Uncharted Waters: Intellectual Life in the Edo Period Brill’S Japanese Studies Library

Uncharted Waters: Intellectual Life in the Edo Period Brill’s Japanese Studies Library

Edited by Joshua Mostow (Managing Editor) Caroline Rose Kate Wildman Nakai

VOLUME 38

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/bjsl Uncharted Waters: Intellectual Life in the Edo Period

Essays in Honour of W. J. Boot

Edited by Anna Beerens and Mark Teeuwen

Leiden • boston 2012 Cover illustration: Minagawa Kien (1734–1807), Boat on a lake, ink on paper (private collection, The Netherlands).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Uncharted waters : intellectual life in the Edo period : essays in honour of W. J. Boot / edited by Anna Beerens, Mark Teeuwen. p. cm. — (Brill’s Japanese studies library ; v. 38) Includes index. ISBN 978-90-04-21673-0 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Japan—Intellectual life—1600–1868. 2. Japan—History—Tokugawa period, 1600–1868. I. Beerens, Anna, 1957– II. Teeuwen, Mark. III. Boot, W. J.

DS822.2.U57 2012 952’.025—dc23 2012004674

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, IPA, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.nl/brill-typeface.

ISSN 0925-6512 ISBN 978 90 04 21673 0 (hardback) ISBN 978 90 04 22901 3 (e-book)

Copyright 2012 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers and Martinus Nijhoff Publishers.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change.

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Contents

Preface ...... vii

“Met vriendschappelijke groet” ...... ix Harmen Beukers

Introduction: Aspects of intellectual life in Edo Japan ...... 1 Anna Beerens and Mark Teeuwen

Intellectual networks

Entertainment and education: An antiquarian society in Edo, 1824–25 ...... 13 Margarita Winkel

The prince who collected scholars: The network of Myōhō-in no miya Shinnin Hōshinnō (1768–1805) ...... 35 Anna Beerens

Legitimising Tokugawa rule

“Not perfectly good”: Some Edo responses to Confucius’s characterization of Kings Wen and Wu ...... 55 Kate Wildman Nakai

Confucianism versus feudalism: The Shōheizaka academy and late Tokugawa reform ...... 75 Kiri Paramore

Minding the gaps: An early Edo history of Sino-Japanese poetry .... 93 Ivo Smits

The Way of Heaven in 1816: Ideology or rhetoric? ...... 109 Mark Teeuwen vi contents

The history and miraculous efficacy of the Black Amida: Its significance for Zōjōji and its role in the diffusion of Tokugawa myths ...... 129 Marc Buijnsters

Insincere blessings? Court-Bakufu relations and the creation of engi scrolls in honour of Tokugawa Ieyasu ...... 159 Lee Bruschke-Johnson

Western connections

What’s in a name? Padre João Rodriguez’s discussion of naming practices in his Short grammar of the Japanese language ...... 181 Jeroen Lamers

The Dūfu Haruma: An explosive dictionary ...... 197 Rudolf Effert

The Kurisaki school of sword wound surgery: From Sengoku to Genroku; Nagasaki to Edo (via Manila) ...... 221 Thomas Harper

List of publications by Prof. Dr. Willem Jan Boot ...... 241 Steven Hagers

List of contributors ...... 251

Index ...... 255 Preface

The present collection of essays is a tribute to the scholarship and teaching of Willem Jan (Wim) Boot. It contains contributions written by former PhD students and close colleagues, who in this way seek to honour him and show their appreciation. The volume presents new work by scholars inspired by or in tune with Wim Boot’s work on aspects of intellectual life in the Edo period (1600–1868). The terms “intellectual” and “life” should be taken very literally; these essays not only explore the intellectual climate of the time as it manifested itself in the works of the individuals who were part of it, but also the on-the-ground interaction between scholars, artists and literary figures, as well as aspects of actual practice. The title of this volume has been chosen first of all for its watery connotations. For some of Wim Boot’s acquaintances it may come as a surprise that the Dutch word boot refers to something one uses to travel across water, and not to something one wears on one’s feet. The use of the term “uncharted” should not be seen as a promise that this book will transport the reader to a stunning terra incognita. Rather, the image of the little boat, diligently making its way, appears particularly appropriate as a metaphor for a scholar’s life and labour. And every scholar who broaches a new subject, or attempts to look at an old one in a new way, enters into “uncharted waters.” That is what scholarship is all about. It is our sincere hope that these essays will contribute to the charting of the vast expanse of water that is the Edo period, and that Wim Boot himself will look with pride and pleasure upon this volume, which reflects so many of his own interests in this many-sided subject.

The editors Leiden/Oslo, December 2011

“Met vriendschappelijke groet”1

Harmen Beukers

It must have been at the summer meeting of the Netherlands Association for Japanese Studies (NGJS) in 1981 that I met Wim Boot for the first time. I went to that meeting at the suggestion of my predecessor, professor Luyendijk-Elshout. As I had been invited to a unique workshop on medical history in Japan, she had advised me to learn more about Japanese manners and customs. The NGJS meeting took place at the Department of Japanese Studies in Leiden, located at the time at Rapenburg 129/131. It gave me a good opportunity to get to know the Department’s staff: the famous professor Frits Vos, his assistants Erika de Poorter, Miao-Ling Tjoa, and Boudewijn Walraven, and the librarian Wim Boot. As I remember it, the meeting was rather relaxed thanks to the friendly atmosphere and maybe to the spiritual support—a satchel with a variety of alcoholic beverages—supplied at the end of the meeting by Mr. Creemers of the Embassy of Japan. Professor Vos represented the classic man of learning, a philologist in heart and soul, but with a good sense of humor and every inch a gentleman. I felt that the librarian had many points in common with the professor, but even then it was clear to me that the former was by no means an imitation of the latter, on the contrary. Wim Boot has always been independent minded. He grew up in a family where at least two generations had been active in engineering and he inherited strong analytical facul- ties. It made him a critical, sometimes feared, participant in meetings, as well as an excellent teacher who presented his courses in a clear-cut and systematic way. Erudition was another family trait: the family spent their Sundays in silence, reading books. Often Wim and his mother—a widely- read woman—would be engaged in “reading competitions.” Wim’s strict protestant upbringing fostered many of the qualities I admire so much in him: fairness, sincerity, sense of justice, and above all loyalty. However, Wim has always been cautious concerning the interpretation of words; as early as 1978 he wrote a paper on the proper translation of the term chūkō

1 Literally “with amicable greetings.” x harmen beukers

(“loyalty and filial piety”). I am sure he would tell me I should be careful in my use of the qualifications I mentioned above. These are not, of course, qualities that one discovers upon meeting a person for the first time. I came to appreciate them over the years through personal experience. This actually began immediately after my first visit to Japan. My Japanese colleagues had urged me to give more attention to Dutch-Japanese medical relations. As I was trained in medicine, biochemistry and a little European medical history, that area, both in the historical and in the geographical sense, was unfamiliar to me. Fortunately, I could profit from Wim’s generosity. He introduced me to the fascinating world of rangaku, helped me to understand elementary Japanese sentences, and, above all, shared with me his thorough knowledge of the history of Japan. He took my initiation very seriously. Once a week we spent an afternoon in the University Library, browsing through the Japanese medical books and manuscripts in the Siebold collection. Wim was a dedicated instruc- tor and convinced that we should make good use of our sources. At every meeting he brought a suitcase full of reference books from the library of the Japanese Studies Department not available in the main library. It was a private, hands-on training in Japanese book sciences. I still treasure the notes I took during these sessions. Evidently, in those years, it was impossible to get around Wim’s interest in Neo-Confucianism. He belonged to a generation of Japan scholars who were broadly educated in a curriculum that was closely intertwined with that of Chinese and even Korean studies. His sound basis in these fields made him pre-eminently qualified for the fundamental study of this subject. In addition, he had been thoroughly trained during a two and a half year stay at Kyoto University after his bachelor’s degree (1971). Here he studied Japanese intellectual history under professor Motoyama and Chinese philosophy under professor Shimada. The study of Neo- Confucianism was for him a real intellectual challenge that enabled him to combine his greatest interests: languages, philosophy and history. As an example of his work at the time I would like to mention his critical essay on the use of the concepts jitsugaku and “empirical rationalism” in the context of Neo-Confucianism, published in the Bochumer Jahrbuch zur Ostasienkunde (1982). This article in the form of a book review dis- sected bit by bit the habitual arguments and criticized the thoughtless use of these concepts. After all these years of serious study, Wim Boot introduced himself in a modest way: “Since I have been studying [Fujiwara] Seika and [Hayashi] Razan for some time now . . .” This critical review, too, reflected his scrupulous attention to primary sources. It comes as no “met vriendschappelijke groet” xi surprise that he successfully managed to demonstrate “how intellectual history must not be written.” Wim defended his thesis on The Adoption and Adaptation of neo- Confucianism in Japan on 19 January 1983. One year later he gave a lecture course on Neo-Confucianism, which I attended. I still have the notes: the course was well organized, clear and full of interesting didactical ideas, such as a session devoted to “distinctive words from quotations.” At the beginning of a paper presented in a lecture series in 1978 Wim had introduced himself in the following manner: By training I am a philologist. According to Fukuzawa-sensei [i.e. Fukuzawa Yukichi], a philologist is nothing but a ‘wholesaler in words, of no more use to society than a rice-eating dictionary’, and, presumably, as boring. In the case of Wim Boot nothing is further from the truth. His presentations are thoroughly prepared, and—thanks to a careful and balanced use of words—sparkling and witty. A high point in Wim’s career was his appointment as a full professor by Royal Decree on 21 February 1985. His inaugural address was entitled The Philologist as Politician. Its main theme was, somewhat unsurpris- ingly, the influence of the Confucianist system of values on Japanese society. He clarified this theme for a general audience in an interview in the university’s weekly journal. From that interview it was obvious that his interest was not merely historical, but that he was well aware of contemporary issues. He put the, at that time much admired, Japanese economic miracle into a clear perspective. The appointment itself was, in a way, a surprise, since he was the youngest of his generation of Japan scholars. On the other hand, he had already taken over the responsibility of the department’s educational program after the retirement of professor Vos in December 1983. Teaching was a matter he took very seriously all through his academic life. Convinced as he was of the necessity of high standards in both attitude and knowledge, he was a demanding teacher, but also an enthusiastic one, eager to share and lend a willing ear. This willingness to share his learning and experience was one of the reasons he accepted guest professorships at, for instance, Sophia University in Tokyo (2008/2009) and Université Denis Diderot Paris 7 (2010) with great enthusiasm. Needless to say, Wim’s erudition, educational experience, and whole- hearted involvement in many aspects of his field gained widespread international appreciation. For many years, for instance, he was a member of the Editorial Board of Monumenta Nipponica. He was also invited to xii harmen beukers contribute to the revised edition of the second volume of the prestigious Sources of Japanese Tradition, where he was responsible for the chapters “Ieyasu and the Founding of the Tokugawa Shogunate” and “Confucianism in the Early Tokugawa Period.” On June 9th, 2006 Wim Boot received the Order of the Rising Sun, Gold Rays with Neck Ribbon. Although Neo-Confucianism was an important undercurrent in all his research, Wim Boot’s overall interest was the intellectual history of pre-modern Japan, including such scholars as Kaibara Ekken and Shizuki Tadao, centers of education and cultural exchange such as Nagasaki and his beloved Kyoto, and Rezeptionsforschung in general. The present volume reflects the scope of this interest and, I am sure, will give him great pleasure. For me personally, Wim will always be more than a much-respected scholar. Ever since our sessions in the university library in the early 1980s, we have shared hopes and frustrations, plans and projects. Wim became my closest colleague and best friend. The common expressions used in the Netherlands to end a letter vary from the formal “met de meeste hoogachting” (yours faithfully) to the more casual “met vriendelijke groeten” (with kind regards). Wim ends his letters and emails in an unconventional way: “met vriendschappelijke groet.” This not only expresses courteousness, but also friendship and comradeship. I have always felt that these words are characteristic of Wim; behind his polite reserve there is a warm, empathetic heart. This was never clearer to me than during a dramatic weekend in December 1996, when my wife unexpectedly passed away. It was Wim, who, on his own initiative, spent a whole Sunday from early in the morning till late in the evening, sharing my misery and giving comfort. That was one of those moments when one learns what friendship really means. Therefore, Wim, “met vriendschappelijke groet”! Introduction: Aspects of intellectual life in Edo Japan

Anna Beerens and Mark Teeuwen

For a long time the Edo period (1600–1868) was seen as an age of isolation and stagnation. However, in recent years scholars have come to recognise it as a time of stunning growth in many fields. During the seventeenth century Japan’s population doubled, agricultural production surged, and urbanisation laid the basis for monetisation of the economy, commercial specialisation and nationwide trade. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries population growth and agricultural expansion slowed down, but continued commercial growth generated a profusion of economic activity that resulted in a broadly based rise in standards of living. By the end of the period Japan proved well equipped to enter the modern world of competing industrialised nation states. Urbanisation and the emergence of a market economy created a set of conditions that utterly transformed intellectual life in Edo Japan. Literacy, at least of a limited kind, spread so widely that commercial publishing became a viable business. Knowledge that had once been monopolised by closed lineages of specialists was increasingly available to all. By the late seventeenth century, there were enough leisured commoners with an interest in learning to provide a wide variety of teachers with a relatively secure livelihood. Private schools introduced students from a wide range of backgrounds not only to the arts of poetry, calligraphy, theatre, music, and tea, but also to more “academic” knowledge, such as Chinese and Japanese literature and history, philosophy, religious studies, math- ematics, and, from the late eighteenth century onwards, Western learning. Compared to contemporary China and Korea, where learning was the domain of a limited class who aspired to become bureaucrats, Edo Japan had a vibrant intellectual life with a wide variety of participants. The absence of an orthodoxy sanctioned by state examinations added further buoyancy to the intellectual scene. The dispersal of learning in Edo Japan had three clear effects. First, it undercut the medieval view that public knowledge could be none other than superficial, because “deep” and powerful information was by definition secret. Secrecy, once a mark of exclusivity and potency, was increasingly seen as suspect: after all, why hide something if it is not in some 2 anna beerens and mark teeuwen way dubious? Knowledge was increasingly sanctioned by its reliance on “authentic” canonised texts, rather than through the authority of the lineage that transmitted it. Second, knowledge was increasingly expected to have some practical use, either for the greater goal of ordering society, or for more direct purposes, whether economic, military or religious. Finally, the intellectual scene became a major arena for struggles over social capital. Engaging and excelling in some kind of intellectual activity was an almost obligatory aspect of the “pursuit of regard” in wealthier circles, regardless of one’s class. A striking illustration of these three aspects of learning are the best-selling setsuyōshū 節用集, dictionaries- cum-encyclopaedias that were part of the inventory of all cultured households. These reference works combined character indexes—for the special benefit of aspiring writers—with practical knowledge ranging from calcu- lus to the calendar, while also including etiquette rules for civilised life. Combining literacy, learning and social skills, they are typical of the intellectual climate of the Edo period. This culture represented Japan’s first experience of what one might call “intellectual life” in a pregnant sense of the word: a scene that combined serious intellectual pursuits, from poetry writing to the interpretation of the works of Confucius, with intense social interaction. Most of this interaction was local in scope, but the Edo period also saw the development of national networks of poets, scholars, artists and collectors who exchanged information, discussed each other’s work, cooperated in col- laborative projects, and gossiped about each other. Personal interaction between intellectuals of every kind was all the more important because Japan at the time had neither universities nor any other large-scale educational institutions that could serve as focal points or catalysts. The term “intellectual life,” which features in the title of this volume, neatly covers two aspects of scholarly interaction in early modern Japan. First of all there is the intellectual calibre of the individuals involved, and their impressive expertise, not only in transmitting canonised knowledge at a very sophisticated level, but also in creating novel interpretations and adapting received knowledge to contemporary circumstances. In addition, this intellectual activity was embedded in networks that included people from many segments of society, filled with the emotional energy and intersecting ambitions implied in the word life. Intellectual life in Edo Japan was a seething cauldron of social interaction and competition, sometimes harmoniously productive, sometimes destructively vicious, but never stagnant. introduction 3

An awareness of both aspects is characteristic of the work of Wim Boot. Throughout his career he studied both the development of intellectual ideas and the social settings in which they were produced and received. He has been interested in the Edo period’s philosophical debates at the most sophisticated level, but has also stressed the importance of Zeitgeist, social and ideological climate, and the day-to-day realities of the intellectual game. In his 1982 dissertation Wim Boot discussed both the doctrinal aspects of the work of the Confucian pioneers Fujiwara Seika and Hayashi Razan and the socio-political context that framed their activities as intellectuals. Already in his inaugural oration (1985), he reflected on the problematic status of meritocratic Confucian ideals in a country where power was the birthright of a warrior elite, and he paid as much attention to popular ideas about the “Way of Heaven” as he did to more scholarly variants of Confucian thought. What characterises Wim Boot’s oeuvre is his meticulous dedication to philological and historical accuracy, and at the same time his acute sense of the need to place the minutiae of intellectual history in a larger, social and political context. The present volume does not presume to offer a novel, coherent approach to the study of intellectual life in the Edo period, nor does it present a critique of the very rich literature on that subject. Rather, its aim is to present new work by students and close colleagues of Wim Boot that sheds light on various aspects of intellectual life in early modern Japan, understood in the manner sketched above. Many of the essays respond to aspects of his work, or present research conducted in dialogue with Wim Boot; all are closely related to his approach and interests. The essays in this volume fall into three thematic groups. The first (Winkel and Beerens) examines the social interaction and scholarly activities within socially mixed intellectual networks. The second addresses topics that relate to the multifarious ways in which warrior rule in Tokugawa Japan was legitimised and sanctioned (Nakai, Paramore, Smits, Teeuwen, Buijnsters, Bruschke). The third group sheds light on intersections between Western and Japanese learning (Lamers, Effert, Harper).

Intellectual networks

The first two essays offer concrete and lively portraits of two particular intellectual networks and their social dynamics. The first essay, by Margarita Winkel, introduces us to an “antiquarian society” that combined club-like socialising with scholarly ambitions. The purpose of the Tankikai 4 anna beerens and mark teeuwen

(Society of Curiosity Lovers), whose members met once a month between the spring of 1824 and the fall of 1825, was to reconstruct past and remote cultures through the study of objects of various origins. By examining and discussing remarkable objects, this group pursued a distinctive mode of scholarship that it called “Flying Ears and Extending Eyes” (hiji chōmoku). This method, which allegedly originated in ancient China and was advocated in Japan by Ogyū Sorai (1666–1728), gave priority to direct observation; the scholar who seeks to understand cultures different from his own, should not limit himself to book learning, but also travel, talk with people, and look at “things,” especially artefacts. As a study group that brought together individuals of various social backgrounds, the Tankikai was representative of the intense social interaction described above. The records of the Society present a community of real human beings who, with their hang-ups and squabbles, are endearingly familiar. In their attempts (or at least intentions) to systematically contextualise the objects presented at their meetings, the Tankikai reflects Japan’s growing fascination with “the other,” including those who inhabited its own past, as it strove to shape its identity in a changing world. Anna Beerens presents a group of a very different kind. The network of Prince Shinnin (1768–1805), brother of the Emperor Kōkaku and abbot of the monzeki (imperial cloister) Myōhō-in, had no other purpose than to amuse the prince and to confirm his role of patron of the arts and letters. Among the celebrities who surrounded the prince we find such brilliant and creative individuals as the polymath Minagawa Kien (1734–1807), the painters Maruyama Ōkyo (1733–95) and Matsumura Goshun (1752–1811), and the poets Ozawa Roan (1723–1801) and Rikunyo (1734–1801). But despite the involvement of several of the intellectual giants of the age, the prince’s network did not, as a group, bring forth any new theories, concepts or methods. For this reason, Shinnin’s network has been more or less dismissed as insignificant by the revered cultural historian Munemasa Isoo, who wrote a classic article about it. By shifting the focus from the intellectual to the social, Beerens revaluates the position of Shinnin’s network within the cultural climate of its time. With very few exceptions, the prince’s companions were of commoner descent and catered to a commoner market. That they were nonetheless deemed eligible to brighten the life of an imperial highness is indicative of the immense socio-cultural changes that had taken place since medieval times. The old court elite would never be the sole arbiter of elegance again. introduction 5

Legitimising Tokugawa rule

The second section of this volume presents a wide range of attempts at valorising the Tokugawa order through various means. In a setting without an officially sanctioned orthodoxy, many voices were continually competing for attention and prestige. All instances of Tokugawa ideolo- gising introduced here display a willingness or even eagerness to contribute to the legitimacy of the shogunate on the part of (relative) outsiders to the shogunal structures of power—while at the same time expressing muted discontent or even protest at the current state of affairs, or, more specifically, the limited possibilities for intellectuals to exercise any real influence. Kate W. Nakai transports us to that most traditional of Confucian exercises: commenting on the classics. She introduces three readings of two passages from Confucius’ Analects, all by samurai scholars. At first sight, these passages appear to be unconnected: one deals with two types of music of which one is associated with King Wu, and the other praises the rule of Wu’s father, King Wen. Yet traditional Confucian exegesis interpreted them as subtle judgements on the difference between Wen, who remained loyal to a despot, and Wu, who took up arms against the same despot and founded a new dynasty. The three Japanese Confucians Nakai addresses all made this age-old scholastic debate relevant to Edo Japan, but their conclusions could not have been more different. Asami Keisai (1652–1711) praises Wen’s unconditional loyalty as a virtue that samurai retainers should emulate. Satō Naokata (1650–1719) argues that Wu did the right thing by being loyal to Heaven rather than to a tyrant, and, again, presents this more intelligent kind of loyalty as a samurai ideal. Ogyū Sorai, finally, maintains that Confucius meant to discuss music and not the moral qualities of either Wen or Wu; thus Sorai separates questions of private morality from the political organisation of society. Keisai, Naokata and Sorai were all private teachers of Chinese studies, even though the latter two also held official positions within warrior governments (domainal and shogunal) for shorter periods of their lives. Their different readings of the Analects were conceived and set forth within private settings where they were made relevant to an audience of “amateur” students, in an intellectual environment without an institutionalised orthodoxy. The wide range of opinions revealed by Nakai was a product of this dynamic scholarly scene. Kiri Paramore addresses the question of orthodoxy from another angle. If one were to identify one locus of official orthodoxy in Edo Japan, it 6 anna beerens and mark teeuwen would be the Shōheizaka Academy after 1798. In this official shogunal institution vassals were to be examined in what Paramore terms “Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism.” The famous Kansei prohibition of heterodoxy (1790) banned Shōheizaka lecturers from teaching non-orthodox (i.e., non-Zhu Xi) doctrines. Typically, Shōheizaka has been depicted as a bulwark of con- servative academism, founded to shield shogunal vassals from the chaotic multivocality of the age’s intellectual life. Paramore, however, presents a very different image of Shōheizaka’s “ideology” by analysing two works by two of the Academy’s three defining “professors,” Shibano Ritsuzan (1736–1807) and Koga Seiri (1750–1817). He finds little sign of an exclu- sivist insistence on a narrow Zhu Xi orthodoxy; it is in fact not easy to pinpoint any particular teachings that are explicitly rejected. The only exception appears to be a brand of “literary theorism” associated with some branches of the Sorai school, which was thought to be of no practical use in governing the realm. Most other branches of learning, from Western Learning to the teachings of Japanese thinkers that were associated with Wang Yangming, were in fact praised for their usefulness. The stated aim of the Shōheizaka Confucians, then, was not to narrow the intellectual field to a single traditional orthodoxy, but quite the opposite: to restore the Confucian tradition of “remonstrating” with those in power by ensuring that students acquired the practical competence that a ruler should appreciate in his advisors. Behind this agenda one can discern an increasing discontent with the disparity between scholarly competence and the “feudal” system of hereditary power, which made it impossible for the intellectually astute to win positions of power in the real world. Ivo Smits takes us back to the direct ancestor of the Shōheizaka Academy: the Hayashi school. Since the time of Hayashi Razan (1583–1657) the Hayashi house served as hereditary Confucian advisors to the shogunate, while at the same time running the Hayashi school as a private academy. Smits focuses on a private project initiated by Razan’s son, Hayashi Gahō (1618–80): the compilation of a comprehensive history of kanshi, poetry in Chinese composed in Japan. This was no easy task, because in contrast to the waka tradition, kanshi composers tended to look to China for inspiration, rather than to native predecessors. Gahō’s history, entitled Honchō ichinin isshu (One poem each by poets from our court, 1660), emerged from the mix of official and private endeavours typical of the Hayashi school: it was a private spin-off from the public project of producing an updated history of Japan. As such, it reflected one of the great frustrations of Confucian scholars in official positions: the clerical and archival tasks that were expected of them by their employers did not square with introduction 7 the ideal of the Confucian as the ruler’s educator, advisor and remonstra- tor. In his anthology, Gahō focused strongly on poems by court officials; Smits argues that by doing so, he placed the Hayashi house in a venerable tradition of scholar-bureaucrats worthy of respect. Yet it is questionable whether this message had any immediate effect on the Hayashi school’s standing. Smits points out that the “theme of ‘Confucian’ court officials as neglected servants of the state is a persistent basso continuo” in Honchō ichinin isshu. Indeed, the Hayashi school suffered a long period of decline before its reinvention in the 1790s. Mark Teeuwen’s essay shifts focus from the elite scholars discussed by Nakai, Paramore and Smits to a less elevated level of intellectual life. His essay discusses the popular, semi-intellectual notion that a personalised Way of Heaven (tentō) acts as a supreme moral authority in the world by dispensing punishments and rewards. This idea is often associated with a genre of writings that has been construed as a seventeenth-century shogunal ideology; but appeals were made to it in many contexts throughout the rest of the Edo period. Teeuwen investigates a nineteenth-century work that invests heavily in this concept, asking how it had developed in the intervening centuries and what appeal it may have had in this later period. The title of this work is Seji kenbunroku (Matters of the world: An account of what I have seen and heard, 1816), written not long after the Kansei years. Its samurai author, known only by his pseudonym Buyō Inshi, makes a point of rejecting the “book learning” of scholars who spend their days behind a desk, and blames the sophistry of Confucians for the decline of the military Way and, by extension, of society as a whole. He takes a dim view of the Kansei reforms, which he blames for burdening warriors with yet another layer of Confucian protocol that merely served to limit their options in the exercise of military control. He flags his position by flirting with seventeenth-century texts such as Honsaroku, one of the central works of the tentō genre. While the Way of Heaven as a concept meant something rather different to Buyō when compared to seventeenth-century tentō texts such as Honsaroku, it still proved useful as a rallying cry: it is in the name of the Heavenly Way that Buyō pleads for a return to the Golden Age of Tokugawa Ieyasu, when warriors were still free to make good use of their military muscle. Buyō Inshi idolised Ieyasu as the warrior elect of the Way of Heaven. Marc Buijnsters points to another route of Tokugawa legitimisation: the invention and promotion of a cult around an Amida figure closely connected to Ieyasu. Deified according to Tendai rites and worshiped as an “avatar” in the Tendai headquarters at Nikkō, his mausoleum was located 8 anna beerens and mark teeuwen within the Pure Land temple of Zōjōji, which functioned as the family temple of the shogunal house. An image known as the “Black Amida” was installed at Zōjōji around 1630, likely moved there from Ieyasu’s old domain in Mikawa. Buijnsters traces the origins of this image; its significance to the Tokugawa and, not least, to the Zōjōji; and the development of a popular cult around this image in the later Edo period. Recently discovered documents reveal that Zōjōji monks carried the image to Osaka castle and worshipped it daily during the Osaka campaign of 1614–15. Tales about the Black Amida’s interventions in Ieyasu’s life appear first in the latter half of the seventeenth century; in particular, it was said that the image appeared as a black warrior to save Ieyasu’s party from an ambush. By the last decade of that century, Zōjōji texts claimed that Amida had given the realm to Ieyasu. There are two main interpretations of the development of this “Tokugawa mythology.” One ascribes it to the shogunate itself and sees it as an attempt to sanctify Tokugawa power. The other points at Zōjōji as the source, and at this temple’s struggles with its Tendai rival Kan’eiji over predominance in the field of shogunal Buddhist rites; this would have provided a good reason for enhancing the importance of the Black Amida. Strikingly, the image emerged in popular texts and, one presumes, popular worship only in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. However, there is little evidence that this cult caught on, and one wonders to what degree this variant of Tokugawa mythology can be said to have been successful. Lee Bruschke-Johnson presents yet another aspect of the Tokugawa legitimisation process, related to the veneration of Ieyasu as the “Great Avatar who illuminates the East” (Tōshō Daigongen) enshrined in the extravagant Nikkō complex. Bruschke-Johnson shows how the shogunate made sure to draw on the cultural prestige of the imperial court in enhancing this cult. Since the calligraphy of members of the court aristocracy was supposed to have a certain spiritual significance, aristocrats were often engaged to provide the calligraphy for engi, hand scrolls that describe the history of a temple or shrine. In the years 1636, 1640 and 1665, court aristocrats were involved in the production of engi for Ieyasu’s Nikkō shrine. These projects, which were strongly propagandistic in nature, were carried out under close shogunal supervision. Given the strained relationship between court and shogunate the participating courtiers saw their involvement as deeply humiliating, which seems to be exactly what the shogunate had in mind. On the other hand, the engi projects also provided the court with much-needed financial benefits or permissions for promotions or marriages. Bruschke-Johnson shows that artistry and knowledge introduction 9 were used for general political purposes, as well as to further the personal interests of officials, members of the clergy, and court aristocrats. But she also reveals subtle signs of dissent.

Western connections

The final group of essays shares an interest in cases of cross-fertilisation between Japanese and Western (Portuguese, Dutch) knowledge, notably language studies and the application of Western medicine by a Japanese surgeon. Jeroen Lamers’ essay sheds light on the linguistic achievements of the Portuguese Padre João Rodriguez (1561–1633), in whose work the Japanese classics and a European renaissance attitude towards scholarship meet. Freely living and working in Japan from the 1550s until the shogunate’s prohibition of Christianity in 1614, the Jesuits became very much part of Japanese intellectual life. The aim of Padre Rodriguez’ works on the Japanese language was to produce speakers of Japanese for missionary activities. He was, however, too much of a scholar not to enter upon matters of historical and “ethnological” interest, as is apparent from the section on Japanese naming practices in his Arte breve da lingoa iapoa (Short Grammar of the Japanese Language), published in Macao in 1620. Japanese names and titles often greatly puzzled Rodriguez’ fellow missionaries, and their confusion could lead to embarrassing and therefore possibly harmful situations. Although written with a practical purpose in mind, Rodriguez’ treatise on Japanese names demonstrates the Padre’s keen awareness of the significance of the conventions and traditions behind them. It also provides an insightful introduction to a highly sophisticated aspect of early modern Japanese social etiquette that was, one might say, almost an intellectual field of its own. Rudolf Effert’s contribution takes us to Dejima and subsequently to Holland as he describes the vicissitudes of the Dutch-Japanese dictionary known as the Dūfu haruma, produced at Dejima under the direction of the Opperhoofd Hendrik Doeff (1777–1835). The work on this dictionary, that became a pet project of the Nagasaki authorities, was carried out between 1811 and 1817 with the help of members of the interpreters’ guild. After Doeff had left Japan, the original copy was corrected and revised by the interpreters several times and finally officially presented to the shogunate in 1833. It was of immense importance for the practitioners of “Dutch learning” (rangaku) in Japan. However, the story does not end here. Effert 10 anna beerens and mark teeuwen describes how the dictionary was used and misused by Johannes van Overmeer Fisscher, the former warehouse master on Dejima, and Philipp Franz von Siebold, the former physician on Dejima, to realise their ambitions, vent their frustrations, and, interestingly, monopolise knowledge about Japan as a strictly Dutch field of intellectual enquiry. Their behaviour, as well as Doeff’s, led to an acrimonious dispute that involved high- ranking Dutch government officials and even made it into the Dutch national newspapers. Thomas Harper takes us back to Japan, to one of the most highly- charged events in Japanese history: the Akō Incident, the vendetta of the forty-seven rōnin from Akō in 1702. As Kira Kōzuke-no-Suke lies gasping for breath after having been attacked in the Pine Gallery of the shogun’s castle in Edo, a specialist of European methods of sword wound surgery, Kurisaki Dōyū (1660–1726), is called upon to treat him. Dōyū’s grandfather, Kurisaki Dōki, had learned his trade in Manila, where he had ended up as a refugee in his childhood. After his return to Japan, Dōki began a practice that flourished and became famous. Harper points out that Dōki was the only surgeon in all of Japan who had learnt his art abroad. His grandson Dōyū’s own description of his treatment of Kira at the beginning of the saga of the forty-seven rōnin, and of the victims of the carnage at the end of it, gives us a rare insight into actual medical practice. Beyond that, it also shows what diplomatic ruses Dōyū had to come up with so as not to anger officials, infringe upon rules of etiquette, blemish the reputation of those involved, and otherwise aggravate the whole ter- rible situation. Harper presents us with “intellectual life” at its most basic and human level.

From the essays contained in this volume it is evident that scholarship was not only a reflection of and a reaction to social, political and cultural developments, but could also be a social, political and cultural expedient, a means to an end. Although intellectuals were not necessarily forced to choose between the role of agent and that of instrument, it was almost impossible for them to run away from the dynamism of the age, and to refrain from speaking out, acting and reacting. This very dynamism is what motivated them, too, to steer into uncharted waters. intellectual networks

Entertainment and education: An antiquarian society in Edo, 1824–25

Margarita Winkel

The Dutch factory employees who were stationed at Deshima in the Tokugawa period noticed a strong interest among Japanese for things old and special. The term mezurashii (“rare”) was so frequently used by the Japanese that the VOC employees Dutchified it to “mizerasji” or “mizer- asi,” or the plural form, “mizeratien” or “mizeraties.” Johan Frederik van Overmeer Fisscher (1800–48), who lived in Japan from 1820 until 1829, even devotes a chapter on “Oud- en Zeldzaamheden” (old and rare objects) in his book Bijdrage tot de kennis van het Japansche Rijk (A Contribution to the Knowledge of Japan, Amsterdam 1833), because “in that Country there is such an exceptional enthusiasm for what the Japanese themselves call Mizerasji or rare objects, that I deem it important to devote special attention to this phenomenon here.”1 Van Overmeer Fisscher notices the enormous respect of the Japanese for anything old, even if it is, in the author’s view, ugly, deformed, and dilapidated, and recognizes the importance in Japan of collecting as a personal fulfilment, a hobby.2 More or less implicitly, he compares this aspect of Japanese culture with the European tradition of collecting he was himself familiar with. He points out that, although custom, etiquette, and fear of fire, did not permit a Japanese to display his old and rare valuables as a European collector would, there was hardly a man of means who did not collect something or other. Collecting curiosities was so common that there were many shops selling curios in the great cities. What Van Overmeer Fisscher did not mention, however, is that in Tokugawa Japan collecting was not only an individual fancy, but also very much a social event and a scholarly pursuit. Often originating in

1 My translation. Van Overmeer Fisscher’s book is available online through Nichi- bunken: http://shinku.nichibun.ac.jp/kichosho/new/books/15/suema000000001sb.html. The author, on p. 307, defines ‘mizeratien’ as ‘de verbasterde Japansche naam voor het woord zeldzaamheden’ (the corrupted form of the Japanese term for curiosities). 2 Van Overmeer Fisscher 1833, p. 121. He calls it his stokpaardje (hobbyhorse) or liefheb- berij (hobby, pastime). 14 margarita winkel

neighbourhood groups that were informal and horizontal in structure, antiquarian meetings appear to have been very similar to haikai meetings and other forms of private social gatherings with an artistic, literary or scholarly aspect. Antiquarian meetings consisted of a fluid community of, mainly, men of various social backgrounds and ages.3 These meetings, just like poetry and essay-writing meetings, were seen as a diversion in which one indulged outside one’s regular duties. The investigation of objects was guided by a new trend in Chinese Confucian scholarship, evidential research (考證 Jp. kōshō, Ch. kaosheng), that became popular in Japan in the latter half of the eighteenth century.4 According to this new current, research should be directed at acquiring concrete facts through careful study of objects and texts. Philology, especially phonology and etymology, and the collation of texts, objects and images, played a central role. Here, I will introduce such an antiquarian circle, the Tankikai 耽奇会 (Society of Curiosity Lovers), through the minutes of their monthly meetings held in 1824 and 1825. The minutes have survived in versions prepared by two members, Yamazaki Yoshinari 山崎美成 (1796–1856) and Takizawa Bakin 滝沢馬琴 (1767–1848). What do these records tell us about collecting and antiquarianism as a social and intellectual pursuit in early nineteenth century Japan? Who were the members? What actually happened at these meetings; how did members present and discuss objects and how does it relate to the scholarly aims and social identities of those involved in these pursuits? To conclude, I will briefly touch upon aspects that may be comparable to the contemporary European situation.

Tankikai: an antiquarian society in Tokugawa Japan

Tanki manroku 耽奇漫録 (Records of the Society of Curiosity Lovers) are the records of the Tankikai (Society of Curiosity Lovers) whose members gathered monthly, twenty times in total, between the fifteenth day of the fifth month of the seventh year of Bunsei (1824) and the thirteenth day of the eleventh month of the next year. We know where the meetings were held, who was present and who was not, and who presented which objects. The Records of the Society reflect the wide variety of wonder-

3 Described by Ikegami 2005. 4 Elman 2002. My interest in the development of Edo-period intellectual ideas and their social setting is, of course, the result of Wim Boot’s inspiring guidance. On the eclectic atmosphere of Tokugawa learning as related to the import of foreign books, see Boot 2009. entertainment and education 15 ful objects that fascinated the participants. These include natural and man-made, antique and new, foreign and Japanese objects. The members showed each other rare documents and maps, rubbings of grave inscriptions, seals and coins, samples of calligraphy and painting, stones and shells, furniture and utensils, items of clothing, fans, combs, masks, festival paraphernalia, and exotic artefacts, and discussed their use and meaning as tokens of other cultures in another time or place. The records typically consist of an illustration, a brief characterization of the object, and the name of the owner, or the person who presented it. Sometimes, the entry contains additional information on the object or its provenance. The contributors and authors are usually identified with one of their gō, their literary or artistic pseudonym. Yamazaki Yoshinari’s Tanki manroku is the most complete collection of proceedings. Although the original seems to be lost, several manuscript copies remain, of which the best-known is kept in the National Diet Library.5 A second set of records is by Takizawa Bakin. Bakin’s original still survives and is also kept in the National Diet Library.6 In his introduction, which he wrote several years later, in 1832, Bakin points out that he joined after the eighth meeting, when he learned about the Society’s existence from one of its members, Nishihara Sakō 西原梭江 (also Ippo 一甫, 1761–1844). Bakin’s records cover the meetings from the eighth to the last. Either Bakin himself or his son Sōhaku 滝沢宗伯 (gō Kinrei 琴嶺, 1798–1835) attended these meetings. I will first introduce the members of the Society. Subsequently, I will describe the way they presented and discussed objects by focusing on one specific meeting, the twelfth.7

5 A reproduction of the copy of Yamazaki Yoshinari’s Tanki manroku in the National Diet Library has appeared as a special edition in Nihon zuihitsu taisei. The editor Koide Masahiro has compared this version to several other versions of the same manuscript. 6 All other ms. versions are based on these two sources. Zoku zuihitsu bungaku taisei (1928) contains a record of the first eight meetings, based on a copy from Mino province of the Yamazaki records. The version that the Waseda library has on line, is an incomplete copy of the Yamazaki records accessible at http://archive.wul.waseda.ac.jp/kosho/ i05/i05_01422/. All meetings are included, but not all objects. Bakin’s version was published in an offset edition in 1928 (Yoshikawa Kōbunkan). 7 Besides the original texts mentioned above, an important source for this article is the introduction (kaidai) by Koide Masahiro to Yoshinari’s Tanki manroku (1993, vol. 1 pp. 1–10). 16 margarita winkel

Participants

One of the original members of this Society, and also its main chronicler, was the young and ambitious Yamazaki Yoshinari.8 He was born into a merchant family. Erudite despite his young age, Yoshinari was dedicated to the study of past and remote cultures. As a scholar he was interested in a broad range of issues not directly indentifiable with one of the main cen- tres or traditions of Tokugawa period learning. His perspective on scholarship was informed by evidential research. Yamazaki Yoshinari has been considered one of the most outstanding evidential scholars of his days. Mostly forgotten in modern times, literary and intellectual historian Mori Senzō (1895–1981) was the first scholar to pay attention to him again.9 The first meeting was attended by five men. Besides Yoshinari, these were aforementioned Nishihara Sakō, who later introduced Takizawa Bakin, and Tani Bunchō, Seki Shiryō, and Toda Baien. Tani Bunchō 谷文晁 (1763–1840), a talented and versatile high-ranking samurai, became one of the most active members of this society. In the context of the Tankikai he is usually identified by his gō Shazanrō 写山楼. Bunchō, besides his duties as a government official, was an antiquarian and a painter. His first professional training as a painter was with a Kanō school artist. He explored several other painting styles before developing his own. Family ties brought him close to the senior councillor Matsudaira Sadanobu 松平定信 (1759–1829), and he collaborated with Sadanobu in a large project to register the treasures that were held in temples and shrines. The project provided Bunchō with plenty of opportunity to travel in Japan.10 It resulted in Sadanobu’s Shūko jisshu 集古十種 (Ten Categories of Antiquities Collected, 1800) and Bunchō’s own Yamato meguri-e nikki 大和巡画日記 (A Pictorial Travel Diary of All Japan). Of this pictorial collection of treasured Buddhist temple statues throughout Japan only later manuscript copies have survived. As one of the most important collectors and connoisseurs of Japan’s material culture and history, Bunchō was a

8 His name is also read Yoshishige. Pseudonyms used in Tanki manroku are Kōmondō 好問堂, and Hokuho 北峰. 9 Mori Senzō in Ochibakago 落葉籠 (ms.). An exhibition at Columbia University on the so-called Akō Rōnin incident pointed to the crucial role Yoshinari played in restoring its historicity, http://www.columbia.edu/~hds2/chushingura/exhibition/pt2.html, item no. 36. Viewed 8 October 2011. Yoshinari also presented items related to these Akō retainers to the Society. 10 These efforts by Sadanobu and his assistants are the central theme of Screech 2000. entertainment and education 17 central figure in Japan’s artistic and antiquarian circles of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Nishihara Sakō is credited by both Yoshinari and Bakin with devising the name Tankikai.11 Sakō was a vassal of the Yanagawa fief in Echigo province. While stationed in Edo, he attended every one of the first twelve meetings, but in the 4th month of 1825 he returned to his fief. He remained in touch through correspondence with other members. He has not left any research of his own. Sakō’s son-in-law Seki Shiryō 関思亮 (gō Kaidōan 海棠庵, 1796–1830) was a calligrapher. There is not much else to say about him, except that he was a steady participant—the only one besides Yoshinari who attended all meetings. He probably joined through his father-in-law. He died young, 34 years old. The fifth participant at the first meeting is Toda Baien 戸田梅園 (n.d.), Lord of Mino province. He left after the ninth meeting, probably to return to Kyoto. He was close to the famous collector and researcher Kimura Kenkadō (1736–1802) in Osaka.12 At the second meeting, another central figure and important collector joined the group. Yashiro Hirokata 屋代弘賢 (1758–1841, known as Rinchi 輪池), a scholar, calligrapher, and high-ranking official. He was, like Tani Bunchō, a central figure in Matsudaira Sadanobu’s efforts to record Japan’s past, and was the editor of Kokon yōran kō 古今要覧稿 (Catalogue of Things Old and New), a vast encyclopaedia of Japanese culture and history, which remained unfinished after his death. He also assisted Sadanobu with the compilation of Sadanobu’s Shūko jisshu and devised a questionnaire to register local customs. Ogyū Korenori 荻生維則 (also read Isoku, n.d.) joined at the third meeting. He was a member of the family that ran the Ken’en Confucian academy started two generations earlier by the famous Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠 (1666–1728). Isoku was the adopted son of Sorai’s grandson Hōmei and had a post at the academy as Confucian teacher. He is usually identified in Tanki manroku with his school’s gō Ken’en 蘐園. He was an irregular attendant and came to the meetings nine times in all. During the seventh and eighth meeting the Society saw maximum attendance with nine members present. Tani Bunchō took his young son Tani Daiya 谷台谷 (later better known as the painter Tani Bunji 文二;

11 In Tanki manroku he is usually identified by his gō Shōrakan 松羅館. 12 See Koide 1993, p. 7. 18 margarita winkel

c.1812–50) along for the seventh meeting. The boy was thirteen years old at the time, but seems to have enjoyed it, as he came to the next meeting without his father. After that, however, he only came once again, together with his father. The seventh meeting also saw the first visit of Nakamura Butsuan (1751–1834; 中村仏庵) an Edo merchant, collector, and scholar dedicated to evidential scholarship. Butsuan attended only seven of the Society’s meetings. He stopped coming after the thirteenth gathering. As has been mentioned before, Takizawa Bakin (also Kyokutei Bakin 曲亭馬琴, gō Chosakudō 著作堂), and second chronicler of the society meetings, joined the circle at the eighth meeting. Bakin was a famous writer of popular fiction, in particular historical novels, and also had a reputation as researcher. He had already published several evidential research volumes on Japanese customs and folklore, such as Gendō hōgen (1818–20; 玄同放言). Bakin’s son Sōhaku (gō Kinrei 琴嶺, 1798–1835) accompanied his father to this meeting. Sōhaku attended three more times on his own, when his father was absent. He is not known for any scholarly feat himself. At the twelfth meeting Kameya Bunpōtei 亀屋文宝亭 (1768–1829) joined, known in the records as Bunpōdō 文宝堂. He was the son-in-law of the tea merchant Kameya. As was the case with most others members, and also with Bunpōtei’s teacher and great exemplar Ōta Nanpo 大田南畝 (1749–1823), his intellectual interests included a wide range of topics. Apart from antiquarian issues and object collecting, he had literary and poetic ambitions as well. In literature and poetry however, he never reached the level of his famous teacher and he is known to have imitated Nanpo to such an extent that it was considered plagiarism. He did bring in some remarkable objects, though, and became a regular visitor of the Tankikai meetings once he had joined.13

The twelfth meeting

To gain an idea of what happened when the Society met, let us look at the twelfth meeting, which took place in the third month of 1825 (1825/3/13). Almost all regular members, Yamazaki Yoshinari, Seki Shiryō, Yashiro Hirokata, Tani Bunchō, and Nishihara Sakō, as well as Takizawa Bakin

13 Three others, who merely attended a few of the last five meetings need not concern us here. entertainment and education 19 and Nakamura Butsuan, were present. Bunpōdō was a new member at this meeting.14 Seki Shiryō presented a copy of a painting of the Buddhist deity Yuima (Sk. Vimalakīrti). The original is kept in the Rinnōji temple in Nikko. The other objects he presented were also temple souvenirs. One was a depiction from the Kanbun period (1661–73) of so-called Sumiyoshi dolls. These were simple and vividly coloured clay dolls made in Sumiyoshi village, which were sold as typical local souvenirs in the village and the local shrine. They represent zodiac animals and human figures. The illustration brought by Shiryō shows a very early group, dating from the period when production of this type of doll had just started in Sumiyoshi (figure 1). Yashiro Hirokata presented four objects. His contribution begins with a detailed description of two important parts of the wagon 和琴, the classic five- or seven-string board zither. The accompanying text explains that he had presented the whole instrument, his own specimen, at a meeting the year before. He now describes details (material, construction, size and function) of the kotoji 琴柱 or bridge, and the kotosaki 琴軋 or plectrum. Hirokata’s second object is a depiction of a bamboo arrow said to have been used by Chinzei Hachirō, the famous medieval warrior, officially known as Minamoto no Tametomo (1139–70) whose feats as an archer acquired fame in the Hōgen Rebellion of 1156. Apart from biographic information on Chinzei Hachirō, the description, again, focuses on size, type of material, etc. As a third object Hirokata presents two texts. One is an inscription on an octagonal stone pedestal, a treasure of the Daruma Temple, that Hirokata copied in 1792 when he visited that temple in Nara province. The text, copied probably by rubbing, contains a few lines from the Darumadera chūkōki 達磨寺中興記 (Record of the Origin and History of the Daruma Temple) written in 1435. The other text shown by Hirokata was the complete Record of the Daruma Temple, that was kept at another temple and copied by Hirokata in 1793. It is included in Tanki manroku in its entirety. The reason for making this manuscript more widely known, Hirokata explains in his comment, is that it questions a well-known legend recorded in the Nihon shoki (Chronicles of Japan, 720). According to this legend the Daruma temple was established on the place where Prince Shōtoku 聖徳 (574–622), a Japanese culture hero who is credited

14 Objects, or explanatory pictures representing objects, that were presented at this meeting appear here in the order they appear in the Tanki manroku version by Yamazaki Yoshinari. This text covers most objects, but three were hard to identify and did not represent new categories, and were therefore left out. 20 margarita winkel

Fig. 1 Sumiyoshi dolls. Taken from Takizawa Bakin’s version of Tanki manroku, as published in an offset edition in 1928 by Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. entertainment and education 21 with promoting both Confucianism and Buddhism in Japan, met Daruma (Bodhidharma). Daruma, who came from India, is known for having brought Zen Buddhism to China. The Nihon shoki records he travelled on to Japan where at some point, on the verge of dying of hunger and cold, he was saved by this Japanese prince. The last object shown by Hirokata is something he calls a hisage (ひさげ), a kind of sake dipper or sake container that is, according to the description on the illustration, a replica of a Dutch utensil.15 Nakamura Butsuan’s contributions included a drawing of a sword of the Tenshō (1753–91) period, and a headrest said to have been used by the famous scholar Ogyū Sorai, mentioned above. Takizawa Bakin presented a map of Kasugayama Castle in Echigo province (now Niigata prefecture). The castle had been in use until 1607, and was then deserted. Tanki manroku briefly discusses the castle’s history, and the different lords who had owned it. Bakin also presents a picture made by his friend, the Dutch Learning scholar Sugita Genpaku 杉田玄白 (1733–1817), of a special ink stone kept as a treasure in a temple. The ink stone was supposed to have been used by the famous monk Kūkai (here called Kōbō Daishi, 774–835), founder of the Shingon school of Buddhism, to copy an important sutra. Bakin also includes the ‘saw’ of a saw shark, caught by a fisherman from the province of Echigo. Again he presents just an illustration, not the original object. The presentation of Nishihara Sakō includes a comb and hairpin from the Shōtoku/Kyōhō period (1711–35). He also presents two matsukazekoma (松風こま; figure 2), a kind of humming button.16 Tanki manroku explains that this was a toy that was tremendously popular for some time, so much so that it had been forbidden. The illustration shows a square piece of wood and an object shaped like a cherry blossom, basically flat discs made from lacquer, wood, or bone, with two holes round the middle. By pulling and stretching a thread passed through these two holes, the object swiftly rotates and makes a humming sound. The new member Bunpōtei Bunpō shows a so-called Daimyō kendon (大名慳貪, figure 3), a food-carrier, several generations old. The interpretation of its meaning and history became a source of great conflict between Bakin and Yoshinari, of which more will be said below. Bunpōtei

15 Probably a wooden glass or bottle holder known in Dutch as a tafelkrans (Cynthia Viallé, personal communication). 16 Known in Dutch as a zoemknoop. I have not been able to find an English name. 22 margarita winkel

Fig. 2 Two matsukazekoma (humming buttons). Taken from Takizawa Bakin’s version of Tanki manroku, as published in an offset edition in 1928 by Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. entertainment and education 23

Fig. 3a Daimyō kendon (food-carrier). Taken from Takizawa Bakin’s version of Tanki manroku, as published in an offset edition in 1928 by Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. 24 margarita winkel

Fig. 3b Detail of 3a.

also brings in an old abacus kept for several generations in his family. The construction differed from those that were current at the time. Tani Bunchō shows a detailed sketch of a twill rush hat, of which the original illustration is kept at Tōdaiji temple. It is thought to have been a design for a hat worn by Emperor Shōmu (701–756). Bunchō also presents a kind of trumpet or loudhailer and a decorated bamboo stick from Dewa province, used in local New Year festivities. Finally, as a “guest” item, that is, something very special not owned by a member, he introduces two jōruri puppets from the age of Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–98). The eighth and last person to present is Yamazaki Yoshinari himself. He brings in a copy of a manuscript of the Tale of Jōruri Gozen—one of the warrior tales related to Minamoto Yoshitsune 源義経 (1159–1189) and probably one of the first recorded from oral tradition in the Muromachi period (1333–1568). Printed editions of this text existed from the early Tokugawa period. A pipe from the Nagasaki area, owned by Ōta Nanpo is also presented by Yoshinari. Next is a Dutch porcelain pillbox, in the shape of a cherub or cupid with a bird on its head (figure 4). Finally, entertainment and education 25

Fig. 4 Dutch porcelain pillbox. Taken from Takizawa Bakin’s version of Tanki manroku, as published in an offset edition in 1928 by Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. 26 margarita winkel

Yoshinari presents another European object, something that looks like a violin case, black on the outside, red inside (figure 5). Tanki manroku has very little comment about these items. How do the objects scrutinised at this meeting fit into the general picture of the types of objects shown and discussed at the Tankikai? In the case of the Yuima portrait, for example, the accompanying text explains that this object is shown as a sequel to the discussion of a wooden statue of Daruma presented some meetings earlier by Takizawa Bakin. Iconography, of Buddhist deities but also of sumo wrestlers, Kabuki actors, or historical figures, is a recurrent theme in the Tankikai meetings. Quite a few Dutch objects were presented at this twelfth meeting, but this did not happen very often. On the whole, Chinese, Korean and Ainu objects were more frequently shown than European ones. Among the Japanese objects shown most regularly are rubbings of stone reliefs, texts and images, maps, detailed graphs of valuable items kept in temples and elsewhere, swords, seals, and copies of rare manuscripts, but also simple daily utensils, items of popular culture from the early Tokugawa period, ancient toys, and objects and illustrations relating to famous warriors and conflicts, temple histories, local customs and festivals. The aim of the meetings was to put these objects into context: to decide on the date and place of an object’s production, its purpose, and also the origin of its name. As has been shown, objects were sometimes presented in reaction to earlier contributions.

Entertainment and education

Yamazaki Yoshinari’s introduction to the proceedings contains a clear mission statement for the meetings. To learn more about the past, he writes, “those who are fascinated by the past should not limit themselves to reading books, as is customary, but should also study objects from those times.” Also, in Yoshinari’s opinion, scrutinizing artefacts from remote areas is the best way to an understanding of the ways (teburi) of those places. Because objects from the past “deteriorate and are lost every day, and exotic objects are even harder to get hold of, these meetings provide an opportunity to bring along objects from past times and remote areas, for all to consider and discuss.” This form of scholarship, says Yoshinari, is a way of learning through “Flying Ears and Extending Eyes” (hiji chōmoku 飛耳長目). This concept of Learning through Flying Ears and Extending Eyes as a way to increase entertainment and education 27

Fig. 5 Violin case. Taken from Takizawa Bakin’s version of Tanki manroku, as published in an offset edition in 1928 by Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. 28 margarita winkel

understanding of past and remote cultures was not new. It was one of the kyūshu 九守 (“nine defences” or “nine things to be preserved”) of the Guanzi 管子 (Writings of Master Guan) said to have been written by the seventh-century BCE philosopher Guan Zhong 管仲, Prime Minister to Duke Huan of Qi. In Japan it was propagated by Ogyū Sorai in his Sorai sensei tōmonsho 徂徠先生答問書 (Master Sorai’s Responses). It is very likely that Yoshinari had Sorai’s use of this concept in mind. He apparently supposes that the other members of the Tankikai needed no further explanation as to the origin of this concept, as he gives no reference. Sorai sensei tōmonsho was first published in 1727, and it remained an important source on Sorai’s thinking for later students.17 Learning by “keeping your eyes and ears wide open” meant that one should not only rely on books but also use direct observation; a scholar should travel and talk to people. What Yoshinari adds explicitly to this notion, is that, in order to understand past and remote cultures, it is equally important to systematically study objects, artefacts in particular. These records thus provide us with information on the objects and their owners, and with the comments made about them. Questions remain, however, as to what actually happened at the Tankikai meetings. Were the objects presented one after the other, were they put on a table or hung on a wall, did contributors give oral explanations? How were discussions organized, and what about the refreshments? Although the two extant records do not provide us with explicit data in this respect, they do contain some useful information on the actual meetings, more or less between the lines. The most important information of this kind can be found in Yamazaki Yoshinari’s version, after his description of the eleventh session. Here a rather intriguing text is included in which Yoshinari proposes a kind of revised agreement of intent (yaku 約), apparently because the meetings were not fulfilling the expectations formulated in his introduction. It is clear that the group did not live up to its ideal of Learning through Flying Ears and Extending Eyes. For this new declaration of intent Yoshinari again takes the principle of Learning through Extending Eyes and Flying Ears as his point of departure: “It is exactly because there are so many things to see and to hear, that this way of learning is such a desirable thing to pursue (. . .) Nevertheless, if we cannot obtain the details of proper, reliable sources on the one hand

17 Yamashita 1994, p. 44. As Yamashita points out, Sorai was mistaken about his Chinese source here; he attributes it not to Guanzi but to Xunzi. entertainment and education 29 and attain the broadness of academic probing on the other, we can say that the original ambition gets lost. To know the precariousness of life in the past and understand the meaning of obscure characters, to broaden our knowledge and follow the Way of Learning, we have, since the fifth month of the past year, arranged to create a circle and meet every month with this group of friends who love the past.” Yoshinari complains that many of the objects were not authentic or not old at all, and much of the talking was mere backbiting and bantering, the discussions got lost too easily in digressions that were not to the point. The group should return to its original intentions of discussing genuine tokens of past or remote cultures. Yoshinari therefore proposes that the meetings begin strictly at the start of the hour of the horse (11 a.m.), and end exactly at the beginning of the hour of the monkey (3 p.m.). Furthermore, “the good and bad things that happen in the world, the sad things that befall certain people, the value of objects, money matters, wealth and fame and so on, should not be issues of discussion at these meetings.” Moreover, the number of objects should be limited to three per person, instead of five, as had been initially decided. Five objects was too much; it just resulted in inatten- tiveness. An exception might be made when someone had an important “guest object” to bring to the attention of the other members. Yoshinari then elaborates on the types of objects that, in his view, qualified for presentation: “texts that have missing parts that can be supplemented, dubious dates etc. can be a topic here where help from others is useful and provides more chance of success. It goes without saying that all objects have to be authentic (makoto まこと), not fake. Traditionally made objects (narai-tsukureru mono ならひ造れるもの), particularly objects that reveal the ways of [earlier] generations, or through which one can see customs of [other] countries, come next. Objects that are merely rare and do not illuminate some wider context, have less priority.”18 In other words, the initial purpose of the meetings should be put back into focus: not to present “natural wonders,” but to look at artefacts through which human culture could be reconstructed in all its foreign, local or past forms. Obviously, Yoshinari was worried that the scholarly purpose of these meetings, with people concentrating on serious issues and helping each other to contextualise objects by evidential reasoning,

18 Nihon zuihitsu taisei dai-ikki bekkan (1993), vol. 2, pp. 73–81. Both the declaration of intent and Yoshinari’s introduction are transcribed in the introduction to this 1993 edition of Tanki manroku by Koide Masahiro (vol. 1, pp. 1–2 and 5–6). 30 margarita winkel

was getting lost in an overload of objects and too much irrelevant chit- chat. This new declaration of intent seems to have met with the approval of the other members: objects were generally limited to three after this, while the number of items from nature, such as remarkable shells, appears to have decreased. The focus was more on artefacts. Yamazaki Yoshinari’s statement of intent contains one more suggestion for improving the scholarly quality of the meetings, and that is by reducing the refreshments. From this meeting onwards, sake and fish snacks were forbidden, and only tea and sweets would be served. This was order to avoid “the cluttering of objects, the chance of smudging them with food, and the meetings becoming too chaotic, too disorganized”. This evokes an image of merriment, joking, and chaos, perhaps a squabble over a smudge or crinkle, in which the initial purpose of diligent scholarship got somewhat lost. Although Yoshinari’s statement gives us some idea of what happened at the first eleven meetings, it is still not very concrete. The only significant source informing us about topics of discussion in at least one meeting, is Bakin’s description of a serious conflict that broke out between Yoshinari and himself.19 The text is part of Bakin’s private description of the proceedings of another society, the Toenkai 兎園会 (Society of the Rabbit Grove)20 that coexisted with the Tankikai throughout 1825, and came to an end in the last month of that year. The Toenkai had largely the same membership as the Tankikai, but its purpose was not the presentation of objects, but of stories. Members had to contribute a wonderful, remarkable, or historical tale. The only extant proceedings of this society are from Bakin. These proceedings, however, do not seem to have circulated among the members, as there are no copies except Bakin’s own. Kendon arasoi (The Kendon Conflict) is part of these proceedings and very openly relates the fierce discussion that developed between Bakin and Yoshinari over the origin and the meaning of the food container, the daimyō kendon, presented by Bunpōdō at the twelfth meeting. In Kendon arasoi, Bakin gives, in the format of a debate, Yoshinari’s opinions and his own. The way the text is organized suggests that, after the meeting, the disagreement went on through correspondence. The text begins with

19 As Kendon arasoi it is included in the middle volume of Toen Shōsetsu besshū. The same text is independently included in the text collection Shin enseki jisshu (vol. 2, pp. 63–81). 20 Although there is more to be said about the relationship between these two societies, the Toenkai, as it had nothing to do with the analysis of material culture, falls outside the scope of this paper. entertainment and education 31

Yoshinari’s statement, as it had appeared in Tanki Manroku, and was circulated among the members of the society. This is followed by Bakin’s rebuttal of these proceedings. The parts of the ensuing discussion between himself and Yoshinari were later, apparently, put together by Bakin and are also included in Kendon arasoi. The description of the discussion as it took place at the meeting itself is from Yoshinari, who also provided an introductory text to the illustration suggesting that this food carrier was called a daimyō kendon because it used to be decorated with images of a daimyō boat (figure 5 above). After this description of his own explanation of the “daimyō” element in the name of the container, Yoshinari’s record of the proceedings at the meeting itself continued as follows: Sakō-nushi suggested: “Perhaps the taste [of a simple soba dish at a stall] developed into something so good that even daimyō would come and eat it.” As no one replied and there were no other suggestions, this opinion was accepted, over my explanation. Sakō, being the first to offer an explanation for the “daimyō” part, was very happy. Then old Rinchi [Yashiro Hirokata] remarked: “But what about the designation kendon?” I answered: “The characters of kendon can be interpreted as ‘sold in single portions’. . . .” The old man, however, shook his head and replied: “That is not so. It is related to the [characters] ken 見 and don 頓 meaning ‘to see” and ‘food,’ the idea then is ‘to go out and eat prepared food’.” I had intended to continue the argument; yet although I had thought out what I wanted to say, I found it difficult to express, and I ended up remaining silent. Afterwards, when the Tankikai records circulated [among the members], Kyokutei [Bakin] added a text with a discussion of the meaning of kendon.21 Kendon arasoi continues with Bakin’s rebuttal: that not only sobakiri (warm soba in soup) was served in these kendon, but also udon (hence the character don 飩), and in fact various forms of other noodles as well. His argument gradually becomes a complicated discussion of the various characters used for kendon, which would have been the original characters, and how that could be related to the development and use of the kendon as a food carrier. Etymology was an important tool in the reconstruction of the perceived original use, form, and meaning of objects and the context in which they were used. The kendon conflict also reveals the wide range of aspects that can be considered with respect to an artefact. In the case of the daimyō kendon the arguments revolved around the box, both as an object and as a means of transport, its decoration, the type of food it contained (soba or udon for example), and by whom its contents

21 Shin enseki jisshu 2, p. 64. 32 margarita winkel

was produced (menus of restaurants and take-aways play a role here) and consumed (daimyō or prostitutes). Interestingly, earlier antiquarian publications by friends and colleagues, as well as occasional earlier studies, are employed in this conflict. To prove their points, both authors make use of previously published or unpublished evidence-based essays to substantiate their arguments. Finally, this relentless continuation of a partly futile argument indicates that Yoshinari may have been right when he complained about bickering and useless digressions. In due course, the discussion became more and more foggy, and the debate gradually drifted away from issues related to the object under discussion towards accusations of rudeness and disrespect.

Conclusions; a comparison

What do these records tell us about collecting and antiquarianism as a social pursuit in early nineteenth century Japan and can we make a tentative comparison with some early modern Europe practices? Factors similar to the ones that gave birth to the European interest in collecting were valid for Japan. Following the unification of the country in the early 1600s and the ensuing period of almost general peace, Japan experienced a tremendous growth of production and consumption. The con- sumer society that emerged as a result allowed many groups other than the ruling elite to profit from increasing prosperity and acquire socially and culturally desirable possessions. This resulted in a lively culture of collecting, as was already noted by a contemporary observer such as Van Overmeer Fisscher.22 The Tankikai records are not about collecting practices, however, but about antiquarianism. The focus is on scholarship through collected artefacts, either the object itself, or a depiction. Discussions were often based on pictorial representations of objects observed elsewhere, for example, in a private collection or at a temple, or in copies of illustrations from a book or manuscript. Thus it is the representational value as an object of study that is important in this antiquarian context. The topics of discussion could be anything, so long as it provided evidence about “past or

22 Belk 2006, p. 536 also points to this “boom in mass collecting in Europe as well as China and Japan” in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries following rapid economic growth. entertainment and education 33 remote cultures.” Yoshinari’s statement of intent was very explicit about this. The aim of this society thus comes close to what Peter Burke has observed for Europe. Focusing on antiquarianism as a scholarly endea- vour from the Renaissance till the early nineteenth century, he defines early modern antiquarianism as a “concern for the material remains of the past, together with a wide conception of that past, including everyday life, since the evidence of artefacts combined with that of texts, allowed a more detailed and accurate reconstruction of ‘customs’ (modes of eating and drinking, marriage and burial, etc.) than had been possible from texts alone.”23 The Tankikai records also contain ample proof of the human side of collecting, and of the scholarship that surrounds it, showing what Bjarne Rogan has described as “the debates, which might sometimes reach a certain temperature.”24 Investigation and play go hand in hand, and the collector-researcher is often passionately involved. Collecting and antiquarianism are social pursuits and reputations are at stake. The explicit aim of the Tankikai was antiquarian study. Some took this very seriously, while others seem to have found it a fashionable excuse for a social gathering. This discrepancy caused tension among its members, but highlights the social significance of these meetings. The annals of this Japanese antiquarian society show that objects were not only collected for their intrinsic value, but also out of scholarly concern. In the discussion of books, manuscripts and images, not only the texts and the depictions were scrutinized, but also physical attributes, such as the type of paper, the quality of the print, and seals or inscriptions. The aim, after all, was to reconstruct the historic or foreign cultural environment from which these items originated. In this respect, too, Japanese antiquarianism does not seem to have differed much from what happened in early modern Europe. As to a possible relationship between the two antiquarian discourses, we find that there was considerable exchange of ideas and objects going on between the Europeans and the Japanese, primarily through Deshima. Dutch Studies scholars, such as Sugita Genpaku mentioned above, were involved in Japanese antiquarianism as well. The international connections may have stimulated Japanese research. However, the background of this Society, its intellectual aspirations as expressed in the concept of “Flying Ears and Extending Eyes” and

23 Burke 2003, p. 273. 24 Rogan 2001, p. 47. 34 margarita winkel

its emphasis on evidential research shows that its methodological origins and its antiquarian inspiration were Chinese and Japanese.

The author wants to express her thanks to the editors of this volume for their suggestions and advice. Special thanks goes to Bjarne Rogan for his comments on an earlier version of this essay and his information on early modern European collecting and antiquarian practices.

