Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Sugita Genpaku had just left his residence at Shin-Ōhashi and arrived at Nagasaki-ya Gen’emon’s place in Honmoku-chō 3-chōme a little past the Hour of the Snake. Guided by a familiar clerk into interpreter Nishi Zenzaburō’s room, upon entering and looking around he found Ryōtaku already present—exactly as he had been the day before—seated with an air of composure. After finishing his greeting to Zenzaburō, Genpaku turned toward Ryōtaku and— “Good morning! I must apologize for yesterday,” he greeted.

Yet Ryōtaku merely inclined his glossy head of traditional topknot slightly and did not so much as smile—his pale, high-nosed face bearing faint ammonite-like patterns remaining impassive.

Genpaku felt his customary twinge of displeasure. He had long known of Maeno Ryōtaku - physician to the Lord of Nakatsu. To this man's renowned erudition, he had paid considerable respect. Yet meeting him personally brought an inexplicable inability to feel closeness. Five or six times already he had shared meetings with Ryōtaku here. Twice last year when the Dutch Captain lodged at this inn. Three or four times in these seven days since the Captain's arrival in Edo on the twentieth.

And yet, he could not bring himself to feel close to this man. That being said, he neither disliked Ryōtaku nor bore him any hatred. Yet, every time they sat together, he felt a strange sense of intimidation from Ryōtaku. Whenever he sat with Ryōtaku, the awareness of Ryōtaku’s presence clung to his nerves and would not leave. Ryōtaku's every move weighed on him. His every frown and smile weighed on him. The more he tried not to care, the more it weighed on him.

Yet whenever Genpaku saw Ryōtaku’s attitude—one that seemed to show almost no regard for him—he found himself unable to keep his feelings toward the man from becoming increasingly complicated.

In Nagasaki, access to the Dutch trading house was strictly regulated under established protocols, but here at Nagasaki-ya—the inn where the Captain was staying during his time in Edo—comings and goings remained entirely unrestricted, as it was only a temporary arrangement. Consequently, those dedicated to Dutch-style medicine, herbology, material sciences, and the study of principles—along with curiosity-driven hatamoto and wealthy merchants—flocked there daily. Rarely did a day pass without seeing figures like Noro Genjō of the medical profession; Yasutomi Kiseki, physician to the Lord of Yamagata; Nakagawa Jun’an from the same domain; Aono Chōbei—a purveyor at Kuramae known for his inquisitiveness; Hiraga Gennai, a ronin from Sanuki domain; Hosoi Kian, a Buddhist monk attendant; and Okubo Suiko, a Confucian scholar.

Such gatherings would pose various questions to the Dutch Captain through unreliable interpreters. These were mostly trivial foolish inquiries about Dutch exotic customs and manners. When the Captain’s answers revealed those to be nonsensical questions, everyone doubled over laughing.

Moreover, when shown instruments like the Weerglas (barometer), Thermometer (thermometer), and Donderlas (electrometer), they would delightedly clamor like children encountering a rare toy. Yet at such times, it was Ryōtaku who sat looking down coldly upon the gathering. He never posed the sort of foolish questions everyone else asked. He remained silent throughout, a faint smile—neither quite a sneer nor a grin—curling at the corner of his lips as he listened.

Even when the gathering laughed frivolously, his firmly closed mouth remained resolutely shut. Yet whenever a particular issue had exhausted the group’s inquiries and they naturally quieted down, Ryōtaku would invariably pose one or two probing questions. To the members of the gathering, there were even many times they could not grasp the meaning of his questions. Yet when the Dutch Captain received such questions through the interpreter, he would always widen his eyes in apparent surprise, abruptly adopt a solemn demeanor, and proceed to deliver lengthy responses as was his custom.

The members of the gathering seemed not to pay any mind to Ryōtaku’s demeanor—that air of acting superior as if he alone were above them all—but Genpaku alone found it strangely, unbearably irksome.

Just yesterday, another such incident occurred. To put it another way, it was nothing significant, but Captain Kalan—likely for amusement—took out a small bag and showed it to everyone. The interpreter, having received Captain Kalan’s instruction, said: “Captain Kalan says you should try opening this bag’s mouth.” “Whoever succeeds shall be given this bag.” Captain Kalan’s fully bearded face broke into a broad grin as he smiled cheerfully.

The gathering were quite entertained. First, Hosoi Kian took it up. However, the impatient man fiddled with it for a short while, then immediately cast it aside. “Let me see—this humble one shall try,” said Yasutomi Kiseki as he picked up the bag with an air of scrutiny, but after pondering it for a time, he too found himself at a loss and cast it aside. The bag passed from hand to hand among the members of the gathering. Each time someone failed, the gathering erupted in boisterous laughter. Captain Kalan watched everyone struggling to open it, gleefully beaming all the while.

