Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When did I first come to care about the invention of movable type? From childhood until adulthood, I worked for many years as a compositor and typesetter. Even after leaving that behind to write novels and such, my life still remained connected to movable type—yet even during those days when I handled type pieces morning and night, I had scarcely given thought to who might have invented such a thing. "If I were to put it bluntly, this too was something of a distant 'imported good'." That was the extent of my thoughts at the time. It had flowed in like the tide from across the sea alongside guns, steam engines, electricity, and automobiles—undeniably remarkable, yet somehow it all felt borrowed. What was even worse was that I had lived through those days with the vague indifference of one grown accustomed to blessings—knowing full well the great utility of air itself, yet never feeling particularly grateful for it.

Therefore, it was only in recent years that I came to know the names of the German Gutenberg and the Japanese Motoki Shōzō. And even now, I myself cannot clearly say what motive led me to develop this interest in Gutenberg and Shōzō. If I were to offer a somewhat forced explanation, it might be this: since becoming someone who writes, I had come to feel—if only faintly—the profound significance of how words emerged in human society, how characters were created to express those words, and how methods of recording those characters developed, enabling communication with multitudes and transmitting one’s own thoughts to posterity.

One day, I went to Ueno Art Museum to see the "Japanese Cultural History Exhibition." It was May 1940, and the exhibition was sponsored by the Asahi Shimbun. It was a rare opportunity to see national treasure-class artworks gathered from across the country, and according to the newspaper advertisements, I was also interested in the fact that a Dharma-shaped printing press—gifted from the Netherlands to a certain daimyo during the shogunate era—was on display. However, when I went to the venue, I, being anemic, immediately grew exhausted. The place was crowded, but with exhibits so overwhelmingly numerous that to someone without prior knowledge like myself, it became utterly dizzying—in the end, I had absolutely no idea what I had even seen.

There were so many middle school students and female students led by teachers, along with groups that had come up from the provinces, that one couldn’t possibly pause before any single exhibit. After being jostled and shoved through several rooms, when I finally made my way down to the rest area between the special exhibition hall and the main floor, I was already completely drained. However, when I later gathered the lingering impressions from that time, there remained two things: the strange daze I felt standing before paintings like Asai Chu’s *Harvest* and Takahashi Yuichi’s *Salmon*—works exhibited several rooms past the chambers containing famous Japanese art such as the *Ban Dainagon Emaki*, paintings by Toba Sojo, and Kano school pieces—and another distinct emotion stirred by viewing Takizawa Bakin’s manuscript for *The Eight Dog Chronicles*. Of course, I lack the ability to compare paintings like *Harvest* and *Salmon* with others in terms of artistic merit, so could there have been something beyond mere technique within the paintings themselves that left me so dazed? The Hakkenden Manuscript was displayed as a two-page spread alongside the printed version of the same pages within a low glass case. I tried desperately to brace against the crowd pushing from behind with my back, but even so, the actual time spent must have been no more than a minute or two. The manuscript had a red decorative border with child motifs drawn around its pages; on the lower portion of one page stood a koshō-style young samurai, while the upper portion of the opposing page showed a princess hiding her face with long sleeves, her hair lavishly adorned with hairpins—together forming a single harmonious scene. The text filled the space between those illustrations, meaning Bakin not only created both the text and illustrations together but also simultaneously directed the plate preparation. When compared to the finished book, there was almost no difference. Novelists of old must have taken delight in rendering their own images in such concrete forms—drawing their own illustrations, composing their texts, even adding decorative borders with child motifs.

I looked for the woodblocks but could not find them. When the manuscript was completed, block copy artists would draw the block copies, woodblock carvers would carve the blocks, and soon—as seen in chapbooks—the chonmage-wearing old printers called surite, their sleeves tied back with tenugui cloths, would meticulously rub each sheet with a baren. I was astonished to find that the arrangement of the princess and young samurai illustrations shared the same compositional approach seen in today’s relief printing and photogravure techniques. And though it was but an instantaneous impression, if we take works like the Ban Dainagon Emaki as marking the dawn of romance narratives, even in the Hakkenden Manuscript I perceived that text and illustrations had not yet become distinctly separated. The characters were not independent; when carved into woodblocks, the illustrations were likely treated with equal care. Considering the tradition of Japanese romance as seen in form across the thousand years separating the Ban Dainagon Emaki and the Hakkenden Manuscript was of particular interest to me, who had been a printing worker. Moreover, several emaki works including Dainagon that were in the first room existed entirely on single sheets of paper. They were authors, printers, and publishers. In The Eight Dog Chronicles, the addition of a single woodblock plate had already begun to alter the very nature of its romantic essence; yet when one extends this progression to encompass today's complex developments in printing techniques, it evokes a sense of vast, immeasurable distance. That felt even more distant than the thousand years separating The Eight Dog Chronicles and Ban Dainagon Emaki. Above all, what struck me was how today, characters have become independent from illustrations.

At the entrance to the Special Exhibition Hall was pasted a paper sign reading "History of Printing Culture," indicating the room's theme. The initial section displayed actual specimens such as an antique Mino-sized hand press with provenance documents stating it had been used by the Asahi Shimbun at its founding, alongside hanshi-sized hand-and-foot presses; next were photographs showing foot-operated Kiku-hachi folio rollers and motorized Shiroku-ban full-size rollers arranged in chronological order. From there on, the dazzlingly rapid advancement of printing presses—Marino-style rotary machines, high-speed Asahi-style rotary presses, and others—had been astonishing the spectators. Especially around the experimental photo-telegraph machine was a dense crowd; it had monopolized all the attention in the room.

However, though labeled as the "History of Printing Culture," this room in essence contained only post-Meiji era printing techniques. While vaguely surveying the room's interior, my mind traced a rupture somewhere between the baren-rubbing printing technique of the Hakkenden Manuscript and the technology displayed here. While the addition of electric motors to hand presses and foot-operated rollers was indeed one revolutionary development, the shift from baren rubbing to hand presses—that is, to mechanical power—must have been a far, far more significant transformation; yet this evolutionary path remained incomprehensible to me.

In the midst of this, I suddenly discovered something unexpectedly nostalgic at my feet and was startled. There in a quiet corner of the sparsely attended room lay an antiquated hand press—one even more archaic than those used by the Asahi Shimbun at its founding—utterly neglected, with not a single soul pausing to regard it. The two clumsily curved pillars, the handle's grip, and the single rail attached to the support—all were rusted red. Without realizing it, I drew closer and, touching the curved pillar, found myself inwardly muttering, "Oh, how did you end up here again?"

How many decades had it been? I had worked alongside this machine. Since I was twelve years old at the time, over thirty years had already passed. I had already placed my hands on the handle's grip when I noticed the "Do Not Touch" sign and withdrew. The base of the handle—that is, the shape of the cylinder pressing down the platen—was not the modern bellows-style gear, but rather a drum-shaped mechanism where, as the waterwheel-like rotation advanced, it would be secured with nails. How many hundreds, thousands of times must I have repeated this motion each day—planting my foot on this single rail, gripping the handle with both hands, stomping down again and again. This rusted red handle had covered my childish palms in calluses, while that ill-tempered platen—no matter how I adjusted it—persisted in dropping only its right shoulder with stubborn force, ruining print after print until I lost count of how many times my senior apprentices had slammed their ink spatulas down at me. Of course, there were times when it was in a good mood too—during busy year-end all-night shifts, I would be half-asleep, dangling limply from this handle.

It was an old childhood friend of mine. However, while stroking the round pillar, when I suddenly read the notice on the opposite wall, I was startled once more. According to the notice, this was the Dharma-shaped hand press that had been advertised—the one presented from the Netherlands to a certain daimyo during the shogunate era. I folded my fingers and counted. Twelve years old was Meiji 43 (1910). I feel there might be too great a gap in years, but of course this very Dutch-imported hand press could not possibly be the same machine I had used thirty years prior in a rural corner of Kyushu. However, since electric motors did not become widespread throughout Kyushu until the Taisho era, this Dutch-imported press likely served as the model for those manufactured in Japan, with identical models having been used for decades in rural parts of Kyushu.

In addition to the joy of unexpectedly encountering an old friend, I stood for a while beside that antiquated Dharma-shaped press, conscious that I had traveled forty or fifty years back through the history of printing machinery. And in my mind, while I could trace one path directly from the Ban Dainagon Emaki to the Hakkenden Manuscript, and another path backward through the Meiji era following the progression of high-speed rotary presses, motorized rollers, and Dharma-shaped presses, my thoughts would suddenly veer off to the unexpected realm of the Netherlands.

When I shifted my gaze, on one wall was pasted a large photograph of a plate preparation workshop where life-sized typesetters, each holding composing boxes or manuscripts, worked facing type cases. The typesetters in the photograph wore uniforms of speckled kogura cloth, had shoes on their feet, and wore work caps bearing the Asahi mark. Compared to how we worked—wearing unlined striped cotton kimonos with plain sashes, tightly twisted hand towels wrapped around our necks—the difference was striking. However, both the arrangement of the cases and the work order—in essence, the core of it all—remained unchanged from the old days. Strictly speaking, this likely amounted to nothing more than the base metal's hardness being strengthened due to both the point system for movable type becoming more precise and the increased production of paper matrices.

And here too, the divide between woodblock printing and lead movable type stood out starkly. While I could readily accept that Dharma-shaped hand presses had arrived from the Netherlands, simply assuming "the movable type must have come from abroad too" felt inadequate. Trains, automobiles, steamships—all these came from foreign lands. Those imports remained in their original forms, traversing Japanese roads and sailing Japanese seas, yet movable type could not follow such a course. The typefaces differed. The character count differed. Even when comparing foreign books with Japanese ones, the variance in plate-making formats became evident. In other words, while trains manufactured abroad could run on Japanese rails, movable type followed a different path.

Who created Japan's movable type? "How was it ever created?" I pondered these questions as I left the exhibition hall and descended the slope from Kan'ei-ji toward Hirokōji Avenue. Presses and rollers could indeed be imported directly from the Netherlands. Yet even if movable type had come from abroad, there must have been some uniquely Japanese path of development. Who had created Japan's movable type, and by what means? Understanding that would let one draw a straight line connecting everything from the Ban Dainagon Emaki picture scrolls to the Hakkenden Manuscript drafts to modern novels—the entire tradition of Japanese printing.

II

I would occasionally visit the Imperial Library in Ueno and the Ohashi Library in Kudanshita, scouring documents related to printing. When it came to books on printing, the Ueno library proved far more extensive than its Ohashi counterpart. There I read works like World Printing Chronology, Fifty-Year History of the Printing Bureau, Records of the Southern Barbarians, History of Printing Civilization, Comprehensive World History of Printing, Modern Printing Techniques, and Study of Ancient Movable Type Editions. From late Meiji through Taisho eras—as printing culture democratized—I even encountered highly accessible guidebooks for aspiring printers, though those whose titles I could recall were generally substantial volumes. Among these, works like Study of Ancient Movable Type Editions, History of Printing Civilization, and Comprehensive World History of Printing overwhelmed me with their sheer volume and intellectual rigor—their specialized research themes, receiving scant public attention yet demanding lifetimes of devotion that still felt inadequate.

However, being a novice like myself who didn't know where to begin or end, I had neither properly read nor thoroughly digested those books. I adopted a capricious reading style that felt inexcusable toward their authors—sometimes flipping open tables of contents to skim intriguing passages, other times abruptly switching to earnest note-taking. One volume described how Babylonian people four millennia ago wrote characters on clay. I vividly retained the story of a school whose gate stood as a clay mound; each morning students would break off pieces from this structure to practice writing throughout the day, then rebuild the gate with their used clay before returning home—a tale accompanied by what seemed the author's fanciful illustration. Another book mentioned how some Babylonian queen's biography-like text baked onto clay tablets had been discovered four thousand years later; what intrigued me was understanding what materials bore printing before paper's advent. Even Western history's so-called 'Shell Exile' involved writing on shells before transitioning to cattle and sheep hides—entire volumes rolled into bundles resembling those in modern kimono shops, dangling price tags and all. That Bi Sheng created clay movable type five centuries before Gutenberg; that Japan's Dharani sutra and Hōryūji Temple prints from Tenpyō 8 predated even that by two hundred eighty years; pondering these facts while vaguely studying illustrations debating whether those sutra plates were wood or copper—printing history stretched endlessly before me, leaving me uncertain when I might ever grasp Japan's transitional tradition from woodblock to movable type.

Of course, Johann Gutenberg's name was the first I committed to memory. There was a beautiful illustration depicting an emotionally charged scene where Gutenberg gazed with his two collaborators at the first proof print of his newly created movable type. Beside it sat a photograph showing what were called turtle-shell-shaped characters from the 32-line Bible bearing the year 1447. I learned how Western printing technology first arose in Germany before spreading through France to England and America on one front while reaching Holland, Italy and Russia on another—this path of expansion across Western civilization unfolding between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. And during those same early years of seventeenth century—the Tenshō (1573–1592), Bunroku (1592–1596), and Keichō (1596–1615) eras—Portuguese missionaries crossed vast Pacific distances to bring Western printing techniques to Hizen Nagasaki. This concerned what we call Kirishitan-ban editions—works like Records of the Southern Barbarians, History of Printing Civilization and Study of Ancient Movable Type Editions all devoted considerable effort to documenting them.

The Records of the Southern Barbarians states that not only printing presses but also Western movable type—even "type casting machines"—had been imported. Study of Ancient Movable Type Editions introduced numerous Kirishitan-ban (Christian editions) through photographs. In particular, the printing of the Romanized Taiheiki was astonishingly splendid, even from the perspective of an experienced person like myself. However, Japan's political circumstances from Nobunaga to Hideyoshi to Ieyasu drove Western printing technology from Kuchinotsu in the Shimabara Peninsula to Amakusa, from Amakusa to Nagasaki, and finally banished it from Nagasaki abroad, after which its presence was completely severed throughout the three hundred years of Tokugawa rule.

The author of *History of Printing Civilization* wrote with vigorous emphasis as follows: "Had Japan never issued its isolation edicts, Western-style printing in our nation would have reached its zenith between the twilight of the Toyotomi regime and the dawn of the Tokugawa shogunate." Yet as a reader, though three authors across three volumes had passionately argued about the Kirishitan editions, I remained unmoved. After the printing technology that reached Hizen Kuchinotsu met its demise, for three centuries neither the scholars surrounding *Rangaku Kotohajime* nor Japan's many other learned men ever came to know of those painstaking efforts—creating Dutch dictionaries with one column printed from Albert's movable type and the other brushed in sumi ink. Nor could they connect this necessity to how Hayashi Shihei had traversed the land clutching the woodblocks for *Kaikoku Heidan* more dearly than life itself. That Ōtori Keisuke engraved characters on lead bullets; that Motoki Shōzō above all poured molten lead into sword tang inlays and received divine inspiration for modern type matrices; that these exceptional individuals had borne upon their backs—with labored heave-hos—the lurching destiny of Japanese culture through three feudal centuries: such struggles could never truly permeate the understanding of one like myself, born into the enlightened Meiji era.

The special reading room of the Imperial Library remained tolerable in summer, but turned cold in winter when the steam heating failed to reach. When visiting the library, I would leave home as early as possible hoping to claim a seat by the sunlit windows, yet regular patrons always beat me to it. By noon when sunlight had slid away and quiet settled in, I'd sometimes look up through the windows into an odd mood. Beyond bare treetops swaying in wind came ceaseless engine roars descending from dull gray clouds. The eras and atmospheres conjured by my books would create illusions where we forgot our present reality within both China Incident and world war. Returning my gaze indoors revealed patrons hunched motionless over desks—no coughs interrupting—their identical postures from yesterday and today striking me with vague suspicion.

Moreover, this library’s cafeteria struck me as the most inferior among Tokyo’s library cafeterias to my knowledge. The shabbiness wasn't the issue, but combined with the brusqueness of a back-alley diner, it had an absurdly bureaucratic air. Given the times, there was no coffee or udon, and sometimes there were side dishes but no rice—this was unavoidable, but “It’s just side dishes, okay?”

The female clerk at the counter spoke angrily while pounding the cash register's buttons with the base of her fist. However, my concern lay not with her but with how strikingly different the demeanor of people entering this cafeteria was from those in town eateries. Whether students or gentlemen, they all remained as quiet as scolded children under the counter's curt announcements. Once by a stove burning broken chopstick scraps, we waited thirty minutes for rice that never materialized. My irritation grew until I realized I alone wore a stern expression. Students sat before stained tables while gentlemen in frigid corners tapped frozen shoe tips—all maintained meditative silence. At my table sat a special reading room regular in double-layered kimono, wiping soy sauce spills with tissue paper as he opened a thin Japanese-bound book. His mustache streaked with white and overgrown hair caught my eye. He occasionally glanced toward the kitchen window where clerks chattered but always returned to his worm-eaten woodblock text. When I noticed his bamboo sandals lifted toward the stove, I saw holes in homemade tabi socks clumsily stitched with white thread at the trouser cuffs.

I felt slightly ashamed. Scholars too were fully entrenched in the war. They were thought to possess the resolve to keep their eyes fixed on their books and calmly continue their research even if bombs were to fall overhead. Though my library visits were sporadic, as I gradually acclimated to its atmosphere, the contours of Japanese printing techniques began to take shape faintly in my mind. Since the Dharani sutra—preserved as the world's oldest printed material in London's British Museum—Japanese printing plates had been single sheets of wood or copper. This technology had arrived with monks from Tang China and Tenjiku India, its scarcity evident in the distribution map of late Muromachi-period publications found in Study of Ancient Movable Type Editions—entries reading "Such-and-such sutra in X volumes, housed at Such-and-such Temple in Such-and-such County of Such-and-such Province." The revival of Japanese printing originated from Hideyoshi's Korean campaigns and their copper type spoils; the very Tokugawa Ieyasu who expelled Christians from Nagasaki would later replicate these types, casting nearly identical copper movable characters. Though said to have first been used for Kobun Kōkyō (Ancient Text Classic of Filial Piety), that particular account held special interest for me.

It is recorded in Nishidōin's diary that by imperial command, the two court nobles Rokujō Arihiro and Nishidōin Tokiyoshi served for three months, daily performing typesetting work with movable type and printing using barens in the wooden-floored room near the imperial bathhouse of the palace grounds. When viewed in photographs, those type cases differed completely from today's, being mere collections of similarly shaped characters; thus one could almost see how the two court nobles—their long sleeves tied up behind their backs—must have labored, searching and picking each piece one by one. To think they were the progenitors of Japanese typesetters filled me with both nostalgic warmth and profound reverence.

I came to understand that even the origin of what is called the "single-character plate" in the world began with this movable type. Copper movable type eventually became wooden movable type, and Japanese printing techniques gradually became popularized; however, as they approached the mid-Tokugawa period, wooden movable type was once again suppressed by the revival of woodblock printing," wrote the author of the same book. Although I couldn't fully comprehend the detailed reasons, even from my childhood experience, wooden movable types—whether made of boxwood or cherry—warped easily and became uneven in height. If the printing press had used a baren rather than mechanical pressure, the results would undoubtedly have been even messier. And yet when woodblock printing regained dominance and saw a flourishing of print culture surpassing even pre-Muromachi achievements, was this due less to technical progress than to the social conditions of that era?

My objective was gradually drawing nearer. As interactions with foreign countries became frequent toward the end of the Tokugawa period, and fields such as medicine, firearms, and electricity came to be studied and practiced among samurai and townspeople, woodblock printing and wooden movable type must have had to be improved. The people who could find no means to recall the "type casting machine" expelled from Hizen Nagasaki three hundred years prior must have endured hardships akin to Gutenberg's from the very beginning, even if through Dutch texts they could discern but a fragmentary glimpse of its form. Eventually, lead-carved movable type devised by Ōtori Keisuke came into use, and works such as Shishi Chikujō Tenkei—what came to be known as the shogunate’s "Kaiseijo editions"—were produced. Even in photographs, they were incomparable to traditional wooden movable types.

However, from the perspective of a printer like myself, the importance of modern movable type lay precisely in not requiring carving. Its significance resided in the capacity to produce identical pieces limitlessly through type matrices. And Motoki Shōzō had created this system. Though it could not be termed an entirely new invention, he had perfected it in the Japanese manner. All historians of Japanese printing techniques uniformly acknowledged this fact. They called Motoki the "founding father" of modern Japanese printing and wrote of him as its "originator".