References

Belk, Russell (2006). Collectors and Collecting. In: Chris Tilley, Webb Keane, Susanne Küchler, Mike Rowlands and Patricia Spyer, eds. Handbook of Material Culture. Los Angeles & London: Sage. Boot, W.J. (2009). The Transfer of Learning: The Import of Chinese and Dutch Books in Tokugawa Japan. In: E. Groenendijk, C. Viallé, and J.L. Blussé (Eds), Canton and Nagasaki compared, 1730–1830: Dutch, Chinese, Japanese Relations: Transactions. Leiden: IGEER. Burke, Peter (2003). Images as Evidence in Seventeenth Century Europe. Journal of the History of Ideas 64 (2), pp. 273–296. Elman, Benjamin A. (2002). The Search for Evidence from China. Qing Learning and Kōshōgaku in Tokugawa Japan. In: Joshua A. Fogel , ed. Sagacious Monks and Bloodthirsty Warriors. Chinese views of Japan in the Ming-Qing Period. Norwalk: Eastbridge. Ikegami, Eiko (2005). Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Koide Masahiro 小出昌洋 (1993). Tanki manroku kaidai 耽奇漫録解題. In: Tanki Manroku 耽奇漫録. Nihon zuihitsu taikei dai-ikki bekkan 日本随筆大系第一期別巻, vol. 1. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan (1993), pp. 1–10. Overmeer Fisscher, Johan Frederik van (1833). Bijdrage tot de kennis van het Japansche Rijk. Amsterdam: J. Müller & Comp. Ricket, W. Allyn (2001). Guanzi: Political, Economic, and Philosophical Essays from Early China, rev. ed., vol. 2. Boston: Cheng & Tsui Co. Rogan, Bjarne (2001). Stamps and Postcards—Science or Play? A Longitudinal Study of a Gendered Collecting Field. Ethnologia Europaea 31, pp. 37–54. Takizawa Bakin 瀧沢馬琴 (1824–25). Toen shōsetsu besshū 兎園小説別集. In: Nihon zuihitsu taisei dai-niki 日本随筆大成第二期, vol. 4, pp. 51–69. Tokyo: Nihon Zuihitsu Taisei Kankōkai, 1928. —— (1912–13). Shin enseki jisshu 新燕石十種. 5 vols. Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai. —— (1928). Tanki manroku 耽奇漫録. In: Hayakawa Junzaburō 早川純三郎 (ed. and intr.). Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Yamazaki Yoshinari (1832). Tanki manroku 耽奇漫録. Orig. ms. Also in: Koide Masahiro 小出昌洋, ed. and intr. Nihon zuihitsu taikei dai-ikki bekkan 日本随筆大系第一期別巻, 2 vols. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan 1993. Yamashita, Samuel Hideo (1994). Master Sorai’s Responsals: An Annotated Translation of Sorai Sensei Tomonsho. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. The Prince Who Collected Scholars: The network of Myōhō-in no miya Shinnin Hōshinnō (1768–1805)

Anna Beerens

“Dammy, I consider myself a literary man, and I wish to know all the clever fellows.” W. M. Thackeray, Pendennis

Introduction

In an English cathedral I once came across an epitaph that described the deceased as someone who “did nothing special, but did it very well.” This rather aptly characterizes the life of Myōhō-in no miya Shinnin Hōshinnō 妙法院宮真仁法親王.1 As a person of very high rank and a “man of the church,” he led a protected and somewhat uneventful life. He is—and, in fact, during his lifetime already was—known as a patron of the arts and letters, and a man who actively cultivated the acquaintance of famous scholars, artists, and literary figures. He did not only invite celebrities to have them “perform” in front of him, but surrounded himself on a more or less regular basis with some of the most illustrious Kyoto-ites of his time. It would not go too far, I think, to say that he saw them as his companions who gave colour to his life. Prince Shinnin’s network of scholars and artists is in many ways representative of the “numerous casual, flexible, and ephemeral private asso- ciations” that are the subject of Eiko Ikegami’s thought-provoking Bonds of Civility.2 On the other hand, the prince’s network was not exactly what Ikegami calls “a hobby circle”: it consisted of the crème de la crème of late eighteenth-century art, poetry and scholarship.3

1 The term shinnō 親王 indicates an imperial prince; the term hōshinnō 法親王 indicates an imperial prince in holy Buddhist orders. 2 Ikegami 2005, p. 14. 3 Ikegami 2005, p. 12. 36 anna beerens

It is, paradoxically, for this very reason that Munemasa Isoo 宗政五十緒, who wrote an important article on Shinnin’s network, at one point presents a rather negative picture of it.4 According to Munemasa, the network had no significance for the arts and letters of the time. The prince’s circle was a heterogeneous mixture of scholars and artists from various fields that was not in any way directed at the production and cultivation of a specific form of scholarship, art, or literature.5 No new movement resulted from its meetings. In addition, Munemasa states, the group mainly consisted of mature individuals whose styles and manners had long taken shape; it cannot be maintained that the network somehow nurtured their creative development. Munemasa insightfully discusses many aspects of Shinnin’s network, but as a result of his negative assessment of the group, he mainly seeks to position the individual companions within the landscape of the arts and letters of the time. In his view, several belonged to the intellectual vanguard on the road towards modernity.6 My essay, first of all, aims at presenting Prince Shinnin’s intellectual network. Needless to say, the prince knew considerably more people than the individuals mentioned here, but in view of the theme of the present volume and the fact that Shinnin is mainly remembered for his “collection” of scholars, poets, and artists, the focus is on them. I hope that, given the current interest in network studies, this will stimulate further research. Although I have also used material from other sources, I owe much to Munemasa.7 However, the way in which Prince Shinnin’s network is representative of—and, possibly, instrumental in—the social and cultural developments at the time, remains largely implicit in Munemasa’s classic article. The second aim of my essay is, therefore, to set this right. Thirdly, I have already mentioned Ikegami’s Bonds of Civility. As this is, without doubt, the most important recent study on aesthetic networks, I thought it was necessary to explore—albeit on a very modest scale—in what way Shinnin’s network fits her findings.

4 Munemasa 1977, pp. 240–41. 5 In this evaluation Munemasa unfavourably compares Shinnin’s network with Yosa Buson’s 与謝蕪村 Sankasha 三菓社 and Katayama Hokkai’s 片山北海 Kontonsha 混沌社, see p. 241. 6 Munemasa 1977, pp. 239–49. 7 Shinnin’s circle was discussed briefly in my dissertation, see Beerens 2006, p. 42 and pp. 271–72 and the biographical profiles in Part II. the prince who collected scholars 37

The life of Shinnin Hōshinnō

Shinnin was born on the seventh day of the sixth month of Meiwa 5 (1768), the fifth son of Prince Kan’in no miya Tennin Shinnō 閑院宮典仁親王, a member of one of the cadet branches of the imperial family.8 The boy was not even one year old when he was designated abbot of the Myōhō-in. This important temple of the Tendai sect, situated in Kyoto’s Higashiyama district, had been a monzeki temple since the late twelfth century. It was famous for its garden, designed by Kobori Enshū 小堀遠州 (1579–1647), the tea master and garden architect. Shinnin’s predecessor, Prince Gyōkyō Hōshinnō 堯恭法親王, had died in 1764, so there may have been a sense of urgency concerning the succession. In connection with his future position, Shinnin was formally adopted by Emperor Go-Momozono 後桃園 in 1778. The young prince entered the priesthood a few months later. Go-Momozono died unexpectedly in 1779, leaving only a baby daughter. Because no suitable male heir could be found within the main line of the imperial family, a successor was chosen from the cadet branches. As a result, Shinnin’s younger brother became Emperor Kōkaku 光格 (1771– 1840, r. 1779–1817).9 In the eighth year of Tenmei (1788) a great fire swept through the city of Kyoto. As the imperial palace was completely destroyed, the Myōhō-in became a temporary abode for the young emperor and later for his consort. The immensely expensive reconstruction of the palace took two years, during which time Shinnin lived at another temple.10 At the end of 1790 Kōkaku took possession of his new residence with great pomp and circumstance and his brother moved back to the Myōhō-in. The period that followed was the heyday of Shinnin’s networking activities. In his Nishigorinoya zuihitsu 織錦舎随筆 (Miscellaneous Writings from the Brocade Mansion, undated), Murata Harumi 村田春海, a literary celebrity from Edo, describes the prince as someone “very fond of Japanese matters of taste and refinement, who constantly surrounds

8 The basic framework for Shinnin’s biography is provided by the Honchō kōin jōunroku 本朝皇胤紹運録 (A genealogy of our country’s reigning line), an imperial genealogy begun in 1426, quoted in Munemasa 1977, p. 204; for additional information see pp. 204– 206. For the full name of Shinnin’s father I follow Dai jinmei jiten and Kokusho jinmei jiten, s.v. Shinnin Hōshinnō, compare Shinnin’s lineage given in Munemasa 1977, p. 203. 9 For details concerning Kōkaku’s succession, see Webb 1968, pp. 76–77 and Screech 2000, pp. 150–51. 10 For this reconstruction and its political implications, see Screech 2000, pp. 151–66. 38 anna beerens himself with famous people he considers admirable.” 11 As we will see, Shinnin was not just interested in Japanese elegance; he also liked kanshi 漢詩 and sencha 煎茶, the Chinese way of enjoying tea. But Harumi was definitely right about the “famous people.” In 1805 Shinnin travelled to Edo and made a point of meeting several of the local literary lions (including the very same Murata Harumi). This journey was perhaps the only real event in Shinnin’s life: he died not long after his return to Kyoto, in his thirty-eighth year.

Munemasa’s list

Before I introduce the individuals who belonged to Shinnin’s circle, I must point out that care should be taken as to how to refer to them. To describe them as “members of a group” would suggest a sense of structure and organization that was certainly not there. To call them the prince’s “friends” implies that we are able to assess the nature of the relationship, which is, in fact, far from easy. Although Shinnin may have been genuinely fond of the men who formed his “collection” of scholars and artists (and vice versa), he was the emperor’s brother: he and his companions would not have treated each other as equals and mutual feelings would not have been casually expressed. Personal diaries, such as the prince’s own, are not of much help in this respect. They were meant to record events and not to unburden one’s heart. In view of all this, I have used the word “contact” as a general term for those who, in one way or another, were in communication with the prince. The word “companion” is only used for the twelve individuals who are the subject of Munemasa’s 1977 essay. Munemasa speaks of these gentlemen as persons who “surrounded” (meguru) the prince, since, as far as they were concerned, there was more regular communication and greater relative intimacy than was the case with other artists, scholars, and authors Shinnin knew. I have found no system in Munemasa’s arrangement of his list and will therefore treat these “companions” in alphabetical order.12 NB Further basic information concerning all individuals discussed below can be found in the accompanying table (see p. 50).

11 Quoted in Munemasa 1977, p. 206. Nishigorinoya zuihitsu remains undated, but Harumi died only five years after Shinnin’s demise. 12 For Munemasa’s list see pp. 206–21. the prince who collected scholars 39

Ban Kōkei 伴萵蹊

Kōkei was the author of the best-selling Kinsei kijinden 近世奇人伝 (Lives of remarkable people) of 1790 and its 1798 sequel.13 Born in Kyoto into a merchant family, he directed the main branch of the house in Hachiman (Ōmi province) until his retirement in 1768. He then resettled in the Capital and devoted himself to “national studies” (kokugaku) and waka. Mori Senzō states that Kōkei received the prince’s patronage “from early on,” because his house was near the imperial palace. In view of the fact that Shinnin was born in the year Kōkei came back to Kyoto—not to mention Shinnin’s subsequent relocations—it is hard to say what time Mori refers to.14 Nevertheless, Kōkei seems to have been one of the prince’s most frequent visitors and also one of his most enduring contacts. In the spring of 1801, Shinnin sent Kōkei a branch of cherry blossoms from his famous garden with a poem written in his own hand, and a set of clothes. The poem could be translated as follows: Let me part with one branch of flowers From the overflow of spring At my hut by the fallow rice field15 In his reply Kōkei addresses the prince as “ōgimi no mikoto.” His use of a term that expresses great reverence may be seen as indicative of what I noted above about the way in which the companions would have approached their imperial patron. In 1806, after the prince’s death, Kōkei had himself portrayed looking at a branch of cherry blossoms in a Chinese-style vase. He is wearing the clothes that were the prince’s gift.16

Gessen 月僊

The priest-painter Gessen was the son of a miso merchant. He became abbot of a temple in Yamada in Ise province in 1774. Gessen studied painting with Maruyama Ōkyo, who was also Shinnin’s teacher. Together with

13 Munemasa 1994 (first edition 1972) and Murakami 1981. 14 Mori 1988, p. 59. 15 “Fallow rice field” is a pun on Ban Kōkei’s alias Kandenshi 間田子, Master Fallowfield. 16 Murakami, 1981, pp. 47–49. The term ōgimi 大君 (also read ōkimi) is usually reserved for the emperor himself; mikoto 尊 indicates a prince. 40 anna beerens

Ōkyo and Matsumura Goshun, Gessen executed several commissions for the prince.17

Itō Tōsho 伊藤東所

Tōsho was the grandson of the great Itō Jinsai 伊藤仁斎 (1627–1705) and conducted the prestigious Confucian academy founded by his grandfather. Many of the academy’s students were from kuge families. Relationships between the Myōhō-in and the Itō family had started with Tōsho’s father, Tōgai 東涯, who wrote an account of its garden. Tōsho was one of the most prominent Confucianists in Kyoto. He was also admired for his kanshi.18

Kayama Tekien 香山適園

Tekien was one of Shinnin’s Confucian teachers; the other one was Tekien’s own teacher Murase Kōtei (see below).19 Both men had been pupils of Takeda Bairyū 武田梅竜 (1716–1766) who had also taught Confucian studies at the Myōhō-in. We have no further information on Tekien’s social background, but, although his work is now largely forgotten, he was at the time a highly respected scholar and kanshi poet. Shinnin provided the funds for the publication of Tekien’s collected works. These appeared in 1792 under the title Tōryūanshū 東隴庵集 (Collection from the Hermitage of the East Bank).20

Maruyama Ōkyo 円山応挙

Born into a poor farming family, Ōkyo became one of Japan’s most celebrated painters and, as a result, a very wealthy man. In his Tandai shōshinroku 胆大小心録 (A Record of Pluck and Prudence, 1808–09) the author and scholar Ueda Akinari 上田秋成 writes: “When Ōkyo came

17 Munemasa 1977, pp. 216–17. 18 Munemasa 1977, p. 207 and pp. 222–23. 19 Munemasa 1977, p. 212. 20 Murase Kōtei wrote the preface to Tōryūanshū. Yunoki Taijun 柚木太淳 (1762–1803) wrote the postscript. Taijun, one of Minagawa Kien’s many contacts, was a Kyoto physician and a pioneer of Western ophthalmic medicine. See Munemasa 1977, p. 212 and Beerens 2006, p. 163. the prince who collected scholars 41 on the scene in the world of painting, it became the fashion to ‘sketch life’, and all the pictures in the Capital were then in this one style. This was because the whole Kanō clique was unskilled. One of the pupils of Ōkyo was His Imperial Highness of the Myōhō-in, and it was upon his recommendation that Ōkyo was long employed as bespoke painter to the Imperial court . . .”21 Characteristically, Akinari exaggerates in more than one respect: Ōkyo had been receiving commissions from the imperial court since the late 1760s. In 1781 Ōkyo painted the screens that were used at the enthronement ceremony of Shinnin’s brother.22 That Ōkyo was Shinnin’s painting teacher is, however, obvious from several entries in the prince’s diary.23 Shinnin also knew Ōkyo’s son Ōzui 応瑞, who inherited the studio upon his father’s death in 1795.24

Matsumura Goshun 松村呉春

Goshun was the son of a superintendent of the Kyoto gold mint. Originally trained in painting and haikai by Yosa Buson, he had come under the influence of Ōkyo in the late 1780s and as a result had completely changed his painting style. His new manner made him famous. The passage from Tandai shōshinroku quoted above, continues as follows: “. . . being succeeded after his death by Gekkei [i.e. Goshun], who, copying Ōkyo, also enjoyed the patronage of His Imperial Highness and was held in higher esteem than Ōkyo by the Imperial court . . .”25 Although Akinari knew both painters, Tandai should not be trusted for an accurate representation of art historical developments. However, his impression that Goshun was “held in higher esteem” may be based on the very different characters of the two painters. Whereas Ōkyo seems to have been a somewhat single- minded workaholic, Goshun was a true bon vivant and must have been fun to be with. Munemasa describes him as a close associate of the prince, who knew well how to amuse him.26

21 I quote from the translation by Clarke and Cobcroft 2009, pp. 99–100. 22 See for instance the chronology (nenpu 年譜) in Hyōgo kenritsu rekishi hakubutsukan, 2000. 23 Munemasa 1977, p. 216. I regret I failed to mention this in my dissertation of 2006. 24 See Mori 1988, p. 59. 25 Clarke and Cobcroft 2009, p. 100. 26 Munemasa 1977, p. 218. 42 anna beerens

Minagawa Kien 皆川淇園

Kien was not only a highly respected Confucian scholar, but also a fine kanshi poet and a remarkable calligrapher and painter. Moreover, during the 1780s he regularly organized public exhibitions of contemporary painting and calligraphy in the Higashiyama district. Kien’s Confucian academy in Kyoto was famous and, as Munemasa remarks, the register of his pupils rivals that of Itō Tōsho’s prestigious school.27 Although sources have differed about Kien’s social background, it now seems certain that his father was a merchant, possibly an antiques dealer.28

Murase Kōtei 村瀬栲亭

Kōtei was the son of a physician. He became Shinnin’s Confucian teacher in 1775 when the prince was in his eighth year, but had to resign two years later for reasons of illness. He was in the service of the domain of Akita in Ugo province from 1783 until 1792, after which he returned to Kyoto. Kōtei was a famous scholar at the time; he and Minagawa Kien were mentioned in the same breath. Like Kien, Kōtei wrote kanshi and practised calligraphy and painting. He was also an authority on sencha.29 There can be little doubt that he aroused Shinnin’s interest in the subject.

Okamoto Yasutaka 岡本保考

Yasutaka was a priest of the Kamo shrine and combined this function with that of official in the service of the Ichijō 一条 family of high-ranking courtiers. In addition, he was a much-revered master of a school of calligraphy that claimed to have preserved and transmitted the writing style of Kōbō Daishi 弘法大師 (774–835). According to the prince’s diary he became Shinnin’s calligraphy teacher in 1787.30 Apart from calligraphy, Yasutaka also practiced waka.

27 Munemasa 1977, p. 223. 28 Takahashi 1988, p. 205 and Munemasa 1977, p. 228 n. 3. Several sources state that Kien’s father had been physician to the Empress Tōfukumon’in. This is impossible because the empress died in 1678 and Kien’s father was born in 1700. 29 For sencha, see Graham 1998. 30 Quoted in Munemasa 1977, p. 219. the prince who collected scholars 43

Ozawa Roan 小沢芦庵

Ozawa Roan, the son of a rōnin, was the doyen of waka poetry in late eighteenth-century Kyoto and was held in high regard. The entry on Ozawa Roan in Koten bungaku daijiten states that Shinnin became his pupil “at an early age” ( jakunen no toki kara 若年の時から), but Munemasa points out that they may only have met after the Great Fire of 1788, when the prince was in his twentieth year.31 It seems that Roan had always declined the prince’s invitations, pleading old age and a reclusive disposition. After he had lost his house in the fire, the prince took the trouble to personally visit him at his temporary shelter. Roan was so much moved by this ges- ture that he went to Shinnin the next day to pay his respects and regularly visited him from that time on.

Rikunyo 六如

Like Murase Kōtei, the priest-poet Rikunyo was the son of a physician. He was one of the most important and admired kanshi poets of the late Tokugawa period, rivaled only by Kan Chazan 菅茶山 (1748–1827). He wrote many poems at Shinnin’s request, several of which reflect the prince’s interest in sencha. One of these, a poem describing a tea mortar, may be quoted here as a demonstration of Rikunyo’s skill in handling the cosmic spirit that characterizes original Chinese tea poetry: A skilful workman cut the root of clouds The wheel removed the hatchet’s traces The navel of the grindstone like the turning point of heaven Joyfully the master turned heaven and earth Indistinct sound of thunder, a spring shower is stirring Raindrops fall onto the fresh green leaves What is hard will certainly be adjusted [But] the wonderful tea leaves always keep their fragrance32

31 The story is told by Tachibana Nankei 橘南谿 (1754–1806, a Kyoto physician who was a friend of Ban Kōkei) and can also be found in Roan’s Rokujō eisō 六帖詠草, see Munemasa 1977, p. 214 and p. 222, n. 4; also Murakami 1981, p. 49. Compare Nihon koten bungaku daijiten s.v. Ozawa Roan. 32 Kurokawa 1990, pp. 285–86. The poem dates from 1790. “The root of clouds” refers to the idea that clouds are brought forth by the rocks and stones of the mountains. In Chinese tradition the turning point of heaven is the Pole Star. The third line of the poem could therefore also be translated “The navel of the grindstone like the Pole Star.” The line “what is hard will certainly be adjusted” not only refers to the hard veins of the leaves that 44 anna beerens

Interestingly, Rikunyo was for many years in the service of another prince in holy orders, Kōjun Hōshinnō 公遵法親王. Rikunyo had met Kōjun in 1775 when they were both stationed in Edo and served him until the prince’s death in 1788.33

Umetsuji Shunshō 梅辻春樵

Shunshō came from a distinguished family of Shinto priests. He studied with Minagawa Kien and Murase Kōtei. He was admitted to the prince’s circle when he was about twenty years old and is by far the youngest on Munemasa’s list. He became a well-known Sinologist and kanshi poet. His Shunshō inshi kakō 春樵隠士家稿 (Writings from the House of Shunshō the Hermit), published just before his death, is an important source for Prince Shinnin’s network.34

Other contacts

The people who “surrounded” the prince were certainly not the only scholars and artists he was in contact with. Shinnin’s august person crops up in the biographies of several other famous intellectual figures of the later Tokugawa era. The most celebrated of these is perhaps Motoori Norinaga 本居宣長. When the first five chapters of Norinaga’s Kojiki den 古事記伝 were published in 1790, his patron Yokoi Chiaki took the liberty to send a copy to Shinnin. It was probably through Shinnin’s agency that the book was shown to the emperor. Norinaga met Shinnin when he visited Kyoto in 1793.35 One of the celebrities Shinnin invited to his lodgings when he was in Edo in 1805 was Katō Chikage 加藤千蔭. The prince had long been an admirer of Chikage, who was not only a scholar in the field of national studies, but also a waka poet, painter, and calligrapher. When Okamoto Yasutaka went on a journey to Edo in 1798, Shinnin had seized the oppor-

are ground in the mortar, but also to the human heart that is softened by the making and drinking of tea. 33 Kurokawa 1990, pp. 399–400. 34 For Shunshō see also Kokushi daijiten s.v. and Kokusho jinmei jiten s.v. 35 Matsumoto 1970, pp. 127 and 130. the prince who collected scholars 45 tunity and asked him to take a message to Chikage. He was delighted when Yasutaka returned with a poem Chikage had written for him.36 In Edo Shinnin also met Murata Harumi, who was quoted above. Chikage and Harumi had both been pupils of Kamo no Mabuchi 賀茂真淵 (1607–1769) and shared the same interests. The two of them were influential figures in Edo waka circles. That Shinnin wished to see these two men is all the more interesting in view of the fact that together they had written a scathing pamphlet against the Kyoto waka poet Kagawa Kageki 香川景樹, who also received the prince’s patronage. Kageki was a protégé of Ozawa Roan.37 Another celebrity Shinnin met in Edo was the painter Tani Bunchō 谷文晁.38 This may have been of special interest to the talented young man who at the time served as the prince’s personal attendant, Matsumura Keibun 松村景文.39 Keibun, who accompanied his employer on this journey to Edo, was Goshun’s younger brother and pupil. Shinnin also knew the painter Azuma Tōyō 東東洋. Tōyō once executed a painting representing a person on horseback in the prince’s presence. By accident he let slip his brush, which left a trace on the picture. Much embarrassed he tried to turn the smudge into a butterfly, but the prince kindly suggested it could also be a flower trampled by the horse’s hoofs.40 In 1787 the much-honoured Itō Jakuchū 伊藤若冲, carried out a commission for the Myōhō-in. Unfortunately these paintings are lost.41 The prince not only commissioned paintings, however. In 1795 the Osaka scholar Irie Masayoshi 入江昌善 completed Man’yōshū ruiyōshō hoketsu 萬葉集類葉抄補闕 (Various Commentaries and Supplements to the Man’yōshū), which he had written at the prince’s request. Ozawa Roan had recommended him for the project.42

36 Munemasa 1977, p. 220. Compare Ueda Akinari’s opinion: “A poetaster named Chi kage is the leading figure in present-day Japan. He can’t even write a good hand. His poetry is unskillful. He is an ignoramus.” See Clarke and Cobcroft 2009, p. 135. This confirms Chi kage’s fame, but also puts it into perspective. 37 The pamphlet Fude no saga 筆のさが (Evils of the Brush) appeared in 1802. See Beerens 2006, p. 78 and Keene 1976, p. 487. 38 Tani Bunchō also features in Margarita Winkel’s contribution to this volume. 39 See for instance Kokusho jinmei jiten, s.v. Matsumura Keibun. 40 Munemasa 1977, pp. 214–15. The source is Ozawa Roan’s Rokujō eisō. 41 See the chronology in Kanō 2000. The commission is mentioned in Shinnin’s diary. 42 Mori 1988, pp. 66–67. 46 anna beerens

Hunting lions, or . . .?

Having now met the prince’s twelve companions, and some others besides, what do we make of Munemasa’s negative assessment of the circle mentioned at the beginning of this essay? It cannot be denied that most of these men (the exception, of course, being the promising youngsters Shunshō, Keibun, and Ōzui) had already made their mark and a glance at the years of their birth makes it clear that, indeed, there was nothing immature about them. Furthermore, Munemasa was right when he stated that Shinnin’s circle did not have a particular aim. Instead of meeting all of his companions at regular fixed times, the prince would invite three or four of them for a flower or moon viewing party, a poetry gathering, a tea gathering, or even to go mushroom picking with him, just as it suited his fancy.43 These gatherings were quite playful and light-hearted and not directed at hammering out aesthetic theories or methods. We know, for instance, about a party where the guests were invited to compose poetic captions for the pictures painted by the artists who were present.44 On special occasions, such as the completion of a new pavilion for the prince’s garden, there would be laudatory texts. Munemasa describes an event that took place in 1786. Near the end of that year a swan was caught in the vicinity of the Myōhō-in and the hunter offered it to the prince. Because the capture was considered a lucky omen, Shinnin decided to present the bird to the imperial palace (but not before he had given Maruyama Ōkyo the opportunity to make sketches). In the first month of the New Year, the young emperor himself set free the swan at the place where it was originally caught. Minagawa Kien composed an ode about the episode and later that month wrote letters to his most high-ranking acquaintances, Masuyama Sessai 増山雪斎 (daimyo of Nagashima) and Matsura Seizan 松浦静山 (daimyo of Hirado), to tell them that the emperor himself had read his piece.45 Seen from a purely material perspective it is obvious what the network entailed. For Shinnin’s contacts the prince’s patronage meant commissions, support and prestige. The prince, in his turn, must have been pleased to be considered a patron of the arts and letters. Munemasa points out— and my own research amply confirms this—that there were ties between

43 Munemasa 1977, p. 229. 44 See Mori 1988, p. 59; also Murakami 1981, p. 46. Mori’s source is an unpublished manuscript by Kōkei’s pupil Nakajima Shuin. 45 Munemasa 1977, p. 233. the prince who collected scholars 47 these individuals that were older and stronger than the prince’s network and that they also met in other contexts.46 Shinnin probably knew that he could not possibly dominate his famous companions and that his personal influence was relatively limited, but he seems to have been happy with his role. Was the prince then merely an intellectual snob and a literary lion hunter? I do not think so. He apparently knew very well what he wanted and was prepared to take some trouble to get it, as is borne out by his personal visit to Ozawa Roan, his message for Katō Chikage, and his journey to Edo.47 If he had merely wished to meet famous people, he could have invited plenty of other distinguished and respected artists, scholars and literary figures, and there can be little doubt that they would have come running. One would, moreover, have expected him to establish relationships with artists, poets and scholars from circuits that were traditionally associated with the imperial court, dōjō 堂上 poets, for instance, or masters of the Kanō school of painting. However, significantly, these were not, on the whole, the people Shinnin was interested in. Only one of his companions was connected to the court: Okamoto Yasutaka. The majority of the individuals Shinnin cultivated also appealed to an audience of commoners. This does not mean that the prince went so far as to be interested in “popular culture.” Munemasa stresses that there were no haikai masters, authors of popular fiction or commonplace (read ukiyo-e) artists among Shinnin’s companions. The prince’s network was very firmly ga 雅, that is, engaged in activities characterized by refined elegance.48 All the same, most of the prince’s contacts were commoners, and many of their colleagues, pupils, and clients were commoners too. Thanks to their genius and success, they were admitted to and were patronized by those in the highest social circles, but their ideas and idioms were shaped by the fact that they were commoners. In expressly seeking out these sons of

46 Munemasa 1977, p. 229, see also the biographical profiles of all individuals mentioned here in Beerens 2006. I have chosen not to map out these overlapping individual networks here, because it would not have made for very interesting reading. However, these mani- fold contacts show surprising links between very different intellectual circles. 47 According to Munemasa, the message to Chikage, being a request from an imperial prince to a literary figure in Edo, was “an absolute novelty” (sore made ni wa mattaku nakatta koto それまでには全くなかったこと), see p. 230. 48 Munemasa 1977, p. 225. I was surprised to find that neither the term ga nor its coun- terpart zoku 俗 (meaning “vulgar” or “mundane”) could be found in Ikegami’s Bonds of Civility. 48 anna beerens merchants, physicians and farmers, his imperial highness is very much part of the social and cultural shifts that characterized his time.49

Coming full circle

Munemasa considers the commoner status of the majority of the prince’s companions the most important aspect of the network, but states that, where scholarship and art were concerned, individual contacts between commoners and members of the social elite were, of course, not unique.50 Such contacts existed even within this network. Munemasa mentions the relationship between Rikunyo and Kōjun Hōshinnō I described above, and also points out that several of the prince’s companions had studied with courtiers or high-ranking retained scholars. Contacts of this kind had helped to foster talent and contributed to the acceptance of new styles and ideas. Munemasa sides with current scholarship in recognizing that among intellectuals by the end of the eighteenth century social dif- ferentiation was breaking down fast. Ikegami’s book convincingly shows how aesthetic societies in which “the samurai and the urban commoners began to share similar cultural idioms and enthusiasm” contributed to the gradual collapse of the status system.51 Nevertheless, as I already pointed out, Munemasa evidently grapples with the position of Shinnin’s network within these developments. As he is not convinced of the significance of the network as such and somehow undervalues the importance of the social aspect, he turns towards the merits of its individual “members.” Focusing on Kien, Rikunyo, Roan, Kōkei, Ōkyo and Goshun he launches upon an exploration of how they contributed to the making of intellectual modernism.52 However valuable Munemasa’s discussion may be, the question is: do we need it? As far as I am concerned, Shinnin’s network is significant as a

49 In this context it may be interesting to know that Motoori Norinaga was the son of a merchant who dealt in cotton goods, Murata Harumi’s father conducted a wholesale business in dried sardines, Itō Jakuchū came from a family of wholesale greengrocers, and the father of Irie Masayoshi had a money changing business. 50 For Munemasa’s evaluation of the social significance of the network, see pp. 229–39. 51 Ikegami 2005, p. 153. In my own research I have likewise stressed the importance of intellectual aspirations in the context of both geographic and socio-economic mobility, see Beerens 2006, part III, chapter 2. 52 Munemasa 1977, pp. 239–49. One of the important points he makes here is that the discourse of these individuals, and by implication that of the whole network, had effec- tively moved beyond ga and zoku. This is an insight that merits further investigation. the prince who collected scholars 49 network and its significance lies in its very existence. “The formation of a court society that was aesthetically cultivated” stands at the beginning of the process of aesthetic development described by Ikegami.53 The imperial court had set aesthetic standards since the Heian period. The court had been, we might say, the cradle of virtually every form of art in Japan. But here, at the end of the eighteenth century, is an imperial prince who reaches out—mind, the initiative is with the prince and not vice versa!— to an aggregate of commoners to find teachers, role models and companions, to share cultural idioms that had originated centuries earlier at the imperial court. Shinnin’s network makes a development come full circle: in Ikegami’s terms, commoners were now so “civilized” that they could bring their “civility” to the court and be admired for it. That commoner artists, poets and scholars were sought-after at the very highest level is indicative of one of the most important characteristics of the Tokugawa era, a phenomenon that was already mentioned in the introduction to this volume: the fact that the cultural elite and the socio-political elite were no longer, and would never again be, the same thing.54 What I just stated somewhat dampens Ikegami’s evaluation of the very special position of the court within the Tokugawa state system.55 She writes: “Anyone in Tokugawa society who claimed to be aesthetically refined would recognize the courtly aesthetic, poetry and polite arts as the ultimate standards of high culture. Thus, the more widely the civilizing process of Tokugawa Japan was disseminated, the more entrenched the cultural position of the imperial court became in the imagination of the Japanese people . . . This situation facilitated, at least in part, the sudden revival of imperial symbolism in the late nineteenth century as the centre of national unity . . .”56 This is not the place to investigate what actually were the mechanisms behind this “revival,” although there can be little doubt that, in the late Tokugawa era, there was, at many levels, genuine reverence and support for the emperor and his court. Nevertheless, I am not so sure about the cultural entrenchment of the court. Prince Shinnin’s network, for one, demonstrates that the court was no longer the sole arbiter of elegance. For commoner artists and scholars, commissions from the court or the presence of courtier’s sons among one’s pupils must have contributed to a sense of “we can do this too—and better!” Moreover,

53 Ikegami 2005, p. 83. 54 See also Beerens 2006, p. 277 and passim. 55 Ikegami 2005, pp. 372–73. 56 Ikegami 2005, p. 373. 50 anna beerens would not the undercurrent created by feelings of cultural and intellectual empowerment among commoners be able to run both with and against political and ideological developments? Things are usually even more complex and sophisticated than sociologists presume.

Table Name Years of birth Place of birth Status at birth and death Azuma Tōyō 1755–1839 Ishikoshimura Unknown (Rikuzen) Ban Kōkei 1733–1806 Kyoto Commoner Gessen 1741–1809 Nagoya (Owari) Commoner Irie Masayoshi 1722–1800 Osaka Commoner Itō Jakuchū 1716–1800 Kyoto Commoner Itō Tōsho 1730–1804 Kyoto Commoner Kagawa Kageki 1768–1843 Tottori (Inaba) Samurai Katō Chikage 1735–1808 Edo Samurai Kayama Tekien 1749–1795 Kyoto Unknown Maruyama Ōkyo 1733–1795 Anōmura (Tanba) Commoner Maruyama Ōzui 1766–1829 Kyoto Commoner Matsumura Goshun 1752–1811 Kyoto Commoner Matsumura Keibun 1779–1843 Kyoto Commoner Minagawa Kien 1734–1807 Kyoto Commoner Motoori Norinaga 1730–1801 Matsuzaka (Ise) Commoner Murase Kōtei 1744–1818 Kyoto Commoner Murata Harumi 1746–1811 Edo Commoner Okamoto Yasutaka 1749–1817 Kyoto Shinto priest Ozawa Roan 1723–1801 Osaka Rōnin Rikunyo 1734–1801 Hachiman (Ōmi) Commoner Tani Bunchō 1763–1840 Edo Samurai Umetsuji Shunshō 1776–1857 Sakamoto (Ōmi) Shinto priest

References

Beerens, Anna (2006). Friends, Acquaintances, Pupils and Patrons. Japanese Intellectual Life in the Late Eighteenth Century: a Prosopographical Approach. Leiden: Leiden University Press. Clarke, William E. and Cobcroft, Wendy E. (2009). Ueda Akinari. Tandai shōshinroku. An Annotated Translation. Sydney: Premodern Japanese Studies. Graham, Patricia J. (1998). Tea of the Sages: The Art of Sencha. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Hyōgo kenritsu rekishi hakubutsukan 兵庫県立歴史博物館, eds (2000). Maruyama Ōkyo ten 円山応挙展. Himeji: Benridō. the prince who collected scholars 51

Ikegami, Eiko (2005). Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kanō Hiroyuki 狩野博幸, ed. (2000). Jakuchū! Kyoto: Kyoto National Museum. Keene, Donald (1976). World within walls. Japanese Literature of the Pre-Modern Era 1600– 1867. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Kurokawa Yōichi 黒川洋一 (1990). Edo shijin senshū 江戸詩人選集, vol. 4. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten. Matsumoto, Shigeru (1970). Motoori Norinaga. 1730–1801. Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Mori Senzō 森銑三 (1988). Chōsakushū 著作集, vol. 2. Tokyo: Chūōkōronsha. Munemasa Isoo 宗政五十 (1977). “Shinnin Hōshinnō o meguru geibunkatachi 真仁法親王をめぐる藝文家たち. In: Munemasa Isoo, Nihon kinsei bun’en no kenkyū 日本近世文苑の研究. Tokyo: Miraisha, pp. 203–52. ——, ed. (1994). Kinsei kijinden. Zoku kinseikijinden 近世奇人伝. 続近世奇人伝. Tokyo: Heibonsha. Murakami Mamoru 村上護 (1981). Kinsei kijinden to sono jidai 近世奇人伝とその時代. Tokyo: Kyōikusha. Screech, Timon. The Shogun’s Painted Culture. Fear and Creativity in the Japanese States 1760–1829. London: Reaktion Books. Takahashi Hiromi 高橋博巳 (1988). Kyōtō gei’en no nettowāku 京都藝苑のネットワ–ク. Tokyo: Perikansha. Webb, Herschel (1968). The Japanese Imperial Institution in the Tokugawa Period. New York & London: Columbia University Press. legitimizing tokugawa rule

“Not Perfectly Good”: Some Edo Responses to Confucius’s Characterization of Kings Wen and Wu

Kate Wildman Nakai

Within the Confucian tradition the stories of Kings Wen 文 and Wu 武, the founders of the Zhou 周 dynasty, were the focus of ongoing debate. As the first ruler of a hallowed dynasty, King Wu was commonly held up as a sage and thus a model of rectitude. Yet, in establishing the Zhou, he had turned against and destroyed his erstwhile lord, the last ruler of the preceding Shang 商 (Yin 殷) dynasty. How could such behavior be reconciled with the attitude of loyalty that was supposed to be the core of the lord-vassal/ruler-subject relationship? Reinforcing doubts of this sort was the fact that King Wen, Wu’s father, had continued to serve the tyrannical last Shang ruler, despite being aware of his evils and receiving increasing allegiance from other Shang vassal states. Over the centuries, Confucian thinkers in China, Korea, and Japan wrestled with the challenge of negotiating the potential fault line embedded in this set of circumstances. A case in point, as W. J. Boot has observed, were conversations between Hayashi Razan 林羅山 (1583–1657) and Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康 in which the latter raised the question how to evaluate Wu’s action and the similar behavior of Tang 湯, the founder of the Shang dynasty.1 One spur to the ongoing debate, as Boot notes, was Mencius’s straightforward statement that Wu and Tang were not guilty of regicide because the last rulers of the preceding dynasties had disqualified themselves as sovereigns.2 Those with doubts, however, pointed above all to two passages in the Analects wherein Confucius, depending on how his words were interpreted, might be held to have expressed reservations about what Wu had done and to have praised Wen. One passage, Analects 3:25, noted that Confucius, in comparing the music called “Shao” 韶, associated with the sage Shun 舜, to the “Wu” 武, associated with King Wu, had described the former as “perfectly beautiful and also perfectly good,” and

1 Boot 1992, pp. 225–31. For a discussion of some of the aspects of the general East Asian debate concerning Tang and Wu, see Huang 2008. 2 Mencius 1.B.8; Legge 1960, vol. 2, p. 167. 56 kate wildman nakai the latter as “perfectly beautiful but not perfectly good.”3 The second passage, Analects 8:20, acclaimed King Wen, stating, “[King Wen] possessed two of the three parts of the empire, and with those he served the dynasty of Yin. The virtue of the house of Zhou may be said to have reached the highest point indeed.”4 Below I propose to examine a small sample of the debate over Wen and Wu as it was channeled by interpretation of these two passages. After briefly reviewing the “old” commentaries on these passages, as collected in the compilations of He Yan 何晏 (ca. 190–249) et al. and Xing Bing 邢昺 (931–1010), and the positions taken by the Song thinkers Cheng Yi 程頤 (1033–1107) and Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200), I will turn to three Tokugawa perspectives, those of Asami Keisai 浅見絅斎 (1652–1711), Satō Naokata 佐藤直方 (1650–1719), and Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠 (1666–1728). The three latter thinkers offer a spectrum of positions. Keisai and Naokata were alike students of Yamazaki Ansai 山崎闇斎 (1618–82), one of the most fervent Edo proponents of Zhu Xi thought. Each saw himself as adhering to Zhu Xi’s interpretation, but their understandings of it diverged sharply. Sorai, by contrast, openly challenged Zhu Xi’s reading. By using commentaries to compare these thinkers’ views, I hope to pay heed to the centrality of commentary as a mode of East Asian intellectual discourse,5 an issue to which Boot has been attentive throughout the course of his career. In acknowledgment of the value he has placed on making his sources available in translation, and his contribution in this regard, I will also append a translation of extended excerpts from one of the texts addressed, Keisai’s “An Explication of the Master’s Elucidation of ‘An Elegy on the Confinement of King Wen’” (Kōyūsō shisetsu 拘幽操師説).

3 The translation follows Legge 1960, vol. 1, p. 164. 4 Legge 1960, vol. 1, p. 215. 5 For two useful recent explorations of the commentarial mode of discourse as it bears on interpretation of the Analects, see Makeham 2003 and Gardner 2003. See also Gardner 1998. In McMullen 2007, James McMullen has shown the importance of Sorai’s commentary on the Analects to an understanding of his thought. My own perspective on commentary as a key form of Confucian intellectual debate is greatly indebted to presentations and discussions by members of the Rongo Chō Kenkyūkai 論語徴研究会. The points and texts taken up here are discussed more fully in Nakai 2012, part of a special issue of Kikan Nihon shisōshi 季刊日本思想史 introducing the Kenkyūkai’s activities. not perfectly good 57

The Perspectives of the Old and Song Commentaries

What did Confucius intend by contrasting the “Shao” and the “Wu”? The dominant view among the old commentaries was that his comparison of the two musical pieces was metaphoric, a means of characterizing the different ways by which Shun and Wu had gained the empire: Shun had succeeded Yao 堯 as a result of the latter having recognized his virtue and “yielded altruistically” (shanrang 禅譲, Jp. zenjō) the throne to him. Shun’s succession might thus be termed both “perfectly beautiful” and “perfectly good.” Wu, on the other hand, had established a new dynasty through the “righteous punishment” (fangfa 放伐, Jp. hōbatsu) of the last Shang ruler, the despicable Zhou 紂. As he thereby had brought relief to the realm, his action might be called “perfectly beautiful,” but compared to the case of Shun, it should not be described as “perfectly good.”6 Querying the implication that by “not perfectly good” Confucius meant to criticize King Wu directly or to characterize him as inferior to Shun, Zhu Xi sought to probe more thoroughly the nuances of the seeming dif- ferentiation between the two sages. In the process of formulating and refining his own commentary on this passage, he consulted those of his Northern Song predecessors, particularly Cheng Yi, whom, he noted, had set out two different interpretations of it. On the one hand, Cheng Yi referred to the discussion of the “Wu” music and dance in the Book of Rites, which related that the “Wu” as performed in Confucius’s time incorporated seemingly anomalous features because the officers in charge of music had failed to transmit fully its original form. This, Cheng Yi suggested, might be what Confucius had in mind in describing the “Wu” as “not perfectly good.” On the other hand, Cheng Yi also allowed for a metaphoric interpretation that shifted the focus from the objective nature of Wu’s actions to his intent. In this second interpretation, Cheng Yi likened Wu to Tang, whom the Book of History quoted as expressing remorse over his punitive campaign against Jie 桀, the last ruler of the Xia 夏: “When Tang, the Successful, was keeping Jie in banishment in Nanchao 南巣, he had a feeling of shame on account of his conduct, and said, ‘I am afraid that in future ages men will fill their mouths with me’” (in other words, they would doubt his motives or use his actions as a pretext for their own rebellious acts). “King Wu was the same,” Cheng Yi proposed, and it was to

6 Lunyu zhushu, p. 5360. 58 kate wildman nakai this self-reflective sense of remorse that Confucius alluded in the phrase “not perfectly good.” But, Cheng Yi went on to emphasize, such remorse did not mean that Tang and Wu were inferior in intent to Yao and Shun. It rather bespoke the complications of the circumstances in which the two later sages found themselves. “Yao and Shun, Tang and Wu were one in intent,” he declared, expanding upon an observation by Mencius. “[Tang and Wu] did not wish to carry out a punitive expedition. It simply happened that they met with a time [when they had no choice].”7 In what came to be regarded as his definitive commentary, Lunyu jizhu 論語集注, Zhu Xi himself ultimately chose to follow this second, metaphoric, line of interpretation.8 Indeed his commentary on this passage directly quoted Cheng Yi’s statement cited above, prefacing the quotation with a comparison of Shun and Wu that both identified a significant difference in the nature of their virtue and acclaimed their merit as one. In its totality, Zhu Xi’s evaluation of the “not perfectly good” passage thus preserved a careful balance among the potential contradictions inherent in the account of King Wu: “Shao” is the music of Shun; “Wu” is the music of King Wu. “Beautiful” means splendid in sound and form; “good” means the true substance of beauty. Shun continued what Yao had done and brought order [to the realm]. King Wu punished Zhou and saved the people. Their achievement is one.9 Thus the music of each is perfectly beautiful. But Shun’s virtue was innate. He came to hold the realm through humility and deference. King Wu’s virtue was recovered through reflection and practice, and he obtained the realm through a punitive campaign.10 Thus the substance [of their music] was not the same. Chengzi said, “‘When Tang the Successful banished Jie, he had a feeling of shame on account of his conduct.’ King Wu was the same. Thus [Confucius said], ‘not perfectly good.’ Yao and Shun, Tang and Wu were one in intent. [Tang and Wu] did not wish to carry out a punitive expedition. It simply happened that they met with a time [when they had no choice].”11

7 Zhu 1977b, vol. 1, p. 198. For the Book of Rites passage, see Liji zhengyi, pp. 3340–41; Legge 1964, vol. 2, pp. 121–22. For the Book of History passage, see Legge 1960, vol. 3, p. 177 (in the citation here, Romanization has been converted to pinyin). For the reference to Mencius, see Legge 1960, vol. 2, p. 317. Unless otherwise indicated, translations here and below are my own. 8 See Zhu 1977a, pp. 153–54. 9 A reference to The Doctrine of the Mean 20:9; Legge 1960, vol. 1, p. 407. 10 The comparison between Shun’s virtue as “innate” and Wu’s as “recovered” comes from Mencius 7.B.33; Mencius makes a similar comparison in 7.A.30. See Legge 1960, vol. 2, pp. 495, 466. 11 Zhu 1983, pp. 68–69. not perfectly good 59

Zhu Xi’s evaluation of Analects 8:20 showed a similar effort at balance. This passage begins with a somewhat cryptic and possibly corrupt reference to the numbers of officials assisting Shun and Wu before continuing with the acclamation of the high point of Zhou virtue quoted above (p. 56). The old commentaries interpreted this last part straightforwardly as praising King Wen’s virtue in continuing to serve the last Shang king even though two-thirds of the realm had already turned from the Shang and looked instead to the Zhou as its proper ruler. They did not take up the point of how Confucius’s description of this circumstance as an instance of “supreme virtue” (zhide 至徳, Jp. shitoku), the “highest point” of Zhou virtue, might bear on his view of King Wu. For Zhu Xi and his Song predecessors this question became a key issue. In his collection of earlier Song comments on the Analects, Zhu Xi gathered a variety of perspectives, and from these, for his own Lunyu jizhu, he quoted that of Fan Zuyu 范祖禹 (1041–98): “King Wen’s virtue sufficed for him to take the place of the Shang. Heaven joined with him; the people turned to him. Yet he did not take [the realm], but [continued to] serve Shang. It was this that Confucius held to be ‘supreme virtue.’”12 Zhu Xi did not, however, give the remainder of this passage by Fan. As quoted in Zhu’s earlier collection, Fan had gone on to say that Confucius “did not weigh achievement” in his discussion of virtue. He had attributed the height of Zhou splendor solely to King Wen because King Wu’s action, while “according with Heaven and responding to the people” (a reference to wording in the Book of Changes) in the punishment of Shang and change of the mandate, “did not suffice to be ranked with that of King Wen.” Confucius’s perspective was evident from his metaphoric characterization of the music “Wu” as “perfectly beautiful but not perfectly good.”13 In place of this unequivocal ranking of Wen over Wu, in Lunyu jizhu, Zhu Xi continued with a somewhat more ambiguous evaluation. Having quoted King Wu as saying he was served by able ministers in the first section of 8:20, Confucius had gone on to refer to King Wen’s virtue. In an earlier passage (8:1) Confucius had likewise used the term “supreme virtue” to describe the self-abnegating Taibo 泰伯 (King Wen’s uncle, who although the elder brother, had removed himself to a remote area in deference to his father’s choice of a younger brother as heir). “In both instances, he praised them

12 Zhu 1983, p. 108. 13 Zhu 1977b, pp. 489–90. The citation from the Book of Changes comes from the First Appendix commentary on the forty-ninth hexagram, ge 革. See Legge 1963, p. 254. 60 kate wildman nakai as ‘supremely virtuous.’ His point is subtle.”14 In this way Zhu Xi implicitly expressed reservations about King Wu’s behavior, but did so in an indirect and carefully modulated manner.

The Views of Asami Keisai and Satō Naokata

The precariousness of the balance that Zhu Xi sought to preserve in his interpretation of Analects 3:25 and 8:20 becomes apparent when we turn to the positions on Wen and Wu taken by Asami Keisai and Satō Naokata. In essence Keisai and Naokata each pursued one element within the mixture retained by Zhu Xi, upending in the process the latter’s painstaking effort to keep to a middle path. The debate between them took shape not in the form of direct comment on the two passages or on Zhu Xi’s commentary; it was rooted instead in a byproduct of the latter. In the section on passage 8:20 in his collection of earlier Song commentaries, Zhu Xi included a remark by Cheng Yi that the Tang poet Han Yu 韓愈 (768– 824) had “captured King Wen’s heart” and “the nature of his supreme virtue” in a brief elegy.15 The poem, “An Elegy on the Confinement of King Wen” ( Juyou cao 拘幽操, Jp. Kōyūsō), adopted the persona of King Wen to describe his feelings when, at an early stage in his career, he had been imprisoned by King Zhou after an evil minister close to Zhou had slandered him for privately expressing regret over the Shang ruler’s cruel and tyrannical behavior. Virtually blind and deaf in the dark prison, as much dead as alive, Wen blamed only himself, not Zhou: “Ah! The vassal’s crime deserves execution. The heavenly king is sagely and wise!”16 Zhu Xi at one point in his collected conversations expressed reservations about Cheng Yi’s encomium, suggesting that as a reconstruction of Wen’s feelings, the poem took liberties that were not supported by the historical circumstances and also went beyond the scope of what Confucius had meant in the 8:20 passage.17 Yamazaki Ansai, however, seized upon

14 Zhu 1983, p. 108. Although the phrasing I have interpreted as Zhu’s substitution is quite different in character from the second half of the passage by Fan Zuyu quoted in Lunyu jingyi, many later commentators, including one cited in the extensive collected commentaries on Lunyu jizhu in Sishu daquan 四書大全, attributed it to Fan as well. See Lunyu jizhu daquan, vol. 1, p. 878. It thus may come from some other no longer readily identifiable observation by Fan. 15 Zhu 1977b, p. 488. 16 Yamazaki 1980, p. 200. 17 Zhu 1973, vol. 5, pp. 4247–48. See also the headnotes to Asami 1980, p. 241. not perfectly good 61 the “Elegy” as expressing the essence of the attitude towards one’s lord proper to a vassal, and sometime presumably in the late 1660s or early 1670s, he published a short work consisting of the “Elegy”; Cheng Yi’s brief remark about it; another, more favorable, remark on it by Zhu Xi; and Ansai’s own praise of it. This collection became a central text within the Yamazaki school, and several of Ansai’s students composed expositions of the work. Among these was Asami Keisai, who lectured on it on a number of occasions and whose explanation of the text’s meaning and significance was transcribed by another Ansai student.18 Following Ansai, Keisai saw Han Yu’s “Elegy” as providing a model for the attitude of attentive reverence and self-watchfulness (kei 敬) emphasized by the Zhu Xi school and held by Ansai and his followers to be crucial to the cultivation of loyalty to one’s lord.19 Keisai in effect read the “Elegy” with an eye on the ever-present moral dangers confronted by the typical Edo-period samurai, caught within the monotonous routine of a peacetime military regime. Unless they were armed with such an attitude of reverence, the samurai of his day, he feared, would be unable to sur- mount those dangers. As he put it, “it is easy to be loyal when one is treated well by one’s lord.”20 But if vassals’ commitment were not rooted in true feelings of devotion, should their lord’s treatment of them decline slightly, or should they meet with slander, or should something not go as they had expected, before one knows it, their feelings of gratitude for the favors received from their lord and readiness to offer up their life on his behalf have faded. Instead, feelings of bitterness against their lord well up. “Such trifling moments of bitterness” were the first step along a slippery slope that led inexorably to a readiness to murder one’s lord. The “Elegy” offered a concise guide to keeping from entering on that slope. It showed “how, watching over oneself, one can root out such feelings, cut them off at the source, and secure a true sense of devotion.” This was what King Wen had done. His holding to this unshakable sense of devotion constituted “the essence of [his] ‘supreme virtue,’” and it was this attitude that the Edo-period vassal should seek to emulate.

18 Abe 1980, pp. 538–40, 544–45. 19 On the Song Confucian view of “reverence,” see Gardner 1986, pp. 98–99; on the importance of reverence within the Yamazaki school, see Ooms 1985; see also Tucker 2002. 20 This and the passages quoted in the immediately following paragraphs come from Asami 1980, pp. 229–32, 234, 236. See also the appendix below. 62 kate wildman nakai

King Wu, by contrast, stood as a negative example. Rather than seek some way to accommodate him within the realm of sagely behavior, Keisai essentially set him outside that realm: Seen from the perspective of a [steadfast] heart such as [King Wen’s], to talk of “according with the Mandate of Heaven and responding to the hearts of the people,” or speak of “the Way appropriate to irregular circumstances” (kendō 権道) is something outrageous to be avoided at all cost. Herein lies the “supreme virtue” of King Wen and where Wu “was not perfectly good.” Satō Naokata took a different position. While he, too, held firmly to the importance of cultivating an attitude of reverence, he saw such reverence as lying not in the self-abnegating devotion to one’s lord acclaimed by Ansai and Keisai, but in a finely tuned sense of moral discrimination that would sustain the appropriate response to complex and ambiguous circumstances. He also believed that in their dismissal of Wu and exclusive emphasis on King Wen, Ansai and Keisai “did not accord with the meaning of Cheng and Zhu.” As a corrective that would clarify Cheng Yi’s and Zhu Xi’s true perspective (and thus also that of Confucius), in 1718, near the end of his life, Naokata set forth a forceful defense of Kings Tang and Wu.21 Picking up on Keisai’s presentation of King Wen as a model for the Edo-period samurai, Naokata similarly situated his account of Tang and Wu within the context of the Edo retainer band. In place of Keisai’s concrete image of the lord as the actual head of the retainer band, however, Naokata put the more abstract notion of Heaven as the ultimate moral authority: Seen from the perspective of Tang and Wu, their relation with Jie and Zhou was that of lord and vassal, but if one looks at it from the perspective of Heaven, Jie and Zhou were like the domain elders (karō 家老) and Tang and Wu were like the major officers (yōnin monogashira 用人物頭). Thus, if Tang and Wu were ordered by Heaven to carry out its just punishment, they could not refuse. If they did, it would be just as if they put greatest importance on the domain elders and went against the command of their lord. What Heaven said [to Tang and Wu] is that Jie and Zhou have reached an extreme of despotic evil; you should expel and punish them. At that time Tang and Wu first demurred, saying how difficult they would find it to do such a thing. But Heaven responded, no, you should not say that; your role

21 The passages quoted in the following paragraphs come from Satō 1980, pp. 216–19. For an analysis of Naokata’s perspective on Tang and Wu in the context of his overall intellectual outlook, see also Tucker 2002. In many regards Naokata’s and Keisai’s differences concerning Wen and Wu parallel their divergent stands on the Akō 赤穂 revenge. For a cogent discussion of the latter issue, see McMullen 2003. not perfectly good 63

is to get rid of evil figures and secure the welfare of the realm; thus you must not leave [Jie and Zhou] as is. At present there is no one in the realm who can be called my deputy (waga myōdai 我名代); I am thus establishing you as my deputy. Thereupon with fear and awe, [Tang and Wu] raised armies [against Jie and Zhou]. Naokata’s positive appraisal of Tang and Wu rested on two pillars. One was the complementary notions of “norm” (kei 経, Ch. jing) and “adjust- ment to irregular circumstances” (ken 権, Ch. quan). The former notion was the “ironclad, matter-of-course principle, what students (gakusha 学者 [i.e., those in the process of self-cultivation]) take as the rule to follow.” The latter, which Mencius explained as a normally improper action that became justifiable because it was taken in circumstances that would not allow any other means of reaching a higher good,22 was “the way of responding to change (hen 変 [i.e., deviation or aberration]).” Although Keisai decried talk of “the Way appropriate to irregular circumstances [as] something outrageous to be avoided at all costs,” Naokata affirmed adoption of such action as valid, albeit granting that it “is a matter for those who are major worthies or greater; it is not something to be undertaken by students.” The second pillar of Naokata’s argument was Mencius’s and Cheng Yi’s assertion that Tang and Wu, as sages, had the same purpose as Yao and Shun. As Naokata put it, “Although the form may have been different, [what Tang and Wu did] was no different from the virtuous yielding from Yao to Shun. This is what Chengzi meant when he said ‘Yao and Shun, Tang and Wu were one in intent.’” Naokata connected these two pillars via Cheng Yi’s statement that “[Tang and Wu] did not wish to carry out a punitive expedition. It simply happened that they met with a time [when they had no choice].” Taking this as an instance of “responding to change,” Naokata made explicit what Cheng Yi had left implicit. At the same time, he shifted slightly but significantly the connection between Yao and Shun’s and Tang and Wu’s common intent and the meaning of the statement “not perfectly good.” Cheng Yi had linked that meaning to Tang and Wu’s “feeling of shame.” Naokata, however, interpreted “not perfectly good” as referring to the irregular circumstances Tang and Wu confronted: If we ask then why Confucius said of King Wu, “not perfectly good,” there was indeed a reason behind this remark. One may say that the situation of Tang and Wu was like going flower-viewing in the rain . . . Everyone prefers

22 Mencius 4.A.17; Legge 1960, vol. 2, pp. 307–308. 64 kate wildman nakai

to go flower-viewing in fine weather, wearing [ordinary attire of] a sedge hat and sandals; no one wants to go flower-viewing with a rain-cape and umbrella and with the back of one’s kimono hitched up . . . But even if it’s not what one wants, if it’s raining, one has to use rain gear. What Confucius meant by “not perfectly good” was that it was a situation of flower-viewing in the rain . . . King Wu accorded with the Mandate of Heaven and carried out the Way appropriate to irregular circumstances . . . Boyi 伯夷 [a “fastidious” Shang vassal who although he knew the evils of the last Shang ruler refused to serve the Zhou dynasty] made up his mind that the weather always has to be fine; King Wu recognized that sometimes it rains and readied rain gear; [the difference between them] was no more than this. As to why King Wen did not take action against King Zhou, “he must have had some reason,” but it was not something that people of later ages could know for certain. Nor could they know, as other members of the Yamazaki school asserted, that he never would have adopted “the Way appropriate to irregular circumstances.” In this manner Naokata moved in the opposite direction from Keisai, downplaying the weight of King Wen’s “supreme virtue” as he vigorously defended the legitimacy of King Wu’s response to “change.”

The Stance of Ogyū Sorai

Even as he shifted the focus of the meaning of “not perfectly good” from King Wu’s behavior to the nature of the circumstances he confronted, Satō Naokata remained firmly within the parameters of the metaphoric interpretation of passage 3:25, which framed the issues involved in terms of moral judgment. Ogyū Sorai, who took a radically different position on the nature of the “sage” and “virtue,” moved the discussion to a new plane. For Sorai, the sages were not, as they were for the Song Confucians and the Yamazaki school, paragons of a personal morality whom all should strive to emulate. Rather, they were remarkable individuals whose achievements were beyond the scope of what any ordinary person could attain. Those achievements lay above all in their creation of the rites and music, laws and institutions that in fact constituted the Way. The Way was not something “natural,” as the Song Confucians held, but a human artifact, the means by which the sages sought to bring peace and order to human society and, as such, their supreme accomplishment. As Sorai put it in Benmei 弁名, his explication of the key terms of Confucian discourse, “Sage” is a term for those who created (sakusha 作者) . . . The rulers of antiquity, endowed with the virtues of far-reaching intelligence and perspicac- ity, penetrated the [underlying] Way of Heaven and Earth (tenchi no michi not perfectly good 65

天地之道 [i.e., the character of the natural world]) and fully grasped human nature and the nature of things. On that basis, they formulated [rites and music, governmental institutions, etc.]. Their achievement is comparable to that of a divinity. Through their efforts the Way of securing “the conveniences of life and abundant means of sustentation” was established, and the myriad generations have alike been the beneficiaries of their virtues.23 Further, each sage had his own particular virtue or talent; “sageliness” (sei 聖, Ch. sheng) did not consist of a single common degree of moral perfection: “Now, the sages, too, were human beings. People’s virtues differ, depending on their nature. Why should the virtues of the sages all have been the same? The reason that they all alike are called ‘sage’ is because of their act of creation.”24 Sorai’s interpretation of Analects 3:25 and 8:20 was central to the development of his argument regarding the sages. Through a bold and deft recasting of their import, he sought to show that Confucius did not intend to evaluate the sages’ actions in terms of personal morality and that “Confucius and those before him never discussed the superiority or the inferiority of the virtues of the sages.”25 Rather, Confucius focused consistently on the sages’ common concern as rulers for the welfare of the realm. In the case of passage 8:20, Sorai criticized Zhu Xi for implicitly contrasting King Wen and King Wu in stating that Confucius had first quoted King Wu and then “referred to King Wen’s virtue.” Confucius, he pointed out, had not spoken specifically of King Wen’s virtue, but of “the virtue of the house of Zhou.” Yet Sorai perhaps took a hint from Zhu Xi’s somewhat ambiguous linking of father and son in the pertinent phrase. In that “King Wu ‘continued [King Wen’s] purpose and enacted his deeds,’”26 references to King Wen, Sorai asserted, “naturally included King Wu within them.” Similarly to Naokata, Sorai argued that “Confucians of later ages failed to recognize that the early and later sages were one in intent” (although, unlike Naokata, he included the Song scholars within the category “Confucians of later ages”). These scholars further “misun- derstood Mencius’s statement that ‘[benevolence and righteousness] were natural [to Yao and Shun while Tang and Wu] made them their own’ and

23 Ogyū 1973, pp. 63, 216. See also Tucker 2006, p. 197. “The conveniences of life, etc.” is a quote from the Book of History. See Legge 1960, vol. 3, p. 56. 24 Ogyū 1973, pp. 67, 218. See also Tucker 2006, p. 201. 25 Ogyū 1973, pp. 67, 218. See also Tucker 2006, p. 201. 26 Sorai here cites The Doctrine of the Mean 19; see Legge 1960, vol. 1, p. 402. 66 kate wildman nakai

Confucius’s statement that ‘the “Wu” was not perfectly good’ and forcibly imposed distinctions of superior and inferior.”27 Simultaneously Sorai challenged assumptions about the meaning of “supreme virtue.” Reflecting his view of “virtue” (toku 徳, Ch. de) as meaning “distinction” or “special talent,” and thus being specific and diverse in character rather than a collective abstract “morality,” he asserted that in speaking of “supreme virtue,” Confucius had referred to just such speci- ficity. Taibo and the Zhou had respectively exemplified to an ultimate degree two particular virtues fundamental to governance, “complaisance” ( jō 譲, Ch. rang) and “sincere courtesy” (kyō 恭, Ch. gong). “It was for this reason that Confucius praised them for ‘supreme virtue.’ How can he have meant by this [simply that they held to the norm of] righteousness between lord and vassal?”28 Although imaginative, Sorai’s reading of Analects 8:20 contains undeni- ably forced aspects as well. By contrast, his approach to passage 3:25 was a tour de force in which he was able to employ to the full his vaunted kobunji 古文辞 methodology—recovering the meaning of terms in a text such as the Analects through comparison to their usage in other ancient works—to challenge earlier constructions. Harking back to the first of the two interpretations of the “Shao” and “Wu” proposed by Cheng Yi and to the passage from the Book of Rites from which Cheng Yi derived it, Sorai declared that Confucius had spoken of these two pieces of music as such, not metaphorically: Regarding the “Shao” being “perfectly good” and the “Wu” being “not perfectly good,” from [the Han commentator] Kong Anguo 孔安国 on, commentators have interpreted this in terms of the superiority and inferiority of succession by yielding and punitive campaign. However, they have not grasped correctly the meaning of “beautiful” and “good.” Zhuzi, following Xing Bing, takes “beautiful” to be the beauty of sound and dance; he also takes “good” to be the “true substance of beauty.” But is it as he says? He holds that the “Wu” lacked sufficient substance and simply possessed an outer decorative beauty of sound and form. But on what basis is this so-called “true substance of beauty” to be perceived? His thesis refers to “humility and deference” and “punitive campaign”; in other words, he does not address the

27 Ogyū 1977, vol. 3, pp. 357–58, 678. For the passage from Mencius, see above, note 10. Sorai here cites the alternate version in Mencius 7.A.30; see Legge 1960, vol. 2, p. 466. He also builds on Itō Jinsai’s 伊藤仁斎 (1627–1705) reading of this passage. For a further discussion, see Nakai 2012. 28 Ogyū 1977, vol. 3, pp. 358–59, 678–79. The Book of History ascribes these two virtues to Yao, and the translation of them here follows Legge’s rendering. See Legge 1960, vol. 3, p. 15. Sorai’s argument is set out more fully in Nakai 2012. not perfectly good 67

issue of music, but simply reaches his conclusion based on Shun’s and Wu’s actions . . . “Good” and “beautiful” both pertain to music; how should they have anything to do with Shun’s and Wu’s actions?29 To demonstrate the fallacy of attributing abstract moral connotations to “beautiful” and “good,” Sorai adduced examples of usage from other early texts. Read in light of these, he argued, it was evident that Confucius had instead referred straightforwardly to the overall effect and smaller details of the musical pieces: “[In light of examples from the Book of Rites, the Zuo Commentary, and the Analects], ‘beautiful’ refers to the larger aspects . . . [In light of examples from Mencius, Han Feizi, Liezi, and the Book of Rites], ‘good’ refers to the smaller aspects.” In this way Sorai reversed the relative weight of “beautiful” and “good” (and thus undermined the linked presumption that Confucius had put Shun ahead of Wu). By emphasizing that even as “creators” the sages had depended on assistants, he also further diminished the basis for reading the passage in metaphorical moral terms: When the sages created music, how could they have done it just by themselves? They surely had the assistance of associates like Kui 虁 [the figure whom Shun charged with responsibility for overseeing music]. Past and present, the periods when there was the greatest flourishing of talent were those of Shun and the Zhou. Thus, [Confucius held,] among the music of the four dynasties of antiquity, it was only the “Shao” and the “Wu” that were perfectly beautiful. As for the “Wu” being not perfectly good, it was, [as recorded in the “Record of Music” from the Book of Rites,] because the officers [of music] failed to hand down correctly [the earlier, more complete, tradition]. In Benmei Sorai reiterated the conclusions he drew regarding this passage, reaffirming in the process Tang and Wu’s full stature as sages: Among later Confucians, some have said that Tang and Wu were not sages.30 Such an assertion is audacious to an extreme. This thesis is based on a mis- interpretation of Confucius’s statement that “the ‘Wu’ was not perfectly good” and Mencius’s statement that “[benevolence and righteousness] were natural [to Yao and Shun, while Tang and Wu] made them their own.” In particular, [later Confucians] have failed to grasp that Confucius spoke of the music [of Shun and Wu]; he did not thereby allude to the virtues of Shun

29 For this and the following quotations from Rongo chō, see Ogyū 1977, vol. 3, pp. 155– 58, 491–93. 30 Sorai alludes here particularly to a statement by Su Shi 蘇軾 (1036–1101). See Su 2009. 68 kate wildman nakai

and Wu . . . How can [Confucius’s and Mencius’s] remarks be interpreted as intending to distinguish between superior and inferior?31 It is often assumed that the value placed on loyalty and dynastic continuity led Japanese thinkers to look upon Tang and Wu more negatively than did their Chinese counterparts. The three Tokugawa perspectives we have briefly considered here, however, serve as a reminder not to reify “national difference” in intellectual traditions. As we have seen, although Keisai unquestionably criticized Tang and Wu sharply, Naokata and Sorai went beyond the Song thinkers in their affirmation of the two sage’s behavior. Sorai’s iconoclastic reading of Analects 3:25 and 8:20 was subject to attack from later Tokugawa commentators, but his interpretation, particularly of 3:25, also had a lasting impact. Among later Tokugawa thinkers who took up the mantle of commentator was Minagawa Kien 皆川淇園 (1734–1807), whose writings W. J. Boot has been investigating in recent years. I look forward to hearing from him how Kien weighed in on the issues discussed here.

31 Ogyū 1973, pp. 65–66, 217. See also Tucker 2006, p. 200. not perfectly good 69

Appendix: Excerpts from Asami Keisai’s “Kōyūsō shisetsu” (Asami 1980, pp. 229–32, 234, 236)

“An Elegy on the Confinement of King Wen” (Juyou cao 拘幽操, Jp. Kōyūsō) was composed by Han Tuishi 韓退之of the Tang dynasty. . . . Few people had even heard of it, let alone known that Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi held that it captured the nature of King Wen’s “supreme virtue.” It was regarded as no different from any other literary piece. Master Yamazaki drew attention to its value and appended to it the remarks of Cheng and Zhu. Thereby he made clear the object of reading the Analects and the substance of “supreme virtue” and established a standard for loyalty and filial piety. From ancient times it has been the case that those who serve a lord appear loyal under usual circumstances. It is easy to be loyal when one is treated well by one’s lord and the world is at peace. There are also those who in time of crisis stalwartly cast aside their life for the sake of their lord. By and large, however, they do so out of the desire for glory or profit, or in the heat of excitement. When their motives are examined closely, it cannot be said that they demonstrate true loyalty rooted in the fundament of one’s being (honshin 本心), loyalty that comes from unwavering devotion to one’s lord, from being unable to bear the thought of harm befalling him. There is no need to take up the matter of those who fawn on their lord out of ulterior motives, hoping to win his favor, to rise in the world, to win an increase in stipend, but who turn and run when the time comes to stand by him. Consider those who seem indeed to understand loyalty and righteousness. If their commitment is not rooted in true feelings of devotion, should their lord’s treatment of them decline slightly, or should they meet with slander, or should something not go as they had expected, before one knows it, their feelings of gratitude for the favors received from their lord and readiness to offer up their life on his behalf have faded. Instead, feelings of bitterness against their lord well up. “That’s something unheard of!” they begin to think; “It’s because of the lord’s incompetence that this has happened! One who is a lord should just stay quiet!” This moment of bitterness, this thought that “one who is a lord . . .” leads directly to a readiness to assassinate one’s lord, to join with his enemies. From ancient times the murder of lord and father by rebellious vassals and sons has been the result of the accumulation of just such trifling moments of bitterness. It is not something that erupts one day out of nowhere. Thus, no matter how splendid one’s manner of service or contribution, unless they are rooted in unwavering devotion to one’s lord through and through, they cannot be called “loyalty.” “Loyalty” (忠) is 70 kate wildman nakai written with the elements “core” (中) and “heart” (心); it means that the feeling that one’s lord comes before all else is rooted in the fundament of one’s being. If he does not take this kind of loyalty as his standard, even the most insignificant of retainers cannot serve properly. At any time he may turn into an Osada [Tadamune] 長田忠致 or Akechi [Mitsuhide] 明智光秀.32 Thus, holding to this standard, one should guard against the slightest feeling of bitterness towards one’s lord or father. Should such feelings arise, one should remember that they will lead directly to a readiness to murder one’s lord or father and repress them stringently. The significance of “An Elegy on the Confinement of King Wen” is that it shows how, watching over oneself, one can root out such feelings, cut them off at the source, and secure a true sense of devotion, one that cannot be shaken, come what may, wherein one’s lord and father come before all else. “Confinement” means to be imprisoned, imprisoned in a dungeon cut off from human contact and where one cannot hear even the cries of birds outside. That is the sort of place where King Wen was confined. At the time of Zhou of Yin, King Wen was the leader of the daimyo of the western states and was known as Chief of the West. King Zhou, being tyrannical and cruel to an extreme, was hated by the people of the realm, who longed for his destruction. As King Wen had the virtue of a sage and carried out benevolent government, the realm turned to him as the true ruler. He, however, leading the feudal lords, steadfastly remained true to Yin. It was through his support that Zhou retained his place. Nevertheless, as the result of the slander of [the malicious minister] Chong Houhu 崇侯虎, when the Chief of the West came to pay homage to Zhou, he was seized for no reason and forced into confinement in Youli 羑里. Since the Chief of the West had not done anything in the slightest wrong, were he an ordinary person, he would have made some sort of plea on his own behalf and felt great bitterness. But he did not feel that it was all the fault of the one who had slandered him, nor had the least thought that his lord was acting egregiously. Just as fire is always hot, water cool, and plums sour, there was nothing in his heart other than deep devotion to his lord. “I must be at fault; it is because of some shortcoming on my

32 Osada Tadamune (d. 1190) killed Minamoto no Yoshitomo 源義朝 (who had taken refuge with him) in hopes of gaining favor with Taira no Kiyomori 平清盛. Akechi Mitsuhide (ca. 1528–82) assassinated his lord, Oda Nobunaga 織田信長. not perfectly good 71 part that he does this. This, too, is a blessing received from my lord.” Such was his only thought. This is the essence of King Wen’s “supreme virtue,” the fundament of being of a true son or vassal. In the Analects there are two passages that speak of “supreme virtue.” One concerns Taibo, the other King Wen. Both deal with the proper relationship between lord and vassal and inform us that the substance of “supreme virtue” is to be found only in the context of actual relations between lord and vassal, father and child. From these instances we know that just as fire burns and water makes things wet, one who is a vassal or child should instinctively be devoted to his lord and father and unable to bear the thought of separation from them. Whether the lord is a Jie or Zhou or whoever, whether one has suffered slander or whatever, one should simply feel devotion come what may. To be uneasy about talk of “according with the Mandate of Heaven and responding to the hearts of the people” and to want to have nothing to do with such things is the essence of “supreme virtue.” Just as a wild goose instinctively flies north and would continue to do so even if it turned into a bug, to have no doubts, no other thoughts, is the essence of “supreme virtue.” This poem shows us the true meaning of “supreme virtue,” in stark, unadulterated form . . . Seen from the perspective of a [steadfast] heart such as this, to talk of “according with the Mandate of Heaven and responding to the hearts of the people,” or speak of “the Way appropriate to irregular circumstances” is something outrageous to be avoided at all cost. Herein lies the “supreme virtue” of King Wen and where Wu “was not perfectly good.” What vassals and sons throughout the realm and for all time should aim for is nothing other than this. One who cannot follow through with this is not worthy of holding the most minimal stipend . . . “Attentive reverence” means to serve one’s lord to the utmost, to put him before all else, to be unable in the slightest to make light of him, not to be able to do other than to look upon him as one would the sun and moon. This is what King Wen’s “as a minister, he rested in reverence” was.33 It is not something limited to King Wen. For anyone, whoever, it is the core essence of the relationship between lord and vassal, straight and unalloyed.