When the bag reached Genpaku’s hands, he too picked it up with a beaming smile. The bag’s opening had a metal fitting. It was likely some sort of puzzle mechanism. Genpaku tried pressing and pulling various parts, but the opening did not budge even a fraction. He had finally been defeated by it. He tried to pass it to the next person with a wry smile. However, by that time, most members of the gathering had already attempted it. Only to Ryōtaku, who sat at Genpaku’s right hand, did everyone find it difficult to pass the bag, for he remained too rigidly composed.

“Mr. Maeno, how about you?”

Genpaku casually tried to hand it to Ryōtaku. But Ryōtaku remained coldly indifferent and made no move to take it. He likely found it utterly galling that the gathering was so engrossed in such a trivial plaything. No—as a man who should be a scholar-official, he must have found it bitterly galling to see them so adroitly outwitted by the Dutch Captain over such a trivial plaything. He did not even deign to glance at the bag Genpaku held out.

The bag remained placed between Genpaku and Ryōtaku, and the gathering had grown somewhat awkward.

But just at that opportune moment, Hiraga Gennai entered belatedly. When he heard about the bag from the members of the gathering, he casually picked it up—and in an instant, opened it. The gathering overflowed with voices praising Gennai’s extraordinary talent. His extraordinary talent rescued the gathering from their awkwardness.

However, that something within Genpaku—neither quite obstinacy nor resentment toward Ryōtaku—had begun to take definite form in his heart from this time onward.

When Ryōtaku was present at the gathering, Genpaku found himself unable to voice even half of the questions that arose in his mind. Whenever he considered that Ryōtaku might already understand what he wished to ask, posing those questions felt like confessing his own ignorance before him—something he simply could not bring himself to do. Genpaku felt deeply ashamed within his heart of such concerns for outward appearances and pretense. Yet even as he burned with this shame, he remained bound by it. Though parched with thirst for knowledge of Dutch affairs, scholarship, and above all medical arts, some perverse obstinacy kept him from asking questions freely.

On that day too, he had wanted to meet Zenzaburō alone before the others arrived—particularly before Ryōtaku’s arrival. He had wished to voice his long-cherished desire to read Dutch script and ask Zenzaburō whether such an ambition might be possible. For this purpose, having come half an hour earlier than the previous day, Genpaku found Ryōtaku already present before him—a considerable blow.

But he was ashamed of his own excessive preoccupation with Ryōtaku. He, taking advantage of Ryōtaku being the only one present, attempted to state his true aspiration. “Mr. Nishi! “Today I wish to pressingly inquire something of you—this is not my customary way. “In general, can we foreigners read what is called Dutch script? “Or is it that no matter how hard one may toil, it cannot be read? “I ask that you give me an honest answer. “as we have circumstances of which we are aware.”

Genpaku’s inquiry brimmed with sincerity. Nishi nodded two or three times, as if commending Genpaku’s enthusiasm. However, the answer he gave was negative. He answered with the lively tone characteristic of people from the Saikai region. “Well now, that’s something three or four others have asked about as well.” “However, when we answer, we can only say, ‘I must advise against it.’” “No matter how much you may toil, it will ultimately prove beyond your reach.” “To put it plainly, even among us interpreters, those who truly comprehend Dutch script number no more than one or two.” “The rest of us merely transcribe the sounds phonetically using kana, memorize them by rote, and thus manage to fulfill our duties as needed.” “To attempt understanding each and every word of their language is ultimately beyond our reach as foreigners.” “To give an example—when we wish to ask their country’s Captain or sailors how to say drinking water or sake—at first we have no choice but to inquire through gestures.” “Holding a teacup or such, mimicking pouring, bringing it to one’s mouth and asking ‘What is this?’—they would teach us ‘Derinkī.’” “Derinkī is understood to mean drinking.” “Up to this point, there’s no difficulty.” “However, when we attempt to proceed one step further and inquire about distinguishing heavy drinkers from light drinkers, we find ourselves utterly perplexed.” “There is no method to inquire through gestures alone.” “Even if we frequently mimic drinking to demonstrate heavy drinkers, it does not get through to the other party at all.” “So then—there are those who drink much yet do not favor sake, and those who drink little yet do favor it—based on appearance alone, one cannot at all distinguish between heavy drinkers and light drinkers.” “Thus, when it comes to matters of emotion, no matter how exhaustively one gestures, there exists no method to inquire.”

“I see.” “That is most reasonable.” Genpaku could not help but nod at the reasonableness of his counterpart’s reply.