I gazed tirelessly at Motoki's photograph - this thin man wearing a haori with five family crests, his white hair gathered in a topknot, possessing a high nose and refined eyes. Whether he wore a sword remained uncertain given the cropped portrait, yet this identical image appeared in every publication. What dissatisfied me was how each book allocated merely two or three pages to this founder of modern typography - this figure who might rightly be called Japan's Gutenberg - with all texts apparently recycling the same sources, leaving me unable to uncover fresh insights no matter how many volumes I consumed.

I wanted to know more about Motoki Shōzō. I wanted to understand him with the same thoroughness one might expect for Saigō Takamori or Yoshida Shōin. I felt unsatisfied when reaching the crucial points. Of course, I could grasp how monumental an undertaking it was to add even one new fact through research. Yet most authors had treated Motoki's completion of movable type as merely another episode in printing history. Perhaps this was just a novice's presumption, but I found myself dissatisfied—wasn't Motoki's achievement that towering peak without which one couldn't properly discuss Japan's past printing techniques?

III

In the summer of 1941, a young man named H-kun came to visit. This was our first meeting, but an essay I had once written on printing literature served as the connection—he had sent me a book titled *The Struggles of Japan’s Movable Type Pioneers*, and we had exchanged letters two or three times. H-kun was from the Kansai region but had recently moved to Tokyo, where he worked as a typesetter at a printing factory in the Shitaya area while searching for reference materials with the aim of writing a novel-style *Biography of Motoki Shōzō*. He wore a crisp white linen high-collared shirt, with the stoop characteristic of his profession, slim, and with a sallow complexion.

“Are you writing a biography of Shōzō too?”

Appearing impatient, he immediately began speaking while undoing the buttons of his high-collared shirt upon sitting down. "Well—it's not exactly like that." I answered with a laugh. Truth be told, I still had no particular purpose in mind. To begin with, I knew almost nothing about Motoki Shōzō.

“No, all biographies of Motoki are much the same—there don’t seem to be any detailed ones.” “So, I’ve been searching through other documents from that era in a sort of… peripheral way, you see?” While fidgeting with his high-collared shirt buttons again, H-kun listed titles like Goncharov’s *A Voyage to Japan*, *History of Japanese Warships*, and *Diary of Kawaji*. “In Goncharov’s *A Voyage to Japan*—which documents Russian envoy Putyatin’s arrival in Nagasaki and the so-called Nagasaki negotiations—the name ‘Shōzō’ appears twice as an interpreter. Since this same Shōzō was more active during Putyatin’s Shimoda negotiations, I thought Kawaji Toshiaki’s diary—he being Japan’s key negotiator—might shed some light on his achievements, though I haven’t yet obtained that document. As for *History of Japanese Warships*, it’s useful for historically understanding Motoki’s era, given he was also a pioneer in ironworking and shipbuilding. Even without intending to write a Motoki biography, I found H-kun’s account intriguing.”

“Do you know a man called Miyata Kokichi?”

After pausing his own account, H-kun said. “Ah, the person cited in the encyclopedia’s Motoki biography, isn’t he?”

Since that was all I knew, I answered as such. Then H-kun nodded with some dissatisfaction, saying "Right," and spoke again. "In Motoki research, this person is apparently the leading figure—though I myself have no connections and haven't met him—but look, they say Mr. Miyata is actually the real author of this book too."

What H-kun pressed down with his fan was *The Struggles of Japan’s Movable Type Pioneers*, the book I had been about to return to him, resting on my lap. “Huh, but the name on it’s different, isn’t it?” The small Shiroku-ban-sized book was attributed to someone named Tsuda. “That’s right—Mr. Tsuda’s a devoted patron, so to speak. The person who actually wrote the text isn’t Mr. Miyata either.” “Mr. Miyata apparently walked all over tracking down the pioneers’ historical sites mentioned here.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed from the heart. “That’s extraordinary.” Though I didn’t know what sort of person Miyata was, ever since first reading this book I had been profoundly struck by its monumental achievement. It contained concise biographies of Motoki and his collaborator Hirano Tomiji, but beyond that had documented—albeit with varying thoroughness—the accomplishments of dozens who had labored for modern printing techniques. The struggles of Katō Fukujūrō, Japan’s first lead plate artisan who recast typefaces from paper matrices onto single lead sheets, revealed how even seemingly simple breakthroughs—like layering ganpishi paper for clearer impressions or tearing cardboard to adjust spacing heights—were paths paved with trial and error. These accounts could make even those outside the trade feel their chests tighten with shared effort. The book chronicled countless innovators’ ordeals: Takeguchi Yoshigorō designing modern typeforms while writing Ginza shop signs until Hirano discovered him; Sakai Kenji pioneering typographic rulers; Yamamoto Rikichi devising contemporary type cases—all tracing printing technology’s arduous maturation. What awed me most was how the author had tracked down these largely deceased pioneers, particularly pursuing the destitute families of inventors who never prospered—a task that must have demanded extraordinary dedication.

“How does this sound—shall we go visit Mr. Miyata once?”

H-kun was eager.

“I know his address.” “Even without an introduction, if we send a letter first, he’d likely agree to meet us. Why don’t we go visit him together?”

“Sounds good, let’s go.”

I also answered gladly.

After several days had passed, a letter arrived from H-kun. According to it, Mr. Miyata was hospitalized—though they didn’t know what illness he had—and since visits were prohibited, they decided to postpone for the time being. I was somewhat disappointed, but after several more days passed, this time a special delivery arrived. Mr. Miyata had undergone major surgery for stomach cancer and his condition was reportedly poor; since waiting would be futile, the letter suggested that even if we couldn’t speak with him, we should at least go pay our respects. When I promptly sent a reply of acceptance, he wrote back that since it was at Saiseikai Hospital, we should meet tomorrow at 1 PM on the platform of the national railway's Shibuya Station.

It was mid-August, an intensely hot day. We met up in Shibuya, got off at Gotanda Station, and then took the city tram to Akabanebashi. When I entered a florist near the tram stop intending to buy a token for our visit, H-kun and I exchanged glances. "How old do you think he is?" “Well... I suppose he must be elderly.” We bought five or six pure white blooms—more refined than mountain lilies in appearance, yet even more faintly scented. When we asked the florist’s wife, she told us these were called sanshashi.

“We’d be so grateful if he’d let us ask questions—but I wonder if it’s too much to ask?”

As we walked, H-kun flipped through his notebook and showed it to me while saying such things. The notebook appeared to have been prepared beforehand, with two or three bullet points such as "What was the true cause of Motoki Shōzō’s imprisonment?" I, too, could not muster a reply. When we inquired at the reception desk, his room number was immediately provided. Passing through the waiting room’s spacious hall, we turned left at the first corridor. The windows were all open, and from the large ward crammed with beds came the sound of patients' labored breathing. It was a windless day where in the corridors, elderly female attendants sat listlessly with their work-worn aprons hitched up to their thighs, old men in rolled-up work pants revealing hairy calves stood chatting while holding buckets—from such plebeian appearances of these caretakers, one could discern the character of this hospital. The nameplate reading "Miyata Kokichi" was lined up with others at the far end of the corridor entrance, but as H-kun—standing ahead—hesitated to enter, unsure which bed was his, a woman in her forties who had been squatting in the corridor, resembling a housewife, approached while removing her tasuki sash.

“Who might you be?” She was small-statured, her face showing the wear of nursing, with the flustered expression of someone unaccustomed to receiving visits from people dressed in Western clothing. When H-kun presented his business card and stated that he was the one who had sent a letter earlier, she responded with deferential “Ah, ah,” appearing flustered. “I am Miyata’s wife.” She bowed. When I too bowed and presented my business card, the housewife-like woman took it and went inside; beyond the room divider near where we stood, at the edge of a bed with its curtain drawn back, we discerned a head of thinning white hair where the scalp showed through—this being none other than Mr. Miyata himself.

“Please come this way,” she said. Her thin wrist trembled as it supported two business cards while holding back the curtain, yet her voice emerged unexpectedly loud. “Is this really all right?” H-kun asked Mrs. Miyata, who had stepped out into the hallway. “Yes, today he’s... you know, quite energetic.” Fidgeting with her tasuki sash, “And really, whichever way you choose, it’s all the same—the doctors say—”

Even as she was speaking these words, an angry shout cut through from the bed. "What are you dilly-dallying for? Hurry up and have them come in already!" "Right away," Mrs. Miyata answered toward him, though her voice carried a flustered tone that seemed to seek reassurance even from strangers. "So we've just been letting him have his way." "Yes, even he himself seems to have resigned to it now, but—"

As we approached the bedside, a stench assailed our nostrils. The spread-open abdomen was covered with gauze, all bowel movements apparently exiting through that incision. Mr. Miyata was emaciated and withered, yet being a large man, his legs extended well beyond the bed's edge. All the while, his hand holding the business card trembled as he twisted his neck toward us, attempting to raise even just his face.

“Idiot! Remove the pillow!” Even his obscene curses carried ferocious intensity. Waving his hands in swimming motions, he fixed his eyes straight on my face over H-kun’s shoulder. “You actually came...” he said hoarsely, the words trailing off as if being spat out, tears trickling down the wrinkled corners of his eyes. “You truly came for me.” Realizing those swimming-like gestures had been seeking a handshake, I hurriedly obliged though somewhat startled. I wondered if critically ill patients typically grew this agitated around complete strangers.

Yet Mr. Miyata did not readily release my hand and stared intently at my face. Mr. Miyata had a thick nasal bridge and distinctively broad lips, his features bearing a nervous, stubborn air.

“It’s been a while.” He spoke nostalgically between labored breaths. “You’ve aged too, haven’t you? Quite a lot of gray hair—” Dazed as I was, I began to feel suspicious—where could I have met this Mr. Miyata before? Just as I, perplexed, tried to address this, the other man abruptly released my hand. “What? You came here without even knowing?” His face, still streaked with tears, now bore an unrestrained look of displeasure.

“Hey—back there, at Kyodo Printing—”

I involuntarily let out an "Ah." What in heaven's name was this? I had only considered Mr. Miyata in his capacity as a Motoki researcher. I exclaimed once more.

“Ah, so it was you, Mr. Miyata—”

IV

Mr. Miyata and I gazed at each other for a while. The patient, while having his wife wipe away his tears, breathed laboriously yet appeared content. Since this concerned the Great Kanto Earthquake era, had nearly twenty years passed? At Kyodo Printing Company's First Plate-Making Factory, both Mr. Miyata and I had worked as typesetters. At that time, the Point Department factory I belonged to had collapsed, and having been transferred to the First Factory alongside other typesetters, I couldn't say whether Mr. Miyata had already been a veteran there. Moreover, Mr. Miyata left for another company after roughly half a year of us working together, so while we weren't particularly close, our workstations directly faced each other. Normally the backs of both type cases would block the view, but Mr. Miyata's stature allowed only his head to protrude above them. I recalled how I'd always hear someone call "Hey" to me, and upon casually glancing around, find his elongated face peering down from that improbable height above, startling me repeatedly.

I did not know whether Mr. Miyata had already been researching Motoki Shōzō's achievements since those days. He was a senior worker from an earlier generation than us, yet lacked much artisan temperament—always seeming to shrug his shoulders, stubbornly needing to propose alternative theories about everything. I recall how even the foreman uniquely addressed him as "Mr. Miyata." However, our reunion after twenty years was a hurried affair. Even though his wife was a patient beyond saving, I couldn't stop worrying about the watch on my wrist. While H-kun stood dazed by the unexpected turn of events beside us, Mr. Miyata addressed him with utmost cheerfulness: “You—”

“Thank you for your letter.” “Since my life isn’t long anyway, ask me anything while I’m still alive.” At H-kun’s stiffened “Ha—”, Mr. Miyata let out a dry, crackling laugh. “No need for reserve—history and research, they’re all like this. Ah, finally finding someone only to have them at death’s door—I’ve had that happen countless times myself. Now it’s my turn, I suppose. Not that it amounts to much.”

Mr. Miyata moved the fingers of his right palm—held aloft over his chest—as he normally would. Those nervous, searching fingers—long and slender as fire-pokers, with an index finger flattened like a pit viper's head—were the fingers of a typesetter who had spent years prodding at type backs. Though initially reserved, H-kun now pulled a chair bedside at the patient's urging and began posing questions with visible tension.

“Motoki’s imprisonment?” “There are various theories, but essentially, the most plausible holds that he took the fall for someone else regarding Western book purchases—that’s the widely accepted view.” “When you say ‘someone else,’ do you mean Shinagawa Umejirō?” “Exactly—but listen, even speaking of imprisonment requires deeper study. Historical records clearly show Motoki continued various works throughout his supposed incarceration when we reconcile the timelines.” “That—you’d understand if you read my Motoki biography—”

Whether due to excitement, Mr. Miyata appeared energetic, but gradually his labored breathing intensified. While standing stiffly between the partitions of the narrow bed, I could not properly catch such conversation. Since there were no other visitors to cause interruptions, I urged H-kun to leave—what I had intended as a thirty-minute visit had stretched far beyond that. Then Mr. Miyata, with lingering reluctance, waved those slender fingers of his.

“Well then, come again tomorrow—you know, I’ve got something to give you all, so I’ll have it ready by then—”

His wife also came out into the corridor and, just like the patient, kept repeating her request for us to come again tomorrow. Fidgeting with her sash in a nervous manner, there emerged the wife's wholehearted resolve to unconditionally respect her husband's final wish—no matter what it might be—for this man who now had no hope left. And in the end, she spoke in a voice choked with tears.

“It’s the first time I’ve seen him look so delighted in recent days.—I’m afraid I don’t fully understand these matters myself, but ever since his youth he’s done nothing but research Motoki-sensei—he must have been terribly pleased—” Of course, H-kun and I promised to visit again tomorrow and left the hospital, but until we parted ways once more at Shibuya Station, H-kun hardly spoke a word. My imagination of Mr. Miyata had been too far off the mark, but having glimpsed with my own eyes how utterly unglamorous a researcher’s life truly is, I found myself sharing the same sentiment.

However when we went to the hospital at the same time the following day Mr Miyata’s condition was completely different from the day before.The unusual backs of doctors and nurses bending over the bed could be seen and though his wife caught sight of us two several times she maintained an air of not properly registering our presence.Even as we stood motionless in the corridor for a while the comings and goings of nurses and others remained frantic.We discussed how perhaps it would be better to return today but then his wife’s face suddenly peered out from the entrance and beckoned.With a somewhat angry expression when I approached she thrust the newspaper-wrapped bundle she was holding into my hands then said in a curt voice:

“Please show your face just once—just once—” she exclaimed, turned sharply around, and hid her face in her sleeve.

The doctor was still there. When I approached the screen, the back of a woman who appeared to be a relative shifted slightly, revealing Mr. Miyata—his chest covered in white gauze—with only his face turned toward us from the edge of the bedding. His countenance had completely transformed overnight, yet around his distinctive lips lingered a relatively spirited smile. “Ah, thank you—” The familiar right palm moved from between the gauze. His lips kept moving, but I couldn’t catch the words. When I nodded without understanding, he smiled faintly and turned away as if exhausted.

When evening came we left the hospital carrying a newspaper-wrapped bundle, but upon reaching Gotanda Station found ourselves unable to board the train immediately. We entered a café before the station and opened that bundle. All volumes had plain bindings—one being titled Motoki Shōzō and Hirano Tomiji Detailed Biography while the other two were Studies on Movable Type Height Alignment and Methods for Improving Typesetting Efficiency. The Motoki-Hirano biography featured ink characters reading Revised Edition Manuscript on its cover and contained various handwritten annotations and pasted additions. Mr. Miyata must have meant to continue his research after the first edition and publish a revised expanded version.

“What a coincidence—it’s like we went to hear his last testament.” The young H-kun kept repeating himself in a state of agitation, never once touching his coffee. As I flipped through and read the preface, the Motoki biography was primarily based on Genichirō Fukuchi’s original text, with Mr. Miyata’s writings arranged alongside it in sections labeled “Editor’s Note,” “Supplement,” and “Annotation.” Fukuchi’s original text was substantially the same with minor variations as the Motoki biography I had read in other works, but its “Editor’s Note,” “Supplement,” and “Annotation” sections were new. These were the precious materials Mr. Miyata had gathered through his pilgrimages as far as Nagasaki and Fukuoka—accounts obtained from Motoki’s bereaved family and Hirano’s widow, or unearthed from temples, shrines, and documents preserved locally since the late Edo period.

“What a coincidence—it’s completely a coincidence.” H-kun kept repeating. Indeed, my encounter with Mr. Miyata had been coincidental, but that three printers had gathered through their shared interest in Motoki’s biography was itself another coincidence.

“You should write something about Motoki Shōzō too. I’ll write as well. Even just spreading the word could do some good.” “That’s right.” I answered while absently gazing up at the ceiling. To write about Motoki Shōzō is to write about Japan’s printing techniques—to write about Japan’s movable type. And now, when I considered Mr. Miyata—with death approaching—this work of ours to write about it gradually began to feel less coincidental.

Satsuma Dictionary

I

When Mr. Miyata Kokichi passed away, the revised edition manuscript of "Motoki Shōzō and Hirano Tomiji Detailed Biography" that he had entrusted to me during his lifetime came to feel like a final testament. In other words, inheriting Mr. Miyata's aspirations, I too had to write something to honor the achievements of the man who might be called the founder of modern Japanese printing.

I repeatedly read that book. The main text was written by Fukuchi Gen'ichirō and was published in Meiji 24 [1891] in Printing Magazine. Fukuchi Gen'ichirō took the pseudonym Ōchi—born in Nagasaki during Tenpō 12 [1841], also from Dutch interpreter lineage and seventeen years junior to Shōzō—yet served aboard the Kanrin Maru at age eighteen under warship captain Yatabori Kagezo in Ansei 5 [1858], and accompanied Takeuchi Shimotsuke-no-kami on a diplomatic mission to Europe at twenty during Man'en 1 [1860]. Having been active from such a young age, he undoubtedly shared what might be called a contemporaneous period with Shōzō; moreover, he seemed to have privately revered this Shōzō who stood among Nagasaki interpreters yet pioneered navigation and shipbuilding. Biographical writings about Motoki found in modern printing histories and other works are said to derive primarily from this source—amounting to less than twenty sheets when formatted on 500-character paper.

The reason Mr. Miyata titled this work "Detailed Biography" likely stems from his having appended nearly equal lengths of his own pilgrimages, explorations of historical sites, and oral accounts—in forms such as "supplements" and "annotations"—to Fukuchi's main text. Within the scope of my reading, I certainly knew of nothing more detailed than this regarding Shōzō; yet from another perspective, it also meant that only this much had been written about Motoki. With the help of friends and acquaintances, I endeavored to learn about the traditions of Western studies, the circumstances of the late Edo period, and the connections with Nagasaki interpreters. I also strove to understand late Edo-period printing in detail, but whichever direction I turned, everything remained vast and indistinct to my novice eyes. Before any clear image of Shōzō could materialize, Showa 16 had passed, and spring of Showa 17 had arrived.

One day, I visited the Printing Magazine office located in a room of the S Building in Nihonbashi. There, in accordance with Mr.Miyata’s longstanding wish from his lifetime, the materials he had collected about Shōzō had been taken to be housed in the Printing Museum. I wanted to examine Part III of Motoki Shōzō’s work New Academy Miscellanies from among those collected materials. According to the Detailed Biography, Motoki Shōzō authored and translated works including Dutch-Japanese Conversation Manual,Naval Steam Engine Studies Manuscript,Excerpt Translation of [Des Kruif der Uitvindingen?],English-Japanese Commercial Handbook,Physics,Secret Affairs New Book,Health Preservation Records,Mathematical Problems,New Academy Miscellanies,and Outline of Western Ancient History among others. However，these works have since been scattered-even those with known whereabouts now reside in certain private collections whose addresses remain unknown. The only clue available to me was the portion from Mr.Miyata’s collection,but I thought that even if only through a fragment of his writings,I might glimpse Shōzō’s opinions or ways of thinking.

Mr. M.T. of Printing Magazine, upon seeing the letter of introduction from Mrs. Miyata that I had brought, readily agreed and instructed an attendant to bring out a large wicker trunk from the corner of the room. Mr. Miyata’s collection could not be freely examined, as the Printing Museum had not yet been completed and its transfer to a benevolent benefactor for safekeeping had also not been finalized. “New Academy Miscellanies” Part III was bound in two volumes—upper and lower—as a thin, birch-colored cover book with Japanese-style binding. Published in Meiji 4 [1871] and printed with approximately No. 4 lead type, but as I leafed through it, I grew disappointed. It was a certain logbook, but that it was not Shōzō’s own work was made clear in Shōzō’s own preface. It appeared to be a logbook kept by someone among the Japanese mission to America in Man'en 1 [1860] led by Kimura Settsu-no-kami and Katsu Rintarō—entries described making port calls at Manila and being welcomed by the president along the way. Particularly, details such as purchasing thousands of gallons of water at each port, wind speeds, and temperatures were most diligently recorded. Motoki’s preface was also exceedingly simple—published using self-made lead type—but this was a logbook his friend Meisō had sent. Believing that Western customs held interest and the actualities of navigation offered no small benefit to readers, he simply requested that one give it a read.

