B  M J

This page intentionally left blank

 B  M J
S, T,  M
  M E  B

Edited by Morris Low

BUILDING A MODERN JAPAN
Selection, editorial matter, Introduction © Morris Low 2005; Chapter 1 © Christian
Oberländer 2005; Chapter 2 © Sabine Frühstück 2005; Chapter 3 © Sumiko Otsubo
2005; Chapter 4 © Yuki Terazawa 2005; Chapter 5 © Robert J. Perrins 2005;
Chapter 6 © David G. Wittner 2005; Chapter 7 © Martha Chaiklin 2005; Chapter 8
© Gregory Clancey 2005; Chapter 9 © W. Miles Fletcher III 2005. A version of
chapter 2 was published in the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (Vol. 15, no. 1
[2005]). We thank the society for permission to reprint it here.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
First published in 2005 by
PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and
Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS
Companies and representatives throughout the world.
PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave
Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd.
Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom
and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European
Union and other countries.
ISBN 1–4039–6832–2 hardback
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Building a modern Japan : science, technology, and medicine in the Meiji era
and beyond / edited by Morris Low.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 1–4039–6832–2
1. Japan—History—1869– 2. Medicine—Japan—History. 3. Science—
Japan—History. I. Low, Morris.
DS881.9.B85 2005
610⬘.952—dc22 2004062063
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India.
First edition: May 2005
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America.
 C

List of Illustrations vii

Notes on Contributors ix

Preface xiii

Introduction 1
Morris Low

P 1
S, M,   H N 11
1. The Rise of Western “Scientific Medicine” in
Japan: Bacteriology and Beriberi 13
Christian Oberländer
2. Male Anxieties: Nerve Force, Nation, and
the Power of Sexual Knowledge 37
Sabine Frühstück
3. The Female Body and Eugenic Thought in Meiji Japan 61
Sumiko Otsubo
4. Racializing Bodies through Science in Meiji Japan: The
Rise of Race-Based Research in Gynecology 83
Yuki Terazawa
5. Doctors, Disease, and Development: Engineering Colonial
Public Health in Southern Manchuria, 1905–1926 103
Robert John Perrins

P 2
T, I,  N 133
6. The Mechanization of Japan’s Silk Industry and the
Quest for Progress and Civilization, 1870–1880 135
David G. Wittner
7. A Miracle of Industry: The Struggle to Produce Sheet Glass
in Modernizing Japan 161
Martha Chaiklin
vi C

8. Modernity and Carpenters: Daiku Technique and

Meiji Technocracy 183
Gregory Clancey
9. The Impact of the Great Depression: The Japan
Spinners Association, 1927–1936 207
W. Miles Fletcher III

Index 233
 L  I

F
2.1 A pamphlet advertising a 20-volume, abridged Japanese
version of Havelock Ellis’s Studies in the Psychology of Sex 38
2.2 An advertisement for techniques to lengthen the body
promising that “Even Short Men Will Become Tall” 46
2.3 The home medical handbook Katei ryphp
hyakka jiten (1952) 53
5.1 Manchuria and the South Manchuria Railway 105
5.2 Planned layout of Dairen, ca. late 1910s 111
5.3 The New South Manchuria Railway Hospital, ca. 1926 120
5.4 Floor plans of the New South Manchuria Railway Hospital
in Dairen, ca. 1926 121
6.1 Detail of samples of a filature’s exterior 147
6.2 Chambon method of croisure 148
6.3 A tavelle 149
7.1 Production by the cylinder method 172
7.2 Iwasaki Toshiya 173
7.3 Amagasaki Factory 174

T
4.1 Average age of menarche for Japanese, Ainu,
Ryukyuan, and Chinese women 92
4.2 Average age of menarche for Japanese women of different
categories at the Kumamoto Prefectural Hospital 94
This page intentionally left blank
 N  C

Morris Low, the editor, is Assistant Professor at Johns Hopkins University

where he is the Bo Jung and Soon Young Kim Professor of East Asian
Sciences and Technology. He has previously taught and conducted research
at the University of Queensland, the Australian National University, and
Monash University. He is coauthor of Science, Technology and Society in
Contemporary Japan (CUP, 1999) and coeditor of Asian Masculinities: The
Meaning and Practice of Manhood in China and Japan (Routledge Curzon,
2003). He has edited special issues of several journals including Osiris
(University of Chicago Press), History and Anthropology (Harwood), Asian
Studies Review (Blackwell), and History and Technology (Taylor and Francis).
His three-volume anthology Science, Technology and R&D in Japan
(Routledge, 2001) has attracted considerable attention.

Martha Chaiklin is Curator of Asian History at the Milwaukee Public

Museum. Her Ph.D. was awarded from the University of Leiden in the
Netherlands. She is the author of Cultural Commerce and Dutch
Commercial Culture—The Influence of European Material Culture on Japan,
1700–1850 (Leiden: CNWS, 2003) and several articles and translations.
Gregory Clancey is Assistant Professor of History at the National University
of Singapore. He has been a Fulbright Graduate Fellow at the University of
Tokyo, and a Lars Hierta Fellow at the Royal Institute of Technology
in Stockholm. Clancey has coedited Major Problems in the History of
American Technology (Boston: Houghton-Mifflin, 1998) and Historical
Perspectives on East Asian Science, Technology, and Medicine (Singapore:
Singapore University Press & World Scientific, 2002). His most recent book,
Foreign Knowledge: The Cultural Economy of Japanese Earthquakes, is forth-
coming from the University of California Press.
W. Miles Fletcher III received his M.A. in East Asian Studies and his Ph.D. in
History in 1975 from Yale University, where he specialized in modern Japanese
history. He is now Professor of History at the University of North Carolina at
Chapel Hill where he has served as chair of the Curriculum in Asian Studies.
His first book, The Search for a New Order: Intellectuals and Fascism in
Prewar Japan (University of North Carolina Press, 1982), focused on intel-
lectual and political history, while his second monograph, The Japanese
Business Community and National Trade Policy, 1920–1942 (University of
North Carolina Press, 1989) dealt with business history. Since that time, his
research has centred on the history of Japanese industrialization with a focus
x N  C

on the Japanese textile industry, about which he has written several articles.
His current project examines the recovery of that sector after the Pacific War.
Sabine Frühstück is Associate Professor of Modern Japanese Cultural Studies
at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Her academic interests include
modern Japanese cultural studies, history and anthropology, the theory
and history of sexuality and gender, knowledge systems, post/colonialism, and
military–societal relations. She is the author of Colonizing Sex: Sexology and
Social Control in Modern Japan (2003), and the coeditor of The Culture of
Japan as Seen through Its Leisure (1998), and Neue Geschichte der Sexualität:
Beispiele aus Ostasien und Zentraleuropa (1999). Frühstück has also pub-
lished in Journal of Asian Studies, Journal of Japanese Studies, American
Ethnologist and Jinbun Gakuhp, among others. She is currently completing a
monograph on the armed forces, Japan Avant-garde: The Army of the Future.
Christian Oberländer is Professor in the Department for Japanese Studies at
the University Halle-Wittenberg and Visiting Scientist at The University of
Tokyo. He previously taught at the University of Bonn. His publications
include Between Tradition and Modernity: The Movement for the Preservation
of Kanpo Medicine in Japan (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1995), and Technology and
Innovation in Japan coedited with Martin Hemmert (London: Routledge,
1998).
Sumiko Otsubo completed her Ph.D. at Ohio State University and has been
a postdoctoral fellow at the Reischauer Institute, Harvard University, and
taught at Creighton University in Omaha, Nebraska. Currently she is
Assistant Professor in the Department of History, Metropolitan State
University in St. Paul, Minnesota. Publications include “Eugenics in Japan:
Some Ironies of Modernity, 1883–1945,” (with James R. Bartholomew),
Science in Context (Vol. 11, nos. 3–4 [1998]); and “Feminist Maternal Eugenics
in Wartime Japan,” U.S.-Japan Women’s Journal (English Supplement, no. 17
[1999]).
Robert Perrins is Associate Professor in the Department of History and
Classics, at Acadia University in Nova Scotia, Canada, where he is also the
Director of the university’s Northeast Asia Research Centre. He completed
his Ph.D. in modern Chinese at York University, Toronto. His doctoral thesis
was entitled: “ ‘Great Connections’: The Creation of a City, Dalian,
1905–1931: China and Japan on the Liaodong Peninsula.” He has been the
editor of the China Facts and Figures Annual Handbook (published by
Academic Press International), since 1999. He is currently completing a
project on the history of disease and Japanese colonial medicine in Manchuria
under the sponsorship of the Hannah Institute for the History of Medicine.
Yuki Terazawa received her Ph.D. from the University of California, Los
Angeles, where she completed her dissertation entitled, “Gender, Knowledge,
and Power: Reproductive Medicine in Japan, 1690–1930.” She currently
teaches at Hofstra University in Hempstead, New York.
 N  C xi

David Wittner completed his Ph.D. at Ohio State University. He is Associate

Professor in the Department of History at Utica College, New York. His
recent publications include “Chilling Before the Blast: A Comparative Case
Study in Technology Transfer in the American and Japanese Iron Industries,”
Kinzoku kpzan kenkyu (no. 77 [May 2000]) and Commodore Matthew C.
Perry and the Perry Expedition to Japan, The Library of American Lives and
Times (New York: Rosen Publishing Group, 2004).
This page intentionally left blank
 P

A special report in The Economist of April 10, 2004 was ironically entitled
“(Still) Made in Japan.” The article related how Japan’s manufacturing con-
tinued to move overseas, especially to China. The Ministry of Economy,
Trade and Industry had recently encouraged the electronics giant NEC to
sell its plasma-display business to a local firm, Pioneer, rather than to a foreign
company and risk the technology being transferred abroad.1 While the
booming trade within Asia was something to be celebrated, there was real
concern that Japan needed to hold on to some of its know-how.
There was, however, some cause for celebration. In February 2004,
Japan’s trade surplus with Asia exceeded that with the United States for the
first time. For the first time in almost a decade, Japan registered a trade
surplus with China. Sales of electronic components, semiconductors, and
general machinery are said to have been key factors in the improved figures.2
This has led some commentators to write of “Asia’s Eclipse of the West” and
the emergence of an Asian-dominated world order centered on China.3
Back in the late nineteenth century, the reverse occurred. Japan left what
had been a China-centered East Asian system to enter a global system of
knowledge dominated by the West. This book throws light on that earlier
period of globalization when the Japanese dealt with the new ideas and
concepts, and the technologies that were introduced from the West. The first
part deals with the role of science and medicine in creating a healthy nation.
The second part is devoted to examining the role of technology, and business–
state relations in building a modern Japan. It will be seen that it was not a
simple process of direct translation of Western know-how. The introduction of
Western forms of knowledge certainly helped Japan enter into trade, participate
in the international scientific community, and build Western-style buildings,
but the way these methods, theories, and systems of knowledge were taken
up was arguably “Japanese.” As Tessa Morris-Suzuki has argued, local con-
tent and cultural heritage helped create a difference.4
The Meiji era (1868–1912) has long fascinated students of Japanese his-
tory. This volume revisits that period and the decades immediately after. The
book effectively brings together state-of-the-art scholarship on the impact of
science and technology in Japan’s modernization, with studies concerning
medicine and the health of the Japanese people. Hitherto, these have tended
to be treated in isolation from each other. There are books on Japanese tech-
nology such as Erich Pauer’s edited collection of papers entitled Papers on the
History of Industry and Technology of Japan, 3 vols (Marburg, Germany:
Förderverein “Marburger Japan-Reihe,” 1995), in which each paper tends to
xiv P

be discrete and focuses on the technology itself. In The Technological

Transformation of Japan (Cambridge: CUP, 1994), Tessa Morris-Suzuki
weaves her case studies into a more coherent whole, using the concept of
social networks to help explain the transition from small-scale factories and
workshops to large modern enterprises. This book builds on her work and
her interest in social concerns, but rather than limiting itself to technology,
we also look at the contribution of science and medicine in helping to shape
modern Japan and the very bodies of the people themselves. There are books
such as William Johnston’s The Modern Epidemic: A History of Tuberculosis
in Japan (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard
University, 1995), but unlike that volume, we examine a variety of diseases
and ailments, and how the state sought to deal with them.
Versions of some of the chapters included in this book were presented at
annual meetings of the Association for Asian Studies (AAS). We are grateful
to the AAS for providing a forum for our ideas. The contributors to this book
also acknowledge the support of their respective institutions. This book was
completed while the editor was Senior Lecturer in Asian Studies at the
University of Queensland.
Following normal East Asian practice, Japanese and Chinese surnames
precede given names, except for those authors who choose to use the
Western order when writing in English. Macrons have been omitted from
well-known place names such as Tokyo. In chapter 5, the term “Manchuria”
is used to refer to the northeast China provinces of Heilongjiang, Jilin, and
Fengtian, now referred to as Dongbei, the “Northeast.” The Japanese name
for Dairen is used instead of the city’s Chinese name of Dalian.
Finally, we wish to express our warm thanks to Anthony Wahl, Heather
Van Dusen, and Alan Bradshaw at Palgrave Macmillan, and Maran
Elancheran and the copy editor at Newgen Imaging Systems who worked on
this project. Without their interest, support, and patience, this book would
not have been possible. Comments from an anonymous referee were also
useful in revising the chapters for publication.
MORRIS LOW

N
1. The Economist, “(Still) Made in Japan,” April 10, 2004, 57–59 esp. p. 57.
2. Brendan Pearson, “Boom in Japanese Sales to Asia,” The Australian Financial
Review, March 26, 2004, 27.
3. James F. Hoge, “Preparing for Asia’s Eclipse of the West,” The Australian
Financial Review, June 25, 2004, “Review” supplement, 10–11.
4. Tessa Morris-Suzuki, Re-Inventing Japan: Time, Space, Nation (Armonk, NY:
M.E. Sharpe, 1998), pp. 162–167.
 I

Morris Low

Commodore Matthew C. Perry’s expedition to Japan in 1853 and 1854 is

characterized as having “opened up” Japan1 and ushered in a period of trans-
formation beginning with the Meiji Restoration (1867–1868). The history
of the Meiji era (1868–1912) has received special attention2 but the role of
science, technology, and medicine in the transformations that Japan under-
went at that time and in the decades that immediately followed, has yet to be
revisited.
Perry’s visits to Japan heralded a period of much greater interaction with
the West. While the Narrative of the Expedition3 and subsequent histories
tend to depict the introduction of Western science and technology in terms
of the importance of the artifacts that were exchanged,4 namely a miniature
steam engine and two telegraph sets, the real significance of the expedition
for us is in how the gifts signaled Japan’s entry into a Western-dominated,
global system of knowledge in which the railway and the telegraph helped
transmit information. Indeed, the telegraph has been likened to today’s
Internet.5 It is thus possible to view the history of modern Japanese science,
technology, and medicine in terms of discourse, ideas, and know-how. This is
the crux of this book.
The art historian Timon Screech has written insightfully of the years before
the Meiji era. In the eighteenth century, Western ideas and things came cour-
tesy of the Dutch via their trading post at the port of Nagasaki. “Holland”
came to represent a type of discourse related to imported objects such as tele-
scopes, microscopes, spectacles, and kaleidoscopes. These things helped the
Japanese understand the need for precision, and to see the world in new ways.6
The bodies of the Japanese people became increasingly technologized,
“fitting into and effortlessly moving through new technological networks.”7
A famous woodblock print by Utagawa Yoshitora of the Tsukiji silk factory in
Tokyo in the early 1870s shows kimono-clad female textile workers almost
entrapped within an imported silk reeling machine.8 Japan’s modernization
harnessed human labor for the purposes of industrial progress. The body also
became the site for biological reconstruction and intervention. As we shall
see, Meiji intellectuals became interested in eugenic ideas and race improve-
ment theory.
During the early years of the Meiji period, the slogans fukoku kyphei
(a wealthy nation and a strong army), shokusan kpgyp (encouraging industry)
2 M L 

and bunmei kaika (civilization and enlightenment) were important ways of

promoting national policy and encouraging the Japanese people to con-
tribute toward the good of the nation. The ideological dimension has been
ably discussed by historians such as Carol Gluck9 and Takashi Fujitani,10 and
James Bartholomew has written the key book on the formation of a scientific
community at this time.11 This book builds on their scholarship.
Despite the sacrifices made by the Japanese people, the elder statesman of
Japanese politics Pkuma Shigenobu attributed Japan’s rapid progress in the
years that followed to foreign intercourse.

This leap forward is the result of the stimulus which the country received on
coming into contact with the civilization of Europe and America, and may well,
in its broad sense, be regarded as a boon conferred by foreign intercourse.
Foreign intercourse it was that animated the national consciousness of our
people, who under the feudal system lived localized and disunited, and foreign
discourse it is that has enabled Japan to stand up as a world-Power. We possess
to-day a powerful army and navy, but it was after Western models that we laid
their foundations . . . . All this is nothing but the result of adopting the superior
features of Western institutions.12

In a way, this book seeks to understand Japan’s process of modernization by

unpacking Pkuma’s words.
Commodore Matthew C. Perry’s visits to Japan in 1853 and 1854 resulted
in the signing of the U.S.–Japan Treaty of Amity and Commerce in July
1858. This treaty, and other similar treaties signed with Holland, Russia,
Britain, and France, effectively opened Edo (Tokyo), Osaka, Kanagawa
(Yokohama), Nagasaki, Niigata, and Hypgo (Kobe) to trade with the West in
subsequent years.13 These “unequal treaties” stipulated extraterritoriality for
foreigners in Japan whereby foreigners accused of crimes would be tried in
courts by foreign judges under foreign laws. The treaties also gave the
Western nations favored-nation treatment in trade. The agreements thus set
the rules for “foreign intercourse,” albeit skewed in favor of the West.
The Meiji Restoration (1867–1868) was not unlike a coup d’état that
“restored” the young Emperor Meiji to sovereign power. It heralded the
transfer of political power from one group of samurai to another and ushered
in a program of modernization that involved not just opening Japan to trade
with the West but participating in a global system of knowledge—“foreign
intercourse” in the broadest sense of the term.
As Pkuma suggested, Japan did go shopping for Western organizational
models that were adopted and adapted along with manufacturing and com-
munications technologies.14 These changes transformed Japanese society and
what emerged were sometimes hybrid forms that drew on both foreign and the
local. Western institutions such as schools and universities, the army and the
navy, and systems of central and local administration provided the framework
through which the cultural heritage of Japan could be translated. The next
50 years of rapid modernization, involved a series of complex interactions
with things Western by a multitude of Japanese. Their common goal was to
 I  3

build a modern Japan. This was achieved not only by borrowing from the
West but also by considerable innovation and actively building on existing
resources.
In order for Japan to communicate and interact with the rest of the world,
Japan needed to translate indigenous knowledge and expertise into interna-
tionally accepted forms of knowledge and behavior.15 The first part of this
book examines how scientific and medical discourse was shaped and applied,
a sense of nation engendered, and loyal subjects created. The lives of the
Japanese people came increasingly under the control of the state, and there
were attempts to extend such control to colonial territories, in the hope
of maintaining a healthy nation and empire. The second half of the book is
characterized by careful studies of the adoption of Western technology,
state–business interaction, and the growth of industries. We see that as in
science, much of the history of technology is in fact about ideas, information,
and know-how, and how they are applied and used.16 Successful technology
transfer in Meiji Japan was arguably more about careful on-the-job training
and adaptation of Western techniques rather than mere importation of the
relevant piece of equipment.
We begin with the health of the nation. As Christian Oberländer outlines
in chapter 1, it was in the years after the Meiji Restoration that public health
became an area of government concern and subject to state control. Medicine
was expected to contribute to making Japan a “rich country with a strong
army.” The adoption of Western medicine was very much a part of Japan’s
modernization, leading to the introduction of scientific medicine, which
involved the establishment of institutions, namely the hospital and the
laboratory, both of which involved research.
The prevalence of diseases such as smallpox and beriberi, as well as cholera
epidemics, spurred the government into taking action.17 Beriberi, which at
the time was considered infectious, garnered government attention from the
late 1870s, as it was becoming a problem in the army and the navy.
Oberländer throws light on the process by which the Japanese adopted
scientific medicine by focusing on the search for the cause of beriberi. Like
many of the other histories contained in this book, the story is far from
straightforward. It involved the opening of a state Beriberi Hospital which
represented Japan’s first major modern medical research program. We also
learn of the transfer of bacteriological techniques from Germany to Japan,
and competing claims by different researchers.
Oberländer effectively shows us how Japan bought into a global know-
ledge system where there were commonly shared ideas and techniques.
Medical scientists working in laboratories tested their hypotheses through
controlled experiments, and Japanese researchers were increasingly able to
participate as members of the international scientific community.18
In chapter 2, Sabine Frühstück writes of another ailment that afflicted the
Japanese (especially men): neurasthenia. There was speculation that it was
linked to certain sexual practices, namely sexual abstinence, masturbation, or
homosexuality. Like beriberi, neurasthenia was considered as threatening the
4 M L 

health and well-being of the nation. Its occurrence in Japan served to

reassure the Japanese in an odd way that Japan, too, suffered from afflictions
common to other parts of the developed world. Japan was now part of the
Western world order and suffering accordingly! Frühstück’s key point is that
the emergence of sexological discourse in these countries gave rise to neuras-
thenia. Scientific theories emerged to help explain such phenomena, with
concepts such as “nerve force” being popular. These theories and the lan-
guage of the discourse, linked disease to modernity and progress.
Physical and mental weaknesses were seen as impairing the advancement
of the nation, with serious consequences for the political, military, and eco-
nomic strength of Japan itself. Medical discourse thus sought to mould
sexual practices toward the good of the nation. They provided frameworks,
which helped define gender and sexuality.
In chapters 3 and 4 respectively, Sumiko Otsubo and Yuki Terazawa relate
how there were attempts to medicalize everyday life and influence the repro-
ductive lives of the Japanese people. The introduction of the concept of
race as a scientifically valid category paved the way for Social Darwinism to
take root in Japan. Otsubo’s chapter deals with the introduction of eugenic
thought into Japan in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Her
chapter provides us with another example of the selective adaptation of ideas
and institutions that occurred in the Meiji era. Otsubo focuses on the ideas
of the Tokyo University professor of physiology Psawa Kenji and his role in
the spread of eugenics and race improvement theory in Japan. Psawa saw the
female body as being an important site for the improvement of the Japanese
race. He medicalized the institution of marriage by encouraging the issuing
of prenuptial health certificates, and promoted careful eugenic control of
marriage that is, selective breeding. Through such policies, the state sought
to influence the private lives of Japanese citizens.
In a related paper, Yuki Terazawa focuses on the physician Yamazaki
Masashige to argue how scientific and medical discourses were developed in
conjunction with other discourses relating to Japan’s nation-building and
empire-building agenda. Some Japanese intellectuals at the time were recon-
ciled to the idea that the Japanese were inferior to Western people but they
took consolation in the belief that by creating a healthy environment (not
only in terms of hygiene and education but also socially and economically)
the physical and mental capacity of citizens would be improved to a point
where Japan would be on par with the West.
Terazawa situates Yamazaki’s ideas within the context of anthropological
studies of racial difference. She examines Yamazaki’s work on the menstrua-
tion of women of different racial backgrounds: Japanese, Ainu, Ryukyuan,
and Chinese. Most interestingly for our purposes, Yamazaki emphasized how
such studies of women’s reproductive capacity were important for the nation.
Yamazaki sought to correlate the reproductive physiology of different races
to the degree of “progress” each group had attained. Not surprisingly, he used
this to argue that the Japanese were superior to others in the Japanese
empire. In the process, Yamazaki’s research helped to establish “the Japanese”
 I  5

as a unitary group, a nation whose borders and territorial expansion were

justified racially and scientifically.
The chapters by Frühstück, Otsubo, and Terazawa illustrate how discourses
served to structure not only the Japanese sense of reality but also their very
notion of identity and place within the world. While the ideas that all three
authors discuss are fascinating in their own right, it is the response to
these ideas and concepts, the way that they are adapted, and the practices that
arise from them, that are especially cause for concern.
Pkuma Shigenobu’s own ideas about Japan’s progress, mentioned earlier,
were informed by Social Darwinism. By “adopting the superior features of
Western civilization,”19 the Japanese race could evolve and Japan could be
transformed into a great nation. By the 1920s and 1930s, such ideas helped
popularize the practice of eugenics—government regulation of human repro-
duction. There was a perception that the Japanese race still needed improve-
ment if Japan was to be the equal of Western nations. This culminated in the
National Eugenics Law of 1941, which sought to prevent people with serious
hereditary diseases from reproducing.20 Such policies were more difficult to
implement away from Japan proper.
Chapter 5 helps bridge the two parts of this book. Japan’s project of mod-
ernization was exported to its colonies and territories under its control. As
Tessa Morris-Suzuki has pointed out, turning colonial subjects into “Japanese”
required the state to intervene in their lives far more intrusively than in the
home islands of Japan.21
There was a belief that building a modern nation involved keeping the
empire healthy. Robert Perrins shows how controlling disease in colonial
territories overlapped with planning for economic growth and development.
Japanese authorities in southern Manchuria sought to improve public health
by a variety of means including city planning in order to protect their invest-
ment, to showcase the modernity that accompanied Japanese colonial rule,
and to create a healthy enclave suitable for the growing Japanese population.
Why do certain technologies flourish in some places and not elsewhere?
The second part of the book helps to answer such questions. One of the fac-
tors in Japan’s modernization has been the significant role of state–private
sector relations. As Richard J. Samuels points out, a type of techno-nationalism
emerged that linked nation-building with technological development ( gijutsu
rikkoku).22 Samuels has written of how the Meiji program of industrial
development involved the protection of existing industries, subsidies to
nurture industries, the introduction of new machinery, and the transfer of
state-owned model factories to the private sector. Particularly important was
the textile industry, which David Wittner focuses on in chapter 6.
Wittner examines the role of the government in the early Meiji period in
terms of its assistance to the silk industry. Most of the later expansion in the
textile trade was not the result of government policy. The story of Tomioka
suggests why. Government-led industrialization was not a coherent program
of initiatives and ventures. Rather, Wittner shows that it was rather ad hoc in
nature with often little detailed planning and deliberation involved.
6 M L 

In the rush to obtain lessons from Meiji Japan’s success, there is a tendency
to view Japan as a monolithic whole, an entity whose actions resulted in a
series of successes rather than failures. This is far from the truth. Wittner
focuses on the mechanization of Japan’s silk industry. The hiring of the
Frenchman Paul Brunat as chief silk reeling adviser shows how recruitment of
foreign employees was somewhat haphazard. Personal endorsements and
perceptions of trustworthiness seemed more important than qualifications.
The way in which the type of technology was chosen appears problematic as
well, with Brunat opting for hybrid reeling techniques that incorporated local
technology.
Wittner makes the startling point that the choice of technique and
the technology transfer was determined more by ideology, than technical or
economic considerations. Politics at both a local and international level were
very important. The choice of French silk reeling technology at the model
filature at Tomioka helped legitimate the new government and reflected
the seriousness of intent. But even within Japan, doubts were voiced as to
whether or not the technology, given its cost and complexity, was really
appropriate for Japan and whether Brunat was sufficiently qualified
to lead the project. The idea of an all-knowing, rationalist Meiji state falls
apart. Chapter 7 provides further reasons for why we need to question such
assumptions.
Western buildings in the treaty ports required glass windows. In chapter 7,
Chaiklin explains why it took so long for the domestic production of sheet
glass to occur in Japan. In the meantime, the demand was largely met by
imported glass. It was not until 1910 that commercial production began in
earnest, and a further ten years before production commenced at the
American Japan Glass Company, a successful joint venture with the Libbey-
Owens Sheet Glass Company. Not only did the business arrangement facilitate
the borrowing of a mechanized rolling method to produce sheet glass, but it
also ensured that Japanese artisans were properly trained and supervised over
an extended period of time.
The industry had a checkered history of financial losses by both the gov-
ernment and private entrepreneurs that belies the term “miracle” that is so
often used to describe Japanese economic growth. But motives were not only
financial. The need to show that Japan was “civilized” and the equal of
Western nations meant that some of the changes that Japanese architecture
underwent were initially mere window dressing.
Technological change had wide-ranging implications for the building
trade. In chapter 8, Gregory Clancey focuses on the role of daiku, Japanese
carpenters, and how they fared during this time of considerable upheaval.
Clancey, like Chaiklin, warns us about simplistic narratives of progress.
For Clancey, carpenters served a variety of roles, from facilitators of Westerni-
zation to a threatened group of craftsmen. Like other Japanese in “tradi-
tional” occupations (such as practitioners of Chinese medicine), the Meiji
period was a time of shifting occupational definitions, a struggle to survive
and adapt with the times and its changed expectations. Daiku achieved
 I  7

positions of authority in the Ministry of Public Works from early on,

even before Western-style architects came to be trained by the Ministry in
the 1870s.
In a way, daiku bridged both public and private, and Japanese and Western
ways. Clancey refers to how they developed wayp setchu (Japanese–Western
compromise) architecture, which combined elements from both cultures.
Daiku geometry was used to “translate” Western carpentry forms rather than
vice versa. Chaiklin relates how glass windows were able to be incorporated
into traditional architecture, and how the changes met with little cultural
resistance. Clancey’s chapter, and the chapters by Wittner and Chaiklin, all
serve to remind us that Western technology was not introduced into a vacuum.
There were local knowledge systems in place and modernization was a
process of negotiations and compromises. Rather than portraying the world
of the daiku in terms of buildings and tools,23 Clancey sees it as a discursive
world where their sense of identity was shaped and redefined.
The decades that followed saw considerable negotiation between public and
private actors as to where the role of state institutions stopped in terms of the
economy. In chapter 9, W. Miles Fletcher helps us to understand business–
government relations in these later decades through a case study of the cotton
spinning industry. It was the first large-scale mechanized industry in Japan
and the first to become internationally competitive. How can we account for
its success? The chapters by Wittner and Chaiklin show how we need to be
wary of the notion of the “all-knowing” Meiji state. Similarly, in Fletcher’s
chapter, the policies of the Japanese government in the 1920s and 1930s
certainly appear to have been ad hoc and at times deeply flawed, especially in
officials’ slow response to the onset of the Great Depression in 1930. The
Japanese spinning sector, Fletcher shows, feared the clumsy hand of govern-
mental interference and strongly desired to protect its autonomy in managing
its own affairs.
The cotton textile industry quickly became part of the global world order
that Japan had signed up for in the nineteenth century. Overseas sales of
cotton goods began in the 1890s and by the 1920s was second only to raw
silk in terms of contributing to the nation’s exports. From the start, because
spinning firms became dependent on imported raw cotton and overseas
markets, business leaders had to pay close attention to developments abroad.
Just as Japanese entrepreneurs in the Meiji era had to cope rapidly and
adroitly with the challenge of adapting to unfamiliar Western technology, in
the 1920s, executives had to adjust to a new set of international challenges,
first in the form of rising trade barriers in important markets and then the
worldwide dampening of demand by the Great Depression.
The Japan Spinners Association had played a crucial role in the growth of
the spinning sector by promoting close cooperation among cotton textile
firms. In crises, the association followed an intricate strategy of modulating
output to balance supply and demand while encouraging the expansion of
production capacity and the installation of more efficient equipment. Its
monthly journal publicized new technology and transmitted best practice
8 M L 

among firms.24 Fletcher argues that although the Great Depression wielded a
blow to the industry the Spinners Association’s effective response merely
reaffirmed the tradition of self-governance. Far from turning to the govern-
ment for aid, the spinners used their own ingenuity to devise policies for
overcoming the depression within a year. When proliferating trade barriers—
a development well beyond the industry’s direct control—forced the govern-
ment to regulate exports to some markets, the association fought successfully
to maintain its influence in the determination of national trade policy.
Fletcher’s chapter also provides important insights into the dramatic
changes that Japan’s domestic economy underwent during the 1930s. Many
scholars, such as Takatoshi Ito, agree that the Depression did not have as
severe an impact in Japan as it did in the United States and Europe. One
explanation is the huge increase in the government’s deficit spending and in
military expenditures after the Manchurian Incident of 1931. Faced with new
trade barriers overseas, Japan, like other major powers, turned to its empire
to secure both sources of raw materials and export markets. This strategy
served to accelerate Japan’s military expansion.25 But Japan’s recovery
depended on much more than military spending and colonies. As Andrew
Gordon points out, Japanese industrial production grew an astonishingly
high 82 percent by 1934. Exports outside of the empire doubled in the years
from 1930 to 1936, and Japan rose to become the leading exporter of cotton
goods.26
The conflict with China in July 1937 ushered in direct government control
of industries in the name of the war effort. And even when such controls were
lacking, the needs of the military received priority. For example, in the flat
glass industry, there were, by 1937, a total of 5 companies in Japan with
8 plants and 14 furnaces. Total monthly production is said to have ranked
among the highest in the world. However, in the years leading up to the
Pacific War in 1941, the output of sheet glass declined and production
shifted to polished plate glass and safety glass for use in military vehicles.27
The manufacture of cotton goods plunged after 1941, and many spinning
factories were forced to switch to the production of munitions. Of the
11,434,816 spindles operating in 1941, only 2,184,122 (19.1%) were in
use at the end of the war in 1945.28 Other industries experienced similar
changes.
In many ways, the central developments examined in this book—the
absorption of global scientific knowledge, the strengthening of the nation
through improved public health, the adaptation of Western technology, suc-
cessful industrialization, and effective responses to economic crises—made
possible Japan’s ambitious war to create a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity
Sphere. Industrial power enabled the nation to field an army and a navy that
would conquer much of China and challenge the Anglo-American powers.
At the start of the Pacific War, some Japanese military technology was clearly
superior to that of the most advanced Western powers. Long-range torpe-
does and the Mitsubishi “Zero” fighter are among the best known examples.
Paradoxically, the scale of the devastation and suffering caused by the war
 I  9

threatened to bring Japan’s progress to a halt. By the time of the Japanese

surrender, extensive Allied bombing had reduced the nation’s major cities to
rubble and had destroyed nearly one-half of its factories. Strict rationing of
food had brought many Japanese close to starvation. Yet, the knowledge,
skills, intellectual curiosity, and sheer determination that had driven the nation’s
achievements in the early twentieth century proved durable. Japan quickly
rebuilt again, with vigor.
As we have found in this volume, it was not so much the material infra-
structure that was put into place but the Japanese people who were key to
Japan’s modernization. As they became an increasingly important part of the
global world order, actively participated in international trade, and became
part of the global knowledge system, the bodies of the Japanese people
became “intermingled with machines, . . . pierced by information, and physi-
cally transformed by ideas.”29 Pkuma Shigenobu was right in attributing
Japan’s rapid progress to foreign intercourse, rather than the West per se. It
was through interaction with the West, and a multitude of encounters with its
ideas and discourses, that Japan negotiated its way to becoming a modern
and prosperous nation.

N
1. See, e.g., Peter Booth Wiley with Korogi Ichiro, Yankees in the Land of the Gods:
Commodore Perry and the Opening of Japan (New York: Penguin Books, 1991).
2. Helen Hardacre, with Adam L. Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji
Japan (Leiden: Brill, 1997).
3. Francis L. Hawks, Narrative of the Expedition of an American Squadron to the
China Seas and Japan, Performed in the Years 1852, 1853, and 1854, under
the Command of Commodore M.C. Perry, United States Navy, by Order of the
Government of the United States (New York: Appleton, 1856).
4. Chang-su Houchins, Artifacts of Diplomacy: Smithsonian Collections from
Commodore Matthew Perry’s Japan Expedition (1853–1854) (Washington, D.C.:
Smithsonian Institution Press, 1995), p. 149.
5. Tom Standage, The Victorian Internet: The Remarkable Story of the Telegraph and
the Nineteenth Century’s Online Pioneers (London: Phoenix, 1999).
6. Timon Screech, The Lens within the Heart: The Western Scientific Gaze and
Popular Imagery in Later Edo Japan, second edition (Honolulu: University of
Hawaii Press, 2002), Chapter 1.
7. Iwan Rhys Morus, “The Measure of Man: Technologizing the Victorian Body,”
History of Science 1999, 37: 249–282, on p. 249.
8. See Tessa Morris-Suzuki, The Technological Transformation of Japan: From
the Seventeenth to the Twenty-first Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1994), cover illustration and Figure 4.1, p. 76.
9. Carol Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1985).
10. Takashi Fujitani, Splendid Monarchy: Power and Pageantry in Modern Japan
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996).
11. James R. Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan: Building a Research
Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989).
10 M  L

12. Shigenobu Pkuma, “Conclusion,” in Fifty Years of New Japan (Kaikoku

Gojunen Shi), ed. Shigenobu Pkuma and Marcus B. Huish (London: Smith,
Elder, and Co., 1909), pp. 554–575, esp. p. 555.
13. W.G. Beasley, The Meiji Restoration (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1972),
p. 108; Janet Hunter (comp.), Concise Dictionary of Modern Japanese History
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), pp. 233, 240.
14. D. Eleanor Westney, Imitation and Innovation: The Transfer of Western
Organizational Patterns to Meiji Japan (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1987).
15. Tessa Morris-Suzuki, “The Great Translation: Traditional and Modern Science in
Japan’s Industrialisation,” Historia Scientiarum 1995, 5 (2): 103–116; Tessa
Morris-Suzuki, Re-Inventing Japan: Time, Space, Nation (Armonk, N.Y.:
M.E. Sharpe, 1998), p. 163.
16. Hans Christian von Baeyer, Information: The New Language of Science (London:
Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2003).
17. William Johnston, The Modern Epidemic: A History of Tuberculosis in Japan
(Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1995).
18. Tessa Morris-Suzuki, Re-Inventing Japan, p. 165.
19. Shigenobu Pkuma, “Conclusion,” pp. 554–575, esp. p. 555.
20. Sumiko Otsubo and James R. Bartholomew, “Eugenics in Japan: Some Ironies of
Modernity, 1883–1945,” Science in Context 1998, 11 (3–4): 545–565, on p. 546.
21. Tessa Morris-Suzuki, Re-Inventing Japan, p. 170.
22. Richard J. Samuels, “Rich Nation, Strong Army”: National Security and
the Technological Transformation of Japan (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1994), p. 42.
23. William H. Coaldrake, The Way of the Carpenter: Tools and Japanese Architecture
(New York: Weatherhill, 1990).
24. Gary R. Saxonhouse, “Country Girls and Communication among Competitors
in the Japanese Cotton-Spinning Industry,” in Japanese Industrialization and Its
Social Consequences, ed. Hugh Patrick with the assistance of Larry Meissner
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), pp. 97–125, esp. 122–123.
25. Takatoshi Ito, The Japanese Economy (Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press,
1992), p. 14.
26. Andrew Gordon, A Modern History of Japan: From Tokugawa Times to the Present
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), p. 192.
27. Fujimura Hiroshi, Hirao Genyu, Naitp Masao, and Sakata Hironobu, “The
Development of the Flat Glass Industry in Japan,” in The Development of the
Japanese Glass Industry: Papers on the History of Industry and Technology of Japan,
Vol.3, ed. Erich Pauer and Sakata Hironobu (Marburg: Marburger Japan-Reihe,
1995), pp. 45–64, on p. 49.
28. Keizo Seki, The Cotton Industry of Japan (Tokyo: Japan Society for the
Promotion of Science, 1956), p. 311.
29. Ollivier Dyens, trans. Evan J. Bibbee and Ollivier Dyens, Metal and Flesh, the
Evolution of Man: Technology Takes Over (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press,
2001), p. 1.
 P 

S, M, 

 H N
This page intentionally left blank
 

T R  W

“S M ”  J:
B  B 
Christian Oberländer

I
The adoption of Western medicine was an integral part of Japan’s
modernization from its very beginning,1 leading ultimately to the introduc-
tion of “scientific medicine,” a defining characteristic of the modern world.
Scientific medicine started as a development in Western Europe, and after
considerable conflict, came to be recognized as producing “true medical
knowledge.” This, in turn, was made universal through exportation.2 Scientific
medicine is based on two distinctive institutions, the hospital and the labora-
tory, which still prevail today. In hospital medicine, clinical investigation
searches for correlations between symptoms and signs of disease, and internal
changes of the body. Research focuses on anatomical pathology, and post-
mortems are routinely performed. In laboratory medicine, causes of diseases
are identified by experiments in order to create cures for them. Laboratory
research concentrates on living processes like bacteriology, uses living animals
for experiments, and depends strongly on scientific instruments like micro-
scopes.3
Historical research on Western medicine in Japan so far has paid little
attention to the process of adopting scientific medicine. However, the
investigations that the Japanese authorities and individual physicians carried
out during the early Meiji period to identify the cause of beriberi (in Japanese,
kakke), temporarily culminating in Pgata Masanori’s4 (1855–1919) discovery
of a “beriberi bacillus” in 1885, present an important case through which
we can glean insights from the Japanese experience into the rise of scientific
medicine in a non-European society. Because beriberi was not prevalent in
Europe when it became a public health challenge in Japan, there were no
ready-made containment policies available and the Japanese government had
to try controlling this menace single-handed. As Japan had managed to
14 C O 

escape the threat of colonization and could develop quite autonomously,

early beriberi research allows us to examine the introduction of scientific
medicine in Japan under “laboratory conditions.”
Japanese authors who discuss the history of beriberi in Japan dismiss
bacteriological research on this disease, and Pgata’s work in particular, as
only a diversion from the “true” path of medical progress that eventually led
to the discovery of the cause, deficiency of vitamin B1.5 The historian of
Japanese bacteriology Fujino Tsunezaburp explains Pgata’s work in detail,
but does not place it in the context of Japanese beriberi research.6 In
European languages, Pgata’s discovery has been treated almost exclusively
with regard to his later dispute with Japan’s internationally more famous bac-
teriologist, Kitasato Shibasaburp (1852–1931). The alleged consequences
that Kitasato’s critique of Pgata’s findings had for Kitasato’s career have been
at the center of attention, rather than Pgata’s discovery itself.7 K. Cordell
Carter, too, in his study of the history of beriberi research, does not consider
Pgata’s work in detail.8 This chapter seeks to do so by asking in particular
how scientific medicine was adopted in the course of early beriberi research
during Japan’s early modernization, and what role the germ theory played in
this process.

B   T  M

After the Meiji Restoration (1867–1868), the role of medicine in Japanese
society changed dramatically. Medicine was now expected to contribute to
the government’s policy of modernization, symbolized by the slogan of a “rich
country with a strong army” (fukoku kyphei). This shift had already begun
under Tokugawa rule at the end of the Edo period, but after the Meiji
Restoration, the new government strongly promoted this process. In 1872,
an “Office for Medical Affairs” (Imu-ka) was created within the Ministry of
Education. This was later succeeded by the “Bureau of Hygiene” (Eisei-kyoku)
under the leadership of Nagayo Sensai (1838–1902) of the powerful Ministry
of the Interior. The Bureau was responsible for regulating health care and
coordinating the numerous measures that were now taken to defend the pub-
lic’s health. In 1874, the “Medical Act” (Isei) established the first national
licensing examination for physicians based on Western medicine, effectively
abolishing traditional Kanpp medicine.9
During this early stage of the creation of a medical administration, beriberi
was of little concern. Epidemic diseases such as cholera that threatened
almost the entire country captured the attention of the health authorities.
However, beriberi’s prevalence had risen already during the late Edo period
and it had become a permanently present endemic disease. From the great
population centers—Edo (later to become Tokyo), Osaka, and Kyoto—the
disease had spread to provincial towns and then to rural areas. The thirteenth
and the fourteenth shoguns, Tokugawa Iesada (1824–1858) and Tokugawa
Iemochi (1846–1866), are said to have both died of beriberi at the ages of
34 and 20, respectively.10
 B   B  15

Beriberi suddenly moved to the center of attention when during the Seinan
civil war of 1877, a large percentage of the troops fell sick with this disease.
According to contemporary statistics, the rate of affliction with beriberi in the
Japanese army had been 11 percent in 1876, but climbed to 14 percent in
1877, and jumped to 38 percent in 1878.11 In the Japanese navy, the preva-
lence was 33 percent in 1878. If beriberi damaged the fighting capabilities of
Japan’s troops during a civil war this heavily, how much more crippling
would the effects of the disease be during a military confrontation on the
Asian continent?12 The Japanese government decided that, in order to protect
the combat readiness of the Japanese armed forces, the beriberi problem had
to be solved.
However, there was a second important reason why the medical adminis-
tration became increasingly concerned with beriberi at this particular time.
Since April 1876, the Japanese empress suffered gravely from the disease. One
year later, she recovered, but then in June 1877, Kazunomiya, the emperor’s
sister, fell seriously ill with beriberi, and one month later, even the emperor
himself contracted the disease. When in September 1877, Kazunomiya died
from heart failure caused by beriberi, this was a severe shock to the Japanese
imperial family. The trust in Western medicine that had replaced Chinese-
style medicine at the imperial court since the Meiji Restoration was deeply
shaken and some physicians of traditional Kanpp medicine were reappointed
to court offices. While the emperor recovered by the end of the year, he was
now sensitized to the problem of beriberi, and his continuing interest in
combating beriberi is reflected in numerous recordings in the imperial chron-
icle.13 This was especially so since the damage done by the disease was not
limited to the imperial family, but every year, there were thousands of victims
among the civilian population. Beriberi thus put the supreme aim of Japanese
modernization—to become a “rich country with a strong army” in order to
remain an independent nation—in doubt.
As the first official measure of research into the cause of beriberi, in
December 1877, the Bureau of Hygiene started a national initiative to
collect and evaluate all knowledge about the disease available in Japan.
In order to include even the most recent observations, Ministry of the
Interior officials instructed all public hospitals throughout the country to
gather all extant information concerning the pathology and treatment of the
disease and to submit it to the Bureau during January 1878. In the internal
explanation for this order, the officials of the Ministry of the Interior stressed
that beriberi was confined almost exclusively to Asia. Even the foreign
physicians who were practicing in different prefectures of Japan since the
Meiji Restoration, despite having conducted numerous investigations of the
pathology and therapy of the disease and having formulated different
theories regarding its cause, had no confirmed insights in either area of
inquiry. Therefore, the Bureau of Hygiene wanted to carry out a comparative
study of the different academic theories and practical approaches.14
The directive of the Ministry of the Interior of December 1877 caused
a wave of concern regarding beriberi among Japan’s medical community, and
16 C O 

the number of monographs published on the subject rose steeply in 1878.

The physicians of Kanpp medicine reacted especially quickly because they
viewed it as an opportunity to win support for Chinese-style medicine that
was being abolished. Kanpp physicians submitted petitions to the government
outlining their treatment methods and claiming that their medicine was
equipped with more effective cures for beriberi than Western medicine
because they had more experience treating this disease that was prevalent
mainly in Asia. In addition to offering their know-how, Kanpp physicians also
founded private beriberi hospitals to demonstrate the special effectiveness of
Kanpp medicine to government officials and to gain sympathy for Chinese-
style medicine among the common people.15
An example of the theories drafted by Kanpp practitioners provides the
“New Treatise of Beriberi Disease” (Kakke shinron) that was published in May
1878 by the famous Kanpp doctor Imamura Rypan (1814–1890) who had
been a court physician of the Tokugawa family. Imamura’s work was based on
medical theories stemming from the Chinese Tang period. In China, one of the
ways that physicians had explained the origins of the disease was the “theory of
outer causes” (gaiinsetsu) based on a “wind poison” (fudoku) that supposedly
originates in the soil and enters the body through the legs. Imamura enriched
this theory with his personal experience and in part even included anatomical
concepts from Western medicine. He argued that a “poison” would enter the
inner organs via the blood vessels and, as the disease progresses, spreads into
the heart and lungs where it would cause the characteristic attacks.16
Besides the Kanpp doctors, the Japanese physicians practicing Western
medicine now paid more attention to beriberi, and this was reflected in
Japan’s new medical journals.17 In April 1878, for example, the Tokyo Medical
Journal (Tpkyp iji shinshi), one of the most influential medical periodicals in
Japan during the early Meiji period,18 published a paper “On Beriberi”
(Kakke-ron) written by the physician Kashimura Seitoku (1857–1902).
Kashimura, who later became one of the research directors of the govern-
ment’s Beriberi Hospital, suspected the cause of the disease to be a “malaria
poison” (mararia doku).19 In this, Kashimura possibly followed the lead of the
prominent army surgeon Hashimoto Tsunatsune (1845–1909) who in 1876
had submitted to the University of Würzburg a German-language dissertation
“About the Beriberi Disease,” a Japanese language summary of which was
printed in the first edition of the Medical Newspaper (Iji shinbun) of May
1878. Concerning the origin of beriberi, Hashimoto had quoted different the-
ories, for example the assumption of an inflammation or softening of the spinal
cord, but personally he favored a “miasma formation” in swamps as the most
likely cause of the “malaria-like” illness.20 Another medical officer of the army,
Ishiguro Tadanori (1845–1941), authored his own “Theory of Beriberi” in
August 1878. According to Ishiguro, a “fungus”21 caused the disease. This “fun-
gus” supposedly formed as the result of transformation processes in the polluted
soil of the great population centers, moved from the ground into the atmosphere
and entered the human body through drinking water. As a causal therapy, he
recommended fighting the “fungus” with quinine.22
 B   B  17

In the late 1870s, beriberi was increasingly perceived as a threat to

Japan’s modernization policy. In addressing this threat, Japan was faced with
two-fold difficulties. First, in contrast to other diseases such as cholera against
which the counterstrategies of Western countries could serve as a ready
reference for Japan, beriberi was a disease that was little known in Europe,
and Japan had to develop adequate preventive measures by itself. Second,
knowledge regarding the causation and treatment of beriberi still either
centered on the ancient theories of Chinese medicine or simply echoed
versions of the then popular concept of “miasma” proposed by many
European physicians.23 Therefore, the officials at the Japanese Ministry of the
Interior decided to make beriberi research a matter of state responsibility.

S-S H M

  B H
The national survey of knowledge about beriberi led the officials at Japan’s
Ministry of the Interior in February 1878 to the conclusion that neither
Kanpp nor European medicine provided a satisfactory theory of causation, not
to mention an effective method of treatment of beriberi. In a memorandum
to the State Council (Dajpkan), they requested funds to found a specialized
hospital under the direction of the Bureau of Hygiene that would conduct
comparative research on beriberi. The Bureau declared that the strengths and
weaknesses of Kanpp and European medicine should be compared on the
basis of their clinical performance and the origin of the disease should be
elucidated through basic research. In spite of the high costs involved at a time
of great fiscal strain, three days later, the State Council responded positively
to the Ministry’s request. The Imperial court, being afflicted heavily by
beriberi, participated not only in generously financing the Beriberi Hospital,
but also demanded that Kanpp medicine would be included in the trials.24
By July 1878, the state Beriberi Hospital opened its doors. The four clinical
wards were placed under the authority of four leading physicians. Two of
them, Tpda Chpan (1819–1889) and Imamura Rypan, were representatives
of Kanpp medicine, while the other two, Kobayashi Tan (1847–1894) and
Sasaki Tpyp (1838–1918), practiced European style medicine. The effective-
ness of their treatment plans was to be compared systematically. Ikeda Kensai
(1841–1918) and Miyake Hiizu (1848–1938)—leading authorities on internal
medicine and pathology—were responsible for basic research.25
The clinical side of the state Beriberi Hospital exemplified the multitude of
causative theories and therapeutic approaches that were common in Japan at
the end of the 1870s. On the part of the Kanpp physicians, Imamura treated
his patients according to the established recipes of Chinese-style medicine.
Tpda, a former court physician of the Tokugawa as well as the emperor, on
the contrary abided by the secret method handed down within his family that
was based on the conviction that the cause of beriberi was found in rice.
He prohibited his patients from consuming rice and prescribed instead
a diet based on Azuki beans.26 Among the two physicians of European
18 C O 

medicine, Kobayashi believed the precise cause of beriberi to be unknown

but suspected a disease process similar to the ideas of Agathon Wernich
(1843–1896)—a German lecturer for Internal Medicine at the university
in Tokyo—who had pointed out various pathological signs of nutrition
deficiencies that were supposedly caused by an inflammation of the digestive
tract of beriberi patients. Kobayashi thus implemented a strict regimen of
improved nutrition that required his patients to drink large quantities of milk.
Sasaki who had studied European medicine with the Dutch military surgeon
Johannes L.C. Pompe van Meerdevort (1829–1908), who was probably the
first European to describe the Japanese “variation” of beriberi,27 finally acted
like a representative of Ishiguro whose theories and therapy suggestions
he followed. Sasaki assumed a “fungus” to be at the root of beriberi and
therefore treated his patients “causally” by administering quinine, otherwise
addressing only the symptoms of the disease. Despite the variety of therapeutic
approaches, there were, in the end, no significant differences between the
curative successes of Kanpp and European medicine. Only Kobayashi achieved
slightly better results than his colleagues with his nutrition-oriented milk
therapy, while Sasaki stayed somewhat behind the field, perhaps because of
his focus on fighting the suspected “fungus.”28
How did basic research fare at the state Beriberi Hospital? While both of
the two highly acclaimed research directors installed in 1878, Ikeda and
Miyake, left the Beriberi Hospital after only a short period of time, the basic
proceedings that they established were followed by their successors. From the
outset, the scientific work was based on the assumption that beriberi was
an infectious disease caused by a certain “poison” (doku) that entered the
human body from the outside. The first and most pressing aim of the inves-
tigation was to observe the climatic and other circumstances under which
the disease occurred in order to identify its “cause” (gen’yu) and pathology.
If the factors leading to the formation of the “poison” and the mechanism of
its entry into the human body were known, then a prevention of the disease
would be possible, even if the exact “nature of the disease poison” (bypdoku
no honsei) could not be fully understood. This pragmatic approach based not
on a search for the cause, but the factors contributing to causation seemed
justified to Ikeda and Miyake as they noted that even in Europe, the nature
of many epidemic infectious diseases was not yet fully grasped. They wanted
to investigate all circumstances that could possibly produce the disease.
If they would remove that “factor which was closest” (mottomo kin’in) to the
disease, then this should serve as a means of prevention.29 As a second step,
the afflicted organs and the most important symptoms of the disease were to
be recorded according to precise clinical observation. The achievements of
Kanpp medicine in this area were not considered sufficient as their focus was
thought to be different from that of European medicine. Finally, an under-
standing of the pathology of the disease was Ikeda’s and Miyake’s third stated
aim. Pathological dissections were to be conducted to observe the relation-
ship between organic changes and the clinical course of the disease.30 This
research program at the Beriberi Hospital was thus characteristic of hospital
 B   B  19

medicine seeking to identify “factors” causing beriberi that could be linked to

the clinical and pathological disease process and that could ultimately serve as
a starting point for preventive measures.
The decision to base the scientific work of the Beriberi Hospital on the
assumption of a disease poison followed the general trend at the time. In August
1880, the Medical Newspaper published a review of the beriberi research
undertaken in Japan until then that included even the views of Pompe
van Meerdevort and Antonius Bauduin (1822–1885) who had taught Dutch
medicine in Japan during the Edo period (ca. 1600–1868). From this syn-
opsis, it was clear that the majority of the leading Japanese representatives of
Western medicine as well as their foreign colleagues believed a miasma to be
the cause of the disease.31
The Japanese physicians perhaps accepted the notion of a miasma readily
because the concept appeared similar to that of the “wind poison” of Chinese-
style medicine of the Edo period. How did Japanese physicians of the early
Meiji period imagine the miasma and its origin? In an essay on miasmatic
disease of September 1880, the physician Satomi Giichirp explained that the
exact nature of the miasma was not known, but it was thought that it was
a kind of “mold” (baishu) that would enter the air with the evaporation of
swamp water. In places where the swamps are shallow, the sunlight could
reach the bottom and processes of decay would occur in the soil, causing the
formation of the poison. Therefore, during hot summers, an especially large
quantity of miasma was produced. When there was little air movement in
a marshland area, the poison would remain near the swamps and would inflict
harm only on the people in its immediate vicinity. Strong winds, however,
would carry the miasma even to distant regions particularly threatening the
lives of persons of younger age or of those who were weakened by another
disease, especially when they were suffering from starvation. To support this
theory, Satomi pointed to the example of malaria, which Max von Pettenkofer
(1818–1901) claimed was caused by rising groundwater.32
During the following years, the researchers at the Beriberi Hospital inves-
tigated not only climatic influences but also age, sex, profession, and living
conditions as factors of causation, as well as the amount and composition of
the patients’ urine. They also performed several postmortems.33 In addition,
they searched for explanations for why a change of location had been known
since ancient times as the most promising method to treat beriberi and why
foreigners were almost entirely spared by the disease. While they recognized
the importance of nutrition as a predisposing factor,34 they interpreted the
changes in the spinal cord, nerve, and muscle tissue that were found in
the pathological dissections only as symptoms of the disease and specu-
lated that the “poison” was located in the blood. Studies of blood samples
were meant to become the focus of research, but they could no longer be
carried out as the Beriberi Hospital was closed in July 1882 after only four years
of existence, and transformed into a special division within the university.35
As the first state-run large-scale medical research project with a modern
program of inquiry typical of scientific medicine, the Beriberi Hospital
20 C O 

went far beyond traditional approaches and was a novelty in Japan. It differed
profoundly from other specialized beriberi hospitals based on localistic
theories of disease. At the Japanese government’s Beriberi Hospital, an
ambitious program of hospital medicine was aiming for the discovery and
confirmation of causative factors of beriberi. Patients served as a resource for
medical research, and while postmortems did not readily become a matter of
routine because of conflicting Japanese customs, they still formed a central
part of the research program and were carried out by (foreign) experts with
maximum circumspection.
The integrated research efforts did not, however, lead to the hoped-for
breakthrough. The scientific results were meager compared with the huge
financial investments and a starting point for preventive measures was not
identified. The clinical observations, too, were not particularly startling because
they largely replicated earlier work of European physicians practicing in
Japan. The pathological research received little in the way of stimulus as only
six autopsies could be undertaken in the years 1878 to 1880. In half of the
dissected corpses, a disease other than beriberi was the cause of death, so only
three postmortems could really contribute to beriberi research. Furthermore,
all documented pathological studies were carried out at the university—not
at the Beriberi Hospital itself—by a foreign physician, the German lecturer
Erwin Baelz (1849–1913) who had been appointed Professor of Internal
Medicine in 1876.36
While the research program based on hospital medicine did not succeed
in identifying the cause of beriberi, the Beriberi Hospital nonetheless deeply
influenced the Japanese medical community because it shaped a network of
physicians committed to the conceptualization of beriberi as an infectious
disease. As many of the doctors that had been affiliated with the Beriberi
Hospital would later rise to positions of leadership in Japanese academia
and the medical and military administrations, they would exert considerable
influence in favor of research and health measures based on their causal
perception. However, much to their irritation, it was the epidemiological
approach based on nutritional theories that increasingly received attention
during the following years.

E W  E

  B–R–D
The naval surgeon Takagi Kanehiro (1849–1920) had been interested in
beriberi since his youth. His father, who at the end of the Edo period had
served in a military unit that guarded the Imperial palace in Kyoto, had told
him about the disease that had cost many samurai their lives. In the troops,
the samurai had thought that the disease was caused by the food that they
were given and they had called the packages in which their rations were
delivered “beriberi boxes.”37 In 1872, when Takagi entered the Japanese
navy as a medical officer, he was immediately confronted with beriberi because
the disease affected one third of all sick navy sailors, and it was clear that
 B   B  21

mainly beriberi patients occupied the two naval hospitals.38 In 1880, after his
return from five years of study at St. Thomas Hospital in England, Takagi
devoted much energy, as head of the Tokyo naval hospital, to research on
beriberi. He found great differences in the prevalence of the disease between
the crews of different warships. In his search for the reason for these
discrepancies, he first examined clothing and shelter of the sailors, but they
turned out to be mostly uniform and he thus excluded them from the list
of possible explanations. Only in the provisions did he detect significant
variations among the crewmembers because sailors were given cash allowances
for the free purchase of foodstuff. Takagi, therefore, concentrated his efforts
on the improvement of the sailors’ rations.39
Takagi was reportedly motivated by thinking “of the future of our
[Japanese] empire, because, if such a [bad] state of health went on without
discovering the cause and treatment of beriberi our navy would be of no use
in time of need.”40 In 1882, two events made Takagi’s work even more
pressing. First, during the journeys that the Japanese fleet undertook during
the Korea incident of July and August 1882, up to a third of the crew of the
great flagships fell sick with beriberi and the combat readiness of the Japanese
navy was seriously called into question. Second, the intense threat posed by
beriberi was demonstrated by the occurrences during a trip of the training
ship Ryujp. The Ryujp set sail in December 1882 with a crew of 376 sailors,
headed for New Zealand, South America, and Hawaii. During the ten months
until its return to Japan, 169 persons contracted beriberi, 25 of whom lost
their lives.41 After these events, Takagi was granted the opportunity to
personally explain his ideas about fighting beriberi to the emperor. Based on
successful trials on patients at the naval hospitals in early 1883, Takagi
succeeded in reforming navy provisions first from white rice to a Western
diet, later to a mixture of barley and rice.
Takagi attempted to demonstrate the effectiveness of the new provisions
for the prevention of beriberi quasi-experimentally. He asked that the warship
Tsukuba follow the same route as the Ryujp, and he successfully requested
that this time it be fitted out with new provisions that included meat and
condensed milk. When the Tsukuba returned to Japan in November 1884, of
its crew of 333 men, only 16 had contracted beriberi. The prevalence
statistics for the navy as a whole, too, apparently confirmed the effectiveness
of Takagi’s forceful measures: While from 1878 to 1883, the incidence of
beriberi among sailors had been as high as 41 percent, this figure dropped to
13 percent in 1884.42 In March 1885, Takagi personally reported to the
emperor his progress in fighting beriberi in the navy.
Outside of the navy, too, Takagi promoted his belief that the cause of
beriberi was found in the diet based on white rice. Already in 1883, he
presented his ideas for the first time before the “Great-Japan Private Society
for Hygiene” (Dai-Nihon shiritsu eiseikai). In 1884, he published a table
with instructions for the prevention of beriberi by means of correct nutrition
that was distributed to all prefectures.43 In order to lend scientific support to
his empirical findings, Takagi reverted to the older theory that beriberi was
22 C O 

caused by too high a proportion of carbon and too low a proportion of

nitrogen in the diet.44 In January 1885, on the zenith of his success after
the completion of the Tsukuba-experiment, Takagi advertised his ideas again
in a lecture “On the Prevention of the Beriberi Disease” before the Society for
Hygiene.45 Faced with Takagi’s successes in the navy, even medical officers in
the army began changing provisions. After Horiuchi Toshikuni (1844–1895)
had successfully introduced a barley–rice–mixture at his division based in
Psaka from 1884, most other army units had followed suit by 1890.46
In early 1885, the Meiji government began formal proceedings to bestow
on Takagi an honor in recognition of his extraordinary achievements in
fighting beriberi. On February 5, the Decoration Bureau (Kunshp-kyoku) in
charge of conferring orders, asked the Ministry of Education for an evalua-
tion of Takagi’s scientific work, and the Ministry in turn requested that the
university provide expertise. In its answer sent to the Ministry on March 26
for forwarding to the Decoration Bureau, however, the university faculty
strongly denied Takagi’s ideas. The academics argued that the cause of
beriberi could not be reduced to dietary factors alone and that beriberi was
a communicable, miasmatic disease. It would be highly unlikely that some-
body through one or two experiments of only a few months duration could
discover the cause of this disease and develop a method of prophylaxis.
Finally, the faculty cast doubt on the specificity of Takagi’s preventive measures
against beriberi by observing that an improved diet contributes to the
prevention of almost every disease. The group of experts who took a stance
against Takagi’s work included Harada Yutaka (?–1894), Ikeda Kensai, Ishiguro
Tadanori, Hashimoto Tsunatsune, and Miyake Hiizu—all formerly affiliated
with the government’s Beriberi Hospital—as well as Psawa Kenji (1852–1927),
Pgata Masanori, Ise Jpgorp (1852–?), and the foreign lecturers van der
Hayden and Julius Scriba (1848–1905).
In addition to their negative memorandum, individual university faculty
opposed Takagi’s ideas publicly. Particularly Psawa, who had become Japan’s
first professor of physiology after a period of postgraduate studies in Germany,
expressed his concern that the spread of Takagi’s views would lead to
confusion in Japanese society. Psawa possibly considered it a danger that
Takagi’s beriberi theories might be understood as an endorsement of the
dietetic theories of Kanpp medicine, such as those proposed by Tpda Chpan.
This appeared even more concerning as the representatives of Western
medicine had been fighting hard to discredit Chinese-style medicine.47
Psawa not only doubted Takagi’s hypothesis, but also in a second step, using
physiological data, tried to prove scientifically that the barley-rice-mixture
proposed by Takagi was not superior to a pure rice diet.48 However, the
known epidemiological facts pointed out by the British doctor William
Edwin Anderson (1842–1900) already in 1878 would have been sufficient to
prove wrong Takagi’s assumption of a dietetic imbalance between carbon and
nitrogen as the cause of beriberi.49
Ishiguro, too, published a new monograph about the beriberi disease,
Kakke-dan (1885), in which he strongly criticized Takagi’s ideas. While he
 B   B  23

conceded that diet played an important part in causing beriberi, he refused to

accept Takagi’s theory that the disease could be explained solely by factors of
nutrition. He could not imagine that Takagi’s therapy of providing patients
with a mixture of barley and rice would be of any use in the struggle against
the disease. Instead, he recommended as preventive measures an enhanced
ventilation of troop barracks, a general improvement of foodstuff, and plenty
of exercise.50 Since Ishiguro was one of the highest-ranking medical officers
of the army, his outright denial of the reforms implemented in the navy
effectively slowed the learning process in the army.
Takagi’s reforms, based on epidemiological studies and quasi-experimental
support, received much attention, but his nutritional theories threatened the
concept of beriberi as an infectious disease cherished by many influential
members of Japan’s medical establishment at the university and the army.
By successfully opposing Takagi’s decoration and scientifically undermining
the rationale that he gave for his reforms, the members of this establishment
prevented official recognition of Takagi’s theories and managed to keep the
race for the highly contested cause of beriberi open. Experimental proof of
the infection theory, that is, the discovery of an actual beriberi germ, would be
the ultimate weapon to restore the balance of power between the two parties.

B, G T,

 E J B
In their efforts to raise doubts about Takagi’s apparent successes, his opponents
appeared entirely vindicated when only a few weeks later, in April 1885,
Pgata Masanori published his discovery of a germ causing beriberi. Pgata’s
discovery temporarily confirmed the germ hypothesis of beriberi and thus
proved the theory of beriberi being an infectious disease championed by
Takagi’s opponents. How was it possible that only a few years after the unsuc-
cessful application of hospital medicine at the Beriberi Hospital, Pgata could
present a discovery based on the germ theory using the even more advanced
techniques of laboratory medicine?
After the closure of the Beriberi Hospital in 1882, great hopes were
pinned on bacteriological methods that had been so successfully applied to
medical research in Europe, to fulfill the commitment of understanding the
infectious cause of beriberi. Baelz who had participated in the pathological
research at the Beriberi Hospital and who had profited most from it, first
began implementing this agenda in Japan. In August 1882, he published an
article in German “On Infectious Diseases Prevalent in Japan” that drew on
“almost 6 years of experience at the heavily patronized inner clinic and
policlinic of the university hospital in Tokyo that during this period were
run under my direction.” Baelz stressed that beriberi would be a “miasmatic
infectious disease” and pointed to the startling “analogy with malaria.”
He “most decidedly” opposed Wernich’s view that suggested a connection
between Kakke and pernicious anemia. While bacteria had “not yet been
24 C O 

identified in the blood” of beriberi patients, Baelz thought “it not unlikely
that a parasite which until now has just escaped our research, will be found in
there [i.e., in the blood] or the tissue.”51 Regarding bacteriological investi-
gations of beriberi, Baelz wrote:

From our present [scientific] position, the conception of Kakke as a miasmatic

infectious disease almost brings about the duty to find the supposedly organized
poison; most likely is the expectation that it is a body belonging to the group
of fission fungi [“Spaltpilze”]. Based on this assumption, already for many years
I have been trying to find such a body, be it in the blood, be it in the mainly
affected organs, the nerves. Until now in vain. However, I do not give up the
hope with the help of the recently so much perfected methods, especially
Koch’s staining procedure, still to reach the aim anyway and [I] will therefore
continue the microscopic investigations further. Several times I believed to have
found a specific Micrococcus, but since the finding was different in different
preparations, I do not yet dare to view the same as the cause of Kakke.52

While Baelz began applying bacteriological methods to beriberi research,

how prepared was Japan’s medical community for the advent of bacteriology?
Bacteriological topics had been introduced first by Japan’s journals of
medicine. In the Tokyo Medical Journal of 1878, an unidentified author
reported on “Methods to exterminate Bacteria” (Bakuteria o bokumetsu suru
no hp). The writer stated that microorganisms were a product of fermentation
processes that could be observed under a microscope at a magnification of
800 times. The author claimed that for a physician it was most important to
know how to fight bacteria, and then he discussed how different substances
had proven to be of varying usefulness.53
Miyake Hiizu’s book “General Theory of Pathology” (bypri spron) that was
published in 1879 contributed greatly to a more detailed knowledge of
bacteriological facts in Japan. In drafting the manuscript for this book that
went through several editions and was widely read, Miyake consulted
Felix Victor Birch-Hirschfeld’s Textbook of Pathological Anatomy54 in addi-
tion to four other foreign works. Birch-Hirschfeld’s text included the most
recent findings of bacteriological research,55 and based on this, Miyake gave
a detailed overview of “schistomycetes” (“fission fungi”) under the heading
“plant parasites.”56
Robert Koch’s (1843–1910) discovery of the tuberculosis bacillus was
transmitted to Japan only with a few months delay when Baelz explained
Koch’s work to the university students immediately before the summer
vacation of 1882.57 A written account of Koch’s work reached the Japanese
medical press the following year when Sakaki Junjirp (1859–1939), a physician
who studied in Germany at the time, briefly communicated the experimental
proceedings of Koch and his theory of the causation of tuberculosis.58
However, the implications of Koch’s discovery were not immediately grasped
by the entire Japanese medical community and articles concerning bacterio-
logical topics remained rather an exception in Japanese medical reporting.59
 B   B  25

Therefore, foreign doctors were the ones who first applied bacteriological
techniques to beriberi research. Van der Hayden of Kpbe was among the first
physicians in Japan who—based on microscopic inspections of the blood of
beriberi patients—claimed that “bacteria” or “micrococci” were the cause of
the disease. In 1882, a Japanese medical journal briefly reported that van der
Hayden had observed changes in the presence of bacteria in the blood of
beriberi patients in correlation with the progress of the disease.60 American
missionary doctor Wallace Taylor (1835–1923) received attention even
beyond Japan’s shores with his finding of “spores” in the blood of beriberi
patients.61 In autumn 1884, he decided to investigate their link with the
disease preparing cultures of the suspected germ and infecting laboratory
animals with it. The infected creatures soon exhibited symptoms that accord-
ing to Taylor were similar to those of human beriberi patients. He observed
that the germ that he called “Beriberi Spirilum” was present in rice where
cooking would not destroy it. This fit well with the folk wisdom of the
Japanese people that the cause of beriberi was found in rice.62
Meanwhile, the interest in bacteriology grew considerably in Japan. In
the introduction to its series “Overview of the Discovery of ‘Bacteria’ ”
(‘Bakuteria’ hakkensetsu no shushu) of spring 1883, the Tokyo Medical Journal
noted that during the past few years in the West, bacteriological theories had
been increasingly discussed. It was expected that they would radically change
the development of medicine. The paper pointed out that the example of
tuberculosis had shown how the face of pathology was completely altered by
the discovery of bacteria.63 When one year later, in May 1884, the same
journal published a series of articles on “Methods for the Observation of
Bacteria” (Bakuteria kensatsuhp), the work and proceedings of Koch and
Louis Pasteur were introduced in detail.
Only two years after Koch’s discovery, the stage was already set for the first
bacteriological debate among Japanese physicians. In 1884, the army surgeon
Watanabe Kanae (1858–?) announced his discovery of a “Micrococcus
Beriberi.” Watanabe’s investigation was driven by his conviction that the
cause of beriberi should not be left to discovery by someone from the
Western hemisphere because the disease was mainly prevalent in the Eastern
hemisphere. Watanabe claimed to already having recognized in 1881 that
the cause of the disease was a bacterium. He reported that in August 1882,
when investigating the blood of patients, he had successfully identified the
germ and that he had now reached the firm conclusion that this “parasite”
(parashiitsu) and the beriberi disease were in an “inseparable relationship”
(aihanaru bekarazaru kankei). The number of germs, it was argued, would
correlate with the gravity of the illness. In the blood of patients with severe
beriberi symptoms, there were more micrococci than in the blood of those
who had only mild complaints. In addition, Watanabe had confirmed that
the germ was not found in the blood of healthy persons and of patients suf-
fering from a different disease. Watanabe apparently followed some of the
causal criteria postulated by Koch as he reported that he had also tried to
transmit the disease to animals, but that this work was still in progress.64
26 C O 

Hiroi Komaji and two other physicians thoroughly reviewed Watanabe’s

claims. The three critics imagined beriberi to take its course from a physical
“predisposition” (soin), which when the “cause” (gen’in) was added, would
lead to the outbreak of the disease in which food, clothing etc. would form
promoting “circumstances” (shoin). They concluded that the question whether
beriberi originated in the “conditions of everyday life” (seikatsuhp) or was
caused by a “specific germ” (toku’i dokuso) could not yet be decided.
Although they themselves were of the opinion that the cause of beriberi was
a specific microorganism, they doubted Watanabe’s discovery and regarded
the true germ as still unidentified. They argued that already in 1871, Dutch
and British physicians had discovered a “fungus” that was later recognized as
having already been known and that it was probably similar to Watanabe’s
discovery. There were many conditions that a proposed beriberi germ had to
fulfill. Hiroi and his colleagues called for Watanabe to try the method that
Koch valued so highly: to isolate the organism and then to infect laboratory
animals with it. They concluded that at the present stage of research,
foodstuff and clothing could still not be excluded as causes of the disease.65

P’ D  B G

  P  “L M”
When Pgata Masanori returned from postgraduate work in Germany in
December 1884, Japanese physicians had already joined Baelz and other
foreign colleagues in the hunt for the supposed beriberi germ. Japan’s
medical community was also sufficiently informed to critically evaluate hasty
bacteriological discoveries. When upon his return, the university and the
Ministry of the Interior both immediately employed Pgata to head their
respective bacteriological laboratories, he made it his highest priority to
identify the cause of beriberi with the bacteriological techniques that he had
studied in Germany.
Pgata was the son of a family of physicians from Kumamoto in Kyushu
where he began studying medicine before moving to the university in
Tokyo. After graduation in 1880, he assisted Baelz with his work on beriberi.
In January 1881, Pgata received a government scholarship for study in
Germany where he first concentrated on physiology and hygiene at the
University of Leipzig, Baelz’ Alma Mater. Later, Pgata moved to Munich
where he continued research on hygiene with Pettenkofer.66 In 1884, two years
after Koch’s discovery of the tuberculosis bacillus, Pgata spent several months
in Berlin to learn bacteriological techniques at the Reichsgesundheitsamt. It is
likely that Pgata acted on orders from Nagayo, the powerful chief of the
Bureau of Hygiene, because the Ministry of the Interior offered to bear his
expenses during his stay in Berlin.67 Since Koch was visiting Egypt and India
at that time, his assistant, Friedrich Löffler (1852–1915), initially instructed
Pgata.68
Pgata’s laboratory in Tokyo had already been partially prepared with
government help upon his return: Shibata Tsuguyoshi (1850–1910) of the
 B   B  27

Ministry of the Interior who had visited Berlin to attend the hygiene
exhibition of 1883, had transported part of the valuable equipment on his
return trip to Japan; Pgata brought the rest with him.69 He received blood
and tissue samples from the beriberi department at the university70 and
examined them at the Tokyo Laboratory for Hygiene of the Ministry of the
Interior that was equipped with three Zeiss microscopes with immersion lenses
for maximum magnification.71 At the university, Tsuboi Jirp (1862–1903)
was assisting Pgata while at the Tpkyp Laboratory, he was aided by Kitasato
who had concluded his medical studies at the university three years after
Pgata. In addition, Pgata was expected to train three physicians—Kako
Tsurudo (1855–1931) of the army, Kuwahara Spsuke of the navy, and Suga
Yukiyoshi (1854–1914) of the Okayama Medical School—in bacteriological
techniques.72
Only four months after his return from Germany and only a few weeks
after Takagi’s report on his nutritional experiments, the great investments in
Pgata’s education and research appeared to pay off when on April 6, 1885,
Pgata published in the official government gazette (kanpp) a formal “Report
about the Discovery of the Beriberi Bacillus” (Kakke bypkin hakken no gi
kaishin).73 Pgata claimed to have isolated a hitherto unknown microorganism
from the blood of beriberi patients and the tissue of deceased beriberi victims.
Pgata declared that he could breed this microbe in pure culture and that after
inoculation in laboratory animals, it produced symptoms and pathological
signs that closely resembled those of beriberi patients.74 In composing his
report, Pgata emphasized from the beginning that he had followed Koch’s
example by successfully isolating the bacillus and infecting laboratory animals
with it and that he had therefore concluded that it was the cause of disease.75
In a short span of time, Pgata had thus successfully raised the quest for
the cause of beriberi to a new level by bringing the pinnacle of scientific
medicine, laboratory medicine, to bear on this task.
During the following weeks, Pgata held two public lectures about his
discovery at the invitation of the president of the university, Katp Hiroyuki
(1836–1916), and the director of the Bureau of Hygiene, Nagayo. Among
the audience were not only faculty members of the university, but also leading
representatives from government, medicine, and the military.76 In front of
a blackboard with explanatory drawings, Pgata had installed microscopes
through which the visitors could observe his “beriberi bacillus.” In addition,
cultures of the bacilli growing on different media were exhibited. In his
speech, Pgata explained his methods of investigation in detail. To further
substantiate his findings, he also presented laboratory animals whose hind
extremities were paralyzed, apparently in a way characteristic of the symptoms
of beriberi.77 In quickly presenting his preliminary results to the public,
Pgata thus made intensive use of many of the new forms of visual and
“functional” representation of his “discovery” that communicated laboratory
medicine’s claim to objectivity.78
At the end of his presentation, Pgata turned to his competitors. After
criticizing aspects of Taylor’s work, he particularly stressed the fundamental
28 C O 

differences between the implications of his discovery and the theories of the
also present Takagi.79 After Pgata had finished, Takagi had the opportunity
to respond. In the face of Pgata’s overwhelming experimental evidence,
Takagi attacked from a pragmatic viewpoint: Pgata’s discovery was not very
practical, because if it held true, then all physicians would have to be
equipped with expensive microscopes to diagnose beriberi with certainty.
In addition, Takagi doubted that Pgata’s research would lead to an improve-
ment of beriberi treatment. This argument was indeed powerful. Already in
1881, an essay about the beriberi disease by Baelz had disappointed the
Japanese readership because the author did not derive recommendations for
therapy from his bacteriological theories.80 The publishing house resorted to
printing advice from an unidentified source in the next edition of the
journal.81 As Takagi did not have the training needed to directly question
Pgata’s laboratory evidence, he chose to contest Pgata’s results on the
grounds of usefulness instead.
Finally, Ishiguro addressed the audience and lavishly praised Pgata’s
discovery. According to Ishiguro, Pgata had used such precise research
methods as had been unknown to “oriental people” (tpypjin) and most of the
Western physicians practicing in East Asia. Ishiguro was also deeply impressed
by the opposing views of Pgata and Takagi, both of whom were his personal
friends. His speech ended with an appeasing gesture stressing the stimulating
effect that differences in opinion would have on true scientists.82
Pgata’s discovery left a deep impression on the medical community in
Japan, even causing a small bacteria boom. Already a few weeks later, the
Tokyo Medical Journal reported that Joseph Disse (1852–1912), a German
lecturer at the university, had also discovered a beriberi “fungus” that
resided at different locations in the spinal chord.83 In a letter to the journal,
Taylor once more called attention to his discovery of the “Beriberi
Spirilum.”84 Pgata himself continued his investigation of the “beriberi
bacillus” that he also proudly presented in a German medical weekly in the
same year.85 After having been appointed professor at the university to teach
hygiene,86 one year later, he published a second report about his work on the
beriberi germ.87
In spite of the generally favorable response to Pgata’s discovery, many
Japanese doctors still harbored reservations and judged his findings not yet
sufficiently confirmed. In response to a question concerning the beriberi
disease, Yamazaki Motomichi of the Society for Hygiene for example,
answered that the cause and pathology of beriberi were still unknown.
He himself believed that Pgata’s bacillus was indeed the cause of the disease,
but that this result still awaited validation. Moreover, Yamazaki combined the
germ theory with the older miasmatic disease concept explaining that
beriberi was an infectious disease that was contracted from the soil.88
In a monograph on beriberi published by Harada, the author also stuck to
the hypothesis of a miasmatic infectious disease.89 Pgata’s discovery was thus
smoothly integrated into a germ concept that differed from Koch’s: Many
Japanese physicians believed germs to be miasmatic in origin. Like many of
 B   B  29

their European colleagues, most Japanese doctors embraced Koch’s concept

of specificity—that pathogenic organisms could be produced only from
organisms of the same species—only many years later.90
While Japan’s medical circles were not uncritical, it was hard not to be
impressed when confronted with Pgata’s cutting-edge laboratory methods
that were modeled on Koch’s example, in combination with the authority
that Pgata’s study at the Reichsgesundheitsamt in Berlin had conferred on
him. Physicians based in Japan did not dare to challenge Pgata’s findings as
forcefully as they had done before with Watanabe’s claims. This role finally
fell to Kitasato who for a short period had been Pgata’s assistant in preparing
the discovery of the “beriberi bacillus” before leaving to work with Koch in
Berlin. There, Kitasato had the chance to study the methods of the new
laboratory science over a much longer period than Pgata had done. This
put Kitasato in a position to criticize Pgata’s work on beriberi as a specialist
of bacteriology, and this lead in 1888 to the much-discussed controversy
between him and Pgata. However, being a bacteriologist himself, Kitasato
did not explicitly doubt that the cause of beriberi was a germ; he only
questioned that Pgata’s “beriberi bacillus” was that germ.
Supported by laboratory medicine, Pgata’s discovery gave the physicians
championing the infectious disease theory of beriberi nonetheless more than
just a short-lived opportunity to draw attention away from Takagi’s practical
successes. The doctors at the university and in the army found lasting support
for their position through Pgata’s discovery because by introducing laboratory
methods, Pgata had raised the demands placed on a scientifically acceptable
causal explanation to a level that Takagi could not match. While the nutri-
tional origin of beriberi postulated by Takagi was too unspecific to satisfy the
standards of evidence inspired by “classical bacteriology,” Takagi’s work did
not yet exhibit the combination of work in epidemiology and hygiene with
the laboratory search for a specific cause that became characteristic of tropi-
cal medicine after 1900.91 Proposing a cure without being able to establish a
suitable cause put Takagi in a position similar to that of the ousted Kanpp
physicians with their time-tested therapies based on speculative theories. In
the navy, the incidence of beriberi continued to drop rapidly from two-digit
levels to 0.6 percent in 1885 and even 0.1 percent in 1886, and Takagi’s
practical successes received international recognition,92 but he could win only
a few followers because of his unconvincing theoretical explanation. By raising
the standards of what is scientific, Pgata’s discovery had effectively shifted
the balance in the debate.