Seeing Genpaku nod in agreement, Nishi continued speaking with a touch of pride. “As an example of the Dutch language’s difficulty, there are matters such as this.” “There is a word called *Aanterecken*.” “It means ‘to like’ or ‘to be fond of,’ but we interpreters—born into families of interpreters—learned this word from childhood and used it countless times without ever grasping its meaning. It was only when I reached fifty years of age, during this very journey, that I finally came to understand it.” “*Aan* means ‘origin.’” “*Terekken* means ‘to pull.’” “*Aanterecken* means the desire to pull something from afar into one’s grasp.” “To be fond of sake means the desire to draw it close to oneself.” “To *Aanterecken* one’s homeland means to yearn for it so deeply that one wishes to draw it close at hand.” “Thus, even a single word can be so difficult that those like us—who have been in close contact with Dutch people since childhood—still find it nearly impossible to grasp.” “Not to mention those living in Edo—it is ultimately an impossible endeavor.” “You must be aware of this as well.” “Lords Norō Genjō and Aoki Bunzō, among others, have been coming to this inn year after year on official business and exerting themselves no small amount, yet it seems they have not achieved any satisfactory understanding.” “You as well would do well to abandon such aspirations without fail.”

Nishi said this as if he himself had long since abandoned all hope. “Indeed, that stands to reason.”

Genpaku, too, had no choice but to answer in kind. With the other party persistently discouraging him, he could hardly press further to inquire about methods of learning. “Indeed, if you, the chief interpreter, hold such convictions, then no matter how we may resolve ourselves, it is beyond our reach.” “In the end, we have no choice but to resign ourselves.”

It was when Genpaku had casually said so.

Ryōtaku, who had remained silent until now listening to the exchange between Nishi and Genpaku, suddenly interjected.

“No, your words hold merit, gentlemen—yet our circumstances differ.” “However men may speak of the Dutch people, there exists no principle by which writings forged by human hands cannot be grasped by human minds.” “The Chinese characters we daily wield and the teachings of Confucius and Mencius we scholar-officials uphold—at their first arrival, they too must have been wholly impenetrable mysteries, no different from Dutch script today.” “Our distant ancestors surely labored bitterly to parse them word by halting word.” “It is through those forebears’ struggles that eight hundred million souls across two millennia have bathed in their legacy’s bounty.” “This truth shapes Ryōtaku’s purpose.” “For those who follow after us—we are steeled to endure even bone-carving trials without flinching.” “Mr. Sugita—do not forsake your resolve! Begin!” “Though I stand forty-nine years old this year—I mean to strive until breath fails me.”

Genpaku could not help feeling deeply ashamed upon hearing Ryōtaku’s resolve. Hearing that vigorous resolve, he could not help feeling profoundly ashamed. He could not help seeing this as valuable admonition directed at himself. Yet he could not help feeling considerable displeasure at how abruptly the other party had touched upon a vital spot he wished left undisturbed. He could not help feeling distinct resentment toward Ryōtaku, who had pressed forward with utter seriousness toward what was, on his part, half a greeting he struggled to deliver—without the slightest allowance for awkwardness.

II

It was not more than five days later that Genpaku acquired the Dutch book *Tafel Anatomia*. Genpaku’s aspiration had originally been rooted in Dutch-style medical techniques. The reason he desired to learn Dutch was that he wished to thoroughly read Dutch books on medical treatments and pharmaceuticals through it. Therefore, when he was shown *Tafel Anatomia* by an interpreter, he could not help but widen his eyes in astonishment and delight. When he saw the exquisitely detailed illustrations of internal organs, bones, and joints rendered in deep red and blue, it seemed to him that all the profound mysteries concerning the human body lay unraveled there. Though he could not read a single character—not even half of one—of the Dutch letters running between the illustrations like decorative patterns, his heart could not help but be filled with fierce curiosity and profound emotion. He coveted it from the depths of his heart. The price—three ryo—was an exorbitant sum for him, whose stipend was a mere twenty-five koku. But he gave no thought to the consequences. After handing over a small silver coin he had on him as a deposit to the interpreter, he rushed back to his domain residence to secure funds.

The place he rushed to was the residence of Chief Retainer Oka Shinzaemon. Oka had long held goodwill toward Genpaku. When he heard Genpaku’s earnest request, “You may go to the trouble of acquiring it, but will it prove useful?” “If it proves useful, I shall arrange to have the price lowered from above and secure it for you.”

When answered thus, Genpaku too was stirred with determination. “Though I have no definite aim in this, I will make it useful without fail and present it to you”—he could not help but vow. Just then, a man named Ogura Saemon had joined the gathering. “I earnestly request that you prepare it. Mr. Sugita would not be one to let that go to waste,” he advised.

Having made *Tafel Anatomia* his own, Genpaku hopped about with joy.

III

It was March 3rd. Genpaku went to Nagasaki-ya that day as well. Because the Shogunate’s audience with the Dutch people had concluded without incident the previous day, the Dutch Captain, along with two clerks and interpreters of all ranks, had all become relieved in spirit; thus, the meeting grew unusually lively. Finally, at the end, the Dutch Captain brought out a rare wine called Chintaku and hosted everyone.

