ordernr=20041102 . 3. Since the mechanization of labour was first celebrated by Andrew Ure and criticized by (among others) Karl Marx, much has been written on the demeaning mechanization of labour in conjunction with the growing dominion of standardizing reason. This topic is eloquently handled most recently in S. Schaffer, `The ``Charter'd Thames'': Naval Architecture and Experimental Spaces in Georgian Britain', in Roberts et al., op. cit. (2), 279±305. 4. M. Detienne and J.-P. Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society (London, 1978). 5. See, e.g. C. MacLeod, `James Watt, Heroic Invention and the Idea of the Industrial Revolution', in M. Berg and K. Bruland (eds), Technological Revolutions in Europe: Historical Perspectives (Cheltenham, 1998), 96±115; C. Macleod, Heroes of Invention (Cambridge, 2007). 6. This perspective is persuasively argued for in K. Raj, Relocating Modern Science: Circulation and the Construction of Knowledge in South Asia and Europe, 1650±1900 (London, 2007) and forms the backbone of S. Schaffer, L. Roberts, J. Delbourgo and K. Raj, The Brokered World: Go-Betweens and Global Networks of Knowledge, 1770±1820 (Sagamore Beach, MA, 2009). 7. For the idea of producing knowledge in contexts of application, also known as `mode two knowledge production', see M. Gibbons, C. Limoges, H. Nowotny, S. Schwartman, P. Scott and M. Trow, The New Production of Knowledge: The Dynamics of Science and Research in Contemporary Societies (London, 1994) and H. Nowotny, P. Scott and M. Gibbons, Rethinking Science: Knowledge and the Public (London, 2001).

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Into the Light: Crystals and the Recreation of Nature in Seventeenth-Century Garden Caves and Cabinets ALETTE FLEISCHER*

INTRODUCTION

Mylord Bentings . . . delicate Gardens, Walks, Ponds, Motes, Grottoes, Fountaines and figures, Bridges and Gates and great Plenty of fruit and flowers very Curious and various; A place so neatly composed that here Art and Nature seem to go `hand in hand'.1 (Thomas Penson, 1690) There are many bodies, vegetable, mineral, and congealed salts, which are formed with fixed angles and regular forms. . . . All these things are worthy of being carefully investigated to ascertain how and by what artifice nature there operates.2 (Christiaan Huygens, 1690)

In the same year, the English gentleman Thomas Penson and the Dutch mathematician Christiaan Huygens commented in their writings on the relation between art and nature. Penson admired the garden of Hans Willem Bentinck's estate, Zorgvliet (Flight from Care), near The Hague, for the way art ordered nature and the well designed composition of the different artificial and natural elements. Zorgvliet was a fine example of how the mundane act of gardening entailed combining aesthetics and engineering techniques to restore the ordered splendour of pre-lapsarian nature. Like other contemporary garden designers, Bentinck and his constructors sought to make manifest the dominion of nature's laws, which God had hidden from sinful humans.3 A garden thus became a representation of or a clever allusion to divine design, where its layout manifested mathematical rules and its movements were mechanical. Imposed by garden constructors, art rendered nature more `natural'.4 Christiaan Huygens' remark records his enthralment with the beauty of nature's hidden order, which he found lodged in plants, minerals and salts. He declared artifice to be the designer of nature. In this case, art was not a human activity, but a grand design that sprang from God. Huygens sought to reveal nature's laws by using mathematical rules and the vision of a mechanically operating nature. While he experimented with natural

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

114

Into the Light

elements and processes to expose these divinely imposed rules, Penson experienced the garden as a site where human art applied rules and augmented nature in order to recover the beauty and order of God's original design. Mr Bentinck, his garden constructors and Huygens manipulated and contemplated nature for reasons that were both enlightening and entertaining, in order to reveal or recreate nature's working. This essay focuses particularly on one specimen of nature to illustrate how both constructors and examiners of nature sought to compose a compelling expression of nature's orderliness: rock crystal. Unearthed as a by-product from a mine in Germany, rock crystal entered both Bentinck's garden and Huygens' cabinet. Various groups of collaborating actors simultaneously transformed rock crystal into an object of adornment and an object of revelation. The outcome in which this process played a part were Bentinck's Grotto of Ganymede and Huygens' Traite de la LumieÁre. This essay discusses how different groups of people manually and mentally appreciated the embodied qualities of the crystal and for different reasons, in order to reveal what they took to be the crystal's `true' nature. The crystal was an ingredient of the reconstruction of nature in a garden grotto, where its refractive nature formed part of a cunning spectacle with light. At virtually the same time, it led to the representation of nature in a natural philosophical treatise on light, where its refractive nature was explored to reveal the law that governed it. The rock crystal brought together a network of people from various backgrounds and with different skills and talents. There was the nobleman and diplomat Hans Willem Bentinck, the gentleman Constantijn Huygens, who was secretary to the Dutch Stadholder William of Orange, Constantijn's younger brother the mathematician Christiaan Huygens, the silk merchant Philips de Flines, Prince Johan Maurits of Nassau and various anonymous engineers, miners and garden constructors. The way this circle interacted and exchanged information, ideas and objects was essential to both material and knowledge production. Importantly, this entailed a history of collaboration rather than one of distinction in which theory held sway over manual labour and mindless tinkering. Although noblemen, mathematicians, merchants, miners and others mundanely interacted and collaborated, potent social and cultural conventions prevailed to distinguish groups from each other. The nobleman Christiaan Huygens, for example, donned the label `geomeÁtre' to set himself, as a gentleman scholar, apart from those who practised mathematics in the field, such as engineers.5 Elites socially and culturally stood above manual work, keeping labourers at bay. But actual practice often revealed a different pattern of interaction. Huygens depended as much on his extended network of patrons, merchants, miners and family as on his connections with Newton and other geometers. Objects and ideas circulated within this network, whereby they were transformed into elements of natural inquiry and invention. One outcome of this transformation was a hugely important treatise on the nature of light; another was a much appreciated garden grotto. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

115

Historians of science such as Alan Shapiro have chosen to focus their work mainly on Huygens' relationship with other scholars while discussing the generation of his treatise on light and the `internal' development of his optics. But, to do so leaves out the larger theatre of his collaborations and interactions.6 The history presented here is not one of the great heroscientists Descartes±Huygens±Newton or of the construction of a theory that informed the work and understanding of amateurs and artisans. Rather, it sets out to show that the construction of Traite de la LumieÁre was a collaborative effort. Huygens' knowing and doing as well as those of the other members of this broad network together provided the formative components of this inventive treatise. This essay, thus, places Huygens' inquiry into light and refraction in a different light. It connects the construction of a grotto and a treatise, thereby stressing how examining and recreating nature were two sides of the same coin. Following the journey of rock crystal from the dark recesses of the earth into the limelight reveals how this circulation and interaction led to the construction of a garden grotto and a treatise on light. As it passed through the mindful hands and handy minds of constructors and examiners of nature, the crystal's path traced the contours of the ways in which members of this diverse network simultaneously adapted and displayed their apprehension of the orderly beauty and workings of nature. Creating a garden grotto involved the transformation and embellishment of natural elements into an artful nature. Garden owners and their gardeners restructured nature by contemplating and manipulating the rules of geometry, jointly engaging their hands and minds as they structured the landscape and populated it with plant beds, orangeries, statuary and fountains. In a garden grotto, more specifically, they manipulated and contemplated the movement of light in order to create optical trickery. Natural philosophers jointly engaged their hands and minds to investigate nature in their cabinets by examining specimens with instruments and working with pen on paper, in order to understand the rules that order nature's operations. Restructuring and investigating nature were mutually reinforcing ways of producing embodied natural knowledge, whether in the form of a garden grotto or a book. In order for nature to be transformed into an intriguing ornament or an object of inquiry, its elements and/or processes had to be removed from their natural surroundings.7 In their original habitat, elements of nature remained invisible in a way; untouched by art or contemplation, nature hid its secrets from prying humans. Once removed and transported to a garden grotto or a study, humans could investigate, transform and exchange naturalia.8 Both sites can be considered as laboratories where invention teamed with natural inquiry in order to domesticate nature. In these laboratories, the reconstruction of nature, the recording of ideas and an exchange of information took place. The objects and elements themselves or the information about them found their way ± permanently or temporarily ± into other gardens, grottoes and workrooms, where they were further manipulated and contemplated. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

116

Into the Light

To map out the complex transformative journey of the crystal, this essay starts at the site from which the rock crystal was extracted: a mine in the county of Lingen (today's Germany). Then, we follow its trail to the Grotto of Ganymede in Bentinck's garden just outside The Hague, and further to the quarters of Christiaan Huygens in the Bibliotheque Royale in Paris. The concluding section links these last two locations, where mental and manual labour created objects of revelation in order to explain the workings of nature. THE BELLY OF THE EARTH

Passing through Lingen, on the way to Celle, I was shown large pieces that were half earth and half rock, upon which a number of points grow that resemble and have the same hexagonal shape as rock crystal. I take these points to be about a half inch [pouce] in diameter, but the Magistrate of Lingen told me that larger ones have been found, which could be cut into seals and other things. They are so little valued there that he told me that he had sent very large pieces from this mine to Mr. Benting, solely to decorate the fountains being built at Sorgvliet. (Constantijn Huygens to Christiaan, 3 October 16809)

In the autumn of 1680, Constantijn Huygens accompanied the Dutch Stadholder Prince William III, as secretary, on a political mission. One of the stopovers was the city of Lingen in the county of Lingen. This area was a protectorate of William III, who appointed his courtier and diplomat Hans Bentinck as sheriff of Lingen in 1675. Huygens witnessed that the magistrate of Lingen, Mr Tollius, had shipped a whole load of large pieces of crystal to Bentinck in The Hague as ornaments for his garden. The political connotation of this gift underlined the patronage of William III to the County of Lingen, since this industrious mining area was under his protection and managed by Tollius and Bentinck. Constantijn seemed surprised that the people of Lingen valued the crystals so little, that they would give them away as mere ornaments. He calculated that these hexagonally shaped rocks would certainly be valuable to his brother's inquiry into nature. The Lingen miners, so it appeared to Huygens, did not realize that this crystal contained knowledge of nature. Huygens, however, did not understand that for the mine workers, the crystals did signify something. For them, the gifting of rock crystal expressed a political message whereas bits of rock crystal, polished into little ornaments, bore a symbolic meaning. Seen from a commercial standpoint, it made sense to say that the locals considered the pieces with small crystal points of little value. They used only the bigger pieces of crystal to carve and polish marketable ornaments such as seals. The Lingen craftsman transformed elements of nature into art objects ± a process that entailed a certain knowledge of nature.10 Carved with images of saints, biblical figures or of miners' tools, these ornaments became precious talismans.11 This gave an added and divine meaning to the crystals, which the Lingen miners understood as a way to protect them while doing their dangerous work.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

117

There were three mines in the county of Lingen: a limestone quarry close to the village of Rheine and, in nearby IbbenbuÈren, a stone quarry and a coalmine.12 The still active coalmine is known today as a site where the type of rock crystal described by Constantijn Huygens might be found.13 The excavated rock crystal was a by-product from one of these mines. Constantijn told his brother, 4 years later, that the crystal `grew in a grotto' deep in a mountain.14 This `grotto', tucked well into the earth, did not at all resemble Bentinck's idyllic and well designed garden grotto that would become the rock crystal's new environment. The dark quarry was an inhospitable, irregular and eerie place.15 It `lacked symmetry and proportion', if we follow the view of Andre FeÂlibien, who also described the Grotto of TheÂtis in Versailles.16 He regarded caves as the natural bowels of the earth, where the mysterious growth of rocks and plants occurred.17 In his description, he opposed natural caves with artificial garden grottoes. The latter exposed and resolved the mystery of a natural cave through their symmetry and proportion, order and variety.18 In mines, nature's dark secrets were only visible to the miners. With their tools and torches, they extracted the crystals from the earth, thus making the first step in the crystal's transformation from an undisclosed `invisible' part of the earth's interior to an object of contemplation and manipulation. Working in a hostile environment, the mine workers relied on their accumulated knowledge of the earth's textures, to find their precious ores and minerals, while keeping an eye out for their own safety. This involved close teamwork and a sharing of skills and knowledge, a combination of on-site experience and years of manual and mental understanding.19 This hierarchically organized skilful workforce knew what to do and how to do it, thereby passing their accumulated wisdom on to younger generations. The art of mining was a complex activity, which entailed amassing knowledge of the mine area through calculation, experience and experiment. Before anything else, the miners ± usually those with surveying experience ± had to gain information regarding the whereabouts of the deposits of the natural riches. They used surveying instruments both on and below the earth's surface to measure the borders and determine the depth of the mine; investigated the composition of the earth's layers before constructing vents and shafts; took steps to control the water level inside the mine; established the routes and method of transportation of people, tools and goods in both vertical and horizontal directions; and, finally, obtained the various mining equipment that they would need to retrieve the coal, rocks and rubble from dark mine shafts and galleries. The examination of minerals and other unearthed rocks and stones took place above ground.20 Below the earth's surface, invisible to all except the miners, the mine was constructed according to a pattern of vertical shafts and horizontal galleries. The miners transformed the belly of the earth into a geometrical environment in order to free its hidden treasures using their tools, carts, baskets, ropes, candles, geometrical devises and their accumulated knowledge of the terrain. While reshaping the earth into History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

118

Into the Light

an organized and accessible underworld, they obtained an understanding of nature's construction. These miners retrieved the once hidden minerals for the world above ground by imposing order upon nature.21 During the final stages of the mining process, the miners separated the coal from the rubble, thereby distinguishing the rocks with minerals from those without. The coal fuelled the local lime-kilns, which was Lingen's main economic pillar. The rocks containing large crystals also formed a source of income for the miners, since the local craftsmen transformed the large crystals into ornaments to be sold as talismans. For the Lingen inhabitants, the rocks with the small crystal points served to pay tribute to the first visit of an Orange Stadholder and to Bentinck, Lingen's far-flung sheriff. The miners' manipulation of nature in order to reveal its hidden secrets was thus motivated by a combination of mundane economical and political reasons, for the Lingen people hoped that with this gift the Stadholder and the sheriff would, in return, ease the taxes and allow them to remain Roman Catholic.22 Returning to Constantijn's remark that the people of Lingen valued the rock crystal insufficiently, we can say instead that they valued the rock crystal differently. They appreciated it for its use to express a political union with the Dutch Republic. Constantijn may have found the workers an ignorant lot because they did not consider the crystals as a potentially valuable step towards the examination of light and refraction. However, without the miners' ways of knowing and doing, their skilful knowledge of nature, the crystals would not be `freed'. Finally out in the open, the rock crystal could continue its journey of transformation. Having arrived in a fully manmade environment, crystals were domesticated by nature's examiners and constructors, transformed into objects of study, appreciation, delight and wonder. In the grotto, crystals reminded constructors and observers of the fertile mysteries occurring in the earth's bowels. In the study, crystals prompted examiners to reveal nature's hidden laws. From their perspective, nature's beautiful order remained unexplained in `the wild', but could be further transformed, contemplated, examined, explained and manipulated in these `laboratories'. Previously unseen, the crystal's exposure in these controlled environments clarified nature's laws in various ways. Aesthetically replaced in a grotto, this new vision of nature's variety and unity could be projected back out to make sense of the world at large.23 By the end of 1680, the shipload of crystals arrived at Zorgvliet. The constructors began to alter these stones into grotto ornaments. For this, they used their artful knowledge and skill, thereby adapting grottobuilding conventions to fit local requirements. Ensconced in Bentinck's grotto, the crystal's meaning transformed to symbolically reveal the earth's secrets and emphasize the political bond between Bentinck and the Stadholder. Ganymede, as the cupbearer of the gods, pointed to Bentinck's position as servant to the Prince of Orange. The Grotto of Ganymede became a complex construction filled with natural and artificial objects for reasons that were both entertaining and enlightening. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

119

Some 2±3 years after Constantijn Huygens left Lingen, pieces of the rock crystals arrived in his brother's cabinet, where Christiaan examined them as part of his inquiry into the nature of light.24 From 1672 to 1690, Huygens tinkered with both Iceland and rock crystals in his quest to uncover nature's laws and explain the nature of light. With art and reflection, he transformed his crystals so that they would reveal their secrets. This entailed a process of manipulating and contemplating different types of crystal. His findings were made public to the world through his treatise on light, the Traite de la LumieÁre of 1690.25 But, before turning to Christiaan's handling of crystals and light, we trace the crystal's adaptation from an unadorned rock into a stunning ornament in the garden of Bentinck. THE GROTTO OF GANYMEDE

From 1674, when Bentinck became the owner of Zorgvliet, he began a huge overhaul of the existing garden by redesigning and enlarging it to almost triple its original size. Its new overall layout consisted of various rectangular sections filled with intricately designed parterres, a labyrinth with an artificial mount, a pyramidal-shaped mount, two grottoes, a large orangery, various kitchen gardens and orchards, an aviary and fishponds. The garden housed a wealth of plants and objects from both northern and southern garden traditions adapted to fit local requirements (Figure 1). The construction of the Grotto of Ganymede started in 1679 and was probably finished in 1681. To reach it, one walked from the house, passing the semicircular conservatory and an enclosed orchard filled with fruit trees. Then, at the end of a lane with clipped linden trees alongside it, Bentinck's garden pavilion appeared. Bentinck himself, most likely with the advice of the Stadholder William III, chose this location.26 As an amateur gardener, Bentinck was actively involved in the architectural design of his garden and grottoes, but whom he hired as architect, land surveyor, fountain-maker, carpenters, stonemasons and gardeners remains unknown. Nor have any sketches or plans of this building (or of the garden) survived, provided that these ever existed. This also is the case for a similar grotto, built in 1647±49 for the Stadholder Frederik-Hendrik's garden at Honselaarsdyk. But, here, the accounts provide certain names, such as the grotto-builder Joseph Dinant. He was paid for his services, his material and his workforce, without any specification regarding the various tasks or names of artisans; just one master carpenter was mentioned by name.27 Unfortunately, Bentinck's workforce remains invisible, but we can draw on one other example close to this case for reference: the garden grotto of Prince Johan Maurits of Nassau in The Hague, which was built between 1668 and 1670 and demolished in 1679.28 Bentinck was acquainted with Prince William III's elderly cousin and thus knew the Prince's house and garden in The Hague well.29 In 1679, when Johan Maurits learned that the courtier wanted to build a grotto, he offered part of his grotto's History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

120

Into the Light

Figure 1 Jan van den Avelen, Map of Zorgvliet, printed in Amsterdam, circa 1690, Collection Haags Gemeentearchief, nr. z.gr. 191.

contents to Bentinck: a set of 39 looking-glasses, together with a collection of conches, shells and three ceramic animals (two snakes and a tortoise).30 The prince furthermore suggested that Bentinck hire his architect, Maurits Post. Bentinck may have contemplated using the services of the young architect, who had worked also on other royal gardens and grottoes in The Hague. This promising architect could have done the job, but his untimely death prevented it.31 Being so close to the Prince of Orange, Bentinck probably employed people from this circle, since the Stadholder had always been very keen on the Zorgvliet's garden.32 In a short period of time, Bentinck needed to assemble a skilled workforce, acquire information on different types of grottoes, collect various grotto ornaments, find a setting for his grotto and have everything brought together as a fine example of artful nature. To render the grotto more `natural', Bentinck wanted an indoor fountain ± something the Prince's grotto did not have. An indoor fountain symbolized the origin of water: hidden well below the earth's surface. Constructing a fountain and water conduits was a delicate and costly affair. Water had to be collected, transported, stored and led to the fountain inside. While building the pavilion, the constructors had to take into account how and where the conduits and water container should be constructed, and how to conceal the pipes and reservoir. Designing and building a garden grotto meant History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

121

looking into existing grottoes for reference and hiring grotto constructors who had experience with these sorts of complex constructions. Maurits Post was familiar with grotto constructions, having been trained by his father Peter Post, who was chief architect to the Princes of Orange and Nassau until his death in 1669. Father and son Post worked closely with the French fontainier±grottier Dinant-family.33 With this kind of background, it made sense that Johan Maurits suggested the services of this young architect to Bentinck. After Post's demise, Bentinck could have hired a member of the Dinant dynasty, or possibly the fountain-maker/ engineer Willem Meester, also in the service of the Stadholder. Meester had built a number of these types of waterworks for several of the Prince of Orange's gardens. He had further gained insight into the workings of French gardens, water systems and grottoes, since the Prince of Orange had ordered him to go to France for 3 months in 1679.34 Meester viewed the gardens and ornaments and brought his findings back to the Low Countries, and to Prince William. Meester's understanding of water works and artificial grottoes became available to those who hired him and to those who consulted the collection of books, prints and papers on fountains and gardens that he acquired. One such book was the widely spread publication Traite de Jardinage by Jacques Boyceau. In 1638, he told his readers that garden grottoes: . . . are made to represent the wild caverns which are cut from natural rocks or built specially elsewhere, also these are usually kept dark and certainly not gloomy. They are ornate with rustic products and material objects that fit with this style, such as porous and concave stones, pieces of rocks and curious pebbles, conches and strange fossils, and other types of shells, which by their well ordered forms and colours are beautiful enhancements: the water pipes are clean and well fitted, rendering the things most natural.35

Prince Johan Maurits' grotto came close to Boyceau's description, as it resembled a miniature mountain adorned with boulders. This windowless grotto housed not only shells and conches, but also 39 looking-glasses and a stove. The mirrors made this grotto lighter, and the stove made it agreeable on colder days. Johan Maurits' problems with his garden grotto in The Hague shed some light on the construction and the maintenance of these complex garden objects. In this grotto, shells and conches regularly fell from the walls because of a combination of heat and infirm cement.36 Post informed the Prince by letter on this matter, but he did not specify whether the problem of the cement had anything to do with the heat of the grotto's iron stove or was due to hot weather conditions.37 There is no record of this sort of problems regarding the Grotto of Ganymede; therefore, it cannot be ascertained whether Bentinck suffered similar problems.38 Maybe the constructors had overcome the problems with cement, or the answer was in the structure of the Ganymede grotto. Although the Grotto of Ganymede housed a large part of the contents of Johan Maurits' grotto, it differed greatly in overall design. In style and construction, the forerunner of Bentinck's grotto was the Grotto of TheÂtis, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

122

Into the Light

Figure 2 Jan van den Avelen, Grotto of Ganymede, exterior, printed in Amsterdam, circa 1690, Collection Haags Gemeentearchief, nr. kl. B 1513.

in the garden of Versailles.39 The Grotto of Ganymede had a symmetrical facËade that was divided into four sections by pilasters (Figure 2). In the middle was an arched entrance with left and right arched windows; the flat roof had an octagonal windowed cupola in its centre. Inside, the pavilion functioned as a hall, with a tiled floor, stone benches along the wall and large looking-glasses hanging opposite the windows and the entrance. Opposite the door was a large niche furnished with waterworks, mirrors, shells, rocks and other ornaments. An oval fountain kept the visitor from entering the niche; nature's secrets could not be inspected closely (Figure 3). Before the final completion of the Ganymede pavilion, as just described, the constructors had to build a structure with water conduits, a reservoir and a fountain that needed then to be adorned (the fountain) and hidden (the conduits and reservoir). The final stage thus entailed the beautification of the grotto. Probably in early 1680, Bentinck's constructors started to hang Johan Maurits' expensive glass mirrors40 in a symmetrical fashion against the curved back wall of the niche to reflect light and water. They filled the rest of the niche with the other objects from the Prince's old grotto.41 Now, all the constructors had only to wait for the Lingen crystals to arrive at The Hague. Late in 1680, these stones finally arrived to complete the grotto's change from an engineering project into an artful imitation of nature, by covering History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

123

Figure 3 Jan van den Avelen, Grotto of Ganymede, interior, printed in Amsterdam, circa 1690, Collection Haags Gemeentearchief, nr kl. B 1514.

the walls, faucets, gaps, water conduits and walls from top to bottom. First, the rock crystal needed to be sorted, cut into manageable sizes and cleaned before being cemented into place. Then, the constructors assembled the rocks in the grotto and cemented them around the fountain, so that they rested firmly in their manmade cave. Without any written source, it remains speculative how the constructors positioned the crystals and mirrors like pieces of a puzzle. However, their goal was to make each element reflect and refract light from one point to another in order for this optical spectacle to work. Thus adapted and exposed, the crystals showed off their natural and orderly beauty, while playing tricks with light and sight. This was the last step in the transformation of the rocks from an invisible element in the earth's bowels to an artfully enhanced object of nature. Carefully placed in the grotto, the crystals and corals symbolized the earth; the ceramic snakes and tortoise as well as shells, conches and corals signified the fertile quality of water.42 Brought out in the open, light shone on nature's otherwise hidden mystery: the origin of the crystals was now exposed to the public. The common notion was, as the Huygens' correspondence informs us, that crystals grew in the darkness of a cave. But, here, daylight entered via the door, the windows and from the copula above to shed light on this event. Inside, rays of light reflected from the mirrors and scattered throughout the grotto while being refracted by the History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

124

Into the Light

water drops and the shiny crystals. Light revealed nature's secrets, while the multiple reflections and refractions created an optical spectacle. The geometrically hung mirrors played an important part in this cunningly orchestrated optical trick. Set in a semicircle, these lookingglasses seemingly dissolved the wall, making it difficult for the visitor to see how deep the niche really was. Furthermore, the mirrors reflected each other, the interior, the visitors, the ornaments and parts of the world outside the niche and the grotto. This distorted the boundary between what was real and what was unreal for the observer.43 Did one see the actual object or daylight, its reflection or a reflection of a reflection? This complex manipulation set in play by the grotto's constructors, harnessed daylight, reflection and refraction in order to trick the visitor.44 Visitors, in turn, could simply enjoy the grotto for its pleasing trick or examine this optical illusion and find out how nature symbolically `worked', ranging from its life-giving qualities to its order and symmetry. The crystal's even-sidedness, together with the symmetrically placed mirrors and windows, referred to nature's mathematical design. Placed in this artificial surrounding, these objects of inquiry and delight symbolized the mathematical order of God's Creation. The reflected and refracted light pointed to the motion of light. The constructors illustrated their understanding of the mechanics ± if not the mechanical laws ± of light's motion through the way they manipulated it. Rays of light came in through the windows and flooded the grotto; it was reflected by the mirrors and refracted through the water drops and crystals. The passage of light triggered this optical spectacle, thoughtfully engineered by the grotto constructors. Bentinck and his workforce built a representation of spectacular, orderly nature by combining and processing natural knowledge, engineering, nature and art. Seamlessly combined, the constructors transformed the once hidden objects of nature into an entertaining and enlightening art object. This entailed transforming the Lingen crystals from unseen objects to objects that embodied nature's working. Simultaneously, it required the combined manual and mental expertise in grotto construction to realize a building that was also represented nature. This grotto addressed nature's enhanced beauty and Bentinck's position as courtier and diplomat. The crystals connected the county of Lingen to Bentinck's office and the Dutch Republic. The gifts from the elderly Prince Johan Maurits of Nassau acknowledged the young Bentinck as an important servant to the Stadholder. Bentinck himself advertised this role by naming his garden pavilion the Grotto of Ganymede, the cupbearer to the gods, in this case, celebrating his position as servant to Prince William of Orange, Stadholder of the Republic and King of England. The Grotto of Ganymede became a topic discussed amongst grotto visitors and constructors. The English gentleman-tourist Thomas Bowrey described the grotto in 1698 as `Curiously [set] with Shells, Rock Corall and Lookinglasses, and in it a Fountain'.45 It contained various objects of History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

125

nature and artifice assembled together to evoke nature's orderly beauty and curious variety. In a sense, a grotto was a type of Wunderkammer, as it housed a collection of objects that played with the subtle transition between nature and artifice. And, like a Wunderkammer, it showcased a collection of playful naturalia, displaying nature as artist.46 The constructors merged the artistic talents of humans and nature in order to magnify nature's mechanisms, and to showcase the manifestations of nature's bizarre beauty for their unique properties.47 Collecting, ordering, polishing and investigating the form and the refractive nature of crystal was part of this activity. Nobles, amateurs and savants met in curiosity cabinets to admire, discuss and investigate nature's objects. These actors collected and appreciated the sort of rock crystal that illuminated Bentinck's grotto for its regular hexagonal shape and the way it dispersed light. They amassed other types of crystal for their colour, their shape or for their unique and strange refractive qualities, as happened with the Iceland crystal. King Frederik of Denmark had this type of crystal on display in his curiosity cabinet for interested visitors and savants to see and admire. Both Frederik's Wunderkammer and Bentinck's grotto were, though in different ways, connected to the inquiry into the nature of light. The mathematician Erasmus Bartholinus studied the Danish King's Iceland crystal, whereas Christiaan Huygens studied the Lingen rock crystal, which he got thanks to Bentinck's grotto.48 Neither investigation into the operation of nature nor the transformation of the Lingen crystals took place solely in the Grotto of Ganymede. This process occurred almost simultaneously in the chambers of Christiaan Huygens as part of his quest to expose nature's order and beauty. It led to a reconstruction of nature on paper. With the help of Constantijn's Stadholderly connections, some of the Lingen crystals were transported to Huygens' quarters, where he could transform these rocks into objects of inquiry into nature. CHRISTIAAN HUYGENS: EXAMINER OF CRYSTALS

In Zorgvliet's garden grotto, the Lingen crystals showed how the garden constructors used art to enhance nature, thereby imposing their rules to restore God's orderly and beautiful design. While Bentinck's workforce imposed nature's order and beauty, almost at the same time in Paris, Christiaan Huygens inquired into the nature of crystals while considering artifice as the creator of their natural beauty and order. Even though these approaches regarding art and nature differed, both artisan and savant were entailed in producing material and knowledge while investigating nature's divine design. Christiaan, like the grotto constructors, collected and processed objects, books and information to help him reveal the crystal's hidden secrets. He polished, cut and carved crystals while rendering them in ink by drawing, schematizing and describing. Furthermore, Huygens read and wrote about History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