C
The integration of medicine into Japan’s modernization policies from the
middle of the nineteenth century93 found its expression in the particular
arena of beriberi in the intensive search for the cause of this disease that
prompted the government to step in and seek to control it. However, after
a government-sponsored research program of hospital medicine failed to
30 C O 

identify a specific cause of beriberi, the “true” origin of the disease remained
contested between physicians favoring empirical conceptions based on
nutrition and those believing in theories of infection as proposed by many
representatives of Western medicine. In the race for the identification of the
cause of beriberi that ensued, both sides, using government resources, turned
to experimental approaches to prove their ideas. The physicians, preferring
the evolving germ theory of beriberi, countered the practical successes
of their competitors with findings produced with the modern methods of sci-
entific medicine that they speedily introduced into Japan. In the field of
beriberi research, Japan completed the transition from hospital medicine to
laboratory medicine, which had taken many decades in the West, in only
seven years. Although the discoveries made in the laboratory were met with
skepticism, the outcome of this contest was a lasting stalemate in which
supporters of nutritional concepts succeeded in implementing prevention
measures against beriberi while backers of germ theory managed to block
official recognition of nutritional ideas.
The adoption of scientific medicine with its experimental approaches in
Japan was strongly driven by the perceived economic and military need to
control endemic beriberi, facilitating the supply of massive state resources.
Individual physicians from both conceptual camps involved in beriberi
research repeatedly stated that they regarded their work as being of national
importance. However, perceiving the control of beriberi as a precondition for
military preparedness was not peculiar to the Japanese. During the modern-
ization process in many countries, efforts to fight disease created a rising
interest in the identification of necessary causes whose removal could serve
as preventive measures.94 The Dutch colonial authorities in Indonesia, for
example, saw “conquering beri-beri [. . .] as a necessary condition for
winning the Atjeh wars” and this perception formed the background for the
mission by Pekelharing and Winkler arriving in Java in 1886 to investigate
the disease’s cause.95 In Japan, the physicians at the state’s Beriberi Hospital
also sought to find a cause whose removal would allow the control of the
disease—a necessary cause. Thus in Japan at the end of the 1870s and in the
early 1880s, a similar shift from primarily considering disease symptoms to a
concern with etiology can be observed, as it has been pointed out for beriberi
research published in the Dutch language around the 1880s.96 This interest
in the cause of beriberi provided the link between the perceived need to
control the disease and the ensuing research agenda that led to the ready
adoption first of hospital medicine and then of laboratory medicine in Japan.
While hospital medicine soon reached its limits because the desired
findings were not readily forthcoming, it prepared the ground for the next
stage of the quest into beriberi’s causation by forging an influential group of
physicians supporting the model of infection. When the temporary void left
by the lack of practical results from the Beriberi Hospital was filled by the
nutritional approach advanced through experimental means, the leap from
hospital to laboratory medicine was quickly taken. Germ theory arrived on
the scene at a moment when Japan’s medical elite was acutely absorbed in the
 B   B  31

search for the origin of beriberi. However, the transition from hospital to
laboratory medicine was possible not just because germ theory had pene-
trated the Japanese medical community during the preceding years, but also
because at this moment the Japanese government’s program to send students
abroad produced a person—Pgata Masanori—who seemed fully equipped to
successfully implement the most advanced program of research available at
the time, laboratory medicine.
The acceptance of a beriberi germ by the Japanese medical community was
helped by its apparent close resemblance to indigenous theories of a “wind
poison” evaporating from the soil and entering the body via the feet, that
appeared compatible with the disease’s particular epidemiology, and that was
supported by influential foreign physicians believing beriberi to be a miasmatic
infection. The rapid adoption of the germ theory in Japan in the context of
beriberi research is thus also an instructive example of local appropriation and
demonstrates that “there was no ‘germ theory of disease’ transcendent over
time, but rather many different germ theories of specific diseases being
debated in specific communities, times, and places [, . . . and] particular
understandings of the germ theory were [indebted] to preexisting traditions
of explaining disease.”97 It also exemplifies the difficulty of the diffusion of
a highly codified scientific discipline, even under the conditions of the seem-
ingly well organized Japanese modernization process. Even in Japan, with its
hired foreign teachers and its great number of physicians studying at leading
academic institutions abroad, the “laboratory practice that developed [. . .]
in the first wave of enthusiasm for the ‘miracle-making’ science [bacteriology]
often failed to conform to the discipline’s new, more stringent professional
standards.”98 Therefore during the early development of bacteriology in
Japan, debates centered on the technical aspects of bacteriological work, and
like similar discoveries of beriberi germs for example in South America,99
early Japanese announcements were rejected because they did not conform
to the high standards of bacteriological research. However, these technical
“teething” problems were largely overcome after researchers like Kitasato
returned to Japan who had the opportunity to undergo much more in-depth
training in the new scientific methods than their predecessors.
While the will to remove beriberi as an obstacle to Japan’s modern-
ization and the ensuing struggle over the disease’s causal explanation acceler-
ated the introduction of scientific medicine to Japan, this did not necessarily
bring the “fruits of progress” to the Japanese people. Especially in the army’s
medical corps, physicians committed to the germ theory of beriberi and
supported by bacteriological findings continued to exert a strong influence.
Ishiguro in particular repeatedly resisted attempts to reform the army’s
rice-based diet, ultimately at great cost. Ten years after Pgata’s discovery,
during the Sino-Japanese war of 1894–1895, casualties caused by beriberi were
nine times higher than those due to combat action. And in 1904–1905,
when Japan’s victory over a major European power in the Russo-Japanese war
was celebrated by many Japanese as proof of the success of Japan’s mod-
ernization policy, this triumph was tarnished by the fact that more than
32 C O

200,000 Japanese army soldiers or almost 20 percent of total army personnel

in the field in Japan and Asia fell sick with beriberi, many of them dying from
the disease.100 Several decades after the Meiji Restoration and the beginning
of Japan’s modernization policy, modern medicine provided leading physi-
cians with a scientific rationale to effectively oppose prevention measures
against beriberi, the effectiveness of which had been demonstrated “only”
empirically.

N
1. Christian Oberländer, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne: Die Bewegung für den
Fortbestand der Kanpp-Medizin in Japan (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner [Medizin,
Gesellschaft und Geschichte, Beiheft 7], 1995), pp. 51–65.
2. Andrew Cunningham and Bridie Andrews, “Introduction: Western Medicine as
Contested Knowledge,” in Western Medicine as Contested Knowledge, ed. Andrew
Cunningham and Bridie Andrews (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1997), pp. 1–23; here pp. 8–9, 12.
3. Andrew Cunningham and Perry Williams, “Introduction,” in The Laboratory
Revolution in Medicine, ed. Andrew Cunningham and Perry Williams (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 1–13; here pp. 2–5.
4. Personal names are given in the customary order in the native language of the
person. Where they are known, the years of birth and death of people are given.
5. See, e.g., Yamashita Seizp, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi (History of the
Beriberi Disease in the Meiji Period) (Tokyo: Tpkyp Daigaku Shuppankai, 1988),
p. 295; Itakura Kiyonobu, Mohp no jidai (The Age of Imitation) (Tokyo:
Kasetsusha, 1988), p. 299.
6. Fujino Tsunezaburp, Fujino, Nihon saikingaku-shi (Fujino’s History of Japanese
Bacteriology) (Tokyo: Kindai Shuppan, 1984), pp. 105–114.
7. James Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1989), p. 81.
8. K. Cordell Carter, “The Germ Theory, Beriberi, and the Deficiency Theory of
Disease,” Medical History 1977, 21: 119–136.
9. Oberländer, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne, pp. 61–64.
10. Yamashita Seizp, Kakke no rekishi: bitamin hakken izen (History of Beriberi:
Before the Discovery of the Vitamin) (Tokyo: Tpkyp Daigaku Shuppankai,
1983), pp. 183, 191, 220, 356–358.
11. Heinrich Botho Scheube, “Die japanische Kak-ke (Beri-beri),” Deutsches Archiv
für klinische Medizin 1882, 31, 1 and 2 (May 30): 141–202; 3 and 4 (July 13):
307–348; 32, 1 and 2 (November 8): 83–119; here pp. 148–149.
12. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, pp. 89, 335–336.
13. Ibid., pp. 24–27, 43.
14. Kpseishp Imukyoku, Isei hyakunenshi shiryphen (Hundred Year History of the
Medical Law: Sources) (Tokyo: Gypsei, 1976), pp. 52–53.
15. Oberländer, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne, pp. 86–92.
16. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, pp. 260–261.
17. William Johnston, The Modern Epidemic: A History of Tuberculosis in Japan
(Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1995),
p. 188.
 B   B  33

18. Ibid., p. 188.

19. Kashimura Seitoku, “Kakke-ron” (On Beriberi), Tpkyp iji shinshi (Tokyo Medical
Journal) April 10, 1878, 16: 5–13; here pp. 5, 10.
20. Hashimoto Tsunatsune, “Kakke shinsetsu” (New Theory of Beriberi), Iji shinbun
May 11, 1878, 1: 1–13; here pp. 2–4.
21. In addition to the term “bacteria,” other expressions were frequently used in
Japan. For example, the term “fungus” (pirutsu) was common. Hashimoto
Tsunatsune described the pathogen of diphteria as a “fungus” that enters the
mouth from the atmosphere (Hashimoto Tsunatsune, “Kptp ‘Jifuterichisu’ no
setsu” [On “Diphteria” of the Throat], Tpkyp iji shinshi February 22, 1879, 48:
1–13; here pp. 4–12).
22. Ishiguro Tadanori, Kakke-ron (Theory of Beriberi) (Tokyo: Eirandp, 1878),
pp. 3, 5, 21.
23. For a more complete overview of the theories of beriberi’s causation that
Japanese and foreign physicians of the Meiji period proposed, see Christian
Oberländer, “The Rise of Scientific Medicine in Japan,” Historia Scientiarum
2004, 13 (3): 176–199; here pp. 177–180.
24. Oberländer, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne, pp. 83–84; Yamashita, Meijiki ni
okeru kakke no rekishi, pp. 95–97, 100.
25 Kakke Bypin, Kakke bypin daiichi hpkoku (First Report of the Beriberi Hospital)
(Tokyo: Kakke Bypin, 1879).
26. Ibid.
27. Heinrich Botho Scheube, “Die japanische Kak-ke (Beri-beri),” Deutsches Archiv
für klinische Medizin 1882, 31, 1 and 2 (May 30): 141–202; 3 and 4 (July 13):
307–348; 32, 1 and 2 (November 8): 83–119; here p. 147.
28 Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, pp. 179–181, 185, 193, 196, 207.
29. Kakke Bypin, Kakke bypin daiichi hpkoku, pp. 89–90, 92.
30. Ibid., pp. 90–92.
31. “Naika senmon shokai” (Internistic Meeting), Iji shinbun (Medical Newspaper)
August 15, 1880, 29: 1–21.
32. Satomi Giichirp, “Miasma shobyp” (Miasmatic Diseases), Iji shinbun September 15,
1880, 30: 1–3.
33. Kakke Bypin, Kakke bypin daini hpkoku (Second Report of the Beriberi Hospital)
(Tokyo: Kakke Bypin, 1881), p. 77.
34. Ibid., pp. 117–118.
35. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, p. 229 note 22.
36. Heinrich Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin im Japan der Meiji-
Zeit (Düsseldorf: Triltsch Verlag [⫽ Düsseldorfer Arbeiten zur Geschichte der
Medizin 59], 1985), p. 134.
37. Takaki Kanehiro, “Three Lectures on the Preservation of Health amongst the
Personnel of the Japanese Navy and Army. Lecture I,” The Lancet May 19, 1906:
1369–1374; May 26: 1451–1455; June 2: 1520–1523; here p. 1370.
38. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, p. 334.
39. Ibid., pp. 339–340.
40. Takaki, “Three Lectures,” p. 1370.
41. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, p. 338.
42. Ibid., pp. 333, 343–352.
43. “Kakke gen’in” (Cause of the Beriberi Disease), Tpkyp iji shinshi December 27,
1884, 352: 1666.
34 C O 

44. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, pp. 339–340.

45. Takagi Kanehiro, “Kakke-byp yobp-setsu” (About the Prevention of the Beriberi
Disease), Dai-Nihon shiritsu eiseikai zasshi (Journal of the Great-Japan Private
Society for Hygiene) 1885, 22: 1–20.
46. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, pp. 399–401.
47. Oberländer, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne, pp. 65–106.
48. Psawa Kenji, “Bakuhan no setsu” (About the Barley-Rice-Mix), Dai-Nihon
shiritsu eiseikai zasshi, July 18, 1885, 26: 1–13 and August 18, 27: 1–16.
49. William Anderson, “Kak’ké,” Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan October 27,
1878, 6 (1): 155–178; here pp. 155, 169–170, 175. An overview is given by
Carter, “The Germ Theory,” pp. 126–127.
50. Ishiguro Tadanori, Kakke-dan (About Beriberi) (Tokyo: Eirandp, 1885).
51. Erwin von Baelz, “Ueber die in Japan vorkommenden Infectionskrankheiten,”
Mittheilungen der OAG August 1882, 27: 295–319; here pp. 304–307, 315.
52. Ibid., p. 304.
53. “Bakuteria o bokumetsu suru no hp” (Methods to exterminate Bacteria), Tpkyp
iji shinshi January 25, 1878, 12: 14–17.
54. Felix Victor Birch-Hirschfeld, Lehrbuch der pathologischen Anatomie (Leipzig:
F.C.W. Vogel, 1877).
55. K. Cordell Carter, “Koch’s Postulates in Relation to the Work of Jacob Henle
and Edwin Klebs,” Medical History 1985, 29: 353–374; here p. 365.
56. Fujino, Fujino, Nihon saikingaku-shi, pp. 44–45.
57. Ibid., p. 91.
58. Sakaki Junjirp, “Kekkakusho ha hatashite densenbyp nari” (Is Tuberculosis really
an Infectious Disease?), Tpkyp iji shinshi May 5, 1883, 266: 12–16; here p. 13.
59. Johnston, The Modern Epidemic, p. 191.
60. “Kakke kanja no ketsueki kensa” (Examination of the Blood of Beriberi Patients),
Tpkyp iji shinshi July 8, 1882, 223: 30–31.
61. See, e.g., “Kakké, or Japanese Beri-beri,” Lancet June 30, 1887: 233–234; here
p. 234.
62. Wallace Taylor, “Kakke ichimei beri-beri no gen’in” (The Cause of Kakke or
Beriberi), Tpkyp iji shinshi August 8, 1885, 384: 998–1001.
63. “ ‘Bakuteria’ hakkensetsu no shushu” (Overview of the Discovery of “Bacteria”),
Tpkyp iji shinshi April 28, 1883, 265: 5–10; May 12, 267: 8–12; May 19, 268:
6–9; here p. 5.
64. Watanabe Kanae, “Kakke bypdoku hatsumei-ron” (About the Discovery of the
Beriberi Agent), Tpkyp iji shinshi September 27, 1884, 339: 1207–1211 and
October 4, 340: 1241–1247; here pp. 1208–1211; 1242–1246.
65. Hiroi Komaji et al., “Kakke gen’in-ron” (About the Cause of Beriberi), Chugai iji
shinpp (International Medical Review) January 10, 1885, 115: 15–19; January 25,
116: 23–25; February 10, 117: 20–22; February 25, 118: 19–22.
66. Itakura, Mohp no jidai, p. 290.
67. Fujino, Fujino, Nihon saikingaku-shi, p. 102.
68. Itakura, Mohp no jidai, p. 290.
69. Fujino, Fujino, Nihon saikingaku-shi, pp. 102–103.
70. Pgata Masanori, “Kakke bypdoku hakken” (Discovery of the Beriberi Disease
Poison), Tpkyp iji shinshi April 11, 1885, 367: 454–457; April 18, 368: 492–497;
April 25, 369: 517–522; here p. 454.
71. Fujino, Fujino, Nihon saikingaku-shi, p. 105.
72. Ibid., p. 104.
 B   B  35

73. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, p. 298.

74. Pgata, “Kakke bypdoku hakken,” pp. 454–455.
75. Carter, “Koch’s Postulates,” p. 361.
76. “Kakke bypdoku hatsumei dai-enzetsukai kiji” (Report on the Great Lecture
Event concerning the Discovery of the Beriberi Disease Poison), Tpkyp iji shinshi
April 18, 1885, 368: 507–510.
77. Ibid., pp. 507–508.
78. For the use of different methods of representation in bacteriology, see e.g.,
Thomas Schlich, “Linking Cause and Disease in the Laboratory: Robert Koch’s
Method of Superimposing Visual and ‘Functional’ Representations of Bacteria,”
History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 2000, 22: 43–58.
79. “Kakke bypkin hakken enzetsu” (Lecture on the Discovery of the Cause of the
Beriberi Disease), Chugai iji shinpp April 25, 1885, 122: 24–26; here p. 25;
“Dainikai kakke baikin enzetsu” (Second Lecture on the Beriberi Germ), Chugai
iji shinpp May 10, 1885, 123: 25–27; here p. 26.
80. Erwin von Baelz, “Kakkebyp-ron” (About the Beriberi Disease), Chugai iji
shinpp March 25, 1881, 26: 1–8 and April 10, 27: 1–10.
81. “Igaku shinsetsu” (New Medical Theories), Chugai iji shinpp April 25, 1881, 28:
1–3. Concerning the discovery of the microorganism causing tuberculosis, too,
some authors criticized that this would not contribute to the treatment of the
disease (Johnston, The Modern Epidemic, p. 191).
82. “Kakke bypdoku hatsumei,” pp. 509–510.
83. “Isshu no kin” (A Kind of Bacteria), Tpkyp iji shinshi May 2, 1885, 370: 578.
84. Taylor, “Kakke ichimei beri-beri no gen’ in,” p. 998.
85. “Untersuchungen über die Aetiologie der Kakke,” Aerztliches Intelligenzblatt
November 24, 1885, 32, 47: 683–686.
86. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, p. 298.
87. “Kakke bypgen kensa” (Investigation of the Cause of Beriberi), Tpkyp iji shinshi,
April 3, 1886, 418: 428–433; April 10, 419: 465–470; April 17, 420: 501–505;
April 24, 421: 537–544; May 1, 422: 571–576; May 8, 423: 600–607; May 15,
424: 634–641.
88. Yamazaki Motomichi, “Kakkebyp ptp” (Answers concerning the Beriberi
Disease), Dai-Nihon shiritsu eiseikai zasshi July 25, 1885, 26: 53–58; here p. 53.
89. Itakura, Mohp no jidai, p. 250.
90. For details concerning the debate about specificity during the early develop-
ment of bacteriology, see Pauline Mazumdar, Species and Specificity. An
Interpretation of the History of Immunology (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1995).
91. Ilana Löwy, “Yellow Fever in Rio de Janeiro and the Pasteur Institute Mission
(1901–1905): The Transfer of Science to the Periphery,” Medical History 1990,
34: 144–163; here p. 162.
92. See, e.g., Takaki, “Three Lectures.”
93. Oberländer, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne, pp. 44–45.
94. K. Cordell Carter, “The Development of Pasteur’s Concept of Disease Causation
and the Emergence of Specific Causes in Nineteenth-Century Medicine,”
Bulletin for the History of Medicine 1991, 65: 528–548; here p. 544. See also
Thomas Schlich, “Die Konstruktion der notwendigen Krankheitsursache: Wie
die Medizin Krankheit beherrschen will,” in Anatomien medizinischen Wissens.
Medizin, Macht, Moleküle, ed. Cornelius Borck (Fischer: Frankfurt a.M., 1996),
pp. 201–229.
36 C O

95. Harmke Kamminga, “Credit and Resistance: Eijkman and the Transformation
of Beri-beri into a Vitamin Deficiency Disease,” pp. 232–254; here p. 236.
96. Ibid., p. 238.
97. Nancy J. Tomes and John Harley Warner, “Introduction to the Special Issue on
Rethinking the Reception of the Germ Theory of Disease: Comparative
Perspectives,” Journal of the History of Medicine 1997, 52: 7–16.
98. Löwy, “Yellow Fever,” p. 144.
99. Ibid., p. 144.
100. Yamashita, Meijiki ni okeru kakke no rekishi, pp. 440–465.
 

M A: N F,

N,   P 
S K
Sabine Frühstück*

I
In the fall of 1929, a Kypto-based journal for popular medicine reported that
the dean of sexology, Habuto Eiji, had committed suicide after having long
suffered from neurasthenia (shinkei suijaku).1 A practicing gynecologist,
Habuto had been the editor of the sexological journal Seiyoku to Jinsei
(Sexual Desire and Humankind), the author of numerous books on sexual
issues, and the coauthor, together with Sawada Junjirp, of an abridged
Japanese version of Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis, entitled
Hentai Seiyokuron (1915). He was also involved in the translation of
Havelock Ellis’s Studies in the Psychology of Sex (1901–1928), the twenty
Japanese-language volumes of which were advertised under the title Sei no
Shinri (see figure 2.1) as early as 1927.
Among other sexologists, Habuto had been a chief theorist on the causes
of neurasthenia. Physicians, psychiatrists, psychologists, pedagogues, and
sexologists agreed with him that neurasthenia primarily afflicted men and was
caused by overpowering exhaustion that was, in turn, the result of certain sex-
ual practices. While early Japanese treatises on similar phenomena had attrib-
uted them primarily to abstinence or to “the lack of unification between man
and woman,”2 modern commentators like Habuto speculated that neurasthe-
nia was the result of masturbation or—even worse—homosexuality.3
For the journal to report neurasthenia as the cause of Habuto’s death
seemed ironic, then, considering that Habuto Eiji had thundered against
both masturbation and homosexuality for most of his life. In the spirit of his
time, Habuto had believed in the presupposed connection between the
health of the individual body and the security of the nation. Habuto and
other sexologists were certain that manhood and national security could be
achieved only by educating boys and men about the dangers of a variety of
sexual behavior. He was certain that neurasthenia could have disastrous
effects not only on the health of the affected individual but also on the
38

Figure 2.1 This pamphlet advertises a 20-volume, abridged Japanese version of Havelock
Ellis’s Studies in the Psychology of Sex, which he had begun to publish in 1900 as Sei no shinri
(1927).
 M A 39

welfare and strength of the Japanese body politic. To scientific knowledge,

whether sexual, medical, psychological, or any other kind, he attributed a
certain power. In Habuto’s and in many of his contemporaries’ minds, the
exercise of political power was to be informed by scientific knowledge.
Consequently, he insisted that the physical, mental, and political empower-
ment of the ignorant masses was possible only through education.
Habuto was an important figure in the creation of the complicated texture
of medical, psychological, and pedagogical theories on human sexuality in
early-twentieth-century Japan, which I attempt to untangle in this chapter.
I argue that the emerging science of sex (seikagaku or seigaku) simultane-
ously contributed to and shaped a new understanding of manhood and of the
formation of the modern Japanese nation. These theories included a medical
understanding of “nerve force” as a major component of mental health; a
psychology that primarily dealt with pathologies of the will, including manias,
hysteria, and neurasthenia as well as questionable and contradictory healing
methods; an understanding of disease as intrinsically tied to modernity
and progress; and utopias of masculinity that constructed the ideal male body
as resembling the nation in terms of its mental/political strength and its
sexual/military potency as well as its countertype, the mentally deranged and
physically weak man.
During the late nineteenth century, neurasthenia emerged as a new amor-
phous “disease entity” which metamorphosed several times during the
following decades.4 Constructed within the boundaries of military medicine as
a catchall category for minor mental dysfunctions in the 1880s, neurasthenia
was reframed by experts in pedagogics and psychiatry at the beginning of the
twentieth century. During the 1920s and 1930s, sexologists like Habuto
redressed the set of ailments that had been associated with neurasthenia as a
problem of sexual behavior that threatened men’s health and—by implication—
Japan’s social order and national stability. The popular medicine of the late
1940s and 1950s then cleansed neurasthenia from its sexual and pathological
touches and pushed for an understanding of overwork as its exclusive cause.
Neurasthenia underwent an impressive career across scientific disciplines
as well as through social and political realms. Understood by imperial army
surgeons as a male phenomenon that impeded military performance, the
causes of neurasthenia were believed to include masturbation, sexual
immorality as well as sexual abstinence, and overwork. Its symptoms ranged
from paleness, loss of appetite and forgetfulness to melancholy, low work effi-
ciency and a general weakening of body and mind.5 Its effects included
homosexuality, syphilis, tuberculosis, and suicide. Thus, ignorance of neuras-
thenia was considered dangerous, both to individual masculinity and to the
defense against Western colonial powers in particular, and the challenges of
modernity in general.6 Pedagogues, by contrast, thought neurasthenia to be
common among boys and girls, even though it remained more worrisome
when occurring in boys. Medical handbooks for home use, published in the
1950s, again declared overwork as a cause of neurasthenia, and that it was a
male problem. Illustrations in these encyclopedias that depicted men working
40 S  F

at their desks late at night also suggested that neurasthenia had become a
male, white-collar phenomenon that apparently did not bother women or the
working classes.
Challenged on a number of fronts, the concept of masculinity that emerged
from the history of neurasthenia between the 1870s and the mid-twentieth
century demanded constant work.7 In Japan, I argue, the nationalism around
the turn of the nineteenth century provided a powerful base for a manly
ideal, imagined and represented in its most perfected form in military acade-
mies and the battlefields of Japan’s many wars.8 The kind of men at the center
of attention indicate a major shift from a primarily soldierly mode of mas-
culinity to the masculinity of the white-collar worker, who is no longer
marked by military uniforms but by business suits and whose expertise is no
longer in war-making but in the pursuits of a capitalist market economy.

N: T G

N B
The rise of neurasthenia in Meiji-era Japan became a marker for understanding
how well Japan already was integrated into the modern world, as Japanese
debates about its causes and consequences tied into a worldwide pattern in
which the emergence of sexological discourse and the rise of empires and
capitalism led to the appearance of neurasthenia in many different places.
One such place was Germany. As early as 1813, a German medical doctor
wrote in Versuch über die Nervenkrankheiten (On Nervous Diseases) that

the most terrible consequences of this weakness and the exhaustion of nerve
strength [. . .] can be observed among onanists. Most epileptics, cataleptics and
morons, even the mad were onanists during their youth [. . .]. Nature penalizes
masturbation even more strictly than fornication with a prostitute by syphilis.9

At the end of the nineteenth century, the Handbuch der Neurasthenie

(Handbook of Neurasthenia) (1893), edited by the German physician Franz
Carl Müller, contained a nearly exhaustive bibliography and thus stamped the
disorder with the high-status seal of German medical science. Subsequently,
the most distinguished medical men of the modern world contributed to the
voluminous literature on the ailment of neurasthenia. New symptoms were
added to the old ones. According to these authors’ records, neurasthenics
suffered from a broad spectrum of symptoms: irritability, depressive moods,
abnormal fatigue, weak memory and concentration, sleep disorders, anxiety,
phobias, obsessions, hallucinations, hyperaesthesia, allergies, headaches and
migraine, spasms and convulsions, loss of appetite, indigestion, palpitations,
nervous cardiac weakness, and sweating, as well as disorders of the sexual
functions.10
In the United States, the neurologist George M. Beard coined the English
term “neurasthenia” in 1869. Beard regarded neurasthenia as a family of dis-
ease problems long recognized by laymen and medical professionals in the
 M A 41

United States. Calling neurasthenia the “American disease,” he believed that

it was much more common in the United States, especially in the Northeast,
than in Europe, as well as more common among men than among women.
With the increasing interest in sexual causes of mental disorder during the
late nineteenth century, Beard entertained several possible sexual sources of
neurasthenia. Relating nervous exhaustion to the difficulties of modern life,
he argued that neurasthenia and sexual perversion were unfortunate outcomes
of progress—the dizzying growth of industry, the overcrowding of American
cities, and the dissolution of moral fortitude and cultural traditions.11
The concept of this new disease entity developed quickly. Beard’s work
was accepted widely among American and European doctors, and introduced
in Japan as well.12 Considering the broad spectrum of the symptoms of
neurasthenia, it is not surprising that the new concept merged and over-
lapped with other new disease entities, most frequently hypochondria and
hysteria.13 Jean-Martin Charcot at the Salpetrière, for example, seemed to
strike a serious blow at normative masculinity in France when he extended
the definition of hysteria from women to men. In 1872, he first asserted that
some men subject to hysteria lacked all feminine traits. Even though they
appeared to be robust men, Charcot noted, such men could become hysterical,
“just like women,” and this tendency was “something that [had] never
entered the imagination of some people.” As a rule, Charcot added, hysteria
developed in men after a physical trauma, usually experienced at the work-
place, while women “went hysterical” due to an overpowering emotional
experience.14 What seemed shocking for Charcot’s contemporaries about his
claims was that nervousness, after all, was the very opposite of the image of
ideal masculinity.15
In Austria, the psychiatrist and sexologist Richard von Krafft-Ebing gave
the diagnosis of neurasthenia a new spin. In an 1899 article on the lack of
sexual feeling, he wrote that surely neurasthenia and other disturbances
of the nervous system negatively affected the function of the genitals and
reproductive organs.16 He also believed that masturbation could induce
neurasthenia, which in tainted individuals, could deteriorate further into
homosexual perversion.17 Leaning toward psychological explanations, his
countryman Sigmund Freud attributed the cause of neurasthenia more
specifically to masturbation, coitus interruptus, problems with the means of
birth control, and the danger of venereal disease infection, all of which vitally
weakened the male body’s nerve force. About male hysterics, he wrote that
they are “abnormally holding on to the past,” and that they give in to
“abnormal tendencies instead of going about their business.”18
In 1926, Magnus Hirschfeld, one of Germany’s most prominent special-
ists of eugenics and sexology, claimed that false ideas about the pathological
character of masturbation had lost their power among medical experts. He
remembered the relief he and his fellow students had felt when his teacher
Wilhelm Erb announced that it was a mistake to ascribe serious illnesses such
as the softening of the brain to Ipsation (masturbation).19 However, in
Germany and Austria, as well as in other European countries, many influential
42 S  F

contemporaries held on to the old views. Masturbation was considered a

threat to the very physical and moral fiber of the “race,” and thus even sup-
posedly progressive writers encouraged parents and teachers to do all within
their power to prevent or stop the habit among their children.
Anxieties about children’s sexual awakening also were at the heart of early
debates about sex research and sex education in Japan, as I show below. Here
I would like to emphasize that at the end of the 1920s, when Habuto’s suicide
was reported, neurasthenia or “a lack of nerve force” had reached significant
currency in debates about the national condition in terms of physical and
mental health, military strength, and Japan’s potential for empire building,
precisely because neurasthenia had become associated with practices of self-
destruction including suicide.

N   I A: B

B  E B
The modern mass military, founded in 1872, became a primary and increas-
ingly crucial site for “body-building” efforts from the late nineteenth century
onward, when the physiological male body became a central organizing prin-
ciple of the nation state that was built primarily in the imperial armed forces.
The imperial military was the first organization under the control of the
national government to deliberately and gradually adopt several elements of
a Western diet in order to improve the physique of its members.20 The impe-
rial armed forces were also the first organization that was drilled in the modern
rules of public and personal hygiene (see also Oberländer’s chapter in this
book). Moreover, military-style exercise became the basis for gymnastics later
introduced in schools as a fundamental tool to increase student fitness.
Through these techniques, the armed forces also introduced and aggressively
cultivated images of ideal masculinity and “true manhood” emerging from
statistical data and averaging in the creation of modern masculinity in Japan.
“Real men” were at least 1.55 m tall and somewhat heavier than the average
young man. A certain lung capacity proved their fitness, and their overall
health was attested to by their freedom from a number of illnesses including
tuberculosis and venereal diseases, both of which were frequently associated
with neurasthenia.
Being evaluated as healthy enough to serve in the imperial armed forces
and particularly to be a class A recruit carried a certain prestige, not only
among the ranks but back home in remote villages and towns as well.21 Those
men who did not pass the military physical or seemed unwilling to serve were
in a way stripped of the prerequisites of ideal manhood. Military surgeons
reported them as “simple” and “naive,” documented their feeble constitu-
tion, and classified them as “lazy” and “effeminate.”22 While a positive eval-
uation of their bodies did not turn every young man into a soldier willing to
die for the emperor and the nation, some men who were denied this seal of
true manhood responded to this unfavorable classification with drastic actions
including suicide.23 Once recruited, soldiers’ masculinity was constantly
 M A 43

monitored and their health frequently checked and documented. The

diagnoses of hysteria, neurasthenia, and venereal and mental diseases deemed
them somewhat less than true men, as defined by the military authorities.
By the 1910s, the Japanese imperial army and navy health reports docu-
mented cases of both hysteria (hisuterii) and neurasthenia as separate cate-
gories among a continuously expanding list of mental diseases among
soldiers. Magazines for military personnel also had begun to discuss the
symptoms of and cures for neurasthenia.24 “It is especially important,” one
Japanese military surgeon emphasized in 1919, “to make sure that military
leaders do not suffer from neurasthenia. They have to keep their nerve until the
very end of a war,” he noted, “and to suffer from neurasthenia would be very
dangerous in the case of military leaders who work under a lot of pressure.”
According to this military surgeon, “nothing new and good [could] occur
without a strong body and mind.”25 The homosocial setting of the military,
however, might have been a breeding ground for the affliction. Among other
prominent contemporaries, Psugi Sakae was trained in the “ethics of warriors”
at the military cadet school between 1899 and 1891, but he also engaged in
what he referred to as the “vices of bushidp.” A central figure in the left-wing
radicalism of the early twentieth century, Psugi recalled in his autobiography
that at the age of 13 he masturbated two or three times a day. At the military
cadet school, he had been diagnosed with neurasthenia and given a two-week
leave of absence at the age of 15. “I, who had been so studious,” he remem-
bered, “became a complete idler.”26 The understanding of masturbation as
harmful, and of neurasthenia as an indicator of more severe ailments, also was
reinforced by the fact that Psugi, as well as other cadets, were thrown out of
the military academy for their inappropriate behavior. As protectors of national
security, and representatives of a strong and healthy manhood, soldiers with
diseases were particularly worrisome for the state: the military administration
had to pay the cost of treatment in addition to the salaries of ill soldiers;
neurasthenia was believed to lead to other, fatal illnesses such as venereal dis-
eases and tuberculosis; and, in severe cases, patients who suffered from
neurasthenia and other mental ailments were prone to suicide and seemed to
offer a glimpse of the empire’s fragility that had been a concern since the
foundation of the modern nation state.
Throughout the modern world, military physicians especially, and public
health officials more generally, noted with concern the challenges to the
modern stereotype of a strong and determined masculinity. American fellow
military surgeons, for example, chimed in when they found that neurasthenia
was the most common malady among military men who had returned from
the battlefields of World War I.27 One medical doctor announced at the
meeting of the Kansas Medical Society at Topeka in 1916 that “the rapidity
with which the number of neurotics, perverts and homosexuals is increasing
is appalling and that if these tendencies are not checked, their effect in the
not distant future will show a decided deterioration of the race.” This physi-
cian also claimed that neurasthenia occurred only in civilized peoples. In his
words, the result of the malady was “a more or less perverted, weak and
44 S  F

inefficient product [that] tends strongly to neurosis, and is unfit for marriage
or parenthood [. . .].”28 In this physician’s opinion, neurasthenia occasionally
affected individuals of exceptional brilliance but more often those who suf-
fered from limited wage and uncertainty of employment, children in public
schools who were crowded to the point of exhaustion, and the middle class
in general.29
In the Japan of the 1920s, neurasthenia also had slipped decisively outside
the boundaries of military medicine. Its textual representations in popular
medical books and magazines were characterized by three traits. One was a
distinct internationalism that had been common not only for medical theories,
as Oberländer shows in this book, but for other new sciences as well. This
internationalism was rooted in the quest for modernity. On the one hand,
some Japanese contemporaries were critical of the unquestioned application
to Japan of what they viewed as Western ideas of national health and sexual
control. After all, nutrition was different, one pedagogue pointed out, as
was the physical constitution of the Japanese people. In the West, another
teacher suggested, people ate meat and drank beer and wine for lunch and
dinner. As both meat and alcohol increased sexual desire, the threatening
consequences—that is, neurasthenia—could be observed among Western
youth far more often than among Japanese youth. As Morris Low points out
in the Introduction, medical findings about “civilization diseases” helped
confirm the modernity of Japan, but these diseases also emphasized the
Japanese empire’s fragility.
The first generation of Japanese psychiatrists reconceptualized shinkei
suijaku as a particular type of nervous disease or shinkeishitsu. The psychia-
trist Morita Shoma, for example, described the typical neurasthenic in the
following words:

[He is] a person with a particularly strong need to live a full life, perfectionist
tendencies, and extreme self-consciousness. This person encounters some
unpleasant event that focuses attention on a particular problem; blushing,
headaches, and constipation are typical examples. He becomes quite concerned
about the problem and increasingly conscious of its effects on his life. He
becomes caught in a spiral of attention and sensitivity which produces a sort of
obsessive self-consciousness.30

The causes of these weaknesses were ascribed to the rapid social transforma-
tion at the beginning of the twentieth century that seemed to challenge
established notions of masculinity and manhood that were then defined
largely in bodily terms. When physical differences between the Japanese and
other peoples were proclaimed, for example, the “races” were hierarchically
ordered according to “racial” categories that placed Japanese men below
“white” men and, at least in some accounts, below other Asian men. When
more and more European and American anthropologists and physicians
“discovered” Japan during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,
they commonly described the physical condition of Japanese men in deroga-
tory terms. European authors who were concerned about the development
 M A 45

of the “races” were especially keen to discuss the nature and significance of
the intellectual and emotive characteristics of the Japanese. Their small
stature and frailty led members of the Caucasian “race” to discount them as
of little or no consequence to the future achievements of mankind.31
Similar to the fears about military and biological decline in France, Britain,
and America at the end of the nineteenth century, and Japan’s eagerness to
build a strong, modern army at the same time, the economic crises and the
hardships of city living in Germany, China, and Japan from the late 1920s,
led to a frequently voiced anxiety regarding not only physical, but also men-
tal fitness.32 Japanese intellectuals and, later, physicians, nutritionists, and
other scientists (and charlatans), responded to this unfavorable classification
in various ways, ranging from practical efforts to improve the physique
of Japanese men and women using a variety of techniques informed by eugen-
ics to far-reaching attempts at the transformation of cultural practices.
Newspapers frequently reported on the physical condition of young men
(and, to a lesser extent, women).33 Hygiene and fitness programs for pupils,
mothers, factory workers and white-collar employees were accompanied by
an enormous amount of books and other publications on how to ensure a
respectable body height and weight for growing young men.34 An array of
products and techniques that promised this very same effect was marketed in
magazines and newspapers. One such advertisement promised that “Even
Short Men Will Become Tall” (see figure 2.2). It could be discreetly ordered
by mail order, and—according to the description in the advertisement—it
lengthened not only the bone of the whole body but also the cartilage
between the bones. It could be used at home in order to increase one’s
height and increase one’s posture—thus making it a “prime invention of
national interest.”

N  P: M

 B
Pediatrics was another field of medicine that concerned itself with neurasthe-
nia from the time of its founding days. In May 1899, an article on the causes
of “Psychological Illness among Children” that appeared in the academic
journal Jidp Kenkyu (Pediatric Research) cited masturbation (shuin) as one
factor leading to the occurrence of these illnesses.35 Soon other pediatricians
expressed similar views in other journals that dealt with children’s develop-
ment, care and health in contributions about, for example, dangers to a
child’s health during the growth phase, or venereal diseases in children.
In 1900, the medical doctor and distinguished historian of medicine
Fujikawa Yu (1865–1940) published an article on sexual desire (seiyoku) in
children in Pediatric Research, five years before Sigmund Freud caused a stir
among his colleagues by publishing Drei Abhandlungen zur Sexualtheorie
(Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality), and before August Forel’s influ-
ential Die sexuelle Frage: Eine wissenschaftliche, psychologische, hygienische
und soziologische Studie (The Sexual Question: A Scientific, Psychological,
46 S  F

Figure 2.2 This is an advertisement for techniques to lengthen the body promising that “Even
Short Men Will Become Tall.”
Source: Shinseinen (New Youth), July 1925, p. 112.

Hygienic and Sociological Study) came out in 1905.36 In this article and in
many others to follow, Fujikawa insisted that children masturbated because
they were not properly educated on sexual matters by their parents. This
redefinition of neurasthenia by pediatricians marked an important new
branch of inquiry that added to earlier efforts in military medicine.37
A few years later, the daily Yomiuri shinbun printed, for nearly two
months, a series of articles on the necessity of sex research and sex education
that were written primarily by high school and university teachers. The con-
fusion among these writers about the age of sexual maturity was closely
related to the question of masturbation, unquestionably the béte noir of
almost every fin de siècle writer on human sexuality.38 Subsequently, this
debate and its spin-off in other newspapers and general women’s, household,
 M A 47

hygiene, and health magazines, all of which targeted a wide readership,

triggered a nationwide discussion on the creation and dissemination of sexual
knowledge. Japanese physicians, pedagogues, and bureaucrats shared their
concerns with many others who worried about the future of the Japanese
nation. Among their dominant convictions was the view that a lack of sexual
knowledge among children and youth would not be a problem in itself if it were
not for neurasthenia, which was commonly diagnosed by school physicians and
generally explained as caused by “sexual immorality,” that is, masturbation.
School physicians rejected the claims of teachers and parents—that the weak
physical constitution of many students was caused by studying too hard—and
repeatedly stated that neurasthenic disturbances were caused by students’
autoerotic practices. The popular consensus in Japan was that weaknesses
caused by neurasthenia struck the educated upper classes in particular but
potentially challenged every man’s body and mind. Representations of the
malady in newspapers and magazines varied. Echoing European and
American ideas about the connection between the malady and intellectual
capacities, neurasthenia in intellectuals was ascribed to weak nerves, psycho-
logical illnesses or simply intense intellectual work. When striking less edu-
cated men in the military, factories, and schools, however, neurasthenia was
clearly, and to an increasing extent, associated with harmful sexual practices.
This latter understanding of neurasthenia as an ailment resulting from certain
sexual behaviors and affecting sexual functioning gradually gained ground
during the early decades of the twentieth century.
Author and medical doctor Mori Pgai embedded masturbation as a cause
of neurasthenia in his autobiographic text Wita Sekusuarisu (Vita Sexualis).
Although not a member of the naturalistic school whose representatives
defended their bold thematization of sex against critics from the older gener-
ation, Pgai was convinced of the importance of correct knowledge about sex
for Japan’s youth. In his novel, the narrator Kanai Shizuka describes his sex-
ual development up to the age of nineteen, from his first childish look at
erotic woodblock prints to his first visit to a courtesan. An attempt at publi-
cation in the July 1909 issue of the literary magazine Subaru failed. Pgai’s
text was one of many to be confiscated or banned for the “stimulation of low
instincts,” only to be rediscovered in the 1930s as an important pedagogical
document of sex education that described “sexual development in such an
objective way that parents need not blush.”39
Public health officials viewed the phenomenon in somewhat less benign
terms. In 1922, for example, Pkuma Shigenobu—a prominent politician and
educator who had been appointed Minister of Domestic Affairs, Foreign
Minister, and Mayor of Tokyo—presented to the participants of a conference on
mental illnesses, an appeal for a law for the institutionalization of the mentally
ill. His appeal clearly was dominated by the potential challenge to public health
and order that the mentally ill posed. “Insanity occasionally becomes infec-
tious,” he claimed, and “this infection can be terrible, spreading ceaselessly
among the people.” Pkuma also suggested that a society, or even a state, can
eventually become morbid, and he named Russia as an example of a nation
48 S  F

affected by insanity. According to his view, the process of the destruction of a

nation starts with neurasthenia, then becomes psychosis, and finally turns into a
pathological attack resulting in the nation’s complete failure—a revolution.
Once affected by insanity, he warned, even the Japanese, who had been known
for a unique loyalty to their emperor, may exhibit disloyalty. Subsequently, the
Japanese populace would become confused and out of control.40
Pkuma identified infection, moral degradation and the threat to social and
national integrity as the main attributes of insanity. He argued that prevalent
among the youth was a decadence of public morals that caused neurasthenia,
which in turn occasionally developed into genuine psychosis. In his mind, the
contagiousness of immorality was associated with an assumed infectiousness
of mental disorders, which would be all the more devastating because it
threatened the morality of the people, and in the end would lead to social
turmoil. If parents did not educate their children on sexual matters, he
suggested, children would not be able to develop a moral attitude nor pos-
sess knowledge of physiology and pathology concerning sexual practices.
Regardless of how unrealistic Pkuma’s anxieties about a dawning revolution
in Japan later proved to be, his assessment—as we have seen—was accurate in
one respect: the ailment was neither a distinctly Japanese phenomenon nor
an entirely new one.41 But by the beginning of the twentieth century, peda-
gogues, physicians, sexologists, and other social reformers declared sex
research and sex education based on scientific facts to be inevitable.
As becomes clear from these examples, commentators of various
affiliations had mixed views regarding Japan’s children and youth. While they
generally ascribed a morally decisive role to the middle class, they were aware
that even a son from a good house might be corrupted by bad friends, the
criminal underworld or scandalously irresponsible print media. Among others,
the editor of the weekly Fujo shinbun (Women’s Newspaper) worried about
passengers on trains, many of whom he observed reading “exclusively books
about sexual matters, the psychology of love or sex research.” “Magazines,”
he warned, “constantly print articles on sexual topics to stimulate the curios-
ity of Japan’s youth and to increase sales.”42
Japanese thinkers assumed that masturbation affected all classes, albeit for
different reasons. In their view, masturbation was common in the families of
the rich, the refined, and the well off, who spoiled their children or allowed
them to become spoiled. Masturbation, and hence neurasthenia, affected high
school students who read trashy novels until after midnight and knew how to
get hold of the dirtiest books. In order to combat this trend, the mass maga-
zine Taiyp (The sun), for example, dedicated a major part of its 1908 New
Year’s edition to the question of whether young men and women should be
allowed to read certain novels. One of the contributors thundered that the
new literature “full of adultery” caused great damage in youth, stimulated
“low instincts,” led to individualist, liberal ideas, and propagated a negative
worldview.43 The literary scholar Oguri Fuyp countered that the naturalist
school did not make sexuality a theme out of pure pleasure, but rather because
knowledge about sex was too important for youth to be ignored.44
 M A 49

N   S  S

In contrast to earlier assumptions, sexologists—in an attempt to establish
scientific knowledge based on quantitative if not representative surveys—
insisted that masturbation seemed to be just as rampant in the quarters of
underprivileged hardworking craftsmen and farmers’ sons. By the 1920s,
Japanese pedagogues, biologists, physicians, and social reformers alike agreed
that the working classes were no less prone to give in to the national “bad
habit” (akuheki or warui kuse) of masturbation, often collapsed or inter-
changeably used with the new category of “homosexuality.” Rather, they
suggested, it was often especially the lower classes who did wrong, not
because of a lack of morals, however, but because of a lack of knowledge.
Parents were not able to instruct their children properly on sexual matters,
they conceded, because they simply did not know better themselves.45 Views
and concerns expressed, and suggestions made, ranged from a call for the
control of sexual desire by mere willpower, to the demands of more conserv-
ative commentators to apply social control and penalty. In an attempt to dis-
miss any form of sex education, some pedagogues warned that pupils would
begin to misuse their sexual organs if they learned how they can be used and
forcefully suggested that it would be for the younger generation’s develop-
mental benefit not to talk about sex at all.46 Eventually, however, the view
that one should no longer tell children that they came from trees prevailed.
Instead, children should be taught true knowledge in order to avoid the
health risks that supposedly resulted from masturbation. The concern about
the health of the “race” legitimized a tight network of examination, control
and supervision by schoolteachers and physicians, parents and of children
themselves. Self-examination and observation by children themselves, inter-
rogation by their parents, and instruction by teachers and physicians, it was
believed, should counter whatever effects a degenerated society might have
caused.47 The pedagogue Mukp Gunji spelled out what many others must
have thought: What once had been the “ethics of warriors” (bushi no dptoku)
should now be replaced by the “social apparatus of penalties.”48
By the mid-1920s, the attempts to establish various kinds of sex research
had brought forth studies on sexuality ranging from small-scale statistical
data collected by individual researchers to historiographical articles based on
literary sources. The first substantial quantitative study of sexual behavior,
however, was published in a reputable Kypto-based medical journal. In 1923,
Kypto igaku zasshi (Kypto Medical Journal) published the results of Japan’s
first empirical sex survey on “The Sex Life of Young Men,” carried out and
analyzed by the biologist Yamamoto Senji and Yasuda Tokutarp, a medical
student at Kypto University who was also Yamamoto’s cousin and friend.49 In
this first report, Yamamoto emphasized that masturbation was a normal vari-
ation of sexual behavior, which did not lead to any kind of negative effects on
the physical and psychological development of Japan’s young men, and was
by no means a practice of a small group of “perverts,” as he (and many of his
contemporaries) had originally thought. Yamamoto and his closest collaborator
50 S  F

Yasuda, described their findings countless times in articles and speeches in an

explicit attempt to liberate the masses from incorrect sexual beliefs. Similar
to the Austrian psychiatrist Richard von Krafft-Ebing, the Englishman
Havelock Ellis, and his Japanese colleague Habuto Eiji, Yamamoto received
many letters from the readers of his articles on sexual behavior and the audi-
ence of his public speeches on sex education. In his replies, he repeatedly
asserted that masturbation was “normal” and not to be worried about too
much.50 Yamamoto claimed that based on his surveys, there was very little
correlation between class and sexual behavior in a broader sense. More than
half, or 631, of the men he had surveyed about their sexual experiences had
had their first sexual intercourse before the age of 18. About half of those
who had graduated from a middle school had chosen a prostitute for their
first partner. This trend was also the case for a third of those who had gradu-
ated from a high school or a university.51 Other surveys carried out in Japan
as well as in European countries reflected similar results.52

N   P 

C
Ironically, just as Yamamoto and other doctors, biologists, and sexologists
began to publicly dismiss theories about the supposedly harmful consequences
of masturbation as nonsense, neurasthenia was becoming recognized in the
popular media as one of the most common ailments, and the pharmaceutical
industry jumped at the opportunity to put new products for treatment on
the market. Even more ironically, neurasthenia was perceived by many as a
side effect of an urban, capitalist, consumerist society with its different pat-
terns of work and production; yet the cure was more consumption—of
new medicines. During an era of intense militarization, empire building, war-
making, and aggressive pronatal policies, the symptomology of neurasthe-
nia became more and more reduced to sexual dysfunction, and the earlier,
more diverse interpretations gave way to anxieties about the decline of
Japanese men’s virility, and perhaps about the lurking fall of the Japanese
empire. The pharmaceutical industry responded to the disease that gained
stature, hand in hand, with the emergence of a consumer society, by recom-
mending greater consumption—perhaps also because whether they perceived
neurasthenia as the result of a misled sexual desire, the lack of knowledge on
correct sexual behavior or the underdevelopment of the genitalia, many
medical doctors, government officials, and pharmaceutical experts increas-
ingly linked individual masculinity with male sexual potency and imperialist
efforts.
Popular texts and the explosion of potency-enhancing pharmaceutical
products responded to long-harbored anxieties that Japanese men’s bodies
were not as well developed as those of other peoples and that their sexual
potency was being challenged by non-procreational practices. Family and
household magazines, women’s magazines, and general magazines, as well as
 M A 51

newspapers, began to discuss symptoms and cures. Advertisements for clinics

explicitly announced that examinations and treatments were on offer for the
following: neurasthenia, problems concerning the sexual organs, and chronic
gonorrhea, thus suggesting that someone who suffered from neurasthenia
could be infected by more serious venereal diseases such as gonorrhea as
well.53 In 1930, Abe Isoo, for example, the founder of the first Japanese
socialist party and a fervent activist in the Purity Society (Kakuseikai), which
fought for the abolition of prostitution, submitted a report to the journal
Tsuzoku igaku (Popular Medicine) about his recovery from neurasthenia in
order to encourage other sufferers to consult a particular hospital in Tokyo.
In the article, Abe reported that he had suffered from acute neurasthenia
after a serious illness. He could not sleep and became forgetful. Just when his
pride in having been healthy for 60 years began to crumble, Abe wrote, he
decided to consult the Yamashita Kpryp Clinic in Tokyo and was healed by a
50-time treatment there.54
Advertisements that were printed in various media promoted a variety of
hormone products mostly for men.55 In 1927, Popular Medicine, for exam-
ple, ran an advertisement for the hormonal product Tokkapin.56 As pictured
in the advertisement, a young man assuming a Superman-like pose, with
overly long legs, holds up a packet of the product. He wears a suit and a
bowtie and stands on a whole pile of Tokkapin packets. Through his legs and
behind him, the reader sees the smoking chimney of a factory in front of
which a few rikisha-men are on their way to serve customers. The advertise-
ment features the young, successful, middle-class man who can—in addition
to all of his other achievements—strengthen the functions of the genitalia
and increase his energy in general, simply by taking Tokkapin. According to
the text, Tokkapin also could cure a number of other ailments including
impotence, premature ejaculation, nocturnal pollution, decline of sexual
strength, senility, loss of staying power, hysteria, insomnia, amnesia, anemia,
wrong nutrition and, of course, neurasthenia.
In 1933, the same magazine featured a hormone tablet for the treatment
of “sexual defects” and “incomplete development of the genitalia.” The text of
the advertisement claimed that injections and other complicated methods of
treatment had become unnecessary. Instead, it announced that the medical
world now welcomed and highly praised this new method of treatment
for “sexual neurasthenia,” incomplete development of the sexual organs,
atrichia, frigidity or apathy, and other disorders.57 A test sample could be
ordered by sending a meager two sen in postage stamps to the Japan Society
for Popular Medicine in Osaka.
Another advertisement for hormone tablets sold at the Shisandp
Pharmacy in Tokyo58 promised to heal a decline in sexual desire, premature
ejaculation, nocturnal pollution, and a number of other disorders. According
to the explanation in the advertisement, the substance for the tablets was
scientifically extracted from the genital glands of healthy bulls. The adver-
tisement claimed that, according to results from recent research in internal
52 S  F

medicine, the hormone extracted from the sex glands had proved to be
highly effective in the treatment of “sexual neurasthenia.” Advertised as a
“hormone product,” the price of 2.5 yen for 50 tablets and 7 yen for 150
made the product a luxury item, at a time when one could buy a book for
1 yen and the average urban middle-class household monthly income was
about 60 yen.
In yet another advertisement, hormone tablets were described as especially
successful for the treatment of premature ejaculation.59 In the advertisement,
physicians described their successful treatment, typically addressing married
men who were unable to enjoy a satisfactory sex life. According to the text
of the advertisement, the tablets did not cause dependency, but one can imag-
ine that those who could afford it might have taken more than recommended
and thus spent even more money on them. Hormone treatment was, in any
case, a luxury for most of them, as the quantity of hormone tablets to be used
for about 22 days cost 2.5 yen, for one month it was 4.5 yen, and for two
months it was 7.80 yen. Hormone products for the treatment of neurasthenia
and the improvement of sexual potency, as well as general physical strength,
clearly were intended to appeal to men, and they did so in a very peculiar fash-
ion by inciting sexual desire and simultaneously restricting its scope to het-
erosexual practice. Experts, identified as medical doctors, explained the
“scientific methods” used in the production of the medication. An increase in
sexual desire and a cure for sexual malfunctioning were promised.
While sexual intercourse was not mentioned explicitly, many of these
advertisements featured a woman’s face or other parts of a woman’s body.
These illustrations of female body parts seem to suggest why nocturnal pol-
lution, premature ejaculation, neurasthenic ailments, or a lack or decrease of
sexual desire should be cured. It is the photographs of women’s faces that
represent a sexual counterpart and reinforce what is implicitly suggested in
the text—that nonreproductive sex is a waste of energy. A lifted skirt, a pair
of bare legs or a smiling female face seem to be intended to stimulate sexual
desire in the male reader, on the one hand, and at the same time emphasize
that sexual desire (which these images might provoke) and pleasure had to
be shared with a woman. It is significant to note that regardless of the preva-
lence of the presence of parts of a naked female body, her sexuality is absent
as she only exists as the potential object of male desire. Although some readers
suggest in their statements that they tried the products because they were
concerned about not being able to satisfy their wives, female sexuality was
merely utilized for the stimulation of male readers’ fantasies and desires.
The post–World War II era provided a new framework for a significantly
transformed manhood, as well as a reconfigured relationship between the
individual male body and the nation at peace.60 Neurasthenia survived the
war almost unharmed, but it was stripped of its sexual and imperialist conno-
tations in the process. It reappeared in various popular medical books for
home use, typically in the category “neurological diseases” either under its
old name “shinkei suijaku” or renamed “shinkeishp ” (nervous disorder or
neurosis) (see figure 2.3). According to the self-help book Manseibyp no
 53

Figure 2.3 The home medical handbook Katei ryphp hyakka jiten (1952) was one of many
medical handbooks that were available to the readers of primarily women’s magazines and other
members of the middle and upper classes. It described neurasthenia as a (male) phenomenon
primarily due to overwork, and differentiated it from (female) hysteria and other ailments of the
nervous system.
54 S  F

katei ryphp (House Remedies for Chronic Diseases), a supplement to the

November 1949 issue of the women’s magazine Shufu no tomo (Women’s
Companion), for example, neurasthenia was an ailment that could easily
occur in people who were overworked, had too many concerns, or suffered
from a lack of sleep.61 No potency-enhancing product would appear as
prominently in popular media again until Viagra was legalized and hit the
Japanese market in 1999—just in time to reassure Japanese men (and other
men all over the world) who were in the midst of a severe economic crisis, of
their sexual potency despite the sharp decline of their economic and social
power.62

C
From the late nineteenth to the mid-twentieth centuries, Japanese scholars
and practitioners in medicine, pedagogues, psychologists, hygienists, as well
as philosophers and bureaucrats, developed a new understanding of the
programming of the Japanese body and, through it, of the entire population.
They increasingly attempted to make use of scientific knowledge in order to
form well-functioning and well-regulated bodies that would constitute a
better and more modern nation. “Neurasthenia,” among other illnesses,
seemed to put these reform attempts at risk. Stirring anxieties about both
individual manhood and the power and stability of an empire in the making,
its symptomology tied together the ability to overcome the challenges of
modern life, the necessity of scientifically informed sexual behavior, and the
capacity to launch imperialist actions.
During the early 1920s, sex reformers attempted to educate the masses on
correct sexual behavior, and—among other new ideas—began to vehemently
oppose the view that masturbation could result in neurasthenia, social
turmoil, or even a revolution. Instead, they urged the public that masturba-
tion was harmless and even part of a normal sex life. By the early 1930s, how-
ever, popular print media, pharmacies, and medical doctors joined in an
otherwise unlikely alliance in their search for new ways of increasing profits.
They recognized the commercial value of advertising sexual potency and the
possibilities of increasing it. Advertising sexual health and strength was
widely tolerated by the censors during the 1930s, most probably because it
fed into the increasing attempts by authorities, leading intellectuals and social
movements to build a physically and mentally strong population, enhance its
procreative potential, and thus program a nation fit for war. Japanese imperi-
alism needed not truthful knowledge but sexually and militarily potent men.
Hence, in modern Japan, the creation of sexual knowledge and the stigmati-
zation of certain kinds of sexual behavior, as well as the promotion of others,
were intrinsically intertwined with politics. By the mid-twentieth century,
this configuration had culminated in a rhetoric relating to the militarization
of sexuality and the sexualization of the military, ultimately followed by a
sense of failure of modern (militarist) manhood.
 M A 55

N
* I am grateful to the MedHeads at the University of California at Berkeley and
Warwick Anderson in particular for their comments on an earlier version of this
chapter. Michael Bourdaghs’ critique has been invaluable for broadening my
perspective. I also would like to thank Hiromi Mizuno and the participants in the
workshop on “Sex and the Politics of Desire: Japan” at the University of
Minnesota in April 2002. Research and writing were facilitated greatly by
the University of California President’s Fellowship in the Humanities and a
Committee of Research Grant from the University of California at Santa Barbara.
1. Yokoyama Tetsuo, “Seigaku no taika Habuto hakushi shinkei suijaku ni taoru,”
Tsuzoku igaku 1929, 7 (10): 1–4.
2. See, e.g., Enju satsuyp (1631) and Ypjpkun (1714); both cited in Shimizu Masaru,
Nihon no seigaku jishi (Tokyo: Kawade Shobp, 1989), pp. 199–206 and 246.
3. As Thomas Laqueur has shown in Solitary Sex: A Cultural History of
Masturbation (Cambridge: Zone Books, 2004), concerns about masturbation
had been a global phenomenon.
4. The term “disease entity” was coined in 1935 by the microbiologist and sociologist
of science Ludwik Fleck in order to differentiate between the different stages of
a disease and to highlight the various transformations in the understanding of a
disease depending on the availability of medical and other scientific knowledge.
Similar to Fleck’s study of the various causes, symptoms and healing techniques of
syphilis in Europe between the fifteenth and the twentieth centuries, the causes of
neurasthenia in fin de siècle Japan were described in diverse and complex ways.
5. This view was expressed in the daily newspaper Yomiuri shinbun in articles
published throughout September and October 1908.
6. Matsumoto Shizuo, “Seishin suijaku to shuin (onanii),” Tsuzoku igaku 1937,
15 (3): 98–100; Mukp Gunji, “Seiyoku mondai o shitei ni oshifuru no rigai 1,”
Yomiuri shinbun, September 1, 1908: 5.
7. Scholars of Japan have begun to write a history of masculinity only recently; most
notable among them are Hikosaka Tai, Dansei shinwa (Komichi Shobp, 1991);
Itp Kimio, “Otokorashisa” no yukue: Dansei bunka no bunka shakaigaku
(Shinypsha, 1993); Inoue Teruko, Ueno Chizuko, and Ehara Yumiko, eds.,
Danseigaku (Iwanami Shoten, 1995); and Taga Futoshi, Dansei to jenda keisei
(Tpypkan Shuppansha, 2001). Recent approaches to the topic in the United
States include George L. Mosse’s examination of The Image of Man: The Creation
of Modern Masculinity (Oxford University Press, 1996); David D. Gilmore’s
Manhood in the Making: Cultural Concepts of Masculinity (Yale University Press,
1990); and R.W. Connell’s Masculinities (University of California Press, 1995).
8. The main military conflicts in which Japan was involved include the Sino-
Japanese War of 1894–1895, the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905, and the
conflict provoked by the Kwantung Army in 1931, which resulted in the estab-
lishment of Manchukuo, and the beginning of a full-blown war with China in
1937 that culminated in 1941 in the attack on Pearl Harbor and the Pacific War.
9. Cited in Magnus Hirschfeld, Geschlechtskunde auf Grund drei␤igjähriger
Forschung und Erfahrung 1 (Stuttgart: Julius Püttmann Verlagsbuchhandlung,
1926), p. 287.
10. Andreas Hill, “ ‘May the doctor advise extramarital intercourse?’: Medical
Debates on Sexual Abstinence in Germany, c. 1900,” in Sexual Knowledge,
56 S  F

Sexual Science: The History of Attitudes to Sexuality, ed. Roy Porter and Miculás
Teich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 286–287.
11. Arthur Kleinman, Social Origin of Distress and Disease: Depression, Neurasthenia,
and Pain in Modern China (New Haven and London: Yale University Press,
1986), pp. 16–17. See George M. Beard, American Nervousness: Its Causes and
Consequences (New York: Putnam, 1881).
12. Jennifer Terry, An American Obsession: Science, Medicine, and Homosexuality in
Modern Society (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), p. 90. In Japan, the
prominent pedagogue Shimoda Jirp, for example, discussed Beard’s study in his
book Joshi kypiku (Tpkyp: Zenkpdp, 1904), p. 407.
13. Hill, “May the doctor advise extramarital intercourse?” p. 286.
14. Mosse, The Image of Man, p. 85.
15. Ibid., p. 83.
16. Terry, An American Obsession, p. 47.
17. Ibid., p. 50.
18. See Paul Smith, “Vas. Sexualität und Männlichkeit,” in Wann ist der Mann ein
Mann? Zur Geschichte der Männlichkeit, ed. Walter Erhart and Britta Herrmann
(Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 1997), p. 82.
19. Hirschfeld, Geschlechtskunde, p. 287.
20. The adoption of Western food elements began in the Imperial Japanese
Navy (Teikoku kaigun) in the 1880s. The Imperial Japanese Army (Teikoku
rikugun) followed suit after the turn of the century; see Katarzyna Cwiertka, The
Making of a Modern Culinary Tradition in Japan (Leiden University, 1999),
pp. 122–123.
21. Conscripts were classified in one of five categories according to fitness for service.
Classes A, B, and C were considered different degrees of fitness for service. In
class D were the “physically or mentally deficient,” or those regarded as unsuit-
able for becoming soldiers, including criminals and dwarfs. Class E men were ill at
the time of the annual physical examination and had to report for reexamination
and reclassification the following year; see Edward J. Drea, In the Service of the
Emperor: Essays on the Imperial Japanese Army (Lincoln: University of Nebraska
Press, 1998), pp. 78–79.
22. Rikugunshp, Rikugunshp daiichi nenpp (Tokyo: Rikugunshp, 1876), pp. 83–88.
23. The Yomiuri shinbun, e.g., reported such cases in an article on June 11, 1904
(morning edition, p. 3); in its morning editions on August 28, 1909 (p. 3) in a
notice on the “Suicide of a Sick Young Man” and on May 16, 1911 (p. 3) in a short
notice on the “Suicide of a Weak Young Man.”
24. Another example of the military’s take on neurasthenia is to be found in the May
1927 issue of Senyu (Comrade) 203: 28–34, where a military surgeon describes
“Shinkei suijaku to sono ryphp” (“neurasthenia and its cure”). For more details
on sexual control in the military, see the first chapter of Sabine Frühstück,
Colonizing Sex: Sexology and Social Control in Modern Japan (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2004).
25. Hirota Motokichi, Shinkei suijaku ni tsuite (Kyoto: Kakubundp Shobp, 1919),
p. 138.
26. The Autobiography of Psugi Sakae, trans. with an introduction by Byron K.
Marshall (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1992), p. 81.
Psugi also described several instances of masturbation and homosexual miscon-
duct as well as its punishment of a classmate by expulsion from the cadet school;
see pp. 65, 68, 71, 77, 114, 117.
 M A 57

27. The surgeon pointed out, however, that at the beginning of his study, war-related
psychoneurosis and neurosis had not yet been added to the nomenclature when
the record was started, and so large numbers of these conditions were included as
“neurasthenias.” Thus, undetected malingerers, arrested or not fully developed
psychoses, and many of the so-called shell-shocked marines were in the neuras-
thenic class of his records. See E.C. Taylor, “Types of Neurological and
Psychiatric Cases Common in the Navy,” United States Naval Medical Bulletin
1920, 14 (2): 194. See also Ben Shephard, A War of Nerves (London: Jonathan
Cape, 2000).
28. Geoffrey C. Mahaffy, “Sexual Neurasthenia,” The Journal of the Kansas Medical
Society 1916, 16: 323–326.
29. Ibid., p. 323.
30. Cited in Kleinman, Social Origins, p. 25.
31. See Alexander Francis Chamberlain, “The Japanese Race,” The Journal of Race
Development 1912, pp. 176–177.
32. For the development of eugenic thought in Japan, see Sumiko Otsubo’s chapter
in this book; Matsubara Ypko, “Meiji-matsu kara Taishpki ni okeru shakai
mondai to ‘iden,’ ” Nihon Bunka Kenkyusho kiyp 1996, 3: 155–169; Matsubara
Ypko, “Senjiki Nihon no danshu seisaku,” Nenpp kagaku gijutsu shakai 1998, 7:
87–109; Saitp Hikaru, “Chiiku taiiku iden kypikuron o kangaeru: Nihon
yuseigaku no ichi koma?” Kypto Seika Daigaku kiyp 1993, 5: 168–178; and most
recently, Jennifer Robertson, “Japan’s First Cyborg? Miss Nippon, Eugenics and
Wartime Technologies of Beauty, Body and Blood,” Body & Society 2002, 7 (1):
1–34. For an overview on the literature on the history of eugenics see Frank
Dikötter, “Race culture: Recent Perspectives on the History of Eugenics,”
American Historical Review April 1998, pp. 467–478. For the concerns with
neurasthenia among Americans in the Philippine Islands, see Warwick Anderson,
“The Trespass Speaks: White Masculinity and Colonial Breakdown,” American
Historical Review, December 1997, pp. 1343–1370. Judith Farquhar and Hugh
Shapiro have examined the history of neurasthenia in China; see Farquhar’s
“Technologies of Everyday Life: The Economy of Impotence in Reform
China,” Cultural Anthropology, 14 (2): 155–179 and Shapiro’s “The Puzzle of
Spermatorrhea (yijing) in Republican Period China,” Positions: East Asia
Cultures Critique 1999, 6 (3): 551–596.
33. For example, the national newspaper Yomiuri shinbun reported on February 7,
1890 (morning edition, p. 1) the superior physical condition of “Western
soldiers” compared to their Japanese counterparts; on December 4, 1894 (morning
edition, p. 2) about the physical condition of Chinese and Japanese soldiers in
comparison to each other; on March 16, 1897 (morning edition, p. 2) on the
results of the physical exam of male students; on September 11, 1904 (morning
edition, p. 2) on the reasons for the improvement of the physical condition of
male students; and every year on the results of the physical exams of conscripts.
34. Among other fitness programs, people participated in rajio taisp, gymnastics pro-
grams on the radio, in their homes, on school grounds, and many other public
places. Kuroda Isamu describes its fascinating history in Japan in Rajio taisp no
tanjp (Tokyo: Seikyusha, 1999).
35. Matsubara Ypko, “Meiji matsuki ni okeru seikypiku ronsp: Fujikawa Yu o
chushin ni,” Ningen bunka kenkyu nenpp 1993, 17: 231–239, on p. 232.
36. Fujikawa Yu, “Gakureki jidp no shikijp ni tsuite,” Jidp kenkyu 1900, 2: 454–460.
For a detailed analysis of Fujikawa Yu’s career as a medical historian, see
58 S  F

Matsumura Noriaki, Hirono Yoshiyuki, and Matsubara Ypko, “Fujikawa Yu:

Pioneer of the History of Medicine in Japan,” Historia Scientiarum 1998, 8 (2):
157–171; Fujikawa Hideo, ed., Fujikawa Yu chosakushu (Kypto: Shibunkyaku
shuppan, 1982); and Fujikawa Yu sensei kankpkai, ed., Fujikawa Yu sensei
(Tokyo: Daikusha, 1988).
37. For literary authors around 1900, neurasthenia was a largely personal affair.
In their writings, neurasthenia primarily appeared as a foil for contemplations on
an intellectually and emotionally demanding modern lifestyle. In Natsume
Spseki’s novels, neurasthenia is commonly used to describe and explain the flaws
of the leading characters. Neighbors ascribe neurasthenia to the leading character
in Wagahai wa neko de aru (I Am a Cat) as well as in Kusamakura (The Three-
Cornered World). Natsume Spseki suffered from the disease himself and obviously
attempted to increase sympathy and understanding for other victims of the ail-
ment through his sympathetic description of “neurasthenics” (shinkei suijaku-sha)
in the novels he wrote in Tokyo after he had returned from England in 1903. He
also might have been influenced by the aforementioned renowned psychiatrist
Morita Shoma, with whom he was acquainted. See Takahashi Masao, “Spseki
bungaku ni okeru naoshi. ‘Shinkei suijaku’-sha no rikai to kyusai,” Nihon bypsekigaku
zasshi 1996, 52: 30–36.
38. R.P. Neuman, “The Sexual Question and Social Democracy in Imperial
Germany,” Journal of Social History 1974, 7 (3): 271–286, on pp. 272–273.
39. The censorship of Wita sekusuarisu was reported in Taiyp January 1, 1908, cited
in Jay Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals: Writers and the Meiji State (Seattle and
London: University of Washington Press, 1984), pp. 21–22. For the rehabilitation
of the text by sexologists, see Takasugi Saburp, “Rypsho no suisen,” Seikagaku
kenkyu 1936, 1 (5): 78.
40. Nakatani Yoji, “Relationship of Mental Health Legislation to the Perception of
Insanity at the Turn of the 20th Century in Japan,” unpublished manuscript,
1995, p. 15.
41. There is a huge volume of literature on neurasthenia and its place in the history
of sexual knowledge. For the European history see the following authors: Karl
Braun, Die Krankheit Onania. Körperangst und die Anfänge moderner
Sexualität im 18. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 1995);
Arnold Davidson, “Sex and the Emergence of Sexuality,” Critical Inquiry 1987,
14 (1): 16–48; and Neuman, “The Sexual Question,” For Europe, see Roy
Porter and Leslie Hall, The Facts of Life: The Creation of Sexual Knowledge in
Britain, 1650–1950 (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1995);
Robert A. Nye, “The History of Sexuality in Context: National Sexological
Traditions,” Science in Context 1991, 4 (2): 387–406; and Peter Weingart,
Jürgen Kroll and Kurt Bayertz, Rasse, Blut und Gene: Geschichte der Eugenik und
Rassenhygiene in Deutschland (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1992),
pp. 108–113. For the discussion of sexological ideas in Russia see Laura
Engelstein, The Keys to Happiness: Sex and the Search for Modernity in Fin-de-
siècle Russia (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1992); and for China,
see Kleinman, Social Origin; and Frank Dikötter, Sex, Culture and Modernity in
China: Medical Science and the Construction of Sexual Identities in the Early
Republican Period (London: C. Hurst & Co., 1995).
42. Fujo shinbun, June 19, 1921, cited in Furukawa Makoto, “Ren’ai to seiyoku no
daisan teikoku,” Gendai shisp 1993, 21 (7): 114.
43. Taiyp, January 1, 1908; cited in Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals, pp. 121–122.
 M A 59

44. Ibid., October 1, 1908, p. 122.

45. Mukp Gunji, “Seiyoku mondai to kongp kypiku,” Yomiuri shinbun, September 10,
1908, p. 5.
46. Yoshida Kumaji, “Seiyoku mondai o shitei ni oshifuru no rigai 3,” Yomiuri
shinbun, October 11, 1908, p. 5.
47. Inagaki Suematsu, “Seiyoku mondai to kongp kypiku,” Yomiuri shinbun
September 10, 1908, p. 5.
48. Mukp Gunji, “Seiyoku mondai,” p. 5.
49. The first survey of sexual behavior in boys and girls was published in 1949;
Asayama Shin’ichi, Sei no kiroku. Sengo Nihonjin no seikpdp o kagakuteki ni chpsa
shita shiryp ni motozuku (Psaka: Rokugatsusha, 1949).
50. Yamamoto Senji, Yamamoto Senji zenshu: Daiikkan jinsei seibutsugaku, ed.,
Sasaki Toshiji (Tpkyp: Sekibunsha, 1979), pp. 104–105.
51. Okamoto Kazuhiko, “Taishu no gaku toshite no seikagaku no tenkai,” Gendai
Seikypiku Kenkyu 1983, 14: 108–118.
52. See, e.g., Sugita Naogeki, “Seibyp to seishinbyp no kankei,” Kakusei 1924,
14 (8): 17–19; Yoshii Kaneoka, “Eiseijp kara mitaru kpshp mondai,” Kakusei
1940, 30 (1): 38–39; and Alfred Blaschko, “Eiseijp yori kpshp seido o ronzu,”
Kakusei 1914, 4 (3): 5–11.
53. Tsuzoku igaku, October 1930, 10 (10): 175.
54. Abe Isoo, “Shinkei suijaku nanshpsha ni,” Tsuzoku igaku 1930, 10 (8): 152.
55. Matsumoto Shizuo, “Seishin suijaku to shuin (onanii),” Tsuzoku igaku 1937,
15 (3): 98.
56. Tsuzoku igaku 1927, 5 (1): advertisement section.
57. Tsuzoku igaku 1933, 11 (10): 156.
58. Tsuzoku igaku 1933, 11 (8): 124.
59. Tsuzoku igaku 1938, 16 (1): 114.
60. I discuss different aspects of the complex transformation of military masculinity in
the post–World War II era in the following articles: “ ‘Nur nicht kampflos
aufgeben!’ Die Geschlechter der japanischen Armee” (“ ‘Don’t Give up without a
Fight!’ The Genders of the Japanese Military”), in Gender und Militär:
Internationale Erfahrungen und Perspektiven, ed. Christine Eifler and Ruth Seifert
(Berlin: Ulrike Helmer Verlag/Heinrich Böll Stiftung, 2004), pp. 155–187;
“Männer, Tauben und Kirschblüten: Zur kollektiven Gedächtnisproduktion in
Militärmuseen” (“Men, Doves and Cherry Blossoms: On the Production of a
Collective Memory in Military Museums”), in Innovationen in der Japanforschung
(Münster: LIT Verlag, 2004), ed. Roland Domenig, Susanne Formanek, and
Wolfram Manzenreiter, pp. 1–27.
61. The women’s magazine Shufu no tomo had been particularly active in providing
medical handbooks to its readers; in these handbooks reputable medical doctors
explained the causes, nature, and healing techniques for a great variety of ail-
ments. A wartime example of such a handbook is the Musume to tsuma to haha
no eisei dokuhon (Hygiene reader for daughters, wives, and mothers), published
in 1937. Other organizations produced similar self-help books, such as the Katei
ryphp hyakka jiten (Encyclopedia of House Medicine) that was published by the
Tokyo branch of the Union for Electricity and Medical Insurance in 1952.
62. The significance of Viagra as a marker of the transformation of the social, eco-
nomic, and gender order since the 1990s is discussed in the epilogue of Sabine
Frühstück, Colonizing Sex: Sexology and Social Control in Modern Japan
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004).
This page intentionally left blank
 

T F B 

E T  M J
Sumiko Otsubo

I
Japan is renowned for its “selective adaptation of ideas and institutions.”1
This chapter deals with one example, the transplantation and domestication
of “eugenics.”2 “Eugenics” is a term coined in 1883 by British scientist Francis
Galton to describe the notion that human genetic stock could be improved
by controlling heredity. The boundary between the “fit” who were encour-
aged to reproduce, and the “unfit” often coincided with boundaries of
“race,” gender, and class. It is thus intriguing to ask why some Japanese
chose to adopt and adhere to the Western science of eugenics, even though
it seemed to prescribe inferior status to the Japanese in a white-dominated
international “racial” hierarchy. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries, Japanese leaders, aspiring to make Japan capable of competing
with industrial and “civilized” Western nations, launched comprehensive
modernization programs. Scientists were among those who eagerly partici-
pated in this process of “building a new era.”3 In this context, eugenics can
be seen as a “biological” approach to this far-reaching modernization plan.
In this chapter, I explore the eugenic thought of physiologist Psawa Kenji
(1852–1927), and the ways in which scientific authorities were employed
in efforts to apply eugenic policies to society. Psawa was one of the first
scientists to systematically “medicalize” race improvement discourse,4 which
had been dominated by nonmedical professionals, including Fukuzawa
Yukichi. Psawa’s ideas were pivotal in the history of eugenics in Japan
because he emphasized the female body as a strategic site in which consti-
tutional improvement of the Japanese “race” could be made. He saw
that women’s bodies could be eugenically controlled by marriage, and advo-
cated the exchange of prenuptial health certificates, prepared by qualified
physicians. In other words, he medicalized one of life’s most important events,
marriage.5 Moreover, he allowed feminists, educators, and social reformers,
particularly temperance activists, to appropriate his scientific authority, hoping
that they, in return, would help him put his eugenics proposals into practice.
62 S O 

As a professor of medicine at Tokyo University,6 Psawa, of course, was a state

employee. By examining these two-way interactions, I demonstrate the com-
plex relationships between agents of the state and private citizens involved in
eugenic policy formulation. We can also observe a pattern of transplantation
of a foreign idea. Psawa emphasized indigenous customs, including arranged
marriage, as conducive to the Japanese adoption of eugenics. This conscious
mobilization of local practices as “traditions” is a fairly typical response to
Western-inspired modernity in Meiji Japan.