That day, aside from Ryōtaku’s absence, the gathering consisted entirely of physicians—Nakagawa Jun’an, Kosugi Genteki, Mine Haruyasu, Toriyama Shōen, and others—so the conversation remained narrowly focused and tense. Notably, since Bubble, one of the clerks, was a skilled surgeon, everyone surrounded him and voraciously fired off various questions. In particular, Mine Haruyasu was eagerly listening to the bloodletting technique.

As the long spring day drew to a close and the Dutch withdrew for their evening meal, everyone emerged from their tense dialogue and let out a collective sigh of relief. It was just as they were hurrying to prepare to return. From Nakagawa Jun’an’s private residence, a servant came rushing in with a document box marked with red paper.

Jun’an picked up the document box marked urgent with a slightly uneasy expression, but as he read through the letter inside, his anxious countenance crumbled into joy.

“Gentlemen! Rejoice! Our long-cherished wish has been fulfilled! Tomorrow, there will be a dissection at Kotsugahara! A dissection!” He exclaimed joyfully and showed the letter to everyone present. It was a confidential report letter from Tokunō Manbei, a retainer of Magistrate Magaribuchi Kai-no-kami, informing them that on March 4th at Senju Kotsugahara, a certain surgeon would perform a dissection. “A dissection! A dissection!”

Everyone voiced their delight in unison. For Jun’an, Genteki, Genpaku, and others who aspired to Dutch-style medical techniques, observing internal organs had been a long-cherished wish for years. But that opportunity had not been easily obtained. Above all, having recently heard new accounts from Bubble about the internal structures of the body, their long-cherished wish for a dissection now burned all the more fiercely, as if fuel had been poured on it. Above all, when Genpaku heard about the dissection, he could not suppress his soaring spirits. He had been waiting for the day of dissection with the impatience of a thousand autumns condensed into a single day since obtaining *Tafel Anatomia*. He knew that the illustrations in *Tafel Anatomia* differed completely from all the theories of the ancients. He wanted to confirm this through actual observation as soon as possible.

The faces of everyone in the gathering were radiant with joy. “In that case, let us immediately return home tonight and retire for rest, then gather tomorrow at dawn at the teahouse at the exit of Sanyachō.” Jun’an looked around at those gathered. The gathering immediately agreed to it.

At that moment, Ryōtaku’s face suddenly floated into Genpaku’s mind. He knew that Ryōtaku too harbored an ardent hope to witness the dissection—one no less fervent than anyone else’s in the gathering. Even if Ryōtaku was absent from this meeting, he felt certain the man should not be excluded from tomorrow’s pivotal event. Yet he found himself unable to utter Ryōtaku’s name casually. Lingering resentment made the words stick in his throat. Worse still, a faintly spiteful thought stirred within him: that Ryōtaku—with his habitual air of superiority toward their group—deserved to miss this crucial opportunity as a fitting lesson.

Moreover, since no one else had noticed Ryōtaku’s absence, he saw no reason to draw particular attention to it himself.

But as the gathering began to rise as it was, Genpaku’s heart grew increasingly tormented. A pang of guilt lashed at his heart. He could not remain unaware of the baseness of his own attitude toward Ryōtaku.

He could no longer remain silent. “There’s Mr. Maeno! “There’s Mr. Maeno!” “I would like to somehow manage to inform Mr. Maeno as well.” At such times, Genpaku himself felt a bright mood, as if saved.

“Oh! There’s Mr. Maeno! “I had completely forgotten about Mr. Maeno. “We absolutely must send word to Mr. Maeno—it cannot be done otherwise!”

Genteki immediately responded to it. But the others did not seem particularly enthusiastic. Jun’an said as if making an excuse. “We would like to inform Mr. Maeno as well, but his residence in Koji-machi is quite a distance.” “It’s already well past nightfall—there’s no means to send word now.” “There will be another opportunity for Mr. Maeno.” Genpaku wondered whether he should remain silent after all. His own feelings were settled with this. He had thought there was neither obligation nor responsibility requiring that Maeno absolutely must be made to participate in tomorrow’s undertaking. Yet, precisely because he was aware of a part of his heart that secretly rejoiced in Ryōtaku’s absence, remaining silent in this manner weighed heavily on his conscience.

“But I cannot definitively say there are no means to send word. At Honmoku-cho’s gate, there must surely be couriers stationed. If we draft a letter and leave it with them, our message will not fail to reach him.”

Genpaku’s idea proved to be a brilliant plan given the circumstances. “That is most admirable foresight.” Everyone in the gathering agreed to it. Genteki immediately set about writing the letter. Even as Genpaku himself had called for Ryōtaku’s inclusion, he could not deny that a part of him stirred with regret. But when he suddenly thought of the *Tafel Anatomia* he possessed, a different emotion stirred within him. He considered the triumphant feeling he would have when presenting that rare book before everyone. Especially in front of Ryōtaku—in front of Ryōtaku, who he always felt subtly intimidated by—he considered his own feelings of opening and showing *Tafel Anatomia*.