33 A reference to The Great Learning 3. See Legge 1960, vol. 1, p. 362. 72 kate wildman nakai

References

Abe Ryūichi 阿部隆一 (1980). Kaidai 解題. In: Nishi Junzō et al., eds, Yamazaki Ansai gakuha 山崎闇斎学派. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 31. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Asami Keisai 浅見絅斎 (1980). Kōyūsō shisetsu 拘幽操師説. In: Nishi Junzō et al., eds, Yamazaki Ansai gakuha 山崎闇斎学派. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 31. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Boot, W. J. (1992). The Adoption and Adaptation of Neo-Confucianism in Japan: The Role of Fujiwara Seika and Hayashi Razan. Rev. ed. Leiden: W. J. Boot. Gardner, Daniel K. (1986). Chu Hsi and the Ta-hsueh: Neo-Confucian Reflection on the Confucian Canon. Cambridge, Mass. & London: Harvard University Council on East Asian Studies. —— (1998). Confucian Commentary and Chinese Intellectual History. The Journal of Asian Studies 57:2, pp. 397–422. —— (2003). Zhu Xi’s Reading of the Analects: Canon, Commentary, and the Classical Tradition. New York: Columbia University Press. Huang, Chun-chieh (2008). On the Relationship between Interpretations of the Confucian Classics and Political Power in East Asia: An Inquiry Focusing upon the Analects and Mencius. The Medieval History Journal 11:1, pp. 101–21. Legge, James, trans. (1960). The Chinese Classics. 7 vols. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. 正義 —— trans. (1963). The I Ching: The Book of Changes. New York: Dover Publications. —— trans. (1964). The Lî Kî. 2 vols. Vols. 27–28 of The Sacred Books of the East. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Liji zhengyi 礼記正義. Vol. 5 of Shisanjing zhushu 十三経注疏. Kyoto: Chūbun Shuppansha, 1989. Lunyu jizhu daquan 論語集注大全. 2 vols. Vols. 3–4 of Wakokubon Shisho taizen 和刻本四書大全. Kyoto: Chūbun Shuppansha, 1993. Lunyu zhushu 論語注疏. Ed. Xing Bing 邢昺. In: vol. 8 of Shisanjing zhushu 十三経注疏. Kyoto: Chūbun Shuppansha, 1989. Makeham, John (2003). Transmitters and Creators: Chinese Commentators and Commentaries on the Analects. Cambridge, Mass. & London: Harvard University Asia Center. McMullen, James (2003). Confucian Perspectives on the Akō Revenge: Law and Moral Agency. Monumenta Nipponica 58:3, pp. 293–315. —— (2007). Reinterpreting the Analects: History and Utility in the Thought of Ogyū Sorai. In James C. Baxter and Joshua Fogel, eds, Writing Histories in Japan: Texts and Their Transformations from Ancient Times through the Meiji Era. Kyoto: International Research Center for Japanese Studies. Nakai, Kate Wildman (2012). Imada zen o tsukusazu: Bun’ō, Buō, seijin, shitoku o megutte Rongo chūshaku ga kataru shisōshi「未だ善を尽くさず」: 文王・武王・聖人・至徳をめぐって『論語』注釈が語る思想史. Kikan Nihon shisōshi 季刊日本思想史 79. Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠 (1973). Benmei 弁名. In: Yoshikawa Kōjirō 吉川幸次郎 et al., eds, Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 36. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. —— (1977). Rongochō 論語徴. Vols. 3 and 4 of Ogyū Sorai zenshū 荻生徂徠全集. Misuzu Shobō, 1977. Ooms, Herman (1985). Tokugawa Ideology: Early Constructs, 1570–1680. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Satō Naokata 佐藤直方 (1980). Tōbu ron 湯武論. In: Nishi Junzō et al., eds, Yamazaki Ansai gakuha 山崎闇斎学派. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 31. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Su Shi 蘇軾 (2009). Wu wang lun 武王論. In: vol. 214 of Ruzang: Jinghuabian 儒蔵: 精華編. Beijing: Beijing Daxue Chubanshe. not perfectly good 73

Tucker, John Allen (2002). Quiet-Sitting and Political Activism: The Thought and Practice of Satō Naokata. Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 29:1/2 (2002), pp. 107–46. —— trans. (2006). Ogyū Sorai’s Philosophical Masterworks: The Bendō and Benmei. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Yamazaki Ansai 山崎闇斎 (1980). Kōyūsō 拘幽操. In: Nishi Junzō et al., eds, Yamazaki Ansai gakuha 山崎闇斎学派. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 31. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1973). Zhuzi yulei daquan 朱子語類大全. Kyoto: Chūbun Shuppansha. —— (1977a). Lunyu huowen 論語或問. In: Kinsei kanseki sōkan: Wakoku eiin 近世漢籍叢刊: 和刻影印. Kyoto: Chūbun Shuppansha. —— (1977b). Lunyu jingyi 論語精義. 2 vols. In: Kinsei kanseki sōkan: Wakoku eiin 近世漢籍叢刊: 和刻影印. Kyoto: Chūbun Shuppansha. —— (1983). Lunyu jizhu 論語集注. In: Sishu zhangju jizhu 四書章句集注. Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju.

Confucianism versus Feudalism: The Shōheizaka Academy and Late Tokugawa Reform

Kiri Paramore

One of W. J. Boot’s most influential contributions to the study of Tokugawa intellectual history was his argument that Hayashi Razan 林羅山 (1583– 1657), the alleged father of Japanese Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism (Shushigaku 朱子学),1 far from being the author of any “political ideology” of the Tokugawa shogunate, was a “helper” rather than an “originator” in the construction of shogunal systems of governance.2 Boot used this thesis to make the broader point that Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism, enjoying less state patronage than many Buddhist sects, was not even necessarily the favor- ite of the early Tokugawa state, and certainly not its “ideology.”3 Through this thesis, originally developed in the late 1970s, Boot was interacting with a contemporaneous wave of Japan-based scholarship on the place of Confucianism in Tokugawa political society that in general downplayed the influence of Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism in the Tokugawa state. This wave of scholarship began with Bitō Masahide and Ishida Ichirō in the 1960s4 and came to fruition in the 1970s and 80s. It is associated with most of the leading scholars of Tokugawa intellectual history and Confucianism of the second generation after Maruyama Masao: Watanabe Hiroshi, Kurozumi Makoto, Kojima Yasunori, Kate Wildman Nakai, Maeda Tsutomu, Sawai Keiichi and Hiraishi Naoaki among others. Important cumulative works of some of these scholars published in the past decade have cemented

1 Throughout this article I prefer to use the term “Zhu Xi-ist” to indicate this inclination in Tokugawa Confucian thought, instead of the common English term “Neo-Confucian.” The latter term, including Wang Yangming inclined and other variants of post-Song Confu- cian thought, is too vague. I also refrain from using the term “Song Learning” because, as is argued below, late Tokugawa Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism was not a simple rehashing of Song Confucian thought, but was rather heavily influenced by Qing dynasty Chinese writing that identified itself with a new late imperial form of Zhu Xi-ist Confucian discourse that was very different to Song learning. 2 Boot 1982, p. 203. 3 Boot 1982, p. 204. 4 Bitō 1961. 76 kiri paramore the idea that Confucianism in the Tokugawa period was predominantly a privatized social force based outside the state.5 Boot later linked these historical arguments about the role of Razan and Confucianism in the seventeenth-century shogunal state to a theo- retical analysis of the problems inherent in resolving the moral principles of Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism with the feudal Tokugawa order. In his inaugural address on being appointed Professor of Japanese Studies at Leiden in 1985, Boot directly contrasted the moral idealism of Zhu Xi-ist metaphysics with the reality of hereditary status in the Tokugawa state: In the feudal Japan of the Tokugawa period there was only one way to acquire political power and influence, and that was, as in any feudal state, to ensure birth into the appropriate family.6 [Neo-Confucianism] was in itself an attractive system. It had just one weak- ness, and that was that it did not suit the situation of the Tokugawa period.7 This article examines the effects of this tension between the feudal nature of the Tokugawa state and the imperatives of Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism during a later period of Tokugawa history, namely the late 1700s, when the state and Confucianism eventually did become institutionally integrated. This process of integration, which occurred through the 1780s and 90s, culminated in the 1798 establishment of the Shōheizaka Academy (Shōheizaka gakumonjo 昌平坂学問所) as an official shogunal state institution. It also involved the introduction of an examination system for Tokugawa vassals administered by Zhu Xi-ist Confucian scholars. It was these developments that led to “Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism” being closely associated with shogunal power during the later Tokugawa period. Much scholarship has accepted assumptions that this late Tokugawa Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism served as an ideological bulwark for the shogunal regime in much the same way as Razan’s Confucianism was imagined to have functioned earlier. This is partly due to the association of Zhu Xi-ism with

5 Kurozumi 2003, 2006; Maeda 2009, 2006, 2002, 1996; Kojima 1994; Sawai, 2000; Watanabe Hiroshi 2010. Kurozumi Makoto has suggested the “peripheral” place that Confucianism had in Tokugawa political society as one of the defining features of early- modern Japanese Confucianism (Ooms and Kurozumi, 1994, pp. 339–342). The networks underlying the schools which made up this privatized world of Confucian scholarship have been well studied in English language scholarship over the past decade, including by other authors in this volume, see Winkel 2004, Beerens 2006, and Ikegami 2005. 6 Boot 1985, p. 3. 7 Ibid. p. 5. confucianism versus feudalism 77 both state conservatism and intellectual orthodoxy through the Kansei prohibition of heterodoxy (Kansei igaku no kin 寛政異学の禁).8 In this article I will argue, conversely, that dominant currents of late Tokugawa Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism responsible for the development of the Shōheizaka Academy were radically reformist in their approach to the political structures of Tokugawa Japan. This reformist vision was also practical and realist in the sense that it accommodated the basic feudal nature of the Tokugawa state. The practical inclination of this tendency in Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism during this period is what made it attractive to the feudal hierarchy of the shogunate. It was also the main aspect through which it distinguished itself from Sorai-school Confucianism (Soraigaku 徂徠学), and National Learning (Kokugaku 国学)—the dominant intellectual competitors of Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism in late eighteenth century Japan. The establishment of the Shōheizaka Academy as an official education and examination centre for the shogunate bureaucracy occurred in 1798.9 Preparation for this reform had begun in 1788, primarily through a number of appointments and reforms that Matsudaira Sadanobu made to the forerunner of the Shōheizaka Academy, the Hayashi School. The early Kansei years saw the appointment to the Hayashi School of three scholars who would emerge as the intellectual forefathers of the Kansei reforms and the leaders of the Shōheizaka Academy. The so-called “Three Kansei Professors,” Shibano Ritsuzan 柴野栗山 (1736–1807), Bitō Jishū 尾藤二洲 (1747–1813) and Koga Seiri 古賀精里 (1750–1817), were appointed into the former Hayashi School and to shogunate positions from 1788 onwards. Ritsuzan was the first in, being appointed both to the shogunate position of Confucian scholar and to reformist positions in the Hayashi academy in 1788. Jishū similarly gained joint appointment with a stipend from the shogunate in 1791. Seiri joined them in teaching and reforming the academy the same year, and was appointed as a Confucian scholar with a stipend from the shogunate in 1796. The two publications most closely associated with the Kansei reform agenda in Edo were Shibano Ritsuzan’s Ritsuzan jōsho 栗山上書

8 Backus 1974, 1979a, 1979b; Ooms 1975, pp. 133–148; Ooms 1985; Najita 1987, pp. 182–5; Screech 2000, pp. 98–9, 258–9. 9 1797 is often given as the year of establishment. This is because establishment occurred in the lunar ninth year of Kansei, most of which fell in the Gregorian 1797. But the Shōheizaka gakumonjo was established in the final month of the ninth year of Kansei, which actually fell in early 1798 in the Gregorian calendar (see Tsuchihashi, 1952, p. 110). 78 kiri paramore

(Ritsuzan’s Memorial), written the year he left his position as Confucian advisor to the domain of Awa in Shikoku and took up his appointment to the shogunate in 1788, and Koga Seiri’s Jūjikai 十事解 (Explication of Ten Matters), written in 1789 while he was state Confucian scholar and head of the Confucian Kōdōkan academy in his home domain of Saga on Kyushu.10 Ritsuzan jōsho was a direct and comprehensive memorial to the shogunate. Jūjikai was nominally directed at the daimyo of Saga, but also addressed national issues. Both treatises were thus written by men who had been serving lords in outlying Tozama domains immediately before going on to serve and influence Matsudaira Sadanobu in his work with the reform agenda taking shape in Edo. All three of these scholars identified themselves with what they saw as the Zhu Xi-ist aligned stream of Confucianism in their own time, and they advised for and assisted in the establishment of Zhu Xi-ism as orthodoxy at the Academy. Assumptions as to the inherent political inclinations of Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism (as static), and indeed to the meaning of orthodoxy (as necessarily restric- tive) seem to have colored the way twentieth-century historians have looked at the ideas of these thinkers. In fact, both in their positions in the Shōheizaka academy and in their earlier careers, they had all argued for both more dynamic and more open approaches to governance. Below I shall briefly examine aspects of their reform agenda, before moving on to look at how these ideas related to the construction of a so-called Zhu Xi-ist “orthodoxy” in late Tokugawa thought.

Shōheizaka scholars’ reform agenda

Shōheizaka Confucians’ critical stance towards the nature of governance in the Tokugawa regime went to its root principles—its military and hereditary character. In an advice addressed to his own daimyo in the domain of Saga in 1789, Koga Seiri was courageously direct on this point. As our country is under a regime of generals, the path of selection/election is closed. Particularly in domains such as ours [Saga], the damage of the hereditary system is not to be avoided. Those with hereditary status are negligent,

10 This is the date of production suggested in most reference works. It has been disputed by Ōmori Eiko, who has argued that the text was produced much earlier, probably around 1763 (Ōmori 1993, p. 324). My cursory inspection of a small number of the many extant manuscripts suggests that there may well have been different versions produced at different times in the intervening period between these two dates. confucianism versus feudalism 79

and those without do not serve. This is why the spirit of the gentleman/ samurai cannot be enacted, and why custom can so degenerate.11 The Tokugawa state was proudly feudal.12 The basic state structure of the contemporaneous Qing China, certainly in the southern regions that had most contact with Japan, was based nominally on an ideal of absolutist bureaucratic rule in the name of the sovereign, conducted by a bureaucracy appointed through Confucian examinations. Intriguingly, many Japanese Confucians considered this to be a callous and “loveless” form of rule.13 Most Japanese Confucian thinkers, particularly those of the Sorai school (which was on the rise in the years Koga Seiri was educated in his home domain of Saga), unerringly defended feudalism, not simply because it was the system of their masters, but because, as they correctly pointed out, it was the system of rule that Confucius himself had idealized in his praise of the ancient sage kings.14 Confucian political thought should be founded on the sanctity of filial and loyal relations between sovereign and vassal as the basis of good government. These were individual relations of loyalty. The Tokugawa shogunate and the domains beneath it usually acted administratively, for instance in terms of the flow of communication, through individual vassal relationships.15 This was generally seen as a positive. Indeed, it was this focus on personal relations that was regarded as giving feudalism its humane character.16 But in the late 1700s, as Confucian scholarship became increasingly common among samurai, critical stances to feudalism began to emerge from across the Confucian spectrum. This criticism, however, was not necessarily accompanied by politically realistic or acceptable suggestions for solutions. Ogyū Sorai’s most famous disciple, Dazai Shundai, had bitterly argued against the hereditary system and called for a competitive examination system based on literary knowledge, similar to that used in China. By contrast, Seiri and other Confucians who would go on to

11 Jūjikai, p. 160. Note that Seiri here used the word han 藩 to indicate the domain of Saga and kuni 邦 to indicate Japan under the shogunate. 12 I use the words “feudal” and “feudalism” in this article mainly, to quote Howell, “in a limited sense to refer to the ties of vassalage that bound the samurai, including the daimyo, to their lords and to the shogun.” I agree with Howell, however, that the term is also useful in describing socio-economic aspects of the Tokugawa state more broadly, although that aspect of the meaning of the term is not relevant to the content of this particular article (Howell 1998, pp. 116–117). 13 This term is used by Ogyū Sorai in Bendō, p. 22. 14 Bendō, p. 41. 15 Ravina 1995, p. 1008. 16 Bendō, pp. 17, 21–22. 80 kiri paramore become Shōheizaka leaders (notably Shibano Ritsuzan) did not propose such a revolutionary and unrealistic solution as copying the dysfunc- tional Chinese example.17 Rather, they proposed more pragmatic reform to the feudal system that would open out the decision making process to a wider constituency, while preserving the privileges of the feudal elite. Their argument for such reform employed traditional Confucian ideas calling for rulers to be responsive to their subjects, coupled with analysis of impediments to the flow of good advice within domainal and shogunal bureaucratic structures. A good example is Seiri’s use of the key Confucian concept of “remonstration.”18 Seiri argued that the only way the sovereign could ensure that remonstration was properly carried out was to reform the machinery of government. He argued for this reform in a surprisingly radical manner, by suggesting that the entire tradition of “remonstration,” something key to good governance in Confucianism, was traditionally lacking in Japanese history and thereby also from its contemporaneous (feudal) structures of power. In Japan particularly, the custom of remonstration is not performed. Lines of communication are normally closed and the sentiments of the masses are not communicated up to those on high. This is because the path of education is not propagated. A sovereign who would leave behind the bad practices of former years and set-right the state must first collect the knowledge of many people. To do this, there is nothing more urgent than opening the chan- nels of communication. [Currently] retainers and those below them with important offices and positions of service are used as a matter of course, and all others are not. [Yet] by utilizing such others, all functions could be thoroughly carried out, the virtue of the sovereign assisted, and hindrances that prevent the truth from reaching the ears of the sovereign removed.19

17 On problems with the Chinese system, and late Ming criticism of its literary nature, see Elman 2000, pp. 213–220. 18 For “remonstration,” Seiri uses the two-character combination kansō 諫諍. This combination first appears in an isolated usage in the writing of Xunzi. It is used earliest in a frequent manner to denote Confucian remonstration in the Book of the Han, edited by Ban Gu. For instance, in the twenty-third volume, “The Sage King appoints vassals who remonstrate.” The single-character representation kan 諫 appears initially in the Rites of Zhou; twelve times in Confucius’ Analects; eight times in Mencius; also notably in the House Records of Confucius as recorded in the Book of the Later Han: “Confucius said, ‘The loyal vassal will remonstrate with the prince’.” The basic idea of remonstration was that morally forthright and critical advice from vassals and advisors to the sovereign effected good government. 19 Jūjikai, pp. 156–7. confucianism versus feudalism 81

The striking thing about passages such as this is how Seiri links a radical criticism of the status quo in Tokugawa governance to concrete policies designed to correct the situation. The particular area Seiri here identified for improvements was the flow of communication within the government apparatus. The term he used to identify this reform—“opening the chan- nels of communication” (kai yanlu 開言路 in Chinese, genro o hiraku in Japanese), is borrowed from none other than Zhu Xi himself.20 Seiri’s Zhu Xi-ist, yet also highly realistic analysis of the problem was accompanied by proposals for bureaucratic reform designed to open out access for top leaders to multiple advisors. The path for the reception of information should not be restricted to one office. Elders, and also especially people of skill, should be invited as part- ners in discussion, to consult on matters large and small when the affairs of state allow time for this. Extracting the good from these kinds of discussions should be the pleasure of an exemplary leader.21 Instead of allowing single vassals to control access to information based on the feudal hierarchy, leaders should seek advice directly from a wide range of specialists of different rank. On the one hand, this potentially undercut the privileged role of hereditary retainers in monopolizing the flow of advice to the ruler, but on the other hand, it did not challenge the position of these retainers, or seek to displace them. Other Confucians during the Tokugawa period had advised, and even begun to carry out, a displacement of the hereditary feudal nobility from government functions in certain domains. Kumazawa Banzan’s role in such an attempt in Okayama domain in the mid-seventeenth century led to shogunate intervention and eventually his removal from positions of influence in the domain.22 Seiri was careful to argue for a more open structure that allowed lower orders a voice through changes to the bureaucratic apparatus, while not directly attacking the basic feudal structures of power. By couching this advice in the classic Confucian discourse of “remonstration,” he was able both to make clear the reformist agenda of his proposals, while also confirming acceptance of the hierarchical status quo.

20 This phrase is directly quoted from Zhuzi Yu Lei 朱子語類 (Zhu Xi 1985, p. 2449). The term yanlu 言路 (Jp. genro) is used six times by Zhu Xi in this text and also in his commentary of Confucius Analects, (Zhu Xi 1983, p. 290). 21 Jūjikai, p. 157. 22 McMullen 1999, pp. 108–145. As McMullen notes, he resigned his positions in the domain initially due to ill-health, but was stopped from taking them up again or exercising further influence due to political pressure from both within and without the domain. 82 kiri paramore

The same approach to advancing these kinds of reforms can be seen in Ritsuzan’s memorial to the shogunate. “The prince is like a boat, the masses like the water. The water can support a boat well, but can also overturn it. The masses can live well under the rule of a prince, or they can destroy him.” What makes the winds and waves of the masses rise, is when the sentiments of the masses are obstructed. For this reason, since antiquity, making sure the sentiments of the masses are communicated has been the number one business of governance. “Communicating the sentiments of the masses” means ensuring that the sovereign is informed about the suffering of the masses.23 Here, Ritsuzan emphasized the importance of taking due account of the “sentiments of the masses” (kajō 下情). In a note directly after the sentences quoted above, Ritsuzan acknowledged a number of the later classic references for this turn of phrase in Chinese dynastic histories like the Book of the Han.24 By opening this paragraph with the quote, “the prince is like a boat, the people like the water” from the traditional house records of Confucius contained in the Book of the Later Han, and by emphasizing the importance of the “sentiments of the masses,” an idea originating in Legalist thought but heavily cited also in the Book of the Han and Book of the Later Han, Ritsuzan was appealing to a Chinese Confucian tradition that emphasized the ruler’s requirement to listen to the people, similar to the tradition of remonstration cited by Seiri.25 The basic trajectory of Ritsuzan and Seiri’s reform was thus more bottom up than top down. The idea was to open out the decision making process to the lower orders and those with specialized knowledge. They also

23 Ritsuzan jōsho, pp. 106–107. The quote that opens this section is traditionally attributed to Confucius through the lost text “The House Records of Confucius,” contained in the Book of the Later Han (p. 2132). It is also contained in Xunzi. 24 Ritsuzan jōsho, p. 107. In the Book of the Han and later dynastic history Book of the Later Han, the term is often used in combination with the character tsū 通 or jōtsū 上通, (247, 1421, 4170, 50, 82, 111, 1398, 1556, 1766, 1910). The term originates in the legalist writings of Guanzi. The phrase is also attributed to traditional histories/myths associated with the Japanese Emperor Jinmu, called the Nihon seiki and compiled as histories by Rai Shunsui’s son Rai San’yō. The most common reference for these is Rai San’yō’s Nihon gaishi (published from the 1830s). Given the link between Rai Shunsui, Seiri and Ritsuzan, it is interesting to see the term playing such a large role in the work of these latter two, decades before the appearance of San’yō’s most famous work. 25 Ibid., p. 108. Luke Roberts wrote about the link between calling for political input from the common people, and the use of this input for intelligence purposes—particularly in terms of identifying corrupt officials. In the same article Roberts also gives an excellent summary of the history of having commoners contribute their sentiments to political leaders in the Tokugawa period through the petition box system (Roberts 1994, p. 428). confucianism versus feudalism 83 recommended changes to the processes of appointment to reflect this. Both Seiri and Ritsuzan believed that appointment should be linked to function, rather than confirming hereditary status. Seiri made this point most forcefully by attacking the appointment of what he called “superfluous officers” ( jōin 冗員, Ch. rongyuan)—a phrase common in late imperial Chinese discourse and adopted by Seiri to describe officials in Japan receiving a stipend but with no function. Seiri hit out at these superfluous appointments, which, he brazenly stated, displayed the ruler’s “weak- ness of will.”26 Seiri’s statement that “the requirements of governance may rise or fall depending on the times and situations, and this may then require the appointment of more or fewer bureaucrats,” made clear his opinion that appointment should be based on administrative demand.27 This implied that “superfluous officers” who had no utilitarian function, appointed by “weak-willed” leaders out of a misplaced sense of personal allegiance, would need to be cut. It is said: “Adding one advantage is not equal to eliminating one disadvantage. Adding one position is not equal to eliminating one function.” Adding officers should not be preferred. It should rather be ably assessed why the number of functions is more than before. If it is unavoidable then increased numbers should be appointed, but functions of no utility should also be cut so that the number of officers does not become too many.28 Ritsuzan also linked appointment to capacity by arguing for a system of “rewards and punishments,” including promotion, which he said should be based on performance.29 He was careful to clearly distinguish this system from the examination system of China, which he condemned as impractical and reliant on literary games.30 Ritsuzan recommended that appointments should be related to a system of reward and punishments based on candidates’ performance in training exercises as well as administrative and military tasks.31 Ritsuzan and Seiri, influenced both by Chinese criticism of the overly literary examinations in that country32 and by the tradition of writing about the nexus between intellectualism and the warrior tradition in Tokugawa Japan, advocated a system of diverse, practical

26 Jūjikai, p. 158. 27 Jūjikai, p. 157. 28 Jūjikai, p. 158. 29 Ritsuzan jōsho, p. 146. 30 Ritsuzan jōsho, pp. 135–6. 31 Ritsuzan jōsho, p. 146. 32 See for instance writings by Chen Qixin, quoted in Elman 2000, p. 215. 84 kiri paramore training, backed up by a standardized (and thereby necessarily orthodox) general education in Confucian ethics.33

The role of “Zhu Xi-ist orthodoxy”

This call for more practical and diverse training—including technical, scientific and military knowledge—was the broader context within which the idea of Zhu Xi-ist orthodoxy was advanced. Seiri and Ritsuzan’s emphasis on a wide array of practical learning fits perfectly with the main objections that Shōheizaka Confucians held against Japanese Sorai learning: that it was too literary and not practical enough.34 Zhu Xi ethics were conceived as a basis for an approach to education that went beyond reading classical texts. Thus, although an “orthodoxy,” it was geared against rather than in favor of the fundamentalist textualism associated with Sorai-school Confucianism and National Learning. The motivation behind these scholars’ construction of their “Zhu Xi-ist orthodoxy,” and behind Ritsuzan’s utilization of it in the shogunate academy, was primarily to create a standardized field of practical knowledge, where that knowledge could then be utilized and assessed in terms of its functionality.35 Importantly, although they identified themselves as Zhu Xi-ist and attempted to exploit the Hayashi discourse that linked Zhu Xi-ism to the shogunate, they were actually positive about most streams of Confucianism in Japan other than the Sorai school. Seiri had originally been a follower of Wang Yangming aligned Confucian theory when he first left the domain of Saga to study in Kyoto in the mid- 1770s. Many of the political arguments Seiri advocated, like the introduction of a more meritocratic system for the selection of bureaucrats and an easing of the economic stress on peasants through land reform,36 had first been championed in the Tokugawa period by scholars identified with a Yangming inclination, such as Kumazawa Banzan. But in mid-1700s Japan, the major intellectual confrontation within Confucianism was between followers of Sorai theory and a new wave of opposition to them that iden-

33 Ritsuzan jōsho, pp. 143–7, see especially on the importance placed on a diversity of different skills, and specialization by people gifted in each skill, p. 145. 34 Ritsuzan jōsho, pp. 136–7. 35 Ritsuzan jōsho, pp. 144–5. 36 Jūjikai, pp. 158–9. confucianism versus feudalism 85 tified itself as Zhu Xi-ist.37 It is important to understand that the opposition to Sorai-school Confucianism in this period was not necessarily an opposition to the ideas of Sorai himself, but more to the literary theorism that had developed around some of the disciples of Sorai in the decades after his death in 1728.38 The primary criticism that people like Seiri and Ritsuzan raised against Sorai Confucianism as they encountered it in the private academies of Japan in the mid-eighteenth century, was, ironically, the same criticism they had of the appointment and governance systems of the shogunate: they lacked social utility and failed to achieve the reform of state, society and people necessary to create a more just order. For them, Sorai-school Confucianism had degenerated into an intellectual game, yet another escapist leisure pursuit of Edo Japan, instead of offering a blueprint for bettering the world. Ritsuzan, in the section of his memorial to the shogunate dealing with education, positively identified scholars from most of the major streams of Confucianism in Tokugawa Japan with thinking suitable for practical application to government. Although there are many scholars in this world, there are very few who possess the true way of princes—education on how to govern the realm. Firstly there were Arai Hakuseki, Muro Kyūsō, Kumazawa Banzan (a vassal of the Lord of Bizen), Nakae Tōju (a rōnin of Ōmi and teacher of Banzan), Yamazaki Ansai (a vassal of the Lord Hoshina of Higo), Itō Jinsai and Itō Tōgai (both rōnin of Kyōto), among others. But I am bound to say that the group around Narushima were not capable of understanding the depth of this principle.39

37 An excellent representation of this conflict depicted through statistics based on the affiliations of domain schools can be found in Ishikawa Ken, Nihon Gakkoshi no kenkyū, 1977, pp. 258–9. In 1716 to 1788 there were 118 Sorai aligned schools, and 5 Hayashi or Shōhei aligned; from 1789 to 1829, 56 Sorai versus 55 Shōhei; and from 1830–67, 13 Sorai versus 160 Shōhei. 38 Kojima 1994, pp. 47–8. 39 Ritsuzan jōsho, p. 136. I quote here from the University of Tokyo General Library manuscript referenced in the bibliography. In the commonly used printed version of Rit- suzan jōsho contained in Nihon keizai sōsho vol. 17 (also referenced in the bibliography), this section of the text has been incorrectly transcribed or intentionally altered. The five manuscripts I have checked in the University of Tokyo General Library and National Diet Library, all from around the turn of the nineteenth century, all contain the text as I have translated it here, including the reference to Narushima which is omitted in Nihon keizai sōsho. 86 kiri paramore

In this passage praising Confucians in the Tokugawa-era past who had advanced “the true way of princes,” Ritsuzan identified by name seven of the most famous Confucians of the Tokugawa era. Four of these seven were not Zhu Xi-ist inclined. Banzan and Tōju were both associated by Ritsuzan’s time with the Wang Yangming-ist trend in Confucianism, while the father and son Itō Jinsai and Tōgai were non-Sorai scholars of Ancient Learning. Ritsuzan valued all these positively. The target of his criticism was just one man, the today little known Narushima Kinkō 成島錦江 (1689–1760), a Sorai-schooled Confucian who had been the tutor of shogun Tokugawa Yoshimune (1684–1751).40 In other words, the “orthodoxy,” at least as identified by Ritsuzan, who was the official tasked with carrying out Matsudaira Sadanobu’s proscrip- tion on heterodoxy, was not particularly narrow. It was not an orthodoxy that excluded all other streams of Confucianism. Rather, it was open to most streams, and attacked directly only one stream of Confucianism of late eighteenth-century Japan—the most powerfully ascendant stream: Sorai-ism. The Sorai-school tendency that was attacked, however, was not that of Ogyū Sorai himself (whom Ritsuzan explicitly praised in another section of his memorial),41 but that represented by the literarily inclined branch of the Sorai school, associated with Narushima Kinkō.42 These ideas on the necessary utility of Confucianism and the critique of literary theory were themselves inspired by Chinese Qing Confucian reac- tions to the effect of Ming literary theory on Confucianism in China.43 The criticism of these contemporary Chinese commentators often fell pointedly on literary theorists of the Ming such as Wang Shizhen (1526–10), who in Japan were regarded as having decisively influenced the development of Ogyū Sorai’s own Confucian philosophy of Ancient Textual Study (Kobunjigaku 古文辞学).44 This criticism needed itself to use evidential

40 In the printed version of Ritsuzan jōsho in Nihon keizai sōsho Narushima’s name does not appear. The characters that make up his name are repeatedly misprinted to create meaningless strings of 2 or 4 characters. Reference to the handwritten manuscript in the Nanki Bunko at the University of Tokyo shows Narushima Chikudō 成島筑道 (Kinkō’s common pen-name) clearly written. A brief entry on Kinkō can be found in Kodansha’s Nihon jinmei daijiten. Multiple references to him can be found in Tokugawa jikki during the reign of Yoshimune. 41 Ritsuzan jōsho, p. 135. 42 Narushima Kinkō was particularly well known at the time for his studies of Japanese literature, which make up a good measure of his considerable extant work. See Nihon kotenseki sōgō mokuroku, entry for Narushima Kinkō. 43 Makabe 2007, pp. 232–248. 44 Pollack 1986, p. 222. confucianism versus feudalism 87 scholarship to address these evidentialist arguments. Qing-period Zhu Xi learning, and thereby late Tokugawa Zhu Xi learning also, thus took on what (especially in comparison to earlier Song learning) appeared to be a highly evidential argumentative approach. Students were expected to prove an argument through references. This was a far cry from the kind of Zhu Xi-ist orthodoxy associated with Hayashi Razan. The textual nature of the “orthodoxy” established in the Shōheizaka Academy was evident even in the academy’s rules: “When debating the principle of righteousness, or researching the profound, there must be a basis. Unsupported hypothesiz- ing is not allowed.”45 This explains why many Shōheizaka Confucians were not only open to, but actively encouraged the development of non-Confucian specialist skills and knowledge. This explains the apparent contradiction of Koga Seiri and his descendants in arguing forcefully for the institutionalized study of “Dutch Learning” (Western learning) on the one hand, and their view that literary theory related to Sorai-school Confucianism should be excluded from examination curricula on the other.46 For them knowledge was something to be used in statecraft—“the true way of princes.” What should be considered for use in curricula and examinations was what could be argued to have practical applications. This approach to knowledge opened up the academies not only to Western learning, but also to most streams of Confucianism, and to learning from the Chinese military and Legalist classics—a genre that had always been popular among Tokugawa Confucians of samurai stock. More importantly, it stamped into political society as never before the idea of a functional link between knowledge and the performance of government administration.47 The motivation for establishing a Zhu Xi-ist “orthodoxy” appears to have been anything other than silencing the political voices of scholars. Conversely, making sure that scholars had political impact, that rulers listened to them, and that systems of government responded to them was a major, perhaps the major theme of the three Kansei “professors.” For Ritsuzan, the entire process of institutionalizing academia within the state was about affecting cultured remonstration on the leadership, as he

45 Shōheishi 昌平志, pp. 21–23; Makabe 2007, p. 236. 46 On the Koga family’s engagement with international relations and Dutch Learning see Makabe 2007, particularly pp. 248–322. 47 Matsuda 2008, pp. 79–80. 88 kiri paramore openly wrote in his memorial to the shogun: “The main goal of imperial scholarship is to have the sovereign act upon words of remonstration.”48 This quintessentially Confucian position was what mediated between the Zhu Xi-ist Confucian imperatives of the Shōheizaka scholars and the feudal order of the late Tokugawa state. “Remonstration” admitted the tension between knowledge and power. This was a tension that needed to be maintained in order to facilitate political change. The Sorai-ist approach, which ignored ethical issues and stressed the utilitarian side of governance, may have indeed been, as several twentieth-century scholars have suggested, a more “modern” analysis of politics, but it did not establish the sustainable link between the worlds of knowledge and power that underlies a modern polity. As Watanabe Hiroshi has recently pointed out, Sorai-ists, disillusioned by the state’s refusal to conform to their political ideals, often gave up on real political reform, contenting themselves with politically unrealistic fantasies and literary escapism.49 The Zhu Xi-ist Confucian admission of a tension between intellectual ideal and political reality allowed Confucian scholars within the shogunate to function in a way perhaps reminiscent of the idealized role of the university or public intellectual in late nineteenth- or early twentieth-century Western polities. The ideal was assumed to exist as an abstraction separate from political reality (albeit an immanent rather than exterior abstraction). This created a potent tension for knowledge to act on power. Similarly, it offered power the capability of harnessing knowledge as a force for bureaucratic regulation and specialist problem solving. The increasing social and economic complexity of governing Tokugawa Japan made this attractive to a shogunate that was rapidly realizing the limits of feudal politics when it came to governing an increasingly post-feudal economic society. As Seiri himself had commented, even the most able retainer “could not carry out even one of his tasks if all was left to the personal knowledge of just this one individual.”50 Shōheizaka Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism offered an intellectual standard for the coordination of the necessary array of specialized knowledge. The inherent tension between Zhu Xi-ist Confucianism and the feudal order provided the motivation for advocacy of reform, and at the same

48 Ritsuzan jōsho, p. 137. 49 Watanabe 2010, pp. 200–215. 50 Jūjikai p. 156. confucianism versus feudalism 89

time motivated the Confucians attached to the Shōheizaka academy to employ a variety of different forms of practical knowledge to affect power. It was this creative tension that gave birth to the combination of knowledge and power, which, as several scholars have recently noted, defined this period.51

References

Backus, Robert L. (1974). The relationship of Confucianism to the Tokugawa bakufu as revealed in the Kansei Educational Reform. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 34, pp. 97–162. —— (1979a). The Kansei prohibition of heterodoxy and its effects on education. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 39:1, pp. 55–106. —— (1979b). The motivation of Confucian orthodoxy in Tokugawa Japan. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 39:2, pp. 275–338. Bayly, Christopher Alan (2004). The birth of the modern world, 1780–1914: Global connections and comparisons. London: Wiley-Blackwell. Beerens, Anna (2006). Friends, acquaintances, pupils and patrons: Japanese intellectual life in the late eighteenth century: A prosopographical approach. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Bendō 弁道. In: Yoshikawa Kōjirō 吉川幸次郎 et al., eds, Ogyū Sorai 荻生徂徠. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 36. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Bitō, Masahide 尾藤正英 (1961). Nihon hōken shisōshi kenkyū: Bakuhan taisei no genri to shushigakuteki shii 日本封建思想史研究:幕藩体制の原理と朱子学的思惟. Tokyo: Aoki Shoten. Book of the Han. In: Ban Gu 班固 and Zhuang Dingyi 莊鼎彝. Xin jiaoben Hanshu bing fubian erzhong 新校本漢書并附編二種. 6th edition. Zhongguo xueshu leibian. Taipei: Dingwen shuju. Book of the Later Han. In: Fan Ye 范曄. Xin jiaoben Ben Hou Hanshu bing fubian shisan- zhong 新校本後漢書并附編十三種. 5th edition. Zhongguo xueshu leibian. Taipei: Dingwen shuju. Boot, W. J. (1982). The adoption and adaptation of Neo-Confucianism in Japan: The role of Fujiwara Seika and Hayashi Razan. Leiden: Lectura. —— (1985). De filoloog als politicus. Amsterdam: Gieben. Elman, Benjamin A (2000). A cultural history of civil examinations in Late Imperial China. Berkeley: University of California Press. Howell, David (1998). Territoriality and collective identity in Tokugawa Japan. Daedalus 127:3, pp. 105–132. Ikegami, Eiko (2005). Bonds of civility: Aesthetic networks and the political origins of Japanese culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ishikawa, Ken 石川謙 (1960). Nihon gakkōshi no kenkyū 日本学校史の研究. Tokyo: Shōgakkan. Koga Seiri 古賀精里 (1914). Jūjikai 十事解. In: Takimoto Seiichi 瀧本誠一, ed. Nihon keizai sōsho 日本経済叢書, vol. 17. Tokyo: Nihon keizai sōsho kankōkai.

51 Most cogently Matsuda 2008, but also Makabe 2007 and Maeda 2009. 90 kiri paramore

Kojima, Yasunori 小島康敬 (1994). Soraigaku to han-Sorai 徂徠学と反徂徠. Tokyo: Perikansha. Kurozumi, Makoto 黒住真 (2003). Kinsei Nihon shakai to jukyō 近世日本社会と儒教. Tokyo: Perikansha. —— (2006). Fukusūsei no Nihon shisō 複数性の日本思想. Tokyo: Perikansha. Maeda, Tsutomu 前田勉 (1996). Kinsei Nihon no jugaku to heigaku 近世日本の儒学と兵学. Tokyo: Perikansha. —— (2002). Kinsei shintō to kokugaku 近世神道と国学. Tokyo: Perikansha. —— (2006). Heigaku to shushigaku, rangaku, kokugaku: Kinsei Nihon shisōshi no kōzu 兵学と朱子学・蘭学・国学:近世日本思想史の構図. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2006. —— (2009). Edo kōki no shisō kūkan 江戸後期の思想空間. Tokyo: Perikansha. Makabe, Jin 眞壁仁 (2007). Tokugawa kōki no gakumon to seiji: Shōheizaka Gakumonjo jusha to bakumatsu gaikō hen’yō 徳川後期の学問と政治 : 昌平坂学問所儒者と幕末外交変容. Nagoya: Nagoya Daigaku Shuppankai. Matsuda, Kōichirō 松田宏一郎 (2008). Edo no chishiki kara Meiji no seiji e 江戸の知識から明治の政治へ. Tokyo: Perikansha. McMullen, James (1999). Idealism, protest, and the Tale of Genji: The Confucianism of Kumazawa Banzan (1619–91). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Najita, Tetsuo (1987). Visions of virtue in Tokugawa Japan: The Kaitokudō Merchant Academy of Osaka. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Nakai, Kate Wildman (1988). Shogunal politics: Arai Hakuseki and the premises of Tokugawa rule. Cambridge: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University. Nihon jinmei daijiten 日本人名事典 (2001). Ueda Masaaki 上田正昭 et al., eds. Viewed electronically using Japan Knowledge database. Nihon kotenseki sōgō mokuroku 日本古典籍総合目録. http://base1.nijl.ac.jp/infolib/ meta_pub/KTGsearch.cgi. Ōmori Eiko 大森映子 (1993). Ritsuzan jōsho no seiritsu nendai o megutte「栗山上書」の成立年代をめぐって. Shōnan Kokusai Joshi Tanki Daigaku Kiyō 1, pp. 338–321. Ooms, Herman (1975). Charismatic bureaucrat; A political biography of Matsudaira Sadanobu, 1758–1829. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. —— (1998). Tokugawa ideology: Early constructs, 1570–1680. Ann Arbor, Mich.: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan. ——, and Kurozumi Makoto (1994). Introduction to “The Nature of Early Tokugawa Confucianism” by Kurozumi Makoto. Journal of Japanese Studies 20:2, pp. 331–375. Pollack, David (1986). The fracture of meaning: Japan’s synthesis of China from the eighth through the eighteenth centuries. Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press. Ravina, Mark (1995). State-building and political economy in early-modern Japan. The Journal of Asian Studies 54:4, pp. 997–1022. Roberts, Luke S. (1994). The petition box in eighteenth-century Tosa. Journal of Japanese Studies 20:2, pp. 423–458. Sawai, Keiichi 澤井啓一 (2000). Kigō to shite no jugaku〈記号〉としての儒学. Tokyo: Kōbōsha. Screech, Timon (2000). The shogun’s painted culture: Fear and creativity in the Japanese states, 1760–1829. London: Reaktion. Shibano Ritsuzan 柴野栗山. Ritsuzan Jōsho 栗山上書. In: Takimoto Seiichi 瀧本誠一, ed. (1914). Nihon keizai sōsho 日本経済叢書, vol. 17. Tokyo: Nihon keizai sōsho kankōkai. —— (1788). Ritsuzan Jōsho 栗山上書. Manuscript. Nanki Bunko 南葵文庫 collection in the General Library of the University of Tokyo. Shōheishi 昌平志. In: Kurokawa Mamichi 黒川真道 ed. (1977). Nihon kyoiku bunko 日本教育文庫, vol. 8, Gakkōhen 学校篇. Nihon Tosho Sentā, pp. 18–178. Tokugawa jikki 徳川実記. In: Kurokawa Katsumi et al., eds. (1998). Tokugawa jikki. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Tsuchihashi, Paul Yachita (1952). Japanese chronological tables: From 601 to 1872 A.D. Tokyo: Sophia University Press. confucianism versus feudalism 91

Watanabe, Hiroshi 渡辺浩 (2010). Nihon seiji shisōshi: 17–18 seiki 日本政治思想史 : 十七 ~十九世紀. Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai. Winkel, Margarita (2004). Discovering different dimensions: Explorations of culture and history in early modern Japan. Ph.D. Dissertation, Leiden University, 2004. Zhu, Xi 朱熹 (1983). Sishu zhangju jizhu 四書章句集注. 1st edition. Xinbian zhuzi jicheng 新編諸子集成. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. —— (1985). Zhuzi Yu Lei 朱子語類. 1st edition. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju.

MInding the Gaps: An Early Edo History of Sino-Japanese Poetry

Ivo Smits

Discontinuities in Japanese kanshi writing

One enigma in the history of Japanese literature is the frequent occurrence of discontinuities in the tradition of Sino-Japanese poetry (kanshi). Where the written word is concerned, pre-modern and early modern Japan was a “biscriptual” and arguably bilingual country; as for poetry, Japanese have since the beginning of writing in Japan composed it in both Japanese (waka) and in Sino-Japanese.1 However, where it is relatively easy to write a history of waka that quite correctly suggests a strong continuity and historical awareness within its own tradition, the history of kanshi writing in Japan seems to be one of fits and starts. From the very beginning, it is as if after every few generations, Sino-Japanese poets reoriented themselves and ignored whatever came before. This contrast with the waka tradition is conspicuous and raises the question why kanshi as a dominant literary form that, more or less continuously until the dawn of the twentieth century, was regarded as one of the most esteemed genres, never really forged a consciously indigenous tradition. To a large extent, a factor in the disruptiveness of kanshi’s history must have been the role of classical, and at times contemporary, poetry from China. After all, poetry from China was a continuous frame of reference for kanshi poets in Japan, yet pointing to “China” seems an insufficient explanation for the splintered nature of Japanese kanshi writing. In other words, there is not one history of Sino-Japanese poetry; rather, there are multiple histories of kanshi in

1 Since the late nineteenth century, the terms kanshi 漢詩 and kanbun 漢文 in Japan refer to any text in Chinese, usually from China. In keeping with a not entirely logical tradition among Western scholars, I use them here exclusively in the sense of poems and prose in Chinese, or Sino-Japanese, composed by Japanese. Japanese scholars commonly refer to “Japanese kanshi” (Nihon kanshi). When I write “bilingual,” I am aware that the “performance” of any kanbun text in a Japanese setting would have been in a form of the Japanese language (kundoku, yomikudashi, etc.). However, I contend that, especially in the composition of kanshi, Japanese authors produced a text that also functioned according to rules outside the Japanese language (rhyme, tone, etc.). 94 ivo smits

Japan that seem to begin again and again, with little or no acknowledge- ment of the kanshi traditions that immediately preceded the time of their articulation. Equally remarkable is that little has been written about these discontinuities.2 Japan’s very first anthology of Chinese poetry, Kaifūsō 懐風藻 (Fond Recollections, 751), contemporaneous with Japan’s oldest waka collection, the Man’yōshū 万葉集 (Collection of Ten Thousand Ages, after 759), was as good as ignored throughout the Heian (794–1185) and Kamakura periods (1185–1333). The early ninth century witnessed the compilation, in quick succession, of three imperial kanshi anthologies that were relatively vague about the history of Chinese verse in Japan. This feeling was reinforced by later Heian kanshi histories that associated the beginning of kanshi composition in Japan with the court of Emperor Saga (786–842, r. 806–809). However, the three imperial kanshi anthologies of the early Heian period, although quickly recognized as an important milestone in literary history, also seemed to have very little actual impact on later generations.3 With the rise of the Zen institutions in Kamakura and Kyoto that were supported by the new shogunate and are collectively known as Gozan 五山 or “the five mountains (i.e. monasteries),” and with the pivotal role in this development of Zen monks from China, connections with the courtly kanshi tradition seemed lost.4 Again in the early seventeenth century, yet already before the definitive fall of the Ming dynasty in 1644, several Chinese refugee scholars fled mainland China and came to Japan; they sustained a renewed and diverse Japanese interest in, among other things, Chinese poetry, intellectual writings and painting.5 The mon-

2 Ōsone Shōsuke is one the very few to remark briefly on this discontinuity in Japanese kanshi traditions; Ōsone 1998a, p. 364 (first published in 1979). See also my observations in Smits 2007, pp. 108–9. 3 In late Heian Japan, on the other hand, the history of kanshi apparently was the history of Chinese poetry only after it regained a place on the map following the imperial patronage of waka at the end of the tenth century. This a view that was still endorsed by the Kyoto scholar and kanshi poet Emura Hokkai 江村北海 (1713–88), who in his Nihon shishi 日本詩史 (A History of Kanshi in Japan) of 1771 devotes curiously little space to Kaifūsō, skims over the three imperial anthologies, but dwells considerably on post-900 kanshi production. 4 Gozan literature is seriously understudied, both in and outside Japan. Helpful in Eng- lish is the chapter “‘Chineseness’ and ‘Japaneseness’ in Early Medieval Zen: Kokan Shiren and Musō Soseki” in Pollack 1986. 5 Representative of this is, perhaps, the famous Shisendō 詩仙堂, or “Hall of the Poetry Immortals,” the retreat built in Kyoto by the poet and former warrior Ishikawa Jōzan 石川丈山 (1583–1672). Jōzan was an admirer of the learned monk and kanshi poet Fuji- wara Seika 藤原惺窩 (1561–1619) and intimate friend of the famous neo-Confucian thinker minding the gaps 95 asteries were also actively engaged in the printing of Chinese texts and in Chinese scholarship in general. From the fifteenth century the scholarly tradition of the Gozan monks, which focused on Zhu Xi’s 朱熹 (1130–1200) commentaries on the Confucian classics (the so-called “Zhu Xi learning” or shushigaku 朱子学) and related neo-Confucian studies, gained in importance; it is in these Zen monasteries that the seeds were sown for the blossoming of neo-Confucian studies in early modern Japan. This article provides no analysis of the reasons for these discontinuities in Japanese kanshi’s history, but instead focuses on the first attempt to remedy them. It is only in the Edo period (1600–1868) that attempts were made to construct a comprehensive kanshi canon. The first literary project to qualify as such an inclusive overview of kanshi writing in Japan was produced in the seventeenth century by scholars from the Hayashi house. Many more such kanshi anthologies and kanshi histories were to follow.6 Interestingly, the Hayashi scholars deliberately excluded Gozan poetry from their project. In other words, this first overview of kanshi production in Japan was, in fact, not without its own omissions. This article will also examine the possible reasons why.

The first comprehensive kanshi history: Honchō ichinin isshu

The first text that may be seen as a comprehensive history of Sino- Japanese poetry is a kanshi anthology compiled by the neo-Confucian scholar Hayashi Gahō 林鵞峰 (1618–80) with the help of his son Baidō 梅洞 (1643–1666) and is entitled Honchō ichinin isshu 本朝一人一首 (One Poem Each by Poets from Our Court).7 This collection brought together kanshi by 482 Japanese authors from the eighth-century Kaifūsō through the seventeenth century, chiefly arranged in order of composition. In its arrangement, Honchō ichinin isshu implies a narrative of chronological development. Like most anthologies, it is a history; like all histories, it has an agenda. In this case, as will become clear, the Hayashi’s agenda and poet Hayashi Razan 林羅山 (1583–1657). With Razan Jōzan discussed the selection of thirty-six poets from the past who were to adorn his new abode: all were poets from China. Chaves 1991, pp. 28–29. See also Boot 1982, p. 289, note 182. 6 Several of these have been collected in the Shikashū Nihon kanshi series. See Sano 1983 for volume 1 of this series. 7 I will refer to Edo period literati with their gō 号 (“art-name”), or rather their best- known gō, as is customary. One of Gahō’s na 名 or “given names” was Shunshō var. Harukatsu 春勝; his other gō were Shunsai 春斎 and Kōyōken 向陽軒. Baidō’s na was Shunshin var. Harunobu 春信. 96 ivo smits was to draw parallels of hereditary scholarship and poetic practice in the service of the state. Their anthology’s underlying message was that, like the talented scholar-poets and bureaucrat-poets of the classic court, the neo-Confucian scholar-bureaucrats served Japan’s ruler (now the shogun) with equal talent. Specifically, the Hayashi house’s vested interest in kanshi composition and the history of kanshi in Japan served to highlight their suitability for service to the state. This equation of dedicated poetic talents with the good of the realm translated into a heavy emphasis on poetry of the Heian court. As we shall see, however, the agenda of the Honchô ichinin isshu project was to be poignantly undercut by a crisis in the succession of the newly-established Hayashi line of neo-Confucian learning. Gahō was the second son of the famous neo-Confucian philosopher Hayashi Razan (1583–1657)8 and himself a prolific scholar with a successful career tied to the shogunate as well as a prodigious kanshi poet who composed his first Sino-Japanese poems at the age of twelve. When his father Razan died in 1657, Gahō inherited the task of further establishing the Hayashi house as leading scholars in the service of the shogunate. He collaborated with his father on a number of projects, several of which were completed only after Razan’s death. One such project is Honchō tsugan 本朝通鑑 (A Comprehensive Mirror of Our Court), of which Honchō ichinin isshu may be said to be a bypro duct. Honchō tsugan is a Chinese annalistic history (hennenreki 編年歴) of Japan, from the age of the gods ( jindai 神代) through the reign of Emperor Go-Yōzei 後陽成 (1571–1617, r. 1586–1611), that is, the beginnings of the Tokugawa shogunate. The Hayashi house received orders from the shogunate to compile a sequel to and emendation of a historical overview of Japanese history begun by Razan under the name of Honchō hennenroku 本朝編年録 (An Annal History of Our Court). By the time of Razan’s death this work had progressed up to the early Heian period (ca. 900) and in 1664 it was by shogunal decree renamed Honchō tsugan.9 Gahō would eventually create an editorial office, the Kokushikan 国史館

8 For a comprehensive treatment of the important role of Hayashi Razan, and his mentor Fujiwara Seika, in developing neo-Confucian thought and their ties to the newly established Tokugawa shogunate, see Boot 1982. 9 This renaming was an attempt to style the bakufu-commissioned project after a Song period, imperially commissioned historical work. This model history Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑑 (Jp. Shiji tsugan; A Comprehensive Mirror of Benefice to a Reign, ordered in 1064 and completed in 1084) was compiled by the politician-scholar Sima Guang 司馬光 (1019–86) and covered roughly the period 400 BC to 960. minding the gaps 97

(National History Bureau), and set up an editorial committee consisting of his heir Baidō, his second son (and ultimate heir) Hōkō 鳳岡 (1645–1732), and his pupils Hitomi Chikudō 人見竹洞 (1638–1696) and Sakai Hakugen 坂井伯元 (1630–1703). Under Gahō’s supervision the team worked on the remaining history of Japan, that is, from the reign of Emperor Daigo 醍醐 (885–930, r. 897–930) onwards. This sequel history is usually referred to as Zoku honchō tsugan 続本朝通鑑 (An Overview of Our Court, Continued). The result, totaling 273 books, was finally completed and submitted to the shogunate in 1670. It is tempting to see this Hayashi school history project as in competition with a similar and equally massive historical compilation project that was, almost significantly, begun in the year of Razan’s death. This other project, Dai Nihonshi 大日本史 (Great History of Japan), was instigated by Tokugawa Mitsukuni 徳川光圀 (1628–1700), daimyo of the Mito domain, with the establishment of its editorial bureau Shōkōkan 彰考館 (Bureau for Clarifying [the Past] and Pondering [the Future]). Dai Nihonshi would eventually be completed in 1906 with a total of 397 books. It may be considered as an important starting point of mitogaku 水戸学, a particular blend of Zhu Xi Learning, National Learning (kokugaku), history and Shinto studies that, especially from ca. 1800 onwards, became a dominant supporting school of thought for the shogunate.10 In the course of their work on Zoku honchō tsugan, Gahō and his team, like Razan before them, amassed enormous amounts of documents written by literati of the past, as sources for their history project. Many of these sources contained prose and poetry pieces and it was from these sources that Gahō culled the material for his Honchō ichinin isshu. Gahō wrote the preface to Honchō ichinin isshu in 1660, at which time the manuscript was presumably finished.11 The anthology was finally published in 1665. Gahō selected kanshi of all periods and gave short commentaries on each poem, which his son Baidō faithfully recorded, as Baidō himself explains in his postscript (batsu 跋) to the anthology: Around this time Master Kōyō [Gahō] was ill and had to remain still. One day I discussed his situation with master Dokkō [Gahō’s younger brother].12 As a result [Gahō] had me open Sino-Japanese poetry collections such as Kaifūsō,

10 See also Sano 1983, pp. 3–4. 11 Gahō Rin sensei jijo furyaku, p. 452. See also the dating of the anthology’s preface; Honchō ichinin isshu, pp. 4, 349. 12 Hayashi Dokkō 林読耕 or Dokkōsai 読耕斎 (1624–61) was the fourth son of Hayashi Razan and himself a scholar in service of the shogunate (bakuju 幕儒). 98 ivo smits

Ryōunshū,13 Honchō monzui,14 Keikokushū, Honchō reisō15 and Honchō mudaishi, 16 and selected poems from them. For every poet he restricted himself to one poem each. He added his evaluations (hihyō 批評) to them and ordered me to write it all down. His spirit in selecting and his efforts in finding the material: who can describe them? At the “day’s window and evening’s desk” he diligently compiled it in a number of months. It totals ten books and its title is “One Poem Each by Poets from Our Court.”17 The format of Honchō ichinin isshu was expressly modeled after an anthology that Razan had compiled of quatrains (Ch. jueju, J. zekku 絶句) by Chinese poets from the Tang through the Ming periods, Tō Sō Gen Min ichinin isshu 唐宋元明一人一首 (One Poem Each by Poets from the Tang, Song, Yuan and Ming dynasties).18 As Gahō explains in the preface, Razan had afterwards drafted an anthology of Chinese verse by Japanese poets entitled Honchō shisen 本朝詩選 (Selection of Poems from Our Court), ostensibly as a complementary project. The manuscript of this collection of Sino-Japanese poetry was lost in the great Meireki fire 1657 that razed much of Edo; soon after, Razan died. Not only was this second anthology lost, but Razan had not had access to as many sources as Gahō now had; Gahō intimates that Honchō ichinin isshu is the work that Razan had wished to compile, had he been given the opportunity.19 In the wake of the Honchō ichinin isshu project, itself a spin-off of Zoku honchō tsugan, yet another collection was created by father and son Hayashi. Shikan meiwa 史館茗話 (Teatime Tales from the History Bureau)

13 Ryōunshū 凌雲集 (Cloud Topping Collection, 814) and Keikokushū 経国集 (Collec- tion for Governing the State, 827), together with Bunka shūreishū 文華秀麗集 (Collection of Beauties among the Literary Flowers, 818), form the three royally commissioned kanshi anthologies of the early Heian period. 14 Honchō monzui 本朝文粋 (Literary Essence of Our Court, second half eleventh century) is a very substantial collection of prose and poetry in Sino-Japanese by literati of the early and mid-Heian court, compiled by Fujiwara no Akihira 藤原明衡 (989?–1066). 15 Honchō reisō 本朝麗藻 (Beautiful Poems from Our Court, 1010?), compiled by Takashina no Moriyoshi 高階積善 (?–1014?), collects kanshi by poets from the Ichijō court (ca. 980–1010). 16 Honchō mudaishi 本朝無題詩 (Non-Verse Topic Poetry from Our Court, ca. 1164) is a substantial collection of late Heian kanshi. 17 Honchō ichinin isshu, pp. 343, 442 (interpunction mine, following Kojima Noriyuki’s kundoku text in SNKBT). Cf. the preface: Honchō ichinin isshu, pp. 3, 349. See also the preface; Honchō ichinin isshu, p. 3, 349. Gahō himself also noted his “oral instruction” (kuju 口授) of Baidō. Gahō Rin sensei jijo furyaku, p. 452. Each commentary to a poem starts with the phrase “Master Hayashi said: . . .” (Rinshi iwaku 林子曰ク). 18 A manuscript copy now rests in Naikaku Bunko 内閣文庫. Sano 1983, p. 4; Kojima 1994, p. 3 (note 2). 19 Honchō ichinin isshu, pp. 3, 349. minding the gaps 99 was compiled by Gahō’s son Baidō in his spare moments away from his work at the Kokushikan, as he writes in his preface.20 This work contains forty-two “poetry talks” (shiwa 詩話; Ch. shihua) about Sino-Japanese verse and prose from the Heian period selected by Baidō, to which Gahō added another fifty-eight stories, bringing the total to a round one hundred. In this case, too, much of the material had been collected for use in the Zoku honchō tsugan project. Baidō died unexpectedly after a short illness in 1666, in his 24th year, and Gahō completed Shikan meiwa in tribute to his son, “shedding a tear for each story.”21 The shock this death caused Gahō was considerable: shortly after Baidō’s demise, Gahō wrote Seifū ruiro 西風涙露 (Teardrops in a Western Breeze, 1666),22 in which he lamented Baidō’s death and the blow it represented to the Hayashi tradition of family learning begun by Razan. Eventually, Baidō’s younger brother Hōkō was to succeed Gahō as head of the Hayashi school. A majority of the stories in Shikan meiwa was culled from Gōdanshō 江談抄 (The Ōe Conversations, early twelfth century), a late Heian collection of recorded anecdotes and observations concerning, among other things, court ritual and Sino-Japanese poetry.23 Gōdanshō is a collection of nearly 450 lively anecdotes, snippets of information, and commentary on lines of Chinese verse, recounted by the scholar-poet and raconteur Ōe no Masafusa 大江匡房 (1041–1111) and written down and rubricized by Fujiwara no Sanekane 藤原実兼 (1085–1112). These anecdotal remarks, similar to Chinese “poetry talks,” constitute one form of Heian period commentary that was intended to be instructive as well as entertaining. Baidō’s last anecdote is about “talented fathers and sons”: Masafusa is asked for examples of parent-child pairings of outstanding poet-scholars.24

20 Shikan meiwa, jo, p. 1 verso. 21 On Shikan meiwa, see also: Ōsone 1998b (originally published 1981), pp. 376–380; Ōsone 1998c (originally published 1984); Kojima 1994, pp. 483–484; Honma 1997; Honma 1999. Gahō remarked that in the summer of 1667, “I made additions to Shunshin [Baidō’s] Shikan meiwa.” Gahō Rin sensei jijo furyaku, p. 453. For Gahō’s remark in the postscript to his son’s story collection, see Shikan meiwa, pp. 43verso–44verso. 22 Included in Books 77–79 of Gahō Rin gakushi bunshū, pp. 203–242. 23 For an introduction to and partial translation of Gōdanshō, see Ury 1993. Thirty- one of the forty-two anecdotes collected by Baidō also appear in Gōdanshō; Gahō added another twenty. 24 Shikan meiwa, pp. 13o–u. Masafusa mentions four father-son pairings: Miyako no Yoshika 都良香 (834–879) and his son Arinaka 在中 (dates unknown), Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真 (845–903) and his son Atsushige 淳茂 (?–926), Michizanes’s grandson Fumitoki 文時 (899–981) and his son Sukeakira 輔昭 (946?–982), and finally Emperor Murakami 村上天皇 (926–967) and his son Prince Tomohira 具平親王 (964–1009). See also Gōdanshō 5: 50, pp. 197, 533. 100 ivo smits

It is tempting to view this last act of compilation by Baidō as an only slightly veiled self-reference: had Masafusa been able to see in the future, he might have added his father and himself.25 Conversely, Gahō himself saw a poignant parallel between himself and Masafusa, as both lost a talented heir whose early death jeopardized the continuation of a family tradition of scholarship.26

Structure of Honchō ichinin isshu

As Gahō himself explains in the short prefaces to Books Eight through Ten of Honchō ichinin isshu, his anthology can be divided into four parts: What Gahō himself calls “the collection proper” (seishū 正集), and what Kojima Noriyuki in his text edition of Gahō’s anthology terms the “inner” collection (naishū 内集):27 Books One through Seven, starting with Kaifūsō poets and ending with the sengoku period and early Edo warrior-poets such as Hosokawa Yūsai 細川幽斎 (listed as Minamoto no Fujitaka 源藤孝, 1534–1610), Toyotomi Katsutoshi 豊臣勝俊 (1569–1649), and Tokugawa Yoshinao 徳川義直 (Shogun Ieyasu’s ninth son and founder of the Owari 尾張 line, listed as Minamoto no Takashi 源敬, 1600–50). The “outer” collection (gaishū 下集): Book Eight. Gahō explains in his short preface to Book Eight that he had intended to include a good 360 poets, but found that he still had much material left that he felt he could not exclude. This material consisted of couplets, practically all lines from the Heian period collections Wakan rōeishū 和漢朗詠集,28 Gōdanshō,

25 Perhaps this was a theme for Baidō: in his postscript to Honchō ichinin isshu, he compares, albeit in the form of a denial, his father Gahō and himself to Confucius and his son Boyu 伯魚. Honchō ichinin isshu, pp. 343–4, 442 (see also the translation of Baidō’s postscript in this article and note 38). 26 See Gahō’s remark to that effect in Kokushikan nichiroku 国史館日録 (the daily record of activities related to the Zoku honchō tsugan project), entry for Kanbun 7 (1667).9.6, quoted in Ōsone 1998b, p. 374. 27 Kojima 1994, pp. 486–7. 28 Wakan rōeishū (Japanese and Chinese Poems to Sing, first quarter eleventh century) is a mid-Heian collection that brings together couplets by Chinese and Japanese poets as well as waka. Gahō’s commentary to Wakan rōeishū lines relies mostly on Wakan rōeishū shichū 私注 and other late Heian and medieval commentaries on Wakan rōeishū and Gōdanshō. For an introduction to Wakan rōeishū and its commentary traditions, see Smits 2000. minding the gaps 101

Shinsen rōeishū 新撰朗詠集,29 and Kokon chomonjū 古今著聞集.30 At the end of Book Eight, Gahō lists four more Heian period collections and a total of 47 poets he might have included. The miscellaneous collection (zasshū 雑集): Book Nine, consisting of poems by anonymous poets and “poems of strange tales.” One poem that fits both categories is the famous character riddle poem Yabatai no shi 野馬台詩, traditionally regarded as a test of technical prowess for Kibi no Makibi 吉備真備 (695–775) when he went to study in Tang China in 717 but seen by Gahō as spurious (gisaku 偽作).31 “The separate collection” (besshū 別集): Book Ten, which consists of poems (presumed to be) by Japanese authors culled from “Chinese books,” that is, Song and Ming period anthologies, notably Riben kaolüe 日本考略 (var. Ribenguo kaolüe 日本国考畧, Notes on Japan, 1523) compiled by Bo Jun 薜俊, Jiang Yikui’s 蒋一葵 (active late sixteenth century) Yaoshantang waiji 尭山堂外紀 (Outer Records of Yaoshan Hall), Xushi bijing 徐氏筆精 (Mr. Xu’s Polished Brush, ca. 1628–1644), and the massive Wenyuan yinghua 文苑英華 (Heroic Flowers from a Literary Garden).32 This section offers Gahō’s samplings from Abe no Nakamaro 安倍仲麻呂 (Chinese name: Hu Heng, Jp. Ko Kō 胡衡, 698–770) through late medieval monks who traveled to Ming China. Typically, Honchō ichinin isshu gives the poem, provides biographical information on the poet, and then proceeds to offer an assessment and analysis of the text. As an example of this structure the following poem from the Late Heian period may be cited.