“Who might this Meisō-kun be?” I asked Mr.M.T. It was thought that Kimura and Katsu’s group likely consisted mostly of naval trainees of the time, but if they were friends of Shōzō, they might have been Nagasaki interpreters who accompanied the mission. Mr.M.T. tilted his head slightly and said, “Hmm.” “Perhaps if you ask Mr.K.H., he might know.”

I did not know Mr.K.H. "I can introduce you—he might have collected other works as well." "Since Mr.Miyata has passed away, this person would be foremost in Motoki research now." Mr.M.T. placed a business card on the desk and began writing the introduction, but suddenly looked up and said with a laugh. "Of course, Mr.K.H. is an academic rival of Mr.Miyata's—that is to say, Mr.Miyata advocates the Motoki theory while Mr.K.H. champions the Ōtori theory, so to speak." In a manner that took neither side, Mr.M.T. laughed aloud—but judging by how much he seemed to presume, he apparently viewed me as part of the Miyata faction.

However, as I lacked both the knowledge and qualifications to involve myself in disputes between specialists, I received an introduction card from Mr. M.T. and left—though privately I considered this "dispute over movable type's originator" to be self-evident. That Ōtori Keisuke had used lead type commissioned from Kazariya for Bakufu Kaiseijo publications was undoubtedly a significant achievement in printing history; yet when I examined an actual copy of Ōtori's Shishi Chikujō Tenkei at a certain location, each character form differed in ways that could only have resulted from hand-carving. The true importance of modern movable type lay in completing type matrices through electrotyping—something I had believed Motoki alone achieved. Moreover, there remained another matter: certain phrases I encountered secondhand from Ōtori Keisuke's biography grated on me. "—Based on Dutch texts, I conducted various studies of casting methods and ultimately employed self-made type for publishing two works." "When speaking of movable type's founder in our nation—though people credit Nagasaki's Hirano Tomiji, this refers to one who first imported Western machinery for production. What I created through traditional metalworkers—like crafting musket balls—bears no comparison in difficulty. Furthermore, since my production predates Hirano's by several years, Japan's true originator must be this Ōtori who speaks thus—"

Hirano was Motoki Shōzō's disciple and collaborator, and since it was in the summer of Meiji 4 (1871) that he loaded Shōzō's type onto a ship to sell in Tokyo, if we take Ōtori's words at face value as recorded by the biographer, it becomes clear that this statement must have been made after Meiji 4—meaning he had been unaware of Motoki's two decades of failed endeavors and his very existence since Kaei 1 (1848). Even considering the transportation limitations of the time and Ōtori's perpetually busy life, behind this statesman-like frankness of tone I sensed a certain lack of scholarly or inventive sincerity.

A few days later, I visited Mr.K.H. in Ushigome. Mr.K.H.—a tall man now almost entirely white-haired who served as director of XXX Printing Company—had amassed numerous rare printing documents and kindly brought them out one bundle at a time from his inner room to show me. Among these was a large leather-bound lithographic volume titled Illustrated Compendium of Birds—nearly half a tatami mat in size—that had been presented by the Netherlands when Lord Murasaki Awa-no-kami(?) and his delegation traveled to Europe. I spent nearly the entire day marveling at the exquisite woodblock prints in the first edition Compendium of Materia Medica Illustrated, but Mr.K.H. also possessed Shōzō's New Academy Miscellanies Volumes I and II along with one volume of Secret Affairs New Book.

Though it was rude to the host, I had him let me read through it once. And there too, I found myself disappointed. "New Academy Miscellanies" In Part I, Volume 2, for example, there was an entry titled "A Method for Testing the Intensity of Lamps," which explained: "This method serves to determine how many candles' worth of light would equal that produced by kerosene flame." The rest consisted solely of entries like "A Method for Refining Soy Sauce," "A Method for Lightning Protection," "A Method for Galvanizing Zinc," "A Method for Producing Varnish Oil," and "A Method for Galvanic Plating"—there was nothing else. In the upper volume, under the title "Preface," he stated: "I previously authored a small volume titled Secret Affairs New Book concerning domestic matters of daily life. Though it may resemble childish play, let none say it lacks some small benefit. Many entreated me for a sequel, but I refrained due to numerous obligations. Recently, having achieved moderate success in producing movable type, I now hastily take up my brush to continue this compilation under the new title New Academy Miscellanies. Using movable type, I shall print this once or twice monthly to occupy academy students during idle hours—hence its designation as 'miscellanies.' These writings make no pretense of literary merit; let readers not mock their rustic simplicity." It bore his alternate pseudonym—Shōsanshiki.

“Secret Affairs New Book” was written in Bunkyū 2 (1862), but its contents too consisted solely of entries like “method for making tracing paper,” “method for producing glass mirrors,” “method for testing water quality,” “method for soap production,” and “method for curing epidemic eye conditions”—there was nothing at all that offered glimpses of his demeanor through written opinions or assertions. “Is there no work that articulates Shōzō’s opinions, I wonder?”

I asked Mr.K.H. Motoki's written works were not particularly numerous. Moreover, apart from the five volumes I had seen, the rest—as could be discerned simply from their titles—consisted mostly of works resembling mathematics, physics, and English or Dutch dictionaries.

“Well, there likely aren’t any, I suppose.” Mr. K.H. tilted his head as he spoke. I felt somewhat adrift. Could someone who had accomplished so much truly have possessed no opinions or ideals? I found myself recalling words Mr. Miyata had once said at the hospital. “Motoki was essentially a craftsman—deft, zealous...” Back then I had felt dissatisfied—but was he after all merely a skilled artisan?

“And another thing—the production of type matrices through electrotyping existed even before Shōzō’s time.”

As I sat dazedly, Mr.K.H. spoke close to my ear. "Kimura Kahē of Edo Kanda was commissioned by Shimazu Nariakira during the Ansei era to undertake that work." "Moreover, Kawamoto Kōmin lectured on electrotyping during the Kaei era—he likely conducted experiments at the very least." In a manner that declared "This is the evidence," Mr.K.H. had me hold several books. One was an aged manuscript with a dark brown cover titled Enseiki Kijutsu, while the volume discussing Kimura Kahē was an enormous book too large to hold in one hand, titled Insatsu Taikan.

I felt as though my protagonist was gradually losing his luster. Though I kept turning the insect-eaten manuscripts one sheet at a time before the host, not a single character came into focus. "Well, Motoki Shōzō's achievement would lie in having industrialized modern movable type." While sensing something within me persistently pushing back, I listened to Mr.K.H.'s slowly delivered conclusions; yet the more I heard his explanations about Kawamoto Kōmin and Kimura Kahē, the more my resisting feelings found themselves cornered further.

"If you need them, take them. Yes, I'm not using them now." I borrowed the manuscript of Enseiki Kijutsu and two or three other books, wrapping them in a furoshiki cloth—though this act stemmed largely from something akin to stubborn pride. I was seen off by the kind Mr.K.H. and left through the entranceway, now thoroughly dispirited.

II

The image of Motoki Shōzō that had just begun to coalesce in my mind crumbled mercilessly. At first, I felt no desire to examine manuscripts like Enseiki Kijutsu. Within my mind had been etched quite vividly Shōzō's profile—white hair in a topknot, gaunt narrow face uplifted by burning ideals and self-sacrifice—but now it blurred into something utterly ordinary: a somewhat dexterous, curious man of impulsive temperament resembling some provincial quack doctor.

In other words, my protagonist had ceased to be great. Even if Ōtori had been first to implement lead as practical type metal bodies, and even if Kimura had created the initial type matrices through electrotyping—irrespective of these facts—I had not forgotten Shōzō's two decades of steady toil since the early Kaei era. Yet his ideals and concepts remained absent from his writings, and without some topical hook, such matters of craftsmanship seemed inherently ungraspable as novelistic material in themselves.

I had lost sight of my protagonist and, while contemplating whether to abandon the project altogether, spent my days idly researching traditions like those of Western studies. However, after some time had passed, I came to realize that Western studies during the Bakumatsu period—particularly since the Ansei era—had been driven by political circumstances to adopt an intensely practical nature. Since Watanabe Kazan's suicide in Tenpō 12 (1841) and Takano Chōei's self-disembowelment in Kaei 3 (1850), I understood how this tendency of Western scholars surviving through practical utility alone must inevitably have influenced Shōzō and his contemporaries. For instance, when viewed through such a lens, even the phrase from Shōzō's preface to New Academy Miscellanies—"These writings make no pretense of literary merit; let readers not mock their rustic simplicity"—takes on significance.

Moreover, aren't craftsmanship and science themselves, so to speak, manifestations of ideals? Unlike the realm of abstract ideas, there must certainly be no shortage of instances where inventions, discoveries, or improvements arise purely from talent alone, environmental conditions, or even mere ambition and self-interest. Yet even so, what fundamentally endures—though differences may exist—would not differ greatly from ideals when broadly considered. Even if all Shōzō's works consisted solely of entries like "A Method for Lightning Protection" or "A Method for Curing Epidemic Eye Conditions" (though I cannot state this definitively, not having read them all), wouldn't those too represent fragments of his ideals? Given the social conditions of the time, methods like "how to make soap" or "how to test water quality" constituted new knowledge, and as he states in his preface, these were likely what readers sought. Particularly, the twenty years of hardship that drove the creation of modern movable type must certainly have been more than mere ambition.

In my mind, Shōzō's image began to take shape in a form quite different from before. My protagonist was not without greatness, but in essence, he was no so-called great man. He was a thin old man with bright eyes - neither particularly eccentric nor distinctive in character, but skillful, earnest, studious, never boasting nor harboring grand ambitions, who worked tirelessly toward the ideal of being useful to society and others.

For such an old man, disputes over being the originator of movable type must have been utterly pointless. The one disputing that was none other than myself. Let us praise Ōtori Keisuke's achievement in practically applying lead to type bodies, and let us express gratitude for Kawamoto Kōmin's contribution in expounding the electrotyping method. Let us also praise the hardships of Kimura Kahē, who was commissioned by Lord Shimazu to create type matrices through electrotyping. Things called inventions or improvements are all like that. It was not something that someone might suddenly discover on a day of clear weather. It was precisely because there were many dedicated researchers before and after Gutenberg’s invention that it came to be. Motoki happened to be the representative who pressed that final button. That’s how I should write this old man’s biography. I found myself growing strangely amused. The reason I had grown despondent over the dispute regarding primacy was actually due to the protagonist of a novel I had arbitrarily fabricated in my mind—a protagonist who bore no resemblance to reality.

One day, I read the manuscript of Enseiki Kijutsu in a relaxed mood. This was something Kōmin had dictated, which his disciples Tanaka Tsunaki and Mitsuoka Hiroatsu transcribed. In the first section of the explanatory notes, disciple Tanaka wrote: "This compilation collects incidental discussions from our morning and evening lectures, hence often lacking systematic order. Many theories derive from Mr. Van den Berg's 'Principles of Physics' which we excerpted in 1852, our Kaei 5. Regarding direct-copy shadow mirrors—our teacher already conducted experiments with these several years prior. Steam ships have been modeled by our domain, and though other devices remain untested, their underlying principles leave no room for doubt." I did not know which domain Tanaka belonged to. Though this manuscript bears no recorded date, according to the Newly Compiled Chronology of Western Studies, the entry for Kaei 1 (1848) states "Kawamoto Kōmin first advocated photographic techniques and explained phosphorus matches' utility," while the Kaei 4 (1851) entry lists "'Account of Western Marvelous Devices' among Kōmin's works." This makes the preface's reference to "Kaei 5 (1852)..." appear somewhat dubious, leading me to suspect it likely dated back slightly earlier. At any rate, among the entries discussing photography and steamships, the section titled "Electric Copying Machine" must be the one he dictated.

"This technique deposits one metal onto another without distinction between gold, silver, copper, iron, stone or wood, nor regard for their age; causes copper to adhere to engraved surfaces; peels this off to capture its form and thereby multiply copies—the subsequent diagram illustrates its manufacturing method," it stated, followed by numerous meticulously explained diagrams. By modern standards, this constituted an elementary principle of electrolysis. A single container held liquid containing dilute sulfuric acid and copper powder for secondary purposes, with two metal plates erected as electrodes inside and connected to electrical poles. Through this arrangement, electricity flowed between poles, causing decomposed copper particles to adhere to one electrode. The electrotyping method used today for type matrix production creates master molds through two iterations of this process—first applying it to a raised plate (male mold) engraved with an initial character like 「大」 ("dai") to obtain a recessed mold (female mold), then repeating the process using this female mold to produce a new male mold.

"He expounded that 'woodblocks gradually lose their sharp edges through repeated printing until becoming unusable—this method should also be employed to spare the labor of recarving them.' Reading this suggested Kōmin had not yet conceived of cast movable type including lead bodies. However, his statement that 'one may increase their number as desired while maintaining impressions as sharp as the original plate' implied he might have conducted at least some experiments. One could almost see him marveling at how exquisitely delicate the decomposition process through electrolytic particles could be."

Kawamoto Kōmin was a doctor. According to Kure Shūzō's Mitsukuri Genpo: "Kōmin took the name Yūken and hailed from Sanda in Settsu Province. In his youth he studied at his domain's Zōshikan academy; at twenty he went to Edo and entered Adachi Chōshun's school; later he pursued Dutch medicine under Tsuboi Nobumichi, becoming a peer to Ogata Kōan and Aoki Shūsuke. In Tenpō 3 (1832) he was appointed his domain's physician; in April of Ansei 3 (1856) he became an assistant instructor at the Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books; by December of Ansei 4 (1857) he advanced to associate professor; and in July of Ansei 6 (1859) he finally attained full professorship. In Bunkyū 2 (1862) he was conscripted as a shogunal retainer. Kikai Kanran Kōgi, He authored works like Enseiki Kijutsu (Treatise on Extraordinary Western Machines), Rasen Kikisetsu (Theory of Spiral Steam Engines), and Bōfūsetsu (Theory of Storms); personally prepared medicines; created glass plate photographs; and around Genpo's time frequented the Satsuma residence to translate works on physics and chemistry or personally conduct experiments for Lord Shimazu Nariakira—none of which were insignificant." Furthermore, according to the Ansei 1 (1854) entry in the Western Studies Chronology: "After Shimazu Nariakira read Kawamoto Kōmin's Enseiki Kijutsu and learned Western shipbuilding methods, he petitioned his lord Kuki to grant Kōmin official position." Additionally, Katsu Kaishū's notes from around Ansei 2 (1855) state that among Edo-based Dutch scholars—elites like Sugita Seikei, Mitsukuri Genpo, Sugita Gentan, Udagawa Kōsai, Kimura Guntarō, Ōtori Keisuke, and Matsumoto Kōan—Kōmin particularly excelled in physics and chemistry. Moreover, scholars of this period did not merely translate Western books. Consider this anecdote from early Kaei: when Kawamoto Kōmin explained phosphorus matches to a man who then declared he would pay a hundred ryō if proven possible—Kōmin immediately ignited one before his eyes. Though the man tried to renege, Kawamoto sternly pressed him and collected the sum. Such episodes leave no doubt that scholars then were far more practical than today's.

As I gazed at the worm-eaten manuscript's ink characters stiffened along their frayed edges, my entire body resonated with what might be called the surging intellectual thirst—or perhaps progressive drive—of a century past. While imagining that bygone world, memories of Kimura Kahē's story as told by Mr. K.H. surged powerfully within me—the man commissioned by Lord Shimazu who endured eleven years of hardship creating Dutch movable type; who lit hand candles even in daylight fearing shogunate surveillance; who diligently carved wood and metal with chisels and gravers in dim rooms...

I had even forgotten the time called evening. When I went to the nearby public telephone and called XXX Printing Company, Mr. K.H. had already left. When I called his home, Mr. K.H. readily agreed.

That day, the air raid alarm sounded in the morning, and rain began in the afternoon. The air raid alert had still not been lifted, the town was dark, and the inside of the tram was dim.

As I walked, I pondered how many people had labored over each invention and improvement. I thought that particularly regarding movable type—which gives form to language—many intellectuals must have maintained their own distinct interests. For example, Sugita Seikei wrote about "Western movable type alloys" in Manpō Tamatebako. Manpō Tamatebako was published in Ansei 5 (1858), stating: "The casting alloy differs depending on whether the characters are large or small. The alloy for small type consisted of twenty-five parts antimony and seventy-five parts lead. 'The large type alloy was—' went something like that. Though separated by both time and place, I recalled that even Leonardo da Vinci appeared to have contributed to movable type printing's success—a design he drew up for a printing machine resembling a hand press had been featured in some magazine.

When I reached the streetcar stop at Tsunohazu, under the dark railway bridge, I bumped into someone's back. As I stood there immobilized, people quickly filled the space behind me. The Mansaibashi-bound tram making its turnaround entered swaying like dragging shackles, its dimmed lights under blackout hoods held high, then departed as if shoveled forward, shaking loose figures clinging to steps and handrails. Yet the black mass of humanity kept swelling relentlessly - when someone unfurled an umbrella, another spitefully knocked it aside. No lights pierced anywhere, the sky pressing low. An oppressive atmosphere silenced the crowd. Each movement met retaliatory elbows jabbing back, while beneath my chin pressed the topknotted head of a diminutive old woman. Then from behind came a gravelly bass voice: "Spring rain, eh? Let's get drenched—" delivered with actorly flourish. Someone snorted a laugh. I laughed too. Then laughter rippled through the darkness here and there, scattering the smothering air as it spread—

Within myself, I felt something warm piercing through the darkness. The streets of Ushigome Kitamachi were pitch dark. As the faint outline of the Shinchosha building I recognized became dimly visible, I could finally discern the whereabouts of Mr. K.H.'s residence.

“You must be soaked. You made it all the way here, didn’t you?”

Mr. K.H. had kindly prepared the reception room with bright lights and was waiting for me. And then he said as he brought out that *Printing Taikan*: "I haven't seen the first edition of the Satsuma Dictionary myself either, so I can't make a definitive statement." As I read it, I understood that Mr. K.H. was referring to a certain fact within that text—that the Satsuma Dictionary had been printed using movable type created by Kimura Kahē. "However, I do believe the type in this book is indeed that—"

Mr. K.H. brought another book from the inner room and, placing it on my lap, said— "This is the vocabulary section of a Dutch grammar book, but it appears clear that it was printed in Edo, you see." It was a book with an old blue cover, resembling a traditional ledger. Thick yet slender, bound in a pouch binding with Japanese paper and printed in fine italic-style Western movable type, it was immediately apparent at first glance that these were lead type. "Now, don't you think these irregularities in the typeface differ from imported movable type?"

I also agreed. According to Mr. K.H.'s explanation, this "Dutch Grammar Book" had apparently been widely read among Edo-period scholars. Slightly earlier than this publication—from Ansei 3 to 4 [1856-1857]—the Nagasaki Magistrate's Office had also published "Phrases" and "Vocabulary" sections of Dutch grammar books, though these used imported movable type that differed in character forms.

I wanted to learn a bit more about the whereabouts of Kimura's movable type. Mr. K.H. agreed with my thoughts and lent me two or three reference books while—

“Do you know Mr.I·K?” Mr. K.H. asked. Some time ago, regarding the Nagasaki interpreters, I had once visited Mr.I·K through a friend’s introduction. He was a researcher of the Western studies tradition during the Edo period and was said to be an authority particularly on the history of English. “That’s right—if we have Mr.I·K teach us, we’ll be able to identify the movable type used in the Satsuma Dictionary, won’t we?” I answered while growing emboldened.

III

Kimura Kahē was born in Bunsei 6 (1823), one year before Motoki Shōzō, and resided in Edo's Kanda Koayumichō district. From a family of engravers through generations, he inherited the profession at eighteen and was particularly renowned for his ability to carve brushstroke nuances, it is said. He had access to the Imperial Household Ministry, and it is said that many original plates for domain notes of various daimyō during that time were created by Kahē's chisel.