126

Into the Light

the various types of crystal and discussed their various aspects with his brother Constantijn and other members of his extensive network. Both the savant and Bentincks's artisans tinkered with crystals but with different outcomes. The details of Huygens' process culminated in his Traite de la LumieÁre, published in 1690. Christiaan became interested in crystals from the first time he viewed the Iceland crystal in 1672 together with the Danish mathematician Erasmus Bartholinus' booklet on the Iceland crystal's strange refraction, Experiementa crystalli islandici disdiaclastici (published in 1669).49 The Iceland crystal's strange refraction occurs when a ray of light falls at an angle on the crystal's surface. This refraction differs from that of the rock crystal. The rock crystal's refractions are regular, whereas one of the two refractions of the Iceland crystal is perpendicular and passes at a different angle.50 Huygens' search for an explanation for the strange refraction and his growing expertise in the field of lens-making were inextricably part of his larger inquiry into the nature of light. Nature, knowledge and art experientially composed a seamless web in Huygens' work. Huygens eagerly wanted to investigate both types of crystals for the way they refracted light, but he struggled ± both mentally and manually ± with his material. In 1677, he wrote to the French minister of state Colbert that this `little wonder of nature' was most difficult to penetrate. But this only strengthened his resolve to pursue the truths and hidden beauties that remained locked within this ill-proportioned object.51 This process of revealing its secrets entailed endless tinkering ± both direct and through representational sketches ± with the crystals. Two years later, Christiaan wrote to his brother that he `found a way to cut and polish this crystal, which I was increasingly determined to do because everyone believed it to be impossible'.52 In his treatise, Christiaan informed his reader how he went about it, how he first tried the common method of polishing, which he had to adapt.53 Not only was Huygens busy with polishing Iceland crystals. He simultaneously tried to find new ways to `perfectly polish glass' to make optical lenses.54 Along with the secrets of nature, Huygens was also determined to penetrate the secrets of grinding, which were being kept from him by `our little widow Le Bas'.55 Huygens, thus, combined hands-on contemplation with mindful manipulation in order to reach his goal. Over the years, Huygens amassed different types of crystal for his inquiry into nature. So, when he learned about the existence and shape of Lingen crystals, he wrote in reply to Constantijn's letter (see above) that `[s]ince I am a great examiner of crystals and their refraction, I would eagerly wish to see several good transparent pieces of this. You can easily have them sent with Mons. Bentingh's shipment'.56 It is not certain when Christiaan finally got the Lingen rock crystal, but it was not before 1683. Constantijn, constantly looking out for his brother, happened to be in Dieren in 1684, visiting one of the hunting castles of Prince William of Orange. The garden of this country estate housed two grottoes, both of which were adorned with various crystals, amongst other things. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

127

Constantijn took small samples from two of the grottoes' large crystals and sent them to his brother. He explained that the white one was of the sort that came from the Lingen region and in regular shapes `like the real rock crystal'. Furthermore, he wrote, these crystals could be cut and broken in parallel pieces, giving them a shiny surface.57 The other sample of the Dieren crystal was fairly heavy, and Christiaan wondered whether it contained any metal. In any case, he wrote to Constantijn, it was probably not from a rich mine, which would explain why it was used for adorning a grotto.58 So, for Christiaan's inquiry into nature, not only the crystals from the Grotto of Ganymede, but also those from the grottoes of the Stadholder's hunting castle were of interest. And yet, Christiaan seemed not to have thought highly of garden grottoes as providing a nurturing home for crystals, claiming as he did that such a setting displayed them as nothing more than objects of admiration. Rock crystal should serve a greater purpose, he argued, as objects of commerce or examination. The Huygens's considered artisans and miners as two groups of people who worked with nothing more than their hands and tools, with little concern for the crystals' hidden knowledge. Crafted by artisans into mere ornaments, the miners had given these crystals away as gifts to adorn a garden grotto. How else might this be understood than as corroborating evidence for the social and intellectual superiority of the gentleman-geomeÁtre and his examination of nature's laws? An apprehension of Huygens and his work rests somewhere between this socially embedded set of distinctions and his practical engagement with various sites of production and display. Ironically, perhaps, it is precisely because he was situated on a highly placed social rung that gave him access to aristocratic and princely gardens that he also gained access to the handiwork of those he socially denigrated. Had it not been for the garden owners and their grottoes, decorated with the various representations of nature, as well as Constantijn's inquisitive eye and grabbing hands when admiring these extraordinary objects, Christiaan would not have had all these different crystals at his disposal. The fashion to reveal nature's secrets in a garden grotto fuelled Huygens' revelation of nature's orderly beauty. Without the miners' by-product having found their way into a socially exclusive setting, his collection of crystals and, thus, his inquiry into nature could not have been so extensive. As secretary to Prince William, Constantijn followed the Stadholder on his travels. This enabled Constantijn not only to visit different sites, but also to build an extensive network. One of his connections was the Amsterdam silk merchant Philips de Flines. This wealthy amateur and garden enthusiast had mentioned to Constantijn that he could obtain Iceland crystal for Christiaan from his mercantile contacts. Christiaan quickly invited De Flines to come to Paris in 1679, where he introduced him to collectors of curiosity, artists and printers and took him to bookshops and gardens. The gardener merchant, in turn, also agreed to send some of his flower seeds to the King's botanic garden. His promises, however, were easier made than kept.59 Christiaan had to ask his brother History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

128

Into the Light

on several occasions by letter to remind De Flines of his word.60 This made it difficult for the brothers to ascertain the reliability of De Flines. The contact ended after 1681, without any indication that Huygens received the Iceland crystals. De Flines' promise brought him in close contact with this well connected and learned family that had strong ties with the Stadholder and the AcadeÂmie Royale des Sciences. The merchant's collection of natural history and art became even more socially prestigious through his relation to Christiaan and Constantijn. For instance, De Flines obtained via Christiaan a microscope, with which he viewed plants and insects taken from his garden. Huygens's civil conduct, on the other hand, was induced by the possible acquisition of the precious Iceland crystal. This manner of social conduct ran more or less parallel to the acquisition of grotto information and objects by owners/constructors of grottoes, whereby courteous prestige motivated the act of giving and sharing. Constantijn's network, thus, enabled Christiaan to collect books, information and crystals, which he then could use for his inquiry into nature. By cutting, breaking, polishing, sketching and comparing the different crystals and combining his findings with information received from Bartholinus, the Lingen miners, Constantijn and other geomeÁtres, Huygens constructed his understanding of nature. Huygens manipulated all these different types of crystal manually, on paper and mentally in order to apprehend the formation, the shape and the refractive uniqueness of the crystal while trying to understand the laws of light.61 The `great examiner' cut and polished the crystal into different shapes using various techniques, such as treating it with almond oil to smooth the surface and make it transparent. He reworked the crystal into pyramidal, cubic, pentagonal and hexagonal shapes and compared their single and double refractions.62 Like his counterparts building a grotto, he worked with nature, using mathematical tools, chisels, pen and paper, in order to understand and display its workings. The garden constructors' goal was to represent physically an enhanced nature; Huygens' transformation of nature became a construction of words, diagrams and drawings. This operation entailed manual and mental labour, using art to reveal nature's geometrical form, by way of cutting and chiselling the crystal, by making schematic drawings of the crystal and by depicting light in geometrical shapes. Huygens appreciated the beautiful regularity of rock crystals, which he understood to be made from well ordered particles. In his Traite de la LumieÁre, he mentioned that he: . . . had observed a certain phenomenon in the ordinary [Rock] Crystal, which occurs in hexagonal form, and which, because of this regularity, seems also to be composed of particles, of definite figure, and ranged in order.63

This regularity contrasted with the Iceland crystal. He disliked its irregular shape and found it difficult to understand the workings of this wonder of nature, as he informed Colbert by letter in 1677.64 But he

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

129

persisted in his quest to understand this complex and ill-proportioned crystal. The crystals signified the uniqueness and variety of nature's elements, as well as nature's geometrical regularity and order. Jointly, variety and order formed the Janus-faced foundation of divinely created and humanly represented nature. The uniqueness of the Iceland crystal and the regularity of the rock crystal were manipulated and contemplated in the study and grotto as examples of the wonders and workings of nature. Huygens strived to expose nature's order and regularity by using nature's intriguing variety, whereas the grotto constructors used geometrical order to accentuate nature's uniqueness and wonder. In the grotto and in the treatise, variety and order entwined to form the foundation of both divinely created and humanly represented nature.65 The Grotto of Ganymede emphasized the complex mixture of nature's wonder and irregularity; here, shells, conches and fossils represented nature's strange but playful forms. Bentinck's constructors merged nature with art to form a well organized and geometrical pavilion, where its content could be appreciated for its curious beauty and optical delight. Huygens, on the other hand, emphasized nature's regularity and order in his treatise. He needed the regularity of the rock crystal and the uniqueness of the Iceland crystal for his inquiry into light, and he transformed both rocks into schematic depictions in his treatise. Huygens opted for the schematized drawing, since this underscored his argument of how light passed through this crystal. The rock crystal embodied nature's geometrical order, whereas the Iceland crystal showed nature's uniqueness. For Huygens, the curiosity of the Iceland crystal was its refraction and not its actual shape. Christiaan considered the crystal an illproportioned but interesting object, and not an example of nature's playful artistry.66 As such, he chose not to include an actual drawing of this strange crystal in his book, since it would only distract the reader from his treatise on light.67 The irregular form of Huygens' Iceland crystal contrasted with the orderly shape of the rock crystal. In both of his pre-press manuscripts of 1689, he described his piece of Iceland crystal. But the description never made it to the final publication of the Traite de la LumieÁre. The unpublished section reads: . . . the greatest piece I have seen of the latter is the length of a thumb, has the shape of a cylinder, but is overall imperfect, irregular and pocked with cavities . . . at two ends it has. . . obtuse angles, composed of three angles of 101 degrees each.68

Accompanying this text on folio 216r, Huygens had made a drawing of his piece of Iceland crystal (Figure 4), which he crossed out in the pre-press manuscripts of the TraiteÂ. The original illustration and description showed a crystal with angles of varying degrees and different axes. This stood in opposition to the geometrical depiction of the Iceland crystal, which was found on folio 215r in the manuscript (Figure 5). For the printed version,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

130

Into the Light

Figure 4 Christiaan Huygens, Traite de la LumieÁre manuscript, Special collections, University Library Leiden, HUG 31 fol. 216r.

Huygens opted to include only this schematized drawing of the Iceland crystal, and against the realistic depiction and description of the Iceland crystal. He discarded nature's `flawed' form, which worked against his emphasis on nature's beautiful order and regularity. He remained, nevertheless, intrigued by the formation of the hexagonal rock crystal. In search of an answer, he wanted to know more about the crystal's History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

131

Figure 5 Christiaan Huygens, Traite de la LumieÁre manuscript, Special collections, University Library Leiden, HUG 31 fol. 215r.

natural environment. Christiaan asked his brother about the location and type of earth in which the Lingen crystal grew that might help account for its shape.69 Constantijn explained that the crystals grew (the Huygens' brothers used the word croõÃtre in reference to the crystal's original environment) in a cave deep in a mountain. It was here that the crystals gained their form. Back in his chambers, Christiaan puzzled over the History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

132

Into the Light

formation of nature's geometry, which he believed to consist of orderly composed particles. How did the crystal get its shape? How did this happen with the `many bodies, vegetable, mineral, and congealed salts, which are formed with certain regular angles and figures'? He found that: All these things deserve careful investigation to ascertain how and by what artifice nature operates . . .. It seems that in general the regularity which occurs in these productions comes from the arrangement of the small invisible equal particles of which they are composed.70

Huygens admired the beauty of nature's geometry and the regularity of the composition of the particles, but he was unable to explain nature's `beautiful order'. This continued to elude him, which made him wonder all the more about the formation of crystals. While searching for an answer, he wrote that he didn't yet dare: . . . to say anything about how such tiny, equal and similar corpuscles are produced, whether they are formed first and then assembled, or whether they arrange themselves in the process of being born and to the extent that they are produced, which seems to me most likely. To develop truths so recondite requires a knowledge of nature much greater than that which we now have.71

Even after lengthy investigation into the nature of the crystal, together with new information on its original `birthplace', Christiaan was still not able to reveal how the crystal got its form and by what artifice nature operates. All he could do was to speculate on the mechanism of their regular formation. Huygens had much to say about the working of light in his treatise, but the question regarding the formation of nature's geometry remained unanswered. It might therefore be argued that it was thus not in Huygens' cabinet, but in a garden grotto that the representation of nature's beautiful geometrical order and its curious marvels were most revealingly achieved. The constructors offered their version of the working of divine order by mentally and manually weaving together order and variety, art and nature. By merging the natural and the artificial, they recreated an enhanced `belly of the earth'. The grotto constructors found a cunning way to present their understanding of nature's beautiful truths and expose the formation of its geometry; they aesthetically `succeeded' where Huygens failed. CONCLUSION

As quoted at the beginning of this paper, Penson and Huygens signaled a link between art and nature. In the garden of Zorgvliet, humans imposed the orderly rules of art onto nature, whereas Huygens' starting point was a belief that artifice is the tool with which God ordered nature. Garden constructors imposed their views of nature's geometry to transform and embellish their landscapes. In his quarters, Huygens tried to explain nature's own design and to reveal its hidden geometrical truths. The transformation of nature took another step in the grotto, where History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

133

light, mirrors and crystals were configured to form a cunning optical trick while manipulatively revealing nature's geometrical beauty and the motion of light. Bentinck and his constructors combined their skilled and intellectual labours regarding engineering and nature, geometry, tools, prints and books to project an optical illusion. They amassed natural and artificial curiosities from two main sources, the Lingen mine and Johan Maurits' grotto, and adapted them to this newly built environment. The accumulation of information and objects led to the design of the grotto that revealed both nature's playful artistry and its orderly workings. Up to 1690, Christiaan Huygens examined crystals and their refraction by using various tools, such as geometry, chisels, metal plates, almond oil, pen and paper, to reveal the nature of light. Huygens represented his geometrical adaptation of nature in schematic depictions and writing, thereby deciding in the final stage to discard what seemed to be evidence of nature's inexplicable irregularity. Tinkering with Iceland and rock crystal, Huygens uncovered the workings of the strange refraction and he revealed the rules of refraction. While manipulating and contemplating different crystals, he tried to understand the crystal's formative secret, but was finally forced to give up his goal of finding the truth regarding nature's orderly formation. Searching for nature's truths enabled Bentinck's constructors and Christiaan to find a way to expose its hidden workings. This inquiry into the nature of crystals was an activity whereby both Bentinck and Huygens relied on the knowledge and knowhow of other people. A network consisting of Constantijn Huygens, Prince Johan Maurits, Philips de Flines, several grotto constructors and fountain-makers, Prince William of Orange and the miners from the county of Lingen tied the Grotto of Ganymede to the Traite de la LumieÁre. Each member of the network transformed the crystal into an object that exposed its inner beauty and truth. The miners revealed the crystal's protective quality, the grotto constructors revealed nature's orderly beauty and the mathematician revealed the laws of refraction. A collaboration of minds and hands, motivated by the crystal's geometrical shape and the way it reflected light, laboured to expose and understand the nature of these rocks. The revelatory goals of the grotto and the treatise differed, but their creators' practices and intentions were akin. Bentinck's constructors, like Huygens, paired variety and wonder to geometry and order for their constructive understanding and depiction of nature. Huygens emphasized order and geometry in his book. Though he used variety and wonder for his inquiry into nature's workings, he decided to suppress this in the end, since it led attention away from nature's regularity. Bentinck's workforce emphasized nature's wonder and imposed geometry onto nature while using the arts to `explain' nature. They merged variety and order so as to accentuate nature's wealth and splendour. The manipulation and contemplation of nature by the miners and grotto constructors opened the way for Huygens to proceed with his History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

134

Into the Light

inquiry into nature, connecting the grand examinateur and his crystals firmly to the Grotto of Ganymede. The Huygens' brothers, however, claimed otherwise. Their high-ranked status strengthened their motivation to stand above the level of labourers and their artistically transformed products. The Huygens brothers regarded these labourers as incapable of being able to value nature and understand its laws, since their handcraft was motivated by economics and materially directed towards adorning a garden grotto. Conversely, the Huygens's social standing enabled them to gain access to noble garden grottoes filled with natural and artificial objects that miners and artisans had `merely' retrieved, constructed or embellished. But it was the mindful hands of these labourers that brought these nature's hidden treasures to light, allowing Christiaan Huygens to amass and examine the different types of crystal, and to write a treatise on light. Due to their place in society and gentlemanly concerns, the brothers placed themselves above the echelon of nameless labourers and their `tacit' knowledge of nature. This seventeenth-century elitist distinction has subsequently been prolonged by generations of historians. Indeed, the attention of historians has rested for too long on the `internal' intellectual development of the Traite de la LumieÁre. Huygens' wide-ranging correspondence and his treatises published in the Oeuvres CompleÁtes have supplied historians with plenty of material to examine and appreciate his relationship with other savants. But, by looking at other letters and by including the two pre-press manuscripts of his treatise72 in our investigation, this essay draws another picture. Huygens depended on the knowing and doing of a broad range of actors, including miners and artisans, while he harnessed both his own hands and mind to induce the crystal to reveal its secrets. The network of these transformative practices and the revelation of nature connected the Lingen mines, the Grotto of Ganymede and Huygens' cabinet, revealing a collaboration that entailed both material and knowledge production. This intertwined connection and transformation have remained long hidden from us, partially because the Grotto of Ganymede was demolished some time ago, leaving only Huygens' treatise and his culturally shaped sense of social interactions as our obvious guides to the related histories of material and knowledge production. But, now that the productive capacities of mental and manual collaboration are brought to light, the implications for revising our approach to natural inquiry and invention seem crystal clear. Notes and References

* A previous version of this paper was presented at SHOT in Washington, October 2007. I would like to thank participants for their comments, and I especially thank Dr Lissa Roberts, my mentor and friend. 1. T. Penson, `Harl', MS. 3516, f 14, quoted in R. C. Temple (ed.), The Papers of Thomas Bowrey 1669±1713 (London, 1927), 52. 2. C. Huygens, Traite de la LumieÁre (Leiden, 1690), 91, `Il y a plusieurs corps vegetaux, mineraux, & sels congelez, qui se forment avec de certains angles & figures reguliers', and p. 92, `Toutes ces choses meritent d'estre rechercheÂes soingeusement, pour reconnoitre comment & par quel artifice la nature y opere'. 3. C. Mukerji, `Material Practices of Dominion: Christian Humanism, the Built

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

135

Environment and Techniques of Western Power', Theory and Society, 2002, 31: 1±34. She discusses how constructing a garden depended on natural knowledge and artistry. Engineering nature was a `form of purification' of restoring nature to its once perfect `grand design' of Creation. God had hidden Nature's laws from men because of their sins; see pp. 7±8. 4. Art has two meanings: (1) the process of the transformation of nature and (2) the products of human endeavour to imitate nature. See, for further reference, J. van der Groen, Den Nederlandtsen hovenier (Amsterdam, 1670), `. . . de Natuur, die zich veeltijts wanschickelijck vertoont, door de konst kan op-geschickt, op-gepronckt, in goede ordre, cierlijck en vermakelijck gemaeckt worden'; E. de Jong, Natuur en Kunst, Nederlandse tuin- en landschapsarchitectuur 1650±1740 (Hilversum, 1995), 35±8; P. Dear, `Miracles, Experiments, and the Ordinary Course of Nature', Isis, 1990, 81: 663±83, notably p. 682. 5. See F. J. Dijksterhuis, `Constructive Thinking: A Case for Dioptrics', in L. L. Roberts, S. Schaffer and P. Dear (eds), The Mindful Hand: Inquiry and Invention from the Late Renaissance to Early Industrialisation (Amsterdam, 2007), 59±82. He argues the actors' difficulties regarding making a distinction between the disinterested geomeÁtre and the professional/ practical mathematician. 6. A. E. Shapiro, `Huygens' ``Traite de la LumieÁre'' and Newton's ``Opticks'': Pursuing and Eschewing Hypotheses', Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London, 1989, 43: 223±47; A. E. Shapiro, `Huygens' Kinematic Theory of Light', in H. J. M. Bos, M. J. S. Rudwick, et al. (eds), Studies of Christiaan Huygens, Invited Papers from the Symposium on the Life and Work of Christiaan Huygens (Lisse, 1980), 200±20. 7. See, e.g. T. Comito, `Renaissance Gardens and the Discovery of Paradise', Journal of the History of Ideas, 1971, 32: 483±506. This paper discusses the transformation of nature into gardens. P. Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museum, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley, 1994), 407, where she argues that `Europe's leading intellectuals conducted their inquiry into nature in museums'. W. Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature: Books of Secrets in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Princeton, 1994). Nature, Eamon argues, was to be understood through experiments; otherwise, its secrets remained hidden. 8. For more reference, see B. Latour, The Pasteurization of France (Cambridge MA/ London, 1993), 79±90. B. Latour, `Give Me a Laboratory and I Will Raise the World', in K. Knorr and M. Mulkay (eds), Science Observed: Perspective on the Social Study of Science (Los Angeles, 1983), 141±70; I. Rhys Morus, `Seeing and Believing Science', Isis, 2006, 97: 101±10. 9. C. Huygens, Oeuvres CompleÁtes de Christiaan Huygens (Den Haag, 1888±1950) (referred to further as OC), Vol. 8, No. 2230 Constantijn to Christiaan, 3 October 1680, `En passant a Lingen pour aller a Cell on me fit voir des grosses pieces moitje terre et moitje pierre sur les quels croissent certaines pointes comme celles du cristal de roche, et de figure hexagone comme elles: ces pointes que je vis n'avoyent qu'environ un demy pouce de diametre, mais le Richter de Lingen me dit qu'il s'en trouvoit de plus grosses, et que de ce cristal l'on pouvoit faire tailler des cachets et toutes autres choses. Ils l'estiment si peu par la qu'il me dit qu'il avoit envoye de fort grosses pieces de cette mine a Mr. Benting pur en orner les Fontaines qu'il fait a Sorgvliet'. 10. P. H. Smith, The Body of the Artisan, Art and Experience in the Scientific Revolution (Chicago, 2004). She discusses at length the role of artisans as active knowers of nature, which I will not repeat here. 11. G. Schreiber, Der Bergbau in Geschichte, Ethos und Sakralkultur (Cologne, 1955). On crystals and their meaning, see pp. 202±6. 12. W. Cramer, Geschichte der Graffschaft Lingen im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert (Oldenburg, 1940), 82±5. 13. On the IbbenbuÈren coalmine, see http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bergwerk_IbbenbuÈren, 29 October 2008, `Erste Zeichen fuÈr den Steinkohlebergbau in IbbenbuÈren lassen sich bis auf das 15./16. Jahrhundert zuruÈckdatieren. Aufgrund des huÈgeligen GelaÈndes wurden kleine SchaÈchte und Stollen in die Erhebungen der Landschaft getrieben, um Kohle fuÈr benachbarte Kalkbrennereien und Salinen zu gewinnen'. This mine is due to be closed in 2009 or 2010. On rock crystal, see http://gea-drenthe.nl/nsaksen.html#ibbenburen, 29 October 2008, `Steenkoollaag uit het boven-Carboon. Naast fossielen zijn uit ertsgangen en spleten in de kolenkalk de volgende mineralen bekend: Bariet (4cm), Bergkristal (tot 10cm, ook Scepter-kwarts), Dolomiet (1,5 cm), kogelvormige Markasiet, Milleriet (2cm), Steenzout

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

136

Into the Light

(3cm) em Whevelliet (3mm)'. For more information on IbbenbuÈren rock crystal, see www.boerseos.de/ibbenb.php. 14. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2369 Constantijn to Christiaan, 25 September 1684, and No. 2368 Christiaan to Constantijn, 22 September 1684, `. . . cristal de Lingen croit dans une grotte qui est dedans d'une montagne et fort avant en terre a ce qu'ils disent'. In the letters of 1679, Constantijn used the word `mines' whereas, in the 1684 correspondence, he talked about `grotto'. 15. In their letters, the Huygens brothers used the word `croõà tre' (to grow) when discussing the crystal's natural environment. 16. S. Taylor-Leduc, `A New Treatise in Seventeenth-Century Garden History: Andre FeÂlibien's ``Description de la Grotte aÁ Versailles''', Studies in the History of Gardens & Designed Landscapes, 1998, 18: 35±50, see p. 42. 17. N. Lefebvre, A Compendious Body of Chemistry: Teaching the Whole Practice Thereof by the Most Exact Preartion of Animals, Vegetables and Minerals, Preserving their Essential Virtues (London, 1664), two volumes. He explains on p. 62 that `Minerals do live, as long as they are joined to their Matrix and Root'. Lefebvre expressed the notion that minerals live on as long as they are in their natural state in the earth. 18. M. Szafranska, `The Philosophy of Nature and the Grotto in the Renaissance Garden', Journal of Garden History, 1989, 9: 76±85. She argues that a garden grotto symbolized life-giving qualities of earth and water. Plant seeds, stones and crystals were `born' in the belly of the earth and metal got its shape there; see p. 79. 19. Schreiber, op. cit. (11). Working so closely, the mine workers were known as `brotherhood' or `community', pp. 19±20. 20. G. Heilfurth, Der Bergbau und seine Kultur, Eine Welt zwischen Dunkel und Licht (ZuÈrich, 1981), 26±46; L. Suhling, Aufschlieûen, Gewinnen und FoÈrderen: Geschichte des Bergbaus (Hamburg, 1983), 158±62; C. E. Gregory, A Concise History of Mining (New York/Oxford, 1980). 21. Schreiber, op. cit. (11), 206. 22. G. J. ter Kuile, `Het graafschap Lingen onder de Oranjes', Verslagen en Mededeelingen van de Vereeniging tot Beoefening van Overijsselsch Regt en Geschiedenis (s. l, 1953), 13±31. 23. Latour, `Give Me a Laboratory', op. cit. (8). 24. Perhaps Christiaan Huygens got the crystals no sooner than his return to the Low Countries, in 1683. 25. Although he had presented his initial findings on the Iceland crystal's strange refraction to the AcadeÂmie Royales des Sciences in 1679, he published his book in 1690 with new information. 26. Royal Archives, The Hague, letter from Johan Maurits van Nassau-Siegen to Bentinck, 27 February 1679. He wrote: `. . . sans doute Son Alt : aura la bonte de vous adviser en ordonnant la place pour la grotte car c'est le principal, de la bien placer . . ..' 27. V. Bezemer-Sellers, Courtly Gardens in Holland 1600±1650: The House of Orange and the Hortus Batavus (Amsterdam, 2001), 352±8. 28. Since the prince could not financially maintain his grotto, he had it demolished. 29. The Huygens family knew this garden very well, since their residence in The Hague bordered that of Johan Maurits. 30. Royal Archives, The Hague, letter from Johan Maurits to Bentinck, 28 February 1675, `. . . je vours [sic] prie, de me faire l'honeur, j'accepter le petit ornement pour vostre grotte, que vous avez dessein de faire pour avoir une belle vue, soit sur le gradin [sic], ou dans quelque autre endroit, dont la reflexion dans les miroirs sera une belle operation, aÁ Sorgvliet ouÁ sans doute Son Alt: aura la bonte de vous adviser en ordonnant la place pour la grotte car c'est le principal, de la bien placer, je vourdroit que j'avis quelque chose de plus grande importance, qui vous pourroit estre agreable, il seroit aÁ vostre service . . .'. 31. Maurits Post's father Peter Post was also architect to the Stadholder and his family. 32. N. Japikse, Correspondentie van Willem III en van Hans Willem Bentinck, eersten graaf van Portland, Serie 1, part 1 (The Hague, 1927), 175±9, letter 146 from William III to Bentinck, 14 April 1693, `J'ay este cett apreÁsdine aÁ Sorghvliet ouÁ j'ay trouve tout en asses bon ordre, mais cela a renouvelle mon chagrin de ne vous avoir aupreÁs de moy. Il y aura par tout ce pais peu de fruit cette anneÂe, la dernieÁre geleÂe et niege ayent gaÃte les fleurs'. 33. Bezemer-Sellers, op. cit. (27). Joseph, his son Otto and, later, his grandson Frederic were all fountain-makers, pp. 174±6.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

137

34. D. J. Roorda, `De loopbaan van Willem Meester', Spiegel Historiael, 1981, 16: 614±22; E. de Jong, `For Profit and Ornament: The Function and Meaning of Dutch Garden Art in the Period of William and Mary, 1650±1702', in J. D. Hunt (ed.), The Dutch Garden in the Seventeenth Century (Washington, 1990), 13±48: Meester went there together with Mr Van Nassau-Odijk, the Stadholder's nephew. V. Bezemer-Sellers, `The Bentinck Garden at Sorgvliet', in J. D. Hunt, The Dutch Garden in the Seventeenth Century (Washington, 1990), 99± 129. On p. 120, she writes that Prince William and Bentinck sent Meester to Paris. 35. J. Boyceau, Traite du jardinage, selon les raisons de la nature et de l'art (NoÈrdlingen, 1997), 80, `Les Grotes sont faites pour representeer les Antres sauvages, soit qu'elles soient tailleÂes dans les rochers naturals, ou basties expresseÂment autre part: aussi sont-elles ordinairement tenues sombres, & aucunement obscures. Elles sont orneÂes d'ouvrages rustiques, & d'eÂstoffes conuenantes aÁ cette maniere, comme pierres spongieuses, & concaves, especes de roches, & cailloux bigearres, congelation, & petrifications estranges, & de diverses sortes de coquillages, qui par leurs formes & couleurs bien ordonneÂes font de beaux enrichissemens: les goutieres & reiallissemens d'eau, y sont propres & bien seants, redant les choses plus naturelles'. 36. Royal Archives, The Hague, letter from Post to Johan Maurits, 7/17 May 1673, `Ick ben meede doende inde grodt al waer door de groote warmte veel schillkens als hoornee af vallen ende verschijde ons mankeeren, . . .'. 37. Royal Archives, The Hague, letter from Johan Maurits to his accountant/agent Jacob Cohen, 22 February 1679; it mentions an iron stove. 38. As it turned out, the courtier did not have a heater put into his garden pavilion; this may have safeguarded him from falling shells and conches. 39. Bezemer-Sellers, op. cit. (34), 113±14; Bentinck was considered an authority on matters concerning waterworks. See also Japikse, op. cit. (32) and N. Japikse, Correspondentie van Willem III en van Hans Willem Bentinck, eersten graaf van Portland, Serie 1, part 2 (The Hague, 1928). In the correspondence between Bentinck, William III, the French garden architect Andre LenoÃtre and others, there are many references to gardens, fountains, gardening and water works. 40. G. A. C. Blok, `De architect Maurits Pietersz Post en de tuin van het Mauritshuis', Jaarboek van Die Haghe (The Hague, 1940), 60±117, see p. 92. Purchased by the architect Maurits Post for the grotto of Johan Maurits, `39 spiegelglasen betaelt die bij monsr alhier gehaelt en ten dienste van zijn F.G. grotte in den Hage verbruijckt zijn f. 170:3:-'. 41. Blok, ibid., 92, `. . . voor partij zeehorens en schulpen daervan een gedeelte aen zijn F.G. vereerdt en andere door mijn gecocht zijn . . . f. 40:8:- '. 42. On grottoes, see N. Miller, Heavenly Caves, Reflections on the Garden Grotto (New York, 1982); Szafranska, op. cit. (18); Taylor-Leduc, op. cit. (16). 43. B. M. Stafford and F. Terpak, Devices of Wonder: From the World in a Box to Images on a Screen (Los Angeles, 2001), see p. 25 on mirrors as instruments for science and for divination. 44. P. Findlen, `Jokes of Nature and Jokes of Knowledge: The Playfulness of Scientific Discourse in Early Modern Europe', Renaissance Quarterly, 1990, 43: 292±331; E. Gombrich, `Review Lecture Mirror and Map: Theories of Pictorial Representation', Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, Series B, Biological Sciences, 1975, 270: 11±149, notably 120±7. 45. Temple, op. cit. (1), 50. 46. L. Daston and K. Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature 1150±1750 (New York, 1998), notably 224±7; Findlen, op. cit. (44). 47. On the inquiry and collecting of shells and curiosity cabinets, see E. C. Spary, `Scientific Symmetries', History of Science: An Annual Review of Literature, Research and Teaching, 2004, 42: 1±46; B. Dietz, `Mobile Objects: The Space of Shells in Eighteenth-Century France', British Journal of the History of Science, 2006, 39: 363±82. 48. F. J. Dijksterhuis, Lenses and Waves, Christiaan Huygens and the Mathematical Science of Optics in the Seventeenth Century (Dordrecht, 2004), notably 111 and 142±3. 49. F. J. Dijksterhuis, `Christiaan Huygens en de mechanica van het licht', in M. Keestra and A. LoÈhnberg (eds), Doorbraken in de natuurkunde (Amsterdam, 2001), 57±80, see p. 64. 50. For more on Huygens and the strange refraction, see Dijksterhuis, ibid., and Dijksterhuis, op. cit. (48). 51. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2105 Christiaan to Colbert, 14 October 1677, `Cristal d'Islande qui n'est pas une petite merveille de la nature, ni aiseÂe a profondir. Je me plains bien