29 Shinsen rōeishū (New Selection of Poems to Sing, first quarter twelfth century) was compiled as a sequel to Wakan rōeishū. For an introduction, see Smits 2000, pp. 407–408. For an assessment of how carefully Gahō studied Shinsen rōeishū, see Gotō 1994, pp. 2–6. Interesting (and representative of his assessment) is Gotō’s thesis that Gahō misread the author’s name Li Fang 李方 for Shinsen rōeishū 46 as “[Fujiwara no] Suekata” 季方 (only one Shinsen rōeishū manuscript contains this scribal error) and thus erroneously included a Chinese poet in Honchō ichinin isshu. 30 Kokon chomonjū (Stories Heard from Writers Old and New, 1254) is a large anecdote collection, part of which deals with stories about literati. 31 Yabatai no shi is a riddle poem, so it was believed, of which the characters must be read in a specific, “secret” sequence in order to reveal a hidden meaning. Gahō seems to have been one of the first to identify this poem not as Chinese, but a Japanese forgery that took its cue from medieval Japanese prophetic writings (miraiki 未来記). Honchō ichinin isshu 9: 438, pp. 288, 423. See also Komine 2003, esp. pp. 253–5. 32 Wenyuan yinghua was first compiled in the years 982–987 and counts as one of “the four great books of the Song dynasty,” but continued to grow through later editions, totaling a thousand books by the Ming edition of 1567. 102 ivo smits

冬日遊長楽寺 A Visit to Chōraku-ji on a Winter Day fujiwara no Atsumune 藤原敦宗 [1042–1111] 浄界寂寥塵事稀一来斗藪思依依仏庭草合門無径禅院竹荒墻有衣寒雁叫嵐過嶺滅低雲向暮傍谿帰談僧漸識幽玄理不恨人間官祿微 The temple grounds are silent, the world seldom pays a visit. At arrival one brushes off one’s desires, yet the mind still wavers. In the Buddha’s courtyard grasses join, the gate has lost its path; At the meditation hall bamboo grows wild, walls are clothed in moss. Cold geese cry out in the wind as they cross a peak and disappear; Low clouds head toward the twilight, through the valley they return. Talking with monks, gradually the mystery reveals itself:33 Not to hate that in this world the civil service pays so badly. Master Hayashi said: “Atsumune was a nephew of Sanetsuna [a poet previously discussed]. His father was called Sanemasa. His court career was inherited by Sanetsuna. Because of an incident, [Sanemasa] was demoted and then died. Atsumune was a professor of literature (“erudite,” monjō hakase) and served as senior assistant minister at the Ministry of Ceremonies and as tutor to the Crown Prince. He was indeed well prepared for his duties as an official ( jukan 儒官). However, this poem contains a message of discontent. Could it be that his poem was composed when his father Sanemasa was accused and Atsumune was in gloom? Or, if this is not the case, is it that [Atsumune] did not attain senior noble rank34 like Sanemasa, and that this is why he writes this? The two [middle] couplets sketch a magnificent view. There are likely to be several interpretations (ron) of this poem’s intent.”35 Gahō suggests that Atsumune composed his poem in a state of gloom after his father Sanemasa 実政 (1019–93) had fallen into disgrace. In the second month of 1088, Sanemasa, who had acted as Dazaifu Governor since 1084, was accused of shooting an arrow at the palanquin (mikoshi) carrying the deity of the Hachiman shrine in Usa, in Buzen Province. He was found guilty, and was expelled from office and exiled to Izu.36 Possibly the shrine’s officials wished to get rid of Sanemasa, because they disliked

33 Atsumune uses the expression yūgen no ri 幽玄理. Here yūgen must be taken as a conditioning (“deep and mysterious”) of ri, “ordering principle.” 34 Gahō uses the term gekkei 月卿 (“moon lord”), another way to refer to the senior nobles (kugyō 公卿) of third rank and higher who had the privilege of entering the presence of the emperor (who in this imagery is likened to the sun). 35 Honchō ichinin isshu 6: 265, pp. 183–184, 394. 36 See also Hyakurenshō, entries for Kanji 寛治 2 (1088).2.1 ff, pp. 52–53. minding the gaps 103 the taxes levied by the government on their extensive landholdings.37 If indeed Atsumune composed this poem with his father’s disgrace in mind, then the last line does take on a rather bitter taste. In Gahō’s interpretation, Atsumune’s poem turns this example of the then popular genre of temple visiting poetry into a poem by an exemplary court official ( jukan), Atsumune, about ill-treated servants of the state (in this particular case: Sanemasa). This theme of “Confucian” ( ju 儒) court officials as neglected servants of the state is a persistent basso continuo in Gahō’s evaluations of the poetry he included in his anthology.38

Out with the monks, in with the court scholars

The most obvious feature of Honchō ichinin isshu is the total absence of Gozan poetry. In his preface, Gahō is the first to point this out, yet he shirks the issue by not explaining this absence: Regrettably, this [anthology] does not include “the vegetables and shoots” of Zen monks of the recent age.39 Four decades later, in his Wahan shojaku kō 倭版書籍考 (Remarks on Books Printed in Japan, 1702), Kōjima Sōi 幸島宗意 also commented on the absence of Gozan poets: Honchō ichinin isshu has ten books in five folios. It was begun in the Manji era [1658–61] and is the work of the master of the Hayashi Kōbunkan. Beginning with Prince Ōtomo [648–672] it contains over three hundred poets up until the recent age, with one poem for each. Poems by Zen monks as well as poems by [Fujiwara] Seika and [Hayashi] Razan have been left out. There are evaluations of the poems and genealogies of the poets. It is a rare book of our times.40 The question, of course, is why no Gozan poetry was included in Honchō ichinin isshu, especially when Gahō’s father Razan had studied with the learned monk Seika, who himself had trained at the Gozan temple

37 See also Batten 1989, pp. 237–43. 38 For a similar “Confucian” reading by Gahō of the poem “On seeing an old charcoal woman” by Prince Sukehito 輔仁親王 (1073–1119), see Smits 1997, pp. 180–1. 39 Honchō ichinin isshu, pp. 3, 349. Already in Song China, the expression “vegetables and [bamboo] shoots” (Ch. shu sun, Jp. sojun 蔬筍) referred to Buddhist monks because of their strictly vegetarian diet. 40 Quoted in Kojima 1994, p. 479. The Kōbunkan 弘文館, established in 1630, was the academic institution founded by Hayashi Razan with support from Shogun Iemitsu. 104 ivo smits

Shōkokuji 相国寺 in Kyoto, and was well aware that Zhu Xi Learning in Japan had been made possible by the Gozan institutions.41 One might expect a token appreciation of Gozan literati culture in that respect. This is all the more odd, as Ōsone Shōsuke points out,42 because Razan had expressed his appreciation of Gozan poetry and Gahō had used Gozan kanshi in Zoku honchō tsugan and praised Zen poets in its appendix ( furoku 附録),43 even if both did take a dim view of Buddhism in general. In fact, in the appendix to Honchō ichinin isshu Gahō mentions several collections of Gozan poets (as did Razan).44 In other words, the Hayashi house did not programmatically try to eradicate the Zen tradition in the field of Confucian learning and its related discipline of kanshi composition in late medieval Japan. It therefore seems unlikely that a Confucian distaste for Zen caused the exclusion of Gozan monks from the anthology. In his postscript to Honchō ichinin isshu, Baidō suggests another explanation, namely that the Gozan poets obscured the reader’s view of earlier court kanshi: Nowadays people only know that there is Zen writing at the Five Mountains, but it is not yet known that in our past we had talented poets among the court officials. Therefore their jeweled lines and gem rock couplets hide their brilliance and cannot show their beauty; their brush points and poems’ blades remained sheathed, their sharpness untouched. Luckily, my father selected them and gave us their names. How to choose between Bian He 卞和 with his prize jewel and Lei Huan 雷煥 with his treasure sword?45 Ah, one day this book will become widely known in the world, people will write down these poets’ names and know their genealogies, they will be able to judge their deeds, they will intone their lines, and then they will fully take in the meaning of their couplets, and when they compare them to poetic lines from China, they certainly will prove an aid in climbing the poetry dais. But how can one reject the flavor of vegetable and shoots of the Five Mountains? I once heard that [Confucius’ son] Boyu 伯魚 undertook to study poetry

41 For Seika’s training in Zhu Xi studies at this Gozan institution, see e.g. Ōta 1985, pp. 9–22. 42 Ōsone 1998b, pp. 372–4. 43 See e.g. Razan’s Gozan bunpen jo 五山文編序. Hayashi Razan bunshū, Vol. 2, Book 50, pp. 587–8. 44 Honchō ichinin isshu, furoku 附録, pp. 334–5, 438–9. See also Kojima 1994, p. 486. 45 Bian He is mentioned in Han Feizi 韓非子 (mid-third century BC) as someone who found a priceless rough jewel in the mountains and brought it to the king of Chu 楚. Lei Huan is mentioned in Jin shu 晋書 (Book of the Jin, 648) as an astronomer who obtained a magic sword for the statesman Zhang Hua 張華 (232–300). Baidō here presumably means to say that one cannot value one Heian poet in the service of the court over another; they are all excellent. minding the gaps 105

when he hurried through the garden.46 Now, I do not claim that I compare with him, but through this [project] I have been able to learn about our court’s poetry. One cannot but rejoice. In the beginning of the winter of the third year of Manji [1660], I, Shunshin, respectfully added this postscript.47 In other words, in order to see a proper tradition of kanshi writing in Japan, one needed to look beyond Gozan poetry. And, if one also considers that of Honchō ichinin isshu’s “collection proper” over half (54%) consists of poems from Heian period collections, and that if one would include court poets from the Kamakura period, such as Fujiwara no Teika 藤原定家 (1162–1241),48 this percentage of court kanshi would rise even further, it is clear that Gahō set out to reclaim the reputation of the “talented poets among the court officials” of the Kyoto court as central figures in the kanshi history of Japan. This, then, is likely to be the true purpose of the Hayashi’s first kanshi history: if, as Razan had written, “Literature (bun) can very well extend the Way, but the Way is not in extending [literature]. Outside literature there is no Way and outside the Way there is no literature. Therefore it is said that literature is instrumental to the Way,”49 then literature was an expression of virtue and fitness of service to the state. The court scholar-poets of classical Japan best embodied the ideal of the exemplary, and often hereditary, court officialdom ( jukan) that the Hayashi house attempted to emulate. Honchō ichinin isshu’s emphasis on Heian bureaucrat-poets sketched a history of kanshi writing in Japan in which the connection between literary writing (bun) and the way (dō), which implied involvement with government affairs, was prominent. The Hayashi anthology was the first to cover more or less the whole range of kanshi in Japan, yet intimated that what united the broad range of Sino-Japanese poetry was

46 [Kong] Li [孔]鯉 (literary name: Boyu, which Baidō also uses in this sentence) was Confucius’ son. This anecdote in which the master admonished his son, as he crosses the garden, to study Shi [ jing] 詩[経] ([Book of] Odes) appears in Lunyu 16: 13. This passage is the origin of the expression teikin 庭訓, “garden instruction” (i.e. instruction at home). 47 Honchō ichinin isshu, pp. 343–4, 442. Shunshin was the na of Baidō; see also note 6. 48 Honchō ichinin isshu 7: 313, pp. 220–1, 404. Of course, Teika is a major figure in waka history, but it is not well known that he composed several kanshi, too; they are found in Teika’s journal Meigetsu ki 明月記 (Record of a Full Moon). In this context, Gahō reiter- ates the theory that his father’s mentor Seika was a descendant of Teika’s. 49 Bun yoku michi o hiromu, michi no hiromuru ni arazu. Bun no hoka ni michi naku, michi no hoka ni bun nashi. Yue ni iwaku michi o tsuranuku ki nari. 文能弘道、非道弘文。文外無道、道外無文。故曰貫道之器也. Hayashi Razan bunshū, Vol. 2, Book 66, p. 816. The expression kandō no ki (var. tsuranuku ki) 貫道之器, “a tool to penetrate the way,” seems to have been fairly well known in Edo Japan and is ascribed to Li Han 李漢 (early ninth century). For the following, see also Ōsone 1998b, pp. 372–5. 106 ivo smits the way it reflected commitment to the Confucian values that the Hayashi house upheld.

References

Batten, Bruce Loyd (1989). State and Frontier in Early Japan: The Imperial Court and Northern Kyushu, 645–1185. Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University. Boot, W. J. (1982). The Adoptation and Adaptation of Neo-Confucianism in Japan: The Role of Fujiwara Seika and Hayashi Razan. Leiden: Lectura. Chaves, Jonathan (1991). Jōzan and Poetry. In: Stephen Addiss, J., Thomas Rimer et al., eds. Shisendo: Hall of the Poetry Immortals, New York: Weatherhill, pp. 27–78. Gahō Rin gakushi bunshū 鵞峰林学士文集. Hayashi Gahō 林鵞峰. In: Hino Tatsuo 日野龍夫, ed. Kinsei juka bunshū shūsei 近世儒家文集集成, vol. 12. Tokyo: Perikansha. Gahō Rin sensei jijo furyaku 鵞峰林先生自叙譜略. Hayashi Gahō 林鵞峰. In: Kojima Noriyuki 小島憲之, ed. Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei 新日本文学大系 vol. 63. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989. Originally in Honchō tsugan. Gōdanshō 江談抄. In: Yamane Taisuke 山根対助 and Gotō Akio 後藤昭雄, eds. Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei 新日本文学大系 vol. 32. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1997. Gotō Akio 後藤昭雄 (1994). Tsukuridasareta Heianchō shijin 創り出された平安朝詩人. Kokugo kokubun 国語国文 63: 7, No. 719, pp. 1–15. Hayashi Razan bunshū 林羅山文集. 2 vols. Kyōto Shisekikai 京都史蹟会, ed. Tokyo: Perikansha, 1979. Honchō ichinin isshu 本朝一人一首. Hayashi Gahō 林鵞峰. In: Kojima Noriyuki 小島憲之, ed. Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei 新日本文学大系 vol. 63. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989. Honma Yōichi 本間洋一 (1997). Shikan meiwa ni tsuite 『史館茗話』について. In: Honma Yōichi, ed. Shikan meiwa 史館茗話, pp. 52–72. Tokyo: Shintensha. —— (1999). Shikan meiwa to sono shūhen: Zoku honchō tsugan to no koto nado 『史館茗話』とその周辺：『続本朝通鑑』とのことなど. Dōshisha Joshi Daigaku Nihongo Nihon bungaku 同志社女子大学日本語日本文学 11, pp. 40–49. Hyakurenshō 百錬抄. In: Kokushi taikei 国史体系, vol. 14. Tokyo: Keizai Zasshisha, 1906. Kojima Noriyuki 小島憲之 81994). Honchō ichinin isshu o yomu tame ni 『本朝一人一首』を読むために. In: Kojima Noriyuki 小島憲之, ed. Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei 新日本文学大系 vol. 63, pp. 471–490. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989. Komine Kazuaki 小峰和明 (2003). “Yabatai shi” no nazo: rekishi jojutsu to shite no miraiki 『野馬台詩』の謎：歴史叙述としての未来記. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Ōsone Shōsuke 大曾根章介 (1998a). Hayashi Gahō cho Honchō ichinin isshu 林鵞峰著『本朝一人一首』. In: Ōsone Shōsuke, Nihon kanbungaku ronshū 日本漢文学論集, vol. 1, pp. 364–367. Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin. —— (1998b). Honchō ichinin isshu to Shikan meiwa: Hayashike no Nihon kanbungaku kenkyū ni tsuite 『本朝一人一首』と『史館茗話』：林家の日本の漢文学にういて. In Ōsone Shōsuke, Nihon kanbungaku ronshū 日本漢文学論集, vol. 1, pp. 368– 384. Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin. —— (1998c). Gōdan to Shikan meiwa 『江談』と『史館茗話』. In: Ōsone Shōsuke, Nihon kanbungaku ronshū 日本漢文学論集, vol. 1, pp. 385–395. Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin. Ōta Seikyū 太田青丘 (1985). Fujiwara Seika 藤原惺窩. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Pollack, David (1986). The fracture of meaning: Japan’s synthesis of China from the eighth through the eighteenth centuries. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Sano Masami 佐野正巳 (1983). Kaidai 解題. In: Fujikawa Hideo 富士川英郎, Matsushita Tadashi 松下忠 and Sano Masami, eds. Shikashū: Nihon kanshi 詞華集, 日本漢詩, First Series, vol. 1, pp. 3–34. Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin. minding the gaps 107

Shikan meiwa 史館茗話. Hayashi Baidō 林梅洞, with Hayashi Gahō 林鵞峰. Kyoto: Rinwa Sen’en 林和泉掾, 1668 [Kanbun 寛文 8]. This edition is accessible through Waseda University’s library website: http://www.wul.waseda.ac.jp/kotenseki/html/ he01/he01_04676/index.html. Smits, Ivo (1997). Reading the New Ballads: Late Heian kanshi poets and Bo Juyi. In: Stanca Scholz-Cionca, ed. Wasser-Spuren: Festschrift für Wolfram Naumann zum 65. Geburtstag, pp. 169–184. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz. —— (2000). Song as Cultural History: Reading Wakan rōeishū. Monumenta Nipponica 55: 2, pp. 225–256, and 55: 3, pp. 399–427. —— (2007). The Way of the Literati: Chinese Learning and Literary Practice in Mid-Heian Japan. In: Mikael Adolphson, Edward Kamens and Stacie Matsumoto, eds. Heian Japan, Centers and Peripheries, pp. 105–128. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Ury, Marian (1993). The Ōe Conversations. Monumenta Nipponica 48: 3 (1993), pp. 359–380.

The Way of Heaven in 1816: Ideology or rhetoric?

Mark Teeuwen*

The Way of Heaven as an ideology

In a book chapter entitled “Tentô ou la Voie du Ciel” (2002), W. J. Boot examines the emergence, contents and diffusion of a body of thought that he describes as the “ideology of the Way of Heaven (tentō 天道).” This ideology was expressed most coherently in a small body of partly overlapping texts that first emerged around 1650 and enjoyed a long career of printings, adaptations, reprints, and copyings, lasting throughout the rest of the Tokugawa period. Boot proposes that the Way of Heaven should be regarded as a key concept that exerted considerable influence on a stratum of Tokugawa intellectual life that has received much less attention than that of elite thinkers: “semi-intellectual” authors who were less interested in abstruse scholarly orthodoxy and more in the ordinary problems of daily life. As formative texts in establishing this tentō ideology, Boot points at Shingaku gorinsho 心学五輪書 (Book of the study of the mind and the five human relations), Kana seiri 仮名性理 (The principle of human nature, in kana), and Honsaroku 本佐録 (Chronicle of Honda Masanobu). Strikingly, all these texts are attributed to famous figures who were not their real authors: Shingaku gorinsho to Kumazawa Banzan (1619–91), Kana seiri to Fujiwara Seika (1561–1619), and Honsaroku to Honda Masanobu (1538– 1616). Why this was done, and by whom, is still an unanswered question. A central feature of this genre of texts is that they give great weight to the Way of Heaven as a semi-personalized, ultimate source of authority.1 As the “lord of Heaven and Earth” tentō rewards the worthy and punishes those who ignore its commandments. Tentō stands over all gods and buddhas and cannot be swayed by prayer; the deserving will receive tentō’s blessings in reward for their sincerity without any need for pious rituals.

* I would like to thank Kate W. Nakai for her critical comments on an earlier version of this essay. 1 For a translation of selected passages from these texts, as well as a brief introduction to the genre, see DeBary et al., eds, 2005, pp. 69–82. 110 mark teeuwen

The deserving, in this context, are first of all those who govern the realm with benevolence; while no names are mentioned, this can only refer to the Tokugawa and their allies. As the rulers of the day, the Tokugawa are praised for shunning luxury and putting the interests of the people first in all things. In contrast, despots of the past such as Minamoto no Yoritomo are said to have imposed their will by brute force and used the resources of the realm for their own enjoyment. All these texts have a clear bias against Buddhism, which is blamed for the degeneration of Japan’s original harmonious order, while Amaterasu and the Ise shrines are presented as the embodiment of the Way of Heaven in Japan. Boot characterises these ideas as the commonsensical backdrop against which more sophisticated thinkers of the later Edo period, ranging from Arai Hakuseki (1657–1725) to Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801), must be read. The notion of a tentō ideology was earlier introduced to Western scholarship by Herman Ooms, who focuses on yet another text: Tōshōgū goyuikun 東照宮御遺訓 or “Ieyasu’s testament” (Ooms 1985, ch. 3). Ooms sees this collection of anecdotes about Ieyasu as a predecessor to the tentō texts mentioned above. He speculates that this work may have been compiled by Hayashi Razan (1583–1657) himself and published with the tacit backing of the shogunate (ibid., p. 70). However, Wakao Masaki (2002, 2004) has shown that this hypothesis is not tenable. The first versions of Tōshōgū goyuikun appeared in the early 1650s, more or less simultaneously with the tentō literature discussed by Boot, and the version that circulated most widely had been heavily rewritten by the Confucian populizer Kaibara Ekiken (1630–1714) some decades later. Also, Tōshōgū goyuikun was never published, although many versions of it circulated widely in manuscript, not only among bushi leaders but also among lower samurai and even merchants and wealthier farmers. More important than the precise dating of the tentō texts, however, is Ooms’ reading of them as a ploy on the part of the shogunate to sacra- lise and naturalise shogunal rule. Ooms argues that the aim of the tentō texts was to veil the violent origins and power politics of the shogunate by grounding Tokugawa rule in the cosmological principle of Heaven, which was understood to govern both the universe as a whole and the innate mind of every single moral being. In one deft stroke the notion of tentō dealt an effective blow to two competing claimants to authority: the temple complexes that represented the power of the buddhas, and the imperial court with its kami ancestry. According to the tentō texts, Ooms argues, Tokugawa rule depended neither on the help of religious powers managed by monks, nor on an imperial mandate. The rise of the the way of heaven in 1816 111

Tokugawa was simply a direct response to the cosmic, moral will of a Heavenly Way that none could sway from its course. This vision of seamless ideological domination has been criticised by, among others, Kate W. Nakai (1987). Drawing on the work of Watanabe Hiroshi (1985), Nakai emphasizes the tensions between the Confucian- inspired Tokugawa discourse that is reflected in the tentō texts on the one hand, and the reality of bushi life in Tokugawa society on the other. She points out that most ideological texts were written not by central figures within the shogunate but by people on the margins of bushi society. Moreover, most were addressed to the rulers, rather than the general populace. In other words: these texts and their ideology are not directed downwards but upwards, from (relative) outsiders to people in power. Wakao’s findings about Tōshōgū goyuikun confirm that this was likely the case also with, at least, early versions of this central text. At least some texts of the tentō genre, then, display “intellectual accommodation,” an eagerness to please the powers that be on the part of writers from the margins of the ruling elite. At the same time, however, tentō rhetoric was also used to express discontent with the authorities, and more specifically with the circumstances of the less fortunate among the bushi class. Wakao (2004, p. 246) introduces a telling example of this from an anonymous sequel to Tōshōgū goyuikun, entitled Goyuikun hoi 御遺訓補遺 (Supplement to [Ieyasu’s] testament). In this work, Yui Shōsetsu (1605?–51), who led a rōnin upris- ing and died as a rebel in 1651, is presented as a leader who “opposed the warrior houses” out of loyalty to the ideals of the medieval warrior hero Kusunoki Masashige (d. 1336). Masashige represented the epitome of warrior values in Edo-period versions of the hugely popular warrior epic Taiheiki 太平記 (Record of Great Peace), where he was praised for his benevolence towards the people. Goyuikun hoi, then, avails itself of “Ieyasu’s teachings” to idealise a rōnin who had rebelled against Ieyasu’s grandson, the third shogun Iemitsu. This example shows that the notion that the shogun holds the people of the realm in his care as a “deputy” of Heaven could be employed not only to legitimate shogunal rule, but also to criticise it by appealing to Heaven as a superior site of authority that would not tolerate any abuse of power. This begs the question whether tentō did indeed serve as a unified ideology in the seventeenth century. There are, moreover, significant differences in perspective between the texts that are commonly categorized as samples of a single tentō genre (Wakao 2002, pp. 254–6), notably between Shingaku gorinsho and Kana seiri on the one hand, and Honsaroku and Tōshōgū goyuikun on the other. 112 mark teeuwen

As indicated by their titles, Shingaku gorinsho and Kana seiri deal with such Confucian themes as the “mind” and “human nature.” They are Neo- Confucian primers introducing notions of self-cultivation and morality. Honsaroku and Tōshōgū goyuikun, on the other hand, focus solely on the question of how the realm is to be governed, and appear less concerned with metaphysical matters.2 An even more striking difference lies in the texts’ views on the balance between the civil (bun) and the military (bu) realms of government. Shingaku gorinsho and Kana seiri have nothing to say about military matters. In contrast, Honsaroku and Tōshōgū goyuikun underline the supreme importance of bu, albeit without disparaging bun. Honsaroku, for example, places special emphasis on “military valour” (buyū 武勇; NST 28, pp. 291–2) as a prerequisite for pacifying the realm and establishing orderly government. Tōshōgū goyuikun goes even further in praising the “military Way” (budō 武道) as the highest principle of government. This text identifies budō not merely as a force necessary to kill evil, but even as the highest of the three divine virtues (wisdom, benevolence, and uprightness) embodied by the three regalia of the realm. Wisdom and uprightness are presented as secondary offshoots of the most fundamental virtue of all, benevolence, which is symbolised by the sword (Ooms 1985, pp. 68–69). Honsaroku and Tōshōgū goyuikun, then, display a keen interest in warrior values. As a possible source of many of the concepts and ideas that figure in these texts, Wakao draws attention to popular commentaries on Taiheiki that can be traced back to the early 1600s or even the late 1500s. He points out that Honsaroku, especially, may well have originated in an environment (the Kanazawa domain) where lectures on the Taiheiki warrior epos based on such commentaries dominated the intellectual scene (Wakao 2002: 272). This suggests that these texts emerged from a very different background than more Confucian variants of tentō thought, even while sharing a common interest in the Way of Heaven as a central concept.

2 Honsaroku even opens with a passage blaming “Confucians of today’s Japan” for fail- ing to understand the Way of Heaven (NST 28, p. 277; also p. 295). This stands in contrast to Shingaku gorinsho and Kana seiri, which show no signs of such criticism. Another striking difference is in the conception of Shinto. Kana seiri praises “Nippon no Shintō” as Japan’s equivalent to China’s Confucianism (NST 28, p. 249), while Honsaroku disparages Shinto as a version of Tendai and Shingon Buddhism, with some tentō ideas mixed in (ibid., p. 277). the way of heaven in 1816 113

The Way of Heaven in the early nineteenth century: Seji kenbunroku

As stressed by Boot and Ooms alike, the notion of a supreme authority called tentō remained part of the intellectual landscape of Tokugawa Japan; Boot (2002, p. 114) emphasises that this idea “enjoyed great popu- larity throughout the Edo period.” Yet the secondary literature on tentō thought focuses heavily on the seventeenth century and has little to say about the role that this concept played in the latter half of the Tokugawa period. Part of the problem may be that although the word tentō is ubiq- uitous in Edo-period writings of many genres, it is difficult to find texts or thinkers who placed it at the centre of their thought. The notion of tentō was clearly well integrated in late-Edo cosmological terminology, but it remains to be seen whether it served as an expansive “concept” that was fully functional in creating its own discourse,3 or simply as a set phrase without much specific content. This essay analyses the term tentō as it appears in a work from the early nineteenth century. It will ask the question whether the notion of tentō in this particular work may be related to the tentō literature and “ideology” of the seventeenth century. What variant of tentō thought is reflected in the text, if any? What aspects of tentō have changed in the century and a half that elapsed between the late seventeenth and early nineteenth centuries? Did the term still function as a full-fledged “concept,” or had it taken on a more rhetorical function? The text in question is a much quoted but largely unstudied source from the early nineteenth century: Seji kenbunroku 世事見聞録 (Matters of the world: An account of what I have seen and heard).4 This work, signed only with the pseudonym Buyō Inshi 武陽隠士, “a retired [or: hidden] gentleman of Musashi,” bears a preface dated 1816. At least part of it circulated in manuscript form, as is attested by a copy of its first chapter with notes in the hand of Tokugawa Nariaki (1800–60), the Mito daimyo who played a central role in bakufu politics in the 1830s and ’40s.5 Its first two

3 I am here drawing on the distinction between “word” and “concept” as proposed by Koselleck (1972, pp. xxii ff.). 4 This article is based on the results of a joint project on Seji kenbunroku, which includes translating this work. Many of the translations below are based on a first translation draft prepared by John Breen, Kate W. Nakai, Anne Walthall, Miyazaki Fumiko and myself. 5 This manuscript is preserved at the Mito library Shōkōkan; see Aoki 1998, p. 34. 114 mark teeuwen chapters were printed in the Ansei period (1854–59),6 but the whole text was published only in 1926.7 The author, whose identity remains unclear, reveals little about himself, but his perspective is clearly that of a bushi living in Edo. Even a quick glance reveals that Buyō frequently utilises such concepts as Heaven, the Way of Heaven, the Way of Heaven and Earth, the military Way, and so forth, making his work fertile ground for an examination of the fate of those terms more a century and a half after the appearance of the tentō texts discussed above. Seji kenbunroku consists of the following chapters:

1. warriors 2. farmers 3. priests; medical doctors 4. Yin-Yang diviners; blind moneylenders; lawsuits 5. townspeople, high and low 6. prostitution; the kabuki theater 7. pariahs and outcasts (eta and hinin); consumption; deforestation; Japan’s status as a divine country; untimely deaths; “the land, the populace, and the ruler”

This contents list may at first sight appear random, but there is in fact some logic to it. Buyō divides society into two large classes of people: the warriors and farmers8 who form “the foundation of the state” (chapters 1 and 2), and the townspeople and idlers (yūmin 遊民) who spend their time squandering the state’s resources (chapters 3 to 7). The text, then,

6 A facsimile of a printed edition from the late Edo period can be viewed at http://www .wul.waseda.ac.jp/kotenseki/html/wo06/wo06_03432/index.html. 7 Most modern editions go back to a manuscript kept at Kyoto University that was transcribed and published by Honjō Eijirō in 1926 (Kinsei shakai keizai sōsho, Kaizōsha) and again in 1930 (Kaizō Bunko). For the 1930 edition Honjō consulted two other manuscripts, one held at Kyoto University and the other at Tokyo University. Honjō’s edition was later republished by Seiabō (1966) with further corrections and an introduction by Takigawa Masajirō that still remains the most thorough discussion of this work. Both the Kaizō Bunko and the Seiabō edition were consulted by Naramoto Tatsuya, who prepared the Iwanami Bunko version that appeared in 1994. The text can also be found in Nihon keizai taiten (Keimeisha), first published in 1930 and republished in 1992 by Takimoto Sei- ichi (Hō Bunshokan), and in Nihon shomin seikatsu shiryō shūsei 8, published in 1969. This last edition is based on two Naikaku Bunko manuscripts, collated with a manuscript from the National Diet Library and the Kaizō Bunko text. It thus provides another lineage of texts. References in this essay are to the 1994 Iwanami Bunko edition. 8 These translations of bushi and hyakushō are chosen to reflect Buyō’s view of these two classes. the way of heaven in 1816 115 first gives an account of the two classes of people who are essential for the functioning of the state (kokka or tenka kokka 天下国家), and then moves on to introduce a selection from the wide variety of what our author calls “poisonous worms” that “fester in the flesh of the warriors and the farmers” (p. 394). Chapter 7 closes the book with a number of shorter pieces, some of which may be read as a general conclusion to the work as a whole (Japan as a divine country; “the land, the populace, and the ruler”). Most chapters share a similar structure. Buyō first outlines the role that the social class that he is discussing should be performing in an ideal world; then he exposes the corrupt reality of his own age by combining entertaining anecdotes with sweeping statements; and finally he calls for ill-defined reforms. Moreover, Buyō expresses a particular view of history that was not uncommon in his time. He identifies the first hundred years of the Tokugawa shogunate as an “age of goodness” (zensei 善世) brought about almost singlehandedly by Ieyasu, to whom he consistently refers as the “divine lord” (shinkun 神君) or “Gongen-sama” 権現様. Ieyasu appears as the perfect ruler. Not only did he “attain the true essence of the military Way,” enabling the people to live in peace and security; he also “showed compassion to widows, orphans, and others without means of support,” established “a regulatory system based on the virtue of benevolence” (on- jintoku no on-seido 御仁徳の御制度), and caused the world to “respond to his virtuous influence” (pp. 406–7). Under his divine rule, “the principles of the Way of Heaven and Earth opened up” (p. 18), the Way of Lord and Minister was correctly observed, rewards and punishments were administered with strictness, and loyalty and filial piety took hold. Even the lowliest among the populace conducted orderly households, leading lives free of anxiety and exerting themselves in their house professions. The people carried themselves calmly and harmoniously, and “human feelings extended to the most minute details” (p. 18). In short, this period was an “age of sincere courtesy and warm magnanimity” (p. 8), and it produced a society marked by peace and “splendour” (kekkō 結構). As it turned out, however, peace and splendour came at a price. From the “Genroku and Kyōhō years” (1688–1736) onwards,9 the splendid order of Tokugawa rule caused “customs” ( fūzoku 風俗) among all classes to degenerate (p. 8). People fell into a state of self-conceited laziness.

9 Or, alternatively, the Genroku and Hōei years (1688–1710); cf. p. 408. 116 mark teeuwen

Excessive luxury caused both high and low to ignore the limits pertinent to their status. People’s dispositions (ninjō 人情) became unstable, the bedrock of trust and duty was worn thin, and people became obsessed with private greed. True feelings became shallow, loyalty and filial piety declined, and compassion and love for others faded away (p. 19). It is this corruption of “customs” that forms the focus of Buyō’s discussion, not the “splendid government” that, by its very perfection, had set the stage for this decline. In one passage, Buyō appears to ascribe the decay of the world to natural forces beyond the government’s control, or even to the Way of Heaven itself: “When disorder reaches its ultimate, order is achieved, and when order reaches its ultimate, things fall into disorder—this is the norm of the Way of Heaven” (p. 448). Here the Way of Heaven is framed as an immoral force of unstoppable transformation, for whose workings the ruler cannot be held responsible. Yet even in this passage, Buyō continues to stress the ruler’s responsibility to “bring about the ultimate shift in which disorder is transformed and order restored.” In other contexts Buyō does not absolve the government from blame even for this inevi- table decline of society. With the Kyōhō reforms of 1736, he points out, the shogunate openly decided things on the basis of “calculation” (rikan 利勘) and adopted institutions designed to generate profits. Was not this, he asks, “when the madness of the world began” (p. 410)? Even though Buyō underlines already in his preface that he will not criticise the shogunate (p. 8), he does not let this stop him from merci- lessly exposing moral corruption among warrior leaders. In fact, he begins the chapter on warriors by censuring “lords” (that is, daimyos) for surrounding themselves with flattering sycophants. As a result, high-ranking warriors tend to become “habitually irritable and quick to anger, given to prejudice, and incapable of logical thought” (pp. 21–22). Lords are bewitched by the behaviour of their fawning vassals and fail to understand the moral standards required of them. They become trapped in the ways of pleasure and desire. They abandon the old ways, destroy the pride of their families, and bequeath nothing but trouble to their descendants (p. 26). Lower-ranking warriors, on the other hand, are mired in debt and therefore inevitably drawn into the Way of lending and borrowing, profit and loss. This undermines their ability to comport themselves as warriors should—that is, with loyalty, frugality, uprightness, and courage. Instead, they allow themselves to be infected by the customs of townspeople and idlers, who despise such moral obligations and respect only tangible wealth. the way of heaven in 1816 117

The malign influence of “the greedy realm of buying and selling” (p. 159) and its perverting influence on people’s “mental dispositions” (ninjō 人情) is the dominant theme of Seji kenbunroku. This realm takes on its most blatant and cruel appearance in the corrupt dealings of Buddhist priests and the inhumanity of the prostitution business (p. 138). For Buyō, extravagant spending on luxuries, vain indulgence in worthless amateur arts and hobbies, self-serving generosity to temples and shrines, and sexual abandon (whether it is with “kept women” or prostitutes) are all aspects of the same “inverted Way” (gyakudō 逆道). In one passage at least, Buyō defines this Way of corruption as an inversion of the Way of Heaven itself (p. 326).

Heaven as a divinity that dispenses rewards and punishments

As did Tōshōgū goyuikun, Buyō sees benevolence ( jin 仁) as the essence of the Way of Heaven. Again and again, he echoes the central tenet of the tentō texts: that only benevolent government will earn rulers the protection of the Way of Heaven. The heart of Heaven is benevolence. Likewise, the essence of the buddhas and the gods is mercy ( jihi 慈悲). Therefore benevolent government is in accord with the Way of Heaven and with the hearts of the buddhas and the gods. Confucius has said that “he who rules with virtue is like the pole-star, which remains in place while all the lesser stars do homage to it” [Lunyu 2:1]. He who takes Heaven’s place and punishes those who offend Heaven, and he who bestows blessings on those whom Heaven pities, will be surrounded by the gods of Heaven and Earth and the buddhas and bodhisattvas, and he will enjoy their protection. There will be no need for him to call on them from this world, or to offer them prayers. (p. 129) Even within this single short passage, Buyō blurs the contrast between two disparate visions of rule: one by virtuous example and based on benevolence (civil rule, bun), and the other by means of rewards and punishments (military rule, bu). Buyō’s vision of Heaven is definitely more bu than bun in nature. While it may well be grounded in benevolence, its role is invariably to mete out punishments, whether it is to individuals, social groups, or even the land as a whole: Both warriors and farmers have grown fat on warped desires and adopted the customs of townspeople and idlers. It appears that those following the straight path will soon become extinct. Those who remain all ignore the will of the gods and buddhas and turn their backs on the Way of Heaven; surely they will soon be struck by Heaven’s punishment. (p. 135) 118 mark teeuwen

The wasteful extravagance and greed for profits of the rich townsmen is at odds with the principles of the Way of Heaven and is loathed by Heaven. The gods and buddhas, too, must abhor it. This is where the method for transforming the state must lie. If such enlightened reform (kakumei 革命) comes too late, we will surely be struck by heavenly calamities and earthly disasters. (p. 287) It is striking that in many passages, including those quoted here, Buyō refers to the “Way of Heaven” and “the buddhas and the gods” in one breath. The benevolence ( jin) of the former and the mercy ( jihi) of the latter are repeatedly equated with each other. This is all the more striking because Buyō condemns Buddhism as incompatible with the military Way even if it were not corrupted by priestly greed (p. 401; see Teeuwen 2010). The tentō texts share this negative view of Buddhism and contrast those who follow the Way of Heaven to those who try to compensate for their faults by offering prayers and “bribes” to the buddhas and the gods.10 In one striking instance, Buyō even combines a tirade against Buddhist priests with an appeal to “the Way of Heaven and the buddhas and gods”—in combination: If those millions of evil-doers [that is, Buddhist priests—MT] are left to conduct their business as they do today, surely both the Way of Heaven and the buddhas and gods will abandon us. This would be the cause of great disasters in the realm. It is a most frightful matter. If only this evil is reformed and the law restored, the Way of Heaven and the buddhas and gods will illuminate us, shower us with their compassion, and resume their protection of the realm. Then, this evil world will be transformed into a good world, the seven misfortunes of death will turn into the seven fortunes of life,11 and our land will be like a Pure Land where all sentient beings are filled with faith. (p. 172) It is in passages like this one that Buyō reveals the rhetorical nature of his invocations of Heaven’s punishment. Elsewhere, he has offered nothing but disdain for the abilities of buddhas and gods to benefit the realm, suggesting, for example, that they must have disappeared altogether from this world, since they have failed to punish the corrupt priests who use them for their own immoral aims (p. 153). Coming on the heels of a long tirade not only against greedy priests but even against the very notion of calling for divine assistance in worldly affairs, Buyō’s claim that the “bud-

10 NST 28, p. 249 (Kana seiri); p. 262 (Shingaku gorinsho); p. 294 (Honsaroku). These texts agree with Buyō in using jin and jihi as synonyms (e.g., Honsaroku pp. 283–4; Shin- gaku gorinsho p. 257). 11 This is a famous phrase from the Ninnō-kyō. the way of heaven in 1816 119 dhas and gods will . . . resume their protection of the realm” sounds almost cynical. If Buyō is so disingenuous in his invocations of the buddhas, this indicates some ambiguity in his attitude towards the Way of Heaven too. This is not to say that Buyō was a complete sceptic who did not believe in otherworldly interventions in our world. As a concrete case of heavenly punishment, Buyō mentions the zatō 座頭, blind persons who acted as semi-official moneylenders under the protection of the shogunate (cf. Groemer 2001). Buyō singles out these blind moneylenders as particularly brazen followers of the perverted Way of greed: There are many in the world who suffer defects in their five extremities, but the first among cripples are the blind. They are ignorant of the bright- ness of the sun, moon and stars, and unable to see the faces of their father and mother. By birth, they are profoundly affected by the wrath of Heaven. There are no creatures among the birds and beasts, or even among fish, reptiles and insects, that do not have eyes, and none among them are blind. Yet for some reason there are many blind among humans. Perhaps this is because some humans have a fickle disposition, while others are sincere. When we test the disposition (ninjō) of the blind, we find that they are all stubborn, selfish and, most notably, cruel. They are filled with the desire to deceive and swindle people, and are completely unable to take an interest in the concerns of others. They do not believe in the sincerity of others, and suspect all honesty to be a deceit designed to trick them—for ill doers are ill deemers. One may think that they have become so suspicious and selfish because they are unable to see, but that is not the case. Even normal people who are cruel and stubborn lose their eyesight when they reach middle age. Thus we know that these are people who have allowed themselves to grow slack in their disposition to an extreme degree, and who have suffered the ultimate punishment of Heaven as a result. (pp. 187–188) The blind embody the worst perversion in the whole of nature: Heaven has afflicted its “ultimate punishment” on them by taking the light from their eyes so that they may not even know the faces of their parents. In a similar vein, Buyō states that a merchant who drove one of his debtors to suicide became blind as a result (p. 240). Buyō, then, may be ambiguous about Heaven’s role in ordering society, but he does not deny its powers.

Criticism of the Way of Heaven as a personalised divinity

Buyō’s ambiguity is expressed in two ways. One has to do with the question of Heaven’s morality; the other with the danger of relying on otherworldly forces in governing the realm. Rather than speculating about the possible actions of Heaven in our world, Buyō is critical of those who rely 120 mark teeuwen on Heaven in a “religious” manner. While the Way of Heaven may well exist, one should not count on it to act on behalf of the virtuous and put things right. It may well be that Heaven punishes sinners, but no ruler should depend on Heaven’s powers to maintain order. In some places, Buyō comes close to denying the functioning of Heaven as a moral agent in the world: The Way of Heaven shines on eras of turmoil as it does on times of order. People commit heinous crimes such as assassinating their lords or murder- ing their parents and brothers in full view of the sun and moon, and yet these do not cloud over. (p. 427) As in the passage quoted earlier (“when order reaches its ultimate, things fall into disorder—this is the norm of the Way of Heaven”; p. 448), Heaven appears here as an indifferent force of nature that causes changes to occur, but not necessarily on the basis of moral principles. If the “Other World,” including the Way of Heaven, the buddhas and the gods, is not by definition moral, prayer becomes a questionable practice. After all, if only they are skilfully wooed, divine beings will accept even prayers that are motivated by greed and that cause harm to others, “lending support to evil intentions, conniving with evil people, and encouraging evil deeds” (p. 428). If the Way of Heaven and the Way of the buddhas are allowed a free rein, who knows what degree of havoc they will wreak in the world. The temple and shrine priests of the present time, as I said above, turn the buddhas and gods into saleable objects and behave in an extremely evil, immoral way. Yet they do not incur retribution; on the contrary, they obtain bountiful rewards. They thus increase their evil deeds and become ever more proud and arrogant. How could one count the slightest iota on gods and buddhas that are used in this manner, as the tools for deeds of evil and arrogance? When leaders in the past have destroyed the state, it was with the assistance of the gods and buddhas. (p. 428) In the end, no ruler can rely on punishments dispensed by Heaven or the “Other World” (myōbatsu 冥罰). The gods appear to turn man to evil first (by hearing his prayers), only to inflict punishment on him after the fact. Unless the Way of Heaven, the buddhas and the gods can lead people to goodness before they commit evil acts, they are of no use whatsoever in ruling the realm. Buyō, then, criticises those who rely on otherworldly powers, be they Heaven, the buddhas or the gods, because he has doubts about their moral nature. Here, he diverges radically from the tentō literature, whose basic tenet was that morality is constituted by the “fundamental mind” the way of heaven in 1816 121

(honshin 本心) of the Way of Heaven, which pervades both the world and man himself. In a move that reminds one of Ogyū Sorai, Buyō bypasses questions of morality and instead focuses on the maintenance of a regulatory system (seido 制度) of control. Moreover, in Buyō’s view this system depends ultimately on military power and its ability to reward and punish. While “there is no denying that miracles do occur,” one cannot depend on otherworldly powers to pacify the realm; only the military Way can achieve that, because only that Way is morally consistent in its use of punishments and rewards (p. 161). In the end, Buyō argues, otherworldly forces cannot govern human beings; only humans can do that. “Whether the age is good or bad, whether things are in accord with Heaven’s Way or not, whether karmic responses are good or bad, whether Heaven or the buddhas and gods of the Other World take punitive action or not—all this depends on the fundamentals of the Way of government”: Since all blessings and all miseries alike have their source in what people do, the ruler of the state should himself establish a strict system for reward- ing good and punishing evil, acting on behalf of Heaven and before Heaven does, on behalf of the deities and buddhas and before the deities and buddhas do, thereby ensuring that the people of the world do good and receive blessings. (p. 429) The correct way to relate to Heaven, then, is not to rely on its divine powers, but to engage in the very human practice of benevolent government, achieved by establishing a firm “system” of military control.

The military Way

Control, in Buyō’s mind, cannot be based on lofty ideas but only on decisive action on the part of a warrior class that inspires respect and fear. All teachings that hamper the effective use of warrior force, even if they are in accord with the Way, are at odds with the higher goal of establishing peaceful government. In places Buyō shows glimpses of a deep frustration with Confucianism: In the old days, a warrior who was duped immediately cut down the swindler and left his body by the wayside; therefore people feared warriors. Nowadays, however, if a warrior were to cut down a swindler, the servile argument would be made that this warrior was at fault for having dealings with such a lowlife in the first place, and the world would not approve of his act. Even the shogunate (kōhen 公辺) has become so cowardly that it always seeks to deal with matters of right and wrong in the most discreet manner 122 mark teeuwen

possible. Townspeople, idlers and even farmers mock warriors, and today it is not uncommon for warriors to succumb to their intrigues. Warriors’ hands are tied because the shogunate in its judgments consistently ignores the military Way and gives priority to the servile ways of Confucianism. Since this is a fearful matter (osore areba 恐れあれば) I will not say anything more about it. (pp. 53–54) The “fearfulness” that makes Buyō decide not to pursue this line of reasoning any further can be understood in the context of the Kansei reforms (1787–93), which, among other things, elevated Song Confucianism to the status of official orthodoxy, and even introduced a system of Chinese- inspired examinations for shogunal officials and their sons (gakumon ginmi 学問吟味, 1792).12 The same reforms included a clampdown on extravagance and “moral laxity” that must have been more to Buyō’s taste, but that also triggered a strict censorship, bringing trouble to many authors and publishers. Of course, depending on his social position and status (of which we know nothing), Buyō may have had to worry about other repercussions as well if he were to be branded as a critic of shogunal policy. Rather than criticizing Confucianism outright, Buyō chose the strategy of contrasting it to the military Way. What the world needs now, he argues, is not sophistry (rikutsu 理屈) but aggressive action, an outright attack (kōgeki 攻撃) on “the evil committed by those who disobey the laws of the successive generations of shoguns.” In carrying out this attack, we should use neither the Confucian Way nor the Buddhist Way. Instead, to restore the world to order we should rely on the military Way that secured order to begin with. Nowadays even those few people who grasp something of the principles of the military Way out- wardly emphasize the moral obligations (giri 義理) of the Confucian Way, while underneath they mix it with Buddhist ideas. But under the present circumstances it will be impossible to restore things to their original state by relying on the soft and weak methods of so-called benevolent government . . . Many Confucians have lamented the fact that after two hundred years of rule under the present [Tokugawa] house, the customs of the world have become crooked and the excellent laws established by that house are breaking down. They have given their various readings of the situation and advanced countless proposals to the shogunate on the Way of governance, but none proved to be of any use. (p. 433)

12 See, however, Kiri Paramore’s essay in this volume on the open nature and limited impact of this orthodoxy. the way of heaven in 1816 123

As such proposals by “Confucians,” Buyō refers explicitly to works by Kumazawa Banzan (Daigaku wakumon 大学或問, 1687), Ogyū Sorai (Taiheisaku 太平策 and Seidan 政談, 1726–27), Arai Hakuseki (no titles given), Dazai Shundai (Keizairoku 経済録, 1729), Motoori Norinaga ([Hihon] Tamakushige 秘本玉くしげ, 1787), and two memorials submitted to the shogunate by way of the meyasubako box in Edo, by Yamashita Kōnai in 1721 and Uezaki Kuhachirō in 1802.13 However, in Buyō’s eyes, none of these goes beyond preaching Confucian virtues, and thus they remain unable to “restore the fundamentals of the state and bring peace to the people,” because that aim can only be achieved by means of the military Way (p. 434). Characterizing all these authors as intellectuals who do their studies “sitting at a desk,” he compares their writings unfavourably with the less scholarly Honsaroku: “The purport of what Honda Masanobu has to say in Honsaroku comes very close to hitting the mark on the military Way. Masanobu may have been unlearned, but since he was accomplished in this great Way, the Confucian scholars mentioned above are no match for him” (p. 434). Buyō even goes so far as to direct explicit criticism at the Kansei reforms for being ineffective: these reforms “did no more than enforce stricter etiquette, and caused even more imbal- ance between rich and poor, right and crooked.” These reforms, Buyō implies, were too concerned with Confucian principles and thus departed from the military Way of decisive action. Only an “attack” based on the “great Way of the realm,” he concludes, can save the state from incurring Heaven’s punishment (p. 435). Of course, Buyō’s assessment is quite unfair, and in fact many of his more analytical arguments derive from the authors whom he treats with disdain in this passage. One modern commentator (Takigawa 1966, pp. 39–42) proposes that Buyō was particularly indebted to the memorials of Yamashita and Uezaki, and even offers the hypothesis that Buyō may have intended also his own work as a (seriously oversized) memorial, which he disseminated in manuscript form in the hope that his talents would be recognized by someone who could offer him a position. There are indeed many similarities between Seji kenbunroku and, especially, the 1802 Uezaki memorial. Both raise similar issues (corruption,

13 Daigaku wakumon: Dialogues on the Great Learning. Taiheisaku: Plan for an age of great peace. Seidan: Discourses on government. Keizairoku: Economic annals. Hihon tamakushige: Secret book of the jewelled comb box. The meyasubako or “guide box” was placed at an entrance to Edo castle in 1721 with the express purpose of inviting opinions from “the people.” 124 mark teeuwen economic hardship caused by fluctuations in the price of rice, the com- mercialization of the countryside, the practice of adopting sons-in-law for economic reasons, gambling, prostitution, and more); even more significantly, they phrase their solutions in similar terms. Uezaki, who was not a “scholar” but a samurai of modest status, accuses the former bakufu leader Tanuma Okitsugu (1719–88) of being “lacking in the Way of benevolence” and of pursuing private gain; under his regime, people grew accustomed to flattering and bribing their way through life (NKT 20, p. 487). As a result, Uezaki quips, “warriors have become like townsmen; townsmen mimic warriors; and farmers detest tilling the soil, hate the countryside and leave for the cities” (p. 488). Edo, however, is a place of evil “customs” ( fūzoku), where people fall into sinful extravagance and turn into idlers (yūmin) who “feed off the realm” (tenka no mudakui 天下のむだ喰, p. 494). The root of all problems, Uezaki concludes, is that “all intimacy between those above and those below has been lost” because of endemic corruption, and that those below “are not fearful enough” to cease their deception of the warrior regime. The government must treat the populace with “benevolence and affection” by making rice and money available to them, and at the same time “establish a system of control (seido) and dis- pense punishments and rewards correctly” (p. 500). Then, the principle that “Heaven and man are one” will ensure that Yin and Yang will once more be in harmony, the five grains will again yield plentiful harvests, and the realm will enter a new sacred age (p. 501). Buyō and Uezaki, who may well share a similar background as middle- ranking bushi, have a great many concepts in common. Yet Buyō distances himself from his contemporary Uezaki, and rather identifies himself with the Honsaroku of two centuries earlier. What connects Buyō with Honsaroku, and contrasts his work with Uezaki’s memorial, is Buyō’s extensive use of the phraseology of the tentō texts.

Tentō idiom in 1816: What did it mean?

As noted above, terms associated with the tentō literature of the seventeenth century remained popular throughout the rest of the Edo period. This is not to say, however, that they continued to carry the same connotations. In Buyō’s 1816 work, tentō retains some of its seventeenth-century meanings: it still appears as a supreme deity rather than an abstract principle, and it is still associated with benevolent rule. The differences, however, are greater than the similarities. The tentō texts of the seventeenth the way of heaven in 1816 125 century all gave tentō an ontological status beyond busshin 仏神, the buddhas and gods. Honsaroku, for example, states: “Tentō is not a god nor a buddha; it is the lord of heaven and earth and has no form” (NST 28, p. 277). Buyō, on the other hand, treats both as beings of the same order. As a result, the tentō texts’ critique against Buddhist prayer becomes applicable also to tentō itself. At the same time, tentō’s association with “buddhas and gods” casts doubt over Heaven’s moral qualities. Of course, the ontological nature of morality was one of the main issues of scholarly debate during the eighteenth century. Scholars of the Kogaku (Ancient Learning) and Kokugaku (Japanese Learning) schools alike disputed Neo-Confucian notions of the Way as a static principle that endowed both the world and mankind with inherent morality. Even beyond the circles of elite scholarship, there was a move away from time- less immanentism towards a focus on historical change, and from an obsession with the mind and its basis in Heaven to a more pragmatic interest in institutions and political action. When Buyō doubts the moral nature of Heaven and warns against reliance on its corrective powers, the intellectual distance between seventeenth-century tentō thought and his nineteenth-century social critique becomes apparent. It will be clear that primers of Neo-Confucian morality such as Shingaku gorinsho and Kana seiri were utterly irrelevant to Buyō’s agenda. To Buyō the inclusion of both these texts and Honsaroku and Tōshōgū goyuikun in a single genre (“tentō thought”) would have been meaningless. His stress on the primacy of the military Way may resonate with Honsaroku and Tōshōgū goyuikun, but is utterly alien to Shingaku gorinsho and Kana seiri.14 While Buyō’s concept of tentō may differ rather radically even from that in Honsaroku, the fact remains that he draws on tentō idiom rather extensively—more so than, for example, Uezaki. This brings us to the question how Buyō’s usage of such idiom may be interpreted. The approach to tentō thought proposed by Boot (2002) would suggest that this choice of terminology characterizes Buyō as a semi-intellectual figure lacking in knowledge of Confucian dogmatics. Seji kenbunroku indeed leaves little

14 One example of an anecdote that is taken from Tōshōgū goyuikun is the story of Ieya- su’s reaction to the theft of a carp on p. 378. Another (from the sequel Goyuikun furoku) is the tale of Ieyasu’s deathbed order to confiscate the holdings of the profligate daimyo Fukushima Masanori (p. 421). There are explicit references to Honda Masanobu and Hon- saroku on p. 438 and, as we have seen, p. 434. 126 mark teeuwen doubt that Buyō was not a professional Confucian intellectual; but might there be more to it? While Buyō may not have been a scholar, the literature to which he refers is nonetheless impressive enough to suggest that he was an educated man who had the means, connections and intellectual ability to gain access to and digest the works of such intellectuals as Banzan, Sorai, Hakuseki, Shundai and Norinaga. His own criticism of those who rely on the Way of Heaven as a personalised deity may be read to imply that he was not as naively unaware of more orthodox views of Heaven as some of his rhetoric suggests. This leads me to hypothesise that his use of tentō idiom was consciously designed to signal a particular stance on political issues. By harking back to the straightforward bluntness of seventeenth- century tentō texts like Honsaroku, Buyō distanced himself from the “cowardly” policies of his day, which, in his view, prioritised cautious reliance on Confucian-style formalities over active use of the military Way. By referring to the Way of Heaven, Buyō made it clear that he stood for the values of hands-on activists who did not hesitate to “attack” society’s para- sites; disdain for the finer points of Confucian (and, of course, Buddhist) metaphysics was one of those values. Buyō’s yearning for the clear-cut simplicity of such texts from the Tokugawa regime’s Golden Age can be understood as a reaction against the stifling “sophistry” of the post- Kansei years, which, in his view, paralysed the warrior class and prevented warriors from taking decisive action against the corruption of their own time. As we have seen, tentō discourse had served as a vehicle for protest against the authorities already in the seventeenth century. Buyō’s tentō rhetoric, then, may well have appeared more alarming than naive to the bushi leaders who came across his manuscript in the last decades of the Edo period.

References

Aoki Michio 青木美智男 (1998). Seji kenbunroku no sekai 『世事見聞録』の世界. Rekishi to chiri 歴史と地理 519. Boot, W.J. (2002). Tentô ou la Voie du Ciel. In: Frédéric Girard, Annick Horiuchi, and Mieko Macé, eds, Repenser l’ordre, repenser l’héritage: paysage intellectuel du Japon, XVII e–XIX e siècles. Genève: Librairie Droz. De Bary et al., eds (2005). Sources of Japanese Tradition: 1600 to 2000. Second edition. New York: Columbia University Press. Groemer, Gerald (2001). The guild of the blind in Tokugawa Japan. Monumenta Nipponica 56 (3). the way of heaven in 1816 127

Koselleck, Reinhardt (1972). Einleitung. In Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe I. Otto Brunner, Werner Conze and Reinhardt Koselleck, eds, pp. xii–xxvii. Stuttgart: Ernst Klett Verlag. Nakai, Kate Wildman (1987). Review of Tokugawa ideology: early constructs, 1570–1680 and Kinsei Nihon shakai to Sōgaku. Journal of Japanese Studies 13 (1). NKT (Nihon keizai taiten 日本経済大典) 20. Takimoto Seiichi 滝本誠一, ed. Tokyo: Keimeisha (1929). NST (Nihon shisō taikei 日本思想大系) 28. Ishida Ichirō 石田一良 and Kanaya Osamu 金谷治, eds. Fujiwara Seika, Hayashi Razan 藤原惺窩・林羅山. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten (1975). Ooms, Herman (1985). Tokugawa ideology: early constructs, 1570–1680. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Seji kenbunroku 世事見聞録 (1816). Iwanami Bunko 33-048-1. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994. Takigawa Masajirō 滝川政次郎 (1966). Kaisetsu 解説. In: Seji kenbunroku. Seia sensho 14. Tokyo: Seiabō. Teeuwen, Mark (2010). Priests, money and women: religion in Seji kenbunroku. Netherlands- Japan Review 1 (2). Available on-line at http://magazine.sieboldhuis.org. Uezaki Kuhachirō jōsho 植崎九八郎上書 (1802). Nihon keizai taiten 日本経済大典 20. Tokyo: Keimeisha 1929, pp. 487–501. Wakao Masaki 若尾政希 (2001). Tōshōgū goyuikun: Goyuikun no shisōshiteki kenkyū josetsu 『東照宮御遺訓』:『御遺訓』の思想史的研究序説. Hitotsubashi Daigaku kenkyū nenpō 一橋大学研究年報 39. —— (2002). Honsaroku no keisei: Kinsei seidōsho no shisōshiteki kenkyū 『本佐録』の形成 : 近世政道書の思想史的研究. Hitotsubashi Daigaku Kenkyū Nenpō 一橋大学研究年報 40. —— (2004). Kinseijin no shisō keisei to shomotsu: kinsei no seiji jōshiki to shoshutai no keisei 近世人の思想形成と書物 : 近世の政治常識と諸主体の形成. Hitotsu bashi Daigaku kenkyū nenpō 一橋大学研究年報 42. Watanabe Hiroshi 渡辺浩 (1985). Kinsei Nihon shakai to Sōgaku 近世日本社会と宋学. Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai. New extended edition, 2010.

The History and Miraculous Efficacy of the BLACK AMIDA: Its significance for Zōjōji and its role in the diffusion of Tokugawa myths

Marc Buijnsters

In order to curb increasing anti-shogunate sentiments incited by proponents of the “Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians” (sonnō jōi 尊王攘夷) movement, which had been fuelled by the signing of the Ansei Treaties in 1858, shogun Tokugawa Iemochi 徳川家茂 (1846–66) departed from Edo Castle on the thirteenth of the second month of 1863 to travel in great procession to the imperial court in Kyoto. It was the first time since Tokugawa Iemitsu 徳川家光 (1604–51) that a shogun made a trip to the capital, but apparently Iemochi’s support of the Union of Court and Shogunate Movement (kōbu gattai undō 公武合体運動) was necessary. In her diary, princess Kazunomiya Chikako 和宮親子 (1846–77), a younger sister of Emperor Kōmei 孝明天皇 (1831–67) and Iemochi’s consort since the previous year, writes that after Iemochi’s departure, she practised for seven consecutive days the ohyakudo 御百度 ritual in front of a talisman of the Kuro Honzon 黒本尊 (Black Amida icon)1 of Zōjōji 増上寺 to pray for her husband’s safe return.2 During his short life, Iemochi would travel to the capital two more times: again at the end of 1863, and in the first month of 1865. On both of these occasions, Kazunomiya prayed for her husband’s safety by venerating the Black Amida through the ohyakudo ritual.3 Ohyakudo (hundredfold pilgrimage) refers to a pilgrimage to a shrine or temple that extended to a period of one hundred days for the purpose of praying to a kami or buddha. In Kazunomiya’s case, the ritual focused on a tablet (o-fuda 御札) of the Black Amida that was placed on an altar

1 In early modern Japanese sources, this icon is referred to as either Kuro Honzon (Black [Amida] Icon), or as Kurō Honzon 九郎本尊 (Icon of [Lord] Kurō). According to these sources, the former designation came into use because the icon had a pitch-black hue due to the smoke of incense to which it had been exposed over the years; the latter designation derived from the legend that this icon had once belonged to the famous warrior Minamoto Yoshitsune 源義経 (1159–89) whose childhood name was Lord Kurō. 2 Seikan’in no miya gonikki 静寛院宮御日記 (Diary of Seikan’in no miya), vol. 2, pp. 142–45; Seikan’in is the name that Kazunomiya received when she took the tonsure after Iemochi had passed away. 3 Ibid., pp. 216–18, 317–20, 413–21. 130 marc buijnsters in a chamber of the inner palace, around which the princess walked a hundred times. What was the significance of this Black Amida icon? What role did it play in the history of the Tokugawa shogunate? And, what was in this respect the position of Zōjōji, Edo’s largest Pure Land temple? Before elab- orating on these and related questions in more detail, I will first briefly consider their relevance in a broader context. Soon after Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康 (1543–1616), founder of the Toku- gawa shogunate, had passed away, his son and successor Hidetada 徳川秀忠 (1579–1632), following the last will of his father, set into motion a process that resulted in Ieyasu’s deification as Tōshō Daigongen 東照大権現. One year after his death, Ieyasu was deified and enshrined at the Tōshōgū shrine in Nikkō 日光東照宮. This symbolized the religious and royal authority of the Tokugawa shogunate and legitimized its rule over the realm. As W. J. Boot and others have shown, a pivotal role in the process of Ieyasu’s deification was played by the Tendai priest Tenkai 天海 (1536–1643), founder of the Tōshōgū shrine.4 An indispensable instrument to strengthen and to perpetuate this religious and royal authority, was the creation of Tokugawa myths (Tokugawa shinwa 徳川神話). An exemplary text replete with such myths is Tōshōsha engi 東照社縁起 (History of the Tōshōgū shrine), written by Tenkai and others between 1636 and 1640. The Tōshōsha engi depicts Ieyasu, as the incarnation of a Buddha or bodhisat- tva who unified a country that had been torn by internal struggle. Although Ieyasu’s deification was based on the Tendai Shinto rites of Sannō Ichijitsu Shinto 山王一実神道 as expounded by Tenkai, both Ieyasu in his private life, and his ancestors, the Matsudaira clan 松平氏, had of old been devoted to the beliefs and practices of the Pure Land school. It is not strange therefore that, together with the composition of texts that propagated a Tendai style of “Tokugawa mythology,” similar texts but based rather on Pure Land thought were written as well: they identified Ieyasu with Amida or propagated the notion that Amida had bestowed on Ieyasu the rule of the realm. The most stunning appearance that figured in many of these texts was the Black Amida. When did the figure of the Black Amida first appear in textual sources? The earliest source that connects Matsudaira [Tokugawa] Ieyasu, most of the Tokugawa shoguns, and their ladies of the inner palace (ōoku 大奥)

4 Boot 1990 and 2000; for a review of the broader context in English: Sonehara 2006. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 131 with the faith in the Black Amida, can be dated to the time of the rebellion of the Mikawa Single-minded Leagues (Mikawa ikkō ikki 三河一向一揆) in 1563–64. During the three centuries that followed, a variety of Tokugawa myths were recorded in war chronicles, diaries, temple records, travelogues, and narratives (setsuwa 説話) that, either partly or in their entirety, centred on the history (engi 縁起) and miraculous efficacy (reigen 霊験) of the Black Amida. Despite its long history and the number and diversity of texts in which the Black Amida figures, studies about the significance of this icon remain scarce. This may be due to the fact that although some of those texts were already known several decades ago, the notion that the tales they contained were apocryphal has discouraged scholars from giving them any further consideration. Only recently, with a burgeoning interest in the significance of Tokugawa mythology, has scholarly attention to these texts emerged. From the perspective of popular faith in the modern era, the Black Amida has attracted attention on a more regular basis. The Black Amida is one of Japan’s so-called “secret Buddhas” (hibutsu 秘仏). The term hibutsu refers to a Buddhist image that, because of its sacred nature, is kept out of the public view. Only on rare occasions is the image put on public display (kaichō 開帳), both for religious and for economic purposes. Nowa- days, the Black Amida is displayed three days a year: on January, May and September the fifteenth. Nevertheless, such kaichō displays seem to have originated only sometime during the second half of the nineteenth century. A thorough understanding of how and why this happened, however, still remains like the proverbial terra incognita.5 The aim of the present essay is twofold: firstly, to present a survey of the textual history of the Black Amida based on the above-mentioned group of texts, and, secondly, to examine its significance: what function did this icon have for the Zōjōji community, what role did it play in the diffusion of Tokugawa myths, and, finally, in which forms did popular faith in the Black Amida manifest themselves during the late Edo period?

5 Gosenzo Jōdoshūmon goyuisho no koto 御先祖浄土宗門御由緒之事 (On the History of the Pure Land School and the Ancestors [of the Tokugawa Shogunate?]) contains a record from 1830 that refers to a recent situation in which Zōjōji applied to the bakufu for financial support. This leaves open the possibility that public displays of the Black Amida were originally motivated by financial reasons. 132 marc buijnsters

The Mikawa Rebellion and the Black Amida

The rebellion by the Single-minded Leagues in Mikawa province (the present-day eastern part of Aichi Prefecture) emerged in the fall of 1563, when armed adherents of the Shinshū Honganji 真宗本願寺 faction revolted against the rule of their feudal lord, Ieyasu. These armed followers belonged to the Honganji branch temples Honshōji 本證寺, Jōgūji 上宮寺, and Shōmanji 勝鬘寺 in the western region of Mikawa. One of the earliest accounts of the founding history of the Tokugawa clan, and arguably the oldest text that touches on the course of events during the Mikawa rebellion, is Mikawa monogatari 三河物語 (Tale of Mikawa, 1622) by Ōkubo Tadataka 大久保忠教 (1560–1639). According to Mikawa monogatari, the rebellion was triggered by a violation of Honshōji’s privilege: its territory, including its temple town ( jinaichō 寺内町), was exempted from taxes and the enforcement of law by the governor and his officials (shugoshi funyū 守護使不入). Ieyasu’s objective was to dissolve these vested rights and to bring the whole of his native province under his control. In the fall of 1562, a dispute arose between one of Ieyasu’s retainers and a merchant living in the temple town. Ieyasu sent an official to investigate this matter, who subsequently violated the jurisdiction of Honshōji. This led to a series of clashes that finally resulted in the defeat of the Single-minded Leagues after Ieyasu’s troops won several major victories during the first two months of 1564. Out of Tale of Mikawa, variant texts (ihon 異本) evolved that exclusively focused on the Mikawa rebellion as a whole. These variants started to appear in the second half of the seventeenth century. One of the earliest examples is Mikawaki ikō shūiroku 三河記異考拾遺録 (Record of Different Opinions about and Gleanings from Tales of Mikawa; hereafter: Shūiroku). Just like slightly enlarged later versions, i.e. Mikawa kuni monto hyōranki 三河国門徒兵乱記 (Record of the Rebellion by Armed Adherents in Mikawa Province) and Sanshū ikkōshū ranki 参州一向宗乱記 (Record of the Single-minded League Rebellion in Mikawa), Shūiroku contains numerous details about the Mikawa rebellion not to be found in Tale of Mikawa. One episode in Shūiroku that is of particular interest here concerns the account of a confrontation between Ieyasu and a league of Jōgūji at Sasaki on the fifteenth of the first month of 1564. On the evening of the fourteenth, two spies from the Kōga ninjutsu school were summoned by Ieyasu and ordered to sneak into the Jōgūji stronghold at Sasaki to light a fire. During their attempt, the two spies were discovered and captured. The next morning, when Sasaki rebels exposed the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 133 the spies’ heads at the prison gate, they were attacked and driven back by combatants of the Torii clan, who sided with Ieyasu. As soon as it became clear that the Sasaki rebels were going to counter-attack, the temple bell of Myōgenji 明眼寺 at nearby Kuwako was rung to alert Ieyasu at Okazaki Castle. Hastily, Ieyasu and his men departed for Sasaki, but on their way they were ambushed by rebels in the vicinity of Danshibatake. Ieyasu nar- rowly escaped and found sanctuary at Myōgenji. While auxiliary troops were sent from Myōgenji to chase the rebels away, Ieyasu prayed to the principal Buddha statue in the main hall for the subjugation of these rebels. This statue was an Amida sculpted by the famous Tendai priest Eshin sōzu 恵心僧都 (942–1017).6 Because his prayers were answered, Ieyasu developed deep faith in this Amida icon. Hereafter, on the twenty-fifth of the third month, Ieyasu sent a letter to the abbot of Myōgenji with the request to let him have Eshin’s Amida statue. After his request was granted, Ieyasu enshrined the statue in his private Buddha-hall at Okazaki Castle. Later, after Ieyasu’s death, this Amida icon was transfered to Zōjōji. This passage from Shūiroku concludes with the remark that “presently, it is the Buddha [statue] of the abbot’s quarters [of Zōjōji].”7 The credibility of this episode, at least with regard to Ieyasu’s request to Myōgenji to let him have their principal Buddha statue, can be ascertained by a document in Ieyasu’s hand.8 It contains a petition to Myōgenji dated 3rd month, 22nd day (no year), and bears Ieyasu’s signature (kaō 花押). Its authenticity has been confirmed and it has been dated 1565 or 1566.9 We should bear in mind, however, that in this petition Ieyasu refers to the statue as “Eshin’s Amida”; the sobriquet “Black Amida” was not in use yet. The central question here, then, is: at what time did this sobriquet come into use and, even more importantly, when did the history of the Black Amida in written sources actually start? The oldest extant manuscript of Shūiroku dates from 1694.10 Oda Kenshin, however, has convincingly argued that the original draft of Shūiroku must date from before Enpō 4 (1676). In the ninth month of that year the abbot’s quarters of Zōjōji were destroyed by fire and the Black Amida was barely saved from destruction.