He thought that summoning Ryōtaku had, after all, been the right thing to do.

Four

On the morning of March 4th, Genpaku left his domain residence at Shin-Ōhashi around the second hour of the Tiger, passed through Asakusabashi and Kuramae, emerged onto Hirokōji, and arrived at the teahouse at Sanya-chō’s exit via Baba-michi just as Sensō-ji’s sixth-hour bell at dawn resounded grandly through the pale lavender sky of spring’s early light.

When he went up to the teahouse’s tatami room, Genteki and Ryōtaku were already sitting facing each other around a brazier in the chilly morning air of the room. When Genpaku saw that Ryōtaku—who resided in Koji-machi Hirakawa-chō—had arrived before him, he could not help but feel considerable surprise in his heart. When Ryōtaku saw Genpaku enter, he bowed with uncharacteristic politeness. “Mr. Sugita! Last night, I heard that through your esteemed mediation, you sent a messenger—I am deeply grateful.” “Thanks to your assistance, I am profoundly gratified to partake in such a rare undertaking.”

Indeed, when thanked directly and sincerely, Genpaku could not help but feel somewhat ashamed within himself of his previous feelings toward Ryōtaku.

Genteki interjected from the side.

“Mr. Sugita! It seems Mr. Maeno has not slept a wink since last night. The messenger arrived around midnight, and he left his residence around the second hour of the Ox, they say. Even during that time, whenever he thought of today’s undertaking, his heart would leap with such excitement that he could not sleep a wink, they say.”

When Genpaku learned that Ryōtaku’s fervor surpassed even his own, he could not help but feel a certain loneliness—as though he fell short of Ryōtaku in every regard. But even such loneliness was immediately comforted when he thought of the *Tafel Anatomia* he carried in his breast pocket. When he thought that he alone at today’s gathering possessed this rare book, such loneliness toward Ryōtaku vanished immediately.

Before long, Jun’an appeared. About a quarter of an hour later, Mine Haruyasu and Ryōen arrived together. When the six had assembled, they set off together toward Kotsugahara.

While letting the spring dawn’s gentle breeze brush against their faces, the six of them chattered excitedly. All six were well past middle age, yet their hearts were leaping with anticipation. The pace of the six had unconsciously quickened. The short-statured Jun’an often tended to lag behind. Genpaku was thinking about when to take out the *Tafel Anatomia* and present it to everyone. He had thought to present it earlier at the teahouse in Sanya-chō but had ultimately failed to find the right moment.

As they approached Kotsugahara’s execution ground, on a roadside zelkova tree facing the highway hung the head of an old woman who seemed to have been recently executed. When they realized that torso would be dissected that day, the six could not help but feel a slight sense of discomfort. The hinin-gashira guided the six men to the yoriki outpost at the execution ground’s entrance. Until the preparations for the dissection were complete, the six had to wait there. Genpaku, while thinking *now was the moment*, reached for the *Tafel Anatomia* in his breast pocket.

But at the same moment, as if Ryōtaku had suddenly remembered something, he untied the furoshiki bundle he held in his right hand and said—

“Indeed! “Indeed! I have something to present to all of you. When I had gone to Nagasaki last year, I acquired and brought back a Dutch anatomical text that I had been keeping in my possession…”

While saying this, he took out a volume from the cloth-wrapped bundle and presented it before everyone. Genteki, with eyes shining with curiosity, received it. Five pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon it all at once. But when Genpaku saw it at a glance, he could not help but doubt his own eyes. It was a book of the identical edition and printing as the *Tafel Anatomia* he carried in his breast pocket, without a hair’s breadth of difference. He stood dumbfounded, utterly speechless. The last bastion he had believed he could assert against Ryōtaku had now been cruelly trampled. But Genpaku could not very well refrain from producing the book he carried in his breast pocket.

“Mr. Maeno, have you been in possession of this for some time?” “In truth, I too have recently acquired a copy.” Genpaku revealed it nonchalantly. But none of the pride or ceremoniousness he had anticipated since last night for this moment of revelation could be detected. It felt like chewing on bitter garlic chives.

But when Ryōtaku saw that, he appeared truly astonished from the heart. He took up the book Genpaku had presented and examined its cover and frontispiece by flipping through them.

“This is unmistakably the same book!” “This is a most wondrous coincidence.” “A true marvel of happenstance!”

While saying this, Ryōtaku clapped his hands repeatedly. Ryōtaku’s demeanor was as open and broad-minded as the sky.