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

138

Into the Light

souvent de ma destineÂe d'estre d'une complexion si peu proportionneÂe a l'inclination que j'ay de travailler a ces belles connoissance'. 52. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2201 Christiaan to Constantijn, 3 November 1679, `J'ay trouveÁ moyen de tailler et de polir ce cristal ce qu'on croioit impossible, et cela me sert fort a ce que j'en ay a faire'. 53. Huygens, op. cit. (2), 88±9. 54. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2201 Christiaan to Constantijn, 3 November 1679, `. . . je suis aussie apres a faire quelque nouvelle tentative pour le parfait poli du verre . . .'. 55. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2201 Christiaan to Constantijn, 3 November 1679, `. . . poli du verre que nostre petite vefve le Bas tient fort secrete'. She was the widow of glass grinder Le Bas, and keeping Le Bas' way of grinding a secret meant a safeguarding of her livelihood. 56. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2235 Christiaan to Constantijn, 20 December 1680, `Comme je suis grand examinateur de cristaux et de leur refractions, je souhaiterois fort de voir quelque morceau bien transparent de cettuicy, et vous en aurez aisement puis qu'on envoie a Mons. Bentingh'. 57. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2367 Constantijn to Christiaan 18 September 1684, `Ces deux petits morceaux de pierre sont pris de deux grands qui son employeÂs aux Grottes qu'on fait icy. Le blanc est une maniere de Cristal qui croit dans la Comte de Lingen. Il croit en des figures regulieres comme le veritable. Vous verrez qu'il se fend et se casse par des pieces paralleles a la superficie qui est luisante'. 58. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2368 Christiaan to Constantijn, 22 September 1684, `L'autre morceau semble contenir quelque metail, veu sa pesanteur, mais apparemment ce n'est pas d'une mine bien riche puis que s'en sert a faire des grottes'. 59. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2201 Christiaan to his Constantijn, 3 November 1679, `J'avois prieÁ bien fort le Sr. Defflines de me procurer quelque morceau de cristal ou talc d'Islande, par ce qu'il me dit qu'un de ses amis negotioit en cette isle de tout le souffre qui s'y receuilloit'. 60. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2231 Christiaan to Constantijn, 24 October 1680, `Le bon Seigneur de Flines m'avoit promis de m'en procurer de celuy d'Islande par le moyen d'un sien amy, qui negocioit en soulphre dans cette Isle, mais il semble l'avoir oublie. Par occasion je vous prie de luy en parler, comme aussi touchant des fraines de fleur, qu'il avoit promis d'envoier a Mr. Marchand nostre Botanicus du Jardin Royal en eschange d'autres qu'il n'avoit pas. Il s'adresse tousjours a moy pour en avoir des nouvelles parce que je luy ay fait connoistre Mr. Desflinis'; OC, op. cit. (9), No. 2238, Constantijn to Christiaan 28 January 1681, `De Flinis m'a mande que dans peu de jours il croyoit de venir icy et alors je ne manqueray pas de la sommer pour le Cristal d'Islande . . .'; No. 2239 Christiaan to Constantijn, 14 February 1681, `. . . de Flinis avoit promis d'envoier de graines de fleurs a nostre Botanicus Mr. Marchand . . .'. 61. Huygens, op. cit. (2), 88, `. . . je diray icy la maniere dont je me suis servi aÁ la tailler, & aÁ la polir. La taille est aiseÂe par les roueÈs tranchantes des lapidaires, ou de la maniere qu'on sie le marbre ; mais le poli est tres difficile, & en employant les moyens ordinaires, on deplit bien plutost les surfaces qu'on ne les rend luisantes'. 62. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 12, 442. 63. Huygens, op. cit. (2), 59, `. . . j'observay dans le cristal ordinaire que croit en forme hexagone, & qui, aÁ cause de cette regulariteÂ, semble aussi estre compose de particules de certaine figure & rangeÂes avec ordre . . .'. 64. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2105 Christiaan to Colbert, 14 October 1677, `Cristal d'Islande qui n'est pas une petite merveille de la nature, ni aiseÂe a profondir. Je me plains bien souvent de ma destineÂe d'estre d'une complexion si peu proportionneÂe a l'inclination que j'ay de travailler a ces belles connoissance'. 65. L. L. Roberts, `A World of Wonders, A World of One', in P. Smith and P. Findlen (eds), Merchants and Marvels: Commerce, Science and Art in Early Modern Europe (New York/ London, 2002), 399±411. 66. Findlen, op. cit. (44). 67. S. DupreÂ, De Optica van Galileo Galilei, Interactie tussen Kunst en Wetenschap (Brussels, 2001). He explains how representation is not the same as exact rendering by arguing how Galileo sacrificed accurateness for the sake of an argument.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Alette Fleischer

139

68. Christiaan Huygens, Hug 31 VII 253±312, Leiden University Library, Folio 215r, `Le plus grand morceau que j'ay vu de ces derniers est de la longueur d'un poucer, de forme cylindrique, mais imparfaite et inegale, tout au tour, et cayee des plusieurs cavitez . . . aux deux bouts il y a . . . angles obtus, compris des 3 angles de 101 degrez chacun . . .'. This was a part of point 5, to be found on p. 95 of the Traite de la LumieÁre. 69. OC, op. cit. (9), Vol. 8, No. 2368 Christiaan to Constantijn, 22 September 1684, `Puis que le vostre vient de Lingen, on pourroit estre informeÁ dans quels lieux et en quelle terre il croit ce qui merite d'estre sceu, sur tout pour moy qui ay escrit un traiteÁ de ce cristal'. 70. Huygens, op. cit. (2), 91, `Il y a plusieurs corps vegetaux, mineraux, & sels congelez, qui se forment avec de certains angles & figures reguliers. Ainsi parmy les fleurs il y en a beaucoup, qui ont leurs feuilles disposeÂes en polygones ordonnez, au nombre de 3.4.5. ou 6 costez, mais non pas d'avantage', and p. 92, `Toutes ces choses meritent d'estre rechercheÂes soingeusement, pour reconnoitre comment & par quel artifice la nature y opere. Mais ce n'est pas maintenant mon dessein de traite entierement cette matiere. Il semble qu'en general la regulariteÂ, qui se trouve dans ces productions, vient de l'arrangemeÂt des petites particules invisibles & egales dont elles sont composeÂes'. 71. Huygens, op. cit. (2), 96, `Je n'entreprendray pas de rien dire touchant la maniere don't s'engendrent tant de petits corpuscules, tous eÂgaux & semblables, ni comment ils sont mis dans un si bel ordre. S'ils sont formez premierement, & puis assemblez, ou s'ils se rangent ainsi en naissant, & aÁ mesure qu'ils sont produits, ce qui me paroit plus vrai-semblable. Il faudroit pour developper des veritez si cacheÂes une connoissance de la nature bien plus grande que celle que nous avons'. 72. Both pre-press manuscripts are not included in the Oeuvres CompleÁtes.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

The Mindful Hands of Peasants: Construction of an Eight-Lock Staircase at Fonseranes, 1678±79 CHANDRA MUKERJI

THE PROBLEM

In the late 1670s, two illiterate brothers, Michel and Pierre Medailhes or Madalhi, were given the subcontract for a major piece of engineering. It was an eight-lock staircase for the Canal du Midi built at Fonseranes in southwestern France. The set of locks had to descend a hillside that was not a perfect incline plane, which made it difficult to design. Each lock had to hold the same volume of water, but could not have exactly the same dimensions because of the way it sat on the hill. Given the complexity of the problem and the difficulties subcontractors had had with smaller lock staircases before, one would expect that the subcontract would have been given to the most sophisticated engineers available and a crew with experience with similar structures on the canal. Instead, it went to two brothers without formal education and a workforce of mainly peasant women laborers. This group with astoundingly little education and low social rank was given responsibility for an important piece of infrastructural engineering for the French state. Why? Those engaged in this work apparently embodied a form of expertise that not only made the subcontractors seem credible for the job, but also helped the labourers execute the project well. As a work of unlettered expertise, the Fonseranes locks were clearly a product of `mindful hands', carrying an intelligence that might not have been formal but still was recognizably important to the engineering. This paper is an effort to uncover this tacit knowledge that the peasant subcontractors and labourers shared, and explain how their skills were used to solve the problems of designing a long lock staircase. This case is unusual in revealing the `mindful hands' of peasants ± a group whose intellectual sophistication is hard to study in a period when they were disdained by elites1 and muted by their illiteracy. (The intellectual abilities of artisans were more recognized in the period and documented more frequently in both artifacts and writings.) In the seventeenth century, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

142

The Mindful Hands of Peasants

credibility and rank were deeply intertwined and peasants were, by period standards, not reliable, thinking beings. In archival documents, their capacities were often masked by the pretensions, thoughts and abilities of their social betters who could write.2 But, at Fonseranes, the supervisors themselves were of peasant background, so what this labour force accomplished demonstrates what the `mindful' hands of peasants could do. The question, then, is what peasant practices prepared them to successfully engineer the lock staircase at Fonseranes and to solve problems in hydraulics that had previously proved intractable with formal methods. Because of their illiteracy, there are no personal documents of the Medailhes brothers or the women they hired to shed light on their lives or expertise, but, given Jean-Baptiste Colbert's concern about the treasury funds being used for building the Canal du Midi, there are verifications of the work and evidence of the labour process in the account books that tell us who did the work and (to some extent) in what sequence of steps. Comparing this material to the finished artefact and other structures on the Canal du Midi built by comparable (or perhaps even the same) women labourers, we can piece together the story of the mindful hands behind the lock staircase at Fonseranes. The Canal du Midi itself was built across the province of Languedoc in southwestern France between 1666 and 1684 under contract to a local tax farmer and entrepreneur, Pierre-Paul Riquet. He brought to the project no formal training in engineering, but the canal was nonetheless successfully etched across the province and heralded at its completion as a wonder of the world. Celebrated for joining the two seas, it began at the Garonne River (that flows into the Atlantic Ocean) and extended across France just north of the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean. The waterway was roughly 150 miles (240 km) long, and required 100 locks to manage the substantial shifts in elevation.3 Canals were a relatively new technology and lock design was barely understood in the late seventeenth century. Canals were used mainly in the Netherlands or on the Lombardy plain in Italy, where they only had to accommodate subtle changes in elevation with their locks. The Canal du Midi was much longer than most, and had to carry boats over much more substantial changes in elevation to raise the waterway to 620 feet (189 metres) above sea level at the divide between the Atlantic and Mediterranean watersheds. Where the elevation changed rapidly, the canal was outfitted with staircase locks, but, with few exceptions, these consisted only of two or three basins in succession. The eight-lock staircase at Fonseranes was dramatically different in scale from all the others and was built in 1678±79 ± towards the end of the enterprise, when the most difficult problems were finally tackled. By this time, money was running low and Colbert was running out of patience, as cost overruns and delays were plaguing the enterprise. In this delicate moment, the complex lock staircase had to be constructed in a very visible location, descending a long hill across from the city of BeÂziers, the hometown of Pierre-Paul Riquet.4 This was no place or time for a large technical failure (Figure 1). History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

143

Figure 1 The middle locks of the staircase at Fonseranes. FORMAL KNOWLEDGE OF ENGINEERING IN LANGUEDOC

It would be easy to think that if illiterate entrepreneurs were chosen as subcontractors for the Fonseranes locks, it could only be because in seventeenth-century Languedoc, there were no skilled engineers available for the project. But that was not the case. There were many engineers already working on the Canal du Midi in the 1670s who had more

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

144

The Mindful Hands of Peasants

credentials for the job, and there were obvious local sources of educated subcontractors for the enterprise. In fact, there were two schools in Languedoc that taught engineering in the seventeenth century: the Academie at Castres and a Jesuit school at BeÂziers. The Academie at Castres was a well known school with some notable engineering professors. It had on its faculty, for example, Pierre Borel, who eventually was admitted to the AcadeÂmie des Sciences in Paris after he was forced to leave Castres for being a Huguenot.5 The great mathematician, Pierre de Fermat, also worked in the legal system in Castres.6 In this town in the mountains, then, mathematics and engineering were there to be learned, and Riquet knew it. The entrepreneur had copied a canal plan by Borel for his original proposal, and he was also a client of the Bishop in Castres, d'Anglure de Bourlemont, who was well aware in the 1660s of the school and was probably instrumental in imposing its Catholic orthodoxy.7 At the other end of Languedoc, closer to the site of the Fonseranes locks, there was also a Jesuit college in BeÂziers. One of the professors from that school, PeÁre Mourgues, was already working on the account books and verifications for the Canal du Midi in the 1670s, when the Fonseranes staircase started to be built.8 He was clearly in a position to find skilled and literate subcontractors from his school to bid on the Fonseranes locks. Nonetheless, he did not prevent the Medailhes brothers from gaining the subcontract for the lock staircase, even though he clearly knew that the brothers could not even sign their names. Mourgues witnessed the `signing' of their account books as the older Medhailes brother placed a large X on the documents, while the younger brother marked his agreement with a smaller cross. Because of their lack of education, Michel and Pierre Medailhes were quite unlike the other men awarded contracts for comparably difficult structures on the Canal du Midi. For example, Immanuel d'Estan, the man who supervised construction of the first aqueduct bridge over the Le Repudre River, was described in documents alternately as a mason or an architect. He and his collaborator, Andre Boyer, had previously worked with the military engineer, Chevalier de Clerville, on projects near Bordeaux before coming to the Canal du Midi. The partners arrived at the canal as seasoned and literate structural and hydraulic engineers before they were given their subcontracts.9 Pascal de Nissan, a favourite of Riquet, was another entrepreneur who was awarded a major project on the Canal du Midi. He was given the job of tunnelling through a mountain at Malpas. He was described in documents as an engineer and architect, and was clearly both literate and well respected, becoming one of the controÃles geÂneÁraux of the canal.10 These men and their counterparts could follow written specifications, and sign account books with a fluid hand, demonstrating a literacy that was quite the opposite to the brothers who were awarded the subcontract for the staircase locks at Fonseranes. Clearly, the Medailhes brothers were unusual as subcontractors of a major piece of engineering. So, were the peasant women they hired History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

145

unusual as workers on a set of locks? Even though women had been used in large numbers on the Canal du Midi since 1669, they were rarely, if ever, assigned to locks. They mainly did contour cutting and silt control, routing the canal and its water supply through the mountains and building simple drains and settling ponds to manage water quality and flows. If they helped build large structures, it did not show up in the account books.11 Clearly, this lock staircase was so large and complex that it seemed to require some new approach to the engineering ± apparently, some wealth of tacit knowledge that peasant men and women could bring. There was a rich indigenous tradition of hydraulics in the Pyrenees. The question is whether these hydraulic practices provided tacit knowledge relevant to engineering an eight-lock staircase. THE LOCKS OF THE CANAL DU MIDI

On the Canal du Midi, using locks to take boats up and downhill was a headache from the start and remained so to the end. The Fonseranes staircase was one in a long line of technically challenging projects, and a surprisingly easy one to achieve. It was built in 2 years, while, in contrast, it had taken from 1663 to 1670 just to design the basins for single locks that would make them stable and reliable over time.12 The earliest locks on the Canal du Midi failed almost immediately. The specifications in the original contract were faulty, so when the first locks were `finished', the walls almost immediately began bulging and tipping (Figure 2). The specifications for these early locks were based on precedents that proved inappropriate. Like the medieval builders described by David Turnbull,13 Pierre-Paul Riquet and the Chevalier de Clerville, commisaire general des fortifications under Colbert, used templates from previous structures to design locks for the canal.14 Unfortunately, the length and depth measures they chose were derived from different sources, so the consequences of creating such a huge cavity were not clear. On the one hand, the original locks were 16 feet long, like the shallow locks used on local rivers to bypass rapids ± a dimension important for accommodating local boats. On the other hand, the depth of the locks was based on the doors of seawalls. Riquet assumed (mistakenly) that the doors would be the most vulnerable part of the locks,15 so he based the depth of the locks on the height of the doors used in the Netherlands for seawalls: 14 feet. To those who had no direct experience of building locks, the walls seemed unproblematic; they would just form a large rectangular container for water. But such thinking did not take into consideration the fundamental physics of the forces on lock walls as they filled and emptied.16 When locks were full, the inward pressure from the earth on the basins was countered by the outward pressure from the water. But when the locks were empty, the forces were not in balance, and the walls were pressed inward by the soil. Adding to the problem, the walls were jiggled slightly every time they were filled and emptied, slowly working the walls loose like History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

146

The Mindful Hands of Peasants

Figure 2 Top lock on the Fonseranes staircase.

a tooth. Their foundations were soon destabilized by this movement, and the inward pressure on the lock walls began to distort them. The situation was particularly dire near the Garonne, where Riquet tried to connect the canal to the river. Like the sand around them, the lock walls started moving. Hector de Boutheroue, the manager for the Canal de Briare who had reviewed the project before it was built, had been concerned about the lock design.17 He advised replacing the long and deep single locks with double or triple lock staircases ± an idea that was opposed by Riquet at the time.18 But this is precisely what Riquet tried when the walls started to fail, making the connection to the Garonne into a double lock staircase and setting a precedent widely followed elsewhere on the Canal du Midi.19 Unfortunately, this wise design decision, in itself, did not solve the lock History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

147

problems in the 1660s. Materials were an issue, too. Following the recommendations by Vitruvius for building in wet areas, Clerville specified using wooden palisades for the lock walls ± except for the connection to the Garonne River. Wooden walls were so fragile that they would bend and break under pressure, turning bulges quickly into wall failures. Not surprisingly, Colbert insisted that henceforth all locks for the Canal du Midi would be made with good, solid masonry.20 Still, the biggest problem of the lock walls was the design of the basin itself. They needed to be long enough to accommodate local boats, and they had to be deep enough to allow the waterway to change elevation rapidly where the land rose quickly ± particularly towards the continental divide. The problem of creating locks deep enough for the local landscape was finally solved by curving the walls and giving the locks an oval shape.21 The curved walls functioned like arches, posed against the inward pressures of the earth. With the oval design, the doors were much narrower than the inner basin. They only allowed one boat to pass into the locks at a time, but the interiors themselves were quite spacious, permitting multiple boats to share passage up or down the waterway. Oval locks built in stone became standard along the Canal du Midi, and about half of the basins were assembled in lock staircases.22 This left one major problem for constructing locks on the Canal du Midi: maintaining the volume of the basins where the locks were arranged in staircases. Even small staircases were plagued with problems through the 1670s because the basins generally could not be made with the same exact dimensions, since the hillsides they had to descend were not perfect incline planes. Where the land fell away faster, they had to be deeper and slightly less long. The problem of adjusting the dimensions became even more pronounced when the staircases were triple and the hillsides they descended longer.23 Given the steep hill at Fonseranes, the eight-lock staircase there promised to be the most difficult of all. Elevation studies had been used at first to try to calculate the volumes for the basins of lock staircases, but these measures had proven more of a problem than aid. Poor instruments and imprecise techniques crippled the effort. Repeatedly, the locks built this way had basins that were significantly uneven in volume, and the crews had to rework them to compensate for the mistakes. They created special water intakes and side drains inside the walls (tambours) to fill and empty them more effectively and accommodate their differences. But rebuilding was costly and cumbersome, so, in 1672, the supervisors officially suspended the use of elevation studies for building lock staircases.24 The staircase at Fonseranes, then, was an engineering project of significant difficulty, and one that posed problems that had yet to be solved. Fixing a set of two or three locks in a staircase was one thing; trying to fix a staircase of eight locks with side drains and intakes would be impossible. Worse, at Fonseranes, the locks had to be cut out of a rock face, so mistakes would be particularly hard to fix. Leaving such difficult work to peasants was not an obvious thing to do. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

148

The Mindful Hands of Peasants POLITICAL AND ECONOMIIC PRESSURES IN THE 1670S

Failures on the Canal du Midi were particularly dangerous to Riquet in the 1670s ± lock failures most of all. Colbert was threatening to make the entrepreneur absorb the costs of turning so many locks into staircases, and rebuilding the locks that had become unstable. In 1676, the intendant for Languedoc, d'Aguesseau, argued that the entrepreneur should be financially responsible for any changes in the engineering he made beyond the original contract, including the new work on the locks. Riquet contended that making staircase locks was not `ordinary' work, but an `extraordinary' expense that should not be subsumed under the original contract. Colbert was inclined to agree with the intendant in part because he was annoyed that so many locks had failed, slowing completion of the canal, but had not yet acted on the impulse.25 Unfortunately for Riquet, other technical troubles were also impeding efforts to finish the canal in the late 1670s. The route along the Aude valley to the mountains before BeÂziers had proved much more rocky than anyone had anticipated.26 To keep the canal high enough above the valley floor to protect it from flooding, it had to be routed along escarpments, and workers had to blast some of the channel out of the cliffs with gunpowder. This created cost overruns of 82,566 livres, the bulk of the 104,027 livres that made up Riquet's expenses beyond what was covered by the contract.27 There were also recurrent problems constructing the port at SeÁte to serve as a terminus for the canal, as storms damaged the seawall and sand filled the port.28 Riquet was also being slowed in finishing the canal by the Etats du Languedoc, the local authority over taxes charged with providing land and treasury monies for the canal. The Etats were dominated by local landholders who opposed funding the enterprise altogether and resisted making indemnified land available for the canal. Even as late as 17 December 1674 and, again, in 1675, the Etats refused to make parcels for building the Canal du Midi available to Riquet, claiming that the state had not assessed the value of indemnified land properly. At the same time, they refused to release funds for work done so far on the waterway, claiming that that nothing on the canal was yet complete.29 Riquet was caught in the middle ± unable to get the land to make progress or make enough progress to get funds from the Etats. Given the delays and cost overruns, Colbert had also lost confidence in Riquet. The minister now doubted publicly that the entrepreneur had the technical capacity and the strength of character to deliver the canal he had promised. Worse, Colbert was convinced (inappropriately) that Riquet was skimming money from the treasury for his family. Any extra expense would come under careful scrutiny and could become a source for further distrust.30 This was no time for another set of locks to go bad. WOMEN LABOURERS ON THE CANAL DU MIDI

Riquet's trust in peasants like the Medailhes brothers and the women History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

149

labourers they hired was daring, but not unprecedented. The entrepreneur had turned to peasants for help from the beginning, planning the water supply system for the canal with the aid of Pierre Campmas, a local fontainier.31 He had also hired increasing numbers of peasant women as labourers since 1669,32 bringing a rich tradition of hydraulics from the Pyrenees to the Canal du Midi. Women labourers started joining the workforce for the Canal du Midi in numbers in 1669, after the war. There were 7,000 men and 1,000 women employed on the canal in this period, mainly to help with the water supply in the Montagne Noire.33 Riquet had been having trouble in particular finding workers who would carry dirt uphill to fill the dam, so he began to pay labourers by the basket. Women arrived in large numbers ± probably because this kind of heavy lifting was normal work for mountain women.34 They were apparently from the Pyrenees and already accustomed to doing seasonal labour in the valleys of Languedoc. They were assigned mainly to Jean Gasse, sieur de Contigny, who ended up directeur geÂneÂral des travaux. He and another supervisor, Roux, came to appreciate the hydraulic abilities of peasant women as they finished the water supply on the Montagne Noire. These supervisors continued to use women labourers on other sites along the canal where it threaded through the mountains.35 By the mid-1670s, over 3,000 women were counted as labourers in different sites along the canal. Some were probably the same women who moved with supervisors like Contigny and Roux, but the absolute numbers increased, too. Women were frequently the majority of workers in the areas they were employed. For example, on 14 May 1678, in the area of Le Somail, the books showed that Estiene Valletter supervised 185 workers, 125 of them `femalle'36 and Jean Sabarie had 400 `femelles' and 21 `maneouvriers'.37 Women were located mainly in mountainous terrain where contour cutting was required, or were employed to design silt control measures in areas where streams and rivers fed into the canal. By the mid1670s, the bulk of the women labourers were in the Somail and BeÂziers regions ± where the Fonseranes locks needed to be built.38 The women labourers who worked on the Canal du Midi used hydraulic techniques that were familiar in Pyrenean towns, supplying water for irrigation, town fountains, public laundries and domestic alimentation. According to the forestry official, Louis de Froidour, they practised a tradition of hydraulics that surpassed anything he had seen before: The greatest advantage that people of the country here derive from these rivers is that they divert them everywhere they want, and that since their sources are at high elevations and come down steep inclines, they can divert them into canals even in the highest mountains and on high precipices to make meadows there. They also route them around towns to serve as fortifications, and they run them into the majority of private homes for the well-beings of the inhabitants; they also disperse water in all parts of the countryside to improve it and to water gardens, fields, meadows, pastures, and the turn millwheels to

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

150

The Mindful Hands of Peasants grind gain, to tan leather, to cut timber, to forge iron, and to work copper, to full fabrics, make paper, and in a word, for all sorts of commodities, to such an extent that one could say that to see all the uses one could make of water, one should see what they do in the Bigorre valley. (Italics in the original)39

The inhabitants of Bigorre and other former Roman bath towns in the mountains adapted Roman hydraulics to new purposes. They maintained these techniques as a form of living practice, not simply repairing old structures, but building new ones and putting old methods to new purposes. Some towns still followed the Roman practice of tapping high mountain springs, setting up reservoirs near them. The shepherds of the mountains then diverted this water to make meadows, and villagers took supplies into town in the summer dry periods. Like the Romans, they used the contours of the land to control inclines and take water through managed streams and canals into the valleys. They also built settling ponds to reduce the silt content of water entering town supplies, and set out sluice gates to regulate the movement of water into fields and gardens ± techniques that were all familiar in Roman times.40 Women became expert in these traditions because most of the work had to be done in the summer when the men were away making cheese. Hydraulic engineering was not a priority for these villages, but it was a good way to put the abundant water of the mountains to good use. And women used it in complex ways, both improving their lives and sustaining a range of classical methods of hydraulics.41 Where women labourers worked in large numbers on the Canal du Midi, the waterway was outfitted with features typical of Pyrenean hydraulic systems. They were employed strategically in complex topography, but not all hilly areas. There was one mountainous region where women were not employed on the Canal du Midi: where the canal bed had to be blasted from solid rock. Between TreÁbes and the Orbiel River, where the canal was cut from stone over the Aude valley, most of the workers were men ± masons, stonecutters, blasting experts and surveyors.42 In contrast, women were used in substantial numbers in the Somail and BeÂziers regions, where the canal turned out of the Aude Valley and into the mountains. Here, the waterway had to follow the contours of the landscape, but could be dug from the earth more than cut from stone. The canal in this area still required some blasting and stonecutting, but the main engineering problem was maintaining a slight incline in the channel to carry the canal through the hills without locks toward the sea.43 Between the Cesse and Orb Rivers, where many women laboured, the canal became, in the words of L. T. C. Rolt, `a classic example of contour canal cutting'.44 The waterway maintained the incline with surprising precision, resembling canals in the Pyrenees that directed spring or river water into town water supplies.45

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

151

HYDRAULICS AND TIMBERING

Women labourers were of unaccountable importance to the Canal du Midi, both in the Montagne Noire and the mountains towards BeÂziers, using indigenous hydraulics based on Roman methods, but this work, in itself, did not prepare them for constructing the Fonseranes staircase. The lock did not call on their ability to do contour cutting; rather than avoiding a precipice by using topographic regularities, the lock was designed to go down a steep hillside. The staircase also did not require their knowledge of settling ponds, silting problem and soils; it required instead excavating a staircase from stone, and this was not their meÂtier. But, in the Pyrenees, there was another common form of hydraulic engineering ± one not used on Roman water supplies ± that helped peasants carry timbers down from the high mountains. This practice provided tacit knowledge relevant to the lock volume problem at Fonseranes. Peasants traditionally cut trees in November, when the sap was no longer running, and the snows were not yet deep. The problem for logging in this period was that the streams and rivers of the high forests were often low after the long dry season of summer. With too little running water to carry logs over the inevitable rocks, peasants in the mountains not only cleared the streams of whatever rocks they could move, but also built temporary dams down the waterways to keep the timber afloat. Behind the first dam, the top reservoir would fill with water until the logs would begin to rise off the floor of the stream; then, the dam was broken, sending the logs along with the water down to another basin; this reservoir, in turn, would fill with water and be broken, and so on down the hillside. The dams functioned like a staircase of locks, moving objects on a body of collected water as it moved progressively down the hillside.46 The basins could only float the timbers if each of them contained approximately the same volume of water. If one reservoir was larger, the water level in it would be low and the logs could get stuck on the floor of the stream. If the reservoir was too small, the dam could break before all the logs from the previous one had arrived, and the outliers could get stranded on the rock bed. Peasants who had designed these systems many times over the years would have understood this, and would have been motivated to develop both an eye for estimating volume and ways of compensating for differences in the incline that would affect the volume of the basins. They also may have found ways to test the volume of the reservoirs with water before filling them with timber. This logging practice was a community effort, involving large numbers of participants. It was part of a Pyrenean tradition of collective resource management. A combination of community-shared property and political alliances over vast areas helped to sustain collaborative water and forest management systems. Alliances across valleys had helped Pyrenean peasants to continue using Roman hydraulic methods that spanned large areas, and elaborate the waterworks on which women peasants honed their skills. The same cooperative tradition of land control also led to History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

152

The Mindful Hands of Peasants

advanced patterns of forest management, and the development of communally improved rivers and streams used for transporting logs.47 Both women and men worked together on the `flottage des bois', but women were the more likely architects of the basins. Waterworks were culturally inflected as women's work, since the hydrology of the mountains was attributed to fairies, and women did hydraulic engineering.48 But, perhaps more importantly in this case, cutting trees, preparing timber for transport and getting logs to the local streams was men's work. The gendered nature of the division of labour in the Pyrenees may account for the fact that the Medailhes sought out women to work at Fonseranes, assuming they would be best equipped to carve a viable lock staircase down a long hillside. THE PROCESS OF CONSTRUCTING THE FONSERANES LOCKS

There are some hints in the archival records about how the work proceeded. A document from 1679 contained both Riquet's account of the state of work on the Canal du Midi in August and the verifications of that work by the Chevalier de Clerville made between late September and early October. It provides a glimpse into how the Fonseranes staircase was developing during that period. Riquet said in August that the locks were `batit ala basse', or finished at the bottom, not clarifying what that meant. He also said that there was a large amount of material on site to finish the rest of the eight locks. When Clerville arrived a few months later, he said that a second lock had been finished since Riquet had come in August, and that the `places' or beds for the other basins were so far advanced that the whole structure would be finished within the year.49 A report that was issued on locks and their construction in 1672 describes how the lock staircase at Fonseranes was supposed to be built, and provides a point of comparison with the extant data on what happened there. The purpose of the report was mainly to bring a halt to the use of elevation measurements for designing lock staircases, and to outline instead a series of practical steps to yield better results.50 The document started by explaining that locks were used to fit the canal to the landscape by compensating for changes in elevation. The purpose was to keep the canal level between locks so boats could climb and descend the waterway with equal facility. (The canal in fact had to have a slight incline toward the sea, following the watershed, but perhaps only the labourers knew this.) In the excavation of a staircase lock, the document continued, it had been determined appropriate to `justifier le niveau' or verify the level in each lock basin with water, the only sure test (l'expreuve seure). Filling the basins with water when the structures were not yet lined with masonry would demonstrate any problems and allow one to fix the locks in case of errors. It would also provide advantageous information about the quality and solidity of the terrain that would be helpful in choosing construction materials and techniques. Formal measures were to be replaced with practical tests.51 History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

153

If the eight basins for the lock at Fonseranes were excavated and tested with water to verify the volumes before the bottom one was finished with masonry, then the work was indeed following the 1672 prescriptions. The report by Riquet in the summer is ambiguous on this point, since, when he writes about the bottom lock, he does not report on the state of the excavation above it. In contrast, Clerville is clear that by the fall, the full staircase has been excavated and the second lock's masonry has been finished.52 But is there any evidence that the basins were tested with water after they were excavated and before their interiors were finished with cut stone? There is no direct physical evidence of this, since the basins were covered with cut stone after the tests were done ± assuming they were done. But there is indirect evidence of how the procedures outlined in 1672 could have been done at Fonseranes based on characteristics of other locks and structures on the Canal du Midi. The easiest way to test the volume in a staircase lock would have been to fill the top basin, then open it to the second basin, and see if the water filled the second basin. Then, the second basin would be opened and so on, all the way down the hill. If the reservoirs for the locks were built properly, the same amount of water would fill all the basins to approximately the same level. But how would the locks be closed when they were not finished and had no doors? The locks could be closed with a temporary sluice gate made of large timbers stacked into a slot in the wall. Something like this was already being used for the water supply for the Canal du Midi in the mountains, where women labourers had worked (Figure 3).

