Articulating the Sinosphere: Sino-Japanese Relations in Space and Time

A R T I C U L AT I N G T H E S I N O S P H E R E T H E E D W I N O . R E I S C H AU E R L E C T U R E S , 2 0 0 7 JO...

Author: Joshua A. Fogel

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A R T I C U L AT I N G T H E S I N O S P H E R E

T H E E D W I N O . R E I S C H AU E R L E C T U R E S , 2 0 0 7

JOSHUA A. FOGEL

Articulating the Sinosphere S I N O - J A PA N E S E R E L AT I O N S I N S PA C E A N D T I M E

HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS

Cambridge, Massachusetts, and London, England 2009

Copyright © 2009 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Fogel, Joshua A., 1950Articulating the Sinosphere: Sino-Japanese relations in space and time / Joshua A. Fogel. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-674-03259-0 (alk. paper) 1. China-Relations—Japan. 2. Japan—Relations—China. I. Title. II. Title: Sino-Japanese relations in space and time. DS740.5.J3F64 2009 303.48'251052—dc22 2008041259

To Joan, Antigone, and Avital, without whom it all seems like so much vanity

Contents

Introduction

1

1

Sino-Japanese Relations: The Long View

7

2

The Voyage of the Senzaimaru and the Road to Sino-Japanese Diplomatic Normalcy: A Micro-Historical Perspective

51

The Japanese Community of Shanghai: The First Generation, 1862–95

67

3

Appendix A: Japanese Embassies to the Tang Court

101

Appendix B: Japanese Embassies to the Ming Court

109

Glossary

115

Notes

127

Bibliography

159

Index

197

A R T I C U L AT I N G T H E S I N O S P H E R E

Introduction

I have argued over the last thirty years that a full understanding of either China or Japan requires bringing the other into account.1 In the three essays that this volume comprises I try to demonstrate that claim by using three distinctive approaches to history. The first essay takes a macrohistorical look at the full run of Sino-Japanese relations from high antiquity and the earliest material evidence we have for them. It looks at long-term trends and builds a periodization for this history from the first century c.e. through the middle of the nineteenth. The second essay adopts the opposite approach of micro-history and focuses squarely on several of the key players centrally involved in the sailing of the Senzaimaru from Nagasaki to Shanghai in 1862. This event led less than a decade later to Sino-Japanese normalization and the completely equal Treaty of Amity between the two countries. The third essay occupies a middle ground, one most familiar to the practice of history in the Western world. It looks at a discrete period of time, from 1862 until the start of the first Sino-Japanese War in 1894. It examines the first generation of Japanese immigrants to Shanghai, their reasons for leaving Japan, and the institutions they established in China’s largest and most international port city. All three approaches deserve a dignified place in the historians’ emporium. Each has much from which we can learn, just as each leaves out of consideration what its predilection compels it to. Thus, while macro-history may perforce leave the details of great political and social upheavals outside its purview, micro-history often fails to take large historical and social currents into account by focusing exclusively on a moment or individual. 1

2

Introduction

The middle-ground approach to history can often fall short on both fronts. These essays grow out of my interest in the nature and substance of Sino-Japanese interactions. Most of my work to date has focused on the cultural side of this relationship, although politics, war, and economics have occasionally made themselves felt. In the first essay, I try to take all aspects of Sino-Japanese relations into account. Of course, a truly full accounting would run to hundreds of pages, and thus, while this essay is the longest in the volume, it can only sketch a schematic approach to an overall understanding of Sino-Japanese ties.2 For the first time, it offers a periodization for Sino-Japanese history, one that takes both countries’ histories and cultures into account—separately and together—and marks change over time. Periodization itself can often become an overly schematic, “paintby-the-numbers” exercise, especially, though not exclusively, as practiced by Marxist historians. As I have argued elsewhere, the style of periodization once highly popular in both China and Japan often was geared to finding a time—preferably the present, though not always—when China or Japan was ripe for revolution; under such circumstances, serious historical inquiry often gave way to political concerns.3 Given this awareness, I have been especially careful that the periodization I offer comes directly out of the historical experiences of China and Japan and not from my own concerns. Whether I have succeeded is not for me to say. I can, however, aver that such a periodization has never been attempted before outside East Asia, and the few attempts there have not been notably successful. The second essay arises from my long-term interest in the voyage of the Senzaimaru, about which I have been thinking for more than three decades. The documents on the Japanese side have been available for quite some time, but as fascinating as they are, they represent only one part of the story. In the absence of positions expressed by the other players, one can assume that (a) the Chinese had nothing to say because the Senzaimaru was considered unworthy of attention, a ship full of barbarians, a gnat to be shooed away or swatted; or (b) all the relevant Chinese documentation had been destroyed in one of the many destructions from that time forward, from the Taiping Rebellion through the Cultural Revolution. Both of these positions are frequently taken by scholars, Chinese and foreign, to explain the lack of Chinese data available on one or another topic. In fact, in periods of heightened political ner vousness, it was always easiest

Introduction

3

to assume the absence of X, and thus not have to cope with the unhappy possibilities X might elicit if it were found and available for open discussion and analysis. So, for many years I was often told by Chinese scholars that no Chinese materials existed on the voyage of the Senzaimaru—not from the Shanghai daotai Wu Xu (1809–72), not from the Zongli Yamen, not from any literati in Shanghai with whom the Japanese visitors interacted. In 2003, however, the bureaucratic correspondence on the Qing side was uncovered in the Zongli Yamen archives in Taiwan. We can now see the voyage in two or even three dimensions. We can follow an issue from one side to the other and back. In addition, with the research I have done on the British background of the Senzaimaru and its crew and on the Dutch merchant and Shanghai vice-consul Theodorus Kroes (1822–89), who facilitated this 1862 meeting between the Chinese and the Japanese, we have a much fuller picture. A micro-historical approach to this seminal moment in Sino-Japanese relations enriches all sides; we have a more complete sense of why certain players stressed the points that they did and not others, because we know what others involved were thinking and doing at the same time. The arrival of the Senzaimaru began a process foreseen and not particularly desired by the contemporary Qing officials that led to bureaucratic normalization. Even before the signing of the 1871 treaty between the two governments, a small trickle of Japanese began making their way to Shanghai, some illegally. They were the pioneers of the first Japanese expatriate community anywhere in the modern world. Soon Shanghai became home to the first Japanese consulate, and many other firsts followed. It took several decades before anything resembling a well-rounded community formed in Shanghai—with families and schools and businesses—but by the 1880s this community was being developed. A number of colorful figures made their influence felt in Shanghai, and I recount some of their extraordinary stories in the third essay. There was something about that time and place—early Meiji Japan, late Qing China, and Shanghai with its multinational flavor—that made it possible for exceptional people to rise to the surface and live out their lives in singular fashion. It is hard to imagine, for example, a Kishida Ginko (1833–1905) at any other time in modern Sino-Japanese history. My period comes to a close with the 1894–95 Sino-Japanese War, the first major Japanese aggression against the mainland in 400 years—since the invasions launched in the 1590s by Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–98).

4

Introduction

Once the Japanese military became entwined in the lives of Chinese and Japanese, Sino-Japanese history took on a new valence. Japanese who lived on the mainland began to assume the presence of their armed forces, if only in the background, and to call for them to become more active when they felt threatened. Chinese, in nationalist or anti-imperialist anger, began to conflate the Japanese military with all Japanese, in part because the Japanese were confident that their military would always protect them.4 History spiraled out of control, and war (hot or cold by turns) eventually overwhelmed the story of modern Sino-Japanese relations. In the course of these essays, especially the first, I introduce a coinage to help explain my grasp of Sino-Japanese relations: Sinosphere. Initially, this word seemed to me to be an innocuous, altogether self-explanatory, if new, coinage. The more I was forced to ruminate on it, however, the more I realized that it was not as transparent as I had first believed. I imagine a three-dimensional model, a sphere similar to the Bohr atom, in which something later called China was housed at the core. It thus lay at the center of the sphere, but could not conceptually exist as such without the many orbits around it. If one thinks of it as the nucleus of an atom, then the peripheral orbits are represented by electrons buzzing around it, some closer and some farther away. However, the image conveyed by the Bohr atom allows for only a single nucleus, not many different nuclei, within each atomic sphere, whereas different Chinas inhabited the core of the Sinosphere at different times, a fact readily apparent when one glances through a series of historical maps of “China.” Qin dynasty China looks nothing like Qing dynasty China. And, not only geography is important here, for conquest dynasties portrayed themselves as “China” in a variety of ways: Yuan dynasty China was anything but the linear equal of Ming or even Qing dynasty China, for example. In this manner, I hope to historicize the core of the Sinosphere and the core’s relationship to the orbiting entities surrounding it. The many peripheries of the Sinosphere include orbits for what is now called Japan, for a number of toponyms for what is now the Korean peninsula, and for the various kingdoms that made up the land we now call Viê∙t Nam. These should not be seen as mutually discrete, for on occasion the “electrons” collide—sometimes over matters of concern to the nucleus of the Sinosphere, sometimes not. There are also orbital ellipses no longer inhabited, sites at which now-extinct states—such as Parhae (Bohai), Xixia, Xiongnu, certain Thai kingdoms, and Champa—once occupied positions

Introduction

5

vis-à-vis the nucleus. Some of these, such as Parhae, should be thought of as closer to the core, politically and culturally. Others enjoyed highly tenuous relations with it. Thus, the model I have drawn here attempts to accommodate both time and space. It may appear similar to the more old-fashioned “Chinese world order,” and indeed there are some similarities, but that older model failed to account for change over time and was, first and foremost, concerned with diplomatic relations. The model of the Sinosphere attempts to embrace intraregional relations in all their varying cultural and political complexities. It is easiest to see how the Sinosphere operated over the long run, and thus the concept is clearest in the first of these essays. By periodizing Sino-Japanese relations by the primary or overriding concern undergirding the nature of the bilateral bond over time, I have attempted to demonstrate the capacity of the Sinosphere to accommodate the changing terms of the relationship between China and Japan. The second essay focuses on Japanese efforts to re-enter the world of bilateral ties on an equal basis with the Qing empire. Was Japan trying to re-enter the Sinosphere from which it had been politically estranged? Or was it trying to establish a new relationship with China based on a modern idea of “international” relations then current among the Western powers? More likely than not, Japan sought the latter, while Qing China was becoming amenable to the former. The Sinosphere as an operative worldview required both sides’ acceptance of a universe unto itself within East Asia, something the Japanese in the early 1860s were no longer seeking. The Japanese were, however, prepared to dust off all the old adages necessary to establish a place within the world of Shanghai trading relations, even if that meant adopting some of the necessary Chinese language of the older Sinosphere. The role of the Sinosphere as an organizing model or ideology is least evident in the third of these essays. Japanese immigration to Shanghai was part of a wider effort to relieve Japanese population pressure at home and encourage opportunities abroad in the early Meiji years. Most of the Japanese who lived in Shanghai in the years under analysis were living in a Japanese bubble, interacting for the most part with each other and much less with the Chinese people and authorities. To what extent can we still speak of the Sinosphere? Had it been relegated to the dustbin of cultural and political history? Did anyone, Japanese or even Chinese, still assume a China-centered universe in the waning years of the Qing dynasty? I would

6

Introduction

argue that indeed, its heyday was past, but it nonetheless lived on as a vivid memory, particularly in the minds of the Chinese who could only have been less than thrilled at the presence of such a large foreign community. Also, for those Japanese, such as painters, who felt the primary tie to the mainland to be cultural, the Sinosphere remained vividly alive. But even if it was only a shell of its former self, no such organizing framework existed for bilateral ties with any of the Western powers in the city. Relations with the British, French, and others who shared no cultural context with the Chinese were based on power relations resulting from these powers’ military and diplomatic victories over Qing China and the unequal treaties that followed. When the first treaty with Japan was signed in 1871, it was a completely equal treaty. This may have been unlike the nature of relations within the Sinosphere earlier, but that two-millennium cultural bond must have played a role in its formulation. When Japan launched and won the first Sino-Japanese War, leading to the Treaty of Shimonoseki, the grounds of the two nations’ bilateral ties once again radically shifted, and the Sinosphere became a distant memory at best.

CHAPTER 1

Sino-Japanese Relations: The Long View

This essay certainly does not intend to cover everything in Sino-Japanese relations from the Han dynasty through the modern period. Because of the greater volume of sources for the later period, it will of necessity devote more attention to more recent centuries. I do, however, believe strongly that some serious attention to the full run of the relationship between the two countries is highly instructive, if not essential. Because much that is said about the modern relationship between China and Japan is seen through the decidedly unhappy experiences of World War II, I would like to offer a corrective to this exclusively negative portrayal. Although the postwar years have now witnessed over sixty years of peace—not without problems, but without violence—that fact is frequently ignored in summary statements of the long-term relationship. In addition to painting in broad strokes the entire run of China’s relations with Japan from the Han through the late Qing (and from Wa to Meiji in Japan), this essay aims as well to offer a periodization for the long history of Sino-Japanese relations, something hitherto never fully articulated in any Western language.1 Although mention of Japan can be found in early literary texts and an assortment of collections of legends, for historically verifiable records we begin early in the Later Han dynasty. The earliest such record that we have of the people we now call the Japanese meeting the people we now call the Chinese—ethnonyms of much later vintage—comes from the Chinese dynastic histories, and is occasionally corroborated by archeological evidence. 7

8

Sino-Japanese Relations

According to an entry in the “Treatise on the Eastern Barbarians” (Dongyi zhuan) in the Later Han History (Hou-Han shu), in the second year of the Jianwu reign of the Guangwu Emperor (r. 25–57), founder of the dynasty—that is, 57 c.e.—an emissary from the state of Wa (Wo in Chinese) made his way to the Han capital at Luoyang to offer tribute, and the emperor presented him with a seal and a ribbon. 2 He was apparently seeking investiture within the ritual system of Chinese foreign relations. This remained one of those unprovable stories—perhaps true, perhaps legend—until the actual golden seal was discovered by a Japanese farmer in the late eighteenth century. It bore the inscription “Han Wei Nu guowang.” These characters may be understood in many ways, and indeed the phrase has been a subject of considerable debate for over two centuries.3 The most compelling theory, which presently holds sway, though not without zealous opponents, sees the second character (Wei) as an alternate form of the same character with the person classifier, pronounced Wo in Chinese, Wa in Japanese.4 This theory is presumably based on the dictum for which, rumor has it, the late Professor Achilles Fang (d. 1997) was famous: “As in politics, so in Chinese, radicals mean nothing.” It would thus mean: “King of the state of Na [Nu in Chinese, located in present-day northern Kyushu] in the land of Wa, [subject state] of the Han.” The Wa emissary followed a number of Korean states wanting to re-establish their status vis-à-vis the revived Han dynasty after Wang Mang (45 b.c.e.–23 c.e.) had been ousted and control over the Lelang (K. Nangnang) Com-

[To view this image, refer to the print version of this title.]

Gold seal inscription, “King of the state of Na in Wa under the Han” 漢委奴國王.


9

mandery restored. One interesting fact that has not received attention is that the ambassador from Wa arrived and participated in the New Year’s ceremonies in Luoyang, and Guangwu died the next month. This was not the first time Wa had paid tribute to the Han. At prescribed times in the first century b.c.e., it had done so at Lelang, had received gifts accordingly, and had been seen by the Former Han as a tribute-bearing state. Being allowed now to participate in the ceremonies of investiture in the capital of the resuscitated Han was clearly of paramount political importance. The next record of a mission to the Han court from Wa dates to 107, exactly a half century later, and the account given in the Hou-Han shu is even less clear. We do know that the king of Wa dispatched the embassy, bearing tribute, for the text tells us that he presented 160 shengkou to the Han emperor. This vexingly simple term appears on other occasions as well, and has spawned a wide variety of theories, but no one has definitively solved the mystery of what it actually meant. Many believe that shengkou were slaves; others argue that they were students of one sort or another; some even argue that they were acrobats; the range of opinions remains wide. Usually items given as proper tribute were rare flowers, some unusual animal, or some sort of local produce, so shengkou seems oddly out of place in this context.5 These difficulties aside, the point to be emphasized is simply that a “China”-centered universe was assumed on both sides—something I shall call the “Sinosphere”—and Wa most desired to be accepted as a vassal within that orb. The relationship was political and ceremonial; there was no mention of trade, just tribute and gifts, and no mention of religion as yet. The “eastern barbarians” appeared in idealized Confucian garb as curiosities who, whatever their faults, at least understood the centrality of the Han court to the universe. The record on contacts dries up over the last century of the Later Han dynasty, roughly the second century c.e. The next mission for which we have a record, though, is arguably the most important pre-Tang instance. In the summer of 239, shortly after her accession to the throne, the ruler of Wa, Queen Himiko, sent a delegation to the Han commandery at Daifang (K. Taebang), which had now interestingly survived the collapse of the Han dynasty itself by several decades. The delegation sought an imperial audience, and officials of the kingdom of Wei, which had retained control over the commandery in Korea, escorted it to their capital at Luoyang. The

10


entry on the people of Wa in the Chronicle of Wei, the Wei zhi, reports that the Wei emperor conferred on Himiko the title of “Qin Wei Wowang” (Pro-Wei ruler of Wa) and presented the emissaries with an assortment of gifts that included ordinary items, as well as more politically tinged objects, such as mirrors and swords, indicating the trust placed by the overlord Wei in the vassal state of Wa.6 One could easily write a lengthy dissertation on the multiple theories surrounding the less than 2,000 characters of the text of the entry on Wa in the Wei zhi. There are literally thousands of books and articles, including a fair number of lengthy tomes, devoted to explicating this often opaque, though fascinating, text.7 Over the next few years, Himiko dispatched a number of embassies to Daifang and on to Luoyang. They were invariably well treated, reflecting the good graces in which Himiko was held by the Wei court, which in turn were a consequence of her having sent these missions so far to pay tribute. The Chronicle of Wei recounts that Wa comprised numerous small communities, and the Wa people tattooed their bodies and blackened their teeth. It is curious that the Wei court treated them so well, inasmuch as they practiced customs already considered barbarous by the Chinese, and they were ruled by a woman who had legally acceded to the throne, something that would never happen in all of Chinese history. Clearly, to be part of the Sinosphere did not require behaving exactly like the Chinese at this time; it did, however, require accepting the superiority of the Chinese court, carry ing out all the rituals attendant on that acceptance, and accordingly paying tribute at designated times. Himiko died in the late 240s amid civil war. She was succeeded by a man who was unable to bring order to the land, and he was replaced as ruler by Himiko’s thirteen-year-old


Inscription, “Pro-Wei Ruler of Wa” 親魏倭王.


11

female relative Iyo. With support from Daifang, Wa was stabilized, and Iyo sent a mission expressing gratitude to the Wei court in Luoyang, which included thirty shengkou.8 This is not the place to enter the debate on the location of Yamatai, but who these Wa people may have been deserves some attention. The observations that follow were inspired by two fascinating books, one by the Japanese medievalist Murai Shosuke (b. 1949) and another by the Japanese Koreanist Inoue Hideo (b. 1924). When the Wa people burst on the scene—namely, in the Chronicle of Wei—the first sentence reads: “The Wa people reside in the great sea to the southeast of Daifang. They have built their state on the mountainous islands there.” Clearly, the Wa were the ancestors of the Japanese, and while they apparently were centered in the Kyushu area, they also were diffused to southern Korea, the Shandong peninsula, and the Jiangnan region. The term “Wa” as a modifier appears in Korean records (pronounced Wae in modern Korean) well into the Choso˘n (Yi) dynasty (1392–1910) in describing the peoples who lived in many of these same regions and in terms all but identical to the language of the Wei zhi. Thus, “Wa” here is an ethnonym, not a toponym, and the Wa people are not confined to those who would later become the Japanese. From the perspective of modern ethnoregional designations, they would include Japanese, as well as some Koreans and some Chinese, all living a kind of marginal existence in a watery borderland that straddled the fuzzy national frontiers of the time.9 Without going through each and every one of the missions from Japan to the various Chinese courts, one should note the continued political and ritual character of the bond at this time. Certainly, the courts of the Han, the Wei, and later in the third century the Western Jin did not need Wa, but the rulers of Wa pointedly felt a need for inclusion in the Sinosphere. This was not just for superficial purposes, as evidenced by the role that the unspecified aid, perhaps an inscribed mirror, a seal with an animal-shaped handle, or a sword bearing witness to the authority or prestige of a continental empire, in this case the Wei, played in Queen Iyo’s ability to bring order to her land. This point needs stressing now, because the central motivating force of politics in driving Sino-Japanese relations later changed completely, creating an altogether new foundation for Sino-Japanese relations and causing a transformation of the Sinosphere. Over the next three centuries, the state of Wa dispatched many similar missions, and they usually received some sort of ritualized title from the

12


ruling house on the mainland with which they were given an audience. Reading through the entries for the “eastern barbarians” in the many dynastic histories from the Period of Division in the fi fth and sixth centuries, one can easily forget which dynasty one is in. These accounts begin to sound alike to the point that one has to question their veracity, particularly that of the later ones that repeat descriptions from much earlier. The names and titles and dates survive scrutiny, although many of the descriptions of Wa contained in these accounts remain open to serious doubt, especially now that archeological evidence is becoming extremely rich.10 Ishihara Michihiro (b. 1910), Wang Xiangrong (1920–2006), and others following them have shown how there were two or possibly three boilerplate models or templates onto which particular details were added like so much salt and pepper for the first ten Chinese dynastic histories in which there is an entry on Wa.11 One particularly interesting historical issue confined largely to the fifth century deserves at least passing mention. If one looks at written Chinese sources, the fourth century is a complete blank in Japanese history. It was an era of widespread civil war on the mainland, with little leisure to reflect on the state of Wa. Wa again surfaced when an emissary appeared at the court of the Eastern Jin in 413, but the Jin shu (History of the state of Jin) does not give the name of the king or queen who dispatched this mission. Soon after General Liu Yu (356–422) seized the throne in 420 and launched the Liu-Song dynasty, extensive records of contacts between Wa and Song begin, but there are no records of contacts between Wa and any of the northern dynasties during this century. The official history of the Liu-Song dynasty, Song shu, notes a succession of five kings of the state of Wa who dispatched missions to its court over the course of the century, always seeking political investiture and various titles amid jockeying with the states on the Korean peninsula. There appear to have been altogether thirteen missions sent by Wa. The names of these kings are given in the Chinese histories as single characters, which one assumes either approximate the pronunciation of their first syllable roughly 1,500 years ago or mark a reflection of the custom of avoiding taboo names of rulers. Sorting out who these rulers were from the list of contemporaneous Japanese emperors’ names, what they received from the Song court, and what it all means has produced some fascinating historical and philological scholarship.12 It also offers important insights into the multilateral relations among the early Chinese, Japanese, and multiple Korean states, all three of which ethnonyms did not exist at the time.


13

For example, in 451 and 478 the title sought and received by the ruler of Wa placed him in charge of the military affairs of several Korean states, but in 502 the Liang court forbade the Wa ruler from intervening in the affairs of Paekche.13 The Song shu contains memorials copied out in full from the Wa kings seeking acceptance within the Sinosphere, and these memorials are written in elegant literary Chinese, a fact that indicates the presence of some well-trained scribes, perhaps from Japan’s ally of Paekche, in ser vice to Wa.14 This topic of the five kings is all but completely unknown outside East Asia and well deserves the attention of appropriately trained scholars. In every case throughout the fifth century, the Japanese rulers—on the surface, at least—accepted Chinese ritual and hence political superiority, and given the tumult of the times, this also meant that Japan was obliged to accept Chinese directives in military matters. With the exceptions of the 502 mission to the Liang court and the 600 mission to the Sui court, however, we have no records of any embassies from Wa to China in the sixth century. The entries from the Chinese dynastic histories on these distant ancestors of the modern Japanese have been studied for many years, indeed generations, especially in Japan and more recently in China as well; and they have produced schools of scholarship and countless books and articles. The first language into which all these records about Japan from the Chinese histories were translated was—fascinatingly—English, in a volume prepared by L. Carrington Goodrich and Tsunoda Ryusaku nearly sixty years ago.15 Soon after the Sui reunified China in 581 and the long period of disunion came to an end, the Wa court sent an emissary to the Sui court, again to have its place affirmed with respect to the new, more powerful dynasty. The emissary arrived in the year 600, and the official letter he was carry ing was missing some of the (by now) requisite language of Wa as subordinate, while it included other terminology incomprehensible to the Chinese at the time because the Chinese graphs were transcriptions of native Japanese names. Had the thrust of this subtle effort to acquire some greater degree of parity with the Chinese court been more fully understood, scholars agree, a letter such as this one in 600 would have been dismissed out of hand.16 Allowing such terminology to pass without comment set the stage for the first serious breach of diplomatic language and all it symbolized with the 607 mission from Wa. The famous letter from Empress Suiko (r. 592–628) to Sui Yangdi (r. 604–17), brought by Ambassador Ono no Imoko, referred to the ruler of Wa as the “son [in this case, daughter] of heaven in the land of the rising

14


sun” and the Sui ruler as the “son of heaven in the land of the setting sun.”17 The trouble was not so much the perceived placement of the sun as the simple fact that the letter referred to both rulers as tianzi, thus implicitly placing them on an equal footing. The Sui emperor did not at all appreciate what he took to be a lack of respect and refused to reply. But this diplomatic note made the important point that, while Japan planned to remain within the Sinosphere and all it had come to symbolize, it also intended to uphold its independence and would no longer accept the lowly “subject” status that might have been expected of tribute-bearing countries to China. Incidentally, where in the world might the Japanese ruler have gotten this idea of rising and setting suns? In a brilliant essay, Kaneko Shuichi (b. 1949) convincingly demonstrates that the northern Korean state of Koguryo˘ may be central to this whole discussion. The instability of the Sui was due to its continuing troubles with Koguryo˘, which it had invaded several times; and, to be sure, it is really only from the perspective of that northern proto-Korean kingdom that Wa was located where the sun rose and Sui where it set.18 From the Sui court in Luoyang, wherever the sun may have risen, it certainly would seem to have been setting on a regular basis somewhere in the distant deserts to the far west.19 The next year Sui Yangdi sent his own emissary, Pei Shiqing, to the Wa court to point out in no uncertain terms that Japan was indeed a subject state. Innocuous as it may seem on the surface, the letter he bore perturbed Empress Suiko, largely because of the political overtones that fi xed Japan a qualitative notch below Sui China on the ladder of countries within the Sinosphere—the dynasty in power in China being a constituent part of the Sinosphere. She apparently discussed the matter with her nephew and son-in-law, none other than Prince Shotoku (574–622), who was serving as her advisor, and he confirmed that the language reflected ordinary usage “employed by the Chinese emperor in correspondence with his princes and marquises,”20 namely, with his subordinates. Another theory recently advanced by Mori Kimiyuki effectively argues that at this early date the Japa nese wrote up this letter on their own initiative and out of tune with international practice at the time, that use of tianzi for both rulers was meant merely as a Chinese- character translation of the native term ametarishihiko for sovereign, and that the rising and setting suns were terms drawn from a relevant Buddhist text. 21 Interestingly, the Sui shu (Sui history) claims that the aim of this


15

607 mission was to bring tribute and to study both Buddhism and the advanced civilization of the Sui dynasty, whereas the Nihon shoki (Chronicles of Japan) stresses that the state letter from Wa was all about bearing tribute.22 In any event, a crisis was averted and the rent was repaired. Ono no Imoko returned to China in 608, this time in the company of eight students, all descendants of former immigrants from the mainland, each of whom remained in China for twenty to thirty years. Their mission was to study the accoutrements of the Sui’s advanced civilization, and, as it turns out, they witnessed the collapse of the Sui and the rise of the Tang dynasty in 618. Among them were a number of important figures who, after returning to Japan, played significant roles in the reform of the state of Wa. Some count the mission of 600, while others begin in 607–8; either way, this is the start of nearly two and one-half centuries of increasingly large-scale embassies from Japan to China and back, in which the nonmartial, civil culture of China—both religious and secular—was studied with extraordinary assiduousness and transmitted, along with countless texts, back to the home islands. The 608 mission also signaled Wa’s willingness to join the Sui-centered universe on China’s terms. As the Sui, perhaps ironically, fell into a state of disorder, the pendulum of the direction of Wa’s main concern about continuing missions to the mainland was already swinging from a primarily political to a more cultural objective. These two objectives cannot, of course, be neatly separated—and in the eyes of the Chinese, they never were—but from this time we no longer see missions in which a small group delivers a letter and waits for a response while jockeying for political advantage. Instead, over the long course of the Tang dynasty, several thousand Japanese came for often long periods of study and ser vice. One development in the mid-seventh century certainly helped push things in this more cultural direction and influenced Japanese dispositions toward the mainland for centuries thereafter. As we have seen, for several centuries through the mid-seventh, Japanese regimes had been involved in events on what we now call the Korean peninsula. On occasion a Wa king’s suzerainty over one or more Korean states had even been recognized by southern Chinese regimes in the fifth and sixth centuries. In 660, however, a joint Tang-Silla force defeated a Wa-supported Paekche military in battle, and three years later, in 663, a joint Wa-Paekche force was stunningly crushed at the battle of the Paek River (what the Japanese call Hakusonko

16


or Hakusukinoe, the present-day Ku˘m River), with 400 Japanese vessels sunk.23 Although this battle is scarcely known today, one Japanese scholar has called it the greatest foreign battle and greatest military defeat in ancient Japanese history, with profound implications for domestic state formation.24 Had this war been fought in the nineteenth or twentieth centuries, it would probably loom much larger in our historical consciousness. After sustaining this devastating defeat, the Japanese did not again attempt any military interventions on the Asian mainland for nearly a millennium, until the invasions under Hideyoshi in the 1590s; one cannot help but think, as we are used to saying in the aftermath of an even more cataclysmic military defeat in 1945, that the Japanese turned to much more pacific ways to obtain what they needed from their Asian neighbors after failing to do so by military means. It is no surprise, then, that Japan stayed out of military encounters for a long time thereafter and turned to cultural pursuits—namely, things it could acquire to actually strengthen and not destroy itself. Although the turn was clearly toward the cultural, returning embassies also imported mountains of books in the realms of politics and law to Japan. One can easily imagine Prince Shotoku and his successors in the eighth and ninth centuries viewing the vast Chinese empire with its political power so manifestly centralized and, in their imaginations, working like a well-greased machine, and wanting something much like it in their own plans for a centralized state on the much smaller Japanese islands. Indeed, however short lived they may have been in Japan, institutions of state, such as the examination system and Confucian College (Daigakuryo), were established, and legal codes based on Chinese models were drawn up.25 There were four itineraries that these Japanese embassies took. Leaving from westernmost Japan, some sailed north along the coast of Silla before coming on land and heading westward for the Chinese capitals; more commonly, they followed a southerly route, landed at the mouth of the Yangzi River, and then made their way to Yangzhou. This, in fact, was the route taken by the famous Japanese monk Ennin (794–864) in 838, although his ship was destroyed when it entered the estuary at the mouth of the Yangzi.26 After a series of rituals exchanged with local Yangzhou officials, his embassy then moved north and then west on to the first Tang capital at Luoyang, soon to lend its name to the newly constructed Japanese capital at Kyoto, and then the embassy moved on farther to Chang’an, the alternate


17

Tang capital.27 Once their credentials had been accepted, the members of the embassies might set off in their respective directions—to Buddhist temples, to academies, or to study with certain specific scholars. There were in total, depending on how one counts, fourteen to twenty of these missions (see Appendix A), the last authorized in 834 and dispatched four years later; a final one was planned for 894 to be led by none other than the great scholar Sugawara no Michizane (845–903), but it never materialized for reasons still debated today.28 The great discrepancy in numbers has to do with whether or not one counts embassies that were planned but never fully realized.29 In any event, the period of over two centuries from the year 630 marks the high point in Sino-Japanese relations, certainly culturally and perhaps in other ways as well. It was not matched or surpassed until our own time, either the turn of the twentieth century or, more likely, the last two and one-half decades since the recent opening of China. What made this such a productive partnership for such a long period of time were both the Japanese willingness to open themselves up to a broad range of institutional, religious, and cultural changes based on experiences gained in Sui-Tang China and the Chinese willingness effectively to open their country up to their neighbor for cultural export. The underlying assumption was, of course, that China had all that mattered, and Japan would only be improved by any and everything it could bring back from the mainland. There is thus good reason that the Tang is often held up as the most cosmopolitan era in Chinese history. It might be worth saying a few words about the most famous member of all these Japanese embassies. Abe no Nakamaro (698–770) first traveled to China to study with the embassy that departed in 717. Early in his stay, he entered the National College (Taixue), where it quickly became clear that he was unusually gifted, and several years later he decided to sit for the civil ser vice examinations. He passed with flying colors in 727 and was given a succession of high-level postings in the capital of Chang’an. He later served for a term as the governor-general over the subject protectorate of An-nam, now roughly the northern half of Viêt · Nam, which was being assimilated into the Tang empire. He mixed with some of the great poets of the Tang dynasty—which means that he mixed with some of the greatest Chinese poets ever, Li Bai (701–62) and Wang Wei (699?–759) among them. In 733, after sixteen years in China, he requested the emperor’s permission to return home with an embassy departing for Japan,

18


but his request was turned down. Finally, in 752 he did receive permission from the Tang emperor Xuanzong (r. 712–56) to return home to Japan with the embassy under the leadership of Fujiwara no Kiyokawa (706–78) and Kibi no Makibi (695–775). Four ships set sail for Japan from Suzhou in late 753, and as a result of fierce storms at sea, several of the vessels were destroyed and all the passengers were lost. When news of the disaster reached northern China, Abe no Nakamaro’s death was assumed, and Li Bai wrote a eulogistic poem for him. Happily, Nakamaro happened to have been on the one ship that was only crippled off the coast of An-nam but not destroyed, and he made his way back to the Chinese capital, never able to return to Japan. In all, he spent 53 years in China.30 When Chinese and Japanese now meet in conferences, the name of Abe no Nakamaro is often raised by the Chinese as an example of someone who selflessly devoted his life to Sino-Japanese friendship. In fact, in 1879, when the Chinese reformer and writer Wang Tao (1828–97) visited Japan, this same spirit was invoked when he was greeted as a latter-day Abe no Nakamaro in reverse.31 Actually, Nakamaro devoted his life not so much to Sino-Japanese friendship as more directly to serving the goals of the Tang court, although this may be precisely what the Chinese have in mind when the mantra of Sino-Japanese friendship is invoked. In any event, his life was testimony to the extraordinary openness of Tang China and Japan’s willingness to partake of the fruits of what it took to be advanced culture. This was truly a high point in Sino-Japanese relations, but comparative analysis will help put Nakamaro’s experience in some perspective. Nakamaro was as extraordinary a person as he was unique—no other Japanese would ever acquire the jinshi degree conferred on those who had passed the highest level in the Chinese civil ser vice examinations, as he had. By this very measure, Sino-Korean relations were much closer; from the early ninth to the early tenth century alone—at the end of the Tang and into the Five Dynasties era—some ninety men from the small Korean kingdom of Silla passed the highest examination and received the same jinshi degree.32 Perhaps if our sources were richer on the Korean- Chinese relationship, we would be better able to assess this picture. In any event, it certainly appears that elite culture in East Asia was a much more open and widely shared phenomenon than it was at any point before or afterward. There is one important footnote to the mission of 753 on which Abe no Nakamaro sought to return home. Aboard one of the vessels was none other than the famed Chinese monk Jianzhen (688–763), better known by


19

the Japanese pronunciation of his name: Ganjin. For over two decades, Japanese monks studying in China had been trying to attract a truly eminent Chinese monk to return with them to Japan to help propagate the faith. Ganjin tried five times before he successfully made his way with a group of his disciples to western Japan. Soon after his arrival, he performed the ordination rites for the Japanese empress and her imperial father. He lived out the last nine years of his life there.33 The story of the Japanese monks’ efforts on the mainland and their eventual success in enticing Ganjin to Japan is told masterfully in a historical novel by Inoue Yasushi (1907–91), which has been beautifully translated into English as The Roof Tile of Tempyo.34 Toward the end of the first century of Tang rule, the Japanese embassy of 702 led by Awata no Mahito (d. 719), the first in thirty-two years, arrived and was initially referred to as emissaries of the “great Wo.” They asked the Chinese ruler at the time, the Empress Wu Zetian (r. 685–704), if they might no longer have their state referred to as “Wo” (Wa) but henceforth as “Riben” (Nihon). They explained that they believed that Wa was no longer a small state, having now unified the many statelets on the home islands into the Yamato kingdom, and they wanted a state name with a more explicitly positive ring to it.35 The transformation from Wa to Nihon—and especially that recognition by the almighty Tang state—represented a recognition that Japan (actually, Yamato) was now a state unified by laws and regulations imported from the mainland. It was a coming-of-age ceremony of sorts for Japan. As kind and considerate as we know her to have been, the Empress Wu apparently granted their request, although her role in this whole matter remains open to doubt. As Yoshida Takashi (b. 1933) has pointed out, it could never have been as easy as our sources seem to indicate; he suggests that a lot of hard work went into this toponym change on the part of ambassador Awata no Mahito. Thereafter the subsequent Chinese dynastic histories have a treatise on “Riben,” not “Wo.” The Jiu Tang shu (Old Tang history) has treatises on both “Wo” and “Riben,” and it offers the above explanation; the Xin Tang shu (New Tang history) has only a treatise on “Riben.”36 In the aftermath of the disastrous defeat of Wa at the Paek River, Japan’s rulers desperately wanted to regain the trust of the Chinese, and indeed they may have wished to rid East Asia altogether of the name Wa, which had initially been given to Japan by the Chinese, and replace it with an entirely new and more pleasant-sounding Nihon. I do not believe that the

20


name “Wa” itself bore any negative connotations, but in the context of late seventh- and early eighth-century politics, diplomacy, and especially cultural enrichment, it lacked both indigenous roots and any kind of intrinsic aura.37 The new name also resonated with the idea expressed much earlier by Empress Suiko that it was the land located where the sun rises, off in the eastern sea. There would be no more wars against China for nearly a millennium, and much remedial work in culture, diplomacy, and later trade. The decline in the frequency of these Japanese embassies to Tang China and the length of their stays on the mainland in the last decades of the Tang reveals another change under way in Sino-Japanese relations. The disorder in China, especially after the An Lushan Rebellion of the mideighth century, slowly began to tarnish the cultural luster associated with the Tang. Japanese, of course, continued to visit and study on the mainland for centuries, but never again with the intensity we have seen. They might acquire this or that technical skill in any one of many fields, find and copy a specific text, or even pay homage at one or more religious sites in China, but the era in which China was wholeheartedly revered as the source of all culture, secular or religious, was waning. In the centuries following the Tang, then, cultural contacts continued, but never again with such frequency or volume and never with such enthusiasm. Buddhist monks, the primary participants in either direction in the post-Tang years, continued to travel between China and Japan right through to the twentieth century, including the centuries of alleged Japanese “seclusion.” For the Five Dynasties era (907–60) following the collapse of the Tang, we have records of Chinese ships reaching Japanese ports ten times, and we have the names of a handful of Japanese monks who boarded those vessels to hitch a ride to China. The majority of these trading ships came from Wuyue (907–78), the deeply Buddhist statelet from this interregnum centered around present-day Hangzhou that lasted the longest of all such states.38 By all accounts, genuine trade seems to have transpired in the immediate post-Tang years, something we have not as yet seen in any substantive sense. Inasmuch as we know that the subsequent Northern Song dynasty (960–1127) engaged in a considerable volume of trade with Japan, might we conjecture that the Tang-Song divide marked in Sino-Japanese interactions the transition from a largely cultural to a more economic basis, or at least might we conjecture that economic motives joined cultural ones, as well as


21

vestiges of political ones from even earlier, as the fundament for continuing Sino-Japanese ties? To borrow language from another realm, this transition might be thought of as a form of rationalization in interstate relations. More important, though, I would like to imagine these differing periods as one might successive layers of paint. Thus, when cultural concerns began to outweigh largely political ones, they painted over rather than scraped off and completely replaced the earlier political coat of paint. Similarly, the commercial coat overlay the cultural and political one, thicker here and thinner there, with occasional chips, missed spots, or holidays that allowed cultural or political concerns to shine starkly through to the surface. How do we explain this change? The explanation used for the Tang-Song transition in Chinese history as rooted in an aristocratic ruling elite giving way to a meritocratic, examination-based elite unfortunately does not help much, because it bears no relevance in the case of Japan, which continued to have a ruling aristocracy. In any event, any explanation of transitions in Sino-Japanese relations must take Japan just as seriously as it does China. China continued to retain for members of the Japanese elite an aura of cultural greatness, as the elite literature of the Heian period amply suggests. The Song state, however, hemmed in on all sides by non-Sinitic peoples unfriendly to the regime, was weak from the start. It conveyed none of the majestic impression to the Japanese that Luoyang and Chang’an had in the earlier period; it may have to Marco Polo (1254–1324) somewhat later, but that fact tells us more about him and the civilizational level on the continent from which he came. The transition from late Heian to Kamakura also marks a shift away from regimes with a literary-based cultural priority toward the first of a series of military-based regimes. Contacts continued throughout, but the nature of the bond was changing considerably. After some three centuries of Chinese cultural sharing and Japanese masticating on it, the attitude of China toward things Japanese appears much reduced in paternalism. In the Song dynastic history, all earlier references to “foreign barbarians” are gone and replaced by waiguo (foreign lands), although this change may have more to do with the simple fact that this history was written or sponsored by the Mongols. The change may also have presented Japan with a welcome opportunity to change the nature of its ties to China. The first sentences of the Song history’s treatise on Japan read: “Ribenguo (Japan) was originally known as Wonuguo. Because it is near to the place where the sun rises, it took the name Nihon. It has been

22


said that they [the Japanese] disliked the old name and changed it.”39 This information is slightly changed but ultimately in line with that of the Tang histories. The Song history, however, then goes on to introduce a wealth of new information. We learn immediately of a group of clerics, led by the Todaiji monk Chonen (938–1016), who were received in audience by Emperor Taizong (939–97, r. 976–97) in the capital of Kaifeng in 984. Chonen gave the Song court a number of Japanese historical texts, as well as a Chinese work already lost in China, and received a title in return.40 It was exchanges of this sort that continued to enhance both countries’ knowledge of the other. After three years in China, Chonen returned to Japan laden with great quantities of books, among them a recently published copy of the entire Buddhist Tripitaka in over 5,000 fascicles that was treated as a national treasure in Japan.41 Chonen was followed by a stream of eminent Japanese monks throughout the Song, and there was a trickle but not inconsiderable flow of Chinese monks to Japan. There were no longer official embassy ships, as there had been in the Sui-Tang years, but monks from both countries availed themselves of the increased merchant traffic to make the voyage. In the Ming era, as we shall soon see, Japanese Zen monks would go one step further. In the middle of the twelfth century, in the waning years of the Heian period, Taira no Kiyomori (1118–81) took effective control over the Japanese government by establishing a military dictatorship, in part at least in response to the growing perceived threat from the mainland, where several decades earlier, in 1115, the Jurchens had toppled the Northern Song and created the Jin dynasty. Among many other things, beginning in 1158, Kiyomori strongly encouraged trade with the Southern Song dynasty. Although diplomatic ties had faltered between the two countries since the late Tang, trade and cultural ties in the newer form just described continued. He had the port of Owada-no-tomari rebuilt (near present-day Kobe) and the Ondo Strait dug to enable ships to sail there and thus to further trade; as a result, he reaped a huge profit in the process. Over the course of the Northern Song, Chinese vessels called at Japanese ports 106 times. As the Song was rebuilding after the fall of the Tang and nascent Chinese industry was looking for sources of metals, Japan provided a needed commodity. As Japan exported gold, other mined ores, and works of craftsmanship such as fans, screens, and swords—a par ticular favorite in China—all manner of silks, porcelains, medicinal drugs, artwork, and the like flowed into Japan. Song coins were also exported to Japan


23

in large quantities, and they provided a stimulus to an economy that was just taking off there and actually circulated as currency there for several centuries. A number of Song-era merchants even took up residence in Japanese trading ports, such as Hakata and Hirado.42 The vessels that made these voyages were almost exclusively small Chinese ones, each carry ing crews of sixty to seventy men; they usually sailed from lower Yangzi cities (there were officially seven trading ports) across the East China Sea to the ports familiar from earlier eras, Chikanoshima (Hizen) or Hakata (Chikuzen), but now also added to the list of arrival sites was Tsuruga (Echizen), which was closer and more easily reached.43 Timing in the later half of the twelfth century was providential in Sino-Japanese trade. After two years of negotiations, in 1172 the Southern Song emperor Xiaozong (1127–94, r. 1162–89), sitting atop a regime arguably even weaker than that of his Northern Song ancestors, sent a delegation to Japan to present gifts and state letters to both Kiyomori and retired emperor Go-Shirakawa (1127–92, r. 1155–58). The former was addressed in the documents as “Riben guowang” (king of Japan), a title implying subservience to the Song emperor. There had been earlier instances in the Northern Song when such state letters and gifts would have been rejected out of hand, and voices at the seats of power in Japan raised criticism at the process of what we might now call normalization, but Kiyomori was savvy enough to ignore them. He and the retired emperor met with the delegation from the mainland and offered it return letters and gifts, which were delivered to Xiaozong’s court without incident.44 In so doing, Kiyomori launched Sino-Japanese relations onto a new and amicable road, and direct trade with the mainland due to improved navigational technology made it no longer necessary for the Japanese to rely on Korean vessels. The Kamakura shogunate (1185–1333) continued this active policy of trade; although in 1254 it restricted the number of Japanese trading vessels to five, the flow of goods was unaffected. The more cultural realm was not ignored in these centuries, although primarily secular aims for traveling to the mainland on the part of the Japanese dwindled to virtually nil, while religious objectives all but completely replaced them. In addition, a few Chinese monks, mostly of various Chan sects, made the trip to Japan, where they often lived for the remaining years of their lives.45 Nonreligious Chinese texts were still transported to Japan by both merchants and monks; in other words, they were not personally sought out in China by Japanese, as had been the case in the Tang. Some members

24


of the late Heian aristocracy in Japan were still interested in such works, but increasingly Japan was moving toward military rule in which the secular texts of Confucianism and now Neo-Confucianism possessed less cachet than they had earlier. In art, architecture, ceramics, calligraphy, printing techniques, sculpture, medicine, and calendrical science, Chinese influences made their way to Japan through texts of the Song era.46 Thus, cultural flow continued as part of the commercial and religious interactions between the two countries, and indeed the continued trade led to a relatively high appreciation among Southern Song intellectuals of products of Japanese craftsmanship: swords, fans, screens, pearls, and high-quality gold are only a few such items. So much Japanese gold—and of such high quality—appeared in Southern Song markets that Japan was rumored to be fabulously wealthy; these rumors later even reached the ears of Marco Polo, who reported on limitless quantities of gold in Japan and vast palaces with magnificent roofs made of golden shingles, all largely a product of someone’s vivid imagination exacerbated by tellings and retellings.47 Khubilai (1215–94) was later angered that the Japanese were not sending embassies laden with gold to his court. From 1266 he sent a series of six missions to Japan demanding tribute, all of which were rejected, leading to his famous attempts to invade and conquer Japan. As much as the Song was admired in Kamakura Japan as an incomparably rich and cultured place, its destruction by the alien Mongols and Japan’s luckily escaping that fate, because of the Mongols’ failed crossings to bring Japan within their empire, fed the growing sense of self-confidence that Japan was in no way inferior to its mainland neighbor, and was a land whose deities had protected it from those incursions. These developments were linked as well with the rise of the martial in the Kamakura period. Thus, not because of any capacities of their own, Japanese leaders drew inspiration vis-à-vis others from the failed Mongol invasions.48 Despite the decline of state-to-state relations—perhaps because of it—private trade continued and flourished. Indeed, the very gold sought by Khubilai was transported by a Japanese trading vessel in 1277 in exchange for iron and copper. The year 1277 is only three years after the first attempted Mongol crossing and only two years before the collapse of the Southern Song. The fact that Japanese trading vessels transported an item desired in China means either that in the pre- CNN world of the late thirteenth century, information on current events was not immediately available to everyone or that state-to-state ties were becoming less im-


25

portant in regulating or controlling trade. In that same year of 1277, foreign trade offices (shibosi) were established at the ports of Quanzhou and Ningbo, allowing four Japanese vessels the following year to dock and engage in trade. Especially after Khubilai’s death in 1294, when military tensions eased, his successor abandoned the idea of conquering Japan and embraced an active trading relationship.49 A rough idea of what a trading vessel at this time carried can be gleaned from a sunken Yuan ship discovered in 1976 off the coast of Sinan, Korea. Excavations over most of the following decade revealed in its hold many thousands of pieces of celadon and blue-and-white pottery, as well as tens of thousands of copper coins. A wood strip on board indicated that it had left port in 1323 en route to Japan.50 We also have the names of over 220 Zen monks who traveled to China during the less than one century of Mongol rule in China, the great majority of whom arrived in the first half of the fourteenth century. Unlike the traveling monks of the Tang years, these monks were not coming to meditate at famed Chan temples, to memorize texts under a celebrated Chan teacher, or to copy sutras; instead, they spent much of their time in wider Chinese cultural endeavors: painting and exchanging poetry with their Chinese counterparts, inscribing tombstones, and sculpting Buddhist images.51 One problem that actually dates to the early eleventh century but continued to plague Sino-Japanese relations at various levels for centuries was the issue of “pirates.” The initial instance of piracy was that of Jurchens (known as Toi, a term allegedly of Korean origin, but whose etymon remains unknown), who attacked western Kyushu for a number of months in 1019 and killed several hundred people. Trade between Japan and Korea flourished over the rest of that century, and when the military faction came to power in Koryo˘, it cut off this trade and looked on the Japanese traders as pirates.52 This confusion, purposeful or otherwise, later afflicted Chinese merchants whose trading activities were sharply curtailed by the early Ming emperors. The subject of their descendants, the wako (or wokou in Chinese), those allegedly “Japanese” pirates who marauded from Korea to the Shandong peninsula and all the way south along the Chinese coast throughout the Ming, has become a small publishing industry unto itself.53 The term wako (pronounced waegu in Korean) first appears in written form in a Korean source, the Koryo˘ sa (History of Koryo˘), in an item that dates to the year 1223, during the reign of King Kojong (1213–59).54 I shall return to this issue shortly.