6 Eshin sōzu is more commonly known as Genshin 源信. 7 Shūiroku, pp. 263–4. For a detailed analysis of this episode: Shingyō 1975, pp. 295–8. 8 Matsudaira Ieyasu shojō 松平家康書状 (Letter from Matsudaira Ieyasu), in: Myōgenji monjo 妙源寺文書 (Documents of Myōgenji), no. 77. 9 Nakamura 1958, vol. 1, pp. 82–83. 10 Andō 2002, p. 52. 134 marc buijnsters

Hereafter, the statue was first enshrined in the main temple hall, then it was placed in a temporarily constructed hall, the Gonendō 護念堂, and finally it was enshrined in the Gokokuden hall 護国殿 in 1761.11 Given that Shūiroku refers to the Black Amida as the Buddha statue of the abbot’s quarters, the origins of this text must antedate the fire of 1676. Oda’s suggestion that the written history of the Black Amida started with Shūiroku, however, would leave a gap of about one hundred years unaccounted for: the time between Ieyasu’s request to Myōgenji in 1565 or 1566, and the original draft of Shūiroku that supposedly was composed some time before 1676. In the next two sections, I will discuss two texts related to the Black Amida that in my opinion precede the original draft of Shūiroku.

The origin of Black Amida tales (1): Gyōyo Gen’ei oboegaki

According to various records, Gen’yo Zonnō 源誉存応 (1544–1620), the twelfth abbot of Zōjōji, became acquainted with Ieyasu when the latter moved to Edo in 1590.12 Because Daijuji 大樹寺, the family temple (bodaiji 菩提寺) in his native province Mikawa, was now too far away, Ieyasu designated Zōjōji as his new family temple. Hereafter, relations between Zonnō and Ieyasu further developed. Through Ieyasu’s efforts, the court granted Zōjōji the status of Imperial Prayer Temple (chokuganjo 勅願所) and the permanent authority to confer priestly ranks (eisenji 永宣旨). In 1610, again through Ieyasu’s mediation, the court conferred upon Zonnō the title of National Teacher (kokushi): Fukō Kanchi Kokushi 普光観智国師. Gradually, Zonnō’s senior disciples also became involved in the politico-religious schemes of their teacher and Ieyasu, in particular after the latter had retired to Sunpu Castle. Shōyo Kakuzan 正誉廓山 (1572–1625) and Sōyo Ryōteki 桑誉了的 (1567–1630), both future abbots of Zōjōji, were regularly invited to Sunpu to participate in religious debates. In 1614 they were dispatched by Zonnō to serve Ieyasu as army priests

11 Oda 2008, pp. 416–25; DZS, pp. 608–15. The Gonendō hall, which was built in 1729 at the expense of abbot Gakuyo Keikan 学誉冏鑑 (1653–1732), was renamed Gokokuden in 1749 and then moved to the rear of Zōjōji’s main temple hall. 12 Matsudaira sūsō kaiunroku 松平崇宗開運録 (Record of the Respectable Origin and Good Fortune of the Matsudaira), Ōkuwa 2000, pp. 45–46. Although Kaiunroku and similar texts contain various hagiographical stories about Ieyasu’s life and career, official documents that go back as far as 1591 attest to the relationship between Zōjōji and Ieyasu: DZS, pp. 42–53. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 135 during the Siege of Osaka, while another senior disciple, Gyōyo Gen’ei 暁誉源栄 (?–1618), acted as liaison. In 1999 Sonehara Satoshi introduced two hitherto unpublished manuscripts: Gyōyo Gen’ei oboegaki 暁誉源栄覚書 (Memoranda from Gyōyo Gen’ei; hereafter: Oboegaki)13 and Gubuki 供奉記 (Record of [my] Service).14 Oboegaki takes the form of a compilation in fourteen sections of Gen’ei’s memoranda of conversations between Ieyasu and Zonnō that show how, through Ieyasu’s support, the Zōjōji community developed during the Keichō period (1596–1615). It contains a short postscript by copyist Jikiyo Kakuen 直誉廓円 (?–1651), a disciple of Kakuzan, that is dated Kan’ei 8 (1631)/10/20.15 In the thirteenth section of Oboegaki, Zonnō states that there has been no clan with karmic ties to Amida as profound as those of the Minamoto. Then he elucidates his assertion to Ieyasu and his astonished retainers by referring to the example of Korehito (Emperor Seiwa, r. 850–880), who had won the struggle for the throne from his half-brother Koretaka thanks to Amida’s protection. In a similar way, so Zonnō concludes, Ieyasu had been able to bring peace to the realm because of the merits of his nenbutsu. It is well known that Ieyasu claimed descent from the Seiwa Genji, something that no doubt was meant to strengthen the royal nature of his authority. This theme of connecting Ieyasu’s lineage with that of the Seiwa Genji was elaborated in much more detail in later texts with extended histories of the Black Amida, such as Matsudaira sūsō kaiunroku 松平崇宗開運録 (Record of the Respectable Origin and Good Fortune of the Matsu- daira) and Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi 重修黒本尊縁起 (Revised History of the Black Amida; 1859–60). In Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi, this even resulted

13 Sonehara 1999, 2001. According to Sonehara, three manuscripts (two of them are dated 1867 and 1881, respectively) of this text are extant of which one bears the title Enzan hiroku 縁山秘録 (Secret Record of Enzan [Zōjōji]). Recently I discovered that the National Diet Library owns an undated manuscript titled Himitsuki Gen’ei oboegaki 秘密記源栄覚書 (Secret Record of Memoranda by Gen’ei) that has the same contents. 14 Five manuscripts of this text are extant. Variant titles are Kakuzan shōnin Ōsaka gubushiki 廓山上人大坂供奉私記 (Personal Record of Saint Kakuzan’s Service during the Siege of Osaka) and Keichō jūkunen fuyu no gojin Kakuzan shōnin shūchū nikki 慶長十九年冬御陳廓山上人袖中日記 (Saint Kakuzan’s Personal Diary of the Winter Cam- paign of 1614). 15 In his postscript, Kakuen states that Gen’ei’s memoranda consist of “secret government affairs” (sūmitsu no koto 枢密之事) and therefore had not been made public for one generation. This explains the word “secret” in the variant titles. Sonehara (2001, p. 16, footnote 5) states that, because of anachronisms, this text cannot date from Gen’ei’s lifetime. My hypothesis is that Kakuen was the editor of Gen’ei’s notes and that the text in its present form originated around 1631. 136 marc buijnsters in an emphasis on the trinity of the Seiwa Genji with their imperial background, the Black Amida that had been passed down in their lineage, and Ieyasu, descendant of the Seiwa Genji and present proprietor of the Black Amida. I will come back to this. An ur-version of this theme is presented in the preceding section of Oboegaki, in which Zonnō refers to the former Amida statue of Myōgenji as Kurōgimi no honzon 九郎君の本尊 (personal icon of Lord Kurō). He subsequently explains that Eshin sculpted this Amida icon at the request of Minamoto no Mitsunaka 源満仲 (912–997) of the Seiwa Genji branch. From Mitsunaka onwards, the icon was passed down in the lineage of eldest Minamoto sons. After the death of Yoshitomo 源義朝 (1123–60), his wife Lady Tokiwa Gozen 常磐御前 (1123–80) cherished the statue as a keepsake and daily practised the nenbutsu. When her son Lord Kurō (Yoshitsune 源義経 1159–89) was still called by his boy’s name, Ushiwaka- maru 牛若丸, she conferred the Amida icon on him. Later, on his way to Mutsu (the present-day Prefectures of Fukushima, Miyagi, Iwate, and Aomori), Yoshitsune stayed at the house of the village head of Yahagi in Mikawa. He fell in love with the headman’s daughter, Lady Jōruri ( jōruri hime 浄瑠璃姫),16 and when he continued his journey he left the Amida statue with her as a memento. Time passed, and when Lady Jōruri became a nun, she started to venerate this icon as the honzon of Lord Kurō. Then, for some reason ( yue arite), the icon was transferred to Myōgenji. Many years later, Myōgenji granted Ieyasu its Amida statue at the latter’s request.17

The Origin of Black Amida tales (2): Gubuki

The second text that was introduced by Sonehara, Gubuki, takes the form of a diary by Zonnō’s disciple, Kakuzan, covering the period that he and Ryōteki served Ieyasu as army priests during the Winter Campaign (Ōsaka fuyu no jin 大坂冬の陣) in 1614.18 The diary runs from the first of the tenth

16 Some time in the sixteenth century, the love affair between Lady Jōruri and Yoshit- sune was recorded in Jōruri hime monogatari 浄瑠璃姫物語 (Tale of Lady Jōruri). The story became part of the repertoire of minstrels who chanted popular stories to the accom- paniment of the shamisen. This style of chanting came to be called jōruri. 17 Sonehara 1999, pp. 91–93. 18 Various passages from Gubuki, including the tale about the Black Amida, have been incorporated in Tokugawa jikki 徳川実紀 (True Chronicles of the Tokugawa). Just like Oboegaki, Gubuki, too, contains a mixture of fact and fiction. Two entries in Sunpuki 駿府記 (The Sunpu Record, Keichō 19/12/1–4), and a letter in Kakuzan’s own hand dated the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 137 month to the nineteenth of the eleventh month, but is obviously incomplete.19 The diary describes the daily life and tasks of Kakuzan and Ryōteki, first at Sunpu Castle, then during their journey with Ieyasu’s troops on their way to Osaka. They are instructed by Honda Masanobu 本多正信 (1538–1616) who tells them that it will be their duty to safeguard the Black Amida icon, which they carry along in an oblong chest, and to perform daily services for Ieyasu’s ancestors. On the fifteenth of the eleventh month, the Winter Campaign starts. Ieyasu and Hidetada depart in their carriage from Nijō Castle in Kyoto and head for Osaka. Kakuzan and Ryōteki are ordered to follow Ieyasu’s trail. That evening, the troops are told that they will spend the night at Kizu 木津, but Ieyasu decides that he himself will move on to Nara with a small group of horsemen. A few miles from Kizu they suddenly hear gun- shots and next they are ambushed by a force of about one hundred horsemen that halts them. These men have been ordered by Sanada Nobushige (Yukimura) 真田信繁 [幸村] (1567–1615) to spy on Ieyasu’s troops. Ieyasu’s palanquin and his horsemen manage to work their way through the enemy lines, but they are pursued by Sanada’s men. Then, some of Ieyasu’s men, headed by Andō Naotsugu 安藤直次 (1555–1635) and Naruse Masanari 成瀬正成 (1567–1625), tighten their reins and, although they will meet certain death, turn back to face the enemy in order to guarantee Ieyasu’s safety. Suddenly, a warrior priest in black armor (kuroshōzoku no hōshimusha 黒装束の法師武者) appears and single-handedly attacks and scatters the enemy. Later that day, Ieyasu and his men safely reach Nara. In the evening, Ieyasu inquires who this black warrior priest might have been, but nobody can answer his question. Then he opens the miniature shrine in which the Black Amida is kept and discovers bullet marks on its body and mud on its feet. Ieyasu realizes that the black warrior priest that saved him that day had been none other than the transformation body (keshin 化身) of the Black Amida. Gubuki contains several other themes that deserve attention. On their way to Osaka, Kakuzan and Ryōteki are joined by Gen’ei—whose Oboe- gaki was discussed above—who has been sent by Zonnō to deliver a set

Genna 1 (1615)/5/11 (Zōjōji komonjo 増上寺古文書, Documents of Zōjōji no. 94), suggest that Kakuzan indeed served as an army priest during the Siege of Osaka. 19 According to the postscript by Myōyo Kakuei 明誉廓瑩 (?–1695), dated Genroku 5 (1692)/8/15, the second fascicle of this diary was lost after he had lent it to his colleague Kun’yo Jakusen 薫誉寂仙 (1644–1709) the previous year. 138 marc buijnsters of regulations (gohatto 御法度).20 Some of these concern the Black Amida, and the last one stipulates that in case the miraculous efficacy of the Black Amida manifests itself, they must immediately report this to their teacher. After the incident described above, Ieyasu orders Gen’ei to return to Edo and present to Zonnō the written report of his fellow priests. To the best of my knowledge, Gubuki is the only Black Amida-related text that contains this gohatto. Many of the later texts about this Amida icon, on the other hand, include some kind of phrase in which Zonnō’s disciples are instructed to immediately report to their teacher in case the miraculous efficacy of the Black Amida should manifest itself. This suggests that already during the early seventeenth century, the auspicious qualities of the Black Amida were deemed important by Zōjōji’s inner circle. When it becomes clear to Ieyasu that the Black Amida saved his life, he decides to hold a service for his personal icon. He orders confectioner Shioze Yamashiro 塩瀬山城 to provide him with dumplings (manjū 饅頭). Using a helmet as an altar, Ieyasu and his men dedicate the dumplings to the Black Amida.21 According to several later sources, Shioze’s “helmet dumplings” (kabuto manjū) were since then offered annually to the Black Amida on the seventeenth of the fourth month.22 Sources from the side of the Shioze family, however, tell a somewhat different story: it was on the evening before the Battle of Nagashino broke out in 1575, that Rin Sōji 林宗二 (1497–1581) of the Shioze family in Kyoto provided Ieyasu with dumplings that were offered in a helmet to the army’s tutelary deity (gunshin 軍神), and hence were called kabuto manjū.23 In fact, there are even sources that suggest that the Shioze family was rewarded by Ieyasu after an incident during the Siege of Osaka, but neither of these sources contains any reference to the Black Amida.24 Whether fact or fiction, it seems that a connection between Zōjōji’s Black Amida and the Shioze family, indeed once existed: according to Shioze Gozaemon 塩瀬五佐衛門

20 Gohatto were sets of official regulations issued by the bakufu, consisting of prohi- bitions and commandments, directed at, among others, the Buddhist clergy. The set of regulations mentioned here is obviously apocryphal. 21 Sonehara 1999, p. 138. Shioze received the honorary title Yamashiro Daijō Fujiwara- shi 山城大掾藤原氏 from Emperor Go-Mizunoo 後水尾天皇 (r. 1611–1629): Kawashima 2006, pp. 74–75. 22 Gokokuden kuro honzon ryakki 護国殿黒本尊略記 (Abbreviated Record of the Black Amida of the Gokokuden Hall, composed between 1761 and 1782, in: Ōkuwa 2000, p. 84) and Ryaku engi 略縁起 (Abbreviated History, 1819) in San’enzanshi 三縁山志 (Record of San’enzan), p. 287. 23 Kawashima 2006, pp. 66–67. 24 Ibid., pp. 76–78. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 139

(1778–?), author of Rinshi Shioze Yamashiro denraiki 林氏塩瀬山城伝来記 (Record of Transmissions from Shioze Yamashiro of the Rin Clan, 1838), the Shioze received Zōjōji’s patronage as purveyors of manjū to be used for the daily offering services in front of the Black Amida icon.25 It is clear, then, that when it comes to the written history of the Black Amida during the period between Ieyasu’s request to Myōgenji in 1566 or 1567 and the original draft of Shūiroku (before 1676), we surely cannot speak of a complete void. Oboegaki was copied in 1631 and, in my opinion, composed at most a few years earlier. The earliest extant copy of Gubuki dates from 1692, but if this text indeed originated as Kakuzan’s diary of the Siege of Osaka, it must have been written between 1614 and 1625, the year that Kakuzan passed away. It is strange that almost no text about the Black Amida mentions the exact year in which the Black Amida was transferred from Edo Castle to Zōjōji. The exception to this is the above-mentioned Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi text, which states that this transfer took place in Kan’ei 7 (1630). Although there is no specific indication whatsoever, I wonder whether there is any connection between this transfer and the composition of Oboegaki. Oboegaki and Gubuki thus introduce two main themes, that is, two Tokugawa myths that are related to the Black Amida icon. One is the alleged link between the Seiwa Genji, Ieyasu, and the Black Amida icon. The second concerns the tale about the warrior priest in black armour who saves Ieyasu’s life during the Siege of Osaka, and who later turns out to be the transformation body of the Black Amida. Thereafter, both of these themes would further develop in their own ways.

From Zonnō to Yūten: Matsudaira sūsō kaiunroku

The first separate history of the Black Amida was published in 1712 as the final of four sections that, together with the biographies of Seiyo Gutei 勢誉愚底 (1445–1517), Tōyo Tenshitsu 登誉天室 (?–1574) and Zonnō, com- prised Jōshū gokokuhen 浄宗護国篇 (Volume on the Protection of the Country by the Pure Land School; hereafter: Gokokuhen).26 Recent research

25 Manuscript at the National Diet Library, p. 30B; Kawashima 2006, pp. 78–80. 26 This fourth section is titled Bushū san’enzan zōjōji amidabutsu reizōki 武州三縁山増上寺阿弥陀仏霊像記 (Record of the Miraculous Amida Statue at San’enzan Zōjōji in Musashino). Gutei was the first abbot of Daijuji, which was founded by Matsudaira Chikatada 松平親忠 (1431–1501) as the clan’s family temple. Tenshitsu was Daijuji’s thirteenth abbot and a contemporary of Ieyasu. 140 marc buijnsters by Ōkuwa Hitoshi and Hirano Toshinori has made clear that Gokokuhen actually amounts to a rearranged version of Matsudaira sūsō kaiunroku 松平崇宗開運録 (Record of the Respectable Origin and Good Fortune of the Matsudaira; hereafter: Kaiunroku). This latter text describes the history of the Matsudaira, how they were guided by the abbots of Daijuji in their faith in the Pure Land teaching, and how they were protected by Buddhas and kami. The most noticeable tenet of Kaiunroku, however, is the claim that it was Amida who conferred rule over the realm on Ieyasu (Mida tenka juyo 弥陀天下授与). Ōkuwa’s research group focused on the genesis of the unpublished Kaiunroku text, of which they surveyed no less than eighty-three different manuscripts. Their unravelling of the process in which a rudimentary text version developed and ultimately resulted in the extended version of Kaiunroku and, subsequently, in Gokokuhen, is to a large extent made possible by information found in the postscripts of these texts.27 According to the postscript of Gokokuhen, the oral transmission of its contents started with Zonnō who passed it on to his disciple Jōyo Zuiha 定誉随波 (1563–1635), after which it was handed down to Myōyo Dantsū 明誉檀通 (?–1674), and finally to Ken’yo Yūten 顕誉祐天 (1637–1718) who was the first to put it into writing.28 This lineage of transmission is sustained by the postscripts of the various Kaiunroku manuscripts. In addition, Ōkuwa cum suis also make clear that, initially, Kaiunroku amounted to a “biography of Ieyasu” (Ieyasu ichidaiki 家康一代記). Hereafter, further details were added by Yūten and in this way the text developed into a “family history of the Matsudaira clan” (Matsudaira ichiryūki 松平一流記). Matsu-shi kaiunki 松氏開運記 (Record of the Good Fortune of the Mat- sudaira), the oldest extant version (1699) of Kaiunroku that belongs to the initial Ieyasu ichidaiki stage of the text, contains some new themes related

27 Ōkuwa 2000, Hirano 2002. Variant titles of Kaiunroku are Matsudaira keiunki 松平啓運記 (Record of the Burgeoning Fortune of the Matsudaira) and Daiju kikeiroku 大樹帰敬録 (Record of [our] Reverence of and Reliance on the Shogun). Ōkuwa 2000 contains the texts of three manuscripts of Kaiunroku in its various stages, and of all postscripts; Ōkuwa and Hirano 2007 contains the oldest extant text, i.e. Matsu-shi kaiunki 松氏開運記 (Record of the Good Fortune of the Matsudaira). 28 Yūten is known as the priest who in 1672 liberated the young woman Kiku 菊 from the vengeful spirit Kasane 累, who had been murdered by Kiku’s father. This story was recorded and published in 1690 as Shiryō gedatsu monogatari kikigaki 死霊解脱物語聞書 (Verbatim Notes of a Tale about the Liberation of a Departed Spirit). the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 141 to the Black Amida.29 The most important one concerns Takeda Shingen 武田信玄 (1521–73), the famous warlord and adversary of Ieyasu, who orders a young and good-looking son of one of his retainers to take service with Ieyasu and to assassinate him. Soon thereafter, the youngster is taken into Ieyasu’s employment. One day, when Ieyasu is dozing after having drunk saké, a priest in black habit appears in his dream and admonishes him for having neglected his daily prayers. When Ieyasu asks where he comes from, the priest answers that he is the honzon of Myōgenji. After having a good look at this priest, Ieyasu realizes that he looks like a wooden statue of Amida. Then he awakens. He hurries to the family chapel to recite the nenbutsu. In the meantime, Shingen’s assassin enters Ieyasu’s sleeping room, but when he wields his sword he only cuts into Ieyasu’s nightclothes. On his way back, Ieyasu discovers the youth and has him arrested by his guards. After the assassin has confessed all, Ieyasu praises him for his bravery and, because it would be regrettable to put him to the sword, he sends him back to Shingen. Thereafter, Ieyasu visits Myōgenji and in exchange for a fief of fifty koku he obtains the Black Amida.30 Both the tale of the Takeda assassin and that of the black warrior priest who saved Ieyasu’s life at the Siege of Osaka can be found in most Kaiun- roku manuscripts and in later texts that elaborated on the Black Amida. Gradually, however, details were added and variations emerged. In the case of the tale of the black warrior priest, the date on which this incident occurred changed from the Winter Campaign (1614) to the fourth day of the fifth month of 1615, when the Summer Campaign (natsu no jin 夏の陣) began, while its location was now specified as Chausuyama 茶臼山.31 In the Gokokuhen, it is not Shingen but his son Katsuyori 武田勝頼 (1546–82) who figures as the villain that orders a young and good-looking assassin to kill Ieyasu. The most extensive history of the Black Amida, the previously mentioned Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi, even goes so far as to identify this

29 Ōkuwa and Hirano 2007, pp. 60–64; this manuscript, in possession of the Kariya Library, bears a postscript from 1699; a closely related text in Ōkuwa 2000, Matsu-shi keiunki 松氏啓運記, pp. 23–31, bears postscripts from 1704 and 1711. 30 Tokugawa jikki 徳川実紀 (True Chronicles of the Tokugawa), vol. 1, p. 290, quotes Kan’ei kikigaki 寛永聞書 (Verbatim Notes from the Kan’ei Period [1624–44]), an uniden- tified text, as the source of the story about a young assassin sent by Takeda Shingen to assassinate Ieyasu. Kan’ei kikigaki, however, does not contain any reference to the Black Amida. 31 Ōkuwa 2000, pp. 30, 49. Just as in Gubuki, these texts, too, contain the passage in which Kakuzan and Ryōteki are ordered by Zonnō to report immediately if something unusual occurs. 142 marc buijnsters youngster as Tsune no suke 常之助, the son of Katsuyori’s retainer Baba Nobuharu 馬場信春 (1515–75).32 A last example of an addition to this tale is Shinsho 紳書 (Book of a Gentleman, ca. 1725) by Arai Hakuseki 新井白石 (1657–1725). In this collection of scholarly notes, Arai dates the Takeda assassin tale to the Genki period (1570–73).33 According to the various Kaiunroku manuscripts and Gokokuhen, the Black Amida was transferred to Edo Castle after Ieyasu’s death. At the same time, a mausoleum for Ieyasu was built behind the main hall of Zōjōji, which was called Ankokuden 安国殿. In this sanctuary a wooden statue of Ieyasu was enshrined.34 As we will see, the intrinsic nature of the deified Ieyasu was later to be identified with that of Amida Buddha. Because his son Hidetada did not want the veneration of the Black Amida to be in the hands of laymen, he appointed the abbots of “the four Edo Pure Land temples” to perform daily services.35 During the rule of the third shogun Iemitsu, the Black Amida was enshrined at Zōjōji, probably, as I noted above, in 1630. Iemitsu himself seems to have been aware of the miraculous powers of the Black Amida as well. In his youth, he was attended by his wet nurse Kasuga no Tsubone 春日局 (1579–1643) and supplied in his personal needs by Gotō Nuinosuke Masukatsu 後藤縫殿助益勝 (1578–?), his master of draperies (gofukushi 呉服師). In gratitude for the latter’s help, Iemitsu wrote to Masukatsu: “May I be punished by the Black Amida if I ever forget your favours.”36 There can be no doubt that both in the composition of Kaiunroku and in the propagation of faith in the Black Amida, Yūten’s role was instrumental. On the twenty-seventh of the twelfth month of 1699, through the good offices of Keishōin 桂昌院 (1627–1705), mother of the fifth Tokugawa shogun Tsunayoshi 徳川綱吉 (1646–1709), Yūten was appointed abbot of Daiganji 大巌寺. Yūten had first met Keishōin four years earlier when she

32 Nobuharu had one son, Baba Masafusa 馬場昌房 (1538–82). I have not found any convincing evidence for “Tsune no suke” being Masafusa’s childhood name. 33 Shinsho, p. 343. This passage from Arai’s Shinsho is also quoted in the postscript of the Kaiunroku manuscript of Shinshiro Library (Ōkuwa 2000, p. 8). 34 Ōkuwa 2000, pp. 49, 69; Sonehara 2008, pp. 115–22. 35 Ōkuwa and Hirano 2008, pp. 63–64, 144. These temples are Tentokuji 天徳寺, Daiyōji 大養寺, Honseiji 本誓寺 and Seiganji 誓願寺. It is not clear to me why they are called “the four Edo Pure Land temples,” but probably it was because they functioned as furegashira 触頭 (liaison temples between the bakufu and lower-ranking temples). According to Matsu-shi kaiunki, Hidetada even had the Black Amida transferred to Tentokuji, for which it received 50 koku for offering expenses. I have found no evidence for this. 36 Mitamura 1997, p. 79; see also Gofukushi yuishogaki 呉服師由緒書 (Document on the History of Masters of Draperies), preface p. 12. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 143 visited Zōjōji to attend a sermon. From that year onwards, Keishōin visited Zōjōji once a year and always made sure that Yūten was present. In 1702, she visited Zōjōji’s Ankokuden and had Yūten give her a lecture on the history of the Black Amida.37 Yūten not only maintained good relations with Keishōin, but also with Tsunayoshi and, after him, shogun Ienobu 徳川家宣 (1662–1712). In the presence of Tsunayoshi and Keishōin, he lectured in 1704 at Edo Castle on Ieyasu’s faith in the Pure Land teachings and on the origin of the inscription onri edo gongu jōdo 厭離穢土欣求浄土 (Leave this defiled world and aspire to the Pure Land) on Ieyasu’s army banner.38 The history of this banner, incidentally, went back to the Battle of Okehazama in 1560. In this battle Ieyasu’s main ally, Yoshimoto Imagawa 今川義元 (1519–60), was killed. When Ieyasu heard of Yoshimo- to’s death he fled to Daijuji. There, on the verge of committing suicide, he was stopped by the abbot Tōyo Tenshitsu. Tenshitsu gave Ieyasu a sermon about his duties as a warrior and a banner on which he wrote the phrase onri edo gongu jōdo. Tenshitsu’s sermon is the core of the middle volume of Kaiunroku and concludes with the prediction that in the near future, Amida will bestow on Ieyasu the rule of the realm. After he had become the thirty-sixth abbot of Zōjōji in Shōtoku 1 (1711)/12/6, Yūten lectured to Ienobu on the history of the Matsudaira clan.39 In the tenth month of 1712 Ienobu fell ill. Yūten was summoned to Edo Castle and ordered to bring the Black Amida icon with him. While Yūten explained to Ienobu the history of the Black Amida, the shogun on his sickbed prayed for recovery, but on the fourteenth he passed away.40 Around the time of the first anniversary service, Ienobu’s consort Konoe Hiroko 近衛熙子 (1666–1741) summoned Yūten to come to Edo Castle with the Black Amida icon. On this occasion, Yūten conferred the dharma name Ten’ei-in 天英院 on her and lectured on the deceased shogun’s ancestors.41

37 Iwaya Shōjō 1999, pp. 150–58. 38 Based on postscripts to Matsu-shi koki 松氏古記 (Old Record of the Matsudaira Clan), Matsudaira keiunki, and a passage in Nakamura zakki 中村雑記 (Miscellaneous Records by Nakamura): Ōkuwa 2000, pp. 111–13; Hirano 2002, pp. 39–41, 46; Iwaya 1999, pp. 166–75. 39 Kaiunroku postscript of the Ōtani University manuscript (in Ōkuwa 2000). 40 See the section Danrin (Buddhist Seminary) of San’enzanshi vol. 10, p. 259 (JZ vol. 19). 41 Iwaya 1999, pp. 196–202; Zōjōji komonjo 268. 144 marc buijnsters

On the genesis of Tokugawa myths: A means to sanctify the ruling system, or Zōjōji’s response to a crisis?

The texts discussed so far all consist of a skilfully arranged mixture of historical facts and various clearly fabricated Tokugawa myths. In those texts that proclaim a causal connection between the establishment of Ieyasu’s rule as sovereign of the realm (tenkabito 天下人) and the protection and help he received in this respect from the Buddha Amida, the tales about the Black Amida stand out most. The point, however, is not so much to establish that these texts are indeed spiced with fabrications, but rather to ask why such tales were constructed in the first place. About this matter, two different theories have been proposed. Ōkuwa Hitoshi considers the genesis of this genre of texts as something that followed from Ieyasu’s deification process. According to Ōkuwa, it was during Iemitsu’s rule (1623–51) that the composition of such texts evolved as a means to strengthen and perpetuate shogunal authority and the regime’s legitimacy. Ōkuwa elaborates on Sonehara Satoshi’s thesis that the deification of Ieyasu was not a process that started only after Ieyasu’s death, but rather a carefully planned strategy initiated by Ieyasu himself during his lifetime. Between 1611 and 1615, more than one hundred and fifty religious debates (rongi 論義) were held in Ieyasu’s presence at Sunpu Castle. Priests of the various Buddhist schools participated in these debates, but gradually they came to be dominated by Tenkai’s lectures on Tendai doctrines. The occasion of these debates was in most cases recorded in Sunpuki 駿府記 (Record of Sunpu). This official record covers the period of Ieyasu’s life as retired shogun (ōgosho 大御所), and can be seen as an attempt to histori- cize Ieyasu’s administration. Through his supervising role in these debates, Ieyasu was able to create an image of himself as the wheel-turning sage king (tenrin jōō 転輪聖王), the ruler who possesses a buddha’s enlight- enment and abilities. In this way, these debates seem to have served as a preparatory ceremony for Ieyasu’s own deification. In his conclusion, Sonehara raises the question whether these debates were even a prerequisite to Ieyasu’s deification after his death.42 Altough Ieyasu’s actual deification as Tōshō Daigongen was achieved in 1617, Ōkuwa emphasizes that it was during Iemitsu’s rule (1623–51) that the significance of this deification was further promoted through attempts

42 Sonehara 1996, pp. 224–8. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 145 to vest the feudal political system itself with a religious sanctity. Iemitsu, who deeply venerated his grandfather, considered himself the royal descendant of Tōshō Daigongen who had bestowed on him the rule of the realm. In fact, Iemitsu even called himself the “second generation avatar” (nisei gongen 二世権現). It was at Iemitsu’s request that Tenkai and others composed Tōshōsha engi. The Zen priest Takuan 沢庵 (1573–1643), a contemporary of Tenkai and advisor of Iemitsu, wrote Riki sabetsu ron 理気差別論 (On the distinction between ri and ki) in which he characterized Tōshō Daigongen as a deity who showed compassion to all people equally. Texts that honoured Tōshō Daigongen by way of ancestor myths emphasizing his compassion, or that identified Ieyasu with Amida, emerged not only in the centre of shogunal power but also among Iemitsu’s retainers. Important examples of such texts are Inoue Kazue no kami oboegaki 井上主計頭聞書 (Memoranda from Inoue Kazue no kami) and the previously mentioned Mikawa monogatari.43 According to Ōkuwa, Kaiunroku was the final result of a process in which texts were written that combined historical facts with various fabricated Tokugawa myths. As I noted above, Kaiunroku is especially notable because of its claim that Amida conferred rule over the realm on Ieyasu. The oldest extant manuscript of Kaiunroku dates from 1699, and this text probably took shape during the Genroku period (1688–1704). A final matter that Ōkuwa tries to account for is the question why the claim that Amida conferred rule over the realm on Ieyasu only emerged during Tsunayoshi’s rule. He argues that a new problem emerged when the fourth shogun, Ietsuna 徳川家綱 (1641–80), passed away without leaving offspring. After some internal struggles Ietsuna was succeeded by Tsunay- oshi, but because of these succession problems the need was felt to recon- firm the sacred and royal authority of the Tokugawa rule. Ōkuwa suggests that this need was answered by, among other things, Kaiunroku’s tenet that Ieyasu was granted the right to rule by Amida.44 A second theory about the genesis of Tokugawa myths, in particular those myths that emphasize the close relationship between Amida and Ieyasu, has been proposed by Sonehara Satoshi. His thesis, partly based on studies by Urai Shōmyō, is related to Zōjōji’s status as family temple of the Tokugawa shoguns. This implied that Zōjōji was the burial ground of the shoguns and their immediate family. Yet after his death Ieyasu was

43 Ōkuwa 2002a, pp. 142–154. 44 Ōkuwa 2002b, pp. 555–7. 146 marc buijnsters first buried at Kunōzan 久能山, and after the first anniversary his remains were transferred to the Tōshōgū shrine at Nikkō. His successor Hidetada and Hidetada’s wife were both buried at Zōjōji. Two decades later, when he felt his end approaching, Hidetada’s successor Iemitsu surprisingly indicated that his funeral was to be held at Kan’eiji 寛永寺, and that he too wanted to be buried at Nikkō.45 This was not to everyone’s liking. In Danrin Koishikawa Denzūin 檀林小石川伝通院 (The Denzūin seminary at Koishikawa) we read that when Kakuen, the previously mentioned copyist or editor of Oboegaki, heard that Iemitsu’s funeral and burial would be performed by Tendai priests, he announced that since his temple was the shogun’s ancestral temple, he would go to the burial site and seize the shogun’s remains in order to bury them according to Pure Land practice. Yet, the evening before he and two helpers were to carry out this plan, Kakuen suddenly passed away.46 Three days after the fourth shogun Ietsuna had passed away, Itakura Shigetane 板倉重種 (1641–1705) and Matsudaira Shigeharu 松平重治 (1642–85), in their capacity as shogunal magistrates of temples and shrines (jisha bugyō 寺社奉行), informed Zōjōji’s abbot Kōyo Sen’ō 広誉詮雄 (1607–87) that according to his last will, Ietsuna would be buried at Kan’eiji. Sen’ō showed his displeasure and stated that rather than Iet- suna’s wishes, it was Ieyasu’s regulations that should be obeyed. Hereaf- ter, priests of Zōjōji and the eighteen Pure Land seminaries of the Kantō (Kantō jūhachi danrin 関東十八檀林) rallied to protest, but to no avail.47 Almost three decades later the same situation occurred again. When jisha bugyō Honda Tadaharu 本多忠晴 (1641–1715) visited Zōjōji to announce that Tsunayoshi had decided to be to be buried at Kan’eiji, abbot Tan’yo Monshū 湛誉門周 (1638–1720) and the head priests of the other Pure Land seminaries strongly protested. They asked Honda whether it had not been Ieyasu who had decreed that theirs was the shogun’s family temple? Had Honda come to destroy their temple? Tsunayoshi’s funeral

45 Iemitsu’s choice of Kan’eiji and Nikkō instead of Zōjōji is attributed to his disturbed relationship with his parents, who displayed a preference for his younger brother Tadan- aga 徳川忠長 (1606–34), and to Iemitsu’s reverence for Ieyasu and Tenkai: Urai 1983, pp. 20–49. 46 JZ 19, p. 678; Sonehara 2001, pp. 19–20. According to Chinryū soden 鎮流祖伝 (Trans- missions of the Chin[zei] branch; JZ 17, p. 483), Kakuen wanted his abbot Gyōyo Isan 曉誉位産 (1587–1652) to lodge a complaint, but when the latter did not consent, Kakuen committed suicide. 47 Sonehara refers to Gen’yūinden kiroku 厳有院殿記録 (Record of Gen’yūinden; c. 1680), ZSS 9, pp. 114–16. See also Urai 1983, pp. 50–51. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 147 and burial were, of course, held at Kan’eiji, but Zōjōji continued to lodge complaints with the bakufu. Three years later, Tsunayoshi’s successor Ienobu passed away. In accordance with his will he was buried at Zōjōji. From that point onwards, the Tokugawa shoguns were buried at Zōjōji and Kan’eiji alternately.48 Sonehara has suggested that, with the imminent loss of Zōjōji’s status as the shogun’s family temple, a sense of impending crisis about the position of their temple must have existed in the minds of priests like Kakuen and Yūten. Sonehara thinks it is conceivable that from this sense of fore- boding, texts like Kaiunroku, Oboegaki, and Gubuki were created. In my opinion, this second theory is more plausible because these texts were not written at the request of the bakufu, but rather were authored by priests from inside the Zōjōji community to protect and promote the position of their own school and temple.

A Literary and doctrinal elaboration of Black Amida themes (1725–1815)

Regardless of whether the composition of texts such as Oboegaki, Gubuki, and Kaiunroku [Gokokuhen] was instigated by people in or around the centre of shogunal power, or was prompted by a feeling of crisis on the Zōjōji side, until the second half of the eigtheenth century there are hardly any texts containing Black Amida themes that were written out of literary motives, or that aimed to propagate a more popular faith in the miraculous powers of this Amida icon. It seems that it was not until the beginning of the nineteenth century that Zōjōji made it possible for common people to come to their temple to venerate the Black Amida. Insofar as we do encounter literary texts that refer to the Black Amida, it seems likely that their authors had knowledge of Gokokuhen, which between 1710 and 1809 was printed no less than five times. Apart from the anonymous author of Shūiroku, Arai Hakuseki was probably the first outside the Buddhist clergy to write about the Black Amida. In his collection of essays, Shinsho (c. 1725), Arai discusses the Black Amida stories related to Minamoto Yoshitsune and Takeda Shingen, but he mistakenly assumes that the Black Amida originally belonged to the Matsudaira family temple in Mikawa, Daijuji.

48 Urai 1983, pp. 54–73; Sonehara 2001. p. 21. 148 marc buijnsters

A rather curious example of the popular use of a Black Amida theme can be found in Giō Gi’nyo kansen fūyōhen 祇王祇女勧闡風葉篇 (Volume on Recommending and Clarifying [the Tenet of ] Impermanence: [the Case of ] Giō and Gi’nyo, 1767) by fiction writer Ōe Bunpa 大江文坡 (?–1790).49 One of the edifying Buddhist tales in this text concerns Bunpa’s version of the story about Kogō no Tsubone 小督局 (1157–?), a court lady who, by winning the affection of Emperor Takakura 高倉天皇 (1161–81), excited the jealousy of the empress and the anger of the empress’s father Taira no Kiyomori 平清盛 (1118–81). She flees the palace to escape the latter’s ven- geance, but is caught by Nakahara Akisada 中原草定, one of Kiyomori’s retainers. At that moment, a giant wearing a skullcap and a black cos- tume (kuroshōzoku ni zukin o chakuseshi ōotoko 黒裳束ニ頭巾ヲ着セシ大男) appears from between the trees, grabs Kogō from Akisada’s hands, and takes her to the safe haven of Sadamune, one of her father’s retainers. When she asks who has saved her, the giant answers that he is Basan- baentei Shuyajin 婆珊婆演低主夜神.50 Then, her saviour suddenly disap- pears. Kogō is surprised because she has venerated a statue of Shuyajin, sculpted by Eshin sōzu, for many years. The similarity between the Black Amida, also sculpted by Eshin sōzu, who suddenly appears during the Siege of Osaka as a “warrior priest in black armour” (kuroshōzoku no hōshimusha 黒装束の法師武者) to save Ieyasu, and Bunpa’s Shuyajin as a saviour of Kogō, can be no coincidence. Another aspect that the small cult of Shuyajin, guardian deity of the night, and belief in the Black Amida have in common is that both are venerated to avert misfortune and calamities. In this respect, there is a striking similarity between Gokaiun o-mamori honzon kenshō kōgai 御開運御守本尊験証梗概51 (Outline of the Proven Efficacy of the [Kuro] Honzon that

49 Kyoto University edition, pp. 135–6; fūyō (windblown leaves) in the title is a metaphor for the Buddhist concept of impermanence. When he was in his forties, Bunpa started to write edifying tales related to the Pure Land teaching. Later, he wrote tens of works about, among other things, Taoist themes, divination, and ghost stories. 50 Basanbaentei Shuyajin (also read as Shuyashin) figures as the thirty-second spiritual friend of Sudhana in the Entry into the Dharma World chapter (nyū hokkai bon 入法界品) of the Flower Garland Sutra (Kegonkyō 華厳経). The oldest Japanese source in which Shuyajin figures is Abbreviated History of Dannō Hōrinji in Kyoto (Rakutō Dannō Hōrinji Shuyajin Ryaku Engi 洛東檀王法林寺主夜神略縁起), which describes how in Keichō 8 (1603) Shuyajin appeared in a halo of light before the Pure Land priest Ryōjō Taichū 良定袋中 (1552–1639) when the latter was practising the nenbutsu. 51 Variant title: San’enzan gokokuden kurō honzon kenshō kōgai 三縁山護国殿九郎本尊験証梗概 (Outline of the Proven Efficacy of the Kurō Honzon of Gokokuden at San’enzan, 1837). the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 149

Protects and Brings Good Fortune; late Edo period) and Shuyajin shuhō 主夜神修法 (Ritual of Shuyajin, unpublished). The former text, attributed to Ieyasu, contains a passage that refers to a document that Ieyasu kept at his family temple Daijuji. In this document, Ieyasu expresses his gratitude for having been rescued from the dangers of the Winter Campaign thanks to the benevolence of the Black Amida. Shuyajin shuhō, which also refers to the miracle that occurred when Ieyasu was ambushed at Kizu, uses exactly the same wording, only its author has changed the name “Black Amida” into “Shuyajin.”52 During this same period, several Zōjōji abbots composed texts about the Black Amida that reveal some doctrinal developments. In 1731 the thirty-ninth abbot Gakuyo Keikan 学誉冏鑑 (1653–1732) wrote Zōjōji Kuro Honzondō ki 増上寺黒本尊堂記 (Record of the Black Amida Hall of Zōjōji), in which he described Ieyasu as a unified manifestation of Buddhas and kami. This theme was further developed in texts that described the history of Ieyasu’s mausoleum, Ankokuden. Ankokuden o-miya go-yuisho nukigaki 安国殿御宮御由緒抜書 (Excerpts from the History of the Ankokuden Shrine, 1782), for instance, first explains that Daijuji abbot Tōyo Tenshitsu bestowed the sobriquet Ankokuden upon Ieyasu when the latter was nineteen years old. After having referred to the Sutra of Immeasurable Life (Muryōjukyō 無量寿経) as the source of the term ankoku (peaceful realm), the text continues with the explanation that Ankokuden is the essential body (honji 本地) of Tōshō Daigongen, and that the Black Amida is the essential body of Ankokuden: Buddhas and kami are in union with each other, essential body and manifest trace (suijaku 垂迹) are non-dual. In other words, this text advocates the unity of Amida and Ieyasu: they are, so to speak, two sides of the same coin.53 In his chronicle Yūreki zakki 遊歴雑記 (Miscellaneous Records of my Peregrinations, 1814), the Jōdo priest Taijō Keijun 大浄敬順 (1762–1832) dedicated separate sections to the history of the Black Amida and Ankokuden. He describes that priests of Zōjōji recite the Amida Sutra (Amidakyō 阿弥陀経) and the nenbutsu in front of the kami of Ankokuden. These practices are patterned after the service for this kami’s essential body (honjigu 本地供), that is the Black Amida.54

52 Nishida 1989, 1994; Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi (p. 167) contains the same passage as Gokaiun. 53 Sonehara 2008, pp. 115–25. 54 Yūreki zakki shohen, p. 175. 150 marc buijnsters

In addition to the shogun’s faith in and veneration of the Black Amida because of its capacity to avert misfortune and calamities, various texts of this period also describe how the shogun addressed prayers to this Amida icon of Zōjōji in the hope of being blessed with an heir.55 Because of his wish for a successor, the ninth Tokugawa shogun Ieshige 徳川家重 (1712– 61) asked Urao 浦尾, a senior lady of the inner palace, for advice. Urao passed Ieshige’s inquiry on to her confidant, the Jōdo priest Shōyo Shin- satsu 称誉真察 (1670–1745). Shinsatsu advised Ieshige to have permanent faith in the Black Amida and guaranteed that, as he himself would present Ieshige with a protective amulet, Ieshige’s concubine, O-Kō no kata お幸の方 (?–1745), would become pregnant. After Ieshige had indicated that his faith in the Black Amida was growing stronger since he had heard that this icon had benefitted Ieyasu’s fortune, Shinsatsu gave him an amulet that was consecrated with prayers offered in front of the Black Amida. As a result, O-Kō no kata became pregnant within thirty days and bore Ieshige a son, the future shogun Ieharu 徳川家治 (1737–86).

Expanding histories and unfolding popularization of the Black Amida (1815–85)

Between 1782 and 1884, about twelve different texts were written that, as indicated by their respective titles, contained either an extended or an abbreviated history of the Black Amida. Because it is beyond the scope of this essay to fully analyse and discuss the contents, correlations, and backgrounds of all these texts, I will confine myself to some noticeable characteristics. In the section on the Black Amida of the previously mentioned Yūreki zakki (1814), Keijun states that Zōjōji nowadays opens the doors (kaihi 開扉) of the hall where the Black Amida is kept and allows people to venerate this icon (p. 78). A similar statement can be found in Edo meisho zue 江戸名所図絵 (Illustrations of Famous Places in Edo, 1834), which speaks

55 The following story is based on Junshin’in-sama Kuro Honzon asobasare go-shinjin yakusho 惇信院様黒本尊被遊御信心訳書 (On the Circumstances that Lord Junshin’in (posthumous name of Ieshige) Developed a Mind of Faith in the Black Amida, 1782) and Junshin’in-sama Kuro Honzon asobasare go-shinjin Shunmyōin-sama go-tanjō go-yuisho no sōkō 惇信院様黒本尊被遊御信心浚明院様御誕生御由緒之草稿 (Outline of the Cir- cumstances surrounding the Birth of Lord Shunmyōin (posthumous name of Ieharu) [that was] Induced by Lord Junshin’in’s Mind of Faith in the Black Amida, copied by Taiyo Tenjō 岱誉典常 in 1820): Sonehara 2008, pp. 128–29. Both texts are in the possession of Zōjōji. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 151 about the possibility of venerating the Black Amida on the sixteenth of the first month and on the eighth and seventeenth of the fourth month. One of the most detailed sources about annual events in Edo during the Tokugawa period, Bukō nenpyō 武江年表 (Chronological Table of Edo), contains more than two thousand records of Buddha viewings (kaichō) that were held in this period. Yet, the first recorded public display of the Black Amida in this chronological table is dated 1872.56 Nenjū jōki benran 年中定規便覧, an old manual about annual events at Zōjōji dating from around 1814, does refer to prayer meetings (kigankai 祈願会) for the Black Amida, and even to the sending of protective amulets of the Black Amida to the senior ladies of the inner palace, but it remains unclear whether such prayer meetings were meant for the general public. Recently, I discovered that a three-page woodblock print about a public display of the Black Amida, bearing the inscription Nishikie Shiba Zōjōji Kuro Honzon kaichō no zu 錦絵芝増上寺黒本尊開帳之図 (Illustrated Colour Print of a Public Display of Zōjōji’s Black Amida), was published at the beginning of the Meiji period.57 I have found no convincing evidence, however, for such displays during Keijun’s time. By far the most detailed history of the Black Amida is Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi 重修黒本尊縁起 (1859–60), which was intended as a revision of the earlier Kuro Honzon engi 黒本尊縁起 (History of the Black Amida, 1848), and it was followed by an abbreviated version, Kuro Honzon reigen ryakki 黒本尊霊験略記 (Abbreviated Record of the Miraculous Efficacy of the Black Amida, 1871).58 The dominant theme in Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi is the claim that Ieyasu descended from the Seiwa Genji. At the same time, this claim is closely interwoven with an emphasis on the “historical tradition” which prescribed that the Black Amida was transmitted through the lineage of eldest Minamoto sons. Since Ieyasu was an eldest Minamoto son as well, he duly obtained the Black Amida. According to Soga Erika, editor of the modern edition of Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi, Ieyasu’s claim to be a descendant of the Seiwa Genji, which already emerges in records of the early Tokugawa period, was probably considered indispensable for

56 1917 edition, p. 399. 57 Drawn by Utagawa Ichiyōsai Kuniteru 歌川一曜斉国輝 (1830–74). 58 The 1848 edition is prefaced by Ryōkei 了瑩 (1780–1854) and Ritsuyo Genjun 立誉玄順 (d.u.); the 1859–60 edition has a preface by Zōjōji’s sixty-sixth abbot Kan’yo Egon 冠誉恵厳 (?–1860) and was edited with a foreword by Kanseki 観硯 (d.u.); the compiler of the 1871 edition is unknown. A modern edition of Kuro Honzon reigen ryakki can be found in Yanase 1998, pp. 641–644. 152 marc buijnsters the legitimation of his rule as shogun.59 Because this text is built upon this bipartite foundation, Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi also describes the miraculous efficacy of the Black Amida in various battles in which the Minamoto were involved, such as the wars of 1051–62 and 1083–89. On the other hand, both the history of the Black Amida before it came into Ieyasu’s possession and the various incidents that occurred thereafter, which already had been related in earlier Black Amida texts, are here and there enriched with further details. I noted above that Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi identifies the assassin that Takeda Katsuyori dispatched to kill Ieyasu as Tsune no suke, the son of Katsuyori’s retainer Baba Nobu- haru. In addition, the circumstances of how the Black Amida ended up as honzon of Myōgenji are explained more precisely as well. After Yoshitsune has left behind his personal icon with the headman of Yahagi village (see the description of Oboegaki in paragraph three), who is identified as Ōe Motonaga 大江元長, the Black Amida is enshrined in Ōe’s private Buddha hall. The Amida icon is passed on to, and venerated by the headman’s son Motohisa 元久 and his son Motokatsu 元勝. During Motokatsu’s time, the priest Nenshin-bō Renkei 念信房蓮慶 (fl. 1258), a disciple of Shinran 親鸞 (1173–1263), is staying in Kuwako village where he preaches faith in Amida. He pledges to build a temple and asks Motokatsu for his support. In response, Motokatsu donates his Amida icon which becomes the honzon of the newly built temple, that is, Myōgenji.60 A final example of an enlargement of the history of the Black Amida is that Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi seems to be the only text in which “the warrior priest in black robes” (kokue no hōshimusha 黒衣の法師武者) saved Ieyasu’s life both during the Winter and the Summer Campaign of the Siege of Osaka. Finally, two examples of influence of the Black Amida statue in the secular world, the former possibly used on grounds of self-esteem, the latter fabricated out of scabrous motives, are worth mentioning here. In 1820 the eccentric literatus and antiquarian Nakamura Butsuan 中村仏庵 (1751–1834) drafted a work on the Black Amida titled Gokokuden

59 Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi, pp. 173–77. 60 Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi, p. 151; see also: Sanshū Kuwako Myōgenji yuisho oyobi Kuro Honzon no koto 三州桑子妙源寺由緒及黒本尊事 (On the History of Myōgenji in Kuwako in Mikawa Province and the Black Amida), in Shisō zasshiki 祠曹雑識 (Miscel- laneous information on clerics), pp. 1670–71. The connection between Nenshin, Myōgenji, and the Black Amida is also recorded in texts about the twenty-four disciples of Shin- ran, such as Nijūyohai junpai zue 二十四輩順拝図会 (Illustrations of the Tour of Sites Associated with the Twenty-Four Disciples [of Shinran], 1803–1809) by Ryōtei 了貞 (d.u.), p. 394. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 153

Kuro Honzon Amida Nyorai engi 護国殿黒本尊阿弥陀如来縁起 (History of Amida Nyorai: the Black Honzon of Gokokuden).61 This text is noteworthy for at least two reasons. The first point that comes to the fore is that Butsuan’s engi directly resulted, or was maybe even meant to result, in the only existing pictorial work about Zōjōji’s Black Amida, that is, the two- volume picture scroll Kuro Honzon engi emaki 黒本尊縁起絵巻 (Picture Scroll of the History of the Black Amida). To my knowledge, at least three copies of this scroll are still extant.62 This picture scroll consists of the text of Butsuan’s engi in combination with drawings by Kuwagata Keisai 鍬形蕙斎 (1764–1824) featuring, among other things, a battling Black Amida during the Siege of Osaka. The second aspect of this Kuro Honzon engi that deserves attention and further research, concerns the motivation for writing this text. Apart from referring to all Black Amida themes already discussed in the present essay, Butsuan also elaborates on the role that Daijuji and its abbot Tōyo Tens- hitsu played in Ieyasu’s developing faith in Pure Land teaching. Moreover, Ieyasu, Daijuji, Zonnō, and faith in Pure Land teaching all seem to have played an important role in Butsuan’s own family history. Especially the figure of Yadayū Yoshihiro 弥大夫吉広, Butsuan’s ancestor of seven generations earlier, is of interest here. Butsuan describes him as someone who studied in his youth together with Ieyasu, and later came under Ieyasu’s patronage. He and his family followed Ieyasu to Edo in 1590, joined the Pure Land school, and became patrons of Daijuji. Yoshihiro was taught by Zonnō and thus joined his doctrinal lineage. Since Butsuan, too, was a follower of Pure Land teaching, this and his interest in the family history of the Nakamura clan may well have motivated his research and writing about the history of the Black Amida.63 Of a completely different nature is the illustrated Edo licensed quarter guidebook Irosato sanjūsansho musuko junrei 色里三十三所息子巡礼 (A Son’s Pilgrimage through the Thirty-Three Houses of Pleasure, late Edo period). The Yoshiwara licensed quarter was initially located near the Suitengū shrine. In order to mask their real intentions, visitors to the

61 Manuscript at Kokkai Toshokan. 62 One copy is in the possession of the Tokugawa Art Museum 徳川美術館, which exhibited this scroll in 2008. A second copy, bearing the same date as Butsuan’s engi, is described by Shigeo Sorimachi in his Catalogue of Japanese illustrated books and manuscripts in the Spencer collection of the New York Public Library (1967; the catalogue contains one small photo of a detail of the scroll). The third copy is listed in Zōjōji bunkazai mokuroku 増上寺文化財目録 (Catalogue of Cultural Properties preserved at Zōjōji), p. 417. 63 Campbell 1992a, Ch. 1, pp. 12–22 and Ch. 7; ibid. 1992b; Ozawa 1995, pp. 115–6. 154 marc buijnsters

Yoshiwara sometimes used the pretext of going to worship at the Suitengū shrine (Suitengū mairi 水天宮参り). After the fire of 1657 a new Yoshi- wara was built in Asakusa, behind the Sensōji temple and its famous Kan- non statue. As a consequence, the old pretext was replaced by the new pretence of going to worship Lord Kannon (Kannonsama mairi 観音様参り). The pretext of going to venerate a kami, Buddha, or any other religious object in order to hide one’s real goal of visiting a brothel was also used in the case of Edo’s numerous unlicensed pleasure quarters. Irosato sanjūsansho is a “pilgrimage” guide that recommends thirty-three of such places of pleasure. Number six in this series runs as follows: 6. Temple of Pleasure at Mt. Yanaka Object of veneration: Kurō Honzon with three years of apprenticeship; An Iroha-chaya where even the illiterate can relax; Come by all means along to Yanaka at night as well; Your first offering [costs] 500 mon, [located] 4,8 kilometers [from Nihonbashi]. Although I have not found any other examples, it seems that from the latter half of the Edo period onwards, the Black Amida no longer exclusively belonged to the domain of the sacred, but now had entered the world of the profane as well.

Conclusion

In 1883, in commemoration of the seventh anniversary of Princess Kazunomiya’s death, a service was held at Amidadera in Hakone. For this occasion, the statue of the Black Amida was temporarily transferred from Zōjōji to this temple. In addition to the successive abbots of Zōjōji, ladies of the ōoku such as Keishōin, Urao, and Kazunomiya, too, substantially contributed to a developing faith in the Black Amida. Various examples of the miraculous efficacy of its fortune-bringing icon were recorded in a broad spectrum of texts. From the above we can conclude that the large number of extant texts that elaborate on the history of Zōjōji’s Black Amida and its significance for the successive Tokugawa shoguns are solid proof of a broad diffusion of Pure Land inspired Tokugawa myths. It has become clear that the creation of such myths in relation to the Black Amida began during Iemitsu’s rule and culminated in the extended version of Kaiunroku during Tsu- nayoshi’s rule. After the Black Amida made its appearance in various literary works, the history and miraculous efficacy of this Amida icon was the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 155 summed up in an ultimate “biography”: Revised History of the Black Amida ( Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi).

References

Andō Wataru 安藤弥 (2002). Mikawaki ikō shūiroku no seiritsu o megutte 三河記異考拾遺録の成立をめぐって. Rekishi no hiroba 歴史の広場 5, pp. 51–57. Boot, W. J. (1990). The monk and the myth: Jigen-Daishi at court. In: Erika de Poorter, ed. As the twig is bent . . .: Essays in honour of Frits Vos. Amsterdam: Gieben. —— (2000). The death of a shogun: Deification in early modern Japan. In: John Breen and Mark Teeuwen, eds. Shinto in History. Ways of the Kami. Richmond: Curzon. Bukō nenpyō 武江年表 (1917). Saitō Gesshin 斎藤月岑, ed. Tokyo: Edo Sōsho Kankōkai. Bushū san’enzan zōjōji amidabutsu reizōki 武州三縁山増上寺阿弥陀仏霊像記. Kan- bun version in: Jōshū gokokuhen 浄宗護国篇, Jōdoshū zensho 浄土宗全書 (JZ), vol. 17, Tokyo: Jōdoshū Kaishū Happyakunen Kinen Keisan Junbikyoku, 1974. Wabun version in: Ōkuwa and Hirano (2007). Campbell, Robert (1992a). Literary Intemperance and the Fortunes of Nakamura Butsuan (1751–1834). Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University. —— (1992b). Nakamura Butsuan no bunji (2): shokunin kareki no jisō 中村仏庵の文事（二）: 職人家歴の辞藻. Gobun kenkyū 語文研究 74, pp. 26–44. Dai Honzan Zōjōjishi 大本山増上寺史 (DZS). 2 vols. Tokyo: Dai Honzan Zōjōji, 1999. Danrin Koishikawa Denzūin 檀林小石川伝通院. In: Jōdoshū zensho 浄土宗全書 (JZ), vol. 19. Tokyo: Jōdoshū Kaishū Happyakunen Kinen Keisan Junbikyoku, 1975. Gen’yūinden kiroku 厳有院殿記録. In: Zōjōji shiryōshū 増上寺史料集 (ZSS), vol. 9. Zōjōji, 1984. Giō Gi’nyo kansen fūyōhen 祇王祇女勧闡風葉篇, Kyōto Daigaku bungakubu kokugogaku kokubungaku kenkyūshitsu, ed. In: Kyōto Daigaku Zōdaisōbon Kishoshūsei 京都大学蔵大惣本稀書集成, vol. 3. Kyoto: Rinsen Shoten, 1994. Gofukushi yuishogaki 呉服師由緒書. In: Tokugawa jidai shōgyō sōsho 徳川時代商業叢書. Tokyo: Meicho Kankōkai, 1965. Gokokuden Kuro Honzon Amida Nyorai engi 護国殿黒本尊阿弥陀如来縁起. Manu- script, Kokkai Toshokan, 1820. Gokokuden kuro honzon ryakki 護国殿黒本尊略記. In: Ōkuwa (2000). Gozenzo Jōdoshūmon goyuisho no koto 御先祖浄土宗門御由緒之事. Manuscript, Naikaku Bunko; quoted in Sonehara (2001). Gubuki 供奉記. In: Sonehara (1999). Gyōyo Gen’ei oboegaki 暁誉源栄覚書. In: Sonehara (1999). Himitsuki Gen’ei oboegaki 秘密記源栄覚書. Manuscript, Kokkai Toshokan, undated. Hirano Toshinori 平野寿則 (2002). Matsudaira kaiunroku to bukkyō chikokuron 『松平開運録』と仏教治国論. Bukkyō shigaku kenkyū 仏教史学研究 45, pp. 36–64. Irosato sanjūsansho musuko junrei 色里三十三所息子巡礼. In vol. 29 of Sharehon Taisei 洒落本大成. Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha 1988. Iwaya Shōjō 巌谷勝正 (1999). Ken’yo Yūten no kenkyū 顕誉祐天の研究. In: Jōdo no oshie o motomete 浄土の教えを求めて. Tokyo: Yūtenji. See also: http://www.yutenji .or.jp/index.asp. Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi 重修黒本尊縁起. In: Soga Erika 曾我惠里加, ed. Ryaku engi: shiryō to kenkyū 略縁起：資料と研究, vol. 2. Tokyo: Bensei Shuppan, 1999. Kawashima Eiko 川島英子 (2006). Manjūya hanjōki: Shioze no 650 nen まんじゅう屋繁盛記 : 塩瀬の六五〇年. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Kuro Honzon reigen ryakki 黒本尊霊験略記. In Yanase (1998). 156 marc buijnsters

Matsudaira Ieyasu shojō 松平家康書状 (= Myōgenji monjo 妙源寺文書 77). In: Shinpen Okazakishishi 新編岡崎市史, vol. 6. Okazaki: Shinpen Okazakishi-shi Hensan Iinkai, 1983. Matsudaira sūsō kaiunroku 松平崇宗開運録. In: Ōkuwa (2000) and in Ōkuwa and Hirano (2007). Matsu-shi kaiunki 松氏開運記. In: Ōkuwa and Hirano (2007). Matsu-shi keiunki 松氏啓運記. In: Ōkuwa and Hirano (2000). Mikawaki ikō shūiroku 三河記異考拾遺録. In: Taikei shinshū shiryō monjo kirokuhen 大系真宗史料文書記録編, vol. 11. Kyoto: Hōzōkan, 2007. Mikawa monogatari 三河物語. In: Saiki Kazuma 斎木一馬 et al., eds. Mikawa monogatari, Hagakure 三河物語・葉隠. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 26. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1972. Mitamura Engyo 三田村鳶魚 (1997). Kasuga no tsubone yakimochi kyōsō 春日局の焼餅競争. In: Kubōsama no hanashi 公方様の話. Tokyo: Chūō Kōronsha. Nakamura Kōya 中村孝野 (1958). Tokugawa Ieyasu monjo no kenkyū 徳川家康文書の研究, vol. 1. Tokyo: Nihon Gakujutsu Shinkōkai. Nenjū jōki benran 年中定規便覧. In: Zōjōji shiryōshū 増上寺史料集 (ZSS), vol. 2. Tokyo: Zōjōji, 1982. Nijūyohai junpai zue 二十四輩順拝図会. Digitalized version (Kokkai Toshokan): http:// kindai.ndl.go.jp/index.html. Nishida Kōzō 西田耕三 (1989). Bunpa to Shuyajin 文坡と主夜神. Nihon bungaku 日本文学 38, pp. 44–51. —— (1994). Shuyajin to Kuro Honzon 主夜神と黒本尊. Nihon bungaku 日本文学 43, pp. 92–96. Oda Kenshin 織田顕信 (2008). Shinshū kyōdanshi no kisoteki kenkyū 真宗教団史の基礎的研究. Kyoto: Hōzōkan. Ōkuwa Hitoshi 大桑斉 (2000). Kinsei ni okeru bukkyō chikokuron no shiryōteki kenkyū 近世における仏教治国論の史料的研究. Kyoto: Ōtani Daigaku. —— (2002a). Tokugawa shōgun kenryoku to shūkyō 徳川将軍権力と宗教. In: Iwanami kōza Tennō to ōken o kangaeru 岩波講座天皇と王権を考える, vol. 4, pp. 135–160. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. —— (2002b). Tokugawa ōken shiso shinwa no ronri to seikaku 徳川王権始祖神話の論理と性格. In: Itō Yuishin 伊藤唯真, ed. Nihon bukkyō no keisei to tenkai 日本仏教の形成と展開, pp. 135–160. Kyoto: Hōzōkan. —— and Hirano Toshinori 平野寿則 (2007). Kinsei bukkyō chikokuron no shiryō to kenkyū: Matsudaira kaiunroku / Tōshōgū goyuikun 近世仏教治国論の史料と研究: 松平開運録/東照宮御遺訓. Tokyo: Seibundō Shuppan. Ozawa Hiromu 小澤弘 (1995). Kan’eiji-zō Nakamura Butsuansho: Kuwagata Keisai-e Kurokamiyama engi emaki ni tsuite 寛永寺蔵中村仏庵書・鍬形蕙斎画「黒髪山縁起絵巻」について. Chōfu Nihon Bunka 調布日本文化 5, pp. 79–126. Rin-shi Shioze Yamashiro denraiki 林氏塩瀬山城伝来記. Manuscript, Kokkai Toshokan. Ryaku engi 略縁起. In San’enzanshi 三縁山志, In: Jōdoshū zensho 浄土宗全書 (JZ), vol. 19. Tokyo: Jōdoshū Kaishū Happyakunen Kinen Keisan Junbikyoku, 1975. Sanshū ikkōshū ranki 参州一向宗乱記. In: Kasahara Kazuo 笠原一男 et al. ed. Rennyo, ikkō ikki 蓮如・一向一揆. Nihon Shisō Taikei vol. 26. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1972. Sanshū Kuwako Myōgenji yuisho oyobi Kuro Honzon no koto 三州桑子妙源寺由緒及黒本尊事. In: Shisō zasshiki 祠曹雑識. Naikaku bunko shozō shiseki sōkan 内閣文庫所蔵史籍叢刊, vols 7–9. Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin, 1981. Seikan’in no miya gonikki 静寛院宮御日記. 2 vols. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1976. Shingyō Norikazu 新行紀一 (1975). Ikkō ikki no kiso kōzō 一向一揆の基礎構造. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Shinsho 紳書. Arai Hakuseki 新井白石. In: Nihon zuihitsu taisei daisanki 日本随筆大成第三期, vol. 12. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1977. the history and miraculous efficacy of the black amida 157

Sonehara Satoshi 曽根原理 (1999). Naikaku Bunko shozō Enzan hiroku Gubuki shōkai to honkoku 内閣文庫所蔵『縁山秘録』『供奉記』紹介と翻刻. Tōhoku daigaku fuzoku toshokan kenkyū nenpō 東北大学付属図書館研究年報 31/32, pp. 51–150. —— (2001). Gyōyo oboegaki no bukkyō chikokuron 『暁誉覚書』の仏教治国論. Bungei kenkyū 文芸研究 152, pp. 14–24. —— (2006). The Establishment of Early Modern Buddhism. Acta Asiatica 91, pp. 65–83. —— (2008). Zōjōji ni okeru Tōshō Gongen shinkō 増上寺における東照権現信仰. In: Kinsei no shūkyō to shakai 近世の宗教と社会, vol. 2, pp. 112–134. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Sorimachi Shigeo (1967). Catalogue of Japanese illustrated books and manuscripts in the Spencer collection of the New York Public Library. Tokyo: Kōbunsō 1967. Sunpuki 駿府記. In: Shiseki zassan 史籍雑纂, vol. 2. Tokyo: Zoku Gunsho Ruijū Kanseikai, 1974. Tokugawa jikki 徳川実紀, vol. 1. In: Kokushi taikei 国史大系, vol. 38. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1964. Urai Shōmyō 浦井正明 (1983). Mō hitotsu no Tokugawa monogatari: shōgunke reibyō no nazo もうひとつの徳川物語: 将軍家霊廟の謎. Tokyo: Seibundō Shinkōsha. Yanase Kazuo 簗瀬一雄 (1998). Shaji engi no kenkyū 社寺縁起の研究. Tokyo: Benseisha. Yūreki zakki shohen 遊歴雑記初編. Tokyo: Heibonsha 1989. Zōjōji bunkazai mokuroku 増上寺文化財目録. In: Zōjōji shiryōshū 増上寺史料集, additional volume. Tokyo: Zōjōji, 1983. Zōjōji komonjo 増上寺古文書. In: Zōjōji shiryōshū (ZSS) 増上寺史料集, vol. 1. Tokyo: Zōjōji, 1983.