Figure 3 Insets by the weir for the prise d'Alzau.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

154

The Mindful Hands of Peasants

The water supply in the mountains began high in the Montagne Noire, with the prise d'eau d'Alzau or capture of the Alzau River near its source. The capture was equipped with a system for increasing or decreasing the intake from the river, depending on what was needed for the canal. The river ran dramatically higher and lower in different seasons, and the demands for the water for the canal varied considerably, depending on usage. There was a basic weir across the Alzau to divert water towards a sluice gate and to enter the water system for the canal. Weirs were usually low rock walls set at an angle across the river. The low height of the weir allowed most of the river water to pass over it, but the wall nonetheless created a quieter pool ± particularly at the downstream end of the weir, where the river was connected to a diversionary channel. This tranquil area functioned partly as a settling pond, allowing water to shed some precipitated particles before it was diverted for other purposes. The prise d'eau had a weir like this, but also a superstructure, allowing people to raise its level with a kind of temporary dam. There was a wall along the shore of the river across from the diversionary channel, leading to the Canal du Midi. Above and behind the weir, the masonry was provisioned with slots that could hold timbers in the river when water was running high or was in greater demand, directing more water towards the canal and its reservoir(s). Placing timbers in slots to close off waterways was a routine practice in the period ± one used most often for closing off town moats or water supplies when the rivers that fed them were running high. Large timbers used for such purposes often had a chain attached, and could be removed by a horse pulling on the chain to drag the heavy timber from the waterway. Such temporary gates in waterworks were not unusual, but using them to form a weir of variable height was a more sophisticated application of the technique. Many of the locks on the Canal du Midi, including one called Herminis, had slots built into the masonry for laying down timbers to close off the canal. They were mainly placed upstream, where they could keep water out of the lock when it needed repairs. But some locks, like one near the Ognon River, had downstream slots for timbers (Figure 4). These would be used to hold water in the locks without doors. Such openings were probably used after 1672 for testing the volume of the basin while it was still under construction. This was the simplest way to do those kinds of simple measures prescribed for locks. The Fonseranes lock was not outfitted with slots in the masonry on the downstream side of its basins. By the 1672 procedure, the volume of the basins was meant to be tested before the masonry was done, so the lack of downstream slots did not signal a lack of early testing. The only slots in the masonry were at the top of the Fonseranes lock and clearly meant for repairing it (Figure 6). But there was a way to close the excavated basins. The lock doors for the Canal du Midi folded back into a recess to maximize the door opening on oval locks; this recess would have been History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

155

Figure 4 Slots at the bottom of the lock at Ognon.

excavated along with the basins. These indentations, although much wider than the slots on the prise d'eau, would nonetheless have been able to hold timbers to close the lock and test its volume with water. There is also some evidence that the shape of the lock was indeed changed to maintain the volume ± this time, after the masonry was finished. There were striations along the floor of some lock basins that would be difficult to explain in other terms. They looked like places where stone was shaved from the bottom, slightly increasing the lock's volume. If so, this evidence supports the conjecture that something like the 1672 procedure was applied to the lock staircase at Fonseranes, using practical rather than formal methods to maintain the volume in all the basins. That would explain why the lock staircase worked reliably right away, and how a peasant method of building reservoirs on mountain streams could have been applied and made effective on the Canal du Midi (Figure 5). CONCLUSIONS

The Canal du Midi was considered a wonder of the world on its completion. It was innovative in part because those who contributed to its structural engineering and hydraulics were not just schooled gentlemen, but also peasants who knew hydraulic engineering techniques of classical provenance as indigenous practices. They did not learn their engineering from Vitruvius like the military engineers who worked on the Canal du Midi. They did not need to. They lived among models of hydraulic practice that lay in the environment around them. Languedoc was their memory palace, and they elaborated on ancient methods by working with the soils, seasons, weather, rock, trees, minerals and water of the province itself. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

156

The Mindful Hands of Peasants

Figure 5 Slots on the top of the Fonseranes staircase before the first lock.

The history of the Canal du Midi provides a rich opportunity to learn more about the engineering knowledge of peasants because, at this site, it was passed from peasants to learned gentlemen and found its way into books. The failures of formal knowledge on the Canal du Midi helped to bring indigenous practices to the fore, showing their value and allowing people like the Medailhes brothers and indigenous women engineers to act as and convey the intelligence of the French state. The amount of direct evidence about the peasants, who they were, where they lived and how they worked, may be scant, but the physical isomorphism between the engineering techniques celebrated on the Canal du Midi and the folk traditions in the mountains provides evidence of what these low-status engineers could do. The peasants who came to the Canal du Midi necessarily brought with them techniques of rural life that they understood as common sense; they came with collective memories of how to cut timber and take it to town; and they came with knowledge of weirs and timber gates they could use to do their work. If it is impossible to say positively and in detail how the lock staircase at Fonseranes was physically constructed, it is not impossible to know how locks were supposed to be built after 1672 or that the prescribed process seemed to have been roughly followed at Fonseranes. And while we cannot say for sure that damming streams to float timbers provided a model of construction for the Fonseranes staircase, it would explain why two illiterate brothers would have been entrusted with the subcontract for these locks. And, while we do not know for sure that peasant women built History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

157

dams for logging in the Pyrenees, it would explain why the Medailhes brothers would have specifically recruited a crew of women with no obvious experience with lock construction or stone cutting. What we can say for sure is that peasants, mainly women, built the lock staircase at Fonseranes. And, although we may not be sure how, we know the problems they solved to do the work. They maintained the volume of the basins, taking boats up and down the steep hillside with silent efficacy ± miraculously using falling water in lock basins to raise boats hundreds of feet above the valley floor. Notes and References

1. L. de Froidour, Les PyreneÂes centrales au XVIIe sieÁcle: lettres par M. de Froidour . . . aÁ M. de Hericourt . . . et aÁ M. de Medon . . . publieÂes avec des notes par Paul de Casteran (Auch, 1899), 30±1. 2. This is nowhere clearer than in the history of the Canal du Midi, where peasant practices were routinely attributed both at the time and later to gentlemen who did not invent them. See C. Mukerji, `Cultural Genealogy', Cultural Sociology, 2007, 1: 49±71. 3. J.-D. Bergasse, (ed.), Le Canal du Midi, four volumes (Cessenon, 1982); T. L. C. Rolt, From Sea to Sea: The Canal du Midi (London, 1973); A. Maistre, Le Canal des deux mers (Toulouse, 1968); M. AdgeÂ, `L'Art de l'hydraulique', in Conseil d'Architecture, d'Urbanisme et de l'Environment de la Haute-Garonne, Canal royal de Languedoc: le partage des eaux (Caue, 1992), 202±3; Collection La JourneÂe Vinicole, Le Transport du vin sur le Canal du Midi (Baumesldes-Dames, 1999), 21. 4. M. Cotte, Le Canal du Midi: Merveil de Europe (Paris, 1999); Bergasse, op. cit. (2); Maistre, op. cit. (2). 5. Rolt, op. cit. (3), 24±6. Pierre Borel was a respected thinker of his day. He entered the AcadeÂmie des Sciences as a chemist, and wrote on Cartesian science. See J. F. Scott, The Scientific Work of Rene Descartes (1596±1650) (Ann Arbor, 2006), 84. 6. See S. Singh, Fermat's Enigma (New York, 1997), 35±44. Fermat was not at the AcadeÂmie, but was a judge in Castres. Singh writes as though Mersenne was the only mathematician of interest in the period, and attributes great importance to Fermat's meeting with this man. But the Huguenot AcadeÂmie at Castres was internationally recognized in the period. See, e.g. N. Malcolm (ed.), Correspondence of Thomas Hobbes, Vol. II (Oxford, 1994), 853. 7. Rolt, op. cit. (2), 24±6. 8. T. Verdier, `Matthieu de Mourgues, un peÁre jeÂsuite au service de l'architecture sous Louis XIV', in D. Avon and M. Fourcade (eds), MentaliteÂs et croyances contemporaines: MeÂlanges offerts aÁ GeÂrard Cholvy (Montpellier, 2004), 617±25. 9. Boyer and d'Estan's connection with Clerville and work at Rochefort are suggested by some of Clerville's letters. See Archives du Canal du Midi (henceforth ACM) 31-39; ACM 31-40; ACM 31-43. 10. Descendents de Pierre-Paul Riquet, Histoire du Canal de Languedoc (Paris, 1805), 141. 11. Archives du Canal du Midi ACM 1072 and ACM 1073; C. Mukerji, `Women Engineers and the Culture of the Pyrenees', in P. Smith and B. Smith (eds), Knowledge and Its Making in Europe, 1500±1800 (Chicago, 2008), 19±44. 12. Cotte, op. cit. (4), 15±18. 13. D. Turnbull, Masons, Tricksters and Cartographers (Amsterdam, 2000). 14. H. VeÂrin, La Gloire des IngeÂneurs: L'intelligence techniques du XVIe au XVIIIe sieÁcle (Paris, 1993), 222±3, 227±8. 15. Cotte, op. cit. (4), 57±8. 16. For the use of prototypes and heuristics in engineering, see J. Heyman, The Stone Skeleton: Structural Engineering of Masonry Architecture (Cambridge, 1995) and VeÂrin, op. cit. (14), 44±45, 152 as well as Turnbull, op. cit. (13). The design was even vetted by a Commission of worthies and experts headed by Clerville before Riquet was given the contract for the project. They, too, did not take into consideration the soil pressures on the lock walls. See Rolt, op. cit. (2), 31; F. de Dainville, Cartes Anciennes du Languedoc XVIe±XVIIIe S (Montpellier, 1961), 55,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

158

The Mindful Hands of Peasants

60±1; M. L. Malavialle, `Une Excursion dans la Montagne Noire', Part I, SocieÂte Languedocienne de GeÂographie Bulletin, Tome XV, IX: 184; Part III, Tome XV, 1892: 283± 314. For Clerville's role in the development of French infrastructure in relation to Colbert, see VeÂrin, op. cit. (14), 188. 17. Malavialle, ibid., Tome XV, IX: 146±9, 184±5; Rolt, op. cit. (2), 42±6. ACM 13-05, `Memoire de mes remarques du Canal M. de Seguelay', October 1670. For Riquet's critics and Colbert, see I. Murat, `Les Rapports de Colbert et de Riquet: MeÂfiance pour un homme ou pour un systeÁme?', in Bergasse, op. cit. (2), Vol. 3, 105±22. 18. Riquet was mostly enthusiastic about Boutheroue's suggestions, but not this one. See ACM 29-6. 19. Registre contenant les ordres, instructions et lettres expediees par Monseigneur Colbert, touchant les fortifications des ponts et chausseees, canal de communication des mers et mines de Languedoc en l'annee 1665, Ms Ecole des Ponts et ChauseÂes. They also stabilized the walls with cofferdams. To build cofferdams, they pounded long wooden stakes or pilings into the ground close to each other below the waterline to form a barricade to keep out water. The interior space created by the pilings could first be pumped out, and then excavated below ground level down to rock or at least deep heavy clay. After the excavation, the whole interior would be filled with stones and cement, creating a foundation in wet conditions that was both heavy and deep. Vitruvius described how to do this in The Ten Books, M. H. Morgan, trans. (New York, 1960), chap. 12, 162±3. 20. Registre contenant les ordres, instructions et lettres expediees par Monseigneur Colbert, touchant les fortifications des ponts et chausseees, canal de communication des mers et mines de Languedoc en l'annee 1665, Ms Ecole des Ponts et ChauseÂes. For Vitruvius on wood and its uses, see the Ten Books, ibid., 58±65, 162±4. 21. Even in 1669, they were still trying to repair some of the locks that had failed, showing that their stability depended on the final development in 1670 of oval locks. See ACM 13-3. 22. Cotte, op. cit. (4), 57. 23. See, e.g. Riquet on the failed locks at Castanet: Riquet aÁ Colbert, 24 Decembre 1669, ACM 22-38. 24. ACM 13-15, `Memoire sur le Canal royal de la jonction des Mers de Languedoc, 1er Mars 1672', includes cautions against getting the elevation measures wrong, the problems it could produce in locks and a description of the process of filling the cavities for locks with water to test volume before doing the masonry for step locks. There was also discussion of the importance of knowing the characteristics of the soil in which the locks were being built. For descriptions of the multiple locks that had problems, and had to be rebuilt in part or in whole, see `l'Estat auquel le Chevalier de Clerville a trouve les ouvrages du canal de la jonction des mers', n.d., ACM 13-12. This document lists all the locks for the second enterprise, including a list of multiple locks in need of repair: St Roch, Gay, Le Vivier, Foucault, Villaudy and Puilaurier. 25. ACM 11-03. 26. ACM 13-12. 27. ACM 12-07. 28. A. Degage, `Le Port de SeÁte: Proue MeÂditerraneÂenne du Canal de Riquet', in Bergasse, op. cit. (2), Vol. IV, 265±306, particularly pp. 270±4. 29. See, e.g. a verification done by the sieur de Montbel in 1674 for payments to property holders near the canal. See ACM 96-13. 30. P. CleÂment, Lettres, Instructions et MeÂmoires de Colbert (Nendeln. Liechtenstein, [1867] 1979), Vol. 4, Introduction, xcvii, 373±4, 386±8; Murat, op. cit. (17). 31. C. Mukerji, `Entrepreneurialism, Land Management and Cartography during the Age of Louis XIV', in P. Findlen and P. Smith (eds), Merchants and Marvels (New York, 2002), 248±76. 32. Mukerji, op. cit. (11). See also ACM 22-27. 33. ACM 13-3. 34. ACM 13-3. 35. See ACM 12-02 on Campmas and Roux and the alimenation system. For more information on Contingny and his work on the Saint FeÂrreol dam, see H. de Cazals, `Armorial du Canal', in Bergasse, op. cit. (2), Vol. 3, 151±79, particularly p. 167. See also B. Gabolde,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Chandra Mukerji

159

`Les Ouvriers du Chantier', in Bergasse, op. cit. (2), Vol. 3, 236. There is evidence that many of the labourers for the project were recruited from the Pyrenees. On 20 October 1668, Riquet wrote to Colbert that he was staying on in Perpignan to recruit large numbers of workers for the canal, ACM 21-18. Workers were also explicitly recruited from Bigorre in 1673, ACM 3065. For the working patterns of Pyrenean women, see also I. Gratacos, Femmes pyreÂneÂennes, un statut social exceptionnel en Europe (Toulouse, 2003), 105±15. 36. ACM 1072-18. 37. ACM 1072-40. 38. Mukerji, op. cit. (11); ACM 1072-18; ACM 1072-40. 39. L. de Froidour, Memoire du Pays et des EÂtats de Bigorre, intro and notes by J. Boudette (Paris, 1892), 30±1. 40. Mukerji, op. cit. (11); G. Giovannoni, `Building and Engineering', in C. Bailey (ed.), The Legacy of Rome (Oxford, 1940), 429±74. E. Goffman, Behavior in Public Places (Glencoe, IL, 1963), 429, n. 74. 41. Mukerji, op. cit. (11). 42. Ibid. See Lettre Riquet aÁ Colbert, 4 juin 1669, ACM 22-19 for one of the requests for powder. 43. ACM 1072 and ACM 1073. 44. Rolt, op. cit. (3), 89. 45. ACM 1071 and ACM 1072 contain uncatalogued accounts for the Somail region. See ACM 12-02 for the appointment of Campmas and Roux to the alimenation system. See Cazals, op. cit. (35) for Contingny's work on the St Ferreol dam. 46. See P. Salies, `De l'Isthme Gaulois au Canal des Deux Mers: Histoire des canaux et voies fluviales du Midi', in Bergasse, op. cit. (2), Vol. 4, 55±97, particularly p. 67. 47. Froidour, op. cit. (39), 20. 48. See Gratacos, op. cit. (35), 131±83, particularly pp. 143±71 (which describe the fairies of the mountains) and 177±80 (which describe how the traditional sighting of fairies of the region was turned into apparitions of the Virgin); see also Mukerji, op. cit. (11). 49. ACM 13-12. 50. ACM 13-15. 51. ACM 13-15. 52. ACM 13-12.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Enlightenment in Russian Hands: The Inventions and Identity of Ivan Petrovich Kulibin in EighteenthCentury St Petersburg SIMON WERRETT

INTRODUCTION

Numerous venues existed for the mechanical arts in the city of St Petersburg during the reign of Empress Catherine II (1762±96). On Vasilevskii Island, on the northwest shore of the river Neva, stood the St Petersburg Academy of Sciences, founded by Emperor Peter I in 1725, and centred on the Kunstkamera, a great building housing collections of artificialia and naturalia (Figure 1, point 1). Nearby, a little upriver, was the Imperial Academy of Arts, open to a nascent Russian public every summer (Figure 1, point 2). Both academies housed workshops for instrumentmakers, engravers and printers. Across the river, in Catherine's Hermitage and Winter Palace (Figure 1, point 3), clocks, automata, painting, sculpture and medals were exhibited to ticket-holding visitors and, on Nevskii Prospekt (Figure 1, point 4), the city's main thoroughfare, there were instrument-makers' shops and colourful displays by itinerant showmen, who went about `with their hurdy-gurdies, lanterns for shadow-shows, marmots, dancing dogs, monkeys, and so on'.1 Instrument-making and mechanical inventions, the themes of this essay, crossed the varied spaces of this cultural milieu, crossing also historical boundaries that have placed the makers of instruments in restricted locations. As recent essays on `mindful hands' in the eighteenth century remind us, today's historical divisions between arenas of science, industry, politics and art either did not exist in the eighteenth century or were rather posited as strategies to secure social differentiation and hierarchy.2 Hence the recurrent enlightened dream of separating people into labouring `hands' or bodies, equated with machines, and `heads' ± the rational minds of managerial classes, whose task it should be to govern the unthinking bodies that work.3

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

162 Enlightenment in Russian Hands

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Figure 1 Map of St. Petersburg, showing (1) The Academy of Sciences and Kunstkamera (2) The Academy of Arts (3) Winter Palace and Hermitage (4) Nevskii Prospekt (5) Volkov House, Kulibin's residence and academic workshops (6) Potemkin's Tauride Palace (a short distance northwest of this point) (7) Millionaia Ulitsa (8) Tsaritsyn Field (9) Twelve Government Colleges (10) Free Economic Society. Source: M. I. Makhaev, Plan stolichnago goroda Sanktpeterburga s izobraheniem znatnieishikh onago prospektov (St. Petersburg, 1753±1761), Slavic and Baltic Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.

Simon Werrett

163

In what follows, the singular career of an instrument-maker serves to reveal the diversity of venues an enlightened artisan might visit, and the complexities of the enlightened artisan's identity. Though he is largely unknown in the West, Ivan Petrovich Kulibin (1735±1818) was celebrated by Soviet historians as a great `self-taught' inventor, an obscure provincial who went on to become a leading inventor in the Academy of Sciences, and so the exemplar of a patriotic, selfless and hard-working peasant of just the kind the Soviets needed to maintain industrialization in the decades after the Second World War.4 Kulibin's activities offer a means to engage more closely with the geography of instrument-making and the complexities of `head' and `hand'. This essay follows Kulibin from his early days as a clock-maker in the town of Nizhni Novgorod to his appointment as supervisor of the Academy of Sciences' instrument-making workshops in St Petersburg, and considers the changing nature of representations of his craft skills that this change of place entailed. Kulibin's identity in Petersburg was hybrid, part independent and commercial inventor, part mechanical servant to the Academy, and part courtly client, and, throughout his career, these identities were variously in harmony or conflict. The essay then considers three aspects of Kulibin's work, in bridge design, the construction of automata and the production of optical instruments and illuminating lamps, to reveal how these identities were managed, by both Kulibin and his superiors, in efforts to bring the mechanical and intellectual dimensions of work closer together or further apart. The argument will be that no essential definition of Kulibin as a `head', `hand' or even mixture of both may stand, since different configurations of these notions were invoked by Kulibin and others to serve different circumstances. As such, the geography of mind and hand mattered ± where one was dictated how the engagement of body and intellect were to be represented ± and, for this reason, special attention is paid throughout to the locations through which Kulibin passed.5 FORMATION OF AN INVENTOR: KULIBIN IN NIZHNI NOVGOROD

Ivan Kulibin was one of a number of `self-taught inventors' or `mechanics' who flourished in Russia during the reign of Empress Catherine II. Eager to encourage Russian industry and determined to see Russia emulate the industrial success of Britain, Catherine offered patronage to several skilled artisans and merchants, who went on to significant careers overseeing the production of steam engines, carriages, clocks and other inventions. Egor Grigorievich Kuznetsov, from a family of serf smiths in the Urals, developed rolling mills for the metal plants of Nizhnii Tagil. Terentii Ivanovich Voloskov devised astronomical clocks and telescopes, while the Tver peasant mechanic, Lev Fedorovich Sabakin, went to England to train in steam engineering before returning to Russia to oversee mechanized manufactories in St Petersburg and Tver.6 Since all of these figures, including Kulibin, received no formal university education, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

164

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

contemporaries and historians marvelled that their abilities were `natural'. `Where did the Rzhev merchant Terentii Voloskov acquire profound knowledge in mechanics, chemistry, and religion ± at what university? At what trade school? Not in any. He began his studies not with painted globes and printed books, but with the huge book of Nature.'7 The same would be said of Kulibin. However, neither contemporaries nor historians agreed on what kinds of skills were supposed to be `natural' in these individuals, the variety of whose careers encompassed diverse attributions of either mental or physical abilities. Tracing Kulibin's trajectory from provincial merchant to academic employee reveals both the diverse identities entailed in one mechanic's career and the different ways in which identity was managed in the representations of his contemporaries. Ivan Kulibin was born on 10 April 1735 in Nizhni Novgorod, southeast of Moscow, the son of a flour merchant. He belonged to the sect of Old Believers (Raskolniki), who had separated from the Russian Orthodox Church in protest against reforms undertaken by Patriarch Nikon in 1666± 67. From the time of this `schism' (Raskol), Old Believers maintained liturgical rites abolished by the reforms, abstained from tobacco and alcohol, and lived and worked outside mainstream Russian society, persecuted and tolerated to different degrees in different reigns. By 1700, the Old Believers had established settlements outside traditional Russian centres such as Moscow ± on the Kuban river in the Caucasus, in Vetka, Poland, and in the Kerzhenets forest near Nizhni Novgorod, the latter probably the community from whom Kulibin was descended.8 Throughout his life, Kulibin retained the long beard and traditional dress that marked Old Believers (Figure 2) and his religion was no doubt important in his career, though this relationship warrants deeper study. Probably, Old Believers' promotion of commerce and self-sufficiency shaped Kulibin's entry into the clock and instrument-making trade. As outcasts from Russian cities, Old Believers gravitated to mines and manufactories dispersed across the empire and, by necessity, developed trading and commercial skills to secure their independence. Self-sufficient crafts were likewise prized among Old Believers, who were often skilled in woodwork for producing tools, household implements and ornaments. In this context, Kulibin developed his art first as a clock-maker and then as an instrument-maker in Nizhni Novgorod. With an Old Believer clergyman, he learned to read and write using the Psalter and Book of Hours, and worked with his father to learn the flour trade at home. Visiting flour mills, Kulibin constructed models of machinery and water-wheels, before becoming fascinated with the tower clock of Nizhni Novgorod's Church of the Nativity and a wooden clock belonging to a neighbour, from which he made an exact copy. Kulibin then travelled to Moscow, where he learnt clock-making from a local master, Lobkov, and purchased lathes and tools for making wooden and, later, metal cuckoo clocks.9 Kulibin now established himself as a reputable, independent artisan, making, repairing and cleaning clocks embellished with automata and planetary movements for nobles and merchants in Nizhni Novgorod. He History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

165

Figure 2 Ivan Petrovich Kulibin, engraving after a portrait by P. P. Vedenetskii of 1818, from Portretnaia galereia russkikh dieiatelei (St. Petersburg, 1865±69), Slavic and Baltic Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.

also learned new skills, based on intelligence from the capital and the imitation of newfangled instruments. Obtaining copies of the St. Petersburg News and books published by the St Petersburg Academy of Sciences, Kulibin was able to read accounts of mechanical devices ranging from mills to musical instruments and, when a merchant brought a Gregorian telescope, a microscope and an electrical machine made in England from Moscow to Nizhni, Kulibin built replicas.10 Kulibin's business flourished, but it was not to be an exclusively commercial enterprise. In 1764, Kulibin became aware of a planned visit to Nizhni Novgorod by the Empress Catherine II. Since the visit was scheduled for Easter, Kulibin set about constructing a clock for the Empress in the form of an egg, the symbolic token given as a gift to celebrate Russian Easter. Kulibin could not carry out this endeavour without support, however, and he turned to the patronage of local merchant, Mikhail N. Kostromin, who agreed to fund the work if the egg was also presented in his name. Kulibin's status thus shifted from that of an independent commercial craftsman to that of an inventor of ingenious History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

166

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

mechanisms for patrons ± a transition reflected in a change of location. Moving to Kostromin's estate of Pozdeevo near Nizhni, and furnished with materials and the assistance of fellow Nizhni clock-maker, Aleksei Piaterikov, Kulibin spent some three years, between 1764 and 1767, working on the egg-clock. The finished product was intended to display Kulibin's ingenuity. Housed in an elaborately ornamented gold and silver case, the egg combined Kulibin's skills with a suitable religious theme, depicting the resurrection in tiny automaton figures set to music, composed by Kulibin himself. It displayed, as a later observer noted: . . . the tomb of our Saviour, with the stone at the entrance, and the centinals upon duty; suddenly the stone is removed, the centinals fall down, the angels appear, the women enter the sepulchre, and the chant performed on Eastereve is heard.11

Catherine eventually visited in May 1767, but the clock was not complete. Nevertheless, Kulibin presented it to an audience including the Empress and the president of the Academy of Sciences, Count Vladimir Grigorevich Orlov. Kulibin also demonstrated his microscope, Gregorian telescope and electrical machine. Catherine was impressed, and arranged an invitation to Kulibin through Orlov to come to the capital when the egg-clock was finished. Kulibin and Kostromin agreed and, two years later, in February 1769, they arrived in St Petersburg with Kulibin's egg. In April, Kulibin and Kostromin were rewarded by Catherine at the Winter Palace. Kulibin received 1,000 rubles and an appointment as mechanic to the Imperial Academy of Sciences. Kulibin now moved from commercial maker and courtly client to become a salaried employee of a state institution.12 Kulibin helped to establish a path that later Russian mechanics followed. Sabakin began his career as a clerk in the Tver court, but, like Kulibin, transformed himself into a courtly client through the gift of a wall-suspended astronomical clock presented to Catherine II in 1784, for which he was sent to England to study machinery.13 Kulibin's novel position offered benefits and restrictions, apparent in the contract he negotiated in 1769±70. Writing to the Academy with a list of responsibilities that he agreed to undertake, Kulibin signed himself as a `merchant' from Nizhni, and stressed his independence from an exclusively servile role. Kulibin agreed that as `mechanic', he should carry out academicians' commissions for instruments and apparatus, repair and maintain existing instruments, and oversee the Academy's various woodworking, turning and instrument-making workshops. But he also requested that from midday until evening, he should be free to pursue his `own needs'.14 Kulibin thus sought a compromise between the demands of the Academy on its mechanic and the independent status he had enjoyed in Nizhni Novgorod. The Academy agreed to this arrangement. After all, the status and demands of the position to which Kulibin was now appointed had varied significantly during previous decades. The Saxon Johann Leutmann had been appointed as the Academy's first professor of mechanics in the 1720s,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

167

while his successor, Andrei Konstantinovich Nartov, had no formal position. For the lack of recognition, Nartov had usurped power in the Academy briefly in the 1740s, before being demoted to his earlier status. Other artisans in the Academy carried status not only as members of the institution, but as members of family dynasties of artisans or as masters and apprentices. In short, there was nothing fixed about the hierarchy of `heads' and `hands' in the Academy, and Kulibin's hybrid contract reflected this.15 Nevertheless, the Academy's professors certainly liked to represent themselves as superior minds above merely mechanical hands. This becomes apparent in the case of Kulibin's first labours at the Academy, and in his designs for a single-span bridge across the river Neva. BUILDING BRIDGES: KULIBIN AND THE ACADEMY