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Zhu Yuanzhang (Taizu, 1328–98, r. 1368–98) and his colleagues toppled the Mongols and founded the Ming dynasty in 1368, just three decades after the Kamakura shogunate was replaced by that of Ashikaga Takauji (1305–58). Zhu wanted to restart relations with Japan on a peaceful footing for a number of reasons. He knew of Khubilai’s failed efforts to invade and conquer Japan, and he wanted pirate activities stopped. Amid a host of misunderstandings, Zhu Yuanzhang sent an emissary in 1369 to Dazaifu demanding that either the Japanese “pay tribute or train your troops and strengthen yourselves [i.e., coastal defenses], for, if you engage in [further] raiding, orders will be issued for an immediate armed invasion” of Japan.55 After a few more miscues, the local Japanese governor whom the Chinese mistook for the “king of Japan” accepted a token inferior position in the Ming rendition of the Sinosphere and returned some seventy Chinese apprehended by pirates to the Ming court. Ming Taizu was extremely pleased, but the corsair raiding continued unabated, and more discord developed between the two leaders. In 1380 the third shogun, Ashikaga Yoshimitsu (1358–1408, r. 1367–1408), sent an emissary to the Ming court, but the language of the document he bore was deemed by the Chinese emperor to be “haughty” or “arrogant” ( ju), and he was sent packing posthaste without his tribute being accepted.56 The Chinese court was hearing from two separate Japanese sources that it had not clearly distinguished, and the piracy and misunderstandings continued. Part of the problem was the schism in Japan between advocates for the Northern and Southern court factions, and neither side was capable, even if it was so inclined, of eliminating the wako. This split was repaired under Ashikaga Yoshimitsu in 1392, the very year in which a new dynasty, the longest lasting in all East Asian history, came to the throne in Korea. Slowly but surely, the wako threat was brought under control by the end of the second decade of the fifteenth century.57 There is a general consensus that in this first high tide, these pirates were largely Japanese nationals. When they erupted again in the middle of the sixteenth century, their nationality became much more blurred. For his part, Yoshimitsu sent a series of missions to the Ming and accepted his Ming posting as “king of Japan,” a precondition for trade with the continent, some time in the first years of the fifteenth century. This marked a decidedly subservient position for the shogun vis-à-vis the Ming court, one for which many Japanese at the time and later criticized Yoshimitsu. They argued that Japan had attained parity with China in interna-


27

tional relations and had no need to accept subject (chen, J. shin) status in the Sinosphere—or, to put it the other way around, China no longer had the exclusive right to dictate positions within the Sinosphere. The Chinese emperor later compelled the shogunate to accept the Ming calendar, and this too incurred the wrath of many then and thereafter.58 The Ashikaga bakufu’s treasury had been all but depleted by the efforts to reunify the courts and desperately needed something to revive it. A Hakata merchant by the name of Koitsumi, having just returned from China, convinced Yoshimitsu of the profits to be made through trade with the Ming. In 1401 the shogun dispatched the first embassy to the Ming with a family servant, the monk Soa, as chief ambassador and Koitsumi as vice-ambassador; they carried gold, horses, and swords, among other tribute items, and they repatriated a number of castaway Chinese.59 This clearly did the trick, as it had several centuries earlier under Taira no Kiyomori, and Sino-Japanese trade was thus regularized during Yoshimitsu’s reign as shogun in Japan and the ascendancy soon to follow of the Yongle Emperor (1360–1424, r. 1402–24) in China. Between 1401 and 1547, a total of as many as twenty trade missions were sent from Japan, generally returning in the year following their departure (see Appendix B).60 Every one of them from the first was led by a Zen monk from the Five Zen Mountains near Kyoto. The second mission, headed by Kenchu Keimitsu, left for China in 1403 and returned with a Ming envoy the next year, bearing 100 “Yongle tallies.” This marks the beginning of the “tally trade” (kango boeki, C. kanhe maoyi). Although a system of tallies or certificates authenticating an ambassador or his mission precedes this return voyage, the year 1404 marks the fi rst time such a system was implemented in Sino-Japanese trading. Acceptance of this structure implied Ming control over the terms of the trade. The Chinese court issued the tallies, and it alone accepted or rejected the Japanese who bore them, as it did for all countries that brought tribute trade to Beijing. In a significant sense, then, there was a coalition of Japanese merchants and members of the Zen establishment who knew the situation in China and the proper language necessary to smooth out the wrinkles in Sino-Japanese diplomatic ties. There were severe bumps along the way—caused by wako activity, fierce rivalries between the two Japanese houses of Hosokawa and Ouchi, who were responsible for the trade, and the like—but the trade missions continued for nearly 150 years. These embassies can also teach us something about the great improvements in Japanese shipbuilding over the previous few centuries. The Tang

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embassies were fraught with the threat of shipwreck, and numerous men died trying to reach China or on the return voyage home, although, as recent research suggests, this may have been the result of the time of year these voyages necessarily were undertaken, the Chinese New Year’s, and the inclement weather at sea at that time, not faulty shipbuilding. There was not a single castaway or shipwreck over the course of the Ming embassies; no one died at sea because of poor shipbuilding techniques. Also, in almost every instance the embassy’s ships returned within a year of their departure, and the ambassador-monks rarely remained in China. We have the names of over 100 Zen monks who did venture to China with these voyages, but unlike their countrymen earlier, rarely did they stay for more than one or two years.61 What happened to the wako? They did not simply disappear, nor were they irreversibly crushed. Nonetheless, wako activity along the China coast dropped off sharply in the century and one-half of trade embassies to the Ming. In large part, this was because the pirates found more fertile terrain to maraud in Korea. As many scholars have made clear, the ultimate cause of rising corsair activity was economic. The severe restrictions imposed on trade with the continent forced many merchant families into a serious bind, unable as they were to continue making a living. The daimyo of Tsushima, the island between Japan and the Korean peninsula, had acquired special privileges in mediating Korean-Japanese trade and diplomacy, which he used to his own advantage. In the early sixteenth century, pirates apparently based in Tsushima began attacking Korean ports, and the Korean king took a variety of measures to bring a halt to these incursions. Ultimately, it was less the actions of either the Korean king or the Tsushima daimyo that led to a reduction of wako raids on Korea than the rediscovery of fresher pastures to the south. Just as we have seen in our own lifetimes, it was the perceived threat from these marauders allegedly from Japan that spurred the first Chinese studies of that country, its language, and its culture. When a number of the ringleaders were actually captured, several turned out to be Chinese. Indeed, some Chinese sources from the time indicate that the great majority were Chinese adventurers. Nationality in the mid- to late sixteenth century was anything but precise, especially among roving, waterborne bandits.62 By this point, Japan was domestically in the throes of divisive civil wars of the Warring States era, and no central government was capable of doing anything about pirates. For its part, though, the Ming did in the end deci-


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sively crush the wako. At the same time, despite its maritime prohibitions, the Ming court in Beijing could do nothing to prevent the flourishing secret trade out of southern Chinese ports with Southeast Asia. Also, Chinese merchants hooked up with Japanese maritime traders in Southeast Asian port cities in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in what was genuinely international commerce, although it was soon to come abruptly to a halt.63 For contacts between the Ming and the roughly contemporaneous Ashikaga regimes, I have stressed commercial contacts and brigandage (or commerce by other means). Cultural contacts continued, and not exclusively in the religious realm, but culture took a back seat to commerce and to the nascent development of diplomacy. Although the period opened with the Chinese imposing the calendar and all the terms for trade on the Japanese shogunate, in dealing with serious issues such as the wako, actual bilateral treaties were signed between the two countries, a harbinger of things to come. The last years of the sixteenth century in Sino-Japanese relations are dominated by the megalomaniacal plans of Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–98) to conquer the mainland, starting with Korea. The devastation wrought throughout China and Northeast Asia contributed to the collapse of the Ming dynasty a few decades later and, of course, to the rise of the Tokugawa shogunate at home. Nearly a millennium had transpired since the last time Japanese efforts to get involved militarily on the continent had come crashing to a halt. This disaster again quieted things down, but only for some 400 years. Soon after becoming shogun in 1603, Tokugawa Ieyasu (1543–1616) took steps to encourage foreign trade with Korea and China. The following year he established in Nagasaki a corps of hereditary Chinese-language interpreters, the To tsuji, as a precursor to renewed diplomatic ties; all the families that produced interpreters over the entire course of the Edo period were Chinese immigrants and their descendants.64 His aim was to reinstate the tally trade. Although this wish went unfulfilled, trading vessels from China began calling at Hirado and Nagasaki in the 1610s, and a small settled Chinese community developed in Nagasaki, numbering perhaps 300 by about 1620.65 From the 1630s foreign ships were restricted to Nagasaki, and Japanese were forbidden to travel abroad. The last years of the Ming coincided with the initial years of the Tokugawa ban on overseas ventures. In the mid-1640s there were a number of

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efforts by itinerant Ming pretenders to gain military assistance from Japan in their battles against the Manchu invaders. The first such effort was that of a naval commander named Zhou Cuizhi who came to Satsuma in October 1645 on behalf of the Prince of Tang with a request for 30,000 troops to arrive on the mainland the following April.66 Kimiya Yasuhiko has actually tracked down and documented seventeen cases of specific Chinese efforts to secure Japanese aid between 1645 and 1686.67 One of the central texts in this piece of research is a work by the great political thinker Huang Zongxi (1610–95), entitled Riben qishi ji (Record of requesting help from Japan), but the story it tells of two Chinese traveling to Nagasaki to seek help for the Prince of Lu in 1648 or 1649 seems on close examination not to be corroborated independently.68 In a word, despite apparent promises to the contrary, none of these efforts produced a single Japanese soldier on the continent. The Japanese had learned a stern lesson from Hideyoshi’s insane follies, and Shogun Iemitsu (1604–51, r. 1632–51) remained extremely wary of committing troops abroad; this all became academic when the Manchu conquest was recognized as a fait accompli. Two of the most famous Chinese figures of this turbulent era—actually, one was Chinese and the other half-Chinese and half-Japanese—were Zhu Shunshui (1600–1682) and Zheng Chenggong (1624–62). In their different ways, both proved inspirational to the Japanese, especially the latter. Both were involved in the anti-Manchu resistance that brought them to Japan’s shores. Coming from a line of Confucian scholars and officials, though sickened by the widespread official corruption in the last years of the Ming to the point that he refused to serve in its government, Zhu visited Japan seven times between 1645 and 1658, a period in which he sailed back and forth between An-nam and Nagasaki in efforts to support one of the itinerant Ming princes, until he faced facts and was given permission to settle in Japan. He remained there for the last twenty-four years of his life, which he devoted to transmitting Neo-Confucian advice. He was invited in 1665 by the daimyo of Mito domain, Tokugawa Mitsukuni (1628–1700), to assist in the production of what would become the Dai Nihon shi (History of great Japan). Zhu hailed from the same county as Wang Yangming (1472–1528), whose teachings he imbibed and espoused, but given his life experiences and temperament, Zhu became an advocate of the current intellectual predilection toward “practical learning,” shixue (J. jitsugaku, K. sirhak), an approach in Neo-Confucian learning widely followed throughout East Asia. He is said to have played an influential role among educated Japanese Confucians in


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the push for a more experience-based scholarship closely tied to everyday life.69 Zheng Chenggong (or Koxinga) was the son of a merchant-pirate, Zheng Zhilong (1604–61), who had earlier converted to Catholicism and married a Japanese woman while in Hirado, where he had established the base of his business operations. From the Ming court’s perspective, Zheng père was a pirate, and a fabulously wealthy one at that. In 1628 the Ming enticed him into surrendering, for which he was given various bureaucratic posts. His son, Chenggong, was born in Hirado and lived there for the first six years of his life, until he was recalled with his mother and younger brother to China. He was pursuing a successful academic career when the Ming dynasty collapsed in 1644. He initially followed his father’s lead in supporting various Ming pretenders, but when his father chose to serve the new Qing dynasty in 1646, Chenggong continued his resistance out of bases in Xiamen (Amoy) and Jinmen (Quemoy). After leading numerous attacks on port cities in Fujian, Zhejiang, and Guangdong, in 1658 he launched his most ambitious assault on the city of Nanjing, but his ships ran into a typhoon off the Zhejiang coast and sustained massive losses. He retreated to Xiamen and planned subsequent attacks, during one of which Zhu Shunshui joined his forces, but they all ended in failure. On three occasions (1648, 1651, and 1658), Zheng Chenggong came to Japan in search of help in his battle against the Manchus, but he received nothing; the Japanese did not want to get involved. In the face of his continued coastal assaults, the Qing instituted its own maritime prohibition laws, actually transferring coastal populations seventeen kilometers inland. He eventually died a broken man in Taiwan, but his tale caught fire over the next two centuries, particularly in Japanese theater, and as Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653–1725) retells it in Kokusenya kassen (The battles of Koxinga), Zheng Chenggong actually wins and revives the Ming dynasty.70 Several other highly important Chinese who emigrated to Japan deserve mention at this point, but I will limit the discussion to Chen Yuanyun (1587–1671). A man of extraordinary learning from Zhejiang, he went to study martial arts at the Shaolin Temple in Henan in 1613 before returning home over a year later. He also fashioned himself a Daoist with a great affection for the poetry of Yuan Hongdao (1568–1610). Like Yuan, he wanted to travel as far and wide as possible, even overseas if possible, and in 1619 he was able to venture by Japanese merchant vessel to Nagasaki. There he contracted a severe case of dysentery, and to support himself while

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recuperating, he taught calligraphy and studied Japanese. He next traveled to Japan in 1621 with an official to lodge a protest against renewed wako activity and ventured as far as Kyoto this time; he even had occasion there to exchange poetry with the great scholar Hayashi Razan (1583–1657) and many other scholarly notables of the time. On his return home, Chen decided to remain in Nagasaki, and soon thereafter he was invited to Nagato domain by the daimyo. In 1625 he traveled to Edo and there offered the first lessons in the martial arts he had acquired in Shaolin; to this day the Shaolin style of martial arts is extraordinarily popular in Japan (it is known there as Shorinji kenpo). His fame spread rapidly now, and the next spring he was invited to an audience with Shogun Iemitsu. In 1638 Tokugawa Yoshinao (1600–1650), daimyo of Owari domain, invited him to teach in the domainal Confucian school. The ban on overseas travel was issued in 1639, and the Manchus conquered China five years later, all of which persuaded Chen to remain in Japan. There he married a Japanese woman and had children. When Yoshinao died, his son Tokugawa Mitsutomo (1625–1700) continued his father’s extraordinary treatment of Chen until the latter’s death over two decades later. In 1659 Chen met the Nichiren monk Gensei (1623–68), thirty-six years his junior, and the two struck up a deep friendship based in a mutual love of poetry. Knowing of Chen’s knowledge of firing pottery, the lord of Owari ordered him in 1660 to produce an example, a distinctive style later known in Japan as “Genpinyaki” (based on a consistent misreading of the third character of his name).71 Despite severe restrictions on overseas travel by both the Manchu and the Tokugawa regimes and the absence of diplomatic relations, trade boomed like never before throughout the Edo period, although it was now carried on licensed Chinese vessels and brought solely to the port of Nagasaki. In other words, as we now know from the contemporary immense volume of trade between Taiwan and the People’s Republic, two countries can have highly productive trade and commercial ties without recognizing each other diplomatically. The books and plants, pottery and medicines, and horses and even elephants transported to Japan underwent rigorous inspection in the offices of the Nagasaki Magistrate to ferret out anything smacking even mildly of benighted Christianity.72 While the insatiable appetite among Japanese for Chinese books and other cultural artifacts is not likely to surprise anyone, recent research has shown that in certain elite Chinese quarters interest had developed by the nineteenth century in


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Japanese artifacts and certain foods as well. This interest, as always, included swords, but also varieties of ink and other items involved in painting and calligraphy.73 Two groups of Chinese, aside from maritime merchants, who traveled repeatedly to Japan and had considerable interactions there over the course of the Qing-Edo centuries—in spite of the restrictions in place by both regimes—were painters and Chan monks. In 1654 Yinyuan (J. Ingen, 1592–1673), a monk of the Linji sect from Fujian, responded to an invitation from a naturalized Japanese monk by the name of Itsunen (C. Yiran, 1601–68), a resident of Kofuku Temple in Nagasaki who had himself immigrated to Japan some ten years earlier, and with over twenty acolytes left the chaos of China for the greater stability of Japan. The following year, Yinyuan was invited to a temple in Kyoto, where he was received in audience by the retired Emperor Gomizuno-o (1596–1680, r. 1611–29) and from whence his name spread far and wide in Japan. He was next invited by Tokugawa Ietsuna (1641–80, r. 1651–80) to Edo in 1658, and the shogun gave him land in Uji, south of Kyoto, where in 1663 he founded the Manpuku (C. Wanfu) Temple at Mount Obaku (C. Huangbo), named for the sites near his home in Fujian where he had taken the tonsure. He thus became known as the founding father of the Obaku sect of Zen Buddhism, a sect or subsect that in Japan broke off from Linji, whereas in China it remained part of the larger movement. When he went into seclusion just a year or two later, he was succeeded by his fellow expatriate Mu’an (J. Mokuan, 1611–84) as abbot of Manpuku Temple. Thereafter until the 1720s, with only two or three exceptions, all abbots of Manpuku Temple came from China, over twenty men in all.74 Another Chinese monk, Donggao Xinyue (1639–95) of the Zaodong sect of Chan, decided with the collapse of the Ming that he would leave his home at the Yongfu Temple at West Lake near Hangzhou and make his way to Japan. At the invitation of Chin’itsu of the Kofuku Temple, he moved to Nagasaki in 1677. Four years later, the famed Tokugawa Mitsukuni, mentioned earlier, invited him to Mito, where he took up residence in the Tentoku Temple. Interestingly, Itsunen, who first arrived in Japan as a merchant, Yinyuan, and Donggao were all as much revered in Japan for their religious impact as for their contributions to various cultural practices. Itsunen and Yinyuan (as well as Mu’an) were painters and calligraphers, and Donggao was most famous for his writings on the Chinese lute. Although these ancillary

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cultural talents are usually mentioned in passing (if at all) in deference to the roles they played in religious transmission, their popularity among Japanese men of letters had at least as much to do—as we have seen in the cases of Chen Yuanyun and others—with their secular skills. Many of the men who acted as supercargoes on Chinese vessels bound for Japan throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries also possessed some sort of cultural talent on the side, most often in the realms of painting and calligraphy. The great majority of these Chinese are all but completely unknown in China, while they have become iconic figures in Japan. The one important exception to the merchant-painter rule was Shen Nanpin (Shen Quan, b. 1682), who, although not well known in China, was a full-fledged artist and in the short time he spent in Nagasaki (1731–33) produced an entire school of painting (Nanpinha) with numerous disciples.75 The Japanese school of painting most influenced by Chinese merchantartists and the most Sinophilic was the Southern School or Nanga, centered in Nagasaki, and Japanese adherents of Nanga painting drew their inspiration almost exclusively from Chinese paintings and masters.76 The “southern” in this group’s name had nothing to do with Nagasaki’s geography but came from the origins this group traced to the Southern School of Chan Buddhism in the Tang period, although its principal antecedents were in the high Ming. Like its sister school in China, it laid heavy emphasis on the high level of education of painters in related bookish disciplines and on its studied knowledge of the history of painting, and thus it often overlapped with “literati painting” or bunjinga. Many Japanese painters in this school spent years, for example, painting pictures of Chinese landscapes they could never have seen—and that no one they ever met could have seen—based on the paintings executed many years earlier by such titans as Dong Qichang (1555–1636) of the Ming, or more likely from copies of his work. Among the Chinese painters who came to Nagasaki in the early eighteenth century, the first important figure was Yi Fujiu (from Wuxing County, Jiangsu, b. 1698). He first arrived in 1720, carry ing the trading license of his elder brother, Yi Taoji, who had been ordered by the Nagasaki Magistrate—on behalf of the shogun himself—to bring three horses to Japan; it was illegal to export horses from China, because of potential military needs, and Yi Fujiu thus had to escort the animals off his ship in the dead of night out of fear that other Chinese in Nagasaki might observe him


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and report his action to the authorities. He was equally important as the merchant responsible for bringing a number of valuable Japanese texts back to China, and despite his virtual anonymity in the annals of Chinese painting, he was the progenitor of the trend to introduce literati painting of the Nanga school to Japan. He made numerous trips to Japan over a roughly twenty-year period, and among the Japanese who were much influenced by him was Ike no Taiga (1723–76).77 Although unknown as a painter in his homeland, Yi acquired a considerable following in Japan. Kuwayama Gyokushu (1746–99), one of Taiga’s students, wrote of him in terms that only accentuate this disparity: “In recent times there lived in Nagasaki a man named Yi Fujiu, one of the best among the Qing-dynasty men who came to this country. Taiga is the only Japanese painter who can match him. Of the works of these Qing painters in Nagasaki, the most deserving of praise are Yi Fujiu’s landscapes.” 78 Nagasaki as Japan’s window on the outside world is usually portrayed as an opening up to an immense breadth and depth unavailable elsewhere during the Edo period, but in this instance Nagasaki is less a window than a keyhole. Another distinguished Chinese merchant-painter in Nagasaki was Fei Hanyuan, who arrived in 1734. He was followed later in the century by his relative Fei Qinghu. Both were landscape painters who, while in Nagasaki, acquired disciples anxious to study with real Chinese. In the Tenmei era (1781–89), Zhang Qiugu made his way to Nagasaki, where in 1788 he carried on a famous “brush conversation” (the typical manner in which literate Chinese and Japanese “conversed,” using literary Chinese as their written medium) with the official Japanese interpreter, at which Fei Qinghu was in attendance. As a young man, the well-known Japanese painter Tani Buncho (1763–1840) traveled from Edo to Nagasaki to study with Zhang, in that same year of 1788, and became his disciple. Over the course of the century, as many as 100 Chinese painters made their influence felt in Nagasaki, many of them Nanga artists. Despite their impact on the history of Japanese art, though, for few of these Chinese do we even have dates.79 Perhaps the most important figure in the history of Chinese influence on Japanese painting was Jiang Jiapu, a man completely unknown in the history of Chinese art but central to the development of the Nanga school in Japan. Jiang hailed from the Hangzhou area of Zhejiang and first came to Nagasaki in 1804, as well as many times thereafter. He apparently passed the first stage of the civil ser vice examinations back home, but he ultimately

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failed or ceased trying at the later stages and subsequently devoted himself to painting in a highly serious, strict style while earning his living as a merchant.80 He was especially good at landscapes, and during his extended stays in Japan, he directly influenced the work of such major figures as Hidaka Tetsuo (1790–1871), Kinoshita Itsuun (1799–1866), and Miura Gomon (1808–60), known collectively as the “three Nagasaki Nanga masters,” among many others. When he was Jiang’s student, Tetsuo was a monk at the Shuntoku Temple, founded in 1630 and for two centuries the site at which books brought from China were inspected for violations of the strict regulations on interdicted texts. He served for many years as its abbot and nurtured numerous young Japanese interested in Nanga painting who traveled to Nagasaki from all over the home islands. Compared with a number of his contemporaries and disciples, Tetsuo never seems to have excelled as an artist, but he proved to be an extraordinary teacher and facilitator of human contacts.81 The most active painter in Nagasaki at this time appears to have been Kinoshita Itsuun. A native of the city, he was an energetic organizer and painting teacher who ran shows and took in numerous pupils who were willing to work assiduously in the Nanga style. His heart’s desire was to visit the putative homeland of Nanga in China, but that goal always managed to elude him, inasmuch as it was illegal on pain of death to leave Japan throughout most of his life. In his home Kinoshita claimed that he would travel mentally to the mainland by studying two paintings he had acquired: Zhang Qiugu’s Emeishan yue (The moon at Emei Mountain [Sichuan]) and Jiang Jiapu’s Xihu shui yun (Clouds over West Lake [Hangzhou]).82 Among Kinoshita’s most famous and devoted disciples was Nagai Unpei (1833–99), who came from the town of Nuttari in Echigo domain (presentday Niigata Prefecture). Born in the midst of the Tenpo famine to a father who worked as a barber but spent much of his time drinking and a mother who raised him and his two brothers in dire poverty, Unpei somehow discovered painting early in life. Despite his father’s wishes for him to follow in the family profession, Unpei despised cutting hair. This attitude led to frequent paternal beatings and ultimately to Unpei’s running away from home as a teenager. His uncle placed him in the home of a local doctor who fostered the youngster’s interest in calligraphy and taught him the Confucian classics and other Chinese texts. He also found for Unpei a local Nanga-style painter, Makabe Setcho, who had studied some years before


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with Tetsuo in Nagasaki. Makabe opened up to Unpei a world of calligraphy, painting, and Chinese learning in Japan through connections to the work of the great Edo calligrapher Maki Ryoko (1777–1843), his teacher Kameda Hosai (or Bosai, 1752–1826), and others. Through a local priest, Unpei was introduced as well to the work of the artist Kushiro Unsen (1758–1811), who was born in Shimabara, was raised in nearby Nagasaki, and studied Chinese learning and language with Chinese residents there. Kushiro counted among his friends and traveling companions the likes of Rai San’yo (1780–1832), Uragami Shunkin (1779–1846), Yamamoto Baiitsu (1783–1856), and Kimura Kenkado (1736–1802), the cream of late eighteenth-century mainlandoriented scholars and painters.83 At age fifteen, Unpei’s taste for studying Nanga painting directly with masters in Nagasaki became overwhelming, and he simply decided to set off on the long journey despite the opposition of virtually everyone around him. In 1848 this was a major undertaking for a teenager, especially given the shogunate’s restrictions on domestic travel. Traveling overland, he reached Japan’s sole international port some six months later and went straightaway to introduce himself to Tetsuo, who later took him to meet Kinoshita. The latter was immediately taken with Unpei’s seriousness—many people came to study Nanga painting in Nagasaki, but few of them showed such apparent purpose, and fewer still were teenagers. Kinoshita effectively took the youngster under his wing and trained him as a painter and calligrapher. Through Kinoshita, Unpei also met a number of refugee Chinese painters who had taken refuge in Nagasaki from the Taiping Rebellion.84 On the mainland, the great Taiping Rebellion had been raging through the lower Yangzi provinces during the 1850s and early 1860s. In the 1840s, after the British defeat of the Qing in the Opium War and the resultant signing of the Treaty of Nanjing, the international community of Shanghai had begun the process of sealing itself off from Chinese jurisdictional authority, and as a result many Chinese scholars, painters, and other literati from the nearby cultural centers of Hangzhou, Suzhou, Wuxi, and elsewhere—to say nothing of tens of thousands of common folk—took refuge during the rebellion in the Concessions in the hope of escaping the Taiping devastations they had witnessed and heard of in other places. Accordingly, the population of Shanghai swelled to bloated proportions. The art world was affected in several ways. One was that a large number of elite Chinese artists, in an effort to save themselves and escape the Taipings, made their way to Shanghai, and several of them traveled as far as Nagasaki.

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Two such émigré painters (who until recently have managed to escape most reference works) were Wang Kesan (b. 1822) and Xu Yuting (b. 1824). Wang was from Zhejiang Province, and he was hailed in Japan as the greatest Chinese calligrapher to reach that country since Jiang Jiapu, a reference that could have meaning only in Japan. To this day, his calligraphy appears in a local Nagasaki festival in the Kojiyamachi section of that city. He arrived in Nagasaki in early 1862 and had frequent contact there with Unpei, Kinoshita, and others in the Nanga circle of painters and offered frequent calligraphic advice to the young artists in the city. About this time, in the spring of 1864, Kinoshita decided that Unpei was ready to go out on his own; he had been living in Nagasaki for sixteen years, but was still apprenticed to Kinoshita and all but unknown. With inspiration from both his teacher and Wang, Unpei had continued to labor, as he saw it, to create an authentic Nanga tradition in Japan that was directly affiliated with the same tradition in China. In the late summer or early fall of 1864, Wang visited Unpei before his return to Shanghai. They exchanged paintings, and Wang suggested that Unpei consider making the voyage to Shanghai at some point in the near future to further the efflorescence of Nanga exchanges between their two countries.85 Xu Yuting, also from Zhejiang, arrived in Nagasaki (with his family) even earlier, in 1861, and he quickly became active in the local painting community over the next few years. Whereas Wang was a master of calligraphy and plum-tree painting, Xu was highly regarded for his ink landscapes. Among the local painting students, Xu took on one Yasoshima Shakyo (1832–1916) and praised his work to the skies.86 By 1867 Xu, too, was back in China. As noted earlier, the Nanga school in Japan had for many years past continued to paint scenery always derived from the lower Yangzi region of China, scenery that did not exist anywhere in Japan and that none of the painters would ever have actually seen. It was as if these mountains and valleys and these temples and rural huts were ideal types—in any event, idealized for all East Asian literati painters. The worldview of Nanga was thus decidedly Sinophilic, a worldview of people living in another world. It was as if the Sinosphere had been replicated in microcosm for the world of painting—with an idealized “China” at its core. But all that was now about to change. In early 1866 Kinoshita decided to make a trip to Edo to visit a brother of his who lived near the capital. Unpei planned to accompany his beloved teacher, but he became extremely ill and was unable to make the sea voy-


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age from Nagasaki. Kinoshita wrote from Edo to say that should Unpei recover, he might join him, but Unpei’s illness persisted. Late that summer, the vessel carry ing Kinoshita and over fifty others left the port of Yokohama en route back to Nagasaki and was never seen again.87 All were lost at sea, and Kinoshita had died without ever being able to satisfy his lifelong ambition of seeing the real scenery of China. In early 1865 Unpei made the acquaintance of another young painter in Nagasaki who would be instrumental in persuading him to try to make the trip to Shanghai. Ishikawa Gozan (Kansen, 1844–1917) came from Etchu domain (contemporary Toyama Prefecture), not far from Unpei’s hometown, and despite his youth had, like Unpei and many others, come to Nagasaki to study Nanga painting at the Shuntoku Temple. He was preparing an album and wanted Unpei to contribute the first piece to it. The second piece, he hoped, would be supplied by either Yasuda Rozan (Mamoru, 1830–83) or Chujo Untei (1834–66); about the former I shall have much to say later, while the latter was sadly to die with Kinoshita, his teacher, whom he accompanied on the ill-fated trip from Yokohama. Unpei and Kansen became fast friends. At Kansen’s suggestion, they and others adorned kites with their artwork for the kite-flying festivities in Nagasaki, and they continued to meet periodically and talk about their work. In the spring of the following year, 1866, they shared concerns about all the tumult occurring—the assault on Shimonoseki the previous year, the Choshu wars, the Namamugi Incident in which a British man was murdered in Japan, and other events that portended big changes.88 Unpei admitted to his friend that he wanted, at long last, to see a Jiang Jiapu landscape with the genuine eyes of the founders of Southern School painting, meaning that he wanted to go to China. Much more entrepreneurial than Unpei, Kansen too expressed a similar desire, but it was still technically illegal for individuals to do so. They both knew of Yoshida Shoin’s (1830–59) unsuccessful and ultimately fatal effort to stow away on one of Commodore Perry’s vessels bound for the United States in 1854. Shoin, though, had wanted to visit the distant barbarian West, while they only wanted to travel a few days away to nearby Shanghai to view landscapes from the greatest culture in the world. Unpei ultimately came upon the ideal intermediary who would facilitate their voyage. On several occasions he had met a naturalized American missionary born in the Netherlands, Guido Herman Fridolin Verbeck (1830–98), who had come to Nagasaki in late 1859 on behalf of the Dutch

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Reformed Church. En route to Japan, the ship carry ing him and his wife had called at the port of Shanghai, where he left his wife within the Western community before heading off to set up shop in Nagasaki, a site at which Westerners (let alone missionaries) had not lived among the Japanese for over two centuries. It was there several years later that Takasugi Shinsaku (1839–67), waiting several months for the Senzaimaru to be cleared for departure to Shanghai, a topic to be discussed in the next essay in this volume, met Verbeck. Already fluent in Dutch, English, French, and German, Verbeck was keenly interested in acquiring Japanese as quickly as possible to aid in his evangelizing work. He also developed a keen interest in Nanga-style painting and often visited Kinoshita’s school, met with his students, and asked numerous questions. In April 1864 he moved temporarily with his family to Shanghai to escape the tense atmosphere surrounding all foreigners in Japan as a result of the many antiforeign incidents and assassinations associated with late Tokugawa times. He returned to Nagasaki soon thereafter to continue his teaching and missionary work— he counted among his students several of the luminaries of the coming Meiji era: Soejima Taneomi (1828–1905), Ito Hirobumi (1841–1909), Okuma Shigenobu (1838–1922), and Yokoi Shonan (1809–69), among others.89 After Kinoshita’s death, Unpei was floating around rudderless. He finally decided that the best way he could repay the gratitude he felt for his late teacher was to see the scenery of the lower Yangzi region with his own eyes. He knew as well that Verbeck had made the voyage between Nagasaki and Shanghai several times and would undoubtedly help him and Kansen. In the spring of 1867, he visited Verbeck and laid out his secret plan, and the American agreed to help. When he learned that Unpei had already begun planning a trip to the mainland, Kansen begged him to come along, and soon Yasuda Rozan made his similar desires known. But despite loosening of the shogunate’s severe travel restrictions, it was still technically illegal for them to travel as individuals and certainly without the consent of their lords. That was where Verbeck could help. Verbeck was able to secure passage for them on a foreign trading vessel plying the Nagasaki-Shanghai route. When Unpei became too ill to travel shortly before their scheduled departure, Rozan and Kansen were simply too anxious to wait. They donned queue wigs—all Chinese males during the Manchu Qing dynasty were required to wear their hair in the queue (pigtail)—and thus disguised themselves for passage as Chinese servants. Unpei followed them soon thereafter in June 1867, concealing his identity


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beneath the garb of a Chinese monk, on another trading vessel, the Feiloong (sometimes rendered Fe-loong in the North-China Herald), arranged by Verbeck. With the help of a Chinese he met on board ship and a monk he met in Shanghai soon after arriving, Unpei located his Nagasaki friends, Rozan and Kansen, at a local inn. The three young men agreed to assume (fairly pretentious) pen names while in Shanghai and environs; the fact that they are never referred to in Chinese sources by these names (and only in Japanese sources to tell this particular story) might lead one to conclude that the names never stuck: Wujiang for Unpei, Wushan for Kansen, and Wushui for Rozan. The “Wu” element was the name of an ancient state located in the lower Yangzi delta and a single-character name for the region as a whole.90 A word about the third member of this party, Yasuda Rozan, is now in order. Despite the skimpy and often contradictory details available on him, he is usually accorded the honor of being the most important early Japanese painter to visit the Shanghai area. He was certainly the first Japanese to settle in Shanghai for a considerable length of time. He hailed from a family of samurai doctors from a village near the famous Yoro Waterfall in Takasu domain, Mino (present-day Gifu Prefecture). In addition to his medical training, Yasuda acquired a consuming interest in calligraphy. He eventually left his hometown and settled in Iida village in nearby Shinano domain (present-day Nagano Prefecture), where he attempted to make a living as a doctor. His next-door neighbor was a salt warehouse owner by the name of Ihara Shigebee, and Yasuda eventually married his daughter Kyu (1847–72), despite the great difference in their social classes. Because his medical practice was not faring well, he decided to relocate with his wife to Edo, and later they moved on to Nagasaki. There, in the late 1850s or early 1860s, he began studying Nanga painting with Tetsuo at the Shuntoku Temple.91 Most sources—all apparently repeating each other—claim that he unilaterally moved to Shanghai in 1864 (a few say 1868), but I have now concluded that 1867 was the date of his departure for the mainland both because of the circumstances described earlier and because of the contemporaneous diary of Okada Kosho (1820–1903). Okada was a scholar of Chinese learning who had settled in Nagasaki and a medical doctor as well. In March 1872 he set sail on a two-month trip to Shanghai and Suzhou. “From my youth,” he explained in his account written in literary Chinese, “I have always thought of traveling to China, but the government banned travel, so I could not go [abroad]. I waited for a chance. After the [Meiji] Restoration [of 1868], the ban [on travel] was lifted, and I was able” to do so.92 Soon after arriving, he

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visited the recently opened Japanese consulate, introduced himself to Japan’s only consul in China, Shinagawa Tadamichi (1841–91), and the next day paid a call on Yasuda Rozan. “I visited him today and met him and his wife together,” Okada reported. “While drinking wine, we happily passed the time as he regaled me with stories from the past . . . Rozan has been living in Shanghai for four or five years and speaks Chinese rather well . . . He pays his expenses by [selling] paintings and calligraphy. His wife, Hongfeng, is also a painter of orchids and bamboo.”93 In 1870 Yasuda had returned briefly to Japan to collect his wife and bring her with him to share his life in Shanghai. Kyu changed her given name at this time to Ai, and, as indicated by Okada, she became known in her own right as a painter in Shanghai under the name of Hongfeng nüshi (Ms. Red Maple Tree). She died there in the summer of 1872 at the tender age of twenty-five and was buried to the west of the Longhua pagoda; her remains were later removed to the Japanese cemetery, which had not yet been founded at the time of her death, and the stone inscription was prepared by none other than the great artist and calligrapher Hu Gongshou (Yuan, 1823–86).94 For all their shared desire to see China in the flesh, the three young Japanese Nanga travelers had little to do with one another after they arrived in Shanghai. Their collective first impression of Shanghai was that it was infinitely more prosperous than they had ever imagined, but after that they drifted off in their own directions. Rozan settled in for the better part of a decade, and Kansen eventually returned to China in 1870. Unpei had planned for a longer stay, but those plans were cut short when he became ill and had to return home. Shortly after his arrival, he tracked down his Chinese acquaintance from several years earlier in Nagasaki, Wang Kesan. Wang and Xu Yuting both lived in or near Shanghai now, and they saw to Unpei’s every need. Wang introduced him not only to the city of Shanghai but, more important, to the new Shanghai School of painting that was emerging in the city—and Unpei was decidedly underwhelmed. All these extensive Sino-Japanese exchanges in the world of art presupposed an active trade between the two countries. Let us then take a closer look at Sino-Japanese trading relations through the seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth centuries. Throughout most of the Edo period, SinoJapanese trade was carried on Chinese vessels that originated in a number of Chinese and Southeast Asian ports and were required to travel exclusively to Nagasaki. Owing to the Hideyoshi invasions and unsuccessful attempts by Tokugawa Ieyasu to revive friendly relations with Ming China, the Ming


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banned trade with Japan in the 1590s. Despite this, Chinese ships still sailed directly to Japanese ports in Kyushu, particularly in Satsuma domain, or engaged in trade with Japanese merchants at sea: 36 times in 1634, 40 in 1635, 64 in 1637, 93 in 1639, 74 in 1640, and 91 in 1641.95 Thus, despite the Ming ban, trade blossomed throughout its final decades. The Qing dynasty was officially founded in 1644, but it took the Manchus some years to quell the resistance of various pretenders to the Ming throne and the hostile maritime forces under the Zhengs. When the Kangxi emperor (1654–1722, r. 1661–1722) came to the throne in 1661, he issued orders to move people dwelling in villages by the coast inland (qianjie, “move the frontier”), and thus, he hoped, as I noted earlier, to isolate the Zhengs and turn the seacoast into a no-man’s-land. Such severe curtailments on trade had the effect of cutting the number of Chinese vessels calling at Nagasaki to roughly twenty per year, and the majority of these vessels sailed from Southeast Asian ports. Even during the years of the Zheng uprising, vessels sent by Koxinga’s son, Zheng Jing (1642–81), from Taiwan sailed to Nagasaki and docked side by side with Qing vessels; the Nagasaki Magistrate forbade either side from attacking the other, if they wished to continuing calling at his port. Zheng Jing’s son, Zheng Keshuang (1669–1707), surrendered to the Qing in 1683. The next year the zhanhai (“expand to the sea”) order was issued, and the number of Chinese vessels sailing directly to Nagasaki rose dramatically: 24 in 1684, 85 in 1685, 102 in 1686, 115 in 1687, and 193 in 1688.96 The bakufu responded to the rescinding of the qianjie order by putting an annual limit on the quantity of gold and silver that could leave Japan in trade. When that amount was reached each year, the shogunal authorities simply turned away all subsequent Chinese vessels that called at port. Until then the authorities had not so strictly curtailed the China trade, but with so many vessels sent away with their cargoes intact, the authorities began to suspect (correctly) that these captains were engaging in secret, illegal trade elsewhere along the Japanese coast. To further curtail interactions between Chinese and Japanese, the government took over a medicinal herb garden in Nagasaki in 1689 and constructed a residential complex within which all Chinese were required to lodge while in port. It became known as the Tojin yashiki (or Tokan, Chinese Compound).97 Trade continued at relatively high levels, though under strict wraps, until 1715, when Arai Hakuseki (1657–1725) issued the New Shotoku Laws. These fi xed the annual volume of Sino-Japanese trade and reduced the number of Chinese vessels permitted to call at Nagasaki to thirty;

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when leaving port, all vessels wanting later to engage in trade there had to secure a trading license or shinpai from the office of the Nagasaki Magistrate, which was given to the ship’s captain or supercargo for the subsequent voyage. The number of vessels was limited further over the course of time, owing largely to Qing-imposed restrictions: to 20 in 1739, to 10 in 1742, and to 4 in 1847. But the volume of trade remained unchanged, because the Chinese vessels licensed to trade grew considerably in size.98


Detail from the Tojin Yashiki (Chinese Compound) Scroll held at the Institute for Oriental and Occidental Studies, Kansai University. Reproduced with permission.