The "Brief History of Japanese-Western Movable Type Production from Our Nation's Founding Era" section in *Printing Taikan* contains the following account: "The aforementioned movable type constitutes artifacts commissioned during the Ansei era (1854-1860) by Lord Nariakira, the Satsuma daimyō, to Kimura Kahē—a hereditary engraver of Edo's Kanda Koayumichō district—who completed them from Kaei 1 (1848) to Genji 1 (1864). Among these works are: hundreds of characters deeply carved in convex relief across multiple sizes ranging from 0.04 sun (approximately 1.2mm) to 0.15 sun (approximately 4.5mm) on steel plates; hundreds of copper concave matrices; a casting machine comprising three metal components; various typeface forms; thousands of wooden molds; engraving chisels and cupronickel tools for electrotyping; a Japanese character printing-and-typesetting machine bearing thousands of master glyphs carved on soapstone surfaces; along with referenced Dutch books—all items actually used during that period and preserved to this day."

This text proved somewhat unkind—even to me, who had been a typesetter—as the condition of those numerous instrument relics remained slightly difficult to comprehend. The same text continued: "At twenty-five years of age, Kahē received summons from the Satsuma daimyō, whereupon His Lordship Nariakira—motivated by noble consideration to have Western documents widely studied throughout his domain as printed materials—secretly conferred with Kahē—" One readily understands Shimazu Nariakira's bold decision to secretly import Dutch books and have his retainers read them to assimilate those barbarians' new knowledge. Yet what intent could lie behind attempting to publish these works in their original Dutch—even going so far as to create Western movable type for this purpose—during an era already rich with scholars capable of translation? Was it meant to concurrently strengthen his retainers' language skills? Or perhaps during those Bakumatsu years, when rival domains fiercely competed in building steamships and cannons alike, they chose Western text to safeguard secrets? Yet I thought— No—that couldn't be right. At the very least—not solely that. The paramount reason above all was this: with Western text, creating twenty-six alphabetical letters would suffice for every purpose. Hadn't both Shimazu Nariakira and Kimura Kahē initially chosen the most expedient path?!

"However, at that time all Western goods were prohibited by the shogunate—Kahē built a secret chamber in part of his residence, equipped with lamps burning day and night." "Using cherry wood to create models, preparing numerous files and chisels, and employing copper or brass, he produced various rectangular type matrices of differing sizes—and so on." While no photograph of Kahē appears to have been passed down to posterity, imagining this master artisan of his age laboring for eleven years in a secret chamber hidden from society, pouring his lifeblood into creating unprecedented type matrices—I, a man bound by particular ties to movable type a century later—felt heat rising behind my eyes. "Furthermore, using copper-alloyed steel, he assembled three rectangular metal components to form holes for securing type matrices. Using a circular vessel to pour lead into these apertures, he carved channels running vertically from top to bottom through the holes and additionally drilled air vents to complete the casting machine—and so forth." This might be somewhat difficult for laypeople to comprehend, but this was essentially an explanation of the "hand-casting device." In the same fourth year of Kaei [1851], Motoki Shōzō had already created this as well, but separated by Nagasaki and Edo, they likely remained unaware of each other's work. And an even more profound realization was that fifteen or sixteen years prior to this—by the Western calendar, in 1834—America’s David Bruce had invented what was called "Bruce-style casting," bringing innovation to the world of printing technology. We who were raised in our youth by this Bruce-style rotary method could now, through reading accounts of Kahē and Shōzō's struggles, trace the history from "Bruce-style" back to the hand-casting devices.

And Kahē's hardships continued. The movable type production method that had finally been completed in its tenth year saw the hand-carved type matrices on wood or copper become damaged before they could withstand practical use. "However, even with these improved methods, the type matrices remained prone to damage, needlessly consuming years of effort, and Kahē ultimately failed to fulfill Lord Nariakira's noble intentions." "—By chance learning that monthly lectures on physics and chemistry were being held at Lord Shimazu's residence—then one day happening to encounter a Dutchman at the same residence, through which he gained the opportunity to study aspects of electrical science—from this point onward carving master type in convex relief on soapstone surfaces and immersing them in highly dissolved liquid—" —and so forth. This was the electrotyping method expounded in Kawamoto Kōmin's *Enseiki Kigu Jutsu*.

Thus, Kahē's type matrices were completed, it is said. Thereupon I thought: Given that the Shimazu were such a major domain, perhaps Dutch people could have come and gone from their Edo residence. Considering that figures like Shimazu Shigehide—from two generations before Nariakira—had reportedly treated Dutch scholars favorably to acquire new knowledge, and that the Dutch Captain Doeff himself records in his Nihon Kaisōroku how he would dismount his palanquin to offer Japanese-style salutations when passing before the Shimazu Edo residence during his return from Edo sankin visits—given such accounts, this might be credible. However, what entered our considerations even more strongly was Kawamoto Kōmin, who "had been employed by Lord Shimazu," and likely the connection between Kōmin and Kahē. Especially when considering the "monthly physics and chemistry lectures," even if not direct, would it be unreasonable to imagine that this scholar and master artisan had become connected through bonds of science in some form?

Now, I must track down the whereabouts of Kahē's movable type. There were two leads: one being the mention at the conclusion of the previously cited "Brief History of Japanese-Western Movable Type Production from Our Nation's Founding Era" that Kahē's type had been used in printing the Satsuma Dictionary; the other comprising both the ledger-style Dutch vocabulary book Mr.K.H. had shown me and what he termed "Hachiōji's type"—another Dutch text titled *Saisei Sanpō Fui Kai*. The italic-style type in the vocabulary book had already been examined. Though Mr.K.H. himself seemed not to have seen *Saisei Sanpō Fui Kai* either, he lent me a certain document forming the basis for his designation of "Hachiōji's type." This consisted of issue number 1150 of *Chūgai Iji Shinpō* and a flimsy offprint from old magazine number 1286. In both appeared writings by a man named Army Surgeon General Akiyama Renzō, with the offprint bearing the title "Concerning the Dutch Book *Saisei Sanpō Fui Kai* Transcribed by My Father in Ansei 5 [1858]."

According to Mr. Renzō’s writings, the Akiyama family had resided in Hachiōji for generations. The previous generation’s Hōsai, who published *Saisei Sanpō Fui Kai*, "was called Sazō in his childhood; after his grandfather’s death, he succeeded to the family name and was known as Yoshikata, serving as both physician and samurai." It states that this fifth year of Ansei (1858) publication was printed with lead movable type using a manuscript copy of the Dutch book Hufeland as its source text, and according to Mr. Renzō's childhood memories, "there were also numerous types stored in the examination room cupboards." "All of those were lost when our house completely burned down—only two type molds remain as mementos." Elsewhere it states: "The movable types used in printing can be seen in at least five varieties." "Namely, two varieties of large and medium-sized characters; the same large characters slightly tilted to the right; along with small characters and italic-style small characters."

The binding of this book as seen in photographs was crude and unrefined, yet it featured Western-style binding akin to what one might find in stylish English readers. While casting molds remain extant, according to a text stating "Though the text naturally matches when compared with Dr. Ogata's original Dutch manuscript, first and foremost, not only do the differing sizes of movable type make each line inconsistent, but there being five or six instances of variations in typesetting format—though I omit detailed description here due to their trivial nature—should hardly be surprising, particularly when considering these were likely typeset from manuscripts as previously mentioned," it may not even be imported movable type after all. However, if we trust Ansei 5 (1858) based on the "Brief History of Japanese-Western Movable Type Production from Our Nation's Founding Era," this would place Kahē's movable type just beginning to take shape—but even supposing it had been completed, would Lord Shimazu have readily permitted its dissemination beyond his domain? My judgment as a non-expert may be presumptuous, but if indeed this differs from the type used in the Dutch vocabulary book, and if it is not imported movable type, then it would mean there existed others besides Kahē who created movable type.

I found myself desperately seeking some clue that would allow me to examine Akiyama's *Saisei Sanpō*. For now, I had no choice but to leave the question unresolved, but the fact that 'Edo's movable type' began with Western script was an astonishing discovery even to me, who had been a printer for many years.

One afternoon, I visited Mr.I.K. in the depths of Sugamo. After waiting about an hour in the second-floor room, the master finally returned; Mr.I.K. was an English teacher and still young. With monk-cropped hair and nearsighted eyes, even as I explained my doubts, he kept his gaze lowered and fixed on one spot.

“Well, I didn’t pay much attention to movable type...”

With few words, he went downstairs and returned carrying five or six weighty old Western books. Placing one before me, he said simply: "This is it, but—" I had never imagined the physical object would exist. Could this before my very eyes be the famous "Satsuma Dictionary" written in katakana as referenced in chronologies of Western studies?! I abruptly opened the large book right in the middle. And intuitively, I felt: "This isn't it!" This was not a Japanese printed work!

The volume was larger than chrysanthemum format yet smaller than 4x6 double format. The Western text aligned on the left used pica type differing from the italic in that vocabulary book—even had Kahē created pica characters himself, their forms appeared excessively refined. My true doubt centered on the Japanese movable type to the right—particularly the katakana made conspicuously smaller than the kanji. This layout mirrored domestic Japanese-Dutch dictionaries: lead-cast Western text stood adjacent to vertically aligned Japanese script pressed flush against its flank—an identical configuration of interlocking forms.

“It might be Shanghai’s Meihua Academy—Hepburn’s dictionary is indeed said to have been produced there.” Having said that, before I could respond, Mr.I.K. himself raised another question.

“However, even if there were katakana matrices, could Chinese workers set them?” I answered, “They can set them.” Typesetters possess a special intuition—for instance, even among Japan’s Western script typesetters, those who could read English or German were nearly nonexistent, yet they managed perfectly well. My doubt lay with the katakana type—whether Kimura’s type had been transported all the way to Shanghai, or whether someone had created the katakana matrices over there.

There was no colophon, but bound in full Western style, the sturdy leather spine bore the title "A Forest of English-Japanese Translations" in foil stamping. The fact that the paper resembled rough Western-style sheet also left no room for doubt—when considered through contemporary Japanese printing techniques—that it was domestically produced.

“Ah, here’s something valuable.”

Mr. I.K., who had gone downstairs again, brought a thin old magazine. It was the February 1927 issue of *Shinkyū Jidai* ("The New and Old Era"), published by the Meiji Culture Research Association. On the opened page was "On English-Japanese Dictionaries Published in the Early Meiji Era by Ishii Kendo," and one of its entries pertained to the "Satsuma Dictionary." "Takahashi Shinkichi, Western studies teacher of the Satsuma domain, resided in Nagasaki. "For many years, he had desired to travel abroad to master the new knowledge of the world—by chance, he had formed a friendship with Nagasaki resident Cai Shenwu, and one day Shenwu advised him: 'How about revising and expanding Kaiseijo's *Pocket English-Japanese Dictionary* to secure funds for your overseas travels?'" In other words, this constituted the motivation for publishing the "Satsuma Dictionary"—since the Kaiseijo edition dictionaries (in ledger format) at that time were priced at twelve or thirteen ryō, the reasoning was that extensively revising and expanding them would likely yield profit. In summary: "'Movable type printing had not yet been established in our country.' Through Shenwu's introduction, they met with Nagasaki missionary Ferberkii, who then introduced them to Shanghai's Gambel Printing Company, resulting in a contract for completed work to handle the printing." “The Satsuma Dictionary” was essentially a revised edition of the Kaiseijo version, but I cannot judge to what extent Takahashi’s scholarly investment was poured into this dictionary. In any case, Takahashi traveled to Shanghai in Keiō 3 (1867). Soon after encountering the Restoration of Imperial Rule, he temporarily returned home, but crossed back to Shanghai again, and it is said that three hundred copies were completed in January of Meiji 3 (1870).

And Mr. Kendo’s text continued: “At one point, Venerable Maeda Masana told this author...” Maeda Kenkichi and Masana were both involved in this dictionary project and had gone to Shanghai. “The printing office was located at a certain temple in Shanghai where Chinese workers were employed.” The text only mentioned the printing itself here, leaving completely unclear how the katakana matrices had come to exist or whether they bore any relation to Kahē’s type. But as I read on, I found myself exclaiming aloud.

“Oh, the Masana brothers! You know Maeda Masana, right? The man who tried going overseas and got both himself and his brother bound by the authorities!” Whether Mr. I.K. knew or not, I wanted to express my excitement at having accidentally discovered that Masana had been the planner behind the Satsuma Dictionary. I had read Masana’s biography before, but this fact wasn’t recorded there. Masana studied in France during the early Meiji era, volunteered in the Franco-Prussian War, and upon returning became an official serving as prefectural governor and Vice Minister of Agriculture—though his greatest legacy is said to be modernizing Japanese agriculture. Born fourth son to Satsuma samurai Maeda Yoshiyasu, he was a prodigy reading Western books by nine. At fourteen, when their illicit overseas plans were discovered, shogunate officials arrested them both; his elder brother committed seppuku while Masana—spared due to youth and his brother’s pleas—had his death sentence commuted. This likely preceded the Satsuma Dictionary project. As for that brother—whether senior or junior to Kenkichi remains unclear—his determination to “master the world’s new knowledge” probably kept him prowling Nagasaki’s streets back then, eyes fixed on the distant Pacific.

I flipped through the aged *Satsuma Dictionary* once more and looked at its preface. Written in a style reminiscent of wooden movable type characters, it begins: “The reason English studies are practiced in the Imperial Nation is none other than to adopt their strengths and supplement our weaknesses. To adopt those strengths and supplement weaknesses is to make Imperial Culture shine throughout all nations,” and concludes with “Meiji 2nd Year, Kinoe-Mi First Month, Japan Satsuma Students.” The back contained an English preface that similarly concluded with "(1869, Student of Satsuma)." Ah, what an expansive ring it has! Student of Satsuma!

The silhouettes of those who identified themselves not with personal names but simply as Satsuma students, their chests thrust forward, seemed to well up before me. In Shanghai, they had encountered the Restoration of Imperial Rule; but even after returning to their domains as samurai to fulfill obligations, they soon crossed overseas again—in these people's hearts, their domains had already ceased to exist, replaced by the Imperial Nation and Japan’s place in the world.

I left Mr.I.K.'s house feeling slightly excited. Already dusk, walking from in front of the Cancer Institute toward Ōtsuka Station, even as the traces of Kahē’s type grew increasingly tangled and unclear, I felt not the slightest disappointment. From here, seeking connections, I would go to Lord Shimazu's Shūseikan and inspect its surviving type specimens—this would be the only remaining clue left. However, setting that aside, I must consider. As for 'Edo's movable type,' it might not have been solely Kimura Kahē. The type matrices produced through the electrotyping method had indeed been completed. And yet—why did movable type come into being not in Edo but in Nagasaki?!

Whether Kahē was the originator or Shōzō was—such questions held little significance. What truly mattered were the social circumstances that necessitated movable type's birth in Nagasaki rather than Edo—ah, those very circumstances! This, I realized as I passed Ōtsuka Station and found myself before Shirokiya before turning back, was precisely the element that must be recorded in *The Biography of Motoki Shōzō*.

Nagasaki and the Interpreters

1

“If only this woodblock carving work could be completed within half a year! For as my own life’s span remains uncertain, this urgency to hasten its completion burns within my breast like fanned flames.”

The author of *Kaikoku Heidan* (A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation), Hayashi Shihei, issued an urgent manifesto to Edo's supporters from a remote corner of Tōhoku when preparing the book's printing.

"—Being stationed in this remote province while attending to various woodblock carving preparations, I find myself regrettably unable to personally meet and inform you all directly. Therefore, I humbly entrust this matter to five trusted comrades in the Eastern Capital—Tezuka Ichirōzaemon, Kakinuma Kanjirō, Morishima Jirō, Kudō Heisuke, and Fujita Yūho—to handle the transmission of contributions. Should any contributors wish to offer silver, please deliver it through any of these five men, whereupon it shall promptly reach the carving workshop—" This document constituted what we would now call a subscription publishing solicitation notice. Within it burned Hayashi Shihei's heartrending urgency—the same man who, during the mid-Edo period when coastal affairs grew increasingly turbulent, had staked his very life on writing *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation*. Through every line shone his lamentation over both the inefficiency of contemporary printing techniques and their exorbitant costs.

As someone involved in the printing trade during this modern age of civilization, I felt compelled to present here with deep emotion the cost breakdown for printing *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation*. Item one: The aforementioned *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation* spans sixteen volumes from the first volume's "Naval Battles" section through the abridged final volume, comprising three hundred and fifty sheets of paper bound into eight volumes. Item one: To print one thousand copies of this *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation* and distribute them throughout the land constitutes the lifelong aspiration of this humble scholar. Item one: As producing one thousand copies represented no small undertaking, we therefore summoned booksellers to estimate production costs, arriving at the following approximate figures.

Item one: The carving fee per sheet of paper is 4 monme 5 bu. The carving fee for three hundred and fifty sheets amounts to one kan five hundred monme, converting to twenty-six ryō one bu in gold. Item: For all eight volumes, eight chō of paper are used per set. For one thousand sets, this amounts to eight thousand chō. At a cost of eight bu five rin per chō, eight thousand chō total six kan eight hundred me. Converted to currency: one hundred thirteen ryō one bu in gold and five monme in silver. Item: For covers—8,000 sheets (each set comprising eight booklets for 1,000 sets totaling 8,000 booklets), with each sheet priced at 2 bu 5 rin. The total for 8,000 sheets amounts to 2 kanme, converting to currency as 10 ryō 2 bu in gold and 5 monme in silver. Item: Sewing thread—two jō per set. For one thousand sets, this amounts to two thousand jō. At six bu five rin per set for thread, the total comes to six hundred fifty monme for one thousand sets. Converting to currency: ten ryō three bu in gold and five monme in silver.

Item: The printing fee per set is four bu each. For one thousand sets, this amounts to four hundred monme, converting to six ryō two bu in gold and ten monme in silver. Item: The binding fee per set is one bu each. For one thousand sets, this amounts to one kanme, converting to sixteen ryō two bu in gold and ten monme in silver.

Item: Title label fee - one monme per full set of eight volumes. For one thousand sets: one hundred monme total, converting to one ryō two bu in gold and ten monme in silver. Total: In silver, 12 kan 520 monme. Total: In gold, 208 ryō 3 bu. "The above constitutes the approximate total cost for producing one thousand copies of *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation*. However, as this humble one has always been without means and of meager circumstances, achieving this through my own efforts alone proves exceedingly difficult. Therefore, as evidence of this woodblock carving endeavor, I have prepared several completed volumes of the 'Water Battles' section—five scrolls carved to date—which I now humbly present for your wise perusal, beseeching your kind assistance in defraying the expenses of this modest undertaking—"

And so on it goes.

In the appeal, 'suri-chin' referred to printing costs and 'shitate-chin' to binding costs. I surmised the 'printing fee for one thousand' indicated one thousand copies, though it was lower than the binding fee. By the mid-Edo period, woodblock printing had developed considerably - if producing a thousand copies cost four hundred monme in printing fees alone, the baren pressing of that era must have achieved considerable speed. I wondered whether what they called the 'title label fee' covered both the printed title on cover inserts and their paper cost.

However, how exorbitant it must have been! *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation* The entire eight volumes comprising three hundred and fifty sheets would amount to less than three hundred pages in today’s 9-point type set in 4x6 format, one might consider. Moreover, what tormented Hayashi Shihei was not merely the exorbitant cost. The pain many times greater than this—expressed in his plea, "If only this woodblock carving work could be completed within half a year! For as this humble one’s life’s span remains uncertain..."—ultimately lay in the woodblock carving process itself, which in modern terms would equate to typesetting and plate-making.

“—When carving alone, one sheet of paper generally requires one and a half days. Given that *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation* comprises three hundred and fifty sheets in total, should one person carve them without rest from New Year’s Day to New Year’s Eve, it would require nine hundred days. With two people carving—four hundred fifty days; with four people—two hundred twenty-five days; with eight people—one hundred thirteen days to complete. Yet since this humble one lacks means and lives in poverty, employing many workers proves impossible—”

And so Hayashi Shihei ultimately could employ only one carver, and the woodblock carving of *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation* took one thousand and sixty days to complete. I thought. This was a valuable document from before the emergence of modern movable type. And this was surely a hardship shared by scholars of that era; in Shihei’s case, I sensed a clear undercurrent of dissatisfaction with the inefficiency of printing techniques flowing beneath the meticulous details of this appeal. As was well known, *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation* had been published in the third year of Kansei (1791). In Japan, Motoki Shōzō first purchased lead type from abroad and embarked on research into modern movable type in the first year of Kaei (1848), while Kawamoto Kōmin lectured on and experimented with the "electrotyping method" for creating type matrices in the fifth year of Kaei (1852)—though some said it was the second year—thus spanning a period of over fifty years. Even if scholars of that time harbored vague dissatisfaction with the inefficiency of printing techniques, it had been only natural that this did not coalesce into conscious awareness. Yet in Hayashi Shihei’s inclusion of such meticulous printing cost details within his manifesto for *A Military Discourse for a Maritime Nation*’s subscription publication, I sensed there had been something more to his motivations. As was well known, he had often visited Nagasaki. He frequented Dejima’s Dutch trading house to such an extent that paintings existed—created by his own hand—depicting him being entertained by the Dutch kapitans. For there, he must have seen various Western books and observed lead type and printing presses that had already been commonplace for the Dutch by that time. Was this an unwarranted leap on my part?