Kulibin's early work in the Academy saw him serve a variety of clients dispersed not only across the city of St Petersburg, but also across the Russian empire. The Academy's workshops were located in the former house of General Volkov (Volkovyi dvor) (Figure 1, point 5), where Kulibin was given an apartment in which to live and work. From here, mathematical instruments, air-pumps, thermometers, barometers, electrical machines and wooden table presses were dispatched to St Petersburg's Post Office and Commerce College, to Moscow University, and as far away as Pskov, Mogilev and Poland. Kulibin served academicians, private clients, courtiers and public officials, who employed his instruments for the sake of amusement, prestige and various practical matters. Local nobles bought curious electrical machines, while professors purchased apparatus for expeditions to the frozen wastes of Siberia.16 In the afternoons, we may assume, Kulibin withdrew from this work and busied himself with inventing. Kulibin is best known for one invention made at this time ± the design of a single-span bridge across the river Neva. As instrument-making connected Kulibin with the city, so it also led to collaborations with academicians and, in his designs for a bridge, Kulibin worked closely with Leonhard Euler and his associates in the Academy. This project has been a focus for deliberating the different methods of artisans and professors in the Academy, and also offers a useful place to consider differing assessments of the mindfulness of hands in enlightened Russia. At Catherine's invitation, Euler had returned to Russia from the Berlin Academy of Sciences in 1766, and now stood as the Academy's most celebrated figure. Euler encountered Kulibin in 1771, when the latter presented his solution to a perennial problem in St Petersburg ± how to construct a permanent bridge over the river Neva. Stone bridges were susceptible to damage from great quantities of ice flowing into the city from Lake Ladoga in winter. In the 1760s, pontoon bridges were erected in spring and summer, while most crossings were made in ferries and boats. In 1771, Kulibin proposed a huge single-span wooden bridge of his own History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

168

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

design to the Academy, of some 1,000 feet in length. The Academy arranged a commission to consider a 1:40 scale model of the bridge that Kulibin had prepared. While the model withstood tests, professors doubted Kulibin for lacking the means to infer the load-bearing capacity of the bridge from the model. But, by late 1772, Kulibin later recalled, he had determined these means, writing, in words that recall his religious convictions, `with the help of the almighty Creator I have through certain experiments found that by means of a small model one can realize the weight of the real bridge'.17 Euler, together with the astronomer-mathematicians Wolfgang Ludwig Krafft, Nicolaus Fuss and Anders Lexell, inspected subsequent models, which they approved, while Euler independently derived mathematical means for inferring the load-bearing capacity of a bridge from a scale model. Despite its technical feasibility, the bridge was not constructed for financial and practical reasons. Nevertheless, the episode prompted cooperation between Kulibin and the academicians, and led to the first notices of Kulibin's skills in local and foreign correspondence and publications. The interaction of Kulibin and Euler has been the subject of a debate as to whether or not the two men's solutions to the problem of inferring loadbearing capacities signalled a contrast between `high' and `low' technical knowledge in enlightened Russia. Michael Gordin contrasted Euler's `high' a priori mathematical calculations with the more empirical `low' solution of Kulibin, while Igor Dmitriev has suggested that a trend towards mathematization of engineering was evident in both `high' and `low' traditions, as represented by Euler and Kulibin, respectively, in these bridge projects.18 Dmitriev's critique hinged on the fact that it was possible to make a rational reconstruction in mathematical terms of Kulibin's method, as indeed another commentator, Iakubovskii, had done in 1936, using a memorandum on the problem written by Kulibin in 1772.19 Deriving a formula, Kulibin's method was then comparable with Euler's, which Euler described in a paper in the Academy's Latin journal of 1775.20 However, it is surely critical to this debate that Kulibin did not proceed using mathematical language to arrive at his conclusion, supporting the division of labour proposed by Gordin. Reading formulae into Kulibin's work also carries the assumption that empirical work was inferior to `higher' mathematics, so that to make Kulibin more of a mathematician is to secure his reputation. Alternatively, it is possible to consider contemporaries' views on these methods and to note that Kulibin's empiricism could itself be presented as mindful, warranting credit regardless of mathematical content. While academicians and artisans may well have operated within different traditions, allocating these to intellectual or bodily labours was not obvious. As we have already seen, different parties represented their own and others' skills in a variety of ways during this period, so there was never any definitive identity corresponding to `head' or `hand' to be recovered. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

169

Rather, such identities were deployed as strategies, doing work to make individuals appear more or less mechanical (or mathematical) in the interests of hierarchy and social differentiation. When the Russian ambassador to England, S. R. Vorontsov, sought to obtain patronage from the empress for the mechanic, Lev Sabakin, in the 1780s, he praised Sabakin for `the excellent sharpness of his mind and his aptitude for mechanics'.21 In contrast, while Kulibin rejected a role equivalent to an academic mechanic by maintaining free time for inventing in his contract, academicians identified Kulibin and other practically skilled figures in St Petersburg as exclusively practical. For example, academicians praised Kulibin for the ingenuity of his mechanical work, suggesting an appreciation of his talents. Euler's secretary, Nicolaus Fuss, wrote to Daniel Bernoulli on 5 January 1777: . . . the academic technician Kulibin merits your knowing of him by the astonishing fact that from a simple peasant he has developed into a genuinely remarkable person through a happy predisposition for the art of mechanics bestowed on him by nature, so that without any outside help he has already created masterpieces and caused the public to be delighted with him and his [bridge] model, on which he works incessantly.22

Fuss was undoubtedly impressed with Kulibin's work here, but he did not present Kulibin as intellectually skilled, but rather as a `technician' (mekhanik) having a `happy predisposition for . . . art'. Fuss also associated Kulibin with the peasantry and nature, making him a form of `noble savage' among craftsmen, whose talents were not of his own making but `bestowed on him by nature'. Elsewhere, Fuss claimed that Kulibin was `indebted [for] his higher knowledge only to some kind of instinct'.23 The academician Johann Georgi likewise described Kulibin in this manner, as `a man with an exceptional gift for mechanics'.24 Kulibin was singled out for exceptional practical skill. In contrast, an article appearing about the bridge models in the St. Petersburg Times in February 1777 retained the notion of an instinctive gift, but now emphasized Kulibin's intellectual talents, and was perhaps written by Kulibin himself: This excellent artist, whom nature endowed with a powerful imagination united with fairness of mind and an extremely logical reasoning ability, was both the inventor and executor of the model of a wooden bridge spanning 140 fathoms, i.e. the width of the Neva.25

Here, Kulibin had `imagination' and was `extremely logical', and was identified as both an `inventor' and an `executor', suggesting a combination of mental and practical talent. The article also proposed that Kulibin's methods for estimating load-bearing capacity were comparable with Euler's, even if their language was dissimilar. Kulibin's `rules turned out to be similar to those that were derived later on mechanical grounds by the great Mr. Euler'.26 Identifications of Kulibin as `head' or `hand' thus depended on who was asked, and where ± in the Academy, Kulibin was a gifted technician and, in the press, he appeared as a talented intellect. Kulibin was praised not only for his skill, but also as an exceptional and History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

170

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

unusual individual, an `astonishing' figure worthy of notice. This interest in Kulibin as a wonder should not be underestimated. The cultivation of exotic persons had a long tradition in the Academy, feeding both philosophical and courtly curiosity. Until the 1740s, the Academy kept living monsters ± giants, dwarves and hermaphroditic twins from Siberia ± quartered in its premises, for display as wonders of nature.27 Kulibin was likewise a wonder, a view confirmed in representations of his skill in the travel journals of tourists seeking out the sights of St Petersburg during Catherine's reign. English traveller William Coxe, whose Travels into Poland, Russia, Sweden and Denmark was published in 1784, thus recorded meeting Kulibin, who showed him the egg-clock and model bridge. Coxe thought the egg gave `trifling, though curious performances', while the bridge model was `sublime'. Kulibin himself was described as `a Russian peasant' whose model reflected `high honour on the inventive faculties of untutored genius'.28 Kulibin was, like his machines, a unique production, `of mechanics we shall only notice Kulibin, the Russian, the greatest genius in this particular [mechanical arts] that the nation has ever produced'.29 Just as assessments of Kulibin identified him variously as a courtly wonder or an ingenious engineer, so his bridge project was equally imagined in broader registers than the merely practical. Fuss identified it as a spectacle: `The design of the model is . . . so pleasing to the eye, that from a distance one might mistake it for the arch of a stone bridge.'30 The spectacle had an air of illusion and imitation, recalling an important principle in Kulibin's practice of learning art through the imitation of existing mechanisms. Prince Grigorii Potemkin, the Empress Catherine's favourite in 1774±75, also saw the bridge model as a spectacle. Potemkin had a passion for exotic and useful machines, and patronized many foreign and Russian mechanics and engineers, who constructed mills, factories and model machinery on Potemkin's various estates.31 In 1774, Potemkin provided patronage for Kulibin's third bridge model in the form of 3,000 rubles towards a total cost of 3,500 rubles. The 1:10 scale wooden model, some 100 feet in length, was built in the courtyard of the Volkov house, where it remained until May 1793, when it was moved to span a canal in the gardens of Potemkin's Tauride Palace in St Petersburg (Figure 1, point 6). Kulibin resisted the move, no doubt because he took every opportunity to display the model himself for visitors to his workshops.32 Kulibin's hands were thus those of a performer as well as a maker ± a fact that testifies to the fluid boundaries between showmanship and invention, and courtly, academic and scientific projects at this time. Similar intersections are evident in the case of further inventions by Kulibin, which mixed spectacle and science, and provided further sites where the identity of mind and hand could be deliberated. AUTOMATA: KULIBIN'S SELF-MOVING MACHINES

The boundary between man and machine was another subject of special interest to Kulibin, as indeed it was for many of his contemporaries. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

171

Automata, meaning `self-moving machines', imitated human and animal life and regularly served as sites for debating the border between mind and body, `head' and `hand' in the Enlightenment. `Automaton' might be interpreted in a number of ways in Russia. To academicians and proponents of enlightened management, workers might be identified with labouring bodies, mindless machines in need of orchestration; but automation could also signify independent motion, self-moving and relying on no external power source. Visitors to St Petersburg meeting Kulibin identified self-sufficiency in his skills: a `boor by birth . . . without direction, without scientific attainments, he unfolded his talents of himself'.33 After making the egg-clock, constructing automata remained one of Kulibin's principal occupations, serving both as a display of mechanical ingenuity and as a means to cultivate independent action. Kulibin's egg was only one of a host of automata on show in enlightened St Petersburg. In the 1750s, at the luxurious mansion of Count Petr Boris Sheremetev on Millionaia Ulitsa (Figure 1, point 7), Lyons-born gantierperfumeur Pierre Dumoulin showed: . . . from 2±9 after midday a very well executed model of the Cathedral of St. Peter, Rome, and amongst other tableaux animeÂs, a little Hollandaise who weaves 18 pouces of ribon a minute; equally a canary in a cage which sings many airs as if it were alive, and many different very curious tricks of optics, dioptics and catoptics. Persons of quality pay to see these what they judge fit; for others, it will cost 50 kopeks and for a group of eight persons, 2 rubles.34

Like Kulibin, Dumoulin's exhibitions established his career. Moving on to Moscow, further displays of automata earned him the position of mechanic to the Machines and Instruments Cabinet of the Physics section of the University of Moscow, though he was fired in 1767 for incompetence. Nevertheless, Dumoulin remained in Russia until his death in the early 1780s. Dumoulin's automata also adorned the imperial palaces. A duck and drummer imitating those of Jacques Vaucanson (which Dumoulin had purchased in 1742) were on display in the imperial palace of Tsarskoe Selo outside St Petersburg in 1764.35 Courtiers enjoyed automata as items of conspicuous consumption and as `small-scale models of power'.36 Mechanical microcosms displayed cosmic and social order. The mechanic Sabakin conferred with Kulibin to build a grand astronomical clock depicting the motion of the sun and moon, exhibited in Catherine II's Hermitage.37 Tsarskoe Selo contained an automaton of well disciplined soldiers on manoeuvre, while the first manual of etiquette in Russia, the Honorable Mirror of Youth, urged that Russians should be `bold, industrious and steadfast like a pendulum clock'.38 For Kulibin, self-moving machines offered the artisan a chance for independent action. Kulibin's egg had helped to secure his position in St Petersburg, and automata remained a critical link between Kulibin and courtly patrons throughout Catherine's reign. Potemkin patronized automata as well as bridges. After learning of the ingenious machines of English goldsmith and clock-maker James Cox, well known for supplying History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

172

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

marvellous automata to Eastern clients, Potemkin ordered from Cox a grand clock supporting a moving musical peacock and birds. When the peacock, which cost 11,000 rubles (£1,800) arrived in parts in St Petersburg in 1781, Kulibin was requested to assemble it, and Kulibin restored and repaired the clock for the Prince for many years thereafter.39 Kulibin also constructed his own automaton for Potemkin, making theatre out of the kinds of machinery favoured in Potemkin's projects to industrialize Russia, depicting: . . . a mountain with waterfalls of crystal spirals made in fifteen places, acting entirely like natural waterfalls or cascades. At the foot of the mountain was built and worked a water mill. In the surroundings of this mountain canals and rivers were made, with natural water, in which geese and ducks made of white glass played, and between the canals was a field . . . it was valued by foreigners at 6000 rubles.40

Kulibin's intellect was dismissed in some reports of his skill, but Kulibin himself could follow the same strategy. Another activity of Kulibin's patronized by Potemkin concerned experiments to make `mechanical vessels' (mashinnie suda) or boats capable of running against the current of the Volga river, the main line of transport for merchandise entering Russia from the south. The problem was normally solved by teams of `bargehaulers' (burlaki) who pulled laden barges upstream in teams, their laborious journeys later captured in a famous painting by the artist Ilia Repin (Figure 3). In his experimental vessels, Kulibin mechanized this labour, using the force of the current to turn a wheel or drum on the vessel that wound in a line anchored upriver, thus pulling the vessel forwards against the current.41 While he defended himself against identification as a mere hand in the Academy, Kulibin had no hesitation in representing the barge-haulers as merely hands in his own work, since he reduced the burlaki to the level of

Figure 3 The Boatmen on the Volga, 1870±73 (Burlaki na Volge) (oil on canvas) by Ilya Efimovich Repin (1844±1930) # State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia/Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

173

machines to make their labours comparable. Based on his experiments, a vessel laden with 8,500 puds might travel from 13 to 20 versts a day upriver, which, according to a report on Kulibin's experiments, `by reducing the number of laboring men by more than a third would not be without use for the navigation of the river'.42 Kulibin not only made haulers equivalent to mechanical labour, but proposed such tools needed a thinking man to oversee them, since `the direction and repair' of Kulibin's vessels on the river demanded `people knowledgeable in mechanics and carpentry' without whom pilots and labourers could not function.43 Kulibin's readiness to mechanize labour was not lost on his contemporaries. Later, when Kulibin experimented with these ships in Nizhni Novgorod, the townspeople were so fearful of the effect on labour that Kulibin was forced to move away from his hometown.44 Mechanization of the body was a common element in other theatrical and practical schemes of Kulibin. Consecutive with his work on automated barges, in 1791, Kulibin designed prosthetic `mechanical legs' with moveable knee and ankle joints to replace the legs of an injured artillerist, and devised various improvements for mechanical limbs.45 Kulibin also designed novel transport mechanisms, powered by mechanical sources.46 In the 1780s, he proposed a series of three and four-wheeled carriages carrying one or two passengers and one pedalling driver, who communicated motion to the back wheel via a flywheel and gears, while steering with the front wheel. Kulibin recognized that for long distances, a human driver would tire, and so considered replacing him with a perpetual motion machine, though many years seeking this motion were in vain.47 While Kulibin was ready to control the movements of other people, he used his inventions to gain independence for himself. Kulibin occupied a hybrid role, part independent inventor and commercial maker, part academic mechanic, and part courtly client. These roles were not necessarily in tension, but, by the early 1780s, Kulibin felt that they were. Thinking himself treated with contempt in the Academy, in 1786, Kulibin petitioned Potemkin to grant him an official rank in the Academy, giving him equal status to other academicians. Kulibin identified himself as an `inventor' who had carried out `every responsibility which is demanded of the academic mechanic in the regulation'.48 When an answer failed to materialize, Kulibin sought to leave the Academy in order to secure his independence. He now wrote `after agreeing to spend my time supervising the workshops . . . I was in such a situation that there was never time to show my successes in inventions to the Academy and society'.49 In 1786, Catherine agreed to provide an annual sum to Kulibin, which would free him to develop his inventions and display his intellect.50 Kulibin was released from his role supervising the workshops of the Academy of Sciences by the president, Ekaterina Dashkova, though he was allowed to keep his apartments on half salary, on condition that he continued to act as a consultant.51 Kulibin now devoted more time to his river vessels, and to the production of another set of new inventions ± optical instruments and fireworks ± which offered further means to display ingenuity and achieve independence. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

174

Enlightenment in Russian Hands INVENTING AUTONOMY: KULIBIN'S OPTICS AND FIREWORKS

Displays of `artificial fireworks' (or poteshnye ogni (pleasure fires) in Russian) enjoyed widespread popularity in the eighteenth century, shown together with allegorical scenery celebrating the sovereign in courtly spectacles, or as diversions for paying audiences in pleasure gardens and theatres. Fireworks often blended with `automata' as mechanical spectacles for eighteenth-century audiences, who delighted in creating exotic motions of spinning wheels, rotating stars and moving human and animal figures with the explosive action of rockets, bombs and crackers.52 Besides these traditional fireworks, enlightened pyrotechnics also included novel effects drawn from fashionable natural philosophy. `Electrical', `optical' and `aerial' fireworks mimicked gunpowder displays in miniature, domesticating them as polite spectacles free of soot and smoke and consumable in the home.53 In Russia, the Academy of Sciences oversaw the design of court fireworks for much of the eighteenth century. In Catherine's reign, professor of rhetoric Jacob von StaÈhlin designed many displays, which were staged over the Neva, in the Tsaritsyn (today Mars) Field (Figure 1, point 8), and at Tsarskoe Selo outside the city. StaÈhlin prided himself on the ingenuity that fireworks designs could display, filling his proposals with `figures moving in fire by means of mechanical action, like the scenery in operas'.54 Kulibin also offered novel pyrotechnics to Russians in the 1770s, whose invention led the instrument-maker to traverse further spaces of the city. He collaborated in his designs with the rector of the Academy of Arts and director of the St Petersburg Tapestry Factory, G.I. Kozlov, and the Kapellmeister of the Winter Palace, Giuseppe Sarti.55 The principle location for his pyrotechnics, however, was the optical instrument-making workshop at the Academy of Sciences. From the time of his arrival in St Petersburg, Kulibin busied himself making optical instruments ± producing moulds for grinding and polishing metal and glass lenses and making telescopes and microscopes for academicians. In the same year that Kulibin constructed his first bridge model, he also began work on the construction of an achromatic microscope for Euler. Achromatic lenses for telescopes had existed since the 1750s, after John Dolland's realization that lenses using flint and crown glass could eliminate the chromatic aberration troubling refracting telescopes. A dispute with Euler helped to prompt Dolland's investigations, and Euler continued to develop mathematical means to improve achromatic lenses in subsequent years. In his Dioptrica of 1771, Euler also proposed an achromatic microscope, until then considered technically impossible due to its lenses being much smaller than those of a telescope. Consecutive with his theoretical studies of this problem, Euler ordered the construction of such an instrument under Kulibin's guidance and, by March 1775, the instrument, constructed for the most part by Kulibin's apprentice I. G. Shersnevskii, was completed, though its form of construction and performance is regrettably unrecorded.56 History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

175

As in the case of Kulibin's bridges, this optical work prompted academicians to urge divisions of head and hand. In 1774, Fuss published a short treatise intended, according to its title, as a `Detailed instruction for carrying lenses of different kinds to a greater degree of perfection with a description of a microscope . . . taken from the dioptric theory of Leonard Euler'.57 Fuss claimed to translate the theoretical results of Euler's mathematical treatment of lenses into practical dimensions and combinations of lenses for the construction of different achromatic telescopes and microscopes. Implied here was a tacit division of labour between `heads' and `hands', between mathematics and practical instrument-making, in the Academy, since Fuss claimed his work would make higher mathematics `comprehensible to workmen'. Kulibin, however, pursued his own strategies to claim that he was more than just a hand making other people's inventions, and used optical and pyrotechnic skills to do this. Kulibin's first forays into pyrotechnics came soon after the work on achromatic microscopes in October 1777, when he designed `picture illuminations' and a triumphal arch to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the Academy of Sciences. The display beside the 12 Government Colleges (Figure 1, point 9) included a `mechanical sun' and an image of Apollo shedding light on the world, achieved `by the action of fire through a glass with a moving figure'.58 Kulibin soon developed this optical effect into a new invention. In February 1779, he demonstrated to the Academy a new `lamp with mirrors' (fonar' s zerkalami), which followed directly from Kulibin's experimental instrument-making and pyrotechnics, consisting of a compound concave mirror constructed of numerous smaller mirrors, arranged to reflect the light of a candle placed at the focus in a tin or copper fitting. The whole was mounted on a wooden frame with screws allowing vertical rotation, and served, like the microscope, the purpose of magnification. The following day, Kulibin publicized this lamp in extended advertisements in the city's newspaper, the Sankpeterburgskie vedemosti.59 Kulibin here claimed that the mirror could magnify the light of a candle up to 500 times. Kulibin's advertisements displayed the inventor's talents and emphasized the many ways in which his lamps could be used, to illuminate great halls, artisanal workshops, mills, manufactories and light-houses; to serve as burning lenses in chemical experiments; or, in a smaller version, to illuminate the way for carriages and pedestrians. Kulibin paid particular attention to the use of lamps in imitating festive fireworks, by projecting light through coloured screens from which decorative shapes were cut.60 Kulibin's lamps thus stood at the intersection of festive, courtly, commercial and scientific contexts, and served the inventor as a means to gain both financial and courtly credit. Financial rewards would also accrue from the sale of lamps to the public, as Kulibin explained: `Those wishing to order such mirrors made, personally or by letter, with half the price paid in a deposit' should apply to Kulibin's workshop in the Volkov house.61 Prices ranged from 150 rubles for the largest mirror of 20 vershoks (35 inches) in diameter, which could illuminate up to a distance of 300 History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

176

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

sazhens (c. 2,094 feet), to 30 rubles for a `tabletop' (stolovoe) version, of 4 vershoks (7 inches) in diameter. It is not known how many mirrors Kulibin actually sold, but at least some were constructed for private clients and others used to cultivate patrons. To increase the availability of glass for his mirrors, Kulibin mechanized aspects of hand-production at the Imperial Glass Factory in St Petersburg. His mirrors were used to light a cloth manufactory.62 According to Kulibin's first biographer, P. Svin'in, the Russian merchant Grigorii Shelekhov, director of the Northeastern Company (later the Russian±American Company) took a Kulibin lamp on a voyage to Kodiak Island, where he founded Russia's first colony in Alaska. Shelekhov used Kulibin's lamp to display the superiority of Russians over `savage' Kodiak islanders: Knowing that the savages worship the sun, he told them once at night to assemble on the shore (having arranged earlier at what time to light the lamp on the mast of the ship) and he would call upon the sun to appear. Within a few minutes the lamp was lit, and the savages with a cry and strangely agitated fell to the ground and began to pray to him.63

Kulibin also used his lamps to display his ingenuity at court and to cultivate courtly patronage. This became critical in the years following Kulibin's partial separation from the Academy. Catherine had promised funds to Kulibin in 1786 to make his experiments and, against this promise, Kulibin borrowed money. Catherine's gift failed to materialize, however, leaving Kulibin with growing debts, some 7,000 rubles by 1790.64 Kulibin thus used novel pyrotechnics to secure support, as he had done with the egg-clock in the 1760s. In April 1791, Kulibin arranged decorations for a grand feÃte in the Tauride Palace of Prince Potemkin, recently returned to St Petersburg from campaigns against the Turks. The feÃte, which was remembered as one of the grandest in eighteenth-century Russia, included displays of automata by Kulibin and thousands of illuminations.65 Outside in the palace's Winter Garden, Kulibin also set up a mirror lamp, whose beam was directed at many smaller mirrors, blue and white glass globes, and pyramids located around the expansive grounds. Spectators marvelled at the results, a `magic spectacle' where `the whole palace seemed on fire' with `mirrors innumerable'.66 Two months later, Kulibin's inventions gave him access to the imperial family, for whom he was requested to show displays of `optical and mechanical fireworks' using his mirror lamps and other devices at the palace of Tsarskoe Selo.67 Kulibin represented the display as both an intellectual and a mechanical achievement ± as an `idea and experiment'. The performance included a monogram `in fire of a violet color in laurels and palm fronds of green, [which] suddenly emits streaming golden rays . . . then transform into rays in continuous fiery brilliance and motions'.68 Spiralling cones, pyramids, fountains, wheels and star-figures then appeared, all brightly coloured in blue, green, yellow and violet. These spectacles led directly to more freedom for Kulibin to pursue his inventions, and movement, as Kulibin was allowed to traverse the empire History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

177

in order to test his ideas. In the summer of 1791, Catherine awarded 2,000 rubles to Kulibin to continue his experiments. Potemkin then requested Kulibin to travel to his court in Iasi, Moldavia, to make further experiments on river vessels, potentially useful in the war against the Turks. Kulibin went, but when Potemkin died soon after, he returned to the capital. Petitions for more support to Catherine followed and, in early 1792, the Empress agreed to pay Kulibin an annual sum of 900 rubles to support his work. `Optical fireworks' thus helped to secure Kulibin's independence and to demonstrate his intellect.69 Kulibin's status as both a mechanical and an intellectual talent was marked in the same year, when he was elected to St Petersburg's Free Economic Society (Figure 1, point 10), a prestigious institution of nobles and academics examining reforms in Russian agriculture and industry.70 CONCLUSION

Throughout his career, Kulibin was fascinated by autonomy, both in his efforts to create a space for independent activity and in the mechanical inventions that he created. Automata ± figures in clockwork, self-moving boats, carriages, fireworks and perpetual motions ± provided not only mechanical means for independent action, but also Kulibin's means to gain autonomy. Sold to the public or presented as gifts to the Empress and nobles such as Potemkin, Kulibin's machines brought him the financial and courtly credit necessary to work outside the Academy of Sciences and fulfil his role as an inventor. Kulibin was not alone in this venture. The Urals artisan Kuznetsov won his serf family's freedom by building a musical carriage or droshky for the wife of Emperor Paul I in 1800.71 Kulibin's successes were more short-lived. As he depended on courtly patronage for support, so courtiers could also restrict his activities. Kulibin's last petition to the Empress was made through the intercession of court poet and imperial secretary Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin, who, unfortunately for Kulibin, found an enemy in the Academy of Sciences' president, Elizaveta Dashkova. In November 1793, Kulibin was ejected from his premises in the Volkov house, and his bridge model removed to the Tauride Palace. Kulibin remained in St Petersburg until 1801, before leaving for Nizhni Novgorod, where he stayed until his death in 1818. These were productive years, however, during which Kulibin worked on his mechanical vessels for the Volga and many other inventions, including a mechanical lift, an optical telegraph and machinery for Russian manufactories. In her critique of Joel Mokyr's account of `Industrial Enlightenment', Liliane Hilaire-PeÂrez has stressed the hybridity of artisans' careers in eighteenth-century France. Far from being a homogeneous group resistant to industrialization, artisanal culture was a hybrid of commercial, courtly, individual and institutional activities, entailing diverse practical and intellectual skills.72 The career of Ivan Kulibin, representative of a number of `self-taught inventors' in Catherinian Russia, supports Hilaire-PereÂz's History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

178

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

conclusion. During his time in St Petersburg, Kulibin had worked hard to manage a career that mixed courtly patronage, commercial instrumentmaking and service to a state institution. That Kulibin's activities intersected all these arenas emphasizes the hybrid nature of a `scientific' career in this period, a mixture also manifested in the diverse courtly, artisanal, industrial and philosophical spaces through which Kulibin passed in the city as he went about the business of instrument-making and inventing. Location was equally critical in the different ways in which such actions were represented. In the Academy, professors such as Fuss worked to distinguish mechanical and intellectual work, identifying Kulibin as a talented `hand', whereas Kulibin himself claimed to unite both practical and mindful skills, manifested in a variety of ingenious inventions. Elsewhere, though, Kulibin's own work divided head and hand, comparing Volga barge-haulers with machines and urging their management by ingenious minds. The identity of the mechanic in eighteenthcentury Russia was thus never fixed or static, and could shift between different definitions, depending on local conditions and circumstances. Notes and References

1. .I. G. Georgi, Opisanie rossiisko-imperatorskogo stolichnogo goroda Sankt-Peterburga i dostopamiatnostei v okrestnostiakh onogo, s planom (St Petersburg, 1996, reprint), 476. 2. L. Roberts, S. Schaffer and P. Dear (eds), The Mindful Hand: Inquiry and Invention from the Late Renaissance to Early Industrialisation (Amsterdam, 2007). 3. S. Schaffer, `Enlightened Automata', in W. Clark, J. Golinski and S. Schaffer (eds), The Sciences in Enlightened Europe (Chicago, 1999), 126±65; H. Otto Sibum, `Experimentalists in the Republic of Letters', in L. Daston and H. Otto Sibum (eds), Scientific Personae, special issue of Science in Context, 2003, 16: 89±120. 4. N. M. Raskin, Ivan Petrovich Kulibin, 1735±1818 (Leningrad, 1962); V. N. Pipunyrov and N. M. Raskin, Ivan Petrovich Kulibin, 1735±1818 (Leningrad, 1986). 5. For geographically sensitive approaches to instrument-making, see J. Bennett, `Wind-Gun, Air-Gun or Pop-Gun: The Fortunes of a Philosophical Instrument', in Roberts et al., op. cit. (2), 221±45; D. E. Harkness, ```Strange'' Ideas and ``English'' Knowledge: Natural Science Exchange in Elizabethan London', in P. H. Smith and P. Findlen (eds), Merchants and Marvels: Commerce, Science, and Art in Early Modern Europe (London, New York, 2002), 137±60. 6. N. A. Mezinin, `An Outstanding Russian Mechanical Engineer: The 250th Anniversary of the Birth of E. G. Kuznetsov', Metallurgist, 1976, 20: 67±9; F. N. Zagorskii, L. F. Sabakin: A Russian Mechanic of the 18th Century: His Life and Work (Jerusalem, 1966). 7. F. N. Glinka, writing in 1808, quoted in S. Dickinson, Breaking Ground: Travel and National Culture in Russia from Peter I to the Era of Pushkin (Amsterdam and New York, 2006), 202. 8. R. O. Crummey, The Old Believers & the World of Antichrist: The Vyg Community & the Russian State, 1694±1855 (Madison, 1970); I. Paert, Old Believers, Religious Dissent, and Gender in Russia, 1760±1850 (Manchester, 2003). 9. Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 24±33. 10. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 37±9, 46. 11. W. Coxe, Travels into Poland, Russia, Sweden and Denmark, 5th edn, five volumes (London, 1802), Vol. 2, 111±12; see also N. M. Raskin and B. A. Mal'kevich (eds), Rukopisnye materialy I. P. Kulibina v Arkhive Akademii nauk SSSR (Moscow-Leningrad, 1953), 331±4, 373±6. 12. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 61±9; Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 42±5. 13. Zagorskii, op. cit. (6), 7. 14. Kulibin's petition to the Academy, November 1769, in Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 479±80, on p. 479; for his contract, ibid., 480±1. 15. V. L. Chenekal, Russkie priborostroiteli pervoi poloviny XVIII veka (Leningrad, 1953); S.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Simon Werrett