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On any number of occasions over the course of these two centuries of trade without diplomatic relations, the shogunal authorities queried the Chinese traders about events on the mainland. Tokugawa Yoshimune (1684–1751, r. 1716–45), eighth shogun of the Edo bakufu, was a pronounced Sinophile and was always eager to get his hands on the latest writings, especially legal codes, and all manner of information from China. One such fascinating case involves the merchant and former military official Zhu Peizhang. While he was in Nagasaki, he agreed to be interrogated by the shogunal official Fukami Gentai (Kudayu, 1691–1773), who had traveled to Nagasaki to translate on Yoshimune’s orders the entire Da Qing huidian (Collected statutes of the great Qing dynasty), and Ogyu Hokkei (1673–1754), brother of the famed Confucian scholar Ogyu Sorai (1666–1728), who transmitted the shogun’s questions. The result was a wide-ranging question-and-answer text about the Qing polity.99 Among Zhu’s rewards for being so forthcoming and cooperative was the rare privilege of machitaku osetsukerareru, or “being allowed to live in a private residence” outside the Chinese Compound. As for the compound itself, we have only two descriptions of it by Chinese merchants who spent time there while they were in Nagasaki: Chen Lunjiong (fl. 1730) in his Haiguo wenjian lu (Records of things seen and heard) and Wang Peng in his Xiuhai pian (Essays from the sea of my sleeve).100 Chen visited Nagasaki in 1710 and was much impressed by its cleanliness and well-kept streets, the strict adherence to the law, the reverence for Buddhism, and de facto rule by the shogun rather than the emperor, among other things. Based on three voyages to Japan and a full year (1764–65) spent there, Wang’s account is more thorough, providing details on Nagasaki officials, local courtesans, tatami rooms, hairstyles, local Chinese and Japanese temples and their festivals, and more, including a sketch of the compound itself—Wang actually earned a number of mentions in local contemporary Chinese sources as a painter. By the time he was living there, only about seventy-five years after the completion of the Chinese Compound, Wang already described a feeling of being penned up because of crowded conditions. “They are intelligent and quick,” he noted in high praise of the Japanese people, “no less so than Chinese men and women.”101 This was clearly an era of peace, long after the wako depredations had passed into history. The number of Japanese who visited any part of the Qing empire during its duration is tiny, a testament to the strict interdiction of Japanese travel abroad. In only one case of which we are aware was it shogunal policy to

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dispatch a spy to investigate conditions pertaining in Northeast Asia. In 1808 the explorer of Hokkaido, Mamiya Rinzo (1775–1844), together with Matsuda Denjuro, carried out an investigation of Sakhalin Island. Unhappy with the results, the next year Mamiya alone made his way back to Sakhalin and from there across the sea to what he called Totatsu (Eastern Tatary) in what is now northeastern China and the Maritime Province of Russia. On his tenth day on the soil of Eastern Tartary, he met a Qing official not far from the present-day city of Khabarovsk near the Amur River. The trip to Sakhalin was authorized by the shogunate, but Mamiya took it on himself to travel on to the mainland. Because he had acquitted himself well on his assignment, no punishment was forthcoming for this transgression.102 He was extremely lucky. There were any number of fishermen whose small craft were blown off course and who found themselves castaways, either picked up by foreign vessels or sailing crippled into mainland ports—if they survived at sea— during the Qing period.103 Their stories are less well known but utterly fascinating. In the spring of 1644, a group of fifty-eight sailors on three boats, led by Takeuchi Touemon, set sail from Mikunimachi, Fukui, and headed for Matsumae (present-day Hokkaido) to engage in trade. Struck by a typhoon en route, they drifted at sea for roughly two weeks until they landed at Poshet Bay in what is now the Maritime Province, but which was then under Qing control. Some sort of incident erupted with the locals, and forty-three of the castaway Japanese were killed. The surviving fifteen crossed the Changbai Mountain range and were escorted to Shengjing, the capital of the Qing dynasty and now Shenyang. There they remained for some three weeks, and after being interrogated by government officials, including Dorgon (Prince Rui, 1612–50), they were escorted to Beijing. Shortly before their arrival in Shengjing, the Qing emperor left that city for Beijing with the aim of moving his capital there and ascending the imperial throne in the Forbidden City. The fifteen Japanese traveled with a group of Manchus through the Shanhai Pass into China proper, arriving in Beijing in late fall. They were well treated and spent the New Year’s festivities and a few months afterward as well in the capital. Profoundly homesick as they nonetheless were, the Qing authorities had them remain in Beijing for a year altogether before they were permitted to return—with an official escort—via Shengjing, across the Yalu River to U˘iju, Korea, before arriving in Seoul early the following year. Korean officials then took them promptly to the port of Pusan. At the time, Korean-Japanese relations were mediated


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by the daimyo of Tsushima, who when visiting Pusan would reside in the Waegwan (the residential and trading quarters for Japanese visitors), and the fifteen Japanese were accommodated there for about fifty days. They arrived back in Osaka the following summer and made their way home to Mikunimachi, some two years and three months after disappearing at sea. These unfortunate Japanese had violated, albeit inadvertently, the shogunate’s sharp restrictions on travel abroad, and two of their number were summoned to Edo for interrogation. There they gave a deposition that described and sketched their experiences and was published several times thereafter under the titles Dattan hyoryuki (Account of drifting into Tartary) or Ikoku monogatari (Tales from a foreign land). As the late Manchu and early Qing history scholar Kanda Nobuo (1921–2003) has noted, this text reflects an era in Manchu society when the Manchu language was used primarily, and the returned Japanese actually cited a number of Manchu terms in their account.104 One other little-known castaway tale worth relating comes from closer to the other end of the Qing dynasty. This was the unfortunate adventures of a man known to us now solely as Otokichi (1818–67). He came from the coastal area of Mihama in Aichi, and at age fourteen he set off with a crew of fifteen on a rice-transport vessel called the Hojunmaru headed for Edo. Caught in a storm, they drifted at sea for fourteen months, during which all but three of the original crew died, before reaching land at Cape Alava in the Oregon Territory in early 1834. They were handed over by local Makah Indians to John McLoughlin (1774–1857) of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who saw them as a bankable asset in opening Japan up to trade. He thus took the three of them to London, England, where they arrived in 1835 to get the Crown’s approval to use the three men as a means of prying open Japan’s closed door, but the British government was not so inclined, and they were sent on to Macao with the aim of eventually repatriating them. There the other survivors, Otokichi’s brothers, Kyukichi (b. 1817) and Iwakichi (b. 1804), in particular, became close friends with Karl Gutzlaff (1803–51), the zealous China missionary with a vision now of Christianizing Japan, who was working as assistant to the British consul, Charles Elliott (1801–75). The three Japanese were acquiring English, and now Gutzlaff did his best to learn Japanese from his new acquaintances. In 1837 a Canton trader from the United States, Charles King (1809–45), offered to repatriate these three and four other castaway Japanese from Kumamoto who had recently arrived in Macao. Unfortunately, King’s vessel was the famed Morrison, and it was fired on first in an effort to enter

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the port at Edo and then again when it attempted the same in Kagoshima. He had no choice but to return to Canton. More or less now resigned to an expatriate’s life, Otokichi began working as a translator and interpreter for British traders and missionaries in Macao, assuming the new name John Matthew Ottoson. He appears next in Shanghai in 1843, working for the (in)famous Dent and Company in a number of capacities, including attempting to help other castaway Japanese return to Japan aboard Chinese or Dutch vessels. He first married a British woman who predeceased him and later an Anglo-Indian woman with whom he had three children, and he eventually took British citizenship. In 1849 he traveled back to Japan, disguised as a Chinese and claiming a knowledge of Japanese from a father who had done business in Nagasaki, to assist in a British topographical survey. When Commodore Perry docked in Shanghai shortly before barging into Japan, he sought out Otokichi, a genuinely rare Japanese-English bilingual, to accompany him on the mission to Edo. He had read about Otokichi’s adventures in Oregon earlier and wanted to meet him in person. Otokichi turned him down, but the Reverend Samuel Wells Williams (1812–84), who had been with Otokichi since the Morrison incident and had learned some Japanese from him, accepted Perry’s offer in his stead. In 1854, while Perry was in Edo harbor, Otokichi agreed to assist Admiral James Stirling (1791–1865) in a mission to search out Russian vessels in East Asian waters. Although he had not wished to return to Japan, they nonetheless sailed into Nagasaki, and Otokichi, now using his British persona, helped Stirling as interpreter in signing the Anglo-Japanese Friendship Treaty. This time he met with the likes of Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901) and was officially given the right to remain in Japan, but he chose to return to his family in Shanghai. When Fukuzawa came through Shanghai en route to Europe several years later, he was unable to locate Otokichi, who by then had moved to his wife’s hometown of Singapore, where he lived out his life in apparent luxury.105 Fascinating stories of this sort could easily be multiplied. Better known in the West are those of the itinerants Hamada Hikozo (1837–97), or Joseph Heco, and Nakahama Manjiro (1827–98), or John Mung or John Manjiro, who came to the United States, worked as interpreters for the likes of Commodore Perry and others, and (in Heco’s case) met President Abraham Lincoln (1809–65). Many such stories are waiting to be told and examined more closely by scholars interested in Sino-Japanese interactions. In the rough periodization scheme I have been building, how would we characterize the underlying motivations propelling Sino-Japanese relations


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in the late imperial period for China and the last gasp of shogunal government for Japan? Clearly, no single factor is now driving the relationship, with other factors obviously secondary. We find, rather, a mixture of commerce and culture as prime movers in keeping China and Japan in close touch—and all this in spite of the sharp curtailment of state-to-state ties. Politics as earlier defined has largely dropped out of the equation. Unlike Korea and Viêt · Nam, the other states with long and intimate ties to China, Japan was lucky to share no borders with China. Thus, when it decided to begin the process of extricating itself from the Sinosphere, this was much less difficult. Korea and Viêt · Nam had to suffer Manchu invasions and occupations, but the Manchus never launched a fleet against Japan, despite the Tokugawa regime’s tacit defiance of the Qing in its refusal to accept the Qing calendar and send tribute missions. The Japanese ruling regime had reached a level of political self-confidence and self-assurance that no longer required the intermediacy of any mainland dynasty.106 By the same token, the spectacular nineteenth-century failures of China—from the Opium War and subsequent unequal treaties, extraterritoriality, and other indignities forced on the Qing—not only served up a powerful warning to Japan but also equally diminished the residual importance of the original land of Sinic culture, or some earlier renditions of the Sinosphere, in the minds of many Japanese who might otherwise have still revered it. Although many Japanese aware of events on the mainland were petrified at the possible collateral damage their own homeland might sustain, few recognized how lucky they were to reside in such a small country, for the Chinese attracted far more mercantile and missionary zeal. By midcentury, certainly by the time of the Meiji Restoration in the late 1860s, the best that the Chinese could hope for on the part of the Japanese was pity or perhaps pan-Asian resentment. The worst was much worse. The nature of cultural transmission in the later period, once so central to Japan’s earlier need for retaining contact with the mainland, was not at all what it had formerly been. Certainly, many books and other cultural artifacts continued to flood the Nagasaki market, but there was no regularized way—or apparently the desire for it—to acquire mainland culture directly. Thus, the handful of fascinating Chinese expatriates who came to Japan at the end of the Ming, the Obaku monks at Manpuku Temple, and, for that matter, Tokugawa Yoshimune were the exceptions rather than the rule. Yoshimune’s penchant for instructing Chinese shippers to bring him all manner of specific titles is an early modern version of amazon.com: get

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the books without visiting the bookstore. By the same token, the numerous Chinese who came to Nagasaki were, for the most part, merchants who had side hobbies as artists or calligraphers. In the last years of the Qing dynasty and the Meiji regime, which fall beyond the scope of this essay, culture as a factor in the Sino-Japanese bond was completely turned on its head. Now, Chinese flocked to Japan, not to acquire or even seriously study Japanese culture—about which only a handful had even the slightest curiosity—but through learning Japanese to acquire Western culture.107 That leaves commerce. Unlike the earlier era when most items of trade were carried on Japanese vessels, from the early seventeenth century the pattern shifted to all trade being transported aboard Chinese ships. In such a semi-indirect relationship with respect to culture, commerce often involved the transmission of cultural artifacts—books, writing paraphernalia, pottery, and the like—but only rarely did culture drive commerce. This is the era in which we now live. We all want cultural things from elsewhere, but we can usually live without them. Commerce dominates our lives, even if we detest that fact. Is anyone any longer seeking subordinate investiture in another country’s political sphere, save perhaps willingness to fall under a great power’s nuclear umbrella and save one’s own country the associated trouble and expense? Is anyone any longer thinking about remaking one’s national culture after another’s image or adopting as one’s own national religion an overseas import? I think not to both questions, but we are all thinking about international commerce. Even the anti-Japanese demonstrations in China a few years ago were shut down by the Chinese government when they began to pose a threat to the continuance of the massive trade between China and Japan. We know that we have outlived Mao Zedong (1893–1976) when commerce controls the gun. Postscript. The belligerent arrival of Commodore Perry, of course, transformed power relations within East Asia and introduced the rogue element of the West. Several years later, the Japanese made efforts to join the international community, first with the United States to sign the treaty imposed on them in 1860, and next to Shanghai in 1862 for reasons to be explored in the next essay in this volume. Five and one-half years later, the Tokugawa shogunate ceased to exist.

CHAPTER 2

The Voyage of the Senzaimaru and the Road to Sino-Japanese Diplomatic Normalcy: A Micro-Historical Perspective

This essay is part of an ongoing micro-historical research project on the first official meeting of Chinese and Japanese in the modern era, the voyage of the Senzaimaru to Shanghai in 1862. This ship was sent from Nagasaki by the Tokugawa shogunate, through the good offices of the Nagasaki bugyo (Magistrate), the highest-ranking foreign relations official in the bakufu, to Shanghai in the late spring of that year in an effort to see what was going on in the wider world of international relations and to try to broach the topic with the Chinese authorities of re-establishing bilateral ties. This is a topic that has, thankfully, been altogether ignored in the Western academy, affording my work a wide berth. Chinese scholars have only discovered the topic of the Senzaimaru over roughly the past two decades.1 In 2001 a fine book by Feng Tianyu entitled “Qiansuiwan” Shanghai xing: Ribenren 1862-nian de Zhongguo guancha (The Senzaimaru’s trip to Shanghai: Japanese views of China in 1862) appeared, and it is devoted entirely to the mission of the Senzaimaru. It marks an immense step forward from the 473-page book published in 1991 by Yu Xingmin entitled Shanghai, 1862 nian (Shanghai, 1862), devoted entirely to Shanghai in 1862, and in which only one short paragraph so much as mentions the Japanese mission that very year. Japanese scholarship has, not surprisingly, been richer on this topic. The first and arguably still the most important scholar to address the issue of the Senzaimaru was Okita Hajime (1905–85). As a student at Kyoto Imperial University, Okita specialized in English and American literature, especially the novels of Henry James. In early 1933 he took a position as an 51

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The Road to Sino-Japanese Diplomatic Normalcy

English instructor at the Japanese Senior High School for Girls in Shanghai, a school created by the Japan Residents Association of Shanghai (Nihon kyoryu mindan, or JRA).2 Early in 1942 he switched to the Senior Commercial School for Girls, also founded by the JRA. Dismayed by the low level of knowledge and apparent lack of interest among his fellow Shanghai Japanese in the history of their own community, Okita helped set up in the spring of 1941 the Shanghai History and Geography Research Group (Shanhai rekishi chiri kenkyukai) with the avowed goals of investigating old sites around the city, collecting documents, publishing research, and holding periodic meetings, conferences, and exhibitions.3 Through the early 1940s Okita produced numerous studies as a result of his own extraordinary research and his extraordinary access. He provided the groundbreaking work for everyone who has followed on the subject of the Japanese in Shanghai generally and the Senzaimaru specifically. It was his two-part article, published in 1947, that opened the discussion of the Senzaimaru to postwar academia, although Okita himself stopped writing on the subject thereafter.4 Okita’s research skills were clearly the products of an exceptional education in the late Meiji and Taisho periods; he read all manner of difficult styles of Japanese, in addition to literary Chinese, and the often idiosyncratic nineteenth-century English of such newspapers and periodicals as the North-China Herald and the Chinese Repository. His work remains indispensable to this day. The other major scholars in Japan to follow in his footsteps have been Haruna Akira, who has produced a number of highly important articles on the Senzaimaru, and most recently Miyanaga Takashi, who has written a book devoted to the topic, entitled Takasugi Shinsaku no Shanhai repotto (Takasugi Shinsaku’s Shanghai report).5 The general story of the Senzaimaru is generally known in Japan, but not elsewhere. I saw it portrayed thirty years ago on NHK, the Japanese national broadcasting station, as part of the production of a historical novel by Shiba Ryotaro (1923–96). However, recently discovered Chinese, British, and Dutch archival documents help us fill out the genuinely international—rather than simply binational—character of this historic voyage that began the process leading to Sino-Japanese diplomatic relations in the modern era. These new materials also enable us to see a bit of what was going on beneath the surface or behind the scenes in and around 1862. Until only a few years ago, we had substantive firsthand information only from the Japanese side, the utterly fascinating accounts by a handful of the Japanese passengers aboard the Senzaimaru. The responses on the Chi-


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nese side to the sudden appearance of the Senzaimaru in Shanghai in 1862, as well as other Japanese ships or visitors on foreign ships over the next few years, remained a mystery. I frequently asked Chinese friends and colleagues about documentation on the Chinese side, and was usually told that nothing existed. I was even able to construct an explanation for the absence of such documentation. Then, as so often happens in historical research, all the bureaucratic correspondence within the hierarchy of the Qing officialdom regarding how to deal with the Japanese in 1862 and immediately thereafter was discovered in 2003 by an intrepid Japanese scholar in the archives of the Zongli Yamen, the first Chinese “foreign office,” which are now housed in Academia Sinica; they were then published in Japanese translation by a young Chinese scholar named Huang Rongguang.6 In addition, in 2005 I discovered in British archives heretofore-unknown documents on the prehistory of the Senzaimaru, namely, its activities under the name Armistice, before the British sold it to the Japanese. With the help of Dutch scholars and archivists, I have been able to locate materials, some archival and some published locally in extremely limited editions, that clarify information on the principal Dutch facilitator of this mission. We now have sufficient information to tell this entire story from the original shipbuilding site of Sunderland in England. Let us now move directly to introduce the international setting of this micro-history surrounding the Senzaimaru. Before tracking the maiden voyage of the Senzaimaru from Nagasaki to Shanghai, I need to set the stage by answering a number of questions that put the principal players in their appropriate places on the eve of this trip. Where did the oceangoing vessel that was to be renamed Senzaimaru come from and how did it end up in Nagasaki? Who was its captain and who were the men of its crew? Who was the strange Dutchman who facilitated the opening of diplomatic contacts between the Japanese and Chinese in 1862—and why was a third party even necessary? Until we start to address these rudimentary questions, we cannot properly understand the backdrop to the main story. Before there was a Senzaimaru, there was the Armistice. Lloyd’s Registry of British and Foreign Shipping for the year 1856 lists as item number 875 a vessel called the Armistice; it was constructed in the major British shipbuilding center of Sunderland the previous year and owned by one “J. Longton.” We have a slightly earlier record of the ship on the daily Lloyd’s List, which exists now only in microfiche at the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, England. As its name indicates, Lloyd’s List was a daily record

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kept of British ships sighted in ports anywhere around the world. It covers many hundreds of pages and is handwritten and fading. Lloyd’s List notes that the Armistice had arrived on July 30, 1855, in Deal, a British port on the English Channel about eighty miles east of London, was set to sail for “Monte Video” (the capital of the then-young country of Uruguay), and was being captained by a man named “Peace.” This destination fits with the Registry’s designation that the Armistice was to sail to “S. Amer.” It was a “barque,” a relatively small, oceangoing, square-rigged vessel with three masts. It weighed 358 tons, was sheathed with yellow metal and marine metal, and belonged to the port of Liverpool. We learn later that it measured 111 feet, 5 inches in length, 25 feet, 5 inches in breadth, and 16 feet in depth.7 Over the next few years, the volumes of Lloyd’s Registry revealed more information about the ship, and some of the earlier data concerning ownership and operations of the vessel changed. In 1856 it sailed under Captain Peace primarily between Deal and Colombo, the capital of what is now Sri Lanka (formerly Ceylon) off the coast of India, and between Table Bay (near Cape Town, South Africa) and the island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean. Over the following three years, the Armistice called at these same ports, as well as Cochin (on the west coast of India), Gravesend (at the mouth of the Thames River east of London), Liverpool, and the Cape of Good Hope; the captain’s name now occasionally appears as “Pearse.”8 Then, for roughly eleven months from mid-December 1858 to early November 1859, there is no mention whatsoever in the daily Lloyd’s List of the Armistice. Perhaps it put in for repairs; perhaps it simply evaded notice. In any event, when it does resurface in November 1859, it is now owned by one “J. Sullivan,” with its master listed in Lloyd’s Registry as “H. Peace” and its captain as “Richardson.” The Armistice was now sailing between various British ports and the ports of San Francisco and Vancouver Island on the west coast of North America. On November 9, 1859, it is listed in Gravesend as “put back for San Francisco (with damage).”9 From this point on, the Armistice made no further trips to Africa or the Indian subcontinent. Through most of the year 1860, it sailed between London and ports on the west coast of North America. The following year marks an important turning point in the vessel’s history. Actually, the Armistice can be found in Lloyd’s List for December 15, 1860, where it was sighted in Shanghai, having arrived on October 4 from Puget Sound in the state of Washington. Its arrival is also mentioned in the North-China Herald.10 This is the first mention of its calling at any East


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Asian port, and there it remained in harbor for three months until early December; as of late October, the North-China Herald gives “Harkort and Co.” as its “Consignees” (carrying a cargo of “Spars &c.”), but then in early December there is an abrupt shift to “A. R. Tilby” as “consignee.” Captain Henry Richardson, as we now learn his first name, sailed his ship to Nagasaki, the Japanese port city first opened to the British the previous year of 1859, arriving December 11,11 and throughout the year 1861, he sailed the Armistice back and forth between Nagasaki and a number of Chinese ports: sightings given in Lloyd’s List included Wusong (five times), Shanghai (six times), and Xiamen (twice).12 When the ship arrived in Shanghai from Nagasaki on March 8, 1861, it was listed as carry ing a cargo of “sundries,” as it was later that same year.13 Early the next year it arrived with a cargo given as “General,” a change of apparent though unexplained import.14 Although the North-China Herald lists a number of vessels transporting goods earlier between Shanghai and Nagasaki—such as the Thetis, the Tung Yu, and the Eastern Star15 —the first British vessel to sail between Nagasaki and Shanghai on a regular basis, the 700-ton steamship Azof of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, began doing so on August 31, 1859, and required only a four-day journey;16 it was joined soon thereafter by two other P&O steamships, the 812-ton Aden, which could make the trip in three days, and the 816-ton Cadiz.17 It was into this mix that the Armistice sailed in late 1860. The following year, 1861, was to be extraordinarily busy for that British vessel as well, moving goods from one port to another, and in 1862 it continued at this hectic pace, adding Shantou (Swatow) and Hong Kong to its many Chinese ports of call.18 Following its first voyage to Shanghai and Nagasaki, the Armistice remained entirely in East Asia until its sale to the Japanese. By 1862 Henry Richardson was now given in Lloyd’s Registry as the owner of the Armistice, as well as its captain. Several more sightings are given for dates in the latter half of 1862, but these appear to be in error. To make matters worse, the Armistice is found repeatedly in Lloyd’s Registry through 1870 with many of the same details on its size, ownership, destinations, and the like. We know, however, from many other sources that Captain Richardson had sold his ship to the Japanese government in early 1862. It is highly unlikely that either he or his crew members had any notion of how important this sale would be. Their primary concern was, undoubtedly, how they were to get home from Nagasaki, once they relinquished the Armistice to its new owners. The crew members’ names have dropped out of history, for now, and of Henry Richardson only his name is known,

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though not his city of birth or residence back in Britain. Perhaps if he bore a less common name, his traces would be easier to follow. He made the trip with the Senzaimaru, as the Armistice was soon to be renamed, to Shanghai, together with his wife—one might well ask why she was traveling with him—and then disappeared from the historical record, including any account of how (or if) he made his way back to Britain from East Asia. Richardson and his crew were hired back by the new owners of the Armistice to sail to Shanghai because no Japanese at the time knew how to sail a large ship on the open sea. Inasmuch as Richardson played no part in the historic negotiations between Chinese and Japanese in Shanghai, who would have been in any position to bring the two sides together? We find in one of the recently discovered Chinese documents dating back to 1862 the following note: “Wu Xu, Susong daotai, reported on the following matters. ‘On 5/9 [June 6] of this year, the consul from Holland in the West, [Theodorus] Kroes [Gelaosi], escorted eight officials from Japan in the East to my office for an audience.’ ” The document then names these eight Japanese officials, who went on to explain to their Chinese hosts that the Dutchman had helped them process their goods through customs, inspection of produce, payment of fees, and the like and that they had used a Dutch vessel to transport them into the port of Shanghai. Wu Xu (Xiaofan, Chunchi, 1809–72) continued in his own highly sympathetic report of this meeting to his superior, Xue Huan (1815–80), Superintendent for Trade: “I have taken into consideration the court’s pleasure in cherishing men from afar, and planning for their convenience allowed them to promptly sell the items as Dutch goods. I have not, however, allowed them to purchase Chinese commodities, and I instructed them that they must speedily return home aboard the Dutch vessel with the money [gained in transactions for their goods] and not rashly come here again. They listened and replied that they would all be happy to comply.” According to this same Chinese document, Kroes then interjected: “For over two hundred years, the Dutch have traded with Japan, and the friendship between us has grown profound. I could not prevent the officials here from coming on the merchant vessel of the pertinent country [Holland] together with the merchants and the produce. They have gone through all of the Customs procedures, and as soon as they sell all of their goods, I guarantee that they will return home immediately without buying any Chinese goods.” Who was this man named Kroes who emerges virtually out of nowhere in 1862, confirms to the Chinese authorities the Japanese


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half-truth (at best) that the ship on which they sailed belonged to the Dutch, and then plays such a fundamental role in facilitating the Japanese entrance into the port of Shanghai, into the offices of the daotai Wu Xu, and into the modern world of international diplomacy? His name gives him away as Dutch, but he is otherwise virtually unknown to history. How he first became acquainted with the Japanese is still unclear, though easily surmised, but many other details of his life and work in East Asia are now becoming clearer through newly unearthed Dutch-language documents. Efforts to track him in the Nationaal Archief (National Archives) in Amsterdam and the Nederlandsche Handel-Maatschappij (Netherlands Trading Company) in The Hague proved completely fruitless. A kind archivist at the Ministerie van Buitenlanse Zaken (Ministry of Foreign Affairs) was able to confirm only that Kroes had served in the consulate at Shanghai for the Netherlands from 1860 through 1873, adding, “We can assure you however that we have no archives on [what] you are looking for.”19 Inquiries into the local archives in the city of his birth (Dordrecht) and death (Echt in the province of Limburg) were somewhat more productive, though primarily on the matters of his birth and death, respectively. An archivist from Dordrecht was able to confirm that he came from a Catholic family, noting further concerning the virtual absence of data about him: “Obviously he hasn’t made a big impression on his hometown as there is no other information about him to be found.”20 Genealogical sources proved a far better starting place, and the Centraal Bureau voor Genealogie (Central Genealogical Bureau) and the Kroes family genealogist, Wil Furrer-Kroes, were highly forthcoming. We can now say, then, that Theodorus Kroes was born in Dordrecht on May 17, 1822, to Hermanus (1795–1877) and Joanna Barbara Kroes (née Kicken or Kieken, 1801–37). His father was a baker (as had been his own father Dirk or Dirck, 1757–1827, before him) and later a distiller of alcohol. His mother died when he was young, and Hermanus never remarried.21 Of Kroes’s youth and education we know nothing as yet. It would appear, though, that what took him to East Asia was not the diplomatic corps. As was frequently the case with distant consular postings in the nineteenth century, consuls and vice-consuls from Western countries in East Asia were often businessmen resident in a given area who served as diplomats on the side. To this day, embassies and consulates work tirelessly for the commercial interests of their own nationals in the lands in which they reside. In the nineteenth century, the same person often wore two or more

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hats. Thus, Kroes was able to serve both his homeland and himself with no apparent conflict of interest. From 1860 through 1873, he performed the duties of a vice-consul (some sources claim consul, although his absence from a volume published in 1998 for the bicentennial of the Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs seems to indicate a less important position) for the Netherlands in Shanghai, the base of operations for his own “T. Kroes & Co.” (in Chinese, it was known as Dianqu yangxing, apparently meaning “T. K. and Company”22). In the first instance, however, he was the local representative of the Netherlands Trading Company, serving the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in an ancillary capacity.23 What other duties would the Dutch consulate in Shanghai have been assigned? The entire Dutch population of Shanghai in the 1860s would have numbered, at most, two or three dozen (in a tiny total foreign population of 569 in December 1859), and there were a few other trading companies like the Netherlands Trading Company. However, the timing was critical in Dutch-East Asian relations. The very year in which the Senzaimaru made its historic voyage—indeed, on July 23, 1862, while the Japanese were in Shanghai—witnessed the transfer of responsibility for relations between the Netherlands and Japan, China, and Siam from the Dutch Ministry of Colonies to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.24 Everybody was undergoing institutional modernization in the nineteenth century. Partly because he never served on the Shanghai Municipal Council, Kroes never achieved prominence within the foreign community of Shanghai despite a reasonably lengthy stay there; he may, in fact, never have desired personal prominence. Before taking up residence, he seems to have made what amounts to a reconnaissance voyage to East Asia in 1859. I have found a tiny note in the North-China Herald reporting on his arrival in Nagasaki aboard the Formosa, a British steamer, on March 12, his arrival in Shanghai aboard the Yang-tsze, a U.S. steamship, from Japan on May 8, and his departure from Shanghai, again aboard the Formosa, on June 15 for Hong Kong, presumably en route home.25 This private mission is corroborated by some unpublished letters from Albertus Johannes Bauduin (1829–90), agent of the Netherlands Trading Company in Nagasaki and, similar to Kroes in Shanghai, simultaneously to become Dutch consul in Nagasaki from 1863; most of the letters were for Bauduin’s sister in Utrecht. In a letter dated April 6, 1859, shortly after Bauduin had himself arrived in Nagasaki, we learn that “Kroes plans to visit me in Japan and he will have to make a shift. He will not get truffles to eat and Burgundy to drink. Water is cheap here, that is some-


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thing! Bread is quite good, there are chickens, potatoes are rare . . . I am told that vegetables are available; the time for fruits seems to be over. I met Medical Officer [J. L. C.] Pompe van Meerdervoort [1829–1908], who is here in the ser vice of the Japanese government and he will stay on for a few years.”26 In a letter three weeks later (April 27, 1859), we learn: “Our friend Kroes came from Shanghai and returns there.” There is no mention of precisely when in 1860 Kroes settled in Shanghai, but from March 9 of the following year and running every week for thirteen weeks, the following notice appeared on the front page of the North-China Herald:27 NOTICE. I have this day established myself at Shanghai as Merchant and General Commission Agent under the style and Firm of T. KROES & CO. THEODORUS KROES Shanghai, 1st February 1861.


T. Kroes (second from left), A. F. Bauduin (center), and A. J. Bauduin (seated on right); others unidentified.

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During his lengthy stay in Shanghai, Kroes had occasion to post similar notices in the North-China Herald, which offer us a tiny window onto his business life in China. For example, for roughly six months, from December 13, 1862, through May 9, 1863, every single issue of the North-China Herald carried the following advertisement: COLONIAL MARINE AND FIRE INSURANCE SOCIETY OF BATAVIA The Undersigned having been appointed Agents for the above-named Society, are prepared to grant INSURANCE on ORDINARY MARINE RISKS at the usual rates of the Local Offices. T. KROES & CO. Agents in Shanghai Shanghai, 1st February, 1862

It would thus appear that, for at least a short time, Kroes tried his hand at the insurance game, while simultaneously continuing in ser vice as Dutch vice-consul and shipping agent for the Netherlands Trading Company. A similar notice, initially dated April 7, 1862, and running weekly through July 26, announced that, as Dutch vice-consul, Kroes was handling all affairs concerning the estate of the late H. A. Kramer, undoubtedly a Dutch national who had died with debts outstanding.28 So, Kroes was wearing at least three hats. Kroes had gone to Asia as a bachelor at age thirty-seven or thirty-eight and proved to be a successful import-export businessman. He made frequent trips to Nagasaki, home to a long-established Dutch community based on the island of Dejima and perhaps numbering fifty to sixty Dutch citizens at this time, and he may have had an office for his own company there as well. Early in 1863, at age forty, Kroes married a women with the uncompromising name of Adeline Johanna Maria Carolina Heukensveld Slaghek (1827–76), five years younger than he, in Macao. The family genealogy offers no clues about what a thirty-six-year-old bachelorette was doing in this Portuguese colony just outside Hong Kong, but epistolary evidence nails this down for us. There is some evidence, although it is not conclusive, that Kroes was baptized in China; perhaps this had something to do with his new wife, who may have been connected to European missionary work in some way, although these are merely educated conjectures. In the year before this union, A. J. Bauduin wrote his sister (July 10, 1862):


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Probably you will know that Miss Adeline Slaghek has married “with the glove” to Mr. N. C. Sieburgh, employed by the company de Coningh Carst & Lels in Nagasaki and she is probably at this moment close to Shanghai. This lady will receive a very unpleasant message: Mr. Sieburgh died on June 27 of ner vous fever. He had asked me to take care of his estate which I have accepted, and it kept me quite busy these days. Yesterday I auctioned his furniture, etc., and the last thing I can do for him is to put a stone on his grave. The poor boy was not yet 35 years old. His wife will come to Kroes, and he shall have an unpleasant task to fulfill.

The expression “married with the glove” is nineteenth-century Dutch argot denoting a proxy wedding ceremony, but it remains unclear why, in the wake of her intended’s death, she would need to approach Kroes. Perhaps, because she was apparently to learn of his death while still in Shanghai, Kroes, as vice-consul, would perforce be the one responsible for relaying the sad news. In any event, they seem to have hit it off well, despite the nature of the ill tidings he brought her, and this all would explain how they met in the first place. Sieburgh, incidentally, was originally a Dutch naval officer, and his grave is still to be found in the old cemetery of the international settlement of Nagasaki.29 More direct and brutally frank evidence about this union can be found in some of the other unedited and unpublished letters of A. J. Bauduin and his brother, Dr. Antonius Franciscus Bauduin (1820–85), director of the Nagasaki Hospital and professor of medicine at what would later become the Nagasaki University Medical College. Albertus Johannes wrote most of the letters in this private collection, and one dated November 15, 1862, again to his sister, reports on Kroes’s impending wedding: Kroes is planning to get married and can you guess to whom? The lady who came East for the late Mr. Sieburgh. According to Toon [nickname for their brother Antonius], she is not at all beautiful and of advanced age; our niece Nans Penn knows her well. Financially she is making a good swap, for Sieburgh did not have much money and our friend Kroes is keeping a carriage, not bad! I imagine this will cost quite a lot of money per month in that terribly expensive Shanghae. I am still walking and Toon keeps a horse.

The marriage lasted just shy of thirteen years, and the little extant evidence we have seems to indicate that it was a happy one and that Mrs. Kroes’s brother actually went to work for T. Kroes and Company, although

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that was a less successful endeavor. A letter from Nagasaki from the Dutch scientist, naval officer, and photographer Dr. Konrad Walter Gratama (1831–88), dated April 18, 1866, reports on his visit to Shanghai: “I was . . . quartered with the Dutch vice-consul Kroes, where I stayed until the 12th. Kroes and his wife are likeable warm-hearted people . . . Although I had never met these people before, I stayed with them for a full week.”30 Life for the foreign community of Shanghai in these years was rarely described in glowing terms. It was usually seen as at best harsh and at worst—in the words of Lord Oliphant (1829–88) writing in 1859—as “the most unhealthy [port] to which our ships are sent, the sickness and mortality being greater here than even on the west coast of Africa.”31 Kroes wrote A. J. Bauduin in early 1864 that he was soon to depart on a trip home to see his aging father; in a letter of March 20, Bauduin reported, amid other local news: “Without a doubt Mrs. Kroes will accompany him to Europe, but if Mr. Kroes will get her back to China so easily is something else. Probably she will be more comfortable in Europe than in China, and Kroes is good enough to yield and leave her behind. I have not had the honor of getting to know Mrs. Kroes, only by reputation.” Then, a year later, Albertus Johannes wrote on June 10, 1865, from Nagasaki that Mrs. Kroes had given birth to a daughter and “her husband is delighted.” This also indicates that she had, in fact, accompanied him back from Holland the previous year. As if incapable of sustaining a positive feeling for more than two sentences, though, Bauduin, who, like his brother, remained a bachelor throughout his life, went on to note: “Ladies from Shanghai are coming regularly to Nagasaki, but I hope that Mrs. Kroes will stay at Shanghai. I cannot lodge ladies with crying children.” Again, his tone is brutally honest. Writing a year later (July 5, 1866), this time while visiting Shanghai, he noted: “As you will see, I traveled from Yokohama to Shanghai, and since yesterday I have been staying with the Kroes family . . . Kroes’s child is charming, blond with blue eyes, a real Dutch product. Mrs. Kroes and Boss Kroes are doing very well. The brother of the Mrs. is employed by Kroes.” In the dog days that summer, Bauduin wrote (September 23, 1866) that Mrs. Kroes, just as he had feared, had been staying with him for eight weeks, together with her young daughter and an Italian nanny, and “one of these days she will leave. The heat and unhealthy days in Shanghai will soon be over, so everyone is moving back to his own hearth. Kroes’s daughter resembles her father in every way, very blond and very light blue eyes.”


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A letter dated October 19, 1867, however, notes that Mrs. Kroes’s health had seriously declined after the birth of a second child and that the entire family and servants were coming to Nagasaki—we can only imagine Albertus’s delight. After reporting this situation to his sister, he added: “Kroes will probably return at once to Shanghai, but how long the wife and children will stay, I do not know. Probably 14 days, as it is gradually getting colder and she will long for Shanghai. I hope she will recover completely.” Only a clairvoyant can determine if his best wishes with respect to Mrs. Kroes’s health were motivated by her health and well-being or his own selfish comforts. I learned in an e-mail communication from the Gemeentearchief Amsterdam (Amsterdam City Archives) that Kroes officially remained a resident of Shanghai until 1873, the last year the Staatsalmanak voor het Koningrijk der Nederlanden (State almanac for the kingdom of the Netherlands) makes mention of him in the Chinese city,32 but he seems to have left Shanghai late the previous year. Bauduin noted in a letter from Yokohama, dated December 9, 1872, that “[W. M.] Van der Tak [agent of the Netherlands Trading Company in Yokohama] received a letter from Kroes from his residence near Lucca in Italy. He will have installed himself there, and I do not believe he will return.” From this time forward he appears to have been living in Segromigno, in the Lucca district of Italy.33 His wife’s ill health must have been the reason the family moved, and she passed away in 1876 at Viaréggio in the Lucca region near the west coast of Italy. The last letter we have from A. J. Bauduin to his sister that mentions the Kroes family, dated March 20, 1874, indicates a sense of warmth and sadness: The brother-in-law of Kroes, E. Slaghek, did not do very well at Shanghai. He could not stop drinking, and he was dismissed from the business and also as consul, and he has left for Europe, I suppose for Italy. He does not own anything and is too old to start something new or to recover from his drinking. He is a lost man and a problem for his family. Kroes does not seem to be doing very well on his property in Italy. I am sorry for them, for he always worked very hard and he deserved a quiet old age.

Then, back in Holland in 1880, Kroes remarried, this time a woman with the equally unrelenting name of Vrouwe Joanna Maria Josephina Mulder in Venlo, Limburg; he was fifty-seven at the time and she roughly the same age. They lived out their lives there, and he died in nearby Echt nine years later.