This may be dismissed as far-fetched speculation. However, even with my limited knowledge, I can say that those who took interest in modern movable type were primarily Western scholars. The aforementioned Kawamoto Kōmin was such a case. Sugita Seikei, who wrote *The Materials for Movable Type*, was such a case. Ōtori Keisuke too was such a case—though working through carvings, he used lead-body type for Kaiseijo editions and thereby exerted an epoch-making influence on printing history. Furthermore, considering that the first types Kimura Kahē created under Shimazu Nariakira's orders were said to be Western script, along with other examples like the author-unknown "Hachiōji Type" or Edo-produced *Dutch Vocabulary Book*, it becomes clear that Western studies and modern movable type shared an inseparable relationship.

Motoki Shōzō was a Dutch interpreter and also a Western scholar. His growing interest in type and printing techniques likely followed the same trajectory as that of the aforementioned Western scholars. Here my thoughts take another leap: if there were more numerous researchers and scholars of movable type in Edo than in Nagasaki, why was it completed earlier not in Edo but in Nagasaki? According to history, movable type was finally born in Nagasaki and spread eastward from Osaka to Edo.

To put it simply, I believed there were two reasons. The first was that Nagasaki at the time had been the sole gateway to foreign culture. Thus when American engineer Gamble stopped at Nagasaki in Meiji 2 (1869) during his return voyage from Shanghai, there happened to be an opportunity for him to impart to Motoki Shōzō the method of creating type matrices through electrotyping. In other words, what might be called a "geographical advantage" constituted one of these factors.

The second reason was that Shōzō had continued to devote painstaking efforts to type manufacturing for twenty years. He was a man who had repeatedly dispatched his disciples even before Gamble’s port call to attempt learning the manufacturing method from the Shanghai missionary printing company—only to fail each time. In other words, while there existed individuals like Shōzō who shared the Edo Western scholars’ deep concern for modern movable type production methods, his position as an interpreter provided relatively favorable conditions for importing and studying foreign cultural artifacts compared to others engaged in Western studies.

In other words, Shōzō was positioned more advantageously than anyone else in Japan at that time to create modern movable type. Of course, given that Nagasaki during the Bakumatsu period reportedly had over a hundred Dutch interpreters, the fact that Motoki among them became the one must be considered a unique aspect of Shōzō’s individual character. However, I believe that to understand the history of Japan’s modern movable type creation—including Shōzō himself—one must first examine what might be called the "geographical advantage," meaning the domestic and foreign relations Nagasaki maintained at the time. The second requirement, I concluded, was to begin by understanding both the tradition of Western studies and the lives of interpreters—particularly that of interpreter Shōzō.

Therefore, I decided to begin with the latter. Shōzō was born in Bunsei 7 (1824) in Shin-daiku-machi, Nagasaki. His father was Kitajima Sanyata, the town's otona (district head), and his mother was Motoki Shige. He was their fourth son, said to have borne the childhood name Sakunosuke. At age eleven in Tenpō 5 (1834), he became the adopted son of Motoki Shōzaemon - his maternal uncle and elder brother to his mother Shige. I know of no documents chronicling Shōzō's early years. Most biographies contain phrases like "he loved learning from childhood" or "displayed precocious technical aptitude," but these were likely embellishments added by biographers themselves. Not that I consider them outright falsehoods.

He was born in Bunsei 7 (1824 CE). To historically imagine Nagasaki at that time: in the previous year of Bunsei 6 (1823), at Dejima's Dutch trading house—located just a stone's throw from his Shin-daiku-machi neighborhood—the twenty-six-year-old, spirited Philipp Franz von Siebold had arrived as its resident physician. In the year of Shōzō's birth, Takano Chōei—at the tender age of twenty-one—journeyed all the way from Mizusawa in the northeast to Nagasaki, bearing his scholar's pack to become a disciple of Siebold. Then in the following year of Bunsei 8 (1825), a schoolhouse was built in Narutaki on the outskirts of Nagasaki, drawing outstanding young men from all across Japan—those aspiring to medicine, those dedicated to natural sciences and linguistics—who gathered to seek out this German-born fount of new knowledge. The entry for Bunsei 8 [1825] in the *Western Studies Chronicle* states: "A schoolhouse was built in Narutaki, eastern outskirts of Nagasaki, to serve as Siebold's lecture hall," noting he "delivered lectures on medicine and natural history." Hidaka Ryōdai's letter conveying the atmosphere of that time reads: "With even Western physicians—rare visitors—now arriving in town to conduct charity treatments here and there, eminent scholars from all quarters have gathered in unprecedented numbers for this grand occasion. At present, individuals such as Mima Junsan of Awa Province, Minato Chōan of Edo, Totsuka Seikai of Enshū, Kōra Sai of Awa, and Kenkai ○○ among others—all accomplished men of their station—find it infinitely delightful." With such passages as these existing, by the time Shōzō had grown old enough to understand the world around him, Nagasaki was already overflowing with a scholarly atmosphere; thus, unless one was a complete fool, one could not help but be influenced in some way.

Moreover, since he had been born into a family of interpreters, the degree of that influence must have been all the more intense. Moreover, Nagasaki was a directly controlled territory of the shogunate, and since interpreters were under the jurisdiction of the Nagasaki magistrate, it is thought he grew up steeped in various political influences. The political slogans “expel the barbarians” and “open the country,” which had become nearly ubiquitous by the end of the Edo period, would have resonated more directly in Nagasaki—the gateway to foreign culture—than anywhere else in Japan; and given their profession as interpreters, they must have been more practically affected than anyone else in Nagasaki.

In Bunsei 8 (1825), when Shōzō was two years old, the shogunate issued the "Edict to Repel Foreign Ships," and in Tenpō 13 (1842), when he was nineteen, it issued the "Revised Edict to Repel Foreign Ships." The Bunsei 8 [1825] version, as is well known, was stubbornly insistent with its decree that "When foreign ships arrive, they must be repelled without a second thought," while the Tenpō 13 [1842] revised edict stated that "Should circumstances remain unclear, to blindly repel them would conflict with how we must conduct ourselves toward all nations." “If foreign ships are sighted, [they] shall thoroughly investigate their circumstances; should [the ships] be lacking provisions such as food and water and find returning home difficult, [they] shall provide them with the requested items as appropriate.” ...and so on—this revised edict still did not permit foreigners to land, but it had become considerably more lenient. The Bunsei 8 [1825] edict was issued by Shogun Ienari, while the revised edict came immediately after Ienari’s retirement; during that interval, there must have been various subtle maneuvers within the shogunate council. From the Bunka-Bunsei era onward, the arrivals of British and Russian ships had gradually grown frequent; though young Shōzō could not have perceived the subtle political maneuvers at play, would not events such as those that followed have exerted some influence on him?

In other words, during the Bansha Persecution Incident of Tenpō 10 (1839), when Takano Chōei and Watanabe Kazan were arrested, Shōzō must have been fifteen years old. The shogunate came to abhor Chōei’s *Dream Stories* and Kazan’s *Treatise on Prudence*, leading Kazan to commit suicide in Tenpō 12 (1841) when Shōzō was seventeen, while Chōei remained a fugitive after breaking out of prison until he took his own life by seppuku in Kaei 3 (1850) when Shōzō was twenty-seven. Even if it remains unclear whether Shōzō ever had direct access to works like *Dream Stories* or *Treatise on Prudence* by Chōei—Siebold’s disciple—given that these represented Western scholars’ first political engagement with the shogunate’s “Edict to Repel Foreign Ships,” it stands to reason that Shōzō, himself immersed in Western studies in news-quick Nagasaki, would have felt their impact in various ways regardless of agreement; and when the Tenpō 13 [1842] “Revised Edict” was issued, it must have resonated practically with Shōzō and his fellow interpreters given their profession.

Since I know of no literature documenting Shōzō's childhood, I attempt to infer one aspect of it by considering these broader societal trends of the time; but being in Nagasaki—a place that was—and belonging to a family of interpreters by profession, the influences acting upon him could not have been solely domestic in nature. Year after year, given that he would have interacted not only with Dutch ships bearing Tokugawa Ieyasu's vermilion-sealed licenses for overseas voyages that came for trade, but also—as per the regulations of the time—with foreigners of differing hair and eye colors who, having drifted ashore anywhere in Japan, were invariably sent to Nagasaki at least once, one can infer that he must have overheard snippets of various rare overseas events.

In 1828, when Shōzō was five years old, the first steam locomotive ran on the American continent; in 1834, when he was eleven, Jacobi’s electric motor was invented. In the following year when he was twelve, 1835, Morse’s telegraph was completed, and in that same year, the Colt revolver was invented. Furthermore, in 1838 when Shōzō was fifteen—the year Chōei and Kazan were arrested in Japan—a steamship billowing black smoke plowed through the Atlantic waves for the first time; that is to say, it was the very same Black Ships that would startle Japan fifteen years later in Kaei 6 (1853).

II The Motoki family was an old-established lineage among the Dutch interpreters, alongside the families of Namura, Shizuki, Ishibashi, Yoshio, and Narabayashi. According to the genealogical chart compiled by Mr. Miyata, their lineage was said to trace back to Hayashi Mataemon—grandson of Akechi Mitsuhide—with records stating that during the time of Shōdayū, the third generation from Mataemon, they adopted the Motoki surname, served Lord Matsuura, and resided in Hirado, Hizen. From Shōdayū came Yūsai, followed by another individual bearing the same name—the second Shōdayū—who first migrated from Hirado to Nagasaki and became the founding progenitor of the Motoki family as interpreters.

While the family tree does not clarify the year of migration, the *Western Studies Chronicle* states: “Motoki Shōdayū of Hirado—in this year migrated to Nagasaki, later becoming a minor interpreter in Kōbun Kōshin [1664], and after five years rose to major interpreter in Kōbun Boshin [1668],” with “this year” referring to Manji 2 [1659]. Since Shōdayū died at age seventy in Genroku 10 [1697], the year of his migration would have been when he was thirty-six, in the prime of life. How did the Japanese of this era acquire foreign languages? The precise details elude me, but the aforementioned text states: “Shōdayū, originally of the Hayashi clan, served generations of the Matsuura lords; from youth he frequented the Dutch trading house and became versed in their language.” This suggests he likely memorized pronunciations through oral repetition while interacting with foreigners. Advancing in this field thus required particular mnemonic talents—aptitude Shōdayū evidently possessed in abundance. Yet a puzzling inconsistency emerges: the Dutch trading house had relocated from Hirado to Dejima, Nagasaki in Kanei 18 [1641], seventeen years before Shōdayū’s migration in Manji 2 [1659]. Therefore, the claim that he “frequented the Dutch trading house from childhood” must refer to his pre-nineteenth year. Given Edo-period transportation limitations, regular travel between Hirado and Dejima—both within Hizen Province but geographically distant—seems improbable. Furthermore, Itazawa Takeo’s *Development of Dutch Studies* records Shōdayū’s interpreter appointment in Kanbun 4 [1664], merely five years post-migration. This timeline raises questions: Could Shōdayū have maintained some official capacity linking his service to Lord Matsuura with the relocated Dutch trading house after moving to Nagasaki?

In any case, when it came to the Dutch language—even if one’s understanding amounted to mere mimicry of speech—those with talent must have been highly valued in those days. As is well known, Shogun Iemitsu built an island off Nagasaki Harbor to strengthen enforcement of the Christian prohibition, relocating thereto all trading posts—Portuguese, Chinese, Dutch, and others—that had been in Hirado. Meanwhile, trade operations flourished day by day; according to Philipp Franz von Siebold’s *History of Japanese Communication and Trade*, “This period (1671, Kambun 11) was what Governor-General Imhoff—who held authority over the Dutch East India Company—called the golden age of Dutch trade in Japan,” when Japan’s export value to the Netherlands alone reached four to five hundred thousand ryō annually. Moreover, since what Japan exported followed the order of first gold, then silver, and subsequently copper—all exploited by cunning European merchants at an alarming rate, causing the nation to hemorrhage precious metals—even the naive shogunate grew alarmed. It is reasoned that as one countermeasure against these dangers, they sought to secure more Dutch interpreters, and it is inferred that the shogunate commanded Lord Matsuura to employ Shōdayū.

Shōdayū’s formal name was Eihisa, and later, upon taking the tonsure, he came to be called Ryōi. At forty-one, he became a minor interpreter, and at forty-six, he was promoted to major interpreter. When he was sixty-eight years old, the shogunate established a system of appointing overseers to Dutch interpreters, and Shōdayū was selected as the first overseer. He must have been quite an exceptional figure, as records show that in Enpō 4 (1676), he collaborated with fellow interpreters Namura, Nakajima, and Narabayashi to compile and present the *Dutch News Reports* to the shogunate. Furthermore, his expertise extended to medical matters, evidenced by works such as *Complete Dutch Anatomical Diagrams*. These achievements make clear that Shōdayū’s command of Dutch went far beyond mere mimicry. In addition, he participated as an accompanying interpreter in the Dutch Kapitan’s "Edo Visits" on nine occasions. During this period, the "Edo Visits"—ceremonial audiences granted to the Dutch Kapitan by the shogun—were conducted annually. As later accounts reveal, these events frequently intersected with contemporary political and cultural developments while constituting a significant responsibility for the interpreters involved. Given this context, Shōdayū must have been valued not merely for his technical prowess as an interpreter but for broader qualities of character.

According to the entry for Genroku 10 (1697) in the *Western Studies Chronicle*, it states: "In October, Motoki Ryōi, overseer of Dutch interpreters, dies; his son Ichirōsuke is a mere seven years old." However, in Mr. Miyata’s genealogical chart, the second-generation Motoki is listed as "Buheiji." Motoki Nidayū III was born in Genroku 4 (1691), making him exactly seven years old at this time. Therefore, when the *Western Studies Chronicle* refers to “Ichirōsuke,” this likely indicates Nidayū, with “Ichirōsuke” presumed to be Nidayū’s childhood name—but if so, might this Buheiji figure have been an informally adopted son? In any case, whether in the *Western Studies Chronicle* or *Development of Dutch Studies*, the figure named Buheiji does not appear; many biographies have the second generation from Shōdayū becoming the first Nidayū. However, according to Mr. Miyata’s genealogical chart, the epitaph on Shōdayū’s grave—written by the first Nidayū, that is, "Ichirōsuke"—states: "Motoki Buheiji erected this on the nineteenth day of the tenth month of Genroku 10 [1697]." Thus, though we do not know whether they were blood relatives, there can be no doubt that a person named Buheiji existed. I have no means of knowing whether he was an interpreter or not; for now, I shall follow the *Western Studies Chronicle* and proceed with the account of how after Shōdayū’s death, [the lineage] lay dormant for over a decade until Ichirōsuke—who was seven years old at the time—first appears [in records] at age twenty-two.

Motoki Nidayū I (referred to as the third generation in Mr. Miyata's records) died at age fifty-six in Kan'en 2 (1749). Like Shōdayū, he later took the tonsure and came to be called Ryōkō; despite his efforts, he never rose beyond being a trainee interpreter in his lifetime. Yet it is intriguing that this Ryōkō became known as a Dutch scholar. The entry for Kyōhō 1 [1716] in the *Western Studies Chronicle* states: “While the lower column is meant for recording scholars’ death dates, the first year lists living scholars as follows”—proceeding in descending order of age: Nishikawa Joken at sixty-nine, Arai Hakuseki at sixty, Hosoi Kōtaku at fifty-nine, Noro Genjō at twenty-four, and so on, with “Motoki Nidayū of Nagasaki, age twenty-two” written last.

The most notable event in Ryōkō’s life would likely be that in Enkyō 2 [1745], together with interpreters Nishizen Saburō and Yoshio Kōemon, he obtained a permit granting permission to read Dutch documents. According to various theories, at that time the reading of Western books was generally prohibited; however, it became a famously cited event—alongside what Sugita Genpaku and others describe in *Rangaku Kotohajime*—that around this period in Edo, Aoki Bunzō (Kōyō) and his associates campaigned to have Shogun Yoshimune issue an “edict lifting the ban on Western books.” Yet concerning this, Itazawa Takeo refutes as follows in *Development of Dutch Studies*: “—During the time of the eighth shogun Yoshimune, interpreters Nishizen Saburō, Yoshio Kōemon, and Motoki Nidayū submitted a petition to the shogunate regarding the aforementioned circumstances, requesting permission to study Western writing and read Dutch books—it is said that permission was granted.” This theory had long been accepted at face value, but Enkyō 2 [1745] marked over 140 years since Japanese-Dutch contact had first begun. Throughout this period—it defies common sense to imagine that interpreters handling practical trade matters could have fulfilled their duties without being able to read a single Western character. The dubious nature of *Rangaku Kotohajime*’s account had already been pointed out long ago by Mr. Koga Jūniro in *Nagasaki and Foreign Culture*. and so on.

As an amateur, I lacked the ability to judge which of these theories—Itazawa’s or that of the Western Studies Chronicle—was correct. However, given that even Shōdayū I authored *Complete Dutch Anatomical Diagrams* (though this was published by his grandson Nidayū II), I found myself inclined to support Itazawa’s theory. As for the account in Mr. Miyata’s Motoki biography claiming Aoki Kōyō visited Nagasaki to conspire with Ryōkō about lifting the ban on Western books—even an amateur like myself could not bring himself to believe it. Yet as Mr. Itazawa himself acknowledged in his work, this demonstrated how deficient the Dutch interpreters were in Dutch literature—they had failed to identify smuggled Christian texts even when inspecting them physically—while Captain Doeff’s observations in *Japan Recollections* about these interpreters’ Dutch proficiency similarly attested to this reality.

In other words, what I wished to believe was this: The permits granted to Nishi, Yoshio, and Motoki for reading Dutch texts might not have existed as described in the Western Studies Chronicle's account. Yet the interpreters' deficiencies in Dutch scholarship—as we would later see—likely stemmed not only from the obsequious disposition bred by their institutional role and their own intellectual apathy, but also from this reality: even without formal prohibitions on foreign texts, their contentment with mere oral interpretation—with methods like jotting phonetic katakana transcriptions on paper scraps—must have reflected not just the interpreters' servility but also an unspoken shogunal policy that endorsed such practices. Of course, this appeared fundamentally incompatible with the interpreter system's institutional framework. But just as Iemitsu's isolationist policies contradicted ongoing trade relations, might there not have existed some tacit force that entwined itself with the interpreters' anti-intellectualism—even absent explicit prohibitions?

Ryōkō was unskilled in oral argumentation. As a result, he never rose beyond being a trainee interpreter in his lifetime; however, at the time of the “permission to read and translate Dutch books” affair, Nishi was thirty, Yoshio twenty-two, and Nidayū alone fifty-one. “Therefore, it is most admirable that he—deeply devoted to scholarship since youth and now with graying hair—shared the same aspirations as those young men.” “My grandfather Genzaku studied in Nagasaki, sought knowledge from the Motoki and Yoshio families, and Motoki too is recorded as one of the founders of Dutch studies,” and so on, writes Ōtsuki Nyoden, Genzaku’s grandson.

Genzaku was friends with Shōzaemon, Ryōkō’s grandson, and since the request for “benefit” is believed to have been made to Nidayū II—Ryōkō’s son—the details of “the permit and so on” were likely an oral tradition passed down through his descendants. However, chronologically speaking, since it was after Ryōkō that scholars and technicians began emerging in greater numbers from among the interpreters, I believe the actions of these three men must have served as some form of intellectual stimulus for their peers. Then Ryōkō—having served twenty years as a trainee interpreter without ever attaining minor interpreter status—left a will stating: “I designate my twelve-year-old daughter as heir to the Nishi family’s lineage. Admonish her thus: Be circumspect in conduct and uphold our hereditary duty,” before passing away.