179

Werrett, `An Odd Sort of Exhibition: The St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences in Enlightened Russia', Ph.D. thesis, Cambridge University, 2000, chap. 9. 16. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 481±92. 17. Quoted in N. M. Raskin, `Euler and I. P. Kulibin', in N. N. Bogolyubov, G. K. Mikhailov and A. P. Yushkevich, trans. R. Burns (eds), Euler and Modern Science (Washington, DC, 2007), 317±34, on p. 318; Kulibin's solution is given in Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 151±60. 18. M. Gordin, `Navodia mosty: Eiler, Kulibin i tekhnicheskoe znanie', trans. E. Kanishcheva, Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2004, 66: 180±97; I. Dmitriev, `O mostiakh i fonariakh', Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2004, 66: 198±200. 19. B. V. Iakubovskii, `Proekty mostov I. P. Kulibina. 1. Dereviannyi arochnyi most cherez r. Nevu', Arkhiv istorii nauki i tekhniki, 1936, 8: 191±252, esp. 199±200. 20. L. Euler, `Regula facilis pro dijudicanda firmitate pontis aliusve corporis similis ex cognita firmitate moduli', Novi Commentarii Academiae scientiarum Imperialis Petropolitanae, 1775, 20: 271±83. 21. Vorontsov, quoted in Zagorskii, op. cit. (6), 7. 22. Quoted in Raskin, op. cit. (17), 323. 23. Quoted in A. Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture: A History to 1860 (Stanford, CA, 1963), 173; T. Ellingson, The Myth of the Noble Savage (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2001). 24. Georgi, op. cit. (1), 420. 25. Quoted in Raskin, op. cit. (17), 322. 26. Quoted in Raskin, op. cit. (17), 322. 27. M. Hagner, `Enlightened Monsters', in Clark et al., op. cit. (3), 175±217, on pp. 184±6. 28. Coxe, op. cit. (11), Vol. 2, 109±11. 29. J. H. CasteÂra, The Life of Catherine II, Empress of Russia, trans. Rev. W. Tooke, 3rd edn, three volumes (London, 1799), Vol. 3, 437±8. 30. Quoted in Raskin, op. cit. (17), 323. 31. S. Werrett, `The Panopticon in the Garden: Samuel Bentham's Inspection House and Noble Theatricality in Eighteenth-Century Russia', Ab Imperio, 2008, 3: 47±70. 32. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 223±4; Georgi, op. cit. (1), 64. 33. CasteÂra, op. cit. (29), Vol. 3, 438. 34. Sanktpeterburgskie vedemosti, 19 December 1755, quoted in A. Doyon and L. Liaigre, Jacques Vaucanson, MeÂcanicien de GeÂnie (Paris, 1966), 92±3; on Dumoulin's career, see ibid., 92±8. 35. J. Beckmann, A History of Inventions, Discoveries, and Origins, trans. W. Johnston, two volumes (London, 1846), Vol. 2, 136±7. 36. M. Foucault, Discipline & Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York, 1995), 128. 37. Zagorskii, op. cit. (6), 19. 38. Quoted in E. V. Anisimov, The Reforms of Peter the Great, Progress through Coercion in Russia (London, 1993), 220. 39. On the peacock clock, see Raskin, op. cit. (4), 54±60; Pipunirov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 126±9; C. M. Pagani, `The Clocks of James Cox: Chinoiserie and the Clock Trade with China in the Late Eighteenth Century', Apollo, 1995, 141: 15±22. 40. Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 129. 41. D. Gouzevitch and I. Gouzevitch, `The History of the First Patents for Steam Vessels in Russia', History of Technology, 2002, 24: 81±94, on pp. 81±2. 42. Governor A. M. Runovskii to Count P. A. Stroganov, 9 November 1804, quoted in Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 153±4. 43. Governor A. M. Runovskii to Count P. A. Stroganov, 9 November 1804, quoted in Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 154. 44. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 200. 45. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 156±8; D. I. Kargin, `Mechanicheskie nogi Kulibina', Nauchnoe nasledstvo, 1948, 1: 63±70. 46. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 168±71; D. I. Kargin, `Perpetuum mobile I. P. Kulibina', Arkhiv istorii nauki i tekhniki, 1935, 6: 187±209. 47. On the carriages, see Raskin, op. cit. (4), 150±3; Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 125±6. 48. Kulibin to G. A. Potemkin, c. 1786, quoted in A. M. Kachanov, `Novye svedeniia ob I. P. Kulibine', Sovetskie Arkhivy, 1989, 2: 82±5, on p. 85.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

180

Enlightenment in Russian Hands

49. Kulibin, quoted in Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 87. 50. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 143. 51. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 143±4; Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 87. 52. See, e.g. the Russian pyrotechnic manual, M. V. Danilov, Dovol'noe i iasnoe pokazanie po kotoromu Vsiakoi sam' soboiu liuzhet' prigotovliat' i delat' vsiakie feierverki i raznyia illuminatsii, 3rd edn (Moscow, 1785). 53. S. Werrett, `From the Grand Whim to the Gasworks: Philosophical Fireworks in Georgian England', Roberts et al., op. cit. (2), 324±47. 54. J. StaÈhlin, `Kratkaia istoriia iskusstva feierverkov v Rossii', in Zapiski Iakoba Shtelina ob iziashchnykh iskusstvakh v Rossii, two volumes (Moscow, 1990), Vol. 1, 238±66, on p. 255. 55. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 28. 56. Raskin, op. cit. (17), 327±9; S.L. Sobol', Istoriia mikroskopa i mikroskopicheskikh issledovanii v Rossii v XVIII veke (Moscow-Leningrad, 1949), 320±30; Raskin, op. cit. (4), 91±7. 57. N. Fuss, Instruction deÂtailleÂe pour porter les lunettes de toutes les diffeÂrentes espeÁces au plus haut degre de perfection dont elles sont susceptibles, tireÂe de la theÂorie dioptrique de Mr. Euler le peÁre et mise a la porteÂe de tous les ouvriers en ce genre par Mr. Nicolas Fuss. Avec description d'un microscope, qui peut passer le plus parfait dans son espeÁce et qui est propre aÁ produire tous les grossissemens qu'on voudra (St Petersburg, 1774). 58. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 494; Raskin, op. cit. (4), 137±8. 59. The advertisements are reproduced in Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 418±24. 60. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 420. 61. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 421. 62. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 158±9, 163. 63. P. P. Svin'in, Zhizn' russkogo mekhanika Kulibina i ego izobreteniia (St Petersburg, 1819), 10. 64. Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 131. 65. L. I. D'iachenko, Tavricheskii dvorets (St Petersburg, 1997), 41±9; S. SebagMontefiore, The Prince of Princes: The Life of Potemkin (New York, 2000), 467±71; Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 112. 66. C. F. P. Masson, Secret Memoirs of the Court of Petersburg: Particularly Towards the End of the Reign of Catherine II (Philadelphia, 1802), 318±21; see also V. N. G. Golovina, Memoirs of Countess Golovina, a Lady at the Court of Catherine II, trans. G. M. Fox-Davies and D. Nutt (London, 1910), 28. 67. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 451±2. 68. Raskin and Mal'kevich, op. cit. (11), 451. 69. Raskin, op. cit. (4), 146±8; Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 111±12, 131±2. 70. Pipunyrov and Raskin, op. cit. (4), 132±3. 71. Mezinin, op. cit. (6), 69. 72. L. Hilaire-PereÂz, `Technology as Public Culture in the Eighteenth Century: The Artisans' Legacy', History of Science, 2007, 45: 135±53; see also I. Gouzevitch and I. Inkster, `Identifying Engineers in History', History of Technology, 2006, 27: 101±7.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan: Dutch±Japanese Trade in the Second Half of the Eighteenth Century LISSA ROBERTS

The Mindful Hand sets out to show that both natural inquiry and invention between the so-called Scientific and Industrial Revolutions involved an intimate and active collaboration between mental and manual labour.1 Neither material production nor the production of knowledge, therefore, can be understood during this period within a taxonomy that aligns artisans, on one hand, with physical manipulation and natural philosophers, on the other, with contemplation. But the book is also interested to trace how reason and manual labour came to be accepted during this historical period as governed by separate, hierarchically ordered categories, and how European elites used such claims of hierarchical separation to strengthen their authority over the processes and results of material and knowledge production. It spells out at least three complementary ways in which they did so: (1) by co-opting the rhetoric of reason and science to bolster claims of authority; (2) by endeavouring to reorganize sites and networks of production in accord with what they claimed were the principles of rational management and (3) by appropriating people, goods and ideas from elsewhere through a multifaceted process of domestication. Hence, it presents, for example, scientific academies and aristocratic circles publicly distancing their members from both their own dexterous skills and from artisanal collaborators with whom they mundanely worked; skilled workers being disciplined by regimes of standardized modelling, construction and compensation; and the work of inventors reconstituted upon its exportation to foreign shores, sundered into attributions of exotic showmanship versus trustworthy domestic reason, industry and innovation. The last of these processes is especially interesting because its recognition leads to a double mapping in which we can account for the part played by travelling resources and skills in the history of material and knowledge production and simultaneously bear witness to the ways in which the necessary ingredient of travel was often submerged or History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

182

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

reconstituted by domesticating processes of local (re-) production and control. Historiographically, this resonates with current debates between historians such as Liliane Perez, who focus on the crucially important mobility of what we might label `mindful hand workers' ± artisans, engineers, entrepreneurs, etc. ± during the period covered by our book, and historians such as Joel Mokyr and Margaret Jacob, who argue instead for the decisive role of (`useful') knowledge during the so-called industrial enlightenment.2 Historically, we see it in countless examples of travelling skills and global trade providing means and materials for the production of `European' ± or more restrictively, nationally labelled ± goods and ideas. Consider the static electric generator, for example ± one of the European Enlightenment's most emblematic machines. While Joseph Priestley and countless since have referred to it as a `philosophical instrument', capable of providing insight into nature, few have paused to consider the provenance of its components: its design trajectory rooted in the international travel of `electricians' and instrument makers, the African origins of its ivory handles, its silk threads and cotton pads from Asia and America, its stand made perhaps of new world or Swedish mahogany.3 If the sinews of the mindful hand were thus firmly enmeshed in global networks of travel and exchange, a point not sufficiently stressed in the book, it is equally true that these networks were themselves practically constructed and maintained by that same hybrid entity. As a way to appreciate this, we can revisit Edwin Hutchins' famous book Cognition in the Wild (Cambridge, MA, 1995) in which he coined the term `distributed cognition' to explain the collaborative nature of navigation. Kapil Raj and others have shown that, in fact, the voyages of exploration and trading expeditions that took Europeans around the globe during the early modern period involved far more than cognitive coordination. Both onboard ship and across the board more generally, they required the inextricable collaboration of mental and manual labour within and among individuals ± tempered by the constant assertion of hierarchical management and control. Mapping the globe, collecting and categorizing its natural constituents as well as the exchange of commodities and customs relied on the coordinated support of scientific societies, trading companies and governments ± European institutions most responsible for managing the production of knowledge, material goods, wealth and the socio-political order.4 It would seem that both the mindful hand and the sources of its managed erasure were ubiquitous. But, before such a bold and global claim can be justified, we need to examine what happened when material goods and embodied knowledge that bore a stamp of European provenance made their way through foreign ports and got taken up by local goals and circumstances. What became of these products' identities and the identity of the European culture they were often taken to represent? Did the historical tension between the mind and hand's practical collaboration and assertively official claims of their hierarchical separation give way to other visions as expanding networks of exploration and commerce spread Western captains, commodities and concepts around the globe?5 History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

183

To begin addressing these questions, this essay looks at the case of Dutch±Japanese trade during the second half of the long eighteenth century. A number of things make this case an especially intriguing and fruitful historical laboratory. First, and most well known, is the fact that the Netherlands was the only `Western' nation allowed to trade directly with Japan between the years 1641 and 1853 (when Perry made his (in)famous entry). At a time when Japan almost totally curtailed relations with other European countries, much of what the Japanese came to view as European during this period was related somehow to their contact with VOC personnel and the products they imported. But, a number of other facts need also to be considered. First, not all employees of the trading company through which the Dutch were represented in Japan ± the VOC ± were Dutch. Japanese images from the period tend to distinguish only between `Red Hairs' (ko-mo) as they referred to the Dutch and their `dark' servants. More than half the sailors and soldiers in the VOC's employ, however, came from other European lands. And, among its officials who had the most significant contact with Japanese in terms of exchanging knowledge were foreigners as well. Further, the Shogun's court in Edo (modern-day Tokyo) and Japan's elite recognized that Europe was not a politically or culturally homogenous land mass, as reflected in a number of writings on the subject, the conflicts and differences they had witnessed between the Dutch and Portuguese and the fact that both the Russians and British continued their efforts throughout the late eighteenth century to establish trade relations with Japan; official negotiations and other forms of contact with Russians led especially to concerns about foreign invasion and reflections on Western modes of government by the end of the eighteenth century.6 We therefore want to be careful about how we read the popular tendency to conflate Japanese knowledge of, experience with and prejudice about the Dutch with ideas about Europe more generally. Rather than saying that the Japanese used their experiences with the Dutch to draw conclusions about Europe, its culture(s) and the goods and ideas its representatives peddled, it is perhaps more accurate to remark that the Japanese based their visions of `the West' on their experiences with the sorts of individuals and products who/that ± for reasons related to both sides of the exchange ± were drawn into expeditionary and commercial activities, often (but not exclusively) under the auspices of the VOC. This goes as well, then, for how we understand the fact that the word coined by Japanese for the study of `Western' knowledge during this period was Rangaku ± Dutch Studies. It is also the case that the Dutch were not Japan's only trading partners. The earlier presence of Portuguese traders and missionaries (who were forced to leave in 1639) left a trace, whose long-term impact has yet to be fully appreciated, I believe, particularly in relation to their introduction of `Western' medicine and hospital care. This isn't only a question of examining the medical knowledge and procedures they and their books History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

184

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

might have introduced. Understanding the Portuguese legacy in this area would require us also to take into account things such as the socio-political impact of Franciscan missionaries who administered hospitals that refused to distinguish between rich and poor in the care they gave ± thereby coupling a particular stream of Catholicism (and perhaps more general ideas about Christianity in Japan) with knowledge and care of the body on one hand and a potentially subversive vision of the body politic on the other. Once the Portuguese and all others whose presence retained the perceived threat of Christian invasion were banned, the Dutch still had to contend with competition from Chinese and Korean traders.7 The Chinese were especially well represented in Japan, with a far larger contingent of people engaged in trade than the Dutch and a history that tied Japanese language and culture to them in a number of important ways.8 This, however, did not exempt the Chinese from being subjected to stereotyping. One finds multiple cases of the Japanese drawing contrasts between the rude but metaphysically capable Chinese and the polite, precise and thoroughly materialistic Dutch.9 Finally, despite official bans, the Chinese, who continued to maintain contact with other European nations, brought European products ± including books written in both their original language and in far easier-to-understand Chinese translations ± into Japan so that it remained possible and was sometimes easier to obtain information about the West through channels other than the Dutch. Whatever the conduit through which `Western' goods and knowledge reached Japan, however, it is ultimately the case that the greatest determinant of their meaning and use rested on the ways and contexts in which they were locally appropriated. To answer the questions with which I began, then, it is necessary to appreciate the dynamics of ambient Japanese culture.10 This can help us ascertain not only what kinds of products interested the Japanese and in which circumstances they took possession of them. It also guides us towards understanding the uses towards which they put putatively `Western' goods and ideas. With this said, where do we need to look for answers to our questions? We could, as many have done, focus especially on the official corps of translators who were commissioned to serve as intermediaries between the Dutch and Japanese. We could also zero in on the pilgrimages made at regular intervals by the head of the VOC factory in Dejima, his physician and a small number of officials, along with their wares and knowledge to Edo, where they were required to pay homage to the government that deigned to allow their continued presence in Japan. We could instead begin by comparing Western texts and images with their Japanese translations. Or we could choose to cast our net more widely and examine the ways in which imported (and locally imitated) goods that were most closely associated with Europe were taken up by Japanese culture in a broader, more popular sense.11 Here, I briefly sketch a picture that allows us to bring together and make sense of evidence from all these sources. I want to show that what has History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

185

traditionally been spoken of as `the transfer of European science and technology' to Japan should be considered instead in terms of the local consumption and appropriation of foreign products. This requires our appreciation of Japan's unique cultural context in which government policies, urbanization and commercialization meshed with more local traditions and interests to form a complex and interactive whole. GOVERNMENT POLICIES: PRODUCTIVE INITIATIVES AND SOCIO-POLITICAL CONTROL

The actual situation in Japan was in fact quite different from the country's clicheÂd image as a fully closed society. Government edicts did indeed seek to guard the borders and control intercultural exchange, but this needs to be contextualized.12 Edo was far more than an arena of adaptive reaction. As home to the shogun's court, it housed government initiatives that sought out the kinds of knowledge and know-how deemed useful for the expansion of Japan's military strength and economic well-being (as defined by the government's interests, of course). It is worth noting that such import substitution and (at least quasi-) mercantilistic initiatives bore interesting similarities to contemporary European practices, particularly in Sweden and a number of German states where the ruling and bureaucratic elites pursued policies directed towards creating a paternalistic society in which the material and moral welfare of the state and its population were united into a single goal.13 But it is also (perhaps more) important to recognize their reflection of domestic developments in the realm of neo-Confucianism as well as in elements of reigning military philosophy, which stressed `a starkly rational and realist approach'.14 While it is not the purpose of this essay to trace an intellectual history of Japanese attitudes towards knowledge production, it is certainly relevant to note that within the very elite circles that advised on and helped construct government policies, the dominant philosophical domain of neoConfucianism included voices favouring a more empirical and practical orientation towards nature in relation to the apprehension and use of knowledge.15 The most explicit ± and early ± proponent of this orientation was Kaibara Ekkan (1630±1714), the son of a physician who gave up his own medical practice to teach Confucian ethics and to write on a variety of subjects including agriculture and the flora of Japan. So broad and influential were his concerns that the VOC physician Phillip von Siebold retrospectively (and Euro-centrically) referred to him as the `Aristotle of Japan'. Writing in Japanese rather than Chinese, the more usual language of contemporary philosophical texts, Kaibara found a relatively large audience for his version of neo-Confucianism. A key element of his philosophical outlook was its emphasis on the direct study of nature as a step in the investigation of the ultimate principle of things. Thus, notwithstanding criticism from those who disagreed with his views, Kaibara managed to integrate the organized observation of nature into a philosophical scheme that was situated squarely in the mainstream of History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

186

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

accepted thought. This means that the direct and organized observation of nature could be ± and no doubt was by some ± appreciated as part and parcel of neo-Confucianism rather than as a foreign activity (such as `Western science') whose purposes were contrary to the philosophical sensibilities of official culture.16 Upon reflection, it isn't surprising that Japanese officials should have been interested to stimulate the production and appropriation of knowledge and know-how in areas such as gunnery, surveying, astronomy and medicine. This was essential for maintaining and strengthening the Shogun's hold on power, relative both to perceived domestic and foreign challenges and threats. Neither should it be surprising that government officials also took active measures to stimulate knowledge and know-how that could help improve agriculture, industry, mining and metallurgy ± all necessary to nourish a growing market economy, from which it hoped to profit. These initiatives resulted in much more than the study and translation of Western books, though it is nonetheless emblematic that the first project undertaken by the government translation bureau, finally established in 1811, was the translation of NoeÈl Chomel's Dictionnaire Oeconomique (1709 and subsequent editions), which offered an encyclopaedic treatment of domestic activities ranging from agriculture, animal husbandry and fountain designs to soap and starch manufacture, cotton spinning and various artisanal skills.17 By examining the broader consequences of such policies, we are brought to consider important points at which political and economically based decisions and practices spilled over into cultural activities and trends. The government's focus on improving medicine, farming and mining, for example, helped stimulate growing interest and involvement in natural history, gardening, collecting and (realist) artistic depiction on the part of Japan's cultural elite, which could and did lead to interaction with Western sources.18 Further, because government initiatives also took the form of sending expert investigators and inspectors to various parts of Japan, sometimes fortuitous and certainly productive meetings could take place between members of the Edo elite who had more ready access to VOC pilgrims, their knowledge, skills and products, and provincials (many of whose outlooks were already affected by the government's policy of enforcing periodic residence in Edo ± see below). And, while such policies stimulated the inter-regional travel of knowledge and know-how with interesting and fruitful results, it also fed the very market-related culture that came to house an alternative context in which `Western' goods might be investigated and appropriated. THE URBAN SETTING

In his historical survey of Japanese industrialization, Ian Inkster outlines the key economic, political and demographic trends that characterized Tokugawa Japan (1603±1868), concluding with a comparison between these `Tokugawa dynamics and the ``western model''' (or models) that History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

187

preceded modern industrialization.19 Urbanization, widely recognized as an important context for and reflection of modern economic development, was certainly evident in Japan; Edo was home to almost a million inhabitants in the eighteenth century and a number of other relatively large cities were disbursed throughout the country as well. We should not forget that each of these urban centres was distinguished by its own sociocultural atmosphere: Kyoto housed the court of Japan's shujo- (emperor) and its attendant pretensions; Osaka was Japan's commercial and banking centre; Nagasaki contained the foreign communities of Dutch and Chinese traders whose presence added a unique flavour to local culture; provincial cities such as the ancient capital Nara retained the feel of an earlier age and were seen as out of step with the latest developments of culturally thriving centres such as Edo.20 This certainly implies the dangers of considering Japanese urban development in terms of a single pattern, especially one whose developmental contours are that of `(western) modernisation'.21 At the same time, these cities were connected to the surrounding countryside and, ultimately, to each other by increasingly well developed (though still, at times, precarious) networks of agricultural production and distribution, manufacture and trade. They were also linked by a complex political system that, together with these other networks, helped provide Japanese cities their cultural complexion.22 At the political centre of this complex network stood the shogun's city, Edo. Similar to but more forcefully than what Louis XIV attempted at Versailles, the shogun's government (bakufu) sought to centralize and strengthen its rule by requiring provincial lords (daimyo-), their families and retainers to alternate their residence between their local homes and Edo on a regular basis (sankin ko-tai). Not only did this stimulate inter-regional mingling and the rise of a recognized code of elite cultural behaviour. To cater to this elite migration of luxury consumers, a large influx of merchants, trade and services also came to populate the city. Somewhat familiar to European historians, this catalyzed more general cultural developments, the results of which coloured Edo's urban culture and created liminal spaces within which former distinctions between social groups either began to blur or were actually replaced by new forms of cultural expression. While urban consumers became increasingly interested in observing and owning novel and often, therefore, `Western' goods such as glassware and optical instruments, these spaces ± which frequently coincided with the city's `floating world' (i.e. pleasure district) ± provided especially fertile ground for the appropriation and critical examination of goods and ideas that were originally rooted in the mindful hand's tensionfilled European economy of production and governance. We can tie this immediately to the daily registers of the VOC in Dejima that inventoried the type and quantities of both company and private imports, as Dutch traders were only too happy to comply with local demand for mirrors, glassware, spectacles, telescopes and various other scientific devices. But, if this underscores that Dutch supply of consumer goods was explicitly shaped by Japanese demand, it also draws our History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

188

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

attention to a range of Japanese co-optations as depicted in contemporary Japanese prints and illustrations: the domestic use of `Western' instruments, such as the highly popular static electric generator (erekiteru); the projection of imported goods and instruments such as telescopes and electrical machines as advertisement for a commercial establishment's fashionability; the appropriation of Western characters, commodities and scientific paraphernalia by Japanese authors and artists, often for the sake of parody or as a stepping-stone to more local philosophical or cultural concerns. Not only, then, were optical machines, automata and so forth rendered as objects of material consumption or used to manipulate and change the perspective from which Japanese audiences might look at their world. Japanese authors and image makers transplanted `Western' goods into imagined worlds inhabited by local tropes and values, turning tools that might be used to examine, interpret and manipulate the natural and material world(s) into vehicles for examining their own domestic worlds of moral and spiritual judgment.23 FROM GOVERNMENT POLICY TO MEDICINE AND ART: `WESTERN' ANATOMY AND `REALIST' ILLUSTRATION

What were the results of the inter-regional travel of knowledge and knowhow stimulated by Tokugawa policies? How did these results mesh with the simultaneous rise of an urban-based and market-oriented culture in terms of interest in and the appropriation of `Western' goods and knowledge? In this and the following section, I examine these questions by focusing, first, on related developments in medicine and pictorial art and, next, on cultural productions that were rooted in Edo's `floating world'. As has been well documented, the corps of translators who served as intermediaries between VOC personnel, virtually none of whom could speak Japanese, and Japanese, who couldn't speak Dutch, also provided an important conduit through which innovative medical practices and critical awareness of European natural knowledge reached interested native audiences. Because their duties included examining European books brought to Dejima to make sure that they contained no traces of Christianity or other sources of potential subversion, the brighter and more serious of these men had an opportunity to engage with discussions and images that presented different visions of the world. Hence, for example, it was a retired translator, Shizuki Tadao, who introduced Newtonian physics to Japan, through his critical `translation' of and commentary on a Dutch version of John Keill's Introductiones ad verum physicam et veram astronomian.24 That such projects involved more than passive acceptance and translation of Western `truths' reminds us of developments that had been taking place in Japanese merchant culture under the Tokugawa regime ± the cultural milieu from which the translator corps was drawn. Such individuals would not have been raised in an elite cultural context in which education was guided by neo-Confucianist considerations of nature, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

189

humanity and the place of both in the greater scheme of things. But, as touched on in the previous section, Japanese urban settings housed increasing attention to similar questions, with results that might place both imported and autochthonous concepts, procedures and illustrations under critical scrutiny. It would be surprising if (at least) the more literary and philosophically oriented of Nagasaki's translator community were untouched by this trend. It would also be surprising if they were untouched by the practical and profit-oriented atmosphere of merchant activity. Translators' involvement in medical practice and education that integrated what they both saw and read in Dejima can be understood as manifesting these various facets. Hence, influential and remunerative schools of `Dutch' medicine were established by (former) translators, some of whom had obtained certificates from the VOC's resident surgeons, to train local practitioners. Among those who attended such schools were men who went on to become highly placed physicians and authors within the elite circles of Japanese society. Members of the Dejima translators' corps were also among the first to produce Japanese versions of European medical and anatomical texts, which ranged from partial translations to original works that reflected the author's consideration of what he had read and observed. Among such translators was Yoshio Ko- gyu- (1724±1800), who translated numerous medical treatises and garnered such a major reputation in the field that he was asked to pen an introduction to the epoch-making book Kaitai shinsho, to which we will return shortly.25 Lest we fall back into the comfortable idea that these translations provide evidence for a kind of one-way traffic between European innovation and Japanese translation and adoption, we need to keep in mind that explicit Japanese requests were what brought European medical (and other) texts to Japan. The books transported to Dejima by VOC ships were primarily in response to Japanese orders. Obviously, then, we are dealing with customers who had a good idea of what they wanted, even if they weren't familiar with the specifics of what they would find in the books they ordered. This reminder sets the stage for our appreciation of the first recorded human anatomy performed in Japan, in 1754, at the request of the Kyoto physician Yamawaki Toyo (1705±62). When reading about Yamawaki, the Western reader might be reminded of the European Reformation, during which time reformers incorporated new methods and sources into their quest to `cleanse' contemporary practices and recover the integrity of ancient wisdom. While such projects were motivated by reformist urges, however, the consequences could take things in a rather different direction than originally intended; we need only consider what developed from the initiatives of Nicolas Copernicus and Martin Luther to see the most extreme examples of this point. In any event, Yamawaki was convinced that direct examination of human cadavers would help demonstrate the truth of traditional anatomy. In preparation for the dissection of a human cadaver, he dissected an otter and obtained a Dutch translation of Johannes History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

190

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

Vesling's Syntagma anatomicum, which contained illustrations featuring human torsos whose organs were made visible by the skin having been folded neatly back like curtains adorning a stage. The description Yamawaki gave of his experience in his 1759 anatomy text Zoshi (On the Viscera) resonates interestingly with contemporary developments in neo-Confucianism that underscored the importance of direct investigation of nature. He wrote: Theories may be overturned, but how can real material things deceive? When theories are esteemed over reality, even a man of great wisdom cannot fail to err. When material things are investigated and theories are based on that, even a man of common intelligence can perform well.26

To record and share his anatomical experience with others, Yamawaki engaged his disciple Asanuma Saketsune to make four on-the-spot drawings that Asanuma then recreated as wood-block prints to accompany the text. While at least one historian has criticized these illustrations as being unrealistic, it is interesting to note the following. First, in addition to his medico-anatomical interests, Asanuma was a practising artist aligned with the Maruyama School, which is characterized by art historians as mixing `Western' realism and domestic decorative traditions.27 Second, the illustrations are indeed relatively rough, but this lack of polished presentation can actually be seen as reflecting their origins as on-the-spot sketches of a very messy process ± one that had to be performed relatively rapidly because of the lack of refrigeration to keep the cadaver from decomposing. Finally, the stylized elements that can be detected do indeed hearken at least partially back to the torsos exposed in Vesling's book. Done in a simpler cartoonesque manner and without the drapery of human skin, Asanuma's rump looks akin to a simple kijkdoos ± a peepshow box whose front wall has been removed to allow easier observation of the domestic scene within.28 As we will see in the following section, imported and domestically made peepshow boxes became extremely popular in Japan's cities during the eighteenth century. News of Yamawaki's dissection and diffusion of his Zoshi stimulated a veritable flurry of human dissections in the coming years. This trend culminated in the 1774 publication of Sugita Genpaku's Kaitai Shinsho (New Book of Dissection), a text that is often seen as marking the true beginning of Rangaku, anachronistically defined by Numato Jiro- and others as the systematic study of European science and technology.29 While it is clearly an overstatement to consider this text as ushering in a new movement, there is no denying that Genpaku's text generated great interest. Here, I reconstruct the important elements that led to the composition and publication of Kaitai shinsho, with three goals in mind. The first is to lay bare the network of activity in which its production took place ± a network that manifests the rippling effects of bakufu policies discussed in the second section of this essay. The second is to examine Genpaku's text as an exercise in rhetoric and pictorial persuasion, which sought to elevate the reputation of its author and his circle at the expense