E L  P K

Psawa Kenji was born to the family of a Shinto priest in 1852. His name by
birth was Pbayashi Ukonji. As a child, Ukonji was adopted by Psawa
Genryu, a medical doctor who had been trained in European medicine in
Nagasaki and was serving the local Mikawa domain lord in modern day Aichi
prefecture. Before leaving for Edo (present day Tokyo) in 1866, Kenji
received a samurai education—he studied Confucian classics at a domain
school—since the Psawa belonged to the warrior class. Political disturbances,
which led to the breakdown of the traditional Tokugawa order and the estab-
lishment of the modern Meiji government (the 1868 Meiji Restoration),
interrupted Psawa’s study at the Shogunal Institute of European Medicine, in
the capital city of Edo. Yet, he managed to resume training at the same school
after it was taken over by the new Meiji government. In 1870, Meiji leaders
sent Psawa, along with 13 other students, to Europe. He pursued his study
in medicine at Berlin University. There he took Hermann von Helmholtz’s
physics and Emil du Bois-Reymond’s physiology classes. Although the
government wanted him to study pharmacology, du Bois-Reymond’s class
further stimulated Psawa’s interest in physiology, which he had developed
while reading imported textbooks in Tokyo. Because of a government policy
change, he was called home in 1874 before completing his doctoral study.
After a few years of teaching physics and physiology as an instructor at
Tokyo University, he resigned the post to finish his postgraduate study in
Europe, 1878–1882. This time he specialized in physiology at Strassburg
University.7 He chose Strassburg because the hired foreign (oyatoi gaikokujin)
physiologist at Tokyo University, Ernst Tiegel, recommended his former
teachers. At Strassburg, he studied closely with the medical chemist Felix
Hoppe-Seyler and physiologist Friedlich Leopold Geoltz. Psawa’s disserta-
tion research was a neurophysiological study concerned with transmission in
dogs’ spinal cords.
Upon returning home in 1882, 30-year-old Psawa was immediately
appointed Professor of Physiology of the Faculty of Medicine at Tokyo
University. He replaced Tiegel as holder of the chair of physiology. As his
interest in hygiene grew, Psawa also taught that subject during this time.
He also organized an interdisciplinary medical study group whose members,
mostly professors, exchanged new knowledge acquired by reading the most
recent Western journals in their respective fields. Even after his retirement
 T F B   E  T 63

from Tokyo in 1915, he continued to publish many articles and books

concerning a wide array of topics such as diet, digestion, excretion, hunger,
development of various senses, reproduction, heredity, anesthesia, drinking,
and sexology before his death in 1927. During his tenure, Psawa assumed
numerous important positions both within and outside the university,
including deanship of the Faculty of Medicine, and membership in the House
of Peers by Imperial decree (chokusen kizokuin giin).8 Some of his articles
advocated meat eating (formerly proscribed by Buddhist teachings) and
improvement of the human bodily constitution. These articles reflected the
optimistic belief that conscious effort could ameliorate the Japanese body’s
appearance (i.e., size and shape) as well as capability (i.e., speed, power, and
endurance). As such, they embodied the Meiji reform spirit applied to
customs and morals.

T Y’
R I T
Beginning in the 1880s, the theory of evolution captivated the thinking of
Meiji intellectuals.9 The theory served as a scientific endorsement for the
notion that the body was open to biological reconstruction; and in this context,
the message of eugenics was attractive. Indeed, as early as 1881, two years
before Francis Galton coined the term “eugenics,” the prominent promoter
of Western ideas, educator, and journalist Fukuzawa Yukichi, commented
on Francis Galton’s study concerning inheritance of talents.10 In 1884,
Fukuzawa’s protégé, Takahashi Yoshio, published Japan’s first book on race
betterment, Nihon jinshu kairypron [On the improvement of the Japanese
race]. Here Takahashi discussed how to improve the Japanese race and pro-
posed different approaches to achieve this goal. He supported his arguments
with the theories of many Western scholars, including those of Francis
Galton. But he did so without referring to the newly invented term, “eugen-
ics,” which means “well-birth science” in Greek. In addition to emphasizing
the reform of physical education, clothing, diet, and housing, Takahashi sug-
gested intermarriage between the Japanese and “whites.” After presenting
the statistical data of physical size among different nationals, he showed that
an average Japanese was shorter and lighter than an average (white)
Westerner; and the cranial size of the Mongoloid was smaller than that of the
Caucasoid, implying that the former’s mental capacity might be inferior to
the latter’s. As a quick remedy to the “undesirable” Japanese body, Takahashi
suggested the “crossbreeding” of the two “races.”
Takahashi’s proposal provoked nationalistic reactions from some of Japan’s
leading men of learning, including a professor of philosophy at Tokyo
University, Inoue Tetsujirp, and the president of the same institution, Katp
Hiroyuki. The debate over the Japanese version of “whitening” took place in
the context of Japan’s aspiration for equality with the West.11 Along with
the establishment of tariff autonomy and elimination of extraterritorial
64 S O 

jurisdiction, the Japanese were discussing whether or not they should allow
Westerners to live with the Japanese outside of the designated treaty ports
where Westerners had been confined. While pro-Westernization advocates,
including Takahashi, supported mixed residence, which would result in
the increase of “crossbreeding,” others, such as Katp and Inoue, were more
cautious. Thus the latter group argued that, from a social Darwinist perspec-
tive, the Japanese, as the less “civilized” people at least for the moment, were
likely to lose out to more advanced Westerners both commercially as well as
biologically. Katp was particularly alarmed by the possible disappearance of
the “pure” (“junsui naru”) Japanese race. The popularity of the pro-mixed
residence arguments peaked around the mid-1880s but declined and
came under severe criticism during the reactionary intellectual climate of the
late 1880s.12
This mixed marriage/residence debate clearly showed that some Japanese
felt they were “racially” inferior to Westerners. Though many were anxious
to “improve” the Japanese body, Takahashi’s approach, which denied the
preservation of the existing Japanese identity, was adamantly rejected. But
Takahashi’s radical proposal spurred more serious discussion about race
improvement based on the idea of controlling heredity through marriage.
While environmental approaches such as better nutrition, clothing, and
living conditions coincided with (middle class) women’s expanding sphere of
influence at home, the notion of reproductive race betterment truly brought
to the fore the role of women in this important reform movement.13
Except for Erwin von Baelz, the Tokyo University professor who taught
internal medicine and pathology between 1873 and 1902, few medical or
biological experts were actively involved in the debate. However, it is unlikely
that the controversy started by Takahashi Yoshio went unnoticed by Psawa,
who had just returned from Germany. First, the president of the university
for which Psawa worked was a major participant in the debate. President
Katp expressed his view on a high profile occasion, a speech at the Tokyo
Academy, and his response to Takahashi’s view of the Katp speech was
printed in Tpyp gakugei zasshi, a respected journal modeled after Britain’s
Nature.14 Second, Takahashi’s race improvement approach touched on
Psawa’s own research subjects of diet and reproduction.

B I
  F B
Psawa Kenji began writing about marriage in 1890. However, it was only in
1904 that Psawa began to advocate bodily improvement (taishitsu kairyp)
through selective breeding, and stress the significance of the female body in
this process. The years between the mid-1880s and 1904 saw several changes
worthy of attention. First, the German cytologist August Weismann
(University of Freiburg) in 1883 provided evidence antagonistic to the notion
that acquired characteristics are inheritable. Weismann argued that germ
plasm (sperm and egg cell nuclei) could not be affected by the environment,
 T F B   E  T 65

and was completely isolated from somatic (or body) cells, which could be.
Weismann’s doctrine of the “continuity of the germ plasm” and the Mendelian
laws, which were rediscovered in 1900, reinforced each other in explaining
the phenomenon of heredity. Heredity now became the subject of intensive
scrutiny by biologists.
Second, the Japanese government began incorporating the official gender
ideology of “good wife, wise mother” into the curriculum of secondary schools
for girls after Japan’s military victory over China in 1895. Third, educator
Naruse Jinzp, dedicated to promoting higher education for women, elaborated
on the official ideal of womanhood, and argued that women’s physical and
mental quality would have a direct impact on future generations of Japanese.
Thus, in his 1895 book, Joshi kypiku [Women’s education], Naruse explained
that a scientific approach to producing mentally, physically, and morally “fit”
women would be crucial for Japan’s nation-building. Naruse’s far-reaching
fund-raising campaigns, which drew support from prominent politicians of
the day, finally paid off when his brainchild, Japan Women’s College (Nihon
Joshi Daigakkp), was established in 1901.
Meanwhile the government had founded a teacher training college for
women in 1875, and a few other private “women’s colleges” opened in
1900. They specialized in English, medicine, or art education. These colleges
started with only a few faculty members, including the founders, and several
students. The Japan Women’s College, also a private institution, greatly
differed from other colleges for women in that, from the beginning, the
College was able to provide a well-diversified and well-balanced liberal arts
education. It was made possible because Naruse enthusiastically recruited
about 50 qualified teachers including Psawa Kenji, who taught physiology at
the College between 1901 and 1921.15
Fourth, after five years of study in animal and human anatomy at the
University of Freiburg, which was a stronghold of the scientification of
eugenic theories,16 Psawa’s adopted son, Gakutarp (1863–1920), returned
home with his German wife, Julia Meyer, to assume a professorship at
Tokyo University in 1898. In addition to his scholarly works, Gakutarp also
wrote essays on Japanese women.17 The earlier debate over mixed marriage
began to bear personal implications for Psawa Kenji. Considering that Kenji
began teaching at the Japan Women’s College, it was likely that women’s
issues became a frequent topic of discussion between father and son.
Furthermore, while it was certainly likely that the father received up-to-date
biological and medical theories from Germany through the son who took
August Weismann’s course, among others, the older Psawa had a first-hand
opportunity to get reacquainted with European biomedical communities in
1901. He presented a paper at the International Congress of Physiology in
Turin, Italy, and another at the International Congress of Zoology at
Berlin.18 Professionalization of eugenics in Europe did not immediately
follow Galton’s invention of the term “eugenics” in the 1880s. Rather, the
professionalization, which replaced the preceding “liberal and secular cultural
movement,” began taking shape about the time that Psawa revisited Berlin.
66 S O 

This led to the institutionalization of eugenics as evidenced by the founding

of the Racial Hygiene Society in Berlin in 1905 and the Eugenics Education
Society in London in 1907.19
Psawa Kenji’s 1904 work, Shakaiteki eisei taishitsu kairypron [On the
improvement of human bodily constitution from a social hygienic perspective],
reflected the scientific and intellectual developments of the preceding two
decades. He utilized newly available statistics in Europe and Japan, and
identified what kind of diseases and problems would be harmful. His use of
the term shakai eisei, its focus on the degeneration of “civilized” people in
a domestic context, as well as many of his statistics and examples from works
by German theorists20 seem to indicate that the book drew inspiration from
the contemporary German notion of Sozialhygiene.21 Indeed, despite its title
containing the word “kairyp ” (improvement), the book was more concerned
with the prevention of degeneration than betterment per se. He was convinced
that a civilization, after reaching maturity, tends to decline because of racial
degeneration.22 In the second half of the nineteenth century, many European
specialists, especially in criminal anthropology and psychiatry, noted the
paradoxical nature of civilization—“science and economic progress might be
the catalyst of, as much as the defense against, physical and social pathology.”23
Like them, Psawa believed the mechanism of natural selection (the survival
of the fittest) no longer worked in a modern society because modern medical
care artificially extended the lives of the weak, who were naturally “unfit” for
survival, and helped them produce offspring with “unfit” genes. Moreover, it
was believed that “[m]oral decadence, chronic diseases like tuberculosis,
venereal diseases and alcoholism, crime and deviant social behaviour—which
included merely having two children or less,” frequently observed in “civi-
lized” societies, were considered factors contributing to racial degeneration.24
Overtly concerned with the possible decline of the human race by the
breakdown of natural selection, Psawa classified people into four general
categories: those who were fit to have intercourse (kpsetsu tekisha); those who
were not (kpsetsu futekisha); those who were fit to reproduce (seishoku
tekisha); and those who were not (seishoku futekisha). Certain diseases such as
tuberculosis, leprosy, syphilis, and gonorrhea would spread through inter-
course. While the carriers of diseases would ruin the health of their sexual
partners, people who were too young or too old would harm their own
bodies. Intercourse would cause pain for those with sexual organs that were
underdeveloped or had stopped functioning properly, or became deformed
after menopause.25 Although this applied to both men and women, Psawa
noted that women were subject to more restrictions. Women should refrain
from having sex when in periods of menstruation, puerperium, or lactation,
because, for example, if a nursing woman had intercourse, her body might
stop lactating. During pregnancy, women should not have sex, or at least
reduce the frequency, Psawa explained, because copulation might induce
miscarriage or inflict other types of damage on the fetus.26
In his discussion on reproductive fitness, Psawa further differentiated the
female body from the male body. The birth of a healthy child requires three
 T F B   E  T 67

components: a perfect sperm cell, a flawless egg cell, and a mother’s robust
body.27 Women, associated with two of the three, obviously had a greater role
in reproduction. Concerns with the overall quality of children, which had
serious implications for the future of the nation, brought medical attention
to the female body. Psawa concluded that undesirable intercourse and
reproduction could be controlled by education, laws, and contraceptive
methods such as condoms and spermicide.28 To avoid the spousal and trans-
generational spread of diseases, Psawa proposed the prenuptial exchange of
health certificates.29 This proposal attests to the remarkably current nature of
Psawa’s knowledge. In the same year (1904) when Psawa wrote this, it was
recorded that Francis Galton’s paper provoked discussion on the desirability
of prospective bridegrooms to obtain medically certified documents in
England. In Germany, the League for the Protection of Mothers and Sexual
Reform and the Monist League, both founded in 1905, advocated marriage
health certificates, which led to a legislative effort during World War I.30
Psawa’s arguments regarding intercourse and reproductive fitness could
be applied to any other “civilized” society. They were more universal than
nationalistic. Yet, he did touch on a few local conditions, peculiar to Japan.
He observed that many middle- to upper-class women in Europe regrettably
avoided breast-feeding for aesthetic reasons and instead used alternative
artificial (meaning nonhuman) milk, which made their children’s constitution
more likely to be inferior. The use of artificial milk was not yet widespread
in Japan.31 Another favorable custom (among upper-class Japanese) was
premarital detective investigation to check for the presence of diseases such
as tuberculosis and leprosy in the prospective spouse’s family. These diseases
were considered contaminants to the family blood and lineage. As the
Tokugawa orders restricting the change of hereditary professions and
residences were lifted, conducting this kind of detective work became steadily
more difficult.32

M  M
  F B
Three years after he published the Taishitsu kairypron, Psawa wrote
Seirigakujp yori mitaru fujin no honbun [The duty of women from the physi-
ological point of view] in 1908. As the title indicates, in this work he intensi-
fied his attention to women and their bodies as a crucial object for successful
implementation of the bodily improvement theory. This rather brief book33
was soon expanded into a 584 page volume, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu [Popular
new theory on marriage]. It was originally printed as a series entitled “Kpfuku
naru kekkonhp ” [“Ways to ensure a happy marriage”] in the Hpchi newspaper
and was soon revised and published in book form in 1909. In her article
“Marriage, the Newspaper Business, and the Nation-State,” Kathryn Ragsdale
examines popular romance fiction featuring married female protagonists,
a new genre known as the domestic novel, which became common between
the Sino- and Russo-Japanese wars (1895–1904). She points out that, in
68 S O 

the late Meiji period, newspaper editors discovered the importance of

female readership for expanding their sales, and began printing the serialized
domestic novel. Psawa’s “Kpfuku naru kekkonhp” appeared in the Hpchi in
this context. The Hpchi and its detective agency that would investigate the
prospective husband’s and wife’s individual and family background, promoted
Psawa’s scientific gospel concerning marriage. The agency sold Psawa’s
marriage guidebook in its office and stressed its own capacity to ferret out
health information. Thus, Psawa’s books on bodily improvement, mark not
only the scientification of eugenic theories and medicalization of marriage,
but also the commercialization and popularization of race improvement
through matrimony.34
In the introduction of the Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, Psawa stated that the
primary objective of living organisms was to perpetuate their species through
reproduction. Humans were no exception. They would achieve this goal by
marriages that would determine the fortunes and misfortunes of individuals
and families as well as the rise and decline of Japan. Many young men and
women had no idea of what was at stake in choosing mates. Especially when
they made hasty decisions driven by the temporary passions of love, their
marriages tended to result in various health problems among family members,
including children. Psawa wrote this book as a scientific guide for marriage
in the modern era.35
Elsewhere he also told readers that marriage could harm the body in
different ways. For instance, diseases such as venereal diseases and tuberculosis
would be transmitted between husband and wife. The serious nature of
health problems was obvious because the mental and physical conditions of
both parents would influence the quality of children.36 Although the title and
the introduction were not particularly gender-specific, the main text of the
book clearly intended to offer insights mainly for young single educated
women who were preparing to marry. Objectification of the female body was
justified because women were more likely to become victims of ailments
caused by bad marriages. In a patriarchal society like Japan, a (middle to
upper class) woman upon marriage was generally expected to leave her own
home and move into the husband’s. The new wife had to deal with unfamiliar
customs, including having sex, in the new environment surrounded by
unsympathetic strangers. Moreover, she had to submit to the authority of the
husband as well as to those of the father- and mother-in-law. Together with
the belief that the female nervous system was more sensitive, the greater
stress level on women tended to have a negative impact on women’s health.
Women were more susceptible to health problems when they went through
pregnancy and birth.37 Compared with nineteenth-century French medical
doctor Gustave Le Bon, who had maintained that women were both psycho-
logically and physiologically sensitive to civil strife in general,38 Psawa’s
emphasis on the connection between the Japanese family system and the
mental and physical stress on women is notable. Like European theorists,
Psawa considered women “a crucial agent of degeneration either . . . by
bringing new pathological cases into the world or . . . by failing to reproduce
 T F B   E  T 69

in sufficient quantity healthy children for the nation.”39 However, because

the readers of his book were expected to be middle to upper class women,
Psawa focused more on women’s ability to control the quality of offspring
than the danger presented by “unfit” mothers. In the first section of the
Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, Psawa stated:

[E]ducation for women should aim at producing morally, mentally, and physically
“fit” women. These . . . fit women serve as the most important mechanism to
improve our racial stock . . . or the Yamato minzoku [Japanese race]. . . . [T]he
improvement of humans requires men and women of superior quality, which
I will explain in the following chapters. . . . To be frank from the standpoint of
racial stock improvement, it is actually desirable that those women without
much education and cultivation—thus they were close to animals—give birth
to few children. However, we would like women of superior quality with
education and cultivation to have as many children as possible.40

The boundary between “fit” and “unfit” women as described above is defined
by whether or not they had received higher education, which was deemed to
guarantee morally, mentally, and physically improved women.41 The improved
qualities acquired by a mother’s education would then be transmitted to their
children genetically. This optimistic two-step approach closely resonated with
educator Naruse Jinzp’s race improvement view presented in the 1890s.
To support his view, Psawa discussed various genetic theories, which
made their appearance after the rediscovery of Mendel’s Laws. Unlike August
Weismann, who thought only egg and sperm cell nuclei could transmit
parents’ characteristics to their children, Psawa believed that egg and sperm
cells as a whole (each cell was made up of a cell nucleus [kaku] and proto-
plasm [genkeishitsu]) served to transmit inheritable qualities. Psawa accepted
Weismann’s theory of the continuity of germ plasm. The Japanese physiologist,
however, disagreed with the German biologist in that the former believed
protoplasm could be affected by environment. Thus, Psawa postulated that
environment (e.g., nutrition or substances) would affect protoplasm, which
would then influence cell nuclei. In short, his conviction that one could
improve the female body through physical exercise and better nutrition and
hygiene was based on this genetic view.42 His distinction between congeni-
talness (senten) and posteriority (kpten) reflected his theoretical understand-
ing of heredity. He specified that while congenitalness meant transmission of
parents’ characteristics to their children before fertilization, posteriority
meant the transmission of characteristics after fertilization.
Psawa believed that congenitalness depended on two basic patterns. First,
when human reproductive organs were developing, egg and sperm cells
(both cell nuclei and protoplasm in Psawa’s understanding) were susceptible
to changes in the nervous system, which controlled reproductive functions.
Thus, malnutrition, immaturity, senility, or excessive drinking would affect
egg and sperm cells. Second, after they completed their development but
before fertilization, their egg and sperm cells could be influenced by the
parent’s consumption of various substances, including alcohol.43 Psawa’s
70 S O 

interest in physiology was concerned with nutrition, growth, reproduction,

motion, senses, and mental activities, and thus made him attentive to
constitution or race improvement theory.44 His theoretical understanding
catered to the assumption that physiology could improve an inferior physique
and serve to better the human species. Psawa, a trained physiologist, was
thus responsible for medicalizing race or constitution improvement theory.
This is extremely important considering the fact that another physiologist
Nagai Hisomu (1876–1957), Psawa’s successor at Tokyo, later emerged
as Japan’s most prominent eugenicist. He popularized eugenic theories,
promoted eugenic research and policies, organized scholarly and popular
eugenic associations, and lobbied for the enactment of the 1940 National
Eugenics Law.45 An equally significant point is that Psawa’s optimistic view
of heredity allowed the Japanese to believe in efforts to improve their bodies
within the framework of science. Healthy lifestyles led by young adults,
whose egg or sperm cells were already mature and waiting for fertilization,
amounted to quality control over the nation’s population. This rejection of
outright biological determinism, albeit not uniquely Japanese, explains why
some Japanese embraced eugenics. Their sensitivity about their apparent
physical inferiority, evidenced in the earlier mixed marriage debate, fueled
interest in eugenics, rather than rejection of it.
Another characteristic of this book was its emphasis on the Yamato
minzoku, as distinct from Westerners. This element hardly existed in the
1904 Taishitsu kairypron, which discussed bodily improvement in a more
universal, and biological, but less nationalistic, and cultural sense. In his
Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, Psawa called Japan the country of gods (Shinkoku)
and argued that the family system and the samurai spirit (bushidp) were essen-
tial in shaping the Japanese.46 Mental activity was part of physiology, as Psawa
understood it. Thus, the samurai tradition of bushidp, based on self-sacrificing
loyalty to the master, became a physiological subject. In addition, the purity
(junketsu) of the minzoku, ancestor worship, Confucianism, and Buddhism
formed the uniquely Japanese altruistic spirit. He also stressed that the
Japanese, as descendants of an unbroken line of rulers, were united through
the worship of their common ancestors, the imperial clan.
Women’s concept of bushidp, spiritual conscience or reinpteki rypshin, was
seen by Psawa as suppressing their self-serving, animal-like sexual desire
(dpbutsuteki seiyoku) for the good of others.47 As such, it needed to be pre-
served. He discouraged “fit” women from pursuing Western-inspired free
love (jiyu ren’ai).48 He associated free love with primal sexual instinct and
condemned it as a force destructive to the family state; he implicitly defended
the framework of the traditional upper class custom of arranged marriage.
Its mechanism of choosing the most suitable spouse for one’s daughter or
son was definitely compatible with the notion of race improvement through
controlling heredity. Modern changes in the traditional institution of marriage
created a new standard of spousal selection. Now “biological” fitness was
added as the most important consideration to ensure happy arranged marriages
and the continuation of a family line. Healthy couples without hereditary or
 T F B   E  T 71

infectious diseases were likely to produce physically “fit” children. Educated

parents were expected to stay away from possible health hazards. Psawa did
not embrace everything Western, nor did he dismiss everything traditionally
Japanese. He found certain indigenous practices useful as foundations for
“transplanting” eugenics in Japan. His eugenics represented a “hybrid” reinter-
pretation of Western and Japanese cultures, not a mere transfer of original
eugenics to a new environment.
One sees a striking difference in tone between the Taishitsu kairypron
(1904) and the Kekkon shinsetsu (1909). While the former discussed bodily
improvement in general, the latter presented a much more “racialized” view
in the context of social Darwinist, imperialist competition. When “yellow”
Japan defeated “white” Russia in 1905, many Asian and African peoples of
color colonized by the “white” Europeans and Americans were inspired by
this victory. At the same time, the erosion of their “racial” supremacy
alarmed the “white” imperialists (the “yellow scare”).49 The heightened inter-
est in “racial” competition and the military spirit that existed immediately
after the Russo-Japanese war were evident in the Kekkon shinsetsu. Psawa’s
constitution/race improvement writings thus represent a dramatic shift from
the early Meiji “catch-up” spirit of “the reform of customs and morals” to the
late Meiji mentality of nationalism, which resulted from Japan’s emergence as
a colonial power competing against Western rivals.50

I   M

A  S R
Psawa developed his “scientific” race improvement ideas and promoted
them in his interactions with individuals outside the medical profession in the
Meiji (1868–1912) and Taishp (1912–1926) periods. First, employment at
Naruse Jinzp’s Japan Women’s College gave him direct and regular
opportunities to speak to female college students about the transgenerational
implications of their bodies. Psawa’s awareness of women’s potentially
instrumental role in diffusing “modern” hygienic concepts led him to give
occasional lectures at meetings of the Greater Japan Private Women’s
Hygienic Association even before the turn of the century. Yet, as noted, his
involvement in the discussions about bodily improvement through marriage
became much more active after he started work at the College in 1901. After
its founding, Naruse focused on expanding the curriculum and operations.
When a new educational law opened the way for some qualified colleges
(senmon gakkp) to become universities, Naruse aspired to elevate his college.
To convince the public that his school deserved to become a university,
he announced a school expansion plan in 1917. He proposed to add a faculty
of medicine, including a department of race improvement (jinshu kairyp
gakka), to the Japan Women’s College. Both in school and public lectures, as
well as publications of articles and books by Psawa greatly contributed to
legitimizing the college’s claim that it was already committed to improving
the nation’s genetic quality.
72 S O 

One of the students who responded to the calls of Psawa and Naruse was
Hiratsuka Raichp, who would become the most prominent Japanese feminist
in the twentieth century. She majored in home economics at the Japan
Women’s College between 1903 and 1906. This home economics program
was likely the best science education available for women in the country at
that time.51 When women were still denied even participation in political
meetings, Hiratsuka attempted to establish Japan’s first eugenic law in 1919.
Her daring proposal sought to prevent men (but not women) infected with
venereal diseases from getting married. Existing scholarly writing often
emphasizes that Hiratsuka was inspired by Swedish feminist Ellen Key’s
motherhood ideology, to which she was exposed in the 1910s.52 Yet, one
should take into account the fact that Hiratsuka was a student of Psawa’s
when he first suggested marriage restriction against the venereally diseased in
his 1904 Taishitsu kairypron. Furthermore, like Psawa, she also promoted
the use of prenuptial health certificates. Criticized for her gender-specific
approach to male marriageability as outlined in the petition draft, Hiratsuka,
for political reasons, needed to revise the draft and looked to Psawa for
advice. This is wholly appropriate, for, in his 1909 Kekkon shinsetsu, he had
delineated three approaches to marriage: individualistic (kojinteki), racial
(jinshuteki), and social (shakaiteki).53
In the first type, individuals were responsible for choosing their marriage
partners (love marriage). Psawa was opposed to this because young people
tended to make the most important decision of their lives driven by sexual
desire, disregarding crucial conditions such as physical fitness and education
levels. The opposite extreme was racial marriage. Its primary objective was to
improve race (jinshu kairyp). It could be achieved when the state intervened
in the lives of individuals: the “fit” were allowed to marry, but the “unfit”
were not. Psawa admitted that he had supported this approach in Taishitsu
kairypron (1904) and classified the “insane,” “imbecilic,” those with syphilis
or gonorrhea, alcoholism, epilepsy, or genetic diseases, as “unfit.” Although
he used the term “racial (jinshuteki),” his writing did not explicitly imply com-
petition between the Japanese “race (minzoku)” and other “races (minzoku).”
By “jinshu,” it seems that he meant state supervision and intervention.54
By 1909, however, he had abandoned the racial approach and had begun
advocating the social approach, which was a combination of the individualistic
and the racial. The racial approach was ineffective when people reproduced out-
side the marriage institution. In the social strategy, individual freedom was to be
respected as much as possible and individuals were responsible for whatever
decision they made. However, at times, the state needed to interfere with indi-
vidual freedom in order to improve national health (kokumin no kenkp). What
Psawa had in mind was for the state to order physicians to prepare health
certificates for those about to marry. If any mental or physical problem were
detected, the state would prohibit their marriage and sterilize them so that they
would not do harm to the state by producing undesirable offspring. Psawa
compared the state with a human body. If one were starving, he or she would
lose fat, muscles, glands, and bones while maintaining the basic weight of the
 T F B   E  T 73

brain, spinal cord, and heart, which were essential for survival. Like this
“natural” mechanism of the body, the welfare of the state (i.e., brain and heart)
had to be prioritized over the freedom of individuals (i.e., fat, muscles, etc.).55
Psawa thus identified himself as a “statist” (kokka shugi o hpzuru mono).56
Hiratsuka’s original proposal called for men to present a document
guaranteeing their venereal-disease-free status to their prospective brides-to-be
before marriage. Sanctions would be imposed on men who got married while
concealing a venereal disease. After incorporating Psawa’s advice, which
was obviously based on the social approach explained in Kekkon shinsetsu,
Hiratsuka expanded her proposed law to cover not only regular marriage, but
also de facto marriage (jijitsukon), to minimize the births of children to
parents carrying venereal diseases.57
The collaboration between Psawa and Hiratsuka, who was known as
a frivolous, radical woman tainted by scandals, including a suicide attempt,
alcohol consumption at bars, and public debate on such taboo topics as
abortion and sexuality, was a strange one. After all, Hiratsuka was a feminist
who questioned patriarchal societal norms and such authorities as the state
and the father. She was against any arranged marriage that subordinated
women’s interests to family welfare. Moreover, she chose to have children
without marrying her partner. Psawa, on the other hand, advocated modified
arranged marriage for eugenic purposes and viewed illegitimate children
negatively.58 As long as Hiratsuka used eugenic reasoning, however, Psawa
found her legislative initiative useful for implementing his race improvement
policy. And he was willing to endorse her project in the public media.59 At
the same time, Psawa’s support was a valuable asset for Hiratsuka. His pres-
tige as a Tokyo University professor, and his medical expertise, legitimized
her effort to protect middle-class women from diseases carried by their
potential mates.
In a society where the notion of “men’s predominance over women”
(danson johi) dominated, and the belief that only men’s characters would
affect children’s because women merely served as “borrowed wombs” was
generally accepted, Psawa’s view was quite revolutionary and attractive to
Hiratsuka. Furthermore, Psawa urged that single women be informed so
that they could choose their future husbands and produce biologically
desirable children, an important task for nation-building. In other words,
he encouraged “fit” women to pursue postsecondary education and assume
an active and assertive part in marriage decisionmaking. Considering that
opportunities for higher education then were virtually monopolized by men,
and middle class women were seen as virtuous if they displayed signs of
submissiveness, obedience, and docility, his eugenic ideas were potentially
instrumental in redefining women’s narrowly prescribed role.
One of the members of the House of Representatives who introduced
Hiratsuka’s petition in 1920 was Nemoto Shp. He was another of the social
reformers who collaborated with Psawa. Nemoto was an American trained
temperance activist in Japan. When Psawa’s lecture on the degenerative
harm of alcohol and preventive measures was printed in the Hpchi newspaper
74 S O 

in 1907, Nemoto, editor of the temperance magazine Kuni no hikari [Light

of our land], was quick to reprint the article to justify the temperance claim
of using “scientific authority.”60 Beginning in 1898, Nemoto was elected to
parliament ten times. Between 1901 and 1922, he submitted a bill to restrict
minors from drinking alcohol 19 times. Although the House of Representatives
had begun approving the temperance bill in 1908, the Peers kept rejecting
it.61 During this time of frustration, Psawa, himself a member of the House
of Peers, gave a speech in support of the temperance bill; the physiologist
cautioned the reluctant members of the House of Peers in 1910 that
unrestricted drinking would have a negative impact on the Japanese state
(kokka), people (jinmin), and race (jinshu).62
Psawa Kenji’s relationship with Naruse Jinzp, Hiratsuka Raichp, and
Nemoto Shp can be seen as part of an ongoing pattern. Like Hiratsuka, who
wanted to improve the well-being of women, Christian social reformers
hoped to reduce the misery caused by addiction to alcohol. Likewise, Naruse
wished to promote higher education for women. They advocated eugenics as
a strategy for legitimizing their causes and saw alliances with Psawa, who had
scientific authority, as beneficial. Psawa, too, found the collaboration with
social activists helpful in converting his eugenic plan into reality. Although
he was exposed to Western values through his study abroad and scientific
inquiries, Psawa was a politically conservative statist who upheld distinctly
Japanese “traditions” such as the imperial institution, family system, arranged
marriage, and the way of warriors, especially after the Russo-Japanese war.
He believed in state intervention into people’s everyday lives and people’s
cooperation with the state, which would result in “racial” well-being. He was
neither a liberal Christian nor an enthusiastic feminist. He never attempted to
open prestigious Tokyo University to female students nor did he support the
upgrading of women’s colleges to universities. In spite of rather opposing
ideologies, the man of medicine and the social reformers decided to work
together for practical reasons.
In addition to illuminating the eugenic appeal to people with a broad range
of social, political, and religious views at the time, this essay challenges the
common perception of the relationship between the state and the people.
Many historians contend that, because Japan, compared with some Western
nation-states, started its modernization relatively late, the government took
charge of active industry-building by training experts and allocating financial
resources instead of waiting for private businesses to evolve. This strong
government leadership is said to have been accepted because of the traditional
prestige and authority associated with the official sector (kan). Many observe
that the same top-down policymaking structure has defined modern Japanese
society.63 Many Marxist scholars have drawn attention to how people have
been marginalized by eugenic laws. Some examine men and women judged as
mentally or physically unfit who were considered for such negative eugenic
measures as sterilization and quarantine.64 And others find that women’s
bodies became the targets of state control.65 These studies tend to portray the
government as the agent objectifying and victimizing ordinary people’s bodies.
 T F B   E  T 75

As far as eugenic legislative efforts were concerned, however, prior to the

enactment of the 1940 National Eugenics Law, private individuals such as
feminists and Christian social reformers started many movements. They
wanted the government to restrict people’s bodies. Naruse Jinzp’s case was
not a legislative effort; but he wanted the government, more precisely
Ministry of Education officials, to see that his college was qualified to attain
university status and used the potential utility of women in conjunction with
the new science of eugenics to try to achieve his goal. Psawa can be seen as
part of the Government since he was employed by a state university and
served as a member of the House of Peers. Yet, even he was unable to legalize
his eugenic policies and sought private activists’ organized support. Well into
the 1930s, the government was attracted by the general eugenic message of
improving the quality of the Japanese population, but many officials
remained decidedly unenthusiastic about actually establishing eugenic policies.
This was so because they were difficult to implement, their effects were
uncertain, and above all, they were long-term investments (taking genera-
tions to get results). Japan could not afford spending its limited resources in
the face of other problems that required immediate actions. Christian
temperance activist Nemoto Shp too was a member of the House of
Representatives.66 Even though the lower house was a part of the state
legislature, there were many instances in which the upper house and the
lower house, as well as the Cabinet and the lower house, had conflicting
views that were difficult to reconcile. In fact, Representatives promoting
eugenic bills in the 1930s once lamented that few bills proposed by the lower
house were ever enacted. Bureaucrats formulated the majority of laws.67
Contrary to the popular image that the state monolithically and eagerly
imposed the eugenic laws on the people, various eugenic legislative move-
ments can also be seen as private citizens’ efforts to convince a reluctant
“state” to take control of Japanese bodies. To negotiate with the unwilling
“state” more effectively, social reformers with varied agendas strategically and
pragmatically mobilized the medical and scientific authority, which Psawa
represented. Psawa’s willingness to work with the social reformers came from
his understanding that a combination of state intervention and voluntarism (or
what he called the “social” approach) would be the best way to counteract
degeneration in the modern era.

C
Examination of Psawa Kenji’s prescriptive eugenic writings and involvement
in social causes illuminates why a physiologist became involved in the
medicalization of constitution/race improvement theory in Meiji Japan.
His physiological interest in diet and reproduction, and a national obsession
for reforming customs and morals led him to look into the science of
race improvement. His interpretation of heredity allowed a greater role for
physical exercise and learning in controlling population quality. He rejected
strict biological determinism that disregarded the impact of physical training
76 S O 

and education. Especially because the Japanese were anxious to correct their
self-defined physical inferiority, eugenics attracted the attention of some
Japanese. Psawa’s training in physiology had much to do with his early
leadership in bodily improvement movements. Psawa’s basic medical (kiso
igaku) research interest bordered biology (zoology) and medicine, as we
have seen in his dissertation on dogs’ spinal cords and his participation in the
zoological conference in Berlin. Historian of science, Suzuki Zenji, saw that
there was a relative lack of interest in eugenics among Japanese biologists.
While the first generation of Japanese geneticists, mostly working on rice and
silkworms, operated in the framework of the faculty of agriculture and were
not funded to extend their research to humans, no other medical specialists
were able to conduct sophisticated experimental research using human
subjects either.68 Only in the 1910s did biologists and medical experts begin
to actively participate in discussions on eugenics.
This chapter also shows Psawa’s crucial role in diffusing race improvement
theory by medicalizing an important life event, namely marriage. His under-
standing of emerging genetic and evolution theories led him to notice the
validity of the female body in race improvement. His “hybrid” eugenics,
which included such elements as the promotion of the Japanese family system
and arranged marriage, and emphasis on the home as women’s sphere of
influence, were compatible with the patriarchal values, invented as authoritative
“traditions” by the Meiji officials and intellectuals.69 At the same time, his
ideas attracted pragmatic feminists such as Hiratsuka Raichp because he
explained scientifically that women were at least equally responsible for
determining the characteristics of offspring.70
Despite the fact that Psawa’s eugenic thought contained oppressive
patriarchal values, from which feminists were struggling to emancipate
themselves, Hiratsuka Raichp sought advice from her former professor. And,
even though Hiratsuka questioned values he believed in, Psawa endorsed
Hiratsuka’s eugenic marriage legislative movement. He saw the feminist
proposal as scientifically sound and good for the nation. The collaboration
between Psawa and Hiratsuka was similar to that between Psawa and others
such as Naruse Jinzp and Nemoto Shp. First, individuals with different
political and social visions came together to advance toward their imme-
diate goals. Second, such an alliance represented the private citizens’ active
agency in influencing state policymaking. What was distinct about the
Psawa–Hiratsuka coalition, however, was that it revealed two remarkably
different interpretations regarding the significance of the female body. For
Psawa the female body was an object to be controlled by the (male) author-
ities. For Hiratsuka and other women, the female body served as a bargain-
ing chip for negotiation and a source of empowerment.

N
1. I would like to thank James Bartholomew, Kevin Doak, Margaret Lock, Morris
Low, Matsubara Ypko, Lawrence Sitcawich, Sharon Traweek, Yuki Terazawa, and
 T F B   E T 77

Rumi Yasutake for generously assisting me during the course of this research.
The quote is from Mark B. Adams, “Toward a Comparative History of Eugenics,”
in The Wellborn Science: Eugenics in Germany, France, Brazil, and Russia, ed. Mark
B. Adams (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), pp. 225–226.
2. For the hierarchy of center and periphery of scientific knowledge production, see
Nancy Stepan, “The Hour of Eugenics”: Race, Gender, and Nation in Latin
America (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), p. 3; Hiroshige Tetsu, Kagaku
to rekishi (Tokyo: Misuzu Shobp, 1965), pp. 103–105; Sharon Traweek,
Beamtimes and Lifetimes: The World of High Energy Physicists (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1988); and Morris Fraser Low, “The Butterfly and the
Frigate: Social Studies of Science in Japan,” Social Studies of Science 1989,
19: 313–342. For the concepts of transplantation, domestication, and translation,
see Joseph J. Tobin, “Introduction: Domesticating the West,” in Re-Made in
Japan: Everyday Life and Consumer Taste in a Changing Society, ed. Joseph J. Tobin
(New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992), 1–41, on p. 4; and Tessa
Morris-Suzuki, “The Great Translation: Traditional and Modern Science in
Japan’s Industrialization,” Historia Scientiarum 1995, 5 (2): 103–116.
3. This was the assessment of the Japanese historian of science Yoshida Mitsukuni,
quoted in James R. Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan: Building a
Research Tradition (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1989), p. 4.
4. For existing work that touches on Psawa’s eugenic ideas, see Suzuki Zenji, Nihon
no yuseigaku: Sono shisp to undp no kiseki (Tokyo: Sankyp Shuppan, 1983), p. 92;
and Saitoh Hikaru, “Chiiku taiiku iden kypikuron o kangaeru: Nihon yuseigakushi
no hitokoma,” Kypto Seika Daigaku kiyp 1993, 5: 168–178, on pp. 171–173.
Neither Saitoh nor Suzuki suggest that Psawa paid a special attention to the
female body. Though she analyzes him more as a sexologist than eugenicist, Sabine
Frühstück, however, notes that Pzawa (Psawa) Kenji identified “chastity,
women’s participation in the workforce outside the home, and birth control” as
the most important “sexual problems” in 1920. See her Colonizing Sex: Sexology
and Social Control in Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2003), p. 104.
5. “Medicalization of life” refers to medical professionals’ attempt to bring various
events, behaviors, and problems into their sphere by diagnosing them as patho-
logical. This means the creation of a new market because previously nonmedical
matters are transformed into something that required health scientific treatment
and care. See Margaret Lock, “Ambiguities of Aging: Japanese Experience and
Perceptions of Menopause,” Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry 1986, 10: 23–46.
6. As Japan improved and expanded its higher education system, modern day Tokyo
University went through numerous organizational changes. Consequently, it was
renamed several times. To avoid unnecessary confusion, I use “Tokyo University”
throughout this chapter.
7. At the time, Strassburg (Fr. Strassbourg), a city in modern-day French province
Alsace-Lorraine (G. Elsass-Lothringen), belonged to the German Empire.
8. About Psawa’s life, see his memoir, Psawa Kenji, Tpei chugo, ed. Nagai Hisomu
(Tokyo: Kyprinsha, 1928). See also K.R. Iseki, ed., Who’s Who Hakushi in Great
Japan 1888–1922 (alternative title: Iseki Kurp, ed., Dai Nihon hakushiroku), Vol. 2
(Tokyo: Hattensha, 1925), pp. 4–5, 27–28 (in English) and 4–5, 26–27 (in
Japanese); Koichi Uchiyama and Chandler McC. Brooks, “Kenji Osawa, a Pioneer
Physiologist of Japan,” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 1965,
20: 277–279; Sakagami Katsuya, ed., Gekidp no Nihon seijishi, Vol. 1, Meiji Taishp
78 S O

Shpwa rekidai kokkai giin shiroku (Tokyo: Asaka Shobp, 1979), p. 958; and
Nihon Seirigaku Kypshitsushi Henshu Iinkai, ed., Nihon seirigaku kypshitsushi,
Vol. 1 (Tokyo: Nihon Seirigakkai, 1983), pp. 272–277.
9. Masao Watanabe, The Japanese and Western Science, trans. Otto Theodor Benfey
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990), p. 79.
10. Fukuzawa Yukichi, “Jiji shpgen,” in Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshu, ed. Keip Gijuku,
Vol. 5 (1881; reprint, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1959), pp. 225–231. Galton
published Hereditary Genius in 1869.
11. For “whitening” and “whiteness” discussion in China, Brazil, and Japan, see
Sakamoto Hiroko, “Ren’ai shinsei to minzoku kairyp no ‘kagaku’: Goshi
shinbunka disukpsu to shite no yusei shisp,” Shisp 1998, 894:4–34, on p. 7;
Stepan, “The Hour of Eugenics,” pp. 154–156; and Morris Low, “The Japanese
Nation in Evolution: W.E. Griffis, Hybridity and Whiteness of the Japanese
Race,” History and Anthropology 1999, 11 (2–3): 203–234.
12. See Takahashi Yoshio, “Nihon jinshu kairyp ron,” in Meiji bunka shiryp spsho,
Vol. 6, Shakai mondai hen, ed. Kaji Ryuichi (1884; reprint, Tokyo: Kazama
Shobp, 1961), pp. 15–55. For studies on this subject, see Suzuki, Nihon no
yuseigaku, pp. 32–44; and Fujino Yutaka, “Kindai Nihon to yusei shisp no juyp,”
in Nihon fashizumu to yusei shisp (Kyoto: Kamogawa Shoten, 1998), pp. 371–394.
In English, see Hiroshi Unoura, “Samurai Darwinism: Hiroyuki Katp and the
Reception of Darwin’s Theory in Modern Japan from the 1880s to the 1900s,”
History and Anthropology 1999, 11 (2–3): 235–255.
13. See Fukuzawa Yukichi, “Nihon fujinron,” in Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshu, Vol. 5,
ed. Keip Gijuku (1886; reprint, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1959), pp. 447–474;
Sugihara Naoko, “Fukuzawa Yukichi no joseiron ni okeru paradaimu tenkan,”
Ningen bunka kenkyu nenpp 1991, 15: 219–229; and Fujino, “Kindai Nihon to
yusei shisp no juyp,” pp. 386–392.
14. Later Psawa wrote an article analyzing the lefthandedness of Katp Hiroyuki in
1899. Psawa also noted that Katp was involved in the mixed marriage debate
a decade and some years earlier, see Psawa Kenji, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu,
(Tokyo: Pkura Shoten, 1909), p. 245.
15. Sumiko Otsubo and James R. Bartholomew, “Eugenics in Japan: Some Ironies of
Modernity, 1883–1945,” Science in Context 1998, 11 (3–4): 545–565, on
pp. 549–552.
16. Paul Weindling, Health, Race, and German Politics between National Unification
and Nazism 1870–1945 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989),
pp. 96–101.
17. Iseki, Who’s Who Hakushi in Great Japan 1888–1922, Vol. 2, pp. 27–28 (in
English) and 26–27 (in Japanese).
18. Iseki, Who’s Who Hakushi in Great Japan 1888–1922, Vol. 2, pp. 4–5 (in English)
and 4–5 (in Japanese) and Nihon Seirigaku Kypshitsushi Henshu Iinkai, Nihon
seirigaku kypshitsushi, Vol. 1, pp. 272–277. While his physiological paper deliv-
ered in Turin was concerned with lefthandedness, his zoological study presented
in Berlin was about the collective move of a kind of fish, Itome. Upon returning
from Europe, he gave a talk on his observation during the trip at a meeting of
the Greater Japan Private Women’s Hygienic Association. See “Pbei ryokpchu ni
kenbun seshi ichi nisetsu,” Fujin eisei zasshi 1902, 155: 1–14.
19. Weindling, Health, Race, and German Politics, p. 7.
20. German theorists mentioned in Psawa’s 1904 work include sociologist Eduard
Gumplowicz, a medical practitioner and advocate of contraceptive devices
 T F B   E T 79

W. Mensinga, professor of obstetrics at University of Freiburg Alfred Heger,

bacteriologist who served as the director of the Department of Health in the
Ministry of Welfare Martin Kirchner, and social hygienist Alfred Blaschko trained
in dermatology.
21. Weindling, Health, Race, and German Politics, p. 9. The German notion of
“social hygiene” and the French notion of “social medicine” were often used
interchangeably. For social hygiene in Japan, see Nihon Kagakushi Gakkai, ed.,
Nihon kagaku gijutsushi taikei, Vol. 25, Igaku Part 2 (Tokyo: Dai-ichi Hpki
Shuppan, 1967), pp. 73–104.
22. For instance, Psawa published a couple of articles regarding the impact of
civilization on the physical and mental quality of humans in 1905. See Nihon
Seirigaku Kypshitsushi Henshu Iinkai, Nihon seirigaku kypshitsushi, Vol. 1, p. 276.
For degeneration, see Ian Dowbiggen, “Degeneration and Hereditarianism in
French Mental Medicine, 1840–1890: Psychiatric Theory as Ideological
Adaptation,” in The Anatomy of Madness, Essays in the History of Psychiatry,
Vol. 1, People and Ideas, ed. W.F. Bynum, Roy Porter, and Michael Shepherd
(London: Tavistock, 1985), pp. 188–232; Daniel Pick, Faces of Degeneration:
A European Disorder, c. 1848–c. 1918 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1989), and Matsubara Ypko, “Meiji-matsu kara Taishp-ki ni okeru shakai mondai
to ‘iden,’ ” Nihon bunka kenkyujo kiyp 1996, 3: 155–169.
23. Pick, Faces of Degeneration, p. 11.
24. Weindling, Health, Race, and German Politics, p. 9.
25. Psawa Kenji, Shaiteki eisei taishitsu kairypron (Tokyo: Kaiseikan, 1904),
pp. 26–27.
26. Ibid., pp. 28, 49–50.
27. Ibid., p. 37.
28. Ibid., pp. 47, 79–85.
29. Ibid., p. 71.
30. Daniel J. Kevles, In the Name of Eugenics: Genetics and the Uses of Human
Heredity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), p. 92 and note 29 on
p. 325; Weindling, Health, Race, and German Politics, pp. 293–294; and Atina
Grossman, Reforming Sex: The German Movement for Birth Control and
Abortion Control, 1920–1950 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), p. 16.
31. Psawa, Taishitsu kairypron, pp. 55–56.
32. Ibid., pp. 70–71.
33. The book, published by Pkura Shoten in Tokyo, is 118 pages in length.
34. See Kathryn Ragsdale, “Marriage, the Newspaper Business, and the Nation-
State: Ideology, in the Late Meiji Serialized Katei Shpsetsu,” Journal of Japanese
Studies 1998, 24 (2): 229–255. As for the Hpchi marriage detective service
(Hpchisha Anshinjo), see its advertisement in the back of Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon
shinsetsu. For agencies investigating lineage, see Fujino, Nihon fashizumu to yusei
shisp, pp. 107, 392–393.
35. Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, pp. 1–2.
36. Ibid., pp. 24–25.
37. Ibid.
38. Pick, Faces of Degeneration, p. 92.
39. Ibid., p. 89.
40. Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, pp. 1–2. Here I translate minzoku as “race.”
However, as Kevin Doak suggests, the meaning of “minzoku” can only be under-
stood within a process of discursive practice. See his “Culture, Ethnicity, and the
80 S O 

State in Early Twentieth-Century,” in Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in

Culture and Democracy, 1900–1930, ed. Sharon A. Minichielllo (Honolulu:
University of Hawaii Press, 1998), pp. 181–205.
41. For the process of redefining middle class in the Meiji period and the significance
of education for the new middle class people, see David R. Ambaras, “Social
Knowledge, Cultural Capital, and the New Middle Class in Japan, 1895–1912,”
Journal of Japanese Studies 1998, 24 (1): 1–33.
42. Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, pp. 95 and 108.
43. Ibid., pp. 183–189.
44. As for Psawa’s definition of physiology, see his textbook, Seirigaku, Nihon Joshi
Daigaku kpgi, no. 9 (Tokyo: Kanda Seibidp, 1928), p. 49.
45. For Nagai’s leadership of a eugenics movement, see Suzuki, Nihon no yuseigaku,
pp. 93, 107, 144, 153–157, 167–168; and Fujino, Nihon fashizumu to yusei shisp,
Chapters 1, 3, 4, and 5.
46. Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, pp. 48–49.
47. Ibid., pp. 48–71. In the Meiji period, the bushidp, a class-specific tradition of the
Tokugawa era, was often used to represent class-encompassing Japanese identity.
See Unoura, “Samurai Darwinism,” and Low, “The Japanese Nation in
Evolution,” p. 227.
48. Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, p. 4.
49. Ptsuka Miyao, Shinpan Meiji ishin to Doitsu shisp, ed. Yamashita Takeshi
(Tokyo: Nagasaki Shuppan, 1977), pp. 322–335; and Hashikawa Bunzp, Kpka
monogatari (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobp, 1976).
50. The Emperor Meiji reigned Japan between 1868 and 1912 (the Meiji period).
On the mobilization of medical science in the construction of racial difference,
see Yuki Terazawa’s contribution to this volume.
51. See Sumiko Otsubo, “Women Scientists and Gender Ideology in Japan,” in
A Companion to the Anthropology of Japan, ed. Jennifer Robertson (Oxford:
Blackwell, 2005).
52. Suzuki Yuko, Joseishi o hiraku, Vol. 1, Haha to onna: Hiratsuka Raichp to
Ichikawa Fusae o jiku ni (Tokyo: Miraisha, 1989), pp. 50–51; and Miyake
Yoshiko, “Kindai Nihon joseishi no saispzp no tame ni: Tekisuto no yomikae,”
Kanagawa Daigaku Hypron Henshu Senmon Iinkai, ed., Kanagaka Daigaku
hypron, Vol. 4, Shakai no hakken (Tokyo: Ochanomizu Shobp, 1994), p. 65.
53. Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, pp. 555–564.
54. Ibid., p. 561.
55. Daniel Pick has discussed the increasing use of medical metaphors in describing
a nation’s historical and social phenomenon in late-nineteenth-century Europe.
See his Faces of Degeneration, pp. 97–99.
56. Psawa, Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, p. 564. Psawa seems to have been influenced by
Katp Hiroyuki’s theory to equate a society to an organism (shakai yukitaisetsu)
and glorification of the altuistic bushidp. See Unoura, “Samurai Darwinism.”
57. Sumiko Otsubo, “Engendering Eugenics: Feminists and Marriage Restriction
Legislation in the 1920s,” in Gendering Modern Japanese History, ed. Barbara
Molony and Kathleen Uno (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center,
forthcoming).
58. Psawa, Taishitsu kairypron, p. 84; and Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, p. 557.
59. Psawa Kenji’s article was originally published in the journal Sei (November
1920). It was reprinted as “Karyubyp danshi kekkon seigen-hp hiketsu no
fujpri,” Josei dpmei 1920, 3: 47–48.
 T F B   E T 81

60. Psawa Kenji, “Shugai to kinshu hphp,” Kuni no hikari 1907, 167: 20–22.
61. Katp Junji, Nemoto Shp-den: Miseinensha inshu kinshu-hp o tsukutta hito (Nagano:
Ginga Shobp, 1995), pp. 167–171.
62. “Dai nijurokkai Teikoku Gikai Kizokuin gijiroku kiroku bassui Psawa igaku
hakushi no shugai dai enzetsu,” Kuni no hikari 1910, 202: 18–24.
63. See, e.g., Chalmers Johnson, MITI and the Japanese Miracle: The Growth of
Industrial Policy, 1925–1975 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1982). See
also the assessment of this influential view in Morris-Suzuki, The Technological
Transformation of Japan: From the Seventeenth to the Twenty-first Century (New
York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 72–77; and Andrew Gordon,
A Modern History of Japan: From Tokugawa Times to the Present (New York:
Oxford University Press, 2003), p. xii.
64. See e.g., Fujino, Nihon fashizumu to yusei shisp, p. 40.
65. See Fujime Yuki, Sei no rekishigaku: Kpshp seido, dataizai taisei kara Baishun
Bpshi-hp, Yusei Hogo-hp taisei e (Tokyo: Fuji Shuppan, 1997), pp. 320–321;
Kondp Kazuko, “Onna to sensp” in Onna to otoko no jiku: Nihon joseishi saikp,
Vol. 6, ed., Okuda Akiko, Semegiau onna to otoko: Kindai (Tokyo: Fujiwara
Shoten, 1995), p. 481.
66. Sheldon Garon has analyzed complex state–society relations, see his “Rethinking
Modernization and Modernity in Japanese History: A Focus on State-Society
Relations,” Journal of Asian Studies 1994, 53 (2): 346–366.
67. “Minzoku Yusei Hogo hp-an iinkai giroku (sokki) daini-kai,” in Dai nanajuy-
onkai, Teikoku Gikai Shugiin iinkai giroku, Shpwa 13, 14 nen, in Teikoku Gikai,
Shugiin iinkai giroku, microfilm ed., reel 31 (1938–1939; reprint, Rinsen Shoin,
1990), p. 369.
68. See Suzuki Zenji, “Yuzenikkusu ni taisuru Nihon no han’np,” Kagakushi kenkyu
1968, 87: 129–136, on p. 135.
69. Andrew Gordon states that “a profound anxiety that something was being lost in
the headlong rush to a Western-focused modernity surfaced with increasing
intensity in the 1880s and 1890s. This worry pushed intellectuals to improvise
new concepts of Japanese ‘traditions.’ It also linked up with the fear of social
disorder and political challenge among state officials. They responded by putting
in place oppressive limits on individual thought and behavior.” See his A Modern
History of Japan, p. 94. For invented traditions in Japan, see Stephen Vlastos, ed.,
Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1998).
70. Psawa, Taishitsu kairypron, p. 37; and Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, pp. 93–95,
195–196.
This page intentionally left blank
 

R B  

S  M J: T
R  R- B R
 G
Yuki Terazawa

I
In his 1908 paper discussing the reproductively active years of women of
various ethnic backgrounds, physician Yamazaki Masashige (1872–1950)
emphasizes the idea that many different “races” reside in the Japanese empire
other than the Japanese race, which he describes as “the race descended from
the imperial line” (tenson shuzoku).1 These so-called inferior races included
the Ainu, the Chinese in Taiwan, Taiwanese aborigines, and the people who
inhabited the Ryukyu islands (the Ryukyuans). Discussing the relations
between the Japanese and these other races, Yamazaki draws on Social
Darwinist thinking: “According to the law in which the superior conquers
the inferior, weaker races will be subordinated by stronger ones. These [infe-
rior] races would either assimilate to a superior one or perish. [As such,]
they will never preserve the original racial characteristics.”2 Believing that
these non-Japanese “races” would eventually become extinct, Yamazaki felt it
urgent to study their racial traits, including differences among the different
races in the onset of menstruation and menopause, while these racial groups
still existed. Yamazaki was one of numerous Meiji scientists who appropriated
from Europe and the United States the notion of race as a scientifically valid
category along with Social Darwinist ideas. Focusing on Yamazaki’s paper,
I examine the way sexed and racialized bodies emerged from scientific and
medical discourses in Japanese history. I also explore how scientific and med-
ical discourses on race were developed in conjunction with discourses and
policies associated with Japan’s nation- and empire-building projects in the
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This case study shows that sci-
entific and medical research, while at times maintaining a certain autonomy,
was never immune to political, social, and economic forces.
84 Y T 

D  “R”  M J

Race was an important concept in European scientific and medical practices
during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Attempts to classify people
into different groups based on the racial characteristics manifested in human
bodies constituted a significant part of medical and anthropological research.
Scholars used increasingly sophisticated methods and instruments, including
photography, for measuring various body parts and identifying racial traits
with precision. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many
anthropologists used the evolutionary paradigms made available by Social
Darwinism to divide people into different racial groups. Differences in spe-
cific physical characteristics, such as the size of the skull, were used not only
as markers for classifying people but also as a means of locating certain racial
groups within a linear civilizing process that mankind inevitably is meant to
undergo. By replacing “species” with “race” in the Darwinian struggle for
survival, they also asserted that some races were destined to perish while
others would prosper.3
As a scientific concept, race was introduced and popularized in Japan in
the late 1870s and in the 1880s through the adoption of Social Darwinism,
eugenics, and anthropological methods. Scientific studies of race in Japan
had been initiated by European and American scholars who went to Japan
beginning in the early 1870s.4 The American zoologist Edward S. Morse
(1838–1925) introduced anthropological and biological methods in Japan
for the first time in the late 1870s.5 As a visiting professor at Tokyo Imperial
University, Morse introduced Darwinian evolutionary theory, even preced-
ing the publication of Japanese translations of Darwin’s works.6 Morse also
contributed to the development of anthropology in Japan through his
famous discovery and excavation of the shell mounds of Omori. Morse’s
interest in Japanese prehistory also led him to explore the racial formation of
the people who lived in Japan during that period.
By the mid-1880s, Japanese intellectuals were engaged in vociferous dis-
cussions on the history and contemporary issues concerning the Japanese
race and its relationship with other racial groups; Social Darwinist thinking
from Europe and the United States played a large role in these discussions.
Once Morse had introduced Charles Darwin and Herbert Spencer’s evolu-
tionary theories, prominent Japanese scholars at Tokyo Imperial University,
such as Toyama Shpichi (1848–1900), Katp Hiroyuki (1836–1916), and
Oka Asajirp (1868–1944), enthusiastically embraced Social Darwinism to
explain the state, politics, human society and history. A version of Social
Darwinism that many Japanese intellectuals adopted postulated the state as a
natural organism and people as individual cells. Based on this thinking, these
scholars argued for the importance of protecting the interests of the state,
which presumably constituted the core of this living organism, even when it
meant sacrificing the well-being of individuals. Furthermore, they used Social
Darwinism to justify economic, political, and social inequality among indi-
viduals as a natural outcome of the theory of natural selection with its need
 R- B  R  G 85

for continuous struggle to ensure the ongoing improvement of the race.

Japanese thinkers also extended the notion of individuals competing with
each other in a “struggle for existence” to nations and racial groups, which
they envisioned as going through a similar process.7
Accepting the notion of an evolutionary scale indicating the level of
advancement reached by each nation, Japanese intellectuals from the Meiji
period generally believed in the inferiority of Japanese people vis-à-vis
European populations. However, this did not lead them to argue that the
Japanese were destined to be defeated in the competition between nations
and racial groups. Rather, they suggested that by implementing adequate
social, economic, educational and public health policies, Japan would be able
to improve its citizen’s physical and mental capacity to advance its civilization,
and to compete against European nations and the United States.
This thinking was demonstrated in the debates about whether Japan should
abolish restrictions on the areas where foreigners were allowed to reside within
Japan and give them freedom to choose their own residences. Those who sup-
ported mixed residency argued that the presence of Westerners would pro-
mote economic, entrepreneurial, and cultural developments in Japan. Some
even proposed that the Japanese should promote interracial marriages with
Westerners in order to strengthen their racial stock. Others vehemently
opposed mixed residency because they thought it would result in Westerners
taking advantage of them economically and monopolizing Japanese resources.
Drawing on Herbert Spencer, some of them suggested that interracial mar-
riages between the Japanese and Westerners would lead to the demise of the
Japanese race because of the rule that the blood of the superior race would
subordinate that of the inferior race when they were blended by marriage.8
Although there were a number of viewpoints in this debate, they were all
framed by Social Darwinist thinking.
In addition to contemplating relations between the Japanese and
European races, both European and Japanese scholars sought to redefine
various racial and ethnic groups in East Asia by using newly introduced
anthropological methods. In addition to Edward Morse, German scholars
and physicians teaching at Tokyo Imperial University led these research efforts.
For example, based on the data obtained by measuring skeletal specimens,
anatomist Wilhelm Dönitz presented a theory about the racial formation of
modern Japanese people. He hypothesized that the Japanese race derived from
the mixing of two different races: the Malay and the Mongoloid.9 Dönitz
claimed that the Mongoloid race included two different types, one of which
was the Ainu.
Contrary to Dönitz, who formed his hypotheses based almost exclusively
on people’s physical traits, Erwin von Baelz (1849–1913), a professor of
internal medicine at Tokyo Imperial University, incorporated differences in
cultural customs into his racial typology. He regarded the Ainu as a separate
racial group from the Japanese belonging to the Caucasian race. He divided
the Japanese group into two distinct types, both of which derived from the
Mongoloid race. The first was what he called the Chpshu type, a group
86 Y T 

whose ancestors migrated from the Chinese continent through Korea and
spread through the Chpshu area—the southwestern tip of Japan’s main
island. They possessed a slender body, a long head, a long face, up-turned
eyes, a nose of a medium height, and a small mouth. Baelz claimed that this
type was often found among upper-class Japanese as well as upper-class
Chinese and Koreans. A second type called the Satsuma type also belonged
to the Mongoloid race but resembled the Malays. According to Baelz, a
larger number of Japanese people, particularly commoners, belonged to this
group. Their ancestors also migrated from the Korean peninsula, but unlike
the first group, they initially settled in southern Kyushu—one of the four
Japanese islands located in the south—before they conquered the rest of
Japan. Their facial and bodily traits were marked by short and stocky stature,
short head, wide and short face, high cheekbones, eyes that were less slanted,
a flat nose, and a large mouth.10

T K D  

“O” J
Following the lead of these European scholars, Japanese anthropologists
also embarked on research on races in Japan and its vicinity. During the
1880s, while Social Darwinism became increasingly popular among Japanese
intellectuals, they began to show a strong interest in studying the racial
identity of the Japanese, especially that of the “original inhabitants” on
Japanese islands during prehistoric ages. This interest culminated in the
so-called Korobokkuru controversy. This debate centered on the question of
who lived in the Japanese islands during the Stone Age, before various groups
of people migrated from the Eurasian continent and islands in Southeast Asia
and the Pacific. The leading anthropologist Tsuboi Shpgorp (1863–1913)
and his followers maintained that the “original Japanese” were the so-called
Korobokkuru tribes who appeared in Ainu mythology, and who were pre-
sumably forced out by the thriving Ainu people at the time. Another group
of anthropologists, including the prominent physical anthropologist and
anatomist Koganei Yoshikiyo (1859–1944), argued that the legendary
Korobokkuru people were in fact an Ainu tribe that inhabited Japan during
the Stone Age.11
Tsuboi’s 1888 research trip to Hokkaidp convinced him that his own
hypothesis was correct. After excavating shell mounds and other prehistoric
remains in Hokkaidp, Tsuboi asserted that the Stone Age people (i.e., the
Korobokkuru people) possessed specific customs and cultural artifacts, such
as living in pits and making clay pottery and stoneware, which were different
from the Ainu culture.12 Taking issue with Tsuboi was Koganei, who accom-
panied Tsuboi on the same research trip. Koganei developed his own theory
based on reports that some Ainu tribes in islands north of Hokkaidp had
engaged in the same cultural practices ascribed to Stone Age people in ques-
tion. Tsuboi’s thesis eventually lost credibility due to the findings of Torii
Ryuzp (1870–1953) on his 1899 research trip to the Chishima islands.
 R- B  R  G 87

Torii discovered that the Ainu tribes in the Chishima islands lived in pits and
used similar stoneware and clay pottery. The Ainu people whom he inter-
viewed demonstrated that such customs had been handed down to them
by their ancestors, not left by other peoples. Moreover, they did not have
any legends about aborigines who had lived on the land before they set-
tled there.13 Such facts suggested the probability that the mythological
Korobokkuru people were an offshoot of the Ainu tribes.
What is of interest here is not the validity of these various arguments, but
the preoccupation that Japanese anthropologists and the general public
developed in the Ainu as a racial “other.” Both Tsuboi’s and Koganei’s fac-
tions shared the basic understanding of the Ainu as an inferior, uncivilized,
and “dying” race.14 Such attitudes about a “primitive race” were only made
possible by the Japanese intellectuals’ appropriation of ethnocentric interest,
methods, and attitudes as embedded in racial theories produced in Europe
and the United States.
The ways in which Japanese scholars discussed racial differences involving
racial or ethnic groups in East Asia were more complex than similar debates
in Europe. As opposed to Europeans, who could often posit an unambiguous
boundary between themselves and “non-European” races, Japanese scholars
could not deny certain affinities between the Japanese and what they consid-
ered other racial groups in East and Southeast Asia. Japanese intellectuals
often strategically cited differences or affinities between the Japanese and
other races in East Asia to pursue political agendas. In order to clarify how,
when, and why specific strategies of exclusion and inclusion were adopted,
we need to conduct extensive research encompassing diverse fields and
historical periods.15 The following case study aims to contribute to such
scholarship.

Y M  W’ B

Many physical anthropological studies from the late nineteenth century
focused on studying the differences between the Ainu and the Japanese,
racial categories that many anthropologists had accepted as indisputable.16
However, by the turn of the twentieth century, when Ryukyu and Taiwan
had become Japanese colonies, some Japanese anthropologists and physicians
asserted that the racial composition of people living within the Japanese
empire was more complex than a simplistic division between the Ainu and
the Japanese. For example, the obstetrician–gynecologist Ogata Masakiyo
(1864–1919) severely criticized German researchers for failing to classify the
Japanese and groups such as the Chinese, the Koreans, and the Ainu as
separate races.17 Some Japanese anthropologists began publishing papers
on the anatomical characteristics of Koreans and a Japanese outcast group
that had been called the “eta” or “kawata” during the Tokugawa period
(1603–1868). Thus, Japanese researchers developed a great deal of interest
in clarifying racial divisions, including the physical and mental traits specific
to each race, in Japan and nearby countries. Yamazaki Masashige’s (1872–1950)
88 Y T 

paper “On Menstruation of Women of Four Races: The Japanese, the Ainu,
The Ryukyuans, and the Chinese” responded to the kind of criticisms leveled
by Ogata and attempted to establish a more complex framework for dealing
with racial differences among East Asian peoples.18
Yamazaki was a leading obstetrician–gynecologist during this period. He
followed a typical career trajectory for an elite physician, studying at the
medical school of the Tokyo Imperial University and receiving his graduate
education in Germany. Upon completing his medical studies, Yamazaki
assumed supervisory positions at several different publicly funded hospitals.
The above-mentioned paper was written while he was presiding over the
gynecology and obstetrics division of Kumamoto hospital, an institutional
affiliation that facilitated access to his research material—women’s bodies.
This work was also facilitated by the professional network he developed while
attending Tokyo Imperial University and working at public hospitals, both of
which provided opportunities to collect data on women of ethnic minorities.
Yamazaki’s paper begins by underlining the importance of studying
women’s reproductive capacity for national purposes and deploring the fact
that Japan lagged far behind European nations and the United States in this
area of research. Studies by European and American researchers, he observes,
indicate that the timing of menarche and the onset of menopause differ in
response to a variety of environmental factors, including geographic location,
climate, custom, the degree of civilization, status, profession, living stan-
dards, nutrition, and health. European researchers had also discovered that
the length of active reproductive years depended on specific conditions per-
taining to each individual, such as certain hereditary traits, personality, and
physique. Yamazaki contends that, even though some Japanese physicians
had conducted statistical research similar to that in Europe and the United
States, they had not sufficiently explored racial differences pertaining to
women living in various parts of the Japanese empire.19
Filling this gap was in fact Yamazaki’s main goal. His study is based on
Social Darwinist notions, appropriated from European studies in which
physicians attempted to correlate the reproductive physiology of different
races and classes to the degree of cultural and material progress each group
had supposedly attained. While Yamazaki shared the basic Social Darwinist
assumptions of European physicians, however, his justification for claiming
the Japanese race to be the superior to other races in the Japanese empire was
unique. His science is mingled with ideas about the mythical past of a mighty
Japanese race that had presumably driven away inferior races such as the Ainu
from Japan’s main island.