Nidayū II, Motoki III entered from the Nishi family and was called Einosuke, later Yorinaga. Born in Kyōhō 20 (1735), he died at age sixty in Kansei 6 (1794). Hayami Keiji’s *Chronology of Philosophy* also lists "Motoki Yorinaga, 60" under the "Scientists" section for that same year as having passed away. Yorinaga succeeded to his predecessor’s will, becoming a minor interpreter in An’ei 6 (1777), and later advanced to the position of major interpreter. The Western Studies Chronicle states: “—the revival of the Motoki clan, through whom Dutch astronomy arose.” Yorinaga was not only a skilled interpreter but also an eminent scholar. He authored and translated numerous works; selecting the principal ones from the *Chronology of Philosophy*, we find *Flat Celestial Sphere Usage* from An'ei 3 (1774), *Method of Using the Two Celestial Spheres*, *Dutch Sea Mirror Book* (Tenmei 1 [1781]), and Tenmei 8 [1788]: *Dutch Perpetual Calendar*. In Kansei 4 [1792], works such as *Understanding Celestial Mechanics* appeared; this final theory in particular is known as the first introduction of the heliocentric theory to Japan and likely paved the way for subsequent developments in astronomy. It served as the precursor to *Rekishō Shinsho* (*New Treatise on Calendrical Phenomena*), which became a key catalyst for Japan’s eventual adoption of the solar calendar. That Shizuki Tadao—the renowned author of *Rekishō Shinsho*, a former interpreter who later took the name Ryōho and adopted the surname Nakano—was Yorinaga’s disciple further clarifies this lineage.

Yorinaga, taking after his father-in-law Ryōkō, appeared to embody a diligent and upright scholarly disposition. He had been fifty-eight when the shogunate ordered him to translate and expound upon the *Understanding Celestial Mechanics* theory—a directive reportedly based on his prior translation and presentation of *Method of Using the Two Celestial Spheres* during An'ei 3 [1774]. The complete work spanned seven volumes containing three hundred twenty-five chapters, with an additional appendix volume—an undeniably monumental undertaking. Commenced in November of Kansei 3 [1791] and concluded in September of Kansei 5 [1793], he died mere months after completing this translation, suggesting it had been a fatal labor. The epitaph of Shōzaemon IV purportedly records: "Commissioned to translate texts during bitter winter, [he] doused himself in cold water, approached Suwa Shrine barefoot and unclothed, praying to complete his task. Some admonished: 'You are aged—why endure such hardship?' To which he replied: 'My forebears served as translators under public stipend. To perish thus fulfills my duty.'" This account likely preserves Yorinaga's essential character.

Shōzaemon IV was Yorinaga’s eldest son and was posthumously named Masasaka. According to Mr. Miyata’s genealogical chart, he was born in An’ei 7 (1778) and died at thirty-six in Bunka 10 (1813); however, the Western Studies Chronicle lists Shōzaemon’s name under “Deceased Dutch Scholars” for Bunsei 5 (1822), noting his death at Nagasaki Daikōji Temple at age fifty-six. From this comparison, not only does the year of death show discrepancies, but the birth year also emerges as Meiwa 5 (1768) rather than An’ei 7 (1778). Thus, according to Miyata’s theory, Shōzaemon would have been seventeen years old at Yorinaga’s death, whereas the latter source lists him as twenty-seven. Moreover, as if corroborating that account, the entry for Kansei 6 (1794) states: “Major interpreter Motoki Nidayū died; his son Motoyoshi succeeded him. [Motoyoshi] was a minor interpreter, later changing his name to Shōzaemon and adopting the personal name Masasaka.” Given this, if he were a minor interpreter, he could hardly have been seventeen years old. As previously mentioned, Genzaku—grandfather of Nyoden, author of the *Newly Compiled Western Studies Chronicle*—was a friend of Shōzaemon; I am inclined to trust the latter account. Moreover, as one piece of evidence, Doeff’s *Japan Recollections* records that Shōzaemon remained alive until 1817 (Bunka 10). 1817 was when Captain Doeff withdrew to Batavia after nineteen years in Japan. Furthermore, as we shall later see, this record shows Shōzaemon’s existence served not only as an unforgettable antagonist to Captain Doeff but also became a motivating factor compelling him to withdraw from Japan with conflicted thoughts.

Motoki Shōzaemon IV later advanced to become a major interpreter, and in Bunsei 2 (1819), together with Namura Hachiemon, he was appointed as “Chief Interpreter Instructor.” It was not recorded what subject he taught, but given that Shōzaemon had mastered French in addition to Dutch and was particularly a pioneer in English, it is presumed he taught those languages. Among Shōzaemon’s works deserving remembrance were *A Primer for Promoting English Studies*—essentially an English-Japanese dictionary—published in February of Bunka 8 (1811), and the *Compendium of the English Language*, created in September of the same year in collaboration with Narabayashi and Yoshio—works I believe merit special mention in the history of English studies in Japan. In the preface to *Compendium of the English Language*, Shōzaemon wrote: “In former times, England’s official duties here were prohibited, leaving none acquainted with its language. Only when the Dutchman Jan Cock Blomhoff—versed in their tongue—arrived in Bunka 6 (1809) did our translators first gain means to acquire it. In the spring of Bunka 8 (1811), we translated and compiled *A Primer for Promoting English Studies* to aid our junior colleagues in preparing against foreign threats. By fortunate decree that September came the commission for this *Compendium*, whereupon we gathered their words, referenced Dutch and French tongues in translation, and at last harmonized them with our empire’s vernacular speech—rendering all in Chinese characters.” And so on.

I felt I could discern within this brief preface both the path through which English entered Japan and the social circumstances surrounding it. "to aid our junior colleagues in preparing against external threats"— This "and so on" likely indicated that interpreters of shared purpose, centered around Shōzaemon, had been secretly acquiring English in preparation for future exigencies. Though Bunka Kanoe-tori corresponded to the sixth year—two years prior—when we recalled the "British Ship Incident" of Bunka 5 from even earlier, Shōzaemon's intent became all the clearer to us. The "British Ship Incident" referred to the notorious event where the British warship HMS Phaeton, flying Dutch colors, made unlawful entry into Nagasaki Port. Even if the HMS Phaeton's true intent—as a vessel of the ascendant British Empire that had compelled the Netherlands' surrender—lay in seizing its overseas Dutch trading post, since that post operated under our nation's partial protection, the affair grew convoluted, culminating in Nagasaki Magistrate Matsudaira Toshokan and five Saga domain executives assuming responsibility through seppuku—a historical fact. At that time, Shōzaemon had been in Edo on official business; when the "British Ship Incident" occurred, he was ordered to remain and serve as English interpreter—suggesting he had undertaken some self-directed study even before receiving instruction from Blomhoff.

In any case, even when viewed through the Motoki family genealogy, when it came to Shōzaemon’s era, the coastal regions rapidly became turbulent. Consequently, among his translated works were titles such as *Coastal Artillery Preparedness* and *Compendium on Marine Distance Measurement Instruments*, which greatly contributed to diplomatic and coastal defense efforts; later, he was posthumously conferred the Senior Fifth Rank alongside his father Yorinaga. Following Shōzaemon’s death, the Western Studies Chronicle abruptly mentions in its entry for Kaei 1 (1848): “Shōzō (given name Nagahisa)—grandson of Shōzaemon,” while Shōzō’s adoptive father Shōsakuemon is entirely omitted. However, I wish to believe—as per Mr. Miyata’s genealogical chart—that Shōsakuemon was indeed Shōzaemon’s biological son and the fifth head of the Motoki family. For if Shōzaemon had not had a son, they would not have married Shōzō’s mother Shigeru to Kitajima but would have taken an adopted son instead. Why Shōsakuemon does not appear in the chronicles—whether because he had no notable achievements to speak of—I do not know, but given that it states “Shōzō is Shōzaemon’s grandson,” Nyoden is not denying Shōsakuemon’s existence either.

At last my protagonist—Motoki VI, or the seventh generation in Mr. Miyata’s genealogical chart—Shōzō made his entrance; dear reader, I wanted you to understand why I had expounded upon the Motoki family lineage with such exhaustive detail. Unlike inventions such as Kamenokotahashi or the Magic Konro stove, I believed any fundamental invention or improvement leaving its mark upon civilization’s annals must be grounded in a correspondingly lofty spirit. What I sought to discern was whether this centuries-spanning lineage had influenced the spirit of Shōzō—the man who created, or perhaps transplanted, the movable type that became one of modern Japan’s cultural foundation stones.

III The child named Sakunosuke, who became the adopted son of his uncle Shōsakuemon, later changed his name to Motoyoshi and then Shōzō; from age eleven onward, he certainly studied to become an interpreter. He received guidance from his adoptive father, attended the interpreters' training institute, and through his adoptive father's introductions, likely learned directly from the foreigners at the Dutch trading post. By Shōzō's time, Dutch interpreters were no longer limited to Dutch alone. As observed in the family lineage, French and English traditions had existed since Shōzaemon's era; moreover, as the Tenpō [1830–1844], Kōka [1844–1848], and Kaei [1848–1854] periods approached, foreign ships arrived so frequently—necessitating such skills—that revised expulsion orders were issued.

Thus, Shōzō learned Western script and cultivated his qualifications to become an interpreter—but was he also a "Western scholar" at the same time? It seemed I had until now conflated interpreters and Western scholars. Indeed, the Dutch interpreters in Nagasaki shared an inseparable relationship with the development of Dutch studies. In truth, they contributed to Western learning in Japan: giving rise to the Narabayashi and Yoshio schools in medical arts, sustaining the Motoki and Shizuki families in astronomy, fostering Takashima in gunnery and Yoshio in pharmacology—above all, producing many pioneering linguistic scholars through their professional exigencies. Yet were interpreters truly of the same nature as shogunate retainers, domain vassals, or those so-called “Dutch scholars” emerging from the townspeople?

The role of interpreter was truly a unique profession. Even with my limited knowledge, I understand that while they were rarely honored with titles like “shogunate interpreter-official,” more commonly they were disparaged with derogatory terms like “some Nagasaki interpreter so-and-so Hyōe”—terms even low-ranking samurai nearby seemed inclined to hurl at them. For example, as we shall later see, when Shōzō became involved in Yōdō, Lord of Tosa’s shipbuilding project, Terada Shisai—a retainer of the same domain—recorded the events in his diary with considerable disparagement. However, even though interpreters were not shogunate retainers, they existed under the shogunate’s control and were often employed in handling important political intricacies for the shogunal council, likely participating in its consultations to some extent. Moreover, they were neither of samurai status nor purely townspeople.

When was the interpreter system established? "Dutch interpreters or translation officials served as both interpreters and commercial officials, and the Dutch referred to them as Turks." Dutch interpreters had existed since the Hirado period. "However, that orderly hierarchy appears to have been established after entering the Nagasaki period," stated Mr. Itazawa in *The Development of Dutch Studies*. In other words, this undoubtedly traced back to when Dutch ships first drifted into the offshore waters of Kyūshū's Bungo Channel in Keichō 5 [1600], but given that political policies differed until the final years of Hideyoshi's rule, we could reasonably surmise that interpreters only acquired their definitive institutional character following Iemitsu's reign.

There was indeed no difference between "interpreter-official" and "commercial official," but one might doubt whether they truly possessed the substance to be called "officials" by modern standards. For instance, in Bunka 11 (1814), when Hendrick Doeff—head of the Dutch trading post—whose homeland had surrendered to Britain and who six years prior had provoked the "British Ship Incident" as previously mentioned, found Britain once again advancing Kassa—a Dutchman and former trading post head—under the pretext that Doeff's term had expired to attempt a legal occupation, they staged an elaborate charade using Japanese interpreters as pawns. To quote Doeff from *Japan Recollections*: "That very night, I secretly summoned to my residence both the five interpreters' external overseers and all major and minor interpreters." He then pressured Kassa to issue a false declaration that the Netherlands would soon restore peace, and that until then Doeff should remain in his current post. Kassa himself being a British agent would have had to expose the circumstances before the interpreters to refuse this demand. Moreover, Doeff had already positioned these five interpreters as "those privy to secrets."

Of course, as history shows, Doeff’s intimidation succeeded. When all Dutch territories were lost, Hendrick Doeff became a meritorious figure in Dutch history who managed to keep their flag flying solely in Nagasaki, Japan. However, when viewed conversely from our Japanese perspective, it must be said to be utterly brazen. Although they were not siding with Britain, the policy of Motoki Shōzaemon and Namura Takichirō—who at this time demonstrated opposition to Doeff—likely stemmed from more than just the disparaging spirit that Doeff spoke of. Moreover, Doeff—who had arbitrarily "summoned" the interpreters—wrote regarding Namura and Motoki, who were then senior interpreters: "Through this opportunity, I learned through experience that in Japan, it is necessary to cultivate friendly relations even with lower-ranking officials."

Doeff was a man of strategy. To drive a wedge between Namura and Motoki and defeat them individually, he summoned them separately and presented them with items like pocket watches, thereby succeeding in his scheme. And this may also indicate the general character of the interpreters. As we have seen before, a man of Shōzaemon’s caliber would not have been so easily dazzled by a mere silver pocket watch. Was it not that there existed a particular climate among the interpreters themselves that allowed them to go along with—indeed, enabled—such strategies by Doeff?

Mr. Iwashiro Katsumi wrote in *Maeno Ranka*. "That Dutch interpreters had duties extending beyond interpretation and translation—monitoring the Dutch residents’ actions down to every lift and lower of their chopsticks—was documented in Kaempfer’s Edo Journey." “Consequently, even when ailing Dutch residents received medical treatment or surgery—whether domestically or abroad—they could not escape the surveillance of interpreters.” In other words, this too was likely another role that the policy since Iemitsu’s time had imposed upon the interpreters—who served as both interpreter-officials and commercial officials.

The stipends of the interpreters were not meager. *The Development of Dutch Studies* records that around Genroku 8 (1695), senior interpreters received eleven kan of silver and provisions for five people, junior interpreters seven kan and three hundred me of silver with provisions for three people, and lower-ranking junior interpreters three kan of silver. By the late Edo period, Siebold wrote in *History of Japanese Traffic and Trade*: "Senior interpreters received one thousand one hundred ryō of silver and one thousand nine hundred sixty shō of rice; first-class junior interpreters five hundred thirty ryō and one thousand two hundred thirty shō; second-class and third-class junior interpreters three hundred ryō each." According to established custom, they reportedly received various supplementary stipends called "extra allowances" with each Dutch ship's arrival, making their economic standing far surpass that of ordinary samurai. Yet punishments for interpreters' errors or crimes were equally severe—in Tenpō 8 (1837), junior interpreter Namura Motojirō faced public execution for mishandling twenty-five saffron stalks. The aforementioned Captain Doeff, having divided and conquered Motoki and Namura by secretly reporting their past minor transgressions to the Nagasaki magistrate to seize control over their fates, boasted about these maneuvers in his *Japan Recollections*.

Indeed, interpreters occupied a uniquely delicate position. I found myself reflecting that Siebold's observation about interpreters in his *History of Japanese Traffic and Trade* might have struck closest to the mark: "The title of 'interpreter' may sound unassuming, yet it denotes a position of great importance." Their duties proved most arduous, demanding they humble themselves before all parties. They served as both government officials and language instructors, brokers and merchants—. To this he added pointedly: "Most were individuals devoid of principles or distinctive character—."

This was likely the general character of what were been called Dutch interpreters. Had it not been for the emergence of influential Western scholars in Edo and elsewhere since Hakuseki and Konyo—and had events like *Rangaku Kotohajime* not occurred—linguistic studies might have remained little more than a specialized skill among interpreters, confined to trade necessities. Moreover, even among the interpreters themselves, excepting a few individuals, most had undoubtedly been satisfied if merely "writing pronunciations in katakana on scraps of paper" sufficed for their needs. Yet how wondrous are history's workings! These individuals, simultaneously tasked with managing every aspect of foreigners' households down to their chopstick movements—through having to observe even how utensils were lifted and lowered—became like temple acolytes reciting sutras without study: able to mimic physicians. At first, reluctantly complying with patients' families' desperate pleas and intending it only as temporary measures for each case, they timorously performed surgeries or administered medications. "Yet this unlicensed doctor achieves unexpectedly good results." As seen in instances like Maeno Ranka, the few exceptional interpreters transcended their professional bounds, gradually delving deeper not only into medicine but other scholarly fields as well.

Looking at the Motoki family, we could recall Shōdayū Ryōi’s *Dutch Complete Anatomical Atlas* and reflect upon Nindayū Yoshinaga’s introduction of the heliocentric theory as well as Shōzaemon Masayoshi’s *Compendium of the English Language*. As an even more typical example, we could cite Yoshinaga’s disciple Shizuki Tadao—later known as Nakano Ryūho—and his *New Treatise on Calendrical Phenomena*. Yoshinaga’s *Understanding Solar Principles* had been a pioneering work in Japanese astronomy, but ultimately did not advance much beyond introductory explanations. Moreover, Shizuki Tadao Ryūho’s *New Treatise on Calendrical Phenomena* was no longer merely introductory in nature. His astronomy was his own original theory that first established a foundation in Japan. And what did Ryūho have to do for “introductory work” to become “original theory”? To continue his single-minded twenty-year pursuit of study, he had to leave his adoptive Shizuki family, abandon his role as an interpreter, and become the scholar Nakano Tadao.

Here we could discern the distinction between "Dutch studies as pursued by scholars" and "Dutch studies as practiced by interpreters." Western scholars from Edo and Kyoto-Osaka initially often visited Nagasaki to seek out the interpreters. However, they had aimed for scholarship from the very beginning. It is said that Hayashi Shihei studied under Motoki Yoshinaga, while Hiraga Gennai, Maeno Ryōtaku, Ōtsuki Gentaku, and others also visited Nagasaki. Yet they all made it their own. And what of my protagonist, Motoki Shōzō? He was born into a family of tradition and grew up amidst the general character of interpreters as previously described. His life spanned from the turbulent Bakumatsu period through the post-Meiji Restoration era of civilization and enlightenment, marked by extreme twists and turns. At times he became an interpreter for Russo-Japanese negotiations; at others, serving as chief engineer of a shogunate warship, he seemed poised to battle Chōshū forces; then again he became captain of a steamship carrying Prince Arisugawa Taruhito, successfully fulfilling loyalist duties; while other times he was shipwrecked at Hachijōjima or spent many years cast into prison. And yet it was only movable type that would be completed over twenty years later; within this zigzag course of his life, to what extent—and in what manner—did he transcend the general character of interpreters?

Crashing waves

I I was able to examine three historical Nagasaki maps. The first was viewed at the Imperial Library and dated from the seventh year of An'ei (1778). The remaining two belonged to my friend K's collection—one likely from the Tenpō era (1830-1844), the other judged to be circa Keiō 2nd year (1866) based on K's appraisal. The An'ei-era monochrome "Nagasaki Map," crafted by Ōbata Bunjiemon, showed remarkable detail. The Futamata River coursed slightly left of the town center, its upper reaches splitting into two tributaries. The left branch originated near Narutaki—where Siebold would later establish his academy for disseminating Western knowledge under magistrate patronage—with Shōzō's birthplace Shin Daiku-machi lying almost adjacent. Merging with a right-bank tributary downstream, the Futamata flowed straight to the sea where Tōjin-yashiki occupied the estuary's left promontory and a larger fan-shaped island spread across the right. This was Dejima—the Dutch Trading Post's domain. In cartographic depiction, Dejima resembled a jeweled hat ornament; the Nagasaki Magistrate's Office anchored what would be the hat's crown—a rounded protrusion bridged to Dejima—while Nagasaki's towns fanned outward in a V-shape from the bustling port below. Along the magistrate's coastal right flank arced distant compounds housing Higo, Chikuzen, Saga, Hirado, Isahaya and Yanagawa daimyo—annual guardians of Japan's gateway.

I examined with interest the depictions of ships offshore in the harbor. There were ships of all sizes. Dutch ships, Siamese ships, Nanking ships—I had no knowledge of ships and thus could make no informed judgment, but these foreign vessels all uniformly displayed three or four masts, their fan-shaped forms stout and deep-hulled, painted in what might have been red or blue. Numerous flags fluttered from their mastheads, while the masts themselves were crisscrossed with rigging like spiderwebs. Though they must have relied solely on sails to brave the East China Sea’s and Indian Ocean’s rough waves, both the Dutch inbound ship—now being towed into port by sixteen small boats—and the Siamese kakari ship remaining offshore had all sails lowered. Even among sailing vessels, compared to the single-sailed ship bearing the Hosokawa Lord of Higo’s nine-star crest—likely part of the annual guard rotation—visible near the kakari ship as it caught the wind and raced along, those here appeared so enormous that hoisting sails would have been perilous. The Magistrate’s Office’s temma-style inspection boats and guard ships lay scattered from Akunoura on the opposite shore to the vicinity of cannon battery platforms No. 1, No. 3, and No. 5—lookout posts for foreign ships emerging from the offshore horizon that doubled as defensive artillery—stretching toward small offshore islets. In this gateway to Japan’s sealed-off seas, amid tension thick with foreboding, the scene nonetheless appeared to burst with irrepressible vitality.