“That your esteemed self and this humble scholar should both unwittingly possess *Tafel Anatomia*—this must indeed be deemed an auspicious portent for Dutch medicine’s flourishing in our realm.” Ryōtaku continued these words with a booming laugh. He indicated a particular diagram in the text while addressing Genpaku.

“Pray observe!” “This is what we call *long*—the lung.” “This is what we call *hart*—the heart.” “This is what we call *maag*—the stomach.” “This is what we call *milt*—the spleen.” “The theories stated in the medical classics—the five viscera and six entrails, the lung’s six lobes, the liver’s three lobes on the left and four on the right—bear no resemblance whatsoever [to what we see here].” “Today is precisely the day we must determine whether the Chinese theories are correct or the Dutch illustrations hold true.”

Ryōtaku’s face glowed with excitement in pursuit of natural principles. As Genpaku encountered Ryōtaku’s lofty yet fervent spirit, he found himself forgetting the strange fixations that had lingered in his heart without realizing it.

Five

Eventually, the six people proceeded together to the organ observation site.

In part of the execution ground, a crude temporary hut had been constructed using straw mats. A certain hand physician, along with three minor officials and two assistant officers, were waiting together. The corpse, as anticipated, was that of the old woman whose head alone was displayed on the gibbet. The old woman was known as Aocha-baa, a woman who had committed the grave crime of killing numerous adopted children. Though said to have been famed for her beauty in youth, even now that she had exceeded fifty years of age, not a single wrinkle marred her white, corpulent body.

The one holding the sword was Toramatsu, a minor official nearing ninety. He was a hale old man with dark reddish skin that gave the impression that the fat from an executed criminal’s corpse might be oozing out.

He boasted that since his youth, he had handled numerous dissections and taken apart several bodies. Although the six of them were fired up in their pursuit of scientific truth, the moment they beheld that headless, pallid, misshapen corpse, not one of them could help turning their face away. Due to the grotesque sensations assailing their eyes and noses, the chests of the six tightened. But Ryōtaku, Jun’an, and Genpaku all wore desperate expressions as they endured the sensations. The elderly minor official took hold of a honed deba knife in a reverse grip and began to cut open the corpse’s chest with thick, wet sounds, as though cleaving the flesh of a beast. From the corpse, whose head had been severed less than half an hour prior, blood that had just begun to congeal seeped thickly wherever the deba knife’s tip advanced.

The chest was the first to be cut open. Both Ryōtaku and Genpaku, while opening the chest diagrams in *Tafel Anatomia*, were intently comparing them with the corpse’s chest as it was being split open in vivid crimson.

What an extraordinary marvel this must have been for Ryōtaku and Genpaku. Not a single bone being split by the deba knife’s edge, nor any muscle, nor the white strange streaks running like webs between flesh, nor the pale rising fat, nor the lungs splayed repulsively throughout the thoracic cavity, nor even the crimson peach-like heart peeking from beneath the left lung—none differed by so much as a hair’s breadth from *Tafel Anatomia*’s diagrams.

Ryōtaku, Genpaku, and the other four were rendered speechless by profound astonishment. Next, the abdomen was cut open. There, the stomach that had been revealed, the intestines hunched in grotesque forms, even the nameless organs hidden in the stomach's shadow—not a hair’s breadth differed from the Dutch diagrams.

When the old executioner stopped his hand holding the deba knife, Ryōtaku cried out as if regaining his senses for the first time.

“Utterly correct!” “Utterly correct!” “Not a hair’s breadth differs from the Dutch book’s illustrations.” “The various theories of Japan and China spanning a thousand years have all been determined to be nothing but baseless theories not worth considering.” “Medical science has now been decisively surpassed by the Dutch.” “Utterly correct!” “Utterly correct!”

Everyone joined their voices to Ryōtaku’s exultation.

On the return from the execution ground, as Haruyasu and Yoshizane had fallen a step behind, Ryōtaku, Genteki, Jun’an, and Genpaku formed a group of four. The four men were immersed in the same exaltation. It was a sense of admiration toward the profoundly mysterious Dutch medical techniques.

For six or seven chō from the execution ground, they walked in silence, each immersed in their own profound emotions—but as they approached Asakusa’s rice fields, Jun’an spoke as though overcome by feeling.

“Today’s experiment leaves us with nothing but sheer astonishment indeed.” “To think we have overlooked such matters without a thought until now fills us with the utmost disgrace.” “That we physicians who serve our lords have performed our duties day after day until now without understanding the human body’s true form—the very foundation of our craft—leaves us utterly without honor.” “If only we may practice medicine with even a general grasp of bodily truths based on today’s experiment, then we might finally justify our standing as physicians within this world.”

Ryōtaku, Genpaku, and Genteki could not help but share Jun’an’s sentiments. Genpaku then continued. “Truly, your words are most reasonable.” “Be that as it may, I earnestly wish to translate this volume of *Tafel Anatomia* by all means.” “If we can but translate even this much, we will gain a clear understanding of both the internal and external aspects of the body, and I believe it will bring great benefit to medical treatment from this day forward.”