Y  J’ C P

Yamazaki attributes the dispersion and assimilation of the Ainu to the spread
of the cultural and political influence of the Yamato race, or as he calls it, “the
race that descended from the Japanese imperial family (tenson shuzoku).”20
During this conflation of mythical, prehistoric, and historic events, Yamazaki
 R- B  R  G 89

even invokes the court-appointed general Sakanoueno Tamuramaro’s

(758–811) campaign to fight against the ezo—the “toad barbarians” in the
East—in the late eighth and early ninth centuries as evidence of the strength
of the Japanese race and the biological feebleness of the Ainu.21
Yamazaki pursues this argument by describing the dire health conditions
of Ainu communities and the rapidly declining Ainu population. He con-
tends that the Ainu had once been a physically robust people, but had dete-
riorated because of the conversion of their hunting fields to agricultural
settlements, depriving them of sufficient game to maintain their traditional
meat-based diet.The rate of infant mortality, according to Yamazaki, was also
very high among the Ainu.22 Yamazaki ignores, however, the Meiji govern-
ment’s aggressive colonial policies, which had developed agricultural settle-
ments in Hokkaidp and thereby deprived the Ainu of their land. Another
reason for the decline of the Ainu population was new diseases transmitted by
Japanese colonizers.23 In Yamazaki’s view, however, inferior races such as
the Ainu were fated to vanish as a result of natural law (shizen no tensoku).24
In this way, the net effect of Yamazaki’s Social Darwinist argument is to
conceal the political and economic processes that were transforming the lives
of the Ainu.
In contrast to his discussion of the Ainu, Yamazaki emphasizes the racial
affinity between the Ryukyuans and the Japanese, leading him to conclude
that as time passed the former would be increasingly assimilated to the latter,
finally losing their particular racial characteristics. Although he dismisses
Japanese colonial policies that subjected Ryukyuans to Japanese rule,
Yamazaki makes the curious argument that Ryukyu had been annexed to
Japan earlier in the Meiji period than any of the other colonies because of
the Ryukyuans’ racial affinity to the Japanese. In this view colonization is a
natural process caused by the presumed biological and cultural similarity of
the two races. As such, the Ryukyuans’ assimilation to the Japanese was an
inevitable result of biological principles. According to Yamazaki, this process
of acculturation began immediately after the annexation and had been
rapidly advancing through interactions with the Japanese and their superior
civilization.25
Yamazaki was also certain that the Chinese people and Taiwanese tribes in
Taiwan would eventually be assimilated into the Japanese race—either that or
they would vanish. In Yamazaki’s view these races had benefited by adopting
Japanese ways after being subjected to Japanese rule following the 1895 Sino-
Japanese War. Unfortunately, there were some Taiwanese aborigines—
Yamazaki refers to them as “raw” aborigines (seiban)—who, unlike “mature”
aborigines (jukuban), had refused to receive the benefits of civilization.
Yamazaki writes that these tribes resided deep in the mountains and main-
tained their barbaric customs, refusing to adopt even Chinese civilization.
Yamazaki predicted that these “raw” natives would follow the same fate as the
Ainu—losing their indigenous customs and eventually disappearing as a race.26
The predicted permanent loss of original racial traits in these presumably
inferior races, whether by assimilation or extinction, posed a serious challenge
90 Y T 

to Yamazaki, who considered it extremely important for scientists to study

such distinct racial characteristics before they disappeared.27 This sense of
urgency was shared by many other Japanese scholars and intellectuals in
diverse fields. Looking upon these “dying races” as objects of intellectual
inquiry, the Japanese researchers deemed it imperative to preserve their lang-
uages, customs, and artifacts in the form of scholarly research, collections of
indigenous literature, and museum exhibits.28 While some Japanese scholars
found their way into indigenous communities as researchers, these intrusions
almost always occurred in collaboration with other types of colonial projects
in such diverse fields as politics, business and education.
Yamazaki’s research, too, was facilitated by the network of colonial insti-
tutions, particularly the publicly funded medical schools and hospitals pre-
sided over by the colonial administration. Indeed, it was by contacting
physicians and educators working on educational projects and in public
medical facilities in the Ryukyu islands, Taiwan, and Ainu communities in
Hokkaidp that he obtained most of his research data. For example, Yamazaki
collected data on Ryukyuan women with the help of assistant directors of the
Okinawa prefectural hospital. Likewise, the physician Takagi Eisen, who
directed research on Chinese women, was one of Yamazaki’s friends who had
once practiced in Kumamoto and was working at that time as a government-
appointed physician in southern Taiwan.29 Data collection on Ainu women
was carried out by Oyabe Zen’ichirp (1867–1941), an American-educated
missionary teacher who was stationed in the Iburi area in southwestern
Hokkaidp. Oyabe’s own research was supplemented by information gathered
by Japanese educators who resided in other towns in the area.30

C D
In order to gather data, Yamazaki and his collaborators needed the cooperation
of women who were able and willing to provide information about their
menstrual cycles. In this regard, Yamazaki confronted many difficulties in
obtaining data from women of minority ethnicities, who were resistant to
discussing menstrual issues with male researchers.31 Even among willing sub-
jects he encountered other problems. Many of the women, for instance, did
not know their correct date of birth or the date of their first menstruation.
Yamazaki was condescending to women of ethnic origins about their igno-
rance of their bodily processes and their unwillingness to share information
about their menstruation cycles with the researchers—an attitude he viewed
as an indicator of cultural backwardness. For example, Yamazaki remarks that
the type of research he wanted to conduct was extremely difficult to carry out
in Taiwan because Chinese women were in the habit of keeping matters of
menstruation strictly among women. According to Yamazaki, this practice
was a manifestation of their “obstinate adherence to old customs” dictating
that contact with men was distasteful.32
In their research with the Ainu, Yamazaki and his colleague Oyabe
encountered a general aversion to interacting with the Japanese. They also
 R- B  R  G 91

found that both Ainu women and men felt very ashamed when asked to talk
about their private parts (inbu ni kansurukoto), including menstruation.
These researchers considered the Ainu’s ignorance about menstruation
appalling. Yamazaki lists his findings as follows: Ainu mothers taught their
daughters about menstruation, but their explanation consisted only of several
words; some Ainu women never even learned the Ainu words for menstruation;
and the men, he believed, often knew nothing about menstruation since
Ainu women never talked with them about menstruation, even with their
fathers and husbands. Yamazaki and Oyabe also refer to the Ainu’s associa-
tion of menstruation with defilement, a belief that prevented women from
worshipping gods during their menstrual periods, as evidence of backward
attitudes and beliefs.33 The difficulties of conducting research on women of
ethnic origin provided Yamazaki an excuse for relying on a small number of
samples, and allowing him to declare that the data that he managed to collect
were invaluable despite their modest scope.34
Yamazaki’s frustrations with collecting data from women of ethnic origin
sheds light on the process by which women were transformed into modern
subjects who could provide biographical and physiological information about
themselves in a language intelligible to medical researchers. Yamazaki wanted
the women to be compliant informants, but transforming them into model
interviewees required an exhaustive colonizing process. Women had to be
taught to communicate in the proper way, whether it was in their native
language or the language of the researchers, and it was necessary to equip
them with new ideas and attitudes in order to break down their deep-seated
reluctance to discuss reproductive issues with strangers and men in general.
This educational process involved replacing an existing local understand-
ing about bodily phenomena with one provided by modern medical science.
In order for this to happen, women had to recognize the authority of medical
researchers in a form that would make them responsive to the researchers’
requests. In other words, the women had to be made into acquiescent
modern subjects with certain views and attitudes who would collaborate with
the modern medical establishment in accumulating discursive knowledge.
The efforts by Yamazaki and his colleagues to gather knowledge about
indigenous women’s bodies was thus facilitated, and in some cases enabled,
by state-supported medical projects that were first established in Japan and
gradually extended to its colonies.
Yamazaki’s accounts of his failure in conducting research on Taiwanese
aborigines, however, indicate the limits of colonial institutional practices
beyond mainland Japan in 1908, the year he published his study. Japanese
colonial power in its military, political, and cultural forms had not yet pene-
trated into the society of these Taiwanese tribes, a fact that made it difficult
or impossible for Yamazaki to gather data from them. Yamazaki believed that
acculturating these so-called savages would be extremely difficult; he
depicted them as barbaric, violent, cruel beings who preferred killing to
civilized means of resolving disputes.35 However, the militant customs he
discussed with such hostility, frustration, and fear also effectively prevented
92 Y T 

Table 4.1 Average age of menarche for Japanese, Ainu, Ryukyuan, and Chinese women

Japanese Ainu Ryukyuan Chinese

Number of 23,754 80 184 135

informants
Average age of 15 years, 15 years, 16 years, 16 years,
the onset of 1st month 2nd month 1st month 7th month
menstruation

Source: Yamazaki Masashige, “Nihon, Ainu, Ryukyu, oyobi Shina yon shuzoku fujin no gekkei ni tsuite,”
Ogata fujin kagaku kiyp 1908, 2: 148–170.

Japanese colonial power from reaching these aboriginal Taiwanese tribes and
turning their women into docile subjects ready to collaborate with modern
medical research.
The difficulties in obtaining data from women of ethnic origins were
reflected in the immense discrepancy between the number of Japanese
informants and those of women in other categories. In order to calculate the
average age of menarche for Japanese women, Yamazaki used research results
of thirteen other scholars as well as his own: the total number of women
interviewed was 23,754. In comparison the number of informants from eth-
nic communities was significantly smaller; 80 Ainu women, 184 Ryukyuan
women, and 135 Chinese women36 (see table 4.1). This data suggested
that Japanese women began menstruating at the earliest age, 15 years and
1 month, followed by the Ainu women, whose average age for menarche was
15 years and 2 months. The average ages of the Ryukyuan and Chinese
women were 16 years and 1 month, and 16 years and 7 months respectively.37

U  D

Having obtained these results, Yamazaki proposes an initial hypothesis in his
paper: that climate is the major factor determining the average age of menar-
che. The warmer the climate, the earlier women would start menstruating.
According to this theory, Chinese women in Taiwan would commence
menstruation the earliest, followed by the Ryukyuans, the Japanese, and the
Ainu.38 However, Yamazaki’s data obviously contradict this assumption. In
order to explain this paradox, Yamazaki asserts that the climatic variations
among Hokkaidp, the Japanese islands, the Ryukyuan islands, and Taiwan
were not as significant as the Japanese imagined.39 If people considered
Hokkaidp’s altitude, he argues, they would realize that its position was actu-
ally comparable to other “civilized nations” in Europe.40 Yamazaki supports
his claim by citing the German physician Erwin von Baelz, who suggested
that the climate of Hokkaidp was similar to that of his home country.41 At the
same time, Yamazaki alleges that although some parts of Taiwan belong
to semi-tropical zones, the heat of the summer is mitigated to a large extent
because it is an island surrounded by the ocean, thus making its climate
comparable to that of Kyushu.42 In this way, Yamazaki portrays the climatic
influences as minor, if not completely irrelevant.
 R- B  R  G 93

If climatic variation did not explain the differences in the timing of menarche
among women of diverse racial groups, what did? At this point Yamazaki
invokes the notion of cultural practices. Viewed through his ethnocentric
lens, these practices provide an explanation for differences in race-specific
female reproductive physiology. According to Yamazaki and his collaborator
Takagi, Chinese women in Taiwan commenced menstruation later than
women of other racial groups because their adherence to backward customs
prohibited them from receiving both the “social stimulus” (shakaiteki
shigeki) and physical exercise these researchers deemed indispensable for
developing a healthy body. Takagi observes that Chinese women, particularly
those from upper-class families, lived in the dark interior of their mansions
and never interacted with men. Some of them, he continues, even used the
lavatory inside their rooms. Yamazaki concludes that such a sedentary and
withdrawn lifestyle, reinforced by the practice of foot-binding, results in a
weak constitution. Chinese women, in his view, also lacked access to “social
stimuli” due to the presumed fact that their society lagged behind the
Japanese in terms of worldly progress and civilization.43
Yamazaki implies that Ryukyuan women shared some of the backward
customs maintained by Chinese women in Taiwan; however, the degree to
which they had adopted modern civilization was greater than their Chinese
counterparts.44 Because of this, he suggests that Ryukyuan women generally
started menstruation earlier than Chinese women. While cultural backward-
ness and a lack of physical exercise explained the relatively late ages at which
Chinese and Ryukyuan women started menstruation, Yamazaki focuses solely
on the benefits of exercise for rationalizing Ainu women’s early menarche.
Unlike the inactive and secluded life of Chinese women, Yamazaki describes
the majority of Ainu women as engaging in fishing and farming in ways not
so different from men. According to Yamazaki, this helped Ainu women to
develop a stronger constitution.45
While this reasoning solved the problem of why Ainu women experienced
menarche at an earlier age than Chinese and Ryukyuan women, it does
not explain why some Ainu women started menstruation earlier than Japanese
women. Since Ainu society was presumably so culturally backward (kaimei
no teido otori) and Ainu people lived in a colder climate, these research
results presented him with a disturbing problem.46 In response, Yamazaki
develops the idea of “innate racial characteristics” embodied in the body’s
physiology.47
Yamazaki believed that these “racial peculiarities” would be mitigated and
even offset by climatic and other factors over a long period; however, such
innate racial traits would sometimes become a major determinant of certain
physiological phenomena. Yamazaki cites the example of English women
born in India, who started menstruating later than Indian women, just as
women in England did. In this case, intrinsic, racially specific physiological
processes overpowered the climatic influence.48 Yamazaki suggests that there
must be inborn racial particularities governing the body’s physiological
processes. These were responsible for the Ainu women’s early menstruation,
94 Y T 

even though modern medical science had not yet elucidated the physiological
mechanism for these mysterious race-based attributes.49
The notion of “racial peculiarities” served as a convenient deus ex machina
that could be used to explain away contradictory evidence as a product of
unspecified racial differences. The selective application of racially determined
bodily differences sustained Yamazaki’s racial hierarchy, along with its under-
lying Social Darwinist assumptions, by preventing a rethinking of the theo-
retical framework, despite the presence of discordant data. Perhaps an even
more important consequence was that the concept of race-based biological
difference, in collaboration with other scientific ideas and practices, substan-
tiated and legitimized “race” as a category endowed with scientific authority.
This is especially true if one considers that Yamazaki’s proposal of race-
specific differences as the cause of differences in the timing of menarche was
little more than an unsubstantiated assumption. In Yamazaki’s thinking, how-
ever, this notion played a major role in reifying racial differences and for
sustaining the Social Darwinist theories his research data supposedly support.
Yamazaki also invokes Social Darwinism to explain the reproductive cycles
of women from the same racial group but different social backgrounds.
However, he only applies this analysis to Japanese women, not other ethnic
minorities. In fact, he fails to mention any diversity at all among women
of ethnic communities. By consigning the women of each ethnic group to a
singular category, Yamazaki reinforces the idea that their bodies were charac-
terized by overriding “racial” traits. There are also striking methodological
problems with his investigation of the influence of class, occupation, geography,
and other factors on Japanese women’s reproductive years. In general, these
analyses lack solid numerical evidence. Nor does he provide a convincing
explanation of exactly how Social Darwinism accounts for the supposed
differences among different classes within the same racial group.
His ill-defined research method is illustrated by the way Yamazaki catego-
rized 1,583 Japanese female informants according to the routes through
which he gained access to them as research samples (see table 4.2). The first
group included 900 female patients who visited the obstetrics and gynecology
division of the Kumamoto prefectural hospital. Their average age of menarche

Table 4.2 Average age of menarche for Japanese women of different categories at the
Kumamoto Prefectural Hospital

Regular patients Students in nursing Licensed

and midwifery prostitutesa

Number of 900 112 572

informants
Average age of 14 years, 10th month, 14 years, 6th month, 15 years, 1st month,
menarche 15th day 12th day 11th day

Note: a While Yamazaki does not specify in his paper, they most likely visited the hospital for state-mandated
examinations and treatment of venereal diseases.
Source: Yamazaki, p. 126.
 R- B  R  G 95

was the fifteenth day of the tenth month of the year when they were 14 years
old. The second category was 112 students of nursing and midwifery, who
on average began menstruating on the twelfth day of the sixth month at the
age of 14. The third group was comprised of 572 licensed prostitutes, who
on average began menstruating the eleventh day of the first month at the age
of 15.50 Despite his presentation of this numerical evidence, Yamazaki pro-
vided no explanation for these data.
Yamazaki also classified women according to the occupation of their
fathers or families. He claims that women whose families ran restaurants and
hotels started menstruation the earliest, followed by daughters of fishermen,
public servants, physicians, attorneys, and teachers. Next were women whose
fathers were unemployed, who worked for commercial and industrial estab-
lishments, and who engaged in farming. Daughters of laborers commenced
menstruation the latest of all.51 Here Yamazaki even fails to provide numerical
data or explanations for the research results.
This rudimentary presentation of the influence of social background on
women’s reproductive physiology is followed by very general remarks about
the effects produced by class differences and the urban or rural environment
in which women were brought up. Yamazaki concludes that women from
“higher society” (jptp shakai) tend to commence menstruation at an earlier
age than those from “lower society” (katp shakai), a conclusion reinforced by
his comment that the average age of the first menstruation of women from
wealthy households was earlier than for women from poor families. In addi-
tion, he claims that women who lived in cities and towns generally began
menstruating earlier than those who lived in rural areas.52 Although the exact
reasons for these differences are unclear, this section continues to show the
influence of Social Darwinism in its assumption that menarche is hastened
by exposure to a “civilized” lifestyle, and the rather strange corollary that
women who start menstruating earlier are somehow more “advanced” than
women who start later.
Taken in sum, Yamazaki’s analysis reveals the emergence of medical dis-
courses predicated on the notion of biological differences among the bodies of
different classes; however, the extent to which Yamazaki explores that line of
examination is quite limited. Unlike some European scholars of the time,
Yamazaki does not rigorously argue that there are differences in reproductive
physiology between women from the upper and middle classes and those from
working class and impoverished peasant families. Moreover, he does not
explicitly invoke Social Darwinist theory to explain the differences in the tim-
ing of menarche for women from different social backgrounds. Yamazaki does
not seem to be overtly influenced by scientific, medical, and popular discourses
of the time that were increasingly defining the minds and bodies of lower-class
people, criminals, and prostitutes as deviant from those of “normal” people of
upper- and middle-class backgrounds. Nor does he allude to ethnocentric dis-
courses prevalent at that time, which described the “peculiar” living conditions
and cultural habits of lower-class Japanese women and poor peasant women in
rural areas. This could be partly due to the fact that at the turn of the twentieth
96 Y T 

century when Yamazaki wrote this paper, these discourses had not yet been as
well-developed and widely circulated as they were after the 1910s.53
Yamazaki’s perfunctory class-based analysis suggests the primacy of race in
his analytical framework. The preeminence of racial difference in his thought
is reinforced by the ethnocentric comments he makes about Chinese and Ainu
women’s attitudes and practices. These comments seem designed to empha-
size the distance between the women of other races and Japanese women, who
appear in Yamazaki’s discourse as the bearers of a desirable progressive spirit.
Despite his attempts to draw a rigid boundary between women in the two cat-
egories, however, the very backward attitudes that he ascribes to women of
other ethnic origins are precisely those that many Japanese health reformers
had identified in Japanese women and wished to change. For example, public
officials and medical experts often viewed Japanese women’s inactive lifestyles
vestiges of an obsolete feudal past that could seriously hamper their efforts to
nurture the healthy bodies and minds that the nation’s women required.
Moreover, associating menstruation with defilement, a custom both Yamazaki
and Oyabe observed among Ainu women, was a pervasive and deep-seated
belief among the Japanese as well. Publicly minded physicians and midwives
viewed these attitudes as unenlightened and advocated replacing them with an
understanding of menstruation provided by modern medical science.54
Yamazaki fails to mention any of these views of Japanese medical professionals
concerning the practices of Japanese women.
In light of these issues, Yamazaki’s censure of the perceived backward
attitudes among women of ethnic origins may well have been a projection of
his own unacknowledged anxieties about Japanese women’s practices and
bodies. As in many other colonial discourses, undesirable elements pertaining
to Japan as well as its colonies are looked upon as something embodied by
the “Other,” making Japanese society look clean and flawless. Emphasizing
the “backwardness” of the indigenous practices of ethnic minorities and
keeping silent about similar Japanese practices helps to reinforce the pre-
sumed racial boundaries, consigning the Japanese to a dominant position. If
we follow the Japanese scholar Tomiyama Ichirp, who attributed the forma-
tion of a specifically “Japanese” identity to the exploration of other racial
and ethnic groups, Yamazaki’s research was part of a conceptual process of
establishing the “Japanese people” as a unitary group that belonged to a
superior civilization defined in opposition to other racial or ethnic groups
within Japan and its vicinity.55

C
Between the 1880s and 1910s, the period in which Japan emerged as an
imperialist power in East Asia, Japanese scholars pursued ongoing research
into racial differences in Japan and Asia. As a result, both women and men
presumed to belong to different racial groups became objects of medical and
scientific investigations. As demonstrated in Yamazaki’s work, their bodies
were subordinated to particular discursive methods of measurements and
 R- B  R  G 97

statistical computation. Through school education and exposure to modern

medical and scientific knowledge provided by medical practitioners and the
popular press, people in both Japan and its colonies were eventually trans-
formed into subjects who could and would provide information about their
bodies’ condition and history to researchers in an intelligible language.
Ultimately, such studies substantiated racial differences and reinforced the
idea of a particular racial hierarchy.
It is also crucial to remember that particular theories and methods for
defining race emerged at a particular historical period and are replaced by
other methods sooner or later. For example, the enthusiastic appropriation of
Social Darwinism across various fields occurred largely before the 1920s.
This is evidenced by the sociologist Shimoide Spkichi’s remark that very few
students were reading Herbert Spencer by the late 1920s.56 Also, while the
tradition of physical anthropology remained a significant academic discipline
until the late twentieth century in Japan, its popularity was eclipsed by the
rise of ethnology and folklore studies from the 1910s onward.57 This shift
was marked by Japanese scholars’ increasing preference for the more cultur-
ally embedded notion of “minzoku” to indicate a racial/ethnic group or a
people, instead of the more biological term “jinshu.” Thus, certain scholarly
disciplines and methods provided particular definitions of what the Japanese
called the jinshu and minzoku, depending upon the historical period.58
Keeping this in mind, we should strive to understand the changing
dynamics among different scholarly fields, how they produced various racial
theories, and the effects of these shifting disciplinary configurations in
reshaping both academic and public discussions on race, ethnicity, and
nation. This chapter attempts to contribute to advancing such scholarship by
exploring the genealogy of race science in Japan in the late nineteenth cen-
tury and the turn of the century, but it does not discuss the development of
the scientific studies of race after the 1920s. Given the strong interest among
historians of science, medicine and technology in studying the implications of
race science and its effects, I am hopeful that rigorous and creative research
will continue to be carried out to expand our knowledge in this area.

N
1. “Tenson” refers to “descents from the heaven” or “descents from the Japanese
imperial line.” The latter meaning originates in the idea that Japanese emperors are
direct descendants of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu, and all Japanese are presumably
descended from the first emperor Jinmu.
2. Yamazaki Masashige, “Nihon, Ainu, Ryukyu, oyobi Shina yon shuzoku fujin no
gekkei ni tsuite,” Ogata fujin kagaku kiyp 1908, 2: 108–177, on pp. 110–113.
3. For the development of modern race science in Europe and the United States,
see, e.g., Nancy Stepan, The Idea of Race in Science: Great Britain, 1800–1960
(Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1982); Frank Spencer, “Anthropometry,” History
of Physical Anthropology: An Encyclopedia, ed. Frank Spencer (New York and London:
Garland Publishing Inc., 1997), pp. 80–89; Stephen Jay Gould, The Mismeasure of
Man (New York: Norton, 1996); Lee Baker, From Savage to Negro: Anthropology
98 Y T 

and the Construction of Race, 1896–1954 (Berkeley: University of California Press,

1998); John S. Haller, “Race and the Concept of Progress in Nineteenth Century
American Ethnology,” American Anthropologist June 1971, 73 (3): 710–722; Paul
Weindling, Health, Race and German Politics between National Unification and
Nazism 1870–1945 (Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press, 1989);
Benoit Massin, “From Virchow to Fischer: Physical Anthropology and ‘Modern
Race Theories’ in Wilhelmine Germany,” in Volksgeist as Method and Ethic: Essays
on Boasian Ethnography and the German Anthropological Tradition, ed. George W.
Stocking (Madison, Wis.: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996), pp. 79–154.
4. Some scholars from the Tokugawa period engaged in ethnological studies of racial
groups they considered to be different from the Japanese. Such studies, however,
did not seem to have had a major influence on the type of scientific studies on race
I consider in this chapter. It is possible that the views of race developed in the
Tokugawa period had an impact in shaping the type of research Tsuboi Shpgorp
and his followers developed in cultural anthropology. However, such a line of
investigation is out of the scope of this paper. For ethnological studies in the
Tokugawa period, see, Margarita Winkel, “Academic Traditions, Urban Dynamics
and Colonial Threat: the Rise of Ethnography in Early Modern Japan,” in
Anthropology and Colonialism in Asia and Oceania, eds. Jan van Bermen and
Akitoshi Shimizu (Richmond, Great Britain: Curzon Press, 1999), pp. 40–64.
5. Morse had studied under the prominent naturalist Louis Agassiz (1807–1873) at
Harvard University. In 1859, the year after Morse became Agassiz’s assistant,
Charles Darwin published On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection.
Although Agassiz was highly skeptical of Darwin’s theory of evolution in its
entirety, Morse, who was studying brachiopods, was intrigued by Darwin’s
hypothesis. Yoshioka Ikuo, Nihon jinshu ron no makuake: Mpsu to Omori kaizuka
(Tokyo: Kypritsu Shuppan, 1987), pp. 32–33.
6. Morse’s lectures on Darwinism were transcribed and translated by Ishikawa
Chiyomatsu (1860–1935), and published as Dpbutsu shinkaron (Animal evolu-
tionism) (1883). Suzuki Zenji, Nihon no yuseigaku (Tokyo: Sankyp Shuppan,
1983), pp. 24–25.
7. Akira Nagazumi, “The Diffusion of the Idea of Social Darwinism in East and
Southeast Asia,” Historia Scientiarum March 1983 (24): 1–18; Eikoh Shimao,
“Darwinism in Japan, 1877–1927,” Annals of Science 1981, 38: 93–102; Saitp
Shpji, Nihon shakaigaku seiritsu shi no kenkyu (Tokyo: Fukumura Shuppan, 1976),
pp. 111–206; Unoura Hiroshi, “Samurai Darwinism: Hiroyuki Katp and the
Reception of Darwin’s Theory in Modern Japan from the 1880s to the 1900s,”
History and Anthropology 1999, 11 (2–3): 235–255; and “Kindai nihon ni okeru
shakai dawinizumu no juyp to tenkai,” in Kpza shinka vol. 2: Shinka shisp to shakai,
ed. Shibatani Atsuhiro, Nagano Kei, Yprp Takeshi (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku
Shuppankai, 1991), pp. 119–152; Watanabe Masao, “Meiji Nihon ni okeru shinka
ron no juyp,” Dawin to shinkaron (Tokyo: Kypritsu Shuppan, 1984), pp. 192–210.
Regarding the reception of Darwinism in Japan, Watanabe stresses that Japanese
intellectuals primarily accepted Darwinism as a simplified form of Social Darwinism
to shape social scientific views, rather than a scientific theory to be discussed in the
field of biology. Watanabe also asserts that Darwinism was readily accepted by
Japanese students because there was very little opposition against Darwinian evolu-
tionism based on Christian beliefs. Watanabe’s explanation seems still insufficient to
account for the widespread influence of Darwinism in Meiji intellectual scenes, and
more research is needed. For a discussion of various appropriations of evolutionism
 R- B  R  G 99

by political theorists and activists during the Meiji period, see Julia A. Thomas,
Reconfiguring Modernity: Concepts of Nature in Japanese Political Ideology
(Berkeley and Los Angeles: California University Press, 2001).
8. Shimoide Spkichi, Meiji shakai shisp kenkyu (Tokyo: Asano Shoten, 1932),
pp. 224–231. A critic who advocated interracial marriage between the Japanese
and European races was Takahashi Yoshio, a student of Fukuzawa Yukichi. Katp
Hiroyuki presented a counterargument against Takahashi’s assertion. Suzuki
Zenji discusses this controversy in Suzuki (1983), pp. 32–44. See also Takahashi
Yoshio, Nihon jinshu kairyp ron (Tokyo: Jiji Shinppsha, Maruzen, etc., 1884).
More on the debate on racial mixing in Meiji Japan, see Morris Low, “The
Japanese Nation in Evolution: W. E. Griffis, Hybridity and the Whiteness of the
Japanese Race,” History and Anthropology 1999, 11 (2–3): 203–204.
9. Terada Kazuo, Nihon no jinruigaku (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1981), p. 30;
Oguma Eiji, Tan’itsu minzoku shinwa no kigen (Tokyo: Shinypsha, 1995), p. 22.
See also, W. Dönitz, “Beobachtungen an Becken von Japanerinnen,” Mitt. d.
Deutsch. Gesellschaft f. Natur-und Volkerkunde Ostasiens, Heft 11, November
1876. This paper is cited in Ogata Masakiyo, Nihon sanka gakushi (Tokyo: Kagaku
Shoin, 1980, reprint, originally published in 1914), pp. 1087–1089, 1228.
10. Erwin Baelz, “Die Koerperlichen Eigenschaften der Japaner,” Mitteilungen
der deutschen Gesellschaft f. Natur-u. Volkerkunde ostasiens, Heft 32, 1885,
pp. 35–103. A partial Japanese translation of this paper is found in Yasui Hiroshi,
Berutsu no shpgai (Kyoto: Shibunkaku, 1995), pp. 275–315. See also Suzuki
Hisashi, “Koganei Yoshikiyo sensei to Erwin von Baelz hakushi,” Jinruigaku
zasshi March 1974, 82 (1): 6; Kudp Masaki, Kenkyushi: Nihon jinshu ron (Tokyo:
Yoshikawa Kpbunkan, 1979), pp. 67–69; Terada, Nihon no jinruigaku, p. 30;
Oguma, Tan’itsu minzoku shinwa no kigen, pp. 22–23. Baelz’s research did not
influence the development of anthropological studies in Japan extensively. This is
partly because he only taught courses in medicine and did not teach anthropology
to Japanese students or even meet with those who belonged to the anthropolog-
ical study group at the university. Moreover, his measuring method was different
from the one that was adopted in the 1882 Frankfurt agreement that established
a standard measuring system. Suzuki Hisashi speculates that due to this fact
Japanese anthropologists who were active after Baelz’s time could not use Baelz’s
research results. Suzuki Hisashi, pp. 5–6.
About Baelz’s life in Japan, see Toku Berutsu, Berutsu no nikki (Tokyo:
Iwanami Shoten, 1951–1955); F. Shottorenda, Eruuin fon Berutsu (Tokyo:
Pzorasha, 1995, a Japanese translation of Erwin von Baelz by Felix Schottlaender,
published in 1928); Yasui, Berutsu no shpgai, op.cit.; Shumitto-Muraki Masumi,
Hana Berutsu e no tabi (Tokyo: Kpdansha, 1993).
11. The Korobokkuru debate started in 1884 when Watase Shpzaburp suggested at
the Japan Anthropological Society’s annual meeting the possibility of the histor-
ical existence of the Korobbokuru as a distinct people. Basing his theory on his
studies of prehistoric remains in Hokkaidp, he implied that the Korobbokuru,
who appeared in Ainu mythology, may have once actually existed. However, this
hypothesis was rebuffed by Shirai Kptarp (1863–1932), one of the original mem-
bers of the Anthropological Society. In his 1887 essay published in The Journal
of Anthropology (Jinruigaku zasshi), Shirai argued that the Korobokkuru people
was likely to have been one of the Ainu tribes, and not a separate racial group
from the Ainu. Tsuboi, for his part, endorsed Watase’s thesis by referring to the
discoveries of remains in Hokkaidp that indicated the presence of people whose
100 Y T 

lifestyle had a distinct cultural pattern from that of the Ainu. Kudp, Kenkyushi,
pp. 83–92; Terada, Nihon no jinruigaku, pp. 55–59.
12. Ibid., pp. 93–96; Ibid., pp. 59–62.
13. Ibid., pp. 116, 120–124; Ibid., pp. 63, 81–82.
14. For example, Koganei believed that the Ainu race, which had once been the
inhabitants of Japan, was expelled from Japan’s main island due to the invasion of
the presumably stronger and superior Japanese race. As a result, they were living
only in Hokkaidp by the time Koganei conducted his research. More specifically,
he considered the Ainu as a declining racial group compared to the thriving
Japanese race which he thought possessed a more advanced civilization than the
one that the Ainu maintained. Kudp Masaki, “Ikakei jinruigaku no seiritsu to
sono tokushitsu,” Tphoku rekishi kan kenkyu kiyp 1978, 4: 4–5. For various repre-
sentations of the Ainu as a “dying race,” see Richard Siddle, Race, Resistance and
the Ainu of Japan (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 76–112.
15. In Tan’itsu minzoku shinwa no kigen, Oguma Eiji makes a valuable contribution
on this issue. Oguma (1995). See also his more recent work, Nihonjin no kypkai:
Okinawa, Ainu, Taiwan, Chpsen, shokuminchi shihai kara fukki undp made
(Tokyo: Shinypsha, 1998). A discussion of Japanese appropriations of race theory
and evolutionism in the larger context of the colonization of Asia and the Pacific
is found in Christine Dureau and Morris Low, “The Politics of Knowledge:
Science, Race and Evolution in Asia and the Pacific,” History and Anthropology
1999, 11 (2–3): 131–156.
16. See, e.g., Y. Koganei and G. Osawa, “Das Becken der Aino und der Japaner,”
MittheilungenI Aus Der Medicinischen Facultat Der Kaiserlich-Japanischen
Universitat Zu Tokio, IV. Band., 1900. A Japanese translation of this paper is
found in Ogata, pp. 1227–1269.
17. Ibid., pp. 1090–1091.
18. Yamazaki, “Nihon, Ainu, Ryukyu, oyobi Shina yon shuzoku fujin no gekkei ni
tsuite,” op.cit., pp. 108–177. According to Ogata’s Nihon sanka gakushi, this
paper was also published in 1909 in German as M. Yamazaki, “Ueber den Beginn
der Menstruation ei den Japanerinnen, mit einem Anhang ueber die Menge bei
den Chinesinnen, den Riukiu-und Ainofrauen in Japan.” Ogata does not indicate
where the German version was published. Ogata, p. 1762.
19. Ibid., pp. 108–110.
20. Ibid., p. 110. The Japanese word, “minzoku,” which was used by Yamazaki for
the translation of “race” as a scientific term, also connotes “people” or “ethnic
group.” It seems that Yamazaki took advantage of the word’s ambiguity to
conflate the scientific definition of “race” with “people,” implying a grouping by
historical and cultural factors.
21. Ibid., pp. 111–113. Whether the ezo from the eighth and ninth centuries was
identical to the Ainu has been a point of contention among Japanese scholars.
However, it is highly likely that Yamazaki assumed that the ezo was the ancestor
of the Ainu from the Meiji period because the term, ezo, was used to indicate the
Ainu since the thirteenth century. See William Wayne Farris, Heavenly Warriors:
The Evolution of Japan’s Military, 500–1300 (Cambridge, Mass.: Council on East
Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1995), pp. 82–83.
22. Yamazaki, op.cit., p. 112.
23. For health conditions of the Ainu in the late nineteenth and early twentieth cen-
tury, see, e.g., Fujino Yutaka, Nihon fashizumu to yusei shisp (Kyoto: Kamogawa
Shuppan, 1998), pp. 216–259.
 R- B  R  G 101

24. Ibid., p. 111. For Japanese policy toward the Ainu during the Meiji (1868–1912)
and Taishp (1912–1926) periods, see Enomori Susumu, Ainu no rekishi (Tokyo:
Sanseidp, 1987) and Takagi Hiroshi, “Ainu minzoku e no dpka seiseku no seir-
itsu,” in Kokumin kokka wo tou, ed. Rekishigaku Kenkyukai (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten,
1994), pp. 166–183; Richard Siddle, “The Ainu and the Discourse of ‘Race’, ”
in The Construction of Racial Identities in China and Japan, ed. Frank Dikötter
(Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1997), pp. 136–157; David L. Howell,
“The Meiji State and the Logic of Ainu ‘Protection’, ” in New Directions in the
Study of Meiji Japan, ed. Helen Hardacre, with Adam L. Kern (Leiden, New
York, and Köln: Brill, 1997), pp. 612–634. For Tokugawa state policy toward
Ainu over the issue of vaccinations, see Brett L. Walker, “The Early Modern
Japanese State and Ainu Vaccinations: Redefining the Body Politic 1799–1868,”
Past & Present, May 1999, 163: 121–160.
25. Yamazaki, “Niton, Ainu, Ryukyu, oyobi Shina yon shuzoku fujin no gekkei ni
tsuite,” p. 112.
26. Ibid., pp. 110–113.
27. Ibid., pp. 112–113.
28. About this issue, see Murai Osamu, “1910 nen nêshon and narêshon: teikoku no
katari/metsubp no katari,” a paper presented at the annual meeting for the
Association of Asian Studies, April 1996; and also Nantp ideorogî no seiritsu
(Tokyo: Pta Shuppan, 1995), pp. 164–166.
29. Yamazaki, “Nihon, Ainu, Ryukyu, oyobi Shina yon shuzoku fujin no gekkei ni
tsuite,” pp. 118, 166.
30. Ibid., pp. 118–119, 157–158.
31. Ibid., pp. 119–120, 157.
32. Ibid., pp. 119–120.
33. Ibid., pp. 156–157.
34. Ibid., pp.119, 120.
35. Ibid., pp. 110–111.
36. Ibid., pp. 158–159, 162, 166, 194.
37. Ibid., pp. 157, 163, 167, 169.
38. Ibid., pp. 171–172.
39. Ibid., p. 172.
40. Ibid., pp. 172, 174.
41. Ibid., p. 174.
42. Ibid., pp. 172–173.
43. Ibid., pp. 174–175.
44. Ibid.
45. Ibid., p. 174.
46. Ibid., p. 175.
47. Ibid.
48. Ibid., p. 173.
49. Ibid., pp. 173, 175.
50. Ibid., p. 126.
51. Ibid., p. 126.
52. Ibid., p. 127.
53. See, e.g., Michael Weiner, “The Invention of Identity: Race and Nation
in Pre-war Japan,” in The Construction of Racial Identities in China and
Japan, ed. Frank Dikötter (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997),
pp. 96–117.
102 Y T 

54. See Yuki Terazawa, Chapter Five, “The Role of the State, Midwives, and
Expectant Mothers in Childbirth Reforms in Meiji and Taishp Japan,” and
Chapter Six, “Women’s Health Reforms in Japan at the Turn of the Twentieth
Century,” in “Gender, Knowledge, and Power: Reproductive Medicine in Japan,
1690–1930,” unpublished Ph.D. diss., UCLA, 2001. For the discussions of
menstruation by Japanese obstetrician–gynecologists trained in European medi-
cine, see, e.g., Kinoshita Seichu, “Fujin ni hitsuyp naru eiseijp no chui,” Fujin
eisei zasshi April 1901 (137): 1–20.
55. Tomiyama Ichirp, “Colonialism and the Sciences of the Tropical Zone: The
Academic Analysis of Difference in ‘the Island Peoples,’ ” Positions 1995, 3 (2):
367–391; also, Tomiyama, “Sokutei to iu gihp: jinshu kara kokumin e,” Edo no
shisp, July 1996 (4): 119–129.
56. Shimoide Spkichi, “Miru to Supensa: Meiji bunka ni oyoboshita eikyp ni tsuite,”
in Shimoide, op.cit., pp. 34–49.
57. On this issue, see in particular Shimizu Akitoshi, “Colonialism and the Develop-
ment of Modern Anthropology in Japan,” in Anthropology and Colonialism in
Asia and Oceania, ed. Bermen and Shimizu, op.cit., pp. 115–171.
58. On the question of how the issues of “jinshu” and “minzoku” were discussed
during the early twentieth century, the 1930s and the World War II, see, e.g.,
Kevin M. Doak, “Culture, Ethnicity, and the State in Early Twentieth-Century
Japan,” in Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy, 1900–1930,
ed. Sharon Minichiello (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1998); Tessa
Morris-Suzuki, “Debating Racial Science in Wartime Japan,” in Osiris 1998, 13:
354–375; Sakano Tpru, “Kiyono Kenji no Nihon jinshu ron: Daitpwa kypwaken
to jinruigaku,” Kagakushi, kagaku tetsugaku kenkyu, 11: 85–99; “Jinruigakusha
tachi no ‘minami’: senzen nihon ni okeru mikuroneshia jin kenkyu wo megutte,
Part I,” Kagakushi kenkyu, January 1997 (200): 239–250; and “Jinruigakusha
tachi no ‘minami’: senzen nihon ni okeru mikuroneshia jin kenkyu wo megutte,
Part II,” Kagakushi kenkyu, April 1997 (201): 9–18; Sumiko Otsubo and James
R. Bartholomew, “Eugenics in Japan: Some Ironies of Modernity, 1883–1945,”
Science in Context 1998, II (3–4): 133–146; Sumiko Otsubo Sitcawich,
“Eugenics in Imperial Japan: Some Ironies of Modernity, 1883–1945,” unpub-
lished Ph.D. diss., Ohio State University, 1998; Fujino, Nihon fashizumu to yusei
shisp, op.cit. (1998): Yuehtsen Juliette Chung, Struggle For National Survival:
Eugenics in Sino-Japanese Contexts, 1896–1945 (London and New York:
Routledge, 2002).
 

D, D, 

D: E
C P H 
S M, –
Robert John Perrins

The Home Islands of Japan witnessed incredible changes during the Meiji
era as Japanese society, politics, foreign relations, and industry were trans-
formed and modernized. Physical manifestations of modernization, such as
railways, factories, and Westernized urban landscapes, were not the only evi-
dence of the changes taking place in Japan in the latter half of the nineteenth
century. A new nationalism also arose during this period—an ideology that,
in part, came to be related to extending Japan’s presence abroad through
the acquisition of colonies. In 1895, following the first Sino-Japanese War
(1894–1895), Taiwan became Japan’s first colony. This was quickly followed
by the acquisition of the Guandong (Kwantung) leasehold in southern
Manchuria in 1905 and the annexation of Korea in 1910. Within only a few
decades of embarking on its modernization drive, Japan had emerged, by the
turn of the twentieth century, as a growing imperial power in East Asia.1
As was the case in Japan proper, life in the new colonies was shaped and
(re)defined by the Meiji project of modernization during the late 1800s.2
While the other chapters in this volume explore the roles played by science,
technology and medicine in the complex path by which Japan negotiated the
development of a modern state and society, this essay shifts our attention
outward and explores the modernization process in a colonial setting—the
Guandong leasehold on the Liaodong Peninsula in southern Manchuria, and
specifically the port city of Dairen.
A warm spring sun was shining on the morning of May 21, 1927 as scores
of conference participants began to arrive at the new South Manchuria
Railway (SMR) hospital in Dairen.3 From the front steps of the hospital,
perched on the northern slopes of Nanzan hill, the invited guests could
observe a panorama of evidence of the colonial port city’s success. Dairen’s
central circle (Phiroba)—from which all major streets radiated, and around
104 R J. P

which the neoclassical buildings housing the city’s administration and banks
stood—could clearly be seen two blocks below. In the distance, one could
also view the bustling harbor that was the economic soul of Dairen. After
filing into the hospital, attendees were ushered into the auditorium where
Dr. Todani Ginzaburp, the Superintendent-General of the hospital, was waiting
to present his opening address. Dr. Todani began his remarks by welcoming
his audience to the new hospital, a facility that was hailed by not only the
speaker, but also the region’s colonial governors, as the most modern medical
facility in Manchuria, and, in a polite acknowledgement to the Chinese doc-
tors in attendance, second in continental East Asia only to the Beijing
(Peking) Union Medical College.4
Dr. Todani was followed at the podium by Banichi Yasuhirp, the President
of the SMR. In his address summarizing the history of the new facility,
President Banichi concluded that: “Medical knowledge and art, however
advanced they may be, must depend on perfect equipment to cure and to
heal. This was how the new hospital was planned and erected.”5 Over the
course of the next three days conference participants listened to the more
than 50 presentations that demonstrated how such modern, “perfect” equip-
ment would be used to advance scientific knowledge. Medical researchers
presented their findings on a wide-range of topics from a review of a five-year
study of perspiration by Dr. Kuno Yasushi of the Manchurian Medical
College in Mukden (Shenyang), to research into the nutritional value of milk
for infants by Dr. Suzuki Tasashi of Kyoto Imperial University, to a debate
over the creation of a smallpox vaccine between teams of doctors from the
isolation hospital and the new SMR hospital in Dairen.6 In addition to the
research presentations, conference participants were taken on tours of the new
hospital complex. Members of the hospital’s administration and staff eagerly
directed their visitors through the gleaming patient wards, well-stocked
pharmacy, surgeries and laboratories equipped with the latest instruments
from Japan and Germany, and even the maintenance and ice-making facilities
in the subbasement.7
During the afternoon sessions of the conference, participants were divided
into two groups that were led on guided tours of the city. In an effort to
demonstrate that the hospital was not the only evidence of the modernity and
progress that Japanese rule had brought to south Manchuria, attendees were
shown other manifestations of colonial development including the new
Nisshin Company’s oil mills, the port’s dock facilities, the SMR’s research
laboratories at its workshop at Shahekou, and a new ceramics and glass
factory in the city’s industrial quarter.8 After participating in both the confer-
ence and the guided tours, it would have been difficult for visitors not to have
been impressed by the state of medical care offered by the hospital, or, in fact,
by the larger efforts of the city’s Japanese governors to develop a colony that
reflected the modernity and potential of post-Meiji Japan.
Although the larger region of Manchuria (figure 5.1) would later
emerge as the “promised land” of Japanese imperialism after the creation of the
puppet-state of Manzhouguo in the early 1930s, earlier Japanese colonial
 105

Figure 5.1 Manchuria and the South Manchuria Railway.

Source: Henry W. Kinney, Manchuria Today (Osaka: Hamada Printing, 1930), p. 101. The Guandong
(Kwantung) leasehold is the shaded region at the tip of the Liaodong Peninsula in the bottom left corner of
the map.
106 R J. P

designs in northeastern China were focused on the smaller Guandong

(Kwantung) Leased Territory, and the star of this early colonial performance
was the home of the SMR’s showcase hospital, the port city of Dairen.9
Captured in the early months of the Russo-Japanese War, and formally trans-
ferred to Japanese rule with the signing of the Treaty of Portsmouth in 1905,
Dairen grew to become the key administrative and commercial centre in
southern Manchuria. During 1910s and early 1920s the Japanese governors
of Dairen greatly enlarged the harbor and its wharves, oversaw the construc-
tion of a massive industrial quarter, and supervised the expansion of a city
that they believed symbolised the “enlightened progress” brought about by
Japanese colonial rule. By the 1920s, the leasehold’s colonial governors were
proudly proclaiming Dairen to be the most modern city in all of Manchuria.10
While many of the tools by which the Japanese were developing their
colony in southern Manchuria would have been obvious to the participants
of the 1927 conference—the derricks and cranes that dotted Dairen’s wharves,
the SMR’s rail-lines and workshop at Shahekou, the city’s factories, and even the
medical facilities housed within the new hospital11—other, less obvious, tools
may have been overlooked.12 In order to protect their investments and to
safeguard the health of the colonial population, the Japanese authorities in
southern Manchuria had devoted a great deal of effort to creating technolo-
gies that aimed to improve the social or public health of the Guandong lease-
hold; these efforts ranged from city planning to building water reservoirs and
sewers to enforcing quarantine procedures on arriving Chinese migrants.13
Since the mid-1980s, there has been an explosion in scholarship that has
examined the relationship between medical issues, and particularly Western
medicine and its treatment of disease, and colonialism in Asia.14 English-
language works on the history of disease and medicine in the Japanese
empire, however, have only recently begun to appear, and, to date, these
works have focussed on the experience in Taiwan.15 This chapter serves as a
point of comparison both to the recent works on the colonial experience in
Taiwan and to the other chapters in this volume that deal with the Home
Islands, and examines how the “colonial state” in southern Manchuria
attempted to fight disease and in the process create a “healthy” enclave that
symbolized the “civilization” that accompanied Japanese rule.
One of the early areas of concern for the Japanese governors in southern
Manchuria was the public health of the region, responsibility for which was
initially assigned to the local military authorities. Only days after the signing
of the Treaty of Portsmouth in December 1905, Lieutenant-General Kamio
Akira, the commander of the Liaodong garrison and acting military governor
of the region, ordered the establishment of a sanitation committee in
Qingniwa—a small garrison town on the site of what would eventually be the
northern districts of Dairen. This 38 member committee was staffed entirely
by officers of the occupation army in southern Manchuria, and within a
month it had established a number of regulations aimed at preventing
the spread of contagious diseases in the counties surrounding the ports of
Dairen and Ryojun (Port Arthur, Lushun).16 Emergency edicts were published
 D, D,  D 107

regarding the disposal of garbage, the supervision of the flourishing prostitution

trade, and the establishment of mandatory quarantining of all new arrivals to
the region.17 These regulations aimed to prevent outbreaks of diseases that
often accompanied the garrisoning of large numbers of soldiers in the
region’s ports while they waited to be shipped home.
In the years following the end of the war, the military’s sanitation committee
gradually evolved into a Public Sanitation Bureau that was charged with a
broader mandate of ensuring “public” health throughout the leasehold. At
first this bureau was a division within the Guandong Military Government
(Kantp Sptokufu) (1905–1906), and, after the restructuring of the territory’s
administration, it was reconstituted as a department within the Guandong
Government-General (Kantp Totokofu) (1906–1919).18 As the Kwantung
Army (Kantp-gun) assumed greater control over the region’s defense, the
composition of, and control over, the sanitation bureau gradually shifted away
from the military and into the hands of the civilian bureaucrats of the
Guandong Government, and in larger towns and the port city of Dairen, the
local constabulary.19 Between 1907 and 1915, the Public Sanitation Bureau,
together with the leasehold’s Marine Quarantine Authority oversaw much of
the early development of the healthcare system in southern Manchuria. Small
local hospitals and dispensaries were opened in Dairen and Ryojun, including
one administered by the South Manchuria Railway Company—often referred
to as Mantetsu, an abbreviation of its full Japanese name (Minami Manshu
Tetsudp Kabushiki Kaisha). The efficacy of these early facilities, however,
proved inadequate in coping with the problems associated with urban growth
in southern Manchuria, most notably in the port city of Dairen. As the pop-
ulations of both the leasehold and city grew, so too did the rates of infectious
diseases, particularly smallpox, typhoid and scarlet fevers, cholera, dysentery,
and tuberculosis.
When the new Japanese governors of Dairen had arrived in the fall of
1905, they had been impressed by the future possibilities for the city and
port, if not by the condition in which they found the Russian Finance
Minister, Sergei Witte’s “dream town.” In the aftermath of the recent war,
housing and most other buildings were in varying states of disrepair, and the
streets were a disaster, impossibly dusty during the summer and impassable
mud pits in the spring and fall.20 While the SMR supervised the paving of
the city’s roads between 1908 and 1910, the Company’s engineers and archi-
tects assisted the Guandong administration in planning the reconstruction of
Dairen.21 Fortunately, the Russian plans had been captured in May 1904,
when the port fell to General Nakamura’s Third Division, allowing the
Mantetsu engineers to limit their work to modifying the original blueprints.22
The original Russian plans for their city of Dal’nii (Dairen) had been
drafted in 1899 by Vladmir Sakharov, the chief construction and planning
engineer for the Chinese Eastern Railway (CER).23 Sakharov’s ambitious
plans had entailed a city of more than 80 hectares and a wharf capable of
berthing more than 100, 1,000-ton vessels at a time.24 Between 1899 and
1903, the Russians, at the insistence of Finance Minister Witte and to the
108 R J. P

annoyance of local military commanders, spent more than 30 million rubles

developing the harbor and city.25 The CER was charged with overseeing the
construction of Dal’nii. Sakharov’s blueprints, loosely based on the urban
planning ideas of the “Garden City” and “City Beautiful” movements that
were influencing the construction of cities throughout Europe and America,
called for the new town to be built around five connected districts: one com-
mercial, one administrative, two Russian residential, and lastly a “Chinese
town” located a “safe” distance away from the other quarters. When the city
was completed, the various sectors were to be linked by a spider’s web of
treed avenues, and all would eventually be supplied with electricity and a
modern water system. Between 1899 and 1903, Russian engineers super-
vised thousands of Chinese laborers in building Dal’nii’s main roads, rail
lines, waterworks, and concrete wharf. Although the town failed to shine as
brightly as Witte had promised, a start had been made, and during this initial
period of construction, the port grew from a small fishing hamlet to a town
of more than 35,000 persons.26 By the start of the Russo-Japanese War,
Dal’nii’s Russian governors had begun to lay out what could be done, and
although they had to a large degree abandoned the town by the time of its
capture on May 30, 1904, they had completed much of the preliminary work
of building a modern harbor.
In some ways, the work of the colonial planners in southern Manchuria
foreshadowed later developments in urban design in the Home Islands. After
1905, the urban plans for Dairen, as modified by the Mantetsu engineers,
continued to rely heavily on the original Russian theme of the “Garden City”
model, a movement that would eventually have admirers among urban plan-
ners working in Japan during the late 1910s and 1920s.27 As early as 1906,
however, when the region was still under the direct control of the military,
Japanese planners in southern Manchuria were already proclaiming that they
were determined to develop Dairen into a modern colonial showcase.
Kuratsuka Yoshio, an engineer, was appointed by the Guandong Military
Government in early January 1906 to oversee the (re)construction of Dairen.
In his preamble to the new ordinances that would regulate all construction in
the city for the next 13 years, Kuratsuka wrote:

Dairen is the base of [Japan’s] management of Manchuria, and therefore, the

size of the planned city should be both immense and modern so that we will
not be ashamed of it in the future when the world observes what we have
developed. Buildings should be insulated, fireproofed, and beautiful to look
at . . . they should last forever.28

Not only was the physical appearance of buildings important to the early
Japanese urban planners in Dairen, but so too was the physical “health” of
the city and its residents—primarily, but not exclusively, those in the growing
local Japanese community. Public health concerns were a central component
in the overall colonial vision for the development of Dairen. The continued
division of the city into linked, but separate, districts as originally proposed
 D, D,  D 109

by Sahkarov’s plans was directly related to the desire on the part of the new
colonial authorities to create segregated Japanese and Chinese residential
neighborhoods, as it was claimed that disease was more prevalent amongst
the Chinese migrant laborer, or “coolie,” communities, and therefore better
controlled if limited to certain areas of the city.29 It was also intended that
Dairen would be a “green city,” with numerous public parks and shaded
avenues, as it was argued that the open air and parklands were part of the over-
all scheme in any modern, sanitary urban space. In fact, one of Dairen’s most
famous characteristics during the colonial era was the Acacia tree, thousands
of which were planted during the first decade of Japanese rule. Clean air,
clean paved streets, and segregated neighborhoods were all early components
in the Japanese vision for their modern and “healthy” colonial showcase in
southern Manchuria.
The new city plans also called for construction efforts that targeted the
development of the city’s harbor, a commercial and administrative showcase
downtown, and an industrial quarter in the west end.30 By the early 1910s,
much of the first stage of Dairen’s (re)construction was complete. A couple
of electric tramlines had opened for public use in September 1910, the new
Guandong Civil Administration headquarters was almost finished, and the
glorious Yamato Hotel overlooking the Phiroba was accepting reservations.31
In less than a decade, Dairen was on its way to being transformed from what
in the minds of many of its original Western residents and consular officials
was a shabby port town into a city that the most colonial of them would have
been proud to call their own.
The greatest potential threat to Dairen during this initial period of
Japanese rule was the outbreak in northern Manchuria in the winter of 1910
of the most feared disease of all, the plague.32 It was somewhat ironic that
the plague arrived in Dairen in December 1910 likely via brown rats that
were transported in sacks of soya beans along the very railway that was
responsible for the port’s development.33 Doctors and staff at the city’s hos-
pitals worked furiously to confirm that the disease that was showing up
amongst small numbers of the city’s population of migrant Chinese laborers
was indeed the plague. Once the new threat was identified by pathologists
employed by the SMR as the pneumonic plague, the city’s doctors petitioned
the local administration to draft emergency measures. Faced with this med-
ical crisis, the Guandong Government requested assistance from the national
government in Tokyo, and created the Guandong Temporary Municipal
Sanitation Bureau (Kantp totokufu rinji bprekibu) in Dairen, where the
majority of the region’s medical facilities and staff were located.34 This
agency worked with the local police and fire authorities to establish mecha-
nisms by which it hoped to prevent the disease from spreading. Empowered
by the Guandong Government with extraordinary legal powers, the Bureau
established a tent city on the outskirts of Dairen to house the port’s popula-
tion of Chinese sojourning laborers, who were thought to be “natural”
carriers of the disease.35 The city’s population of several thousand laborers
from Shandong who worked on Dairen’s docks and in the rail yards were
110 R J. P

forced to spend much of the winter of 1910–1911 living in drafty canvas

tents, “safely” isolated from the port’s Japanese population.
Within the city, the Bureau worked with the municipal police to establish
check-posts at all major street intersections. As they moved throughout the
town, residents were inspected at these posts for signs of the plague by sani-
tation crews wearing full-body isolation gear made of heavy white canvas.
Houses where infected victims lived were sealed off with galvanized iron
sheeting, and then sprayed with gallons of concentrated formaldehyde. The
fences of iron sheeting were used to prevent the city’s rat population from
simply moving from house-to-house, and even block-to-block, while poiso-
nous gasses were pumped into the buildings suspected of housing the
disease.36 By the end of March 1911, the worst of the epidemic had passed.
The tent city outside of Xiaogangzi was dismantled, and its Chinese population
sent back to their homes or dormitories; and the sanitation carts that were
filled with drums of formaldehyde and rat poison were put into storage,
hopefully never to be used again. At the final count, when the last cases of the
disease were recorded in the summer of 1911, a total of 5,864 people had
died of the plague in southern Manchuria (including 2,495 in Changchun
and 2,005 in Mukden [Shenyang], but only 66 in Dairen).37 The death
count for the region as a whole was staggering, with more than 60,000
having died throughout Manchuria.38 It should be noted, however, that all of
the 1910–1911 plague victims in colonial southern Manchuria were Chinese.
It was the quarantining of the entire city of Dairen, through the closure of
the port to railcars from the north, and not the isolating, or perhaps more
accurately imprisoning, of the city’s Chinese laborers that ultimately pre-
vented the plague from taking hold on the Liaodong Peninsula. Because the
Guandong Government was willing to risk the wrath of the leasehold’s com-
modity traders and merchants, who were admittedly angered at the temporary
closing of the railway lines to the north, Dairen survived the great
Manchurian plague epidemic of 1910–1911 relatively unscathed. In the years
that followed, even more trade flowed into the port, and its economy pros-
pered. To the delight of both the region’s merchant community and the
colonial administration, the economy of southern Manchuria blossomed in
the late 1910s due to the growing world demand for soya beans and their
products. Between 1913 and 1917, tonnage of raw beans exported to these
new markets through the port of Dairen grew 50 fold, from under 5,000 to
over 250,000 metric tonnes. The growth in the oil trade during this same
period was equally dramatic, with the export to the United States alone grow-
ing from just over 3,000 to almost 100,000 tonnes.39 To handle the increase
in the traffic of soya beans and bean products the Japanese governors of
Dairen had to react swiftly and find a way of constructing additional ware-
houses and wharf facilities, for by the late 1910s more than 55,000 railcars
filled with beans were arriving annually in the port for processing and
shipment abroad.40
During the economic boom of the late 1910s, the population of Dairen
grew dramatically, growing from just over 120,000 persons in 1914 to
 D, D,  D 111

almost 200,000 persons by the end of the decade.41 In an effort to cope with
this tremendous demographic growth, the Guandong administration devel-
oped a set of new urban plans for Dairen. The original Russian plans had
detailed a city of approximately 80 hectares, and following the transfer of the
Guandong leasehold in 1905, the new Japanese rulers had spent vast sums
developing their colony. Within a couple of years, the region’s railway system
had been re-gauged, and new engines, cars and other equipment imported
from America. To service this improved transportation system, and to con-
nect it to the outside world, the region’s Japanese governors focused their
efforts on the construction of the leasehold’s primary commercial port at
Dairen. In 1910, the urban plans for Dairen had been expanded to encom-
pass a city of 700 hectares—almost a ten-fold increase in size from the city
sketched in the original Russian plans.42 By the late 1910s, however, with the
growth of local industry and the port’s population, even the revised blue-
prints were obsolete as Dairen was quickly growing beyond its planned
boundaries. One of the first tasks of the municipal government that was
elected for the first time in 1915, therefore, was the development of a new
urban plan that would see the city into the middle of the twentieth century.
The city plans that were developed between 1915 and the spring of 1919
were extensive (figure 5.2), detailing a city of over 2,000 hectares and a harbor
with six concrete wharves—a number that was three more than the SMR had

Figure 5.2 Planned layout of Dairen, ca. late 1910s.

Source: Dairen (Dalny) (Dairen: Japanese Tourist Bureau, Dairen Branch, 1917), end map. The area that
comprised the original Russian town of Dal’nii is located in the upper middle portion of the growing city, to
the west and southwest of the harbor’s main wharves.
112 R J. P

so far completed.43 Under the joint supervision of the SMR, the local wharf
authorities, and the new municipal government, Dairen was emerging as one
of the most impressive trading centers in Asia. During the planning for the
port’s future, public health was an important element in the colonial vision of
Dairen’s development. The continued division of the city into linked districts
as proposed by the “Garden City” model that was now in vogue in Taishp
Japan was related to a desire on the part of the authorities to create segre-
gated Japanese and Chinese residential neighborhoods for reasons that were
based on a “scientific” understanding of where diseases flourished (i.e., the
less “hygienic” Chinese community was thought to be a “natural” incubator
of illnesses).44 Throughout the first two decades of Japanese colonial rule in
Dairen, city planners and administrators went so far as to draft and enforce
zoning regulations that actively sought to exclude Chinese from living in
what were designated to be Japanese neighborhoods. Along with “clean”
residential quarters and green parks, the revised city plans also called for the
expansion of the harbor facilities, the completion of the commercial and
administrative showcase downtown, and further additions to the industrial
quarter in the west end. These parts, or organs, of the body of Dairen were
to be linked with a “modern” nervous system—an expanded system of elec-
tric tramlines that ran through the city-centre and out into the developing
western and southern peripheries. In 1929, the Guandong Government pub-
lished an English-language book that detailed its history and responsibilities.
In this book the contribution of the colonial administration to the growth
of Dairen was highlighted: “Everything has been done to develop the city,
making the most of the available land and to keep up a high hygienic standard
with an efficient police service.”45 By the 1920s, Dairen was on its way to
becoming a beacon of Japanese “enlightenment” and “civilization” in the
growing empire—a port that was not only an economic success, but also a
showcase of colonial urban planning and hygiene.
As outlined above, trade was not the only thing that flowed across
Dairen’s wharves during the first two decades of Japanese rule, as shortly
after the conclusion of the Russo-Japanese War, tens of thousands of Japanese
began arriving in the Guandong territory to seek their fortunes. In 1906
alone, over 30,000 Japanese civilians had disembarked at the newly opened
port of Dairen. The British Ambassador in Tokyo at the time, Sir Claude
MacDonald, reported that many of these Japanese were “adventurers pos-
sessing little or no money,” or women, “notoriously of the lowest type,” who
were there to service the withdrawing military forces.46 Scores of commercial
traders from Japan and China also flocked to Dairen during the early years of
Japanese rule, their boats filled with bolts of cotton textiles, drums of
kerosene, and boxes of foodstuffs and other consumables.47 The largest cate-
gory of new arrivals, however, were the tens of thousands of sojourners from
Shandong Province who came in search of employment on the city’s docks
and construction lots. Fueled by so many new arrivals, Dairen’s population
grew dramatically in the first two decades of Japanese rule, increasing from
38,896 in 1906, to 278,545 by 1926.48 In an effort to prevent any of the
 D, D,  D 113

new arrivals from transporting infectious diseases to the city’s increasingly

crowded neighborhoods, the Guandong authorities, together with the SMR,
established rigorous quarantine procedures at Dairen’s wharves.
Established in November 1908, the Marine Affairs Bureau of the
Guandong Government was charged with supervising all quarantining pro-
cedures at Dairen.49 This agency developed a rigorous system of medical
inspection for vessels arriving in the harbor, and built a large quarantine facil-
ity just south of the main piers to house hundreds of new arrivals who had
been deemed to be possible carriers of disease by the bureau’s doctors.
Inspectors from the bureau examined new arrivals for signs that they were
carrying one (or more) of the 12 reportable infectious diseases: plague,
cholera, smallpox, typhus, scarlet fever, diphtheria, dysentery, typhoid,
sub-typhoid, encephalitic fever, encephalitis B, and general fever. Ships sail-
ing to Dairen had to radio their passenger and crew manifests, and the pas-
sengers’ medical conditions one day prior to arrival at the harbor. If a vessel
did not have radio equipment on board it had to fly a yellow flag upon its
arrival within the harbor and await a team of medical examiners. The doctors
and assistants who worked for the Marine Affairs Bureau would then sail out
to the waiting ship and give each passenger a quick medical examination.50
There were two categories of incoming vessels: (1) those from Japan,
Korea, Taiwan, Europe and America; and (2) those coming from ports in
China and other parts of Asia that were not Japanese colonies. Ships from the
first category generally had a quick passage through the quarantine proce-
dures, and only those passengers who exhibited signs of infection were forced
to undergo an additional quarantine period in special isolation facilities
located adjacent to the harbor. For ships from China and the rest of Asia the
process was much more rigorous, and all passengers, whether or not they
exhibited signs of infection, were forced to undergo mandatory sanitary
showers with diluted formaldehyde before being issued with their disem-
barkation passes.51 Although blatantly discriminatory in nature, the port
quarantining policies that were enforced at Dairen during the colonial
period, did, to an extent, prevent the arrival by ship of numerous, potentially
serious, diseases.
After the rapid growth of both the soya bean trade and the port city of
Dairen in the late 1910s, the local Japanese authorities developed additional,
and more invasive, public health policies and enforcement agencies to protect
the health of their goose that was laying the proverbial golden eggs. The con-
struction of mechanisms for tracking and combating diseases in Dairen was a
central component in the continuing development of the colonial infrastruc-
ture in the most important urban space in the Guandong leasehold. Dairen
was not only a port, and therefore susceptible to diseases that could arrive
either via ships or from the region’s railway network, but also a large and
growing urban landscape that was now home to hundreds of thousands of
residents. A result of the efforts to scientifically study and treat disease in
Dairen was the creation of what, in another colonial context, has been
termed a “pathogenic city.”52 In her study of British colonial medicine in
114 R J. P

Singapore and Malaysia in the early twentieth century, Lenore Manderson

notes that towns and cities were:

[T]he most domesticated space, contrasting with the untamed, unpenetrated

hinterland and the diseases that it harboured. The town reflected the colonists’
best efforts to create colonial space out of, and in face of resistance from, place,
and issues of the use and misuse of urban space were examples of their imper-
fect control over both place and people. The prevalence of diseases . . . high-
lighted and constituted part of the difficulty of establishing territorial control.
But at the same time, use of space and human interactions with and use of both
the natural and built landscape reflected the cultural tensions of colonialism.
Obsession with hygiene and sanitation in the cities was part of this.53

To meet their “obsession” with hygiene, and to keep the pathogens at bay, the
Japanese governors devised a myriad of agencies and levels of bureaucracy
that collaborated in establishing and enforcing public health policies in south-
ern Manchuria. At the top of the colonial hierarchy stood the Guandong
Governor-General and his administration, and operating under this lofty level
of colonial government were the municipal government, the local constabu-
lary, the Maritime Affairs Bureau, and several local sanitation bureaus.54
During the late 1910s and early 1920s, the Guandong administration passed
a number of public health bylaws that were strenuously enforced by the local
constabulary and health officers in Dairen. Among these new laws were regu-
lations governing mandatory vaccinations for the local population, public
health codes for restaurants and other food vendors, health curriculum for
government-run schools, water monitoring and inspection codes, and rules
governing the collection and disposal of “night soil.” To support this new cam-
paign against disease, the Guandong Government and the Dairen District
Health Agency, a division of the local Dairen municipality, devoted between
10 and 15 percent of their annual budgets to medical and sanitary expenses.55
Although some of its responsibility for supervising the leasehold’s public
health had been transferred to the Dairen District Health Agency after the
city’s administration was revamped in 1915, Japan’s greatest colonial enter-
prise, the South Manchuria Railway Company, continued to play a central
role in “colonizing” the health of the local population throughout the
second decade of Japanese rule.56 Together with the Civil Administration
Department of the Guandong Government-General and the Dairen munici-
pal government, the SMR oversaw much of the development of Dairen
during the first two decades of Japanese rule.57 In addition to operating sev-
eral hospitals along the railway zone and in the towns and cities in the region,
Mantetsu was also charged with supervising local water supplies (including
monitoring their qualities), as well as running a medical laboratory at its
central experimental and research station in Dairen. While the port city was
hailed in Mantetsu advertisements, and by the local colonial authorities and
chamber of commerce to be a “city of lights” and a “beacon of civilization,”
behind the bravado lurked a fear that the city, and particularly its growing
Chinese population, was incubating diseases that could strike at any moment
 D, D,  D 115

tarnishing not only Dairen’s image, but also the profits that were being made
in the leasehold’s transportation nexus.58 As was the case in other colonial
ports such as Singapore, public space in Dairen reinforced the idea of
“a pathogenic city which characterized much of the medical thinking at the
time . . . illness was produced in certain enclaves”;59 enclaves that on the
Liaodong Peninsula included Dairen’s harbor, regional asylum and isolation
hospital, the port’s overcrowded Chinese residential quarter, dormitories,
slums, and “unsanitary” businesses such as brothels, markets and restaurants.60
Throughout the first two decades of Japanese colonial rule in southern
Manchuria, the Guandong administration worked with local authorities and
the Mantetsu hydra to construct a sanitary colony. In the attempt to prevent
disease from arriving in Dairen, vigorous quarantine procedures were
enforced in the harbor, while within the city the local police and sanitation
workers patrolled and inspected neighborhoods and businesses, keeping
records on all transgressions of public health policy. By the late 1910s, the
fight against disease had become a key component in the development of the
growing Manchurian colony.
Of course, no matter how diligently the enforcers of public health worked,
diseases did manage to navigate their way to Dairen. The warm summer and
autumn months in particular witnessed the annual return of deadly
pathogens that were easily spread by human locomotion and which thrived in
poor sanitary conditions. As the temperature in the port increased, the city’s
residents had to contend with regular outbreaks of dysentery and other
microbial illnesses of the digestive system, which claimed upward of 3,000
residents annually.61 To combat the yearly onset of deadly stomach ailments,
local police and health inspectors in Dairen stepped-up their inspections of
the city’s restaurants, water supplies and waste collection facilities. During
serious outbreaks of dysentery, members of the city’s constabulary were often
ordered to close Dairen’s markets to fish and vegetables that were caught or
grown locally. Despite efforts to enforce sanitation ordinances, mortality
rates for both dysentery and diseases/infections of the digestive track did not
appreciably decrease during the first two decades of Japanese rule with the
rate for dysentery ranging between 5 and 25 deaths per 100,000, and figures
for the more general category of digestive system ailments fluctuating
between 240 and 470 deaths per 100,000 persons.62 The lack of efficacy of
the efforts to eradicate the microbial threats that faced Dairen can partly be
explained by the fact that, despite the enforcement of public hygiene bylaws,
the port lacked an adequate supply of clean water that would allow its water
and sewer systems to function to their full potential.
Seasonal illnesses were not the only ones that stalked the streets of Dairen
during the 1910s and 1920s. In addition to the annual arrival of summer
stomach ailments, the city’s residents also faced other health problems.
During the early twentieth century, as was also the case in Japan (and in many
other major urban centers throughout the world), tuberculosis was the
constant “plague” in the port city.63 This disease was highly contagious not
only in the Chinese workers’ dormitories, but also in the supposedly sanitary
116 R  J. P

Japanese residential and commercial districts due to the city’s generally

crowded conditions. The mortality statistics for tuberculosis for the
Guandong leasehold for the late 1910s reveal that it was a serious problem in
the growing colony, accounting for almost 1,500 deaths per year.64 To meet
the challenge of the “white plague,” local authorities in Dairen worked
with the SMR both in developing a public health campaign that aimed to
educate the local population on how the disease was communicated, and in
constructing a large sanitarium where those who were suffering from the
consumption could be treated.65 While medical facilities were built to treat
those who had contracted tuberculosis, it must be remembered that yet again
the only ones who were to benefit were the leasehold’s Japanese residents, as
Chinese patients were not permitted to seek treatment in the sanitarium.66
At the end of the 1910s the economy and physical health of the
Guandong leasehold and its inhabitants were further threatened by two
epidemics. The first was the arrival of the “Spanish Lady” in 1918–1919. A
mild strain of influenza had passed through the region in the spring of 1918,
resulting in thousands of inhabitants complaining of fevers, aches and general
malaise, but relatively few deaths. In mid-October 1918, however, reports
began to appear documenting the return of the “flu” amongst military
personnel stationed at the naval base in Ryojun (Port Arthur). By the end of
October the population of Dairen found itself facing a major influenza
epidemic that was much more serious than the authorities had at first
believed.67 Over the course of the next two months, municipal authorities
enacted a number of provisions in an attempt to combat the strange illness
that was paralyzing not only the leasehold, but also much of the world.68 The
emergency public health measures that were introduced in southern
Manchuria in the fall and winter of 1918–1919 were similar to those that
were used in the Home Islands, and involved the closing of public places such
as schools, theaters, bath houses, swimming pools, and markets; the ordering
of the population to wear gauze masks when in public; and new rules that
forbade spitting or coughing in public.69 The problem was that many of these
regulations were passed too late to be of much use, as the virus had already
circulated among the local population. When the final figures were compiled
the following year, authorities claimed that up to one-third of the local
population had been infected, and of these 3,354 had died as a direct result
of the influenza virus.70
Those who survived the flu epidemic were faced with the arrival of
another, even more frightening disease the following year. The disease that
posed the greatest potential threat to Japan’s “sanitary colony” in Manchuria
was cholera, and the dangers associated with this illness were greatest in the
densely populated port of Dairen. In late August 1919, as the city was only
just beginning to recover from a third, and final, wave of the influenza pan-
demic, cholera arrived. The local authorities had known that the disease was
making its way along the Chinese coast, and had taken the preventative
measure two weeks earlier of hiring an additional 100 police constables and
18 doctors from Japan to assist in the quarantine inspections at the harbor.71
 D, D,  D 117

Within the city, police and sanitation officers enforced the closing of all
produce and fish markets, and additional teams of municipal workers were
dispatched to remove garbage and pools of stagnant water from the city’s
streets and neighborhoods. After a corpse was found floating in the city’s
reservoir during the second week of the epidemic, armed police were sta-
tioned at the facility to prevent the further contamination of the port’s water
supply.72
The staff at the Dairen Isolation Hospital was put to the test during the
month-long crisis, as not only did they have to treat several hundred cholera
patients, but they were also charged with vaccinating the port’s Chinese
laborers, who it was claimed were “dead to all sense of public and individual
hygiene.”73 In an effort to “sanitize” the port’s Chinese dockworkers, who
presented a threat perceived to be as great as the cholera bacillus itself, teams
of doctors and nurses spent the first two weeks of September inoculating more
than 9,000 sojourning laborers with an anti-cholera vaccine. By the end of the
first week of September it was clear that despite the efforts of the local con-
stabulary, doctors and nurses, the battle to contain the epidemic was failing,
and the Government was forced to request that the Foreign Ministry send an
additional 152 police constables and 52 physicians from Japan to assist the
beleaguered local public health workers.74 With the assistance of these addi-
tional forces, the tide eventually turned and the last new case of cholera was
reported on September 28. By the end of the outbreak, and despite all of the
efforts to protect the “sanitary” colony, more than 1,600 persons, the majority
of whom were Chinese laborers who lived in the crowded dormitories near
the dockyards, died during the 1919 cholera epidemic.75
Although it appeared seven years after the 1919 epidemic, an editorial
cartoon in the September 1, 1926 edition of The Manchuria Daily News illus-
trated the fear that cholera continued to hold in the minds of the port’s resi-
dents. In the cartoon, a menacing cloaked figure threatens a cowering citizen
who holds a microscope, a seemingly innocuous instrument of modern med-
ical science, that he points like a revolver at the dark figure labeled “Bacilli.”
Although there was a general belief, at least among the region’s Japanese and
small Western communities who enjoyed access to modern medical care, in
the ability of medical science to defeat the microscopic bacteria and viruses
that threatened the colony in southern Manchuria, there was also the realiza-
tion that cholera and other diseases that flourished in unsanitary conditions
would only be eliminated if the city’s water supply system was drastically
improved. Regular outbreaks of diseases such as dysentery, typhus and small-
pox, combined with serious epidemics such as the influenza pandemic of
1918–1919 and the cholera outbreak of 1919 served to heighten adminis-
trative concerns regarding urban sanitation, port quarantine, and water qual-
ity in Dairen. During the early 1920s, local administrators focused much of
their energy on securing adequate supplies of clean water and modern sewage
systems for Dairen. Although the city’s planners had envisioned a “garden
city,” the reality was now an increasingly crowded town that was often dusty,
malodorous and parched in the summer months. Beginning in the late 1910s,
118 R J. P

Dairen faced annual water crises in July and August when low water levels in
the town’s reservoirs meant that the city’s sewage system often failed to work
at maximum efficiency.
Located on a rocky peninsula with no available groundwater, Dairen, with
its annual rainfall of just over 600 mm, had always been poorly situated, in
terms of water resources, to develop into a major city. In fact during the first
couple of years of Japanese rule, municipal engineers attempted to bring
water to Dairen from a reservoir at the town of Dayukou near the harbor at
Port Arthur, 30 kilometres away, using a combination of water tenders and
railcars. When these dramatic efforts failed, test wells were drilled between
December 1912 and July 1913 at a number of locations throughout the city
in an unsuccessful search for water.76 Following the failure to locate sources
of groundwater in the vicinity, the Guandong Government decided in 1914
to expand the newly completed Shahekou filtration plant and to bring in
additional water from an enlarged reservoir at Wangjiatian, 20 kilometers
northwest of the city. Construction of this great reservoir, capable of hold-
ing more than five million tonnes of water, and at a heady cost of almost
two million yen, was completed between April 1914 and August 1917.77 To
commemorate their “successful” conquest of the city’s water crisis, the SMR
and the Guandong administration ordered 2,000 cherry trees to be planted
along the banks of the reservoir that would now guarantee Dairen’s future
sanitary and commercial growth.78
Although the new reservoir theoretically should have solved Dairen’s
water crisis, the problem persisted for three reasons. First, the reservoir was
rarely filled to its capacity due to poor precipitation in the region and heavier
than expected industrial usage in the port. Second, the old reservoir was
often contaminated by human waste from run-off from the surrounding
farms that were fertilized with “night-soil.”79 Third, the city had grown
beyond what the planners had forecast in the mid-1910s.80 The growth of
Dairen’s population and industrial sector during the soya bean boom of the
late 1910s, together with the cholera outbreak of 1919, combined to bring
about louder calls for additional supplies of clean water. By the early 1920s
the Guandong administration and Dairen’s municipal government faced
increased pressure from the port’s chamber of commerce and local residents
to secure clean water for both commercial and personal needs, and once
again the colonial bureaucrats turned to the SMR for technical and financial
assistance.81
A decade and a half earlier, Mantetsu engineers and construction crews
had built Dairen’s first modern waterworks.82 Located in Shahekou (the
SMR’s city within a city in the western-most district of the port), Dairen’s
earliest filtration plant and waterworks were situated on the Malan River,
seven kilometers west of the city center. Water from the 30 kilometer-long
Malan, as well as the Wangjiatian Reservoir, was treated at this facility run by
the SMR. Between 1905 and 1910, the Guandong authorities, together with
Mantetsu, spent more than one million yen constructing the water treatment
plant and pumping station, as well as the reservoir’s earthen-works and
 D, D,  D 119

20-meter high dam.83 A subsidiary reservoir was then built in the summer of
1910 in the Japanese residential neighborhood of Fushimidai, just west of
the city center, and water from both locations was brought into the city
proper through a network of 50 cm diameter pipes. In an effort to cope with
increased demands for fresh water, the Malan filtration plant was expanded in
1914 at an additional cost of 1.3 million yen. The opening of this facility had
been officiated by not only members of the city administration and represen-
tatives of the SMR who designed and built the treatment plant, but also by a
local Shinto priest who blessed the equipment before the pumps started the
flow through the city’s main pipes.84 This sanitized water supplied the “mod-
ern” private homes in Dairen’s Japanese residential quarters, as well as the
city’s fire hydrants, bathhouses, public parks, industries, and harbor. The
city’s Sanitary Union also had a contract that allowed its members to open
the city’s hydrants and sell water, at the rate of two sen for each two gallon
can that was filled, to residents who did not have indoor plumbing.85
Despite these efforts, by the early 1920s the port of Dairen continued to
have no reliable source of clean drinking water, and therefore another
attempt was made to find a “scientific and rational conclusion,”86 to the city’s
water crisis. In his hagiographic article on the history of the Dairen water-
works, Dr. Y. Kuratsuka, the director of the Dairen Public Works Department
wrote:

[In the] city of Dairen, the surface water, meager as it may be, must be relied
upon. And, unlike other cities in Japan and elsewhere, where natural sources
such as rivers, lakes, etc., are available, what may be styled the reservoir system
is the only practical way open.87

Kuratsuka went so far as to claim that the extension of Dairen’s waterworks

was a “problem of life and death to the growth of the city,” as water was vital
to both the port’s economy and the health of its residents.88 In their contin-
uing attempt to create a stable and safe water supply for the port, SMR
engineers went back to their drafting tables in 1921 to plan expansions of the
existing Wangjiatian reservoir and the treatment facility near Shahekou, as
well as the construction of a new reservoir at Longwangdang, 25 kilometers
west of the city.89 When completed in 1924, this new reservoir had cost the
colonial administration more than four and a half million yen to build. Even
before the first shovel-full of earth was moved at Longwangdang, however, a
more cautious group of engineers and public works officials had already
recognized that even this new facility would not be able to quench the thirst
of the constantly growing port.
Throughout the decade of the 1920s, and into the 1930s, securing
adequate sources of clean water for industrial and human needs continued to
be one of the greatest problems facing Dairen’s colonial governors. As thou-
sands of new residents arrived each year to settle in the “garden city” additional
strain was placed on an already stressed waterworks. Colonial planners esti-
mated that, apart from the needs of local industries and the thousands of vessels
120 R J. P

that visited the harbor annually, tens of millions of litres of clean water were
needed to service the city’s growing population. In their calculations, the
Japanese municipal planners and SMR engineers estimated that each of Dairen’s
Japanese (and small numbers of Western) residents required 4.5 cubic feet of
water daily, while the “less hygienic” Chinese residents could cope with only
one cubic foot per day.90 As Dairen grew during the first two decades of
Japanese rule, the search for a stable supply of clean water remained a key con-
cern of the colonial administration. In the name of public health and urban san-
itation, engineered technologies worked hand-in-glove with colonial medical
concerns, and were, despite their failed efforts, hailed as critical components in
the “scientific” development of the Japanese colony in southern Manchuria.91
The building and expansion of Dairen’s various reservoirs, municipal
sewer lines, and water treatment facilities were not the only major construc-
tion projects undertaken by the local Japanese authorities in an effort to safe-
guard the health of the colony in southern Manchuria. By the early 1920s, in
the wake of the influenza and cholera epidemics of 1918–1919, and in the
face of a large, and growing, urban population in the port city of Dairen, the
Guandong Government and the SMR decided to build a new hospital.
Construction of this facility was finally begun in March 1923, although pre-
liminary plans had first been drafted as early as 1912, and the land purchased
two years later in 1914. Once started, it took three full years to build and
equip the new hospital. The resulting Romanesque edifice to colonial modernity
(figure 5.3) was designed by architects at an American construction firm

Figure 5.3 The New South Manchuria Railway Hospital, ca. 1926.
Source: Dalian shi tushuguan (Dalian Municipal Library), historical photographs collection, and the author’s
personal collection.
 D, D,  D 121

based in Tokyo, George A. Fuller and Company of the Orient. The decision
to award the three million yen contract for the building of the facility to a for-
eign firm was a departure from previous practice in Dairen that had favored
Japanese construction companies.92 At the time that the tender for this major
contract was advertised, Tokyo was still shaking from the aftershocks of the
Great Kantp Earthquake of 1923. Despite the fact that its staff had never
before designed or built a hospital, Fuller and Company was ultimately
awarded the contract for two reasons.93 First, the firm had designed several
large buildings in Tokyo, including a number of corporate headquarters and
government offices in the capital’s Marunouchi district, just northeast of
Hibiya Park, that had survived the quake, resulting in an enhanced reputa-
tion for the company’s ability to construct not only modern, but also solid
facilities.94 And second, just as Mantetsu had relied on American technical
expertise and equipment when it rebuilt the region’s railway network almost
two decades earlier,95 many members in the Japanese colonial administration
continued to believe that Western scientific and engineering abilities were
still slightly more advanced than their own.96
Between the spring of 1923 and the winter of 1925, the hospital’s
construction was completed by a team of almost 1,000 skilled and unskilled
Chinese laborers, who worked under the supervision of Japanese foremen
and American engineers.97 Although the final cost was two million yen more
than the initial estimate, the new hospital was completed on time, if not on
budget. The first patients arrived for treatment and surgeries in April 1926,
and entered what was referred to at a major conference the following May as
a symbolic representation of Japan’s enlightened development of Manchuria,
and even a “mirage of grandeur.”98 The new hospital was, admittedly, an
impressive facility comprising the main six-story building (including a basement
and subbasement) (figure 5.4), a three-story isolation ward, two three-story

Figure 5.4 Floor plans of the New South Manchuria Railway Hospital in Dairen, ca. 1926.
Source: Dairen Iin gaiyp (an outline of the Dairen Hospital) (Dairen: n.p., 1927), frontpiece illustration no. 3.
122 R J. P

nurses quarters and patient rooms, and an auxiliary equipment and mainte-
nance building, all of which were connected through an underground net-
work of tunnels.99 The floor space of the facility was enormous, amounting
to more than 45,000 square meters, making this hospital the largest medical
facility in northern China. Stocked with the latest medical, pharma-
ceutical and laboratory equipment and supplies, the Dairen Hospital treated
hundreds of outpatients daily, and had beds for almost 600 more in its
inpatient wards.
Not all residents of the port city and surrounding leasehold, however,
were to benefit from the facilities that could be found in the new hospital.
The grand SMR hospital in Dairen had been constructed primarily for the
treatment of the colony’s sizable Japanese community, but even within
this group, not all would have access to the “medical wonders” offered by the
highly trained staff of doctors and nurses. Although its spokesmen often
bemoaned the financial sacrifice that the SMR was forced to endure in
providing health care facilities in the colony, the company, through the fees
charged in facilities such as the Dairen hospital generated sizable revenues
throughout the colonial period.100 Daily room fees in the new hospital
ranged from over ten yen for a “special first class room,” down to two yen for
a bed in a third-class ward.101 Even the lower fee, it should be noted, was not
trivial as the average weekly salary for even a skilled Japanese worker in the
port was under five yen.102
While working-class Japanese faced a financial hurdle to seeking treatment
in the new hospital, the situation was far worse for members of the city’s
Chinese community. Chinese employees of the SMR were permitted to seek
basic treatment at the hospital, although they were placed in a segregated
ward in the basement of the main building. Tens of thousands of other
Chinese residents in the port, however, were never allowed to step into the
red brick edifice to progress that overlooked their city. Several smaller clinics
and hospitals were built to treat Dairen’s Chinese majority, but these facilities
could not offer the level of care provided by the staff and equipment at the
main hospital.103 In their efforts to construct a healthy colony, the Japanese
governors were also constructing barriers not only between diseases and
people, but also between ruler and ruled.
The port city of Dairen played a central role in Japan’s early colonial
efforts in Manchuria. For the experiment in the Guandong leasehold to be
successful, Dairen had to be not only economically prosperous, but also, and
perhaps as importantly, viewed by the outside world as a glowing symbol of
the modernity that accompanied Japanese rule. An important element in the
development of Dairen during the early twentieth century was the construc-
tion of the city’s public health infrastructure. In this process, “purely”
medical or health issues often interacted with broader economic and admin-
istrative interests. While not always at the forefront, as it was during the
1910–1911 plague outbreak, or the influenza and cholera epidemics of
1918–1919, the health of the colony in southern Manchuria was of vital
interest to the Japanese colonial governors. This chapter has begun the
 D, D,  D 123

examination of how medical concerns were often part of larger developments

ranging from the physical layout of the city to efforts to engineer access to
clean water. In the spring of 1926, just as the new SMR hospital was preparing
to open its doors, the American journalist, R.O. Matheson passed through
Dairen on a tour of Manchuria. He was impressed by what he saw in the city,
and described his impressions of this port in an article that was published by
his sponsors at the Chicago Tribune:

Wide, paved streets, splendid hotels, handsome and substantial public buildings,
a score of splendidly housed banks, produce and stock exchanges, theaters,
cinemas and clubs make Dairen the best-built city of Manchuria. . . . A great
hospital, the finest in all the Far East, with a thousand beds, ten or twelve oper-
ating rooms, four X-ray rooms and every appliance of modern medicine and
surgery, has just been completed, at a cost of more than Yen 6,000,000. If
Dairen is destined to become the city of refuge for foreign business in China, it
will be a good one, clean, healthy and up-to-date.104

The tone of Matheson’s report would surely have been music to the ears of
the first generation of Japanese urban planners, public health officials, and
colonial administrators in southern Manchuria.
Despite the grandeur of the Phiroba and the amenities available to the
port’s Japanese residents that impressed Western observers such as Matheson,
however, the majority of Dairen’s Chinese population continued to live
in the shanty town that had grown up south of the port’s wharves, or in
Xiaogangzi—the growing Western neighborhood between the SMR’s work-
shop in Shahekou and the city’s downtown core. By the 1920s it was evident,
if one explored all of Dairen, that two cities were being built: a modern,
Western-styled municipality, dotted with trees and impressive new buildings,
which was to be enjoyed by the port’s Japanese community, and another
more cramped and desolate in appearance that was to be coped with by the
town’s Chinese majority. As city streets, water-mains, tram-lines and archi-
tectural styles in Dairen physically divided residents into colonizers and colo-
nized, so too did other seemingly less overt manifestations of colonial rule.
Colonial medicine and public health policies worked hand-in-glove with
other political, economic and social mechanisms to restructure Dairen and
the rest of southern Manchuria into a colonial space in which diseases and
other “natural” manifestations of the local environment and Chinese life
would hopefully be replaced by the inoculated, sanitized, and modern world
of a Japanese colony.
Modern, Western science in the forms of engineering, urban planning
and medicine played a central role in the development of the Japanese colony
in southern Manchuria. Just as scientific and engineering technologies
embodied in the Mantetsu railway, dockyards and soya bean mills provided
the transportation and industrial infrastructures necessary for the fledgling
Manchurian colony to grow, medical technologies in the forms of hospitals,
sanitation facilities, and public health regimens were crucial to the development
of the Guandong leasehold. The tremendous financial investment in the
124 R J. P

region, along with its growing population of Japanese colonial residents, had
to be protected from the dangers posed by microscopic enemies. While the
Guandong (Kwantung) Army was charged with protecting the region and its
railways from both real and constructed security threats, doctors, nurses, and
public health officials were also members of an important garrison in the
colony. It is important to remember that the modern world that was emerg-
ing in the Japanese Home Islands during the Meiji era was also being
exported abroad to the growing number of colonies and territories under
Tokyo’s control.