Near the colophon of the "Nagasaki Map," nautical distances that might be considered domestic routes of the time were recorded: 470 ri to Edo, 248 ri to Kyoto, 235 ri to Osaka, 97 ri to Satsuma, and 99.5 ri to Tsushima. In other words, the documented areas extended south to Satsuma and north to Edo, but areas north of Edo were not recorded. According to historical records, since the Edo period’s direct administration of Ezo began only after the Kansei era under Matsudaira Rakuō, it follows that until the time this map was created, there likely existed no regular shipping routes to places like Matsumae (Hakodate) or Etomo (Muroran) except for special occasions; similarly, maritime routes extending southward from Satsuma to Ryukyu would have been limited to those operated by the directly controlled Shimazu domain.

The Nagasaki map believed to date from the Tenpō era resembled little more than a famous-place nishiki-e print when compared to its An’ei counterpart—vividly colored yet crudely executed. Town names were sparse, while the blurred coastline and mountain locations rendered geographical speculation impossible. Though harbor ship depictions showed relative precision, only Dutch and Nanking vessels appeared, with no Siamese ships visible. Everything had faded into hazy washes of red and blue, leaving a desolate impression. Considering that the Tenpō era's thirteenth year—near its end—saw the issuance of the Revised Order to Repel Foreign Ships, and that only a few years had passed since Takahashi Sakuzōemon and Siebold's map-smuggling incident, even such scenic prints may have felt this historical pressure.

However, my interest lay in tracing the transformation of foreign ships offshore through these three Nagasaki maps. The final map, which Friend K judged to date from around the Keiō 3rd year (1867), showed foreign ships offshore whose forms had completely changed. The Nanking ships had been pushed aside and crowded out, and even the Dutch ships that had been the stars of Nagasaki Port for over two hundred years were now reduced to small figures in the corners. English ships, American ships, Russian ships, and others truly crowded the harbor with their presence. Moreover, these newly arrived ships were not only massive in build but also strikingly long compared to those from the An’ei era. Moreover, enormous paddle wheels were attached to the midsections of the ships. In other words, these were steamships. They had not yet completely abandoned sail power, but it was these strange paddle wheels that had braved the raging waves of the Indian and Pacific Oceans.

The transformation in the appearance of foreign ships arriving offshore Nagasaki Port over approximately sixty years from An’ei to Tenpō, another thirty years from Tenpō to Keiō—spanning a full century—would surely awaken in anyone at all a desire to know Japan’s maritime history. Japan’s movable type was transplanted—or perhaps created—by Shōzō and his associates; yet from another perspective, the type had arrived aboard ships. The German Gutenberg invented movable type in the Gregorian year 1445, and Motoki Shōzō and his associates transplanted this technology in 1870, with over four hundred years separating the two events. In the interim, around the 2,200th year of the Imperial calendar—during the Genki and Tenshō eras, approximately one hundred fifty years after Gutenberg’s invention—modern movable type had only just spread throughout Europe when it arrived alongside Christianity. However, as previously mentioned, due to Shogun Iemitsu’s national seclusion policy, it was expelled along with Christianity, and for three hundred years thereafter, its traces vanished.

But to imagine what Japan’s modern culture would have been like had movable type and hand-cast type foundry machines not been expelled back then—while intriguing, it would be absurd. Upon reflection, one understands that no single product of civilization is born or grows in isolation—this becomes self-evident when considering how intricately the circumstances surrounding those ships that came and went like the ebb and flow of waves over three centuries until their eventual return were entwined.

Japan's modern movable type was inextricably linked to national opening. Had there been no Meiji Restoration nor opening of the country, the fate of our modern movable type would have been self-evident from inception. Thus it followed naturally that Shōzō, Kahē, Kōmin and Tomiji's painstaking efforts to create Japanese type bore transitional features resembling an avalanche triggered by national opening. Gutenberg—a nobleman from Mainz in Germany—had clashed with commoners over religious views and fled to Strasbourg. This strong-nosed German aristocrat spent eleven exiled years in an ancient city along the Franco-German border quietly devoting himself to type creation, thereafter dedicating his remaining life exclusively to this pursuit. Yet "Japan's Gutenberg" would spend nearly his entire lifetime amidst political upheaval. He had to undertake shipbuilding alongside type production while personally serving as captain. He managed iron manufacturing operations while conducting educational initiatives. And he found himself compelled to vigorously promote everything from treatments for eye epidemics and soap-making techniques to comparisons between candlelight and petroleum lamps.

And it was precisely this difference that constituted the reason why Japan's movable type could not be explained without understanding the circumstances of the country's opening. I had been instructed by senior colleagues and read various historical accounts of Edo-period foreign relations. Through this, I came to perceive both our distant ancestors' experiences and our own position within that maritime Japan of old. Even at the farthest edges of ice-bound maps beyond Ezo—in Etorofu, Alaska, and Kamchatka—astonishing histories had unfolded. In my mind's eye, where the Pacific before steamships had seemed utterly vacant, there emerged a history of sailing ships cutting straight from Alaska to China's Macau. From the Maritime Province facing the Sea of Japan—where boundaries between land and sea blurred—to Siberia's desolate expanses on maps, there had raged an epic struggle between Genghis Khan's Mongolian descendants and the incomparably fierce Russian Cossacks, a conflict as prolonged as those told in fairy tales. The Slavs, having conquered these Mongol descendants with their new firearm technology, pushed eastward to Earth's northern extremity before beginning their southward advance along the Kuril Islands. Meanwhile to the south beyond Satsuma and Ryukyu, Dutch fleets based in Java and Sumatra clashed with British squadrons anchored in India and Malaya as they vied for supremacy across southern Pacific waters—when Dutch forces seized Taiwan, British troops landed on Ryukyu—

During the three centuries of the Edo period's seclusion, the seas surrounding Japan were waves of "war" and "culture" that drew ever nearer with each passing moment. And so movable type had drifted along Nagasaki's shores for four centuries until Shōzō and his associates retrieved it.

II

It is said that in Kaei 6 (1852), four American Black Ships arrived at Uraga and startled Japan, but the epoch-making significance of that shock likely did not lie in the form of those ships. It likely lay in Perry’s approach of disregarding Nagasaki Port to invade the prohibited waters of Edo Bay and presumptuously forcing the country’s opening through military might. The appearance of ships described as “—appearing like black lacquer, as sturdy as forged iron, with large stone-throwing cannons mounted on both sides—” along Japan’s coastline, which the Date domain office urgently reported to Edo via express messenger, had already begun in Genbun 5 (1739). Of course, these were not American ships but Russian ones. The shogunate officials of the time issued nonchalant orders—“If they come ashore, detain them and report immediately”—but over the following century, various Black Ships would appear all across Japan.

The Russian Black Ship that startled the Sendai Domain government was Lieutenant Commander Spangberg’s Japanese expedition vessel. This ship departed Kronstadt in Kyōhō 19 (1733), detoured around the distant Cape of Good Hope while heading north through the Pacific, arrived at Okhotsk two years later, and five years thereafter in Genbun 4 (1739)—using three newly constructed ships from Okhotsk—once again came south along the Kuril Islands. However, encountering a maritime storm, they failed to achieve their objectives. Then six years later in June Genbun 5 (1740), finally catching sight of Japan's mainland, they reached offshore Nagasaka Village on Oshika Peninsula, where through gestures with local residents, exchanged tobacco for fresh fish—or so it is told——.

I was amazed by the perseverance of the Slavs. Lieutenant Commander Spangberg served as leader of the third expedition unit within the Far Eastern expedition led by Captain Bering and was part of Peter the Great’s Second Far Eastern Expedition. Tracing back further, the first expedition led by Captain Bering that discovered the "Bering Strait" had departed Petrograd in 1725, and through subsequent second expeditions spent a total of seventeen years until he succumbed to scurvy and closed his eyes forever on Bering Island—one of the Commander Islands—in 1742. And if we trace back further through Russia’s conquest of the Far East, we find over two hundred years spanning from the management of Alaska, the governance of Kamchatka, and the overthrow of the Mongolian peoples in the Maritime Province, all the way back to 1530 when Ivan IV first crossed the Volga River and began his eastward expansion.

This marked the first time Russians visited Japan. When Spangberg’s ships proceeded further south and anchored temporarily off Mitsuishi Bay, Tashirojima in Sendai Domain, three men—domain official Chiba Kanzaemon, village headman Zenbei, and Dainenji Temple’s head priest Ryūmon—visited the vessels and recorded their report as follows. “Their character resembled that of the Dutch.” “They were spreading something called ‘bata’ (butter), which the Dutch eat, and eating something called ‘pan’ (bread), which the Dutch eat; they were treated to a fiery liquor said to taste like shōchū, then produced maps made of paper and showed a round object depicting a map of all the world’s nations.” “...all having come from countries near Japan, their conduct being such and such...” states the record, with an appended note suggesting that among the three men, this judgment was likely made by Monk Ryūmon drawing upon his knowledge of Nagasaki. Spangberg departed after merely viewing Japan’s mainland from offshore, but the Sendai domain urgently dispatched up to thirty hatamoto and numerous warriors including artillery officers and cannon operators to Oshika Peninsula; Ishinomaki Port halted all vessel traffic, and “preparations at the castle during this time caused an unprecedented commotion” ensued.

Japan-Russia relations began in this manner, but Russia at this time had reached the northernmost extremity of the globe and was now single-mindedly advancing southward toward China and India. The Russo-American Company, which had established bases in Kamchatka and Alaska while maintaining shareholders in Europe, needed to sell sable furs from the Arctic Ocean and black marten pelts from the Maritime Province to Chinese ports where they commanded the highest prices at the time; moreover, using Japan's mainland as an intermediary would have been optimal for most conveniently passing through from the North Pacific to the East China Sea. Moreover, given that there existed a global legend at the time that "the entire island of Japan was buried in gold," they undoubtedly wished to make this secluded nation their customer as well. In any case, while the origins of Japan-Russia relations were not ancient, since then they have indeed been persistently repeated over two centuries. Whether Russia’s policy toward Japan at the time should be deemed a malicious invasion or an economic approach as an advanced nation is beyond my judgment, but according to what historical records of the time convey, coercion through weapons does not seem to have been their underlying intent. For example, there have been many instances since the time of Peter the Great of Japanese ships being wrecked and drifting to places like the Maritime Province, and records show that these crew members were protected and became teachers at a Japanese language school in Petrograd or had audiences with Peter the Great or Empress Catherine. Of course, even if Russia’s true intentions had been to use those acts as bait to win Japan’s favor. The Russian Senate, carrying on the will of Peter the Great, is said to have issued the following instructions prior to the departure of Lieutenant Commander Spangberg, leader of the Japanese expedition: "If any Japanese castaways are found in Kamchatka, they should be repatriated to their homeland as a token of friendship toward Japan. Escorting shipwrecked sailors to repatriate them to their homeland would provide a favorable pretext for visiting Japan; however, should the government of that country refuse to accept said sailors, they should be permitted to land anywhere along Japan’s coast and return to their native place. They should make it their principle to demonstrate goodwill by utilizing every opportunity, paying no heed to obstinate Oriental-style discourtesy. They must exercise utmost caution to avoid any actions that might offend Japanese sentiments—and so forth."

“It has the taste of shōchū.” When I compared the report by Monk Ryūmon—who drank fiery liquor, viewed world maps, and marveled at globes—with the Russian Senate’s record written six years prior, it compelled me to recognize how formidable an adversary Russia had already become in every regard. There was the phrase “token of friendship” and there had been prior knowledge of “Oriental-style discourtesy.” Since then, Russia’s policy toward Japan appeared to have adhered to that of Peter the Great, but each nation’s politics underwent complex transformations, and misunderstandings frequently arose between unknown countries without shared language or script. The “Hanpen Gorō Incident” and “Fostov Incident” seemed to have become seeds of Japan’s ineradicable ill feelings over the century until Admiral Putiatin concluded the Russo-Japanese Treaty of Amity in Ansei 2 (1855), despite Russia’s persistent visits to Japan.

In the summer of Meiwa 8 (1771), a single black ship that had set sail from Kamchatka traveled south along the Kuril Islands; slipped through the Tsugaru Strait like a comet; soon appeared in Osaka Bay, where it masqueraded as a Dutch vessel to exchange furs for rice and fuel; before long emerged off Nagasaki; passed through to Amami Ōshima; landed on the coast of Taiwan to battle indigenous people; then sailed south again to reach Macau in China—this was the Kamchatka prison escape ship of “Baron Morits Ararat Hanpen Gorō.”

As for why Benyowsky—a Hungarian and Polish noble who styled himself a count—came to be rendered in Japan as “Hanpen Gorō,” I cannot say. This Hungarian had been captured by the Russian army during the Polish insurrection and sentenced to Siberian exile in 1769, then transported to Kamchatka under the Russo-American Company’s policy. In his third year there, he rallied a band of conspirators, slaughtered the Kamchatka governor and his subordinates, and succeeded in fleeing from the Arctic to China—was he truly a global adventurer? And this vessel was likely the world’s first to come from the north, traverse Japan’s coastline, and emerge into the East China Sea.

History is sometimes ironic. The painstakingly crafted Japan policy maintained since Peter the Great’s time had its opening act initiated, unfortunately, by such a fugitive as this. Moreover, during their anchorage at Amami Ōshima—perhaps to repay the kindness of having received provisions and water—these escaped convicts secretly disclosed intelligence about the northern regions in German and Latin. None of the Nagasaki interpreters were proficient in those two languages, of course, so the head of the Dutch trading post translated it into Dutch and submitted it to the Nagasaki magistrate. The Japanese-language record bearing the signature “Baron Morits Ararat Hanpen Gorō at Ushima”—a brief text spanning about one sheet of hanshi paper—contains passages such as: “Having surveyed Japan’s regions, they would gather place by place; should this plan proceed as intended, by next year it has been heard they will extend their reach to Matsumae’s land and other nearby islands—and so forth.” I don’t know how much of this holds truth, but it is said that Hayashi Shihei—who came to Nagasaki several years later—learned of this matter from the Dutch trading post director and made it his motive to advocate for coastal defense’s urgency through his *Sangoku Tsūran Zusetsu* [Illustrated Survey of Three Nations].

In any case, it was still an era lingering in the hazy dream of seclusion—there had been Spangberg’s earlier visit, and now Benyowsky’s comet-like passage—so the sight of Black Ships must have given the people of that time a profound impulse. Moreover, the ships coming from the north were not solely Russian. It was still an era when blank spaces lingered on world maps even by the eighteenth century’s end. From Europe’s perspective, this was a time when unclaimed treasures still lay scattered around the Pacific—treasures no one had yet touched. Over two hundred years had passed since part of the American continent was discovered, yet less than half a century since Captain Bering navigated the Bering Strait and found Alaska’s eastern tip. To European eyes, Japan’s presence—straddling the North Pacific and Chinese continent—seemed an object to stir Columbus-like adventurous spirits. In those same 1770s during the An’ei era, Britain’s Navy Minister ordered Captain James Cook to survey Japan’s coastline. Captain Cook crossed the Pacific again and reached Alaska’s waters but perished in Hawaii in 1779 without fulfilling his mission. Then France’s Louis XVI took England’s place, commanding Captain de la Pérouse to continue Cook’s work. Pérouse arrived in Alaska four years after Cook’s death before surveying Maritime Province coasts all the way to Mamiya Strait.

The Bakufu officials of that time arrested Hayashi Shihei on charges of spreading eccentric statements and confiscated even the woodblocks of *Kaikoku Heidan*, but perhaps the coastal defense advocacy by Shihei and his fellow Sendai Domain member Hirasawa Gosuke had come too late. When Pérouse departed, British Navy Captain Vancouver arrived at the Alaskan archipelago with two warships in his stead. That was precisely the third year of Kansei. And when Captain Vancouver completed his arduous survey of the archipelago and withdrew, his subordinate Lieutenant Broughton at last carried out the long-cherished ambition since Cook’s time—the survey of Japan’s coastline—reaching the Tsugaru Strait amidst a tempest in the ninth month of Kansei 5, then proceeding northward to enter and anchor at Etomo (Muroran) in Ezo.

At this time, the Matsumae domain’s defenses were thin. No sooner had Chief Retainer Matsumae Sazen received news of the British ship’s arrival at Oshiyambe than he immediately dispatched from the domain office Takahashi, Kudō, and several other retainers, accompanied by physician Kato Kengo—who understood some Russian—to Etomo. At this time, whether because the Matsumae domain’s defenses were thin or because the situation was urgent and their policy remained undecided, they did not immediately resort to repelling the foreign ship; instead, using Kato’s Russian to gradually communicate their intentions with the Russian-born sailors on the opposing crew, they reportedly visited the vessel. Captain Broughton gladly welcomed the party and hosted them cordially. After the banquet, Takahashi, Kudō, Kato, and others presented a Russian-made map of northern Japan they had brought with them and had it copied. In return, Captain Broughton reportedly presented them with a world nautical chart created by his country’s Captain Cook as a token of gratitude.

As for how Takahashi and his party came to possess this Russian-made map of northern Japan at that time, I could find no records explaining the reason. Yet somehow this did not strike me as strange. For as many records tell us that the first Japanese who understood Russian were neither scholars nor warriors nor physicians, but sailors shipwrecked off Kamchatka or Okhotsk, one can imagine fishermen and farmers in Ezo—in a world where few records survived—living intermingled with Kamchatka natives and Russian castaways. Reality always exceeds documentation, yet even existing records tell of Japanese merchant ships drifting between Nagasaki and Satsuma only to wash ashore near Manila or Hawaii; salt-laden vessels from Shikoku wrecked mid-voyage to drift across the Pacific—vast though that crossing was—reaching Oregon's Columbia River estuary; or crews stranded on Canadian coasts becoming captives of American Indians or intermarrying with natives. Given such accounts, Russian-made maps finding their way naturally into Matsumae retainers' hands fifty years after Spangberg's visit seems hardly remarkable.

Lieutenant Broughton anchored peacefully at Etomo for two weeks. After completing water and fuel supplies, hull repairs, and nautical charting, he sailed far south along Japan's Pacific coast to reach Macau. Following two years' respite, in Kansei 9 (1797), Lieutenant Broughton departed Macau once more to sail eastward through the East China Sea. Passing through the Taiwan Strait to Okinawa Island, he emerged again into the Pacific coast, charting locations like Edo Bay as he approached Japan's mainland before entering Etomo port by summer's end. Yet when Dr. Kato and two others visited Lieutenant Broughton aboard ship this time, they were no longer the acquaintances from three years prior. As Lieutenant Broughton hastily departed Etomo, three hundred Matsumae domain soldiers reportedly advanced toward the port. News that "foreign ships had returned" reached Edo, prompting Senior Councilor Matsudaira Izu-no-kami to suspend Matsumae-Wakasa's alternate attendance and order Tsugaru domain troops to Hakodate—but the swift foreign vessels ultimately evaded capture.

The northern regions were gradually growing busier. Moreover, prior to this—while British Captain Vancouver was surveying the archipelago—in the fourth year of Kansei, among the vessels arriving from the north came Russia’s warship *Ekaterina*, bearing Empress Catherine’s personal letter as part of her first diplomatic mission to Japan. Proceeding south through the Kuril Islands, it anchored in Nemuro Bay before reaching the Matsumae domain to formally clarify the purpose of its visit. This likely marked the first instance of a European monarch directly proposing amicable relations.

III From the late eighteenth century into the nineteenth century, not only did the number of Black Ships visiting Japan gradually increase in frequency, but there was also a sense that each new wave surging forth grew far larger than those that had come before. Moreover, those threatening the closed nation were not limited to Britain, France, and Russia; by this time, American fur-trading ships were already crossing the Pacific under a single sail from Alaska toward Macau. The new nations since Columbus’s discovery, learning from British explorer Cook’s reports of the abundant sea otters along the Alaskan coast and their exclusive monopoly by the Russians, saw reckless Yankees driving their small sailing ships to swarm in. At that time, it is said that the Americans exchanged one iron collar for three pelts with the Alaskan natives who hunted sea otters, with each pelt being traded for seventy-five dollars in Macau. In the year Kansei 4 (1792), when Empress Ekaterina’s mission to Japan arrived in Ezo-Matsumae, it is said that the number of American sailing ships crossing along Japan’s eastern coast and the northern Pacific rose to twenty-five. In other words, those threatening the closed nation were not limited to the north and south but were also emerging from the east; moreover, around this time, it was not only fur-trading ships but also American whaling vessels from the Atlantic coast that had begun shifting their berths to the Pacific. The world’s largest undeveloped seas were abundant. The records state that by Bunsei 3 (1820), American whalers chasing sperm whales had become frequent visitors to our shores—southward crossing the equator into the Indian Ocean, reaching from Madagascar to the Red Sea; northward crossing the Bering Strait from Okhotsk to the Maritime Province; ships passing through Hawaii finally crossing Torishima to land in the Bōsō region seeking provisions and water.