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The chances are strong that through his contacts with such men as A. J. Bauduin and such agencies as the Netherlands Trading Company, Kroes was able to convey his bona fides to the Japanese authorities in Nagasaki. As he indicated in 1862 to the Qing officials in Shanghai, the country he represented had had over two centuries of uninterrupted trade relations with the Japanese, unlike any other Western country. Japan was so far outside the field of vision of the great majority of the Qing officialdom that it was not even aware at the time that China had had even closer ties with Japan throughout those same centuries and had engaged in a far greater volume of trade with Japan; it was just handled by private traders, all of them Chinese. If Kroes knew this particular fact, he clearly kept it to himself, as it was indeed in his commercial interest to do. T. Kroes and Company stood to make a tidy sum of money by fronting for the Japanese as agents.34 When the North-China Herald marked the arrival of the Senzaimaru into the port of Shanghai on June 2, it gave “T. Kroes & Co.” as “consignee” for the vessel under its listing of shipping news, although there is no mention of the Dutchman in the florid editorial welcoming the ship’s appearance on the international commercial scene.35 Kroes continued to broker commercial Sino-Japanese interactions now and again through the 1860s, insofar as his being listed in the North-China Herald as “consignee” for various vessels, mostly Dutch but others as well, would indicate.36 One question that all but asks itself is why a Westerner was needed at all to play the role of intermediary between China and Japan. To be sure, this mission was a momentous “first” to the extent that the Japanese were approaching the Qing government to engage in trade at a Chinese port and open a consulate there, but Chinese had been carry ing goods to exchange at the port of Nagasaki for several centuries. They were not, of course, in any way representatives of the Qing government, and the most recent Chinese merchants traveling to Nagasaki had in fact been the source of some unclear and at the time still-unresolved dispute over money. For their part, the Japanese authorities saw this mission in grandiose, historic terms. They were taking the lead in inaugurating a new era in ties with the Qing regime. They were decidedly not lining up with the Qing or even seeking parity for any diplomatic reason. They were also using the opportunity of this voyage to view how the great imperial and colonial powers from the West were situated within the foreign enclave of Shanghai; in this important sense, these Japanese, as Professor Liu Jianhui has aptly put it in his fine book, Mato Shanhai: Nihon chishikijin no “kindai” taiken (Shanghai, capital city of demons: The “modern” experience of Japa-


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nese intellectuals), “experienced the West for the first time in Shanghai” (“Shanhai de hajimete ‘Seiyo’ o taiken suru”).37 Liu was writing about a number of Japanese who traveled to Shanghai a few years later, but the same holds for our 1862 travelers. As the Tokugawa shogunate dispatched this extraordinary delegation to Shanghai, it was fully cognizant of the fact that it wanted Japan to situate itself among those trading with China. Using a foreign intermediary accentuated Japan’s approach to the issue of international trade and commerce; using a Dutch intermediary allowed recourse to the discourse of the long Dutch-Japanese diplomatic relationship, with Kroes playing the role of a kind of living recommender. Given the healthy cut Kroes was making off the Japanese, he was only too willing to vouch for this group of people he had only just met and can hardly have known at all. He was even prepared to “corroborate” their subterfuge about sailing aboard a Dutch vessel from Japan. Thus, for all these reasons the Japanese eschewed the much longer Sino-Japanese relationship or any sort of embryonic pan-Asianism and opted for the Dutch to vouch for them; the whole system of international relations seemed to all concerned like something created by Westerners, and a Western power (even a relatively minor one) packed more punch than recourse to older narratives of Sino-Japanese amity, a commentary by default on the decline of the Sinosphere as a medium through which to see and arrange state-to-state relations within East Asia. By 1861–62, when this voyage was being contemplated by the Japanese authorities, there were other Western powers with treaties, diplomatic missions, and missionaries in Nagasaki, but the Japanese nonetheless chose to use the Dutch channel. One other consideration is worth raising at this point. The Dutch had been the only maritime European power with access to the Japanese market for over two centuries. The treaties forced on the Tokugawa regime to open a handful of ports by Commodore Perry (1794–1858) and the United States in the 1850s, and taken advantage of by several Western states, effectively meant that the Netherlands would soon lose its monopoly among Westerners of that Japanese market. Needless to say, the Dutch had no way of preventing this loss or of forestalling the wave of Western interest in trading with Japan, but they did have a presence there, a history of trade with Japan, and thus an inside track to the local authorities.38 Documentary evidence is only now coming to light, but undoubtedly Kroes and the Bauduin brothers and other Dutchmen with commercial interests on the scene sensed the pinch they were in and were acting to corner as much of

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the Japanese market as they could before the impact of the multinational Western onslaught would be felt in full. If this speculation is accurate, then they would surely have repeatedly conveyed their special relationship to the Japanese, as they would later convey that bond to the Qing authorities in Shanghai, precisely as we have seen. Micro-histories of this sort help us get a sense of how history was experienced on the ground by the historical actors themselves at the time. When we approach history from a bird’s-eye view, the actual players are scarcely bigger than ants, and their daily lives and concerns usually drop out of the picture altogether. Of course, the way we do history now usually necessitates not paying attention to every single detail but only connecting the most important dots on our historian’s Cartesian coordinates to tell a coherent, “linear” story. Dots that do not fit are routinely ignored, with the explanation that they cannot possibly be important if they fail to fit with the master narrative, and apparently only straight lines connecting dots constitute history. The aim of this essay has been both to paint a microhistorical picture and not lose track of the all-important larger story that initially attracted my attention to this topic: namely, the revival of Sino-Japanese relations in our time. Where does the concept of the Sinosphere as outlined in the Introduction fit in this discussion? On the one hand, the Japanese under the waning Tokugawa regime were already seriously planning the daunting task of entering the modern (that is, Western-dominated) system of state-to-state relations, into which they had been dragged by the Western powers since the middle of the previous decade, but they knew little of what awaited them. A relatively short trip to Shanghai offered a window onto the international system in microcosm. However, with China, the first state the Japanese approached about entering into such an arrangement, they had had a long history of relations, one in which the Sinosphere was the governing rule. On occasion they referred to that older shared tradition, and on occasion they opted for the newer system by referring to their Dutch colleagues. Despite the fact that Tokugawa Japan and Qing China had no diplomatic ties, they had in fact been trading partners and engaging in a large volume of trade. Thus, what the Japan broached in 1862 and culminated in 1871 at the Sino-Japanese Treaty of Amity marks both the first completely equal treaty in the modern system governed by “international” law in East Asia and the first step as Japan began to extricate itself from the Sinosphere.

CHAPTER 3

The Japanese Community of Shanghai: The First Generation, 1862–95

While the first essay in this volume described the long history of SinoJapanese relations through the early nineteenth century, the second examined the various bilateral and international forces at work as late Edo Japan approached Qing China in an effort to restart diplomatic relations on the basis of a Western-derived system that flattered itself with the appellation of “international law.” The latter events took place in the city of Shanghai, and it is there that this essay will look more closely at the development of the Japanese expatriate community during its first generation, roughly contemporaneous with the period from the visit of the Senzaimaru to Shanghai to the first Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95. That war was not fought anywhere near Shanghai, but it did exert an important influence on relations between Chinese and Japanese in Shanghai. The three decades covered here witnessed the building of a Japanese consulate in Shanghai, the first of its kind anywhere in the world, and the emergence of all the trappings of a full-fledged expatriate community with clubs and newspapers, and shops, and religious institutions, and schools, and the like. Had it not been for the rise of Japanese aggression and Chinese nationalism, this community might have evolved into the sort of normal expatriate or ethnic community we now live with in every major city in the West. That, however, was not to be. Once the Japanese military became engaged on mainland Asia after the first Sino-Japanese War and Chinese resentment toward it grew, the whole picture of Sino-Japanese relations began a souring process ending in full-scale war and all its deleterious consequences. Although perhaps not golden by ordinary objective 67

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The Japanese Community of Shanghai

standards, the generation to be discussed at the end of the nineteenth century was nonetheless a brighter shade of yellow than what preceded or followed, if only because the military was largely out of the picture. Did that mean that the Sinosphere retained any of its political, cultural, or organizational vitality from times gone by? In the first essay, I noted that among the first Japanese who ventured to Shanghai in the 1860s were a handful of Japanese painters who studied in the Southern School style at the knee of a real, live Chinese, Hu Gongshou (Yuan, 1823–86). With the exception of Yasuda Rozan (Mamoru, 1830–83), though, they never stayed for more than a few years. Their primary importance was their trailblazing for subsequent travelers from various professions. One related and especially illustrative case involves not a Southern School painter but a Western-style oil painter who came to Shanghai in 1867. The third officially sanctioned mission to Shanghai—after the Senzaimaru and the Kenjunmaru—was a group of nine Japanese who sailed aboard the Ganges, a British steamship, from Yokohama on February 15, 1867.1 The same day that the Ganges left port, a French vessel, the Alphée, carrying a large official Japanese delegation, set sail from Yokohama as well. The latter group, led by Tokugawa Akitake (Minbu, 1853–1910), younger brother of the shogun, was set to attend the international exposition in Paris in an official capacity.2 The two ships arrived in Shanghai on the same day within an hour or two of one another, and as the latter clearly bore men of higher social standing, the nine men of the Ganges who had planned to take rooms at the famous Astor House Hotel had perforce to move to other quarters. Among the Japanese aboard the Ganges was one Takahashi Inosuke (1828–94; later Takahashi Yuichi), who was to become one of the Meiji period’s foremost painters. Years before as a youth, Takahashi had come to the attention of his lord, Hotta Masahira (1795–1854) of Sano domain, through his father Takahashi Genjuro, who was a high-ranking local official. Hotta strongly encouraged him to pursue his work as an artist and accordingly released him from mundane domainal duties to facilitate this.3 In the fall of 1862, Takahashi entered the “Art Office” of the Office of Western Books (Yosho shirabesho, until only four months earlier known as the Bansho shirabesho or Office of Barbarian Books) in Edo under the supervision of Kawakami Togai (1827–81), a pioneering figure in Western-style oil painting.4 On the day after arriving in Shanghai, Takahashi relocated with the entire Japanese group to the large residence of a local businessman and art connoisseur by the name of Wang Renbo, who supported Takahashi’s painting pursuits while the latter resided in Shanghai. He remained in the Chi-


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nese port city, taking side trips to Suzhou and elsewhere in the lower Yangzi delta, for roughly ten weeks before returning to Japan. In addition to a diary, he left a number of sketches of the trip to Shanghai, the harbor, and scenes in the city. During this time, Takahashi had extensive contacts with Chinese painters (including Zhang Zixiang [Zhang Xiong, 1803–86]) and other literati, attended local Chinese theater, met several Japanese then present in Shanghai (such as the ubiquitous Kishida Ginko, 1833–1905, who facilitated the move of Takahashi and the other Japanese to Wang Renbo’s home), and soaked up as much of the local atmosphere as he could.5 However, the impact of this trip on his art or the movement in art in which he played such an important role remains doubtful. Why, one might ask, did Takahashi wish to go to China when he was launching his own career as a Western-style artist? Actually, it was on the orders of his daimyo, who offered as reasons that he “hoped [such a trip would] afford [Takahashi] the opportunity to interact with Western-style painters living” in Shanghai and “to study in his field of learning” (gakka shugyo),6 an expression that sounds almost too vague to be true. In any event, why go to Shanghai to do these things? Was Takahashi expected to perform any other tasks for his lord there? Although the records of his time on the mainland would not lead one to believe that he did anything other than engage in cultural pursuits, the door should be left open for this possibility. In the spring of the next year, 1868, Superintendent for Trade Zeng Guofan (1811–72) noted in a report to the Zongli Yamen that a letter had been received by the new Shanghai daotai, Ying Baoshi (1821–90), from the Nagasaki Magistrate, Kawazu Izu no kami (Kawazu Sukekuni, the last to hold this prestigious position, the most powerful foreign affairs official in Edo period Japan). In this letter it was noted that “in addition to engaging in commerce, [Japanese] people come to China to practice their scholarly skills.” The term for this last expression in the original letter was gakujutsu no denshu, seeming clearly to imply the reason behind the appearance a year earlier of Takahashi Yuichi and his colleagues aboard the Ganges. “But,” Zeng added, “this enables the Japanese to stay on for a longer time in China. It differs from what we have seen heretofore of them selling their goods and then promptly returning home,” definitely a reference to the Senzaimaru and perhaps the Kenjunmaru as well. The Japanese official went on to request of the Shanghai daotai a special passport seal to oversee all Japanese in Shanghai, be they merchants, travelers, or scholars. Zeng was highly circumspect about all of this. He was prepared to allow trade but noted that the Chinese translation of the

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Japanese letter did not clearly convey the meaning of the term gakujutsu no denshu. On the surface, it seemed to mean simply “to engage in research” or “perfect one’s scholarship,” much as one would use that term today to request a student visa, but the Chinese authorities were not satisfied. As Zeng Guofan put it: “They need to clarify what sort of scholarship it is that they wish to pursue.” The Zongli Yamen agreed with Zeng completely.7 Ying Baoshi eventually asked for clarification of the expression gakujutsu no denshu, and he requested a fascinating secondary clarification: “As concerns engaging in scholarship as written in your letter, what sort of scholarship they are engaged in remains unclear. Please indicate whether this is something to be learned from Chinese or to be conveyed to Chinese.” That fall an answer arrived at the Shanghai Customs Office from Sawa Nobuyoshi (1835–73), the Meiji official responsible for diplomatic affairs, in which he attempted to clarify things: “You have asked what sort of learning they wish to engage in. By ‘learning’ we mean that we should like to learn anything that would be beneficial to our land.” Zeng Guofan was more or less placated, as it was clear that Japanese were traveling all over the world to learn foreign languages and gain practical experience to implement in what was then a young Meiji state, although few still remembered China as a site from which the young regime might glean knowledge. But he added the telling proviso: “When you compose a reply, it would be wise to add that those who come here ought to try to study Chinese things. If, however, they try to instruct Chinese people, we should indicate clearly that there will be a need to investigate.”8 I have gone on at length about this case to illustrate just how wary the Chinese were initially—in light of their recent experiences with Western countries—about opening up to the Japanese and to show ultimately how willing they were to allow the Japanese to trade and study in Shanghai, as long as they abided by precedent. In 1864 Daotai Ying Baoshi dug out a law enacted in 1781 to regulate nontreaty countries that had trade relations but were restricted to carry out their commerce solely in Shanghai. Just as they feared, though, once the door was open even a narrow crack, many more would try to jam their foot in and keep it permanently ajar. Within an extremely brief period of time, Japanese of all stripes came to China, specifically to Shanghai, and not just for a few weeks or months. Who were the first to come in any significant numbers? Although they are often euphemistically dubbed camp followers, a term that encompasses more than the group we are about to examine, Japanese prostitutes and


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courtesans were truly camp leaders in the project of immigration to and settlement in Shanghai—probably even arriving before Takahashi Yuichi and Kishida Ginko. Courtesans and Prostitutes

On August 25, 1866, the North-China Herald observed, in its listing of arriving and departing passengers at Shanghai, that two days earlier the Moldavian had entered port from Nagasaki.9 On board were “two Japanese ladies.” A similar announcement concerning “3 Japanese ladies” arriving from Nagasaki aboard the Fei-loong appeared on December 24, 1867, and a third reported on “1 Japanese lady” arriving aboard the same ship on May 16, 1868.10 At a time when the entire Japanese population of Shanghai was minuscule, these notices stick out glaringly. Who were these apparently unaccompanied “ladies”? What could their business have been in Shanghai in the final years of the Edo period and the first months of Meiji? Although we do not even know their names, the term “lady” (even in the quaint, mid-nineteenth-century English of the North-China Herald) was, more likely than not, being used either in ignorance of their actual social status or euphemistically. The women so named were probably extremely enterprising courtesans from the Maruyama or red-light district of Nagasaki who were either seeing the writing on the wall about Nagasaki’s declining future or were just interested in expanding their commercial horizons—more than likely both. The fact that the Nagasaki Magistrate allowed them passage at this time—that is, he was exporting prostitution from his jurisdiction abroad—probably supports the argument that they were, in fact, women of the night. Population figures for the Japanese community of Shanghai in the early Meiji period (from the late 1860s through the early 1880s) indicate roughly two men to every three women; when gender parity was reached in the mid-1880s, the local Japanese population numbered close to 600.11 Inasmuch as it was still rare for businessmen to leave Japan with their entire families, there were clearly a lot of Japanese women in Shanghai unconnected by marriage or maternity to local Japanese men. Indeed, many texts, especially of the prewar era, simply assume that some two-thirds of the resident Japanese women were working as courtesans or prostitutes whose clientele was mostly local Westerners, Japanese, and, increasingly, wealthy Chinese as well.12 By the 1870s and 1880s, the prominence of houses of prostitution run by Japanese had caught the attention of local Chinese commentators. One

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Chinese poem about them of uncertain origin is cited in a number of sources.13 東洋女子古來稀別有風情妙入微狀束不同時俗流偏隨紅紫鬬芳菲

Women from Japan have been rare here since antiquity, For they have a special quality; this is especially wonderful in its detail. They make themselves up and dress differently from contemporary styles, Yet they want people to follow their colors in red and purple so as to compete with the myriad flowers.

As this poem implies, something of the attraction of such Japanese women was their distinctiveness, and their popularity among Chinese and Westerners owed much to the Japanese songs and dances, which none of their clientele understood or likely had seen before. Chinese men who could afford it liked Chinese courtesans who could, in addition to waiting on them, write poetry and sing for them; the refined education of such women seemingly added to the experience. The problem was that, by the late Qing, talented courtesans were no longer easily to be found; they were no longer great writers of poetry or as well educated as their predecessors.14 These Japanese women may not have been any better trained, but their areas of expertise, strange to Chinese ears and eyes, lent something of the exotic and hence alluring to them. This is surely high among the reasons Chinese chose to write about them. The first Japanese courtesan to settle in Shanghai for whom we have a name is a woman known in the sources solely by her professional nom de guerre of Sansan.15 As was the case with virtually all the local Japanese, she too hailed from Nagasaki and arrived in the autumn of 1869. She was initially lionized by Huang Shiquan (1853–1924), an editor with Shenbao, one of the oldest Chinese newspapers in Shanghai and certainly the most prestigious, in an 1883 work on the sights and sounds of the city, especially its demimonde.16 In those fourteen years she had become extremely famous locally and apparently wealthy. By 1882 the number of Japanese courtesans and more common prostitutes had grown well into the hundreds. While Nagasaki still provided the main supply of young women for the Japanese brothels of Shanghai, they also began coming from nearby Shimabara and Amakusa in southern Japan. Morisaki Kazue suggests a number as high as 700–800, and while


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that is almost certainly too high a figure, it does point us to another source of these young women.17 During the same years that enterprising Japanese women came with prospects of improving themselves or their families economically, many others may have been deceived by unscrupulous Japanese with offers of job opportunities that turned into sexual servitude. The early Meiji years were especially harsh times for Japanese villagers, and hunger, starvation, and even child abandonment were widespread. In addition to blatant opportunism, there were apparently instances in which families conspired to manipulate their daughters’ fates. Morisaki recounts an incident reported in the Asahi newspaper for March 1, 1879, of a former samurai family in Kagoshima that ran into dire economic difficulties and applied to the government to ship its female children off to Shanghai, where they would be trained as courtesans; they would return when they were able to support themselves. All of this assumed a thriving brothel business in the Chinese port city. Similarly, once the early Meiji government had banned entrance into courtesanship prior to age fifteen, younger girls headed for the life were often handed over to agents who transported them to the dens of iniquity in Shanghai.18 It would seem at this stage of research on the topic that both discourses on prostitution in East Asia at this time—the victim discourse and the agency discourse—have validity for mid- to late nineteenth-century Shanghai.19 We find references in the sources to women opening brothels and becoming successful madams (the agency discourse), and we find references to decidedly unhappy sex workers forced into their line of work (the victim discourse). Although Shanghai was probably the earliest foreign city to which young Japanese women were brought—even earlier than Vladivostok—the numbers of karayukisan (lit., those who went to China or [more likely] were brought there, the term used for young women transported against their will or in ignorance) were far fewer than elsewhere in the region. Singapore, Harbin, Honolulu, and even San Francisco and elsewhere posted numbers in the thousands. A number of volumes from the period include pictures of a “Toyo chakan” (lit., Japanese teahouse; C. Dongyang chaguan) that show one-half of the room with Chinese waiters and customers drinking tea and one-half with a raised tatami on which a Japanese woman is entertaining a Japanese man. One story bearing a modicum of credibility is that such an establishment opened in the early 1880s when a former cook from the Japanese consulate by the name of Takenaka Bunsaku, having launched his own restaurant selling

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Japanese cakes, which was not doing well, was encouraged to open a teahouse in its stead and to hire only female waitresses aged fifteen or younger. That, he was assured, would bring in Chinese customers as well as Japanese.20 In fact, however, it would appear that “Toyo chakan” became a generic term for Japanese-owned brothels, just as “teahouse” served that generic linguistic purpose. Many of these brothels were located on Sima Road (present-day Fuzhou Road). One source claims that there were sixteen of these concerns in 1880s Shanghai, all but two run by Japanese, with a total of sixty-nine girls working in them.21 As a group, they constituted a distinct Japanese red-light district within the world of Shanghai prostitution, and many of the girls working in them would undoubtedly have been karayukisan. As they became accustomed to the local scene, the more inventive Japanese women began to pattern their courtesan world more and more to elite Chinese tastes. Like prominent Chinese courtesans of the day, they adopted literary affectations, taking names from Chinese literature. The most famous among them was one Baoyusheng (“Baoyu” being a famous character from the novel Dream of the Red Chamber and “sheng” a common suffi x), who reputedly spoke unalloyed Shanghai dialect. Others included Sanbaosheng, Xinguangsheng, Lantianxian, Enuosheng, and the like. The brothels themselves also bore purposefully affected, exotic names, such as Kaidonglou (Tower Opening East [meaning Japan]), Meimanshou (Harmonious Longevity), Yuchuanlou (Tower of the Jade Stream), Yanlige (Pavilion of Resplendent Beauties), Buyunge (Pavilion among the Clouds), Dongmeige (Pavilion of Eastern Beauties), and the like.22 The contemporaneous 1884 Chinese text Shenjiang sheng jing tu (Depictions of famous Shanghai sights) has a chapter entitled “Dongyang miaoji shoubo sanxian” (Charming courtesans from Japan strum the samisen) in which the author distinguishes two types of “Dongying jinü” (Japanese courtesans). First are the “artistic courtesans” (yiji) who “specialize in performing [Japanese] song and dance”; the second are the “erotic courtesans” (seji) whose special talents are self-evident.23 Baoyusheng belonged to the former category, and she worked first at the Meimanshou on Qinghe Lane when she arrived in Shanghai at about twenty years of age. By 1884 it was reported that she had moved to the Huajinli (Village of Colored Brocade) on nearby Sima Road.24 One reason suggested for the large number of Japanese sundry shops in Shanghai in the early years of Japanese migration to the city was to provide for the needs of so many women who strove mightily to retain their physical beauty. The decade ending roughly in 1887 represents the high tide of


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both courtesan culture and prostitution for Japanese in Shanghai. In 1882, the story goes, a gambler by the name of Aoki Gonjiro arrived in Shanghai with several dozen young girls in an effort to launch a full-scale red-light district in the West Ward Road area, where he rented ten or more storefronts. These efforts all came to naught when the Japanese authorities stepped in, began clamping down on prostitution, and saw to it that Aoki was summarily repatriated.25 As early as 1870, when Yanagihara Sakimitsu (1850–94) reported to the Foreign Ministry about conditions in China, he expressed worry about Japanese being ridiculed abroad for their strange clothing and behavior. Thus, “national dignity” made it incumbent on Japanese overseas that they behave themselves according to international norms and not embarrass Japan in the modern international community it was belatedly entering. Three years later, in the spring of 1873, the Foreign Ministry followed this advice by issuing a set of guidelines on behavior abroad, Zairyu hojin kokoroekata kari kisoku (Provisional regulations for Japanese overseas). Among the items listed were the following: only officials might wear weapons; Japanese men and women should wear hats over their hair; women must not walk in public with their arms and legs exposed; and no screaming fights would be tolerated even at home.26 These rules—to which several more were added by the Foreign Ministry late that autumn—have the character of sumptuary laws. However, in 1873 Japanese prostitution was an ancillary issue, not the main one—the point was simply for all Japanese to subtly blend in with the background of multinational cities abroad. At the same time, it should be noted that certain among the Chinese authorities were in the 1870s trying to stop the proliferation of Chinese courtesan houses in both the walled Chinese city and the foreign concessions of Shanghai. These measures would become stricter in the 1880s. On September 24, 1883, the Japanese authorities issued a new set of regulations specifically for Shanghai: Shinkoku Shanhai kyoryu Nihonjin torishimari kisoku (Regulations to manage Japanese overseas in Shanghai, China). These new rules included the following: one had to follow consular guidelines in setting up a restaurant; one should not travel rashly to the Chinese interior without protection; women should not without good reason cut their hair and dress like men; when going out, men and women should be properly attired; and irrespective of hairstyle, one should always wear a hat out-of-doors. Violations of these rules were modest but not insignificant: one to ten days incarceration and a fine of 5 sen to 1 yen, 95 sen.27

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As is often the case with new laws, this later set of regulations may indicate precisely what was transpiring in Shanghai, and it certainly reveals an increased consciousness on the part of the authorities in Tokyo—transmitted to them by the Shanghai consulate—that local behavior required some “management.” Aoki Gonjiro had been returned to Japan the previous year and his Shanghai businesses shut down. In 1884, shortly after the regulations were promulgated, four consular policemen were dispatched to Shanghai to bring the rise of Japanese women of “questionable character” under control.28 From a survey of the Japanese cemetery of Shanghai, which has long since ceased to exist, and other death records in the early 1940s, Okita Hajime discovered that a fair number of young women died in Shanghai between April 1883 and February 1891, a high percentage of them prostitutes.29 What role the authorities played in their deaths or repatriation remains a scholarly desideratum. This process of bringing closer scrutiny and management to Japanese living in Shanghai continued for the rest of the decade, as the state increasingly sought to keep a watchful eye on the everyday life of its citizens abroad. Many prostitutes left Shanghai for Singapore or Hong Kong or elsewhere in China, and some were sent back to Japan. By 1890 there had been a dramatic reduction in their numbers from only a few years before. Despite their best efforts, the authorities were never able to eradicate the phenomenon altogether. As a kind of postscript to the golden age of Japanese courtesan life in Shanghai, Toyama Kagenao noted sarcastically in a Shanghai guidebook published in 1907 that the only Japanese who had been successful in business in these early years of migration to the city were these women of the night.30 The problem was by no means eliminated; a report in the only Japanese newspaper in Shanghai in late 1890, the Shanhai shinpo, carried the following report: Lower-class women and girls from our country are apt not to have scruples about national dignity, leap over the great waves at sea, and come here as expatriates. They open vile and obscene businesses, and for some time past this has been bitterly regretted by people of intelligence. Here in the port [of Shanghai], a number of capable young people have deeply felt this regret. To energetically correct the morals of Japanese abroad, protect [our] dignity, and enhance the appearance of the Yamato people, they have organized a Shanghai Youth Club.31

Four months later, however, the problem had still not been fully solved, at least to the satisfaction of the editors of this same newspaper. In a front-page article about a recent Japanese law to protect Japanese women


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abroad, they noted that Japanese women had set up brothels in every East Asian port city, as well as Vladivostok and elsewhere. Earlier Japanese women who had done this, the article went on, had come from the countryside around the Nagasaki region and had been lured to Shanghai by unscrupulous agents. The stakes were much higher now, for if this practice could be prevented, it would undoubtedly exert a positive influence on Japanese efforts to have their unequal treaties with the Western powers revised. Thus, the editors and those they represented also subscribed to a victim discourse as the root cause of Japanese prostitution in Shanghai.32 Slowly, Japanese society in Shanghai was on the road to being rendered respectable, in spite of itself if necessary.33 Small Businesses and Shop Owners

The major Japanese conglomerates eventually established branch offices in Shanghai, as Mitsui Bussan did in late 1877, but their representatives constituted a small number in the overall expatriate community, and they tended to interact with their Western counterparts in the Concessions rather than with local Japanese society. They also tended to come to Shanghai for relatively short stints and often with the hope that such hazardous duty would enable them to move on to a more prestigious posting in Europe or North America next. By contrast, shopkeepers and proprietors of small businesses often emigrated to Shanghai for the duration, even if they returned earlier than they expected. In late June 1870 the Department of Civil Affairs in the Japanese government sponsored the establishment of the Kaitensha (Office for opening shops), located in the British Concession next door to Union Church. The objective was to encourage and assist Japanese merchants making contacts in Shanghai, not solely with an eye to Chinese commercial trends but also in observation of Western business culture. It also rented out rooms to newcomers. Interestingly, this was still an era prior to the abolition of samurai class status in Japan, and thus certain rooms were reserved for samurai who would not want to mix with the hoi polloi. In addition, the Japanese government used this office to represent itself in negotiations with the Qing authorities. The principal director of the Kaitensha, Shinagawa Tadamichi (1841–91), was well suited for the job, coming from a line of Dutch interpreters in Nagasaki and fluent in English as well. He had been sent to Shanghai in late 1868 to investigate an incident surrounding a group of Chinese who had been counterfeiting Japanese currency there.

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In October 1870 he was given powers to negotiate on behalf of all Japanese in Shanghai, and a Shanghai Agency Office of Japan was opened within the Kaitensha. This was the forerunner of the Japanese consulate, and Shinagawa’s early work involved filing reports on local conditions and the activities of Japanese there. He also helped prepare the stage for the delegation from Japan in 1870 that was itself making preparations for the signing of the Sino-Japanese Treaty of Amity the following year. Leading this group, which arrived in early August 1870, Yanagihara Sakimitsu carried letters of introduction to many Western consuls and missions in Shanghai from their corresponding institutions in Tokyo. Because the treaty negotiations with the Qing authorities were held in secret, his surface mission was to investigate the handling of customs affairs in Shanghai, and in this connection he met with the circuit intendant, Tu Jiaying. Although he was only in Shanghai for twenty days before leaving for Beijing, Yanagihara wanted to firm up trade ties with Qing China and to help Japanese merchants who were then dependent on foreign merchants in Shanghai in matters related to payment of levies and customs duties.34 The first Japanese chosen as Shanghai consul was a lifelong military man, Ida Yuzuru (1838–89), who served for only a few months in 1873. Soon thereafter Shinagawa became consul, and there he served for just shy of fifteen years.35 Among his staff members was an interpreter by the name of Kumashiro Encho (from the Ministry of the Treasury), about whom the Chinese official Chen Qiyuan (1811–81), who became Shanghai district magistrate in 1871, wrote in a section of an 1875 work on the major differences between Chinese and Western customary practices: “We have recently exchanged treaties with Japan, and their acting consular official Kumashiro Encho is highly respectful. He said to me: ‘In my country, we read Chinese books, write in the Chinese script, and practice [similar] rituals. We were originally one [big] family.’ ”36 The first Japanese shop to fall under the protection and observation of the Kaitensha was a small pottery store selling Hizen ware, known as the Tashiroya, established in 1868 by Tomonaga Genpei (1838–93). Tomonaga had been adopted into the Tashiro family, taken the surname, and inherited the shop. It was located on Suzhou Road, and the earliest photo of any Japanese in Shanghai is of Genpei wearing traditional garb, sword, and an umbrella. In the next year or two, as preparations for and the actual signing of Sino-Japanese accords transpired, many important Japanese would pass through Shanghai. There being no suitable accommodations for them, the Tashiroya was expanded to include inn rooms.37


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Although the Tashiroya was the only Japanese business concern in Shanghai until 1870, that did not mean that Japanese were refraining from engaging in business. Even before Japanese began legally to set foot in Shanghai, some Japanese goods—dried shrimp, shark fin, camphor, fine white thread, and konbu (seaweed)—were already being transported on foreign vessels to the Chinese city. According to Okita Hajime, Chinese and foreigners had already acquired a taste for Hizen ware and certain other Japanese products before they actually met a Japanese. For example, in 1859 a shop known as the Shanghai Toilet Club opened on Dama Road, and it carried Japanese products and later employed several Japanese workers. Apparently Genpei’s adoptive father observed from afar this developing taste among foreigners for things Japanese and sent his son to Shanghai to set up shop.38 In 1869 Higashikuze Michitomi (1833–1912), head of the newly founded Hokkaido Development Office, sent a man to Shanghai and Hong Kong to prepare a report on prospects for exporting marine produce, especially konbu, from Japan’s northernmost island there. The report noted that there were millions to be made and enthusiastically supported Japan’s ceasing to employ foreign intermediaries, who were skimming a percentage off the top, to handle the goods. In fact, Western merchants, like Henry Richardson (see the second essay in this volume), had recognized an opening when they saw that Japan would soon be having several new ports available for shipping into and out of, and they moved into the void with alacrity. Hakodate, located in southernmost Hokkaido across the Tsugaru Straits from Honshu, was opened to trade in 1859, and almost immediately Western and Chinese merchants were knocking at the door to engage in commerce there—five years before the Hakodate Magistrate would send his first mission to China in 1864. Hokkaido had a virtually endless supply of konbu to sell, and perhaps even more than opium, the Chinese had rapidly developed a real taste for it. One story goes that on the very day that Hakodate opened for trade, the American vessel Moray and the British vessel Eliza Mary sailed into port. Sailing aboard the latter, the English merchant Aston and his Cantonese assistant Chen Yusong came calling at a well-known local marine produce wholesaler by the name of Yanagida Tokichi (1837–1909). Presumably through brush conversation, Chen asked if the locals had any haidai, but no one on the Japanese side knew what that was. Eventually, they rousted a local scholar out of bed who was able to explain that haidai was what the Chinese called konbu. Chen returned two months later and bought up many tons of konbu for sale on the Shanghai market, where the price

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dramatically fell. In short order, konbu ceased being a luxury item difficult to obtain, for now even coolies could afford it.39 The first Japanese merchant in Shanghai, Tomonaga Genpei, left China in 1879, returning to Nagasaki, where he ran a coal business. In 1885 the Tashiroya passed into the hands of one Kaneko Kenjiro, and later still Kodachi Yozo used the name for an inn he ran in the Hongkou section of the city, where many Japanese would eventually settle; later still it was the name of a sweetshop and after that a general store located northwest of Sima Road. The oldest-running Japanese inn for the entire pre–World War II period was the Towa yoko. Opened in December 1886 on Tiema Road, it was run by Yoshijima Tokuzo; several years later it moved and changed ownership. It was here at its newer site in 1894 that the famous Korean radical Kim Ok-kyun (1851–94) was murdered. The next oldest was the Tokiwa Inn, founded in October 1888 and initially operated by Tokiwa Chotaro along Nanxun Road. Others were founded in the 1890s. Also, a number of other small shops, following the lead of the Tashiroya, offered lodgings. The earliest of these were the Arakiya and the Kowataya, both founded in 1871, and the Kiyogo, founded the next year. These last three stores were variety or sundries shops that also occasionally sold ceramics. Araki Shichiro opened his shop in May 1871, although it closed its doors by the end of the year; the Kowataya opened for business in December 1871 but closed the same month. The Kiyogo opened the next month, January 1872, on Dama Road, with help from Nagasaki Prefecture, and was initially run by a family named Ueno and eventually by one of them, Ueno Yasaburo, until his death in 1886, after which it soon closed its doors; it also accepted goods on consignment for sale. Other shops of this sort opened in the 1870s and 1880s—Arima yoko, Eishogo, and Ryugengo, among others—but none of them lasted more than a few years, several barely a few months. Two trends are immediately evident in these examples: shops of this sort almost always failed within a relatively short time; and they were, more often than not, multipurpose enterprises—with diversified holdings, as we might now put it. For example, the Yano Inn on Dama Road was owned by Yano Fukutaro, while his wife ran the operation on a daily basis and sold eggs out of the inn on the side.40 In addition to such sundries shops, Japanese in these early decades also opened stores selling wine, soy sauce, marine produce, medicines, shoes, paper goods, and clothing, and stores offering such professional ser vices as photography, restaurants, doctors, barbering, and printing. Most were gen-


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eral stores, with a small handful of these other sorts, but few lasted more than three years, inasmuch as their owners had little capital to work with, most of which was expended in their opening and initial capitalization expenses. A volume published in 1915 listed 104 Japanese businesses in Shanghai, almost all of which, the author noted, were founded after the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5, and only nine of which predated 1887. Many of this second generation were actually branches of Japan-based shops, indicating greater capital, though most remained small, selling primarily to local Japanese.41 A number of shops, such as we have seen with the Kiyogo, were able to gain support from one or another state agency back home, which enabled them to remain in business longer. The early Meiji government sought to encourage direct exports, largely as a means of acquiring foreign currency—a familiar strategy for developing economies—as a means of paying back foreign loans incurred at this time. For example, in 1876 the Ministry of Home Affairs underwrote the establishment of the Kogyo shokai (Commercial development association) of Hakodate under Kasano Kumakichi to help Japanese merchants compete with their Chinese counterparts in bringing Japanese exports to Chinese markets. The Shanghai branch, Kogyo yoko, run by Kudo Kotaro, lasted from August 1876 through April 1891 and pushed such delectables as konbu, boiled sea cucumber, and dried abalone on the local market. A similar goal lay behind the establishment by the Hokkaido Development Office in June 1873 of the Kaitsugo in the French Concession on the Shanghai Bund; the Hokkaido Development Office, as I have noted, had been created in 1869 by the Meiji government to develop Japan’s northernmost island, and the Kaitsugo was designed, with 600,000 yen of capitalization, to encourage the direct sales of Hokkaido goods on the Shanghai market. Until this point, there had been no lack of Chinese interest in Hokkaido’s marine produce—quite the contrary—but Chinese merchants had been coming in droves to Hakodate and were dominating the local market. Thus, Japanese commercial officials believed that it was incumbent upon Japan’s own traders to bring their exports directly to Shanghai buyers. To that end, the Hokkaido Development Office placed two government purveyors by the name of Enomoto Rokubee, a wealthy merchant from Edo, and Kimura Mankichi, a local businessman, in Shanghai to open the Kaitsugo, but the arrangement lasted only eighteen months.42 A similar sort of arrangement was put together in April 1877 by one Suematsu Gunpei with support from the Japanese Ministry of Finance to export

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soy sauce to China. This project, unsurprisingly, failed miserably within two months. There was a similar story behind the creation in 1876 of the Choyokan, an indigo production site, by Godai Tomoatsu (1835–85), one of the passengers fourteen years earlier aboard the Senzaimaru—he actually traveled on that occasion incognito as a deckhand. Godai wanted both to prevent the importation of foreign indigo and to encourage the direct export of Japanese indigo. The Choyokan had a number of branches in Japan, and in 1878 or 1879 it set up the first one overseas in Shanghai, called Tsue yoko, but it disbanded in 1882. One final case in this vein is that of Nagasaki Prefecture, which offered assistance to the aptly named Kiyoken selling sundries (a perennial favorite), marine produce, and ceramics; it opened in 1872, aimed at expanding the Nagasaki market, and closed in 1886.43 Government- or civic-sponsored export associations had mixed success on the Shanghai market, largely a function of the need or desire for the product imported from Japan and the amount of capitalization offered. Indigo was less a hit than konbu, for example, and soy sauce a complete failure. The trends here seem to reflect a world of bilateral trade—free from the threat of force—that ideally marks an open market. With this mixed record of the direct export policy, the Meiji government later directed the Agriculture and Commerce Ministry to concentrate its efforts in exporting and selling konbu on Chinese markets. To this end, in July 1889 that ministry established the Hokkaido Konbu Company with a Shanghai branch in the French Concession under the supervision of Akakabe Jiro, and it lasted until 1907. Cataloguing the successes and failures of all the many Japanese shops, even just for these early years, would be impossible, but one further case is especially interesting. The two professions for which local Japanese enjoyed the best reputations overall in Shanghai were photographers and doctors. The first Japanese photographer’s studio was opened in May 1882 by Suzuki Chushi (1849–1907) at the corner of Sima Road and Henan Road in the British Concession. He was a disciple of Suzuki Shin’ichi (1835–1919) in the new field of photography in Japan and the first to take the profession abroad. His shop was generally considered the finest camera and photo shop in Shanghai at the time, and Suzuki prospered, moving the shop several times and taking on a number of assistants. He returned to Japan a highly successful man in 1890, after passing on his techniques to Sato Denkichi, who opened his own shop on Nanjing Road and also proved himself to be a successful businessman. Somewhat later, in 1891, the famed Ueno Hikoma (1838–1904) opened his own shop in Shanghai, a branch of his famed Naga-


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saki studio, but he did not long remain on the continent. Ueno had pioneered Japanese photography, secretly studying the chemistry of photo developing through Dutch-language texts after he met the Dutch doctor J. L. C. Pompe van Meerdervoort (1829–1908), following the latter’s arrival (with his own camera and manual) in Nagasaki in 1857, and subsequently opening the first photo shop in Japan. It was at his Nagasaki studio that many iconic images of the great late Edo period samurai all had their photos taken.44 Japanese economic development in Shanghai started slowly at best. Land was extremely expensive, even to rent, and domestic commercial networks were, as expected, dominated by the Chinese. These conditions help explain why the initial thrusts onto the Shanghai market were those of small general or sundries shops and why so many failed. Bigger or longer-lasting ventures required more capital than individuals usually had. The land Japanese eventually found they could afford was in the underdeveloped Hongkou area, which was also at that time peripheral to most of the commercial action. By the end of the century, more and more Japanese retail shops began appearing in Shanghai, but by then a generation had already passed. Branches of Big Businesses

As might be expected, the major Japanese combines had much deeper pockets, and when they set up in Shanghai, it was with a longer-term vision. Mitsubishi was the first to do so in February 1875, with its oceangoing shipping wing. In the early Meiji era, when the Pacific Mail Steamship Company of the United States dominated most East Asian shipping lanes in the Yokohama-Kobe-Nagasaki-Shanghai nexus, Mitsubishi broke in with courier ships, such as the Tokyomaru, the Genkaimaru, and the Nagoyamaru, between Shanghai and Kobe.45 Ferocious competition ensued for passengers, especially in the Yokohama-Kobe route but with an impact on routes to Shanghai as well, and as a result fees for the Kobe-Shanghai lanes dropped dramatically. Mitsubishi was receiving government support in these early years, which enabled it to outlast its U.S. competitor despite incurring considerable losses at first; in fact, the government gave it the Tokyomaru free of charge in 1875. Soon, though, Britain’s Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company got into the mix, and again rates dropped sharply. Despite the fact that the P&O was much wealthier and more powerful than Pacific Mail, it too had pulled out by the end of 1876. A decade later, in October 1885, with the intercession of the Japanese government, Mitsubishi merged with

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the Kyodo Unyu Company to form the Japan Mail Steamship Company as part of a concerted effort to dominate these shipping lanes. By the early 1880s, Japanese shipping did indeed dominate the Shanghai market, with 154 steamships and 41 sail ships coming to port in 1882; Britain was second with 54 and 1, respectively. The price of a first-class cabin between Nagasaki and Shanghai in January 1889 was 20 yen one way, 30 yen round-trip; a second-class cabin round-trip went for 12.5 yen, and third class for 5 yen. These fares represented figures about 30 percent less expensive than the Yokohama-Nagasaki passenger fares.46 As indicated by the Meiji regime’s political and capital support to Mitsubishi in these early days, the Shanghai consulate was always, and usually openly, tied to Japanese commercial interests in the city. This was accentuated by the national policy of enriching the nation and strengthening the military. For a brief period of time from July 1882 through October 1883, a monthly Shanhai shogyo zappo (Shanghai commercial reports) was published in the city by a conglomerate (founded in late 1879) of local Japanese business concerns; it carried primarily commercial news, facts and figures for Japanese businessmen in China and for those contemplating a venture there, and relevant translations from the foreign press.47 Many different commodities were imported to Shanghai from Japan, but none was more important than Japanese coal. Coal from the Takashima mines in Nagasaki Prefecture was exported in enormous quantities to Chinese ports, none more so than to Shanghai. Competing initially with British and Australian coal in the late 1860s and early 1870s, Japanese coal rose to occupy 50 percent of the Shanghai market by 1875, a year in which over 25,000 tons were imported there. The North-China Herald for June 24, 1876, reported that Japanese coal was “the principal supplier of the Shanghai coal market.” In the 1880s the output from other mines such as Miike competed with that of Takashima. China began to produce its own coal slowly from these years, but even as late as the late 1890s, 70 percent of imported coal in Shanghai still came from Japan.48 The primary use for coal in these years was to power steamships, and the efficiency and high quality of Japanese coal, as well as the relatively lower cost of transporting it from Nagasaki to Shanghai, gave Takashima coal (in the mid-1870s) and Miike coal (in the mid-1880s) the clear edge on the Shanghai market. In the 1890s, however, especially following the war with Japan, China’s own Kaiping coal appeared on the Shanghai market at the same or even less expensive prices as imported Japanese coal.49


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The Mitsui Corporation established a branch at No. 6 Guangdong Road in Shanghai, its first overseas, in December 1877, two years after Mitsubishi, but the first major Japanese company to do business on Chinese soil. The following year, 1878, it opened a branch in Hong Kong as well. Shanghai was slated to be Mitsui’s base of operations for commercial expansion throughout East Asia. The Shanghai branch was supported in the first instance by the importation and sale of Miike coal on the local market; it was the “exclusive agent of the [Japanese] government-owned Miike Coal Mine.”50 Initially, it was run by Ueda Yasusaburo, a man of humble origins who remained in Shanghai for fifteen years and served as well as the agent for the Tokyo Marine Insurance Company. Ueda had studied business and languages in the United States and entered Mitsui Bussan when it was founded in 1876. When he went to set up the Shanghai branch the next year, he consulted with Consul Shinagawa, who advised him that it was much preferable to establish a branch in Shanghai rather than an independent business, probably because Shinagawa had already seen many morning-glory businesses, and Ueda maintained an ongoing relationship—much of it sub rosa—with the Japanese consulate for years. He also had close ties with Chinese officials. One Japanese consular report from Shanghai dating to the late 1880s attempted to explain the generally laggard quality of local Japanese merchants: “At this time, Japanese residents [in Shanghai] are but a handful of sundries shopkeepers, aside from the consulate and the Mitsui and Yusen companies . . . The foreign merchants in their majestic mansions lined up in the American, British, and French Concessions swagger about, and the Japanese are extremely ashamed. On Sichuan Road in the British Concession, however, Mitsui with its single golden sign gives us a heartening sensation.” By the late 1880s, wherever there was a Japanese consulate in China— Fuzhou, Hong Kong, Xiamen, Tianjin, Niuzhuang, Zhifu, Hankou, and Guangzhou—there was also to be found a branch of Mitsui. It was by far the most widespread of all Japanese businesses there, while retaining its base as a trading firm in Shanghai. Initially, Mitsui was mostly concerned with importing Miike coal from Kyushu to Shanghai and elsewhere. The Mitsui employees quickly saw that not only the Chinese markets but also the Asian regional markets were controlled by Chinese merchants in an intricate web of networks. Rather than resigning itself to working through compradors, then, Mitsui tried to learn from and make its own contacts directly with Chinese merchants, which meant that it needed specialists trained in Chinese business practices and Chinese language. It thus selected