N
Department of History and Classics, Acadia University, Wolfville, Nova Scotia,
Canada, B4P 2R6. The author would like to acknowledge the support of the Hannah
Institute for the History of Medicine’s Grant-in-Aid programme that provided funding
for this research.
1. For an introduction to the history of Japanese imperialism and colonial adventures
during the Meiji and early Taisho periods see Marius B. Jansen, “Japanese
Imperialism: Late Meiji Perspectives,” in The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945,
ed. Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1984), pp. 61–79; Mark R. Peattie, “Japanese Attitudes Toward
Colonialism, 1895–1945,” in The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945, ed. Myers
and Peattie, pp. 80–127; and William G. Beasley, Japanese Imperialism 1894–1945
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991).
2. On the debates over the concepts of “modernity,” “East Asian modernity,” and
“colonial modernity” (and many other forms of “modernity”) and their application
to an analysis of the histories of post-Meiji Japan and its colonies see several of the
essays in both Gi-Wook Shin and Michael Robinson, eds., Colonial Modernity
in Korea (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 1999); and
Sharon A. Minichiello, ed., Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and
Democracy, 1900–1930 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1998).
3. Throughout this chapter I have used the Japanese name for Dairen instead of the
city’s Chinese name of Dalian. Both names come from the same kanji or Chinese
characters, and can be translated as “big, or great, connections.” I have purposely
decided to use the Japanese pronunciation of the port’s name as this chapter
explores the meanings of “modernity,” “development,” and “public health”
through the historical lens of Japanese visions of their colonial adventure in southern
Manchuria. For the same reason I have used the term “Manchuria” to denote the
region of northeast China comprised of the Republican provinces of Heilongjiang,
Jilin, and Fengtian. In the People’s Republic of China, this region is now referred
to as Dongbei, the “Northeast,” in order to avoid using the more “colonially-
loaded” term, Manchuria.
4. “Grand Medical Conference at Dairen,” The Manchuria Daily News: Monthly
Supplement (hereafter cited as MDNMS), June 1, 1927, 1–3; and Dairen Iin
shinchiku rakusei kinen igaku kaishi (Medical conference addresses in commemo-
ration of the opening of the new Dairen Hospital) (Dairen: Minami Manshu
Tetsudp kabushiki kaisha, 1927), pp. 5–6.
5. “Grand Medical Conference at Dairen,” MDNMS June 1, 1927, 1–3.
 D, D,  D 125

6. Following the 1927 conference all of the prepared research papers were included
in a commemorative volume that was published by the SMR. During the confer-
ence visiting senior researchers and professors from the Faculties of Medicine at
both the prestigious Kyoto and Tokyo Imperial Universities, as well as those from
the Manchurian Medical College in Mukden (Shenyang) presented papers, in
addition to dozens of local researchers and physicians. Copies of the scientific
papers, along with photographs taken during the conference and excerpts of the
plenary addresses can be found in Dairen Iin shinchiku rakusei kinen igaku kaishi
(Medical conference addresses in commemoration of the opening of the new
Dairen Hospital) (Dairen: Minami Manshu Tetsudp kabushiki kaisha, 1927).
The papers by Drs. Kuno and Suzuki are found on pages 21–28, and 1–32 (in the
foreign-language appendix) respectively.
7. “Grand Medical Conference at Dairen,” MDNMS June 1, 1927, 2; and “Dairen
Hospital,” MDNMS July 1, 1927, 10–13.
8. “Grand Medical Conference at Dairen,” MDNMS June 1, 1927, 2.
9. On the history of Japan’s creation and development of the puppet state of
Manzhouguo see Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the
Culture of Wartime Imperialism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998);
and Prasenjit Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity: Manchukuo and the East Asian
Modern (New York: Rowman and Littlefield Publisher, 2004). For a more
detailed analysis of Dairen’s pre-1931 history see Robert Perrins, “Great
Connections: The Creation of a City, Dalian, 1905–1931,” unpublished Ph.D.
diss., Department of History, York University, Toronto, 1998. The most
complete histories of Dairen during the period of Japanese rule are: Gu Mingyi
et al., Riben qinzhan Luda sishinian shi (A 40-year history of Japan’s occupation
of Lushun and Dalian) (hereafter cited as RQLSS) (Shenyang: Liaoning renmin
chubanshe, 1991); and Inoue Kenzaburp, ed., Dairen-shi shi (The history of the
city of Dairen) (Dairen: Dairen-shi yakusho, 1936).
10. Minami Manshu tetsudp ryokp annai (A Travel Guide to the South Manchuria
Railway) (Dairen: Mantetsu, 1920 and 1925 editions), pp. 9–12 and 19–20
respectively.
11. For a comprehensive review of the departments and equipment housed in the
new SMR hospital in Dairen see Report on Progress in Manchuria (hereafter cited
as ROP) (Dairen: SMR, 1929 ed.), pp. 164–167; “Dairen Hospital,” MDNMS
July 1, 1927, 10–13; and Sun Chengdai and Xu Yuanchen, Diguozhuyi qinlue
Dalian shi congshu weisheng juan (A collection of materials on imperialist aggres-
sion and Dalian’s history: Health issues) (hereafter cited as DSCW) (Dalian:
Dalian chubanshe, 1999).
12. The classic study of the relationship between technology and the creation and
development of colonial empires is Daniel Headrick, The Tools of Empire:
Technology and European Imperialism in the Nineteenth Century (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1981).
13. In his analysis of the history of the colonial medical system in the Japanese colony
of Taiwan (1895–1945), Liu Shi-yung notes that the terminology used during
the colonial period, shakai eisei (social hygiene) and koshu eisei (public hygiene)
were not quite the same as the modern concept of “public health” (kokup eisei).
While both the concepts of “public health” and the older “social hygiene” relied
on improvements in the fields of epidemiology and bacteriology, the latter also
tended to emphasize “social problems and behavior patterns that [were believed
to] cause medical crises . . . . In short, the supporters of public health [dealt] with
126 R J. P

bacteria, but the scholars of social hygiene focused on people who [were] at high
risk or vulnerable to certain diseases. Although both concepts [emphasized]
medical progress and prevention, public health usually [changed] the bio-
environment to reach its goals, and the advocates of social hygiene [tried] to
control people’s lifestyle and social behaviors to advance their aims” (p. 8). Both
approaches were in evidence during the colonial period in southern Manchuria.
See Liu Shi-yung, “Medical Reform in Colonial Taiwan,” unpublished Ph.D.
diss., Department of History, University of Pittsburgh, 2000, pp. 6–9.
14. For an introduction to the scholarship on the history of medicine in the
European colonies in Asia see David Arnold, ed. Imperial Medicine and
Indigenous Societies (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988); Roy
Macleod and Milton Lewis, eds., Disease, Medicine, and Empire: Perspectives on
Western Medicine and the Experience of European Expansion (London: Routledge
Kegan Paul, 1988); Mark Harrison, Public Health in British India: Anglo-Indian
Preventive Medicine, 1859–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1994); and Lenore Manderson, Sickness and the State: Health and Illness in
Colonial Malaya, 1870–1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).
15. See Liu, “Medical Reform in Colonial Taiwan” (2000); and Ming-cheng Lo,
Doctors within Borders: Profession, Ethnicity, and Modernity in Colonial Taiwan
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002).
16. DSCW, pp. 65–68.
17. DSCW, pp. 285–290.
18. On the history of the various Guandong administrations see Kantp-kyoku shisei
sanjunen shi (A 30-year history of the Guandong Bureau) (hereafter cited as
KKSSS) (Tokyo: Toppan insatsu kabushiki kaisha, 1936), pp. 61–78; RQLSS,
pp. 39–42 and 68–77; and Kwantung (Guandong) Government, The Kwantung
Government: Its Functions and Works (hereafter cited as KGFW) (Dairen:
Manchuria Daily News, 1929 ed.), pp. 16–21.
19. DSCW, pp. 45–50 and 60–63.
20. Great Britain, Foreign Office and Board of Trade, Diplomatic and Consular
Reports: Japan, Dairen (London: H.M. Stationery Office, 1907, Report no.
3857), p. 8.
21. Koshizawa Akira, Shokuminchi Manshu no toshi keikaku (Urban development in
colonial Manchuria) (Tokyo: Ajia Keizai Kenkyujo, 1978), pp. 50–53; and
Y. Konishio, Port of Dairen (Dairen: Research Office of the South Manchuria
Railway Company, 1923), p. 4.
22. See Kantp-shu Chp Chobokuka (Department of Public Works, Government of
the Guandong Territory), comp., Dairen toshi kekaku gaiyp (A summary of
Dairen’s city planning) (Dairen: Dairen-shi yakusho, 1938), pp. 1–4; and Liu
Zhongquan and Gui Qingxi, eds., Guanyu Dalian weilai chengshi xingtai de
yanjiu (A study regarding the future of Dalian’s urban morphology) (Dalian:
Dalian shi ruan kexue keti, 1996), pp. 34–40.
23. The original Russian name for the port, Dal’nii, literally translates as “far away,”
in reference to its distance from St. Petersburg and the Tsar’s government. In the
eyes of the Russian railway tsar, Finance Minister Sergei Witte, Dal’nii was to
have been developed into the “jewel of the Russian Far East.”
24. Konishio, Port of Dairen, pp. 3–4; and Sha E qinzhan Luda de qinian (Tsarist
Russia’s seven-year occupation of Lushun and Dalian) (Beijing: Zhonghua
Shuju, 1978), pp. 10–12.
25. Adachi Kinnosuke, Manchuria: A Survey (New York: Robert M. McBride & Co.,
1925), p. 72.
 D, D,  D 127

26. On the Russian era in Manchuria the reader is referred to Rosemary Quested,
Matey Imperialist? The Tsarist Russians in Manchuria, 1895–1917 (Hong Kong:
University of Hong Kong, 1982); David Wolff, To the Harbin Station. The
Liberal Alternative in Russian Manchuria, 1898–1914 (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1999); and Soren Clausen and Stig Thogersen, The Making of
a Chinese City: History and Historiography in Harbin (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe,
1995), pp. 23–52.
27. On the history of the “Garden City” movement in Japan during the early twen-
tieth century see Watanabe Shun-ichi, “Nihonteki Denen toshi ron no kenkyu II:
Naimushp chihp kyoku yushi: Denen toshi (1907) o megutte” (“Studies of the
‘Garden City’ Japanese style no. 2: An analysis of the introduction of the ‘Garden
City’ concept to Japan in 1907 by the Minister of the Interior”), Nihon Toshi
Keikaku Gakkai gakujutsu kenkyu happypkai ronbunshu (The Journal of the City
Planning Institute of Japan) 1978, 13: 283–288; and André Sorensen, The
Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-First
Century (New York: Routledge, 2002), pp. 89 and 137–142.
28. Kuratsuka’s preamble as quoted in Koshizawa, Shokuminchi Manshu no toshi
keikaku, p. 56.
29. Koshizawa, Shokuminchi Manshu no toshi keikaku, pp. 58–59. In particular,
Koshizawa notes the residency regulations of kuri(s) (coolies) that were detailed
in the “Regulations on the Establishment of Special Districts in Dairen,” that
were enacted by the Guandong Government-General in early 1906. These regu-
lations explicitly stated that: “The residency of kuri, as well as other lower-class
Chinese, among Japanese in general is not desirable in terms of hygiene and
discipline” (p. 59).
30. For fuller discussions of the urban planning of Dairen during the period of
Japanese rule see Dairen toshi kekaku gaiyp (1938); RQLSS, pp. 426–434; and
Koshizawa, Shokuminchi Manshu no toshi kekakum, pp. 49–57.
31. Far Eastern Review (hereafter cited as FER), August 1914, 85.
32. On the history of the plague in China see Carol Benedict, Bubonic Plague in
Nineteenth-Century China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), pp. 1–15;
and Iijima Wataru, Pesuto to kindai Chugoku (Plague and modern China) (Tokyo:
Kenbun Shuppan, 2000).
33. Carl F. Nathan, Plague Prevention and Politics in Manchuria, 1910–1931
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967), pp. 1–41.
34. Kantp totokufu rinji bprekibu (Guandong Temporary Municipal Sanitation
Bureau), Meiji yonju-sen yonen minami Manshu, pesto ryukp shi furoku (An
account of the plague in Southern Manchuria, 1910–1911) (Dairen: Manshu
hibi shinbunsha, 1912); and Kimura Ryoji, Dairen monogatari (An account of
Dairen) (Tokyo: Kenkpsha, 1983), pp. 26–28.
35. See Meiji yonju-sen yonen minami Manshu, pesto ryukp shi furoku, pp. 1–10; and
ROP (1929 ed.), pp. 171–172. This general attitude was still prevalent when the
next outbreak of plague struck Manchuria in 1920–1921. In a report summariz-
ing this struggle against the plague issued by Mantetsu’s sanitary office, the
SMR’s medical superintendent, Dr. Tsurumi wrote: “Hitherto, the low class peo-
ple, especially Chinese coolies, were regarded as the most dangerous medium.
Therefore, these people had to be dealt with adequately, first of all.” See Plague
Prevention Campaign in South Manchuria, 1921 (Dairen: Sanitary Office of the
SMR, 1921), p. 3.
36. Meiji yonju-sen yonen minami Manshu, pesto ryukp shi furoku, pp. 4–20; and ROP
(1929 ed.), p. 172.
128 R J. P

37. See Richard P. Strong, Erich Martini, G. F. Petrie, and A. Stanley, eds., Report of
the International Plague Conference Held at Mukden, April 1911 (Manila: Bureau
of Printing, 1912), pp. 33–34; Kantp-kyoku (The Guandong Bureau), Kantp-
kyoku tpkei sanjunen shi (Thirty years of statistical records of the Guandong
administration) (Dairen: Kantp-kyoku, 1935), pp. 648–651.
38. For more detailed accounts of the plague outbreak in Manchuria during the early
twentieth century see Nathan, Plague Prevention and Politics in Manchuria,
1910–1931 (1967); ROP (1929 ed.), pp. 171–177; DSCW, pp. 48–56; Wolff, To
the Harbin Station, pp. 92–95; and the autobiography of Wu Liande, the Chinese
physician who headed the North Manchurian Plague Prevention Service for
much of the early twentieth century, Wu Lien-teh, Plague Fighter: Autobiography
of a Chinese Physician (Cambridge: W. Heffer and Sons, 1959).
39. On the development of the soya bean trade and the construction of oil mills in
Dairen during the years of World War I see FER, October 1925, pp. 666–667;
and RQLSS pp. 304–308.
40. On Dairen’s growth as a port during the soya bean boom see Gu Mingyi et al.,
Dalian jin bai nian shi (The history of Dalian’s last hundred years) (hereafter
cited as DLJBNS) (Shenyang: Liaoning renmin chubanshe, 1999), vol. 1, pp. 842–
854; RQLSS, pp. 234–260; and China Economic Monthly, August 1924, 24.
41. See Kantp-chpkan kambp bunshoka (Archives Department of the Secretariat of the
Guandong Governor), Kantp-chp tpkei nijunen shi (Twenty years of statistical
records of the Guandong administration) (hereafter cited as KCTNS) (Dairen:
Manshu nichinichi shinbun, 1927), pp. 13–15. In 1914 the total population of
Dairen was 121,933, of which 38,436 were Japanese, 83,396 were Chinese, and
101 were “others.” By 1920 the port city’s population had grown to 238,867, of
which 62,994 were Japanese, 175,721 were Chinese, and 152 classified as
“others.”
42. KGFW (1929 ed.), p. 72; FER June 1922, 376; and RQLSS, pp. 426–427.
43. KGFW (1929 ed.), pp. 72–73 and 85–86; and FER September 1925, 592–593.
44. In his examination of the history of urban planning in the Japanese colony
in Manchuria, Koshizawa Akira points out that the zoning system developed in
Dairen (residential, commercial, industrial, and combined) was not adopted in
Japan until the late 1920s; another example of how developments in the south
Manchurian colony were sometimes in advance of, or more “modern” than was
the case in Japan proper. See Koshizawa, Shokuminchi Manshu no toshi keikaku,
p. 53. On the Japanese attitudes toward disease and nationality in Dairen see
DLJBNS, vol. 2, pp. 1515–1517; and Koshizawa, Shokuminchi Manshu no toshi
keikaku, pp. 49–50 and 58–60.
45. KGFW (1929 ed.), p. 72.
46. “Annual Report for the Year 1907, Sir Claude MacDonald, Britain’s Ambassador
to Japan,” FO 881/9218(I), in British Documents on Foreign Affairs: Reports and
Papers from the Foreign Office Confidential Print. Part 1. Series E. Asia, 1860–1914.
Vol. 9. Annual Reports of Japan, 1906–1913, ed. Ian Nish (Washington, D.C.:
University Publications of America, 1989), p. 62. Of the 30,000 Japanese who
arrived in the spring and summer of 1906, more than 16,000 left the following
year, having failed to find the proverbial pot of gold in southern Manchuria.
47. North China Herald and Supreme Court and Consular Gazette (Shanghai),
September 7, 1906.
48. KCTNS, p. 8.
 D, D,  D 129

49. On the formation and responsibilities assigned to the Marine Bureau office in
Dairen see KKSSS, pp. 1003–1009; KGFW (1934 ed.), pp. 47–49; and DSCW,
pp. 232–237.
50. See KGFW (1934 ed.), p. 93; ROP (1929 ed.), pp. 163–164; and DSCW,
pp. 232–241.
51. DSCW, p. 83 and pp. 231–236.
52. See Manderson, Sickness and the State, p. 101; and chapter 4 in this work titled,
“Public Health and the Pathogenic City,” pp. 96–126.
53. Manderson, Sickness and the State, p. 97.
54. DSCW, pp. 205–227; KGFW (1929 ed.), pp. 40–43; M. Tsurumi, “Public
Hygiene in Manchuria and Mongolia,” The Light of Manchuria, February 1,
1921, pp. 1–4; and “Hygiene of South Manchuria,” The Light of Manchuria
August 1, 1922, pp. 5–6 and 25–47.
55. Manchuria Daily News (hereafter cited as MDN) April 2, 1915; and KGFW
(1929 ed.), pp. 40–41.
56. “Hygiene of South Manchuria,” The Light of Manchuria August 1, 1922, 5 and
25–26; and ROP (1929 ed.), pp. 163–167.
57. FER, August 1914, p. 85. For more on the importance of the SMR to the devel-
opment of the prewar Japanese colony in Manchuria see Yoshihisa Tak
Matsusaka, The Making of Japanese Manchuria, 1904–1932 (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Asia Center, 2001).
58. For examples of the Mantetsu and colonial administration’s descriptions of
Dairen as a model city see Minami Manshu tetsudp ryokp annai (1920 and 1925
editions), pp. 9–12 and 19–20 respectively; and Dairen chihp annai (Guide to
the Dairen area) (Dairen: Mantetsu, n.d.). More recent nostalgic Japanese publi-
cations on the history of Dairen continue to use terms such as “city of lights,”
and “beautiful port city.” For examples of this sort see Kimura, Dairen mono-
gatari, pp. 35–37; and Suzuki, Jitsuroku Dairen kaisp, pp. 1–4 and 76–84.
59. Manderson, Sickness and the State, p. 101.
60. ROP (1929 edition), p. 163; and M. Tsurumi, “Public Hygiene in Manchuria
and Mongolia,” Light of Manchuria, February 1, 1921, 3–4 and 10–12.
61. See KCTNS, pp. 232–237. The year 1917 is representative of the general num-
bers of fatalities from dysentery and intestinal illnesses, with the recorded total
deaths for each category standing at 137 and 3,308 respectively.
62. See KCTNS, pp. 232–237.
63. See William Johnston, The Modern Epidemic: A History of Tuberculosis in Japan
(Cambridge, Mass.: Council of East Asia Studies, Harvard University, 1995),
pp. 70–90.
64. KCTNS, pp. 232–237. Again, the figures for 1917 are fairly representative of the
period, with 281 Japanese, and 1,104 Chinese succumbing to the disease.
65. “Hygiene of South Manchuria,” The Light of Manchuria, August 1, 1922, 40–41;
DSCW, pp. 99–125; and Kinoshita Suzuo, Dairen Seiai Iin Nijugoshunen shi
(A 25-year history of the Dairen Seiai Hospital) (Dairen: n.p., 1931).
66. DSCW, pp. 134–138.
67. MDN October 25 and 26, 1918.
68. A few of the standard works on the history of the 1918–1919 influenza pandemic
are Richard Collier, The Plague of the Spanish Lady: The Influenza Pandemic of
1918–1919 (London: Macmillan, 1974); Alfred W. Crosby, Epidemic and Peace,
1918–1919 (Westport: Greenwood, 1976); and Howard Phillips and David
130 R J. P

Killingray’s edited volume, The Spanish Influenza Pandemic of 1918–19: New

Perspectives (New York: Routledge, 2003).
69. See MDN, October 28 and 30, 1918; and November 2, 4, and 7, 1918. On
efforts in Japan to combat the influenza see Edwina Palmer and Geoffrey
W. Rice, “ ‘Divine Wind versus Devil Wind’: Popular Responses to Pandemic
Influenza in Japan, 1918–1919,” Japan Forum 1992, 4 (2): 317–328; and
Geoffrey W. Rice, “Japan and New Zealand in the 1918 Influenza Pandemic:
Comparative Perspectives on Official Responses and Crisis Management,” in The
Spanish Infuenza Pandemic of 1918–19: New Perspectives, ed. Howard Phillips
and David Killingray (New York: Routledge, 2003), pp. 73–85.
70. KCTNS, pp. 232–237; and “Hygiene of South Manchuria,” The Light of
Manchuria August 1, 1922, 30–32. The figure of a third of the population of the
Guandong leasehold having been stricken by the flu mirrors the overall infection
rate in Japan during the pandemic. See Palmer and Rice, “Divine Wind versus
Devil Wind,” p. 318; and Rice, “Japan and New Zealand in the 1918 Influenza
Pandemic,” p. 74.
71. “Hygiene of South Manchuria,” The Light of Manchuria August 1, 1922, 33.
Inspections of incoming ships were also “tightened” in an effort to prevent the
arrival of cholera in 1919, as all passengers and crew members had to submit stool
samples for testing by the Marine Bureau before being allowed to disembark in
Dairen. This requirement was eventually suspended in October 1920, a full year
after the outbreak had subsided. See United States, Department of State, Record
Group 84, Records of Foreign Service Posts, Consular Posts, Dairen, Manchuria,
China (United States National Archive, College Park, MD), vol. 78 (1920), File
no. 812, “Note from the Guandong Marine Bureau, October 21, 1920.”
72. MDN September 5, 1919.
73. MDN August 12, 1918; and September 10, 1918.
74. MDN September 8, 1918; and “Hygiene of South Manchuria,” The Light of
Manchuria August 1, 1922, p. 27.
75. DSCW, pp. 51–58; and “Hygiene of South Manchuria,” The Light of Manchuria,
August 1, 1922, 32–34. The total number of cholera fatalities in Dairen during
the 1919 outbreak was 303 Japanese, 1,323 Chinese, and 2 foreign residents. See
KCTNS, pp. 232–237.
76. On Dairen’s search for water during the early years of Japanese rule see
Y. Kuratsuka, “Present and Future of Dairen Waterworks,” The Light of
Manchuria July 1, 1921, p. 8; and “Dairen Waterworks Service,” FER May
1915, pp. 501–503.
77. Y. Kuratsuka, “The Dairen Waterworks: The Present and Future of a Model
Establishment,” FER (October 1921), p. 687.
78. MDN May 16, 1918.
79. MDN October 28, 1918.
80. Kuratsuka, “The Dairen Waterworks,” FER October 1921, 687; and Kuratsuka,
“Present and Future of Dairen Waterworks,” The Light of Manchuria July 1,
1921, 13–18.
81. Petitions demanding action were presented to the municipal government in the
late summer of 1920, and by the spring of 1921 the city council, together with
the administration of the Guandong leasehold and the SMR, decided to invest
additional funds in expanded waterworks. For reviews of the water crisis debate
in Dairen in the early 1920s see MDN, August 21, 1920; and May 10, 1921.
 D, D,  D 131

82. On the history of the various reservoirs built around Dairen during the 1910s
and 1920s see Inoue, Dairen-shi shi, pp. 664–667; ROP (1929 ed.), p. 168;
KGFW (1934 ed.), pp. 143–144; and KKSSS, pp. 278–280.
83. Kuratsuka, “The Dairen Waterworks,” FER October 1921, pp. 687–688; and
“Dairen Waterworks Service,” FER May 1915, 501–502. The original 1914
plans had estimated Dairen’s future population to be 125,000. This forecast,
however, had not foreseen the city’s rapid growth brought on by the soya bean
boom of the late 1910s. By 1920 Dairen’s population was almost double
what the original engineers had planned for, and stood at more than 238,000
residents.
84. MDN November 18, 1914.
85. “Dairen Waterworks Service,” FER (May 1915), p. 502.
86. Kuratsuka, “Present and Future of Dairen Waterworks,” The Light of Manchuria,
July 1, 1921, p. 1.
87. Kuratsuka, “The Dairen Waterworks,” FER October 1921, 687.
88. Kuratsuka, “The Dairen Waterworks,” FER October 1921, 687.
89. KKSSS, p. 280; and KGFW (1934 ed.), p. 144.
90. Kuratsuka, “Present and Future of Dairen Waterworks,” The Light of Manchuria
July 1, 1921, p. 15.
91. See ROP (1929 edition), pp. 168–169.
92. “New General Hospital of [the] SMR Co.: Building Lessons from the Tokyo
Disaster,” FER January 1924, p. 28.
93. The fact that Fuller and Company was chosen to design and build the new SMR
facility in Dairen, despite the fact that the firm had never before worked on a hos-
pital project, was not an uncommon story in the history of hospital architecture
in the early twentieth century. Even in North America before the 1950s many
architectural firms designed hospitals without prior experience or having hospital
design specialists on staff. See Stephen Verderber and David J. Fine, Healthcare
Architecture in an Era of Radical Transformation (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 2000).
94. “New General Hospital of [the] SMR Co.: Building Lessons from the Tokyo
Disaster,” FER January 1924, p. 28. On the history of the construction of busi-
ness buildings in the Marunouchi district during the Meiji and Taishp periods see
Dallas Finn, Meiji Revisited: The Sites of Victorian Japan (New York: Weatherhill,
1995), pp. 188–191.
95. Regarding the refitting of the region’s railways, and the SMR’s (and Meiji
Japan’s) purchase and use of American railway technology between 1906 and the
early 1920s, see George Bronson Rea, “Daylight in Manchuria,” FER, November
1920, pp. 3–18; Ramon H. Myers, “Japanese Imperialism in Manchuria: The
South Manchuria Railway Company, 1906–1933,” in The Japanese Informal
Empire in China, 1895–1937, ed. Peter Duus, Ramon H. Myers, and Mark R.
Peattie (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), pp. 122–123; Matsusaka,
The Making of Japanese Manchuria, pp. 126–148; and Finn, Meiji Revisited,
pp. 49–50 and 138–142.
96. MDNMS July 1, 1927, p. 12. An article by the SMR Intelligence Bureau titled,
“New General Hospital of [the] SMR Co.: Building Lessons from the Tokyo
Disaster,” FER January 1924, pp. 28–31 sought to answer the question: “Was it
really worthwhile giving the contract to American builders?” In this article, the
SMR engineers noted that American architects had utilized steel reinforcement
132 R J. P

bars and reinforced concrete in almost all of their projects in Tokyo, while many
Japanese construction firms had not, resulting in a clear lesson when the Kantp
earthquake struck on September 1, 1923.
97. FER January 1924, p. 31; and DSCW, pp. 99–101.
98. MDNMS June 1, 1927, p. 1.
99. For detailed descriptions of the hospital’s layout and facilities see: MDNMS, July 1,
1927, pp. 12–13; August 1, 1927, pp. 8–12; and DLJBNS, Vol. 2, p. 1465.
100. “SMR Hospitals: What Sacrifice is Paid for Their Maintenance,” MDNMS, July 1,
1923, p. 15.
101. MDNMS November 1, 1927, pp. 12–13.
102. As late as 1929, three years after the SMR’s showcase medical facility opened,
average weekly wages in Dairen were still far below the daily room charges at the
hospital. Weekly wages for skilled Japanese laborers ranged from four and a half
yen for a mason at the upper end, to three yen for a printer at the bottom end
of the range. Chinese wages were roughly half of those paid to a Japanese
worker similarly employed. See ROP (1931 ed.), pp. 173–174.
103. DSCW, pp. 109–117.
104. R. O. Matheson, Modern Manchuria: A Series of Articles Written for the Chicago
Tribune (Dairen: Manshu nichi-nichi shinbun, 1926), p. 8.
 P 

T, I,
 N
This page intentionally left blank
 

T M   J ’ S

I   Q 
P  C ,
–
David G. Wittner

I
In the decade following the Meiji Restoration, Japan embarked on a
far-reaching program of industrialization the likes of which the world had
never seen before, nor is it ever likely to see again. The Meiji government’s
“program of industrialization,” shokusan kpgyp, may, however, be more accu-
rately described as ad hoc industrialization: a series of perfunctory ventures
whose only elements of commonality were the adoption of Western industrial
technologies that loosely fit within the rhetoric of fukoku kyphei ideology per-
missible under the unequal treaties. There was little or no detailed planning
involved; schemes were often formulated as problems arose. At Tomioka, the
government’s premier silk reeling facility, for example, no one even considered
who would work there.1 This lack of planning and foresight was typical of
early Japanese efforts at technology transfer and industrial development.
From the perspective of technology transfer, the first decades of industri-
alization can be roughly divided into two periods: from 1868 to approximately
1884, and from approximately 1884 until 1895. The dividing line between
these periods is the publication of Kpgyp iken, a government report that
was intended to solve the problem of “trial and error industrialization.”
The project of Maeda Masana, a Npshpmushp (Ministry of Agriculture and
Commerce) bureaucrat, Kpgyp iken, was a countrywide survey of the actual
conditions of Japan’s industries. In it, Maeda attempted to present a compre-
hensive appraisal of Meiji economic policy. Among his suggestions, Maeda
urged that the government reconsider the direct transfer of imported
technology and give preference to the modernization of rural industry.2
Within the first decade of Meiji industrialization the Iwakura mission, the
Meiji government’s first official tour of Western Europe and the United
States, provided for subtle changes to the ways technologies were selected.
136 D G. W  

Prior to the mission, the government’s choice of technique was based on the
decisions of a core group of officials with little or no technical expertise. They
relied on personal connections—including associations continued from
bakufu- or han-based business ventures, Western officials’ recommendations
reflecting personal ambition, and most importantly the presumption that
importing Western technology would bring “civilization” to Japan. Pre-mission
technology transfer must be viewed as part of the new government’s effort to
bolster its position vis-à-vis the han and defunct bakufu and as an attempt
to present Japan as “civilized” in the Western world order.
Post-mission choice of technique is more indicative of the Meiji govern-
ment’s analysis of a country’s political and/or economic standing, although
this too, had a role in the selection of technologies in the pre-mission years.3
In both periods, technologies were frequently imported based on their
presumed abilities to bring Western “civilization” to Japan, regardless of tech-
nical rationality.4 From the government’s perspective, importing what it
believed to be the most modern methods and the most modern machinery—
made from the most modern materials—would be indicative of the extent of
“progress and civilization” in Japan.
In its efforts to renegotiate the unequal treaties, to build a “Rich Nation
and Strong Army,” the Meiji government’s “program of industrialization”
was based on having Japan conform to Western ideals of progress and
“civilization” in developed countries. It was not necessarily based on a tech-
nical examination of conditions in Japan that would facilitate or hinder the
transfer of a specific technology. Moreover, the government’s insistence on
importing only what it perceived as the most advanced technologies was, at
times, counterproductive to its stated goals.
Through an examination of government-led initiatives and private efforts
to mechanize Japan’s silk reeling industry in the decade following 1868, this
chapter will demonstrate that the preeminent consideration that guided
choice of technique and technology transfer was more ideological than tech-
nical or economic. In government sponsored enterprises, beliefs in “modernity”
and material representations of authority, progress, and “civilization” were
more important for choice of technique than any technical assessment of a
technology’s appropriateness.

M   S

I: S  F A
In late 1869, Vice Minister of Finance Itp Hirobumi was approached by
F. Geisenheimer, the manager of a French trading company in Yokohama,
who complained about the declining quality of Japanese silk. As a remedy, he
recommended establishing a model filature where Japanese silk producers
could learn Western reeling techniques to the commercial (and technological
benefit) of all involved. More than completely overhauling Japan’s domestic
reeling industry, however, Geisenheimer was more concerned with profit. Itp
demurred, citing possible treaty violations as the reason. Insistently, however,
 M    S I 137

Geisenheimer suggested a Japanese run facility that relied on French capital

and technology imports, but once again, Itp declined. He was intrigued,
however, by Geisenheimer’s insistence as to the profitability of a model facility
based on Western technology. Shortly thereafter, Itp initiated discussions
between the Minbushp (Ministry of Civil Affairs) and Pkurashp (Ministry of
Finance) regarding the feasibility of such a project. After some deliberations,
officials within the two ministries decided to hire foreign advisers and pro-
ceed with the project. Itp contacted Shibusawa Eiichi, head of the Pkurashp’s
Taxation Bureau and the only government official with any silk-related expe-
rience, to help find a suitable Western adviser.5 In February 1870, Itp and
Shibusawa went to Tsukiji, Tokyo where they approached Lieutenant Albert
Charles Du Bousquet to help the government find a silk reeling expert. On
the recommendation of Pkuma Shigenobu, they also went to Yokohama
where they again spoke with Geisenheimer about the venture. Geisenheimer
was the branch manager of the Lyons-based silk wholesaler Hècht, Lilienthal
and Company. Du Bousquet and Geisenheimer recommended that the gov-
ernment hire Paul Brunat, a young Frenchman who had been working for
Hècht, Lilienthal and Company in Yokohama for about two years.6 Brunat
had been sent to Yokohama by the Lyons silk wholesaler, where he had
worked in the silk industry since he was a teenager.7 The four men visited
Brunat in June 1870, at which point Itp and Shibusawa decided to hire him
as the government’s foreign silk reeling adviser. Shortly thereafter, Brunat
was given a provisional contract. His final contract was signed in November
of the same year.8
This rather circuitous route by which the Meiji government found and
hired its primary silk reeling adviser is illustrative of pre-Iwakura mission
methods of securing technical advice. Understandably, the urgency of Japan’s
political situation, international and domestic, meant that formulating a care-
fully delineated set of hiring guidelines would take the back burner to more
pressing issues of state. As Hazel Jones has noted, “time was the missing
quantum; day-to-day, hour-to-hour decisions in this period of revolutionary
change precluded thoughtful consideration of long-term effects.”9 When
Brunat was hired, trust was the primary consideration upon which the hiring
of a foreign adviser was based. While theoretically including an assessment of
a potential adviser’s qualifications, this practice also appears to have caused
its own set of problems. The policy statement, which guided the hiring of
foreign advisers, Gaikokujin yatoi irekata kokoroe jpjp (Instructions for the
Hiring of Foreign Employees), issued in February 1870, was continuously
modified over the next 20 years in an effort to better regulate the engagement
of foreigners.10
Profit and a steady supply of high quality raw silk were the prime motivating
factors in Geisenheimer’s and Du Bousquet’s recommendation of Brunat.
Indeed, Brunat was continually employed by Hècht, Lilienthal and Company
until 1873—three years after signing his contract with the Meiji govern-
ment.11 The French community in Yokohama also shared this view, reacting
with enthusiasm and the natural assumption that the Lyons connections
138 D G. W  

would translate into equipment purchases from France.12 In fact, according

to the terms of Brunat’s final contract, all the equipment for Tomioka was
imported through Hècht, Lilienthal and Company and Geisenheimer was
one of the signatories.13 The Meiji government, however, may have had
other ideas about this new relationship; for Meiji Japan’s “special relation-
ship” with France was also political and ideological.
It could be argued that at the time finding foreign advisers through per-
sonal connections was the only option available to the Meiji government.
One could also stress that connections were, and remain to this day, impor-
tant in Japan. However, the government’s mixed record of success and
official attempts to remedy the situation does not support these inferences.
Part of the problem was the nature of the early Meiji government itself. As
Umegaki Michio has demonstrated, the new government suffered from any
number of organizational deficiencies. Prior to late 1871, there were no
firmly established procedures for examining and screening policy proposals
or for reviewing their development and outcome once implemented.
Shibusawa Eiichi vehemently complained about the lack of organization and
direction in the central bureaucracy and was instrumental in having Pkuma
Shigenobu organize a committee that would eventually be responsible for
implementing policy procedure.14 Until that time, however, appointments to
central positions were made through closed-door negotiations and conversa-
tions among a few officials.15 The hiring of foreign advisers was haphazard:
“As a task arose an immediate solution was sought, and someone hired.”16
The ad hoc and individualized nature of the early Meiji bureaucracy rendered
the adviser selection process risky at best. It was perhaps this realization,
coupled with the new government’s demands for importing “civilization”
to Japan, that often led government officials to ignore their adviser’s
recommendations.

C HOICE OF T ECHNIQUE : A T

A
If the method by which the Meiji government secured its foreign advisers was
somewhat haphazard, the criteria on which officials based their choice of
technique appears even less purposive. Brunat recommended that the govern-
ment build a sizable facility that would utilize a Japanese–European hybrid
reeling technology. Because the Tomioka area was already famous for its high
quality zaguri reeling techniques, and because he did not want to disturb
local production patterns, Brunat suggested surveying local reeling methods
and incorporating them into Western mechanized reeling processes. He
recommended locally produced machines, made of materials that were available
in Japan, that is, wood, and also suggested a local survey so as to ascertain
what changes to present (Japanese) reeling methods would be most beneficial.
He also sought to find out how resistant local silk reelers would be toward
changes in their industry. From the perspective of choice of technique,
Brunat’s proposal was relatively conservative. Although he recommended the
 M    S I 139

incorporation of steam reeling techniques, steam engines to power the mill,

and proposed a large facility—300 basins—much of his plan was based on
utilizing local technology.17
Government reactions, while seemingly enthusiastic, must have been
a source of frustration for Brunat. On November 29, 1870, the day he received
his final contract, he was ordered to return to France to purchase everything
required literally to import a fully operational French filature. Brunat was
ordered to buy the latest (cast iron) reeling frames, steam engines, machine
tools, and other equipment.18 The government’s directive called for a facility,
the design of which was to be based primarily on the government’s specifica-
tions.19 Meiji leaders’ desire to use the latest Western technologies bordered
on obsession. The issue fuel for the steam engines and boilers illustrates this
especially well: Brunat recommended wood over coal because of the latter’s
exorbitant price. Meiji bureaucrats, however, opted for coal and not just any
coal. It too, was to be imported from France!20 In the end, Tomioka would
be based strictly on orthodox French reeling technology.
From what evidence remains, it appears that Brunat’s proposal was
rejected through the decisions of a few men with little or no experience in the
silk industry. Of the five officials directly responsible for Tomioka, one,
Shibusawa Eiichi, had experience in sericulture. Odaka Atsutada, Shibusawa’s
cousin, brother-in-law, and ultimately the facility’s day-to-day supervisor, was
from a merchant family that dealt in indigo. The remaining three officials,
Tamanoe Seiri, Nakamura Michita, and Sugiura Yuzuru were former samurai
with little or no commercial or technical experience.21 Two additional men,
Pki Takatp and Yoshii Tomozane, the officials of record in the Minbushp,
were also former samurai with apparently no technical or commercial
background.
It is often pointed out that many Meiji bureaucrats studied overseas, if
only briefly, and that this was an asset in their development of an industr-
ialization policy. Itp Hirobumi, Inoue Kaoru, and Yamao Ypzp studied in
England for six months in 1863; Shibusawa and Sugiura similarly studied in
France in 1867. But how much they actually learned is questionable.
Shibusawa himself admitted only to being capable of the most rudimentary
French, making tasks such as shopping possible without an interpreter.22 At
issue, however, should not be whether these men had technical backgrounds,
but that they chose to ignore the advice for which they were paying in the
form of foreign advisers. For Meiji policymakers committed to industrialization,
overseas experience legitimized cultural materiality for bunmei kaikai ideology.
In sum, the government’s actions with respect to technique/technology
clearly indicate an ideological alternative agenda.
Although the official record presents no clear evidence as to the selection
process, there are indications that Shibusawa Eiichi and Sugiura Yuzuru were
behind the decision to adopt French reeling technology. In 1867, the two
were part of a Tokugawa mission to Europe where they had the opportunity
to visit the Fifth International Exhibition in Paris.23 Ultimately Shibusawa
would live in Paris for six months serving as an attendant for Tokugawa
140 D G. W  

Akitake, the Shogun’s younger brother.24 Traveling to Lyons by train,

Shibusawa and Sugiura had only a brief opportunity for sightseeing but were
impressed nonetheless. They noted the spaciousness and metropolitan character
of Lyons and were particularly keen on the variety and quality of locally pro-
duced women’s silk accessories. While neither man had the opportunity to
visit a reeling or weaving facility while in Lyons, they were able to examine its
silk more closely at the Paris exhibition in June. In Paris, both Shibusawa and
Sugiura were impressed, not only by the quality of the silk fabrics made in
Lyons, but also by the sheer magnitude of the exhibition, not to mention the
city itself. Moreover, they noted the prestige attached to winning awards at
such an exhibition and how countries vied for distinction by displaying their
most advanced and finest products.25
After the exhibition ended, the two toured Switzerland, Italy, Great
Britain, and the Netherlands. In September, Shibusawa and Sugiura visited
filatures and weaving establishments in Switzerland that they described as
being merely artisanal or handicraft in nature. While commenting favorably
on the detail of some of the fabrics, the two were obviously less impressed
with the quality of what they had seen and with the small size of the facilities
they had visited. Their travels through Italy, while including a trek through
the mountains in a horse-drawn carriage, a far cry from the steam locomotives
to which they had become accustomed, did not include a visit to a filature.
Silk was not even mentioned with regard to Italy. Shibusawa described the
carriage in detail, however, noting that it was the means of transportation
used in Europe before the invention of the train.26
It is likely that this first quick impression of Western weaving and reeling
methods, coupled with their awe of Paris and Lyons, biased their opinions in
favor of French reeling techniques. By the 1860s, the reputation of Lyons silk
was well known in Japan, its quality considered among the best. Moreover,
there existed what historian Richard Sims calls a “special relationship”
between France and Japan that was largely the result of Leon Roche’s efforts,
although the relationship predated his 1864 arrival.27 As early as 1861, the
export silk trade with France was significant, totaling some 2,600,000 francs.
During Shibusawa’s time in Paris, the volume of trade increased by a factor
of seven, to 20,220,000 francs; in 1868, shortly after his return, it again
more than doubled.28 The “special relationship” was even deeper than Sims
suggests. Sigismond Lilienthal, partner in Hècht, Lilienthal and Company,
the Lyons-Yokohama trading firm that employed and recommended Brunat,
was instrumental in orchestrating arms-for-silk deals with the new Meiji
government.29
At the time, the quality of French silk, Lyons silk in particular, was known in
Japan; the process by which it was made, however, was not.30 French silk reeling
technology was not, in fact, purely French; local reelers had long since modified
their technology with Italian designs. Indeed, by the mid-nineteenth century,
Italian reeling methods were widespread throughout France and were consid-
ered superior by many silk reelers to traditional French methods, a point that
seems to have been lost on these early observers from Japan.31
 M    S I 141

If the government’s representatives did not understand the technical

details of French and Italian silk reeling machinery, they certainly recognized
the political and economic importance of the two countries for Japan.
Diplomatic relations with Italy were formally established in 1866; commercial
relations in the form of the raw silk and silkworm egg trades through Yokohama
were established shortly thereafter.32 Much for the same reasons that the
French were forced to look outside their borders for raw silk and silkworms,
the pebríne virus also brought Italian silk merchants to Japan. The disease
had much more serious consequences for France’s industry, however, and the
volume of trade with Italy was correspondingly lower. As noted earlier, not
only did Shibusawa’s trip to Italy bypass silk reeling facilities, but also, years
later the Iwakura mission relegated the industry in general to an unofficial
side-trip. Indeed, our knowledge of the mission’s silk-related activities comes
from the Italian press, not the official record of Japan’s visitors in Italy.33
Although Japanese sericulturists were later sent to Italy to study scientific
methods of silkworm rearing, Italy was seen more as a source of competition
as was indicated in an 1873 report by the Japanese consul-general to Italy.
In it, he notes that the Italian government was licensing trading companies
with the purpose of promoting silkworm rearing and eliminating the imports
of (Japanese) silkworm egg cards.34
More crucial for the new Meiji government, however, was their evaluation
of the two countries’ political importance. Shibusawa noted in his travel log
for October 23 (1867) that Italy had been torn by civil war a year before the
Tokugawa mission arrived. He also noted that Tokugawa Akitake’s audience
with King Victor Emmanuel II was cut short because of disturbances in
Rome. In fact, Rome would not officially be part of the unified Kingdom of
Italy until 1870. While Shibusawa praised the skill of the artisans at a mosaic
factory, these comments pale in comparison to the traveler’s evaluations of
French manufacturing and Paris.35 Much like the low-level of American
diplomatic participation in Japan following the U.S. Civil War, Italy was
similarly relatively inactive in early Meiji politics—especially in comparison to
Britain and France. Although Italy made contributions to Japan’s military
technology during the Meiji period, its greater contributions are in the
introduction of Western art and music in the late 1870s.
As a result of France’s greater participation in Japanese politics and trade,
the impressions of the country’s technical and political prestige formed at
the Fifth International Exhibition in Paris, and the aura of “civilization” and
modernity, which—for Shibusawa and Sugiura—seemed to exude from every
feature of French society, the Meiji government decided to import strictly
orthodox French silk reeling technology for its model filature at Tomioka.
There was no technical evaluation of the machinery, nor was there any
attempt to ascertain whether this new technology would be appropriate for
Japan or Japanese silk reelers.
Determining choice of technique is a difficult process regardless of timing
or location. In Meiji Japan, the task was further complicated by the nature of
the government, internal disturbances, and external conditions, such as the
142 D  G. W  

unequal treaties and the need to demonstrate the legitimacy of the new
Imperial government to the leading Western powers. An issue that adds to
the complexity of the debate surrounding the government’s decision to
import orthodox French technology is that there were alternative Western
mechanized reeling techniques available in Japan whose technologies were
relatively simple to import. Arguably primitive when compared with Tomioka’s
technology, these alternative reeling frames were capable of producing silk of
a more uniform and higher quality than traditional Japanese methods. In the
hands of a trained operator, they could reel silk of a quality equal to that of
Tomioka. More importantly, they were easily fabricated by local craftsmen
using locally available materials.

M, “C,”  

T A
The chief critic of the government’s plan was Hayami Kenzp, the man
responsible for first importing Western mechanized reeling technology to
Japan, and often considered the father of Japan’s modern silk industry.
Hayami questioned the feasibility of the facility noting that its (French) tech-
nology was too expensive and complicated “to be of any immediate benefit
to Japan’s silk reeling industry” or to the Meiji government. Based on his
assessment of the government’s proposal, Hayami also questioned whether
or not Brunat was qualified. As McCallion notes, this was the first time anyone
seriously questioned the government’s plans.36 This would not be the last
time that Hayami leveled an attack on government-led silk mechanization
initiatives; and it would also not be the last time the Meiji government chose
to ignore the advice of its own advisers.
Hayami was in a unique position from which to criticize. Working origi-
nally for Maebashi-han, he first established a retail silk outlet in Yokohama in
March 1869. For a samurai, Hayami was a rather astute businessman. He sur-
veyed Western merchants in Yokohama and found that the chief complaint
with Japanese silk was not the raw material, as had previously been assumed,
but the poor quality of Japanese reeling techniques.37 In much the same way
that Shibusawa and Itp were introduced to Brunat, Hayami sought and
received an introduction through the Swiss consul in Yokohama to Casper
Mueller, a Swiss silk reeling expert, who had been involved in Italy’s silk
reeling industry for over a dozen years.38
Following Hayami’s guidance and Mueller’s advice, with approval from
the new Meiji government, Maebashi-han established the first mechanized
reeling facility in Japan based on Western technology in June 1870. The filature
was small, initially with only three reeling frames. It relied on Italian technology,
and all of the machinery was locally produced. Before the Meiji government
could even complete construction on Tomioka, the Maebashi filature had
moved once and expanded twice. Still based on locally manufactured,
wooden, Italian-style machinery, Maebashi filature by June 1871 boasted
36 reeling frames.39
 M    S I 143

Unfortunately, the Maebashi facility was neither very profitable nor long
lasting. It was important, however, for providing an alternative technology
to that employed at Tomioka. The two facilities were built with one goal
in common; to serve as models of mechanization and modernization for
Japan’s local silk reelers. In this sense, Maebashi was far more practical than
Tomioka; its (simpler) Italian-style machinery was more within the grasp of
Japanese producers—financially, methodologically, and technologically—
than Tomioka’s French technology. Moreover, it was the “first attempt to
introduce Western reeling techniques as much as possible within an exclu-
sively Japanese context.”40 Whereas neither facilities’ technology was repli-
cated with any significant degree of accuracy, private silk reelers were able to
copy the Italian technology far more faithfully than the French. In fact,
within five months of its opening, the first group of trainees to visit the model
filature arrived at Maebashi.41 From the perspective of aiding the basic trans-
fer of technology to local producers, Maebashi would have to be judged
more successful.
The first attempt to replicate the government’s model filature came in
1874 when a group composed largely of former samurai opened a filature in
Nagano prefecture, Rokkpsha, theoretically based solely on Tomioka’s
French technology. Yet the fact that Rokkpsha was able to serve as a model
for others to follow later, betrays the simplicity of the operation. Rokkpsha
did not have the government’s financial resources, as was the case with
Tomioka, and modifications had to be made. These primarily came in the
form of cost-saving adaptations to the technology. All of Rokkpsha’s reeling
frames were locally produced from locally available materials. The copper
basins for which Tomioka was famous were replaced with ceramic. Steam
engines were replaced by a waterwheel, and kindling fires replaced coal. Yet,
through all the changes, Rokkpsha still boasted that it produced silk by
Tomioka’s superior French methods.42
Tomioka, Maebashi, and Rokkpsha were visited by silk reelers from all parts
of Japan who wished to improve their reeling methods. At the very least, they
were curious to see what European technology had to offer and how this could
be turned into profit. In many cases, these small-scale producers imported
some aspect of what they had seen into their facilities, but even the most
painstaking attempts at replicating Tomioka’s technologies were far from faith-
ful to the original model. More often than not, however, firms advertised their
silk as being made in a “Tomioka-style” facility or by “Tomioka-style” methods
after adopting only the most insignificant aspects of the technology. Few, if any,
claimed to have modernized through the adoption of Maebashi’s technology,
although its methods were more widely diffused and its silk had a good repu-
tation and drew high prices in international markets.
Even the small-scale producers who had visited Rokkpsha, but who had
never visited Tomioka, and who further simplified the technologies to match
their particular situations, claimed to produce silk by Tomioka’s methods.
A Saitama prefecture filature established in 1876 that claimed for example, to
be based in part on Tomioka’s technology was actually modeled on another
144 D G. W  

local filature located in Seta county.43 Arguably done to maximize profit

potentials, local reelers who allied themselves with Tomioka’s technology had
in essence become ambassadors of the government’s ideology. By the score,
filature owners claimed that their establishments were based on, or modeled
after, Tomioka Silk Filature. But in each case, descriptions of the facilities
show the fallacy of their claims. Few if any used steam reeling techniques,
most were small, powered by water wheels or hand, and many descriptions
clearly indicate the use of Italian-style reeling frames.44 McCallion argues that
local reelers were “simply [being] more politic to make reference to the
government’s filature.”45 However, the significance of this attachment is
deeper. Tomioka’s greatest significance was its mystique. For the government
it was a source of domestic and international prestige, for the small producer
it was an ideal. Its physical being represented “progress” and “civilization.”
While not claiming to be representatives of “civilization” themselves, small
producers became entangled in the belief that association with the Tomioka
name alone was enough to imply progress and high quality.
Throughout the first years the Meiji era, the government was well aware
of alternative silk reeling technologies, however, its primary focus remained
the Tomioka filature and French reeling methods. Attempts within the
various ministries to develop alternative technologies were largely ignored by
the central bureaucracy. In January 1873, the same month that Tomioka
began production in earnest, the Kpbushp kankpryp (Ministry of Industry,
Office for the Promotion of Industry) opened its own filature in Akasaka,
Tokyo. The facility was modest compared with Tomioka and received none
of the recognition that accompanied the opening of the latter. In fact, the
entire history of the Kankpryp filature is a lesson in obscurity. The facility
does not even warrant its own paragraph in the Kpbushp’s official records, the
Kpbushp enkaku hpkoku; its treatment is limited to a few sentences mixed in
with the ministry’s other “insignificant” manufacturing ventures.46
Relying on wooden Italian-style reeling frames and a water wheel for
power, the Kankpryp filature also served as a training ground for local silk
producers. Hayami visited the facility in March 1873, noting that the
machinery was of good quality and that it was in good order. Like Tomioka,
Maebashi, and Rokkpsha, however, it also had financial troubles that Hayami
blamed on managers who were not strict enough with the women reelers.47
Unlike the aforementioned facilities, however, the government wasted no
time in divesting itself of the venture. Less than two years after opening its
doors, in November 1874, the Kankpryp filature was leased to two
merchants. It was passed through a series of other private concerns until
1879 when the Naimushp (Ministry of Home Affairs) disbanded the entire
operation.
The experience of the Kankpryp filature adds an extra dimension of
complexity to the issue at hand, but also helps illustrate the government’s
position, however impractical, of importing and promoting only what it
believed was the most modern Western technology. Tomioka and the
Kankpryp filature were singled out at the 1873 International Exhibition in
 M    S I 145

Vienna for their high quality silk. The Austrian official who presented the
awards to Japan’s representatives stated “Tokyo Kankpryp Seishijp and
Tomioka Kankpryp are improved Japanese filatures using Western methods,
and are of vital importance [to Japan]. The relative merits of their exports are
worthy of praise.” He continued, “There is a feeling that [these filatures]
have advanced along the path of European-style silk reeling methods and to
demonstrate that belief, [we are] awarding [these filatures] a Medal of
Progress.”48 Sano Tsunetami, Kpbu official and proponent of having Japan
organize its own national exhibitions, later boasted that Japan and Tomioka
did not simply adopt Western methods: “On the contrary, they had surpassed
them.”49
According to historian Motoyama Yukihiko, the Meiji government
wanted to “supplement its civilization from the outside—what might be called
an exterior approach to civilization.”50 Although the Kankpryp filature
produced high quality silk—comparable to that produced at Tomioka—the
physical manifestation of the facility did nothing toward promoting
the advancement of “civilization.” Tomioka, the physical facility more than
the silk it produced, was a source of prestige for the government, symbolizing
“progress” and “civilization” in Japan.
Everything about Tomioka, from its imposing brick facade, to its all
European architecture and centrally located smokestack, to its rows of cast iron
machines, steam engines, and gleaming copper basins represented “progress”
and “civilization” in the Western world order. As Gregory Clancey has argued,
stone and brick buildings were a measure of “civilization”: societies with-
out stone ruins or buildings were considered backward by Victorian standards.51
Similarly, the steam engine, a prominent fixture at Tomioka, was the hallmark
of industrial progress in Europe and the United States.52 The Kankpryp filature
had none of these attributes.
The government’s choice of materials for Tomioka’s basic construction
and the machinery can also be considered impractical and even wasteful from
the perspective of technological rationality. Building Tomioka from brick, the
blueprint according to one author, copied from the French-designed Yokosuka
arsenal, was arguably a good choice as this was a common material from which
to build a factory in Europe.53 However, brick was practically nonexistent in
Japan at the time; in the Tomioka area it was a completely unknown com-
modity. As a result, a good deal of Odaka’s and Brunat’s efforts went to finding
local tile makers and having them formulate a reasonable facsimile, as well as
figuring out how to make cement.54
The choice of imported cast iron machines was equally problematic. Japan
had no iron industry to speak of at the time Tomioka was being constructed.
It was, and would remain for decades, difficult if not impossible for local pro-
ducers to copy the machinery with any degree of accuracy. This condition
even forced the government to import its spare parts from abroad. Moreover,
the sheer weight of cast iron reeling frames would dictate the use of an inan-
imate power source. The traditional laborers in the silk industry, women,
were not strong enough to turn the frames. As a result any filature that
146 D G. W  

considered using cast iron machines would also require the use and addi-
tional expense of either steam engines or a waterwheel.
Perhaps most telling of the government’s attitude is a silk reelers’ manual
published by the Kpbushp, written by Nagai Yasuoki and Ainé Coye, the former
French chief instructor of the ministry’s filature the year before the Kankpryp
filature was permanently closed. Within its three volumes are details on fila-
ture construction, where a discussion of the merits of brick buildings figures
prominently; and reeling methods, where steam powered, cast iron, French-
style machines are discussed and illustrated.55 Nagai recommends only the use
of iron machines stating that they are “strong and sturdy and will last an
eternity.”56 He claims that with the exception of one or two filatures,
undoubtedly Maebashi and Akasaka, silk reeled on wooden machines is inferior
in quality.57 In describing the merits of iron reeling frames, Nagai’s termi-
nology is strikingly similar to that used by British architects when describ-
ing the merits of stone and brick for buildings and iron for bridges. To
many European engineers and architects, “progress” and “civilization” were
measured by strength and permanence. Wooden machines, like wooden
buildings, were weak and impermanent—indicative of tradition and a coun-
try’s backwardness. This view came to be adopted by Meiji leaders in their
quest for proof of Japan’s progress in attaining bunmei kaika—civilization
and enlightenment.
The recommendation of brick building construction ultimately betrays
Nagai’s beliefs in the material representations of progress and “civilization.”
Nagai again returns to Western terminology to describe brick buildings. He
states that they are sturdier than wooden or tile veneer buildings, and they
are permanent. He notes that if cost is a problem, one should adopt one of
the other building methods, that is, wood or tile, but that ultimately a brick
building will demonstrate the status of the filature.58 Fabricated from wood
and housed in a meager wooden structure, yet fully capable of producing silk
of equal quality to the silk reeled at Tomioka, Maebashi’s and Akasaka’s
Italian technologies were not promoted in earnest by any ministry within the
Meiji government (see figure 6.1).
Based on a comparison with the Italian technology imported by Hayami
at Maebashi, Tomioka was indisputably Japan’s premier reeling facility and
would retain that title for decades: Tomioka’s French technology was decid-
edly superior. Compared with filatures in France, Tomioka was large and
sophisticated, although its orthodox technology had some disadvantages.
This problem was understood in Europe. By the mid-nineteenth century
many French reelers had recognized the shortcomings of their own tech-
niques and sought to remedy the situation by adopting outside practices.
Croisure, or crossing, the method by which water is removed from the silk
thread to dry and strengthen it, is a perfect example. Traditional French
methods relied on a device known as a chambon (see figure 6.2), whereby a
number of separate threads were crossed or twisted together; Italian reelers
used a mechanical device called a tavelle that used a number of small pulleys
or wheels to cross a single strand over itself (see figure 6.3). The former
 M    S I 147

Figure 6.1 Detail of samples of a filature’s exterior. From right to left are brick, tile veneer,
and wood.
Source: Nagai Yasuoki, Seishika hikkei, vol. 2 (Tokyo, 1884).

method has the disadvantages of being technically and operationally

complex. It also limits the number of threads reeled per reeling frame to four,
which translates into the maximum number of threads per reeler. In short,
this method, in addition to being complicated, limits output and therefore
the potential for future expanded production. The Italian tavelle method had
none of these disadvantages and was adopted by many French filatures.59 In
the Kpbushp’s reeling handbooks, both methods are described, but only the
French method is illustrated. While stating that the method in the picture is
good, the author points out its problems, that is, the difficulty of its mastery.
When describing and detailing the merits of the methodologically simpler
tavelle, however, Nagai offers no judgment.60
148

Figure 6.2 Chambon method of croisure. Beginning at the bottom, two sets of four to six silk
filaments are gathered together into two threads, which are in turn twisted together and then
separated. The intertwining of the two threads strips excess water, cleans, and also binds the
individual filaments into a single thread. The two threads are then reeled onto separate take-up
reels. This method, adopted at Tomioka, is also called toyomori.
Source: Date Saburp, Kiito seihp shinan (Tokyo, 1874).
 149

Figure 6.3 This is a tavelle. A single thread composed of four to six silk filaments is passed over
a number of small wheels and twisted over itself, achieving the same results as with the chambon.
This method had the distinct advantage of being easily adapted to local technology. In Japanese
this method, which was used at Maebashi and Akasaka, is also referred to as kenneru.
Source: Date Saburp, Kiito seihp shinan (Tokyo, 1874).
150 D G. W  

E P  C HOICE

OF T ECHNIQUE

In an effort to better understand the Meiji government’s position regarding

the technology it chose to import and promote, it may be appropriate to
examine briefly factors that are often considered important for choice of
technique. The most basic arguments focus on economic factors that are con-
sidered determinative for technological choice. Proponents of this position
argue that entrepreneurs will adopt the methods that give them the greatest
output for the smallest input. Issues, which add to the complexity of this
model, are the structure of related technologies within preexisting indus-
tries, and the extent of the distribution of complimentary or alternative exist-
ing technologies. Given these conditions, for the Meiji government the
“proper” choice of technique would have been the one that: (a) provided the
most favorable ratio of increased productivity to minimal capital outlay;
(b) fit largely within the structure of, and enhanced, the existing silk indus-
try; and (c) could be adopted within the context of the existing technology,
that is, adoption of a new reeling technology would not require completely
abandoning the previous manufacturing system. As Penelope Francks notes
in her study of innovation in Japanese agriculture, however, the aforementioned
model does not take local conditions, such as the physical environment and
climate, infrastructure, and availability of materials into account; neither
does it address such external issues as economic assistance or education
dependency.61
From this perspective, the Meiji government’s adoption of French reeling
technology in the form of a turnkey facility should be considered economi-
cally irrational. Brunat’s original proposal focused on building a filature that
incorporated modern techniques, such as steam reeling and steam mecha-
nization, into a context that was technologically and economically appropriate
for conditions in Japan. He tried to address the issue of incorporating Western
technology into existing methods. He urged that there be no break with tra-
dition and suggested that the government incorporate recent European tech-
nological advances that would help raise the quality of Japanese silk and
efficiency of the industry in general.
While economic issues figured strongly in Brunat’s prospectus, most of his
recommendations were rejected. He noted that importing all the necessary
machinery was expensive, and repairing cast iron machines would be nearly
impossible given the state of Japan’s iron industry. The delays involved with
obtaining replacement parts from France would be extreme and the costs
exorbitant. The French process also was significantly different from local
methods. It was more complicated and it would take a long time for inexpe-
rienced workers to gain any degree of proficiency. Brunat argued against any
abrupt changes to the industry that would be inefficient or expensive. Where
changes to the industry were necessary Brunat’s proposals were modest.
Although the government, at least intermittently, appears also to have viewed
Tomioka as a business venture, officials frequently ignored advice that would,
 M    S I 151

at the very least, have reduced initial capital expenditures and increased
productivity.
From a technological perspective Tomioka was irrational: its technology
was too expensive and overly complicated. From an economic perspective, in
addition to the high initial capital investments required, the proposed filature
was beyond the existing local market mechanisms in the 1870s. Simply put,
the facility required too much in the way of raw materials. Local cocoon
suppliers were unable to provide Tomioka with enough cocoons for it to run
at full capacity, thereby adding to its inefficiency. Partly because the filature
was located in a very remote area, still largely inaccessible to this day, the extra
costs involved with importing raw materials from other parts of Japan created
further problems: Tomioka’s managers would not have had the financial
resources with which to hire the additional workers necessary to bring the
plant up to full capacity (assuming it had the raw materials).62 It is clear that
external conditions such as availability of raw materials, geographic location,
and labor did not figure heavily in the government’s plan.63 As would be
expected, with the exception of a few periods of severe economic entrenchment,
the facility rarely turned a profit during its first decade of operation.

A A T  C HOICE

OF T ECHNIQUE

If Tomioka was neither technologically rational nor economically sound, it

had to have been established on some other basis. McCallion has correctly
argued that part of Tomioka’s problem was that the government never had a
clear vision, let alone plans, for the facility. Tomioka’s proposed mission was
for it to serve as a model of industrialization that private reeling concerns
could follow to improve the quality of Japanese silk. At other times, Tomioka
also was supposed to operate as a profitable business venture. Whereas these
goals are not necessarily mutually exclusive, they were problematic for the
Meiji government. From what evidence remains, however, this may not
have always been the case.
It appears that the government’s original ideas for a publicly operated,
model reeling facility were more in accord with what Brunat had suggested, but
that somewhere along the line, ideas about Tomioka’s purpose changed.
Odaka Atsutada stated that he, Sugiura, and Brunat traveled to Maebashi some
time around July 1870 to visit Hayami Kenzp and ask about Mueller’s plans
for the facility. He noted that at the time, Mueller’s plans for Maebashi were
more or less the same as what the government had in mind for Tomioka. At
least according to Odaka’s recollections, it appears that the Meiji government
originally did not anticipate their first entrepreneurial venture into the silk
industry to be anything more than a relatively humble facility.64
Perhaps Brunat’s suggestions that Japan’s silk industry would benefit
from the importation of European steam reeling techniques coupled with
Shibusawa’s and Sugiura’s memories of Paris and the prestige attached to
winning an award at the international exhibition were enough to change
152 D G. W  

what appears to have originally been a relatively modest venture into an ideal
to which few could aspire and none could imitate. While we may never know
for certain whose suggestions led the Japanese government literally to import
a French filature, Shibusawa Eiichi is the likely candidate. In an address
evaluating the progress of Japan’s silk reeling industry, Odaka Atsutada stated
that the Pkurashp used Shibusawa’s proposal for Tomioka.65
Odaka’s praise of Shibusawa and Shibusawa’s comments regarding
traditional Japanese silk reeling methods are also revealing. Shibusawa was a
strong critic of Japanese silk reeling techniques. He characterized them as
imperfect and recommended the adoption of European methods. In an
address given in the mid- to late-1880s Odaka mentions Shibusawa’s earlier
statement that “the Japanese way of reeling silk was deficient (compared with
that of the West).”66 Odaka went on to praise the progress made by Japan’s
silk reeling industry in recent decades. He noted that the foundations of
Japan’s modern industry relied on the efforts of Shibusawa Eiichi.67
There would seem to have been a third function for Tomioka that helps
explain why the government deviated from its original plans and, more
importantly, helps explain why government officials attempted to transfer a
technology without considering factors such as those mentioned above. It
also provides some insight into why the government rejected the available
alternative Western reeling technologies. Tomioka was an ideal. It was designed
to be the physical manifestation of the (new) central government’s authority
over the han, and it was to serve as an exemplar of Western “civilization” in
Japan. In the quest for “progress” and “civilization,” whose model better to
follow than France (and Britain), the key political and economic players, who
were also the archetypes of bunmei kaika materiality.
At the time Tomioka was being conceived, the Meiji government’s political
position was anything but assured. When Itp was first approached in 1869
to establish a filature using Western technology the daimyp still had not,
even symbolically, “returned” their domains to the emperor. In 1870, when
Hayami established the Maebashi filature, it was under the authority of
Maebashi-han, not the central government. In fact, the han were abolished
six months after construction on Tomioka began. Umegaki argues that the
first few years following the restoration of imperial rule were marked by a
series of political moves that could best be described as a “simultaneous
dispersion and consolidation of political power.”68 In an effort to stabilize the
country, members of the new government on the one hand sought to
consolidate its political power vis-à-vis the bakuhan system, and on the other
hand sought to invest the domains with constitutional equality in order to
eliminate inter-han rivalries.
The new government’s change in plans for Tomioka reflected its need
politically to situate itself above the han, and more importantly, the now defunct
bakufu. After all, Western-style factories had been part of Satsuma-han’s
industrial landscape as part of its efforts to industrialize the cotton industry
in the decade before the Restoration; and it was under Tokugawa authority in
1865 that French engineers built the Yokosuka ironworks, Japan’s first
 M    S I 153

official attempt to import Western industrial technology under the supervision

of foreign advisers. Toward that end, any industrial venture sponsored by the
new central government would also serve the purpose of legitimizing its
political authority.
The Meiji government also needed to demonstrate that it was the
legitimate heir to Tokugawa political authority to the Western powers whose
highly visible commercial and quasi-diplomatic activities in the treaty ports
kept the bureaucracy on edge. The problem was not simply a matter of
assuring the West that the Imperial government was in control. It was also
trying to demonstrate to the West that Japan was indeed “civilized.” On the
popular level, “civilization” appeared in Japan through the adoption of
Western clothes, hairstyles, and other insignificant, although easily observed
and criticized, gestures.69
For the government the task was greater. By importing a full-blown
modern French factory, the new government believed it was importing
Western civilization to Japan. The Minbushp was also not alone in its belief
that adopting material representations of the West would be representative of
“civilization” and “progress” in the country. Writing in the summer of 1872,
Inoue Kaoru, then head of the Pkurashp, expressed his frustration to Kidp
Takayoshi about the economics of this type of thinking. He complained
about excessive capital expenditures: “regardless of the manner by which we
choose to raise [our] level of civilization, there will not be any way to make
use of it.”70 The following January he again made clear his frustration to
Kidp: “Although the Finance Department alone has tried to limit govern-
ment spending, the other departments, with the idea of gaining parity with
the West, are insisting on [their] positive policies.”71
At some point between July and November 1870 something changed in
the government’s thinking about what type of facility Tomioka was to be.
The alternative technologies, such as those found at Maebashi, were capable
of producing high quality silk. However, their use of traditional materials,
that is, wood, and unsophisticated appearance made them unacceptable from
an ideological perspective. During his visit to Maebashi filature in July 1870,
Odaka betrayed this very point. He expressed dismay at the “rickety”
wooden machines of which Mueller and Hayami appeared to be so proud.72
If one’s mission was to raise the level of “civilization” in Japan vis-à-vis the
West, then only the most modern facilities made from the most modern
materials were acceptable.
Economic and technological considerations do not seem to have been a
concern. After all, Odaka and Brunat had no doubts about the abilities of
Maebashi’s alternative technologies to produce high quality silk. Nor were
they concerned as to the ability of homemade reeling apparatus to be
successful. As part of their evaluation of Maebashi’s technology, Odaka and
Brunat had four experienced workers reel silk for 30 days on machines
described by Odaka as “Japanese-style modified to the least extent possible to
make them European-style.” At the end of the trial period the machines and
silk were said to be of high quality and equal to those of Maebashi.73 For
154 D G. W  

Odaka and Brunat, economics were a consideration. They were both concerned
about the expenses involved with establishing the model filature, although
their caution and worries were disregarded higher up the line.
Shibusawa’s retrospective appraisals of Tomioka are indicative of beliefs
in the superiority of Tomioka’s technology and the facility’s greatest value.
They illustrate what one may argue was the determining factor in Tomioka’s
design: ideology. Writing in the mid-1930s, for example, Shibusawa stated:

Although there may be some parallel example [of a reeling facility], nothing
rivaled Tomioka in terms of being on such a grand scale and so perfect and
complete. Its reputation rose to the world’s attention and it was admired as a
model facility from thriving cities to the countryside.74

Shibusawa’s comments are similar to those of government officials who were

opposed to selling the facility during the Matsukata Deflation. In 1881, a
bureaucrat in the Npshpmushp argued that Tomioka must be maintained
because it was a source of international prestige for the Meiji government. As
early as 1873 this was also the case. Sano Tsunetami’s report on that year’s
International Exhibition in Vienna clearly describes the honor and prestige
that the medals won by the model filatures had brought to Japan. He states
that the “kankpryp filatures’ silk is of the best quality and to look at its thread
is to see progress.”75 Time and again, government officials ignored, or at least
rationalized, Tomioka’s financial and operational difficulties because of its pres-
tige value. With this prestige came the belief that Japan’s industrial progress as
embodied in Tomioka was helping the country become “civilized.”