Insincere blessings? Court-bakufu relations and the creation of engi scrolls in honour of Tokugawa Ieyasu

Lee Bruschke-Johnson

Introduction

The relationship between the Tokugawa shogunate and the imperial court has been the subject of considerable scholarly interest in recent decades.1 In this essay I will look at the court’s role in the production of a set of scrolls written in 1640 to honour Ieyasu 徳川家康 (1542–1616), the first Tokugawa shogun. I provide new insight into this project by introducing some of the individual calligraphers and describing their relationship with the Tokugawa. Furthermore, I investigate why these aristocrats might have contributed to such scrolls and suggest some factors that may have played a role behind the scenes. The 1640 scrolls project provides a glimpse into court-shogunal relations at this critical time, and also exem- plifies how Ieyasu’s grandson Iemitsu 徳川家光 (1604–51) used art for political purposes. Emperors benefited greatly from having the shogun handle administrative headaches and they were certainly conscious of the significant rewards—including frequent financial ones—of their relationship with the shogunate. Nevertheless, under the Tokugawa in the seventeenth century, it was at best an unstable long-distance association, with significant periods of stress. The relationship between Emperor Go-Mizunoo 後水尾 (1596–1680) and Ieyasu’s son Hidetada 徳川秀忠 (1597–1632) was particularly problematic as is evident from three often-quoted examples. The first concerns the marriage of Emperor Go-Mizunoo to Hidetada’s daughter. This radically unprecedented union between an emperor and a woman with no aristocratic blood took place in 1620 after considerable pressure

1 In Japan scholars such as Kumakura Isao and Hashimoto Masanobu have been forerunners in this area, publishing extensively. Among western scholars Lee Butler and Eliza- beth Lillehoj have been the most prolific. See, for instance, Butler 2002 and Lillehoj 2004 and 2011. Unfortunately this last work was not yet available for consultation when I was writing this essay. My own work looks at important members of the powerful aristocratic Konoe family, see Bruschke-Johnson 2004. 160 lee bruschke-johnson from the shogunate.2 Then in 1627 there was the so-called Purple Robe Incident (shie chokkyo jiken 紫衣勅許事件), when the shogun stripped monks of court-appointed status that had been given without his approval.3 In doing so, he exiled a number of Buddhist monks who played a key role in the elite social life of Kyoto, but also, more importantly, overruled the emperor in a highly visible manner, something that angered the aristocracy.4 Finally, Go-Mizunoo retired in favour of his daughter in 1629. There was thus considerable strain in shogun-court relations from the time of Ieyasu’s death in 1616 until Hidetada’s in 1633. After Hidetada’s death, his son Iemitsu strove to make peace with the court, pardoning the monks involved in the Purple Robe Incident. He went to Kyoto in 1634, his last and in fact the last trip of any shogun for centuries. Given the symbiotic relationship that the shogun and the imperial court had previously enjoyed, it seems unlikely that the court expected the shogun to abandon Kyoto culture and society so completely.5 A few ties remained. Most notably, sons born in the primary lines of the Toku- gawa family were married to women chosen from the aristocracy.6 This followed the precedent of the Ashikaga shoguns but with one significant difference: the sons of Tokugawa-aristocratic couples did not generally succeed as shogun.7 Warriors had historically also relied upon the court for its writing. Imperial calligraphy was prized and in general the higher the status of the writer, the greater the value of his or her writing. Aristocratic calligraphy

2 On this marriage, see Butler 2002, pp. 227–30. 3 On the Purple Robe Scandal see Butler 2002, pp. 230–34; also Williams 2009, pp. 27–43. 4 Konoe Nobuhiro retired his court position at this time, presumably in protest. See Hongen ishin ki, pp. 45–47. The priests were exiled on Kan’ei 6 (1629)/7/25, at a time when the court was involved in ceremonies for the thirteenth anniversary of Emperor Go-Yōzei’s death. Nobuhiro does not mention the monks in this diary entry but does note his retirement from the kanpaku post on 7/29. 5 On the Ashikaga shoguns and the imperial court, see, for instance, Takagishi 2003 and Kamei 2003. On Nobunaga see Lamers 2000, pp. 40–45; 98–111; 114–16; 167–69; for Hideyoshi, see, for instance, Berry 1989, pp. 176–89. 6 Ashikaga shogunal brides were chosen from lower-level aristocratic families with the Hino family dominating for many generations until, in the late sixteenth century, two daughters of the regental Konoe house married into the Ashikaga. 7 This was perhaps intentional on the part of the bakufu: while they welcomed the brides as a means to enrich the Tokugawa line with Kyoto culture, they did not want aristocratic motherly ties to influence their leaders. One exception to this was Tokugawa Yoshinobu 徳川慶喜 (1837–1913), the last shogun, who was the son of a princess, Yoshiko jōō (1804–93), of the princely Arisugawa 有栖川 family. insincere blessings 161 was used, among other things, as the ultimate tribute for a departed ancestor, suggesting that the writing itself had spiritual significance. Such objects include wooden placards (hengaku 扁額) for a building erected in the ancestor’s honour, memorial tablets (ihai 位牌), portraits, sutras and handscrolls. In Japan it was essential to perform memorial ceremonies on key death anniversaries, and calligraphy played a primary role in such offerings. For this purpose, and others, aristocrats were periodically asked to write scrolls to legitimize a temple or shrine, known commonly as engi 縁起.8 These generally focused on the institution, its establishment and miraculous anecdotes associated with it. The text included tales concerning the person considered to be the founder—generally someone who had been dead for decades if not centuries. The most common format for engi was that of a handscroll, where the text and the adjoining illustrations (engi-e 縁起絵) would be viewed, section by section, by just a few people at a time.9 The handscroll tradition dates back to the eleventh century—with calligraphy most commonly provided by members of the aristocracy. Engi handscrolls appeared relatively late, in the fifteenth century, but have pictures that are part of a Japanese courtly yamato-e 大和絵 aesthetic and generally follow the patterns of earlier traditions. The calligraphy, too, was primarily written in courtly Japanese script.10

Texts in honour of Ieyasu

In the 1630s the Tendai Buddhist priest Nankōbō Tenkai 南光坊天海 (1536?–1643) drafted an engi text honouring the deified Ieyasu. Tenkai was one of the most important of the Tokugawa religious advisors of this era and in the months after Ieyasu’s death he emerged the victor in a dispute over the title Ieyasu should receive as a deity: the deified shogun would be known as Tōshō Daigongen 東照大権現 or The Great Avatar Illumi- nating the East.11 The first scroll of Tenkai’s engi set was dedicated in the

8 For information on illustrated engi see, for instance, http://www.aisf.or.jp/~jaanus/ deta/s/shajiengie.htm, accessed October, 2011. 9 For engi-e in screen form, see, for instance, Harris 2001, pp. 183–5. Others were made in hanging scroll format. The narrative would likely have been stored separately but taken out to read when the screens or hanging scrolls were shown. 10 For engi handscrolls, see, for instance, McCormick 2009 pp. 52–3; 86–87; 94–95; 106–7; 123; 126; 131; 142–3; 158–9; 167; 190; 198–199. 11 For commentary on the text of this first engi, see Boot (1991), pp. 334–6. On Ieyasu’s deification, see Boot 2000, pp. 144–66. 162 lee bruschke-johnson eighth month of 1636 at the newly rebuilt, and greatly embellished, Tōshō shrine at Nikkō 日光東照社 as part of the major events for the twenty-first anniversary of Ieyasu’s death. The retired emperor Go-Mizunoo provided the calligraphy for the 1636 scroll in time for the commemoration. Two other scrolls followed but these were not completed until 1640. The reason for the delay is not entirely clear. It may have been due to procrastina- tion among the aristocratic calligraphers, which seems to have been one of their specialties.12 One can easily imagine that the dragging of feet in Kyoto on such a key project would irritate the shogun. Contrary to standard engi handscroll tradition, Tenkai drafted his text in Chinese. Perhaps he felt that that was more appropriate for the Chinese- influenced themes of Nikkō, discussed further below, or perhaps he lacked the time to modify the text into standard engi-style Japanese. Another explanation is that the text was kept in Chinese so that it could be read by the members of a Korean embassy who were expected that year. The Koreans did not arrive until winter and their diaries confirm that many members of the embassy visited Nikkō on the seventeenth day of the twelfth month despite a heavy snowstorm.13 The new buildings were colourful and richly embellished with gold leaf—which must have looked spectacular against the snow—like a vision of Chinese heaven. This impression was enhanced by the selection of themes derived from Chinese religion and mythology for the carving on many buildings.14 It seems logical that, after walking through this rich splendour, they would also have been invited to inspect the engi scroll, scribed by the emperor to honour this Tokugawa sanctuary, but unfortunately there is little documentary evidence to support this.15 Earlier groups of envoys had come to liberate Korean citizens who had been captured during the attacks on Korea under Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豊臣秀吉 (1536–98) in the 1590s. Given this history, Korea was

12 See Butler 2002, pp. 204–5 concerning aristocratic stalling on a project for Ieyasu. 13 For this and other issues concerning Japanese-Korean relations in the seventeenth century see Toby 1984, pp. 97–109. Apparently the Korean envoys were not enthusiastic about the visit, at least partially because of the inclement weather, Toby 1984, pp. 97–98. 14 Concerning the architecture of Nikkō, see Gerhart 1999, pp. 73–105 and Coaldrake 1995, pp. 163–192. 15 Although I have scanned the Korean diaries concerning this embassy, I have been unable to confirm that they viewed the scroll. The embassy had stopped briefly in Kyoto and the diary entry of one of the envoys discusses various issues concerning the court, past and contemporary, indicating that at least one of the Koreans was curious about the emperor and imperial court. See Kaisō sōsai III, pp. 65–66, entry for the eighteenth day of the eleventh month. insincere blessings 163 understandably cautious about rebuilding relations. The 1636 visit marked the official beginning of renewed diplomatic relations with Korea. As well as the engi, the significance of art and artifacts for diplomacy is further demonstrated when, during the 1640s, Iemitsu pressured the Koreans for a wooden name plaque inscribed by the Korean king and for a bronze bell, both intended for Nikkō. Iemitsu even provided the Koreans with the bronze for the bell.16 This type of item would normally have been requested from the emperor. Tenkai’s original Chinese text was significantly expanded, rearranged and rewritten in Japanese for new scrolls, completed by 1640 to com- memorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of Ieyasu’s death.17 In other words, it was adapted to the usual engi style. In many respects the 1640 set, too, was no “ordinary” engi. The set is known most commonly as the Tōshōsha engi 東照社縁起 (Origins of the Tōshō Shrine). However, the title written at the beginning of the first scroll, Tōshō Daigongen engi 東照大権現縁起 (Origins of Tōshō Daigongen), referring to Ieyasu’s title as a deity, is more accurate, since most of the text is about Ieyasu and the efforts of his son and grandson to honour him.18 As noted above, engi texts generally focused upon historical matters since the founding of a temple or shrine had occurred many generations before the text was written. An extremely subtle reference to the person who commissioned the engi might be included but reference to contemporary history would be kept to a minimum. In the case of the engi written for the Tokugawa, there is only a modest nod to events that occurred before the seventeenth century—which would normally have been the central focus. Of the twenty-five paragraphs, only a few concern historical matters and they are buried in the middle. This must have been seen as shockingly narcis- sistic by contemporary standards. Perhaps even more astonishing is Ten- kai’s inclusion of himself in several places in the text.19 As Tenkai was the founder of the Tōshō complex at Nikkō this does, in a way, conform to tradition since a discussion of the founder was a key part of engi texts. However, in most cases the founder in question was legendary or at least

16 Toby 1984, pp. 101–103. Apparently there is some doubt that the Korean king wrote the calligraphy on the plaque. 17 Concerning these handscrolls see, for instance, Komatsu 1994 and Gerhart 1999, pp. 107–140, a chapter entitled “The Tōshō Daigongen engi as Political Propaganda.” 18 The title cartouches on the scrolls do read Tōshōsha engi. See Gerhart 1999 p. 178, n. 4. 19 For instance, in the 1640 scroll he is illustrated in the third passage of the third chapter, which describes the deification of Ieyasu. He plays a key role in the text of the fourth chapter of the fourth scroll, concerning the Korean embassy. 164 lee bruschke-johnson long departed before the text was conceived. He certainly was not the author of the engi. Another highly unconventional aspect of the 1640 engi was the inclusion of a chapter describing the visit of the Korean embassy, which indicates the importance of the event to the Tokugawa.20 It must have been a challenge for the painter Kano Tan’yū to incorporate the unprecedented illustrations into this otherwise traditional set.

The Calligraphers

The scrolls were a group effort produced under close shogunal supervision. A detailed letter written by an imperial prince, Shōren-in Sonjun 青蓮院尊純 (1591–1653) describes many of the aspects of its production.21 According to this letter, the “steering committee” was composed of the priest Tenkai, Itakura Shigemune 板倉重宗 (1586–1656) who was the shogunal deputy in Kyoto (shoshidai 所司代), and Sonjun himself. Tenkai wrote the original text and, at least in principle, oversaw the completion of the project. He likely left many tasks related to the scroll to his second in command, Kōkai 公海 (1607–95), who received a handsome reward for his contributions to the project.22 Sonjun rewrote the text in the Japanese syllabary. In coordinating this project Itakura Shigemune played his usual role as intermediary between the court and the shogunate. Among his duties were: (1) delivering the text to the court representative, Shōren-in Sonjun, for adaptation; (2) convincing the former emperor Go-Mizunoo to participate; and (3) assigning chapters to various aristocrats. Since the calligraphy assignments were decided by Shigemune, it is likely that the court

20 Several screens were produced that illustrate the Korean embassies. One of these was given by a Tokugawa official to Go-Mizunoo’s wife Tōfukumon-in 東福門院 (or Toku- gawa Masako 徳川和子, 1607–78). See Lillehoj 2007, pp. 91–110. She notes (p. 97) how the screens “served as a visual reminder that the bakufu exerted its dominance over the entire land, including the emperor and his family.” 21 Komatsu 1994, pp. 175–176. The letter is dated Kan’ei 17 (1640)/2/7. 22 Kōkai was the son of Kazan’in Tadanaga 花山院忠長 (1588–1662), an aristocrat who was banished from Kyoto in the 1609 court lady scandal and did not return until 1652. For this scandal see Butler 2002 pp. 170–90. Kōkai received one hundred silver mai 枚 and ten pieces of clothing appropriate to the season for his efforts. Tenkai received three hundred mai and twenty-seven pieces of clothing. Tokugawa jikki vol. 3, p. 182, 1640.4.17 (from the Daiyūindono gojikki 大猷院殿御実紀). See also Komatsu 1994, p. 177. insincere blessings 165 itself had little say in the matter although there may have been some negotiating on the aristocratic side. The calligraphers who contributed text to the Tōshōsha engi (see appendix 1) form a star-studded cast of characters compared to other such scrolls. Due to Emperor Go-Yōzei’s 後陽成 (1571–1617) impressive number of sons and the longevity of a few of his brothers, the list included an unprecedented number of imperial sons. Go-Mizunoo’s opening chapter was followed by seven chapters written by members of four of the five regental families (gosekke 五摂家). These families were branches of the Fujiwara family, from which the regent (sesshō 摂政) or chancellor (kanpaku 関白) were historically chosen. For the first time in centuries, these families were closely related to the imperial family because of the marriage of Emperor Go-Yōzei to Konoe Sakiko 近衛前子 (1575–1630). Two heads of regental families, Konoe Nobuhiro 近衛信尋 (1599–1649) and Ichijō Akiyoshi 一条昭義 (1605–72) were their sons and thus full brothers of Emperor Go-Mizunoo. Two of Sakiko’s daughters married into the Nijō 二条 and Takatsukasa 鷹司 regental families. Remarkably, however, no members of the Takatsukasa family participated in the 1640 engi project, even though Takatsukasa Nobufusa 鷹司信房 (1565–1657) and his grandson Norihira 鷹司教平 (1609–68) were talented enough as calligraphers.23 It is possible that they refused to participate. If so, it was a particularly bold move and perhaps only tolerated because Nobufusa’s daughter was married to Tokugawa Iemitsu.24 The absence of Takatsukasa participants may explain why the family that had remained outside the imperial “adoption/marriage party,” the Kujō 九条, are represented with three members, outnumbering the more typical one or two. The ninth and eleventh sections were done by heads of princely families (shinnō-ke 親王家). These were collateral branches of the imperial family, “cousins” who provided succession insurance if an emperor lacked an

23 Norihira had perhaps fallen out of court favour after having married a princess, Go- Mizunoo’s eldest daughter, a relationship which ended so badly that the woman in question abandoned her marriage after just a few years and later became a nun. See Fister 2000. 24 Tokugawa Iemitsu’s primary wife was Takatsukasa Takako Honri’in 孝子本理院 (1600–74), daughter of Nobufusa. They married soon after he became shogun in 1623. The Takatsukasa did not participate in another scroll project in 1665 either, although Norihira’s daughter Nobuko 信子 (1651–1709) married Tokugawa Tsunayoshi 徳川綱吉 in 1664. Tsu- nayoshi’s chances to become shogun probably seemed slim at the time, and he did not become shogun until 1680. 166 lee bruschke-johnson appropriate heir. In 1640 there were only two such families, the Hachijō 八条, established for Go-Yōzei’s brother in 1591 and the Fushimi 伏見, established in the fifteenth century.25 A group of imperial princes, heads of princely temples (miya monzeki 宮門跡), wrote the next sections. Shōren-in Sonjun, mentioned above as a key coordinating member of the project, appears twenty-third on the list of calligraphers. Perhaps his name appears so late because his pedigree was among the weakest of the incumbent monzeki princes, most of whom were sons of Emperor Go-Yōzei.26 Two seeming odd fellows in this group are Gison 実相院義尊 (1601– 61) and Jōson 圓満院常尊 (1604–71), who were the grandsons of the last Ashikaga shogun, Yoshiaki 足利義明 (1537–97). They had positions in lower-ranking monzeki temples and had only a very distant blood connection to the court.27 As their mother later married Emperor Go-Yōzei, who adopted them, they may have been included in this connection. However, their inclusion could also be interpreted as a sign of respect for a previous shogunal line by the new one. The final section of text was brushed by the monk Tenkai himself. As we have seen, Tenkai authored the text of the 1636 engi, as well as con- tributing to the 1640 version. He was very close to Iemitsu, as he had been to Ieyasu himself. His genealogy is not entirely clear but it is generally accepted that he was not of aristocratic descent. None of Emperor Go-Mizunoo’s sons contributed to the engi, probably because they were too young. His eldest son, the future Go-Kōmyō 後光明 (1633–54), was only eight years old by Japanese reckoning when

25 An additional shinnō family, the Takamatsu, was established in 1625 for one of Konoe Sakiko and Go-Yōzei’s sons, Yoshihito 高松宮好仁 (1603–38), but his premature death left this family without a successor and thus they were not represented in the 1640 scrolls. Yoshihito married the granddaughter of Tokugawa Hidetada in 1630, evidence that shogunal hopes for a potential “Tokugawa” emperor persisted even after Emperor Go-Mizunoo retired and his Tokugawa-born wife’s chances for producing a male child dwindled. Yoshi- hito had no sons; his daughter married the prince who would take over the Takamatsu name. 26 Sonjun was the grandson of the head of the princely Fushimi family, Sadaatsu 伏見宮貞敦 (1488–1572). His father was a monzeki: Kajii Ōin 梶井宮応胤 (c. 1531–1598). As a child, Sonjun had been adopted by Emperor Go-Yōzei. 27 Their mother, known by her title Sanmi no tsubone 三位局, is also known as Furuichi Taneko 古市胤子 (1583–1658). She later became a consort of Go-Yōzei. Their son Dōkō is number 15 on the list. Taneko was the granddaughter of Konoe Sakihisa. Ashikaga Yoshiaki’s mother was also a member of the Konoe family, Sakihisa’s sister. The Konoe connection was seemingly close since both Taneko and her son Dōkō are listed as beneficiaries in Konoe Nobuhiro’s will. See Hashimoto 1995, p. 41. insincere blessings 167 the scrolls were completed. Interestingly, the reigning empress, Ieyasu’s great-granddaughter Empress Meishō 明正 (1623–96), was also left out of the project.28

The court, Tenkai and the engi projects

To put these projects into perspective, it is essential to look back at events that occurred directly after Ieyasu’s death in 1616. That Tenkai had won the dispute over the title of the deified Ieyasu was a significant and surprising triumph, because Tenkai’s competitors, the preeminent Shinto experts of the Yoshida family, clearly had the upper hand on the basis of precedent and experience.29 Anecdotal evidence suggests that the court played a key role in Hidetada’s decision to prefer Tenkai.30 Tenkai must have brought something noteworthy to the table to turn things in his favour. I believe that Emperor Go-Mizunoo probably made a general agreement with Ten- kai not only to support Ieyasu’s deification—in fact, he had little choice since precedent had already been set with Ieyasu’s predecessor Toyotomi Hideyoshi—but also to ensure the court’s cooperation in future engi projects. It seems likely that such an agreement tipped the balance in Ten- kai’s favour. The Tokugawa had a lot to live up to: a widely popular cult had built up around the deified Hideyoshi and to maintain their dignity it was essential for the Tokugawa to surpass the Toyotomi.31 An agreement to produce an engi written by the cream of aristocratic society was the perfect—and perhaps only—way to do so. If Go-Mizunoo made such promises, he may have done so in the hope that in a few years’ time none of the negotiating parties would be around to address the issue—Tenkai was quite aged already at the time of Ieya- su’s death. Given the volatility of leadership before this time, Go-Mizunoo may have gambled that, before long, some other family would replace the Tokugawa. If so, the staying power of the Tokugawa and Tenkai’s extreme longevity worked to his disadvantage. In addition, surely Go-Mizunoo would have envisioned a typical engi text for the scrolls, with the emphasis on the sanctuary—not the shameless glorification of the Tokugawa that

28 Concerning Meishō see Kasumi Kaikan 1997. 29 For Yoshida Shinto at this time see, for instance, Endō 2003, pp. 109–121. 30 Boot 2000, p. 154. 31 Concerning Hideyoshi’s deification, see Boot 2000, pp. 156–157; Boot 2002; and Watsky 2004, pp. 205–20. 168 lee bruschke-johnson characterized the 1640 engi.32 This was not the first example of aggran- dizing a contemporary shogun in art: several screens were produced to celebrate events sponsored by Hideyoshi and a particularly famous pair of screens documents the wild celebrations that occurred during the seventh anniversary of his death.33 Perhaps the 1640 engi can be seen as the Tokugawa reaction to such works. As noted above, it seems likely that the members of the Korean embassy in 1636 were shown the earlier scroll in honour of Ieyasu, but whether they actually saw the text of the scroll or not, its existence clearly indicated that the emperor was subservient to the Tokugawa. The shogunal authorities could be sure that this powerful political statement would be subsequently transmitted via the Korean diplomats to China and elsewhere in Asia. Given this potent underlying message, members of the aristocracy cannot have been enthusiastic about participating in the 1640 project. And indeed Sonjun’s letter, mentioned above, indicates Go-Mizunoo’s reluctance; the retired emperor claimed that muscle pains prevented him from writing.34 Go-Mizunoo’s objections were overruled by shogunal deputy Itakura Shigemune, who completely ignored the retired emperor’s claim of physical disability and instead focused his argument on the precedent set by Emperor Go-Kashiwabara 後柏原 (1464–1526; r. 1500–26), who wrote a substantial section of text for Shinnyodō engi 真如堂縁起 (Legends of Shinnyodō) in 1524.35 While there are several other temple-legend scrolls with text written by emperors, it seems likely that this particular example was chosen because Go-Kashiwabara’s court was so impoverished that essential ceremonies had to be suspended.36 Itakura’s argument can be read as a veiled threat, hinting at the consequences for the court should the shogun withdraw financial support. Sakai Takakatsu 酒井忠勝 (1587– 1662), one of Iemitsu’s main advisors, was present during Shigemune’s meeting with Go-Mizunoo, perhaps to underscore the serious nature of

32 The Ashikaga shoguns also utilized the engi medium but not in such a brazen manner. See, for instance, Kamei 2003 for the argument that the exiled shogun who commissioned an engi is symbolically represented as a tree. 33 Screens document such events as his Kitano tea gathering of 1587. See Cort 1982, pp. 15–44. Concerning the events in the honor of the deified Hideyoshi, see Watsky 2004, pp. 208–16. 34 The term used by Sonjun for Go-Mizunoo’s physical problem was gosujike 御筋気. 35 The Shinnyodō engi is in the collection of the Shinshō Gokurakuji in Kyoto. 36 Other engi with imperial calligraphy include the Yūzū nenbutsu engi of 1414, and Kuwanomidera engi of 1532. This project included only three calligraphers, including Emperor Go-Nara. See, for instance, Phillips 2000, pp. 140–41. insincere blessings 169 these negotiations. Also, since Shigemune had been based in Kyoto for twenty years by this time, Iemitsu may have sought the involvement of someone who was less intimate with the court. Iemitsu was plagued by dreams about Ieyasu.37 These dreams are well documented and he had “dream” portraits painted on several occasions.38 The first is dated to the seventeenth day of the twelfth month of Kan’ei 16 (1639), thus a few weeks after he received notice that Go-Mizunoo had agreed to inscribe the engi.39 Dreams of the dead had a long tradition in Japanese religion and politics and Iemitsu may have used his as evidence of Ieyasu’s divinity. Nevertheless, Iemitsu’s anxiety seems extreme and probably indicates concern for his grandfather’s well-being in the after- life. Go-Mizunoo attempted to avoid the task on the basis of physical disability but there is, not surprisingly, little in terms of written documenta- tion concerning the emotions of other aristocratic participants.40 Konoe Nobuhiro, for one, wrote nothing about the engi scroll or its text, although he did write a description concerning his attendance in Nikkō for the anniversary in 1640.41 Since presumably the presentation of these scrolls was a central element of the proceedings, this “no comment” may, in itself, be a reflection of the courtier’s negativity. He did dryly note that he sat down during the ceremonies, something that was commented upon with disconcertion in the Tokugawa jikki.42

37 Iemitsu was greatly influenced by his nurse, known today most commonly as Kasuga no Tsubone 春日局 (1579–1643), whose beliefs included the necessity of imperial blessings. For instance, when Iemitsu was sick with smallpox in 1629, Kasuga no Tsubone called upon the emperor, which indicates that she had some faith in his healing powers. Her visit was a catalyst for Go-Mizunoo’s decision to abdicate soon thereafter, see Butler 2002, p. 232. 38 On Iemitsu’s dream portraits, see Gerhart 2004. 39 For Go-Mizunoo’s agreement see Tokugawa jikki vol. 3, p. 164, 1639.i.11.26. 40 Such information is even absent from the thoroughly researched coverage of the engi in Zoku zoku Nihon emaki taisei. 41 Hongen ishin ki, pp. 205–221. For Nobuhiro’s account see a document published with his diary, Hongen jishōin ki pp. 205–206. Nobuhiro left for Nikkō on Kan’ei 17 (1640)/3/27. After giving some details of his trip—including viewing cormorant fishing—Nobuhiro mentions that the proceedings were delayed on the seventeenth due to bad weather. He noted on the nineteenth that they viewed the proceedings from a viewing box (sajiki 桟敷). 42 See Bruschke-Johnson 2004, p. 18 concerning the lack of comment on specific events. Aristocrats may have been genuinely concerned that their diaries might be read by those who would report details to bakufu officials. For Nobuhiro’s note of sitting down, see Hon- gen jishōin ki, p. 205, Kan’ei 17/4/20, 21. See also Tokugawa jikki, vol. 3, pp. 185-6 and Boot 1987. 170 lee bruschke-johnson

Assignment of the chapters

The engi can be roughly divided into six parts:

1) chapters 1–4 (main part of scroll 1): Ieyasu’s birth and early life. 2) chapters 5–10 (last chapter of scroll 1, scroll 2): Ieyasu’s adult life with several sections giving versions of his primary battles. 3) chapters 11–14 (first half of scroll 3): Ieyasu’s burial, deification, and reburial in Nikkō (the “Hidetada years”). 4) chapters 15–17 (second half of scroll 3): history of Nikkō, with particular attention to Shōdō Shōnin 勝道上人 (735–817), who established a temple there in 782.43 5) chapters 18–22 (scroll 4): events of the late 1630s, the time of the anniversary for which the text was made (the “Iemitsu years”). 6) chapters 23–25 (scroll 5): Nikkō Tōshō shrine as a religious institution.

Emperor Go-Mizunoo provided text for two chapters. The first chapter discusses a somewhat optimistic version of the Tokugawa family pedigree, drawing the line back to Emperor Seiwa 清和天皇 (850–880). In drafting this chapter Go-Mizunoo placed his stamp of approval on this illustrious, if spurious, family tree. The second chapter that Go-Mizunoo brushed concerned an event in 1637 when Iemitsu saw a pair of white-naped cranes (manazuru 真鶴) in the garden of the shrine for Ieyasu at Edo Castle.44 An auspicious sign, the inclusion of this anecdote may also have been intended to draw a parallel between the newly rebuilt shrine at Nikkō and the imperial shrine at Ise.45 This type of crane was associated with Kannamesai 神嘗祭, a key har- vest festival at Ise. The rebuilding of the Nikkō shrine itself is, of course, reminiscent of Ise. It seems likely that Iemitsu hoped that Nikkō would be rebuilt periodically in the Ise tradition.46 To enhance the analogy with the highest echelons of the aristocracy, the precedent provided within the text for Ieyasu’s reburial was that of

43 The temple Shōdō established was Chūzenji 中禅寺. It was renamed Rinnōji 輪王寺 and turned into a monzeki. The shrine there is known as Futara 荒山神社. 44 For a description of the first chapter, see Gerhart 1999, pp. 113–114. 45 For cranes as auspicious signs, see Sturman 1990, pp. 33–67. Apparently cranes were not only good luck to see, but also to eat and were given as gifts, see Reiko Sono, “Game Birds, Sweet Delicacies, and Shogunal Veneration: Interpreting Gift Exchange in Tokugawa Japan,” http://www.ssjr.unc.edu/Supplement04.Sono.pdf. Accessed October 2011. 46 See Gerhart 1999, p. 80. insincere blessings 171

Fujiwara no Kamatari 藤原鎌足 (614–69), who founded the Fujiwara family.47 Iemitsu was thus drawing a parallel between his grandfather, the founder of the Tokugawa family, and Kamatari, the legendary figure whose family would dominate court society as regents and chancellors, later divided into the five sekke families. The paintings on the handscroll visually cement this connection to the court, as has been discussed extensively by Karen Gerhart and others.48 The calligraphy was interspersed with traditional courtly illustrations—at times lifted almost verbatim from earlier handscrolls—painted by Kano Tan’yū 狩野探幽 (1602–74). The chapters concerning battles are of particular interest. For instance, Konoe Nobuhiro, head of the most influential of the sekke families, was chosen to write the description of Ieyasu’s great success at Sekigahara in 1600. The Konoe had had a troubled relationship with the Tokugawa under Nobuhiro’s adopted father and uncle Nobutada.49 In view of this, it seems likely that Nobutada was bitterly disappointed by the outcome of Sekigahara. Nobuhiro clearly followed in the footsteps of Nobutada, to the point of long-term and quite faithful emulation of his calligraphy style, which suggests political allegiance.50 The head of the Hachijō princely family, Toshitada 八条宮智忠 (1620– 62), was chosen to write the chapter on the Osaka battles in which the Tokugawa defeated Toyotomi Hideyori, the son of Ieyasu’s predecessor Hideyoshi. Since Ieyasu had initially vowed to protect Hideyori and bring him to power, this was a politically sensitive chapter for the Tokugawa. The choice of Hachijō Toshitada is remarkable because Toshitada’s father had been adopted by Hideyoshi. Moreover, Hideyoshi had played an important roll in establishing the Hachijō family. The connection between the Hachijō and the Toyotomi was therefore strong. In addition, the Hachijō were associated with Christianity—which the Tokugawa had banned— and many of those who had supported the Toyotomi were Christians. As late as 1634, two men who had long served the Hachijō were arrested as Christians and crucified.51

47 See Boot 1991, pp. 157–58 concerning Kamatari. By the seventeenth century Kamatari was the subject of a popular kōwakamai, see Trede 2003. 48 See Gerhart 1999, p. 115 concerning the paintings. She also translated significant portions of text from the 1640 scroll. 49 See Bruschke-Johnson 2004, particularly pp. 64; 66; 68. 50 For Nobuhiro’s calligraphy style and other elements of the stylistic influence of Nobutada see Bruschke-Johnson 2004, pp. 84; 122; 133. 51 Note of this is seen in, among others, the diary of Hino Sukekatsu 日野資勝 (1577– 1639) on Kan’ei 11 (1634)/11/19. See Kyōto no rekishi, vol. 10, p. 298. 172 lee bruschke-johnson

Although these are just two examples, it does seem significant that aristocrats whose families had a history of discord with the shogunate were chosen to write descriptions of these key sections. Their inscription effec- tively legitimized the Tokugawa version of events, which often diverged significantly from documentary evidence.52

Were aristocrats paid for their contributions?

As noted above, it seems unlikely that the courtiers involved were enthusiastic about this project, if only because for high-ranking aristocrats, Ieyasu did not deserve such an honour, although his pedigree was significantly more impressive than that of his predecessor, Hideyoshi. Nevertheless, the project may have provided some financial benefit for the courtiers involved. Some form of payment was usually expected for the scholarly efforts of aristocrats.53 Documentary evidence proves that Shōren-in temple received a generous supplement for Sonjun’s contribution to the 1640 scroll.54 It is unclear whether other princely temples received recompense, but many building and renovation projects date to the 1640s, which indicates some increase in revenue.55 It is also possible that some families received “payment” in the form of shogunal permissions, for instance for promotions or marriages. Although documenting this is difficult, it is suggested in the timing of certain events. For instance, two years later Hachijō Toshitada married Tomiko 富子, the daughter of daimyo Maeda Toshit- sune 前田利常 (1594–1658). The bride was adopted by Iemitsu before the marriage; his support was clearly essential for the union. Toshitada was able to greatly enhance his family’s estate (now known as Katsura Rikyū 桂離宮) at this time, probably due to funding from his wife’s family.56

In conclusion, Iemitsu clearly considered it a crucial matter to produce an engi of unrivaled quality to honour his grandfather. This necessitated the

52 See Gerhart 1999 pp. 115; 125; 127. 53 See Butler 2002, p. 37. 54 See Tokugawa jikki vol. 3, p. 164, 1639.i.11.26; 1639.i.11.27. These entries come directly after Sonjun announced Go-Mizunoo’s agreement to write the engi. 55 Go-Mizunoo’s wife Tōfukumon-in is usually credited with financing these renovation projects. Another possible scenario is that she was assigned to distribute the funds for the shogunate. See Lillehoj 1996. 56 Toshitada’s father Toshihito initiated building at Katsura Rikyū, but it was not until the 1640s that the estate began to take the form seen today. insincere blessings 173 unenviable task of enlisting the services of the often-recalcitrant imperial court: aristocratic calligraphy was indispensable for such documents. The list of calligraphers included in the 1640 engi testifies to his commitment to having the highest- ranked aristocrats for the task. This must have taken a significant amount of difficult negotiation to coordinate. Could the difficulties in dealing with the court have led Iemitsu to request objects from Korea that traditionally would have been provided by the emperor or learned priests from Kyoto? Could he perhaps have even been trying to use the relationship with this foreign land to bypass the legitimization traditionally sought from the emperor and aristocrats in Kyoto? It seems a ridiculous notion, but his inclusion of a chapter on the 1636 Korean embassy in the 1640 engi—a sacred document produced in honour of his deified grandfather—suggests that he saw more potential in this relationship than a simple exchange of trade. The Korean issue aside, it is essential to examine the engi handscrolls produced for the Tokugawa in the context of their complicated and less- than-stable relationship with the aristocracy. The 1640s project clearly marks a zenith in the Tokugawa efforts to use aristocrats, and their art, as political tools.57 While their participation presumably provided some benefits to court families, Iemitsu surely knew that he was pushing aristocratic pride to the limit with this project. Given that, did he, could he, really expect sincere blessings? The Tōshō daigongen engi scroll project was an admirable feat, yet somehow it did not help Iemitsu sleep well at night.

57 An engi commissioned by Iemitsu’s son in 1665 contains calligraphy written by aristocrats but of a considerably lower rank. This is the subject of my current research, to be published in due course. 174 lee bruschke-johnson

Appendix

List of calligraphers and the chapters they wrote for the 1640 Tōshō daigongen engi

Breaks in the table indicate the divisions into different scrolls, table based on list given in Komatsu 1994 pp. 185–86; 178–181. GM indicates a son of Emperor Go-Mizunoo; GY indicates a son of Emperor Go-Yōzei. The numbers after these designations indicate birth order. no. Calligrapher i.d. Chapter contents 1 Go-Mizunoo retired emperor Introductory prayers58 2 Nijō Yasumichi 二条康道 sesshō in 1640 Ieyasu’s mother’s (1607–1666) dream of a miraculous birth59 3 Kujō Michifusa 九条道房 Ieyasu’s birth60 (1609–1647) 4 Konoe Hisatsugu 近衛尚嗣 Son of Nobuhiro Inji (game which (1622–1653) (no. 6) showed Ieyasu’s military ability as a child)61 5 Kujō Michimoto 九条通基 Battle of Komaki62 (1615–54) 6 Konoe Nobuhiro 近衛信尋 GY 7 Battle of Sekigahara63 (1599–1649) 7 Kujō Yukiie 九条幸家 Ieyasu becomes (1586–1665) shogun64 8 Ichijō Akiyoshi 一条昭良 or GY 12 Flower viewing in Kanetō 兼遐 (1605–72) Suruga65 9 Hachijō no miya Toshitada Osaka battles66 八条宮智忠 (1620–1662)

58 Gerhart 1999, pp. 113–4. 59 Gerhart 1999, pp. 116–8. 60 Gerhart 1999, pp. 118–20. 61 Gerhart 1999, p. 122. 62 Gerhart 1999, pp. 123–5. 63 Gerhart 1999, pp. 126–8. 64 Gerhart 1999, pp. 128–30. insincere blessings 175

(cont.) no. Calligrapher i.d. Chapter contents

10 Nijō Mitsuhira 二条光平 Son of Yasumichi Shōkoku senge (1624–1682) (no. 2) (Ieyasu’s illness, arrival of imperial messengers) 11 Fushimi no miya Sadakiyo Ieyasu’s death 伏見宮貞清 (1595–1654) 12 Ninnaji Kakushin 仁和寺覚深 GY 1 Ieyasu’s initial burial (1587?–1648) at Kunōzan 13 Myōhōin Gyōnen 妙法院尭然 GY 9 Ieyasu’s remains (1602–61) moved to Nikkō, his deified name chosen: Tōshō Daigongen67 14 Chion-in Ryōjun 知恩院良純 GY 11 Building of Tōshō (1604–1669) shrine 15 Shōgoin Dōkō 聖護院道晃 GY 16 Yamasuge bridge (1612–79) legend 16 Jissōin Gison 実相院義尊 grandson of Shōdō Shōnin’s (1601–61) Ashikaga Yoshiaki 勝道上人 (735–817?) (1537–97), visit to Nikkō adopted son of Go-Yōzei. 17 Ichijōin Sonkaku 一条院尊覚 GY 14 Xuanzang (ca. 602–64) (1608–61) episode 18 Go-Mizunoo Retired emperor White-naped Crane (Manazuru) 19 Manshuin Ryōjo 曼殊院良恕 Go-Yōzei’s 1636 rebuilding of the (1575–1645) brother Nikkō complex 20 Daikakuji Sonshō 大覚寺尊性 GY 8 21st anniversary (1602–1651) commemoration of Ieyasu’s death

65 Gerhart 1999, p. 130. This was the first paragraph of Tenkai’s 1636 engi. See Boot 1991, p. 335. 66 Gerhart 1999, 131–4. 67 This was in the second part of Tenkai’s original 1636 text. See Boot 1991, p. 335. 176 lee bruschke-johnson

(cont.) no. Calligrapher i.d. Chapter contents

21 Manshuin Ryōjō 曼殊院良尚 2nd son of Korean embassy (1622–1693) Hachijō no miya Toshihito 22 Enman-in Jōson 圓満院常尊 brother of Okunoin (inner shrine (1604–71) no. 16, Gison, area) also adopted by Go-Yōzei 23 Shōren-in Sonjun 青蓮院尊純 Chūzenji 中禅寺 (1591–1653) founded by Shōdō Shōnin in 784 24 Kajii Jiin 梶井 or Sanzen-in GY 19 Kegon waterfall 三千院 Jiin 慈胤 (1617–1700) 25 Tenkai 天海 (1536–1643) epilogue

References

Berry, Mary Elizabeth (1989). Hideyoshi. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Boot, W.J. (1987). The Deification of Tokugawa Ieyasu. In: Japan Foundation Newsletter, vol. 14 no. 5, pp. 10–13. —— (1991). The Religious Background of the Deification of Tokugawa Ieyasu. In: Boscaro, Gatti and Raveri, eds. Rethinking Japan, vol. 2. New York: St Martin’s Press, pp. 331–391. —— (2000). The Death of a Shogun: Deification in Early Modern Japan. In: John Breen and Mark Teeuwen, eds. Shinto in History, Ways of the Kami. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. —— (2002). Het voortleven van Hideyoshi. In: Erika de Poorter, ed. Toyotomi Hideyoshi: Geweldenaar en parvenu in het Japan van de 16e eeuw. Leiden: Uitgeverij Plantage, pp. 75–101. Bruschke-Johnson, Lee (2004). Dismissed as Elegant Fossils: Konoe Nobutada and the Role of Aristocrats in Early Modern Japan. Amsterdam: Hotei Publishing. Butler, Lee (2002). Emperor and Aristocracy in Japan, 1467–1680: Resilience and Renewal. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center. Coaldrake, William (1995). Architecture and Authority in Japan. London: Routledge. Cort, Louise Allison (1982). The Grand Kitano Tea Gathering. Chanoyu Quarterly, no. 31, pp. 15–44. Endō Jun (2003). In Search of a Shintō Identity. In: Mark Teeuwen and John Breen, tr. Shintō, a Short History. London & New York: RoutledgeCurzon. Fister, Patricia (2000). Creating Devotional Art with Body Fragments: The Buddhist Nun Bunchi and her Father, Emperor Gomizuno-o. Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 27/3–4, pp. 213–38. Gerhart, Karen (1999). The Eyes of Power: Art and Early Tokugawa Authority. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. —— (2004). Visions of the Dead: Kano Tan’yu’s Paintings of Tokugawa Iemitsu’s Dreams. Monumenta Nipponica 59/1, pp. 1–34. insincere blessings 177

Gyōjo hōshinnō nikki 尭恕法親王日記. In: Myōhō-in shiryō 妙法院資料 vols. 1–3. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1976–1978. Hashimoto Masanobu 橋本政信 (1995). Konoe-ke rekidai no kisho nitsuite—Masaie, Nobutada, Nobuhiro, Hisatsugu, Motohiro 近衛家歴代の貴書について政家、信尹、信尋、尚嗣、基煕. Shojō kenkyū 書状研究 41/42, 1995; reprinted in Hashimoto Masanobu, Kinsei kuge shakai no kenkyū 近世公家社会の研究, Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2002, pp. 630–663. Kamei Wakana 亀井若菜 (2003). Hyōshō to shite no bijutsu, gensetsu to shite no bijutsushi: Muromachi Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshiharu to Tosa Mitsumochi no kaiga 表象としての美術言説としての美術室町将足利義晴と土佐光. Kunitachi: Buryukke. Kasumi Kaikan, ed (1997). Jotei Meishō Tennō to Shōgun Iemitsu, Matsudaira Nobutsuna to sono jidai 女帝明正天皇と将軍家光松平信綱とその時代. Saitama: Kasumi Kaikan. Komatsu Shigemi 小松茂美 ed. (1994). Tōshōsha engi 東昭社縁起. In: Zokuzoku Nihon emaki taisei: Denki, engihen 続々日本絵巻大成伝記縁起編, vol. 8. Tokyo: Chūō kōronsha. Kyōto no rekishi (1976). Gakugei shorin. Lamers, Jeroen (2000). Japonius Tyrannus: The Japanese Warlord Oda Nobunaga Reconsid- ered. Leiden: Hotei Publishing. Lillehoj, Elizabeth (1996). Tōfukumon’in: Empress, Patron and Artist. Woman’s Art Journal 17 (1), pp. 28–34. —— ed. (2004). Critical Perspectives on Classicism in Japanese Painting, 1600–1700. Hono- lulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. —— ed. (2007). Acquisition: Art and Ownership in Edo-Period Japan. Connecticut: Floating World Editions. —— (2011) Art and Palace Politics in Early Modern Japan, 1580s–1680s. Leiden: Brill. McCormick, Melissa (2009). Tosa Mitsunobu and the Small Scroll in Medieval Japan. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Phillips, Quitman (2000). The Practices of Painting in Japan, 1475–1500. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Seigle, Cecilia Segawa (1999). The shogun’s consort: Konoe Hiroko and Tokugawa Ienobu. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies vol. 59 no. 2, pp. 485–522. —— (2002). Shinanomiya Tsuneko. In: Anne Walthall, ed. The Human Tradition in Mod- ern Japan. Wilmington DE: Scholarly Resources, pp. 3–24. Somada Yoshio 杣田善雄 (2003). Bakuhan kenryoku to jiin monzeki 幕藩権力と寺院門跡. Kyoto: Shibunkaku. Sturman, Peter C. (1990). Cranes above Kaifeng: The Auspicious Image at the Court of Huizong. Ars Orientalis vol. 20, pp. 33–67. Takagishi Akira 高岸輝 (2003). Muromachi dono emaki korekushon no keisei 室町殿絵巻コレクションの形成. Bijitsushi 155, pp. 16–29. Toby, Ronald (1984). State and Diplomacy in Early Modern Japan. Princeton University Press. Tokugawa jikki 徳川実記. In: Kokushi taikei 国史大系, vols. 40, 41. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1981. Trede, Melanie (2003). Image, Text, and Audience: The Taishokan Narrative in Visual Rep- resentations of the Early Modern Period in Japan. Hamburg & New York: Peter Lang Verlag. Watsky, Andrew (2004). Chikubushima: Deploying the Sacred Arts in Momoyama Japan. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Williams, Duncan (2009). The Purple Robe Incident and the Formation of the Early Mod- ern Sōtō Zen Institution. Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 36/1, pp. 27–43. western connections

What’s in a Name? Padre João Rodriguez’s Discussion of Naming Practices in his Short Grammar of the Japanese Language

Jeroen Lamers

The Portuguese Padre João Rodriguez (1561–1633) was probably the fore- most linguistic expert of the Jesuit mission in late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Japan. He published his Short Grammar of the Japanese Language (Arte breve da lingoa iapoa) in Macao in 1620, ten years after the authorities in Japan had forced him to leave that country and twelve years after he had finished his first or “Large Grammar” of the Japanese Language, the Arte da lingoa de Iapam. In full, the title of Rodriguez’s second linguistic study reads: “Short Grammar of the Japanese Language, Extracted from the Large Grammar of the Same Language for Those Who Start Learning Its First Principles.” As the title indicates, Rodriguez designed his Short Grammar not as an independent but as a supplementary work, to make his grammatical mag- num opus, the Large Grammar, more accessible to beginning students of the Japanese language. In his Large Grammar, Rodriguez had promised to make a short extract later for those who would find its “variety of precepts and explanations” confusing rather than helpful. In 1620, Rodriguez lived up to his promise with the publication of the Short Grammar. The Short Grammar is not merely a compendium, but rather a revision of the Large Grammar, showing the development of Rodriguez’s views on Japanese language training. As a textbook, it benefits from a more logical structure and a narrower, more strictly grammatical scope. Rodriguez no longer deals with the plethora of subjects—poetry, epistolary style, ways of counting—that are covered alongside the Japanese language proper in the Large Grammar. The organizational improvements of the Short Gram- mar do not imply that Rodriguez considered his first grammatical study to be outdated or rendered obsolete by the second. Repeatedly, and with complete confidence, Rodriguez refers his readers to the previous work for greater detail. The Short Grammar is divided into three books. The first contains some general remarks about the Japanese language and how it can best be learned, rules for transcription and pronunciation, as well as declensions 182 jeroen lamers and conjugations. The second book deals with the rudiments and classification of the parts of speech, Japanese and Sino-Japanese readings of words, honorific verbs, and provides some basic rules for composition. The third book covers a number of characteristics of the different styles of writing, “and other [points] that will help greatly to understand the books that students will hear and read.”1 By these other points Rodriguez meant a treatise on Japanese names, which takes up roughly the final quarter of the Short Grammar. In the opening of the third book, Rodriguez elaborates on his decision to include a treatise on names: Although the various styles of writing have been dealt with extensively in the Large Grammar (which can be consulted for extra study), it seemed necessary to include a brief section on style in this compendium, since those who are learning the language have to begin by studying the written style from books. [. . .] The various kinds of personal names, which the Japanese change at various points in the course of their lives, occur frequently in the Chinese and Japanese books that our students will have to hear and read. Personal names are also commonly used in daily speech. The same goes for the names of titles—both secular titles as borne by Japanese lords and samurai, as well as religious titles as borne by the religious monks of the Jap- anese sects. And therefore all these names will be dealt with in their most natural order, and in a different manner from that in the Large Grammar. For it is necessary that our students know how to pay the respect that is due to each person and thus avoid any discourtesies and disrespect—especially since this an area where mistakes are embarrassing and nobody, certainly not the Japanese themselves, would have any understanding should we fail to master this.2 Rodriguez packs three interconnected arguments into this passage. First, proper study of the Japanese language was to be carried out on the basis of original, written Japanese material. Second, one who wanted to learn Japanese needed to have a proper understanding of Japanese names. Third, having a good grasp of Japanese names would keep Jesuit missionaries from making harmful mistakes in addressing Japan’s high and mighty— the social layer at which much of the Jesuit missionary effort was directed. Rodriguez evidently believed that he had not given sufficient attention to Japanese names in the Large Grammar. At the same time he stood by his

1 Padre Ioam Rodrigvez, Arte breve da lingoa iapoa tirada da arte grande da mesma lingoa pera os que começam a aprender os primeiros principios della, 1620. 2 Arte breve, f. 67r; Hino 1993, p. 489. what’s in a name 183 earlier discussions of other non-grammatical topics, seeing no reason to revise these in the Short Grammar. The above passage also makes clear that the Japanese written language stands at the center of Rodriguez’s attention in his second study. This is a departure from the Large Grammar, where the spoken language is the primary concern. This difference in focus is attributable to the maturation of Rodriguez’s views on Japanese language training.

How to learn and teach Japanese

In the Short Grammar, under the heading “On the Way that Appears Best Suited for Learning and Teaching This Language,”3 Rodriguez distinguishes between two methods of mastering Japanese: one practical, informed by daily exposure to native speakers, and the other grammatical, using a grammar and its rules, reading books, and doing composition. The second method, in Rodriguez’s eyes, was the more appropriate one for European newcomers to the Japanese mission. When properly put into practice, the grammatical approach was less time-consuming and more familiar to the “men of ability and maturity” who would be exposed to it. With such instruction, these men could achieve, within a number of years, “a mastery of the language which will enable them to preach to the Gen- tiles and confute their errors and superstitions in debates and in writing, defending the Faith against its adversaries.”4 Yet for all its merits, Rodriguez admits, the grammatical method had not proven to be a great success in Japan. Those missionaries who had mastered the language had done so by means of the practical approach, at great expense of time, energy, and dedication. Rodriguez himself was very much a case in point. Nevertheless, he strongly believed and argued that only grammatical instruction could ever produce Japanese speakers with the requisite speed, that is, ensure a steady supply of missionaries equipped to combat their native adversaries, the Buddhist monks, head on. In his introductory remarks to the Short Grammar, he therefore

3 “Do modo que parece mais accomodado pera aprender & ensinar esta lingoa,” Arte breve, ff. 2v–6r; Hino 1993, pp. 360–7. Moran 1975 provides a complete translation of these introductory remarks, as well as of the preceding “General Remarks on the Japanese Language.” 4 Moran 1975, p. 285; Arte breve, f. 3v; Hino 1993, p. 362. 184 jeroen lamers unfolds a program designed to remedy the failings of language teaching for Jesuits in Japan. His solution entails:

• Exclusive use of native instructors, men expert in Japanese grammar as well as the various styles of Japanese literature. • Division of students into two groups, one made up of those who aim at gaining an understanding of Japanese quickly (not the object of Rodriguez’s present concern) and another consisting of men of talent, Rodriguez’s primary target group for grammatical teaching. • Exclusive concentration on the original Japanese classics, the only materials suited for language instruction, as in the style of these books “is contained all the beauty, elegance and correctness of the Japanese language.”5

In his first grammar, Rodriguez had used examples from Jesuit adaptations of major Japanese classics and from the books in romanized Japa- nese that had been written by Japanese Brothers of the mission. By the time he wrote the Short Grammar, however, Rodriguez had come around to the view that the instructional rationale behind the adapted classics and books written by Japanese Jesuits was self-defeating: Although written with the intention of making the written language more accessible and of helping people pick up phrases for use in daily speech, these books in fact taught the wrong things, as their style was colloquial. By 1620 Rodriguez also disapproved of the Western books translated into Japanese, even if they were in the literary style, for still their phrasing was incorrect, as it had been altered according to Western ideas. Ergo: “The best way to learn and teach this language” was to use the original masterpieces of the Japanese literary heritage. What, then, made up the Japanese canon? Rodriguez distinguishes between four categories of books: First, and least difficult, were the mai 舞 (ballad dramas) and sōshi 草子 (tales), written in a simple style that approximated the spoken language; second came the setsuwa, or “lives of their hermits,” as contained in the Senjūshō 撰集抄, attributed by Rodriguez to Saigyō (1118–90), and the Hosshinshū 発心集 by Kamo no Chōmei (1155–1216); the third category was formed by the monogatari 物語 (literary tales) and exemplified by Heike monogatari 平家物語; the fourth, towering over the others in a class of its own, was the Taiheiki 太平記, the

5 Moran 1975, p. 286; Arte breve, f. 4r; Hino 1993, p. 363. what’s in a name 185 epitome of literature according to contemporary samurai taste. Besides these four categories, Rodriguez left room for poetry anthologies, the Ise monogatari 伊勢物語, and the Genji monogatari 源氏物語 as works that advanced students could read fruitfully from time to time. “In reading these and other similar books written in the pure and elegant language, together with the tales and the richness of the Japanese language to be found in them, students will be drinking at the pure sources of the language, and without doubt will come to have a good grasp of the language in a short space of time.”6 Rodriguez wanted to impose the systematics of contemporary Western language training on the Jesuit studies of Japanese. A touch of renaissance thinking is palpable here. The method used by students in Europe to learn Latin, Greek, or Hebrew had to be applied to the Japanese situation. Paradoxically, this meant a radical absence of adaptations. From the very beginning, native teachers were to expose promising students to the pure and proper language of the Japanese classics, also studied by the Japanese themselves. Rodriguez knew that it was essential, if the missionaries ever were to succeed in Japan, to get the language absolutely right; otherwise their enterprise was doomed to remain, at best, an exotic sideshow in the eyes of the native populace. Reading the Japanese classics in undiluted form was no cakewalk, however; if it was the straightest way to a complete mastery of the Japanese language, it was also the steepest. Among the problems that students on such a curriculum were bound to run into, Rodriguez realized, were the complexity, variety, and apparent lack of logic underlying Japanese naming practices. Not one to leave his pupils in the dark, Rodriguez included a lengthy discourse on Japanese names in the Short Grammar. The treatise on names is a direct consequence of the development of Rodriguez’s didactic and linguistic convictions.

What’s in a name?

Rodriguez had dealt with Japanese names in his first grammar, but the relative weight of the subject in the two grammars is entirely different. In the Large Grammar, six of a total of almost 240 folios are dedicated to names, whereas the same topic in the Short Grammar takes up no less than 21 of

6 Moran 1975, p. 288; Arte breve, f. 5r; Hino 1993, p. 365. 186 jeroen lamers

96 folios. This is the only topic that is treated at greater length in the Short Grammar than in the previous work. The prominence of the treatise on names is underlined by the fact that it is the sole non-grammatical topic in the Short Grammar. In the Large Grammar, names are not treated as a topic per se but as an extension to the lengthy disquisition on epistolary style. This treatment is compact and surveyable, but it does not provide the higher cat- egorization, the wealth of detail on how the names are composed, or the historical background regarding their origins and derivations found in the treatise on names in the Short Grammar. Rodriguez explains in the Large Grammar that depending on the phase of his life, a Japanese individual could bear one or more of no fewer than ten different kinds of names: 1. osanana 幼名 or “boyhood name;” 2. otokona 男名 or “manhood name;” 3. karana 唐名 or “sinonym” for a court office; 4. kan 官 or “office;” 5. juryō 受領 or “provincial title;” 6. jitsumyō 実名 or “proper name;” 7. hōmyō 法名 or “religious name;” 8. zōkan 贈官 or “posthumous office;” 9. myōji 名字 or “house name;” and 10. uji 氏 or “lineage name”. To each of these names he devotes a brief explanation with examples.7 It is apparent that Japanese names were a continuing source of confusion for Jesuit missionaries. As Rodriguez stated in 1620, however, “the use of Japanese names appears to be confusing and difficult to those who do not understand it, while, on the other hand, it is easy when it is approached through its principles.”8 This holds true today as much as it did in the early 1600s. The readings and variety of names can present a major hurdle, especially to those who are new to the study of early modern Japan. Major and minor historical actors often appear under a number of different names in official documents, letters, diaries, and chronicles. Rodriguez’s treatise on Japanese names in the Short Grammar can help to overcome this problem. The treatise elucidates the principles that governed appellation in early modern Japan. Naming practices were highly systematic, Rodri- guez points out, hoping to dispel the confusion that existed amongst his fellow missionaries. He distinguishes between three main categories of names: 1. personal names; 2. lineage and house names; and 3. offices and ranks of the (largely defunct) imperial ritsuryō 律令 bureaucracy and its

7 Padre Ioão Rodriguez, Arte da lingoa de Iapam, ff. 206v–212v; facsimile edited by Shima Shōzō, pp. 412–424. 8 Arte breve, f. 75v; Hino 1993, p. 506. what’s in a name 187 concomitant provincial administration. Each of these main groups had its respective, and extensive, subdivisions. Some interesting hybrids were also encountered. In the course of his life, a Japanese male individual could take on no less than five personal names. The first was the boyhood name, called azana 字, osanana 幼名, or waranbena 童名 in Japanese, which was given a child at birth. It normally incorporated some element signifying longevity, such as kame 亀 (turtle), or take 竹 (bamboo). The second was the manhood name, otokona 男名 or eboshina 烏帽子名 in Japanese, which was also known as the temporary or provisional name, karina 仮名 or kemyō 仮名. Adopted upon a boy’s coming-of-age, the temporary name would be borne until the person in question took on a court or provincial title. Rodriguez explains in detail the various ways in which temporary names were formed. There were simple and compound kemyō. The simple version consisted of the Japanese numerals one to ten followed by the affix rō 郎. As ichi 一 (one) was substituted by ta 太, and ni 二 (two) by ji 次, the following names were produced: Tarō 太郎, Jirō 次郎, Saburō 三郎, Shirō 四郎, Gorō 五郎, Rokurō 六郎, Shichirō 七郎, Hachirō 八郎, Kurō 九郎, and Jūrō 十朗. These simple kemyō, regarded as “numeral names,” could be combined with a limited set of other words (such as mata 又, gen 源, ya 弥, etc.), producing names such as Matatarō 又太郎, Genjirō 源次郎, or Saburōsuke 三郎助. The combination of the numeral names amongst themselves produced compounds such as Tarōjirō 太郎次郎, Jirōtarō 次郎太郎, Saburōgorō 三郎五郎, etc. A final type of temporary name was not formed on the basis of the numeral names, but included either the element nai 内 or suke 助, making names such as Gennai 源内, Heisuke 平助, or Hansuke 半助. The third personal name, the proper name, or jitsumyō 実名 in Japanese, was also assumed upon reaching manhood, simultaneously with the temporary name. In principle, it was of a permanent character. The Japanese used this name to sign letters and public documents. As this name was used by warriors on the battlefield when challenging the enemy, it was also called nanori 名乗り—“stating one’s name.” The jitsumyō normally lasted until death, unless its bearer had earlier retired from active life and taken the tonsure, in which case it was replaced by a religious name. “And only noble and honorable persons take on this name, but not farmers, craftsmen, or other base persons, who belong to the common folk.”9

9 Arte breve, f. 79r; Hino 1993, p. 513. 188 jeroen lamers

The proper names are “normally made up of two Chinese characters in the Japanese reading, and consist of four syllables.”10 In all, according to Rodriguez, there were eighty-two words that could be used for composing jitsumyō.11 In many families, the same character was handed down from father to son. Representatives of the Taira 平 family, for example, incorporated the element mori 盛 into their proper names—Kiyomori 清盛, Shigemori 重盛, Koremori 維盛, and so forth. Jitsumyō were also markers of feudal allegiance. “When a samurai leaves the service of his lord,” Rodriguez notes, “and goes over to another great lord, then the latter favors him with the last character of his own name, which is put before another character to form a new proper name for the samurai.”12 From the second shogun Yoshiakira 義詮 (1330–67; r. 1358–67) onward, all Ashikaga shoguns used the character yoshi 義 as the first part of their jitsumyō. The shoguns in turn allowed the use of the same character to their provincial grandees, who also incorporated it as the first part of their proper names. The grandees, in late Muromachi parlance known as yakata 屋形, in turn granted the second part of their jitsumyō to their own retainers. “For example, from [Ōtomo 大友] Yoshishige 義鎮, the name of the yakata of Bungo, derived the names [Kiyota 清田] Shigetada 鎮忠 and [Ogino 荻野] Shigenobu 鎮信.”13 The fourth personal name was the religious name, which included names for lay monks (nyūdō 入道), as well as titles for Buddhist clergy. Rodriguez deals with clergy names and titles at the end of his treatise, dealing separately with mainstream Buddhism and the Zen schools. In other writings, too, Rodriguez drew a sharp distinction between Zen and all other forms of institutionalized Buddhism, a sign of the prominence enjoyed by Zen in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century. His survey of the Japanese Buddhist sects and their offices is not comprehensive and suffers from a lack of explanatory detail. Its inclusion in the treatise on names appears somewhat forced, as it has a limited relevance to the topic at hand. Some Buddhist titles could and would indeed be used by laymen, but those were relatively few amongst Japan’s warrior class, with whom Rodriguez was primarily concerned.

10 Ibidem. 11 Arte breve, f. 80 rv; Hino 1993, pp. 515–6. The number of words used in proper names cannot have been limited to eighty-two. This is evident from the alphabetically organized chart given by Rodriguez, in which he omitted the entire Y column. 12 Arte breve, f. 79r; Hino 1993, p. 513. 13 Arte breve, f. 79v; Hino 1993, p. 514. what’s in a name 189

Warriors who took the tonsure, and withdrew from public life—in other words, became lay monks—took on two religious names. The first of the names for lay monks was an honorific epithet, generally called nyūdō no na 入道の名 or hottai no na 法体の名; it was called hōmyō 法名 or kaimyō 戒名 if the lay retiree belonged to mainstream Japanese Buddhism, that is, the Tendai and Shingon sects, and shūmyō 宗名 if he adhered to the Zen sect. This name served roughly as a substitute for the temporary name or the court or provincial title that the retired person had held in the secular world. Lay monks adopted a second, humble name, by which they could refer to themselves but not others to them. This name was called saimin 斎名 and replaced the jitsumyō or proper name. “The shūmyō of Dom Francisco [Ōtomo Yoshishige], Lord of Bungo, was Sōrin 宗鱗, and his saimin was Kyūan 休庵.”14 The posthumous name, okurina 諡, was the final personal name that an individual would bear. Japan’s high and mighty—the emperor, shogun, and major provincial lords—were given distinctive posthumous names. Those of emperors ended with tennō 天皇 or mikado 御門. An imperial posthumous name ending with in 院 or insama 院様 was the mark of a deceased retired monarch. Posthumous names of shoguns ended with indono 院殿; those of the great daimyo ended with jidono 寺殿, and of lesser lords with zenjōmon 禅定門. In some very special cases, a military leader could be awarded a posthumous title, called zōkan 贈官, in addition to a posthumous name. Rodriguez mentions the examples of Minamoto no Yoritomo 源頼朝 (1147–99) and Oda Nobunaga 織田信長 (1534–82), who both had been posthumously promoted to the position of daijō daijin 太政大臣, or grand minister of state. The second main category consisted of lineage and house names. Lin- eages were called uji 氏 or shō 姓. Rodriguez tells us that there were eighty lineage names in all, the four most prominent being Fujiwara 藤原, Mina- moto 源, Taira 平, and Tachibana 橘. Warrior families, as a rule, claimed to be of Minamoto or Taira lineage, even though the provenance of many a Sengoku daimyo was murky. The Tokugawa 徳川 traced their lineage to the Minamoto—widely viewed as a prerequisite for occupying the shogunal position—although authentic evidence regarding their family tree does not extend beyond the fifteenth century. Keeping up good genealogical appearances was much more important than documentary fact. Most lineages predated the Nara period (710–784) of Japanese history. It

14 Arte breve, f. 81r; Hino 1993, p. 517. 190 jeroen lamers is, therefore, remarkable that Rodriguez mentions the Toyotomi 豊臣 lineage explicitly, as it was a short-lived novelty, introduced by Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豊臣秀吉 (1537–98) to cover up his lack of proper genealogical credentials. By the time Rodriguez wrote his Short Grammar, the Toyo- tomi lineage had been extinct for five years, perishing along with the fall of Ozaka Castle in 1615. House names, myōji 名字, could derive from a place name, in which case they were called zaimyō 在名 (“toponym”), or from something else in the family background. Examples of prominent zaimyō were the house names Oda 織田 and Matsudaira 松平. The first name derived from a domain in Echizen 越前 Province, the latter from a mountain hamlet in Mikawa 三河. Of the second type of house name, Rodriguez gives two examples that are particularly well chosen: Kinoshita 木下 and Hashiba 羽柴. Both house names were borne by the man nowadays known as Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Kinoshita was the family name that Hideyoshi in all likelihood conferred on his deceased father Yaemon, originally a surname-less farmer, arrogat- ing the surname of his own wife Oné to upgrade his father, and thereby himself.15 In 1573 Hideyoshi changed his house name from Kinoshita to Hashiba, commonly thought to be a contraction of the surnames of two of his seniors in the Oda military hierarchy, Niwa Nagahide 丹羽長秀 and Shibata Katsuie 柴田勝家. The third main group of names consisted of court offices (kan 官 or kando 官途) and provincial titles ( juryō 受領). Rodriguez uses the word hyakkan 百官, “the hundred offices,” as a comprehensive term for all offices and titles of the imperial bureaucracy, and provides his readers with some basic historical information on the Japanese monarchy, court aristocracy, and military nobility. He sketches the rise of the military class—to the detriment of the Kyoto-based court or civil nobility—and presents an outline of the Ashikaga military hierarchy, detailing the names of the shogun’s senior advisors, his provincial vassals, and personal servants. The Ashikaga shogunate and its provincial military governors (shugo 守護) had in turn been swept aside by their own subordinates. This process of usurpation had culminated in the second half of the sixteenth century and been brought to a stop under the “Three Great Heroes”—Oda Nobu- naga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康.16

15 See Elison 1981b, pp. 223–226. 16 Arte breve, ff. 82r–87r; Hino 1993, pp. 519–529. what’s in a name 191

Rodriguez’s discussion of the imperial bureaucracy starts with the top positions, the sesshō 摂政 (regent) and kanpaku 関白 (imperial regent), after which follow the officials of the Daijōkan 太政官, the Council of State. He lists the Eight Ministries and the subordinate agencies of the imperial government, grouping them loosely by the number of their appointees. Rodriguez had a rudimentary grasp of what were the superior and inferior offices within the imperial bureaucracy, but he does not show a deep understanding of its composition and workings. For instance, he does not mention that the Daijōkan supervised the Eight Ministries; nor does he indicate which bureau came under which ministry, or which rank was concomitant with which office. Writing in Macao, Rodriguez is aware of the Chinese origins of the Japanese court titles. He pointedly remarks that “Chinese make fun” of the fact that the Japanese monarch styles himself emperor, “because the Japanese sovereign is not an emperor but a king, having beneath him no titled kings as does the Chinese emperor with domestic and foreign monarchs.”17 It is important to note that Rodriguez’s overriding aim was not to provide a full description of the imperial administrative apparatus, but to deal with it “only insofar as the imperial titles and offices are taken on by the Japanese lords and samurai.”18 More than anything, Rodriguez’s treatment shows both the political erosion and titular tenacity of the ritsuryō bureaucracy. Though the institutions and offices of that bureaucracy had long ceased to operate as Japan’s central government, the emperor still functioned as the fountainhead of legitimacy for warrior rule. From the time of Ashikaga Takauji 足利尊氏 (1305–58) onward, says Rodriguez, “the emperor and the court enjoyed no political power whatsoever, apart from the fact that the emperor was still recognized as the sovereign who confirmed the shogun in his dignity. The emperor would do this at the request of the shogun, and thereby demonstrated that the empire was ruled by others on his behalf.”19 As said, Rodriguez’s emphasis is on how certain names and titles had filtered down from the court aristocracy to the military class. He draws attention to a peculiar type of hybrid name, exemplifying the adoption and adaptation of imperial nomenclature by warriors. The practice of making compound names of imperial offices (kan) and temporary names

17 Arte breve, f. 83r; Hino 1993, p. 521. 18 Arte breve, f. 88r; Hino 1993, p. 531. 19 Arte breve, f. 86r; Hino 1993, p. 527. 192 jeroen lamers

(kemyō) is the subject of a subsection of the treatise on names. This may be the most interesting part of Rodriguez’s discussion of imperial titles. Three names of imperial offices were used to make combinations with temporary names. “These three titles are: uhyōe 右兵衛 [Right Military Guards], uemon 右衛門 [Right Gate Guards], and saemon 左衛門 [Left Gate Guards]. The first two lose their initial u, making thus hyōe 兵衛 (or byōe when it is voiced), emon 右衛門, and saemon 左衛門 (or zaemon). The compounds are less honorable than the hyakkan titles by themselves.”20 There were three ways to make compound names with the elements hyōe, emon, and saemon. The first was to combine them with any of the numeral names—Tarō 太郎, Jirō 次郎, Saburō 三郎, etc.— to make Tarōbyōe 太郎兵衛, Jirōemon 次郎右衛門, or Saburōzaemon 三郎左衛門, and so forth. The second was to add them to words such as mata 又, saku 作, gen 源, etc., to produce names such as Matabyōe 又兵衛, Sakuemon 作右衛門, or Genzaemon 源左衛門. The third way was attach these three titles to the numerals one to ten, to produce San- zaemon 三左衛門, Shichibyōe 七兵衛, or Kuemon 九右衛門. If this was not bizarre enough, there was this rule, too: “All names composed in the three ways explained above, cannot take on any addition other than jō 尉 [secretary]. As these names are already humble, it appears that they do not merit kami 頭・督 or suke 助・佐. Thus we get names such as: Tarōbyōe no Jō 太郎兵衛尉, Yaemon no Jō 弥右衛門尉, Rokuemon no Jō 六右衛門尉, etc.” Other combinations involving hyōe, emon, or saemon were also possible—such as Emonbyōe 右衛門兵衛, Sakon’emon 左近右衛門, or Emontarō 右衛門太郎—although they were rare. A fourth way to combine imperial title names with kemyō was to join the word dayū 大夫, the voiced form of tayū 大夫 (master) with any of the numeral names, making Tarōdayū 太郎大夫, Jirōdayū 次郎大夫, or Saburōdayū 三郎大夫. Finally, it was possible to add dayū to ya 弥, mata 又, ko 小, etc., to make names such as Yadayū 弥大夫, Matadayū 又大夫, Kodayū 小大夫, and the like.21 Rodriguez explains that bearers of such hybrid compounds were “samurai, tonsured men, and commoners.”22 If we assume that the military elite were not included in this group—for they could take, or would be given proper court titles—then it seems that these names may have imparted

20 Arte breve, f. 91rv; Hino 1993, pp. 537–8. 21 Arte breve, ff. 91v–92r; Hino 1993, pp. 538–9. 22 Arte breve, f. 91r; Hino 1993, p. 537. what’s in a name 193 to their bearers both a stately air, because of their imperial component, as well as a martial flair. For mid- to low-ranking people it would have been presumptuous to take on an actual court title, so a watered-down variant would have come in handy. These names, in any event, were very popular and common in the sixteenth century and remained so throughout the Tokugawa period. The governorships of Japan’s sixty-six provinces were known as the juryō 受領 titles. While the imperial system still functioned, these titles were borne by the actual provincial administrators sent out by the central bureaucracy. But with the replacement of imperial by military rule, a phenomenon that started and was particularly pronounced in Japan’s provinces, the governorships were adopted by powerful daimyo who ruled one or more provinces. In other cases the juryō title was just that, a titular designation; its bearer was “neither the governor nor the lord of the province in question.”23 In the mid 1570s, Toyotomi Hideyoshi was commonly known as Hashiba Chikuzen no Kami 羽柴筑前守, “Hashiba Governor of Chikuzen.” The titular part of his name was a good example of the honorific use of the juryō, as at that moment Hideyoshi exerted no administrative or military control whatsoever over Chikuzen Province. Normally, a juryō title consisted of the name of the province plus (no) kami 守, save for three provinces that took on (no) suke 介 instead. (The governorship of the provinces Hitachi 常陸, Kazusa 上総, and Kōzuke 上野 was reserved for imperial princes. The title suke designates the assistant governor of a province). Rodriguez lists all provinces, grouped by region, adding the synonyms, the number of districts, as well as indicating whether the governorship ranked as a “superior,” “major”, “middle,” or “minor office.”