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middle-school graduates and sent them to China for periods of study and observation; there they acquired and improved language skills and learned firsthand the customs of the land. Only after such an often lengthy period of training did their personnel enter the Mitsui Company, later to be assigned to branches in China.51 The Buddhist Establishment

Western merchants and missionaries often came to China in the nineteenth century as part of the same unholy bargain. In form, though perhaps not in content, a similar affliction oddly intruded on Chinese soil with the latecomer Japanese, again first in Shanghai. Buddhism in the early Meiji period was feeling the heat of the anti-Buddhist, emperor-centered sentiment in Japan associated with the Meiji Restoration; if it was to continue to exist and grow, it needed to repackage itself and align with the new centralized state and prominent politicians who might offer support. Only one sect of Buddhism, the True Pure Land sect, attempted in early Meiji to proselytize the faith abroad, with predictably dismal results. The connections it forged with the political world continued well into the twentieth century. The True Pure Land sect or Jodo shinshu was founded by the monk Shinran (1173–1263) in the thirteenth century. At the start of the Edo period, Tokugawa Ieyasu (1543–1616) split the sect’s main temple, Honganji, into Eastern (Higashi) and Western (Nishi) branches to decrease its power. In June 1873, early in the Meiji era, Ogurusu Kocho (1831–1905) traveled to Shanghai and later to Beijing to study Chinese language, examine the state of contemporary Buddhism there, and prepare for the project of proselytizing on behalf of the Higashi Honganji. He returned to Japan in the summer of 1874. Less than two years later, he met with Foreign Minister Terajima Munenori (1832–93) in Tokyo in what turned out to be a highly successful effort to secure political support for its project of spreading the True Pure Land faith overseas.52 In July 1876 Ogurusu and several others from the Higashi Honganji establishment departed for Shanghai with the head priest’s blessing: You are now setting off for China to spread the faith. This is a major undertaking of unprecedented proportions. That our True Pure Land should be the first of all the sects in this is truly a credit to our sect. This was the long-cherished wish of our founder and many others over the years. Only a few great priests in olden times traveled to China to learn the principles


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of the faith. When the fortunes of the faith are not on the rise, such as is the case at present, going to China to proselytize is an especially fortuitous moment. Thus, all the more, raising the maxims of its goodness may bring about a higher level of awareness and study. If we should fail, it will mean disaster for only one sect. Should it give rise to a national calamity, we shall, dashing forward impetuously and diligently, protect the true heart of the sect without any abrupt shifts and increasingly give glory to our founder’s ethic in respectability and amply achieve the long-cherished desire. 53

The grand mission to return the flow of the Buddhist wave back to the mainland was aimed at stemming the tide of the expansion of Christianity in Asia, finding an outlet for Buddhism at a time when it was under attack at home, and launching a first volley in the Meiji era for Buddhism in the domestic and foreign political arenas. Upon arriving in Shanghai, the first travelers initially stayed at the Tashiroya, set up shop in a corner of the Japanese consulate, another indication of their ties to the political establishment but interesting coinciding with a time when Buddhism was decidedly not in favor at home, and hired a Chinese man as their language teacher. The betsuin or branch temple opened officially on August 12, with Tani Ryonen as chairman and Ogurusu as executive director, at rented quarters at No. 498 Beijing Road; the Chinese referred to it as the Dongyang miao or “Japanese Temple.” Present at the founding ceremony were Consul Shinagawa Tadamichi, along with others from the consulate, several military officers, including Lieutenant Sone Toshitora (1847–1910) of the Japanese navy, representatives of Mitsubishi and several of the smaller Japanese shops, and an assortment of other officials and laypeople; on the Chinese side, Kongshan, abbot of the Longhua Temple, led a delegation of eighteen.54 As the search for a reasonably priced piece of land continued, a small group of students, all aged sixteen to twenty-one, soon arrived from Japan and enrolled in the betsuin school, called the Koso kyoko (Jiangsu School), at first studying primarily Chinese language. In content similar to the contemporaneous Mitsui Corporation’s training plans for its agents in China, the Jiangsu School set as its first goal: “This school is to be established to create teachers who can instruct people far away in the language of the great Qing state . . . The most important task is to be fluent in Chinese.” Without fluent language skills, they were implying, the project of proselytizing was certain to fall flat. Thus, young students were ideal, because

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youth was the best time to learn language, memorize Buddhist scripture, and, upon graduation, be sent off to preach.55 Initially, the objectives of proselytizing were twofold: to convert the Chinese to the True Pure Land sect and, secondarily, to offer spiritual nourishment for Japanese living in Shanghai. The Higashi Honganji staff was well aware of the fact that the Chinese already had considerable experience with Buddhism, but Jodo Shinshu as a sect was a Japanese innovation and, in its current guise, a vehicle for pan-Asian solidarity. As time passed and the Chinese were not joining the movement in significant numbers, these two goals were reversed—officially so in 1883—and the inner precincts of the betsuin were actually closed to Chinese. The general trend of these developments only reinforced the close relationship between the Japanese state and the Higashi Honganji establishment abroad, and underscores the telling difference between genuine pan-Asianism and discursive pan-Asianism. The Nichiren sect and the Nishi Honganji went through similar transformations a few years later, when they switched from primarily addressing their respective messages to the Chinese to doing so to the locally resident Japanese. The Shanghai betsuin plodded on, as it would through to the end of World War II, opening an orphanage for young Japa nese children in September 1877 and an elementary school in 1885, although both closed after a number of years. It was also involved in the opening of a hospital in July 1877, beginning a long association with the Japanese medical profession in Shanghai. In January 1888 the Kaido Elementary School was opened on the grounds of the betsuin with only ten students, using textbooks brought from Nagasaki; it was to be run in line with directives of the Japanese Ministry of Education for children of the still-small Japanese community of Shanghai, following guidelines set down several years earlier with the revamping and nationalization of education in Japan. In 1891 this first Japanese primary school in Shanghai had twenty-five pupils. This was a time when the expatriate community was only beginning to become a genuine demographic reflection of domestic Japanese society with full families, thus necessitating that all the appropriate educational institutions be put in place. Tellingly, one of the regular functions turned over by the consulate to the betsuin in October 1876 was keeping the local death register and overseeing the Japanese cemetery.56 Through the early years, the late 1870s and early 1880s, the Higashi Honganji attempted to open branches elsewhere in China—Beijing, Hangzhou, Suzhou, and later many other places—but these did not fare well at first. The main branch in Shanghai was itself dying on the vine by 1881,


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with numerous personnel changes, decreasing aid from Kyoto, and a demotion in status in August from “branch temple” to “branch office” (shutchojo). Then, under the leadership of Shirao Giten, one of the first group of betsuin students who had joined its board in 1878, slowly circumstances began to change for the better from the early 1880s. Plans to build the betsuin’s own buildings started to cohere on land that had earlier been purchased in the Hongkou area of the city. A hired Chinese architect set to work on the main temple hall and priests’ quarters in May 1883, and by mid-September all the structures were completed, and all in a pure Chinese style so as not to stand out among the surrounding buildings. Completion coincided with the change in the object of proselytizing, as instructed from Kyoto, and from this time forward Shirao, who traveled back and forth to the home temple in Japan, frequently entertained visiting Chinese monks. It was in 1883 that the betsuin made contact with the great Chinese classical scholar Yu Yue (Quyuan, 1821–1907), who was early that year completing his major collection of poetry written in literary Chinese by Japanese, Dongying shixuan (Japanese poetry collection). A report on activities of the Shanghai betsuin from late summer 1885 was carried to the main temple hierarchy in Kyoto and met with its approval, and plans for the revival of activities in Shanghai were launched.57 The following year found a new board in place and a full panoply of activities beginning at the betsuin. These included lecture series, help for the sick and for refugees, and various adult education initiatives. Some monetary support was provided by the Mitsui Company’s branch office, and relations continued with various local stores and shopkeepers and various local military men, such as Shiba Goro (1860–1945) of the army and Sone Toshitora of the navy.58 Contacts with and support from military personnel and politicians formed the political foundations of the betsuin and may help explain, but only in part, the strong support voiced by the local Jodo shinshu activists at the time of the first war with China in 1894. As more energy and money were invested in the activities of the betsuin, it grew to become an important center for Japanese in Shanghai even if they were not, in the first instance, driven to go there for religious reasons—much in the same way as houses of religious worship serve as social centers today in North America and elsewhere. In the feverish pro-Western atmosphere of early Meiji, a number of more traditionalist-minded groups looked for links to mainland Asian culture. Buddhism was one obvious route to follow, and the True Pure Land sect and the Higashi Honganji were the first to exploit this avenue. The patriarch in

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charge of the Higashi Honganji in early Meiji, Gonnyo (1817–94), believed that one reason for China’s national decline was the apparent decline of Buddhism there. Thus, encouraging the spread of Buddhism in China would not only reinvigorate it in a hostile climate back home, but it would also constitute an effort to repay a historical debt to the Chinese as the source of Japanese Buddhism; Korea still largely represented an afterthought, but it would become an object of True Pure Land proselytizing soon. Recognizing the impact that the unequal treaties that China had been compelled to sign with Western countries had had in strengthening the Christian missionary effort there, some in the Buddhist movement in Japan were a bit miffed that the 1871 Treaty of Amity with China made no similar provisions for Buddhism. Others, such as Shishido Tamaki (1829–1901), argued that this was unnecessary because both China and Japan were already Buddhist countries. Kikuchi Shugen of the betsuin staff was, by contrast, a strong advocate of demanding the “right” (ken) to proselytize in China, as Western missionaries had acquired that “right” and burdened the Chinese with responsibility for ensuring their safety, but this movement did not surface in negotiations with the Chinese until Japan’s military victory in 1895.59 While other Buddhist and even Shinto sects would attempt to proselytize in China, as I have noted, the earliest and most active remained the Higashi Honganji. Why the True Pure Land sect was less successful in the early Meiji years and much more successful later has much to do with the revival of interest and support of the home temple and the “most-favored-nation” status won in the first Sino-Japanese War. The latter enabled it to move into other Chinese cities where foreigners were legally not supposed to tread, such as Nanjing, but where American and French missionaries had long been active. In its early years, the Higashi Honganji establishment worked hard not to offend Chinese sensibilities: the Japanese flag was never flown over the betsuin in Shanghai, except on major holidays; Ogurusu and others demonstrated a keen interest in Chinese Buddhist and Confucian temples; language was taught before religion; and, perhaps most important, Chinese converts had a property requirement that ordinary Japanese city dwellers frequently could not meet. There were as well political impediments, some systemic, that made the entire Buddhist expansionist project untenable from the start. The centrality of Japan to the proselytizing effort, needless to say, fell flat among Chinese. As the betsuin director Tani Ryonen put it in a poem of 1876: “We are about to transform the five continents of the world, as we start with the 400 prefectures of China”; and Ogurusu wrote that same year of “convert-


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ing Chinese priests of all sects to [Jodo] Shinshu.” Second, for all their claims of building a united Buddhist edifice, the betsuin activists worked just as hard on the ground clarifying the differences between Chinese and Japanese Buddhism and trying to attract Chinese specifically to Jodo Shinshu. Lack of stable funding was a perennial issue for the betsuin through its first few decades and was not solved until major financial support came its way, as we have seen.60 Japanese Educational and Research Institutions

We have seen the early concern for Japanese children’s education on the part of the Higashi Honganji in Shanghai, leading to the establishment of an elementary school. The first Japanese sojourners and settlers in Shanghai were usually either men or women without their immediate families. The only Japanese who intended to avail themselves of the educational opportunities available in Shanghai—or anywhere else in China—in the first Meiji decades were scholars, poets, and painters who specifically sought Chinese learning in these areas. No one was prepared to release their children, however, into the local Chinese educational institutions, which, in any case, were geared to the civil ser vice examinations, and I have never come across a case of Japanese enrolling their children in a Western missionary school. In fact, the first public Japanese elementary school would not be founded until 1907, this one by the Japan Residents Association of Shanghai, which from around this time took over management of local education for children from Japan.61 The first Japanese school, unaffiliated with the Higashi Honganji, known as the Toyo gakkan (Japanese school), opened in 1883 on Zhapu Road. Its founders were associated with the Popular Rights Movement in Japan at the time: Haseba Sumitaka (1854–1914), Munakata Masashi (1854–1918), Izumi Kunihiko (1849–1913), Arai Go (1858–1909), and Suzuki Manjiro (1860– 1930), among others. The school aimed principally at teaching its pupils Chinese and English, but closed after only a few months. An institution created as a kind of extension of this school in 1884 was the Ajia gakkan on Kunshan Road. Its founders were all ardent young men, many of whom were deeply involved in the Popular Rights Movement and later various pan-Asian groups—such as Sugita Teiichi (1851–1920), Hiraoka Kotaro (1851–1906), Suehiro Shigeyasu (Tetcho, 1849–96), Nakae Chomin (1847– 1901), Haseba Sumitaka again, Baba Tatsui (1850–88), Sassa Tomofusa (1854–1906), and Kusakabe Masakazu. The Ajia gakkan was to be an institute

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dedicated to studying East Asian issues and to training the next generation of pan-Asian-minded men. Although it closed within a year, it set the stage for a similar institution of more lasting import and influence.62 Because of the pioneering work of Marius Jansen (1922–2000), among others, the story of the founding of the Nis-Shin boeki kenkyujo (Institute for Sino-Japanese trade) by Arao Kiyoshi (Sei, 1859–96) in Shanghai in September 1890 is well known in the West.63 Nonetheless, more recent research has clarified and opened up many issues on this and related Sino-Japanese ventures, coloring in shades of gray where black and white used to reign. The principal objective of Arao’s first trip to Shanghai in April 1886 was to meet the extremely colorful and fascinating character Kishida Ginko. Kishida played a pivotal role in Arao’s life, and thus we need to set the stage by examining Kishida’s early and manifold activities in Shanghai a bit more closely. Although to some he may be more famous as the father of the Taisho period painter Kishida Ryusei (1891–1929), Kishida père played an extremely important role in early Sino-Japanese relations of the modern era. Before his first trip to China in the waning years of the Edo period, he had already lived several lives. Born into a samurai family, he was trained early on as a traditional scholar of Chinese learning (or Kangaku). Later, he worked for a time as a farmer and for many years as a merchant. In his early thirties, he began suffering from a serious eye affliction and was rapidly losing his sight. From the work of Japanese specialists in the field of the history of pharmacology, we now know that his disease was probably a deterioration of the ophthalmic nerve. At the time, 1864, neither Chinese nor Dutch medicine offered a cure for patients presenting with this disease. His friend and noted legal scholar Mitsukuri Rinsho (1846–97) suggested that he visit Dr. James C. Hepburn’s (1815–1911) clinic in Yokohama. Hepburn had developed a treatment for Kishida’s ailment, and it worked on his eyes like a charm, curing him within a week’s time. A graduate of Princeton College and the University of Pennsylvania Medical School with a specialty in ophthalmology, Hepburn was convinced that there were too many doctors and too much unhealthy competition among them in the United States. Better, he believed, to move to a country where his ser vices would truly be needed and appreciated. Many choices were then available, but Hepburn opted for a land in which as well Christianity was still largely unknown. After working for a time in Singapore in the early 1840s, he practiced in New York City before moving to Japan in


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1859 and opening his clinic in Kanagawa. Kishida found the good doctor several years later in Yokohama. Just at this juncture in time, the mid-1860s, Hepburn was beginning to prepare his groundbreaking Japanese-English dictionary. In Kishida, he discovered a man who, by virtue of his varied past experience from China studies to farming, made available to Hepburn knowledge of an extraordinary range of linguistic registers in Japanese. His sight restored, Kishida was in no small debt to Hepburn, and he agreed to assist the doctor full-time in compiling this dictionary. A draft was completed in late summer 1866, but Hepburn then realized that there was no printer in Japan who could handle movable type—it was all still woodblock printing there. On October 27, 1866, Dr. and Mrs. Hepburn, as well as Kishida, boarded the Cadiz (an 816ton Pacific and Oriental steamer) for Shanghai. Printing of the dictionary took place at the American Presbyterian Mission Press (Hua-Mei shuguan), then under the direction of William Gamble (1830–86). One would expect a missionary press in China to have access to movable type for Chinese characters and the roman alphabet, but what about the kana syllabaries? In fact, the Mission Press had had the capacity since 1861 to print kana, as it prepared to spread the word to the only recently opened Japan. But were there any Japanese in Shanghai in 1861 who could help in such a venture? It may have been the case that Kyukichi (b. 1817), brother of Otokichi (1818–67), discussed in the first essay in this volume, facilitated this venture. He was known to have been involved in the world of Shanghai printing.64 Soon after arriving in Shanghai, Dr. and Mrs. Hepburn became ill and had to return to Yokohama. They left the painstaking job of proofreading the published version of the dictionary to Kishida, who by his own testimony worked long hours in difficult conditions and with minimal compensation. The task lasted a good seven or eight months, and in May 1867 the Wa-Ei gorin shusei (Japanese-English dictionary) finally saw the light of day. Hepburn’s dictionary has entered the realm of legend and canonized the transcription system we still use in modified form to romanize Japanese. Kishida meanwhile complained to his diary, the Usun nikki (Wusong diary), of the whole ordeal: filthy streets, bad food, poorly governed city, and the like.65 Whatever the extent of these travails, Hepburn more than compensated Kishida by giving him the formula for the miraculous eye medicine, which Kishida now dubbed “Seikisui.” Until this time, the herbal medicine of Chinese origin used in Japan prescribed a paste or plaster to cure eye ailments, methods that had failed in Kishida’s and like cases. Seikisui was

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a liquid eyewash containing zinc sulfate sold in small glass vials, a treatment that transformed ophthalmology in Japan.66 Possession alone of such a wonder formula would not translate into anything unless it could reach the people who needed it, and it is in this area that Kishida again blazed new trails. In August 1867 he began manufacturing Seikisui and brought a large supply to Shanghai the next year to be sold through two local shops as his agents, the Ruixinghao and the Wanxianghao.67 Each bore the placard: “On sale here, the eye medicine Seikisui, expertly produced by Mr. Kishida Ginko of Japan.” The late Professor Eto Shinkichi has claimed that this was the first instance of direct private sales to the Chinese.68 While in Edo prior to his voyage to Shanghai, Kishida had made the acquaintance of the extraordinary figure of Hamada Hikozo (1837–97), better known as Joseph Heco, a shipwreck victim of 1850 whose long travels abroad took him to California for nearly a decade, during which time he acquired American citizenship.69 Heco was back in Japan by the early 1860s, when Kishida studied English with him for a time, and during one of these sessions he explained to Kishida about newspapers, which he had seen in great profusion in the United States. The novel idea of publishing the news—rather than the state monopolizing it and keeping it secret—was revolutionary, and, astounded though he was, Kishida agreed to join in a venture with Heco and another acquaintance, Honma Senzo, to bring one out. The result was Japan’s first modern newspaper, Kaigai shinbun (Overseas news), which launched publication in the spring of 1864. Heco and Kishida complemented each other’s linguistic assets: Kishida with his many layers of Japanese and knowledge of Chinese; Heco with his rudimentary, fisherman’s Japanese and stunning ability at English. Four years later, in June 1868, Heco and Kishida inaugurated another newspaper, Yokohama shinpo moshiogusa (Yokohama press miscellany).70 Kishida made a second trip to Shanghai in the early months of 1868. Rumors at the time had it that he was there to purchase a steamship, although it is not clear for whom or why. In any event, no such deal ever transpired. In September 1875 he established an apothecary shop, the Rakuzendo, in the fashionable Ginza section of Tokyo, which was soon to spawn a number of branches, principally to sell his miracle eyewash. Three years later, he opened the first overseas branch in Shanghai on a corner of Henan Road in the British Concession. Starting about 1882, he also sold there pocketbook-sized editions of the Chinese classics and histories; they were small, easily portable volumes known as “sleeve volumes” (xiuzhen-


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ben) that could fit neatly in the sleeves of one’s loosely hanging garment. These were inexpensive editions, making them available to virtually all candidates preparing for the civil ser vice examinations (and easily secreted, according to some, up a long sleeve). Selling over 150,000 copies each year, Kishida soon became a wealthy man, but rather than retire in luxury, he poured his profits back into China-related ventures.71 He made over a dozen investigative trips there over the years, fed and housed several dozen Japanese students and other visitors in Shanghai on a daily basis, and worked tirelessly to spread information on the evil effects of opium and established rehabilitation centers for drug users. His idiosyncratic business practices—making lots of money and plowing it right back into society without concern for personal enjoyment—won him accolades at the time and the moniker “Kishida’s one-way trade” (Kishida no kata boeki).72 Thus, by the time Arao appeared on the scene in Shanghai in 1886, Kishida had acquired a reputation for numerous ventures there for twenty years. Arao was an army lieutenant sent to the mainland as a spy for the army general staff. As cover for his work, he made use of the Hankou branch of Kishida’s Rakuzendo, established two years previously and similarly selling Seikisui and pocketbook editions of the classics; Arao and all the other operatives wore their hair in the queue and Chinese-style clothing and tried to mix in with the local Chinese population. In 1889, though, when recalled to Japan by the army, he unexpectedly resigned his commission to remain in China and work for greater Sino-Japanese trade, now convinced that trade and commerce were the best ways for Japan to grow in international prominence and contend with the increasing and threatening Western presence in East Asia.73 Kishida’s extraordinary successes were more than simple object lessons. To reach his goal, Arao needed to train like-minded young Japanese, and the Nis-Shin boeki kenkyujo, established the next year in Shanghai, was his initial answer. It was aimed at teaching Chinese language, geography, and other topics of largely contemporary trade-related concerns. Kishida’s friendship and support for Arao were to prove fundamental to its success. After three years, the term of a regular course of study, some 89 of its initial 150 students had graduated. At the corner of Sichuan Road and Hankou Road, the Osaka merchant Okazaki Eijiro opened a shop around 1891, known as the Ying-Hua guangmaoguan (Sino-Japanese Expansive Shop), selling both Chinese and Japanese goods, and there on a daily basis some fifteen to twenty graduates of Arao’s school came to practice the business, accounting, marketing, and investigative techniques they had recently acquired.

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Despite its best efforts, the school closed at the time of the first Sino-Japanese War for lack of funds, and Arao died the following year. Among its greatest accomplishments was the compilation of mountains of statistics on commercial activity in China, such as the Shinkoku tsusho soran (Comprehensive overview of commerce and trade of China), an immense compendium of data (over 2,000 pages in length) on business in China aimed at giving future students and businessmen an overview of conditions there.74 It is a source still used by scholars today. The Japanese Press in Shanghai

The institution of the press, as noted earlier, was relatively new in Japan. A modern, Western-style newspaper—daily, weekly, biweekly, or in between— was new in China as well. Although the Anglophone press in Shanghai goes back at least to 1850, when the long-running North-China Herald commenced publication, the first major Chinese-language newspaper, Shenbao, was founded only in 1872 and by a British merchant, Ernest Major (1841–1908).75 At this time, there were still relatively few Japanese living in Shanghai. The first Japanese effort in Shanghai to produce a modern newspaper was the aforementioned Shanhai shogyo zappo. Perhaps because it was not well known, was concerned primarily with commercial issues rather than with general news, and was a monthly, it is often ignored in histories of the press. The oldest Japanese-language, general newspaper in the city was a weekly called the Shanhai shinpo (Shanghai news), founded in June 1890 by Matsuno Heizaburo. A pioneer figure in movable-type technology in Japan was another Nagasaki man by the name of Motoki Shozo (1824–75), who had been adopted into one of the last Dutch interpreter families. In 1848 he and three friends bought the movable type and printing machine brought to Nagasaki aboard a Dutch vessel, and three or four years later they successfully began producing cast-lead movable type of their own for Japanese. Before long they were printing books on ship navigation, military science, medicine, and a host of other fields introducing the new knowledge from the West. After opening his own private academy in 1869, Motoki invited William Gamble of the American Presbyterian Mission Press in Shanghai to Nagasaki, which is undoubtedly why the latter had movable kana type to print Hepburn’s dictionary, and he subsequently established a school for teaching movable-type printing.76 One of those involved in subsequently spreading the Motoki technology to Tokyo was Matsuno Naonosuke. In 1884 he moved to Shanghai and set up


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the Shubun shokan, a printing business at the corner of Sichuan and Dama roads. This Matsuno died in 1889 and was succeeded by Matsuno Heizaburo, who launched Shanhai shinpo the next year. By late 1890 he had roughly a dozen employees, most of them Japanese with a few Chinese. The newspaper appeared each Friday, initially with backing from the Mitsui Corporation, and bore the motto “Shinbun hakko de Nit-Chu boeki no hatten o mezasu” (We aim to develop Sino-Japanese trade through the publication of this newspaper). It was filled with articles about Japanese cultural and commercial events in the city, lists of commodity prices in Shanghai, ads for Japanese businesses, and notices of Japanese clubs, and in general was high on the issue of retaining Japanese honor in an international setting. It also carried serialized fiction and photographs. Although it folded after just fifty-two issues, precisely one year, Matsuno attained a high standing in local Japanese society. The May 8, 1891, issue ran the first of two pieces highly critical of the Nis-Shin boeki kenkyujo, which, the editors claimed, was just a spying agency for the Japanese military. The students there were incensed, attacked Matsuno, and demanded an immediate apology or his suicide. Two weeks later on May 29, the paper ran its last issue, and not long thereafter Matsuno became seriously ill and died. He was only in his mid-thirties at the time.77 In 1892 the Shanghai Youth Club, mentioned earlier, founded the Shanhai jiho (Shanghai times), which initially appeared monthly and soon switched to twice monthly, but it too barely lasted a year. In 1894 two new Japanese papers were inaugurated, the Shanhai shuho (Shanghai weekly), mostly concerned with commercial and trade news, and Fomen ribao (Buddhist daily), a Chinese-language paper (and the first owned and operated by Japanese) run by the Higashi Honganji in Shanghai. The latter was clearly to be aimed at the greater Chinese population, as it allegedly proclaimed its “objective to be helping the Chinese” (yi ji Zhinaren wei mudi).78 There are other aspects of Shanghai life for which we have a smattering of data for this first generation of Japanese, including Japanese doctors and dentists and the medical association they founded, the postal and telegraph systems between Japan and Shanghai, the old Japanese cemetery, the Japan Club of Shanghai, Japanese restaurants, and traveling Japanese troupes of actors, singers, and acrobats that passed through Shanghai. Further research may help fill in many lacunae in the record as we now have it. Other topics—such as printing presses, insurance companies, textile-spinning and silk-reeling factories, and a variety of other industries—postdate the first Sino-Japanese War and thus the temporal parameters of this essay.

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Conclusions

This essay has purposely dealt only with the first generation of Japanese sojourners and settlers in Shanghai, precisely because I did not want to confuse this early period with the calamitous years that followed the advance onto the mainland of the Japanese military from the time of the first Sino-Japanese War. Can the two be separated? In the artificial world in which historians live and make intellectual decisions of this sort, I believe that the answer is yes, that we can attempt to understand this roughly thirty-five-year period unto itself and draw suggestive conclusions from it unteleologically. For the first Japanese of the modern era who traveled either to Shanghai or called there en route to Europe, Shanghai represented, on the one hand, the West in microcosm, the front line of the expansionist Western powers forming enclaves for themselves as they sucked the wealth out of China. Much was to be obtained there, including numerous Western scholarly texts translated into Chinese by missionaries and their Chinese assistants. Thus, just as Japan would later provide the great books of the West translated into Japanese for thousands of Chinese students, the Concessions of Shanghai were for the Japanese a convenient entrée to understand “the West.” On the other hand, though, the walled Chinese city of Shanghai represented a countervailing image, the site of oppression. Either Shanghai provided a stark awakening to Japanese and a catalyst in their own quest to build a modern, strong nation-state.79 In the Meiji period with the rise of Japan’s much closer association with the West and the bunmei kaika (civilization and enlightenment) movement, Shanghai ceased to be the lure it had been. It was rather seen as symbolizing the impediments to the development of a nation-state. Shanghai modernity was only to be found in the foreign settlements, sites inimical to the nation-state. For romantic Japanese who dreamed of escaping abroad, Shanghai was the closest and most easily reachable “paradise”; because it seemed to transcend nationality, it became the stuff of fiction and adventurism, and the perfect antidote for those Japanese wishing to flee the stultifying atmosphere of Japanese modernity at home. Whatever their initial reasons for going there, Shanghai provided the setting for Japanese to “experience the ‘West’ for the first time.”80 One attraction in these early years that Shanghai held out to potential Japanese immigrants was the simple fact that it was not Japan. It was simultaneously close to Japan—in fact, Nagasaki, where most of these early migrants


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came from, was closer to Shanghai than it was to Tokyo—and yet outside the social strictures of home. It provided a liberating atmosphere for those willing to take a leap and for those who found the deadening environment of home impossible to tolerate. This surely helps explain why so many enterprising courtesans found release in the streets and brothels of Shanghai. Soon after Japan began opening ports to Westerners other than the Dutch in 1859, Nagasaki began drying up in its distinctive capacity as Japan’s sole window onto the Western world. Shanghai was well known to be neither China nor Chinese. It was partly Chinese, of course, but it was also the now uniquely available East Asian window on the West. Thus, many Japanese seeking to escape difficulties of one form or another at home were always searching abroad for a uniform cultural sphere in which to fit themselves. Shanghai, however, had two competing cultural spaces—something they knew beforehand but found hard to fit into. As soon as they alighted from the ship carrying them to port, they were reminded that they were Japanese—that is, neither Western nor Chinese—and had to make a choice between “Concession Shanghai” and walled “Chinese Shanghai.” Later, the Japanese community of Shanghai, cut off from the home government that was adopting increasingly bellicose policies toward China, found itself on the front lines without a paddle, as it were, and as a whole became more ardently nationalist than their fellow Japanese nationals at home. This denouement, though, moves us too far ahead in the story. Was, as I asked at the outset of the essay, the Sinosphere a dead letter by the decades covered? Clearly, power relations have replaced the earlier cultural underpinnings to interstate relations. However, while I have described this period as the final stage of a Sino-Japanese relationship in which commerce took command, pushing politics and culture to the side, memories die hard. The nature of Sino-Japanese ties may have been altogether different in the last third of the nineteenth century from what they were within the Sinosphere, but memory of the bond that had long linked China and Japan, I would argue, remained, if only as a lingering recollection. The Treaty of Amity, signed in 1871 at the beginning of our period, bespeaks a time when respect worked both ways—a graded respect, to be sure, but nonetheless something tying the two states other than power and military obligations. The period culminates in the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95, the Treaty of Shimonoseki, and the beginning of an unequal balance of political and military power in the region. Now, even the memory of the Sinosphere had been stamped out.

APPENDIX A

Japanese Embassies to the Tang Court

Appendix A follows on pages 102–107

101

102

Inugami no Mitasuki 犬上御田鍬 (a) Kusushi Enichi 藥師惠日 (v) Kishi no Nagani 吉士長丹 (a) Kishi no Koma 吉士駒 (v) Takada no Nemaro 高田根麻呂 (a) Kanimori no Omaro 掃守小麻呂 (v) Takamuko no Genri 高向玄理 (s) Kawabe no Maro 河邊麻呂 (a) Kusushi Enichi (v) Sakaibe no Iwashiki 坂合部石布 (a) Tsumori no Kisa 津守吉祥 (v)

Year authorized (a), year dispatched (d)

630 (Jomei 2) (d)

653 (Hakuchi 4) (d)

654 (Hakuchi 5) (d)

659 (Saimei 5) (d)

Embassy number

1

2

3

4

Ambassadors: special ambassador (sa), supervising ambassador (s), ambassador (a), and vice-ambassador (v)

655 (Saimei 1)

661 (Saimei 7), vessel 2

—/2

654 (Hakuchi 5); shipwrecked

632 (Jomei 4)

Year of return

—/2

121 / 2 120 / 2

Number of people/ships

Vessel 1 shipwrecked on outward journey in south seas; Sakaibe killed

Takamuko died during trip

Visiting students and monks numbered 21; vessel carry ing Takada no Nemaro shipwrecked on outward journey near Takeshima, Satsuma

Accompanied on return by Tang emissary Gao Biaoren 高表仁

Comments

103

(continued)

Vice-ambassador returned home in 707; ambassador returned with embassy 9

704 (Keiun 1)

Awata no Mahito 粟田真人 (sa) Takahashi no Kasama 高橋笠間 (a) Sakaibe no Okita 坂合部大分 (a) Kose no Oji 巨勢祖父 (v)

701 (Taiho 1) (a) 702 (Taiho 2) (d)

8

Kawachi no Kujira 河内鯨 (a)

669 (Tenji 8) arrived

7

Transported Tang emissary Sima Facong 司馬法聰 to army stationed at old Paekche garrison Celebrated subjugation of Koguryo˘

668 (Tenji 7)

Iki no Hakatoko 伊吉博德 Kasa no Moroishi 笠諸石

667 (Tenji 6) (d)

6

May have transported Tang emissary Liu Degao 劉德高 to army stationed at old Paekche garrison

670 (Tenji 9)?

667 (Tenji 6)

Mori no Oishi 守大石 Sakaibe no Iwatsumi 坂合部岩積

665 (Tenji 4) (d)

5

104

Tajihi no Agatamori 多治比縣守 (s) Abe no Yasumaro 阿倍安麻呂 (a) Otomo no Yamamori 大伴山守 (a) Fujiwara no Umakai 藤原馬養 (v) Tajihi no Hironari 多治比廣成 (a) Nakatomi no Nashiro 中臣名代 (v)

Isonokami no Otomaro 石上乙麻呂 (a)


716 (Reiki 2) (a) 717 (Yoro 1) (d)

732 (Tenpyo 4) (a) 733 (Tenpyo 5) (d)

746 (Tenpyo 18) (a), canceled

Embassy number

9

10

11


594 / 4

557 / 4


734 (Tenpyo 6), vessel 1

718 (Yoro 2)

Year of return

Vessel 2 returned in 736; vessel 3 shipwrecked in Malaya-Indonesia area; Magistrate Heguri no Hironari 平群廣成 returned in 739 via Parhae; news of vessel 4 unclear

Students Abe no Nakamaro and Kibi no Makibi as well as monk Genbo 玄昉, joined this embassy

Comments

105

761 (Tenpyo-hoji 5) (a), canceled

Naka no Iwatomo 仲石伴 (a) Isonokami no Yakatsugu 石上宅嗣 (v) Fujiwara no Tamaro 藤原田麻呂 (v)

99 / 1

Ko Gendo 高元度 (a)

759 (Tenpyo-hoji 3) (a,d)

13

14

220+ (from vessels 2 and 3) / 4

Fujiwara Kiyokawa 藤原清河 (a) Otomo no Komaro 大伴古麻呂 (v) Kibi no Makibi 吉備真備 (v)

750 (Tenpyo-shoho 2) (a) 752 (Tenpyo-shoho 4) (d)

12

761 (Tenpyo-hoji 5)

(continued)

Canceled because of damage to vessels

With aim of retrieving Kiyokawa, traveled with Parhae ambassador returning home via Parhae; returned home with send-off by Tang emissary Shen Weiyue 沈惟岳

753 Vessel 1 carry ing, (Tenpyo-shoho 5), among others, the vessel 2 ambassador and Abe no Nakamaro shipwrecked in An-nam; both became Tang officials and never returned home

106

Nakatomi no Takanushi 中臣鷹主 (a) Koma no Hiroyama 高麗廣山 (v) Saeki no Imaemishi 佐伯今毛人 (a) Otomo no Masutate 大伴益立 (v) Fujiwara no Takatori 藤原鷹取 (v) Ono no Iwane 小野石根 (v) Omiwa no Suetari 大神末足 (v) Fuse no Kiyonao 布勢清直 (a)

Fujiwara no Kadonomaro 藤原葛野麻呂 (a) Ishikawa no Michimasu 石川道益 (v)


762 (Tenpyo-hoji 6) (a), canceled

775 (Hoki 6) (a) 777 (Hoki 8) (d)

778 (Hoki 9) (a) 779 (Hoki 10) (d)

801 (Enryaku 20) (a) 804 (Enryaku 23) (d)

Embassy number

15

16

17

18


781 (Ten’o 1)

805 (Enryaku 24)

—/4

778 (Hoki 9)

Canceled because of lack of favorable wind

Year of return

—/2

—/4


Vessel 3 shipwrecked at Hirado on the outward journey; news of vessel 4 unknown; Kukai and Saicho joined this embassy

Tang emissary Sun Xingjin 孫興進 and others sent off at Mingzhou

All four vessels shipwrecked en route home; Ono no Iwane and Tang emissary Zhao Baoying 趙寶英 died

Comments

107

894 (Kanpyo 6) (a), not carried out

834 (Showa 1) (a) 838 (Showa 5) (d)

Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真 (a) Ki no Haseo 紀長谷雄 (v)

Fujiwara no Tsunetsugu 藤原常嗣 (a) Ono no Takamura 小野篂 (v)

651 / 4

Sources: 1) Ishii Masatoshi, “Gaiko kankei, ken-To shi o chushin ni,” pp. 74–76. 2) Wang Yong, To kara mita ken-To shi, pp. 25–37. 3) Mori Katsumi, Ken-To shi, pp. 26–27. 4) Yanaga Teizo, “Ken-To shi,” 2:1299–1300. 5) Furuse Natsuko, Ken-To shi no mita Chugoku, pp. 4–6. 6) Fujiie Reinosuke, Nit- Chu koryu nisen nen, pp. 112–13. 7) Ueda Yakeshi, Ken-To shi zenkokai, pp. 307–14. © 2009 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. All rights reserved.

20

19

839 (Showa 6), vessels 1 and 4

canceled

Vessel 3 shipwrecked soon after departure at Tsukushi; its 140 passengers did not reach China; the monks Ennin and Ensai were on board; passengers on vessels 1 and 4 hired Silla vessels and split up for the voyage home; vessel 2 returned home in 840

APPENDIX B

Japanese Embassies to the Ming Court

Appendix B follows on pages 110–113

109

110

Chief Ambassador Soa 祖阿

Kenchu Keimitsu 堅中圭密

Myoshitsu Bonryo 明室梵亮 (Minamoto no Michikata 源通賢)

Kenchu Keimitsu 堅中圭密 Kenchu Keimitsu 堅中圭密

Year arrived in China

1401 (Jianwen 3; Oei 8)

1403 (Yongle 1; Oei 10)

1404 (Yongle 2; Oei 11)

1405 (Yongle 3; Oei 12)

1406 (Yongle 4; Oei 13)

1407 (Yongle 5; Oei 14)

Embassy number

1

2

3

4

5

6

Number of vessels

With an embassy of 73, Keimitsu paid tribute and returned captured pirates

Tribute mission of gratitude to the Ming; returned to Japan in 1407 with Ming ambassador

On orders of Ming emperor, repatriated captured Chinese pirates; returned to Japan in 1406 with Ming ambassadors Pan Ci 潘賜 and Wang Jin 王進 (eunuch)

First tally vessel; returned to Japan in 1405 with Ming ambassador Yu Shiji 俞士吉

Returned to Japan in 1404 with Ming ambassadors Zhao Juren 趙居任, Zhang Hong 張洪, and monk Daocheng 道成; brought “Yongle tallies”

Returned to Japan in 1402 with Ming ambassadors Tianlun Daoyi 天倫道彝 and Yian Yiru 一庵一如

Comments

111

6 9

Jochu Chusei 恕中中誓 Toyo Inpo 東洋允澎

1435 (Xuande 10; Eikyo 7)

1453 (Jingtai 4; Kyotoku 2)

10

11

5

Ryushitsu Doen 龍室道淵

1433 (Xuande 8; Eikyo 5)


1410 (Yongle 8; Oei 17)

8

9


1408 (Yongle 6; Oei 15)

7

(continued)

Embassy of 1,200, of whom over 350 reached the capital; returned to Japan in 1454 with “Jingtai tallies”

Returned to Japan in 1436 with remaining “Yongle tallies”

Embassy of 220; returned to Japan in 1434 with “Xuande tallies”; accompanied by Ming ambassadors Pan Ci and Lei Chun 雷春

Mission of thanks for installation of new shogun Yoshimochi 義持; returned to Japan in 1411 with Ming ambassador Wang Jin, who was prevented from reaching the capital

With an embassy of over 100, Keimitsu paid tribute, offered captured pirates, and returned to Japan in 1409 with Ming ambassador Zhou Quanyu 周全渝 because of Yoshimitsu’s death

112

Chief Ambassador Tenyo Seikei 天與清啓 Jikuho Myobo 竺芳妙茂 Ryohaku Shui 了璞周瑋 Gyobu Jumei 堯夫壽蓂 (Song Suqing 宋素卿) Ryoan Keigo 了庵桂悟

Sosetsu Kendo 宗設謙道 Ranko Zuisa 鸞岡瑞佐

Year arrived in China

1468 (Chenghua 4; Onin 2)

1477 (Chenghua 13; Bunmei 9)

1484 (Chenghua 20; Bunmei 16)

1495 (Hongzhi 8; Meio 4)

1509 (Zhengde 4; Eisho 6)

1511 (Zhengde 6 Eisho 8)

1523 (Jiajing 2 Daiei 3)

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Embassy number

Solo Hosokawa mission Party of 600; returned to Japan in 1513 with “Zhengde tallies”; returned leftover tallies from the Jingtai and Chenghua eras Ouchi had over 100 in party; Hosokawa had over 100; each domain sent own chief ambassador; parties clashed at Ningbo

3 (2 Ouchi; 1 Hosokawa)

3 Ouchi 1 Hosokawa

Returned to Japan in 1496 with “Hongzhi tallies”

Returned to Japan in 1485

Embassy of 300; returned to Japan in 1478

Returned leftover “Jingtai tallies” to Ming and returned to Japan in 1469 with “Chenghua tallies”

Comments

1

3

3

3

3

Number of vessels

113

Sakugen Shuryo 策彥周良

1547 (Jiajing 26; Tenmon 16)

20

4

3

Sources: 1. Sakuma Shigeo, “Chusei: So Gen Min jidai no Nit- Chu bunka koryu,” pp. 220–21. 2. Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7: Min Teikoku to Nihon, p. 56. 3. Tanaka Takeo, Wako to kango boeki. 4. Tanaka Takeo, “Ken-Min shi,” 5:225–26. 5. Sakuma Shigeo, Nichi-Min kankei shi no kenkyu, pp. 154–55. 6. Zheng Liangsheng, Min-Nichi kankei shi no kenkyu, pp. 68–69. 7. Kobata Atsushi, Chusei Nis-Shi tsuko boeki shi no kenkyu. © 2009 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. All rights reserved.