C
When the Tomioka Silk Filature opened its doors in 1872, it was the product
of neither careful technological nor economic evaluation. More accurately,
alternative technologies were evaluated and the cost was considered, however,
the advice the government received was largely ignored. At its inception
Tomioka was to be a modest venture, probably nothing more elaborate than
the small mill Hayami Kenzp had built at Maebashi. This is also largely
reflected in Brunat’s original proposal to the government. Brunat and Odaka
evaluated Maebashi’s (alternative) technologies and were favorably impressed
with the quality of the silk produced. They even conducted their own exper-
iments on locally manufactured machines to see if they could duplicate or
surpass what was being done at the former han-based enterprise.
Brunat’s proposal, while arguably written from the dual perspectives of
establishing a profitable business and improving the quality of Japan’s raw
silk, considered any number of factors that reflected his training in Lyons and
the state of the industry in general. He recommended modifying local tech-
nologies with recent European innovations only to the extent that it would
not disrupt the abilities of local reelers to function in their craft. At the same
time, if his recommendations were followed, it would have brought Japan’s
 M    S I  155

silk industry to the level of many European reeling facilities. This was also in
accord with a directive issued by the Minbushp in February 1870, which
called for reelers and merchants to set aside their greed and build European-
style reeling machines in an effort to improve the quality of Japan’s raw silk.76
In the months that followed the decision to build the facility, the govern-
ment’s thinking changed. Not only would Tomioka serve as a model of
mechanization for local reelers, but it would also, more importantly, be an
exemplar of “civilization” in Japan. Along with caution, Brunat’s prospectus
was abandoned as he was ordered to import and build a full-blown French
filature in the backwoods of Gumma prefecture. This decision was based
on the recommendations of Shibusawa Eiichi, who had been favorably
impressed with France, Lyon silk, and the prestige it brought that nation at
the Fifth International Exhibition in Paris in the spring of 1867.
The government’s lack of caution, its alternative basis for choice of
technique, was largely a function of the times. In an effort to assert its
position over the han, the new government needed a model facility that
placed it well above these semiautonomous territories, which were still vying
for political influence. The new Imperial government also needed to demon-
strate to the international community that it was the legitimate heir to
Tokugawa political authority. Toward this end, it used the material trappings
of the West to its best advantage. Tomioka Silk Filature would represent the
march of Western progress and “civilization” in Japan. For the same reasons
that a section of Tokyo, the Ginza, was completely rebuilt in brick after an
1872 fire, as evidence of “civilization” and, to quote Saigo Takamori, “for
the honor of Japan,” Tomioka was designed on the basis of symbolism.77
The Meiji government’s first industrial venture was not part of any grand
plan. It was based on a process in which the components of mechanization
were gradually incorporated and assimilated to accommodate the govern-
ment’s varied demands. The primacy of technological development and
improving the quality of raw silk gave way to economics; but later economics
succumbed to ideology. In the end, the new government had its filature,
however ill defined and unstated its purpose. Because Tomioka and the
government’s efforts are frequently evaluated in terms of financial success,
the facility is often judged a failure. This myopic view of Japanese industrial-
ization, however, fails to take ideology into account, and was I believe the
fundamental factor in the choice of technique. As the Tomioka model
demonstrates, beliefs in the ability of transferred technological artifacts to
impart cultural and social values are critical to their selection.

N
1. Stephen McCallion, “Silk Reeling in Japan: The Limits to Change,” unpublished
Ph.D. diss. (The Ohio State University, Columbus, 1983), pp. 84–92.
2. Pkurashp, Kpgyp iken (Tokyo: Pkurashp, 1884); reprinted in Meiji zenki zaisei
keizai shiryp shusei: Pkurashphen, Vol. 18 (Tokyo: Meiji Bunkan Shiryp Enkpkai,
1964), pp. 35–40. Also see, Nakamura Naofumi, “Kphatsu koku kpgypka to
156 D G. W 

chup-chihp: Meiji Nihon no keiken,” in 20 seiki shisutemu: 4 kaihatsushugi, ed.

Tokyo Daigaku Shakaikagaku Kenkyujp (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai,
1998), pp. 241–275, on p. 245.
3. One of the indicators of this practice can be seen in the government’s selection
of its foreign advisers based on country of specialization. See Yoshio Hara,
“Westernization to Japanization: The Replacement of Foreign Teachers by
Japanese Who Studied Abroad,” The Developing Economies, December 1977,
15 (4): 440–461, on p. 443.
4. In describing choice of technique the term rational is used to indicate whether a
technology was selected based on reasons accepted by contemporary engineers or
practitioners. Thus a rational choice would be one based on assessing factors
commonly evaluated and recognized as essential for the success—technical,
operational, and financial of an industrial venture.
5. Ptsuka Ryptarp, Sanshi, Vol. 1 (Tokyo: Fuspen, 1900), pp. 245–256; and based
on Shibusawa’s recollections in Tomioka seishijp no spsetsu reprinted in Shibusawa
Eiichi denki shiryp, Vol. 2 (Tokyo: Shibusawa Eiichi Kankpkai, 1956), pp. 517–518
(hereafter SEDS); and Shibusawa Eiichi, Seien sensei denshokp reprinted in ibid.,
p. 522; McCallion, “Silk Reeling in Japan,” pp. 76–78. See also “Seien sensei
denshi,” reprinted in SEDS, p. 522. According to this source, Pkuma surveyed
the officials to see if anyone had any knowledge of the silk industry, and it was he
who appointed Shibusawa.
6. The Chronicle and Directory for China, Japan, and the Philippines for the year
1867 (Hong Kong: Daily Press Office), p. 65.
7. See Tomioka Seishijpshi Hensan Iinkai, ed., Tomioka seishijpshi, Vol. 1 (Tomioka:
Tomioka-shi Kypiku Iinkai, 1977), document no. 4, 1:139 (hereafter TSS); and
Ellen P. Conant, “The French Connection: Emile Guimet’s Mission to Japan,
A Cultural Context for Japonisme,” in Japan in Transition: Thought and Action
in the Meiji Era, 1868–1912, ed. Hilary Conroy, Sandra T.W. Davis, and Wayne
Patterson (London: Associated University Presses, 1984), pp. 113–146, on
p. 117; Kamijp Hiroyuki, “Pooru Buryuna: kikai seishi gijutsu no dokuspteki
ishokusha,” in Kpza Nihon gijustu no shakaishi, Vol. 2 (Tokyo: Nippon
Heironsha, 1986), pp. 12–13 (hereafter KNGS).
8. Based on Shibusawa’s recollections in TSS, also reprinted in SEDS, Vol. 2,
pp. 510–511. TSS document no. 4, 1: 147–150 for Brunat’s proposal; document
no. 4, 1:150–152 for his final contract.
9. Hazel J. Jones, “The Formulation of the Meiji Government Policy toward
the Employment of Foreigners,” Monumenta Nipponica, 1968, 23 (1–2): 9–30,
on p. 10.
10. For a translation and analysis of this document, see ibid., pp. 12–30.
11. The China Directory for 1873, new series, Hong Kong: China Mail Office, 1873,
p. 9. Brunat’s name is listed with Hècht, Lilienthal and Company, with the nota-
tion of “Tomyoka” [sic] as his location. His period of employment with the Meiji
government commenced on November 29, 1870.
12. Moniteur des Soies, September 17, 1870.
13. Pkuma monjo, A3995.
14. Teruko Craig, trans., The Autobiography of Shibusawa Eiichi: From Peasant to
Entrepreneur (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1994), p. 129.
15. Umegaki Michio, After the Restoration (New York: New York University Press,
1986), p. 118.
16. Jones, “The Formulation,” p. 10.
 M    S I 157

17. Steam reeling refers to using steam to heat the cocoon basins, not to the use of
steam for generating the power to turn the reeling frames. Reeling is the process
by which silk filaments are unwound from the cocoon and made into thread.
18. For the terms of Brunat’s final contract, see TSS document no. 4, 1: 150–152.
19. It should be noted that although the government maintained ultimate authority,
Brunat was given considerable responsibility in day-to-day operation of Tomioka.
See McCallion, “Silk Reeling in Japan,” pp. 79–81.
20. Later Sugiura and Odaka spent a great deal of time and effort to find local sources
of coal. Odaka considered finding an alternative to the expensive French coal as
one of his more important achievements. See TSS document no. 1, 1: 113–114.
21. Because of an earlier adoption into Shibusawa Eiichi’s family line, Odaka was
technically Shibusawa’s first cousin and his brother-in-law; he was Shibusawa’s
wife, Chiyo’s brother, i.e., Shibusawa married his first cousin. Sugiura Yuzuru
is also known as Sugiura Aizo.
22. Craig, The Autobiography of Shibusawa Eiichi, pp. 98–108. One of Shibusawa’s
first moves in office was to recruit men with technical and/or foreign language
ability into the bureaucracy. Sugiura was among the recruits.
23. The 1867 trip to Europe was the third trip for Sugiura. He had been part of
Tokugawa missions to Europe in 1861 and 1863. During the 1867 mission, he
and Shibusawa became close friends. Sugiura’s positive disposition toward
Western “civilization” may have favorably influenced Shibusawa. Igarashi Akio,
Meiji isshin no shisp (Kanagawa: Seshoku Shpbp, 1996), pp. 183–187. Also, see
Sugiura Yuzuru Iinkai, Sugiura Yuzuru zenshu, Vol. 1 (Tokyo: Sugiura Yuzuru
Iinkai, 1979) (hereafter SYZ ).
24. Craig, The Autobiography of Shibusawa Eiichi, p. 94. The bakufu asked Shibusawa
to accompany the delegation and stay in France because it was felt that he was
open minded and could positively influence Akitake’s French education, acting
to counterbalance the conservative influences of the guardians and attendants
from Mito.
25. Sugiura Yuzuru and Shibusawa Eiichi, Kpsei nikki, xerographically reproduced in
SYZ, Vol. 5 (Tokyo: Sugiura Yuzuru Iinkai, 1979). For Lyons, see pp. 118–119;
Paris and the Exhibition, pp. 119–122, 194–268, respectively.
26. For Shibusawa and Sugiura’s impressions of Italy, see SYZ, Vol. 5, pp. 364–388.
27. Richard Sims, French Policy Towards the Bakufu and Meiji Japan, 1854–95
(Surrey: Japan Library, 1998), pp. 48–54.
28. Ibid., pp. 220–221.
29. Louis Gueneau, Lyon et le Commerce de la Soie (Lyon: L. Bascou, 1923)
pp. 94–95; George J. Sheridan Jr., The Social and Economic Foundation of
Association Among the Silk Weavers of Lyons, 1852–1870 (New York: Arno Press,
1981), Vol. 1, p. 184 and David G. Wittner, “Iron and Silk: Progress and
Ideology in the Technological Transformation of Japan, 1850–1895,” unpub-
lished Ph.D. diss. (The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio, 2000),
pp. 61–63.
30. Kamijp, KNGS, p. 13.
31. It should also be noted that Shibusawa and Sugiura were looking at woven Lyons
silk textiles. There is no mention of raw silk in their journal. Federico argues that
Italy’s silk reeling industry led the world in technical innovation and was, by the
1850s almost completely mechanically self sufficient; Giovanni Federico, An
Economic History of the Silk Industry, 1830–1930 (Cambridge University Press,
1997), p. 109.
158 D G. W 

32. See Silvana de Maio, “Italy, 9 May–3 June 1873” in The Iwakura Mission in
America and Europe: A New Assessment ed. Ian, Nish (Surrey: Japan Library
(Curzon Press Ltd.), 1998), pp. 149–161, on pp. 149–151.
33. Ibid., p. 155.
34. Ptsuka, Sanshi, pp. 320–322.
35. SYZ, pp. 373–381. The evaluations of Italy are based only on Shibusawa’s recol-
lections, Sugiura had returned to Paris and ultimately Japan the month before.
36. McCallion, “Silk Reeling in Japan,” p. 82.
37. Ptsuka, Sanshi, pp. 256–257.
38. Ibid., p. 257.
39. Odaka Atsutada, “Seishi no hpkoku,” Ryumon zasshi, May 15, 1893, 60: 1–15, on
p. 5; excerpts of this article are also reprinted in SEDS, Vol. 2, p. 524. Odaka stated
that there were 36 frames, Ptsuka’s description for Maebashi counts 32 reeling
frames.
40. McCallion, “Silk Reeling in Japan,” p. 134.
41. The first group of six women were part of the workforce from a newly established
filature in Tochigi-ken that also relied on “Western-style” machinery. In June
1871 visitors from Kumamoto-ken came to Maebashi to learn mechanized reeling
techniques. Similarly, a group from Shinshu also came to study at Maebashi. This
group was part of a request to set up five additional facilities in Shinshu. Ptsuka,
Sanshi, pp. 260–261.
42. McCallion, “Silk Reeling in Japan,” pp. 263–268.
43. Kannpkyoku, Shomukyoku, Kypshinkai hpkoku, kenshi no bu (Tokyo: Yurindp,
1880), p. 39.
44. Ibid., pp. 24–89 passim.
45. McCallion, “Silk Reeling in Japan,” p. 267.
46. See Pkurashp, Kpbushp enkaku hpkoku, Tokyo, 1889, pp. 684–688. The Akasaka
filature was also known as the Tokyo Kankpryp Seishijp (filature).
47. Ptsuka, Sanshi, p. 317.
48. Sano Tsunetami. Pkoku hakurankai hpkokusho: sangypbu, Tokyo, 1875, Vol. 1,
section 6, p. 7.
49. Ibid., Vol. 2, section 1, p. 7 (emphasis mine).
50. Motoyama Yukihiko, trans., George Wilson, “Meirokusha Thinkers and Early
Meiji Enlightenment Thought” in Proliferating Talent: Essays on Politics,
Thought, and Education in the Meiji Era (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press,
1997), pp. 238–273, on p. 239.
51. Gregory K. Clancey, “Foreign Knowledge or Art Nation, Earthquake Nation:
Architecture, Seismology, Carpentry, the West, and Japan, 1876–1923,” unpub-
lished Ph.D. diss. (Cambridge, Mass.: Massachusetts Institute of Technology,
1998), p. 13. Brick chimneys were also considered representative of the march of
industrial progress, p. 65.
52. This fact was not lost on Shibusawa who marveled at the steam engine at the
British exhibit in 1867.
53. Muramatsu Teijirp, “Basuchan-gunkan to kinu no ito,” Oyatoi gaikokujin,
Vol. 15, kenchiku-domoku (Tokyo: Kashimada Shuppankai, 1978), p. 129.
54. Odaka Atsutada, Rankp p, Tokyo, 1909, pp. 204–206
55. Nagai Yasuoki, Seishika hikkei, 3 vols., Tokyo, 1884. The first release of the man-
uals was in 1878. For details regarding filature construction, see 2:12 ff.; for
reeling techniques, see 3: 1–31.
56. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 3.
 M    S I 159

57. Ibid., p. 4.
58. Ibid., p. 12.
59. See Federico, An Economic History of the Silk Industry, pp. 106–107; and
Yukihiko Kiyokawa, “Transplantation of the European Factory System and
Adaptations in Japan: The Experience of the Tomioka Model Filature”
Hitotsubashi Journal of Economics 1987, 28: 27–39, on p. 29.
60. Nagai, Seishika hikkei, Vol. 3, p. 14.
61. Penelope Francks, Technology and Agricultural Development in Pre-War Japan,
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984), p. 11.
62. TSS document no. 233, 1: 539.
63. Odaka blamed Brunat for choosing the site on which to build the government’s
model facility. Brunat’s reasons were stated to be that the location would not
cause hardship to local residents, although some had to be relocated (they
were well compensated for their land). Odaka’s complaint was not with the
remote location, but with the water supply, a key ingredient in silk reeling.
Odaka, Rankp p, pp. 199–202.
64. Odaka, Ryumon zasshi, p. 4.
65. Ibid., p. 9. “Shibusawa’s proposal” would be the terms of construction elabo-
rated in Brunat’s contract which included importing the reeling equipment,
steam boilers, and steam engines from France, the government’s determination
of Tomioka’s architecture, and the use of coal for fuel, as well as guidelines for
hiring foreign and local workers, their salaries, and terms of employment. See
TSS document 4, 1: 150–152.
66. Ibid., p. 3.
67. Ibid., p. 8.
68. Umegaki, After the Restoration, p. 15.
69. Vice Consul Martin Dohmen to F. O. Adams, Commercial Reports from Her
Majesty’s Consuls in Japan, 1871 (London: Harrison and Sons, 1872), p. 56. The
Japanese adoption of Western clothing was a constant source of comment and
amusement for foreigners, especially the British, in Yokohama.
70. Inoue to Kidp, Summer 1872, in Segai Inoue-kp den, Vol. 1, pp. 520–521.
71. Inoue to Kidp, January 22, 1873, in Segai Inoue-kp den, Vol. 1, p. 523.
72. Odaka, Ryumon zasshi, p. 6. “Rickety” is Odaka’s choice of words.
73. Ibid. By this time Maebashi silk was considered to be high quality and demanded
a high price in international silk markets.
74. Shibusawa Eiichi, “Seiin sensei denhakkp,” Vol. 7, section 5, pp. 54–61
(1934–1948), also reproduced in SEDS, Vol. 2, p. 522.
75. Sano, Vol. 1, section 5, p. 3 and section 6, pp. 7–8. In this instance Sano lumps
together silk produced by Tomioka and the Tokyo Kankpryp Filature. At other
times he and the Austrian officials at the exhibition distinguish between the
Tomioka filature and the Tokyo Kankpryp (Akasaka filature) in name only
(emphasis mine).
76. The text of the directive is reproduced in Ptsuka, pp. 249–250. Merchants and
reelers were rightly accused of corner-cutting and selling inferior quality silk to
take advantage of the newly booming silk export market.
77. Clancey, “Foreign Knowledge,” p. 9.
This page intentionally left blank
 

A M  I : T

S  P S G 
 M J
Martha Chaiklin

The history of the Meiji period often seems to have been written with
slogans such as “civilization and enlightenment,” “prosperous country,
strong army,” or “good wife, wise mother,” as if the vast and complex polit-
ical and social changes that occurred between 1868 and 1912 could be
tamed by imprisonment in precise phrases.1 Perhaps supreme in the hierarchy
of slogans is “rapid modernization.” Few would question that Japan was able
to industrialize, modernize, Westernize, and metastasize in an almost mirac-
ulously short period of time; yet, the very truth of this statement somehow
demeans the struggle. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the sheet (or
flat) glass industry, where the road to success was paved with huge capital
losses by both the Meiji government and private entrepreneurs.
The reason so much effort and expense were poured into learning to pro-
duce sheet glass can be surmised in one word: windows. As Susan B. Hanley
has pointed out in Everyday Things in Premodern Japan,2 in many ways, the
quality of life in Japan before the arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry in
1853 was as good as or better than that in the Western world. Traditional
Japanese architecture had existed for centuries without relying on glass win-
dows. As a result, some came to see “the beauty of a Japanese room depends
on a variation of shadows, heavy shadows against light shadows,” rather than
brilliantly lit through sun-filled windows.3 Fourteenth-century monk Kenkp
suggested a basis for this aesthetic when he wrote, “A house should be built
with summer in mind. In winter it is possible to live anywhere, but a badly
made house is unbearable when it gets hot.”4 Some scholars have theorized
that the post and beam architecture of Japanese houses led the floor rather
than the wall to become the focus of attention.5 Another theory was pro-
posed by art collector and critic James Jackson Jarves:

Instead of costly framed landscapes hung on their walls, the nobles make their
rooms scrupulously clean, airy and spacious, with movable divisions or screens,
162 M C

which can be so arranged as to leave open, as if inclosed [sic] in frames, attrac-

tive vistas of out-door scenery.6

The most popular theory of all was that expressed by Christopher Dresser
who suggested it was the “great danger in a land subject to earthquake
shocks.”7 There is no doubt, however, that in general walls were designed
to move rather than have holes cut in them, so little use was made of the
window as an architectural element.
Initially at least, the change from traditional to Western architecture
was almost entirely political. The Western houses and shops in treaty ports
were built for foreigners who owed their presence to gunboat diplomacy.
More significantly, the Meiji government, aware that commercial treaties
concluded in the 1850s were not to Japan’s benefit, made treaty revision the
main foreign policy goal through most of the second half of the nineteenth
century. As the unfair treaties stemmed from Western attitudes of superiority,
the Japanese government made many decisions to appear equal to narrow-
minded Victorians, and thus be taken seriously. Real change was not always
the desired result. For example, a series of appearance-related decrees was
passed in the 1870s that mandated adoption of Western hair styles, Western
clothing for government officials, and Western-based student uniforms.
Nevertheless, most people continued to wear traditional dress.
Some nineteenth-century Westerners such as Lafcadio Hearn appreciated
Japanese architecture, but the opinion of Captain L. L. Janes, was more com-
mon. He wrote:

The impractical idealist, the ennuye tourist, and the briefed renegade from the
higher civilization of the West, all in turn dilate on the convenient and beautiful
“simplicity” of the Japanese homes and home-life. . . . Human progress, which
is not only the destiny but the duty of the human race, is in its healthiest stages
when in sympathy with the fundamental principles of evolution; when it is
occupied in disintegrating and eliminating this maudling affectation of sim-
plicity, and in reveling the higher beauty which inheres in perfectly adapted
complexity.8

It was this kind of perspective that resulted in government buildings that

were wholly Western rather than a hybrid style that allowed, say, the wearing
of shoes in an otherwise traditional structure.
It was acceptable to construct Westernized homes and regional public
buildings from wood, but the new government sought something more sub-
stantial for national edifices. While brick and stone were both options, red
brick was favored in Meiji Japan as the less expensive and minimally more
earthquake-friendly option. Unlike sheet glass, widespread knowledge of
ceramics meant that the Japanese were able to produce bricks fairly quickly.
The brick industry developed with almost no government support. Similarly,
Portland cement, the most up-to-date mortar in the late nineteenth cen-
tury, was in production by the second half of the 1870s. Sheet glass, however,
was the one building material essential for producing Western buildings that
 T S  P S G  163

was not available in Meiji Japan. While glass had been produced in Japan at
least as early as the eighth century, the many important technological
advances such as glass blowing and annealing (the process of slow cooling to
increase durability) that had been made during the early modern period did
not include any significant production of window glass. The basic methods
for producing flat glass were supposedly introduced by the Dutch in the
mid-eighteenth century but only small crude pieces were produced in very
limited quantities.9 These rough sheets were used primarily for mirrors but
occasionally a small pane was inserted into a shoji screen, which were called
“snow-viewing windows.”
Scholars and the upper echelons of society were in fact fairly familiar with
higher quality sheet glass. Significant quantities were imported throughout
the early modern period, primarily for optical lenses. Some other interesting
uses are recorded, however. Tokugawa Ieyasu had a glazed room constructed.
Similarly, in 1688, Date Tsunamune had glass panes inserted into the doors
of his Edo mansion.10 One nouveau riche merchant of the seventeenth
century, Itp Kozaemon, even placed goldfish tanks in his ceiling. Still, these
examples were the exception rather than the rule; glazed windows of any sort
were only for the very rich.
Imported glass did not stimulate domestic production of sheet glass
because the appearance of a piece of glass revealed nothing about how it was
produced. Forming a flat piece of glass by hand was so difficult, only the
most skilled glass artisans could accomplish it successfully. Before mechaniza-
tion, there were two kinds of flat glass; blown and cast. Blown flat glass was
produced by two techniques known as the crown method and the cylinder
method. Both required a very strong metal (the technical term for raw
molten glass). The crown method, which is older, formed flat sheets from a
large bubble flattened through the use of centrifugal force. This process
required great strength; furthermore, the size of the pieces of glass that could
be cut from the compressed bubble was fairly limited. However, the bull’s
eye that formed in the center where the glass blob was attached to the pontil
was also cut into decorative panes. To produce glass with the cylinder
method, a large tube was blown, then snipped and pulled flat. Although
larger pieces of glass could be produced than with the crown method, the
cylinder method also required great strength to handle the unwieldy tube
and skill to avoid imperfections in the glass that caused it to shatter. This
technique did not come into wide usage until the nineteenth century.
Neither the crown nor the cylinder method produced glass that was really
flat; both left a slight curve.11 Plate glass is cast and then polished. The metal
therefore must be very hard and without imperfections. All of these processes
were so difficult that the development of mass-produced sheet glass was con-
sidered a crucial goal for nineteenth-century glass producers throughout the
world.
After all, windows are an almost universal requirement for a permanent
structure. Blocks of ice are even inserted into igloos for this purpose.
Although alabaster, mica, and shells were all used for windows in the West,
164 M C

the use of glass dates back to the ancient Romans, who used glass windows in
their baths, albeit only small, thick pieces. Expense and taxation meant, how-
ever, that glass windows did not become common until the eighteenth cen-
tury. Glass was, and still is, the most desirable material for windows because
it allows the most light yet maintains a high degree of insulation. While
traditional Japanese architecture relied on screens to diffuse light, inserting
paper screens into Westernized structures would have defeated the purpose
of creating a building to comply with the Western aesthetic. Attempts to
insert glass into a traditional Japanese aesthetic provided equally unsatisfac-
tory. In 1933, novelist Tanizaki Junichirp wrote of the difficulties he encoun-
tered when attempting to combine shoji and glass in his new home:

A few years ago I spent a great deal more money than I could afford to build a
house. I fussed over every last fitting and fixture, and in every case encountered
difficulty. There was the shoji: for aesthetic reasons I did not want to use glass,
and yet paper alone would have posed problems of illumination and security.
Much against my will, I decided to cover the inside with paper and the outside
with glass. This required a double frame, thus raising the cost. Yet having gone
to all this trouble, the effect was far from pleasing. The outside remained no
more than a glass door; while within, the mellow softness of the paper was
destroyed by the glass that lay behind it. At that point I was sorry I had not
settled for glass to begin with.12

Few Westernized buildings were built before the Meiji Restoration

(1867–1868). Homes for Western merchants were built in the foreign con-
cessions within a few years of the ports opening for trade in 1858, and hotels
and shops soon followed, but this was not representative of most of the coun-
try. The shogunate only initiated a few Western-style construction projects;
iron foundries in Nagasaki (1857) and Yokosuka (1860) and the Tsukiji
Hotel (1867), which was intended for foreign visitors. The hotel was not
actually completed until the following year, after the Meiji Restoration. While
the window glass for all of these projects had to be imported, the number of
panes required was so low the expense was still acceptable.
It was, therefore, a Meiji initiative to produce Western architecture and
windows, but it was not until the 1870s, after the civil unrest and organiza-
tional concerns had been resolved that the government could focus on archi-
tecture. Early government projects included the Osaka Mint (1869), the
Yokohama and Shinagawa railway stations (1872) and the Yokohama
Customs House (1873). The reconstruction of Ginza was, however, by far
the largest Westernized government urban planning project in Meiji Japan.
After a particularly devastating fire in 1872, the government decided to
build a fireproof section of brick buildings to better complement the new
stone-faced railway station and would showcase modern Japan. Designed
with the advice of English architect Thomas Waters, the new cityscape had a
tree-lined arcade surrounded by almost 1,500 Western-style brick buildings
with glass windows.
 T S  P S G  165

It would appear that even with the limited experience that the Meiji gov-
ernment had with Westernized buildings before the Ginza project, there was
an awareness that sheet glass would be an issue. In 1872, a delegation of top
government officials, known as the Iwakura mission (because Prince Iwakura
Tomomi headed it), traveled to the United States and Europe. Although the
primary goal of the mission had been the renegotiation of treaties, when it
became apparent that this was not possible, the mission set out to study the
infrastructure and industry of the West as a model to bring prosperity to
Japan. Mori Arinori, who designed the itinerary for the North American leg
of the journey, did not schedule any mission visits to glass factories,13 but in
Europe the group visited several glassworks in England, Belgium and Italy.
The Japanese party paid close attention to glass production methods, materi-
als, and plant layouts, which were carefully described in the official published
account of the journey. At St. Helens in Manchester they observed the pro-
duction of plate-glass at one of the largest production centers of glass in all of
Europe, and at Chance Brothers Glass and Chemical works in Birmingham,
they saw cylinder glass being produced to make both sheet glass and signals
for lighthouses. Here it was noted by Richard Henry Brunton, a former
Japanese government employee, that “Ito [Hirobumi] received from him
[either James or Lucas Chance] much valuable information regarding the
manufacture of glass.”14 The group chose to observe sheet glass production
over soda and sulfuric acid production, also produced at the same location.
They also visited, Osler’s, another glass factory in Birmingham. In Belgium,
the party visited an “extraordinary” glass factory.15 In Venice they saw beads
and plate glass being produced, a visit that also included the Museo d’Arte
Vetraria, or Glass Museum.16 It is difficult to determine how involved the
mission members were in choosing their itinerary but it seems apparent that
the repeated visits and detailed, publicized commentary indicate a definite
interest in glass production. In fact, the mission’s official account decisively
concluded that:

To depend entirely on imports [of glass] is not in the interests of the economy
and causes substantial inconvenience, moreover, so that sooner or later we must
develop glass manufacturing ourselves.17

Government interest in sheet glass as an industry that would bring prosperity

to the nation was tied directly to increased government construction. While
Japanese philosophers expounded the philosophy of economic self-reliance as
early as the seventeenth century, increased Western-style construction caused
the reasoning behind this concept, that foreign trade would drain the coun-
try of its precious metals, to become a reality. Provisions in the commercial
treaties such as the inability to control tariffs made foreign trade an economic
drain on Japan. Duties were set at 20 percent on most items, with no special
exception for glass. Since initially, the need for sheet glass was in the foreign
concessions, and the Japanese were denied the right to set tariffs under the
166 M C

unequal commercial treaties, it was foreign demand that led to a reduced

duty of only five percent as early as 1864.18
Samples of imported sheet glass arrived as soon as the treaty ports opened
for foreign trade, but as most of it was for the foreign concessions, there was
little incentive for Japanese traders to seek to take over the glass import busi-
ness. For the better part of the nineteenth-century foreign firms handled all
imports of sheet glass. Supposedly, the first to import glass panes was an
Englishman, but firms such as Vigan & Company of France and Grösser &
Company of Germany are also known to have handled glass.19 Japanese com-
panies did not become involved in glass imports until the end of the nine-
teenth century. This was partially due to the fact that the sophisticated
domestic commercial structure that had developed under the shogunate did
not train Japanese merchants to deal with foreign trade in a free trade system.
Since the end of the seventeenth-century foreign trade had been handled
through an office in Nagasaki known as the kaisho. All trade goods were
funneled through the kaisho and then auctioned off to a group of merchants
licensed to deal in foreign trade. After decades of these monopolistic condi-
tions, Japanese merchants lacked foreign contacts and were utterly unpre-
pared to handle the sudden changes brought on when the commercial
treaties opened the ports. As a result, the glass passed through foreign
middlemen before being distributed by Japanese companies. Changes in gov-
ernment policy concerning direct export subsidies in the mid-1880s forced
many into bankruptcy or to move into other fields.20 Even as late as 1887,
direct imports by Japanese merchants only accounted for less than 12 percent
of total imports.21 Japanese firms did not get involved in importing sheet
glass until a few years later: Mitsui Bussan, which was founded in 1876, was
one of the first.22 It was the modern trading incarnation of the House of
Mitsui, a mercantile family that had begun its climb to economic supremacy
through sake brewing in the 1630s.23 Even in the Edo period, the House of
Mitsui had maintained prosperity by diversifying into pawnshops, money
lending and dry goods, including the Nagasaki imported textile trade. The
family had survived the economic upheaval of the Restoration by obtaining
lucrative contracts with the Imperial government. The Mitsuis were able to
cement these ties by loaning the new government large sums when they were
most desperately needed. The family established Mitsui Bussan as a broker
for foreign goods established to, “export overseas surplus products of the
Imperial Land, to import from overseas products needed at home, and
thereby to engage in intercourse with the many countries of the Universe.”24
It gained a head start by taking over Senshu Gaisha (“Profits First Company”),
a trading company founded by former finance minister Inoue Kaoru when
Inoue was recalled to the cabinet. Despite the ambitious start, however,
Mitsui Bussan did not begin directly trading abroad until 1882.25 It was
another decade or so before they imported sheet glass.
Because no window glass was produced domestically, increased construc-
tion resulted in ever-rising sheet glass imports. For the first five years after the
Restoration, imports increased rapidly from 10,144 sheets in 1868 to 42,586
 T S  P S G  167

in 1872. The following year imports accelerated to 101,337 sheets. In 1875,

Tsuda Mamichi (1829–1903), noted in an essay on trade imbalance that:

As the lower classes invariably wax enthusiastic over what their rulers admire,
the people in our empire are coming on the whole gradually to admire foreign
ways, to wear foreign caps and clothes, and to construct foreign houses. Almost
all the homes have come to depend upon foreign imports for household appli-
ances ranging from such items as glass, mirrors, pictures, chairs, and tables to
cakes, wines, and other edibles. Such are the reasons why the excess of imports
over exports has reached the large sum of Yen 8 million each year.26

While sheet glass imports fluctuated up and down, there was a steady cumu-
lative increase. Tsuda would have been shocked to know that by the time of
his death, sheet glass imports had quadrupled. In 1894, glassware imports of
all types were twenty-first in import value.27 By 1901, demand had increased
to such an extent that sheet glass alone was twenty-fifth in import value,
exceeding a million yen.28 In volume, the million-sheet mark was passed in
1900. Constantly escalating demands led Diet member Nemoto Masaru to
produce an official government recommendation in 1902 that encouraged
government support of window glass production. The statement read:

Cotton is imported in massive amounts from America and India, but this
is turned into a finished product and exported abroad creating a profit bal-
ance, but this is not at all the case for window glass; all imports are consumed
domestically. The window glass imports in this past year were more than
1,250,000 yen . . . When compared to the imports of seven years ago of
165,000 yen they have increased eightfold. It is likely that the amount of win-
dow glass use will be a factor in determining national progress. Therefore, if we
are unable to produce it in our country, in seven years hence, based on the
seven years previous, imports will exceed 8,820,000 yen and could easily sur-
pass 10 million yen. For this reason, this industry is not only a present need for
our country at the present time, but there are few raw materials available
domestically. The government should give significant protection and plan for
the advancement of the domestic glass industry.29

At the end of 1902, the government decided to provide 501,000 yen assis-
tance over four years for companies having one million yen capital or more.
While a million yen was earmarked for this purpose, the funds were diverted
by the need to fund the Russo-Japanese War. As a result, more than two
million sheets were imported in 1906, and subsequent imports never
dropped below two million sheets for the rest of the Meiji period.30 Glass
imports to Japan were primarily from Belgium, then the global leader in
sheet glass production.
Even though the initial jumps in imports were created by government
demand, the first attempts to produce sheet glass were in the private sector.
Traditional glass producers were devastated by the influx of imports because
they could not compete in quality or price. Most Japanese historians, how-
ever, have associated this downfall with a total break from past traditions.
168 M C

However, in 1860, glassmaking was not fully mechanized in the West and
still relied on skilled craftsmen. While the structural organization of a work-
shop was vastly different from a factory setting, the industrialization of the
glass industry had to proceed with traditionally trained craftsmen.
Those such as Tokugawa Nariakira of the Mito domain recognized the
need for sheet glass well before the Restoration.31 Nariakira may have been
distracted by the movement to restore the emperor so little came of his
efforts to organize production. Kpgypsha Glassworks, founded in 1873 by
Niwa Masatsune, formerly steward to premier Sanjp Sanetomi, and Murai
Mishinosuke, left a much greater mark on history than the efforts in Mito.
Murai, who acted as the technical chief, was really the key figure in founding
the enterprise. He thoroughly researched the Western glass industry and was
able to convince Niwa to join him as factory head. Through Niwa’s influence,
Sanjp also became interested in the project.32 Later known as Shinagawa
Glass for its location in Tokyo, the Kpgypsha factory was staffed with four
glassworkers from Osaka and Tokyo (both traditional glassmaking centers)
who had no previous experience with sheet glass. Part of the 200,000-yen
start-up capital went to importing from England clay for the crucibles and
firebrick for the furnaces. Erasmus Gower, a British mining engineer, was
employed to locate domestic sources for quartz and silica.33 The factory
building itself was red brick with, appropriately, glass windows. The investors
even brought a craftsman from England, Thomas Walton, to instruct the
workers how to make sheet glass. Walton achieved very little during his
tenure in Japan.
Traditional Japanese glassmakers used a lead-rich metal that was too soft
and heavy to produce cylinder or plate glass. Under Walton, Kpgypsha man-
aged to produce flint glass metal, made with ground flint, which is hard and
very clear.34 This seems to have given rise to the idea that the flint glass was
used for windows, but the high cost and weight make it unlikely the flint glass
was ever used for window glass. It was probably developed to make ship sig-
nal glass because flint glass has superior refracting properties. Soda glass, the
primary material for window glass throughout the world, had been produced
in small quantities in Japan since about the mid-eighteenth century when the
Dutch introduced the process. It is therefore unlikely that difficulty in pro-
ducing the metal or the unfamiliarity of the craftsman in working with it were
the problem. Rather, the difficulty lay in technique. Consequently, only a few
pieces of flat glass were ever produced under Walton.35 Kpgypsha failed in
just three years because huge investments had not resulted in the commercial
production of sheet glass, the only product with a high enough profit margin
to have made the factory viable. Niwa and Murai sold the factory to the
Ministry of Technology (Kobuchp) in 1876.
Renamed Shinagawa Glass36 under the government, there were still high
hopes for success. In 1879, architect Sone Tatsuzp wrote about Shinagawa
Glass in his graduation thesis from the first graduating class in architecture
at the Imperial University. The topic, assigned by British architect Josiah
Condor, was “The Future of Domestic Architecture in Japan.” After
 T S  P S G  169

acknowledging that Japan was still relying on imports from Europe, he

wrote, flat glass would “probably eventually be produced in the flint glass
factory at Shinagawa” and that he was looking forward to the day when the
glass made there would replace imports.37 In order to generate income, after
1877 the factory began to pursue the production of other kinds of glass nec-
essary for modernization along with sheet glass, and the flint glass introduced
under Walton resulted in commercial production of red signal glass for ships.
Ships glass had been produced in Satsuma since 1858, when red glass was
first successfully manufactured in Japan, but the Shinagawa factory used
more modern methods.38 Thomas Walton remained employed under the
new management but much of the design work was carried out under
Fujiyama Tanehiro.
Fujiyama was a prime example of a craftsman who had successfully made
the transition from traditional to modern glassmaking. He began his career
in Saga, in the domain-sponsored glassworks, one of the many enterprises ini-
tiated by daimyo Nabeshima Kansp in order to improve finances. Very little
is known about what kind of glass was produced, but Fujiyama must have
been a fine craftsman because Meiji government was confident enough in his
skills to send him to study technique in the Stolzenfels factory in Austria,
where he also studied printing and pencil manufacturing processes. While not
the goal the government was striving for, small pieces of colored, patterned
glass were produced under Fujiyama. After this small success, Fujiyama went
on to pencil production, becoming the first pencil manufacturer in Japan.39
Thomas Walton went back to England in 1879 and was replaced by
another English craftsman, James Speed. Speed was reputed to have been a
higher caliber craftsman than Walton.40 In an attempt to make the factory
more profitable, tableware was produced under his instruction, eventually of
a quality sufficient to be exhibited at Second Industrial Exposition in 1881.
Later, another Englishman, Emanuel Hauptmann was brought to teach cut
glass and engraving techniques.41 The government had not given up on the
idea of producing sheet glass, however. More capital was poured into the
enterprise, some of which was for new furnaces that were built of firebrick
imported from England. The new furnaces were completed in 1881, but no
sheet glass was produced. Out of funds, the Ministry of Technology peti-
tioned the Ministry of Finance for 94,000 yen to train craftsmen and conduct
experimental production. They were granted 20,000 yen but these funds
were eaten up in a matter of months. Plagued by quality issues, frequent
management changes, and an inability to produce acceptable sheet glass,
the Shinagawa glass works had a deficit of 200,000 yen when manager Abe
Hiroshi successfully petitioned the government sell the factory to private
investors. In 1884, Shinagawa Glassworks was purchased by two, investors
Inaba Masakuni and Nishimura Katsuzp, for 79,950 with installments to be
paid over 55 years.42
Nishimura was avid to make the factory a success. When he learned of the
new of the Siemens furnace, he first went to Germany to observe it, and then
sent craftsman Nakajima Sen to study at a factory there. Invented by Karl
170 M C

Wilhelm Siemens (1823–1883), this wide, shallow, coal gas-fueled furnace

used preheated air and exhaust gases that passed through closed brick cham-
bers, which prevented heat loss from the chimney to achieve exceptionally
high temperatures.43 The Siemens furnace was first put to industrial use
in 1861 at Chance Brothers, the same one in Birmingham visited by the
Iwakura mission. Before his return to Japan in 1888, Nakajima ordered some
molding and pressing machinery and a Siemens furnace. He also brought
back two German glass artisans. With the new machinery and craftsman,
Nishimura was able to mass-produce beer bottles at 350 bottles per crafts-
man per day—about four times the output of other Japanese craftsmen, for a
total of 8,000 to 9,000 bottles a day. He was thus able to make the factory
turn a profit for the first time, finding a steady customer in the Japan Brewery
Company of Yokohama. With this success, company capital quadrupled to
600,000 yen, which encouraged the two entrepreneurs to attempt to pro-
duce sheet glass. Two years were devoted to preparations but the timing was
inopportune—a nationwide depression dried up the profits that were to be
used to start up the new branch. Lacking a buyer, the Shinagawa Glass
factory closed its doors in 1892.44
Despite massive investments from both the public and private sectors, the
only time the Shinagawa Glass Factory was ever out of the red was for that
brief period under Nishimura when beer bottles generated income. There
were two causes for this; in a country where high quality porcelain was widely
available and the primary drink was tea, glass tableware was not in high
demand; but the more significant problem was the factory’s inability to pro-
duce sheet glass. Shinagawa was not a success for its investors but it was not
a total failure. Although sheet glass remained elusive, many new glass prod-
ucts were produced in modern industrial conditions. Perhaps even more
importantly, many employees at the factory, given the opportunity to work
with foreign craftsmen, went on to work in other enterprises, thus sowing the
seeds for industrial development.
Itp Keishin, employed many Shinagawa veterans in his Osaka start-up,
Nihon Garasu Gaisha (Japan Glass company). Little is known about Itp, but
it appears he was attracted to the glass industry in 1875 because he hoped to
shift the profits from imports to himself. Keishin built a furnace with the
assistance of Osaka Mint engineer Shimada Bo.45 Inexperience resulted in
many failures, but Itp persisted with research and tests. Five glassblowers,
Noda Shinzp, Shino Inosuke, Shimada Magoichi, Ikeda Sukeshichi and
Yamada Eitarp, were all brought to Osaka from the Shinagawa factory to pro-
vide expertise. Itp’s persistence paid off with the successful production of
ships signals, retorts and acid-proof bottles. In 1881, he applied to the gov-
ernment for funds to expand but was turned down. Nevertheless, he incor-
porated that year with capital of 180,000 yen. He designated Hata Kypsuke
as president and himself as head engineer. The following year (1882) he
brought an English craftsman named Elijah Skidmore from Shinagawa to
make crucibles from local clays rather than the imported clays that had been
used over the past few decades. Itp traveled all over Japan to find a suitable
 T S  P S G  171

clay source, almost exhausting his resources before discovering some in

Shigaraki. As a result, Nihon Garasu also went on to produce firebrick.
Emboldened with success, Itp decided to pursue sheet glass. However,
deemed responsible for past financial difficulties, Itp was forced to leave the
company in 1888. He remained in the glass industry until his death in 1900,
but was never able to make a company profitable.46 Itp Keishin and Nihon
Garasu are important for the same reasons that Shinagawa Glass was—they
paved the way for the companies to come, providing training for craftsmen
and introducing Western technology and techniques. Nihon Garasu was also
important because it established industrialized glass production in Osaka.
While successful production of sheet glass had not yet been attained in
Osaka, other glass products were “made with economy and success” by the
1890s.47 Osaka was later to become the center of the sheet glass industry
in Japan.
Iwaki Tasujirp was a Shinagawa veteran who founded his own company,
Iwaki Glass, in Tokyo in 1881. He had become adept at producing lamp
chimneys and other blown glass but he too was tempted by the grail of sheet
glass. To achieve this goal Iwaki went to America around 1896 to study
American sheet and other glass production methods. He returned in 1900
and, with the addition of 65,000 yen from a group of investors, purchased
the old Shinagawa Glass Factory facility in March 1900. He manufactured his
own firebrick and his own furnace and about four months later, a sheet of
glass about six foot square was produced.48 However, the failed attempts that
had preceded the success had cost more than 7,000 yen. Moreover, it cost
100 to 150 yen to produce each piece. This was at a time when skilled labor-
ers such as carpenters earned about 160 yen a year, and a male contract farm
laborer only about 32 yen annually.49 By this time, the government was no
longer assisting private enterprises beyond the loan of equipment. Iwaki’s
death in 1915 caused the sheet glass division to shut down with heavy losses
because his experience and skill could not easily be replaced, even with the
help of an infusion of 30,000 yen capital from Dai-ichi Kangyp Bank.50
While the Ministry of Technology had refused to support Iwaki, interest
in the glass industry was present in another branch of government, the
Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce. Takayama Kentarp, a doctor of engi-
neering who headed a government research station, submitted a report to the
government in 1905 recommending the establishment of a test facility for
the production of sheet glass. In this report, he pointed out that private
industry could not be relied upon to provide the funds for training craftsmen,
a process that could take several years. He pointed out that if things were left
as they were, entrepreneurs would avoid the industry and imports would only
increase. It was his opinion that it was the government’s duty to create this
test facility to educate craftsmen so that they could be employed by private
industry. With support from several key government officials, Takayama was
given the go-ahead to start planning. He began by requesting assistance from
Hirano Kpsuke who was studying in Germany. Hirano was charged with
finding out about the newest furnaces and signing on a European craftsman
172 M  C

to instruct the Japanese workers. Hirano and other government employees

were also sent to Belgium, then the world’s leading sheet glass producer, to
study technique there. In addition to technical information, the detailed
report Hirano wrote about his journey debated whether sheet glass production
should be a government or private enterprise (see figure 7.1).51

Figure 7.1 Production by the cylinder method.

Source: Asahi Glass Co., Ltd.
 T S  P S G  173

Ultimately private enterprise triumphed when Shimada Glassworks, owned

by Shimada Magoichi, was able to bring the first domestically produced sheet
glass to market in 1903.52 Shimada was a veteran of the glass industry. He had
begun in a traditional workshop, apprenticed at Shinagawa under James Speed,
and worked again under Itp Keishin, finally going independent in 1882. His
commercial success with other glass products and his extensive background,
made it difficult for Shimada to resist the call of sheet glass. In 1893, he pur-
chased Itp Keishin’s factory for 27,000 yen. Success came just under a decade
later. Magoichi submitted the sheet glass he produced in 1902 to the Fifth
Domestic Industrial Fair the following year and took a prize. He was finally
able to bring it to market in 1904, although there were still many quality issues.
Eager to improve and expand his production capacity, Shimada Magoichi,
approached Iwasaki Toshiya to suggest a joint venture (see figure 7.2).
Iwasaki, who was related to the Mitsubishi zaibatsu family, had studied
chemistry in London specifically to enter the field of glass production. With
450,000 yen capital from Iwasaki and the factory, valued at 300,000, the
Osaka Shimada Glass Company was formed in 1906, but it did not fare well.
Decreased demand of the previously successfully glassware line accompanied

Figure 7.2 Iwasaki Toshiya.

Source: Asahi Glass Co., Ltd.
174 M C

by disagreements between the young Iwasaki and the much older Shimada,
which soon led to a split in 1908. Shimada went back to his roots, producing
glass through most of the twentieth century.53
Iwasaki went on to found his own company, Asahi Glass in 1907, with a
downsized capital investment of 200,000 yen. Iwasaki set up his new venture
in Amagasaki, in Hyogo prefecture (see figure 7.3).
The new factory, designed by a Belgian and utilizing Belgian methods to
blow glass, produced commercially viable sheet glass only two years after com-
mencing production, but only with great difficulty. In 1909, Iwasaki brought
over five Belgian craftsmen and obtained another one, a Mr. Helman, from
the failure of another start-up, the Tpyp Glass Manufacturing Company.54
Commercial production of sheet glass was at long last accomplished in 1910
but only enough to produce four percent of domestic glass needs, or about
60,000 boxes. All raw materials were local, except soda ash imported from
England. Despite this modest success, Asahi was still struggling to produce
sufficient quantities of adequate quality glass. In an attempt to remedy this, the
Asahi Company introduced the Lubbers process. This was a semi-mechanized
form of cylinder glass invented in America about 1896. Pressurized air was
pushed through a blowpipe and the resulting bubble was then forced into
guides to produce cylinders. The Lubbers process made production some-
what easier but still required laborious hand flattening. The German invasion
of Belgium in 1914 was a boost to Asahi because Belgium had been a major

Figure 7.3 Amagasaki Factory.

Source: Asahi Glass, Co. Ltd.
 T S  P S G  175

glass exporter on the international market. Prices rose for sheet glass and the
company was actually able to export window glass that year to England,
Australia and all over South and Southeast Asia.
Asahi was the only Japanese commercial producer of sheet glass from until
the founding of the America-Japan Sheet Glass Company. In 1917, Sugita
Yosaburo concluded an agreement with Libbey-Owens Sheet Glass Company
to obtain the Japanese patent rights for the Colburn method.55 Previous
generations of the Sugita family had been in the firewood business, supplying
fuel for the copper refinery run by the Sumitomo family. This business
relationship continued after the Restoration, with the Sugita family supplying
fuel for other Sumitomo mining interests. Sugita was selected to negotiate
the patent rights because he had extensive experience abroad and in foreign
trade. He spent six years studying in the United States, graduating from the
University of Chicago in 1906, followed by a study of commerce and industry
in New York and London. In 1912, he entered the export division of the
Shima Trading Company.
Sugita’s relationship with Libbey Owens began before the Libbey Glass
Company had even merged with the Owens Bottling Company. Sugita was
first attracted to glass through a deal to supply beer bottles to Hong Kong.
He was shocked at the primitive state of production at his supplier, Osaka
Bottle Factory, and the bottle industry in Japan as a whole. Uesugi Senpachi
told Sugita that the situation could be remedied by obtaining an Owens
Bottle machine for mass production but the high patent costs made it impos-
sible for any of the fledgling bottling companies in production in Japan to
obtain one. Arriving in the United States in 1914, Sugita opened negotiations
with John D. Biggers and William S. Walbridge of the Owens bottle Machine
Company through a letter of introduction from his mentor, railroad man
D.W. Cook. Sugita obtained the bottling patent for 300,000 yen—100,000
in cash, 100,000 in stock, and 100,000 as a loan. When Sugita got back to
Japan, he found that Uesugi had died. Lacking a partner, Sugita convinced
Shima to go into the glass bottle business.
While Sugita was in the United States, he observed experiments at the
Toledo Glass Company involving the Colburn method. This was a mecha-
nized rolling method that had been invented by Irving W. Colburn in 1908,
and perfected by Toledo Glass Company and the Owens Bottle Company in
1916. The Colburn method was an advance over earlier methods because it
rolled the glass in molten form rather than produce a cylinder through mech-
anization that still had to be rolled out by hand.56 Sugita shrewdly awaited
the perfection of the Colburn method. He then convinced his employer,
Shima Trading, to allow him to negotiate the patent rights for the process
when it went on line in 1916.57
While both sides were interested in the deal, negotiations faltered because
Libbey-Owens wanted twice the 2 million yen allocated for patent rights in
Sugita’s budget. Sugita was persistent, however, and agreement was reached
within two months, at the end of 1917. The Japanese were to pay Libbey-
Owens $100,000 and a full one-third of the initially authorized capital stock.58
176 M C

The agreement was null and void if a company was not launched by September
1918. Libbey was to supply all kilns, machines and other equipment as well as
provide an instructor experienced with the new technology. The new Japanese
company was forbidden from exporting any of the technology supplied by
Libbey-Owens or the products produced with the Colburn process. Capital
was garnered primarily from Sumitomo Bank and Asahi Glass. The joint enter-
prise, appropriately called the America-Japan Sheet Glass Company, Ltd.
(Nichi-bei Ita Garasu Kabushiki-Gaisha), introduced the Colburn method to
Japan. Today this company is known as Nippon Sheet Glass Company. Sugita
was rewarded with 2,000 shares, or one-tenth of the stock. The next year,
Sugita was made one of five directors of the new company.
In order to make the company a success, two craftsmen from Asahi,
Yamada Naoichi, who was responsible for the production end, and Aoki
Sakichi, who was responsible for the crucibles, were sent to the Charleston,
West Virginia factory of Libbey-Owens. Tayama Kantarp and Suzuki Kaoru,
recent graduates of the Tokyo Higher School of Engineering with no practical
experience, were also sent. Construction of the factory began in 1919, and
test production began by the end of the year. Finally, in October of 1920, pro-
duction commenced. Unlike Japan’s past forays into sheet glass production,
success was immediate. The factory produced 1,525 boxes in its first year. The
following year, engraved and ice glass were also produced at the factory.59
The America-Japan Glass Company was remarkable because it was a joint
venture, and thus, in a sense, a departure from the Japanese doctrine of self-
reliance. It was not the first attempt to produce flat glass through a foreign
partnership. Just over a decade earlier, in 1906, the Tpyp Glass Manufacturing
Company was formed to produce sheet glass, bottles and tableware with
capital contributions from Belgian, British, and French companies. Japanese
investors included Shibusawa Eiichi. Huge investments were made to bring
over five Belgian craftsmen, as well as construction of a factory, quarters for
the foreign workmen, a canal link, specialized furnaces for tableware and
sheet glass and an annealing oven for sheet glass. In an apparent case of too
many cooks, combined with obvious overspending, the company was liqui-
dated three years later without having produced anything. Even this short-
lived company was important because the factory set-up was wholly Western
and it introduced the latest furnace technology.60 Because Asahi absorbed the
remnants, Tpyp was directly related to the success of Asahi and by extension,
to the success of the America-Japan Glass Company. Glass was produced
rapidly at the America-Japan Glass Company because the technology relied
less on the skills of the individual worker, but also because the structure of
the joint venture allowed the time and care needed to train Japanese crafts-
men properly so things would not fall apart with the departure of foreign
instructors. While the entire story of the America-Japan Sheet Glass
Company occurs after the end of the Meiji period, as does the success of
Asahi Glass, both companies were the result of an adaptive learning process
that guided entrepreneurs, government investment and craftsmen of the
Meiji period.
 T S  P S G  177

The success of domestic production was the defining factor that led to the
diffusion of glass windows outside of government architecture. By the 1880s,
glass doors and windows were common in public buildings and schools,
because they were constructed along European models and required them.
School students, used to studying in traditional structures, found the rooms
“almost dazzlingly bright.”61 The use of windows in homes and shops came
more slowly, not because of any cultural resistance but rather because only
the rich could afford glass panes. Even as late as the 1890s, glass windows
were still only seen in higher-end shops.62 When Mitsukoshi Department
Store opened in 1904, the show windows all had to be imported from
Belgium. Mitsukoshi continued at the vanguard the following year by being
the first to add glass showcases inside the store.63
Glass windows did not encounter much cultural resistance because they
did not require any architectural change. It was not uncommon for a house
with glass windows to be completely traditional in all other aspects of
construction.64 For example, when the Emperor moved from his temporary
residence to a permanent palace in January of 1889, the new palace had glass
shoji even though the rest of the structure was done in a very traditional
Japanese style.65 Even romantic purists like Tanizaki gave in to the need to
have windows because he realized they were better insulators than paper
shoji. Haiku poet Masaoka Shiki included mention of “The unfairness that
sheet glass can’t be made in Japan” in his list of ten things that were unfair.
Other unfair things on his list included the unfairness of being unable to read
postal cancellations, the failure of Westerners to appreciate sake, the unfortu-
nate fact that country roads were never straight and that humans can’t grow
wings. Foreigners, not wealthy enough for Western houses, often had to
adapt by ordering special shoji with glass panes. Alice Mabel Bacon, a teacher
in the Peeress’ school who lived in a house that had a Western wing built on
for her use, specially ordered such screens with glass panes because she found
that she had the choice of being either drafty or shutting the rain doors
(amado), which would have required that lamps be lit constantly.66 Real
architectural changes would have been required to fit window sashes to slide
windows up and down. The resistance to architectural change may explain
why even today windows in Japan tend to slide back and forth rather than
move up and down.
The kitchen was often the first room to have windows added because it
was the darkest place in the house.67 In the 1870s, American educator and
scientist Edward Morse observed houses in Tokyo with glass panes in a row
along the lower portion of the shoji screens in a way that allowed an unob-
structed view outside to one sitting on the floor.68 Glass windows began to
appear in rural areas by the late 1880s69 but even wealthy families did not
have glass windowpanes on all of their outside doors and windows until the
1930s.70 Glass pane usage was first higher in the north, where insulation and
light were more important.71
Sheet glass production was a truly modern industry for the Japanese. It
represented a break from past traditions, but it did not inherently represent
178 M C

Westernization. One contemporary observer termed modernization in Japan

to be a mechanical rather than a chemical process, two streams flowing side-
by-side, like oil and wine, where each remains distinct.72 With the exception
of the rich who had Western-style houses or Westernized rooms attached to
traditional houses, most people introduced glass into traditional lifestyles.
Panes of glass in shoji screens, and other glass products such as wind chimes,
sake cups and bottles were all present in early modern Japan, in the Meiji
period they just became available to a wider public. Other glass products
introduced into Japan, such as lamp chimneys and scientific equipment
represented smaller technical advances but created greater real change in
lifestyle.
We often talk about the miracle of Meiji industrialization, but no matter
how much money government or private entrepreneurs poured into glass
production, it was an industry characterized by “a series of failures and
misfortunes.”73 Success was achieved by building on the failures of previous
ventures and by introducing new technology that did not require workers
to be so highly skilled. Until the late Meiji period, these workers were called
craftsmen (shokkp); they came to be called engineers (gikp) because the
process shifted from hand to machine. Like the silk industry, fortuitous
timing helped the fledging factories take root. World production dropped
due to the turmoil of World War I, which created a demand for what was
initially lower quality Japanese glass. Nonetheless, supplementary indus-
tries like mirror production were still relying on imported glass as late as
1916.74
The high demand for investment in mechanical technology meant that
sheet glass production was concentrated among a few companies, while other
kinds of glass production, like bottles, occurred all over Japan. Today only
three companies, two of which have been mentioned in this paper, produce
all the sheet glass in Japan. (The third, Central Glass, was not founded until
1958.) While many important Meiji industries such as textile manufacturing
are no longer significant, sheet glass is as much a source of trade friction
today as it was in 1930, when Japan was first accused of dumping. The
U.S.–Japan Flat Glass Agreement of 1995 has been deemed a failure and
sheet glass remains a bone of contention.
Natsume Spseki, one of the acknowledged giants of modern literature used
glass windows as a metaphor for ambivalence toward Westernization in works
such as Sorekara (1909). The main character, Daisuke, is a dissipated man of
30 who lives off his father. Daisuke reads Western literature and has glass
doors in his house, a modern man. Daisuke explains to his school friend that,
“it’s because the relationship between Japan and the West is no good that I
won’t work.” He continues, “A people so oppressed by the West have no
mental leisure, they can’t do anything worthwhile.”75 Yet, the very glass
doors that symbolize Daisuke’s sentiment were a product of Japan’s success-
ful struggle to throw off Western oppression, a miracle of very industrious-
ness that Daisuke distained.
 T  S  P S G  179

N
1. Bunmei kaika, fukoku kyphei, rypsai, kenbo.
2. Susan B. Hanley, Everyday Things in Premodern Japan (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1997).
3. Tanizaki Jun’ichirp, In Praise of Shadows, trans. Thomas J. Harper and Edward
G. Seidensticker (Stony Creek, Ct: Leete’s Island Books, 1977), p. 18.
4. Donald Keene, trans., Essays in Idleness—the Tsurezuragusa of Kenkp (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1967), p. 50.
5. Yoshinobu Ashihara, The Hidden Order—Tokyo through the Twentieth Century,
trans. Lynne E. Riggs (Tokyo and New York: Kodansha International, 1986), p. 13.
6. James Jackson Jarves, A Glimpse at the Art of Japan (Philadelphia: Albert Saifer,
1970), p. 115.
7. Christopher Dresser, Traditional Arts and Crafts of Japan (New York: Dover,
1994), p. 247. For example, British Consul Rutherford Alcock also expresses this
theory in Capital of the Tycoon (1863) and Arts and Industries of Japan (1878).
8. F.G. Notehelfer, American Samurai: Captain L.L. Janes and Japan (Princeton,
N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1985), p. 169. In 1870, Janes was invited to
Kumamoto to run a school.
9. Sakita Ypsuke, Nihon garasu kagami hyakunenshi (Osaka: Nihon Garasu Kagami
Kpgyp, 1971), pp. 2–3.
10. Dorothy Blair, A History of Glass in Japan (Tokyo: Kodansha International,
1973), pp. 178–179.
11. Arthur E. Fowle, Flat Glass (Toledo, Ohio: The Libbey-Owns Sheet Glass Co.,
1924), pp. 17, 31–32.
12. Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows, p. 2. The essay was originally published as a two
part serial in the December 1933 and January 1934 issues of Keizai prai.
13. Information provided by John van Sant and Graham Healey.
14. Edward R. Beauchamp, ed., Schoolmaster to an Empire: Richard Henry Brunton in
Meiji Japan, 1868–1876 (New York: Greenwood Press, 119), p. 113. Itp detached
himself from the main group and went on a second visit alone with Brunton.
15. Sidney Devere Brown and Akiko Hirota, eds., The Diary of Kido Takayoshi
(Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1985), Vol. 2, p. 289.
16. See Kume Kunitake, Bei-P kairan jikki, 5 v. (Tokyo: Iwanami bunko, 1978), Vol. 2,
pp. 156–159 (St. Helens in Manchester), p. 336 (Chances), p. 342 (Osler’s in
Birmingham); Vol. 3, pp. 192–195, 201–206 (Belgium); Vol. 4, p. 355 (Venice),
trans. in English as Iwakura Embassy 1871–1873: A True Account of the
Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary’s Journey of Observation through
the United States of American and Europe 5 v. (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton
University Press, 2002), Vol. 2, pp. 154–161 (Manchester), pp. 372–375
(Birmingham), Vol. 3, pp. 194–199 (Belgium), Vol. 4, pp. 355–358 (Venice).
17. Kume, Bei-P kairan jikki, Vol. 3, p. 197.
18. Yetaro Kinoshita, The Past and Present of Japanese Commerce (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1902), pp. 93–94.
19. Sakita, Nihon garasu kagami hyakunenshi, p. 20. According to Sakita, the first
imports were made by an Englishman. These two firms are listed in Yokohama
kaikp shirypukan, ed., Zusetsu Yokohama gaikokujin iryuchi (Yurindp, 1998),
pp. 68, 73.
20. The 100 Year History of Mitsui & Co., Ltd. (Tokyo: privately printed, 1977), p. 27.
180 M C

21. Kozo Yamamura, “General Trading Companies in Japan: Their Origins and
Growth,” in Japanese Industrialization and its Social Consequences, ed. Hugh
Patrick (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), p. 169.
22. Sakita, Nihon garasu kagami hyakunenshi, p. 20. Another was Sano-gumi.
23. Supposedly they are descended from the aristocratic Fujiwara family. See Oland
D. Russell, The House of Mitsui (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1939),
pp. 24–61.
24. Ibid., p. 186.
25. Yamamura, “General Trading Companies in Japan,” pp. 170–171.
26. Tsuda Mamichi, “On the Trade Balance,” in Meiroku Zassh: Journal of the
Japanese Enlightenment, ed. William R. Braisted (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1976), p. 326.
27. William Eleroy Curtis, The Yankees of the East (New York: Stone & Kimball,
1896), Vol. 1, p. 149. The value was US$183,883.
28. Flat Glass: Nihon no ita garasu (Tokyo: Ita Garasu Kypkai, 2001), p. 10.
29. Dai Nihon Ypgyp Kypkai, ed., Nihon kinsei ypgypshi (Tokyo, privately printed,
1916), Vol. 4, pp. 96–97.
30. Ibid., pp. 266–268.
31. Ypgypkypkai, ed., Nihon kinsei ypgypshi, p. 95. Nariakira ordered a crucible from
Shigaraki to attempt production.
32. Nihon Ita Garasu goju nenshi (Osaka: Nihon Ita Garasu Kabushiki Gaisha,
1968), p. 23.
33. Inoue Akiko, “The Early Development of the Glass Industry of Japan,” in The
Development of the Japanese Glass Industry, ed. Erich Pauer and Sakata Hironobu
(Marburg: Marburger Japan-Reihe, 1995), p. 14.
34. Flint glass is what we generally call lead crystal. It was patented by George
Ravenscroft in 1671 and early defects were remedied by 1676 by adding protoxide
of lead.
35. Sources are conflicting as to whether sheet glass was ever produced there at all.
Some, such as Tsuchiya Yoshio, attribute the first glass to Iwaki Tatsujirp, Nihon
no garasu (Tokyo: Shikpsha, 1987), p. 192.
36. It actually went through four variations on the name which all translate fairly
closely in English.
37. Sone Tatsuzp, “Nihon shorai no jutaku ni tsuite,” in Nihon kindai shisp taikei
toshi/kenchiku (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1990), p. 337. Condor is famous as the
designer of the Rokumeikan, His best-known building that still stands is probably
the National Museum at Ueno.
38. Goju nenshi, p. 24.
39. Goju nenshi, pp. 24–25.
40. Tsuchiya Yoshio, Nihon no garasu (Shikpsha, 1987), p. 190.
41. Blair, A History of Glass, p. 289.
42. Ibid., p. 289.
43. Later, natural gas was used. The Siemens furnace was also important in the iron
and steel industries. Although German by birth, Siemens immigrated to England
and was also known as Sir Charles William Siemens.
44. Ypgypshi, pp. 27–33.
45. The reading of this name is uncertain.
46. Ypgypshi, pp. 23–25.
47. J. Morris, Advance Japan: A Nation Thoroughly in Earnest (London: W.H. Allen &
Co., 1895), p. 386. Morris was employed by the Department of Public Works in
Tokyo.
 T S  P S G  181

48. Blair, p. 290

49. Okuma Shigenobu, ed., Fifty Years of New Japan (London: Smith, Elder & Co.,
1909), p. 600. The figures are for 1900.
50. Ypgypshi, p. 96.
51. Goju nenshi, p. 32.
52. Ypgypshi, p. 266.
53. Goju nenshi, pp. 34–35.
54. Information provided by Pnaka Kentarp of Asahi Glass.
55. University of Toledo, Libbey-Owens-Ford Glass Company Records, Doc.
No. 2UQGC, December 8, 1917, p. 160 ff.
56. Fowle, Flat Glass, pp. 47–57.
57. Goju nenshi, pp. 41–43.
58. Doc. No. 2UGOC, pp. 160–163 ff.
59. Goju nenshi, pp. 64, 77.
60. Ypgypshi, pp. 111–112.
61. Tokutomi Kenjiro, Footprints in the Snow, trans. Kenneth Strong (New York:
Pegasus, 1970), p. 110. Japanese title Omoide no ki. While this is a novel, it is
semiautobiographical and the impressions can be regarded as honest.
62. Douglas Sladen, The Japs at Home (London: Hutchinson & Co., 1892), p. 17.
63. Nakamura keisuke, Bunmei kaika to Meiji no sumai (Tokyo: Rikpgakusha, 2000),
p. 170; Edward Seidensticker, Low City, High City (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
1983), p. 111.
64. Kondp Yutaka, Meiji shokki no gi ypfu kenchiku no kenkyu (Tokyo: Rikpgakusha,
1999), p. 223.
65. Ibid., p. 88 and Donald Keene, Emperor of Japan (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2002), p. 420.
66. Alice Mabel Bacon, A Japanese Interior (New York: Houghton Mifflin and
Company, 1893), p. 38. See also, e.g., Arthur Collins Maclay, A Budget of Letters
from Japan, second edition (New York: A.C. Armstrong & Son, 1886), p. 154.
67. Shibusawa Keizp, ed., Japanese Life and Culture in the Meiji Era, trans. Charles S.
Terry (Tokyo: Pbunsha, 1958), p. 129.
68. Edward S. Morse, Japanese Homes and Their Surroundings (New York: Dover
Publications, 1961), p. 132.
69. Shibusawa, Japanese Life and Culture, p. 130.
70. Ibid.
71. Inoue Akiko, Garasu no hanashi (Tokyo: Gihpdp, 1988), p. 50.
72. Augusta M. Campbell Davidson, Present Day Japan (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott
Company, 1904), p. 6.
73. Goju nenshi, p. 22.
74. Ypgypshi, p. 84.
75. Translations from, Natsume Spseki, And Then, trans. Norma Moore Field (Baton
Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1978), p. 72. References to the glass
doors appear throughout the book.
This page intentionally left blank
 

M  C: D A I K U

T  M T

Gregory Clancey

Carpenters are liminal figures in the history of technology, and in studies of

architecture, labor, masculinity, and any other commonly recognized discipli-
nary cluster which might claim their story. The Anglo-American word “tech-
nology” and its Japanese translation gijutsu, both coined in the mid-nineteenth
century to describe a new regime of continually reengineered devices and
systems, were set more or less above (if not against) the existing world of
wood and hand-tools.1 Few figures seemed more outside this new rubric
than carpenters, who by definition were tied to an age-old organic material,
and assigned by necessity to small, widely dispersed work-groups difficult to
subject to industrial management or discipline. In both Japan and the West,
the image of the carpenter surrounded by shavings still immediately evokes
for most people the world of the pre-“technology” past, even if he (and it is
still typically a “he”) now carries a union card, the hand-tool is electrified,
and the lumber was ripped out of a rain forest by giant skidders.2
For these and other reasons carpenters are a “hard case” in the history of
modern technological change. They can hardly be made to symbolize that
process, yet there they are, not only present but also deeply engaged and even
necessary at many turns. That most of the first few generations of factory-
based machines in Japan and the United States were made largely out of
wood—as were most of the factories themselves—points to a void in con-
temporary perceptions of what “technological change” looked, felt,
sounded, and even smelled like to many who initially engaged it.3 Our focus
on “the cutting edge” (a phrase itself grounded in a world of hand-tools)
tends to mask that intensified use of existing skills, resources, and forms
which was often the most immediate response, and occasionally a sustained
one, to calls for “industrial” transformation by states and capital.
I want to tell a story about Japanese carpenters which both locates them
within the historical and discursive world of technology/gijutsu (rather than
an ahistorical space of “craft”), but also records their sense—and the sense of
others who took them up as objects—that they are not fully of that world;
that their very existence, after a point in time, raised questions and problems
184 G  C 

about narratives of progress imagined and actively constructed by elements of

the modernizing state and its spokespeople in the professions. My aim is not
a history of carpenters, a project that is likely impossible from an empirical
standpoint and of limited value from a theoretical one, but an historical
reflection on the carpenter as simultaneously facilitator, threat, target, survivor,
and eventually icon in a self-consciously industrializing Japan; the modern
Japanese carpenter as a technological subaltern.
In Japan (as in the United States), building-carpenters remained one of
the largest single groups of male tradesmen well into the twentieth century.
They remain important, and well-organized, in the early twenty-first century
as well. Their work was and is considered essential to economic development
in both countries.4 They are regularly presented to children in each culture as
models of “good” and extremely useful noncollege-educated men who work
outdoors with their bodies and hands. In a contemporary work-world trans-
formed by Taylorism and Fordism, carpenters seem comfortingly skilled,
multi-dexterous, self-directed, and physically mobile, not to mention mascu-
line. Because lumber is culturally coded as “clean” (and “natural”) those who
handle it escape certain stigmas assigned to those who work closer to machin-
ery and its liquids. Even environmental discourses about the overcutting of
forests rarely assign guilt to carpenters’ worksites, although most carpenters—
and Japanese ones in particular—now stand at the very end-point of a process
of global extraction with potentially vast environmental consequences.
There is also their historicity. At the typical suburban housing site in either
Japan or the United States today, the people doing most of the actual build-
ing still call themselves carpenters/daiku despite successive attempts to coin
less historically laden names, and use tools and work practices, which are in
many cases obviously derivative from tools and methods in use prior to the
coming of factories in both countries. The presence of electrical tools, and
new materials such as plywood and sheetrock, competes with the continued
ubiquity of hammers and nails (in the American case mostly) and handsaws
and chisels (in the Japanese one). Carpenters not only still own their tools in
many cases, but also wear them. The “tool-belt” is at the same time useful,
symbolic, ornamental, and an expression of personal and group identity. Just
as the present American 2 ⫻ 4 frame would be recognizable in many points to
an American carpenter of the mid- to late nineteenth century, the typical
Japanese zairai-kphp house-frame and its joints would be understandable to
a house-building daiku of the early Meiji period. And despite “globaliza-
tion,” and even the creation of an international lumber market, typical con-
temporary house-frames in each country are still largely alien in form and
detail to carpenters in the other. Even the hidden parts—perhaps especially
these—carry “culture.”5
This is not a story about simple continuity, however, let alone conver-
gence, but about change and survival in a maelstrom of shifting definitions.
Behind the question “how have daiku survived?” is the more difficult “what
has ‘daiku’ meant?” or more specifically, who and what has defined the terms
of change within this and other Japanese work-worlds? The frames “craft to
 M  C 185

industry,” “feudalism to capitalism” or “traditional to modern” will not get

us very far. Carpenters, too numerous to form an “exception” while too
culturally determined to fit smoothly into a “case,” complicate binary and
unidirectional narrations of techno-cultural change. And they did so, we shall
see, even in the Meiji era.