Names as social capital

Rodriguez attached great importance to a proper understanding of the names that were used in Japanese polite society. His considerations were in part practical: he knew that amongst themselves, the Japanese adhered rigorously to the rules of propriety. Names and forms of address were a particularly gaffe-prone area in contemporary Japanese society. Calling people by their right and appropriate names was a social skill that the Jesuits had to acquire.

23 Arte breve, f. 92r; Hino 1993, p. 539. 194 jeroen lamers

Names were social markers. A name plotted the coordinates of a person’s position on the social map. This held especially true for the court ranks and titles, and their derivatives, that were used as names. Similarly, his personal name would signal whether a man had already come of age or was still a youth; in some cases, to which vassal band he belonged; whether he occupied a (titular) court office and rank; whether he was still participating in public life or had retired from the world; and, whether he had been awarded—by singular exception—a posthumous office. The treatise underlines that names carried meaning in early modern Japan, and that its rulers—for all their dash and prowess—reached back to old symbols of authority. The arrivistes of Sengoku may have swept away the dilapidated order of the Muromachi shogunate and marginal- ized the emperor’s role in the functioning of Japan’s polity, but they did not discard the country’s time-honored social traditions and conventions. On the contrary, their adoption strategy of political heritage was the safest way to anchor and legitimate the hegemony that they had established on the battlefield. Social mobility is a recognized characteristic of the Sen- goku period, but Rodriguez’s treatise on names reminds us that the Japa- nese sense of order, social etiquette, and status consciousness remained largely untouched by the military and political turmoil of that era. Rodriguez is neither complete nor authoritative in the historical analysis of his topic, but he goes a long way to help modern readers cope with the sometimes bewildering variety of names that appear in secular texts of the early Tokugawa period. The treatise on names is particularly helpful for names of members of the ruling samurai class. It shows that Rodriguez possessed a basic knowledge of the Japanese past, from its proto-history up to contemporary developments. He was fully cognizant of the social impact of the military turmoil of the Sengoku era, which “has caused many houses and families of the old military nobility to perish, while other commoners have newly ascended and risen to the military order by means of arms.”24 The lacunae in Rodriguez’s treatment of names in the Short Grammar are not difficult to identify. It tells us little about women’s names, which is not very surprising, considering that Rodriguez was a representative of the exclusively male Society of Jesus and was reporting on the male-dominated society of early modern Japan. It is less easy to see why Rodriguez passed over the phenomenon of the gō 号, or “artistic name.” Rodriguez was not

24 Arte breve, f. 84v; Hino 1993, p. 524. what’s in a name 195 oblivious to Japanese cultural life. Prior to writing the Short Grammar, he had written about Japanese poetry. Later, he would include several chapters on the tea ceremony in his História da Igreja do Japão. It is hard to believe that he was unfamiliar with the phenomenon of artistic names, as these were used by tea masters, poets, writers, and scholars. Rodriguez’s erudition and eye for detail are impressive. He had started his education from scratch. Having traveled to Japan as a juvenile with little or no schooling, he had built up his Japanological expertise in roughly thirty years of missionary experience. He had no ready-made Western- language handbooks at his disposal that could have helped him in his studies. In the end, he concluded, only Japanese sources are suitable material for Japanese studies. His intimate knowledge bespeaks his love for the Japanese language, culture, and customs. One cannot help wonder- ing whether he was working solely for the benefit of the Japanese mission in exile or, at least to some extent, to satisfy his own scholarly interests. In any event, João Rodriguez was a true pioneer in the field of Japanese studies, one who provides all of us “moderns” working in the same area with an extremely high standard to follow. It is remarkable that Rodriguez should still have worried about getting Japanese names right in 1620, six years after the Jesuit mission had been banned by the Tokugawa shogunate. Since 1614, the Jesuits no longer enjoyed access to Japan, and could only run a clandestine operation there. Rodriguez’s preoccupation with naming practices shows that in the early 1620s the Jesuits still harbored hopes of being readmitted to Japan. Otherwise, they would not have bothered with learning Japanese names, or, for that matter, with printing a Japanese grammar. Their optimism, commitment, and faith remain impressive even today. But they were slow and unwilling to come to grips with the political reality that had unfolded before their eyes.

References

Doi Tadao (1939). Das Sprachstudium der Gesellschaft Jesu in Japan im 16. und 17. Jahrhun- dert. Monumenta Nipponica 2, pp. 437–465. Elison, George (1981a). The Cross and the Sword: Patterns of Momoyama History. In: George Elison and Bardwell L. Smith, eds. Warlords, Artists, & Commoners. Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, pp. 55–85. ——. (1981b). Hideyoshi, the Bountiful Minister. In: George Elison and Bardwell L. Smith, eds. Warlords, Artists, & Commoners. Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, pp. 223– 244. ——. (1988). Deus Destroyed: The Image of Christianity in Early Modern Japan. Harvard East Asian Monographs 141. 2nd printing. Cambridge (Mass.): Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University. 196 jeroen lamers

Hino Hiroshi 日埜博司, ed. (1993). Nihon shōbunten 日本小文典. Facsimile, transcription, and Japanese translation of Rodrigvez, Padre Ioam. Arte breve da lingoa iapoa tirada da arte grande da mesma lingoa pera os que começam a aprender os primeiros principios della. Macao: Collegio da Madre de Deos da Companhia de IESV, 1620. Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōrai-sha. Moran, Joseph (1975). The Well of Japanese Undefiled: João Rodrigues’ Advice on How to Study Japanese. Monumenta Nipponica 30:3, pp. 277–289. ——. (1993). The Japanese and the Jesuits: Alessandro Valignano in Sixteenth–Century Japan. London and New York: Routledge. Rodriguez, Padre Ioão. Arte da lingoa de Iapam. Nagasaki: Collegio de Iapão da Companhia de IESV, 1604–1608. Facsimile edited by Shima Shōzō 島正三, Rodorigesu Nihon dai- bunten ロドリゲス『日本大文典』. Tokyo: Bunka Shobō Hakubunsha, 1969. Rodrigvez, Padre Ioam. Arte breve da lingoa iapoa tirada da arte grande da mesma lingoa pera os que começam a aprender os primeiros principios della. Macao: Collegio da Madre de Deos da Companhia de IESV, 1620. Facsimile of the original in the Ajuda Library, transcription, and Japanese translation. ——. Arte breve da lingoa iapoa tirada da arte grande da mesma lingoa pera os que começam a aprender os primeiros principios della. Japanese translation by Ikegami Mineo 池上岑夫, Rodorigesu Nihon shōbunten ロドリゲス『日本小文典』, 2 vols. Iwanami Bunko 33-681-1 and 2. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1993. Vocabvlario da lingoa de Iapam. Nagasaki: Collegio de Iapam da Companhia de Iesvs, 1603–1604. Vocabvlario da lingoa de Iapam. Japanese translation and adaptation by Doi Tadao 土井忠生, Morita Takeshi 森田武, and Chōnan Minoru 長南実, Hōyaku Nippo jisho 邦訳日葡辞書. 3rd printing. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1993. The Dūfu haruma: an explosive dictionary

Rudolf Effert

Dictionaries and catalogues: Home of obsessional neurotics. The index as literary genre?1

Compiling dictionaries in Japan

Both the Dutch and the Japanese had employed interpreters ever since the VOC (Dutch East India Company) established a factory at Hirado in 1609. After the forced move to Dejima in 1641, the selection and appointment of all interpreters became the responsibility of the office of the Nagasaki magistrate. Although the Portuguese had been expelled from Japan in 1639, the lingua franca remained Portuguese until 1673. For most of the seventeenth century, therefore, the interpreters’ knowledge of the Dutch language remained poor. Sworn to secrecy and, by and large, keeping their knowledge to themselves, they learned phrases without paying any attention to the structural features of the Dutch language. The katakana syllabary that was used for transcription was actually quite unsuitable for this purpose, because of the greater variety of syllables in Dutch. Moreover, as the interpreters were mostly samurai they considered the Dutch traders very much inferior to themselves, merchants being the lowest class in the Confucian ideology.2 This attitude was not conducive to fruitful intellectual exchange. As a result, the Dutch the Japanese interpreters spoke was stilted and archaic. During the eighteenth century, however, some interpreters did develop impressive language skills through personal talent and contact with Dutch traders3 such as Isaac Titsingh (1745–1812) and Jan Cock Blomhoff (1779–1853), who both served as kapitan or Opperhoofd of the factory at

1 Jean-Marie Blas de Roblès, Where the tigers feel at home, Zulma 2008, p. 376. My thanks go to drs. P. Richardus for valuable comments. 2 Boxer 1950, pp. 58–59; Bodart-Bailey 1995, p. 38; Torii Yumiko 2000, pp. 117–118; De Groot 2005, pp. 24–27. 3 De Groot 2005, pp. 34–35. 198 rudolf effert

Dejima. On the other hand, very few of the Dutchmen posted on Dejima ever acquired more than the most elementary level of Japanese language proficiency. Hendrik Doeff (1777–1835) was certainly an exception.4 The history of Doeff ’s dictionary is the subject of this essay. In 1745 the Japanese ban on importing Western books was lifted. In 1754, the first year that books were imported through Dejima, two copies of François Halma’s Dutch-French dictionary, a Dutch-French dictionary by Pieter Marin, and a Latin-Dutch lexicon arrived with a shipment from Java.5 As a limited number of Japanese scholars were now allowed to possess European books, slowly but surely, the interpreters’ linguistic skills were passed on to outsiders, especially to rangaku (Dutch Learning) scholars in Edo. Some interpreters even began translating Western works on medicine, astronomy and geography. Medical studies were a major motive for Japanese scholars to learn Dutch.6 What were the language skills of the interpreters during the last quarter of the eighteenth century? According to the Swedish botanist Carl Thun- berg, who came to Japan in 1775, the language abilities of the interpreters tended to vary. Most of them could speak more or less intelligibly, and some of the older interpreters spoke very clear and understandable Dutch, when the conversation was limited to daily affairs. The majority, however, never properly learned the language and used strange expressions and unusual phrases.7 In general, up to the eighteen hundreds the linguistic interest of the Japanese interpreters and the Dutch personnel at Dejima was confined to maintaining a sort of lingua franca in order to trade. The beginning of the nineteenth century witnessed the emergence of large-scale alphabetical dictionaries, which gave the translation of Dutch publications into Japanese a great boost. François Halma’s Dutch-French dictionary, mentioned above, was very much part of these developments. This dictionary provided the basis for the first Dutch-Japanese dictionaries, one by Japanese scholars working in Edo and another one produced under the direction of the Opperhoofd Hendrik Doeff at Dejima.

4 Vos writes (1981, p. 56) that Doeff, “who could compose haiku in Japanese, turned out to be an assiduous lexicographer.” 5 Maclean 1974, p. 10; François Halma: Nieuw Nederduitsch en Fransch Woordenboek, 2nd edition Amsterdam, 1729. Pieter Marin: Groot Nederduitsch en Fransch woordenboek. 2nd print. Dordrecht – Amsterdam, 1730. 6 Overmeer Fisscher 1833, pp. 88–99; Feenstra Kuiper 1921, pp. 249–51; MacLean 1973, pp. 264–65; MacLean 1974, p. 14; Beukers 1997, p. 38; De Groot 2005, p. 60. 7 Blusse et al. 2000, p. 118. the dūfu haruma 199 N ational Museum of P ainting on paper, N agasaki, 1820s. L eiden. E thnology D ejima seen from the city of Fig. 1 Kawahara Keiga, The artificial island of 200 rudolf effert

A retired interpreter named Ishii Shōsuke 石井庄助 (1743–?) compiled the so-called Edo Halma (Edo haruma 江戸ハルマ), a Dutch-Japanese dictionary based on François Halma’s work. It was corrected and supplemented by famous rangaku scholars such as Inamura Sanpaku 稲村三伯 (1759–1811) and Udagawa Genzui 宇田川玄随 (1769–1834). A little earlier the interpreter Nishi Zensaburō 西善三郎 (1717?–1768) had made the first attempt at a Dutch-Japanese dictionary based on Marin’s Dutch-French dictionary. He died before he could even complete the letter D, but it is possible that the compilers of the Edo haruma subsequently used Nishi’s manuscript.8 Eventually, this dictionary contained 80,000 entries in five volumes. Thirty copies were printed in 1796. The Edo haruma, however, did not quite gain the widespread acceptance that was accorded the Dūfu haruma (Doeff Halma). Hendrik Doeff arrived on Dejima in 1799 and served as Opperhoofd between 1803 and 1817. His sojourn coincided with the French occupation of the Low Countries (1795–1813) and the English occupation of Java (1811–1816). Trading stag- nated and hardly any ships came in. This left Doeff, stranded on Dejima, with a lot of time on his hands, which allowed him to embark on the project of compiling a Dutch-Japanese dictionary. He began his enterprise in 1811, which indicates that he considered himself capable after residing in Japan for twelve years. Nevertheless, he needed the help of native speakers. To this end he employed the two members of the interpreters’ guild who were most proficient in the Dutch language: Nakayama Sakusaburō 中山作三郎 and Yoshio Gonnosuke 吉雄権之助. Before long, the authorities in Nagasaki had heard of Doeff ’s work. Activities that contributed to the Dutch knowledge concerning Japan were forbidden. Therefore Doeff maintained that the dictionary aimed at improving the Japanese working knowledge of the Dutch language. From that moment on, it was an official project and the Nagasaki government provided Doeff with special paper. Ten or twelve of the most able interpreters assisted him every morning from 7 o’clock until 1 o’clock in the afternoon. The entries that were compiled during the morning were copied out in the afternoon using the katakana script. Doeff not only translated François Halma’s dictionary, but also added Dutch example phrases of his own. He completed his dictionary shortly before leaving Dejima in 1817. However, as he was not allowed to take the original with him,

8 Goodman 2000, p. 140; De Groot 2005, pp. 85–86. the dūfu haruma 201 it remained with the college of interpreters.9 The handwritten copy was entirely corrected by the interpreters after Doeff ’s departure. This revised version was completed in 1819. Further improvements were added before it was finally presented to the shogunate under the title Oranda jisho wage 和蘭辞書和解 (Dutch dictionary for Japanese) in 1833. “Doeff ’s Halma” quickly became important; it was consulted and copied many times. Doeff had applied the colloquial Nagasaki style for his model phrases. Therefore, all interpreters, young and old, were able to understand it. This style was also used in later Halma-based published dictionaries. Accord- ing to Sugimoto, Doeff thus unwittingly provided a major impetus towards uniformity between the written and spoken languages of Japan. This fact had already been pointed out by Vos who said that “Doeff ’s importance has been greater for the study of the Dutch in Japan than for Japanese studies in the Netherlands.”10 The Dūfu haruma was the largest and the best Dutch-Japanese dictionary available at that time. It remained a standard dictionary in most language schools until well into the twentieth century, although it was not published until 1855. Later versions of both the Edo haruma and the Dūfu haruma served as a basis for a number of dictionaries, such as Oranda jii 和蘭字彙 (Dutch vocabulary, 4 Vols. 1855– 1857) and Rango tsū 蘭語通 (Understanding the Dutch language, 1857).11 During the 1820s, the Dutch Royal Cabinet of Rarities (1816–1883) acquired several works on the Japanese language. The books Jan Cock Blomhoff, Doeff ’s successor on Dejima (1817–1824), sold to the Dutch state in 1826 included a Japanese grammar and his copy of Doeff ’s Dutch- Japanese dictionary, based on Halma. An 1828 acquisition of books for the Royal Cabinet included the five volumes of the Edo haruma, and two volumes of another Dutch-Japanese dictionary. Cock Blomhoff, Overmeer Fisscher and Siebold—whose collections were later acquired by the Dutch state—all tried to prevent Japanese specimens and dictionaries from fall- ing into foreign hands. It was felt that Dutch nationals or employees in the Dutch civil service should publish about Japan first.12

9 Doeff used the third edition of Halma, Leiden 1758. NA 2.21.054-23: Draft letter of Doeff to C. T. Elout, Minister of the Navy and Colonies, of 6 June 1826; Sugimoto in Blussé et al. 2000, pp. 125–126; Effert 2008, pp. 93–94. 10 NA 2.21.054-77: Doeff ’s supplement to the Dūfu haruma compiled from the later part of 1832 (NA 2.21.054-27) at the request of the Royal Dutch Institute; Vos 1989, p. 361; Sugimoto in Blussé et al. 2000, p. 125. 11 De Groot 2005, pp. 90–93. 12 ANH 476: 838-471: List of Japanese books [1828]; NA 2.04.01-4594: Overmeer Fisscher to King Willem I, 10 August 1829; MacLean 1973, p. 294; MacLean 1975, p. 126; p. 139; Blussé et al. 2000, p. 126; De Groot 2005, pp. 85–87. 202 rudolf effert

Hendrik Doeff was not the only Dejima official who worked on lists of words and dictionaries. Cock Blomhoff compiled a forty-volume Dutch- Japanese dictionary with the help of two Japanese interpreters, Araki Toyokichi and Kikutani Yonezō, who held their own views on many of the Japanese translations. This dictionary was partially based on the Dūfu haruma. Cock Blomhoff ’s collection of books included a Japanese grammar he may have used in this project.13 Johannes van Overmeer Fisscher, the warehouse master on Dejima (1820–1830), copied Doeff ’s dictionary over a period of six years from 1823 onwards, producing a shorter version (ca. 1200 pages) of Doeff ’s original containing ca. 2500 pages.14 Finally, Philipp Franz von Siebold, the physician on Dejima (1823–1830), compiled a list of words, covering eighty-four pages, with the help of a samurai scholar, a Dutch-style physician, and two interpreters. The entries contain a mixture of Dutch and Siebold’s native German, which suggests the list was merely a tool for his own private study of the Japanese language.15 The fact that two important dictionaries were based on the same work by François Halma later sometimes created confusion. Siebold’s Latin treatise on Japan, Isagoge, incorrectly attributes two copies of the Edo haruma to Doeff. This error was copied by others, even until the present time.16 Boxer wrongly assumed that the Dūfu haruma was based on the Edo haruma.17 All in all, the Dūfu haruma may be considered a major achievement that played an important role in the relationship between Japan and the West. However, the story did not end in Japan. What follows is a description of the complex and often quite dramatic history of Doeff ’s dictionary in the Netherlands.

The seeds of conflict

In 1825 Siebold sent one of his regular reports concerning his activities in Japan to the Governor General of the Dutch East Indies, Van der

13 MacLean 1975, p. 125, note 43; De Groot 2005, pp. 94–95; Effert 2008, p. 282. 14 NA 2.21.054-75: Overmeer Fisscher to Doeff, 4 June 1833. 15 De Groot 2005, p. 96. This list of words was not fit for publication. 16 Siebold 1841, p. 21; NA 2.21.054-79: Siebold to Van der Capellen 2 February 1834; MacLean 1975, p. 130; De Groot 2005, p. 87. 17 Boxer 1950, p. 66. the dūfu haruma 203

Fig. 2 Man—possibly Doeff—with servant and dog. Artist and date unknown. National Museum of Ethnology Leiden. 204 rudolf effert

Capellen.18 Apart from asking for assistants, he requested permission to stay in Edo for some time. This report was subsequently sent to the Min- ister for Colonies, Elout, who, in his turn passed it on to Doeff, who was, by that time back in the Netherlands, and asked him to comment on it. Doeff, first of all, considered Siebold’s request a violation of the authority of the Opperhoofd at Dejima. Moreover, he felt that releasing Siebold from his duties as Dejima’s physician and letting him travel around might have undesired consequences for the trade between Japan and Holland. It might also cost the Dutch government a considerable amount of money per annum. Doeff pointed out that Siebold had not been in Japan very long, did not know much about the Japanese, and had to work with interpreters. He was sure that Dutch-speaking Japanese physicians in Edo would promise Siebold many things, but nothing would come of it. Doeff told the Minister that, if Siebold was to successfully proceed with his scientific research, he had to stay away from diplomatic relations, which were the domain of the Opperhoofd of Dejima. Much to Doeff ’s amazement, the report contained the information that Siebold had written a treatise in Latin on the Japanese language. It was presented as the first part of a Japanese grammar with illustrative plates. According to Siebold, this was a first in Europe. Doeff had to acknowledge “that Siebold must be a man of exceptional skill to write a treatise on the Japanese language during the short time he had been in Japan, and in combination with his many activities.” However, Doeff reminded Minister Elout that the two of them had made a stop‑over in London in 1819 on their way back from Batavia to Holland. Here Lord Guilford had shown them a treatise on the Japanese language in Latin that had been published in Rome.19 Doeff added that the Portuguese and the Spanish, during the time they had free access to Japan, saw it as their first task to learn the Japanese language and publish about it.20 Siebold’s treatise was

18 NA 2.21.007-57: Siebold to the Governor General of the Netherlands East Indies, 2 December 1825; Effert 2008, pp. 123–24. Soon after his arrival on Dejima in 1823 Siebold started to send reports about his activities in Japan. At first these were mainly concerned with natural history, but soon they were extended to activities such as medicine, language, history, and geography. 19 Frederick North, 5th Earl of Guilford, 1766–1827, who was Governor of Ceylon from 1798 until 1805. The title of this treatise is Dictionarium, Sive thesauri linguae Japonicae Compendium a D. Collado Roma Prop. Fid. 1632 4to. Additiones ad Dictionarium Japonicum auctore D.C. (sine anno) Dictionary or compendium of the Japanese vocabulary by D. Col- lado, Congregation of the propagation of the faith, Rome 1632. Additions to the Japanese dictionary by the author D. Collado (without year), (Doeff 1833, p. 266). 20 The work of the Portuguese Jesuit Padre João Rodriguez (1561–1633) is the subject of Jeroen Lamers’ contribution to this volume. the dūfu haruma 205 definitely not “a first.” In addition, Siebold’s description of the Japanese writing system contained nothing new; Engelbert Kämpfer (1651–1716) had already written about it. After some more comments expressing his indig- nation about Siebold’s arrogance, Doeff ended his letter to Minister Elout by again stating his lack of confidence in Siebold’s projects and repeat- ing that they would probably be a financial burden to the government. Doeff ’s objections clearly indicate that he felt Siebold had tried to belittle Doeff ’s work in order to further his own scientific interests. Minister Elout subsequently brought forward that it was likely that Siebold used Doeff ’s work and informed the Royal Dutch Institute about the dictionary Doeff had composed.21 Siebold was later acquainted with Doeff ’s reaction to his report. However, Overmeer Fisscher, who, in Japan, was copying Doeff ’s dictionary, was probably unaware that several people in Holland knew about his copying activities. If he had been informed, he would have mentioned Doeff as the compiler when he offered his copy to the king some years later.

A suggestive comparison

Doeff also criticised Siebold by comparing him with the surgeon-cum- botanist Kämpfer, who had worked on Dejima from 1690 until 1692. Kämpfer is the author of The History of Japan, giving an Account of the Ancient and Present State and Government of that Empire, first published in 1727.22 This publication had been Siebold‘s main source when he prepared himself for his stay in Japan. According to Doeff, Kämpfer had committed plagiarism. In the short period the latter had resided in Japan, Doeff maintained, he could never have been able to gather all the material for his book. According to Doeff, it was highly likely that Kämpfer had used Governor General Camphuis’ manuscripts. Camphuis, who had served as Opperhoofd on Dejima three times between 1671 and 1676, may have put the valuable material at Kämpfer’s disposal and the latter had refrained from mentioning him.23

21 NA 2.21.054-23, -77; MacLean 1973, pp. 272–74. 22 Kämpfer had written his text in German. However the first edition (1727) was in English. Hans Sloane (1660–1753), whose collections laid the foundation for the British Museum, had acquired the manuscript and had it translated by his librarian J. G. Sch- euchzer. Publication in German followed in 1777, sixty-one years after Kämpfer’s death. 23 NA 2.21.054-23, -77, -86: Doeff to the Royal Dutch Institute, 20 November 1824; MacLean 1973, pp. 272–74. 206 rudolf effert

In my opinion, Doeff went too far in his insinuations. Kämpfer was not only a physician and scholar, but also an experienced traveller who covered every possible subject in his writings. He did not rely on hearsay, but checked original sources. As is evident from his Amoenitatum Exoti- carum Politico-physico-medicarum fasciculi V, quibus continentur variae relationes, observationes & descriptiones rerum Persicarum & ulterioris Asiae (Exotic political-physical-medical appeals in five volumes, that contain various observations & descriptions of Persian affairs & the Far East, 1712) his work contained his own, first-hand experience.24 Doeff was justified in comparing Kämpfer and Siebold in as much as both made use of notes and information gathered by Dejima officials.25 In addition, Kämpfer enlisted the help of a young man named Imamura Gen’emon Eisei 今村源右衛門英生 (1671–1737) whom he taught the Dutch language. Gen’emon assisted Kämpfer in every way over a period of two years. His position is comparable to that of Siebold’s students in much later times. Gen’emon became chief interpreter and shogunal messenger. He was noted for his fluency in Dutch and his vast knowledge of Japan. Imamura Akitsune 今村明恒 described him as “the founder of Dutch learning”.26 Kämpfer was much indebted to Opperhoofd Camphuis for getting him to Dejima in the first place and supplying him with material. However, the notes and papers gathered by Camphuis were not the only sources Kämpfer used for his work on Japan. His sound and scholarly compilation cannot be considered plagiarism.27 It is possible that anti-foreign feelings played a role in Doeff ’s attitude. Be that as it may, unfortunately, the discord about Doeff ’s dictionary did not end with his reply to the Minister of Colonies in 1825. Doeff felt his reputation was tarnished and did not want to be reconciled. A new dispute arose that also involved Overmeer Fisscher. Eventually, as we shall see, the former Governor General of the Dutch East Indies was asked to intervene.

The role of Overmeer Fisscher

In the report of 1825 mentioned above, Siebold had stated that “Over- meer Fisscher, warehouse master in Japan, had put a lot of energy into translating and classifying Dutch words according to the New Dutch and

24 Bodart-Bailey 1995, p. 17; p. 34. 25 Bodart-Bailey 1995, pp. 24–30; Effert 2008, pp. 129–31. 26 Bodart-Bailey 1995, pp. 39–40; pp. 44–45. 27 Bodart-Bailey 1995, p. 43. the dūfu haruma 207

French dictionary by François Halma, and had managed to finish thirteen letters of a Dutch-Japanese dictionary.”28 Understandably, this statement had enraged Doeff. He had himself worked for five long years (between 1811 and 1817) on a dictionary based on Halma and now it seemed as if he would not receive any credit for it. When leaving Japan, he had taken his own (secret) copy of the dictionary with him, but in the unfortunate shipwreck of the Admiraal Evertsen, the ship that was to bring him back to Holland, the copy had been lost. Doeff not only lost his possessions, but also his pregnant wife. The pain this must have caused him undoubtedly explains part of his frustration and bitterness.29 The ship’s journal describes Doeff ’s lost possessions as papers and rarities. This probably meant correspondence, books and plates collected by Doeff. During his nineteen year sojourn at Dejima Doeff had certainly received presents from the Japanese during journeys to Edo and in Naga- saki. He must also have bought books and documents: his language skills allowed him to read these, and he intended to further the study of Japa- nese in the Netherlands on behalf of the trade with Japan. It is, however, highly unlikely that Doeff had gathered a substantial collection of ethnographic objects, considering his protracted stay at Dejima with hardly any income. Also, Doeff was not aware of the fact that in 1816 the Dutch King Willem I had founded the Royal Cabinet of Rarities that was to become a repository for ethnographical collections. Doeff had not lost heart and had advised his successor at Dejima, Cock Blomhoff, to continue working on the dictionary, while at the same time copying it in secret. As we have seen, Overmeer Fisscher, who arrived on Dejima in 1820, also took up this task. I do not agree with De Groot30 who writes that “Doeff did not at that time think that he and his assistants were doing anything [the compiling of the dictionary] that would be of much interest to anyone in Holland.” On the contrary, he would not have urged Cock Blomhoff to continue his work, if he had not been aware of the scholarly value of a decent dictionary.31 He also saw the

28 NA 2.21.054-23. 29 NA 2.21.054-58: copy of part of the ship’s log (1819) of the Admiraal Evertsen, Doeff 1833, p. 260. “Wij waren eerst tien maanden gehuwd; de lezer zal mijnen toestand besef- fen!” (We had only been married for ten months; the reader will understand my condition!), Doeff 1833, p. 261. 30 De Groot 2005, p. 89 note 95. 31 NA 2.21.054-77: “. . . ofwel voor de wetenschappen in Nederland konde zijn”, (. . . or that it could be of use for scholarship in The Netherlands); “Zoo wil ik hoopen, dat zulks mag strekken om de wetenschappen doelmatig te verrijken” (Therefore I hope that this work may be used to improve scholarship in a useful manner). 208 rudolf effert importance of a good knowledge of Japanese for the trade between Japan and The Netherlands. MacLean suggests that Overmeer Fisscher worked for Siebold on the Dutch-Japanese dictionary. According to Maclean, Siebold delivered Doeff ’s dictionary to Overmeer Fisscher so that he could copy it.32 Siebold was a very busy man and was happy to leave such chores to someone else, although he did send an example of a Dutch-Japanese Dictionary under his own name in a report to the Governor General in November 1824.33 Whether or not this was prepared by Overmeer Fisscher is unclear. That Siebold would have been the author is not very likely as he was extremely busy organizing his activities during his first year on Dejima. As for the suggestion that Overmeer Fisscher worked for Siebold: archival sources only allow us to conclude that both Siebold and Overmeer Fisscher were aware of the manuscript and that Overmeer Fisscher took it upon himself to produce a (concise) copy of it. Overmeer Fisscher had already started collecting information on the Japanese language and dictionaries prior to Siebold’s arrival in Japan. The archives of the Dutch National Museum of Ethnology in Leiden hold a Dutch-Japanese list of words dating from ca. 1820, compiled by Overmeer Fisscher. It focuses on the functions of the Japanese on Dejima. Overmeer Fisscher himself does not mention Siebold in connection with the copy of the dictionary he produced. He only says that in 1823 he procured a copy that served as the basis for his own and that it was later completed with the help of others.34 He says that in Japan he had gained the confidence of a person who owned a copy of a “Japanese dictionary.” This person later turned out to be the interpreter to whom Doeff had given one of his handwritten versions when he left for Batavia.35 It is not surprising that a young and ambitious clerk would compile a list of words, because such knowledge would benefit his work. However, there is no reason to assume that Overmeer Fisscher had the compilation of a Dutch-Japanese dictionary in mind at the beginning of his work on Dejima. He must also have been aware of Cock Blomhoff ’s work in this respect.

32 MacLean 1973, p. 271. NA 2.21.054-78: Siebold writes in a letter to Doeff of 14 April 1834 that the son of the Japanese Dennozin [sic] lent the manuscript Doeff had left with him to Overmeer Fisscher and himself. 33 MacLean 1973, pp. 268–269; p. 271. 34 NA 2.04.01-4594: Overmeer Fisscher to king Willem I, 10 August 1829. 35 NA 2.04.01-4594. In this letter Overmeer Fisscher does not explicitly say that the dictionary was the one produced by Doeff; MacLean 1975, p. 128. For the identity of the “person”, see Doeff 1833, p. 268. the dūfu haruma 209

When Overmeer Fisscher returned to his homeland in 1830, he presented King Willem I with a Dutch‑Japanese dictionary he himself considered to be complete. He was aware that the manuscript could earn him a substantial sum if sold abroad, but nevertheless offered it to the king in the hope that His Majesty would be willing to purchase his Japanese ethnographic collections of which he already sent a reasoned catalogue from Batavia. In this catalogue he had also stressed the importance of a thorough knowledge of both the Japanese and the Chinese languages, and of a good understanding of the Japanese writing system, including Chi- nese characters. Furthermore, he had boasted that the dictionary in his possession was the only one in Europe.36 Reinier Pieter van de Kasteele, the director of the Royal Cabinet of Rarities (1816–1840), considered the dictionary most important. His Majesty awarded Overmeer Fisscher a gold medal with a value of fifty ducats. It had the following inscription: “To J. F. Overmeer Fisscher for the presentation of a Dutch & Japanese Dictionary On Behalf of the King 1830.”37 On His Majesty’s order the dictionary was sent to the Royal Dutch Institute of Sciences, Language and Arts at Amsterdam.38 When the Insti- tute was consulted on the question whether to publish this text, it had reservations: Overmeer Fisscher’s preface did not mention any forerunners in this field. The Institute knew such forerunners existed. Members no doubt remembered Minister Elout’s information concerning Doeff ’s dictionary of 1825. Moreover, the king had purchased two dictionaries in 1828, a copy of the Edo haruma and “a Dutch Japanese dictionary (2 Vols.).” In addition, Siebold mentioned two other dictionaries in his article Epitome Linguae Japonicae (Extract of the Japanese language, 1826).39 The Institute also stated that the dictionary was incomplete, that many words were lacking and that the order of the words was bad. However, the Institute hinted it would be prepared to publish it, if Overmeer Fisscher, Siebold and Doeff would render assistance.40 Next, the government asked Siebold for his opinion; his views will be discussed below.41

36 NA 2.04.01-4594. 37 MacLean 1975, p. 128. 38 The Royal Dutch Institute, Koninklijk Nederlandsch Instituut, was founded in 1808. In 1851 the name was changed to Koninklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen (Royal Academy of Sciences). 39 Siebold 1826. See also MacLean 1975, pp. 128–129. 40 Report of the Third Class of the Royal Dutch Institute on the copy of the dictionary as delivered by Overmeer Fisscher, Amsterdam 25 July 1831, in MacLean 1975: pp. 128–130, p. 135. 41 MacLean 1975, pp. 128–31. 210 rudolf effert

Overmeer Fisscher had not mentioned Doeff ’s name when he presented the manuscript to the king. This prompted Doeff to come forward with the statement that the manuscript was not Overmeer Fisscher’s achievement but his own.42 He made it clear that it would have been relatively easy to make a copy of the original held by the college of interpreters in Nagasaki. In order to press home his claim, Doeff requested the incumbent Dejima Opperhoofd, De Citters, to send him a copy of his own introduction signed and sealed by the main interpreters. Doeff did not object to the fact that Overmeer Fisscher had sought to introduce the dictionary to the European public. Some of Overmeer Fiss- cher’s writings had given Doeff the impression that Overmeer Fisscher was, at heart, a humble man who would not publish such a work under his own name. He was therefore of the opinion that Overmeer Fisscher should be encouraged to continue his work on the dictionary, so that it could later be published under Doeff ’s name with a proper introduction. Doeff was well aware that if the Minister followed his advice, Siebold would be prevented from taking advantage of Doeff ’s work.43

Siebold’s plans for a dictionary

Siebold expressed his views on the possible publication of Overmeer Fisscher’s dictionary in a letter dated 12 September 1831.44 He distinguished three objectives: first, to present European scholars with a means to study Japanese literature; second, to present Dutch merchants and civil servants working on Dejima with a means to communicate with the Japanese; and, third, to supply the Japanese with a dictionary with which to advance their knowledge of the Dutch language. Concerning the first objective, Siebold proposed a dictionary giving the pronunciation and meaning of Chinese characters in Japanese, to be used in combination with a dictionary in katakana (with Chinese characters) and a second language (e.g. Dutch or Latin). This was a project, Siebold added, he intended to work on himself. The merchants and officials, referred to in the second objective, could do with a concise dictionary, as they always had to work with interpreters anyway. Moreover, Siebold had plans to publish his own concise dictionary.

42 NA 2.21.054-23: “. . . is niet het werk van de Heer Fisscher, maar mijn werk” (. . . is not the work of Mr. Fisscher but my own work). 43 NA 2.21.054-23. 44 NA 2.21.054-78. the dūfu haruma 211

As for his third objective, Siebold intended to compose a dictionary for the use of the Japanese, which needed the addition of Chinese characters in order to establish the “true meaning” of Japanese words. According to Siebold, the katakana and hiragana type of dictionary did not provide enough information. Moreover, he felt that a philological dictionary would be of help here. As an example of a work that could be used, Sie- bold added the first entries of the concise Dutch philological dictionary composed by P. Weiland to his letter.45 Significantly, in his letter Siebold describes Overmeer Fisscher’s manuscript as an extract from the copy prepared by “Doeff, the former Opper- hoofd of the Dutch trade in Japan” and produced together with some of the best interpreters at Dejima. According to Siebold, some letters were missing in Cock Blomhoff ’s copy in the Royal Cabinet of Rarities. He also says he himself had two complete copies in his collection.46 Siebold arrived at the conclusion that publication of Doeff ’s dictionary was unnecessary. Not only because the interpreters had managed independently to produce a better version, but also because Siebold would in due course supply his own dictionaries. However, Siebold stated that Doeff ’s work would be very useful and important as building material for Japanese dictionaries in Holland.47 It might be added here that his inten- sions of compiling and reprinting dictionaries never materialized.

The conflict flares up again

In his Herinneringen uit Japan (Memories of Japan, 1833), Doeff accused Siebold of withholding Doeff ’s name in connection with the dictionary in order to further his own interests. To prove this Doeff reminded the public that Siebold, in a report to the Dutch government in 1825, had only mentioned Overmeer Fisscher’s name. On 14 April 1833 Siebold wrote Doeff a letter48 in which he took a stand against these accusations. He writes that misunderstandings on the part of Doeff concerning the history of the Dutch-Japanese dictionary dam- aged his—Siebold’s—reputation. He states he had had no other intention than to be helpful to the government in making known the work of a Dejima official. Doeff ’s comment was: “What a foolish pretext for a

45 P. Weiland Beknopt Nederduitsch taalkundig woordenboek. 5 Vols. Dordrecht, 1826. 46 These copies were actually the Edo haruma, as has been mentioned above. 47 NA 2.21.054-78: draft letter of Doeff to Siebold, 18 April 1833. 48 NA 2.21.054-78: Siebold to Doeff 14 April 1833. 212 rudolf effert scholar!”49 Siebold mentions the thirteen letters that Overmeer Fisscher had copied from a manuscript in the possession of one of the Nagasaki interpreters, who had had the goodness to give it to himself and Overmeer Fisscher. In the course of his work, he had collected other dictionaries in Japan and before he left he had managed to have the missing letters copied from another manuscript. Because another Dejima official (i.e. Doeff ) had also spent much time on the dictionary, Siebold thought it deserved to be recommended to the Dutch government. In order to honour Doeff, a man of great merit, Siebold had mentioned his name in his Historical report to the Dutch East Indies government, as follows: “Halma’s dictionary, translated in the past under the supervision of Mr. H. Doeff.”50 Siebold further points out that the Historical report was sent to the Ministry of Internal Affairs after Siebold’s return to Holland in 1830. A year later, he says, he had written a report for the Ministry of Education about the dictionary that Overmeer Fisscher had offered to the Govern- ment. In this report he had again mentioned Doeff ’s name. He added a copy of this report to his letter to Doeff in the hope this would remove Doeff ’s prejudices. Siebold also mentions that he did not know Overmeer Fisscher’s reasons for offering the dictionary to the Dutch Government. He tells Doeff that in 1828, when he was still in Japan, he had received Doeff ’s negative report on his proposed activities.51 He states he still held the opinion that, at that time, his Latin treatise was the most faithful publication on the Japanese language.52 Finally, Siebold invites Doeff to comment on the first instalment of his Nippon and promised to incorporate any criticisms.53 Siebold was hurt, he says, by Doeff ’s remark that his work “could not be considered a gift to the sciences.” He considered this harsh and unfair in view of the time, energy and resources he had spent during ten years in the service of science. He hoped Doeff would publicly take back his remarks, if not he would be obliged to make public his own views. To Doeff, this must have sounded like a threat.

49 NA 2.21.054-80: “Welk eene onnozele uitvlugt van een geleerd man!” Draft written by Doeff, meant to be published in the Algemeen Handelsblad in 1833. 50 Geschiedkundig verslag nopens den afloop van het natuurkundig onderzoek op Japan (Historical report on the result of the nature-historical research in Japan), July 1830. 51 This is the report discussed above. 52 Siebold had not come across any new publication on the Japanese language since the publication of J. Rodriguez Elémens de la grammaire Japonaise by the Société Asiatique of Paris in 1825. 53 NA 2.21-054-78: Doeff later commented on the first instalment of Nippon and also on the second concerning the trade with the English. the dūfu haruma 213

In his reply to Siebold, Doeff makes it clear that the offending sentence had been taken out of its context: “It could not be considered a gift to science in the light of the fact that it had cost the government quite an amount of money.” Doeff accused Siebold of being purposely selective in his quotations.54

Swordplay

Siebold published his arguments in an open letter to a newspaper, the Algemeen Handelsblad.55 Doeff had intended to reply, but never used the text he wrote.56 He considered himself a modest man.57 A reluctance to put himself in the limelight may have prevented him from publishing his reply, but in a draft letter to Overmeer Fisscher he remarked that if he did so, Siebold would have a hard time.58 There can be no doubt that the key issues in this dispute were professional jealousy and ambition. Doeff had pointed out earlier that the dictionary was not produced “under his supervision”, but that he had compiled it himself with the help of Japanese interpreters.59 He also stuck to the fact that Siebold should have mentioned his name in 1825, because he knew full well that Doeff was the author. In the text he drew up for the newspaper he stated that Overmeer Fisscher was quite familiar with the fact that Doeff was the author of the dictionary. It was, therefore, a “flagrant lie” not to have mentioned him. He finished this draft by writing: “There is a difference between [Siebold and myself ], it is not a difference of opinions about a case, but a dispute where there exists no middle course; either I have misinformed the public in my modest publication [Doeff 1833] or Siebold is misleading the public in his large publication [Nippon]. If Siebold publishes under the protection of our beloved King and with the help of the Government, truth and accuracy should be the pillars on which the work of Siebold rests.”60 Clearly, in Doeff ’s view, this was not the case.

54 NA 2.21.054-78; 2.21.054-80: Doeff to Siebold 18 April 1833. 55 NA 2.21.054-75: 22 June 1833. 56 NA 2.21.054-80. The draft contains 4 pages. Doeff marked page one as “niet gebruikt” (has not been used). 57 NA 2.21.054-23: “. . . dat ik geenszins te koop loop met hetgeen ik gedurende mijn aan- zijn in Japan gedaan heb.” (. . . that I am not boasting about my activities in Japan). 58 NA 2.21.054-75: Draft letter of Doeff to Overmeer Fisscher, 29 June 1832. 59 NA 2.21.054-23. 60 NA 2.21.054-80. 214 rudolf effert

Doeff ’s friends and acquaintances sent him letters stating their support, in one of which we read: “Mr. Fisscher will have had it for the rest of his life. The plagiarism was shameless . . . Therefore it is no more than justified that you have plucked the crown‑feathers off this cuckoo among the pheasants.” Cock Blomhoff also supported Doeff against Overmeer Fisscher and Siebold: “. . . the behaviour of O. F. and S. was obnoxious . . . he who burns himself must sit on blisters.”61 Under pressure from outright accusations of plagiarism, Overmeer Fiss- cher apologized to Doeff for the fact that he had not mentioned his name as a compiler of the Dutch-Japanese dictionary. He did so in two letters and also in the presence of two witnesses during a visit to Doeff ’s house. He also mentioned Doeff as the compiler of the dictionary in his Bijdrage tot de kennis van het Japansche rijk (Contributions to knowledge concerning the Japanese realm, 1833). However, Overmeer Fisscher also stated that he had never claimed that he himself was the compiler.62 Doeff was pleased with Overmeer Fisscher’s apologies and accordingly informed the Minister of Colonies. In Doeff ’s opinion, Overmeer Fisscher had been over‑ambitious and had finally admitted this. In accordance with Doeff ’s wishes, Overmeer Fisscher also published an apology in the Algemeen Handelsblad. In it he stated that he had only intended to be the first to bring the dictionary to Holland and had gone through much trouble to produce a copy, because at the time this was forbidden in Japan.63 In the end, Doeff asked his old friend, the former Governor General Van der Capellen, to mediate in his dispute with Siebold. Van der Capellen contacted Siebold, who assured him that it had never been his intention to harm Doeff and that he wished to remedy possible misunderstandings. On the other hand, Van der Capellen reproached Doeff for not having subscribed to Siebold’s Nippon on account of its high price. Van der Capel- len generously placed his own copy at Doeff ’s disposal. Doeff promised to subscribe to the cheaper version of Siebold’s work that only included black and white plates.64

61 NA 2.21.054-29: Cock Blomhoff to Doeff, 18 April 1833; NA 2.21.054-72: Van Ouwerkerk de Vries to Doeff, 29 April 1833; Effert 2008, p. 95. 62 Doeff 1833, pp. 267–268. NA 2.21.054-75: Two letters from Overmeer Fisscher to Doeff, Amsterdam 4 June 1833 and 10 June 1833. NA 2.21.054-80. Overmeer Fisscher 1833, pp. 92–93. 63 NA 2.21.054-75: Overmeer Fisscher’s reaction appeared in the Algemeen Handelsblad on 7 October 1833. 64 NA 2.21.054-79: Two letters of Van der Capellen to Doeff, 20 February 1834 & 7 March 1834; Doeff to Van der Capellen, 17 March 1834. the dūfu haruma 215

In the meantime, Doeff had brought his dictionary up-to-date with the help of the manuscript forwarded to him by Overmeer Fisscher.65 As his supplement to the dictionary proves, Doeff had truly mastered the Japanese language during his sojourn in Japan. This supplement was written in The Netherlands as an addition to his original copy of his Dutch- Japanese dictionary compiled at Dejima.66 Overmeer Fisscher’s copy of Doeff ’s dictionary lacked several words and letters. Doeff supplemented Overmeer Fisscher’s copy although he had not heard the Japanese language for seventeen years! He delivered 167 pages each with thirty-nine sentences—not being able to account for only eleven words and a few naval expressions—and adding an explanation of the Japanese alphabet including phonetics. He worked on this supplement for sixteen months. His original introduction, spelling and translation had been inspired by the fact that, in his view, the Japanese interpreters did not fully grasp their own language, let alone the Dutch language. This supplement was presented to the Royal Dutch Institute in the hope that his dictionary would still be published as a contribution to Dutch scholarship. Doeff was convinced that, after his departure from Dejima, his Japanese dictionary had formed the basis for all further dictionaries.67

Conclusions

This sordid affair makes it clear that, among the officials who worked at Dejima, jealousy and personal ambition overshadowed the interests of scholarship. Everyone tried to acquire the best possible position and gain the most prestige. The position of Opperhoofd of Dejima fell immediately under the responsibility of the Governor General of the Dutch East Indies; the posts of physician and warehouse master were next in the hierarchy.68 Doeff had initially become annoyed with Siebold, because, in his view, Siebold had tried to undermine the authority of the Opperhoofd. Indeed, Siebold was banned from Japan in 1830 for possessing, among other things, forbidden maps. This affair had harmed the commercial interests of the Netherlands: after Siebold’s conviction the trade volume decreased over a

65 NA 2.21.054-27: Doeff to J. C. Baud, 13 April 1834; NA 2.21.054-79. 66 NA 2.21.054: 77: Supplement, 167 pages. 67 NA 2.21.054-27, 77, 80. This was certainly the case as has been mentioned above. See Sugimoto in Blussé et al. 2000, p. 125; De Groot 2005, pp. 92–93. 68 Effert 2008, p. 91. 216 rudolf effert number of years.69 In view of all this, Doeff ’s reaction was understandable: he had been the longest-serving Opperhoofd of Dejima and was extremely well informed about the trade with Japan. His function in Holland after his return in 1819 was advisor to the government for the trade with Japan and from 1824 he was agent of the Nederlandsche Handel-Maatschappij, (Dutch Trading Company) founded by the king in that same year, which included the trade with Japan. As Doeff ’s condemnation of Engelbert Kämpfer suggested, his animos- ity towards Siebold may, at least partly, have been the result of the fact that Doeff was a Dutchman and Siebold German. Doeff remarked70 on Siebold’s collection that the latter, a foreigner, had been paid handsomely by the Dutch government for the collections he had put together while residing in Japan. He added that Siebold had been indifferent as to how his objects were acquired and that many of them were tainted with blood. Siebold had in fact received a salary, reimbursement of expenses, retirement pay, and extra personnel. In addition, the Dutch government had subsequently acquired his collection. It was also known to Doeff that Sie- bold had compromised himself by dispatching consignments of objects for the study of natural history to the universities of Munich, Würzburg, and Stuttgart. These objects were considered Dutch state property and Siebold had been seriously reprimanded for this.71 The attitude of the two men towards the work of the former Opperhoofd Isaac Titisingh (1779–1812) is symptomatic of their respective approaches. In 1823 Doeff had written a comment on Titsingh’s work at the request of the Royal Dutch Institute and concluded that he could not improve it. Siebold had carefully avoided giving Titsingh any credit for his work on Japan.72 Doeff never quite lost his distrust of Siebold.73 This should not prevent us from stressing Siebold’s importance with regard to the diffusion of Western sciences in Japan or knowledge of Japan in Europe. He was a strong advocate of the foundation of ethnographical museums in Europe. Indeed in Leiden, not only the present National Museum of Ethnology but also the National Museum of Natural History have been greatly enriched by his extensive Japanese collections.

69 Effert 2008, p. 127; NA 2.21.054-23. 70 MacLean 1973, pp. 266–67; pp. 280–82; MacLean 1975, p. 131; Effert 2008, p. 121; p. 125; p. 151. 71 MacLean 1973, pp. 276–78; p. 298. 72 Lequin, 1992, pp. 846–848; 2003, p. 20; Effert 2003, pp. 130–131. 73 NA 2.21.054-78, 79. the dūfu haruma 217

Fig. 3 The Sieboldhuis in Leiden, beginning of the 20th century, B/W photograph, National Museum of Ethnology Leiden. 218 rudolf effert

Overmeer Fisscher had been too ambitious and had handled this affair incorrectly. Nevertheless, Overmeer Fisscher received help from Doeff, as a kind of counterbalance to ‘the foreigner’ Siebold it seems. Doeff was a member of the committee that decided in favour of the acquisition of Overmeer Fisscher’s collection of Japanese artefacts for the Royal Cabinet of Rarities. It is unlikely that Siebold encouraged Overmeer Fisscher to publish the dictionary under his own name, because in that case it would have competed with the one he planned to publish himself. However, Siebold should have warned him that offering his manuscript to the government without mentioning Doeff as the originator could put him in serious trouble. Siebold tended to belittle the work of civil servants such as Doeff and Overmeer Fisscher because they did not have an academic education, and because he wanted to be the first one to report extensively on the great ‘unknown’ culture of Japan. It cannot be denied that both men had worked together on the manuscript of the dictionary, knowing it was Doeff ’s initiative. Nevertheless, Siebold had refrained from mentioning Doeff as the author in his reports of 1824 and 1825 to the Governor Gen- eral. Only after returning to Holland in 1830 did he acknowledge it. Sie- bold was an ambitious man74 who tried to follow not only in Kämpfer’s footsteps, but also in those of Humboldt.75 Perhaps we should call it tragic that, in the end, nothing came of Siebold’s promises concerning the publication of a dictionary. Was this a case of plagiarism? It would have been, if the dictionary had been published under Overmeer Fisscher’s name. As this was prevented it is, therefore, a case of near‑plagiarism with unpleasant consequences for those involved, including unsavoury accusations in the newspapers. Overmeer Fisscher certainly possessed the qualities to become Opper- hoofd of Dejima but he was never appointed. At the end of 1833 Overmeer Fisscher left for Batavia to serve as a postmaster. In 1838 he was back in Holland attempting to deal in ethnographic artefacts from Japan and the Dutch East Indies. It is conceivable that he did not manage to further his career in government service because this affair was held against him. All in all, the disagreement with Doeff as well as the preferential

74 Vos (1989, p. 366) calls Siebold “arrogant and conceited”. 75 Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859), especially in his collaboration with A. Bon- pland Voyage aux regions equinoxiales du nouveau continent, Paris, 7 Vols. 1805–1825. See Effert 2008, pp. 129–30. the dūfu haruma 219 treatment given to Siebold’s work meant dire consequences for Overmeer Fisscher. Finally, it is tempting to speculate what it would have meant for the study of Japanese if these gentlemen had worked together on a proper Dutch-Japanese dictionary with their respective knowledge and their contacts in Japan, and with the help of Hoffmann,76 who had already assisted Siebold in his research since 1830.

References

Archives Archives North Holland (ANH), Haarlem No. 476, Royal Cabinet of Rarities. National Archives (NA), The Hague. 2.21.054: Archive Doeff. 2.21.007.57: Archive Schneither.

Publications Beukers, H. (1997). The mission of Hippocrates in Japan. The contribution of Philipp Franz von Siebold. Amsterdam: Four Centuries of Netherlands-Japan Relations. Blussé, L., Remmelink, W. & Smits, I. (2000). Bridging the Divide. Leiden: Hotei Publishing. Bodart-Bailey, B. M. & D. Massarella, D. (1995). The Furthest Goal. Engelbert Kämpfer’s encounter with Tokugawa Japan. Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press. Boxer, C. R. (1950). Jan compagnie in Japan 1600–1817. An essay on the cultural, artistic and scientific influence exercised by the Hollanders in Japan from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries. The Hague: Nijhoff. Doeff, H. (1833). Herinneringen uit Japan. Haarlem: De erven François Bohn. Effert, R. A. H. D. (2008). Royal Cabinets and Auxiliary Branches. Origins of the National Museum of Ethnology 1816–1883. Mededeling van het Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, no. 37. Leiden: CNWS Publications. Feenstra Kuiper, J. (1921). Japan en de buitenwereld in de achttiende eeuw. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. Goodman, G. K. (2000). Japan and the Dutch 1600–1853. Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 2000. New edition of The Dutch impact on Japan (1640–1853). Leiden: Brill, 1967. Groot, H. W. K. de (2005). The Study of the Dutch language in Japan during its Period of National Isolation (ca. 1641–1868). Ph.D. Dissertation. University of Canterbury, Christch- urch, New Zealand. Lequin, F. (1992). The Private Correspondence of Isaac Titsingh, Volume II. Amsterdam: JC Gieben. ——. (2003). À la recherche du Cabinet Titsingh, its history, contents and dispersal. Cata- logue raisonné of the collection of the founder of European Japanology. Alphen aan de Rijn: Canaletto/Repro-Holland.

76 Johann Joseph Hoffmann (1805–1878) learned classical Chinese and Japanese from Siebold’s assistant Kuo Ch’êng Chang. Hoffmann helped Siebold with translating from Japanese, and started work on a Japanese-Dutch dictionary in 1839, parts of which were eventually published in 1881 and 1892, after his death. Vos 1989, pp. 365–366, 369; Effert 2008, pp. 129, 131, 203. 220 rudolf effert

MacLean, J. (1973). Natural Science in Japan. I. Before 1830. Annals of Science. An Interna- tional Quarterly Review of the History of Science and Technology Since the Renaissance vol. 30 no. 3, pp. 257–298. ——. (1974). The introduction of books and scientific instruments into Japan, 1712–1854. Japa- nese Studies in the History of Science 13, pp. 9–68. ——. (1975). The Enrichment of the Royal Cabinet of Rarities at ’s‑Gravenhage with Japanese Ethnographical Specimens from 1815 to 1848. Japanese Studies in the History of Science 14, pp. 117–139. Overmeer Fisscher, J. van (1833). Bijdrage tot de kennis van het Japansche rijk. Amsterdam: J. Müller & Comp. Siebold, Ph. F. B. von (1826). Epitome Linguae Japonicae. In: vol. 11 of Verhandelingen van het Bataviaasch Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappen 11, Batavia, pp. 63–136. (Second edition, Leiden 1863) ——. (1832–1858). Nippon, Archiv der Beschreibung von Japan. Leiden. ——. (1841). Isagoge in Bibliothecam Japonicam et Studium Literarum Japonicarum. (Intro- duction to the Japanese library and the study of Japanese language and literature) Leiden. Sugimoto, Tsutomu (2000). Hendrik Doeff and the Doeff ’s Halma. In: Blussé et al. (2000), p. 125. Torii, Yumiko (2000). Dutch studies: Interpreters, Language, Geography and World History. In: Blussé et al. (2000), pp. 115–139. Vos, F. (1981). Japanese Studies in The Netherlands. In: Modern Relations between Japan and The Netherlands. Leiden: The Netherlands Association for Japanese Studies, pp. 52–67. ——. (1989). Mihatenu Yume—an unfinished dream: Japanese studies until 1940. In: W. Otterspeer, ed. Leiden oriental connections 1850–1940. Studies in the History of Leiden University, vol. 5. Leiden: Brill, pp. 354–377. The Kurisaki School of Sword Wound Surgery: from Sengoku to Genroku; Nagasaki to Edo (via Manila)

Thomas Harper

As will soon be apparent, this essay reads more like the text of a kōdan performance than a proper academic paper. For in fact it was conceived as an exercise in storytelling rather than an attempt to persuade the reader to a new view of some corner of Japanese history. In its favour, however, it can be said that the story is true; and that its protagonist is a man many students of Dutch-Japanese relations already know. Kurisaki Dōyū 栗崎道有1 (1660–1726) is a name that appears frequently in the Deshima Dagregisters. My own knowledge of these vast and valuable archives is very limited; but even the Marginalia thereof, portions of which have been translated and published in English,2 make it clear that Dōyū was in frequent contact with members of the Dutch mission to the court of the Shogun. For his own part, he was keen to increase his knowledge of recent advances in European medicine; while to the more commercially-minded members of the Dutch mission, he was a valuable source of inside information as well as a useful contact who had the ear of some of the highest ranking officials of the Shogunate. My own interest in Dōyū, however, lies in another aspect of his career, his role in the so-called Akō Incident, the famous vendetta of the forty-seven ronin from Akō in the twelfth month of 1702. How he happened to be involved in this series of events and what it was he did constitute the story that follows. As my subtitle suggests, the tale covers a long span of time and considerable geographical distances; but it begins in the very heart of Edo, with a failed attempt at murder in the official reception rooms of the Shogun’s palace within the innermost walls of the castle.

1 Recent opinion seems divided as to whether Kurisaki’s style should be pronounced Dōyū or Dōu; but since the only documentary evidence for either reading—the handwritten romanizations of his name in the Deshima Dagregisters—is highly ambiguous, this essay hews to the traditional Dōyū. 2 Van der Velde and Bachofner 1992. 222 thomas harper

Edo

On the fourteenth day of the third month of Genroku 14 (1701), in the long Pine Gallery (Matsu no Rōka 松の廊下) a conversation is about to take place between Kira Kōzuke-no-Suke 吉良上野介 (1641–1702), the Master of Court Protocol (kōke 高家) who is overseeing the ceremonial exchange of New Year’s greetings between the Shogun and the envoys of the Emperor, and Kajikawa Yosobei 梶川与惣兵衛 (1647–1723), a representative of the Shogun’s wife, whose task it is to present gifts from this lady to the envoys.3 There has been a last minute change of plans that these two men must discuss. They approach each other from opposite ends of the long open corridor and meet between the sixth and seventh pillars from the corner. Kajikawa speaks first: “I understand that I’m to leave earlier than was originally planned?” But before Kira can reply, a shout from behind him cuts their conversation short. “Now you’ll remember my grievances of these past few days, won’t you?” This cry was followed by what seemed an unnaturally loud rush of wind, which Yosobei did not immediately recognize as the swish of a slim shaft of steel. The blade struck Kira on the back of his right shoulder. “Wha . . . What . . .?” Startled and stricken with fear, Kira wheeled about. The blade flashed again, this time aimed directly at his skull. Kira made no attempt to evade it. He clapped his hands to his face, as if to staunch the flow of blood, then turned to flee; but before he could take a step, his body wilted and crumpled to the floor. Twice more, the assailant slashed out, but his prey had fallen out of reach of his short sword. Yosobei now found himself face to face with an apparent madman. To his amazement, it was Asano Takumi-no-Kami 浅野内匠頭 (1667–1701), who had spoken to him quite calmly only moments before. Yosobei never paused to consider what he ought to do. The instincts of years of training took control, and he reacted instantly and effortlessly. From the clumsy swordplay he could see that the man he faced was no master of any of the martial arts. At fifty-five, Yosobei was no longer a young man, but he was still reckoned one of the most powerful and formidable of the

3 This description of Asano Takumi-no-Kami’s attempt to kill Kira is based principally upon Kajikawa’s own account of the event, Kajikawa-shi hikki, in Nabeta 1975, vol. 2, pp. 273–79. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 223

Shogun’s Bannermen.4 His own hands would be weapon enough. Once he had cleared Kira’s body, it was a simple matter to immobilize the arm that wielded the sword, draw it up behind Takumi’s back, and force him down. Asano Takumi-no-Kami now lay pinioned, his face to the floor. Behind him lay Kira, unconscious, his head in the centre of a spreading pool of blood. For a moment there was silence and calm, before the full force of the event could be grasped by those who saw it. Then began the bab- bling and shouting, as a crowd of Kira’s colleagues, palace ushers (cha bōzu 茶坊主), and other participants in the day’s rites rushed to see what all the commotion was about. Some of them seemed to think Yosobei had started the fight and began tugging at his arms. “I am not the one,” he snapped; “the quarrel is between these two gentlemen.”5 He could not see that Kira had already been dragged away. Kira’s colleagues Shinagawa Buzen-no-Kami 品川豊前守 (1669–1712) and Hatakeyama Shimōsa-no-Kami 畠山下総守 (1663–1746) were the first to come to his aid. They raised the dazed old man to his feet, and half carried, half dragged him in the direction of the doctors’ duty room. Now, halfway there, he was regaining consciousness. “A doctor, a doctor!” he bellowed. “Find a doctor, someone!” His voice quavered, but lacked nothing in volume. He might have saved his breath; the duty Inspector General (ōmetsuke 大目付), Sengoku Hōki-no-Kami 仙石伯耆守 (1652–1735), had long since sent for the palace physicians. The physicians’ arrival at least served to silence Kira’s unseemly demonstration; but their medical ministrations were nowhere near as successful. Tsugaru Isan 津軽意三, a general practitioner, administered internal medicines; and Sakamoto Yōkei 坂本養慶, a surgeon, treated his wounds. But nothing they could do seemed to staunch the flow of blood. Kira’s strength was ebbing rapidly. The duty Inspector General, after quick consultation with the Council of Elders, told Kira’s senior colleague, Hatakeyama Shimōsa-no-Kami, to send immediately for a specialist, Kurisaki Dōyū. A letter was drafted and two Sub-Inspectors (kobito metsuke 小人目付) carried it speedily to Dōyū’s home in Nagasawa-chō, near Hatchōbori. Dōyū,

4 Saitō 1974, p. 49; and Ekisui renbei roku, in Akō gishi shiryō, vol. 3, p. 476. In the former of these variant texts, Kajikawa is described as “a man of great and unequalled strength, the strongest of all the Bannermen”; and in the latter as “a powerful man-at-arms, the greatest master of the martial arts amongst all the Bannermen.” 5 Hasegawa 1994, p. 198. 224 thomas harper unfortunately, was out on a house call, but an apprentice who knew his whereabouts took the summons to him immediately. As the reader will have guessed, this is the same Dōyū that the denizens of Deshima knew so well. How is it, then, that he is now practicing his art in Edo Castle? This is a long story; so for the moment let us leave Kurisaki Dōyū with his patient, and travel back to the year 1587 when Hideyoshi embarked upon his conquest of the island of Kyushu.