Koshin Sekitei 湖心碩鼎

1539 (Jiajing 18; Tenmon 8)

19

Party of 637; Ouchi vessels; returned Hongzhi and Zhengde tallies; returned to Japan in 1549

Party of 456; solo Ouchi mission; returned to Japan in 1541; vice-ambassador was Sakugen Shuryo

Glossary

Abe no Nakamaro 阿倍仲麻呂 Ai 愛 Ajia gakkan 亞西亞學館 Akakabe Jiro 赤壁次郎 Anko 安康 An Lushan 安祿山 Aoki Gonjiro 青木權次郎 Arai Go 新井毫 Arai Hakuseki 新井白石 Araki Shichiro 荒木七郎 Arakiya 荒木屋 Arao Kiyoshi (Sei) 荒尾精 Arima yoko 有馬洋行 Ashikaga Takauji 足利尊氏 Ashikaga Yoshimitsu 足利義滿 Ashizawa Shunnosuke 蘆澤駿之助 Awata no Mahito 粟田真人 Baba Tatsui 馬場辰猪 Bansho shirabesho 蕃書調書 Baoyusheng 寶玉生 betsuin 別院 bugyo 奉行 bunjinga 文人画 bunmei kaika 文明開化 Buyunge 步雲閣 Changbai 長白 115

116

chen (J. shin) 臣 Chen Lunjiong 陳倫炯 Chen Yuanyun 陳元贇 Chen Yusong 陳玉松 Chikamatsu Monzaemon 近松門左衛門 Chikanoshima 値嘉島 Chin’itsu 澄一 Chonen 奝然 Choyokan 朝陽館 Chujo Untei 中條雲堤 Daifang (K. Taebang) 帶方 Daigakuryo 大學寮 Dai Nihon shi 大日本史 Da Qing huidian 大清會典 Dattan hyoryuki 韃靼漂流記 Dianqu yangxing 點取洋行 Donggao Xinyue 東皐心越 Dongmeige 東美閣 Dong Qichang 董其昌 Dongyang miao 東洋廟 “Dongyang miaoji shoubo sanxian” 東洋妙妓手撥三弦 “Dongying cainü” 東瀛才女 “Dongying jinü” 東瀛妓女 Dongying shixuan 東瀛詩選 Dongyi zhuan 東夷傳 Dorgon 多爾袞 (Rui 睿) Echizen 越前 Eishogo 永昌號 Emeishan yue 峨嵋山月 Ennin 圓仁 Enomoto Rokubee 榎本六兵衛 Enuosheng 阿諾生 Fei Hanyuan 費漢源 Fei Qinghu 費晴湖 Fomen ribao 佛門日報 Fujiwara no Kiyokawa 藤原清河 Fukami Gentai 深見玄岱 (Kudayu 九大夫) Fukuzawa Yukichi 福澤諭吉 gakka shugyo 學科修業 gakujutsu no denshu 学術の傳習

Glossary

Glossary

Gelaosi 哥老司 Genkaimaru 玄海丸 Genpinyaki 元贇焼 Gensei 元政 Genshin 源信 Godai Tomoatsu 五台友厚 Gomizuno-o 後水尾 Gonnyo 嚴如 Go-Shirakawa 後白河 haidai 海帶 Haiguo wenjian lu 海國聞見錄 Hakusonko (Hakusukinoe) 白村江 Hamada Hikozo 濱田彦藏 Han Wei Nu guowang 漢委奴國王 Hanzei 反正 Harada Hikaru 原田光 Haseba Sumitaka 長谷場純孝 Hayashi Razan 林羅山 Hidaka Tetsuo 日高鐵翁 Higashi Honganji 東本願寺 Higashikuze Michitomi 東久世通禧 Himiko 卑彌呼 Hiraoka Kotaro 平岡浩太郎 Hizen 肥前 Hojunmaru 寶順丸 Honganji 本願寺 Hongfeng nüshi 紅楓女史 Honma Senzo 本間濳藏 Hosokawa 細川 Hotta Masahira 堀田正衡 Hou-Han shu 後漢書 Hsiung Ping-chen 熊秉真 Huajinli 畫錦里 Hua-Mei shuguan 華美書館 Huang Zongxi 黃宗羲 “Huaxi nüshi xiaozhuan” 花蹊女史小傳 Hu Gongshou 胡公壽 (Yuan 遠) Ida Yuzuru 井田讓 Iemitsu 家光 Ihara Shigebee 伊原重兵衛

117

118

Iida 飯田 Ike no Taiga 池大雅 Ikoku monogatari 異國物語 Ingyo 允恭 Ishikawa Gozan 石川呉山 (Kansen 澗泉) Ito Hirobumi 伊藤博文 Ito no kuni 伊都國 Itsunen (C. Yiran) 逸然 Iwakichi 岩吉 Iyo 壱與 Izumi Kunihiko 和泉邦彦 Ji (Sei) 濟 Jiang Jiapu 江稼圃 Jianwu 建武 Jianzhen (J. Ganjin) 鑑真 Jin shu 晉書 Jiu Tang shu 舊唐書 Jodo shinshu 浄土真宗 ju 倨 Kaidonglou 開東樓 Kaigai shinbun 海外新聞 Kaitensha 開店社 Kaitsugo 開通號 Kameda Hosai (Bosai) 亀田鵬齋 Kaneko Kenjiro 金子健二郎 Kangaku 漢學 kango boeki (C. kanhe maoyi) 勘合貿易 Kangxi 康熙 Kan no Wa no Na no kokuo 漢委奴國王 karayukisan からゆきさん Kasano Kumakichi 笠野熊吉 Kawakami Togai 川上冬崖 Kawazu Izu no kami 河津伊豆守 Kawazu Sukekuni 河津祐邦 ken 權 Kenchu Keimitsu 堅中圭密 Kenjunmaru 健順丸 Kibi no Makibi 吉備真備 Kikuchi Shugen 菊池秀言 Kim Ok-kyun 金玉均 Kimura Kenkado 木村兼葭堂

Glossary

Glossary

Kimura Mankichi 木村萬吉 Kinoshita Itsuun 木下逸雲 Kishida Ginko 岸田吟香 Kishida no kata boeki 岸田の片貿易 Kishida Ryusei 岸田劉生 Kiyogo 崎陽號 Kiyoken 崎陽軒 Kodachi Yozo 古立洋造 Kofuku Temple 興福寺 Kogyo shokai 廣業商會 Kogyo yoko 廣業洋行 Koitsumi 肥富 Kojiyamachi 麹屋町 Kojong 高宗 Kokusenya kassen 國姓爺合戰 konbu 昆布 Kongshan 空山 Koryo˘ sa 高麗史 Koso kyoko 江蘇教校 Kowataya 木棉屋 Kudo Kotaro 工藤光太郎 Ku˘m 錦 Kumashiro Encho 神代延長 Kusakabe Masakazu 日下部正一 Kushiro Unsen 釧雲泉 Kuwayama Gyokushu 桑山玉州 Kyu きふ Kyukichi 久吉 Kyodo Unyu Company 共同運輸會社 Lantianxian 蘭田仙 Lelang (K. Nangnang) 樂浪 Liaozhai zhiyi 聊齋志異 Li Bai 李白 Linji 臨濟 Liu Yu 劉裕 Longhua Temple 龍華寺 Lu 魯 machitaku osetsukerareru 町宅仰せつけられる Makabe Setcho 真壁雪晁 Maki Ryoko 巻菱湖 Mamiya Rinzo 間宮林藏

119

120

Manpuku Temple 萬福寺 Maruyama 丸山 Matsuda Denjuro 松田傳十郎 Matsumae 松前 Matsuno Heizaburo 松野平三郎 Matsuno Naonosuke 松野直之助 Meimanshou 美滿壽 Mihama 美濱 Miike 三池 Mikunimachi 三國町 Mino 美濃 Mitsui 三井 Mitsukuri Rinsho 箕作麟祥 Miura Gomon 三浦梧門 Motoki Shozo 本木昌造 Mu’an (J. Mokuan) 木菴 Munakata Masashi 宗像政 Nagai Unpei 長井雲坪 Nagoyamaru 名古屋丸 Nakae Chomin 中江兆民 Nakahama Manjiro 中濱萬次郎 Namamugi 生麦 Nanga 南畫 Nanpinha 南蘋派 Nichiren 日蓮 Nihon kyoryu mindan 日本居留民團 Nihon shoki 日本書紀 Nishi Honganji 西本願寺 Nis-Shin boeki kenkyujo 日清貿易研究所 Nuttari 沼垂 Obaku (C. Huangbo) 黄檗 Ogurusu Kocho 小栗栖香頂 Ogyu Hokkei 荻生北溪 Ogyu Sorai 荻生徂徠 Okazaki Eijiro 岡崎榮次郎 Okuma Shigenobu 大隈重信 Ondo Strait 音戸瀬戸 Ono no Imoko 小野妹子 Otagaki Rengetsu 大田垣蓮月 Ota Nanpo 大田南畝

Glossary

Glossary

121

Otokichi 音吉 Ouchi 大内 Owada-no-tomari 大輪田泊 Owari 尾張 Pei Shiqing 裴世清 Pu Songling 蒲松齡 qianjie 遷界 Qin Wei Wowang 親魏倭王 Rai San’yo 頼山陽 Rakuzendo 樂善堂 Ribenguo 日本國 “Riben guowang” 日本國王 Riben qishi ji 日本乞師紀 “Riben zhuan” 日本傳 Richu 履中 Ruixinghao 瑞興號 Ryugengo 鏐源號 Sanbaosheng 三寶生 Sano 佐野 Sano Sokugo 佐野則悟 Sansan 三三 Santoku yoko 三德洋行 Sassa Tomofusa 佐々友房 Sato Denkichi 佐藤傳吉 Sawa Nobuyoshi 澤宣嘉 Seikisui 精錡水 seji 色妓 Senzaimaru 千歲丸 Shanhai de hajimete “Seiyo” o taiken suru 上海ではじめて「西洋」を体験する Shanhai jiho 上海時報 Shanhai Pass 山海關 Shanhai rekishi chiri kenkyukai 上海歷史地理研究會 Shanhai shinpo 上海新報 Shanhai shogyo zappo 上海商業雜報 Shanhai shuho 上海週報 Shanshan 珊珊 Shaolin 少林 Shenbao 申報 Shengjing 盛京 shengkou 生口

122

Glossary

Shen Kuiyi 沈揆一 Shen Nanpin 沈南蘋 (Shen Quan 沈銓) Shiba Ryotaro 司馬遼太郎 shibosi 市舶司 Shinagawa Tadamichi 品川忠道 Shinano 信濃 Shinbun hakko de Nit- Chu boeki no hatten o mezasu 新聞發行で日中貿易の發展を目差す Shinkoku Shanhai kyoryu Nihonjin torishimari kisoku 清國上海居留日本人取締規則 shinpai 信牌 Shinran 親鸞 Shirao Giten 白尾義天 Shishido Tamaki 宍戸璣 Shi Shin nikki 使清日記 shixue (J. jitsugaku, K. sirhak) 實學 Shorinji kenpo 少林寺拳法 Shotoku 聖德 Shubun shokan 修文書館 Shuntoku Temple 春德寺 shutchojo 出張所 Soa 祖阿 Soejima Taneomi 副島種臣 Sone Toshitora 曽根俊虎 Song shu 宋書 Songyin manlu 淞隱漫錄 Suehiro Shigeyasu 末廣重恭 (Tetcho 鐵腸) Suematsu Gunpei 末松軍平 Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真 Sugita Teiichi 杉田定一 Suiko 推古 Sui shu 隋書 Sui Yangdi 隋煬帝 Suzuki Chushi 鈴木忠視 Suzuki Manjiro 鈴木萬次郎 Suzuki Shin’ichi 鈴木真一 Taira no Kiyomori 平清盛 Taixue 太學 Taizong 太宗 Takahashi Genjuro 高橋源十郎 Takahashi Inosuke 高橋佁之助

Glossary

Takahashi Yuichi 高橋由一 Takashima 高島 Takasu 高須 Takasugi Shinsaku 高杉晋作 Takenaka Bunsaku 竹中文作 Takeuchi Touemon 竹内藤右衛門 Tang 唐 Tani Buncho 谷文晁 Tani Ryonen 谷了然 Tashiro 田代 Tashiroya 田代屋 Teisha 停車 Tentoku Temple 天德寺 Terajima Munenori 寺嶋宗則 tianzi 天子 Todaiji 東大寺 Toi 刀伊 (刀夷) Tojin yashiki 唐人屋敷 (Tokan 唐館) Tokiwa Chotaro 常盤長太郎 Tokiwa Inn 常盤舎 Tokugawa Akitake 德川昭武 (Minbu 民部) Tokugawa Ietsuna 德川家綱 Tokugawa Ieyasu 德川家康 Tokugawa Mitsukuni 德川光圀 Tokugawa Mitsutomo 德川光友 Tokugawa Yoshimune 德川吉宗 Tokugawa Yoshinao 德川義直 Tokyomaru 東京丸 Tokyo nichinichi shinbun 東京日日新聞 Tomioka Tessai 富岡鐵齋 Tomonaga Genpei 友永源平 Totatsu 東韃 To tsuji 唐通事 Towa yoko 東和洋行 Toyo bunko 東洋文庫 Toyo chakan (C. Dongyang chaguan) 東洋茶館 “Toyo charo” (C. Dongyang chalou) 東洋茶樓 Toyo gakkan 東洋學館 Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豊臣秀吉 Tsue yoko 津枝洋行 Tu Jiaying 涂家瀛

123

124

Ueda Yasusaburo 上田安三郎 Ueno 上野 Ueno Hikoma 上野彦馬 Ueno Yasaburo 上野彌三郎 Uragami Shunkin 浦上春琴 Usun nikki 吳淞日記 Wa (C. Wo) 倭 Waegwan 倭館 Wa-Ei gorin shusei 和英語林集成 waiguo 外國 wako (C. wokou, K. waegu) 倭寇 Wang Kesan 王克三 Wang Mang 王莽 Wang Renbo 王人伯 Wang Tao 王韜 Wang Wei 王維 Wang Yangming 王陽明 Wanxianghao 萬祥號 Wei 委 Wei Nu guo 委奴國 Wei zhi 魏志 Woguo 倭國 Wonuguo 倭奴國 Wu 吳 Wu (J. Bu) 武 Wujiang 吳江 Wushan 吳山 Wushui 吳水 Wu Xu 吳煦 (Xiaofan 曉帆, Chunchi 春池) Wuyue 吳越 Wu Zetian 武則天 Xiaodongmenwai 小東門外 Xiaozong 孝宗 Xihu shui yun 西湖水雲 Xing (J. Ko) 興 Xinguangsheng 新光生 Xin Tang shu 新唐書 xiuzhenben 袖珍本 Xuanzong 玄宗 Xue Huan 薜煥

Glossary

Glossary

Xu Yuting 徐雨亭 Yamamoto Baiitsu 山本梅逸 Yanagida Tokichi 柳田藤吉 Yanagihara Sakimitsu 柳原前光 Yangjingqiao 楊經橋 Yanlige 艷麗閣 Yano Fukutaro 矢野福太郎 Yano Inn 矢野旅館 Yasoshima Shakyo 八十島叉橋 Yasuda Rozan 安田老山 (Mamoru 養) Yi Fujiu 伊孚九 yiji 藝妓 yi ji Zhinaren wei mudi 以濟支那人為目的 Ying Baoshi 應寶時 Ying-Hua guangmaoguan 瀛華廣懋館 Yinyuan (J. Ingen) 隱元 Yi Taoji 伊韜吉 Yokohama shinpo moshiogusa 橫濱新報もしほ草 Yokoi Shonan 横井小楠 Yongfu Temple 永福寺 Yongle 永樂 Yoro 養老 Yoshida Shoin 吉田松陰 Yoshida Takashi 吉田孝 Yoshijima Tokuzo 吉島德三 Yosho shirabesho 洋書調所 Yuan Hongdao 袁宏道 Yuchuanlou 玉川樓 Yuryaku 雄略 Yu Yue 俞樾 (Quyuan 曲園) Zairyu hojin kokoroekata kari kisoku 在留邦人心方得假規則 Zan (J. San) 讚 Zaodong 曹洞 Zeng Guofan 曾國藩 Zhang Qiugu 張秋谷 Zhang Zixiang 張子祥 (Zhang Xiong 張熊) zhanhai 展海 Zhen (J. Chin) 珍 Zheng Chenggong 鄭成功 Zheng Jing 鄭經

125

126

Zheng Keshuang 鄭克塽 Zheng Zhilong 鄭芝龍 Zhou Cuizhi 周崔芝 Zhou Wende 周文德 Zhu Peizhang 朱佩章 Zhu Shunshui 朱舜水 Zhu Yuanzhang 朱元璋 (Taizu 太祖) Zongli Yamen 總理衙門

Glossary

Notes

Introduction

1. The three essays in this volume are revised versions of lectures given in April 2007 as the Reischauer Lectures at Harvard University. I owe a great debt of thanks to Rod MacFarquhar, in his capacity as director of the Fairbank Center, for the initial invitation; to Bill Kirby, the director when the lectures took place, for hosting me and my family; to Ron Suleski, assistant director, for facilitating everything; and to many friends who attended and offered comments and criticism, especially Paola Zamperini (Amherst College) and Ezra Vogel (Harvard). 2. I am presently writing a comprehensive history of Sino-Japa nese relations, although the two components of that modifier (Sino and Japanese) have little meaning for much of the period under analysis. I hope to complete a draft within the next two years. 3. Joshua A. Fogel, “The Asiatic Mode of Production Debates in Soviet Russia, China, and Japan,” American Historical Review 93.1 (February 1988), 56–79; Fogel, “Sobieto Roshia to Chugoku ni okeru Ajiateki seisan yoshiki ronso,” Kobe daigaku shigaku nenpo 16 (May 2001), 39–57. 4. I have discussed some of this later history of the Japa nese community of Shanghai in “ ‘Shanghai-Japan’: The Japa nese Residents’ Association of Shanghai,” Journal of Asian Studies 59.4 (November 2000), 927–50. 1. Sino-Japanese Relations

1. Only a few works have attempted periodizations of Sino-Japa nese relations in any language. Wang Xiangrong’s essay “Zhong-Ri guanxi 127

128

Notes to Page 8

shi de fenqi wenti,” in Riben de Zhongguo yimin, pp. 5–18, and translated by myself as “Periodizing the History of Sino-Japa nese Relations,” in Sino-Japanese Studies 2.1 (December 1989), 28–41, follows an uneven, crass Marxist framework and appears to have another subagenda. I personally do not follow it at all, although I usually revere the late Professor Wang’s scholarship. More recently, there are essays by Oba Osamu, “Nihon no kenkyusha kara mita Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, 1: Rekishi, pp. 7–9; Wang Xiaoqiu, “Chugoku no kenkyusha kara mita Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, 1: Rekishi, pp. 51–62; and Fujita Takao, “Nit- Chu kosho shi ni okeru jidai kubun no kanosei,” Ajia bunka koryu kenkyu 2 (March 2007), 313–22. 2. Fan Ye, Hou-Han shu, 85:2821; Ryusaku Tsunoda and L. Carrington Goodrich, Japan in the Chinese Dynastic Histories, p. 7; Ishihara Michihiro, trans. and annot., Yakuchu Chugoku seishi Nihon den, p. 10. 3. The seal was discovered in 1784 in Shikanoshima, Kyushu. The earliest interventions in this debate were those of the Confucian scholar Kamei Nanmei (1743–1814) and his colleague Takeda Sadayoshi; they argued that “Wonuguo” (with the character Wei read with the person classifier as Wo) was synonymous with “Woguo” (state of Wa) and that the latter should be read in Japa nese as “Yamato no kuni” (state of Yamato). In their view, the Chinese emperor awarded this gold seal to Yamato. See Kamei, Kin’in no ben (1784), and Takeda Sadayoshi, Shimamura Jo, Shindo Tsugunori, Yasui Tadashi, and Okumura Hiromichi, Kin’in no gi (1784), reproduced in “Kan no Wa no Na no kokuo” kin’inten, kin’in hakken nihyaku nen, pp. 73–77. The famed scholar and writer Ueda Akinari (1734–1809) argued the next year that “Wei Nu guo” should be read in Japa nese as “Ito no kuni” (state of Ito); in his reading, the state of Ito was presented with the seal. See his “Kan Ito no kuni o kin’in ko” of 1785, ibid., pp. 80–82. In the nineteenth century, the scholar Miyake Yonekichi (1860–1929) argued that the inscription should be read “Kan no Wa no Na no kokuo” (king of the state of Na [a local state in the northern Fukuoka region] of Wa, [subject state] of the Han dynasty). See his “Kan no Wa no Na no kokuo in ko,” Shigaku zasshi 3.37 (December 1892), pp. 34– 41. This is but the tip of the iceberg, although Miyake’s thesis has become the established scholarly view. Straightforward scholarly discussions with analyses of a number of the theories can be found in Tsuji Zennosuke, Kaigai kotsu shiwa, pp. 43–46; Shen Ren’an, Wakoku to Higashi Ajia, pp. 38–45; and Li Kunsheng, “ ‘Dian wang zhi yin’ yu ‘Han Wei Nu guowang’ yin zhi bijiao yanjiu,” Sixiang zhanxian 3 (1986), 78–81. See also Sahara

Notes to Pages 8–10

4.

5. 6.

7.

129

Makoto, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 1: Nihonjin no tanjo, pp. 408–9. In November 2006 a Japa nese scholar, Miura Sukeyuki, published yet another study, this one attempting to debunk all previous ones and declaring the seal bogus. See his Kin’in gizo jiken: Kan no Wa no Na no kokuo no maboroshi. The jury is still out. For a brief and utterly fascinating overview of the theories concerning the meaning of the term “Wa/Wo,” see Sahara Makoto, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 1: Nihonjin no tanjo, pp. 374–77. Okamura Hidenori, “Kokogaku kara mita Kan to Wa,” in Wakoku tanjo, pp. 224–27. Oba Osamu, “ ‘Himiko o shin- Gi Wao to suru seisho’ o meguru mondai,” in Suenaga sensei koki kinen kodaigaku ronso, pp. 177–203. The fi rst part of this essay was reprinted in Oba Osamu, Kodai chusei ni okeru Nit- Chu kankei shi no kenkyu, pp. 101–13; see also his Shin- Gi Wao. See also Tezuka Takayoshi, “Shin- Gi Wao ko,” Shien 23.2 (March 1963), 24–37. I agree with Wang Zhenping on the translation of this term (“pro-Wei”); see his Ambassadors from the Islands of Immortals: China-Japan Relations in the Han-Tang Period, p. 18. For another translation, see Charlotte von Verschuer, Les relations offi cielles du Japon avec la Chine aux VIIIe et IXe siècles, p. xiv: “reine de Wo, amie de la dynastie des Wei”; similarly translated in Okazaki Takashi, “Japan and the Continent,” trans. Janet Goodwin, in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 1: Ancient Japan, p. 288, citing Goodrich and Tsunoda, Japan in the Chinese Dynastic Histories, pp. 14–15. Shen Ren’an (Wakoku to Higashi Ajia, p. 148) suggests that qin Wei here might better be translated as “submitted to Wei.” Saeki Arikiyo, Gishi Wajinden o yomu, two volumes entitled, respectively, Yamataikoku e no michi and Himiko to Wakoku nairan. See also Yamao Hisayuki, Shinpan Gishi Wajinden, whose Japa nese reading of the text in question is reprinted in Sahara Makoto, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 1: Nihonjin no tanjo, pp. 430–35; Furuta Takehiko, Wajinden o tettei shite yomu; Okamoto Ken’ichi, Yamataikoku ronso, esp. pp. 28–69; and many more. Writing fi fty years ago, John Young examined some of this material in a historiographical manner in his book, The Location of Yamatai: A Case Study in Japanese Historiography, 720–1945. For three Chinese views, see Wang Jinlin, “Gishi Wajinden kara mita Yamataikoku no seisan suijun,” in his Kodai no Nihon: Yamataikoku o chushin to shite, pp. 163–99; Wang Jiwu, Zhongguo Riben jiaotong shi, pp. 29–38; and, most recently, Shi Xiaojun, Zhong-Ri liangguo xianghu renshi de bianqian, esp. pp. 31–55. Other important secondary works include Ikeda On,

130


“Toyogaku kara mita Gishi Wajinden,” in Kodai o kangaeru: Yamataikoku, rpt. in Ikeda, Higashi Ajia no bunka koryu shi, pp. 91–118. Miki Taro, Gishi Wajinden no sekai; Miki Taro, Wajinden no yogo no kenkyu; and Hashimoto Masukichi, Toyo shijo yori mitaru Nihon joko shi kenkyu, part 1. It should be noted that nowhere in the Later Han History or the Chronicle of Wei is there any mention of Himiko as queen of Yamatai. This and many other interesting points are analyzed by Nishijima Sadao (1919–99) in his essay “ ‘Wakoku’ shutsugen no jiki to Higashi Ajia,” in Ajia no naka no Nihon shi, vol. 2: Gaiko to senso, pp. 1–38. 8. In addition to the previously cited work by Okamura Hidenori, see his Sankakubuchi shinjukyo no jidai. Japan at this time, and in light of archeological discoveries made in China, is discussed in Okazaki Takashi, “Japan and the Continent,” pp. 283–97. 9. Murai Shosuke, Chusei Wajinden; Inoue Hideo, Wa Wajin Wakoku: Higashi Ajia kodai shi saikento; see also Kokubun Naoichi, Higashi Shinakai no michi: Wa to Washu no sekai. In this same vein, see Torigoe Kenzaburo, “ ‘Wajin’ to sono torai,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, vol. 10: Jinbutsu, pp. 2–45. 10. See, for example, Suzuki Yasutami, ed., Wakoku to Higashi Ajia. 11. Ishihara Michihiro, Yakuchu Chugoku, esp. pp. 305–28; Wang Xiangrong, Zhong-Ri guanxi shi wenxian lunkao, pp. 13–14; Wang Xiangrong and Xia Yingyuan, annots. and comps., Zhong-Ri guanxi shi ziliao huibian, passim; Wu Anlong and Xiong Dayun, Chugokujin no Nihon kenkyu shi, p. 22. 12. See, from a rich literature, Toma Seita, Wa no go o; Miyazaki Ichisada, “Go seiki To-A no keisei,” in his Nazo no shichishito: Go seiki no Higashi Ajia to Nihon, pp. 223–60; Azuma Ushio, Wa no go o no jidai no kokusai kankei ni kansuru kenkyu; Luo Zongzhen, Liuchao kaogu, translated into Japa nese by Nakamura Keiji and Muroyama Rumiko, Kodai Konan no kokogaku: Wa no go o jidai no Konan sekai; and Sakamoto Toshitane, Wa no go o, kuhaku no go seiki. Toma Seita (pp. 129–91) offers the following matching scheme, based on written documents, inscriptional materials, philology, and archeological fi nds. This generally accords with the summary account in Delmer Brown, “The Yamato Kingdom,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 1: Ancient Japan, pp. 141–42; Tsuji Zennosuke, Kaigai kotsu shiwa, pp. 46–48; and Yamaguchi Osamu, Nit- Chu kosho shi, bunka koryu no nisen nen, pp. 18–19. Zan (San) = Richu (r. 400–405) Zhen (Chin) = Hanzei (r. 406–10)


131

Ji (Sei) = Ingyo (r. 412–53) Xing (Ko) = Anko (r. 453–56) Wu (Bu) = Yuryaku (r. 456–79)

13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21. 22.

23.

For a slight variation, see Wu Anlong and Xiong Dayun, Chugokujin no Nihon kenkyu shi, pp. 31–34. Kobayashi Yasuko, Kokaido o to “Wa no go o”: San, Chin, Sei, Ko, Bu no odorokubeki shotai; Suzuki Hideo, Kodai no Wakoku to Chosen shokoku. Yamaguchi Osamu, Nit- Chu kosho shi, p. 21; Wu Anlong and Xiong Dayun, Chugokujin no Nihon kenkyu shi, p. 34. See note 2. Wang Zhenping, Ambassadors from the Islands of Immortals, p. 147; Kurihara Tomonobu, “Nichi-Zui kosho no ichi sokumen,” in his Jodai Nihon taigai kankei no kenkyu, pp. 206–36. Kurihara Tomonobu, “Nihon kara Zui e okutta kokusho,” Nihon rekishi 203 (1965), 2–24, rpt. in his Jodai Nihon taigai kankei no kenkyu, pp. 175–205. For a fascinating analysis of diplomatic language and its implications in late sixth- century relations, see Kaneko Shuichi, “Zui-To kotai to Higashi Ajia,” in Kodai o kangaeru: To to Nihon, pp. 28–34. See also Hori Toshikazu, “Zuidai Higashi Ajia no kokusai kankei,” in Zui-To teikoku to Higashi Ajia sekai, pp. 128–29, especially on the fi rst two embassies to the Sui court. Yoshida Takashi, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 3: Kodai kokka no ayumi, pp. 18–20. Yoshida discusses how the sun itself got involved in this whole metaphor and how it might have been used at the time. Analyzed and cited (translation changed) in Wang Zhenping, Ambassadors from the Islands of Immortals, pp. 148–49. On Pei Shiqing and the later Chinese emissary to Wa, Gao Biaoren, see Ikeda On, “Hai Seisei to Ko Hyojin: Zui-To to Wa no kosho no ichimen,” Nihon rekishi 280 (September 1971), 1–16, rpt. in his Higashi Ajia no bunka koryu shi, pp. 45–67. Mori Kimiyuki, Kodai Nihon no taigai ninshiki to tsuko. Mori Kimiyuki, “Wakoku kara Nihon e,” in Wakoku kara Nihon e, pp. 31–33. See Kaneko Shuichi, “Zui-To kotai to Higashi Ajia,” p. 29, for a chart laying out the discrepancies between Chinese and Japa nese sources about the missions to Sui from Wa. Toyama Mitsuo, Hakusonko, kodai Higashi Ajia taisen no nazo, pp. 8–17, 234; Ki-baik Lee, A New History of Korea, pp. 66–68; Inoue Mitsusada with Delmer M. Brown, “The Century of Reform,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 1, pp. 206–8; and William H.

132

24.

25.

26. 27. 28.

29.

30.


McCullough, “The Heian Court, 794–1979,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 2, Heian Japan, pp. 81–84. See also Cho˘n Yo˘ng-nae, Kudara metsubo to kodai Nihon: Hakusonko kara Onojo e; Kito Kiyoaki, Hakusukinoe: Higashi Ajia no doran to Nihon; and Mori Kimiyuki, “Hakusonko” igo, kokka kiki to Higashi Ajia gaiko. Mori Kimiyuki, “Chosen hanto o meguru To to Wa: Hakusonko kaisen zenya,” in Kodai o kangaeru: To to Nihon, p. 43. As Mori shows (pp. 61–68), after Paekche’s utter defeat, many of its leaders fled to Wa, where they participated in building up the military defensive might and new ritsuryo state there. See, in English, Robert Borgen, Sugawara no Michizane and the Early Heian Court, pp. 71–80, who translates Daigakuryo as “Court University”; and Marian Ury, “Chinese Learning and Intellectual Life,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 2, pp. 367–75, who translates it as “State Academy.” See also Hisaki Yukio, Daigakuryo to kodai Jukyo; and Momo Hiroyuki, Jodai gakusei no kenkyu. Edwin O. Reischauer, Ennin’s Travels in T’ang China, pp. 23–24. These ceremonies are reconstructed in detail in Furuse Natsuko, Ken-To shi no mita Chugoku, pp. 24–88. See Robert Borgen, Sugawara no Michizane, pp. 240–53; Nunome Chofu and Kurihara Masuo, Zui-To teikoku, pp. 361–62; Saeki Arikiyo, Saigo no ken-To shi, esp. pp. 192–96; Mori Katsumi, “Ken-To shi haishi ni taisuru saiginmi,” Shien 50 (December 1951), rpt. in his Zoku Nis-So boeki no kenkyu, pp. 197–210; and Akiyama Kenzo, Nis-Shi kosho shi kenkyu, pp. 237–38. See the charts laying out all the embassies in Furuse Natsuko, Ken-To shi no mita Chugoku, pp. 4–6; Wang Yong, To kara mita ken-To shi, p. 26; Ishii Masatoshi, “Gaiko kankei, ken-To shi o chushin ni,” in Kodai o kangaeru: To to Nihon, pp. 74–76; Mori Katsumi, Ken-To shi, pp. 26–27; and Fujiie Reinosuke, Nit- Chu koryu nisen nen, pp. 112–14. See also Mori Katsumi, “Ken-Zui shi to Ken-To shi,” Toyo gakujutsu kenkyu 9.1 (May 1970), rpt. in his Zoku Nis-So boeki no kenkyu, pp. 51–72; and in English, Tono Haruyuki, “Japa nese Embassies to T’ang China and Their Ships,” Acta Asiatica 69 (1995), 39–62. The fullest study of Nakamaro’s life is still Sugimoto Naojiro, Abe no Nakamaro den kenkyu. See also Imaeda Jiro, Abe no Nakamaro kenkyu; and Nagano Isao, Abe no Nakamaro to sono jidai. On Kibi no Makibi, see Miyata Toshihiko, Kibi no Makibi; and Nakanishi Susumu, “Ken-To shi, Kibi no Makibi,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, vol. 10, pp. 68–127. I have translated Li Bai’s poem to the “memory” of Abe no Nakamaro in The Literature of Travel in the Japanese Rediscovery


31. 32. 33.

34.

35.

36.

37. 38.

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of China, 1862–1945, p. 13; see also Arthur Waley’s rendition in his The Poetry and Career of Li Po, 706–762 a.d., pp. 61–62. See Saneto Keishu, “O To no raiyu to Nihon bunjin,” in his Kindai Nis-Shi bunka ron, pp. 76–84, 88–89. Ikeda On, “Zui-To sekai to Nihon,” in Kodai o kangaeru: To to Nihon, pp. 5–6. Many studies have been made of Ganjin’s life. See Wang Yong, Ganjin wajo shinden; Ando Kosei, Ganjin wajo; Ando Kosei, Ganjin dai wajo den no kenkyu; Wang Xiangrong, “Jianzhen zai Riben,” in Zhong-Ri wenhua jiaoliu shi lunwenji, pp. 54–80; Wang Xiangrong, Jianzhen, Japa nese translation by Imaeda Jiro, Ganjin; Fujiyoshi Masumi, “Fuki no kyaku,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, vol. 10: Jinbutsu, pp. 174–89; and most recently Hao Runhua, Jianzhen pingzhuan. Trans. James Araki. Originally published as Tenpyo no iraka. German translation by Oscar Benl, Das Tempeldach, ein historischer Roman; French translation by René Sieffert, La tuile de Tenpyo, roman; Chinese translation (Taiwan) by “Shiliu hongwenzi gongzuo fang,” Tianping zhi meng; and on the mainland by Lou Shiyi, Tianping zhi meng. Wang Zhenping (Ambassadors from the Islands of Immortals, pp. 208–15) tells the story of Ganjin in a novelistic way as well. This explanation is related in the Jiu Tang shu, which was oddly left untranslated by Goodrich and Tsunoda. See Ishihara Michihiro’s fluid rendition in Yakuchu Chugoku, p. 54. Mori Kimiyuki, “Wakoku kara Nihon e,” pp. 10, 120, 130; Wu Anlong and Xiong Dayun, Chugokujin no Nihon kenkyu shi, pp. 42–44; Yoshida Takashi, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 3: Kodai kokka no ayumi, pp. 22–24; and Wang Zhenping, Ambassadors from the Islands of Immortals, p. 241. On Empress Wu, see Toyama Gunji, Sokuten Buko, josei to kenryoku. Shen Ren’an, Wakoku to Higashi Ajia, pp. 331–36; Yoshida Takashi, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 3: Kodai kokka no ayumi, pp. 15–17, Kimiya Yasuhiko, Nis-Shi kotsu shi, 1:356–76; Liang Rongruo, “Wudai Riseng xunli Wutai zhi yiwu,” in his Zhong-Ri wenhua jiaoliu shilun, pp. 173–78; Edmond H. Worthy, Jr., “Diplomacy for Survival: Domestic and Foreign Relations of Wu Yüeh, 907–978,” in China among Equals: The Middle Kingdom and Its Neighbors, 10th–14th Centuries, pp. 34–36; Nishioka Toranosuke, “Nihon to Goetsu to no kotsu,” Rekishi chiri 42.1 (July 1923), 32–62; Umehara Kaoru, Chugoku no rekishi 5: So ocho to shin bunka, p. 152; Fujiie Reinosuke, Nit- Chu koryu nisen nen, p. 151; Yamaguchi Osamu, Nit- Chu kosho shi, pp. 59–60.

134


39. Song shi, 491:4b. 40. Wang Xiaoqiu, Zhong-Ri wenhua jiaoliu shihua, pp. 54–62. As Tsuji Zennosuke (Kaigai kotsu shiwa, pp. 112–17, 125–26) elaborates, this was the beginning of Japa nese presenting texts to Chinese temples and other collections. Although he never visited China himself, the famed monk Genshin (942–1017) prevailed upon Chinese merchants—the most famous being Zhou Wende—to have his works brought to temples in China, where they were apparently highly praised. Chonen actually sailed to China aboard a Wuyue merchant vessel. See Tsuji Zennosuke, Nis-Shi bunka no koryu, pp. 48–49. 41. Song shi, 491:4b; Tsukamoto Zenryu, “Chonen,” in Ajia rekishi jiten, 6:330–31; Umehara Kaoru, Chugoku no rekishi 5, pp. 152–54; Yamaguchi Osamu, Nit- Chu kosho shi, pp. 61–64; Wang Zhenping, “Chonen’s Pilgrimage to China, 983–986” Asia Major 7.2 (1994), 63–97; Fujiie Reinosuke, Nit- Chu koryu nisen nen, pp. 160–63; and Ishii Masatoshi, “Nis- So junrei so,” in Ajia no naka no Nihon shi, vol. 5: Jiishiki to sogo rikai, pp. 265–86. The most recent work on Chonen is Ishii Masatoshi, “Nis- So so Chonen no koto, rekishijo no jinbutsu no hyoka o megutte,” Komonjo kenkyu 47 (1998), 94–99. Kimiya Yasuhiko (Nis-Shi kotsu shi, 1:407) lists the twenty Japa nese monks who we know from extant historical records made the trip to China; Tsuji Zennosuke (Kaigai kotsu shiwa, pp. 142–45) provides a list of fi fty-five Japa nese monks who studied in China over the period of the Southern Song, with short biographies (pp. 146–56), and of Chinese monks who traveled to Japan (pp. 156–59). 42. Ishihara Michihiro, “Nihon to shichishu: Chugoku ni okeru Nihon kan no ichimen,” Ibaraki daigaku bunrigakubu kiyo ( jinbun kagaku) 11 (December 1960), 17–26; Yamaguchi Osamu, Nit- Chu kosho shi, pp. 67–68; Hoshino Hisashi, “Hyogo chikuto ko,” Shigaku zasshi 6.1 (1895), 27–40; Tsuji Zennosuke, Jinbutsu ronso; G. Cameron Hurst III, “Insei,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 2, p. 635; Mori Katsumi, “Nis-So boeki ni katsuyaku shita hitobito,” in Rekishi to jinbutsu, rpt. in his Zoku Nis-So boeki no kenkyu, pp. 249–53, 260–61; Mori Katsumi, “Nis- So boeki ni okeru Chugoku shonin no seikaku,” Rekishi chiri 84.4 (May 1954), rpt. in Zoku Nis-So boeki no kenkyu, pp. 347–70; Mori Katsumi, “Nis- So boeki to Kamakura jidai,” Nihon shi no kenkyu 42 (July 1963), rpt. in his Zokuzoku Nis-So boeki no kenkyu, pp. 55–56, 59–61; Mori Katsumi, “Nis- So Nichi- Gen boeki to boekihin,” Rekishi kyoiku 18.4 (April 1970), rpt. in his Zokuzoku Nis-So boeki no kenkyu, pp. 123–35; Sogabe Shizuo, Nis-So kin kahei koryu shi; Akiyama Kenzo, Nis-Shi kosho shi kenkyu, pp. 342–49. For an excellent overview of the multilateral trade within East Asia at the


43.

44.

45. 46. 47.

48.

49. 50.

51. 52. 53.

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time, see Wakita Haruko, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 7: Sengoku daimyo, pp. 323–46. Kimiya Yasuhiko, Nis-Shi kotsu shi, 1:391–92; Tsuji Zennosuke, Nis-Shi bunka no koryu, p. 109. See also the highly detailed work that, despite its title, is almost exclusively devoted to Sino-Japa nese relations in the Ming era: Kobata Atsushi, Chusei Nis-Shi tsuko boeki shi no kenkyu. Gomi Fumihiko, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 5: Kamakura to kyo, pp. 390–92; Mori Katsumi, Zoho Nis-So bunka koryu no shomondai, pp. 127–48. See Joshua Fogel, The Literature of Travel, pp. 25–28. Tsuji Zennosuke, Kaigai kotsu shiwa, pp. 160–81; Tsuji Zennosuke, Nis-Shi bunka no koryu, pp. 85–108. Marco Polo, The Travels of Marco Polo: A Modern Translation by Teresa Waugh, p. 140: “Gold is mined there in huge quantities. Nobody ever goes to Japan from the mainland so the gold never leaves the island. The ruler of Japan has a magnificent palace roofed entirely with fine gold, as we might use lead for our houses and churches. It would be almost impossible to estimate the value of this gold. But besides the roof, the floors of the bedrooms are covered with a layer of gold, two fingers thick. The other rooms and windows are decorated with gold in the same way. The palace is immeasurably valuable; anyone would be amazed by it . . . The island is in fact incalculably rich. When Kublai Khan heard about the riches of this island he decided to conquer it and sent two barons there.” Murakami Masatsugu, Chugoku no rekishi, vol. 6: Yuboku minzoku kokka Gen, pp. 188–90; Mori Katsumi, “Nis- So kosho no hatten katei,” Rekishi kyoiku 11.9 (September 1963), rpt. in his Zoku Nis-So boeki no kenkyu, pp. 240–42, 244–46. Gomi Fumihiko, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, pp. 422–23. Geoff Wade, The Pre- modern East Asian Maritime Realm: An Overview of Euro pean-Language Studies, vol. 16 of Asia Research Institute Working Paper Series, p. 34; John Ayres, “The Discovery of a Yuan Ship at Sinan, South-West Korea: A First Report,” Oriental Art 24.1 (Spring 1978), pp. 79–85; Moo-byong Yoon, “The Sea Route of the Sunken Ancient Vessel on the Seabed off Sinan,” Korea Journal 17.11 (November 1977), 18–23; Gomi Fumihiko, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, p. 423. Liang Rongruo, “Yuandai Riseng zai-Hua suo zhuan bei,” in his Zhong-Ri wenhua jiaoliu shilun, pp. 187–201. Sekine Masanao, “Toi zoku raiko no koto,” in Kokushi ronsan, ed. Kokugakuin, pp. 542–57. Among the better volumes with which I am familiar, see Matsuura Akira, Chugoku no kaisho to kaizoku, pp. 33–62; Ishihara Michihiro,

136

54.

55. 56. 57. 58.

59.

60.

61. 62. 63. 64.

65.


Wako; Tanaka Takeo, Wako to kango boeki; Matsuura Akira, Chugoku no kaizoku, pp. 43–79; and Jurgis Elisonas, “The Inseparable Trinity: Japan’s Relations with China and Korea,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 4: Early Modern Japan, pp. 239–62. Koryo˘ sa, fascicle 38, as cited in Akiyama Kenzo, To-A kosho shiron, p. 281; and in Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7: Min teikoku to Nihon, p. 48. “Riben zhuan,” Ming shi, 322:1b. Ibid., 322:3a. Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7, p. 52. Kawazoe Shoji, “Japan and East Asia,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 3: Medieval Japan, pp. 434–35; Kawazoe goes on (pp. 435–38) to offer many reasons given by Japa nese historians over the past century or more that Yoshimichi chose this approach to trade with China. Mentioned briefly in Hok-lam Chan, “The Chien-wen, Yung-lo, Hung-hsi, and Hsüan-te Reigns, 1399–1435,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 7: The Ming Dynasty, 1368–1644, Part 1, pp. 269–70. I will be stressing fi nancial motivations, but other concerns (political, international, and economic) have been persuasively advanced. See, for example, Sakuma Shigeo, “Eirakutei no taigai seisaku to Nihon,” Hoppo bunka kenkyu 2 (May 1967), rpt. in his Nichi-Min kankei shi no kenkyu, pp. 97–140; and Wang I-t’ung, Offi cial Relations between China and Japan, 1368–1549, pp. 21–24, 34–53. Sakuma Shigeo, “Chusei: So Gen Min jidai no Nit- Chu bunka koryu,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, vol. 1: Rekishi, pp. 213–14; Nagahara Keiji, Taikei Nihon no rekishi, vol. 6 Nairan to Minshu no seiki, pp. 185–88. See the slightly differing charts in Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7, p. 56, and Sakuma Shigeo, Nichi-Min kankei shi no kenkyu, pp. 220–21. Tanaka Takeo generally agrees with the latter: Chusei taigai kankei shi, pp. 159–60. See also Fujita Motoharu, Nis-Shi kotsu no kenkyu, chu-kinsei hen, pp. 129–74. Kimiya Yasuhiko, Nis-Shi kotsu shi, 2:410–25. Jurgis Elisonas, “The Inseparable Trinity,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 4, pp. 249–62. Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7, pp. 61–64; Iwao Seiichi, Shuinsen to Nihonmachi. Hayashi Rokuro, Nagasaki To tsuji: tsuji Hayashi Doei to sono shuhen; Miyata Yasushi, To tsuji kakei ronko; Sugimoto Tsutomu, Nagasaki tsuji monogatari, kotoba to bunka no honyakusha. Li Xianzhang, Nagasaki Tojin no kenkyu.