D AIKU
The translation of the Japanese word daiku into the English carpenter
(and the subtle reinscription of the English meaning onto the Japanese word)
was an act of Meiji-period linguistic reordering we need to explain rather
than take for granted from the beginning. I therefore favor the Japanese term
in the story that follows. Dai-ku—literally “great artisan”—had once applied
to mastership in any art, but in the course of the Edo period (1600–1868)
came to refer exclusively to those who made architecture from wood. Daiku
were not a small artisanal elite; they may have constituted one-third of all
artisans in Edo (Tokyo) in the last years of the shogunate, a population five
times that of the next largest artisanal groups, tatami-ya (tatami makers) and
sakan (plasterers), who were both dependent on daiku patronage and thus
captive to the larger work-culture. The term daiku was further modified by
prefixes according to specialty: miya-daiku built temples and shrines; sukiya-
daiku the teahouses and residential buildings of the upper samurai; ie-daiku
regular urban houses; and unprefixed village daiku oversaw what were largely
communal building processes in the countryside. Some combination of sheer
numbers, power within the building process (aided by guild organization),
the power of the building process (the most resource- and labor-intensive
creative spectacle of the Edo period), intricacy of technique (accompanied by
an unusually wide range of tools), and a certain ceremonial mystique
was doubtless what allowed Japanese woodworkers to monopolize the
character dai.6
Japan was also unusual among urbanized Asian cultures—even forest-
dwelling ones—in using wood so exclusively as a building material. Here is
another key to the status of Edo-period daiku; stonemasons were virtually
nonexistent as a rival occupational group.7 The exclusivity of this Japanese
relationship between making architecture and framing in wood was some-
thing alien to the culture of Europe—and to many parts of Asia in the same
period, including China and Korea—where the dualism carpenter/mason
described different technical systems and expert practitioners competing for
primacy within the same building process. In these other cultures, moreover,
the worker in wood was often the lesser of the two, in terms of status and
sometimes—as in industrial Britain—in overall numbers, as masonry came to
constitute the higher-order building system. Britain’s industrial revolution
occurred in a landscape largely denuded of forests (an ecological crisis which
that “revolution” arguably arose to address). In Japan, as in the United
States, seemingly unlimited forest resources and a huge, widely dispersed
artisan class capable of working wood would prove crucial to the relatively
186 G  C 

cheap, quick, and flexible replication of European forms, be they machines or

buildings. Japan’s fabled “poverty of natural resources” is a high-technology
discourse that overlooks this intensive exploitation of lumber.8
Daiku identity was not solely constituted by material, technique, or
economic niche building. The Japanese construction process was also marked
by successive religious ceremonies in which daiku assisted, or took on certain
functions of, Shinto priests. Ceremonies for ground breaking (jichinsai),
ridge raising (jptpshiki), and to mark completion (rakuseishiki) all had
European and American equivalents. But in late Edo and early Meiji Japan,
building-site ceremony could be unusually elaborate and politically constitu-
tive, requiring not only special costume but also a detailed knowledge of
performative scripts. Possessing costume and script-knowledge was likely as
essential to the identity daiku tpryp (master) as possessing woodworking
tools, books, patrons, and so on. It helped measure their distance from (and
authority over) other building-related artisans, who played only peripheral
ceremonial roles.9 It also acted out their closeness to Shinto and its priest-
hood, a religion deeply entwined with forests and trees. To this day Shinto
shrines are nearly always wooden and daiku-built, while Buddhist temples,
since the second quarter of the twentieth century, are allowably built in
a range of materials, including ferroconcrete.10

D AIKU AS U KEOI - SHI (C)

One of the first effects of the Meiji Restoration on daiku—and on artisan
(shokunin) culture generally—was the abolition of urban guilds. The guilds’
ability to regulate wages and police artisan mobility inside the cities and
between city and countryside was officially ended by a series of decrees
between Meiji 1 and 5 (1868–1872), although in larger centers such as
Osaka, new associations of tpryp (masters) attempted to salvage some element
of control. The lifting of Han-related guild restrictions on movement, how-
ever, likely had more effect on daiku than other classes of artisan, because the
most important new construction sites were now largely outside the castle
towns.11
The construction of the treaty port of Yokohama and new treaty-related
sectors of older cities such as Kobe, Nagasaki, Hakodate, and Osaka—a pro-
ject that actually began in the Bakumatsu but accelerated in early Meiji—had
a large and permanent effect on the daiku world, and on building-construction
more generally. The unprecedented size and nature of these public works
projects summoned into being a new class of “contractor” (ukeoi-shi)—
family-based companies, which by the late Meiji period, would dominate a
newly national building market serving mainly the government and zaibatsu
interests. Of today’s “Big Five” Japanese construction companies, no less
than three—Shimizu, Kajima, and Taisei (formerly Okura)—were first orga-
nized at the worksite that was Yokohama. A fourth—Takenaka—took its
modern form in the equally intensive worksite of Meiji-period Kobe.
Shimizu, which emerged as the largest Japanese construction company in the
 M  C 187

years prior to World War II (“the top of Mt. Fuji” according to its competi-
tor, Takenaka Touemon), had projected its reputation nationally as early as
1868, when it built Tokyo’s first hotel for foreigners in the new Tsukiji quarter.
The contemporary Shimizu Corporation would capitalize on this origin story
in the late 1990s by having its Space Systems Division work out plans for
a “space hotel.”12
Many of the “contractors” who emerged in the treaty ports were fully
connected, at least initially, to the world of Tokugawa-period daiku.
Shimizu-gumi was founded by an Edo daiku who had previously worked on
the restoration of Nikkp and the repair of Edo castle. The founder of Kajima
was another Edo daiku who had finished his apprenticeship in 1840, more
than a decade before Perry’s arrival. The Takenaka family were fourteenth
generation miya-daiku (temple and shrine builders) in Nagoya when they
took a contract to build army barracks, and then 24 brick warehouses in
Kobe. Present-day Takenaka brochures illustrate wooden shrines, which the
family designed and constructed in the Tokugawa period, and the company
maintains a large carpentry-tools museum in Kobe as a further reminder of
their artisanal lineage. Not all of the treaty-port “contractors” were daiku—
the founders of what became today’s giant Taisai and Obayashi construction
companies for example, were well-connected merchants—and even firms
founded by daiku, when they became large enough, ceased to do any labor
in-house but subcontracted nearly everything to smaller daiku and other arti-
san (shokunin) families. In fact by the Taisho era (1912–1926), big general
contractors like Takenaka Touemon, despite his family’s daiku ancestry,
would lead an assault on what he called “narrow-mindedness” in Japanese
construction by importing American materials and methods (such as steel
framing and reinforced concrete), and famous American cultural obsessions
such as mechanization and efficiency.13
We can still trace elements of daiku culture, however, in ukeoi-shi organi-
zation. One was the continued responsibility taken for both design and
construction. This system was likely given its present name of sekkei/sekp
(design/build) in Japanese only when it became obvious that Westerners
conceived these tasks as naturally bifurcated.14 Japanese ukeoi-shi never
became “general contractors” in the Anglo-American sense, in which “archi-
tecture” and “general contracting” were separately institutionalized. It
remained commonsensical in daiku practice (and most other realms of
Japanese artisan culture) that design and execution were a continuous act,
even after university-trained architects emerged later in the Meiji period. In
fact architecture departments at Japanese universities themselves—from early
Meiji to the present day—would teach design and construction in a single
balanced curriculum (and usually within faculties of engineering), in contrast
to the norm in Europe and America, where design was decisively elevated
over construction in the course of the nineteenth century using the slogans
“art” and “professionalism” (not to mention “technology,” which conve-
niently established a binary relation with “art”). University-trained Japanese
architects would have often preferred—and sometimes tried—to establish
188 G  C 

a system more in line with that of Europe or America, in which architects in

private practice monopolized design-work and construction companies sim-
ply built. But the companies countered by hiring large numbers of university-
trained architects themselves, putting them to work in “design departments.”
The vast majority of design-work in modern Tokyo and Osaka, to this day,
continues to be done either in-house or contracted for by construction
companies such as Shimizu and Takenaka following the sekkei-sekp system.15
The contracting system may have preserved, rather than weakened, the
existence of small daiku firms under the control of their own masters
(oyakata). The big ukeoi-shi were, at least through World War II, mainly
organizers of multiple tiers of subcontractors (shita-ukeoi), who retained
their identity as daiku or sakan even as they were integrated into new types
of projects. Although the big ukeoi-shi were clearly a force for technological
change in building—eventually introducing concrete, steel, and other sys-
tems often in advance of architects—we know little about their influence on
the organization and character of their more traditional subs; the extent to
which subs were “captive” to large ukeoi-shi, for example, how (or if ) they
were encouraged to adopt new techniques and organization, or how many
became ukeoi-shi themselves. We do know that they eschewed, after growing
to a certain size, using salaried daiku or other skilled tradesmen as pacesetters
for subs, despite Takenaka’s fascination with general contracting in America,
where such practices were normative.16 In other words, functions traditional
to tpryp—such as design on the one hand, and the coordination of artisans
(now subs) on the other—seem to have been compartmentalized or bureau-
cratized as each company grew. Big contractors even continued to oversee a
range of Shinto site ceremonies at which non-company architects (if involved
at all in a company project) played distinctly subsidiary roles.

S D AIKU (S AKUJIKATA )

While some daiku made the transition to the rituals and tools of capitalism
(a “capitalism” constructed partly by daiku rituals and tools) others became
officials in the Meiji State. When Western-style architects began to be trained
by the Ministry of Public Works (Kpbushp) in the 1870s, daiku were already
holding positions of authority in the same ministry. The ministry’s Eizen-ryp
(Construction Bureau) was initially staffed by former daiku Asakura Seiichi
and Tachikawa Tomokata, who had worked on the construction of the
French-engineered Yokosuka Navy Yard and Iron Works under the Bakufu.
The Bureau was headed from 1874 onward by Hayashi Tadahiro, another
former daiku who had worked at both Yokosuka and Yokohama. Before
architecture students began re-staffing ministerial eizen bureaus in the 1880s,
Hayashi was designing and executing convincing “Western” government
buildings in a neo-Palladian British colonial style, ultimately producing over
30 structures for the Public Works Ministry and five for the Navy, some in
brick, but others framed in wood and then covered with stucco and given
stone quoins (corners) to make them appear to be masonry.17
 M  C 189

State daiku (called sakujikata) were often from old and high-status arti-
sanal families. Tachikawa was sixth-generation, and Oshima Mitsumoto, who
was initially in charge of construction at the Public Works Ministry’s
Tetsudp-ryp (Railroad Bureau),18 was from the Koura, one of the oldest and
most powerful of the court daiku families under the Shogunate. Knowledge
of Western forms, techniques, and practices learned at sites such as Yokosuka
and Yokohama was in their case added to inherited knowledge/practice, and
did not necessarily supplant it. Another large group of State daiku worked in
the Imperial Household Agency, housing the Emperor and Court. Members
of both groups would mount challenges to the authority of university-trained
architects into the 1890s.19
A major site of sakujikata initiative was Hokkaido. The colonization of the
northern island began in earnest during the 1870s under the Kaitakushi
(Colonization Ministry), which hired American civil engineers and “agricul-
ture specialists” to work with Tokyo daiku like Adachi Yoshiyuki in construct-
ing Sapporo and other new inland centers. The American advisors, being
from a culture where carpentry was still more central to infrastructure-building
than in Europe, expected from the beginning that Sapporo would be a largely
wooden, New England-like city, dependent for its construction, expansion,
and repair on carpenters and even sawmills. Hokkaido, like Yokohama, thus
became a training-ground in Western (mostly American) design for daiku
from various parts of Japan. As early as 1873, daiku working with American
engineers had produced one of the largest buildings in the country, the
prefectoral legislature, designed in the American state-capital style with an
immense wooden dome. By the end of the decade, Adachi was making even
large Western-style faux-masonry wooden buildings [such as the Sapporo
Hoheikan of 1880] aided partly by American carpenter’s pattern books, of
which the Kaitakushi had a large collection. In the late 1870s and 1880s, as
Kaitakushi daiku began migrating back to their home prefectures, Hokkaido-
like “Western” buildings began to be erected all over Japan, especially in
Tpkaidp (the northern part of the main island of Honshu) where many are
still extant.20

W  “C”  P

As Cherie Wendelken has noted, “Meiji-era construction was overwhelm-
ingly executed by carpenters using methods and materials not unlike those
used in the late Edo period.”21 The opportunity to experiment and develop
skill with “Western” forms, however, seems to have been decisive to the suc-
cess of those Meiji-period daiku—albeit a small and favored minority—who
sought and found patronage with the state and the zaibatsu. In the 20 years
between the opening of the first treaty ports in 1859 and the graduation of
the first university-trained Japanese architects in 1879, ambitious daiku
worked out forms and techniques which Japanese architectural historians now
refer to as wayp setchu (Japanese–Western compromise) architecture.22 This
phenomenon encompassed private houses and the largest structures of the
190 G  C 

state. Foreign materials (including brick and stone) were handled and
molded, hybrid forms worked out, and new programs satisfied all within the
rubric of daiku shoku (daiku work).
Wayp-setchu was a form of pidgin, the equivalent of the other pidgins con-
structing and regulating the daily existence of Yokohama, Sapporo, and the
other zones where Japanese and foreigners were intended to mingle.
Compromise (setchu) occurred in different ways and at various places within
and around each project, most obviously in forms and surfaces, where
“Japanese” and “foreign” elements were created and mixed into appearances
foreign (yet recognizable) to both cultures. Compromise was also possible,
however, between the visible form/surface and the hidden form of the build-
ing’s wooden frame. Even the most externally derivative wayp buildings often
(although not invariably) had Japanese “guts.” Wall surfaces had never been
the primary carriers of meaning in daiku work, which traditionally lacked
walls altogether. Surface as material and surface as meaning were in that sense
coproduced with the coming of Westernity. On the other hand, the reservoirs
of knowledge, practice, and ritual already pooled in wooden frames remained
there for some time. The wooden frame was the techno-social “frame” for
the process of building itself, the space within which Meiji-period daiku still
organized and ritualized not only their own labor but also that of dependent
artisans.
Wayp-setchu sometimes carried compromise into the wooden frame itself,
however, evidencing a desire on the part of some daiku to not just please
patrons by manipulating surface and ornament, but conduct real experiments
with foreign building technologies. To take one example, the frame of a
convincingly “Western-style” wooden house at Meiji Gakuin in Tokyo (the
Imbry-kan), constructed for a foreign missionary named Imbry by daiku
from Niigata in 1880, reveals an exceedingly complicated arrangement of
Japanese, British, and American construction details. The roof of the Imbry-kan
for example, shades from mainly Japanese parts to purely British ones. Yet
the particular “British” choices seem carefully chosen for their compatibility
with, if not similarity to, familiar Japanese framing members. The details of
the outer wall system were all American (i.e., influenced by balloon framing)
yet put together in a way no American carpenter had likely seen. If the
Imbry-kan is taken as an extreme example of Euro-American influence
extending even to the interior structure, it is still far from a textbook exam-
ple of “technology transfer.” It shows Japanese daiku making complex
choices based on technical and cultural criteria we can hardly grasp at this
distance, choices that likely varied with the daiku and even with the project.23
Centers of compromise such as Yokohama and Sapporo and the compro-
mise neighborhoods (concessions) housing foreigners in Tokyo, Osaka, and
existing cities, were produced for the most part by daiku working with for-
eign amateurs, such as merchants, missionaries, and even technical advisors
(oyatoi) hired by the Tokugawa and later Meiji governments. The American
oyatoi in Sapporo, for example, “experts” in civil engineering and agriculture,
 M  C 191

were amateurs in architectural design and construction. We know from

surviving drawings in both Yokohama and Hokkaido that sketches drawn by
foreigners were often redrawn and rendered more technical by daiku, their
units of measurement being Japanese shaku rather than feet. Because wayp
setchu was compromise between Japanese artisans and foreign amateurs, it
did little to threaten a daiku sense of control or competence. Foreign mer-
chants, missionaries, and even engineers were unable to impose their own
technical authority, or “transfer” to daiku a detailed knowledge of Western
carpentry, a specialized skill-set which in most instances they would
have lacked. Like any Japanese client of a Japanese daiku, they brought to the
worksite, at best, a schematic vision of what they wanted, and expected the
daiku to work it out in reality.24 It is likely that Western (and perhaps
Japanese) clients helped illustrate their desires, in some instances, with the aid
of Western architectural pattern books, such as those gathered by the
Kaitakushi. Yet pattern-book literature, even in America, was designed only
to aid the consultation process between artisan and client, and not to give the
detailed technical instruction which the (Western) carpenter–reader was
assumed to already have.
Although the ability to make wayp buildings was clearly sought, prized,
and ultimately displayed by select daiku, we have little idea of what wayp
actually meant to those who practiced it (the term itself was created only
in the 1890s, when Japanese buildings were becoming increasingly “pure”
imitations of foreign ones under the guidance of architects). In art–historical
texts, wayp setchu buildings are sometimes displayed as naive “precursors” of
ypfu (architect-designed Western-style buildings) and are severed, by this
very act of naming, from a large corpus of shrines, stores, and houses, which
continued to be made, often by the same people in the same period, with
little or no “yp” (Western) character. The later are not only undisplayed, but
also in most cases undisplayable, given that they were rarely drawn or pho-
tographed.25 Wayp setchu does not seem to have produced separate classes of
“Western-style” and “Japanese-style” daiku, except at the level of those large
ukeoi-shi who served as the membrane connecting government and zaibatsu
patrons with daiku subcontractors. Pidgins are languages that occur among
languages, specifically for purposes of trade. Many wayp buildings of
the 1850s–1890s were made specifically for foreign residency, to house the
intermingling of foreigners and Japanese, or to house Japanese who were
behaving in manners still coded as “foreign.” Thus, they cannot be inter-
preted as prototypes for wholesale relandscaping in the manner of later
student exercises in the Imperial University’s architecture course.26 Rather
than being a replacement for something that already existed, or a “stage” in an
“evolution” of architectural design, they seem to have represented an addi-
tion, a grafting, a supplement; a new set of forms that certain daiku had
added to their repertoire without altering their identity, work organization,
tools, or skills. In fact, the very ability of daiku to exactly replicate foreign
forms was grounded in specifically Japanese technical competencies.
192 G  C 

D AIKU G (K IKU - JUTSU )  

M  W F
Daiku culture, like almost all artisanal work cultures, is most commonly
rendered “understandable” in modern texts through its tools. Partly this
reflects the materiality and survivability of tools as opposed to more fragile or
intangible cultural signifiers. Museums exhibit tools, people collect them,
and photographers convert them into attractive still-lifes for catalogues and
magazines. While tools were undoubtedly important to the people who
owned them—their very forms often testify to this—they can be fetishized in
contemporary understandings beyond anything experienced by the artisan-
owners themselves. The tool-display reinforces a modern sense of preindustrial
work as “handy” and even simple—a hand-in-motion—rather than a whole
body at work, with other bodies, or a mind at work among other minds,
and in specific places and times. Sometimes this fits a pattern of deliberate
submergence, related to the processes of domination and displacement—
either capitalist, or colonial, or both—which caused the tools to be initially
abandoned, and then collected, and finally displayed.27
While daiku tools have been subject to collection and display since at least
the mid-nineteenth century, the extensive daiku literature of eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries remained largely uncollected and unread into the late
twentieth. Daiku books were not collectable as “art” because their illustra-
tions were so technical, nor was their technical prose considered a “literature,”
which outsiders might enter. Through most of modern Japanese architectural
history, daiku work-culture was thus interpreted as preliterate, a class-based
construction that fit the story of an academic architecture displacing a habitual
and largely oral “craft” practice. In fact, the publishing of technical literature
was highly constitutive of late Edo-period daiku culture, and this publishing
practice continued, indeed accelerated, in the early Meiji period.28
Turning to daiku literature can deepen our understanding of “compromise,”
or more specifically how certain daiku were able to extend their technical
competence in the direction of Western forms, yet without necessarily adopt-
ing Western techniques. Nakatani Norihito has completed a detailed study of
one type, kiku-jutsu books, mathematical treatises which explain the cutting
and arrangement of timbers in shrine and temple construction, and helped to
“standardize” Japanese building production in the course of the Edo period.
Although kiku-jutsu books first appeared in the eighteenth century, they
were actually written and published in greatest numbers after the Meiji
restoration. Early Meiji kiku-jutsu consciously continued the tradition of
Edo-period texts, which were based indirectly on the Japanese mathematical
system known as wasan. Nakatani also points out, however, that kiku-jutsu,
one of a number of mathematical systems for laying out carpentry in the Edo
period, was the only one to survive the Meiji restoration. The reason, he
argues, was the new value placed on flexibility. Being more “geometrical”
than other existing systems, kiku could be used to lay out even unusual
forms, such as “Western” roofs, as well as familiar Japanese ones. While the
 M  C 193

new popularity of kikujutsu in early Meiji had as much, if not more, to do

with the freeing of guild restraints and the increased demands for building
of all types—including “traditional” structures—by late Meiji the literature
was being transformed by the demands of wayp, a word that increasingly
appeared in the titles of the books themselves. By the 1890s actual images of
Western carpentry forms, such as trusses began to appear in kiku-jutsu books
with their layout and construction explained entirely in kiku graphics (i.e., in
the same graphical form as the explanation of temple roofs).29
The kiku literature shows Meiji-period daiku turning to an existing technical
dialect rather than a foreign technical language, but one which, within the
range of existing choices, promised to best expand its speakers’ abilities in the
direction of new forms and objects. Kiku itself changed as trusses, domes,
and other novel foreign forms passed into and through it. By the first decade
of the twentieth century, it was incorporating and explained the geometrical
systems of imported Euro-American carpentry books, capturing not only
Western objects, but also Western explanatory systems. The term “capture”
is more accurate in this instance than “merger,” which suggests a certain sym-
metry or two-way readability. Western geometry, once incorporated and
explained within kiku, was no longer “readable” as Western explanation. It is
not even clear whether kiku explanations of Western geometry were readable
by most Japanese architects, who were trained in systems of calculation
identical to those practiced in Euro-America itself.30
As we shall see, however, by late Meiji the most self-consciously modern-
izing types of kikujutsu-sho were being written not by daiku tpryp, but by a
small group of university-trained architects connected to government trade
schools. In order to place this development in perspective, we need turn to
architecture, a discipline separate from, competitive with, and ultimately
transformative of the daiku world.

T C  A:

D AIKU AS C ARPENTERS
The compromising process I’ve described so far is one in which select groups,
families, or individuals within daiku culture sought (or were given) opportu-
nities to enhance rather than replace existing technical competencies. At least
some daiku made the transition to the new roles of ukeoi-shi or sakujikata,
and to the mastery of new Western forms within existing cultural rubrics.
Their ability to experiment with new or expanded roles and practices came
almost exclusively through state and zaibatsu patronage.
Parallel to this, however, was another process initially much less compro-
mising; one in which organs of the Meiji State attempted to actively displace
or reform the realm of knowledge/practice which daiku embodied and
controlled. This less compromising reform sought to affect a much larger
number of daiku, although its operation would be more gradual and never
complete.
194 G  C 

An instinct to assign daiku to a “feudal” past along with Buddhist priests

and Chinese doctors is clearly detectable in the early years of the Meiji
Restoration. Following the latest in an age-old series of fires in Edo/Tokyo
in 1872, the Dajpkan (Council of State) declared that the entire city should
eventually be rebuilt in brick and stone.31 The more modest result, the dis-
trict called The Ginza, was the first (and nearly the last) archeologically cor-
rect material and technical replication of a European urban landscape inside
the Japanese capital; a purposely uncompromising techno-cultural space
intended to transform Japanese building-construction by substituting the
brick shell for the wooden frame.32 The establishment of a formal, Western
(i.e., British) architectural curriculum at the Ministry of Public Works’
Kpbudaigakkp (sometimes translated as “College of Technology” or
“College of Engineering”) in 1877 institutionalized a similar instinct in the
realm of education. An editorial in the first issue of the student-edited
Kenchiku Zasshi (Architecture Journal) of 1888 declared that

Gradually, we should make every building in Japan completely brick or stone.

Academically trained people should be in charge of this, and architectural reg-
ulations should be set. This is the basis of a strong nation.33

Although this plan would be complicated by practical difficulties, philosophical

uncertainties, and even contrary opinions within the architectural community
over the next 100-odd years, it would never be wholly abandoned. It would
often be defended on utilitarian, rather than cultural grounds, as better pro-
tecting cities and nation against fire, earthquake, and typhoon (although a
counter-discourse on the unsuitability of masonry buildings for Japan devel-
oped as early as 1880, when The Ginza began to develop seismic cracks).34
But it also crystallized the need among the first few generations of Japanese
architects—shared with their counterparts in engineering, medicine, and so
on—to replace existing artisanal control of production with a foreign-derived
knowledge which might form the basis for a new professionalism. There
were, by the end of the Meiji period, less than 200 Western-trained architects
in all of Japan (most of them Imperial University graduates) while there were
countless thousands of daiku.35 How to establish a proper hierarchal rela-
tionship between each group and its knowledge claims was a central problem
in Japanese architecture—as in arguably every Japanese academically based
discipline with nonacademic competitors—through the end of the Meiji
period and beyond.36
The importation of “architecture” via Kpbudaigakkp (and later the
Imperial University), also meant importing the Western dualities carpenter/
mason and wood/stone. “Architecture,” as explained by European teachers
and their textbooks, was mainly about stonemasonry, and an “architect,” the
expert-leader of the building process, was a descendant of medieval stonema-
sons. In the logic of this system, daiku were to be considered “carpenters,” a
trade that in Europe was very much dependant on masonry and general con-
tracting. The term daiku was almost never translated into Meiji-period
 M  C 195

English as “great artisan,” as this would have confused the relationship

between daiku and the new profession of architect [a word that derives, iron-
ically, from the Greek “archos” (chief) and “tekton” (carpenter)].
Even in the Japanese, daiku was now increasingly defined as someone
technically competent in a single material—wood—rather than one whose
roles encompassed design, direction, construction, and ceremonial perfor-
mance. “Architect” in Japanese was initially rendered zpkagaku-shi and then
kenchiku-ka, new Meiji-period titles, which set themselves above daiku and
its associations. Meiji period architects were hardly ever from daiku families.
Like most Imperial university graduates, they were typically from the former
samurai class and aspired to spend their lives in state service.37 In other
words, the coming of architecture meant the restriction of daiku to a new,
and lesser, set of actions, definitions, and spaces ordered by prior European
experience and the ongoing realities of Japanese class relations.38
Architecture’s redefinition of daiku was carried forward on multiple
overlapping fronts. One was the building-site itself. If the more expensive
buildings were now to be of masonry, and architects were to be in charge of
designing and erecting these, this required re-creating daiku as carpenters
within a new building process. Carpentry was still necessary to “fill in” the
shell of any masonry building—the roofs, floors, interior wall, ceilings,
staircases, all needed to be framed in wood, even in European practice. Thus,
carpenters were as essential to the performance of European architecture as
daiku were a potential impediment. Making daiku into carpenters/tradesmen
on the European model became a prominent goal of Japanese architecture in
the Meiji period, and has arguably continued to be one through the present
day, given that the process remains always incomplete and contested.39
Architecture simultaneously separated the daiku of the present from the
daiku of the past—the designers of prominent temples, shrines, castles, and
palaces, which from the Meiji period onward became constitutive of a new
“national heritage”—through the medium of architectural history. Japanese
architectural history, which emerged most decisively in the 1890s with the
work of Imperial University professor of architecture Itp Chuta, was the cat-
aloguing of ancient wooden daiku-designed buildings—often accompanied
by measurement, and with an eye toward their preservation as cultural
monuments. It also provided models for an intensified shrine building cam-
paign accompanying the literal construction of State Shinto. Coinciding with
a period of rising nationalism, the movement toward architectural history
grounded the new and foreign discipline of Japanese architecture in a
more Japanese past. It also coincided with a rise in seismic activity (and the
emergence of the science of seismology), which cast doubt on the survivability
of masonry architecture on Japanese ground. Thus did architecture co-opt
daiku ancestors even as it attempted to reorder contemporary daiku under its
own leadership.40
As Cherie Wendelken discovered, architecture in the mid-Meiji period
enlisted at least one prominent living daiku tpryp, Kigo Kiyoyoshi, whose
family had long been in service to the Imperial Court. Raised to public
196 G  C 

prominence by the construction of a new, partly wooden Imperial palace,

Kigo was invited to lecture on kiwariho (the system of daiku proportioning)
at the Imperial University in the late 1880s, and collaborated with Itp and
others in major shrine building projects, the first and perhaps last time that
university-trained architects would form themselves into an audience for a
miya-daiku. That architects came to know the daiku past, through architec-
tural history, in ways that daiku themselves could only access through architect-
produced narratives, gradually gave the new profession confidence in its
ascendancy as the natural inheritors of “Japanese architectural tradition.”41 It
is no coincidence that this occurred in the very period sakujikata (state
daiku) other than Kigo were being systematically replaced in the ministries
by graduates of the new architecture schools, a process that Imperial univer-
sity professor of architecture Tatsuno Kingo would describe in retrospect as
“break[ing] the bad habits of the Edo period . . . the sakujikata habit.”42
A third front of this architectural displacement of daiku knowledge was
more technical: the development, within the Japanese academy, of competency
with “Western carpentry” (ypfu mokuzp kpzp). Even as daiku work began to
be celebrated in the West as among the world’s great carpentry traditions—
which according to Tatsuno, was one reason Kigo was invited to teach ele-
ments of it at the Imperial University—young Japanese architects became
fascinated with “Western carpentry” (meaning mainly British roof-framing)
as a technical realm which naturally complemented masonry wall-construction,
and one which they alone might master. Japanese roof-construction—the
very heart of daiku technique—was reframed by Japanese architects and their
foreign teachers as historically interesting, but wasteful, overly complicated,
unscientific, and even dangerous. The Western truss, whose stresses and
strains were subject to exact calculation, and which allowed the introduction
of elaborate screws, braces, and an array of metal fixtures alien to daiku
practice, became a sort of icon of the new architectural regime; an object that
daiku—at least those who wished to work under architect-supervised state
patronage—would eventually be encouraged to learn how to build based on
architects’ descriptions. Although the increased seismicity of the 1880s and
1890s temporarily shook architectural faith in brick and stonemasonry, and
set students to thinking more deeply about wooden architecture, this only
intensified their desire to master truss calculation as the basis for a “wooden
architecture” (mokuzp kenchiku) distinguished from daiku technique.43

D AIKU R
While Japanese architects began to speak in the late Meiji period in the name
of a “Western carpentry” superior in many aspects to the work of daiku, and
an architectural history which eventually drew clear lines between the daiku
of the present and those of the past, architects remained an exceedingly small
and concentrated professional group while daiku were as general as the act
of building itself. If knowledge produced in the academy was to fundamen-
tally reorder built Japan, architects had not only to imagine an “architectural
 M  C 197

world,” but also people it with listeners, believers, and those who would take
instruction. A social stratigraphy began to form with “architecture” at its
apex, and much like traditional Japanese temple building, its construction
was to proceed from the top down.
The Ministry of Education in the late Meiji period was intent on educating
not just a technical elite at the Imperial University, but a much larger class of
“technicians” or “technical assistants” (gijutsusha or kpgypsha), who would
operate under the leadership of engineers and architects more smoothly than
the notoriously unruly artisan class (shokunin). Beginning in the decade of
the 1890s, the foreign knowledge generated at the Imperial University was to
filter out from the architecture course, via architect–teachers and textbooks,
into a series of trade-related schools (shokkp gakkp) where a new type of daiku
would be produced. Education—the peopling of an “architectural world”
(kenchiku sekai) around the small core of university-trained architects—
arguably became as much of a preoccupation of the Meiji architectural
profession as the design of buildings or the supervision of construction. The
first few generations of Japanese architects became, in effect, architect–
educators, some taking jobs as trade-school principals and others writing
“popular” manuals in which the technical details of Western architecture—
including even Western carpentry—were to be explained.44
Vocational schools, wherever they appeared in the nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries, were largely assaults on existing systems of apprenticeship—
the method by which artisan culture reproduced itself generationally in Japan
and elsewhere. In the United States, successive attempts to found vocational
school systems from the late nineteenth century onward were often opposed
(and in many cases successfully) by building trade unions, who saw them as
producing interchangeable “workers” designed to “trade” on business’ own
terms. Meiji Japan lacked strong or extensive building trades unions, yet
the State’s attempt to capture apprentices away from masters proved no easier
a task.
According to a census of 1882, nearly 30 percent of the artisan families in
Tokyo were still practicing trades related to building construction.45 The
shokunin class as a whole was targeted for reeducation as early as 1881, when
Education Minister Fukuoka Katei approved a plan for establishing shokkp
gakkp (roughly “trade schools”) in every prefecture. The word shokkp, a
newly coined neologism, was meant to describe the new type of person such
schools were to train. Shokkp was a combination of the first character from the
word shokunin—the word for “artisan,” and the character kp or ku, which,
although formerly also related to artisanship (e.g., dai-ku) was increasingly
coming to represent industry (e.g., Kp-budaigakko and Kp-busho). Shokkp
evoked a modern working class.46
Tokyo Shokkp-gakkp, founded in 1882, was designed to train the first
generation of teachers for the provincial schools. Graduates became either
teachers themselves, or shokkp-chp (foremen) assisting kpgaku-shi (engineers,
a category that included architects). Architecture was added relatively late to
the curriculum, in 1902. As Shimizu Keiichi pointed out in his detailed study
198 G  C 

of this system, the government’s priority was on constructing an export

sector, so there was a certain logic in beginning with the training of factory
or shop foremen. At the same time, however, the State may have considered
the building trades particularly difficult to reform or capture, given their size,
independence, dispersal, and local power.47
By the early 1890s, hesitancy had also developed within the Education
Ministry itself about the wisdom of a frontal assault on apprenticeship, per-
haps because of low enrollments in the government schools. The apprentice
system was officially recognized by the Ministry in 1894, when indentured
apprentices were allowed to practice what they had learned in school in their
own shops, under the eye of their masters (oyakata). Whether this repre-
sented an authentic limitation on the State’s ambitions, or simply a change in
strategy, is difficult to know. But that the knowledge of masters was to be
supplemented through formal schooling was still a critical intervention in the
formerly private and patriarchal relationship of master and apprentice.48
The prefectoral shokkp-gakkp in Hiroshima was among the earliest to institute
a daiku course, in 1897.49 The nomenclature at Hiroshima and elsewhere
tells us much about the new daiku-shokkp such schools were intending to
create. First of all, daiku work was included within a new meta-category
called mokkp, or literally “woodwork,” which formed one-half of a binarism
with kinkp (metal work).50 Mokkp was actually a Nara-period word, combin-
ing the characters for “wood” and “work,” which was revived in the Meiji
period as a literal translation of the English “woodwork,” a designation
increasingly applied to industrial shopwork in Britain and America. Here was
a decisive naming of the daiku as carpenter—someone identified above all
with a particular material. Moreover, mokkp did not so much map on to
daiku work as absorb it. The word came to cover everything from the fram-
ing of buildings to the making of small wooden bowls using turning lathes.
Such a range of procedures, which were described in the pages of a single
mokkp textbook, were beyond the practice or custom of any existing Japanese
artisan. The purpose of the Hiroshima school, wrote its principal, was “to
raise good shokkp who are appropriate for mokkp and kinkp in the future.”51
Shokkp, mokkp, and kinkp clearly evoked a future of flexible material-specific
workers able to evolve away from traditional work-cultures and practices.
The mokkp course was sufficiently institutionalized by 1899 to merit a
Ministry of Education textbook, Futsu mokkp jutsu (Regular Wood-Working
Technique). At first glance, the book appears to be a straightforward codifi-
cation of what daiku actually did. The building–carpentry lessons begin with
the proper use of common and traditional Japanese tools, and then proceed
step-by-step through the assembly of a typical Japanese small house. The text
is liberally sprinkled with small drawings of apprentices wielding saws and
chisels, the framing of typical roofs, familiar joints, and so on. Given that the
text actually constructs a Japanese house, and imagines the reader into that
process, it might seem that tradition itself was being taught. The “Western
carpentry” then fashionable at the Imperial University is represented in only
one lesson—the very last—on trusses.52
 M  C 199

Yet Futsu mokkp jutsu was not a simple codification of daiku technique or
pedagogy. To begin with, the lesson on trusses, coming at the very end,
orders what precedes it as elementary or preliminary. The rigorous exclusion
of Western features or details from the basic lessons re-creates Japanese
carpentry not only as a technically pure, culturally indigenous practice (bereft
of wayp setchu), but also at the same time, a comparatively simple one. The
truss lesson is the student’s bridge to a second stage—a higher, more
advanced form of carpentry that he will access once he has mastered the
“regular” (the Futsu of the title). The future planned for Japanese carpentry
by the Education Ministry was not obsolescence or eradication, but relocation
within a new hierarchy of difficulty, importance, and value at whose pinnacle
were the forms of “Western carpentry”: for example, the ability to construct
European-style roof-trusses for masonry buildings.53
Turning to the “traditional” content itself, the Ministry had done more
than convert the verbal and nonverbal lessons of apprenticeship into a series
of illustrated written exercises. The lessons are mostly about tools. The
images in Futsu mokkp jutsu of boys holding saws and chisels were intended
to illustrate the correct positions of hands and bodies. Much was made of
practice, or motion; of training hand and body to move in an instinctive way.
Indeed, during the first two years of training in mokkp, half the total instruction
time each week was to be spent abstractly practicing the use of tools. There is
a close convergence between the images in the Education Ministry textbook
and American trade-school texts of the same period, which seek to recreate,
through rote practice, “insincts” supposedly lost since the days of medieval
craftsmanship (and often coincidentally useful to modern production
regimes).54
The existing attitude toward motion and rote practice in the world of
Meiji daiku is far from clear. Because daiku literature had no philosophical or
even journalistic component, we can know little of what daiku in this period
actually thought about how skills were best or most naturally acquired. Nor
can we discount the possible collaborative role of tpryp in preparing the
Ministry’s textbook. Yet in framing daiku-work as mostly about tool-use, and
education mostly about practicing repetitive motions, books such as the
Education Ministry’s Futsu mokkp jutsu created an essentially new type of
“daiku” literature, quite different than the kikujutsu-sho or hina-gata
produced by daiku themselves. Classic daiku literature, much like classic
American carpentry literature, was about design and measuring. The correct
method of wielding tools would have been learned quietly, gradually, and
perhaps chaotically during apprenticeships, which were identical with male
adolescence, and hence with daily life. The formal presentation of discrete
actions in Futsu mokkp jutsu would have been as novel to Japanese shokunin
as Diderot’s Encyclopedia (whose overall form and purpose the Ministry’s
textbook resembles) would have been to eighteenth-century French artisans.
Futsu mokkp jutsu and the State’s attempt to capture daiku apprentices
seems to have been resisted. The book was withdrawn in 1904, only five
years after its publication. The daiku courses in shokkp gakkp were eventually
200 G  C 

replaced with kenchiku (architecture) ones, where students were trained

not to make buildings but to draw them. The shokkp gakkp were even upgraded
in the same period to kpgyp-gakkp, or training schools for “lower-level
engineers.” The Meiji state seems to have abandoned this initial attempt to
educate daiku apprentices, and turned instead to producing an army of
young architectural draftsmen, foremen, and supervisors from a different
pool of urban student.55 Trade schools of the shokkp gakkp type would con-
tinue on the provincial and local levels, however, and a small but steady
stream of school-trained daiku would continue to flow into the larger pool of
apprentice-trained daiku until the postwar period, when a reinvigorated
trade school movement would finally supplant the master-apprentice system
almost entirely.
The state’s switch to the production of “lower-level engineers” in kpgyp-
gakkp did not mean its total withdrawal, however, from the project of daiku
reform. The locus of effort seems to have shifted from the classroom to the
realm of publishing. Educators in the state schools worked to reformulate
wayp setchu into a pidgin which might be spoken between daiku and them-
selves, rather than between daiku and foreigners. The teachers, and especially
the foremen and supervisors they trained, still needed to solve the problem
of marrying the language of architectural plan-making—for example, truss
calculation—with the kiku geometry widely understood in the daiku world,
if only for purposes of communication at work-sites. Their medium became
kikujutsu literature itself. Since the Edo period and into early/mid-Meiji,
authorship of kikujutsu-sho had been the exclusive province of daiku tpryp. In
the last two decades of Meiji, however, a reformed version of this literature
began to be produced by teachers associated with the kpgyp-gakkp movement.
Kiku, which as we saw earlier was already trending toward the absorption of
Western forms, now moved even more decisively in that direction, though it
never abandoned core techniques nor core emphasis on temple and shrine
construction. In one sense, the architectural co-option of kiku was recognition
by the academic world of the continuing power of the tpryp over his own
workspace, including his apprentices, and the need to accommodate existing
artisanal language and custom in the new practice of architecture. Yet it also
signaled the end of a tpryp-produced technical literature.56

C  S   D AIKU S

Despite the trade school movement, the work culture defined by daiku tpryp
and their apprentices continued to evolve with a certain degree of self-
coherence outside the immediate purview of the state. In Japan as elsewhere,
architects directly controlled only a fraction of the building world, mainly
that portion under government patronage. The contracting companies main-
tained a greater sphere of influence, but their focus remained on large-scale
projects increasingly executed in concrete rather than wood. Daiku who
worked at sites superintended by architects or large construction companies
(especially those who had attended shokkp-gakkp) indeed came to form a class
 M  C 201

of “tradesmen.” They performed woodwork according to architect-drawn

plans, although the actual cutting and layout of wooden forms continued to
rely on kikujutsu. The vast bulk of Japanese construction, however, contin-
ued to be the houses, small stores, and institutional buildings such as temples
and shrines, and this sea of largely wooden building activity continued to be
dominated by daiku tpryp some steps removed from the world of architecture,
trade schools, or big contracting. The Tokyo that burned following the 1922
earthquake was overwhelmingly a city of small daiku-framed wooden build-
ings, as was the Tokyo that burned in the 1945 air raids, and as was the city
that was rebuilt during the American occupation of 1945–1953. Indeed, the
amount of Japanese floor-space constructed through the medium of wooden
framing was only exceeded by floor-space framed from other materials—
mainly concrete and concrete block—in 1963, nearly a century after the
Dajpkan (Council of State) had declared that Tokyo would become a city of
brick and stone.57
Interviews with elderly daiku who remember the postwar reconstruction
(and even, in some cases, the prewar work world) reveal a building process
more notable for its technical and social continuities with the early Meiji
period than with any model of technologically induced change. Mechanized
saws, which had been common at the lumber-producing end of North
American carpentry since at least the eighteenth century, and which had been
made in small numbers by Japanese foundries since the early 1880s, only
began to appear in Tokyo in the late 1930s, and remained uncommon until
after the war. Electrical hand-tools, largely unknown through the end of
World War II, gained ground only gradually through the 1950s. Until at least
the Korean War, pointed out one Tokyo tpryp I interviewed, a constant sup-
ply of electricity at even a large building site could not be guaranteed, so no
daiku could afford to show up without hand tools. The joints of the frame
itself were gradually covered with metal fittings—earthquake-proofing
devices mandated by law since at least the 1930s—but these merely supple-
mented and strengthened wooden joints underneath, which many daiku
continued to believe—in contradistinction to the state and its architects—
were inherently earthquake-resistant. Even the social organization of the
typical postwar building site—an experienced daiku tpryp in charge of a crew
of apprentices and journeymen, and ordering the work of other artisans
around his own—was essentially preindustrial in character. All of this con-
tributed to the daiku’s perception of himself by the postwar period, and even
more so the perception of outsiders, as a figure who has preserved “tradition”
within a sea of change.58
The construction of “the traditional carpenter,” however, ignores the role
of daiku in the making of the modern state and its economy, beginning with
Yokohama and continuing through today’s “housing starts.” It particularly
overlooks the willingness of Meiji period daiku to “compromise” with foreign
knowledge—and bring existing knowledge to bear on the construction of
foreign objects—a phenomena, which we could have continued to trace into
the present day. On the other hand, the daiku world did not always evolve in
202 G  C 

directions chartered or controlled by state and zaibatsu, despite the daiku

origins of Japan’s modern construction firms. State-directed planning for
daiku reeducation, which would resurface repeatedly through at least the
1960s, indicates that the status of daiku as “modern” and spontaneously
contributory to the new Japan was always a fragile one, particularly in the
eyes of their architect-rivals. While many Japanese modernizers of the Meiji
period would have preferred that a nation of brick, steel, and “carpentry”
spring into reality overnight, Japan’s actual pageant of constant and some-
times rapid change would actually be endlessly coproduced from above and
below.

N
1. Technology and gijutsu are not actually identical in usage. The English word lends
itself to drawing sharper distinctions between “modern” and “premodern” or
“sophisticated” and “unsophisticated” skills, objects, and infrastructures than the
Japanese one. Gijutsu is easier to use interchangeably with technique. There is, on
the other hand, an arguably closer fit between gi-jutsu and gi-shi, the Japanese
word for engineer, than there is between engineer and technology in English. For an
introduction to the history of the English word technology see Leo Marx “The Idea
of Technology and Post-Modern Pessimism,” in Does Technology Drive History?,
ed. M.R. Smith and Leo Marx (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1994).
2. The continued, intensive use of lumber in Japanese building-construction, and
Japan’s heavy dependence on imported lumber since the 1960s, has directly
contributed to the clear-cutting of rain forests from Indonesia to Canada. As of
1999, Japan imported 37% of all internationally traded wood products, a figure far
in excess of that of any other country (although other heavy wood-users, like the
United States, clear-cut their own forests). The largest single user of imported
lumber in Japan was the domestic housing industry. Global Witness, “Timber
Takeaway: Japan’s Overconsumption: The Forgotten Campaign,” Briefing Paper,
Oct. 1999 <http://www.globalwitness.org/campaigns/ forests/japan/downloads/
takeaway.doc>
3. For a reflection on this paradox from the standpoint of American history, see the
introductory essay, “The Experience of Early American Technology” in Early
American Technology: Making and Doing Things from the Colonial Era to 1850,
ed. Judith McGaw (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994). Two
scholars, one American and one Japanese, who have argued for a fuller considera-
tion of carpentry in accounts of technology and architecture are Brooke Hindle,
America’s Wooden Age (Tarrytown, N.Y.: Sleepy Hollow Press, 1985) (reprint)
and Muramatsu Teijiro especially his Waga kuni daiku no kpsaku gijutsu ni
kansuru kenkyu (Tokyo: Rpdp Kagaku Kenkyujo Shuppanbu, 1984). One of the
few English-language accounts of Japanese technological change to acknowledge
the important role of carpenters is Tessa Morris-Suzuki, The Technological
Transformation of Japan (Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press, 1994),
e.g., pp. 51, 90. Among Japanese surveys see Nakaoka Testurp, Kindai Nihon no
gijutsu to gijutsu seisaku (Tokyo: Kokusai Rengp Daigaku/Tokyo Daigaku
Shuppankai, 1986).
 M  C 203

4. Zenkenspren, the largest federation of construction workers’ unions in Japan, is

made up largely of carpenters and plasterers who construct wooden houses. Its
membership stood at 300,000 in 1990 (Sidney Levy, Japanese Construction: An
American Perspective [New York: Van Norstrand Rheinhold, 1990]). The figure
for the trade as a whole is certainly larger, as not all carpenters work in house-
building. An informal estimate made in a trade publication of 1960, a period
when wooden framing still accounted for the majority of new floor space created
annually in Japan, suggested there were then more than half a million building
tradesmen in the country who called themselves daiku (Daiku kypshitsu, January
1960, 52).
5. In the late 1990s, around 80% of new Japanese wooden houses (which accounted
for around 40% of all housing starts on an average annual basis) continued to be
framed by daiku, often working for small firms, and using a post and beam
(zairai kphp) method unique to Japan. “Japan’s Forest Industries: Analysis,
Comment, and Forecasts” <http://www.blandon.co.uk/forestry/index.htm>
6. For discussion of the various building trades in this period see Hatsuda Tpru,
Shokunin-tachi no seiyp kenchiku (Tokyo: Kpdansha, 1997). For daiku, see [in
English] William H. Coaldrake, The Way of the Carpenter (New York:
Weatherhill, 1990); and Kiyoshi Seike, The Art of Japanese Joinery (New York:
Weatherhill, 1977), with a good introduction by translators Yuriko Yobuko and
Rebecca M. Davis; and [in Japanese], Endp Motoo, Nihon shokunin-shi no kenkyu
V: kenchiku, kinkp shokunin shi wa (Tokyo: Yuzankaku, 1961); Endp, Shokunin-
tachi no rekishi (Tokyo: Shibundp, 1965), which covers a range of urban artisans,
especially prior to Meiji; Muramatsu Teijiro, Daiku dpgu no rekishi (Tokyo:
Iwanami Shinsho, 1973), the most detailed discussion in Japanese of daiku tools;
and idem, Waga kuni daiku no kosaku gijutsu ni kansuru kenkyu (Tokyo: Rpdp
Kagaku Kenkyujo Shuppanbu, 1984).
7. Although stone-masonry had been practiced in Japan in antiquity, it survived into
the Edo period mainly in the parabolic retaining walls for castle and palace moats,
and as a tradition of stone bridge-making in Kyushu. Edo Japan was, over-
whelmingly, a wooden place (Kpdansha Encyclopedia of Japan [Tokyo: Kpdansha,
1983], p. 170).
8. For a discussion of how central forestry resources were to the Edo period,
see Conrad Totman, The Green Archipelago (Athens: Ohio University Press,
1989).
9. For daiku ritual, see Coaldrake; Endp, Nihon shokuninshi no kenkyu.
10. Sunami Takashi, “Architecture of Shinto Shrines” in Architectural Japan, ed.
Japan Times and Mail (Tokyo, 1936), p. 13.
11. Suzuki Hiroyuki and Yamaguchi Hiroshi, Kindai, gendai kenchiku shi (Shin
kenchiku gaku taikei 5) (Tokyo: Shpkokusha, 1993), pp. 244–245; Nihon
Kenchiku Gakkai, ed., Kindai Nihon kenchikugaku hattatsu shi (Tokyo: Maruzen
Kabushiki Gaisha, 1972), pp. 676–677.
12. For the early history of these firms see Kikuoka Tomoya, Kensetsugyp o okoshita
hitobito (Tokyo: Shpkokusha, 1993). The quotation from Takenaka is on p. 79.
For a contemporary account of these firms in English, see Sidney M. Levy,
Japan’s Big Six: Inside Japan’s Construction Industry (New York: McGraw Hill,
1993). The sixth of Levy’s “Big Six” is Kumagai-gumi; the other five have been
collectively grouped in this manner since at least since the 1960s, so I’ve
privileged the more historic and better-known “Big Five” in my own account.
204 G  C 

13. Kikuoka; Muramatsu Teijirp, “History of the Building Design Dept. of Takenaka
Kpmuten” in Takenaka Komuten Sekkeibu, ed. Building Design Dept. of
Takenaka Kpmuten (Tokyo: Shinkenchiku-sha, 1987); idem., “The Japanese
Construction Industry IV,” The Japan Architect, January–February 1968 (318):
139–146; Takenaka Kpmuten Shichijunenshi Hensan Iinkai, ed., Takenaka
Kpmuten shichijunen-shi (Tokyo: Takenaka Kpmuten, 1969).
14. Muramatsu believes that Takenaka’s coining of the new word Kpmuten as its
name for “firm” or “company” around 1909 sought to express the sense of a
“design-build” entity (Muramatsu, “History of the Building Design Dept.” p. 35).
15. Nihon Kenchiku Gakkai, Kindai Nihon kenchikugaku hattatsu shi, pp. 1939–1940;
Muramatsu, “The Japanese Construction Industry IV,” pp. 144–145.
16. Ibid.; Hazama notes that many Meiji-period “capitalist” firms, and not just
the construction companies, made use of existing artisanal structures through
subcontracting. There was also an appropriation of the term (and some aspects of
the role) of oyakata (master) in new factory-based industries, as they made the tran-
sition toward foremen and wage-workers. Hazama Hiroshi, The History of Labor
Management in Japan (London: Macmillan, 1997), especially chapters 2 and 3.
17. David B. Stewart. The Making of a Modern Japanese Architecture (Tokyo, New York:
Kodansha, 1987), p. 31; Hatsuda, Shokunin tachi no seiyp kenchiku, pp. 206–208.
18. Kajima Iwakichi, one of the Yokohama daiku who founded a major contracting
firm, did so much work for the railroad bureau that he was nick-named “Tetsudp
(Railroad) Kajima” (Kikuoka, “History of the Building Design Dept.,” p. 35).
19. Ibid.
20. Endp Akihisa, Hokkaido jutaku shi wa (Tokyo: Sumai no Toshokan Shuppan
Kyoku, 1994); idem., “Kaitakushi eizenjigyp no kenkyu,” unpublished manu-
script in author’s possession, 1961; Koshino Takeshi, Hokkaidp ni okeru shoki ypfu
kenchiku no kenkyu (Sapporo: Hokkaido Daigaku Tosho Kankakai, 1993). For
an overview of the use of American experts in the colonization of Hokkaido
see Fujita Fumiko, Hokkaidp o kaitakushi Amerikajin (Tokyo: Shinchpsha, 1993).
21. Cherie Wendelken, “The Tectonics of Japanese Style: Architect and Carpenter in
the Late Meiji Period” in Art Journal Fall, 1996, 55 (3): 28–37.
22. There is a relatively large and growing literature, in English as well as Japanese,
about the phenomenon of wayp setchu much of it illustrated with photographs
and floorplans. The discussion below draws particularly on Fujimori Terunobu,
Nihon kindai kenchiku shi, Vol. I; Suzuki Hiroyuki and Hatsuda Tpru, Zumen de
miru: Toshi kenchiku no Meiji (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobp, 1990); Hatsuda,
Shokunintachi no seiyp kenchiku; Muramatsu, Nihon kindai kenchiku no rekishi,
Chapters 1 and 2; Uchida Seizp, Nippon no kindai jutaku (Tokyo: Kashima
Shuppankai, 1992), Chapter 1; Stewart, The Making of a Modern Japanese
Architecture; and Dallas Finn, Meiji Revisited (New York: Weatherhill, 1995).
The term “wayp,” combining the characters for Japanese and Western, was com-
mon in the Japanese architectural world by the late Meiji period, judging from
the number of style books that incorporate it into their titles. I use the term here
in preference to a common synonym, gi-ypfu (imitation Western-style), which
denigrates daiku efforts as derivative.
23. Gregory Clancey, Meiji Gakuin senkypshi-kan (Imbry-kan) no kpzp: Kenchiku
chpsa hpkoku (Tokyo: Meiji Gakuin, 1996).
24. Endp, “Kaitakushi.”
25. A literature which symmetrically considers “wa” and “yp” in the work of Meiji
period daiku awaits production. One step in that direction, however, is a master’s
 M  C 205

thesis by Yoshimoto Makiko, “Echigo maze daiku,” unpublished M.A. thesis,

Architecture, Hokkaido University, 1994, which follows Meiji-period daiku from
Niigata prefecture as they move back and forth from Hokkaido to Niigata to
Tokyo constructing ypkan (Western-style buildings) and traditional temples and
shrines. A privately published history of a daiku family in Gifu prefecture, Waza
takumi hito Sakashita jinkichi (Takayama, 1994) by Sakashita Yukari, discusses
and illustrates the full corpus of their work from Edo to early Showa, demon-
strating their movement from “wa” to “yp” depending on the commission.
26. In applying the linguistic concept of “pidgin” to the world of artifacts, I follow
the discussion in Peter Galison, Image and Logic (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1997), pp. 48–51, 831–837.
27. For a nuanced discussion of collecting see James Clifford, The Predicament of
Culture: Twentieth Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988).
28. A group of architectural history graduate students at Waseda University, orga-
nized by Nakatani Norihito in the mid-1990s, was the first to systematically read
and analyze kikujutsu-sho and daiku literature more generally. Their results were
reported in Nakatani Norihito, “Bakumatsu, Meiji ki kikujutsu no tenkei katei no
kenkyu,” unpublished Ph.D. diss., Waseda University, Tokyo, March 1998,
and Kurakata Shunsuke, “Meijiki kikujutsu no keishi tankai,” unpublished M.A.
thesis, Waseda University, Tokyo, 1994.
29. Nakatani, “Bakumatsu.”
30. Ibid.
31. Muramatsu, Nihon kindai kenchiku gijutsu shi, p. 74.
32. For the construction of The Ginza see Muramatsu, Nihon kindai kenchiku no
rekishi (Tokyo: Nihon Hpso Shuppan Kypkai, 1977), Chapter 3; Fujimori
Terunobu, Meiji no Tpkyp keikaku (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1982), Chapter 1;
and idem., Nihon no kindai kenchiku (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1993), Vol. 1,
Chapters 1 and 3; Stewart, Chapter 1; and Finn, Chapter 2.
33. Quoted in Muramatsu, “Mokuzp no kindaika,” in Nihon Kenchiku Gakkai, p. 8.
34. For the Meiji debate over earthquakes and their effect on architecture and
modern change, see Gregory Clancey, “Foreign Knowledge: Cultures of Western
Science-Making in Meiji Japan,” Historia Scientiarum March 2002, 11 (3):
245–260.
35. Muramatsu, “Nihon kenchiku gijutsu shi,” p. 100.
36. This section summarizes arguments I make at greater length in Gregory Clancey,
“Foreign Knowledge: Architecture, Seismology, Carpentry, Japan, and The
West,” unpublished Ph.D. diss., MIT, Cambridge, Mass., 1998, especially
Chapter 1.
37. Ibid.
38. Ibid.
39. Ibid.
40. Clancey, “Foreign Knowledge”; Wendelken, “The Tectonics of Japanese Style.”
41. Wendelken, “The Tectonics of Japanese Style,” pp. 28–37.
42. Hatsuda quotes Tatsuno, one of the first Japanese architects to graduate from
university in the 1880s, as saying this in a eulogy to another architect who
entered ministerial service in the same period. “An honest wind blew into the
architectural world,” continued Tatsuno, in describing the transition from state
daiku to state architects. Japanese architects, like their British and American
counterparts, viewed the world of building artisans as essentially corrupt.
206 G  C 

43. Ibid.
44. Meiji-period secondary education of building artisans and architectural “techni-
cians” is dealt with at length in Shimizu Keiichi, Meiji-ki ni okeru shotp chutp
kenchiku kypiku no shiteki kenkyu, unpublished Ph.D. diss., Nihon University,
1982; and Suzuki and Yamaguchi, Kindai, gendai kenchiku shi, pp. 271–279.
45. Suzuki and Yamaguchi, Kindai, gendai kenchiku shi, p. 271.
46. Shokkp would turn out to be a working-class elite, however, as the schools could
not make real inroads against apprenticeship in the course of the Meiji era. The
graduates came to specialize in government-related work, of which architects
were increasingly in charge (Shimizu, Meiji-ki ni okeru shotp chutp kenchiku kypiku
no shiteki kenkyu, pp. 13–18).
47. Ibid.
48. Suzuki and Yamaguchi, Kindai, gendai kenchiku shi, pp. 277–229.
49. Ibid., pp. 271–279.
50. Shimizu thinks that the “wood-metal” division had been institutionalized in
these schools at least a decade before, in the later 1880s (Shimizu, Meiji-ki ni
okeru shotp chutp kenchiku kypiku no shiteki kenkyu, p. 15).
51. Suzuki and Yamaguchi, Kindai, gendai kenchiku shi, p. 275.
52. Monbushp [Ministry of Education], Futsu mokkp jutsu (Tokyo, 1899).
53. Ibid.
54. Ibid.; According to historian Shimizu Keiichi, a volume entitled How to Use
Woodworking Tools, produced in Boston in 1881 as a textbook by that city’s own
trade school movement, became the direct model for Shokkp kypto kasho, a Japanese
trade school text of 1888 that preceded the Ministry’s official effort.
55. Shimizu, Meiji-ki ni okeru shotp chutp kenchiku kypiku no shiteki kenkyu.
56. For example, one of the most important and popular late Meiji kikujutsu-sho,
Nihon kenchiku kikujutsu-sho (Tokyo, 1905), was written by Saitp Hejiro, who
taught at a Tokyo kpgyp gakkp. Editions continued to be printed and sold into the
1930s. Nakatani, “Bakumatsu,” pp. 85–87.
57. Muramatsu, “The Japanese Construction Industry IV.”
58. This paragraph is based on a series of interviews I conducted with elderly and
middle-aged daiku, including tpryp in Tokyo and Niigata in the mid-1990s.
Yoshizaki Ypharu of Niigata, who ended his apprenticeship around 1952 and was
given a set of hand-tools as a parting gift by his master, first saw an electrical tool
on a worksite around 1955. It was a drill, used to help cut traditional mortise and
tenon joints. A Mr. Narita, also from Niigata, did not use an electrical tool at
a worksite until around 1960.
 

T I   G D:

T J S A,
 –
W. Miles Fletcher III

This chapter examines the impact of the Great Depression on business–state

relations in Japan through a case study of the cotton textile industry. A common
perception holds that the challenges of the Great Depression ushered in the
era of state control of the Japanese economy. The experience of the cotton-
spinning industry, however, suggests a different result. In fact, the challenges
that executives overcame in the late 1920s and early 1930s bolstered their
confidence in the efficacy of industrial self-governance and strengthened their
conviction in the need for autonomy from the state. The most vexing issue
became overseas trade barriers, a problem that first appeared in the 1920s.
In many ways, this analysis echoes themes raised in the previous three
chapters by David Wittner, Martha Chaiklin, and Gregory Clancey. Just as
Japanese in the late nineteenth century faced the abruptly imposed challenge
of competing with Western imports and adjusting to Western industrial tech-
nology, spinning firms in the early 1930s had to confront a second set of foreign
crises beyond their control in the form of both worldwide depression and the
rise of trade barriers in crucial markets. If the Meiji government’s economic
policies in attempting to foster the silk and plate glass sectors had flaws, officials
in the interwar period did little better in aiding the spinning industry. In fact,
in the eyes of business leaders, the government’s economic policies seemed
often to do more harm than good. Spinning executives, as they had done
before, took matters into their own hands and devised strategies for simulta-
neously regulating and expanding production with the aim of encouraging
firms to modernize their equipment. The success of the spinning industry
helps explain Japan’s quick recovery from the Great Depression and its
impressive expansion of exports and foreign trade by the mid-1930s.
The standard view of Japan’s response to the Great Depression is that the
collapse of the New York stock market in late 1929 coupled with the stringent
fiscal policies of Finance Minister Inoue Junnosuke and the return to the gold
standard in January 1930 dealt a devastating blow to the Japanese economy.
208 W. M  F III

It remained in a quagmire until a new finance minister, Takahashi Korekiyo,

decided in December 1931 to devalue the yen by abandoning the gold standard
and to embark on a course of deficit spending. Although farmers suffered the
most because of the abrupt loss of the huge American market for raw silk,
the entire economy slowed for two years. As the prominent economic
historian Nakamura Takafusa has argued, “The depression was especially
severe in rural areas, where prices of rice and other agricultural crops fell
30–40 percent . . . These were wretched times in the urban areas as well, as
labourers were laid off and merchants went bankrupt.” “Industries were being
ravaged by the recession across the board.”1
Feeling acute pressure to respond, the government proposed and the
Diet passed the Important Industries Control Law (IICL) in 1931 to pro-
mote the creation of cartels in vital sectors. Some observers contend that this
experimentation with self-regulated cartels soon led to more heavy-handed
controls,2 while others attribute a more direct role to the Great Depression in
the rise of the “managed economy” in Japan. Asserting that “crisis is the
father of policy innovation,” one scholar argues: “when the Great Depression
occurred in the West, its influence, together with Inoue [Junnosuke]’s
deflationary policy, drove Japan into the Shpwa crisis.” In response to this
trauma, the first stage of the development of a state-directed managed econ-
omy began in Japan as “a major departure from liberal capitalism,” which
had marked the Japanese economy beforehand.3 It is tempting to discern a
straight line from the IICL to economic controls enacted later in the decade
for the purposes of war mobilization.
Yet, the Great Depression may have had a more complicated impact on
Japan. As Nakamura himself points out, the effects of the Great Depression
remain difficult to assess with precision. No accurate figures on unemployment
exist, and “there were relatively few people without any work whatsoever.”
Moreover, “this recession was characterized not by a decline in production but
rather by major price collapses and deficit-running operations in virtually all
industries.”4 The nominal drop in the GNP, value of exports, and other eco-
nomic indicators was striking,5 but nominal figures did not tell the whole story.
Although the nominal GNP declined by 10 percent in 1930 and 9 percent in
1931, the real GNP, a measure that takes deflation into account, actually
inched upward by 1.1 percent and 0.4 percent respectively.6 In the domestic
context, the downturn in some ways proved less severe than that experienced
in the recession that followed World War I. One of the foremost scholars of the
depression era notes that the 36 percent slide in wholesale prices in Japan from
1929 to 1931 did not match the precipitous drop of 41 percent from March
1920 to April 1921.7 Moreover, as Hara Akira observes, the “bottom of the
period of the Great Depression came earliest in Japan, in 1930.”8 In these
ways, the effects of the Great Depression in Japan differed significantly from
the experience of the United States and European nations. The variety of terms
that scholars use to refer to the period from 1929 to 1932 in Japan—the Shpwa
slump, the Shpwa crisis, recession, and depression—reflect an uncertainty
about the exact nature of what happened at that time.
 T J S A 209

To begin to clarify the impact of the Great Depression in Japan, this study
examines the experience of one sector in that era, the cotton-spinning indus-
try. It merits attention for several reasons. It became the first large-scale
mechanized industry in Japan and the first industrial sector to become inter-
nationally competitive. In the 1920s, cotton textiles trailed only raw silk as
the nation’s leading export sector, and it accounted for roughly 16 percent of
Japan’s industrial production.9 In brief, this study will argue that the Great
Depression dealt a sharp but fleeting blow to this industry and in the process
reinforced trends that were well under way. In fact, the sector was recovering
before Takahashi had a chance to implement his bold fiscal and currency poli-
cies. The practices of this sector and its main trade association, the Japan
Spinners Association (Dai Nihon Bpseki Rengpkai, abbreviated Bpren), did
change in noticeable ways, but not in fundamental ones. Rather than mark a
transition to a state-directed managed economy, this period instead reaf-
firmed the long-standing tradition within the cotton-spinning sector of self-
governance. The main challenges facing Bpren derived from developments
that predated the Great Depression: trade barriers in major markets, such as
China and India, and competition from factories in China.

A   N E

A brief survey of trends in the 1920s will help set the context for understand-
ing the experience of the Japanese cotton spinning industry during the Great
Depression by examining the growing challenge of trade barriers in vital
markets, the role of Bpren, and its strategies for dealing with economic crises.
The first seven years saw cotton-spinning companies confront rapidly chang-
ing circumstances on many fronts. In the previous decade, World War I had
brought an unprecedented boom to the entire economy, as export markets in
Asia, suddenly vacated by Western firms, opened up. The price of cotton yarn
soared, as did profits. By 1918, the most successful spinning firms paid divi-
dends of over 50 percent. A sharp postwar recession that began in May 1920
and lasted for over a year ushered in a period of much slower growth and
lower profitability. The price of yarn became volatile. For example, in 1925 it
ranged from 378 yen per bale to 274 yen.10 The average dividend rate for spin-
ning companies in the first half of that year fell to 16.9 percent from 21.1 per-
cent in the first half of 1923 and 48.8 percent in the first half of 1920.11
Developments at home and abroad also complicated future prospects for
the industry. In late 1923, the Diet passed a revised version of the 1911
Factory Law that moved up the established deadline for abolishing night
shifts from 1931 to 1926. Because spinning mills customarily operated
two ten-hour shifts for 28 days per month, the end of night work posed a
major problem. So did the rise of nationalism in China, which absorbed
40 percent of Japan’s cotton textile exports. In 1918, the Japanese govern-
ment had acquiesced to a rise in China’s import tariff, and in 1925
the multinational Beijing Tariff Conference considered the issue of granting
tariff autonomy. In response, the spinners rapidly expanded production in
210 W. M  F III

China during the 1920s in order to avoid the tariff, and they searched for
new markets.
The view of Terada Tatsumi of the Fuji Gasu Spinning Company reflected
the confidence of his peers in meeting these challenges. He knew that
Japanese industry had to depend upon exports and processing raw materials
from abroad. Industry had to “take the margin between raw materials and
manufactured goods,” and “this margin eventually is selling knowledge and
labor.” From this perspective, the cotton-spinning sector served as a prime
example, because it had to import raw cotton from abroad—mostly from
India and the United States—and export in order to pay for the raw materi-
als. Japan had an advantage, because its work force was as skilled as those in
Western nations but much less expensive. Through the use of technology, it
could compete even in “high level” goods. The markets supplied by the
British cotton textile sector, which boasted a staggering 60 million spindles,
presented an inviting target. “If [the Japanese cotton industry] challenges
British goods, the markets might be almost limitless.”12
Yet, by the mid-1920s voices of concern about Japanese exports arose in
the most promising of those options, India. Indian spinners complained about
unfair competition in the form of the continuing practice of night shifts, credit
allegedly granted to Japanese firms from the government, and official subsi-
dies to Japanese shipping companies. A movement arose to demand higher
tariffs on imported cotton goods. While Japanese diplomats in India worked
quietly against this campaign, the Japan Spinners Association sent appeals to
the Indian government and private business organizations refuting the accu-
sations of unfair competition. When the Indian government in 1927 doubled
the duty on thick and medium yarn under 40-count, Japanese exports dropped
sharply but picked up in cotton cloth. By 1929–1930, the Japanese share
of the Indian cloth market had doubled, from 14 percent in 1926–1927 to
30 percent.13
In China, political instability made the situation for Japanese firms and
trade even more volatile. The Beijing Tariff negotiations broke down in
1926. The turmoil engendered by the conclusion of Chiang Kai-shek’s
Northern Expedition in early 1927 and his creation of the Nationalist
Government in Nanjing prompted executives of Japanese spinning
companies to appeal for government protection of their factories in
Shanghai and other coastal cities.14 Japanese forces did, in fact, intervene
twice in 1927 and 1928. When anti-Japanese boycotts flared, Japanese
exports suffered.
The need to eliminate night shifts created a huge problem. Since the
1890s, Japanese spinning mills had gained an advantage in overseas markets
by running factories virtually around the clock to achieve a high rate of pro-
ductivity per spindle. In late 1923, the devastation caused by the Kanto
earthquake near Tokyo, which destroyed or damaged 20 percent of the
cotton-spinning sector’s total capacity, had resulted in a delay of the legis-
lated end of night shifts from 1926 to June 30, 1929.15 Outside pressures,
however, guaranteed that the spinners would have to change their ways.
 T J S A 211

Indian business leaders and officials, in particular, stepped up their criticism

of Japanese firms for violating the regulations of the recently formed Inter-
national Labor Organization through the practice of night work and cited
the reportedly poor working conditions in Japanese factories as a rationale for
protectionist legislation.16 Naturally, Japanese firms feared that the elimina-
tion of night shifts would reduce productive capacity and raise the per unit
costs of manufacturing. To counter these trends, companies would have to
undertake rapid expansion.
One distinguishing trait of the cotton-spinning sector remained constant:
the dominant role of its trade association, the Japan Spinners Association.
This group, which began in 1882, encompassed nearly all spinning firms and,
since 1890, had implemented a policy of production cutbacks (spgyp tan-
shuku, abbreviated sptan) to deal with periods of reduced demand. Bpren had
quickly become a major lobby for the industry and by the 1920s had even
taken on a diplomatic role in presenting its case on trade issues to foreign
business groups and officials.
The Japan Spinners Association early on established a practice of reaching
decisions by consensus and relying on sptan as the main method to adjust sup-
ply and demand. Annually the membership elected a governing Committee of
12 representatives from different firms. Because of a concern about the domi-
nance of a small number of large firms, in 1923 an informal group, the
Gosankai, began to represent the concerns of small companies. Afterward, two
or three members from small enterprises regularly won spots on the Committee.
It had the authority to draft appeals to the government or other interested par-
ties and to create proposals for curtailments of production, but such measures
could not take effect until approved by at least 90 percent of the membership.
Members believed in sptan as effective ways to enable firms to survive slumps in
the market with productive capacity intact and ready to seize the next opportu-
nity. The last cutback had occurred from May 1920 to December 1921.

T P  

As if coping with international trade friction in major markets and the elimi-
nation of night work were not enough, Bpren had to confront a major finan-
cial panic that hit the Japanese economy in 1927. As is well known, this crisis
started with the collapse of several banks and the Suzuki Trading Company
in March. The Diet’s inability to pass a law to enable the Bank of Japan to
issue bonds to the troubled banks made them more vulnerable. After a run
on banks began, they declared a two-day holiday, and the Bank of Japan was
finally able to step into the breach.
In April, the financial situation prompted Bpren and various cotton mer-
chant associations to agree on a three- to four-week moratorium on pay-
ments for goods.17 Declining sales of cotton yarn and anxiety about the
general economic situation led the Japan Spinners Association to declare a
six-month curtailment of production in April.18 The sptan stipulated that
each company take four holidays per month—an increase of two holidays for
212 W. M  F III

most firms—and seal 15 percent of its spindles. After protests from two small
firms that used much of their production of yarn for manufacturing their
own cloth, the committee considered moderating the curtailment for such
firms. In the end, the committee required these firms to seal just 8 percent of
their spindles. As Nishikawa Hiroshi has pointed out, the sptan affected small
firms the most, because of the guideline of four holidays per month. While
many larger firms already gave workers four holidays per month, small mills
tended to grant only two days.19 The head of the Japan Spinners Association,
Abe Fusajirp, justified the action in terms of responding to the moratorium:
rather than taking the “reckless act” of shutting down factories for three
weeks or so, members should spread the decline in production over six
months.20
If this action received only scattered criticism, the issue of extending and
expanding the sptan spurred controversy both within Bpren and outside of
the group. The Committee first recommended extending the curtailment in
July.21 On September 20, the Gosankai, which represented smaller firms,
called for a deeper cut in production, because they were caught in a squeeze
between the falling price of yarn and the rising cost of raw cotton. Large
firms that hoarded large stocks of cotton previously bought at cheap prices
could still earn a profit of 15–20 yen on each bale, but smaller firms, which
had to purchase cotton on the spot market, were losing 20 yen per bale. The
views of large companies split on the proposal. Taniguchi Fusazp of Osaka
Gpdp Spinning viewed further cuts in output as a justified act of “self-defense”
when firms could not make a profit. Abe, who served as the president of the
Tpypbp company as well as the director of the Spinners Association, opposed
expansion of the sptan. He argued that the stagnation in the cotton industry
was “worldwide” and that “there [were] fears that preventing exports further
by raising the market price [of cotton textiles] in a time of slow exports would
bring many large disadvantages to future development abroad.” Probably
referring to the public outcry over the rapid escalation of the price of rice as
well as cotton goods in the late 1910s, he warned against additional mandated
reductions in output “from the viewpoint of social policy.”22
Meanwhile, other complaints emerged. At a meeting of the Gosankai on
October 5, some companies opposed a sptan because it would raise costs, ham-
per exports, and deflect attention away from the imperatives of creating new
markets and improving productivity.23 In addition, one outspoken leader in the
Kantp area, Miyajima Seijirp of Nisshin Spinning, raised a difficult issue by
demanding that Japanese firms in Shanghai, the location for most Japanese
textile mills in China (the so-called zaikabp), enact a sptan. Otherwise, domes-
tic firms without factories in China would lose more of their market there.24
The firms with factories in Shanghai countered that cutting output would only
let Chinese competitors “run off with the prize.” Instead of slashing output,
domestic Japanese mills should shift production to finer yarns.25 A squabble
also arose over the idea of exempting yarn that Bpren’s members themselves
used to make cloth, as this measure obviously favored those with more extensive
weaving operations.26
 T J S A 213

Outside of the association, enterprises involved with the export of cotton

cloth and with the production of knitted goods protested the use of cutbacks
to maintain a high price for cotton yarn. This type of criticism from other
business groups represented a new development. In the past, some groups,
such as associations of yarn traders, had pressured Bpren to enact cutbacks,
but few had voiced discontent with such measures.27 Producers of knitted
goods now urged at the very least an exemption for yarn made into exports
and, more radically, an end to the domestic tariff on imported yarn. In other
words, they wanted to subject domestic spinners to outside competition,
especially from Chinese factories.28
In response to this outside opposition and the lack of internal consensus,
Bpren took the unusual step of appointing a special committee of repre-
sentatives from 11 companies to carry out a snap study of the supply and
demand for cotton yarn and cloth and to set the curtailment rate. This group
promptly reported that stocks of cotton yarn remained at a level triple that of
normal years and estimated that soon the surplus would grow to 5,000 bales
per month. Therefore, the association would have to enact an increase in the
curtailment rate in order to stabilize prices.29
By the end of October, the Spinners Association had settled on an increase
of 8 percent for the sptan with some special provisions that slashed the actual
increase to 5.2 percent.30 The total nominal rate would be 23 percent plus
four holidays. The smallest enterprises with less than 30,000 spindles gained
an exemption from the additional cutback as did the one member, Hattori
Shpten, which used all of its yarn to produce its own cloth. The yarn that
other members devoted to “private use” to weave cloth received a reduction
of only 4 percent. Such measures reflected the long tradition of compromise
within the association to achieve unanimity on, or at least acceptance of, the
enactment of a curtailment. Two new provisions, however, stood out. First,
an exemption for companies that eliminated night shifts provided a direct
incentive to prepare for their legislated termination within two years. Second,
the doubling of the curtailment rate of 8 percent for new spindles installed
after November 1 indicated a major potential difficulty in the spinners’ cur-
tailment policies.31 While various problems at home and abroad dampened
sales of cotton yarn and cloth, the spinners had continued to add productive
capacity at a brisk pace in order to prepare for the end of night work in 1929.
Bpren’s curtailments had always had the feature—perhaps distinct among
cartel arrangements anywhere and often quite puzzling to outside observers—
of never limiting the expansion of manufacturing equipment. Now, the
nation’s economic difficulties made the contradiction in this approach—that
increases in capacity threatened to undermine attempts to restrain output—
particularly obvious.
The curtailment, which the Spinners Association renewed every six
months for the next two years, helped the spinning industry adapt to the
challenge of ending night work. Continuing to offer an exemption from part
of the cutback to firms that effected the change early provided an incentive to
make the switch. Perhaps even more importantly, the cut in production
214 W. M  F III

helped to prevent firms that were striving to increase both manufacturing

capacity and productivity from flooding the market and driving prices below
the cost of production. The number of installed spindles increased by
764,000 (13.6 percent) between April 1927 and April 1929.32 Moreover,
executives took modest measures to increase productivity. The installation of
small electric motors to drive spindles allowed the “separate operation of
spinning machines” so that workers could fix broken threads by stopping just
one piece of equipment instead of an entire section. Improving the selection
of raw cotton and the increased use of high quality American cotton along
with a move toward the production of higher counts of yarn meant less
breakage and a faster speed for spindles. The number of women workers per
1,000 spindles dropped by 20 percent, and their total number by 11.7 percent.
Overall, the costs for manufacturing 20-count yarn, the benchmark for the
industry, fell by one-fifth, from 50 yen per bale to 40 yen between 1926 and
1929. Yet, the curtailments restrained output enough so that stocks of
unsold yarn fell by about two-thirds between December 1927 and December
1928 and remained low.33
In his remarks to the annual conference of the Spinners Association in
April 1929, Abe Fusajirp sounded cautiously optimistic. He observed that
while the global cotton industry had been “inactive” for the past year, the
Japanese sector had suffered less than some others because of the adroit
adjustment of supply and demand through the sptan. Citing the imminent
end of night work, he described the current situation as a “time of change”
and “one revolution in the spinning industry.”34
Companies’ results in the second half of 1929 presented little overt cause
for concern.35 Out of 52 firms that reported results, 42 paid dividends while
another five registered profits but did not pay dividends. Two had gains for
the period but carried over larger losses from the first half of the year. Only
three companies had losses for both the second half and the entire year.
Larger firms rewarded investors with the highest dividends as Kanebp paid
out 35 percent and Fukushima Spinning 30 percent. Twenty-eight companies
paid a dividend of 10 percent or less.
The economic strains of the late 1920s accentuated several problems that
had been brewing for a while. One was the increase in new spinning firms
that did not belong to Bpren, which together operated about 5 percent of
the total spindles in the industry. This trend obviously threatened to under-
mine the effectiveness of production cutbacks, which had become continuous
after the autumn of 1927. To Bpren’s leaders, these outsiders also presented
an unwelcome precedent for small firms in the association by “prov[ing] on
the contrary the disadvantages of membership and inducing current mem-
bers to leave.” Observers agreed that the rebate that Bpren offered on the
shipment of raw cotton from India to Japan, a bargain that had existed since
1893, kept the loyalty of many members. Unfortunately for the Spinners
Association, some of the mavericks used mainly American cotton, and initial
negotiations persuaded only one of five such companies to join. In response,
the association struggled to find a way to apply pressure to the recalcitrant
 T J S A 215

firms. They did not acquiesce until April 1930, after Bpren convinced six
associations of cotton cloth and yarn merchants not to purchase cotton
products from the renegades.36
The growth of the cotton-spinning industry in China, including Japanese
companies, posed another challenge. Initially in the late 1920s, the spinners
worried most about protecting their new factories in Shanghai and Qingtao
against nationalistic protests by the Chinese and the confusion engendered
by the Northern Expedition of the Nationalist Party as it unified China. As
the situation calmed down, executives realized that the expansion of produc-
tion in China would have effects beyond slashing exports of cotton yarn to
that market. The lack of protective legislation and cheap wages gave mills
there at least a 20 percent advantage in the cost of production over factories
in Japan. Chinese yarn could threaten even the domestic market. By the start
of 1928, Abe Fusajirp, as director of Bpren, asserted that because the world-
wide recession had caused increased efficiency everywhere, the production of
thick yarn and rough cloth should logically focus on the zaikabp, while
domestic mills switched to finer yarn.37
In 1929, the government formed a special Council on Tariffs to consider
changes in the levies on various products. As mentioned previously, certain
sectors of the weaving industry, which was dominated by small enterprises,
vocally advocated an end to the tariff on imported cotton yarn. The knitted
goods sector, for example, had campaigned for such a revision since the mid-
1920s. An internal report by Bpren clearly reflected the spinners’ fears regard-
ing such a measure. This study emphasized Japan’s comparatively low tariff
rates on cotton yarn and the modest profitability of spinning firms, whose
average dividend rate had dropped to 7.9 percent. Without a tariff, cheap
Chinese cotton yarn would “eat away at (mushibamu) every domestic market
and endanger the base of the nation’s industry” while impeding the reform of
labor conditions and causing unemployment. Moreover, the benefits to
weavers might prove transitory, as greater dependence on imports could make
yarn prices more subject to conditions abroad and thus more volatile.38 In a
formal statement to Hamaguchi Osachi, the head of the Tariff Council, Bpren
argued that the current tariff “protects fairness in trade” against the “great
threat” of a Chinese industry whose plant exceeded one-half of Japan’s pro-
ductive capacity and which was unfettered by labor legislation.39
While making this case, the spinners showed little awareness of their own his-
tory and no sense of irony. After all, they were encountering in India similar
complaints about “unfair” Japanese competition. The members of Bpren saw
nothing wrong with Indian companies and consumers becoming dependent on
Japanese imports. Nor evidently did the spinners recall that some 40 years ear-
lier they had waged a fierce political campaign to overcome domestic agricul-
tural opposition to ending the tariff on raw cotton in order to lower their own
manufacturing costs. Obviously, a concern for survival overrode any thoughts
about maintaining consistent principles in regard to foreign trade. Some of the
more thoughtful executives must have wondered how long artificial barriers,
such as tariffs, could keep competition from lower-cost producers in check.
216 W. M  F III

In the early fall of 1929 the leaders of the Japan Spinners Association
could look back with pride on their use of sptan to handle smoothly the twin
tasks of adjusting to the financial panic of 1927 and abolishing night shifts on
schedule. Bpren also succeeded in maintaining its control of the industry by
corralling pesky outsiders. Productive capacity had grown significantly, while
prices had stayed sufficiently robust to prompt an end to curtailments in July.
Issues related to foreign trade in the form of increased tariffs in India and the
movement at home to eliminate tariffs on Chinese cotton yarn posed the
most difficult problems. The spinners quickly realized the need to diversify
markets and places of production. Although executives had some concerns
about the Minseitp cabinet’s decision to return Japan to the gold standard in
January 1930, they accepted the move and prepared to adjust to it.