From Nagasaki to Manila and back

Kurisaki Dōyū was trained in a branch of medicine no longer as widely practiced as it had been in the past. He was a specialist in European methods of the treatment of sword wounds (kinsō; kinsō geka 金瘡外科; see figure 1), an art in which his family had excelled for more than a hundred years, from the time of Dōyū’s grandfather, Kurisaki Dōki Masamoto 道喜正元 (1582–1651?). The family had not always been medical men. As best we can tell, the Kurisaki were a small clan of rural warrior gentry in the western reaches of Kyushu. Their village, Kurisaki, from which they took their name, con- trolled one of the approaches to the fortress in Uto 宇土, which in turn formed a link in the network of outposts that ringed the great castle in Kumamoto 隈本城. Like most country clans in the sixteenth century, the Kurisaki were caught up in an endless series of battles, first between their own regional overlords, and then against the great armies of Nobunaga 織田信長 and Hideyoshi 豊臣秀吉 as these men fought to extend their hegemony over the entire land. For a time, however, it looked as if the embattled gentry might eventually be able to settle down peaceably on their smallholdings. The castellan at Uto, Hōki Sahyōe Akitaka 伯耆左兵衛顕孝, had saved his own skin by surrendering his fortress to Hideyoshi without a battle. Hideyoshi, in return, had issued written orders to the new lord of the province of Higo that the fifty-two houses of local gentry (五十二人之国人) were to be confirmed in their holdings and that no new survey or reallocation of lands was to take place for at least three years. Yet no sooner had Sassa Mutsu-no-Kami Narimasa 佐々陸奥守成政 (1539–88) taken possession of the castle in Kumamoto than survey teams were sent out and new land allocations promulgated. The local gentry were, with good reason, outraged. Within less than a month, rebellions were flaring up throughout the province; Higo was again a province at war. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 225

Fig. 1 A practitioner of kinsō treating a patient wounded on the upper arm; from Jinrin kinmō zui, published in 1690. Courtesy of the National Diet Library. 226 thomas harper

Hideyoshi was so incensed at Sassa’s ineptitude, insolence, and disobe- dience that he recalled him to Ōzaka, intercepted him en route, and commanded him to take his own life. But the damage Sassa had done in Kyushu was irreparable. The next new lord, Katō Kazue-no-Kami Kiyo- masa 加藤主計頭清正 (1562–1611), could not let the rebels go unpunished; he had no choice but to hunt them down and exterminate them.6 Their severed heads, they say, were on display at every crossroads. But one last group, holed up in the old fort at Komorida 小森田城 and determined to fight to the death, was going to require more concerted action. These men, as fate would have it, were the Uto gentry and their liegemen, led by Izuno Shōgen 伊津野将監 and including, of course, the Kurisaki. Against this force Kiyomasa himself led the attack. “I’ll crush them with my own hands,” he said. “That should open the eyes of everyone in this province.” It must have been a chilling sight as the men of Uto looked down from Mt. Konoha 木葉山 and saw 500 musketeers and 200 mounted samurai advancing up the slope from the river, their commander crowned with a fantastic three-foot-tall helmet of burnished silver-gray steel, its crown rakishly bent like a warrior’s court cap, and emblazoned with the bright red ball of a rising sun. Kiyomasa first set fire to the Uto stronghold, then pelted its occupants with lead, and finally cut down any who attempted to counterattack or escape. Even so, it was no easy victory. Kiyomasa himself was wounded twice by musket fire, and 140 of his men came close enough to death to merit commendation for their bravery. But by sun- down all 130 defenders of Komorida were dead. The Kurisaki line had been annihilated. Almost. For at some point during this awful process, the nursemaid of Kurisaki Utanosuke 歌之助, the seven-year-old heir to the house, managed to spirit the boy out of their village and make a clean escape.7 How she managed it we shall never know, but she was obviously a brave and resourceful woman. Fleeing first to Nagasaki, the two fugitives managed to evade capture there for two years. But then, someone who knew their secret betrayed them to the enemy—or as one account poetically puts it, “rain began to leak through the leaves of the tree beneath which they

6 Kiyomasa ki, pp. 326–28. 7 Several variant but in the main consistent accounts of the flight abroad and subsequent career of Kurisaki Dōki survive. My account is based on those quoted in: Koga 1942, pp. 23–42; and Takeuchi 1969, pp. 23–40. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 227 had taken shelter.”8 And so, before they could be apprehended, they took passage aboard a ship about to sail for Luzon, laden with cargo destined for the next Manila Galleon. Some say the ship was Portuguese, which at this point in time was not impossible, but more likely it was Japanese. With good winds, sailing roughly southwest-by-south (approximately 215 degrees) they would have cleared the Cape of Engaño in fifteen or sixteen days, and two days later entered Manila Bay. Why she felt she had to flee so far, we have no idea. It may simply be that she had to leave by the first ship available, whatever its destination. Or, as some suggest, the family may have had Christian connections, and could no longer feel safe anywhere in Kyushu now that Hideyoshi had disenfeoffed the Jesuits of Nagasaki.9 Whatever her reasons, Utanosuke’s nursemaid provided well for the boy’s future during their years of exile. They would have found a welcome refuge in “Campo Japon,” the large Japanese community that had grown up in Dilao, just outside the eastern portal to the new city of Manila, near the Franciscan monastery and mission house, La Candelaria.10 Over the next few years Utanosuke must have acquired considerable competence in both written and spoken Spanish, and probably Latin as well; for in his fourteenth year he was accepted as an apprentice to a Manila surgeon specialized in the treatment of sword wounds, an art in which the Spanish excelled. His apprenticeship extended over the next eight years, following which he remained in Manila several years more. Then, in 1617, two years after the fall of Ōzaka Castle, Kurisaki Dōki Masamoto, as he now styled himself, decided it should be safe—or expedient, or wise—to return to Nagasaki. The Spanish had never been entirely welcoming of the Japanese in Manila. They were happy to enlist Japanese skill at arms in the cause of their own conquests, but wary of the presence of such independent-minded warriors in their midst. But whatever Kurisaki’s reasons for leaving when he did, he found that the skills he had acquired in his twenty-some years abroad were much in demand at home. The port of Nagasaki had not yet been closed to foreign ships. Hardly a night passed when carousing did not give way to brawling, and then, all

8 Yamamoto 1996, pp. 230–31, quotes Hosokawa Tadatoshi (1586–1641) as describing Nagasaki as a place where “nothing you might wish to keep secret can be kept secret.” 9 Concerning which see Elison 1973, especially chapters 4 and 5. 10 The vicissitudes of the Japanese settlement in Manila, the activities of its inhabitants, and their relations with the Spanish authorities are described in: Iwao 1966; Nelson 2003; Paske-Smith 1914; and Schurtz 1959. 228 thomas harper too often, to swordfights. Nagasaki was Japan’s Wild West in those days, but a city of opportunity for a practitioner of sword wound surgery.11 The Shogunal Magistrate in Nagasaki (Nagasaki bugyō 長崎奉行) awarded Dōki a grant of government land and a house in Yorozuya-machi; commissioned him to treat the Shogunal vassals on the staff of the Magistracy; and licensed him also to treat foreign residents and visitors to the city. Dōki’s fame spread, his practice flourished, and soon he was training apprentices of his own, four of whom were his own sons. He was moreover revered as the only exponent of European medical practice who could actually read the treatises of that tradition; indeed the only surgeon in all Japan who had learnt his art abroad. On the basis of this, Dōki was granted an official patent permitting him to establish “The Kurisaki School, Authorized Guardians of Familial Traditions for the Treatment of Wounds Incurred in Battle.” In the years thereafter, his progeny and disciples appear to have maintained scrupulously their founder’s high standard of excellence. His eldest son entered the service of the Echizen Tokugawa, and his second son, the Matsura of Hirado.12 His fourth son, the first Kurisaki Dōyū, by command of the Shogunal Magistrate, remained to carry on the practice in Naga- saki. And in 1691, a century after his grandfather’s flight to Luzon, Kurisaki Dōyū Masayuki 正羽 was summoned from Nagasaki to Edo and appointed to the Shogun’s staff of attendant physicians at a stipend of 200 bales per year, later increased to 350. It is in this capacity that he has been summoned to the castle to treat the wounds of Kira Kōzuke-no-Suke.13

Edo

It was not forbidden for personal physicians of the Shogun to treat private patients, so long as it did not interfere with their official duties. Unfortu- nately for Iseya Hanshichi, a saké dealer who lived near the Myōjin shrine in Kanda, the official duties of his eminent physician were most definitely

11 Koga 1942, p. 28. 12 The third son apparently was a headstrong wastrel. 13 The following description of Kurisaki’s treatment of Kira’s wounds is based closely upon his own account, Kurisaki Dōyū kiroku. The manuscript of this text is held in the library of the University of Tokyo; and although it has never been published in its entirety, the portion describing his treatment of Kira is transcribed in Akō-shi 1987, vol. 3, pp. 9–14; and the portion describing his treatment of the wounded following the attack upon the Kira mansion is transcribed in Saitō 1975, pp. 443–44. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 229 going to interfere with the treatment of his illness. When the letter from the castle reached him, Dōyū was at Hanshichi’s home, treating a pain- fully abscessed boil. As soon as he saw the inscription and the seal, Dōyū knew that this was a summons that would brook no delay. He broke the seal, opened the letter, and read it immediately. Lord Kira Kozuke-no-Suke having been unexpectedly wounded in the palace, you are requested, by order of the duty Inspector General, Sengoku Hōki-no-Kami, to proceed to the castle immediately and with all haste. Third Month, Fourteenth Day Hatakeyama Shimōsa-no-Kami To: Kurisaki Dōyū Sama What on earth could have happened? Had there been a brawl? In which case, might there be several wounded? One thing was certain, however: Dōyū was being summoned to practice the art in which he was specialized; and on a case of sufficient importance to involve the highest ranks of officialdom. He left Hanshichi and his oozing boil in the care of an apprentice, gathered up his instruments, and headed directly for the castle. By the time Kurisaki Dōyū reached the Ōtemon gate, every entrance to the castle had been shut and bolted and closed to all traffic from either direction. He had only to mention his mission and show his official summons, however, and he was admitted without delay. At the inner gate, he was met by a squad of Deputy Inspectors (kachi metsuke 徒目付) who took him directly to the antechamber of the Cypress Room where Kira now lay. The duty physician and surgeon sat on either side of the bleeding patient. Suddenly, just as Dōyū stepped into the room, Kira began to gasp faintly. “Was he about to expire?” he wondered. “Were these his last gasps?” Dōyū reached immediately for a sachet of medicine he had prepared in advance ( furigusuri 振薬) and immersed it. He then turned to examine the wounds. At first he applied a lime-based styptic (sekkai no iritaru kusuri 石灰ノ入タル薬), but the blood only welled up beneath it and burst forth from between the lips of the wounds. There was no time to send for better equipment. Dōyū tore a long strip from the sleeve of Kira’s white under-robe, folded it lengthwise, spread a poultice over the gashes, and bound them tightly. Almost immediately, the bleeding stopped. Dōyū then gave Kira the potion he had prepared, which seemed to revive him a bit. When Dōyū was certain that the flow of blood had been staunched, he loosened the band on Kira’s forehead and pressed the edges of the wound together more tightly with his fingers; then he 230 thomas harper restored the pressure, and with the help of some of Kira’s men, propped the patient up in a more comfortable position. For the moment, nothing more could be done. Dōyū left the room and went to wash his hands and clean up a bit. On the way back to his patient, passing through the Hearth Room,14 Dōyū chanced to encounter Sengoku Hōki-no-Kami, the Inspector Gen- eral who had authorized his summons. He took the opportunity to report his progress with the case. “I’ve stopped the bleeding and revived him, but I’ve yet to treat the wounds comprehensively. Eventually they’ll have to be cleansed and stitched.” “The Council of Elders will wish to hear of this,” Hōki-no-Kami said, adding that in the meantime Dōyū should stand by for further orders. This suited Dōyū perfectly; it gave him the time he needed for the next step of his treatment, the execution of which he could not speak of quite so openly. All was much as he had left it when Dōyū returned to the room. His patient was resting quietly; the Sub-Inspectors still kept their watch. The time was right. Dōyū turned to the Inspectors and spoke softly. “You know, I left the house very early this morning, and I’ve had nothing to eat since.” “Why, of course!” The Inspectors seemed almost apologetic that this had not occurred to them. “Why don’t you go straight to the kitchens and have them prepare something for you there?” This was precisely what Dōyū was hoping they would suggest. “Thank you,” Dōyū said, “I’ll do that.” In fact, Dōyū himself had no desire to eat. He wanted food for his patient. Kira had probably risen before dawn that morning; at least eight hours had passed since his last meal. If he was to recover from the severe loss of blood he had suffered, he would need nourishment, and he would need it soon. Normally this would present no problem. But today, if only symbolically, the Shogun was host to the Emperor. To be sure, he would never deign to meet the Emperor in person; but he took these symbolic meetings very seriously. Everyone who took part in the ceremony was beholden to avoid any sort of impurity. If Dōyū were to let it be known that he wished food for someone under

14 The Hearth Room was a general duty room for Bannermen who had been rostered for duty in the castle. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 231 blood pollution, he was sure to be denied. Never mind that the food was needed for a patient in danger of dying of sword wounds; in the eyes of many, the fact that he had been wounded in an unseemly quarrel would only make the pollution seem more odious. Dōyū thought it best, therefore, that Kira’s need for nourishment not be mentioned. More discreet methods were called for. When the surgeon stepped out of the room, he accosted the first palace usher that passed his way and asked him to fetch two or three sheets of paper. There was no need to discuss the use to which these would be put. He merely thanked the monk and proceeded on his way to the interior of the palace. The kitchens were under guard that day; but since Dōyū, with at least partial honesty, could present his request as a command from the Inspec- torate, he was served immediately. But when he produced his three sheets of paper and began wrapping leftovers in them, the Inspectors in the kitchen began eyeing him suspiciously. “What do you intend to do with this, may we ask?” said one of the Inspectors. “I left the house very early this morning, and this is the first I’ve eaten since then. But my samurai and my servant are still on duty in the doctors’ room, and they’ve had nothing at all to eat. I thought I’d at least wrap up some of my leftovers to hold them until I can send for replacements.” Dōyū seems to have been as skilled an actor as he was a surgeon. The Inspectors not only believed his tale, but, most inconveniently, offered to help. “In that case, we’ll have a meal prepared from the remains of yesterday’s banquet, and have it sent to your men.” Their kindness was becoming more dangerous than their suspicion. “No, no,” Dōyū protested, “there’s no need for you to go to so much trouble.” And before the Inspectors could renew their offers of assistance, he picked up two pairs of chop- sticks, tucked them in the folds of his robe along with the packets of food, and left the room. But if Dōyū thought the complications of treating his patient were now overcome, he was mistaken. Upon leaving the kitchens, his route again took him through the Hearth Room, where once again he encountered the Inspector General Sengoku Hōki-no-Kami. More than three hours had passed since the Council of Elders had authorized Hōki-no-Kami to send for Dōyū. Though the Elders were still a long way from penetrating all the mysteries of this case, in the interim certain fundamental facts 232 thomas harper had emerged. What had at first seemed the unpredictable attack of a madman upon an innocent official was turning out to be no such thing. Takumi-no-Kami had been angry, but by no means deranged. Kira had provoked him. And though neither party seemed willing to reveal the cause of their quarrel, a quarrel there had been. Whatever else might come of this revelation, it had immediate effects upon the arrangements for Kira’s medical care. This was what Hōki-no-Kami had to discuss with Dōyū. “As you know,” the Inspector General began, “it was on orders from the Council of Elders that I sent for you to treat Kira. I’ve now been ordered to tell you that you need treat him no longer.” The Elders, it seems, had at first considered Kira an innocent victim, attacked in the line of duty. Accordingly they had assumed full responsibility for his treatment. Now, however, it was clear that Kira himself had provoked the attack; the treatment of his wounds, therefore, was his own responsibility. Private quarrels must be privately financed. “I’ve just informed Kira and his colleagues of this decision, and they’re asking permission to retain your services on a private basis. The Elders are prepared to grant that request. It was you, after all, who revived him and stopped his bleeding. You are free, therefore, to continue treating him as a private patient, but only if you so desire.” It was becoming a very complicated case indeed, demanding almost as much skill in diplomacy as in medicine. To Dōyū’s credit, he did not take the opportunity of an easy escape. He conferred with Kira’s colleagues to confirm the patient’s wishes. He dismissed the other two physicians as gracefully as possible, apologizing to the duty surgeon for keeping him so long from his other duties, and begging permission of the internist to consult with him should further need arise. Finally he reported back to the Inspector General that, if the Elders approved, he would remain on the case. The Elders of course approved, and Dōyū, at long last, was free to continue treating his patient. The wound on Kira’s forehead was a diagonal cut, less than four inches long; but the blade had cut into the bone. Dōyū sent for boiling water, and after he had cleansed the wound, he drew the edges together with six sutures, using a fine needle threaded with silk. He then applied a layer of gauze (usumecha ウスメチヤ) and a coating of medicine (which he does not specify). The wound on Kira’s back was more than six inches long, but not deep. Only three stitches were needed to hold it together. Dōyū treated it as he had the other wound, and bandaged them both with strips of white cotton torn from Kira’s under-robe. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 233

By now, the doctors’ room, once so immaculate, was smeared with blood and strewn with discarded clothing and the litter of surgery. Dōyū was appalled to see that Kira’s men were doing nothing. “What ever are you doing with yourselves?” the surgeon demanded. “Palace officials will soon be coming. You can’t expect them to sit in a room that’s befouled with blood. Now, pick up his clothing and put it in the luggage trunk. Let’s get busy and make this room presentable.” Kira himself was resting quietly. Now at last there was time for the final stage of Dōyū’s treatment. He sent for hot water, a tea bowl, and some salt. When they arrived, he took the food that he gone to such trouble to spirit out of the kitchens, mixed it with the salt and hot water, and made a thin gruel. Kira downed two bowls of it, and before long was looking almost as strong as ever. Dōyū had been right. What had seemed Kira’s last gasps had been caused as much by lack of nourishment as by loss of blood. He was also right in predicting that Kira would soon have official visitors. Kira’s men were just finishing their task when Sengoku Hōki-no-Kami appeared at the door. “I won’t come in,” the Inspector General said, peer- ing inquiringly at the patient, but apprehensive lest he come in contact with blood pollution. Dōyū rose to meet him. “You’re welcome to come in if you wish. I’ve been expecting interrogation officers and have seen to it that there be no trace of pollution when they arrive.” Hōki-no-Kami stepped into the room, and seemed pleased to find it so unexpectedly clean. “I’d heard that the blood had been gushing in here, but there’s not a trace of it to be seen now. You’d hardly know the man had been wounded. You’ve done a fine job. I shall make a detailed report of this to the Council of Elders.” But it was not curiosity as to the victim’s well-being that had brought the Inspector General to the doctors’ room. Neither was there to be any further interrogation. Hōki-no-Kami had come at the behest of the Council of Elders to convey a Shogunal decree to Kira Kōzuke-no-Suke. And as he was speaking to Dōyū, another figure entered the room. It was none other than the Shogun’s Chief Adjutant (soba yōnin 側用人), Yanagisawa Dewa-no-Kami 柳沢出羽守 (1658–1714). The Inspector General then took out the document he had brought and read it aloud. Kira Kōzuke-no-Suke Asano Takumi, having been deemed guilty of an unprovoked attack, per- petrated in total disregard of the gravity of the occasion and his presence within the palace, has been sentenced to be punished accordingly. You, 234 thomas harper

Kōzuke-no-Suke, are hereby absolved of all blame. We wish you a speedy recovery from your wounds. Year of the Serpent, Third Month, Fourteenth Day15 To this the Adjutant added, in his own words, that His Highness also hoped that once Kira had recovered he would not hesitate to return to his duties as doyen of the Masters of Court Protocol. Not long after the Inspector General and the Chief Adjutant had departed the doctors’ room, another officer of the Inspectorate appeared at the door. His name was Nakajima Hikoemon 中島彦右衛門, he said, and he had been sent to assist in transporting the patient to his home. Kira’s colleague Shinagawa Buzen-no-Kami would of course accompany him; but there were practical matters to be attended to that might lie beyond the experience of such an exalted gentleman. “We’re to leave from the Hirakawa gate 平川門,” Hikoemon said. In Edo Castle, the Hirakawa gate was designated the “gate of the unclean,” the only gate through which women, the wounded, the dead, or even bad tid- ings might pass. It made for a roundabout route, approximately doubling the distance to be covered; but Kira was under blood pollution. He must leave from the Hirakawa gate. “As you know, the Elders wish you to accompany your patient,” Hikoe- mon said to Dōyū, “but they ask that you proceed on foot to the gate, where your palanquin will be sent to meet you.” Apparently even unpol- luted members of the procession were expected to exercise restraint when travelling in the company of the tainted. The route by which they would travel was also a matter of concern. Dōyū naturally suggested that it would be best for his patient to return by the most direct route, bearing right as they exit the gate, following the moat around to the Ōtemon 大手門, crossing the bridge at the Dragon’s Mouth 辰ノ口, then turning into the avenue which would take them past the Military Liaison Lodge (tensō yashiki 傳奏屋敷) and thence directly to Kira’s home just inside the Gofukubashi gate 呉服橋門. “I would advise against that,” Hikoemon said. “It will take us a bit out of our way, but we had best avoid the vicinity of the Military Liaison Lodge.” Dōyū understood immediately. The Lodge had been swarming with Takumi-no-Kami’s men, some of whom might still be there. There was no telling what sort of trouble might arise if they were to see Kira, alive

15 Ryūei hinami no ki, quoted in Akō-shi 1987, vol. 1, p. 9; and vol. 3, p. 42. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 235 and free and on his way home. The Council of Elders had provided a large contingent of armed men to guard the procession. In addition to Hikoe- mon and his fellow Inspectors, a company of lancers was to surround Kira, Buzen-no-Kami, and Dōyū; while both the vanguard and rearguard would be manned by Deputy Inspectors and Sub-Inspectors. Even so, there was no need to provoke a battle. They would take the long route. As they made their way from the palace to the Hirakawa gate, Dōyū walked close behind Kira’s palanquin, checking at frequent intervals to see whether the movement was causing any change in his patient’s condition. Even after passing the gate he maintained this position, lest an emergency catch him unprepared. As Hikoemon suggested, they followed a zigzag route though the quarter on the far side of the moat from the Military Liaison Lodge. Only when they reached the square at the Tokiwa- bashi gate 常盤橋門 did they feel they might relax their guard somewhat. Here Dōyū boarded his palanquin, though he did leave the window open; and Hikoemon mounted his horse to lead them across the square and over the Zenigame bridge 銭亀橋 to the rear entrance of Kira’s mansion. When Kira arrived home he was greeted by a crowd of relatives and close friends, a veritable army sent by his son Uesugi Danjō 上杉弾正 (1663–1704), as well as three more doctors. At least two of the doctors were colleagues of Dōyū. Murayama Jihaku 村山自伯, another surgeon, said he had been waiting there, “sharpening his needles,” as he put it, since a little past midday. And when Dōyū inquired which of the internists was most familiar with the patient, it turned out to be his colleague Yoshida Ian 吉田意安. Once their patient was positioned comfortably, Dōyū and Ian together checked his pulse. Dōyū asked Ian to take responsibility for internal medicines from the following morning. But until then, he said, it would probably be best to use only the medicine that Dōyū himself had prepared. At this point the Inspector in charge, Nakajima Hikoemon, came in to check on the patient and tell Dōyū that he would now be leaving to report to the duty Elder and the duty Junior Elder. Dōyū, too, allowed as how he ought to be leaving to attend to another patient; besides which, he too must report to the Elders and Junior Elders. And so it was arranged that Kira be given a light evening meal of gruel. Later that night, at about 8:00 p.m., Dōyū said, he would return and check Kira’s wounds once more before he retired. With that Dōyū left, went about his business, made his reports, and returned home. The next morning all remained well with the wounded patient, but for Dōyū there was a new diplomatic problem. A messenger arrived bearing 236 thomas harper word from Kira’s son, Uesugi Danjō, that Kira’s wounds seemed to be healing well. As Dōyū himself says, Kira, though in his sixties, had always been strong and healthy. The scar on his forehead would be inconspicuous, and both wounds would probably heal completely in fourteen or fifteen days. But for Uesugi Danjō, this seemed to pose a problem. This incident was already the talk of the town, and before long the news would spread throughout the land. Should it become known that Kira’s wounds were light and he was recovering rapidly, public opinion could turn against him. Therefore, the Uesugi messenger requested, would Dōyū be so kind as to describe the wounds as grave and serious? And would he also be so kind as to visit the patient every day for the next thirty or forty days? Dōyū did not refuse their request for this unnecessary attention; in fact he visited Kira daily for the next sixty days. But he tells us himself that he could see that their real concern was not the welfare of the patient, but to avoid arousing the anger of Takumi’s vassals, which might prompt them to finish the job their liege lord had begun. This long train of events, stretching back to a forgotten battle in the hills of Kyushu, probably saved Kira’s life. But not for long. For as everyone knows, this was not the end of the story. Neither was it the end of Kurisaki Dōyū’s involvement in the medical problems of the Kira house.

Honjo

Twenty-one months later, on the night of the fourteenth day of the twelfth month of 1702, forty-seven former vassals of Asano Takumi-no- Kami attacked the Kira mansion in Honjo, beheaded Kōzuke-no-Suke, killed sixteen of his retainers and severely wounded twenty-three others. Indeed, any devotee of Japanese movies and television may well have seen this attack—several times over. But so far as I know, no one has yet attempted to recreate what most concerns us here: namely, the mess that remained after the ronin left. One of the first outsiders to view the carnage the next morning was Nomoto Chūzaemon 野本忠左右衛門, a samurai in the service of Kira’s son, Uesugi Danjō.16 The entire mansion, he tells us, was a shambles. Every gate, every door, every amado, shōji, and fusuma had been smashed to

16 Nomoto Chūzaemon kenbunsho, in Akō-shi 1987, vol. 3, pp. 443–48. the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 237 smithereens. The ceilings, floors, folding screens, and storage boxes were full of holes pierced by probing lances. Bedding, clothing, accessories were scattered everywhere. Every wall of every room was splattered with blood. The house had been searched three times—end-to-end, top to bottom— and it looked it. Nomoto entered at the rear gate, proceeded to the vestibule of Kira the elder’s quarters, and from there walked the length of the long narrow mansion. In Kōzuke-no-Suke’s bedchamber, they found his adopted son Sahyōe 左兵衛 (1686–1702), bloodied and severely wounded, but still alive. The two men with him told Nomoto he had lain alone here until only a short time before. Further down the hallway, they have to step over the bodies of the dead and wounded sprawled in “obscene postures.” “Beyond description,” Nomoto says. At the rear of the building, in the food preparation rooms, he finds two more dead bodies—as well as a jumble of discarded equipment: lances, axes, arm guards, mallets, and the like. In the garden, he sees a body, face down, its feet in the pond. “Who is that?” Nomoto asks. “That’s Torii Riemon 鳥居利右衛門.” These are real people; they have names; they’re dead. Moving on to the anteroom of Sahyōe’s bedchamber, two men lay sprawled on the floor, both of whom look dead; but then one turns his head and identifies himself as Yamayoshi Shinpachi 山吉新八. The other says nothing. “They looked like two corpses sharing a single pillow,” Nomoto remarks. In the hallway leading to the reception room he steps around the body of someone he knows well, Sudō Yoichiemon 須藤与一右衛門. And as he enters the anteroom, he comes upon a heart-rending scene, which he describes as follows: I found Shimizu Dan’emon 清水団右衛門, badly wounded and propped up against the wall. His father was there with him. In my medicine kit I had a bit of ginseng and five bits of smelling salts. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘you can use this when he loses consciousness,’ (which he was doing frequently). I emptied the kit and gave it all to his father before I left. In the room behind, Horie Kanzaemon 堀江勘左衛門, a samurai who had been on watch that night, lay wounded, propped up against the wall. Mov- ing on to the main kitchens, Nomoto finds two more bodies, and in the main hall, another two. When he reaches the main entryway, he sees that still more dead and wounded lay outside. But, for whatever reasons, he decides not to investigate further. 238 thomas harper

What time of day Nomoto observed this scene, he does not say; but it must have been about mid-morning, prior to the arrival of the official Inspectors between 11:00 and 12:00. Which is to say that, by that time, those bleeding men had been lying in pain for at least six hours—and they would lie there for another six hours before anyone arrived to give them the medical attention they needed. Again, that medical attention came in the form of Kurisaki Dōyū and his disciples, who arrived at about 5:00 p.m. The initial request for Dōyū’s services came directly from the Kira household. How it was transmitted, we don’t know; but it must have been an alarmingly garbled request, as Dōyū’s first response was to refuse on the grounds that he was not equipped to deal with such carnage. There- after, however, a second request came from Kira’s highly influential relatives, the Uesugi, whose standing in the hierarchy of warrior houses made it impossible for Dōyū to refuse a second time. He knew now that there were at least seventeen seriously wounded patients awaiting his attention, and he went prepared for a long session of surgery. Seven of his disciples accompanied him. Immediately he arrived, Dōyū himself attended to Kira’s adopted son, Sahyōe. He describes his condition as follows: “The son, Sahyōe, had one wound, seven inches long, starting at his lower rib cage, where it cut into the ribs, and reached across his back. On his forehead there were two or three more wounds, each about three inches long.” This case alone was going to take a good deal more cleansing, stitching, and dressing than the boy’s father had required almost two years before. And there were sixteen more wounded still waiting. Yamayoshi Shinpachi, Dōyū says, had sustained eight wounds. Saitō Kunai 斉藤宮内 had been stabbed twice in the abdomen. And nine others bore heavy wounds of various sorts. Once Dōyū had treated Sahyōe, the head of the house, he then examined the others, undertaking the most critical cases himself, and assigning the rest to one or other of his seven disciples, intermittently instructing each how he should treat his patient. Dōyū completed his own share of the work by about 10:00 p.m.; but his disciples were unable to leave until about 5:00 the next morning. It was a long night. The next morning, on the sixteenth, Dōyū reported his activities of the previous evening, as well as his impressions of the scene, to Inaba Tango-no-Kami 稲葉丹後守, the duty member of the Council of Elders, as well as to the duty Junior Elder, Inagaki Tsushima-no-Kami. And on the evening of that day, he decided he should report also to Abe Bungo-no- Kami 阿部豊後守, the presiding officer of the Council of Elders, to whom, the kurisaki school of sword wound surgery 239 he says, he described the scene in full detail. Bungo-no-Kami was most impressed and praised Dōyū accordingly. “Your treatment of those men was extraordinary,” he said. “You’ve done a magnificent job.” Whereupon he presented Dōyū with a surcoat and a quilted cape. Meanwhile, back in Honjo, there seem to have been others, less seriously wounded, who had not been treated, but were asking for certain basic medicines like smelling salts and styptics. But, alas, Dōyū’s entire supply of these had been exhausted in the treatment of the more seriously wounded, and he was unable to comply with their request. This called for an admonitory appeal, he felt, to the Uesugi, who had originally summoned him. Dōyū spoke to a staff officer of the house, he tells us, saying: A great many of your men were wounded in the service of their lord, and some were so seriously wounded that they might well have died. It was of the utmost importance that these men be treated, as soon it was practicably possible. And since the present regime places such importance upon compassion toward birds and other such creatures, if those who were wounded in the service of their lord should not continue to be cared for, you might come in for serious criticism by the authorities. Even if Sahyōe should die of his wounds, the other men should be given all possible care. I myself am most reluctant to leave these people uncared for. And so, if the Uesugi house is agreeable, I am more than willing to continue treating them.17 The Uesugi said, “You are quite right. Please do continue.” Dōyū reported their request to the Council of Elders, who of course approved. He thus was able to continue treating the nine most seriously wounded patients and provide medicines for the less-seriously afflicted. How long he continued to treat these men we do not know, but he does tell us that he was rewarded generously for his efforts. From the Uesugi he received 50 ryō in gold, in addition to which his disciples were paid separately an unspeci- fied amount. The Kira sent only a token payment. More importantly, however, that night in 1702 marked a high point in history of the Kurisaki School: it was the first time those skills, learnt a hundred years earlier in Manila by Kurisaki Utanosuke, were put to use on a real battlefield, on men grievously wounded by real swords. It was also a great medical success. Only one of the seventeen men treated did not survive.

17 Kurisaki Dōyū kiroku, in Saitō 1975, pp. 443–44. 240 thomas harper

References

Akō gishi shiryō 赤穂義士史料 (1931). Chūō Gishikai, ed. 3 vols. Tokyo: Yūzankaku. Akō-shi Sōmubu Shishi Hensanshitsu 赤穂市総務部市史編纂室, ed. (1987–). Chūshingura 忠臣蔵. 7 vols. Akō: Akō-shi. Elison, George (1973). Deus Destroyed: The Image of Christianity in Early Modern Japan. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Hasegawa Tsuyoshi 長谷川強, ed. (1994) Genroku sekenbanashi fūbun shū 元禄世間話風聞集. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Iwao Seiichi 岩生成一 (1966). Nan’yō Nihonmachi no kenkyū 南洋日本町の研究. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Kiyomasa ki 清正記 (1967). In Tsunoda Bun’ei 角田文衛 and Gorai Shigeru 五来重, eds. Shintei zōho Shiseki shūran 新訂増補史跡集覧, vol. 39. Kyoto: Rinsen Shoten. Koga Jūjirō 古賀十二郎 (1942). Seiyō ijutsu denrai shi 西洋医術伝来史. Tokyo: Nisshin Shoin. Nabeta Shōzan 鍋田晶山, ed. (1975). Akō gijin sansho 赤穂義人纂書. 3 vols. Reprint, Tokyo: Nippon Sheru Shuppan. Nelson, Thomas (2003). Southeast Asian Politics and Society As Seen Through the Japanese Communities. Japan Memory Project Conference Proceedings, Academic Year 2001–2002. Historiographical Institute, University of Tokyo, pp. 296–309. Paske-Smith, M. T. (1914). The Japanese Trade and Residence in the Philippines Before and During the Spanish Occupation. Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan XLII, pp. 685–710. Saitō Shigeru 斉藤茂, ed. (1974). Ekisui renbei roku 易水連袂録. Tokyo: Nippon Sakimori Kyōkai Hotta Bunko Hanpubu. —— (1975). Akō gishi jissan 赤穂義士実纂. Akō gishi jissan Hanpukai. Schurtz, William Lytle (1959). The Manila Galleon. New York: E. P. Dutton. Takeuchi Shin’ichi 竹内真一 (1969). Nanban geka Kurisaki-ke keifu to Echizen Kurisaki- ke ni tsuite 南蛮外科栗崎家系譜と越前栗崎家について. Jakuetsu kyōdo kenkyū 若越郷土研究 14:2, pp. 23–40. Van der Velde, Paul and Rudolph Bachofner (1992). The Deshima Diaries: Marginalia 1700– 1740. 2 vols. Tokyo: The Japan-Netherlands Institute. Yamamoto Hirofumi 山本博文 (1996). Edo-jō no kyūtei seiji 江戸城の宮廷政治. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1996. List of Publications by Prof. Dr. Willem Jan Boot

Steven Hagers

2010

“Chūka ni tassuru kotoba nakunba”: Kinsei Nihon to kaigai bunka「中華に達することばなくんば」：近世日本と海外文化. In: Jōchi Daigaku Kokubungaku Ronshū 43, pp. 1–15. Keizer Jinmu, de stichter van Japan. In: The Netherlands-Japan Review 1-1, pp. 8–21. Kaibara Ekiken’s preface to Chingbirok: A Japanese edition of the Book of Corrections. In: Korean Histories 2-1, pp. 85–89.

2009

Emura Hokkai to Kanshi: 18-seiki nakagoro no Kyōto ni okeru Kanshi- gaku 江村北海と漢詩：１８世紀中頃の京都における漢詩学. In: Bei- jing Ribenxue Yanjiu Zhongxin 北京日本学研究中心, (Ed.) Ershiyi shiji Dongbeiya Riben yanjiu lunwenji 二十一世纪东北亚日本研究论文集, pp. 1–10. Peking: Xueyuan Chubanshe. Johann Joseph Hoffmann—der erste Japanologe? In: Hōrin. Vergleichende Studien zur japanischen Kultur 16, pp. 83–104. Tegen het isolationisme. Holland als voorbeeld van Japan. Geschiedenis Magazine 44–2, pp. 22–25. The Transfer of Learning: The Import of Chinese and Dutch Books in Tokugawa Japan. In: E. Groenendijk, C. Viallé, and J. L. Blussé (Eds), Canton and Nagasaki compared, 1730–1830: Dutch, Chinese, Japanese Rela- tions: Transactions, pp. 45–56. Leiden: Institute for the History of Euro- pean Expansion. Raiden ni okeru Higashi-Ajia kenkyū no yurai to hatten, 1830–1945 ライデンにおける東アジア研究の由来と発展、1830–1945. In: Higashi-Ajia bunka kōshō kenkyū 東アジア文化交渉研究 4, pp. 47–60. 242 steven hagers

2008

“Chōsen Seibatsu Ki” ni egakareta sensō: sengo no aru Nihonjin jugakusha no shisen kara mita Hideyoshi 『朝鮮征伐記』に描かれた戦争―戦後のある日本人儒学者の視線から見た秀吉. In Chŏng Tuhŭi & Yi Kyŏngsun 鄭杜煕, 李ギョンスン (Eds), Jinshin Sensō: 16-seiki Nit- Chō-Chū no kokusai sensō 壬辰戦争ー16世紀日・朝・中の国際戦争, pp. 264–319. Tokyo: Akashi Shoten. Editor in cooperation with W. G. J. Remmelink of: The Patriarch of Dutch Learning Shizuki Tadao (1760–1806). Journal of the Japan-Netherlands Institute 9 (2008), Tokyo: Japan-Netherlands Institute. In this volume: – Preface (pp. 9–23). – Shizuki Tadao’s Sakoku-ron (pp. 88–106).

2007

Book review of: The Poetics of Motoori Norinaga: A Hermeneutical Journey. Translated and edited by Michael F. Marra. In: Monumenta Nipponica 62, pp. 377–380. “Chosŏn Chŏngbŏlgi” sok-ŭi imjin waeran. Chŏnhu han Ilbon yuhakcha-ŭi sisŏn-ŭro pon Hideyoshi 《조선정벌기(朝鮮征伐記)》 속의 임진왜 란 : 전후 한 일본 유학자의 시선으로 본 히데요시. In: Chŏng Tuhwi & Yi Kyŏngsun 정두희, 이경순 (Eds), Imjin Waeran. Tong-Asia samguk chŏngjaeng 임진 왜란, 동 아시아 삼국 전쟁. A Transnational History of the “Imjin Waeran” 1592–1598. The East Asian Dimension, pp. 233–284. Seoul: Hyumanisŭt’ŭ Ch’ulp’an Kŭrup. Keigaku 京学. Gakujutsu Geppō / Japanese Scientific Monthly 60-3, pp. 4–7. Editor in cooperation with Tadaomi Aikawa, H. Harada, T. Yoshida, Y. Torii and W. G. J. Remmelink of: Rangaku no furontia: Shizuki Tadao no sekai 蘭学のフロンティアー志筑忠雄の世界. Nagasaki: Nagasaki Bunkensha. In this work: – “Sakokuron” kara mita 18-seiki no yo ni okeru Nihon, Nihon ni okeru 18-seiki 「鎖国論」からみた１８世紀の世における日本ー日本における１８世紀 (pp. 71–81). – J. J. Hofmann to Nihongaku no tanjō. J. J. Hofmann と日本学の誕生 (pp. 129–140). list of publications 243

Should Confucianism be studied as a Religious Tradition? In: Breuker, R. E. (Ed.), Korea in the Middle, pp. 313–332. Leiden: CNWS.

2006

Author in cooperation with Mitsutoshi Nakano, Satoru Fujita and Jun Suzuki of: (Zadankai) Matsudaira Sadanobu no bungakuken 《座談会》松平定信の文学圏. Bungaku 7-1, pp. 2–24. Minagawa Kien (1734–1807): Kien Tōyō to Meichū no kankei ni tsuite 皆川淇園 (1734–1807) ー『淇園答要』と『名疇』の関係についてー. In: Matsumura Yuji, Nakamura Yasuo, Takei Kyōzō, and Chen Jie (Eds), Proceedings of the 29th International Conference on Japanese Literature, Tokyo, 17th–18th November 2005, pp. 1–19. Tokyo: National Institute of Japanese Literature. New Additions to the Sorai Library. Review article of: Ogyū Sorai’s Philo- sophical Masterworks: The Bendō and Benmei. In: Monumenta Nipponica 61, pp. 559–566.

2005

Book review of: Frontier Contact between Chosŏn Korea and Tokugawa Japan. In: Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 65, pp. 473–483. Ieyasu and the Founding of the Tokugawa Shogunate. In: Wm. Theodore de Bary, Carol Gluck, and Arthur E. Tiedemann (Eds), Sources of Japa- nese Tradition, Second Edition, Vol. 2: 1600 to 2000 (Introduction to Asian Civilizations), pp. 1–28. New York: Columbia University Press. Author in cooperation with J. A. Tucker: Confucianism in the Early Tokugawa Period. In: Wm. Theodore de Bary, Carol Gluck, and Arthur E. Tiedemann (Eds), Sources of Japanese Tradition, Second Edition, Vol. 2: 1600 to 2000 (Introduction to Asian Civi- lizations), pp. 29–82. New York: Columbia University Press. Exercises in Biography. The Case of Takebe Ayatari. Review article of: Takebe Ayatari: A Bunjin Bohemian in Early Modern Japan. In: Monu- menta Nipponica 60, pp. 393–407. Yōroppa ni okeru Nihon kanbungaku kenkyū no genjō to kadai. ヨーロッパにおける日本漢文学研究の現状と課題. In: Sekai ni okeru Nihon kanbungaku kenkyū no genjō to kadai 世界における日本漢文学研究 244 steven hagers

の現状と課題, pp. 29–60. Tokyo: Nishō Gakusha Daigaku 21-seiki COE puroguramu.

2003

“Waert gij vogels soo mocht gij daer nae toe vliegen.” Hendrik Hamel in Japan, 1666–1667. In: V. Roeper and B. C. A. Walraven (Eds), De Wereld van Hendrik Hamel. Nederland en Korea in de zeventiende eeuw, pp. 59–78. Amsterdam: SUN. V. Roeper and B. C. A. Walraven (Eds), Hamel’s world: a Dutch-Korean encounter in the seventeenth century, pp. 59–78, Amsterdam: SUN, 2003. Maxims of Foreign Policy. In: J. L. Blussé van Oud-Alblas and F. Fernadez- Armesto (Eds), Shifting Communities and Identity Formation in Early Modern Asia, pp. 7–23. Leiden: CNWS. Ogyū Sorai, Studieregels. In: J. Bor and K. van der Leeuw (Eds), 25 eeu- wen oosterse filosofie. Teksten, toelichtingen, pp. 562–569. Amsterdam: Boom. Book review of: Idealism, Protest and the Tale of Genji. The Confucianism of Kumazawa Banzan (1619–1691). In: Japonica Humboldtiana 7, pp. 239–251.

2002

Das Übersetzen von konfuzianischen Texten im mittelalterichen Japan. In: Hōrin. Vergleichende Studien zur japanischen Kultur 9, pp. 91–115. Het voortleven van Hideyoshi. In: E. G. De Poorter (Ed.), Toyotomi Hidey- oshi: geweldenaar en parvenu in het Japan van de 16e eeuw, pp. 75–101. Leiden: Plantage. Hikaku rekishi no kanōsei to hitsuzensei 比較歴史の可能性と必然性. In: Ibunka Kōryū 異文化交流 3, pp. 139–150. Jōdai Bungaku 上代文学. In: Jōdai Bungaku, 4-88, pp. 22–37. Nakae Tōju (1608–1648) and Kumazawa Banzan (1619–1691). Two thinkers of the Edo period. Book review of: Nakae Tōju (1608–1648) et Kumazawa Banzan (1619–1691): Deux penseurs de l’époque d’Edo. In: Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 12, pp. 133–136. Tentô ou la Voie de Ciel. In: F. Girard, A. Horiuchi and M. Macé (Eds), Repenser l’ordre, repenser l’heritage. Paysage intellectuel du Japon (XVIIe– XIXe siecle), pp. 87–123. Geneve: Droz. list of publications 245

2001

Editor in cooperation with Y. Shirahata: Two Faces of the Early Modern World: The Netherlands and Japan in the 17th and 18th Centuries. Kyoto: International Research Center for Japa- nese Studies. In this work: – Education, Schooling and Religion in Early Modern Japan (pp. 15–34). Het einde van de wet: de voorspellingen van kroonprins Shōtoku. In: Tijd- schrift voor Geschiedenis 114–1, pp. 56–73. Keizers en Shogun. Een geschiedenis van Japan tot 1868. (Licht op Japan). Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press/Salome. Oranda ni okeru Nihongaku no genzai to shōrai オランダにおける日本学の現在と将来. In: F. Kurihara, M. Ōzawa and T. Satō 栗原福也, 大沢真澄, 佐藤達策 (Eds), Edo jidai no Nihon to Oranda. Nichi-ran kōryū 400-nen kinen shinpojiumu hōkokushū 江戸時代の日本とオランダー日蘭交流400年記念シンポジウム報告集, pp. 1–13. Tokyo: Yōgakushi Gakkai. Oranda ni okeru Nihongo kyōiku no genjō オランダにおける日本語教育の現状. In: Sekai no Nihongo kyōiku. Nihongo kyōiku jijō hōkoku hen 世界の日本語教育. 日本語教育事情報告編 6, pp. 41–45.

2000

Japan, China en het Westen. In: J. L. Blussé, W. G. J. Remmelink and I. B. Smits (Eds), Bewogen Betrekkingen. 400 jaar Nederland-Japan, pp. 75–88. Hilversum: Teleac NOT. Japan, China and the West. In: J. L. Blussé, W. G. J. Remmelink and I. B. Smits (Eds), Bridging the Divide. 400 years The Netherlands-Japan, pp. 75–87. Hilversum: Teleac NOT. Bunka kōryū josetsu: Nihon, Chūgoku, Seiyō 文化交流序説：日本、中国、西洋. In: J. L. Blussé, W. G. J. Remmelink and I. B. Smits (Eds), Nichi-ran kōryū 400 nen no rekishi to tenbō 日蘭交流４００年の歴史と展望, pp. 99–116. Tokyo: Nichi-Ran Gakkai. Maxims of Foreign Policy. In: Itinerario, European Journal of Overseas His- tory 24, pp. 62–79. Menschenbild und Lebensstil im Konfuzianismus. In: Hōrin. Vergleichende Studien zur japanischen Kultur 7, pp. 121–140. 246 steven hagers

The Death of a Shogun: Deification in Early Modern Japan. In: John Breen and Mark Teeuwen (Eds), Shinto in History. Ways of the Kami, pp. 144– 166. London: Curzon. Book review of: Ng Wai-Ming, The I Ching in Tokugawa Thought and Cul- ture. In: Monumenta Nipponica 55, pp. 606–609.

1999

Approaches to Ogyū Sorai: Translation and transculturalization. Book review of: L’empire du rite: La pensée politique d’Ogyū Sorai, Japon 1666– 1728 by Olivier Ansart; Tokugawa Political Writings by Tetsuo Najita. In: Monumenta Nipponica 54, pp. 247–258. Hayashi Razan to “Kaidan Zensho” 林羅山と『怪談全書』. In: Shinpen Nihon koten bungaku zenshū 64, pp. 3–6. Japanese Poetics and the Kokka Hachiron. In: Asiatica Venetiana 4, pp. 23–43. Book review of: Mark Setton, Chŏng Yagyong: Korea’s challenge to Ortho- dox Neo-Confucianism. In: T’oung Pao 85, pp. 523–527.

1997

Book review of: James L. McClain, John M. Merriman and Ugawa Kaoru (Eds), Edo & Paris. Urban Life and the State in the Early Modern Era. In: Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 40, pp. 90–105. Translation: The Confucian Ideal of Rule by Virtue and the Creation of National Politics. In: E. Rubinger and R. Rubinger (Eds), Motoyama Yukihiko, Pro- liferating Talents: Essays on Politics, Thought, and Education in the Meiji Era, pp. 195–237. Honolulu: Hawai‘i University Press. Translation: Gedichten uit de Man’yōshū. In: W. L. Idema (Ed.), Vijfhonderd opzichters van vijfhonderd bibliotheken doven de lichten. Gedichten uit China, Taiwan, Korea en Japan, pp. 114–127. Leiden: Plantage. Translation: Marxistische idyllen van Ishikawa Takuboku. In: W. L. Idema (Ed.), Vijf- honderd opzichters van vijfhonderd bibliotheken doven de lichten. Gedich- ten uit China, Taiwan, Korea en Japan, pp. 184–197. Leiden: Plantage. list of publications 247

1996

Kotodama and the Ways of Reading the Man’yōshū. In: Bjarke Frelles- vig and Christian Morimoto Hermansen (Eds), Florilegium japonicum. Studies presented to Olof G. Lidin on the occasion of his 70th birthday, pp. 41–52. Kopenhagen: NN. Book review of: Samuel Hideo Yamashita, Master Sorai’s Responsals: An Annotated Translation of Sorai sensei Tōmonsho. In: Journal of Japanese Studies 22, pp. 430–435.

1995

Book review of: Yasunaga Toshinobu, Andō Shoeki, Social and Ecological Philosopher of 18th Century Japan. In: Journal of Japanese Studies 21, pp. 219–222. Book review of: Janine Anderson Sawada, Confucian Values and Popular Zen. In: Journal of Japanese Studies 21, pp. 214–219.

1994

Book review of: John Whitney Hall and James L. McClain (Ed.), The Cam- bridge History of Japan, Vol. 4: Early Modern Japan. In: Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 37, pp. 96–101. Oranda ni okeru Nihongo kyōiku no genjō to kadai オランダにおける日本語教育の現状と課題. In: Sekai no Nihongo kyōiku. Nihongo kyōiku jijō hōkoku hen 世界の日本語教育. 日本語教育事情報告編 (1), pp. 147–152. Tokyo: The Japan Foundation. Editor in cooperation with P. G. J. van Sterkenburg: Kodansha’s Nederlands-Japans Woordenboek. Zaidan Hōjin Nichi-Ran Gakkai, Tokyo: Kōdansha.

1993

Shunmu-ki and Denchū Mondō: Two instances of Buddhist-Confucian polemics in the Edo period. In: Leonard Blussé and Harriet T. Zurndor- fer (Eds), Conflict and accommodation in early modern East Asia: Essays in honour of Erik Zürcher, pp. 38–53. Leiden and New York: E. J. Brill. 248 steven hagers

1992

Book review of: Robert Eno, The Confucian Creation of Heaven: Philosophy and the Defense of Ritual Mastery. In: T’oung-pao 78, pp. 202–207. Book review of: De Bary and Haboush, The Rise of Neo-Confucianism in Korea. In: Cahiers d’Extrême Asie 6, pp. 286–288.

1991

Book review of: Mary Evelyn Tucker, Moral and Spiritual Cultivation in Japanese Neo-Confucianism: The Life and Thought of Kaibara Ekken (1630–1714). In: Journal of Japanese Studies 17-1, pp. 196–202.

1990

The religious background of the deification of Tokugawa Ieyasu. In: Adri- ana Boscaro, Franco Gatti and Massimo Raveri (Eds), Rethinking Japan: social sciences, ideology & thought, volume 2, pp. 331–337. Sandgate, Fol- kestone, Kent: Japan Library Limited. Voorwoord. In: W. J. Boot (Ed.), Literatuur en tweetaligheid: 22–23 januari 1990: congreshandelingen, pp. 1–4. Leiden, CNWS. De eerste kennismaking: Chinese invloeden in de poëzie van Kakinomoto no Hitomaro en Yamanoe no Okura. In: W. J. Boot, Literatuur en tweetaligheid: 22–23 januari 1990: congreshandelingen, pp. 205–234. Leiden, CNWS. The monk and the myth: Jigen-daishi at court. In: Erika De Poorter (Ed.), As the twig is bent . . . Essays in honour of Frits Vos, pp. 31–66. Amster- dam: J. C. Gieben.

1989

De Dood van een Shōgun: Vergoddelijking in het vroeg-moderne .Japan Oosters Genootschap in Nederland 16, pp. 5–37. Book review of: K. van Wolferen, The Enigma of Japanese Power. In: Elseviers Magazine. list of publications 249

1988

De Japanse Keizer. In: H. J. M. Claessen (Ed.), Sacraal koningschap: schakel tussen goden en mensen, pp. 93–117. Leiden: ICA Publications. Tokugawa Ieyasu no shinkakka o megutte 徳川家康の神格化をめぐって. In: Motoyama Yukihiko Kyōju Taikan Kinen Ronbunshū Hensan Iin- kai (Eds), Motoyama Yukihiko Kyōju Taikan Kinen Ronbunshū, Nihon kyōikushi ronsō, 本山幸彦教授退官記念論文集, 日本教育史論叢, pp. 417–435. Kyōto: Shibunkaku.

1987

The deification of Tokugawa Ieyasu. In: Japan Foundation Newsletter (Tokyo) 14–5, pp. 10–13. Hoe studeerde je Japans? In: Lustrumboek Tanuki 1987, pp. 25–34.

1986

De oudste hofpoëzie van Japan. In: J. T. P. de Bruijn, W. L. Idema and F. van Oostrom (Eds), Dichter en hof: Verkenningen in veertien culturen, pp. 263–282. Utrecht: Hes & de Graaf Publishers. Edo-jidai shoki no jukyō no yurai 江戸時代初期の儒教の由来. In: Kyōto furuhon’ya ōrai 京都古本屋往来 34, 3 pp.

1985

De filoloog als politicus. Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben.

1983

The adoption and adaptation of Neo-Confucianism in Japan: The role of Fujiwara Seika and Hayashi Razan. Ph.D. dissertation. Leiden: Lectura. “Spelregels voor Poëzie.” In: W. L. Idema, De vorsten van het woord, Amster- dam: Meulenhoff, pp. 125–149. 250 steven hagers

1982

Yi T’oegye and Japan. In: Korea Journal (Seoul) 22-2, pp. 16–30. Book review of: Wm. Theodore de Bary and Irene Bloom (Eds), Principle and Practicality: Essays in Neo-Confucianism and Practical Learning. In: Bochumer Jahrbuch zur Ostasienforschung 5, pp. 416–445.

1981

“Taegyehak kwa Ilbon” ｢退溪學과 日本｣. In: Taegyehakbo 31, pp. 448– 449.

1979

Hayashi Razan as a Confucian philosopher. In: Ian Nish and Charles Dunn (Eds), European studies on Japan, pp. 89–94. Tenterden, Kent: Norbury. Loyalty and Rights: Japanese Thought in the Meiji Era. In: W. H. M. Creem- ers (Ed.), Japan in Transition, Vol. 2, pp. 5–20.

1975

An Outsider’s View on Japanese Politics. In: Asian Perspectives, 1975/2, pp. 17–23. list of Contributors

Anna Beerens received her doctorate from Leiden University. She spe- cialises in the social and institutional history of early modern Japan. Her publications include several annotated translations of interviews with former Bakufu officials conducted during the Meiji period. These appeared in Monumenta Nipponica in 2000, 2002 and 2008. She is currently working as an editor.

Harmen Beukers is Scaliger professor at Leiden University for the Special Collections of the University Library. He studied medicine, biochemistry and medieval palaeography at Leiden University and was from 1988–2008 professor of Medical History. His main interest is in the introduction of western medicine and sciences to Japan.

Lee Bruschke-Johnson is an independent scholar and author of Dis- missed as Elegant Fossils, Konoe Nobutada and the Role of Aristocrats in Early Modern Japan (Hotei Publishing, 2004), which is based on her doc- toral work at Leiden University (2002). She worked previously at the Wal- ters Art Museum in Baltimore and Freer Gallery of Art/Arthur M. Sackler Gallery in Washington DC. She has also worked as consultant for projects for the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and other museums. She is currently researching the aristocratic calligraphers of the second half of the seventeenth century and is also gathering information on nineteenth and early twentieth century Japanese crafts.

Marc Buijnsters is a graduate of the Department of Japanese Studies of Leiden University. Currently he is Lecturer at the same Department. His recent research focuses on the politico-religious backgrounds of the creation of Tokugawa myths in pre-modern Japan.

Rudolf Effert is guest researcher in the School of Asian Studies, Leiden University. Since 2010 he has also been visiting lecturer at the Ritsumeikan Asia Pacific University of Beppu in Japan. His research interests are the history of collections, museums and classification systems, and cultural exchange between Japan and the Netherlands. He is the author of Royal Cabinets and Auxiliary Branches. Origins of the National Museum of Ethnol- ogy 1816–1883, Leiden 2008 based on his Ph.D. of 2003. 252 list of contributors

Steven Hagers studied Japanese and Comparative Linguistics at Leiden University. He is currently doing Ph.D. research on the first professor of Japanese in Leiden (1855–1878), Dr. J. J. Hoffmann (1805–1878). He is the author of some articles on the Ryukyuan language and a book on the Japa- nese script in Dutch Schrift in Japan (Amsterdam University Press, 2005).

Thomas Harper is retired from the Centre for Japanese and Korean Stud- ies at Leiden University. He is the translator of In Praise of Shadows and other essays by Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, author of a number of articles on the critical reception of Genji monogatari, and co-author/compiler (with Haruo Shirane) of Reading the Tale of Genji: The First Millenium, forth coming from Columbia University Press.

Jeroen Lamers is Commercial Counsellor at the Royal Netherlands Embassy in Beijing. He graduated with a degree in Japanese Language and Culture from Leiden University, and received his doctorate in Lit- erature from that same institution. He has also studied at the universities of Cambridge, Coimbra, and Osaka. His major publications are Japonius Tyrannus: The Japanese Warlord Oda Nobunaga Reconsidered (Hotei Pub- lishing/Brill: 2000) and Treatise on Epistolary Style: João Rodriguez on the Noble Art of Writing Japanese Letters (Center for Japanese Studies, Univer- sity of Michigan: 2002). His most recent work, written jointly with Jurgis Elisonas, is an annotated English translation of Ōta Gyūichi’s Shinchō-Kō ki, published by Brill as The Chronicle of Lord Nobunaga in 2011.

Kate Wildman Nakai is professor emerita at Sophia University, Tokyo, where from 1997 to 2010 she also served as editor of Monumenta Nipponica. Educated at Stanford University and Harvard University, from which she received her Ph.D., she is the author of Shogunal Politics: Arai Hakuseki and the Premises of Tokugawa Rule (Harvard University East Asia Center, 1988) and various articles on Tokugawa thought.

Kiri Paramore studied at the Australian National University and the Uni- versity of Tokyo, receiving a Ph.D. from the latter in 2006. He is the author of Ideology and Christianity in Japan (Routledge, 2009). He is currently Assistant Professor in pre-modern Japanese history at Leiden University and Visiting Assistant Professor at the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy, Academia Sinica. list of contributors 253

Ivo Smits earned his Ph.D. at Leiden University in 1994. He is now Pro- fessor of Arts and Cultures of Japan at that same university. His research focuses on issues of multilingualism and questions of imagination in relation to texts and poetic practices of pre-modern literature in Japan. Publi- cations include: “China as Classic Text”, in Tools of Culture (Association for Asian Studies, 2009), and “The Way of the Literati: Chinese Learning and Literary Practice in Mid-Heian Japan” in Heian Japan, Centers and Periph- eries (University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007).

Mark Teeuwen gained his Ph.D. at Leiden University under the supervision of W. J. Boot in 1996. Today, he is Professor in Japanese Studies at Oslo University. His main work concerns the history of kami cults and Shinto. Recently he has also worked on a full translation of Seji kenbunroku, in collaboration with Kate W. Nakai, Anne Walthall, John Breen and Umezawa Fumiko.

Margarita Winkel obtained two degrees from Leiden University: Cul- tural Anthropology (1986) and Japanese Studies (1992). She received her Ph.D. in Japanese Studies from the same university in 2004. She is currently a lecturer in its Japanese Studies program. She has published on Meiji photography, Japanese prints and early modern popular culture.

Index

Abe no Nakamaro 101 Daigaku wakumon 123 Akechi Mitsuhide 70 Daijōkan 191 Akō Incident 16, 221 Daijuji 134, 139, 140, 143, 147, 149, 153 Amaterasu 110 Daiju kikeiroku 140 Amoenitatum Exoticarum 206 Dai Nihonshi 97 Analects 55, 56, 59, 60, 65–69, 71, 80, 81 Danrin Koishikawa Denzūin 146 Ankokuden 142, 143, 149 Dazai Shundai 79, 123 Ankokuden o-miya go-yuisho nukigaki 149 Deshima Dagregisters 221 Arai Hakuseki 85, 110, 123, 142, 147 Doeff, Hendrik 198, 200–216, 218 Arte breve da lingoa iapoa (Short Dūfu haruma 200–202 Grammar) 181–182, 190, 194, 195 Dutch Learning 87 Arte da lingoa de Iapam (Large Grammar) 181–183, 185, 186 Edo haruma 200–202, 209, 211 Asami Keisai 56, 60, 61, 69 Edo meisho zue 150 Asano Takumi-no-Kami 222, 223, 236 Emura Hokkai 94 Ashikaga shogunate 190 engi 161–170, 172–174 Ashikaga Takauji 191 Epitome Linguae 209 azana 187 Eshin sōzu (Genshin) 133, 148 Azuma Tōyō 45, 50 eta hinin 114

Baba Nobuharu 142, 152 Fan Zuyu 59, 60 Ban Kōkei 39, 43, 50 Flying Ears and Extending Eyes 26, 28, Basanbaentei Shuyajin 148 33 Bendō 79 Forty-seven rōnin, see Akō Incident Benmei 64, 67 Fujiwara no Atsumune 102 Bijdrage tot de kennis van het Japansche Fujiwara no Teika 105 Rijk 13, 214 Fujiwara Seika 94, 96, 103, 109 Bitō Jishū 77 furegashira 142 Black Amida (Kuro Honzon) 129–139, 141–144, 147–155 Gakuyo Keikan 134, 149 bodaiji 134 Genji monogatari 185 Book of Changes 59 Gen’yo Zonnō 134 Book of Documents 65, 66 Gessen 39, 40, 50 Book of History 57, 58 Giō Gi’nyo kansen fūyōhen 148 Book of Rites 57, 58, 66, 67 gō 194 Book of the Han 80, 82 Gōdanshō 99, 100 Book of the Later Han 80, 82 Gokaiun o-mamori honzon kenshō budō (military Way) 112 kōgai 148 Bukō nenpyō 151 Gokokuden 134, 138, 148, 152, 153 bun bu 112, 117 Gokokuden Kuro Honzon Amida Nyorai Buyō Inshi 113 engi Gokokuden kuro honzon ryakki 138 Cheng Yi 56–58, 60–63, 66, 69 Go-Mizunoo (emperor) 159, 160, 162, chokuganjo 134 164–170, 174, 175 Cock Blomhoff, Jan 197, 201, 202, 207, Go-Momozono (emperor) 37 208, 211, 214 Gongen-sama 115 256 index

Gosenzo Jōdoshūmon goyuisho no koto 131 Itō Jinsai 85, 86 Go-Yōzei (emperor) 160, 165, 166, 174, 175 Itō Tōgai 85 Goyuikun hoi 111 Itō Tōsho 40, 42, 50 Gozan 94, 95, 103, 104, 105 Guanzi 82 Jin shu 104 Gubuki 135–139, 141, 147 Jinmu 82 Gyōyo Gen’ei 134, 135 jisha bugyō 146 Gyōyo Gen’ei oboegaki 134, 135 jitsumyō 186–189 João Rodriguez 181, 195 Hachijō Toshitada 171, 172 Jōruri hime monogatari 136 Hachiman 102 Jōshū gokokuhen (Gokokuhen) 139 Han Feizi 104 Jūjikai 78–81, 83, 84 Han Yu 60, 61 jukan 102, 103, 105 Hayashi Baidō 95, 97–100, 104, 105 juryō 186, 190, 193 Hayashi Dokkō 97 Jūshū Kuro Honzon engi 135, 139, 141, 149, Hayashi Gahō 95–105 151, 152, 155 Hayashi Hōkō 97 Juyou cao 60, 69 Hayashi Razan 75, 87, 95–99, 103–105 Heike monogatari 184 kabuto manjū 138 Herinneringen uit Japan 211 Kagawa Kageki 45, 50 He Yan 56 Kaibara Ekiken 110 Hihon tamakushige 123 kaichō 131, 151 hiji chōmoku, see Flying Ears and Kaifūsō 94, 95, 97, 100 Extending Eyes kaimyō 189 História da Igreja do Japão 195 Kakuen 135, 146, 147 History of Japan, giving an Account Kakuzan 134–137, 139, 141 of… 205 Kameya Bunpōtei 18 Hitomi Chikudō 97 Kamo no Chōmei 184 hōmyō 186, 189 Kämpfer, Engelbert 205, 206, 216, 218 Honchō hennenroku 96 kan 186, 190, 191 Honchō ichinin isshu 95–98, 100–105 Kana seiri 109, 111, 112, 118, 125 Honchō monzui 98 Kan’eiji 146, 147 Honchō mudaishi 98 kanpaku 191 Honchō reisō 98 Kansei igaku no kin 77 Honchō shisen 98 Kansei reforms 77, 122, 123 Honchō tsugan 96–100, 104 kanshi 93–98, 104, 105 Honda Masanobu 109, 123, 125, 137 Kasuga no Tsubone 142 Honganji 132 Katō Chikage 44, 47, 50 honji suijaku 149 Kayama Tekien 40, 50 Honsaroku 109, 111, 112, 118, 123–126 Kazunomiya Chikako 129 Hosshinshū 184 Kegonkyō 148 Hosokawa Yūsai 100 Keikokushū 98 Keishōin 142, 143, 154 Imamura Gen’eimon Eisei 206 Keizairoku 123 Irie Masayoshi 45, 48, 50 kemyō 187, 192 Irosato sanjūsansho musuko junrei 153 Kendon arasoi 30, 31 Isagoge 202 Ken’yo Yūten 140 Ise monogatari 185 Kibi no Makibi 101 Ise shrines 110 King Tang 55, 57, 58, 62, 63, 65, 67, 68 (Ishihara) Ippo 15 King Wen 55, 56, 59–62, 64, 65, 69–71 Ishii Shōsuke 200 King Wu 55–60, 62–68, 71 Ishikawa Jōzan 94 King Zhou 60, 62–65, 70 Itakura Shigemune 164, 168 Kinsei kijinden 39 Itō Jakuchū 45, 48, 50 kinsō geka 224 index 257

Kira Kōzuke-no-Suke 222, 228, 229, 233 Mikawa kuni monto hyōranki 132 kobunji 66 Mikawa monogatari 132, 145 Kobunjigaku 86 Minagawa Kien 40, 42, 44, 46, 50 Kōbunkan 103 Minamoto 135, 136, 151, 152 Kogaku 125 Minamoto no Yoritomo 110 Koga Seiri 77–79, 87 (Minamoto no) Yoshitomo 70, 136 Kojiki den 44 (Minamoto no) Yoshitsune 129, 136, 147, Kōjima Sōi 103 152 Kōkai 164 Mitogaku 97 Kōkaku (emperor) 37 monogatari 184 Kokon chomonjū 101 Motoori Norinaga 44, 48, 50, 110, 123 Kokon yōran kō 17 Munemasa Isoo 36 Kokugaku 77, 97, 125 Murase Kōtei 40, 42–44, 50 Kokushikan 96, 99, 100 Murata Harumi 37, 38, 45, 48, 50 Kong Anguo 66 Muro Kyūsō 85 Konoe Nobuhiro 160, 165, 169, 171, 174 Muryōjukyō 149 Kōyo Sen’ō 146 Myōgenji 133, 134, 136, 139, 141, 152 Kōyūsō shisetsu 56, 69 Myōhō-in 35, 37, 40, 41, 45, 46 Kumazawa Banzan 81, 84, 85, 109, 123 Myōhō-in no miya Shinnin Hōshinnō, see Kunōzan 146 Prince Shinnin Kurisaki Dōki 224, 226, 227 Kurisaki Dōyū 221, 223, 224, 228, 229, Nakae Tōju 85 236, 238, 239 Nakamura Butsuan 18, 19, 21, 152 Kurisaki school 228 Nankōbō Tenkai, see Tenkai Kuro Honzon engi 151, 153 nanori 187 Kuro Honzon engi emaki 153 Narushima Kinkō 86 Kuro Honzon reigen ryakki 151 nenbutsu 135, 136, 141, 148, 149 Kusunoki Masashige 111 Nenjū jōki benran 151 Kuwagata Keisai 153 Nihon seiki 82 Kyōhō reforms 116 Nihon shoki 19, 21 Nikkō 130, 146, 162, 163, 169, 170, 175 Liji zhengyi 58 Nippon 212–214 Lunyu 105 Nishigorinoya zuihitsu 37, 38 Lunyu jizhu 58–60 Nishihara Sakō 15–18, 21 Nishi Zensaburō 200 mai 184 Mandate of Heaven 62, 64, 71 Oda Nobunaga 70 Manila 224, 227 Ōe Bunpa 148 Man’yōshū 94 Ōe Motonaga 152 Man’yōshū ruiyōshō hoketsu 45 Ōe no Masafusa 99 Maruyama Masao 75 Ogyū Korenori 17 Maruyama Ōkyo 39, 40, 46, 50 (Ogyū) Sorai 56, 64, 77, 79, 84–88, 121, Maruyama Ōzui 50 123 Matsudaira Sadanobu 16, 17, 77, 78, 86 ohyakudo 129 Matsudaira sūsō kaiunroku 134, 135, 139, Okamoto Yasutaka 42, 44, 47, 50 140 okurina 189 Matsumura Goshun 40, 41, 50 ōoku 131, 154 Matsumura Keibun 45, 50 Oranda jisho wage 201 Matsu-shi kaiunki 140, 142 Osada Tadamune 70 Meigetsu ki 105 osanana 186, 187 Meireki fire 98 Ōta Nanpo 18, 24 Mencius 55, 58, 63, 65–68, 80 otokona 186, 187 Mikawa ikkō ikki (Single-minded Overmeer Fisscher, Johan van 13, 32, 201, Leagues) 131 202, 205–215, 218 Mikawa ki ikō shūiroku (Shūiroku) 132 Ozawa Roan 43, 45, 47, 50 258 index

Prince Shinnin 35–50 Shunshō inshi kakō 44 Pure Land 130, 131, 139, 140, 142, 143, 146, Shuyajin shuhō 149 148, 153, 154 Siebold, Philipp Franz von 201, 202, Purple Robe Incident 160 204–206, 208–216, 218 Society of Jesus 194 Rai San’yō 82 Sonjun 164, 166, 168, 172, 176 Riben kaolüe 101 sonnō jōi 129 Riki sabetsu ron 145 Sorai school 77, 79, 84, 85–87 Rikunyo 43, 44, 48, 50 Sorai sensei tōmonsho 28 Rinshi Shioze Yamashiro denraiki 139 sōshi 184 Ritsuzan jōsho 77, 78, 82–86, 88 Summer Campaign 141, 152 rongi 144 Sunpu Castle 134, 137, 144 Ryōteki 134, 136, 137, 141 Sunpuki 136, 144 Ryōunshū 98 sword wounds (treatment of), see kinsō geka Saigyō 184 saimin 189 Taibo 59, 66, 71 Sakai Hakugen 97 Taiheiki 111, 112, 184 Sakai Takakatsu 168 Taiheisaku 123 Sannō Ichijitsu Shinto 130 Taira (no) Kiyomori 70, 148 Sanshū ikkōshū ranki 132 (Takeda) Katsuyori 141, 142, 152 Satō Naokata 56, 60, 62, 64 Takeda Shingen 141, 147 Seidan 123 Takizawa Bakin 14–16, 18, 20–23, 25–27 Seido 121, 124 Takizawa Sōhaku 15, 18 Seifū ruiro 99 Takuan 145 Seiyo Gutei 139 Tandai shōshinroku 40, 41, 50 Seiwa Genji 135, 136, 139, 151 Tani Bunchō 16–18, 24, 45, 50 Seji kenbunroku 113, 114, 117, 123, 125, 126 Tani Buntani 17 Seki Shiryō 16–19 Tankikai 14, 16–18, 26, 28, 30–33 Senjūshō 184 Tanuma Okitsugu 124 Sensōji 154 Tan’yo Monshū 146 sesshō 191 Tendai 112, 130, 133, 144, 146 setsuwa 184 tenkabito 144 Shibano Ritsuzan 77, 80 Tenkai 130, 144–146, 161–164, 166, 167, Shie chokkyo jiken, see Purple Robe 175, 176 Incident tenrin jōō 144 Shikan meiwa 98, 99 tentō (see als0 Way of Heaven) 109–114, Shingaku gorinsho 109, 111, 112, 118, 125 117, 118, 120, 124–126 Shingon 112 Titsingh, Isaac 197, 216 Shinran 152 Toda Baien 16, 17 Shinsen rōeishū 100–101 Toenkai 30 Shinsho 142, 147 (Tokugawa) Hidetada 137, 142, 146, 166 Shinto 97 (Tokugawa) Ieharu 150 Shioze 138, 139 Tokugawa Ieyasu 110, 111, 115, 125 Shiryō gedatsu monogatari kikigaki 140 Tokugawa Iemitsu 111, 165 shō 189 Tokugawa Iemochi 129 Shōheishi 87 (Tokugawa) Ienobu 143, 147 Shōheizaka Academy 76–78, 87, 89 Tokugawa Ieshige 150 Shōkōkan 97, 113 (Tokugawa) Ietsuna 145, 146 Shōkokuji 104 Tokugawa Ieyasu 130, 132–146, 148–153, Shōren-in Sonjun, see Sonjun 159–163, 166–172, 174, 175 Shūko jisshu 16, 17 Tokugawa jikki 136, 141 Shun 55, 57–59, 63, 65, 67 Tokugawa Mitsukuni 97 Shushigaku 75 Tokugawa Nariaki 113 index 259

(Tokugawa) Tsunayoshi 142, 143, 145–147, Xing Bing 56, 66 154 Xunzi 80, 82 (Tokugawa) Yoshimune 86 Xushi bijing 101 Tokugawa Yoshinao 100 Tōryūanshū 40 Yabatai no shi 101 Tōshō Daigongen 130, 144, 145, 149 Yadayū Yoshihiro 153 Tōshō Daigongen engi, see Tōshōsha engi Yamazaki Ansai 56, 60, 85 Tōshōgū goyuikun 110–112, 117, 125 Yamazaki school 61, 64 Tōshōgū shrine 130, 146 Yamazaki Yoshinari 14–16, 18, 19, 24, 26, Tōshōsha engi 130, 145, 163, 165 28, 30 Tō Sō Gen Min ichinin isshu 98 Yamashita Kōnai 123 Tōyo Tenshitsu 139, 143, 149, 153 Yao 57, 58, 63, 65–67 Toyotomi Hideyoshi 190, 193 Yaoshantang waiji 101 Toyotomi Katsutoshi 100 Yashiro Hirokata 17–19, 31 Yoshiwara 153, 154 Ueda Akinari 40, 45 Yui Shōsetsu 111 Uezaki Kyūhachirō 123 yūmin 114, 124 uji 186, 189 Yūreki zakki 149, 150 Umetsuji Shunshō 44, 50 Urao 150, 154 zatō 119 Utagawa Ichiyōsai Kuniteru 151 Zen 94, 95, 103, 104, 145 Zhou dynasty 55, 56, 59, 64, 66, 67 Wahan shojaku kō 103 Zhu Xi 56–62, 65, 69, 75–78, 81, 84–88, waka 93, 94, 100, 105 95, 97, 104 Wakan rōeishū 100, 101 Zhuzi Yu Lei 81 Wang Shizhen 86 Zizhi tongjian 96 Wang Yangming 75, 84, 86 Zōjōji 129–131, 133–135, 137–139, 142–147, Way of Heaven (see also tentō) 109, 110, 149–151, 153, 154 112–121, 126 Zōjōji Kuro Honzondō ki 149 Wenyuan yinghua 101 Zoku honchō tsugan 97–100, 104 Winter Campaign 135–137, 141, 149