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

191

of anatomical work that had already been done by others. Third is to indicate that, nonetheless, Genpaku's text has much to tell us about the developing character of Japanese interests in coupling the reading of European texts to the direct examination of nature. This story begins not with the examination of human viscera, but with a journey to the bowels of the earth. Japan was blessed with sizable metal deposits within its borders upon which the government relied for both domestic coinage and foreign trade. This made mining a crucial activity, which the Shogun's central administration and regional government officials sought to improve in the eighteenth century by sending expert inspectors to various sites throughout the realm. This was especially true in the latter decades of the eighteenth century, which periodically witnessed devastating weather conditions, poor harvests, rural and urban unrest (the latter punctuated by fires that ravaged the wooden structures that populated Japan's cities) and government treasuries in need of revenue. The most famous of these inspectors was Hiraga Gennai (1729±79), who travelled to provincial Akita in northern Japan (about 450 kilometres northwest of Edo/Tokyo) in 1773 to consider ways of improving yields from its important Ani copper mine.30 Hiraga Gennai had already lived an interesting life up to this point, which is relevant to mention here. Born into a minor samurai family, he gained a position as herbalist to a daimyo- who dabbled in `Dutch Studies' and, was consequently sent by him to study in Nagasaki where long interaction with Chinese, Portuguese and Dutch medicine and trade had made it a centre for both medical training and interaction with foreign goods and practices. Hiraga Gennai took full advantage of his time in Nagasaki and began deepening his knowledge of natural history, which was not only crucial to his development as an herbalist, but which also stood him in good stead as he subsequently cultivated an expertise in mining and mineralogy. Soon thereafter, he chose to give up his position and status as a samurai and to further his studies in Edo as a ro-nin (masterless samurai) ± which he managed to do, it would seem, without losing social status or cultural credibility. Among those with whom Hiraga Gennai associated in Edo was a group of highly placed physicians and amateur artists whose interests merged in a special focus on `Western' anatomy and realist pictorial depiction. A prominent member of this circle was Satake Shozan (1748±85), who was both daimyo- of Akita and author of the first Japanese study of the artistic realism in which he stressed that art should be `an instrument of national utility'.31 Along with becoming acquainted with much of the city's intelligentsia, Hiraga Gennai visited with the VOC representatives who came to Edo on their yearly trade mission, establishing himself among both Japanese and Dutch as an author, collector, inventor and man of impressive learning. Through his contacts with the Dutch, he also procured European art supplies such as oil paints, whose properties and provenance he studied as part of his natural history investigations and which he used to create his own realist tableaux. Coupled with subsequent History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

192

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

travels, all this would feed into innovative developments in the worlds of commercialized natural history, artistic and medical practice. As stated, Hiraga Gennai found himself in the region of Akita in 1773 to advise on how to maximize output at the local mines. While there, he chose a new assistant, the artist Odano Naotake, who enjoyed the daimyo-'s patronage. Given leave to follow Hiraga Gennai back to Edo, Naotake found himself appointed governmental `agent for mining and goods'. In Edo, Hiraga Gennai brought him into contact with Sugita Genpaku, who, along with Ryotaku Maeno and Nakagawa Jun'an, was translating a Dutch translation of Adam Kulmus' Ontleedkundige Tafelen (Anatomical Tables) of 1734, and needed someone to illustrate it. Unlike the four plates composed by Asanuma to accompany Yamawaki's Zoshi, Naotake's illustrations were ± with the exception of giving Japanese characteristics to the faces he drew ± fairly exact copies of already extant anatomical compositions. But their production nonetheless manifests an importantly hybrid nature: to `reproduce' the images he chose to include, Naotake had somehow to traverse the representational distance between `Western' copperplate illustrations and the woodblocks upon which Japan's thriving publishing industry relied. His adopted realism and adaptive techniques thus provide an interesting bridge to his larger artistic oeuvre, as Odano Naotake and a small circle of well placed friends and patrons formed what has become known as the Akita Ranga (Akita Dutch painting) school, in which Western pictorial techniques were integrated in more traditional forms of pictorial expression.32 Most Akita Ranga paintings adapted a high degree of realism, Western perspective and shadowing to depict traditional subjects such as flowers, birds and natural vistas on traditional surfaces such as parchment and silk.33 If the trail of these illustrations made to accompany the translation of a European anatomy text leads us to a school of painting noted for its hybrid use of materials, techniques, subjects and perspectives, what of the discipline of anatomy with which they were also associated? As Annick Horiuchi has argued, Genpaku overstated the innovative character of his anatomical practices and the publication of Kaitai shinsho. Nonetheless, his recollections ± which so many commentators have (too unquestioningly) relied upon to structure their narratives of this episode in Japanese history ± provide us with important clues regarding the local context and significance of stressing direct experience as a way to acquire knowledge. In deciding to translate Kulmus' anatomy text, Genpaku made a shrewd choice. A number of European anatomy books were extant in Japan by that time.34 What distinguished Kulmus's book from other, more elaborate publications and recommended it for translation was its relatively compact and elementary presentation. It promised to provide a handy resource, even more so since the published translation was only partial. As such, it was bound to reach a larger audience than would a weighty, complicated and expensive tome. That this was indeed a primary goal of Genpaku's is emphasized by the fact that one of his fellow translators, the highly proficient and meticulous Maeno Ryo-taku, History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

193

withdrew his name as co-translator when the book was published. Unlike Genpaku, he valued thoroughness and high quality over the rapid appearance of an admittedly incomplete text. But Kaitai shinsho, buttressed by Genpaku's reconstructed history of its composition, was meant to do more than speedily convey empirical information about human anatomy. As Horiuchi has sketched, it was meant also to contribute towards Genpaku's reputation and that of the culturally elite Edo milieu in which he operated, at the expense of the role played by those associated with the Nagasaki corps of translators ± a move that was bound to help raise the status of the knowledge and subject involved. Consequently, Genpaku downplayed the impact of both prior translations and dissections, while he embroidered on the claimed innovation of his marriage of direct experience and textual imagery and the heroic drama of translating Dutch terminology into Japanese. Ironically perhaps, the willingness to publish an incomplete translation was counter-balanced by the great care taken with its illustrations. The detail achieved in Naotake's woodblock `copies' of exquisite Dutch anatomical images leant Kaitai shinsho a visually based weight and authority that texts such as Zoshi lacked. It was through such illustrations, in fact, that individuals such as Genpaku had first been drawn to the idea of witnessing a real dissection ± to see whether such vividly precise images matched what was present in the flesh. He explicitly mentioned the plates accompanying Kulmus' book and those in Lorenz Heister's Heelkundige onderwijzingen (Surgical Lessons) as his original sources of inspiration, though we need to recall how mentioning such `insights' might actually have helped mask his debts to domestic practices. Just as he claimed that these illustrations had spurred him to change his view of the human body, so did Genpaku begin Kaitai shinsho with the stated hope that `all those who read this book [will] change their outlook'.35 His success in this regard can be measured in three related ways. First as a widely acclaimed representative of Rangaku, the book helped create growing interest and involvement in the integration of European studies of medicine and nature into the Japanese corpus of learning. Second, among those whose outlook was affected were bakufu officials who subsequently granted patronage to Genpaku's disciples, no doubt seeing them as carrying on the tradition he claimed to have initiated. And, finally, he managed to change the outlook of posterity by painting a convincing reconstruction of the early years of Rangaku that diminished home-grown efforts to reform anatomical knowledge, especially the important role played by Nagasaki translators and physicians. Instead, he presented a historical picture that countered the `stultifying' traditions of Chinese medicine to the heroic efforts made by him and his elite Edo collaborators to introduce a new and equally foreign tradition of European origins.36 It is only in the past few years that historians have begun to rediscover the domestic character of developments so long ascribed to `foreign influence'. What makes this doubly ironic is the fact that Genpaku elsewhere attributed his desire for reform in Japanese anatomical understanding to a History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

194

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

very different and completely Japanese source: Ogyu Sorai's military treatise Kenroku gaisho. According to Genpaku: Sorai writes that true warfare is very different from what so-called masters of the art of war teach us. Topography may be hilly or flat, and armies may be strong or weak. One cannot make identical cut-and-dried preparations that will be right for all times and places . . .. Victory or defeat are determined on a case-by-case basis by constant study of strategic principles and by the capacities of great generals.37

While Genpaku sought to fashion himself as a great general in the battle for human health and self-knowledge, he claimed the need for direct observation and analysis of nature ± precisely the attitude fostered by numerous Japanese scholars and physicians since at least the time of Kaibara Ekkan. As already discussed above, this was also the attitude encouraged by contemporary artists such as members of the so-called Akita Ranga school, who linked the adoption of Western perspective and realism in their artistic depictions to a stance of `national utility'. And, here, we see the formation of an interesting set of intersections, with Hiraga Gennai at the central point of contact. For it was he who went to Akita on a governmentsponsored mission to improve mining practices and output. It was also at least partly through his involvement with circles in both Edo and Akita, where interests in medicine, anatomy and realist depiction overlapped, that interest in European methods and media of artistic production increased and the illustrated publication of Kaitai shinsho was achieved. Interestingly, we find him also connected to another locus of artistic and textual production that sought to introduce Japanese audiences to visions of nature drawn with a realist perspective. The artist and popularizing polymath Shiba Kokan ((1747±1818), who has sometimes been overenthusiastically credited with the introduction of Western painting style to Japan and who (perhaps equally overenthusiastically and certainly erroneously) claimed to have introduced the Copernican system into Japan, was encouraged by Gennai to pursue his studies of Dutch sources and seems to have received some level of patronage thanks to Gennai's intervention.38 Among his achievements, Shiba Kokan could include the introduction of copperplate etching to Japan; he completed his first copperplate etching, a cityscape of Edo, in 1783 and his impressive hemispheric-relief world map in 1792±93. But he also published texts that re-presented Japanese appropriations of foreign goods in a way that effaced the local context that in fact shaped demand and provided meaning, in favour of a projected contrast between Dutch innovation and Chinese conservatism. While agreeing with the Akita Ranga painters, with whom he was in close contact, that art and observation ought to contribute to the `national good', Shiba Kokan attributed the `spirit of reality' upon which this claimed utility rested exclusively to Dutch medical and pictorial art, granting it superiority over the `Chinese' tradition with which he identified contemporary Japanese practice: History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

195

Medical science cures illness with medicine. Relating this metaphorically to painting, let us call medical science the brush, illness the picture, and medicines the colours. The attempt of medical science to cure a specific illness with general medicine, or the attempt of the brush to correct a picture with colour, is like not knowing exactly where the illness originates or just what is at fault in painting. The primary aim of western art is to create a spirit of reality, but the Japanese and Chinese paintings, in failing to do this, become mere toys serving no use whatever.39

Here, polemics helped mask history. For, rather than present a complicated story of multiple Japanese appropriations through which foreign knowledge and know-how were domesticated and integrated with local practices, Shiba Kokan drew a stark picture of opposing forces: conservative tradition versus productive innovation. Associating such claimed novelty with the `Dutch' qualities of precision and utility sharpened his message and lent it a certain cultural cachet, but simultaneously projected the Japanese as passively caught between the traditions and practices of others. If this section's discussion of anatomy and art began with Yamawaki's ideal of harnessing direct observation to the recovery of ancient knowledge, which he identified with Chinese tradition, then it ends with a forward-looking urge that identified similar practices with the even more foreign Dutch. Alongside Japan's longstanding history of closely orchestrated international exchange, the foreign `other' thus provided a safe ± because culturally distanced ± space within which to engage in critical (if masked) self-analysis and change. The following section shows this to have been the case as well for the appropriation of a fascinating variety of imported consumer goods. BACK TO EDO: `WESTERN' GOODS AND INSTRUMENTS IN THE JAPANESE IMAGINATION

In his provocative book, The Lens within the Heart: The Western Scientific Gaze and Popular Imagery in Later Edo Japan, Timon Screech richly demonstrates the need to go beyond an examination of the immediate contacts between `historically significant' Dutch and Japanese individuals and of these Japanese individuals' `discovery' of Western knowledge as embodied in books and instruments if we are to appreciate Japanese appropriation, reproduction and consumption of `Western' products and practices. (Indeed, he makes a point of redefining the word `Dutch' to indicate a Japanese projection rather than an objective label.) Screech makes his case by turning to literary and artistic evidence from the late eighteenth century that documents the way in which `Western science' was perceived and put to work culturally within the broader, more popular sweep of Japanese culture. Martha Chaiklin complements this by tracing the influx of material goods into Japan, based on a view that the circulation, appropriation and consumption of objects provided an equally (if not more) crucial conduit for the domestic construction of `Europe and its

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

196

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

influence'.40 In both these cases, we are drawn to look beyond elite circles as we consider the questions with which we began. For, as I want to indicate in this final section, much culturally productive work was done in the liminal pockets provided by the increasingly vibrant urban culture to which merchants, their customers and socio-cultural collaborators contributed. Here, I can do no more than make my way into this huge topic by turning to the objects and displays featured by Screech in his book ± the quantitative and culturally qualitative importance of which are underlined by Chaiklin's findings. Urban Japanese consumers were mad about objects and occasions that fed their apparent love of novelty and desire for visual stimulation. They coveted Dutch glassware, mirrors and domestically made prints of foreign visitors, as well as Dutch-made (or locally imitated) instruments that extended visual abilities while displaying human ingenuity and skill, such as eyeglasses, telescopes, microscopes, various measuring devices and timepieces.41 Alongside or in place of personal ownership, spectators flocked to commercial displays and spectacles that used optical instruments, such as magic lanterns and perspective boxes offering threedimensional peepshow views of miniaturized scenes. Also popular were demonstrations of and treatments with electrical machines and automata. It is of note that one could tell (at least superficially) similar stories about contemporary European metropoles such as Paris, Amsterdam and London, where spectators also gathered at theatres, fairs and public gardens to witness visually manipulative shows and dramatic demonstrations of nature in harness.42 Considered apart from the cultural differences that coloured visitors' experiences, what interests us here is that these were all sites that both fed off and fostered socio-cultural mixing and innovation. Traditional barriers were muted or replaced, on one hand, by the creation of spectacles that were themselves the hybrid products of elite and more popular forms of inquiry, display, critique and entertainment. But transgressions of traditional boundaries had also to do with patterns of consumer behaviour. In the context of an increasingly evident market economy, cultural elites chose to congregate in places where the social code allowed for interaction with other social and cultural elements. If this gave rise to burlesque and bawdy forms of behaviour and entertainment, it also led to productive contacts between cultural elites, showmen and entrepreneurs. An important study waits to be done along these lines, for example, that examines the activities surrounding the Duc d'Orleans, who continued his family's tradition of patronizing any number of projectors, inventors and scientific experimenters while simultaneously turning the Palais Royale into a huge and hugely popular pleasure garden in the centre of Paris during the 1780s. There, one could visit a museum turned theatre `for the advancement of knowledge' established by the balloonist PilaÃtre de Rosier. One could also haunt clubs and cafeÂs where the smart set mingled with (natural) philosophers, artists and men of letters to discuss nature, literature, art and music, or simply to play a game of chess. Or one could History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

197

shop for items ranging from Chinese powders and pills to jewellery, textiles from around the world, equestrian supplies and scandalous publications. No less than five opticians operated shops at the Palais Royale, where one could purchase barometers, thermometers, eye-glasses, telescopes and luminous phosphorous.43 Like their counterparts in London, Amsterdam, Edo, Kyoto and Osaka, Parisians rushed to own and observe items and experiences from far-flung lands, while witnessing the secrets of nature and human cunning displayed in dramatic fashion. Historians of European science have focused on the tensions produced at this time by the market's increasing role in the overlapping realms of entertainment and knowledge production. On one hand, expanding patterns of commodification and consumption made previously elite concerns and delights available to a much broader swathe of society, while it worked to erode cultural differences and question the status quo. On the other hand, it increasingly provided the very tools, resources, skills and profits required to support the production of (natural) knowledge. Looking particularly at the career of electrical machines and their operators in Georgian Britain, Simon Schaffer describes how this conflict manifested itself in the need to manage electrical displays and medical treatment so as not to run afoul of a socio-cultural order built on the asserted distinction between serious instruction and popular entertainment. Shaffer writes `If this distinction broke down, so did the moral order of natural philosophy'. He and others have traced the way in which Great Britain's official institutions of science helped police the divide between what they deemed serious inquiry, reason and control, on one side, and popular consumption, enthusiasm and uncouth labour on the other.44 In a previous publication, I questioned whether the commercialization of society was necessarily experienced as a threat to the philosophical and cultural order everywhere in Western Europe by examining the electrical machine's contemporary history in the Netherlands ± a long-urbanized context in which the market was not generally considered antagonistic to the status quo.45 In keeping with this, we might ask ourselves whether it was no more than an innocent historical fact that it was the Dutch ± and Dutch merchants, at that ± who provided such a prominent conduit through which `Western' goods and knowledge arrived in Japan.46 It is certainly the case that what might have been regarded as embodiments of (Western) knowledge and know-how appeared first in Japan as commodities, that is as objects of (commercial) exchange.47 Various historians have commented on the intimate relation between commerce and the construction of knowledge during the early modern period. Most recently, Harold Cook devoted a book-length study to this question in the context of examining the links between seventeenthcentury Dutch commerce, medicine and science.48 Matters of Exchange presents the thesis that these overlapping realms were held together by the very same currency that made the growing mass of global exchanges possible: `. . . matters of fact.' Cook recognizes that these `facts' themselves had to be manufactured and is keen to show them as both the by-product History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

198

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

and the coin of intercultural trade. What interests us here is that his book both demonstrates and explains the dominance of a particular kind of knowledge and know-how, which enabled and profited from Dutch commercial activities ± one in which the results of the intimate collaboration between mind and hand were parsed into individual facts and commodities that could be collected, exchanged and manipulated for further, value-added transactions by both the Dutch and their foreign customers.49 While the central focal point and intellectual raison d'eÃtre of Cook's book is ultimately the Netherlands, the general thrust of this essay has been to focus our attention on the characteristics and components of Japanese society and culture, to help assess what became of European products once they entered the port of Nagasaki. I therefore want to draw the reader's attention back once more from the Dutch to Japan, whose consumers seemed so keen to observe, acquire, collect, represent and exchange both manufactured embodiments of `matters of fact' and the instruments that were capable of generating them. This leads to an examination of a Japanese cultural institution that not only provided a safety valve for the potential disruptions caused by the country's growing market economy and the influx of foreign goods and ideas, but went farther to nourish cultural novelties of its own. To regulate potential pressures brought on by relatively rapid urbanization, paired with the presence of a growing stock of merchants who had low socio-cultural status but economic clout and samurai who officially belonged to the highest ranks of society but often found themselves either far removed from their traditional vocations or without gainful employment of any kind, the Edo government licensed special areas in its major cities where the usual codes of behaviour were suspended. These pleasure districts, known poetically as `the floating world', came to offer more than just carnal relief, however. They nurtured the development of a creatively rich, alternative culture, whose heritage has provided us with our most vivid images of eighteenth-century Japanese urban life. Alongside the geishas and kabuki actors, merchants on the make and frustrated samurai, habitueÂs of the `floating world' included some of eighteenth-century Japan's most intriguing authors, whose works ranged from fiction and social satire to serious Rangaku treatises. This social mix was supported by the development of a material culture and patois that integrated Dutch words and imported goods with daily (nightly?) life in the floating world. Under a pseudonym chosen especially for this demimonde, for example, Hiraga Gennai penned a variety of works, including studies of mechanics, natural history and the highly popular subject, electrical machines ± which he had helped to introduce, by constructing the first Japanese generator some time before 1771. Everything and everyone were potential targets and media for social commentary in this ultra-trendy world. It is of special note, then, that so many authors chose to use `Westerners', their goods and instruments as History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

199

vehicles for making their point.50 Filled with complicated word-plays and ridiculously exaggerated circumstances, these sometimes widely read literary productions further heightened the renown of such goods, their foreign pedigree and owners, but certainly not as celebrated means for uncovering natural truths and dominating the material world. Rather, their identities and meanings floated along with the contexts in which they were taken up and used. At times, the thrust was simply to laugh at the buffoonery of the constructed `other'. But the purpose could also be more serious, as when the obviously materialistic preoccupations of the Dutch and their investigative instruments were used as a mirror in which to reflect on which values connected best to a search for deeper insight and understanding. Here, we see articulate observers wrestling with the effects of worldly and self-interested commerce on their society's moral economy, clearly concerned with the more profound consequences of living in a world of manufactured and manipulable fact. CONCLUSION

This essay began by noting that the recently published volume The Mindful Hand can and should be situated in a more global context. On one hand, further work needs to be done to demonstrate how the global circulation of people, knowledge, skill and goods during the early modern era productively fed and profited from the processes and products generally associated with European knowledge and know-how.51 On the other hand, further work is needed to trace what became of the mindful hand's products (whether material goods, skills or embodied knowledge) and (socio-cultural, political and/or economic) relationships in which their production was enmeshed, once these goods were transported beyond Europe's borders. Such an endeavour can be approached in different ways. Rather than, for example, considering `the West and the rest' in terms of the `diffusion of Western science and technology' or through a comparison between productive practices in Europe and elsewhere, I have focused here on the extra-European context and content of local appropriations that did so much to determine what was imported, how imported goods and skills were (e)valuated, interpreted and used, and the ways in which the very category of `Western' knowledge and goods was projected as culturally significant. Examining the case of eighteenth-century Japan has led us to an image of a complex and dynamic society characterized by, among other things, a centralizing government engaged in policies intended to strengthen both its power and the economic vitality of its dominions; an array of individuals associated either directly with carrying out government policies or with the dominant political and cultural power structure; and a highly developed urban context noted for housing both a growing consumer market and cultural alternatives to officially sanctioned productions and attitudes. In each case, and sometimes in the context of their tensions and interactions, contact (direct or through Chinese History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

200

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

mediation) with the `Dutch', their wares, skills and embodied knowledge was continually orchestrated by and filtered through complexly local economies of pecuniary, political, philosophical and cultural requirements, demands, prejudices and hopes. Government policies, for example, adopted a utilitarian view that encouraged its agents and clients to pick and choose among available goods, instruments and practices in keeping with their own needs and desires, as well as those of the state. For its corps of translators, who found themselves most closely and frequently associated with employees of the VOC and who moved between the requirements of their functions, the merchant milieu from which they came, the evolving medical market (which some of them helped to shape) and their own interests, this proved an especially fruitful market. Finally, the farther goods and ideas moved from their point of entry at Dejima, the more plastic they proved to be. Artists in Akita used Dutch oil paints and perspective to recreate Japanese landscapes, while urban entrepreneurs sold tickets for the chance to be electrified and floating world literati sent hot-air balloons sailing on imaginary voyages and attached magic lanterns to their characters' bodies in search of a ray of deeper truth.52 The outcome of these activities certainly did as much to construct a local constellation of meanings for `Western' knowledge, know-how and material goods as it did to further their assimilation into the marketplaces and consciousness of the Japanese. The dependence of `Western' products on domestic interest and interpretation is perhaps most neatly symbolized by the fact that the VOC factory (we see the original use of the word `factory' here, indicating an outpost and warehouse rather than a site of increasingly mechanized production) at Dejima was itself only kept afloat by the shogun's financial support during the Napoleonic years, after the VOC had gone bankrupt and the Netherlands ceased to function as an independent land. There was no obvious reason in such a context to associate `Dutch learning' with notions of `progress' or `superiority'. But there were many reasons and ways, as we have seen, to utilize such resources for local purposes. Returning to the suggestion made at the beginning of this essay that both the mindful hand and the sources of its managed erasure were ubiquitous, a certain modification would seem to be in order once we turn to locations such as Japan during the late eighteenth century. Not only did Dutch±Japanese trade entail an extraction of the commodified products of `European' knowledge and know-how from a regime within which their original production and valuation were linked to tensions between practical and cultural constructions of the relation between mind and hand. Japan was a complex land whose culture and society were structured by a myriad of its own categorizing systems ± systems that plotted identities and difference onto a domestically grown grid of significance and value.53 It was within this context that the introduction of `Western' goods and ideas ± themselves, as I indicated at the start of this paper, the result of a productive context enmeshed in global trade ± History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

201

contributed to an ongoing domestic discussion on the valuation of the hand, eye and mind as media of productive observation, manipulation and (knowledge) production. Notes and References

1. L. Roberts, S. Schaffer and P. Dear (eds), The Mindful Hand: Inquiry and Invention between the Late Renaissance and Early Industrialization (Amsterdam, 2007). 2. See, e.g. L. Hilaire-PeÂrez and C. Verna, `Dissemination of Technical Knowledge in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Era: New Approaches and Methodological Issues', Technology and Culture, 2006, 47: 536±65; J. Mokyr, The Gifts of Athena: Historical Origins of the Knowledge Economy (New Haven, 2003); M. Jacob, Scientific Culture and the Making of the Industrial West (Oxford, 1997); History of Science, 2007, 45: Special issue: `Reflections on Joel Mokyr's The Gifts of Athena'. This topic has renewed relevance, given recent debates regarding how to `re-tool' knowledge production as a means to increase economic productivity, under the banner of building a `knowledge economy'. 3. Thanks to Simon Schaffer for this pithy illustration. While not the point of this essay, it is intriguing to consider why this machine, which enjoyed such great visibility in eighteenthcentury European culture, was also taken up with such enthusiasm in Japan. 4. On the hybrid activities of individual members of ships' crews, see R. Sorrensen, `The Ship as an Experimental Instrument in the Eighteenth Century', Osiris, 1996, 11: 221± 36. On the collaboration between government institutions, trading companies and scientific societies, see K. Raj, `Eighteenth-Century Pacific Voyages of Discovery, ``Big Science'', and the Shaping of an European Scientific and Technological Culture', History and Technology, 2000, 17: 79±98. Simon Schaffer has shown how this kind of collaboration was at work in the dockyards where the ships that carried these expeditions were built. See S. Schaffer, ```The Charter'd Thames'': Naval Architecture and Experimental Spaces in Georgian Britain', in Roberts et al., op. cit. (1), 279±305. That this collaboration was historically crucial is underscored by the fact that the Ming government chose to withdraw support in 1433 for the kind of shipping that could have made and sustained China as a global shipping power. `Within a few decades, the initiative in long-distance exploration ± and later in trade, too ± passed to the Europeans', K. Pomeranz and S. Topik, The World that Trade Created (London, 2006), 47. 5. The bibliography of recent work done in this area is too vast to cite here. I limit myself to Roy MacLeod's instructive introduction to the Osiris volume dedicated to science and the colonial enterprise ± Osiris, 2000, 15: 1±13 and S. Schaffer, L. Roberts, J. Delbourgo and K. Raj (eds), The Brokered World: Go-Between and Global Intelligence, 1770±1820 (Sagamore Beach, MA, 2009). 6. R. Liss, `Frontier Tales: Tokugawa Japan in Translation', in Schaffer et al., ibid.; B. Gramlich-Oka, `Kirishitan ko- by Tadano Makuzu: A Late Tokugawa Woman's Warnings', Bulletin of Portuguese±Japanese Studies, 2004, 8: 65±92. 7. That Christianity was experienced by the Japanese as threatening has to be taken seriously. Consider, for example, that as many as 75,000 people had converted to Catholicism in the city of Nagasaki by 1605. Consider also the way in which the missionary and more materially invasive practices by Russians in the north of Japan were viewed with alarm by the turn of the nineteenth century. See, e.g. ibid. On Japan's ongoing relations with China and Korea, see T. Kazui and S. Downing Videen, `Foreign Relations during the Edo Period: Sakoku Reexamined', Journal of Japanese Studies, 1982, 8: 283±306. 8. The Chinese also had to work under formal restrictions, which included trade quotas, limited travel rights and having their trading post situated in a single place ± Juzenji ± where a special Chinese town was constructed. Perhaps one in five inhabitants of Nagasaki was Chinese in the 1780s. 9. On stereotyping of Chinese, see R. Toby as cited in B. L. Walker, `Foreign Affairs and Frontiers in Early Modern Japan: A Historiographical Essay of the Field', Early Modern Japan: An Interdisciplinary Journal, 2002, 10: 44±62, at p. 54. Interestingly, Walker comments on how masquerading as a foreigner provided Japanese with a liminal space within which they could appropriate the kind of cultural freedom gained by existing (temporarily) as a

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

202

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

cultural `other'. 10. I certainly don't mean to imply that `Japanese culture' can be understood here in some kind of monolithic sense. See, rather, M. E. Berry, `Was Early Modern Japan Culturally Integrated?', Modern Asian Studies, 1997, 31: 547±81. 11. On relations between the Dutch and Japanese translators, see, e.g. N. Jiro-, Western Learning: A Short History of the Study of Western Science in Early Modern Japan, trans. R. C. J. Bachofner (Tokyo, 1992). On Dutch `pilgrims' to Edo and contacts between VOC officials and the Japanese elite, see, e.g. F. Lequin, The Private Correspondence of Isaac Titsingh (Amsterdam, 1990); T. Screech, Secret Memoirs of the Shoguns: Isaac Titsingh and Japan (London, 2006); T. Screech, Japan Extolled and Decried: Carl Peter Thunberg and the Shogun's Realm (London, 2005); W. van Gulik, A Distant Court Journey: Dutch Traders Visit the Shogun of Japan (Amsterdam, 2000). Regarding the comparison of Western publications and their Japanese counterparts, the locus classicus is S. Genpaku, Rangaku kotohajime (1815), which recounts the emblematic translation of a Dutch anatomy text into Japanese. See Dawn of Western Science in Japan (Rangaku kotohajime), translated by Ryo- Zo- Matsumoto, supervised by T. Ogata (Tokyo, 1967). See also H. Johnson, Western Influences on Japanese Art: Akita Ranga (Amsterdam, 2004), which focuses on the translation in relation to trends in Japanese art associated with the socalled Akita Ranga school of painting. On the consumption and appropriation of `Dutch' ideas and goods within Japanese popular culture, see T. Screech, The Lens within the Heart: The Western Scientific Gaze and Popular Imagery in Later Edo Japan (London, 2002) and M. Chaiklin, Cultural Commerce and Dutch Commercial Culture: The Influence of European Material Culture on Japan, 1700±1850 (Leiden, 2003). 12. Along with the import and export of material goods and resources, trading with the Dutch was used as a conduit for military and political intelligence as well as, more properly, scientific and technical knowledge. For a historical and historiographical review of Japanese policies in relation to the construction and management of its borders, see Walker, op. cit. (9). 13. The historian Annick Horiuchi goes so far as to claim that `the will to contribute to the prestige of the state and the welfare of the people underlay all scientific inquiry that took place in early modern Japan'. See her `When Science Develops outside State Patronage: Dutch Studies in Japan at the Turn of the Nineteenth Century', Early Science and Medicine, 2003, 8: 148±72, at p. 158. On comparable policies and societies in Germany, with special emphasis on their relation to science, see H. Lowood, Patriotism, Profit, and the Promotion of Science in the German Enlightenment: The Economic and Scientific Societies, 1760±1815 (New York and London, 1991); for Sweden, see L. Koerner, Linnaeus: Nature and Nation (Cambridge, MA, 1999). 14. J. McMullen, `Tokugawa Intellectual History: The State of the Field', Early Modern Japan, 2003, 10: 22±38, 72±85, quotation on p. 30. 15. It is also beyond the scope of this essay to show that `Chinese' imports, including the philosophical tradition of Confucianism, need to be understood in terms of Japanese appropriation. Nonetheless, this parallel exercise needs to be accomplished in order, ultimately, to appreciate Japanese history in relation to its encounters with the rest of the world. Consider, for example, Tetsuo Naiita's definition of Tokugawa Confucianism: `Tokugawa Confucianism [is] a thought system used initially by Japanese thinkers to order and explain an indigenous ethical and political reality . . ..', T. Naiita, `Intellectual Change in Early Eighteenth-Century Tokugawa Confucianism', Journal of Asian Studies, 1975, 34: 931± 44, at p. 931. 16. For an accessible account of Kaibara Ekken's philosophy, see M. E. Tucker, Moral and Spiritual Culturation in Japanese Neo-Confucianism (Albany, 1989), esp. 28, 44±6. 17. `Dictionnaire conomique, contenant divers moyens d'augmenter son bien, & de conserver sa santeÂ, avec plusieurs remeÁdes assurez & eÂprouvez pour un treÁs-grand nombre de maladies, et de beaux secrets pour parvenir aÁ une heureuse & longue vieillesse. Quantite de moyens pour eÂlever, nourrir, gueÂrir & faire profiter toutes sortes d'animaux domestiques, comme Brebis, Moutons, Bufs, Chevaux, Mulets, Poules, Abeille, & Vers aÁ Soye. DiffeÂrens Filets pour la peÃche de toutes sortes de Poissons, et pour la Chasse de toutes sortes d'Oiseaux & d'Animaux, &c. Une infinite de secrets deÂcouverts dans le Jardinage, la Botanique, l'Agriculture, les Terres, les Vignes, les Arbres; comme aussi la connoissance des Plantes des PaõÈ s eÂtrangers, & leurs qualitez speÂcifiques, &c. Les moyens de tirer tout l'avantage des Fabriques de Savon, d'Amidon; de filer le Coton, de faire aÁ peu de frais des Pierres artificielles,