Ryōtaku, too, had wholeheartedly opened up.

“No, Mr. Sugita’s words are most reasonable,” “In truth, I too have long harbored a desire to read Dutch texts, but lacking companions who shared this aspiration, I could only lament in frustration as the days passed by.” “If all of you would join your aspirations with mine, nothing would bring me greater joy.” “Fortunately, during my studies in Nagasaki some years past, I committed a modest amount of Dutch to memory. Using that as our foundation, shall we not together begin reading this *Tafel Anatomia*?” he said.

Genpaku, Jun’an, and Genteki all clapped their hands in agreement. They were bound together by an extraordinary sense of awe. “Then let us hasten toward virtue,” “Come to my residence starting tomorrow!”

Ryōtaku said, his large eyes shining.

Six

As agreed, beginning the following day, the four met at Ryōtaku’s house in Hirakawa-chō five or six times each month.

The three, excluding Ryōtaku, could not even reliably remember the twenty-five letters of the Dutch alphabet at first. Ryōtaku provided introductory Dutch instruction to the three. To be sure, having studied in Nagasaki, he possessed some knowledge of Dutch and even a modest grasp of sentence structure and context—yet even this proved woefully inadequate. After about a month had passed, there remained nothing more for Ryōtaku to teach them. When their instruction concluded, the four turned for the first time to *Tafel Anatomia*.

Yet from the very first page of the book’s opening, they found themselves adrift in an utterly boundless expanse—like a rudderless ship setting out upon a vast ocean—utterly at a loss where to begin, left in nothing but gaping bewilderment. But when they turned two or three pages, there was a diagram of a supine full-body human figure. They pondered. Though the internal structures of the human body were difficult to comprehend, they reasoned that since they already knew each named part of its external features, comparing the symbols in the diagrams with those in the text would be the most accessible method.

They searched the text for the symbols attached to eyebrows, mouth, lips, ears, abdomen, thighs, heels, and so on. And then, they proceeded to memorize each word—eyebrows, mouth, lips, and so on—one by one.

Yet even if they understood such individual words, the surrounding phrases remained utterly beyond their meager abilities to decipher. There were often times when, even after spending an entire long spring day pondering a single phrase or chapter, they could not bring it into clear focus. The four scholars, after two days of exhaustive deliberation, had finally deciphered nothing more than the single phrase: “Eyebrows are the hairs that grow above the eyes.” The four scholars roared with laughter at the trivial phrase, yet each of them could not help but feel tears of joy welling in their eyes.

When they moved from the eyebrows down past the eyes and reached the nose, the four scholars found themselves confronted with the phrase: “The nose is that which is called *furuhehhendo*.”

Of course, there was no complete dictionary. However, in the booklet that Ryōtaku had brought back from Nagasaki, there was a translation note for *furuhehhendo*. It read: “When one cuts off a tree branch, it forms a *furuhehhendo*, and when one sweeps the garden, the gathered dust and dirt form a *furuhehhendo*.”

The four scholars, even when cross-referencing that translation note, could not easily decipher it.

“Furuhehhendo! Furuhehhendo!” The four scholars intermittently hummed the term while pondering exhaustively from the Hour of the Snake (mid-morning) until the Hour of the Monkey (late afternoon). They deliberated without exchanging a single word, their eyes locked in silent communion. When late afternoon passed, Genpaku leapt up and struck his knee. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” “In every case, it works thus.” “When a tree branch is severed and heals, a protrusion forms.” “When dust accumulates, this too creates a protrusion.” “Therefore,” he concluded, “since the nose sits central on the face as a protuberance, *furuhehhendo* must signify ‘protrusion’!”

The four scholars clapped their hands and rejoiced together. Tears glistened in Genpaku’s eyes. His joy surpassed even that of obtaining a jewel worth fifteen cities. But when it came to terms like *nerve*, even after a month of continuous deliberation, they could not decipher them. Whenever they encountered an incomprehensible term initially, they marked it with a circle containing a cross. They called it *Kutsujūmonji*. During the first year, countless *Kutsujūmonji* marks were scattered across every page and its corresponding original page. But their undaunted pioneering spirit could not help but conquer all. Their diligence in faithfully keeping to the six or seven fixed meetings each month bore fruit. After a little over a year had passed, the number of translated terms increased, the flow of passages became clear, and the *Kutsujūmonji* in the book were nearly all erased.

The struggles of being pioneers were, in time, rewarded with a joy known only to those who blaze trails. As the meanings of phrases became clear, gradually—like chewing sugarcane—the sweetness of truths unknown to their predecessors, contained within those words, seeped into their hearts. They, rejoicing in the joy of being the sole ones able to set foot upon the fertile soil of scholarship unexplored by their countrymen, came to feel with each appointed day of their meetings as though they were children off to a festival, so much so that they could scarcely wait for daybreak.