T G D H

The sudden drop in the American stock market in October 1929 initially
caused few worries. As Finance Minister Inoue Junnosuke held fast to the
goal of instituting the gold standard, firms trimmed their purchases of raw
cotton in order to take advantage of the expected higher exchange rate for
the yen and the lower price for imported cotton in the new year. Confidence
in the market for cotton goods as “daily necessities” remained strong.40
By the end of the year, however, concerns had deepened because of
the continuing rise in output and stagnating demand. The executive board
(kanjikai) of the Gosankai recommended a cut in production of 10 percent.
A special committee appointed by the Spinners Association reported in
January that the last quarter of 1929 had witnessed a spike in stocks of unsold
yarn and cloth, the equivalent of 58,000 bales of yarn. Companies’ increased
capacity would likely lead to higher monthly production while China’s huge
market for imports would contract because its silver-based currency would
lose value to the gold-based yen. Bpren had to limit production once again.41
The idea of a sptan provoked a round of especially virulent protests from
other textile groups. In December 1929, the Osaka Export Knitted Goods
Industrial Association accused the spinners of refusing to “recognize the suf-
fering of cotton textile manufacturers who are in sister industries.” Raising
the price of yarn for cotton textiles, “which are a necessity, would threaten
the life of the people” and hinder exports. In January, a meeting of cotton
yarn and textile groups, which included five associations of weavers, warned
against a sptan and advocated an end to the tariff on imported yarn. They
pointed out that by eliminating foreign competition the tariff made produc-
tion cutbacks possible. They lamented that Bpren as just one organization of
business leaders could make decisions about the price of cotton yarn that
“hinders the stability of the people’s life, invites the unemployment of textile
and spinning workers, and prevents the expansion of the national economy.”
They called for laws to prevent this type of “rash act,” the election of Diet
members who would remove the tariff on yarn, and the formation of a new
“alliance of cotton textile enterprises.”42
 T J S A 217

In January, the determination of the Spinners Association to enact a sptan

for six months prompted an unexpected and unwelcome intrusion from
government officials. While an ad hoc committee discussed the specific pro-
visions of a curtailment, a sudden visit by the head of the Factory Section of
the Osaka municipal government shocked executives, especially because
he delivered an informal but clear threat to retract a one-hour extension of
the workday for spinning mills permitted by the Factory Law. The head
of the Social Bureau of the national Ministry of Home Affairs, which admin-
istered the Factory Law, then publicly urged the spinners to mandate holi-
days rather than sealing a percentage of spindles in order to minimize
unemployment and to advance a policy of one holiday per week in accor-
dance with the standards of the International Labor Organization (ILO).43
The spinners responded by proposing an idling of 10 percent of spindles plus
two extra holidays (for a total of four holidays per month). A company, how-
ever, could substitute an idling of 3.6 percent of spindles per holiday.44 The
Ministry of Home Affairs then approved the retention of the one-hour exten-
sion of the workday only for firms that opted for four holidays per month.45
The Osaka Federation of Social Enterprises (Osaka Shakai Jigyp Renmei)
complained to both Bpren and the Ministry of Home Affairs about the
“unease” that possible unemployment would cause. Nishio Suehiro, a labor
leader, lambasted the spinning companies for implementing a sptan while
some earned dividends of 20 or 30 percent.46
The first-half of 1930, however, turned out to be bracing for even the
strongest of the spinning firms. Out of 51, only 21 paid dividends and nine
registered profits while paying no dividends. Thirteen reported overall losses,
and seven experienced losses for the six-month period that were covered
by reserves. Kanebp and Fukushima Spinning led the pack with dividends of
28 and 25 percent respectively, but only eight firms paid 10 percent or
higher.47 Describing the year as one of “relatively many troubles,” Abe
Fusajirp gave a gloomy assessment to Bpren’s members at the annual meet-
ing in April. Aside from the impact of the return to the gold standard and the
retrenchment in the government’s domestic budget, the Council on Tariffs
had, despite the spinners’ protests, reduced the tariff on imported yarn by
35 percent. The Indian government was considering yet another raise in its
tariff on cotton goods. Abe wondered whether the future would see the tex-
tile sector “enter a period of depression beyond today.” Abe ended with a
plea for “cooperation, unity, and strenuous effort.”48
The new Indian tariff particularly irked the spinners. It not only raised the
duty on all cotton goods from 11 to 15 percent, but also added another
5 percent to non-British imports plus another charge on unbleached cloth by
weight. The total levy for exports of Japanese unbleached cloth would now
range between 20 and 38 percent. Bpren’s appeal to the Indian and British
governments pointed out that this “discriminatory” and “prohibitive” tariff
aimed not at protecting Indian spinners but at preserving the market share of
British rivals. In addition, the contraction of Japan’s total trade with India,
which had doubled over the past 15 years, would hurt Indian consumers.49
218 W. M  F III

After executives consulted with officials at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,

Ambassador Matsudaira Tsuneo in London lodged vigorous protests.
Concerned that the new tariff clearly “violated the spirit of international
cooperationism” and constituted “one big threat to world peace,” Bpren
worked with other associations to organize a large meeting of 600 executives
in Osaka. It sent a telegram to officials in Japan, England, and India criti-
cizing the proposed tariff as contradicting the spirit of the Japan–India
Commercial Treaty and as hurting the interests of Japan as the largest consumer
of Indian cotton.50
The spinners feared the spread of “the principle of special privilege”
throughout the British Empire. Abe wrote that Japanese industrialists would
have to cope with this situation, just as a decade earlier they had begun to
invest in China and to upgrade their yarn exports in response to a higher tar-
iff there. This time, companies would have to switch from unbleached to
processed cloth. This strategy would bring them into direct competition with
English mills. “Originally, we wanted an international division of labor.
Having fallen into this situation, whether we like it or not, we cannot help
waging hand-to-hand combat with the manufactured goods of Manchester.”
Observing that tariff wars were breaking out everywhere, Abe was ready to
lead the charge by exhorting his troops to “advance with still more
courage.”51 In keeping with Abe’s declaration that “the development of new
markets is an urgent problem for the future of our spinning industry,” the
Spinners Association and cotton merchant associations agreed to sponsor
major trade missions to Russia and Africa.52
By May, the issue of expanding the sptan had emerged once more. In what
was becoming a set pattern of decisionmaking, the Gosankai first recom-
mended a further reduction of output by 5 percent. Pointing to a drop of
over 50 percent in profits for the industry, Abe predicted an “unprecedented
period of difficulty” marked by the closing of factories, “voluntary cutbacks,”
and lower wages. Making Japanese goods cheaper, he contended, would
not help in such a poor market. In early June, the association settled on an
increase of 10 percent of idled spindles for a total reduction of 27.2 percent
(a 20 percent idling of spindles plus two extra holidays).53
Once again, the measure engendered considerable controversy. The
Ministry of Home Affairs continued to argue for increasing the number of
holidays as opposed to idling spindles both as a means of minimizing unem-
ployment and of improving working conditions. Sotomi Tetsujirp, the head
of the Japan Knitted Goods Export Association, blasted the spinners for con-
tinuing to exempt themselves from the laws of the marketplace. As he put it,
“making profits and having losses is typical of commerce in the world.” Only
the spinners expected different treatment. Instead, he argued, weak firms
should be allowed to fail and within a year or so cheaper goods would bring
a recovery and an expansion of markets.54
The woes of the industry continued. The drop of the price of 20-count
below 100 yen per bale for the first time since 1915 moved Abe to declare “a
completely unprecedented depression.” One of the perennial top performers,
 T J S A 219

Kishiwada Spinning, implemented single shift operations at its main factory

for the first time since 1900 while maintaining a policy of avoiding layoffs. As
an alternative, other companies increased the number of holidays to as many
as eight per month.55 A number of firms reduced wages. Kishiwada cut the
pay for employees by 20–30 percent and Nisshin Spinning by 8 percent.
Kanebp’s proposal in April to slash wages by 23 percent sparked strikes at
3 of its 36 mills.56
As firms’ losses continued because of the depressed price for yarn, a proposal
to increase the sptan arose yet again. On August 20, the Gosankai suggested
an increase of 8 percent to bring the total rate to 35.2 percent in order to
limit total production to 190,000 bales per month.57 Critics, such as Sotomi
of the Knitted Goods Export Association, warned against hiking prices
as competition in international markets heated up. In September, Bpren
enacted a curtailment of 34.4 percent by adding two holidays per month.58
Companies’ balance sheets indicated that the second half of the year was even
worse than the first half. Only 13 firms paid dividends, while 15 others
showed a profit for the six-month period. Twenty-four registered losses.59

R B
Significantly, the spinners did not look to the government for much help in
their crisis. Instead, they relied on tested policies of cutbacks combined with
a continuing emphasis on improving productivity. In the midst of economic
distress in June 1930 Abe somehow found the optimism to announce,
“From my perspective this is the bottom of the market and I do not think it
will worsen.”60 Perhaps stung or worried by criticism from other textile
groups, Bpren in July organized a meeting with representatives from associ-
ations of cloth manufacturers and yarn merchants in order to coordinate
domestic policies. The resulting resolution issued just a vague call for the
government to establish “effective and appropriate policies” to “rescue the
general financial world.” The delegates endorsed stricter self-regulation by
suggesting that the Spinners Association should encourage “each related
organization to establish control of the weaving sector and consider the reg-
ulation of supply and demand.” Finally, all related business groups were to
cooperate in opening new markets and in negotiations pertaining to tariff
negotiations.61
Individual firms’ gains in productivity yielded more concrete results.
Beyond the spread of new techniques adopted in the late 1920s, companies
invested in new equipment, such as “high draft” machinery that could more
rapidly draw yarn through the various stages of spinning cotton yarn. Other
machinery simplified the preparation of cotton fibers for spinning—opening
and cleaning the fibers through a scutcher, disentangling and forming them
into continuous strands (slivers), and drawing them into lightly twisted sliv-
ers (roving). New inventions that accelerated or shortened these processes
could reduce the number of machines necessary to produce cotton yarn by
34 percent and the number of workers by 43 percent. One prominent executive
220 W. M  F III

claimed that he slashed costs for one of his factories by one-half through
installing the simplex draft fly frame, which combined the preparation and
spinning of cotton into one operation. The introduction of automatic looms
in weaving meant that one worker could handle from 20 to 40 looms instead
of the previous maximum of six.62 The quest for efficiency also took the form
of changes in management strategy, as larger firms had each factory focus on
a narrow range of products.63 Overall, the productivity per worker in cotton
spinning in 1930 rose by 13.8 percent.64
By the spring of 1931, prospects had brightened considerably. Already in
October 1930, 20-count had become profitable again, and stocks of cotton
yarn in the Hanshin (Kansai) area had dwindled to their lowest level since
1924. By March, the relatively high price of 20-count twist was even prompt-
ing some cloth producers to import less expensive yarn from China. A spec-
ulative fever hit the market for advance purchases of yarn, while exports to
Africa, the Mediterranean, and India picked up.65 In March, Bpren decided to
moderate the sptan by one holiday, calculated as the equivalent of a 3.6 percent
idling of spindles, from April to July. An additional resolution in April to
introduce a flexible rate, with a 2 percent moderation in July followed by
a possible further decrease of up to 5 percent in October brought sharp
protests by yarn merchants. Because they had purchased yarn months in
advance, they did not want sharp increases in supply to cause a sharp fall in
the price of yarn. Finally, the spinners declared that they would stick with just
a 2 percent moderation for the second half of the year.66
By June, the financial results for spinning companies had bounced back
strongly from the second half of 1930. Thirty-three firms, nearly triple the
number six months before, paid dividends, while 12 reported profits without
sharing them with investors. Only four companies reported losses during
both the previous six-month and 12-month period. That only eight firms
paid dividends of 10 percent or higher served as a reminder of the mildness
of the recovery.67 Still, new plans for expansion of capacity, which had virtually
vanished in 1930, reflected executives’ new confidence. Firms wanted to add
300,000 spindles between August and December 1931.68 Abe Fusajirp’s
annual address to the members of the Spinners Association in April sounded
a note of pride and cautious hope. He observed that the spinning industry
had “passed through a great test unseen in recent years.” He attributed much
of the sector’s success to the sptan: “through the cooperation of each mem-
ber the association has fortunately planned the regulation of production and
the control of business and has barely been able to escape these difficulties up
to today.” He concluded with the overall assessment that “during these
[past] two-three months [the cotton textile industry] has somewhat followed
a smooth course, but members cannot become relaxed.”69
If increased productivity and profits bode well for the cotton-spinning sector
by the late summer of 1931, two events abruptly changed the economic out-
look. First, the eruption of war between Japanese and Chinese forces in
Manchuria in mid-September, the Manchurian Incident, sparked new boy-
cotts of Japanese goods in China and a sharp drop in exports to that important
 T J S A 221

market. The Japanese, however, had endured periods of intense boycotts

before. England’s announcement in early October that it would abandon the
gold standard was truly distressing.
This decision stunned the spinners. England, after all, had served as a pillar
of the gold standard. Moreover, textile executives viewed the British as their
main rivals. Immediately after England’s decision, Abe proclaimed, “What is
most feared is the change in the competitive power of English manufactured
goods because of anti-Japanese [boycotts] in China and the weak pound.”
The extent to which the value of the pound sterling fell would determine
how “painful” competition with British goods would become. Within a few
weeks, some observers estimated that British cotton textile goods had gained
a 20 percent advantage in price over Japanese products.70 Tsuda Shingp, the
president of the large Kanebp Company, argued that Japan had to abandon
the gold standard to remain competitive in the international cotton textile
market. Noting that Japan’s cotton textile sector depended on “spreading
manufactured goods widely in the world,” Tsuda believed that “Japan’s
ability to develop [had] been checked by Britain’s re-imposition of an
embargo on gold.”71 The editorial staff of one prominent business magazine
observed that in only a few weeks the gold standard had become the most
urgent political and economic issue in Japan.72
As business opinion turned against the gold standard, the Minseitp cabinet
felt mounting pressure. Finance Minister Inoue stoutly defended his policies,
but the cabinet fell in December partially as the result of an internal split. The
new prime minister and finance minister from the rival Seiyukai—respectively,
Inukai Tsuyoshi and Takahashi Korekiyo—immediately instituted an embargo
on gold.
Despite the panic that the devaluation of the pound sterling had induced,
spinning companies posted comparatively good results during the second
half of 1931. Thirty-six firms paid dividends, and 14 others reported profits.
No firms reported losses for the past six months or for the past year as a
whole.73 Just seven companies, though, distributed dividends of 10 percent
or more. The spinning sector, which had registered overall losses of over
three million yen in the second half of 1930, posted profits of over 21 million
yen in the first half of 1931 and over 22 million yen in the second half.74
Although the number of spindles in operation decreased slightly between
September and December 1931, monthly production inched upward. The
number of male workers decreased, but the number of female workers, who
comprised over 75 percent of the labor force, increased.75
How severe was the Great Depression for the Japanese cotton-spinning
sector? As is well known, the Japanese economy as a whole recovered quickly
after the devaluation of the yen in late 1931. The cotton textile sector pros-
pered too, as exports expanded rapidly because of both the 40 percent plunge
in the value of the yen and the development of new markets. If Japan of all
the industrial nations recovered most quickly from the Great Depression, this
analysis suggests that the downturn was even shorter for the cotton-spinning
sector. To be sure, events in 1930 staggered the industry. The number of
222 W. M  F III

spindles in operation dropped by about 11 percent and monthly production by

17 percent. The number of male workers fell by 29 percent and that of female
laborers by approximately the same margin—a total loss of 46,709 workers.76
However, one can even question the severity of this brief “depression” for the
spinners. The rapid expansion of spindles in the late 1920s makes the reduction
of operating spindles in 1930 seem less drastic. The decline in the number of
female workers had begun with the emphasis on improving productivity in
preparation for the end of night shifts. The large cut in the work force com-
pared with the smaller drop in production suggests the extent of progress made
in efficiency. As the firms’ balance sheets attest, a recovery started early in
1931, well before the yen’s devaluation. The number of operating spindles and
monthly production increased as the year wore on, although by December
those figures had still not yet returned to the levels of December 1929. The
work force, especially female laborers, expanded at a modest rate as well.

R
Bpren’s relative success in surviving the challenges of 1930 and 1931 reaf-
firmed its leadership’s belief in the importance of the association’s auto-
nomous self-governance, which included the ability to enact production
controls. After describing the spinners’ achievements during the past 12 months
as something of a miracle, Abe in December 1931 emphasized the need for
cooperation in the entire cotton textile sector. Developments abroad—yet
another tariff hike by India, “unprecedented boycotts” in China, the end of
the British gold standard, and the “policy of the fierce recapture of Oriental
markets by [British] manufactured goods”—had made 1931 in some ways
the “worst year ever experienced.” The production of yarn, however, had
increased. If sales in old markets had declined, the overall decrease in exports
was “not remarkable.” “Unbending efforts to develop new markets” had
even brought more exports of processed and high quality goods. Abe warned
that Japan’s embargo on gold would not bring immediate prosperity, as
imported cotton would cost more and tariffs would continue to rise in over-
seas markets. The spinners would have to overcome such challenges by relying
on “appropriate control by the [spinning] sector (gypkai) and the cooperation
of related sectors (kankei gypkai).” “If [we] have the right policies,” he con-
cluded, “I believe that [we] will create the basis for future development and
pass through [the year] in relative calm.”77
The persistence of curtailments of production well after the start of the
recovery sparked heated public debate about their usefulness. During 1932, for
example, firms added 517,790 spindles, an impressive increase of 7.2 percent,
and virtually all members of the Spinners Association showed a profit.78 Still,
a curtailment rate of 20 percent plus two extra holidays, a total cut in output
of 27.2 percent, remained in effect. To dampen the fever for expansion,
Bpren set the curtailment rate for newly installed spindles at triple the regu-
lar rate for the first three months of operation. Some critics began to wonder
how the association could justify imposing limits on members’ output during
 T J S A 223

a period of prosperity. Had the policy of sptan become simply a blatant means
for increasing profits?
In mid-1934 Bpren maintained a curtailment rate of 18.8 percent
(11.2 percent plus two extra holidays). Members, meanwhile, planned to
expand production capacity by 660,000 spindles that year, a gain of roughly
8 percent over the total of 8,092,958 spindles at the end of 1933.79 This sit-
uation prompted renewed criticism of the sptan. Itp Takenosuke, the head of
the Itp Chu Trading Company and a prominent figure among yarn merchants,
pointed out that what he mockingly called the “10,000-year curtailment”
had started four years ago and that two years had passed since the “worst
period” for the industry. For all of the annoyance caused by foreign trade bar-
riers, cotton cloth exports per month had doubled since 1929; the monthly
output of cotton yarn had risen by 10 percent since then; and stocks of cotton
yarn had sunk to minimal levels. “I have from the beginning been a glorifier
of curtailments,” Itp wrote, “but they must be flexible.” He advocated that
the current sptan should end in six months.80
The next year, however, the Spinners Association raised the curtailment
rate twice because of a low price for thick yarn below 20-count and uncer-
tainty in the market. While Abe publicly recognized the need to deal with the
growing public skepticism about production cutbacks by predicting that “as
trends become more complicated, the problem of curtailments is sure to
become more contentious,” Bpren established a special committee to study
the specific issue of sptan in relation to firms’ persistent and vigorous expan-
sion of spindles.81 The main defense of the current policy centered on the
need to encourage firms to invest in new and more efficient equipment with-
out flooding the market with surplus goods. As one unnamed executive of a
large spinning company explained, the alternative was to “pile up old equip-
ment and to repeat the failure of the British spinning industry.”82 Imamura
Kusuo, the managing director of the DaiNippon Spinning Company, con-
tended that “Japan’s spinning industry [had] come to dominate the world”
because of the current system of sptan, which made possible a carefully man-
aged cycle of production cutbacks and expansion of production. He predicted
that in order to remain internationally competitive Japanese firms should
replace five million old spindles with high draft models because these would
cut costs by nearly one-half. This strategy was simply a “means of self-defense
for spinning companies, because as the cotton industry trade war [became]
more severe there [was] a need to lower costs.”83 Based on the study com-
mittee’s recommendations, Bpren in October enacted substantially higher
rates of curtailment for new spindles that would last for the first six years of
operation.84 The spinners, however, showed no signs of abandoning the use
of sptan. In fact, several months later the association tacitly admitted their
permanent character by creating a standing Control Committee.85
The attitude of Bpren toward the Important Industry Control Law, which
the Diet passed in March 1931, reflected its stubborn sense of independence
and firm belief in the need for self-governance. In brief, the IICL permitted
firms within designated industries to form cartels and, when two-thirds of
224 W. M  F III

companies in a sector agreed to form a cartel, it could request the Ministry of

Commerce and Industry to force other firms to join. After nearly a half-
century of independent operation, the leaders of the Japan Spinners
Association obviously did not believe that they needed the government’s
help in forming or managing a cartel and they disliked the prospect of offi-
cials’ meddling in their affairs. To their dismay, the law named cotton spinning
as one of 24 industries that could form an officially sponsored cartel.86
Executives were somewhat mollified by assurances from officials of respect
for the principle of “autonomous control” by cartels and vows not to inter-
fere with Bpren’s activities as long as they did “not cause social problems.”87
Still, Bpren did not apply for approval under the law and remained a “self-
governing organization” without formal legal status.88
The spinners wanted to maintain their distance from the Japanese state as
much as possible. Hirasawa Teruo suggests that the threat of the Ministry of
Commerce and Industry invoking the law probably made the Spinners
Association more amenable to moderating production cutbacks after March
1931 in order to accommodate complaints from the weaving sector.89 As dis-
cussed above, however, after 1930 curtailments with historically high rates of
reduction in output became chronic, even after sales and profits improved
dramatically. Furthermore, Miyajima Hideaki points out the hesitancy of the
ministry to interfere with the success of the spinning sector after 1930 and
officials’ consistent rejection of pleas from the weaving industry to enforce
changes in curtailments.90
Meanwhile, the spinners strived to extend their formal influence over the
entire cotton textile sector. In October 1931 the governing Committee of
Bpren met with three representatives of the Japan Federation of Cotton Yarn
Merchant Associations to convince them not to import Chinese yarn “unless
necessary.”91 In 1932, the Spinners Association sponsored a “Cotton Textile
Conference” (Mengyp Kondankai) with yarn traders for the purpose of form-
ing a broad consensus on the need to make periodic adjustments to curtail-
ments of production. Even though this measure may have aimed, as some
suspected, at “shift[ing] social responsibility for the sptan to merchants”
rather than heeding their views, the spinners took steps to create regular
channels of discussion among different textile groups.92
In this regard, Bpren found that it had to contend with two new rivals,
each sanctioned by specific legislation in the mid-1920s: industrial associa-
tions of weaving enterprises and export associations of merchants. Since the
late 1920s, the Ministry of Commerce and Industry had encouraged cotton
weavers to organize on a national level to prevent “excess competition” from
lowering the quality of exports. By the early 1930s, the Japan Federation of
Cotton Woven Goods Industrial Associations (Nihon Men Orimono Kpgyp
Kumiai Rengpkai) had gained the legal authority to inspect members’ prod-
ucts to ensure quality and to regulate production.93 As noted above,
Menkpren became a strident critic of the Spinners Association’s use of cur-
tailments of production to support a high price for cotton yarn.
In 1934, export associations, merchant groups that were organized by
product and market, suddenly gained significant power in the wake of Japan’s
 T J S A 225

textile trade negotiations with India and the Dutch East Indies. These talks
sought to pacify those governments’ criticism of sharply rising Japanese
exports. The resulting agreements required the strict regulation of cotton
textile exports, as Japan was allowed in each case to export only a certain
amount of such goods in return for predetermined purchases of imports. The
Japanese government decided to grant export associations the power to
decide which firms’ goods would be exported. In general, the export associ-
ations distributed the production of 80 percent of the exports in each cate-
gory according to the previous year’s exports by each firm and opened
20 percent to competitive bids.94
Alarmed by the government’s decision, Bpren first lodged vehement
protests and argued for the creation of “export syndicates” controlled by pro-
ducers. Meanwhile, Bpren and Menkpren each insisted that their members
be able to participate in export associations. Moreover, the spinners and
weavers put aside their rivalry to begin discussions in July 1935 on ways to
gain back their influence over cotton textile exports. A month later, Bpren
sponsored the establishment of a comprehensive organization to discuss
issues related to the cotton textile sector, the Central Council for the Cotton
Textile Industry (Mengyp Chup Kypgikai). It included representatives from
both Menkpren and the Association of Cotton Yarn and Cloth Exporters
(Yushutsu Menshifu Dpgypkai).95
The leaders of Bpren worked hard to create a new structure of autonomous
controls for the cotton textile industry. Meeting five times over the next nine
months, the Central Council discussed matters related to foreign trade, the
regulation of the manufacturing sector, and the control of exports.96 In April
1936, the Spinners Association changed its regulations to permit the signing
of official “agreements” with the Japan Cotton Association and the Japan
Federation of Cotton Yarn Merchant Associations regarding the “buying and
selling and the delivery of cotton yarn and cloth.”97
Moreover, Bpren petitioned the government for reforms of the system of
export controls so that producers could share the responsibility for decisions
with export associations.98 Accordingly, the spinners consulted closely with
the most comprehensive organization of big business and probably the most
influential business group, the Japan Economic Federation (Nihon Keizai
Renmeikai), when it drafted a major proposal for a new system of national
trade controls. It would empower a council of officials, producers, and mer-
chants to determine general policies for exports and would guarantee
through an arbitration procedure that export associations “respect the ideas of
producers.”99 This lobbying had some effect, as the Ministry of Commerce
and Industry in early 1937 submitted new trade legislation embodying such
recommendations to the Diet, and it passed in August.

C
In brief, the Great Depression had a sharp but brief impact on the cotton
spinning industry. The leadership of the Spinners Association described the
situation as an unprecedented challenge. Indeed, a large majority of firms
226 W. M  F III

posted losses in 1930. By the spring of 1931, though, signs of recovery had
already appeared. If England’s abandonment of the gold standard—and, to a
lesser degree, the Manchurian Incident—shocked executives that fall, their com-
panies’ balance sheets showed dramatic improvement by the end of the year.
The experience of handling a series of economic challenges from 1927
through the early 1930s strengthened the faith of spinning executives in the
efficacy of their own self-governance and economic acuity. Carefully modu-
lated cutbacks proved an effective economic tool. Although the sequence of
nearly continuous sptan started in 1927 as a response to a financial panic, the
curtailments became a means of maintaining the price of yarn over the next
two years while firms expanded rapidly to prepare for the end of night
work in June 1929. Buoyed by the success of that strategy, the Spinners
Association turned again to sptan to adjust supply and demand in early 1930,
after the worldwide depression began. Especially after England abandoned
the gold standard in the fall of 1931, spinning executives publicly argued
that Japan should follow suit and devalue the yen to make Japanese exports
more competitive. After the market for yarn brightened, the curtailments
remained, despite fierce criticism from various sectors, in order both to main-
tain prices and to encourage companies to raise productivity by installing
more efficient machinery.
The spinners’ experience during the era of the Great Depression did not
strengthen the hand of governmental control in their sector. Indeed, the pas-
sage of the IICL in 1931 raised the specter of bureaucratic interference in the
activities of the Spinners Association. Members, though, sought no direct aid
from the government and emphasized measures that they themselves could
take to overcome adversity—limiting production to maintain prices, increasing
productivity, and developing new markets. Bpren declined to apply to become
an official cartel approved by the Ministry of Commerce and Industry.
The main challenge to the cotton-spinning sector’s prosperity came from
trade disputes with major markets. Although the Great Depression aggra-
vated this problem, it appeared well beforehand. In particular, criticism
of surging Japanese exports of cotton goods to India in the early 1920s
prompted the government there to impose a discriminatory tariff in 1927. In
response, Bpren had to take a more active role in economic diplomacy. When
diplomatic settlements of trade disputes after 1934 required limits on the
shipment of cotton goods overseas, the spinners had to battle for control
over the allocation of some goods for export. When the government assigned
this task to export associations, the spinners resolved to organize the entire
cotton textile sector and helped shape legislation that created a new system
for the national regulation of trade and granted producers a major voice in
decisions. Up to that point the Japan Spinners Association remained a strong,
feisty, and independent-minded organization determined to govern its own
affairs. Its encounter with the Great Depression only enhanced members’
confidence in their ability to guide their industry through any crisis.
Not even Bpren, however, could cope with the demands of war mobiliza-
tion caused by the China War and then the Pacific War. The China War, which
 T J S A 227

began in July 1937, led within a few months to the introduction of direct
governmental controls over trade. Officials strictly regulated the import of
raw cotton because of the need for raw materials for munitions production.
As the war continued and expanded into a conflict against the Anglo-
American powers in 1941, the government introduced the rationing of civil-
ian goods, and the production of textiles dropped precipitously. Bpren had to
disband in 1942, when the industry came under the direct supervision of
official “control associations.” During the period of Allied occupation after
Japan’s defeat, though, the Spinners Association100 reemerged in 1946 to
guide the textile industry through a third major set of crises—that of wartime
devastation and foreign occupation—and to help engineer the remarkable
recovery of the Japanese textile industry by the early 1950s.

N
1. Nakamura Takafusa, “The Japanese Economy in the Interwar Period: A Brief
Summary,” in Japan and the World Depression: Then and Now, ed. Ronald Dore
and Radha Sinha (London: The MacMillan Press, 1987), pp. 52–67, on p. 61,
and idem., Lectures on Modern Japanese Economic History, 1926–1994 (Tokyo:
LTCB International Library Foundation, 1994), p. 43.
2. Chalmers Johnson, MITI and the Japanese Miracle: The Growth of Industrial
Policy, 1925–1975 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1982), pp. 109–113.
3. Bai Gao, Economic Ideology and Japanese Industrial Policy (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 72 and 74.
4. Nakamura, “The Japanese Economy,” pp. 61–62.
5. Gao, Economic Ideology, p. 72. Although the author does not state whether the cited
figures for GNP and exports are nominal or real, they approximate the nominal
figures given in Dick K. Nanto and Shinji Takagi, “Korekiyo Takahashi and
Japan’s Recovery from the Great Depression,” The American Economic Review
1985, 75: 369–374, pp. 369 and 371.
6. Nanto and Takagi, “Korekiyo Takahashi,” p. 369.
7. Hashimoto Jurp, Daikypkpki no Nihon shihonshugi (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku
Shuppankai, 1984), p. 165.
8. Hara Akira, “Keiki junkan,” in Nihon teikokushugi shi, 2, Sekai daikypkpki,
ed. Oishi Ka’ichirp (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1987), pp. 367–410, on
p. 403.
9. I calculated this figure from data given in Takamura Naosuke, “Shihon chikuseki,
2, keikpgyp,” in Nihon teikokushugi, 2, Sekai daikypkpki, ed. Pishi Ka’ichirp
(Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1987), pp. 173–210, on p. 173.
10. Shpji Otokichi, Bpseki spgyp tanshuku shi (Osaka: Nihon Mengyp Kurabu, 1930),
pp. 461–462.
11. “Bpseki kaisha no gypseki,” Chugai shpgyp shinpp, December 1, 1924 and “Waga
bpseki jigyp no seiseki,” Chugai shpgyp shinpp, October 9, 1925, “Shinbun kiji
bunkp: Menshi bpsekigyp,” Vol. 12. These materials are housed at the Keizai
Keiei kenkyujo at the University of Kpbe in Kpbe, Japan.
12. “Waga sangyp ni okeru menshigyp no chi’i,” Chugai shpgyp shinbun, September 30,
1924, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 12.
13. Nishikawa Hiroshi, Nihon teikokushugi to mengyp (Tokyo: Mineruva Shobp,
1987), pp. 274–303.
228 W. M  F III

14. “ZaiShi bpseki wa kpjp heisa ga tokusaku,” Osaka asahi shinbun, April 3, 1927;
“Shanhai no kikki to bpseki no taido,” April 9, 1927, Osaka asahi shinbun;
“ZaiShi bpseki fuan o daku,” March 31, 1927, Osaka asahi shinbun, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 13.
15. Shpji, Bpseki spgyp, pp. 455–458.
16. “Bpseki no shinyagyp teppai kiun o sokushin,” Chugai shpgyp shinpp,
September 22, 1927, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 14.
17. “Moratoriumu to mengypsha no ukewata,” Kpbe shinbun, April 28, 1927,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 13.
18. Shpji, Bpseki spgyp, pp. 467–473.
19. Nishikawa, Nihon teikokushugi, p. 179.
20. “Bpseki sptan no ben,” Osaka asahi shinbun, April 27, 1927, “Shinbun kiji,”
Vol. 13.
21. Shpji, Bpseki spgyp, pp. 474–475.
22. “Bpseki sptan kakuchp giron wa niba ni wakeru,” Osaka jiji shinpp, September 24,
1927, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 14. In 1918 a wave of “rice riots” in hundreds of cities,
towns, and villages had shocked government officials. In 1919, the sharply rising
price of cotton yarn caused officials for the first time to try to regulate its export.
23. “Bpseki jigyp no keiei gprika no kypgi,” Osaka asahi shinbun, October 6, 1927,
and “Bpseki sptan kakuchp ni omomuita?” Osaka jiji shinpp, October 16, 1927,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 14.
24. “Shanhai hpjinbp no sptan jisshi ka,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, October 26,
1927, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 14.
25. “Sptan kakuchp ketsuretsu ka,” Osaka asahi shinbun, October 28, 1927,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 14.
26. “Kiki o haramu sptan kakuchp,” Osaka asahi shinbun, October 27, 1927,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 14.
27. W. Miles Fletcher III, “Co-operation and Competition in the Rise of the
Japanese Cotton Spinning Industry, 1890–1926,” Asia Pacific Business Review
1998, 5: 45–70.
28. “Kanzei ni benpp o kpze yo,” Osaka asahi shinbun, October 28, 1927, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 14.
29. “Spgyp tanshuku keika,” DaiNihon bpseki rengpkai geppp 1929 (443): 25–32, on
pp. 26–28.
30. “Sptan zpritsu happun,” Osaka asahi shinbun, October 25, 1927, “Shinbun kiji,”
Vol. 14.
31. “Bpseki sptan kakuchp kakutei,” Osaka jiji shinpp, October 30, 1927, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 14.
32. I calculated this percentage from data given in Nishikawa, Nihon teikokushugi,
pp. 179–181.
33. Nishikawa, Nihon teikokushugi, pp. 155 and 179–181; DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
Chpsabu, Menshi bpseki jijp sankpsho, 1928 kahanki, no. 52 (Osaka: DaiNihon
Bpseki Rengpkai, 1929), p. 36; DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai Chpsabu, Menshi
bpseki jijp sankpsho, 1929 jphanki, no. 53 (Osaka: DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai,
1929), p. 36; DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai Chpsabu, Menshi bpseki jijp sankpsho,
1929 kahanki, no. 54 (Osaka: DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai, 1930), p. 36; “Npritsu
zpshin wa kenchp,” Chugai shpgyp shinpp, October 9, 1928, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 15.
34. “Bpseki rengpkai,” Osaka asahi shinbun, April 25, 1929, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 15.
35. “Sakunen kahanki kaku bpseki kaisha eigyp seiseki,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp 1930 (450): 39–44.
 T J S A 229

36. “Mikamei kaisha ni Imen o uru nakare,” Osaka asahi shinbun, November 8,
1927; “Ryp mosu kaisha kamei ka,” Osaka asahi shinbun, November 22, 1927;
and “Ryp mosu no kyozetsu de shpbpseki mo kpka suru,” Osaka mainichi shinbun,
November 26, 1927; and “Bpseki Rengpkai jiko ypgp no nayami,” Osaka asahi
shinbun, November 27, 1927, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 14; and “Npritsu zpshin wa
kenchp,” Chugai shpgyp shinpp, October 9, 1928, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 15; and
“Tpyama, Ashikaga, Sankp mo Bpseki Rengpkai e kanyu,” Osaka mainichi shinbun,
April 24, 1930, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16.
37. “Bpseki sptan wa enchp,” Osaka asahi shinbun, January 28, 1928, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 14.
38. “Honpp menshi kanzei mondai shiryp,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp, 1929
(444): 23–27.
39. “Menshokushi yunyu kanzei ni kansuru chinjp sho,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp, 1929 (445): 1–3.
40. “Menshi kypchp no uchigeki wa shobpseki ni,” Osaka asahi shinbun, November
5, 1929, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 15.
41. “Spgyp tanshuku jikkp ketsugi ni saishite,” DaiNihon bpseki rengpkai geppp, 1930
(449): 2; “Bpseki wa ichiwarihp no sptan wa hitsuyp da,” Osaka mainichi
shinbun, November 20, 1929, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 15.
42. “Bpseki ketsugi sptan wa futp,” Osaka jiji shinpp, December 13, 1929, and
“Bpseki no sptan hantai,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, January 14, 1930, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 15.
43. “Bpseki sptan ni hikpshiki keikoku,” Tokyo nichinichi shinbun, January 29, 1930;
“Bpseki gypsha rpbai su,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, January 30, 1930; “Bpseki
sptan ni rpdp jiken no jpgai rei,” Osaka asahi shinbun, January 30, 1930, Vol. 15.
44. “Iinkai rokuji,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp, 1930 (449): 1–2.
45. “Bpseki no jikan enchp o yurusanu,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, January 30, 1930,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 15.
46. “Bpseki no spgyp tanshuku wa zettai ni hantai suru,” Kpbe shinbun, February 14,
1930, and “Tatsu mono issai ni bpseki no sptan o kpgeki,” Osaka jiji shinpp,
February 4, 1930, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 15.
47. “Honnen jphanki kaku bpseki kaisha eigyp seiseki,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp 1930 (455): 33–37, and Kanebp Kabushiki Kaisha Shashi Hensanshitsu,
Kanebp hyakunen shi (Osaka: Kanebp Kabushiki Kaisha, 1968), pp. 994–995.
Even though Kanebp was one of the largest and most successful firms, its results
were, for some reason, not included in the cited report in the August issue of the
Dai Nihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp.
48. “Tpkai spkai ni okeru Abe iinchp ensetsu,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp
1930 (452): 2–3.
49. “Indo yunyu menpu kanzei zpritsu an teian ni saishi mengyp san dantai no
seimeisho,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1930 (450): 3–5.
50. Shpji, Bpseki spgyp, pp. 537–549.
51. Abe Fusajirp, “Indo menpu tokkei kanzei an no tsuka ni tsuite,” DaiNihon Bpseki
Rengpkai geppp 1930 (451): 31–32.
52. “Bpseki shinshijp kaitaku iyoiyo gutaika su,” Hpchi shinbun, May 24, 1930,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16.
53. “Bpseki sptan gofun kakuchp,” Osaka jiji shinpp, May 22, 1930; “Sptan no dai
kakuchp,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, May 25, 1930; and “Bpseki ichiwari sptan
kakuchp iyoiyo jisshi ni kesu,” Osaka asahi shinbun, June 8, 1930, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 16.
230 W. M  F III

54. “Sptan no dai kakuchp,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, May 25, 1930, “Shinbun kiji,”
Vol. 16.
55. “Kishiwada bpseki sara ni tai sptan dankp,” Osaka asahi shinbun, June 25, 1930;
“Bpsekikai wa taiseijp shizen sptan ga okonawareyp,” Osaka jiji shinpp, June 25,
1930; “Bpseki no jieiteki gensan tsui ni katabansei saiyp e,” Tokyo nichinichi shin-
bun, June 26, 1930; “Dai bpseki kaisha ga katabansei saiyp o shunjun,” Osaka
mainichi shinbun, July 17, 1930, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16.
56. Nisshin Bpseki Kabushiki Kaisha, Nisshin bpseki rokuju nen shi (Tokyo: Keizai
Praisha, 1969), p. 398; and Kanebp Kabushiki Kaisha Shashi Hensanshitsu,
Kanebp hyakunen shi, pp. 221–225; and “Kishiwada bpseki sara ni tai sptan
dankp,” Osaka asahi shinbun, June 25, 1930, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16.
57. “Bpseki sptanritsu no kakuchp o mitomeru,” Osaka asahi shinbun, August 21,
1930, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16.
58. “Sptan kakuchp hantai ikensho teishutsu,” Osaka jiji shinpp, September 9, 1930;
“Bpseki sptan kakuchp ketsugi,” Osaka jiji shinpp, September 9, 1930, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 16.
59. “Sakunen kahanki kaku bpseki kaisha eigyp seiseki,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp 1931 (462): 28–32, and Kanebp Kabushiki Kaisha Shashi Hensanshitsu,
Kanebp hyakunen shi, pp. 994–995. Again, Kanebp’s results were not included in
the cited report in the Dai Nihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp.
60. “Bpseki wa taiseijp shizen sptan ga okonawareyp,” Osaka jiji shinpp, June 25,
1930, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16.
61. “Mengyp no judanteki tpsei daiippp,” Tokyo nichinichi shinbun, July 4, 1930,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16.
62. Nishikawa, Nihon teikokushugi, pp. 192–193, and Itp Chuhypei, “Bpseki jigyp
no tenkai wa shinkikai e,” Daiyamondo October 21, 1931, 19: 29–30, on p. 29.
63. Nisshin Bpseki Kabushiki Kaisha, Nisshin bpseki, p. 395, and Kanebp Kabushiki
Kaisha Shashi Hensanshitsu, Kanebp hyakunen shi, p. 237.
64. Hashimoto, Daikypkpki, p. 177.
65. “Bpseki kaisha kan ni mo sptan kanwa ron okoru,” Tokyo nichinichi shinbun,
October 17, 1930, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 16. “Kpritsu sptan de bpseki ijp na bpri,”
Tokyo asahi shinbun, March 10, 1931; “Yunyu Shina shi no appaku de chushpbp
himei o agu,” Kpbe shinbun, March 11, 1931; “Bpseki rengpkai kasanete sptan
kanwa o ketsugi sen,” Kokumin shinbun, March 13, 1931; and “Fukeiki o yoso
ni bpseki no rieki zpdai su,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, March 15, 1931, “Shinbun
kiji,” Vol. 17.
66. Asahi Shinbun Keizaibu, Asahi keizai nenshi, 1932 (Osaka: Asahi Shinbun Sha,
1932), pp. 146–147; “Bpseki rengpkai kasanete sptan kanwa o ketsugi sen,”
Kokumin shinbun, March 13, 1931; “Shichigatsu irai no bpseki sptan kanwa
seishiki kettei,” Chugai shpgyp shinpp, April 19, 1931; “Mushi sareta menshishp
no ypkyu,” Tokyo nichinichi shinbun, April 21, 1931; “Bpseki, jugatsu irai
nijuwari sptan ni omomuku,” June 5, 1931, Kokumin shinbun; “Jugatsu irai
bpseki sptanritsu ichiwari happun ni kettei,” Chugai shpgyp shinpp, July 7, 1931,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 17.
67. “Honnen jphanki kaku bpseki kaisha eigyp seiseki,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp 1931 (468): 32–37.
68. “Muan ni fueru bpseki no suisu,” Osaka asahi shinbun, September 18, 1931,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 17.
69. “Tpkai spkai ni okeru Abe iincho ensetsu,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp
1931 (464): 2–3.
 T J S A 231

70. “Donata mo umisen yamasen,” Osaka asahi shinbun, October 7, 1931, and
“TaiEi mengyp sen—osoreru ni tarazu,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, October 30,
1931, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 17.
71. Tsuda Shingo, “Mengyp wa kinsaikinshi ga hitsuyp,” Daiyamondo October 21,
1931, 19: 28–29.
72. “Zaikai jpsei no seijika,” Daiyamondo October 21, 1931, 19: 7–8.
73. “Shpwa rokunen kahanki kaku bpseki kaisha eigyp seiseki,” DaiNihon Bpseki
Rengpkai geppp 1932 (474): 34–39.
74. “Kypnenchu no honpp bpsekigyp,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1932
(478): 2–15, on pp. 11–12.
75. “Zenkoku menshi bpseki tpkei hyp,” for September 1931 in DaiNihon Bpseki
Rengpkai geppp 1931 (470): 1–38, on p. 1, and “Zenkoku menshi bpseki tpkei
hyp,” for December 1931, in DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1932 (473):
1–38, on p. 1.
76. “Zenkoku menshi bpseki tpkei hyp,” for December 1930 in DaiNihon Bpseki
Rengpkai geppp 1931 (461): 1–36, on p. 1.
77. Abe Fusajirp, “Shpwa shichi nen no mengypkai,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp 1931 (472): 17–18.
78. Seki Keizp, The Cotton Industry of Japan (Tokyo: Japan Society for the
Promotion of Science, 1956), p. 311, and “Shpwa kyunenchu no bpsekigyp,”
DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1935 (512): 5–19, on p. 19. According to
Bpren’s statistics, only one firm had a loss in 1932 and 1933. See also “Shpwa
sannen irai no saikp kiroku,” Osaka jiji shinpp, January 30, 1933, “Shinbun kiji,”
Vol. 19.
79. Seki, The Cotton Industry, p. 311; “Bpseki sptan ritsu,” Osaka mainichi shinbun,
June 9, 1934; and “Bpseki sptan kanwa ni gyakkp no daizpsui,” Osaka mainichi
shinbun, June 26, 1934, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 20. By this time, one holiday was
estimated as equal to a production cut of 3.8%. See Asahi shinbun Keizaibu,
Keizai nenshi, 1932, p. 146.
80. “Mannen sptan o kaishp ichio sui’i o miyo,” Osaka asahi shinbun, July 6, 1934,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 20.
81. “Bpseki no sptan gofun kakuchp,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, February 2, 1935;
“Shichigatsu irai no sptan kakuchp kettei,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, May 12,
1935; “Sennai de zpsui keikaku,” Kypsei nippp, May 19, 1935, in “Shinbun kiji,”
Vol. 20.
82. “Sptan hphp no kaikaku ga mushiro senketsu mondai,” Tokyo nichinichi shinbun,
July 20, 1935, in “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 20.
83. “Riron no binkonka,” Tokyo nichinichi shinbun, July 30, 1935, in “Shinbun kiji,”
Vol. 20.
84. “Iinkai rokuji,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1935 (517): 1–3, on p. 2, and
“Angai assari zpsui yokuseian naru,” Osaka asahi shinbun, July 26, 1935, in
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 20.
85. “Iinkai rokuji,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1936 (526): 1–4.
86. “Kypnenchu no honpp bpsekigyp,” pp. 12–13.
87. Hirasawa Teruo, “Shpwa kypkpka ni okeru juyp sangyp tpsei hp no unyp ni
kansuru ichi kpsatsu,” Rekishigaku kenkyu 1991 (619): 1–18, p. 14.
88. The issue of whether or not to apply for legal status remained controversial in
1935. See “Bpseki rengpkai no hpteki karuteruka,” Kpbe shinbun, July 28, 1935,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 20.
89. Hirasawa, “Shpwa kypkpka,” pp. 14 and 16.
232 W. M  F III

90. Miyajima Hideaki, “1930 nendai Nihon no dokusen soshiki to seifu,” Tochi
seido shigaku 1986, 28: 1–23, on pp. 8–9.
91. “Bpseki no sptan ritsu gofun hachi ri o kakuchp,” Osaka mainichi shinbun,
October 17, 1931, “Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 17.
92. “Sptan ritsu o kimeru,” Osaka asahi shinbun, October 30, 1932, and “Bpseki to
menshishp hanmoku sen’eika,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, November 29, 1932,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 19.
93. Y.T. Sei, “Mengyp tpsei no genjp,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1935
(516): 4–8, on pp. 4–6. The Important Export Industries Association Law of
1925 and the Industrial Association Law of 1931 gave industrial associations
legal status. Some members of the Spinners Association that produced cloth
could also belong to an industrial association and thus to Menkpren.
94. Y.T. Sei, “Mengyp tpsei,” p. 6. The Export Association Laws of 1925 and 1931
gave legal status to the export associations.
95. Y.T. Sei, “Mengyp tpsei,” pp. 7–8; “Menpu yushutsu tpsei ni Bpren danyo hantai
su,” Osaka mainichi shimbun, March 24, 1935; “Bpren kameisha yushutsu
kumiai ni kanyu,” Osaka mainichi shinbun, June 13, 1935; and “Jpsei no henka
kara Bpren to menkpren tsui ni teikyp e,” Osaka asahi shinbun, July 28, 1935,
“Shinbun kiji,” Vol. 20.
96. For example, see “Mengyp Chup Kypgikai rokuji,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp 1935 (519): 1.
97. “Juyp taisaku chpsa iinkai rokuji,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1936 (523):
1–3, on pp. 1–2, and “Dai yonju kyukai teiki spkai,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai
geppp 1936 (524): 1–4, on p. 1.
98. “Yushutsu tpsei kitei chu nyusatsu seido kaisei ni kansuru chinjpsho naranni
ikensho,” DaiNihon Bpseki Rengpkai geppp 1935 (517): 3–5.
99. “Bpeki tpsei ni kansuru Nihon Keizai Renmeikai ikensho,” DaiNihon Bpseki
Rengpkai geppp 1936 (530): 9–10, on p. 10.
100. In May 1946 the Nihon Bpseki Dpgypkai was formed, and in April 1948 it
became the the Nihon Bpseki Kypkai.
 I

Abe, Fusajirp (head of the Japan beriberi, 3, 13–32

Spinners Association), 212, 214, hospital, 17–19, 23
215, 222, 223 Berlin, 65, 66, 76, 78
response to the Great Depression, University, see under universities
217, 218, 219, 220, 221 Big Five (Construction Companies), 186
abortion, 73, 79 biological, 61, 63, 64, 65, 70; see also
acquired characteristics, 64 biology under sciences
Adachi, Yoshiyuki, 189 biological determinism, 70, 75; see also
Adams, Mark, 77 Mendelian laws
adoption, 62, 65 biologists, 65, 69, 76
Ainu, 4, 85–93 Birch-Hirschfeld, Felix Victor, 24
air raids, 201 bodies, 61–77
Akasaka Filature, 144, 145, 146, 154 female, 61, 64, 67, 68, 69, 74, 75,
alcohol, 69, 73, 74 76, 77
alcoholism, 66, 72, 73, 74 human, 63, 66, 72
America Japan Sheet Glass Company, Japanese, 62, 63, 64, 70
6, 175–6 male, 39, 66
ancestor worship, 70 state-body analogy, 72–3
Anderson, William Edwin bodily improvement (taishitsu kairyp ),
(1842–1900), 22 64, 66–8, 70, 71, 76; see also
anthropology, 84, 85–7, 97 improvement under constitution
architectural history, 195 body politic, 39
architecture borrowed wombs, 73
traditional Japanese, 161–2, 164 breeding, selective, 64; see also
Westernization, 162–3, 164 crossbreeding under races; heredity
windows in, 163–4, 177–8 bricks, 162
Army, 15, 31–2 Britain, Great, 2, 45
Asahi Glass, 174, 175, 176 Brunat, Paul, 6, 137, 138, 139, 140,
Asakura, Seiichi, 188 142, 145, 150, 151, 153, 154
Austria, 41 Brunton, Richard Henry, 165
Buddhism, 70
bacillus, 13, 27–8 bunmei kaika (civilization and
bacteriology, 13, 25, 31 enlightenment), 2, 139, 146, 152
Baelz, Erwin von (1849–1913), Bureau of Hygiene, 14–15, 26–7
20, 23–4, 64, 85–6 bushidp (the way of warriors), 70, 74, 80
bakufu, 136, 152
Banichi, Yasuhirp, 104 cement, 162
Bartholomew, James, x, 2, 76, 77, 78 Chaiklin, Martha, 6, 7
Bauduin, Antonius (1822–85), 19 chambon, 146, 148, 149
Beard, George M., 40–1 Chance Brothers Glass and Chemical
Beijing Tariff Conference, 209, 210 Works, 165, 170
234 I

Charcot, Jean-Martin, 41 Disse, Joseph (1852–1912), 28

China, xiii, 8, 44–5 Drei Abhandlung zur Sexualtheorie, 45
Japanese mills in (zaikabp), 212, 215 Dresser, Christopher, 162
as a market for Japanese textiles, 209, drinking, 63, 69, 74; see also alcohol;
210, 216, 220, 221, 222 alcoholism; temperance
as rival for Japanese spinning Du Bois-Reymond, Emil, 62
companies, 209, 212, 213, 215, Du Bousquet, Albert Charles, 137
220, 224 dysentery, 115
War (1937–45), 226–7
Chinese, 4 earthquake, Kantp, 121
“choice of technique,” 141, 150–1, 155 Economy, Trade and Industry, Ministry
cholera, 14, 116–17 of, (M.E.T.I.), xiii
Christian, 74, 75 Edo, 2, 62
civilization/civilized, 61, 66, 67, 79 castle, 187
Clancey, Gregory, 6 see also Tokyo
class, 61, 62, 64, 67, 68–9, 70, 73, 80 education, 63, 65, 67, 69, 71–4, 76–7
middle, 64, 67, 68–9, 73, 80 Ministry of, 197–9
upper, 67, 68–9, 70 physical, 63
warrior, 62 women’s, 65, 69, 71–4
clothing, 63, 64 see also colleges; universities
colleges, 65, 71–2, 74, 75 educators, 61, 63, 65, 69
department of race improvement, 71 electrical hand-tools, 201
faculty of medicine, 71 Ellis, Havelock, 38, 50
Japan Women’s College, 65, 71–2 emperors, 80; see also imperial
women’s, 65 empire, 42, 50
Commerce and Industry, Ministry of, England
224–6 abandonment of gold standard by,
Confucianism, 70 221–2, 226
constitution, 63, 66, 67, 70–1, 75 spinning industry as negative
improvement, 66, 70–1, 75 model, 223
see also bodily improvement; eugenics; as trade rival, 210, 217–18
improvement under race environment, 64, 68–70
contractor, 186 eugenics, 61–3, 65–6, 68, 70–6,
cotton industry, 7 77–80, 84
Council on Tariffs (in Japan), 215, 217 associations, 70
crime, 66 hybrid, 76
criminal anthropology, 66 institutionalization of, 66
laws, 70, 72, 74–6
daiku, 6, 7, 183–202 negative, 74
Dai-Nippon Spinning Company, 223 professionalization of, 65
Dairen, xiv, 103, 106, 112, 123 scientification of, 68
city plans, 107–8, 109, 111–12 transplanting, 71
waterworks, 118–19, 120 see also betterment under race;
Dajpkan, 194, 201 bodily improvement;
danson johi, 73 improvement under race;
Decoration Bureau, 22 National Eugenics Law
degeneration, 66, 68, 73, 75, 79, 80 Eugenics Education Society
detective investigation, 67–8, 79 (London), 66
diet, 31, 63–4, 75 evolution, 63, 76, 78
Diet, the, 209, 216, 225 theory of, 63, 76
 I 235

exhibitions, international, 140, 144, 154 germ plasm, 64–5, 69

export associations (in Japan), 224–5 germ theory, 25–6, 28, 30–1
gijutsu, 183
factories, 104, 106 gijutsu rikkoku, 5
Factory Law (1911 & 1923), 209, 217 Ginza, 164, 194
families, 62, 67, 68, 70, 73, 74, 76 glass, 6, 8
patriarchal, 68, 73 demand, 170, 173, 178
state, 70 Edo period, 163
system, 68, 70, 74, 76 exports, 175
feminists, 61, 72–6, 80 government concern, 167–8, 171
fitness, 61, 65, 66–7, 69, 70–3 imports, 163–4, 165–7, 169
biological, 70 production techniques, 163, 174–5
intercourse, 66–7 Gluck, Carol, 2
mental, 65, 69 gold standard
moral, 65, 69 as an issue in Japan, 216, 221
physical, 65, 69, 72 gonorrhea, 66, 72
reproductive, 66–7 good wife, wise mother, 65; see also
Fletcher, W. Miles, 7 ideology under gender
Fordism, 184 Gordon, Andrew, 81
Foreign Affairs, Ministry of, 218 Gosankai, 211–12, 216, 218–19
Forel, August, 45 government, 62, 65, 74, 75
forest, 185, 186 Meiji, 62
France, 2, 41, 45 see also state
free love, 70; see also love under Great Depression, 7
marriage impact on Japan, 207–9
Freud, Sigmund, 41, 45 impact on Japanese spinning industry,
Frühstück, Sabine, 3, 4, 5, 77 221–2, 225–6
Fujikawa, Yu, 45–6 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity
Fujino Yutaka, 78–81 Sphere, 8
Fujitani, Takashi, 2 Greater Japan Private Women’s
Fujiyama Tanehiro, 169 Hygienic Association, 71, 78
Fujo shinbun, 48 Great-Japan Private Society for Hygiene,
fukoku kyphei, 1, 14, 135 21, 28
Fukushima Spinning Company, 214, 217 Guandong (Kwantung)
Fukuzawa Yukichi, 61, 63, 78 Army, 107, 124
Fuller, George A., and Company, 121 Leased Territory, 106
Futsu mokkp jutsu, 198, 199 guild, 185
gynecology, 37
Galton, Francis, 61, 63, 65, 67, 78
“Garden City” movement, 108, 112, Habuto, Eiji, 37, 39, 42, 50
117, 119 Hakodate, 186
Garon, Sheldon, 81 Hamaguchi, Osachi, 215
Geisenheimer, F., 136–8 han, 136, 152, 154
gender, 61, 65, 68, 72, 77, 80 Handbuch der Neurasthenie, 40
ideology, 65, 80 Hanley, Susan B., 161
genetics, see under medicine Hara Akira, 208
Geoltz, Friedlich Leopold, 62 Harada, Yutaka (?–1894), 22
Germany, 26, 40–1, 45, 64–6, 67, Hashimoto, Tsunatsune (1845–1909),
76–9; see also Berlin; Freiburg and 16, 22
Strassburg under universities Hattori Shpten, 213
236 I

Hayami Kenzp, 142, 144, 146, 151–4 university, 195–8

Hayashi, Tadahiro, 188 see also emperors
Hayden, van der, 22, 25 Important Industries Control Law
Hirasawa, Teruo, 224 (IICL), 208
Hiroi, Komaji, 26 impact on Japan Spinners Association,
health certificates, 61, 67, 72 223–4, 226
prenuptial, 61, 67 India
Hearn, Lafcadio, 162 as a market for Japanese textiles, 220
Hècht, Lilienthal and Company, 137, as supplier of raw cotton, 214
138, 140 trade tensions with, 209, 210, 215,
Helmholtz, Hermann von, 62 217–18, 225–6
heredity, 63, 64, 65, 69–70, 75, 79 Indonesia, 30
environmental approaches, 64, 69 influenza, 116
see also acquired characteristics; inheritance, 63–4, 69
genetics under medicine; germ of talents, 63
plasm, inheritance; Mendelian Inoue, Junnosuke (Minister of Finance),
laws; natural selection 207–8, 216, 221
Hirano, Kpsuke, 171–2 Inoue, Kaoru, 139, 153, 166
Hiratsuka, Raichp, 72–4, 76, 80; see also Inoue, Tetsujirp, 63, 64
feminists Interior, Ministry of the, 14–15, 26
Hiroshima, 198 Ise, Jpgorp (1852–?), 22
Hirschfeld, Magnus, 41 Ishiguro, Tadanori (1845–1941), 16,
history of technology, 183 22–3, 28
Hpchi newspaper, 67, 68, 73 Itp, Chuta, 195
Hokkaido, 189 Itp, Hirobumi, 136–7, 139
Holland, 1, 2 Itp, Keishin, 170–1, 173
home, 64, 72, 76 Itp Takenosuke, 223
economics, 72 Iwaki Glass, 171
Home Affairs, Ministry of, 217–18 Iwaki Tasujirp, 171
homosexuality, 37, 49 Iwakura Mission, 135, 137, 165
Hoppe-Seyler, Felix, 62 Iwasaki, Toshiya, 173–4
Horiuchi, Toshikuni (1844–95), 22
House of Peers, 63, 74, 75 Janes, L.L., 162
House of Representatives, 73–5 Japan Economic Federation (Nihon
housing, 63 Keizai Renmeikai), 225
hysteria, 41, 43, 51 Japan Federation of Cotton Woven
Goods Industrial Associations
ideas, 61–3, 73 (Menkpren), 224, 225
adaptation of, 61 Japan Federation of Cotton Yarn
transplantation of, 62 Merchant Associations, 224, 225
Western, 63 Japan Knitted Goods Export
identity, 64, 80 Association, 218, 219
Ikeda, Kensai (1841–1918), 17–18, 22 Japan Spinners Association (DaiNihon
Imamura, Rypan, 17 Bpseki Rengpkai, abbreviated
Imbry-kan, 190 Bpren), 7
immigration, 112–13 attitude toward the Important
imperial, 63, 70–1, 74 Industries Control Law,
decree, 63 223–4, 226
institutions, 71, 74 overall role, 209, 211, 216, 225–7
palace, 196 postwar emergence, 227, 232n100
 I 237

and production curtailments, 211–16, Kuratsuka, Yoshi, 108

216–24, 226 Kwantung, see under Guandong
rivalry with other business groups, (Kwantung)
224–5, 232n93
and tariff reform, 215, 217 League for the Protection of Mothers
and trade disputes with India, 210, and Sexual Reform (Germany), 67
217–18, 226 Le Bon, Gustave, 68
Jarves, James Jackson, 161–2 leprosy, 66–7
Jidp kenkyu, 45 Libbey-Owens Sheet Glass Company, 6,
jinshu, 72, 74 175–6
Johnston, William, xiv Lock, Margaret, 76–7
Löffler, Friedrich (1852–1915), 26
Kaitakushi (Colonization Ministry), 189 Low, Morris, 76, 77, 78, 80
Kajima, 186, 187
Kamio, Akira, Lt-General, 106 Maebashi filature, 142–3, 146, 152
Kanegafuchi Spinning Company Maeda, Masana, 135
(Kanebp), 214, 217, 219, 221, malaria, 23
229n47 Manchuria, xiv, 5
Katp, Hiroyuki (1836–1916), 27, 63–4, Manchurian Incident (1931), 8,
78, 80 220, 226
Kishiwada Spinning Company, 219 Manderson, Lenore, 114
Kekkon shinsetsu, see Tsuzoku kekkon Mantetsu, see South Manchuria Railway
shinsetsu Company (SMR)
Kenchiku-ka, 195 marriage, 61–5, 67–8, 70–4, 76, 78, 79
Kenchiku zasshi (Architecture arranged, 62, 70, 73, 74, 76
Journal), 194 de facto, 73
Kenkp, 161 eugenics laws, 72
Kevles, Daniel, 79 individualistic, 72
Key, Ellen, 72 inter-, 63
Kigo, Kiyoyoshi, 195 love, 68, 72; see also free love
Kiku-jutsu, 192–3, 199, 201 mixed, 64, 65, 70, 78
Kitasato, Shibasaburp (1852–1931), racial, 72
14, 29 social, 72, 73
knowledge see also crossbreeding under races;
scientific, 39 health certificates
Kobayashi, Tan (1847–94), 17–18 masculinity, 40–2, 44
Kobe, 186–7 masturbation, 37, 41–3, 47–9, 54
Kpbudaigakkp, 194, 197 Matheson, R.O., 123
Kobushp, 188 Matsubara, Ypko, 76, 79
Kpbushp kankpryp, see Akasaka Filature Medical Affairs, Office for, 14
Koch, Robert, 24–6, 28–9 medical authorities, 71, 74; see also
“Kpfuku naru kekkonhp,” 67 scientific authorities
Koganei, Yoshikiyo (1859–1944), Medical Newspaper, 16, 19
86–7 medicalization, 61, 67–8, 70, 75–7
Kpgyp Gakkp, 200 of life, 61, 77
Kpgyp Iken, 135 of marriage, 61, 67–8, 76
Korean War, 201 of race improvement theory, 70, 75
Koura, 189 medicine, 62–6, 69–80
Krafft-Ebing, Richard von, 37, 50 bacteriology, 79
Kuni no hikari, 73, 81 basic, 76
238 I

medicine—continued Miya-daiku, 185, 187, 196

Chinese-style, 6, 15–17, 19 Miyajima, Hideaki, 224
dermatology, 79 Miyajima, Seijirp, 212
Dutch, 19 Miyake Hiizu (1848–1938), 17–18,
European, 62 22, 24
genetics, 69, 71–2, 76, 79 modernization, 13–14, 31–2, 61, 74, 81
hospital, 13, 17, 29 Monist League (Germany), 67
hygiene, 62 Mori, Arinori, 165
internal, 64 Mori, Pgai, 47
Kanpp, 14–18 Morita, Shoma, 44
laboratory, 13 Morris-Suzuki, Tessa, xiii, xiv, 5, 77, 81
medical chemistry, 62 Morse, Edward S., (1838–1925), 84
modern, 66 Mueller, Casper, 142, 151, 153
obstetrics, 79 Mukp, Gunji, 49
pathology, 64, 66 Müller, Franz Carl, 40
pharmacology, 62 munitions, 8
physiology, 62, 65, 70, 74, 75, 76,
77, 78, 80 Nagai, Hisomu (1876–1957), 70,
psychiatry, 66, 79 77, 80
scientific, 13, 30 Nagasaki, 1, 62, 186
sexology, 63, 77 Nagasaki kaisho, 166
social hygiene, 66, 79 Nagoya, 187
Meerdevort, Johannes L.C. Pompe van Nagayo, Sensai (1838–1902), 14, 26–7
(1892–1908), 18–19 Naimushp (Ministry of Home
Meiji, 62, 63, 68, 71, 75–6, 79–80 Affairs), 144
Emperor, 2, 15, 21 Nakamura, Takafusa, 208
Empress, 15 Nakatani, Norihito, 192
Gakuin, 190 Naruse, Jinzp, 65, 69, 71–2, 75–6
Government, 141, 150–1, 153 National Eugenics Law (1941), 5,
reforms, 63 70, 75
Restoration (1867–8), 1, 14–15, 32, nationalism, 71
62, 135, 186, 192 nationalistic, 63, 67, 70
Mendelian laws, 65, 69; see also nation-building, 61, 65, 73
biological determinism Natsume Spseki, 178
menstruation, 83, 87–96 natural selection, 66
Meyer, Julia, 65 navy, 15, 21, 23
Miasma, 17, 22–3, 28, 31 NEC, xiii
military, 40, 47 Nemoto, Shp, 73–4, 75–6, 81
administration, 43 nervous system, 68–9
decline, 45 female, 68
medicine, 44 neurasthenia, 3, 37, 39–41, 43–4, 51–4
physical, 42 Nichi-bei Ita Garasu Kabushiki Gaisha,
uniform, 40 see America-Japan Sheet Glass
Minbushp, 137, 139, 153, 155 Company
Minseitp, 216, 221 Nihon Garasu Gaisha, 170–1
minzoku, 70, 72, 79, 80, 81; see also Niigata, 190
Yamato minzoku Nikkp, 187
Mito, 168 Nishikawa, Hiroshi, 212
Mitsubishi “Zero” Fighter, 8 Nishimura Katsuzp, 169–70
Mitsui Bussan, 166 Nishio Suehiro, 217
 I  239

Nisshin Spinning Company, 212, 219 Pettenkofer, Max von (1818–1901),

Npshpmushp (Ministry of Agriculture 19, 26
and Commerce), 135, 154 physicians, 61, 72
nutrition, 14, 21–2, 44, 51, 64, 69, 70 physiologists, 61–2, 69–70, 74–5,
Mal-, 69 77; see also physiology under
see also diet medicine
Pioneer, xiii
Pbayashi, Ukonji, 62; see also Psawa, pneumonic plague, 109–10
Kenji (1852–1927) poison, 16, 18–19
Oberländer, Christian, 3 Port Arthur (Ryojun), 106, 116
Odaka, Atsutada, 139, 145, 15–4 potency, 39
Pgata, Masanori (1855–1919), 13, production curtailments (spgyp tanshuku,
22–3, 26–30 abbreviated sptan), 211
Pkuma, Shigenobu, 2, 5, 9, 47, 137–8 1927–1929, 211–16
Okura, 186 after, 1930, 216–24
Pkurashp (Ministry of Finance), 137, overall assessment, 226
152–3 program of industrialization, see
Osaka, 2, 14, 171, 186, 190 shokusan kpgyp
Osaka Gpdp Spinning Company, 212 psychiatry, 37, 39, 48
Psawa, Gakutarp (1863–1920), 65 psychology, 37
Psawa, Genryu, 62 pedagogy, 37, 39, 48
Psawa, Kenji (1852–1927), 4, 22, public health, 106–7
61–81 Public Works, Ministry of, 7, 197,
collaboration with Hiratsuka Raichp, 198, 199
72–4, 76
collaboration with Naruse Jinzp, 65, quarantine, 74, 113
71–2, 74, 76 quinine, 16
collaboration with Nemoto Shp,
73–4, 76 race(s), 42, 44–5, 61, 63–4, 66, 68–76,
early life of, 62–3 77–9, 83–90, 92–4, 96–7
genetic ideas of, 69–70 betterment, 63, 64
on marriage, 64–71 Caucasoid, 63
and medicalization of race commercialization of, 68
improvement theory, 61, crossbreeding, 63–4
67–71 human, 66
as physiologist, 61, 69, 70, 74–5, 77 improvement, 61, 63, 64, 66, 68, 69,
as scientific authority, 75 70–3, 75–6
as statist, 73–4 inferior status of, 61, 63, 64, 70, 76
as Tokyo University Professor, 62–3, Japanese, 61, 63, 64, 70, 74, 76, 78
70, 73 marriage, 72
Oshima, Mitumoto, 189 mongoloid, 63
Oslers, 165 popularization of, 68
Otsubo, Sumiko, 4, 5 pure, 64; see also minzoku
oyatoi gaikokujin, 62, 190 white, 63, 71; see also whitening
yellow, 71; see also Yamato minzoku
Pacific War (1941–5), 8 racial, 61, 66, 69, 71–2, 80
Pasteur, Louis, 25 degeneration, see under
Pauer, Erich, xiii degeneration
Perrins, Robert, 5 difference, 80
Perry, Commodore Matthew C., 1, 2 hierarchy, 61
240 I

racial—continued Sei no shinri, 37–8

marriage, 72 Seirgakuijp yori mitaru fujin no
stock, 69 honbun, 67
supremacy, 71 Seiyoku to jinsei, 37
Racial Hygiene Society (Berlin), 66 Seiyukai, 221
Ragsdale, Kathryn, 67, 79 Sekkei/Sekp, 187
reformers, 61, 73, 74, 75 sex, 66, 67, 68, 70, 72, 77, 79
Christian, 74, 75 sexology, 37
social, 61, 73, 74, 75 see also under medicine; science of sex
reforms, 63, 64, 67, 71, 75 sexual
reproduction, 61, 63, 64, 66–9, 70, abstinence, 39
72, 75 behavior, 39, 50, 54
revolution, 54 desire, 44, 51–2
rice, 22–3, 25, 31 dysfunction, 50
Rich Nation, Strong Army, see fukoku health, 51
kyphei immorality, 39
Russia, 2 knowledge, 47, 50
Ryujp, 21 organs, 51–2
Ryukyu, 83, 87–90, 92–3 perversion, 41
Ryukyuan, 4 practices, 48
sexuality, 73
Sahkarov, Vladmir, 107–8, 109 Shakaiteki eisei taishitsu kairypron, 66,
Sakujikata, 188, 193, 196 67, 70–2, 79, 80–1
Samuels, Richard J., 5 Shibata, Tsuguyoshi (1850–1910), 26
Samurai, 62, 70, 78, 80; see also bushidp Shibusawa, Eiichi, 137–9, 141, 152, 154
(the way of warriors); warrior Shimada, Magoichi, 170, 173–4
under class Shimada Glassworks, 173
sanitation bylaws, 114, 115 Shima Trading Company, 175
Sano, Tsunetami, 145, 154 Shimizu, 186–8
Sapporo, 189–90 Shimizu Keiichi, 197
Sapporo Hokaikan, 189 Shinagawa Glassworks, 168–71
Sasaki, Tpyp (1838–1918), 17 Shinto, 62, 70, 186, 188, 195
Satomi, Giichirp, 19 Shogunal Institute of European
Sawada, Junjirp, 37 Medicine, 62
science of sex, 39 Shokkp Gakkp, 197, 200
sciences, 61–2, 64–6, 69, 72, 75, shokusan kpgyp, 1, 135–6, 140
76–8, 80 Shufu no tomo, 54
biology, 64–5, 69, 76 silk industry, 6
cytology, 64 smallpox, 3
physics, 62, 77 social Darwinism, 5, 64, 71, 83–5,
Western, 61 88–9, 94–5, 97
Zoology, 65, 76, 78 soldier, 42
see also eugenics Sotomi, Tetsujirp, 218–19
scientific authorities, 61, 74–5; see also South Manchuria Railway Company
medical authorities (SMR), 107, 114–15
Screech, Timon, 1 hospital, Dairen, 103–4, 120–3
Scriba, Julius (1848–1905), 22 railworks Shahekou, 104, 106
security of the nation, 37 soya bean trade, 110, 113
seigaku, 39 Speed, James, 169, 173
seikagaku, 39 Spencer, Herbert, 84–5, 97
 I 241

state, 62, 70, 72–5, 79–81 Tokugawa, Iemochi (1846–66), 14

family, 70 Tokugawa, Iesada (1824–58), 14
Japanese, 74 Tokyo, 2, 62
see also government Academy, 64
State Council, see Dajpkan rebuilding, 201
steam University, see under universities
engines, 1, 139, 145 see also Edo
reeling, 139, 144 Tokyo Medical Journal, 16, 24, 28
Stepan, Nancy, 77–8 Tomioka Silk Filature, 5, 135, 138–9,
sterilization, 72, 74 141–2, 144–6, 150–5
Study in the Psychology of Sex, 38 Torii, Ryuzp (1870–1953), 86–7
subcontractors, 188 Tpyp gakugei zasshi, 64
Sugita, Yosaburp, 175–6 Tpyp Glass Manufacturing
Sugiura, Yuzuru, 139–41 Company, 176
suicide, 42 toyomori see chambon
Suzuki, Zenji, 76–8, 80–1 Tpyp Spinning Company
syphilis, 66, 72 (Tpypbp), 212
traditions, 62, 74, 76, 81
Tachikawa, Tomokata, 188–9 invented, 76, 81
Taisei, 186 Traweek, Sharon, 76, 77
Taishitsu kairypron, see Shakaiteki eisei treaties, 162
taishitsu kairypron Tsuboi, Shpgorp (1863–1913), 86–7
Taishp, 71 Tsuda, Mamichi, 167
Taiwan, 83, 87–93 Tsuda, Shingp, 221
Taiyp, 48 Tsukiji, 1, 187
Takagi, Kanehiro (1849–1920), 20–3, Tsukuba, 21
28–9 Tsuzoku kekkon shinsetsu, 67–73, 78–81
Takahashi, Korekiyo (Minister of tuberculosis, 25, 66–8, 115–16
Finance), 208–9, 221
Takahashi, Yoshio, 63–4, 78 Uesugi, Senpachi, 175
Takayama Kentarp, 171 Ukeoi-shi, 186–8, 190, 193
Takenaka, Komuten, 186–8 undesirability, 63, 72
Takenaka, Touemon, 187 unequal treaties, 63–4
Taniguchi, Fusazp, 212 unfitness, 61, 66, 69, 72, 74; see also
Tanizaki Junichirp, 164, 177 undesirability
Tariffs, 165–6 United States of America, xiii, 41, 45
Tatsuno, Kingo, 196 Stock market crash in, 216
tavelle, 146, 147, 149 as supplier of raw cotton,
Taylor, Wallace (1835–1923), 25, 27 210, 214
Taylorism, 184 universities, 62–5, 70–1, 73–5, 77
technology transfer, 6, 135–6, 190 Berlin, 62
telegraph, 1 faculty of medicine, 63
temperance, 61, 73–5 Freiburg, 64, 65, 79
Terada Tatsumi, 210 Leipzig, 26
Terazawa, Yuki, 4–5, 76, 80 Strassburg, 62
Tiegel, Ernst, 62 Tokyo, 62–5, 70, 73, 74, 77
Tpda, Chpan (1819–89), 17 see also colleges
Todani, Ginzaburp, 104 U.S.–Japan Treaty of Amity and
Tpkaidp, 189 Commerce, 2
Tokugawa, 62, 67, 80–1, 139, 153, 155 Utagawa, Yoshitora, 1
242 I

venereal diseases, 66, 68, 72, 73; see also Witte, Sergei, 107
gonorrhea; syphilis Wittner, David, 5–7
Versuch über die Nervenkrankheiten, 40 women, 61, 64–70, 72–6, 78, 80;
see also education; female under
Walton, Thomas, 168, 169 bodies
Wangjiatian reservoir, 118
war, 65, 67, 71, 74 Yamamoto, Senji, 50
Russo-Japanese (1904–5), 31, 67, 71, Yamao, Ypzp, 138
74, 106, 107 Yamato minzoku (Japanese race), 69–70
Seinan Civil (1877), 15 Yamazaki, Masashige (1872–1950), 4,
Sino-Japanese (1894–5), 31, 65, 67 83, 87–96
World War I, 43, 67 Yamazaki, Motomichi, 28
World War II, 52, 201 Yasuda, Tokutarp, 50
wasan, 192 yellow scare, 71
Watanabe, Kanae (1858–?), 25 Yokohama, 2, 186, 189–90, 201
wayp setchu, 7, 189–91, 199, 200 Yokosuka Navy Yard and Iron Works,
Weindling, Paul, 78–9 188–9
Weismann, August, 64–5, 69
Wernich, Agathon, 18 zaguri, 138
Western diet, 42 Zaibatsu, 186, 189, 191, 193, 202
whitening, 63, 78; see also white under Zairai-kp hp, 184
races Zpkagaku-shi, 195