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Lissa Roberts

203

fort ressemblantes aux naturelles, de peindre en migniature sans scËavoir le dessein, & travailler Bayettes, ou EÂtoffes eÂtablies nouvellement en ce Royaume, pour l'usage de ce PaõÈ s, & pour l'Espagne, &c. Les moyens dont se servent les Marchands pour faire de gros eÂtablissemens, ceux par lesquels les Anglois et les Hollandois se sont enrichis en trafiquant des Chevaux, des CheÁvres, des Brebis, &c. Tout ce que doivent faire les Artisans, Jardiniers, Vignerons, Marchands, NeÂgocians, Banquiers, Commissionnaires, Magistrats, Officiers de Justice, Gentilhommes & autres d'une qualiteÂ, & d'un emploi plus releveÂ, pour s'enrichir, &c. Chacun pourra se convaincre de toutes ces veÂritez, en cherchant ce qui peut lui convenir, chaque chose eÂtant rangeÂe par ordre alphabeÂtique, comme dans les Dictionnaires', Journal des ScËavans, 1718, XLII: 657. 18. For details, refer to Johnson, op. cit. (11), 26ff. Note that, in the case of domestic growing of medicinal herbs, interest was also paved by earlier and contemporary Chinese medicinal practices. Much of these activities fell under the rubric of honzo-gaku (inadequately translated as `natural history'). See F. Marcon, The Names of Nature: The Development of Natural History in Japan, 1600±1900 (Doctoral dissertation, Columbia University, 2007). 19. I. Inkster, Japanese Industrialization: Historical and Cultural Perspectives (London, 2001), 24±34. 20. J. L. McClain and W. Osamu (eds), Osaka: The Merchants' Capital of Early Modern Japan (Ithaca, 1999); T. Screech, The Shogun's Painted Culture: Fear and Creativity in the Japanese States, 1760±1820 (London, 2000), 48 for a discussion of Nara. 21. For an interesting attempt to compare Edo's urban development with Paris, see J. L. McClain, J. M. Merriman and U. Kaoru (eds), Edo and Paris: Urban Life and the State in the Early Modern Era (Ithaca, 1997). 22. For an overview of and the relations between population, economic and political trends, see A. Hayami, `Japan in the Eighteenth Century: Demography and Economy', in L. Blusse and F. Gaastra (eds), On the Eighteenth Century as a Category of Asian History (Brookfield, VT, 1998), 131±46. For the continued vulnerability of both networks of agricultural production and infrastructure, see Screech, op. cit. (20), 56±110. 23. Numerous illustrations of these `Western' goods in various contexts of Japanese appropriation can be found in Screech, The Lens within the Heart, op. cit. (11). 24. S. Tadao, Rekisho- shinsho (New Book on the Calendar and Figures (of the Sky)) (1798± 1802). For details, see Horiuchi, op. cit. (13). 25. Horiuchi, op. cit. (13), 159±63. 26. Y. Toyo, Zoshi, quoted in H. Sukehiro, `Japan's Turn to the West', trans. B. Tadashi Wakabayashi, in M. B. Jansen (ed.), Cambridge History of Japan (Cambridge, 1989), 446. 27. The Maruyama or Kyoto school started with Maruyama kyo, a Kyoto artist who began as a toymaker and painter of scenes for viewing through stereoscopes, the first of which were of Dutch manufacture, imported to Japan by Chinese merchants in 1718. 28. For the illustration in question, see S. Kuriyama, `Between the Mind and Eye: Japanese Anatomy in the Eighteenth Century', in C. Leslie and A. Young (eds), Paths to Asian Medical Knowledge (Berkeley, 1992), 34. 29. Jiro-, op. cit. (11), 67. 30. Gennai was also a mine owner in his own right. Johnson, op. cit. (11), 31. For more details on this polymath's fascinating career, see R. Liss, op. cit. (6); S. Hopkins Jones Jr, Scholar, Scientist, Popular Author Hiraga Gennai, 1728±1780 (dissertation, Columbia University, 1968); H. MaeÈs, Hiraga Gennai et son temps (Paris, 1970). 31. Kuriyama, op. cit. (28), 36. 32. Odano Naotake relied closely on extant Dutch illustrations primarily done by Gerard de Lairesse for Govert Bidloo's Anatomia humani corporis, which provides another glimpse at how many Western publications were available in Japan. Timon Screech uses the word `painstakingly' to describe the translation process from copperplate engraving to woodcut, op. cit. (11), 89. 33. In her study of Akita Ranga, Hiroko Johnson seeks to demonstrate that this artistic `school' also owed much to Chinese sources ± especially the work of Shen Nanpin, reminding us of the need to guard against thinking narrowly in terms of `Western influences' on Japan rather than in terms of Japan's appropriative relations with the world. 34. The number of European dictionaries and texts that discussed geography, medicine, pharmacy and navigation was quite large by this time, thanks largely to the `private trade'

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

204

The Mindful Hand Goes to Japan

sanctioned by the VOC and through Chinese trading channels. See, e.g. Jiro-, op. cit. (11), 57. 35. Quoted in Kuriyama, op. cit. (28), 22. 36. Genpaku, op. cit. (11), 25, 51±2. 37. Quoted by B. Tadashi Wakabayashi, Modern Japanese Thought (Cambridge, 1998), 46. 38. C. French, Shiba Kokan: Artist, Innovator, and Pioneer in the Westernization of Japan (New York, 1974). 39. S. Kokan, Seiyo-go dan (Discussing Western Painting) (1799), excerpted in Wm. Theodore de Bary, Sources of Japanese Tradition (Cambridge, 1958), 558. 40. Chaiklin, op. cit. (11). 41. In addition to the VOC's daily registers, see Genpaku, op. cit. (11), 17. 42. See McClain et al., op. cit. (21). 43. For a description of the Palais Royale, see R. Isherwood, Farce and Fantasy: Popular Entertainment in Eighteenth-Century Paris (Oxford, 1989), 236±49. Interestingly, Isherwood cites the chant of a hot chestnut vendor at the Palais, which shows that even he was affected by the heady mix of consumption, entertainment and knowledge that marked the garden's atmosphere. The chestnut vendor asserted that he `had also applied chemical means to preserve the food; to ferment the chestnuts while preserving all their succulent molecules' (p. 240). 44. S. Schaffer, `The Consuming Flame: Electrical Showmen and Tory Mystics in the World of Goods', in J. Brewer and R. Porter (eds), Consumption and the World of Goods (London, 1993), 489±526, at p. 512; I. Morus, `Currents from the Underworld: Electricity and the Technology of Display in Early Victorian England', Isis, 1993, 84: 50±69; J. Golinski, Science as Public Culture: Chemistry and Enlightenment in Britain, 1760±1820 (Cambridge, 1992). 45. L. Roberts, `Science Becomes Electric', Isis, 1999, 90: 680±714. 46. At the risk of repeating myself, it is worth reiterating that the difficult-to-assess role of Chinese merchants in this process requires further development before a full picture can emerge. Hopefully, it suffices here to remark that they too were engaged in commerce, which placed the European goods they brought to Japan in a not fully dissimilar commercial context to those that were introduced by the Dutch. 47. I have placed the word `commercial' in parentheses because some of these items arrived in answer to requests from the court at Edo. They were perhaps, then, not directly objects of commercial exchange, but were certainly offered as a means to `grease the wheels' of trade. 48. P. Smith and P. Findlen (eds), Merchants and Marvels (London, 2002); H. Cook, Matters of Exchange (New Haven, 2007). 49. For details of this point, see my review of Matters of Exchange in History Today, 2007, 57(8): 62±3. 50. Should we see this as an obvious counterpart to the European penchant for setting critical remarks in exotic mouthpieces? One could refer to countless works such as Montesquieu's Lettres persanes, Diderot's Les bijoux indiscrets and Supplement au voyage de Bougainville. 51. For this approach, see Schaffer et al., op. cit. (5). 52. See, e.g. Screech, op. cit. (11), 109±12, 225±9. 53. Berry, op. cit. (10).

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

The West Had Science and the Rest Had Not? The Queries of the Mindful Hand IAN INKSTER

QUERIES OF THE MINDFUL HAND

How does the `mindful hand' threaten existing distinctions between something called the `history of science' (the scientific revolution and all that) and something recognizable as `the history of technology' (the industrial revolution and all that)? Clearly, if much of material advancement into modernity has come from hybrid sites of knowledge, skills and techniques, then discourses that settle around firm dichotomies between science and technology are likely to be only partially successful in explaining the dynamics of the past. So, an implication of this project is that such institutionalized discourses should be abandoned. Somewhat more formally, can the `mindful hand' become a useful engine of comparison at a global level? If the `mindful hand' was a true mechanism of change in the early-modern West, then was its absence a significant feature of the regimes of material production in non-Western parts of the world? If the purported distinction between the world of the hand and the world of the mind is a social construct of the clerical masters of the earlymodern Western world, then the task of the critical historian might be certainly at least two-fold. First is to show how the distinction between hand and mind was created and maintained, and the social function that such a dichotomy served in different locations of early modernity. Here, historians might well illustrate what Roberts has aptly labelled the `coercive rhetoric and the brutal deeds' of those literary classes determined to re-forge hierarchies in the changing world of novel commerce, knowledge and technique. Second is to show how actual historical sites of innovative knowledge and material advancement did not emerge from such a distinction, but rather from the auspicious workings of the `mindful hand'. Thus, in her discussion of the working environment of Christiaan Huygens at the Bibliotheque Royale in Paris, Fleischer describes how he `received various guests, ambassadors, merchants, engineers. His study became a Dutch meeting place, a site for discussions and exchanging knowledge and goods'. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

206

The Queries of the Mindful Hand

And, furthermore, without such a `network of politicians, amateur-friends and family, objects and ideas could not be circulated, nor transformed into new elements of natural inquiry and invention'. The case-study traditions of history of technology at times have neglected the effective contexts of technological innovation, especially if we place such contexts as lying at least partially beyond ancillary techniques, institutions and information or training systems. Indeed, some historians seem to assume that the effective environment of technological change is an unproblematic reflection of the `national' industrial culture within which the change is taking place. It is this perspective that can lead to the notion that since all tinkerers and engineers live in a common national culture, the achievements of a Watt or a Marconi are either massively exaggerated, incremental outcomes of the `atmosphere of the age', more awkwardly, that they were mere participants within an evolutionary stream or, at the opposite extreme, that they were deviant heroes who lie outside their cultural mainstreams.1 The notion that local sites of endeavour might vary quite radically even within a single national setting allows for more colourful argument and a more extensive empirical base. The mindful hand may flourish within characteristic collective sites as well as be a characteristic of individual humans.2 The interpretations of technology in complex sites within the present collection of essays has shown that the knowledge±practice distinctions that we all tend to carry as part of our historical approach are normally blurred, that neither side of the distinction may be formally maintained, that knowledge is often as much a matter of the wielded weapon as it is an external resource for practical action, and that the interactions of key individuals within and between sites were enormously complex and normally of profound importance to ultimate outcomes. In the editorial words of Roberts and Schaffer, `this world was made up of a regime both hybrid and interlinked. Ingenuity, know-how and sets of skills mattered in studios and libraries, workshops and markets, courts and mills'.3 The task of the historian, then, is to make sense of specific articulations between different versions of ingenious knowledge and knowledgeable techniques. As our contributors to this collection show, such articulations quite commonly took place within complex sites of creative endeavour. Historians now write much about the impact of national or local cultures upon aspects of material advancement; it has also become a commonplace in contemporary innovation studies, science policy and public policy discussions, especially amongst those whose job it is to construct sites of advanced discourse and application such as science cities or technology parks.4 But a leading question emerges: What has been the relationship between `material and knowledge production regimes' ± which may be translated as features of `national cultures' ± and actual innovation in specific sites of material or technological advancement? This is a question of potentially global and timeless import. With reference to the hybrid activities occurring within advanced sites of the mindful hand, it is reasonable to postulate that site advancement did not depend directly History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Ian Inkster

207

upon the `culture' of the national regimes in which they were located, perhaps financed, perhaps even instigated. Is it not, then, time to abandon historical approaches that focus on the supposed attributes of so-called national cultures? How does the notion of the mindful hand fare when we move away from sites of initial technique advancement to those of its active consumption, bearing in mind once more that `follower' sites are very rarely passive receivers of blueprint knowledge and technique? Do such sites need to replicate centres of leadership (a seeming belief of many policy makers and advisers in Europe and Asia today) or have they historically shown other strengths or weaknesses? We might presume that the ready presence of the `mindful hand' in consumer sites would allow greater capacity for adaptation to local circumstance of the knowledge or machinery entering from elsewhere, indeed to entirely new sets of creative advancement. This is an argument at times offered to explain the success of Meiji Japan.5 In contrast, a clerical or scholarly hierarchy might impose enormous tasks of formal learning and institution-building on a system hardly able to cope with their expense or afford the time of their construction. The absence of the `mindful hand' will thus impose inhibitory costs upon later developers, especially if such absence is itself a reflection of the social power of an existing clerisy.6 Of greater importance to global historians, the `mindful hand' rubric threatens all analyses that postulate clear distinctions between the `them' and the `us' of the material world. Were winners and losers in fact arrayed along one side of a matrix that, on its other axis, observed similar distinctions between knowledge (usually Science) and its applications? May we continue to tell the history story in terms of `Western' science and its downstream applications versus the `culture of the other' and its upstream prohibitions? Against recent archival work, should we continue to dismiss the system of Imperial examinations in China as restraining talented scientific enquiry and, thus, technological advancement? Or might we more seriously interpret such vigorously hierarchical systems as inhibitory of material advancement, not so much because they precluded `science', but because they reduced the effective proximity between those who produced and gained status from knowledge and those who worked intelligently with their hands at the same time as they minimized rewards to artful labour?7 These are very different ways of looking at our world and our history. The student of the `mindful hand' might rather ask: What evidence do we have that sites existed in Imperial China that fused knowledge, artisanal skills and technique enquiry into one working complex? Note, we are not asking here that the knowledge or the technique should somehow represent parallels with developments in the West. Within a perspective of the `mindful hand', of skills and specific sites of activity, the character of the relationships between things (in this case, site hybridity) becomes as important as the character of the things. Finally, did the intrusion of the West on other areas of the globe from the early-modern period reduce or inhibit the emergence of the `mindful History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

208

The Queries of the Mindful Hand

hand' in such other places? If Western threats and challenges forced a set of policies in late nineteenth-century Tsarist Russia that effectively ruined great numbers of traditional kustarni industry sites in textiles and metallurgy, did this, in turn, reduce the capacity of such sites to act as follower sites of the `mindful hand'? If British commercial policies and aggressions weakened the economy of craft knowledge in many parts of India during the nineteenth century, did this, in turn, erode the existing sites of the `mindful hand' and reduce the potential for material development in twentieth-century India?8 AT THE LEVEL OF THE WORLD

By using formal measures of achievement, such as income, nutrition or consumption per capita, an older economistic positivism could address the problem of the great bifurcation of the world with reasonable certainty and authority. The contemporary switch to the themes of `culture' ± institutions, knowledge and intellect, social interests and so on ± has threatened such seemingly neutral comparisons and methods. Now, any programme that utilizes material on interests, institutions, instruments and knowledge as some type of explanation of the global bifurcation of rich and poor faces the problem of finding comparators that will not be immediately condemned as Eurocentric and beyond the post-modern pale. We now contend that the `mindful hand' approach may represent just such a desired engine of comparison.9 With our list of queries, we invoke the claim that `mindful hand' approaches may be utilized to interpret fairly global events without becoming even covertly Eurocentric. The simplifications evoked by using terms such as `science' have in fact complicated discussions concerning the Great Divergence of historical experiences that took place between the West and the rest some time in the early-modern period. As soon as we write that the West Had Science and the Rest Had Not, then we are on the road to an explanation of world history that obscures so many forms of knowledge and a multitude of styles of application and gainful production. The question remains, how far can we go with comparison and the construction of more global views? Can we escape the simplicities of stark dichotomy, attain a non-Eurocentric stance and yet gain in coherence? Can we begin to communicate a new approach to world history through acknowledging the mindful hands that lurk within sites of technological endeavour? Relations or links between state authorities and creative sites appear as a potential global theme. How influential has the state been in creating, encouraging or inhibiting the mindful hand within creative sites of endeavour? In late developers, there is good evidence that large, civilengineering projects, such as the arsenals at Jiangnan or Yokosuka, were designed to deliberately foster close relations between existing handicrafts and artisanal skills and introduced machinery and formalized knowledge, and Meng Yue has referred to `hybrid science' in just this regard.10 But, in History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Ian Inkster

209

any system in which skills or knowledge might frequently travel, so too can authority and its injunctions, and these may be such as to inhibit rather than encourage novelty. The problem of authority seems to loom especially in sites based on large, public goods technologies such as docks or irrigation schemes or at such places as customs and excise offices, at the very heart of early-modern fiscal±military states. Might it be possible to write global history that embraces such cases and distinctions? How were these elements configured in different cultural and material settings? If the state, at times, coordinated proximity between knowledge and technical enquiries ± can this be found elsewhere than in Europe and, if so, were such sites eminent in the creation of material advance, in creative adaptation of the tools or techniques of others? Authority might well, as in several European cases, harness useful and reliable knowledge to address opposition to new practices, organizations or techniques. How often may this be found in early-modern Asia? If projects were, as often as not, sites for decisions and knowledge accumulation, verification and modification, how did different regimes manage such processes to their advantage? With such civil engineering, we do seem to have a `public goods' situation for knowledge ± projects are ahead of demand at great cost and possible large risk, and are thus not undertaken by any conventional market±entrepreneurial nexus. If they are not state-run officially, then they certainly need state patronage ± from fen drainage to canals to locomotive railroads, contracting, legal mechanisms and regulations are all required and, here, a public display of seemingly authoritative knowledge was a requirement for most proponents or antagonists, and this was set within a tenuously elongated process. Is it possible for historians to analyse the range of such sites in terms of the existence of the `mindful hand' within them? Returning to one of our leading queries above, just how representative were creative technological sites? Surely, this enquiry should adopt a comparative and global aspect? The Venetian dockyards did not represent ordinary Italian technique; neither did Henry the Navigator's famous observatory and school of navigation set up at Sagres represent the normal congeries of skill found in Portugal. It might nonetheless be recalled that these were principally assemblage technology sites, and of ultimate concern to governments. Much has been written on just how enclavist or foreign such large-scale public goods sites were, whether those of Peter the Great in Russia or the arsenals of late-nineteenth-century China and Japan. Did their undoubted absorption of high skills from everywhere in the globe, and their frequent use of displays of formalized useful and reliable knowledge as part and parcel of their local political and cultural persuasions, create a mode of technological advancement that has coloured the perceptions of many historians and swept from view the more mundane sites of mechanical engineering endeavour in small, competitive and far more numerous and pervasive artisan workshops? More interestingly, may the balance of these perspectives be redressed in a new global cultural history of technology based on the complete range of sites of endeavour? History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

210

The Queries of the Mindful Hand

A final global query: Is it ever possible for a truly effective site of technical advancement to exist relatively bereft of our `mindful hand'? Do Ph.D.s a productive regime make? It might be tempting to argue that recent and contemporary experience may boast the great salience of large systems of formal knowledge and organized sequences of its application in both private and public sectors. Many commentators on Japanese success in the 1980s and 1990s emphasized the seeming centrality of massive Moonlight (energy), Sunshine (energy) and Fifth Generation (computer) projects.11 Against such an argument, we may weigh the seemingly poor returns to many such projects, as well as the work of such recent historians as Christophe Lecuyer, who have shown that greatest success has arisen when super-sites of endeavour (in his case, Silicon Valley during 1930±70), have evolved from earlier and simpler sites of craft, industrial expertise and tacit knowledge.12 So, if the `mindful hand' is not all in the past, may it now be nurtured at the global level in some effort to more seriously address the failure of technological change to become the lever that shifted the entire world into prosperity? Notes and References

1. For representative contrasting approaches to this, see T. S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago, 1970); D. Lamb and S. M. Easton, Multiple Discovery (London, 1984); S. Schaffer, `Making up Discovery', in M. A. Boden (ed.), Dimensions of Creativity (Cambridge, MA, 1994), 13±51. 2. I. Inkster, `Technology in World History: Cultures of Constraint and Innovation, Emulation, and Technology Transfers', Comparative Technology Transfer and Society, 2007, 5: 108±27. 3. L. Roberts et al., The Mindful Hand: Inquiry and Invention from the Late Renaissance to Early Industrialization (Amsterdam, 2007), preface, xix. 4. M. Castells and P. Hall, Technopoles of the World: The Making of 21st Century Industrial Complexes (London, 1994); A. Hommels, Unbuilding Cities: Obduracy in Urban Sociotechnical Change (Cambridge, MA, 2005); C. Leadbeater and J. Wilsdon, The Atlas of Ideas: How Asian Innovation Can Benefit Us All (London, 2007). 5. However, this is often complicated by a nihonjinron approach, in which this attribute is seen as intrinsic to a thoroughly unique Japanese culture, even to claims of a Japanese system that denies the very individualities that dichotomies such as mind and hand require. If all working individuals are effectively relatums, as in the Masuda model, then all groups will have some capacity to organically generate mindfulhandedness and hybrid advances and no such dichotomies should emerge as natural features of the cultural system. See K. Yoshino, Cultural Nationalism in Contemporary Japan (London, 1992); Masuda Foundation Research Project Team for Japanese Systems, Japanese Systems: An Alternative Civilization (Yokohama, 1992). 6. This sort of point is most commonly raised for the followers of the nineteenth century, often under a broadly Gerschenkronian framework: see P. A. Gerschenkron, Economic Backwardness in Historical Perspective (Cambridge, MA, 1966) and I. Inkster, Science and Technology in History: An Approach to Industrialisation (London, 1991). Nevertheless, preindustrialized Europe witnessed sites of followership that could well be analysed in terms of the functions of the mindful hand. Was the mindful hand less and less present as we move from centres of leadership such as England or France towards the German states or Russia, or was it not? See I. Inkster, `Mental Capital: Transfers of Knowledge and Technique in Eighteenth Century Europe', Journal of European Economic History, 1990, 19: 403±41; I. Inkster, `Technological and Industrial Change: A Comparative Essay', in R. Porter (ed.), The Cambridge History of Science, Vol. 4, Eighteenth Century Science (Cambridge, 2003), 845±81.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Ian Inkster

211

7. M. Lackner and N. Vittinghoff (eds), Mapping Meanings: The Field of New Learning in Late Qing China (Leiden, 2004); B. Elman, On Their Own Terms: Science in China 1550±1900 (Cambridge, MA, 2005); C.-Y. Liu (Jerry), `Comparative Studies of European and Chinese Cultural Identity: A Conceptual and Historical Approach', Ph.D. dissertation, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, The Nottingham Trent University, United Kingdom, 2002; J. C.-Y. Liu, `Cultural Logics for the Regime of Useful Knowledge during the Ming and Early Qing China c. 1400±1700', 9th Global Economic History Network Conference, LSE and Wenzao Ursuline College of Languages, 9±11 May 2006, Kaohsiung, Taiwan. 8. I. Inkster, `Lessons of the Past? Technology Transfer and Russian Industrialisation in Comparative Perspective', Science, Technology and Society, 1998, 3(2): 307±33; A. Maddison, `The Historical Origins of Indian Poverty', Banca Nazionale del Lavoro Quarterly Review, 1970, 23: 46±72; K. N. Chaudhuri, `India's International Economy in the 19th Century: An Historical Survey', Modern Asian Studies, 1968, 2: 105±26; H. D. Woodman, `Imperialism and Economic Development: England, the United States and India in the Nineteenth Century', Research in Economic History, 1977, 2: 141±72. 9. I. Inkster, `Thoughtful Doing and Early-Modern Oeconomy', in L. Roberts et al., op. cit. (3), 443±52. 10. T. Hashimoto, `Introducing a French Technological System: The Origins and Early History of the Yokosuka Dockyard', East Asian Science, Technology and Medicine, 1999, 16: 53± 72; Yue Meng, `Hybrid Science versus Modernity: The Practice of the Jiangnan Arsenal 1864±1897', EASTM, 1999, 16: 13±52. 11. S. Tatsuno, The Technopolis Strategy (New York, 1986); Y. Yamamoto, T. Kawamoto and D.-S. Oh, `The Science City in a Global Context', International Science City Symposium, Kansai Science City, Japan, 16±23 October 1994; M. V. Brock, Biotechnology in Japan (London, 1989). 12. C.-M. Lee, W. Miller, M. Hancock and H. Mowen (eds), The Silicon Valley Edge: A Habitat for Innovation and Entrepreneurship (Stanford, CA, 2000); C. Lecuyer, Making Silicon Valley: Innovation and the Growth of High Tech 1930±1970 (Cambridge, MA, 2005).

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Contents of Former Volumes

TWENTY-FIFTH ANNUAL VOLUME, 2004 (9780826471871)

MARTIN WATTS and D. JOHN LANGDON, An Early Tower Windmill? The Turweston `Post Mill' Reconsidered. NICK HAYES, Prefabricating Stories: Innovation and Systems Technology after the Second World War. JAN VAN DEN ENDE, Impacts of Technology Reassessed: A Retrospective Analysis of Computing Technology. IAN INKSTER, Introduction: Indisputable Features and Nebulous Contexts: The Steam Engine as a Global Inquisition. MARK ELVIN, Some Reflections on the Use of `Styles of Scientific Thinking' to Disaggregate and Sharpen Comparisons between China and Europe from SoÁng to Mid-Qing Times (960±1850 CE). ROB ILIFFE, Comments on Mark Elvin. H. FLORIS COHEN, Inside Newcomen's Fire Engine, or: The Scientific Revolution and the Rise of the Modern World. ALESSANDRO NUVOLARI, The Emergence of Science-Based Technology: Comments on Floris Cohen's Paper. GRAHAM HOLLISTER-SHORT, The Formation of Knowledge Concerning Atmospheric Pressure and Steam Power in Europe from Alcotti (1589) to Papin (1690). KENT D. DENG, Why the Chinese Failed to Develop a Steam Engine. DAVID WRIGHT, Response to Kent Deng. CHUN-YU LIU, Response to Kent Deng. RICHARD L. HILLS, The Development of the Steam Engine from Watt to Stephenson. IAN INKSTER, The Resources of Decisive Technological Change: Reflections on Richard Hills. NATHAN SIVIN and Z. JOHN ZHANG, Steam Power and Networks in China, 1860±98: The Historical Issues. R. BIN WONG, A Comment on Sivin and Zhang. TWENTY-SIXTH ANNUAL VOLUME, 2005 (9780826489708)

HOWARD DAWES and CHRISTOPHER DAWES in collaboration with GERRY MARTIN and ALAN MACFARLANE, Making Things from New Ideas. History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

214

Contents of Former Volumes

NICHOLAS GARCIÂA TAPIA, The Twenty-One Books of Engines and Machines Attributed to Pedro Juan de Lastanosa. R.ICHARD L. HILLS, Richard Roberts' Contributions to Production Engineering. MICHAEL PARIS, Promoting British Aviation in 1950's Cinema. Special Issue: Engineering Disasters R. ANGUS BUCHANAN, Introduction. DAVID K. BROWN, Maritime Disasters and the Law. DEREK PORTMAN, Suspension Bridges. R. ANGUS BUCHANAN, The Causes of the Great Sheffield Flood of 1864. P. R. MORRIS, Semiconductor Manufacturing and Chemical Contamination within Silicon Valley. BERENDA J. BUCHANAN, Gunpowder: A Capricious and Unmerciful Thing. JOHN H. BOYES, Engineering Disasters: Thoughts of a Factory Inspector. PETER STOKES, Fatigue as a Factor in Aeronautical Disasters. DAVID ASHFORD, Design Compromises in the Space Shuttle. HENRY PETROSKI, Past and Future Bridge Failures. TWENTY-SEVENTH ANNUAL VOLUME, 2006 (9780826495990)

HANS ULRICH VOGEL, The Diffusion and Transmission of the Rotary-Fan Winnowing Machine from China to Europe: New Findings and New Questions. DAVID PHILIP MILLER, Watt in Court: Specifying Steam Engines and Classifying Engineers in the Patent Trials of the 1790s. AÂNGEL CALVO, Business and Geopolitics in the International Transfer of Technology: Spanish Submarine Cables, 1849±1930. Special Issue: The Professional Identity of Engineers, Historical and Contemporary Issues IRINA GOUZEVITCH AND IAN INKSTER, Introduction: Identifying Engineers in History. ANDREÂ GRELON, French Engineers: Between Unity and Heterogeneity. MARIA PAULA DIOGO and ANA CARDOSO DE MATOS, Being an Engineer in the European Periphery: Three Case Studies of Portuguese Engineering. ANTONI ROCA-ROSELL, GUILLERMO LUSA-MONFORTE, FRANCES BARCA-SALOM and CARLES PUIG-PLA, Industrial Engineering in Spain in the First Half of the Twentieth Century: From Renewal to Crisis.

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009

Contents of Former Volumes

215

TWENTY-EIGHTH ANNUAL VOLUME, 2008 (9780826438751)

JAMES SUMNER AND GRAEME J. N. GOODAY, Introduction LAURA DeNARDIS, IPv6: Standards Controversies around the NextGeneration Internet. ANDREW J. RUSSELL, Standardization across the Boundaries of the Bell System, 1920±38. STATHIS ARAPOSTATHIS, Morality, Locality and `Standardization' in the Work of British Consulting Electrical Engineers, 1880±1914. CHRIS OTTER, Perception, Standardization and Closure: The Case of Artificial Illumination. JAMES SUMNER, Standards and Compatibility: The Rise of the PC Computing Platform. FRANK VERAART, Basicode: Co-Producing a Microcomputer Esperanto. KAREN SAYER, Battery Birds, `Stimulighting' and `Twilighting': The Ecology of Standardized Poultry Technology. Ordering in the UK/Rest of the World For Information on ordering, please contact: Customer Services Tel: +44 (0) 1202 665432 Fax: +44 (0) 1202 666219 Ordering in North America For Information on ordering, please contact: Customer Services 1 800 561 7704 (toll-free number)

History of Technology, Volume Twenty-nine, 2009