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66. Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7, pp. 176–77; Masuda Wataru, Japan and China: Mutual Representations in the Modern Era, trans. Joshua A. Fogel, pp. 155–66; Ishihara Michihiro, Minmatsu Shinsho Nihon kisshi no kenkyu, pp. 1–14. 67. Kimiya Yasuhiko, Nis-Shi kotsu shi, 2:466–74. See also Nakamura Kyushiro, “Minmatsu no Nihon kisshi oyobi kisshi,” Shigaku zasshi 26.5 (1915), 547–71; brief mention in Lynn A. Struve, “The Southern Ming, 1644–1662,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 7, pp. 699–701; but see also her translation, “ ‘Better to Die at Sea’: Requesting Aid from Japan,” in her Voices from the Ming- Qing Cataclysm: China in Tiger’s Jaws, pp. 116–21. 68. There is a close examination in Masuda Wataru, Japan and China, pp. 151–52. 69. Julia Ching, “The Practical Learning of Chu Shun-shui (1600–1682),” in Principle and Practicality: Essays in Neo- Confucianism and Practical Learning, pp. 189–229; Kanda Nobuo, Chugoku no rekishi 8: Shin teikoku no seisui, pp. 118–19; Xia Yingyuan, “Ransei no bunka denpasha,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, vol. 10, pp. 286–96; Ishihara Michihiro, Minmatsu Shinsho, pp. 443–58; and Inaba Kunzan, “Shu Shunsui ko,” eleven parts, Nihon oyobi Nihonjin 475–485 (1908). 70. Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7, pp. 178–84; Donald Keene, The Battles of Coxinga; Yamaguchi Osamu, Nit- Chu kosho shi, pp. 115–16; Ishihara Michihiro, Minmatsu Shinsho, pp. 28–75, 258–350, 395–407; Ralph C. Croizier, Koxinga and Chinese Nationalism: History, Myth, and the Hero; Ishihara Michihiro, Kokusenya; Fujiie Reinosuke, Nit- Chu koryu nisen sen, pp. 221–30. On the success of Chikamatsu’s play and sequels to it, see Masuda Wataru, Japan and China, pp. 184–95. 71. Xia Yingyuan, “Ransei no bunka denpasha,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, pp. 297–302; Yamane Yukio, Chugoku no rekishi 7, pp. 186–87; Komatsubara To, Chin Genpin no kenkyu, the fullest study on Chen in any language. 72. Oba Osamu studied the issue of Sino-Japa nese trade in the Edo years more than anyone else and bequeathed a trea sure trove of scholarship on the topic. See, for example, the following four works of his (there is some redundancy of materials within them), which are supplemented by numerous essay-length pieces: Edo jidai ni okeru Tosen mochiwatarisho no kenkyu; Edo jidai ni okeru Chugoku bunka juyo no kenkyu; Edo jidai no Nit- Chu hiwa; and Tokugawa Yoshimune to Koki tei, sakokuka de no Nit- Chu koryu. 73. See Lai Yü- chih, “Fuliu qianjie: 1870 niandai Shanghai de Riben wangluo yu Ren Bonian zuopin zhong de Riben yangfen,” Meishi shi

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74.

75.

76.

77.


yanjiu jikan 14 (March 2003), 159–217; Lai Yü- chih, “Surreptitious Appropriation: Ren Bonian (1840–1895) and Japa nese Culture in Shanghai, 1842–1895,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 2005. Okita Hajime mentions this fascinating tidbit in passing, concerning dried shrimp, shark fi n, camphor, fi ne white thread, and konbu (dried seaweed), among other items of daily use; see his Kojo shi dan: Shanhai ni kansuru shiteki zuihitsu, p. 99. Hirakubo Akira, Ingen; Takenuki Gensho, Kinsei Obakushu matsujicho shusei; Ono Kazuko, “Doran no jidai o ikita Ingen Zenshi,” Zen bunka 124 (April 1987), 83–92; Oba Osamu, “Shin jidai no Nit- Chu bunka koryu,” in Nit- Chu bunka koryu shi sosho, vol. 1: Rekishi, pp. 270–74; Jiang Wu, “Leaving for the Rising Sun: The Historical Background of Yinyuan Longqi’s Migration to Japan in 1654,” Asia Major, 3rd ser., 17.2 (2004), 89–120; Martin Collcutt, “Zen and the Gozan,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, 3:595–96. Kimiya Yasuhiko lists the names and a certain amount of detail on sixty-three Chinese monks who resettled in Japan during the Tokugawa period; see his Nis-Shi kotsu shi, 2:550–58. Etchu Tetsuya, Tokuyama Hikaru, and Kimura Shigekazu, Nagasaki ha no kachoga: Shin Nanpin to sono shuhen, 2 vols.; Kondo Hidemi, “Shen Nanpin’s Japa nese Roots,” Ars Orientalis 19 (1989), 79–102. There is an immense literature on Nanga painting. I have consulted the following: Yamanouchi Chozo, Nihon nanga shi; Umesawa Seiichi, Nihon nanga shi; Yoshizawa Chu, Nihon nanga ronko; Yonezawa Yoshiho and Yoshizawa Chu, Nihon no bijutsu 23: Bunjinga; Wakita Hidetaro, Nihon kaiga kinsei shi; Takeda Michitaro, Nihon kindai bijutsu shi; Fujioka Sakutaro, Kinsei kaiga shi; and Kono Motoaki, “Edo jidai kaiga no shuketsu to tensei,” in Edo jidai no bijutsu: Kaiga, chokoku, kogei, kenchiku, sho, pp. 121–90. See the entry on Yi Fujiu by Yonezawa Yoshiho, “I Fukyu,” in Ajia rekishi jiten, 1:199; Tsuruta Takeyoshi, “I Fukyu to Ri Youn, raihaku gajin kenkyu,” Bijutsu kenkyu 315 (December 1980), 16–27; Stephen Addiss, ed., Japanese Quest for a New Vision: The Impact of Visiting Chinese Painters, 1600–1900; and Burglind Jungmann, “Confusing Traditions: Elements of the Korean An Kyo˘n School in Early Japanese Nanga Landscape Painting,” Artibus Asiae 55 (1995), 303–18. For details on his life as a merchant and book importer, see Oba Osamu, Edo jidai no Nit- Chu hiwa, pp. 197–98. The date of 1720 for his first visit to Japan is based on Oba’s investigations and conflicts with slightly later dates given by others. See also Koga Jujiro, Nagasaki gashi iden. On his transporting texts (both Japanese and Chinese ones lost in China) to China, see Kano


78. 79.

80.

81.

82.

83.

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Naoki, “Yamanoi Kanae to Shichikei Moshi kobun,” in his Shinagaku bunso, pp. 178–209; and Laura E. Hess, “The Reimportation from Japan to China of the Kong Commentary to the Classic of Filial Piety,” unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Washington, 1994. As cited in Yoshiho Yonezawa and Chu Yoshizawa, Japanese Painting in the Literati Style, trans. Betty Iverson Monroe, p. 162. For the foregoing, I have relied on Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 31–34; Umesawa Seiichi, Nihon nanga shi, p. 860; Yanagi Ryo, Kindai kaiga to bunjinga no chisei: Nagai Unpei no bijutsu, p. 60; Baba Tsuyoshi, “Cho Shukoku to Cho Shukoku,” in Nagasaki o otozureta Chugokujin no kaiga, pp. 68–70; Tsuruta Takeyoshi, “Hi Kangen to Hi Seiko,” Kokka 1036 (July 1980), 15–24; Yoshiho Yonezawa and Chu Yoshizawa, Japanese Painting in the Literati Style, pp. 166–67; and Asami Katsuya, “Shinjin Hi Seiko to Todoki Baigai, raihaku Shinjin kankei no ichi shiryo,” Osaka furitsu Nakanoshima toshokan kiyo 16 (1980), 2–20. Yamakawa Takeshi cites a letter by the famed cultural connoisseur and shogunal official who was serving in Nagasaki in 1804, Ota Nanpo (1749–1823), to the effect that Jiang had turned to painting after failing at the examinations. Yamakawa Takeshi, ed., Nagai Unpei, p. 214; Yoshiho Yonezawa and Chu Yoshizawa, Japanese Painting in the Literati Style, p. 168. Chen Zhenlian, Jindai Zhong-Ri huihua jiaoliu shi bijiao yanjiu, pp. 31–32; Kawakita Michiaki, ed., Kindai Nihon bijutsu jiten, p. 294; Suzuki Kei, “Ko Kaho,” in Ajia rekishi jiten, 3:200; Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 37–39; Umesawa Seiichi, Nihon nanga shi, pp. 871–78; and Yanagi Ryo, Kindai kaiga to bunjinga no chisei, pp. 60–61. Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 40–41, 45–46; Umesawa Seiichi, Nihon nanga shi, pp. 870–71. In 1861 Tomioka Tessai (1836– 1924) arrived in Nagasaki with a letter of introduction from Otagaki Rengetsu (1791–1875) to Kinoshita. He claimed that he wanted to study the Nanga style of painting imported from China, but he allegedly brought with him a big- city arrogance toward backwoods Nagasaki. Despite five months under Kinoshita’s artistic tutelage, Tessai really was primarily interested in learning about conditions overseas, and they parted without much mutual affection. See Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 47–49. Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 13–19; Yanagi Ryo, Kindai kaiga to bunjinga no chisei, pp. 60–61; James Cahill, Scholar Painters of Japan: The Nanga School, pp. 107–26; Sato Moyako, Nihon meigaka den, bokko hen, p. 122.

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84. Furukawa Osamu, “Nagai Unpei no tamashii ni atau,” Toei 10.5 (1934), 37; Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 20–25, 27, 29, 38, 52; and Muramatsu Shofu, Shinshu honcho gajin den, 4:25. 85. Pan Mingshen, comp., Danghu lidai huaren zhuan suoyin, 2/19a–20a; Tokuda Takeshi, Kinsei Nit- Chu bunjin koryu shi no kenkyu, pp. 393–98; Rose Hempel, “Die Juwelen des Ärmels,” Artibus Asiae 53.3–4 (1993), 467; http://yuki-nagasaki.hoops.ne.jp/yuki _nagasaki _k04 .html; Nagasaki o otozureta Chugokujin no kaiga, p. 42; Umesawa Seiichi, Nihon nanga shi, p. 867; Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 52–55, 56–57; Fujioka Sakutaro, Kinsei kaiga shi, p. 196. 86. Pan Mingshen, comp., Danghu lidai huaren zhuan suoyin, 1/4a–b; Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 70–71. 87. Yanagi Ryo, Kindai kaiga to bunjinga no chisei, p. 61; Furukawa Osamu, “Nagai Unpei no tamashii ni atau,” p. 38; Muramatsu Shofu, Shinshu honcho gajin den, 4:25–27; Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 64, 71–72; Fujisawa Makoto, “Nagai Unpei,” in Shinshu jinbutsu ki, bijutsuka den, p. 167. 88. Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 59–60, 61–63, 65–66; Ozaki Hotsuki, ed., Shincho Nihon jinmei jiten, p. 359, gives the date 1828 for Yasuda’s birth, although the majority of sources give 1830. 89. Morii Makoto, “Furubekki,” in Nihon shi dai jiten, 5:1351; Yanagi Ryo, Kindai kaiga to bunjinga no chisei, p. 61; Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 68–69. William Elliot Griffith’s cross between a biography and a hagiography makes no mention of this story: Verbeck of Japan: A Citizen of No Country. See also Lane R. Earns, “A Miner in the Deep and Dark Places: Guido Verbeck in Nagasaki, 1859–1869,” Crossroads 5 (Autumn 1997), 87–112. 90. Okita Hajime, Shanhai hojin shi kenkyu, pp. 70–71; Shimizu Hiroshi, Gajin Nagai Unpei, pp. 74–76; Yamakawa Takeshi, ed., Nagai Unpei, pp. 214, 224; Fujisawa Makoto, “Nagai Unpei,” in Shinshu jinbutsu ki, p. 170; Furukawa Osamu, “Nagai Unpei no tamashii ni atau,” p. 38. 91. Iwaya Osamu, Ichiroku iko, pp. 7b–8a; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 252–53; Yonezawa Hideo, “Shanhai hojin hatten shi (ichi),” To-A keizai kenkyu 3 (July 1938), 57–58; Kawakita Michiaki, Kindai Nihon bijutsu jiten, pp. 359–60; Okita Hajime, “Shanhai shiwa,” Shanhai kenkyu 1 (February 1942), 63; Yonezawa Hideo, Shanhai shiwa, pp. 90–91; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, pp. 102–3. 92. Okada Kosho, Ko Go nikki, p. 1/1a. See also Chen Jie, “Okada Kosho no Ko Go nikki ni tsuite,” Nihon joshi daigaku kiyo ningen shakai gakubu 11 (March 2001), 231–32; Liang Yongxuan and Mayanagi


93.

94.

95.

96. 97.

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Makoto, “Okada Kosho to Shinmatsu no Nit- Chu igaku koryu shiryo,” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 51.1 (2005), 25–49. Okada Kosho, Ko Go nikki, p. 1/4a. He visited Rozan again four days later (1.7b), and the latter spoke about the scenery around Hangzhou. Huang Shiquan (1853–1924) noted in his collection of jottings about Shanghai: “Mr. Yasu[da] Rozan from Japan . . . has long lived in Shanghai and produced many works. He has done ink drawings of plum trees and landscapes.” See Huang Shiquan, Songnan mengying lu, rpt. in Shanghai tan yu Shanghairen, p. 102. In the Japa nese cemetery, Kyu’s gravestone carried the following inscription on its front: “Grave of Hongfeng nüshi from Japan, inscribed by Hu Gongshou from Huating.” The back reads: “Hongfeng nüshi of Japan was surnamed Ihara, had the given name Ai, and was also known as Teisha. She was the wife of Yasuda Rozan (Mamoru). She painted orchids and bamboo beautifully. She had a fi ne hand for calligraphy and was a lovely woman. She came to live with Rozan in Shanghai in Tongzhi 9 [1870]. She died on the twenty-third day of the seventh lunar month of Tongzhi 11 [1872]. She was twenty-six [sui]. Rozan brought the coffi n and she was buried on the western side of the Longhua Temple. This was written when the stone was erected.” Cited in Yonezawa Hideo, Shanhai shiwa, pp. 166–67. Oba Osamu, “Minmatsu Shinsho ni raiko shita Chugokujin,” Nihongaku 19 (April 1992), 181–88; Iwao Seiichi, “Kinsei Nis-Shi boeki ni kansuru suryoteki kosatsu,” Shigaku zasshi 62.11 (November 1953), 1–40, based on Dutch documents; Oba Osamu, “Chinese Travelers to Nagasaki in the Ming- Qing Period,” trans. Joshua A. Fogel, in Sagacious Monks and Bloodthirsty Warriors: Chinese Views of Japan in the Ming- Qing Period, pp. 111–12. Oba notes in the latter piece that the Portuguese also acted on occasion as intermediaries in Sino-Japa nese trade. Oba Osamu, “Chinese Travelers to Nagasaki in the Ming- Qing Period,” pp. 113–14. Yamamoto Noritsuna, Nagasaki Tojin yashiki; Isono Bunsai, Nagasaki miyage, pp. 11b–12a, 21b–22a, 23a–24a; Nagasaki ken shi henshu iinkai, ed., Nagasaki ken shi, taigai kosho hen, pp. 511–24, 855–61; Matsuura Tokei, Nagasaki kokin shuran, pp. 391–417; Okamoto Noriaki and Takahashi Seiichi, “Nagasaki Tojin yashiki no keikan to kozo,” Ajia bunka koryu kenkyu 2 (March 2007), 7–29. See the stunning reproductions of drawings of the Chinese Compound and the extremely useful essays by Oba Osamu, Narusawa Katsushi, Nagai Norio, and Yabuta Yutaka in Oba Osamu, ed., Nagasaki Tokan zu shusei, kinsei Nit-Chu kosho shiryoshu 6.

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98. Oba Osamu, “Sekko to Nihon, 1684 nen yori 1728 nen ni itaru aida no Neihasen no doko,” in Zo to ho to, pp. 475–90; Oba Osamu, Edo jidai ni okeru Chugoku bunka juyo no kenkyu, p. 440; Oba Osamu, Edo jidai no Nit- Chu hiwa, pp. 194–205. 99. Oba Osamu, ed., Kyoho jidai no Nit- Chu kankei shiryo 2: Shu- shi san kyodai shu; Oba Osamu, ed., Kyoho jidai no Nit- Chu kankei shiryo 3: Ogyu Hokkei shu; Ishimura Kiei, Fukami Gentai no kenkyu: Nit- Chu bunka koryu jo ni okeru Gentai den to Obaku Dokuryu zenshi den; Oba Osamu, Edo jidai no Nit- Chu hiwa, pp. 133–41, 145–46. 100. Wu Anlong and Xiong Dayun, Chugokujin no Nihon kenkyu shi, pp. 95–100; Matsuura Akira, “Kenryu jidai no Nagasaki raiko Chugoku shonin: O Ho O Chikuri Tei Sekijo o chushin ni,” Ia 10 (June 1978), pp. 1–19; Ishihara Michihiro, “Shindai O Ho no Nihon bijutsu bunka ron: Nit- Chu bijutsu bunka no koryu daigobu,” Ibaraki daigaku Izura bijutsu bunka kenkyujo ho 69 (1977), 9–24; Matsuura Akira, “Sekko shonin O Ho to Nihon koku Rongo shukai giso,” in Kansai daigaku bungaku ronshu bungakubu (sosetsu nanaju shunen kinen tokushugo) (March 1995), 385–407; Matsuura Akira, Shindai kaigai boeki shi no kenkyu, pp. 246, 325, 335, 340–41, 345. 101. Wang Peng, Xiuhai pian, in Zhaodai congshu, wuji, vol. 56; and in Xiaofanghuzhai yudi congchao, vol. 10.52. Chen’s account can be found in Zhaodai congshu, wuji, vol. 55; in Xiaofanghuzhai yudi congchao, vol. 10.52; and in Taiwan wenxian congkan, no. 26. Wang’s account has been translated into Japa nese by Saneto Keishu as “Tojin yashiki,” in Gaikokujin no mita Nihon, 1:151–73; and in Nagasaki ken shi, shiryohen, 3:309–21. On the extraordinary collection of travel writings, Xiaofanghuzhai yudi congchao, see Wang Yong, “Xiaofanghuzhai yudi congchao ji qi suoji yuwai dianji ‘huakeben’ chutan zhiyi,” Riben wenhua yanjiu 1 (October 1994), 29–41. 102. Kanda Nobuo, Chugoku no rekishi 8, pp. 123–24; Naito Konan, “Nihon no tenshoku to gakusha,” Osaka asahi shinbun (November 9, 1894), rpt. in Naito Konan zenshu, 1:132. 103. For a look at a number of such instances, primarily in the eighteenth century, see Oba Osamu, Hyochakusen monogatari: Edo jidai no Nit- Chu koryu. 104. The most recent edition of the text can be found in Yamashita Tsuneo, ed., Edo hyoryuki soshu, Ishii kendo korekushon daisankan; Sonoda Kazuki, Dattan hyoryuki no kenkyu (A study of the Dattan hyoryuki), reissued as Dattan hyoryuki, no. 593 in the Toyo bunko series. See also Eto Toshio, “Sanbyakunen mae Manshu ni kita Nihonjin no hanashi,” in his Dattan, pp. 168–78; Kanda Nobuo, Chugoku no rekishi


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8, pp. 111–12; Naito Konan, Shincho shi tsuron, in Naito Konan zenshu, 8:277; Sato Saburo, “Edo jidai Nihonjin no kaigai hyoryu: Chugoku hyochaku no baai o chushin to shite,” in his Kindai Nit- Chu kosho shi no kenkyu, pp. 388–424. 105. Haruna Akira, Nippon Otokichi hyoryuki; Haruna Akira, Sekai o mite shimatta otokotachi: Edo no ikyo taiken; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, pp. 96–98; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 43–45. In English, see W. G. Beasley, “Japa nese Castaways and British Interpreters,” Monumenta Nipponica 46.1 (Spring 1991), 92–95. 106. Bob T. Wakabayashi, “Reigning over Time: Japa nese Imperial Era Titles,” Proceedings of the American Historical Association #10485 (1997), 1–16. 107. This is a subject that has received much attention. In English, see Marius Jansen, “Japan and the Chinese Revolution of 1911,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 11, Late Ch’ing, 1800–1911, Part 2, pp. 339–74; Douglas R. Reynolds, China, 1898–1912: The Xinzheng Revolution and Japan; and Paula Harrell, Sowing the Seeds of Change: Chinese Students, Japanese Teachers, 1895–1905. More recently, works such as the following have addressed Chinese interpretations of Japan in these years: Lu Yan, Re- understanding Japan: Chinese Perspectives, 1895–1945; and Christiane I. Reinhold, Studying the Enemy: Japan Hands in Republican China and Their Quest for National Identity. These last two studies reveal how generally shallow Chinese understanding and scholarship on Japan were, with few exceptions. 2. The Voyage of the Senzaimaru and the Road to Sino-Japanese Diplomatic Normalcy

1. See, for example, Wang Xiaoqiu, Jindai Zhong-Ri qishi lu; Wang Xiaoqiu, Jindai Zhong-Ri wenhua jiaoliu shi; and Wang Xiaoqiu, “Mumo Ribenren zenyang kan Zhongguo: 1862 nian ‘Qiansuiwan’ Shanghai zhi xing yanjiu,” Ribenxue 1 (1989), 140–56. 2. On the Japan Residents Association and the schools created in the city for Japa nese schoolchildren, see my essay “ ‘Shanghai-Japan’: The Japa nese Residents’ Association of Shanghai,” Journal of Asian Studies 59.4 (November 2000), 927–50. The fullest source on this subject is Shanhai kyoryu mindan sanjugo shunen kinen shi in over 1,300 pages. 3. Takatsuna Hirofumi, “Nihon ni okeru Shanhai shi kenkyu no senkusha: Okita Hajime,” Kindai Chugoku kenkyu iho 17 (1995), 25–28. Another central person in this orga ni zation was Ashizawa Shunnosuke, who was born in Shanghai, the son of a printer and longtime resident. See Chen

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5.

6.

7.

8.

9. 10. 11. 12.


Zuen, “Shanhai ni ita Nihonjin,” Shanghai Walker Online: “Ashizawa insatsujo” (July 2002). Okita Hajime, “Bakumatsu daiichiji Shanhai haken kansen Senzaimaru no shiryo,” Toyoshi kenkyu 10.1 (December 1947), 49–58; 10.3 (July 1948), 198–212. See, for example, three essays by Haruna Akira, “Sen happyaku rokuju ninen bakufu Senzaimaru no Shanhai haken,” in Nihon zenkindai no kokka to taigai kankei, pp. 555–601; “Nakamuda Kuranosuke no Shanhai taiken: Bunkyu ninen Shanhai ko nikki o chushin ni,” Kokugakuin daigaku kiyo 35 (March 1997), 57–96; and “Mine Kiyoshi no Shanhai keiken: ‘Senchu nichiroku’ to ‘Shinkoku Shanhai kenbunroku,’ ” Chofu Nihon bunka 8 (1998), 27–100. See also Miyanaga Takashi, Takasugi Shinsaku no Shanhai repotto. Huang Rongguang, “Bakumatsu Senzaimaru Kenjunmaru no Shanhai haken ra ni kansuru Shinkoku gaiko monjo ni tsuite: Taiwan Chuo kenkyuin Kindaishi kenkyujo shozo ‘Sori kakkoku jimu gamon Shinto’ (1862–68 nen),” Tokyo daigaku Shiryo hensanjo kenkyu kiyo 13 (March 2003), 176–200. Lloyd’s Registry (1856), item no. 875; Lloyd’s List, July 30, 1855; Lloyd’s Registry (1864–65), item no. 938 for the ship’s dimensions. On the basis of sources not given, Honjo Eijiro gives dimensions of 126 feet by 28 feet by 17 feet. See his “Bakumatsu no Shanhai boeki,” Keizai ronso 46.5 (May 1938), 131. E.g., Lloyd’s List, April 2, 1856; May 13, 1856; June 9, 1856; August 6, 1856; March 2, 1857; May 19, 1857; August 7, 1857; October 17, 1857; November 10, 1857; and December 22, 1857. Lloyd’s Registry (1859), item no. 872; Lloyd’s List, November 2, 1859; November 10, 1859; November 25, 1859. Lloyd’s List, December 15, 1860; North- China Herald, October 6, 1860, p. 160. See also Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, p. 89. The North- China Herald (December 29, 1860, p. 208) gives the date of December 16 here. M. Paske-Smith, Western Barbarians in Japan and Formosa in Tokugawa Days, p. 430, notes that the Armistice called at Nagasaki on July 26, 1861, with Richardson listed as captain and “Maltby & Co.” given as “Consignees”; the Nagasaki Shipping List and Advertiser 1.4 (July 10, 1861) carries a notice from John Maltby (dated May 7, 1861): “I have this day established a General Commission Agency at the Port [Nagasaki] under the style of MALTBY & CO.” Lloyd’s List for September 28, 1861, has the Armistice arriving in Wusong, near Shanghai, from Nagasaki on July 21, making it unlikely that it had completed its business there and returned to Nagasaki six days later; the last piece of information concerning the consignee is interesting, though to be found


13. 14.

15. 16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

145

nowhere else. Okita Hajime claims, on the basis of the North- China Herald, that Captain Richardson made eight trips to Nagasaki aboard the Armistice, though it would appear that in fact he made a few more. See Okita’s Shanhai hojin shi kenkyu, p. 57. North- China Herald, March 16, 1861, p. 44; July 6, 1861, p. 108; October 19, 1861, p. 168; December 21, 1861, p. 204. North-China Herald, January 18, 1862, p. 12; March 22, 1862, p. 44. When the Senzaimaru departed on July 31, 1862, for Nagasaki, it was said to be carry ing “sundries”: North-China Herald, August 9, 1862, p. 120. All given in North- China Herald, July 16, 1859, p. 200. The advertisement announcing steamship runs between Shanghai and Nagasaki ran in every issue of the North- China Herald from August 13 through September 24, 1859. Although the ship’s name is spelled “Azoff ” here, it was also often spelled with a single “f.” Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, p. 82; Okita Hajime, “Shanhai shiwa,” Shanhai kenkyu 1 (February 1942), 55, 58; see also the entries on the Cadiz in “Tod & Macgregor Shiplist,” http://www.gregormacgregor.com/ Tod&Macgregor/Cadiz _87.htm (May 12, 2005), and “The Ships List,” www.theshipslist.com/ships/lines/pando.html (May 11, 2005). The Azof made about ten round-trip Shanghai-Nagasaki trips and then disappeared from this route in early May 1860, while continuing to ply East Asian sea routes; the Aden made its first Shanghai-to-Nagasaki voyage on May 19, 1860. W. C. Wetmore (Life in the Far East, p. 37) describes the Shanghai-to-Nagasaki voyage in late 1859, as does Willem J. C. R. Huyssen van Kattendyke for early that year: Nagasaki kaigun denshujo no hibi, pp. 146–57. See also To-A dobun shoin daigaku shi, p. 9. The P&O Company was the first British shipping firm to open shop in Japan; see Boyd Cable, A Hundred Year History of the P. & O., Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, pp. 173–74; and M. Paske-Smith, Western Barbarians in Japan and Formosa, pp. 224–25. Lloyd’s List, December 15, 1860; for 1861: February 14, February 27, March 18, March 27, April 15, May 13, May 28, June 15, June 27, July 30, August 17, August 27, September 16, September 28, October 28, December 14; for 1862, e.g., January 24, February 17, March 18, April 15. E-mail communications from Rick D. H. van Velden (June 24, 2004) of the Nationaal Archief, and from Margriet van der Sluys (June 28, 2004) of the Ministerie van Buitenlanse Zaken. E-mail communications from Frank Hovens (June 10, 2004) of the Rijksarchief in Limburg, and from Helen Stroosma (June 9, 2004) of the Stadsarchief Dordrecht. E. M. A. H. Delhougne, Genealogieën III, pp. 214, 216; Wil Furrer-Kroes and Henk Kroes, Uit elker beker? p. 107. Personal

146

22. 23. 24.

25. 26.

27.


communications from Y. M. Prins of the Centraal Bureau voor Genealogie, which included a death notice for Kroes from 1889 in its collection of “family announcements,” and from Wil Furrer-Kroes, which included her manuscript of the Kroes family genealogy for Theodorus going back five generations. Thanks to Wilt Idema for solving the puzzle of the meaning of “Dianqu,” something that has stymied scholars for years. Hendrik P. N. Muller, Azië gespiegeld, Malakka en China: Studiën en ervaringen, p. 166. This information comes in response to queries to Herman J. Moeshart of Leiden University, an expert in the field of the history of Dutch– East Asian relations. General population figures are from Haneda Ichiji, Shanhai no kenjo shi, pp. 159–60; and North- China Herald, January 21, 1860, p. 11. North- China Herald, March 12, 1859, p. 126; May 14, pp. 162, 164; June 18, p. 182. Citations of these and subsequent letters of the Bauduin brothers are thanks to Herman J. Moeshart, who brought them to my attention and then translated the relevant passages. Pompe van Meerdervoort spent five years in Nagasaki, helped create the medical college there, and taught medicine to young Japanese doctors. See Doctor on Desima: Selected Chapters from Jhr J. L. C. Pompe van Meerdervoort’s Vijf Jaren in Japan [Five Years in Japan] (1857–1863), trans. and annot. Elizabeth P. Wittermans and John Z. Bowers; and L. S. A. M. von Römer, Historical Sketches: An Introduction to the Fourth Congress of the Far Eastern Association of Tropical Medicine to Be Held in Batavia from 6th to 13th August 1921, trans. Duncan MacColl, G. da Silva, and others, pp. 116–35. North- China Herald, March 9, 1861, p. 37; March 16, p. 41; March 23, p. 45; March 30, p. 49; April 6, p. 53; April 13, p. 57; April 20, p. 61; April 27, p. 65; May 4, p. 69; May 11, p. 73; May 11, p. 77; May 25, p. 81, June 1, p. 85. On each of these occasions, the following “Notice” was published directly below: NOTICE. The Shanghai Branch of our Firm was closed upon the 28th February 1861. All outstanding accounts of the said Branch will be settled by Messrs. T. KROES & CO., of Shanghai. Mr. THEODORUS KROES ceases from this date to sign the name of our Firm per procuration in China DIMIER BROTHERS & CO. China, 1st March 1861


147

28. From North- China Herald, April 19, 1862, p. 61, through July 26, 1862, p. 117. 29. Compiled by the Nagasaki Foreign Settlement Research Group; see http://www.nfs.nias.ac.jp/page002 .html#1. 30. H. Beukers, ed., Leraar onder de Japanners: Brieven van der dr. K. W. Gratama betreffende zijn verblijf in Japan, 1866–1871, as communicated to me by e-mail (February 17, 2004) and translated therein by J. T. Brockmeier. 31. Laurence Oliphant, Narrative of the Earl of Elgin’s Mission to China and Japan, 1:269. 32. Staatsalmanak voor het Koningrijk der Nederlanden (1876), as communicated to me in an e-mail message (February 17, 2004) by J. T. Brockmeier of the Gemeentearchief Amsterdam (Amsterdam City Archives). The 1860 edition of the Staatalmanak lists him as a vice- consul in Shanghai. 33. C. P. Mulder and P. A. Christiaans, Onderscheidingen van de Koning- Groothertog: De orde van de Eikenkroon, 1841–1891, p. 600, a source that also lists Kroes as vice- consul. 34. Chen Zuen claims, apparently following Honjo Eijiro, that Kroes was paid a 2.5 percent commission on the goods brought from Japan and warehoused and sold in Shanghai. This remains to be established for certain. See his “Shanhai ni ita Nihonjin,” Shanghai Walker Online: “Bakufusen Senzaimaru no Shanhai shoraiko” (January 2001). 35. North- China Herald 619 (June 7, 1862). 36. For example, North- China Herald: for the Kenjunmaru (May 7, 1864, and May 14, 1864) and for the Dolphin (August 4, 1868, and October 14, 1868). These are cited as well in Okita Hajime, “Nosuchaina Herarudo no bakumatsuji no Nihon kankei kiji,” Ryukoku daigaku ronshu 417 (October 1980), 24, 42, 44. He served as “consignee” in 1863 for such Dutch ships as the Japan Packet, the Maria Theresa, and the Zwaluw (North- China Herald, January 3, 1863, p. 4); and for the Argonaut, the Adeline, the Jacobus Martinus, the Libra, and the Elizabeth (all Dutch), as well as the Maria (a Danish barque) in 1865: see (all 1865) North- China Herald, January 14, supplement; March 11, 1865, supplement; July 15, supplement; July 29, supplement; November 11, supplement; December 9, supplement; December 16, supplement. 37. Liu Jianhui, Mato Shanhai: Nihon chishikijin no “ kindai” taiken, p. 34. 38. Martha Chaiklin, “Monopolists to Middlemen: Dutch Reaction to the Matthew C. Perry Expedition to Japan,” unpublished essay (2005).

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Notes to Pages 68–71 3. The Japanese Community of Shanghai

1. I have not discussed the voyage of the Kenjunmaru in these essays. It was the second official Japanese voyage to China, sent by the Hakodate Magistrate and also to Shanghai, arriving in late March 1864 and staying for six weeks. I analyze this mission in my The Literature of Travel in the Japanese Rediscovery of China, 1862–1945, pp. 57–61, although at the time I had a misreading of the ship’s name as Kenshumaru. 2. For a full treatment of this mission, see Miyanaga Takashi, Purinsu Akitake no Oshu kiko, Keio 3 nen Pari banpaku shisetsu. The prince’s diary has been edited and annotated in Miyaji Masato, ed., Tokugawa Akitake bakumatsu tai-O nikki. There are mentions made of this trip, though not of the stopover in Shanghai, in W. G. Beasley, Japan Encounters the Barbarian: Japanese Travellers in America and Europe, pp. 114–17; and Masao Miyoshi, As We Saw Them: The First Japanese Embassy to the United States (1860), p. 175. 3. “Yoga no senkaku Takahashi Yuichi den,” Bijutsu shinpo 4.9 (July 20, 1905), 68; Sakai Tetsuo, “Shin (Shin) wa saibu ni yadoritamau: Takahashi Yuichi no hito to geijutsu,” in Takahashi Yuichi ten: Botsugo 100 nen, kindai Yoga no reimei, p. 7. 4. Kawakita Michiaki, Kindai Nihon bijutsu no kenkyu, pp. 63, 64. 5. Takahashi’s diary has been reprinted in Aoki Shigeru, ed., Meiji Yoga shiryo, kirokuhen, pp. 13–22. Several of his sketches have been reprinted in Tanaka Akira, Nihon no kinsei, vol. 18: Kindai kokka e no shiko. See also Haga Toru, “Bakumatsu no aru Yogaka: Takahashi Yuichi no bunkateki ichi,” Jiyu 5 (December 1963), 136–44. 6. “Takahashi Yuichi rireki,” in Meiji geijutsu bungaku ronshu, vol. 79 of Meiji bungaku zenshu, p. 254; Harada Hikaru, explanatory note in Takahashi Yuichi ten, p. 109. 7. Huang Rongguang, “Bakumatsu Senzaimaru Kenjunmaru no Shanhai haken ra ni kansuru Shinkoku gaiko monjo ni tsuite: Taiwan Chuo kenkyuin Kindaishi kenkyujo shozo ‘Sori kakkoku jimu gamon Shinto’ (1862–68 nen),” Tokyo daigaku Shiryo hensanjo kenkyu kiyo 13 (March 2003), 177, 191. 192. See also Toyama Mikio, Nagasaki bugyo: Edo bakufu no mimi to me, pp. 178–80. 8. Huang Rongguang, “Bakumatsu Senzaimaru Kenjunmaru,” pp. 195, 199–200. 9. I have discussed the topic of this section in some detail in my essay “Prostitutes and Painters: Early Japa nese Migrants to Shanghai,” in Migration in History: Human Migration in Comparative Perspective, pp. 89–117.


149

10. “Passengers,” North China Herald, August 25, 1866; December 24, 1867; May 16, 1868. See also Okita Hajime, “Nosuchaina Herarudo no bakumatsuji no Nihon kankei kiji,” Ryukoku daigaku ronshu 417 (October 1980), 29, 42; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan: Shanhai ni kansuru shiteki zuihitsu, p. 100. 11. Soejima Shoichi, “Senzen ki Chugoku zairyu Nihonjin jinko tokei (ko),” Wakayama daigaku kyoiku gakubu kiyo, jinbun kagaku 33 (1984), 9, 24. The Shanghai Municipal Council offered a figure of 7 for the entire Japa nese population in 1870, but this was clearly not based on reliable information; by the same token, Kishida Ginko (1833–1905) wrote in 1870 in an article for the Yokohama shinpo moshiogusa that there were 100 Japa nese in Shanghai—equally unreliable. The number was probably somewhere in between, as indicated by Yanagihara Sakimitsu (1850–94)—estimating 50–60 in his Shi Shin nikki (Diary of a mission to China)—who traveled to China that same year to negotiate the fi rst Sino-Japa nese diplomatic treaty, effected the following year. See Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 309–10, 324; Chen Liwei, “Meiji shoki ni okeru Han’yaku Yosho no juyo: Yanagihara Sakimitsu ga konyu shita shomotsu o chushin ni,” Tohogaku 99 (January 2000), 61–74. 12. Ikeda Nobuo, Shanhai hyakuwa, pp. 1–2; Katsuragawa Mitsumasa, “Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai,” in Kokusai toshi Shanhai, p. 37. 13. For example, it is reprinted in Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, p. 312, and Okita there mentions several Chinese texts that carried the same poem. Special thanks to Hsiung Ping- chen of the Academia Sinica for help in translating this poem. 14. Keith McMahon, “Fleecing the Male Customer in Shanghai Brothels of the 1890s,” Late Imperial China 23.2 (December 2002), 7, 8, 11. 15. This name is rendered by two sets of reduplicated characters, read in Mandarin as “Sansan” and “Shanshan” (see Glossary); and in Japa nese both as “Sansan.” More important, though, both are pronounced identically in Shanghai dialect. Thanks to Shen Kuiyi for confi rming my suspicion in this regard. 16. Huang Shiquan, Songnan mengying lu, reprinted in Shanghai tan yu Shanghairen, p. 128. See also Chen Zuen, “Shanhai ni ita Nihonjin,” Shanghai Walker Online: “Toyo chakan” (March 2001). 17. Morisaki Kazue, Karayukisan, p. 91. 18. Ibid., pp. 90, 92. 19. Two recent volumes on prostitution in Shanghai that take up these issues are Gail Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures: Prostitution and Modernity in Twentieth- Century Shanghai; and Christian Henriot, Prostitution and Sexuality in Shanghai: A Social History (1849–1949),

150

20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

29.

30. 31.


a translation by Noël Castelino of his Belles de Shanghai: Prostitution et sexualité en China aux XIXe et XXe siècles. See the excellent review of these two books by Angela Ki Che Leung, “Prostitution in Modern Shanghai: Two Recent Studies,” Nan Nü: Men, Women and Gender in Early and Imperial China 2.1 (2000), 180–87. See also, most recently, Catherine Yeh, Shanghai Love: Courtesans, Intellectuals, and Entertainment Culture, 1850–1910. Ikeda Nobuo, Shanhai hyakuwa, pp. 11–12; Meishi jushi, Shenjiang shixia sheng jing tushuo, pp. 23–24, where it is referred to as the “Toyo charo” (C. Dongyang chalou); Ma Honglin, “1937 nen izen no Shanhai Nihonjin kyoryumin no shakai to bunka,” in Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai, senzen no bunka, shukyo, kyoiku, p. 36. Chen Zuen, “Toyo chakan”; Katsuragawa Mitsumasa, “Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai,” p. 42. Sawamura Yoshio, Shanhai fudoki, pp. 19–21; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 314–15. Jing Zhu, Shenjiang sheng jing tu, 1/16a–16b. Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, p. 314, citing a Chinese text: Chunjiang hua shi, juan 2. Katsuragawa Mitsumasa, “Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai,” pp. 42–43; Ikeda Nobuo, Shanhai hyakuwa, p. 15; Chen Zuen, “Toyo chakan.” The text of the Zairyu hojin kokoroekata kari kisoku is given in Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 295–97. See also Furuya Tetsuo, “Keiseiki ni okeru ryoji seido to ryoji hokoku,” in Nihon ryoji hokoku no kenkyu, p. 50. The text of the Shinkoku Shanhai kyoryu Nihonjin torishimari kisoku is given in Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 297–98. Erik Esselstrom, Crossing Empire’s Edge: Foreign Ministry Police and Japanese Expansionism in Northeast Asia; and Esselstrom, “Rethinking the Colonial Conquest of Manchuria: The Japa nese Consular Police in Jiandao, 1909–1937,” Modern Asian Studies 39 (2005), 39–75. Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 315–16; Ikeda Nobuo, Shanhai hyakuwa, p. 249. Couling and Lanning note with respect to the decrease in Japa nese population between 1885 and 1890 that it “was chiefly due to an exodus of women returning to Japan, for which no reason is assigned.” S. Couling and George Lanning, The History of Shanghai, 2:492. Toyama Kagenao, Shanhai, p. 219. Shanhai shinpo 23 (November 8, 1890), 6. A month earlier, a front-page article noted that on a steamer recently arrived in port were two Japa nese women who, despite the fact that the author had no


32. 33.

34. 35.

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evidence to make such a claim, were “clearly prostitutes.” Shanhai shinpo 18 (October 3, 1890), 1–2. Shanhai shinpo 41 (March 13, 1891), 1–2. I would be remiss if I did not mention one of the most important sources on the topic at hand, and on Chinese courtesan culture itself in the latter half of the nineteenth century, the writings of Wang Tao (1828–97), although I have not as yet figured out how to make use of and integrate this material. Wang’s one major text that contains material on Japa nese courtesans in Shanghai is a large collection of reminiscences that he wrote in his later years, entitled Songyin manlu. This long work, divided into numerous chapters, each devoted to one or more courtesans, includes several chapters on Japa nese women who had taken up residence in the brothels of Shanghai. The problem is that the entire work is a mixture of fiction and fact reminiscent of Pu Songling’s (1640–1715) famous Liaozhai zhiyi and was in fact recently reprinted in China with the title Hou Liaozhai zhiyi tushuo. The two chapters directly concerned with our theme are “Dongying cainü” (Japa nese woman of talent) and “Huaxi nüshi xiaozhuan” (Short biography of Miss Huaxi). They recount Wang’s or others’ becoming enamored of these women, something of their past histories, and what developed. Taking them at face value, even critically, can be dangerous, but it would be safe to point to such instances as exemplars of the agency discourse; namely, these were women in control—to Wang’s great consternation in one case—and they suggest closer links structurally to contemporaneous Chinese courtesans. See Wang Tao, Hou Liaozhai zhiyi tushuo, 3:1316–29, 1439–49. Matsumoto Tadao, “Shanhai ni okeru Nihonjin hatten no shoki,” Toyo 42 (October 1939), 40–41. Matsumoto Ikumi, “Shodai Shanhai ryoji Shinagawa Tadamichi ni kansuru ichi kosatsu,” Shiso 58 (February 2001), 281–83; Shanghai shinpo 43 (March 27, 1891), 2; Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, p. 282; Takashima Masaaki, “Ryoji hokoku seido to ‘ryoji hokoku’ no kanko: Tsusho ihen kara Tsusho isan made,” in Nihon ryoji hokoku no kenkyu, p. 75; Sakata Toshio, “Shanhai hojin ikai Meiji nenshi,” Shanhai kenkyu 1 (February 1942), 69–70; Takatsuna Hirofumi, “Seiyojin no Shanhai, Nihonjin no Shanhai,” in Shanhai shi, kyodai toshi no keisei to hitobito no itonami, pp. 119–20; Yonezawa Hideo, Shanhai shiwa, pp. 93, 168–69; To-A dobun shoin daigaku shi, pp. 10, 12; Zhu Rong, “Shanhai kyoryu Nihonjin shakai to Yokohama Kakyo shakai no hikaku kenkyu,” in Yokohama to Shanhai, kindai toshi keisei shi hikaku kenkyu, pp. 400–401, 410.

152


36. Chen Qiyuan, Yongxian zhai biji. Although he cannot have known too much about Japan, Chen nonetheless later authored a one-fascicle text entitled Riben jinshi ji, rpt. in Xiaofanghuzhai yudi congchao, vol. 10. 37. Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 260–62; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, p. 75; Okita Hajime, “Shanhai shiwa,” Shanhai kenkyu 1 (February 1942), 61; Takatsuna Hirofumi and Chen Zuen, Riben qiaoren zai Shanghai (1870–1945), p. 7. Sawamura Yoshio (Shanhai fudoki, pp. 35–36) considered the opening of the Tashiroya the real start of Japa nese development in Shanghai, not any of the activities of Takasugi Shinsaku or Kishida Ginko. 38. Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, pp. 99–100. 39. Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 262–63; Yonezawa Hideo, Shanhai shiwa, pp. 86–88; Shanhai shinpo 20 (October 17, 1890), 1–2; Noshomusho kokokyoku, Shanhai kaisanbutsu jijo pp. 7, 12–14, 16–18, 19; http:// www.city.hakodate.hokkaido.jp/soumu/hensan/jimbutsu _ver1.0/ b_jimbutsu/yanagida _to.htm. This last source covers mostly a slightly later period, but demonstrates that the trends described only grew stronger in subsequent years. 40. Toyama Kagenao, Shanhai, pp. 220–25, 227; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 270–73; Chen Qianchen, “Seiyo bunmei no tenjijo to shite no Shanhai,” in Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai, senzen no bunka, shukyo, kyoiku, pp. 15–16; Chen Zuen, “Shanhai ni ita Nihonjin,” Shanghai Walker Online: “Towa yoko (ryokan)” (March 2002); Ikeda Nobuo, Shanhai hyakuwa, pp. 3–4; Shanhai ichiran, p. 140; Ma Honglin, “1937 nen izen no Shanhai Nihonjin kyoryumin no shakai to bunka,” p. 31. The one exception to the short average lifespan of sundries shops was the Santoku yoko, which actually lasted five and one-half years (May 1878–December 1883). 41. Uchiyama Kiyoshi, Shanhai ni okeru Nihon oyobi Nihonjin no chii, p. 54; businesses listed on pp. 42–54. 42. Katsuragawa Mitsumasa, “Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai,” pp. 37–39; Toyama Kagenao, Shanhai, p. 220; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 272–74; Yonezawa Hideo, “Shanhai hojin hatten shi (ni),” To-A keizai kenkyu 23.1 (January–February 1939), 122–25; Ma Honglin, “1937 nen izen no Shanhai Nihonjin kyoryumin no shakai to bunka,” p. 31. 43. Katsuragawa Mitsumasa, “Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai,” p. 39; Toyama Kagenao, Shanhai, pp. 220, 221; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, p. 282. 44. Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 278–79; Toyama Kagenao, Shanhai, p. 223; Fujisaki Yasuo and Kojima Tadashi, Jidai o tsukame kono te no naka ni: Nihon hatsu no puro kameraman Ueno Hikoma;


45.