Seven

Genpaku’s initial slight resentment toward Ryōtaku had now vanished without a trace. He held deep respect for Ryōtaku’s character and profound scholarship.

But as the work of translation progressed, Genpaku gradually came to realize that his aspirations and those of Ryōtaku were diverging.

Genpaku’s aspiration was to translate *Tafel Anatomia* as quickly as possible, apply it to practical treatment, and make it the seed of innovation for physicians across the land. He thought to himself: The establishment of Chinese studies in Japan had required the efforts of several generations—even dozens of generations. In the same way, he believed Dutch studies would undoubtedly demand several generations as well. Rather than pursuing grand undertakings impossible to complete within one lifetime, he resolved to focus his aspirations on achieving a single task—one book—within his generation. Though a tangle of five-colored threads might be beautiful, he considered that practical purposes required choosing one color—red or yellow—and cutting away all others.

Therefore, he devoted himself entirely to the translation of *Tafel Anatomia*. He would immediately translate whatever he could decipher during their daily meetings upon returning home.

But Ryōtaku’s aspirations were more far-reaching. His ambition lay in establishing Dutch studies as a complete discipline. Works like *Tafel Anatomia* held scarcely any place in his vision. He had mastered all matters pertaining to the Netherlands and nurtured a grand ambition to read through every book from that country.

For the first year or two, there had been no clash of opinions between Ryōtaku and Genpaku.

But as their skills progressed, the two men found themselves perpetually embroiled in the same kind of arguments.

“I have come to fully grasp the meaning of this section. Shall we not proceed ahead now?”

Genpaku was constantly pressing ahead. But Ryōtaku maintained a composed calmness.

“No, you must wait. Even should the general meaning come through, the precise definitions remain unclear. When definitions stay obscure while only general meanings emerge—that amounts to mere conjecture.”

Ryōtaku remained resolutely unmoved.

Eight

Four years had passed.

Genpaku had revised the manuscript of *Tafel Anatomia* twelve times. However, throughout the volume there remained five unresolved sections and seventeen difficult passages. Genpaku pressed single-mindedly toward publication. But Ryōtaku would not consent to publication until they had deciphered all unresolved and challenging portions. Ryōtaku and Genpaku debated this matter countless times. But however much the two men argued, they could find no common ground. This was the fundamental difference in their approaches to Dutch studies.

Genpaku finally resolved to publish *New Book of Anatomy*—the translation of *Tafel Anatomia*—under his sole name. But even he could not bring himself to disregard Ryōtaku’s name. Although the transcription of the translation was indeed carried out by Genpaku’s own hand, the credit for the translation itself was in large part due to Ryōtaku. Genpaku visited Ryōtaku and earnestly requested a preface. But Ryōtaku refused even to provide a preface, declaring as follows: “No, when this humble scholar once journeyed through Kyushu and paid homage at Dazaifu Tenmangu Shrine, I made a pledge in these very words.” “When this humble scholar resolved to pursue Dutch studies, it was to uncover true principles—not for fame or profit. Thus did I pray: ‘May divine protection be bestowed that this scholarship may reach fulfillment.’” “Since this would mean breaking my oath, I must firmly decline the matter of a preface!”

Hearing this, Genpaku felt desolate. But he could not bring himself to belittle his own stance in the slightest. He respected Ryōtaku’s stance. But at the same time, he could not help but affirm his own stance.

He asserted his own stance in a memoir written during his later years when Dutch studies flourished, as follows:

“This old man, being by nature careless and unlearned, lacked the ability to render Dutch theories into translations that others might swiftly comprehend and benefit from understanding. Yet entrusting others would poorly convey my true intent; thus, heedless of my own crude inadequacy, I took up the brush myself.” Even in passages where he sensed there might lie intricate details within, he refrained from forcing interpretations where comprehension proved elusive; he simply recorded what his understanding had grasped. For example, if one wishes to journey to Kyoto, knowing there are two routes—the Tōkaidō and Tōsandō—and that heading ever westward will ultimately lead one to arrive in Kyoto—this should be considered foremost. If I thought it sufficient to teach the path, then I would have presented its general outline. When first presenting such an endeavor with a timid mindset that fears future criticism cannot be undertaken with a timorous disposition apprehensive of later reproach. It was simply a matter of translating based on general principles wherever comprehension could be achieved. The Sanskrit-translated *Sutra of Forty-Two Chapters* has at last reached the present-day *Tripitaka*. This was the long-cherished aspiration and ambition that this old man had held since those times. Had there been no Ryōtaku in this world, this path could never have been opened. However, without someone like this old man—one who grasped both essence and grand design—this path could never have been opened so swiftly; this too must be considered divine aid.”