46.

47.

48.

49. 50. 51.

52.

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Ueno Hikoma to bakufu no shashinkatachi; Yahata Masao, Shashinjutsushi Ueno Hikoma; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, pp. 73–75; Yahata Masao, Hyoden Ueno Hikoma: Nihon saisho no puro kameraman. William Wray argues convincingly that Foreign Minister Okuma Shigenobu (1838–1922) ordered Mitsubishi to start a Yokohama-Shanghai line in mid-January as a means of breaking the Pacific Mail monopoly. See Wray, Mitsubishi and the N.Y.K., 1870–1914: Business Strategy in the Japanese Shipping Industry, pp. 60–61, 84. Yasuba Yasukichi, “Kaijo unso to kogyoka, josetsu,” in Kindai keizai no rekishiteki kiban, pp. 266–67, 270; Chen Zuen, “Shanhai ni ita Nihonjin,” Shanghai Walker Online: “Shanhai koro” (September 2001); Katayama Kunio, “Ryoji hokoku ni miru Nihon sen no kaigai shinshutsu: Mitsubishi no jidai,” in Nihon ryoji hokoku no kenkyu, pp. 249–51. Shanhai shogyo zappo (11 issues, 1882–83); see issue 1 (July 1882), 1–4; Joshua A. Fogel, “An Important Japa nese Source for Chinese Business History,” Chinese Business History 12.2 (Fall 2002), 3, 8; Sugiyama Shin’ya, Japan’s Industrialization in the World Economy, 1859–1899, pp. 36–37. Nagano Susumu, “Bakumatsu ki Meiji sanjunen ni okeru sekitan boeki,” in Kindai keizai no rekishiteki kiban, pp. 540, 545–46; Hasegawa Oho, Shina boeki annai, p. 106; Sugiyama Shin’ya, “Nihon sekitangyo no hatten to Ajia sekitan shijo,” Kikan gendai keizai 47 (Spring 1982), 64–66; Sugiyama Shin’ya, Japan’s Industrialization in the World Economy, pp. 170, 173, 176, 178, 180–81; Sugiyama Shin’ya, “Bakumatsu, Meiji shoki ni okeru sekitan yushutsu no doko to Shanhai sekitan shijo,” Shakai keizai shigaku 43.6 (1978), 19–41. Sugiyama Shin’ya, “Nihon sekitangyo no hatten to Ajia sekitan shijo,” p. 67. William Wray, Mitsubishi and the N.Y.K., p. 134. Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 276–77; Toyama Kagenao, Shanhai, pp. 221–22; Motomiya Kazuo, “Sogo shosha no keisei,” in Kindai Nihon no kiseki, vol. 8: Sangyo kakumei, pp. 168–74, quotation on pp. 170–71; Tanaka Yasuo, “Mitsui Bussan kaisha to Ueda Yasusaburo: Mitsui Bussan kaisha Shanhai shiten ‘naijo,’ ” Mitsui bunko ronso 7 (November 1973), 201–300; Tsunoyama Sakae, “Joronteki kosatsu,” in Nihon ryoji hokoku no kenkyu, pp. 20–22. Ogaeri Yoshio, ed., “Dochi matsunen ryu-En nikki ( jo),” Tokyo joshi daigaku ronshu 8.1 (1957), 19–23; Michihata Ryoshu, Nit- Chu Bukkyo yuko nisen nen shi, pp. 191–94; Kiba Akeshi, “Myoshoji bunko ni tsuite: Ogurusu Kocho kankei shiryo tsuika kizo no hokoku,” Shoko 22 (March 2005), 15–16. For a brief look at the later activities of the

154

53. 54.

55.

56.


Higashi Honganji in Shanghai, see Kojima Masaru, “Senzen no Shanhai ni okeru Jodo shinshu Honganji ha kaikyo no sokuseki: Kyokai ichiran to Bunka jiho no kiji kara,” Otani daigaku shinshu sogo kenkyujo kenkyu kiyo 12 (1994), 111–26. The diary of Tani Ryonen, as cited in Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, p. 7. Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, pp. 8, 9, 12; Kiba Akeshi and Keika Atsuyoshi, “Higashi Honganji Chugoku fukyo shi no kisoteki kenkyu,” Otani daigaku Shinshu sogo kenkyujo kenkyu kiyo 5 (1987), 1, 15–17; Kiba Akeshi, “Higashi Honganji Chugoku fukyo ni okeru kyoiku jigyo,” Shinshu kenkyu 34 (March 1990), 142–43; Xin Ping, “Jodo shinshu Higashi Nishi Honganji no Chugoku fukyo,” trans. Tamura Toshio, in Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai, pp. 51–53; Michihata Ryoshu, Nit- Chu Bukkyo yuko nisen nen shi, pp. 194–95; Shibata Mikio, “Shanhai Nihonjin kyoryumin to Bukkyo,” in Shanhai, juso suru nettowaaku, pp. 401–25; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, p. 286; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, p. 71; Kuzuu Yoshihisa, To-A senkaku shishi kiden, 2:316; Kawamura Kazuo, “Kaigun taii Sone Toshitora no Shinkoku shisatsu ni tsuite,” Gunji shigaku 39 (December 1974), 44–48. Kiba Akeshi, “Higashi Honganji Chugoku fukyo ni okeru kyoiku jigyo,” pp. 143–44; Kiba Akeshi and Keika Atsuyoshi, “Higashi Honganji Chugoku fukyo shi no kisoteki kenkyu,” pp. 17, 39. The early students are all named in Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, pp. 15–16; original text of school principles on p. 260. Kiba Akeshi and Keika Atsuyoshi, “Higashi Honganji Chugoku fukyo shi no kisoteki kenkyu,” pp. 18, 21, 41–42; Kiba Akeshi, “Higashi Honganji Chugoku fukyo ni okeru kyoiku jigyo,” pp. 145–47; Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, pp. 36–37, 49; Shanhai ichiran, pp. 48–49; Chen Zuen, “Shanhai Nihonjin kyoryumin no shitei kyoiku,” trans. Konishi Tomomi, in Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai, senzen no bunka, shukyo, kyoiku, pp. 114–15. Initially, although management of the Japa nese cemetery was given to the betsuin by the Foreign Ministry, cremation was not permitted—reflecting the early Meiji anti-Buddhist attitude of the state—and thus land was purchased in Shanghai by the Japa nese government for burials; it was not until 1906–8 that a crematorium was planned, built, and put into operation by the Japa nese community of Shanghai. See Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, pp. 116–20.


155

57. Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, pp. 42, 48–50, 52, 54–56, 58–60; Michihata Ryoshu, Nit- Chu Bukkyo yuko nisen nen shi, p. 194. 58. Shiba would later fi nd himself at the Japa nese Legation in Beijing during the Boxer Siege and compose an account of that ordeal: Pekin rojo. See also Namiki Yorihisa, “Meiji shoki no ko-A ron to Sone Toshitora ni tsuite,” Chugoku kenkyu geppo 544 (1993), 11–24. 59. Sato Saburo, “Chugoku ni okeru Nihon Bukkyo no fukyoken o megutte,” in his Kindai Nit- Chu kosho shi no kenkyu, pp. 222–23, 225–27, 229–31, 232–34. 60. Xin Ping, “Jodo shinshu Higashi Nishi Honganji no Chugoku fukyo,” pp. 68–72. 61. Kojima Masaru, “Shanhai no Nihonjin gakko no seikaku,” in Shanhai no Nihonjin shakai, pp. 135–38. 62. Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 289–90; Joshua A. Fogel, Nakae Ushikichi in China: The Mourning of Spirit, p. 15. 63. Marius Jansen, The Japanese and Sun Yat- sen; Paul D. Scott, JapanChina, Arao Sei and the Paradox of Cooperation; Douglas R. Reynolds, “Chinese Area Studies in Prewar China: Japan’s Toa Dobun Shoin in Shanghai, 1900–1945,” Journal of Asian Studies 45.5 (November 1986), 945–70. 64. Amano Hiroshi, Kawabuchi Minako, Tanaka Yoshiko, Saito Akemi, and Sugihara Masayasu, “Kishida Ginko to shinbun no yaku kokoku,” Yakushigaku zasshi 27.2 (1992), 102–8; The Mission Press in China, Being a Jubilee Retrospect of the American Presbyterian Mission Press; Sugiura Tadashi, Kishida Ginko, shiryo kara mita sono issho, pp. 148–49, 151–52, 155, 156–57; Yonezawa Hideo, Shanhai shiwa, pp. 97–98; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, pp. 24–25; Yonezawa Hideo, “Shanhai hojin hatten shi (ichi),” To-A keizai kenkyu 22.3 (July 1938), 61. 65. Eto Shinkichi, “Chugoku kakumei to Nihonjin: Kishida Ginko no baai,” in Nihon no shakai bunka shi, vol. 7: Sekai no naka no Nihon, pp. 246–47, 253, 254–57; Douglas R. Reynolds, “Before Imperialism: Kishida Ginko Pioneers the China Market for Japan,” Proceedings and Papers of the Georgia Association of Historians (1984), 115. 66. Amano Hiroshi, Saito Akemi, and Sugihara Masayasu, “Meiji shoki no yakugyokai ni koken shita Kishida Ginko,” Yakushigaku zasshi 24.1 (1989), 47–54; Shoji Taichi, “Kishida Ginko no kokusan daiichigo mizu megusuri ‘Seikisui’ garasubin oboegaki,” Musashi daigaku jinbun gakkai zasshi 30.4 (1999), 109–25. 67. Located, respectively, in Xiaodongmenwai and Yangjingqiao.

156


68. Eto Shinkichi, “Chugoku kakumei to Nihonjin,” p. 258; quotation cited in Sugiura Tadashi, Kishida Ginko, pp. 260–62; Yonezawa Hideo, “Shanhai hojin hatten shi (ichi),” p. 62. On the early Meiji press, see James L. Huffman, Creating a Public: People and Press in Meiji Japan, pp. 30–31, 37–38, 95. 69. See Heco’s fascinating memoirs: Joseph Heco, The Narrative of a Japanese: What He Has Seen and the People He Has Met in the Course of the Last Forty Years, esp. 2:53, 59. 70. Sugiura Tadashi, Kishida Ginko, p. 160; Okita Hajime, Kojo shi dan, p. 29; Hanazono Kentei, “Kishida Ginko to Nihon insatsu bunka,” in Kinsei insatsu bunka shiko, pp. 1–10; Kurokawa Kosaburo, “Kishida Ginko ron, shominha jaanarisuto no kiseki,” Seikei kenkyu 32.1 (July 1995), 31–56. As a journalist-writer, Kishida was most famous for his articles in Tokyo nichinichi shinbun (Tokyo daily news) when he covered the Japa nese expedition to Taiwan in 1874. 71. On the range and breadth of Kishida’s extraordinary publishing activities in China, see Chen Jie, Meiji zenki Nit- Chu gakujutsu koryu no kenkyu: Shinkoku chu-Nichi Koshikan no bunka katsudo, pp. 227–64; Chen Jie, “Antian Yinxiang de Leshantang zai Zhongguo de tushu chuban he fanmai huodong,” Zhongguo dianji yu wenhua 54 (2005), 46–59. See also Ikeda Nobuo, Shanhai hyakuwa, pp. 25–26. 72. Shanhai jinbutsu shi, pp. 84–85; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, p. 283; Douglas Reynolds, “Before Imperialism,” pp. 115–17. We have been concentrating on Kishida’s fi rsts with respect to China, but he also was responsible in part for opening the first Japa nese schools for the blind, deaf, and dumb in 1876. 73. Marius Jansen, “Japan and the Chinese Revolution of 1911,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. 11: Late Ch’ing, 1800–1911, Part 2, p. 365. 74. To-A dobun shoin daigaku shi, pp. 16–17, 23–36; Nezu Hajime, ed., Shinkoku tsusho soran; Chen Zuen, “Shanhai ni ita Nihonjin,” Shanghai Walker Online: “Nis- Shin boeki kenkyujo” (August 2006); Douglas Reynolds, “Before Imperialism,” p. 120; Kawai Teikichi, Chugoku kakumei to Nihonjin, pp. 134–35; Marius Jansen, The Japanese and Sun Yat- sen, p. 50. 75. The fullest study of Shenbao in English is Barbara Mittler, A Newspaper for China? Power, Identity, and Change in Shanghai’s News Media, 1872–1912. 76. Peter Kornicki, The Book in Japan: A Cultural History from the Beginnings to the Nineteenth Century, pp. 164–65; Kawada Hisanaga, Kappan insatsu shi, pp. 49–74.


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77. Shanhai shinpo 49 (May 8, 1891), 8–10; 50 (May 15, 1891), 8, 11–12; Okita Hajime, Nihon to Shanhai, pp. 292–94; Chen Zuen, “Shanhai ni ita Nihonjin,” Shanghai Walker Online: “Matsuno Heizaburo to Shanhai shinpo” (July 2001); Hu Daojing, Xinwen shishang de xin shidai, p. 29; Zeng Xubai, Zhongguo xinwen shi, 1:174; Cao Zhengwen and Zhang Guoying, Jiu Shanghai baokan shihua, p. 12; Jia Shumei, ed., Shanghai xinwenzhi, pp. 142–43. 78. Ebihara Hachiro, Kaigai hoji shinbun zasshi shi, pp. 270–71, 275–76; Hu Daojing, Xinwen shishang de xin shidai, pp. 29, 33; Cao Zhengwen and Zhang Guoying, Jiu Shanghai baokan shihua, pp. 12–13; Zeng Xubai, Zhongguo xinwen shi, 1:174–75. Nakashita Masaharu has expressed doubts whether Fomen ribao ever actually appeared. It is mentioned nowhere in the Higashi Honganji’s own retrospective history of its betsuin in Shanghai, Takanishi Kensei, ed., Higashi Honganji Shanhai kaikyo rokujunen shi, and its putative editor, Sano Sokugo, is scarcely attested in our sources. This is a topic for further investigation. See Nakashita Masaharu, Shinbun ni miru Nit- Chu kankei shi: Chugoku no Nihonjin keiei shi, pp. 192, 198–99. 79. Liu Jianhui, Mato Shanhai: Nihon chishikijin no “ kindai” taiken, pp. 23–25. 80. Ibid., pp. 34, 142–43, 164–65, 236.

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate photographs and illustrations. Abe no Nakamaro, 17–18, 18–19 Aden (ship), 55 Agriculture and Commerce Ministry (Japan), 82 Ajia gakkan, 91– 92 Akakabe Jiro¯, 82 Alphée (ship), 68 Amakusa, 72–73 American Presbyterian Mission Press, 93 ametarishihiko, 14 An Lushan Rebellion, 20 An-nam, 17, 30 Anglo-Japanese Friendship Treaty, 48 Aoki Gonjiro¯, 75–76 Arai Hakuseki, 43 Araki Shichiro¯, 80 Arakiya, 80 Arao Kiyoshi (Sei), 92, 95 Arima yo¯ko¯, 80 Armistice (ship), 53– 55. See also Senzaimaru (ship) arts and artists and cultural exchanges, 24–25, 50 and education, 91– 92 Nanga (Southern School), 34– 42, 68– 69, 139n. 82 and small businesses, 78–79 Ashikaga shogunate, 26–27, 29

Ashikaga Takauji, 26 Ashikaga Yoshimitsu, 26–27 Aston, 79 Astor House Hotel, 68 Awata no Mahito, 19 Azof (ship), 55 Baba Tatsui, 91 Baoyusheng, 74 Battle of the Paek River, 15–16, 19 Bauduin, Albertus Johannes, 58– 66 Bauduin, Antonius Franciscus, 59, 61, 65– 66 betsuin (branch temples), 87– 91, 154n. 56 big business, 83– 86 bilateral ties, 5– 6, 29, 51, 67, 82 brothels, 73–77 Buddhism betsuin (branch temples), 87–91, 154n. 56 Chan Buddhism, 34 Chen Lunjiong on, 45 and embassies to China, 17, 20, 22, 25 Jo¯do Shinshu¯ (True Pure Land sect), 86– 91 and the Meiji government, 154n. 56 Southern School of Chan Buddhism, 34 and the state of Wa, 14–15

197

198 Buddhism (continued) Tripitaka, 22 Zen Buddhism, 22, 25, 27–28, 33, 49 bunjinga (“literati painting”), 34– 35 bunmei kaika (civilization and enlightenment), 98 Bureau voor Genealogie, 57 burials, 154n. 56 Buyunge (Pavilion among the Clouds), 74 Cadiz (ship), 55, 93 calligraphy, 33– 34, 36, 37, 38, 41 castaway tales, 46– 47 Champa, 4 Chan Buddhism, 34 Chang’an, 16–17 Chen Lunjiong, 45 Chen Qiyuan, 78 Chen Yuanyun, 31, 34 Chen Yusong, 79 Chikamatsu Monzaemon, 31 Chikanoshima (Hizen), 23 Chinese Repository, 52 Chin’itsu, 33 Choso˘n (Yi) dynasty, 11 Cho¯nen, 22 Cho¯shu¯ wars, 39 Cho¯yo¯kan, 82 Christianity, 32, 47, 87, 90, 92 Chronicle of Wei (Wei zhi), 10, 11, 129– 30n. 7 Chu¯jo¯ Untei, 39 coal, 80, 84– 85 Concessions of Shanghai, 37, 75, 77, 81– 82, 85, 94, 98– 99 Confucian College, 16 Confucianism, 24, 30– 31, 32, 36 courier ships, 83 courtesans, 71–77, 99, 151n. 33 crematorium, 154n. 56 cultural exchanges Edo period, 32– 33, 35, 37, 38– 39, 45, 68 Meiji era, 3, 50, 89 Ming dynasty, 42– 43 and missionaries, 49 Qing dynasty, 45– 47, 49– 50, 87

Index Shanghai as cultural crossroads, 98– 99 Tang dynasty, 15–20, 23–25 Western culture, 50, 68– 69, 92– 94, 98 Cultural Revolution, 2 Da Qing huidian, 45 Dai Nihon shi, 30 Daifang commandery, 9 Daigakuryo¯ (Confucian College), 16 Daoism, 31 Dattan hyo¯ ryu¯ki (Account of drifting into Tartary), 47 Dazaifu, 26 Dent and Company, 48 Department of Civil Affairs, 77 Dong Qichang, 34 Donggao Xinyue, 33 Dongmeige (Pavilion of Eastern Beauties), 74 Dongying shixuan (Yu Yue), 89 Dorgon (Rui), 46 Dream of the Red Chamber, 74 Dutch Reformed Church, 39– 40 East China Sea, 23 Eastern Jin dynasty, 12 Edo period and Buddhism, 86 and courtesans, 71 and cultural exchanges, 32– 33, 35, 37, 38– 39, 45, 68 and diplomatic relations, 29, 67 and Japanese castaways, 47– 48 and trade relations, 33, 42, 69, 81, 83 education and courtesans, 72 and Japanese expatriates, 72, 88, 89, 91– 96 and Okita Hajime, 51– 52 “practical learning” (shixue), 30 and travel restrictions, 69–70 and Yuan Hongdao, 32 and Zhu Shunshui, 30– 31 Eisho¯go¯, 80 Eliza Mary (ship), 79 Elliott, Charles, 47 Emeishan yue (Zhang Qiugu), 36

Index England, 47 Ennin, 16 Enomoto Rokubee, 81 Enuosheng, 74 Etchu¯ domain, 39 Eto¯ Shinkichi, 94 expatriate communities and big business, 83– 86 and Buddhism, 86– 91 courtesans and prostitutes, 71–77 and education, 72, 88, 89, 91– 96 overview, 67–71 and the press, 96– 97 and small business, 77– 83 extraterritoriality, 49 Fang, Achilles, 8 Fei Hanyuan, 35 Fei Qinghu, 35 Feiloong (ship), 41, 71 Feng Tianyu, 51 Five Dynasties era, 18, 20 Fomen ribao (Buddhist daily), 97 Foreign Ministry (Japan), 75, 86, 154n. 56 foreign trade offices (shibosi), 25 Formosa (ship), 58 France, 90 Fujiwara no Kiyokawa, 18 Fukami Gentai (Kudayu¯), 45 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 48 Furrer-Kroes, Wil, 57 gakujutsu no denshu¯, 69–70 Gamble, William, 93 Ganges (ship), 68, 69 Ganjin (Jianzhen), 18–19 Gemeentearchief Amsterdam, 63 Genkaimaru (ship), 83 Genpinyaki, 32 Gensei, 32 Genshin, 134n. 40 Go-Shirakawa, 23 Godai Tomoatsu, 82 gold, 24, 27, 43, 135n. 47 Gomizuno-o, 33 Gonnyo, 90 Goodrich, L. Carrington, 13

199 Gratama, Konrad Walter, 62 Great Britain, 47– 48, 77, 83– 84 Guangwu, 8– 9 Gutzlaff, Karl, 47 haidai, 79– 80 Haiguo wenjian lu (Chen Lunjiong), 45 Hakata (Chikuzen), 23 Hakodate, 79, 81 Hakusonko¯ (Hakusukinoe), 15–16 Hamada Hikozo¯ (Joseph Heco), 48, 94 Han dynasty, 7, 8– 9, 11 “Han Wei Nu guowang” seal, 8, 8, 128–29n. 3 Hangzhou, 37 Haseba Sumitaka, 91 Hayashi Razan, 32 Heian period, 21, 22, 24 Hepburn, James C., 92, 93 Hidaka Tetsuo¯, 36, 37, 41 Higashi Honganji, 86, 89– 90, 91, 97 Higashikuze Michitomi, 79 Himiko, 9–10, 129– 30n. 7 Hirado, 23, 29 Hiraoka Ko¯taro¯, 91 Hizen ware, 78, 79 Ho¯junmaru (ship), 47 Hokkaido¯, 46, 79, 81– 82 Hokkaido¯ Development Office, 79, 81 Hokkaido¯ Konbu Company, 82 Holland, 56– 57 Hong Kong, 58 Honganji Temple, 86 Hongfeng nüshi, 42, 141n. 94 Hongkou section of Shanghai, 80, 83 Honma Senzo¯, 94 horses, 34 Hosokawa, 27 Hotta Masahira, 68 Hou-Han shu, 9 Hou Liaozhai zhiyi tushuo (Pu Songling), 151n. 33 Hu Gongshou (Yuan), 42, 68 Huajinli (Village of Colored Brocade), 74 Huang Rongguang, 53 Huang Shiquan, 72 Huang Zongxi, 30 Hudson’s Bay Company, 47

200 Ida Yuzuru, 78 Iemitsu, 30, 32 Ihara Shigebee, 41 Ike no Taiga, 35 Ikoku monogatari (Tales from a foreign land), 47 indigo trade, 82 Inoue Hideo, 11 Inoue Yasushi, 19 insurance, 60 international law, 67 Ishihara Michihiro, 12 Ishikawa Gozan (Kansen), 39– 42 Ito¯ Hirobumi, 40 Itsunen (Yiran), 33 Iwakichi, 47 Iyo, 11 Izumi Kunihiko, 91 Jansen, Marius, 92 Japan Mail Steamship Company, 84 Japan Residents Association of Shanghai, 52, 91 Japanese-English dictionary, 93– 95 Jiang Jiapu, 35, 36, 38, 39 Jiangnan region, 11 Jiangsu School, 87 Jianzhen (Ganjin), 18–19 Jin dynasty, 22 Jin shu, 12 jinshi degree, 18 Jiu Tang shu, 19 Jo¯do Shinshu¯ (True Pure Land sect), 86– 91 Jurchens, 22, 25 Kaido¯ Elementary School, 88 Kaidonglou (Tower Opening East), 74 Kaigai shinbun (Overseas news), 94 Kaiping coal, 84 Kaitensha, 77 Kaitsu¯go¯, 81 Kamakura shogunate, 21, 23, 24, 26 Kameda Ho¯sai (Bo¯sai), 37 Kamei Nanmei, 128–29n. 3 kana, 93, 96 Kanda Nobuo, 47 Kaneko Kenjiro¯, 80

Index Kaneko Shu¯ichi, 14 kango¯ bo¯eki (tally trade), 27, 29 Kangxi, 43 karayukisan, 73, 74 Kasano Kumakichi, 81 Kawakami To¯gai, 68 Kawazu Izu no kami (Kawazu Sukekuni), 69 Kenchu¯, 27 Kenjunmaru (ship), 68, 69, 148n. 1 Khubilai, 24, 25, 26 Kibi no Makibi, 18 Kikuchi Shu¯gen, 90 Kim Ok-kyun, 80 Kimiya Yasuhiko, 30 Kimura Kenkado¯, 37 Kimura Mankichi, 81 King, Charles, 47– 48 Kinoshita Itsuun, 36– 40, 139n. 82 Kishida Ginko¯, 3, 69, 71, 92– 94, 149n. 11 Kishida Ryu¯sei, 92 Kiyo¯go¯, 80, 81 Kiyo¯ken, 82 Kiyomori, 22, 23 Kodachi Yo¯zo¯, 80 Ko¯fuku Temple, 33 Koguryo˘, 14 Ko¯gyo¯ sho¯kai, 81 Ko¯gyo¯ yo¯ko¯, 81 Koitsumi, 27 Kojong, 25 Kokusenya kassen, 31 konbu trade, 79– 82 Kongshan, 87 Korea and Buddhism, 90 and Hideyoshi, 29 and Japanese refugees, 46 and Manchu invasions, 49 and maritime trade, 23, 25–28 Sino-Korean relations, 18 and the Sinosphere, 4 and the state of Wa, 8–15 Koryo˘ sa, 25 Ko¯so kyo¯ko¯ (Jiangsu School), 87 Kowataya, 80 Kramer, H. A., 60 Kroes, Dirk, 57, 65– 66

Index Kroes, Hermanus, 57 Kroes, Joanna Barbara, 57 Kroes, Theodorus, 3, 56– 58, 59, 64 Kublai Khan, 135n. 47 Kudo¯ Ko¯taro¯, 81 Kumashiro Encho¯, 78 Kusakabe Masakazu, 91 Kushiro Unsen, 37 Kuwayama Gyokushu¯, 35 Kyo¯do¯ Unyu Company, 84 Kyoto, 16, 32 Kyu¯, 42, 141n. 94 Kyu¯kichi, 47, 93 Kyushu, 11 land prices, 83, 87 Lantianxian, 74 Later Han dynasty, 8, 9, 129– 30n. 7 Later Han History (Hou-Han shu), 8, 129– 30n. 7 laws and legal codes and cultural exchanges, 16, 45 and international law, 66, 67 and sumptuary laws, 75–76 and the Tang dynasty, 19 and trade relations, 31, 34, 43, 70 and travel restrictions, 3, 36, 39, 40, 90 and women, 10, 76, 79 Lelang commandery, 8– 9 Li Bai, 17, 18 Liang court, 13 Liaozhai zhiyi (Pu Songling), 151n. 33 Lincoln, Abraham, 48 “literati painting” (bunjinga), 34– 35 Liu Jianhui, 64– 65 Liu-Song dynasty, 12 Liu Yu, 12 Lloyd’s Registry of British and Foreign Shipping (Lloyd’s List), 53– 55, 144n. 12 Longhua Temple, 87 Luoyang, 16 Macao, 47– 48 machitaku o¯setsukerareru, 45 Major, Ernest, 96 Makabe Setcho¯, 36– 37

201 Makah Indians, 47 Maki Ryo¯ko, 37 Mamiya Rinzo¯, 46 Manchus, 30– 32, 40, 43, 46– 47, 49 Manpuku Temple, 33, 49 Mao Zedong, 50 martial arts, 31– 32 Maruyama, 71 Mato Shanhai: Nihon chishikijin no “kindai” taiken (Liu Jianhui), 64– 65 Matsuda Denju¯ro¯, 46 Matsumae (Hokkaido¯), 46 Matsuno Heizaburo¯, 96, 97 Matsuno Naonosuke, 96– 97 McLoughlin, John, 47 medicine, 92– 94 Meiji era and Buddhism, 86 and cultural exchange, 3, 50, 89 and education, 52, 70, 91 and Japanese immigration, 5, 41– 42 and painting, 68 and Sino-Japanese relations, 49, 98 and small businesses, 81 Meimanshou (Harmonious Longevity), 74 mercantilism, 49 metals, 22, 24. See also gold Miike Coal Mine, 84– 85 military power, 4, 15–16, 21–22, 24, 67– 68 Ming dynasty and the Ashikaga shogunate, 26–27 and Buddhism, 22 collapse of, 30– 31 and corruption, 30 and cultural exchanges, 42– 43 domination of Japan, 26–27 founded, 26 and Hideyoshi, 29 and shipbuilding, 27–28 and Sinosphere, 4 and the Tokugawa shogunate, 29– 30 and trade relations, 25, 27–29, 42– 43 Ming Taizu, 26 Ministerie van Buitenlanse Zaken (Netherlands), 57– 58 Ministry of Colonies (Netherlands), 58 Ministry of Education (Japan), 88 Ministry of Finance (Japan), 81– 82

202 Ministry of Home Affairs (Japan), 81 missionaries and cultural transmission, 49 and education, 91, 93 and Japanese castaways, 47– 48 and printing, 93 and relations with the West, 39– 40, 60, 65, 86, 90 and translation efforts, 98 Mitsubishi, 83– 85, 87 Mitsui Corporation, 77, 85– 86, 87, 89, 97 Mitsukuri Rinsho¯, 92 Miura Gomon, 36 Miura Sukeyuki, 128–29n. 3 Miyake Yonekichi, 128–29n. 3 Miyanaga Takashi, 52 Moldavian (ship), 71 Mongols, 21, 24, 25, 26 monks, 21–25, 27. See also Buddhism; missionaries Moray (ship), 79 Mori Kimiyuki, 14 Morisaki Kazue, 72–73 Morrison (ship), 47– 48 Motoki Sho¯zo¯, 96 Mu’an (Mokuan), 33 Mulder, Vrouwe Joanna Maria Josephina, 63 Munakata Masashi, 91 Murai Sho¯suke, 11 Nagai Unpei, 36, 38– 39, 40– 41 Nagasaki artists of, 34– 42 courtesans and prostitutes from, 71–73, 77 and cultural exchanges, 49– 50 Kroes in, 58– 59, 60, 63 Magistrate, 43, 44, 51, 71 and the press, 96 proximity to Shanghai, 98– 99 and trade with China, 1, 29– 30, 42– 45, 51– 66, 80, 82– 83, 83– 84 and trade with the west, 48 Nagoyamaru (ship), 83 Nakae Cho¯min, 91 Nakahama Manjiro (John Mung), 48

Index Namamugi Incident, 39 Nanga (Southern School), 34– 42, 68, 139n. 82 Nanjing, 31 Nanpinha, 34 Nationaal Archief, 57 National College (Taixue), 17 nationalism, 4, 67, 99 naval engagements, 15–16, 47– 48 Nederlandsche Handel-Maatschappij, 57 Neo- Confucianism, 24, 30– 31 Netherlands Trading Company, 58, 60, 63, 64 New Sho¯toku Laws, 43 newspapers, 94, 96– 97 NHK (Japanese broadcasting station), 52 Nichiren sect, 88 Nihon shoki, 15 Ningbo, 25 Nis-Shin bo¯eki kenkyu¯jo (Institute for Sino-Japanese trade), 92, 95, 97 Nishi Honganji, 88 North- China Herald on coal industry, 84 founded, 96 as source of research, 52 on trading vessels, 41, 54– 55, 58– 60, 64, 71 Northern Song dynasty, 20, 22 O¯baku (Huangbo) sect of Zen Buddhism, 33, 49 O¯kuma Shigenobu, 40 Office of Western Books, 68 Ogurusu Ko¯cho¯, 86– 87, 90– 91 Ogyu¯ Hokkei, 45 Ogyu¯ Sorai, 45 Okada Ko¯sho, 41– 42 Okazaki Eijiro¯, 95 Okita Hajime, 51– 52, 76, 78 Oliphant, Laurence (Lord Oliphant), 62 Ondo Strait, 22 Ono no Imoko, 13, 15 O¯uchi, 27 ophthalmology, 92– 94 opium, 37, 49, 79, 95 Opium War, 37, 49 Otokichi, 47– 48, 93

Index Ottoson, John Matthew, 48 Owada-no-tomari, 22 Pacific Mail Steamship Company, 83 Paekche, 13, 15 painting, 34– 42, 68, 139n. 82 Parhae (Bohai), 4– 5 passenger ships, 83– 84 Pei Shiqing, 14 Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, 55, 83 People’s Republic of China, 32 Period of Division, 12 periodization, 2, 5, 7 Perry, Matthew C., 48, 50, 65 photography, 82– 83 piracy, 25–28, 31 Polo, Marco, 21, 24, 135n. 47 Pompe van Meerdervoort, J. L. C., 59, 83 Popular Rights Movement, 91 printing presses, 93– 94, 96– 97 proselytizing, 86– 91. See also missionaries prostitutes, 70–71, 71–77 Pu Songling, 151n. 33 “Qiansuiwan” Shanghai xing: Ribenren 1862-nian de Zhongguo guancha (Feng Tianyu), 51 Qin dynasty, 4 Qin Wei Wowang, 10 Qing dynasty artists of, 33– 40 and bilateral trade, 5, 33, 44, 67 bureaucratic correspondence, 3, 53 and courtesans, 72 and cultural exchanges, 45– 47, 49– 50, 87 diplomatic ties with Japan, 77 founding of, 43 and maritime prohibitions, 31 and military conflicts, 6, 49 and the Opium War, 37 and the Senzaimaru, 3, 64– 66 social conventions, 40 treaty negotiations, 78 Quanzhou, 25 Rai San’yo¯, 37 Rakuzendo¯, 94, 95

203 religion. See specific religions and sects research institutes, 91– 96 Richardson, Henry, 54– 56, 79 The Roof Tile of Tempyo¯ (Yasushi), 19 Ruixinghao, 94 Russo-Japanese War, 81 Ryu¯gengo¯, 80 Sakhalin Island, 46 Sanbaosheng, 74 Sansan, 72 Sassa Tomofusa, 91 Sato¯ Denkichi, 82 Sawa Nobuyoshi, 70 scholarship, 69–70. See also education Seikisui, 93– 94, 95 Senzaimaru (ship), 1– 3, 40, 51– 66, 69, 82 Shandong peninsula, 11, 25 Shanghai and the Armistice, 54– 56 big businesses in, 83– 86 Buddhist establishment, 86– 91 Concessions, 37, 75, 77, 81– 82, 85, 94, 98– 99 courtesans and prostitutes in, 71–77 as cultural crossroads, 98– 99 and Dutch traders, 66 education in, 91– 96 Hongkou section, 80, 83 Japanese expatriates in, 67–71 Kroes in, 59– 61 multinational flavor, 3 news media in, 96– 97 and the Senzaimaru, 1, 51– 66 and the Sino-Japanese War, 67 small businesses in, 77– 83 Shanghai, 1862 nian (Yu Xingmin), 51 Shanghai Agency Office, 78 Shanghai Customs Office, 70 Shanghai History and Geography Research Group, 52 Shanghai Municipal Council, 58, 149n. 11 Shanghai School, 42 Shanghai Toilet Club, 79 Shanghai Youth Club, 76, 97 Shanhai jiho¯, 97 Shanhai shinpo¯, 76, 96, 97

204 Shanhai sho¯gyo¯ zappo¯, 84, 96 Shanhai shu¯ho¯, 97 Shaolin Temple, 31, 32 Shen Nanpin (Shen Quan), 34 Shenbao, 72, 96 shengkou, 9, 11 Shenjiang sheng jing tu, 74 Shiba Goro¯, 89 Shiba Ryo¯taro¯, 52 shibosi, 25 Shimabara, 72–73 Shimonoseki, 39 Shinagawa Tadamichi, 42, 77–78, 85, 87 Shinkoku Shanhai kyoryu¯ Nihonjin torishimari kisoku, 75 Shinkoku tsu¯sho¯ so¯ran, 96 shinpai, 44 Shinran, 86 Shinto, 90 shipbuilding, 27–28 shipping industry, 83– 84 Shirao Giten, 89 Shishido Tamaki, 90 shop owners, 77– 83 Sho¯rinji kenpo¯, 32 Sho¯toku, 14, 16 Shu¯bun shokan, 97 Shuntoku Temple, 36, 41 Sieburgh, N. C., 61 Silla (kingdom), 15, 16, 18 Sima Road, 74 Sino-Japanese War (1894-95), 1, 3– 4, 6, 67, 96, 98– 99 Sinosphere term, 4– 5, 9 Slaghek, Adeline Johanna Maria Carolina Heukensveld (Mrs. Kroes), 60– 63 Slaghek, E., 63 small businesses, 77– 83 Soa (monk), 27 Soejima Taneomi, 40 Sone Toshitora, 87, 89 Song dynasty, 12, 20–24 Song shu, 12, 13 Songyin manlu (Wang Tao), 151n. 33 Southern School (Nanga), 34– 42, 68 Southern Song dynasty, 22–24 soy sauce trade, 82

Index Staatsalmanak voor het Koningrijk der Nederlanden, 63 steamships, 55, 58, 68, 83– 84, 93– 94, 145n. 16, 150– 51n. 31 Stirling, James, 48 Suehiro Shigeyasu (Tetcho¯), 91 Suematsu Gunpei, 81– 82 Sugawara no Michizane, 17 Sugita Teiichi, 91 Sui dynasty, 13–15, 17, 22 Sui shu, 14–15 Sui Yangdi, 13, 14 Suiko, 13, 14, 20 Sullivan, J., 53– 54 sumptuary laws, 75 Suzhou, 37 Suzuki Chu¯shi, 82 Suzuki Manjiro¯, 91 Suzuki Shin’ichi, 82 T. Kroes & Co., 58, 59, 61– 62, 64 Taiga, 35 Taiping Rebellion, 2, 37 Taira no Kiyomori, 22, 27 Taisho¯ period, 52 Taiwan, 32 Taixue (National College), 17 Taizong, 22 Takahashi Genju¯ro¯, 68 Takahashi Inosuke, 68– 69 Takahashi Yuichi, 69, 71 Takashima mines, 84 Takasugi Shinsaku, 40 Takasugi Shinsaku no Shanhai repotto (Takasugi Shinsaku’s Shanghai report), 52 Takeda Sadayoshi, 128–29n. 3 Takenaka Bunsaku, 73–74 Takeuchi To¯uemon, 46 tally trade, 27, 29 Tang dynasty and Buddhism, 34 and cultural exchanges, 15–20, 23–25 and military conflicts, 30 and shipbuilding, 27–28 Tang-Song transition, 20–22 Tani Buncho¯, 35 Tani Ryo¯nen, 87, 90

Index Tashiroya, 78–79 Terajima Munenori, 86 tianzi, 14 Tilby, A. R., 55 To¯ tsu¯ji, 29 To¯jin Yashiki (To¯kan) (Chinese Compound), 43, 44 Tokiwa Cho¯taro¯, 80 Tokiwa Inn, 80 Tokugawa Akitake (Minbu), 68 Tokugawa Ietsuna, 33 Tokugawa Ieyasu, 29– 30, 42, 86 Tokugawa Mitsukuni, 30 Tokugawa Mitsutomo, 32 Tokugawa shogunate, 29– 30, 40, 49– 51, 65– 66. See also specific individuals Tokugawa Yoshimune, 45, 49– 50 Tokugawa Yoshinao, 32 Tokyo Marine Insurance Company, 85 To¯kyo¯maru (ship), 83 Tomioka Tessai, 139n. 82 Tomonaga Genpei, 78, 80 To¯tatsu (Eastern Tatary), 46 To¯wa yo¯ko¯, 80 To¯yama Kagenao, 76 To¯yo¯ chakan (Dongyang chaguan), 73–74 To¯yo¯ gakkan, 91 Toyotomi Hideyoshi, 4, 16, 29, 30, 42 travel restrictions, 40– 42, 69–70 “Treatise on the Eastern Barbarians” (Dongyi zhuan), 8 Treaty of Amity, 1, 66, 78, 90, 99 Treaty of Nanjing, 37 Treaty of Shimonoseki, 6, 99 Tripitaka, 22 True Pure Land sect (Jo¯do Shinshu¯), 86– 91 Tsue yo¯ko¯, 82 Tsunoda Ryu¯saku, 13 Tsuruga (Echizen), 23 Tsushima, 28 Tu Jiaying, 78 Ueda Akinari, 128–29n. 3 Ueda Yasusaburo¯, 85 Ueno Hikoma, 82– 83 Ueno Yasaburo¯, 80

205 unequal treaties, 49, 90 United States, 48, 65, 83, 90 Uragami Shunkin, 37 Usun nikki (Wusong diary) (Kishida Ginko¯), 93 Van der Tak, W. M., 63 Verbeck, Guido Herman Fridolin, 39– 41 Viê.t Nam, 4, 17, 49 Wa-Ei gorin shu¯sei (Japanese-English dictionary), 93– 95 Wa (state), 7, 8–15, 19–20 wako¯ (C. wokou, K. waegu), 25–26, 27–29, 32 Wang Kesan, 38, 42 Wang Mang, 8 Wang Peng, 45 Wang Renbo, 68, 69 Wang Tao, 18, 151n. 33 Wang Wei, 17 Wang Xiangrong, 12 Wang Yangming, 30 Wang Yuting, 42 Wanxianghao, 94 Warring States era, 28 Wei. See Wa (state) Wei zhi. See Chronicle of Wei Western Jin dynasty, 11 Williams, Samuel Wells, 48 Wonuguo, 21 World War II, 7, 88 Wu (state), 41 Wu Xu (Xiaofan), 3, 56– 57 Wu Zetian, 19 Wuxi, 37 Wuyue, 20 Xiaozong, 23 Xihu shui yun (Jiang Jiapu), 36 Xin Tang shu, 19 Xinguangsheng, 74 Xiongnu, 4 Xiuhai pian (Essays from the sea of my sleeve) (Wang Peng), 45 Xixia, 4 Xu Yuting, 38, 42

206 Xuanzong, 17, 18 Xue Huan, 56 Yamamoto Baiitsu, 37 Yamatai, 11 Yamato (kingdom), 19 Yanagida To¯kichi, 79 Yanagihara Sakimitsu, 75, 78 Yang-tsze (ship), 58 Yangzhou, 16 Yangzi River, 16 Yanlige (Pavilion of Resplendent Beauties), 74 Yano Fukutaro¯, 80 Yano Inn, 80 Yasoshima Shakyo¯, 38 Yasuda Ro¯zan (Mamoru), 39– 42, 68 Yi Fujiu, 34 Yi Taoji, 34 Ying Baoshi (daotai), 69, 70 Ying-Hua guangmaoguan (Sino-Japanese Expansive Shop), 95 Yinyuan (Ingen), 33 Yokohama shinpo¯ moshiogusa (Yokohama press miscellany), 94, 149n. 11 Yokoi Sho¯nan, 40 Yongfu Temple, 33 Yongle Emperor, 27

Index Yoshida Sho¯in, 39 Yoshida Takashi, 19 Yoshijima Tokuzo¯, 80 Yu Xingmin, 51 Yu Yue (Quyuan), 89 Yuan dynasty, 4 Yuan Hongdao, 31– 32 Yuchuanlou (Tower of the Jade Stream), 74 Yu¯sen Corporation, 85 Zairyu¯ ho¯jin kokoroekata kari kisoku, 75 Zen Buddhism, 22, 25, 27–28, 33, 49 Zeng Guofan, 69, 70 Zhang Qiugu, 35, 36 Zhang Zixiang, 69 zhanhai order, 43 Zheng Chenggong (Koxinga), 30, 31 Zheng Jing, 43 Zheng Keshuang, 43 Zheng Zhilong, 31 Zhou Cuizhi, 30 Zhou Wende, 134n. 40 Zhu Peizhang, 45 Zhu Shunshui, 30– 31 Zhu Yuanzhang (Taizu), 26 Zongli Yamen, 3, 53, 69, 70

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