One could see these circumstances differed from the romanticized events of two centuries prior—when Portuguese ships had chanced into the Bungo Channel or a solitary missionary drifted ashore on the Satsuma coast bearing Christianity and movable type—but what understanding and policies did the Bakufu councilors hold toward this maritime clamor? Senior Councilor Matsudaira Rakuō dispatched two officials—Magistrate Ishikawa as proclamation envoy and Murakami Daigaku as inspector—to meet Russia’s envoy Laxman. The envoy read aloud the “Legal Proclamation for Foreign Nationals”: “By our law, vessels from nations lacking prior communication arriving in our realm shall be apprehended or repelled. Should castaways exist, they must be conveyed to Nagasaki without exception. Even state letters cannot be received.” During the eight months the Ekaterina lay anchored in Nemuro Bay awaiting this envoy’s arrival, numerous repatriated castaways aboard ship, Russian crew members, and even Japanese guards perished from scurvy. Historians cite contemporary records—the Edo Council’s prolonged deliberations and Laxman’s “Nagasaki Port Entry Permit”—to suggest Matsudaira Echizen may have contemplated “opening at least one Matsumae port.” Yet whether the Bakufu’s earnest efforts truly commenced in this era remains unclear.

Eleven years after Laxman’s return to his country—his misconception that “if [they] go to Nagasaki, the state letter will be accepted”? Based on this, Nikolai Rezanov—State Councilor and Chamberlain of the Second Japanese Mission—arrived in Nagasaki in July of Bunka 1 (1804). With the two warships *Nadezhda* and *Neva*, bearing the state letter, it was now the second year since their departure from Kronshtadt. While the repatriation of castaways was accepted, trade was nevertheless rejected; all gifts from the Russian side were returned by the Nagasaki Magistrate in accordance with regulations, and the records merely state that "it became clear Laxman’s belief of ‘if [we] go to Nagasaki’ had been a misunderstanding."

At this time, Inspector Tōyama Kinjirō came down from Edo to convey the message to Rezanov, but Japan’s intentions—through the machinations of Doef, the Dutch trading post director at Dejima—were relayed to the Russian side more coldly and exaggeratedly. With “Dutch interference” also at play, Nagasaki resident Shokusanjin Ōta Naojirō documented this episode in *Keihō Zassui* as follows: “The Dutch Kapitan, two days after the Russian ship’s departure, summoned the Dutch interpreters and hosted a grand feast—the Dutch partaking of Dutch cuisine, the Japanese of Japanese cuisine.” They feasted, drank sake, sang songs, stripped naked, and made merry until two in the morning. “This appeared to be a celebration rejoicing in the denial of Russian trade privileges—”.

Moreover, Nagasaki was different from Matsumae. It was one of Japan’s gateways and possessed a cultural tradition. Just as Shokusanjin documented Dutch interference, Shiba Kōkan, the founder of Japanese printmaking, also wrote of this in his *Shunparō Notes*. “—They detained the Russian envoy in Nagasaki for six months without permitting landing—Though Russia was a lesser nation of barren soil in the northern frontier, it remained a great power with many vassal states. Was it not discourteous to treat them uniformly as barbarians?” “Rezanov was his country’s envoy.” “Ritual propriety is the foundation of instructing human morality. To draw an analogy, it is like standing naked before properly ranked officials—” ...and so on.

However, the Bakufu officials who shrouded His Sacred Majesty’s divine wisdom in their "closed-country" obsession remained steadfastly entrenched; thus, "Dutch interference" likely posed little threat. And six months later, Nikolai Rezanov—who had departed Nagasaki in disappointment—harbored a resolution beyond what the Bakufu officials, Shokusanjin, or even Shiba Kōkan could have imagined. He first withdrew to Petropavlovsk and disbanded his mission before promptly transitioning from envoy to senior director of the Russian-American Company and departing alone for Alaska. Thereupon, mobilizing all its capabilities, the Russian-American Company commenced warship construction and personnel training. In July of Bunka 2 (1805), it reportedly submitted a petition to the home government announcing plans for an "expedition to Japan." The scheme—first attacking Karafuto Island to expel Japanese inhabitants, then destroying Ezo mainland settlements before deploying forces along Japan’s coasts to seize sailing vessels—had already been informed by covert surveys conducted during their return voyage from Nagasaki by naval captain von Kruzenstern, who had secretly mapped strategic coastal positions and assessed defensive vulnerabilities. Had the Russian home government approved Rezanov’s plan and proceeded smoothly—and had we Japanese proven as weak as Rezanov and von Kruzenstern observed—a situation akin to Britain forcing open Hong Kong through the Opium War might have occurred in Japan a generation earlier than in China.

Of course, that was Rezanov’s mistake. Japan and China differ. Japan’s national character differs from China’s; and as Siebold later observed, they differ racially, ethnically, and economically.

“Under two hundred years of peaceful sheltering,” he wrote, “the civilization and enlightenment of the Japanese nation reached their zenith; now save for our Europe, none in the ancient world could dispute they had become the most advanced.” “The measures Britain recently enacted toward China could not be applied to Japan. The distinctions between Japan and China—whether in their peoples, states, tradeable products, or commercial relations—were far greater than one might conceive within Europe.” “Thus Japan possesses no national debt yet holds immense national treasures and limitless national credit.” A certain nobleman told me: “‘Just as stone may be cast into coins when stone holds coin’s value’—so concluded this foreigner in *History of Japanese Transportation and Trade*: ‘So long as Japan’s inhabitants remain unmixed, foreign trade here shall never prosper as in lands beyond Europe where Europeans either migrated to intermingle with locals and form new nations, or conquered populations to impose customs, habits, and all life’s necessities—thereby rendering trade with mother Europe both indispensable and profitable.’”

“What Britain has recently implemented toward China” referred, of course, to the Nanjing Treaty and the Opium War, while “the ancient world and so on” pointed to nations outside Europe that remained unmodernized by Christian culture or mechanical civilization. However, let us remain calm for a moment and hear what this foreigner—who viewed all nations outside Europe as colonies—had to say. Siebold’s observation came over thirty years after Rezanov’s departure from Nagasaki and his single-minded plotting of a military expedition against Japan in 1805–1807. Yet even if it stemmed from the biased devotion of Siebold—a local agent of Holland, Japan’s privileged trading partner—to “shogunate politics,” his assessment held that Japan was the most developed nation in the “ancient world,” a country possessing limitless national credit, a unified state metaphorically likened to stone-cast coinage, and one that Europeans could never conquer so long as “its residents remain unmixed.” Were these not the observations accumulated over von Siebold’s more than decade-long stay in Japan as a “World Traveler”? Were these not the observations accumulated over von Siebold’s more than decade-long stay in Japan?

Rezanov's observations had not reached that depth. Yet Rezanov maintained perspectives distinctly his own. He understood without needing Shokusanjin's account that the Dutch trading post constituted one major obstacle hindering his mission as Japan's second peaceful envoy. Some theories allege that during his Nagasaki anchorage, using intelligence gathered through local interpreters, he attempted to secure trade privileges by aligning with imperial loyalists against the pro-shogunate faction. Though undeniably superficial, this approach appeared almost inevitable given his resentment toward Holland—a nation that since Ieyasu's vermilion-sealed charters had ceaselessly praised "shogunate rule" while enjoying privileged status. Rezanov obsessively constructed warships and amassed troops. Had the Russian government fully endorsed Rezanov's plan—setting aside domestic complexities—we Japanese would likely have paid dearly to defend our homeland.

However, Rezanov’s plan—as we shall later see—ended in anticlimax when Alexander I, who had succeeded Empress Ekaterina to the throne, withheld his approval. Yet Rezanov himself could not easily abandon the scheme, leading to the Khvostov Incident of Bunka 4 (1807), which became the darkest chapter in the history of Japanese-Russian diplomatic relations. The Khvostov Incident then gave rise to the Golovnin Incident, and the Golovnin Incident in turn led to the Takadaya Kahei Incident.

Historians to this day remain unable to render definitive judgment regarding both the circumstances of the Russian government’s failure to approve Rezanov’s plan and Rezanov’s ambiguous actions—advancing the scheme despite knowing it lacked approval, then vanishing without trace just before the expedition’s departure.

Here, I considered in my own way—at the very least, I sensed that Rezanov’s ambiguous actions narrated the relationship between the Russian government and the Russian-American Company. In other words, was there not at play the nature of the Russian-American Company—an outpost of a Russian government that lagged behind Britain and the Netherlands in capitalist development? The Japan policy established since Peter the Great’s era remained active, but did it not function with the same efficiency as the British government’s relationship with its East India Company? Moreover, from Rezanov’s perspective, the Russian-American Company’s monopoly over Arctic fur trading—maintained since the early nineteenth century—was rapidly being eroded by aggressive Yankees, while their southward colonial expansion into the Kuril Islands was conversely overwhelmed by migrants from densely populated Japan. Yet as the Russian-American Company’s second director, he had to break this deadlock—for the European shareholders’ sake. He needed to pioneer the shortest sea route from Okhotsk to Macau and forcibly pry open “the locked country’s” gates.

The Russian-American Company was founded in 1783 by Rezanov's father-in-law Shelikhov, but its reach—stretching from Okhotsk through Kamchatka and across the Bering Strait to Alaska's northern tip, lands near the Arctic Circle—is said to mark an event unprecedented since the dawn of human habitation in those territories. The indigenous inhabitants were conquered by military force and subjected to a fur tax, but on another front, they were taught writing for the first time, came to know modern weapons and civilized goods—in short, they were exposed to European Christian culture. The Russian-American Company reached its peak prosperity in its early years. In 1798, the ninth year of Kansei—a time when northern frontier affairs were gradually drawing attention among the Japanese through the efforts of Shihei, Heisuke, and others—its stock certificates had reportedly risen by thirty-five percent in Europe. Rezanov was not only the director of the Russian-American Company but also a chamberlain to Empress Ekaterina, while the Company itself held authority over fur trade spanning from Primorsky Krai to Alaska, along with colonization and development rights—wielding governmental-level powers that included establishing military facilities, constructing warships, training personnel, and appointing officers.

Reflecting on it, during our Edo period, what shook and threatened the dream of National Isolation from both south and north were several companies. Particularly, these were three companies: the Dutch East India Company, the British East India Company, and the Russian-American Company. The Dutch East India Company was based in Java and Batavia. The British East India Company was based in India and Singapore. The Russian-American Company was based in Okhotsk. The former two had already begun their eastward advance by the early seventeenth century, during the era of Hideyoshi. And each of these companies, permitted by their home governments with similar authority extending to trade, colonization, industrial development, and military affairs, competed fiercely against one another.

When considering those of Portugal, Spain, and France, history taught us it had been an unceasing succession of invasions and wars. Yet it was simultaneously a diffusion of modern culture and European civilization. Raffles, who seized Singapore from the Johor Sultan to establish it, stood as Britain's foremost Orientalist and scholar. Captain Doeff—who alone protected the Dutch flag in Nagasaki without disgracing his homeland's history—became the first to deepen Europe's understanding of Japan; Siebold—who similarly improved Japanese-Dutch trade relations to fortify the Netherlands' position in Asia—emerged as one who brought modern medicine's light to Japan; and Shelikhov—who extended Russia's domain to the Arctic Circle by building schools, teaching writing and arithmetic, and introducing modern governance—became a man who bestowed undying light upon Kamchatka and Alaska's indigenous peoples. I find myself at a loss for words to simply explain this great contradiction of history.

IV The Russian-American Company warship *Yuno*, equipped with several cannons, and the *Auos*—two vessels led by Company naval Lieutenant Khvostov and Ensign Davydov—repeatedly assaulted our northern frontiers. In October of Bunka 3 (1806), they landed at Ōdomari in Karafuto with thirty soldiers, raided the Matsumae trading post, and took four Japanese prisoners. The following May, they advanced south through the Kuril Islands, disembarked on Etorofu Island, stormed the Matsumae trading station, and captured five Japanese. The Matsumae domain rushed to counterattack with over two hundred troops from the Nanbu and Tsugaru domains, but defeated by the generational gap in weaponry; records state that Matsumae official Toda Matadayu assumed responsibility through seppuku.

The defenses of the northern borders had to be made increasingly stringent. However, Rezanov—who had given Captain Khvostov a single order before vanishing—had already died in Alaska's frozen wilderness during Khvostov's initial expedition. Moreover, when Khvostov and his men triumphantly returned to Okhotsk Port, they were arrested and imprisoned by the Okhotsk governor for acting without homeland orders—delicate circumstances entirely unknown to the Matsumae domain.

The Golovnin Incident was thus born. In Bunka 8th Year (1811), the year following Khvostov’s imprisonment, Naval Major Golovnin—acting under orders from his homeland to survey the Kuril Islands and coastal regions—arrived at Etorofu in June to request provisions. However, through the guidance of Ishizaka Buhe, a subordinate of Matsumae, he and six men under his command were captured. They were escorted to Matsumae and remained imprisoned until September of Bunka 10th Year (1813). The *Nihon Yūshūki* (*Notes from a Japanese Captivity*) that survives today was Golovnin’s memoir from this time. From one perspective, this tragedy was mediated by the disconnect between written characters and spoken language, but it also became the opportunity through which Russian was transmitted to Japan—via Golovnin to shogunate astronomers like Baba Sajūrō and Adachi Sauchi—as well as the occasion when smallpox vaccination first entered Japanese knowledge, preceding the foreign arrivals of the Kaei era (1848–1854).

And for Golovnin to be released—that is, to clarify Major Golovnin’s lack of connection to the Khvostov Incident—yet another "Takadaya Kahei Incident" had to occur. In August of Bunka 9 (1812), Kahei’s *Kansemaru*, which had been charting routes through the northern Kuril Islands, was detained by Major Rikorzu—a colleague of Golovnin—aboard the *Diana* and taken to Kamchatka. Yet Takadaya Kahei proved himself a man capable of discerning his counterpart’s true intent, as history records. In April of the following year, cleaving through still-frozen sea ice, he returned to Kunashiri Island accompanied by Major Rikorzu—now appointed Acting Governor of Okhotsk—who carried an explanatory document affirming Golovnin and Khvostov’s lack of connection. Thereupon, complying with Japan’s demands, the Acting Governor submitted a formal apology for the Khvostov Incident. With Golovnin and his men released, the disturbances stemming from Rezanov’s time were thus resolved.

Takadaya Kahei’s efforts rescued Japanese-Russian diplomatic relations from crisis and elevated Japan’s honor abroad; yet even after Rezanov’s death, the Russian side’s fervor to knock on Japan’s door remained undiminished. The appointment of Rikorzu as Acting Governor of Okhotsk was necessary both to secure Golovnin’s release and to establish the authority required for initiating negotiations over "trade" and a "border agreement." Through the meeting between Rikorzu and Matsumae Magistrate Hattori Bingo-no-kami, the Russian side’s requests were conveyed to Edo, and it was agreed that the response would be made in Etorofu the following year, Bunka 11 (1814). The shogunate council’s response was identical to what had previously been presented to Rezanov in Nagasaki. However, when Matsumae domain’s Takahashi Sanpei traveled to Etorofu and Shana the following year carrying a document endorsed in Japanese, Russian, and Dutch, the Russian ships failed to appear at the meeting place. Then, four years later in Bunsei 1st Year (1818), a man named Iida Gorosaku from the same domain happened to find a basket on Etorofu’s coast containing a document from the Russian authorities. It stated that they had arrived in the island’s northern area during Bunka 11th Year (1814) as per the agreement, but being unable to locate any Japanese officials, they had no choice but to return to Okhotsk.

History at times appeared vast and hazy. Transcending time and space, it would draw near only to recede again. Nearly half a century passed between the conclusion of the Golovnin Incident and Takadaya Kahei Incident, and Admiral Putyatin's appearance off Nagasaki with four warships. Though the Japan-Russia border issue remained unresolved and Russia had failed to breach the northern gates, this karmic thread endured—half a century later binding Motoki Shōzō's fate as interpreter for both the Nagasaki and Shimoda Negotiations to these very entanglements.

The waves that had assailed the northern borders receded for a time, but what remained in their wake were "the Russian language" and "the smallpox vaccination method." From this time onward, the Russian language came to hold a seat within the shogunate’s Astronomy Bureau, and the "smallpox vaccination method," though only partially, was incorporated into Japanese knowledge. It was something that Baba Sajūrō had received orally from Golovnin, forty years prior to the arrival of the smallpox vaccine in Kaei 2nd Year (1849). And why was this smallpox vaccination method not implemented, requiring precisely half a century until the "Vaccination Institute" was established in Ansei 5th Year (1858)? The circumstances behind this could be seen in Baba Sajūrō’s response when he was presented with a complete set of smallpox vaccination tools by Captain Gordon of the British merchant ship *Brothers*, which had suddenly appeared in Edo Bay in Bunsei 1st Year (1818)—eight years after Golovnin’s departure. Summarizing his response: “These are splendid items, and I am deeply grateful, but regrettably, I cannot accept them. This is prohibited by national law. While the smallpox vaccination method was something I once received orally from the Russian Golovnin and has become somewhat known within the country, without permission from our superiors, we remain unable to experimentally verify its efficacy.”

The implementation of the smallpox vaccination method in Ansei 5th Year (1858) was not solely due to the efforts of the "Western Medical Institute." In other words, there too had been the same fate as that of movable type.

Now, while the shogunate's fears regarding the north lingered unresolved, the "Phaeton Incident" had already erupted in the south. This occurred in Bunka 5th Year (1808), the year following Khvostov’s assault on the northern frontiers. So-called "pirate" Britain was at this time consolidating its imperial dominance across the Indian Ocean and South Pacific. In 1763—during our Meiwa era—they overpowered France in colonial rivalry to seize India; by 1811—our Bunka 8th Year—they crushed the Dutch fleet and captured Java, stronghold of the Dutch East India Company. In 1819—Bunsei 2nd Year—they established the Straits Settlement of Singapore; by 1843—Tenpō 13th Year—they erected coastal batteries on Hong Kong Island through victories in the Opium War. The Phaeton Incident arose when these forces—having overthrown Dutch naval power and seized control of Java and Batavia—appeared off Nagasaki aiming to commandeer the Dutch trading post there. Their true objective lay less in occupying the outpost than in covertly usurping trade privileges with Japan—a purpose made plain by why an armed vessel bearing nineteen-year-old Captain Pelliu would enter port flying counterfeit Dutch colors. Regarding this affair: Doeff’s intrigues; Magistrate Matsudaira Toshokan’s ritual suicide alongside several Saga samurai; and activities by Shōzō’s grandfather Shōzaemon—these matters stand recounted earlier. This southern crisis proved more consequential than northern conflicts. Though the shogunate ordered Shōzaemon and others to study English against future exigencies—marking English’s formal introduction to Japan—the true legacy lay deeper.

Moreover, the waves surging from the south were swifter and more violent than those from the north. How much understanding of the regions south of Satsuma and Ryukyu had truly been cultivated by the shogunate council of that time? It would be incorrect to say that the tradition of attentiveness to foreign policies and cultural artifacts established since Arai Hakuseki had been lost; however, at least superficially, matters were left to the Nagasaki Magistrate, and they appear to have relied solely on overseas news reported by successive generations of Dutch Opperhoofden—who effectively served as inspectors for the magistrate. This was exemplified by the fact that since the Bunka era, as international relations in Europe grew increasingly complex, even though ships entering port under Dutch flags included American, Danish, Russian, and Bremen vessels, it was only the Nagasaki interpreters who actually knew of this.

These were Dutch-chartered ships. However, though chartered, these foreign vessels consistently abandoned the Dutch flag and harbored rebellious intentions to conduct independent trade with Japan. This tendency proved particularly strong among newly emerging American ships; for instance, when the American vessel *Eliza* attempted to enter port without flying the Dutch flag on its second approach, it was driven back, tried a third time only to be expelled again, and ultimately wrecked off the Philippine coast, never to sail anew. Though not a Dutch-chartered ship, in May of Bunsei 1st Year (1818), a foreign vessel suddenly appeared in Edo Bay, startling Edo officials. It was the British merchant ship Brothers—a small sixty-five-ton sailing vessel. Likely the first ship to penetrate Edo Bay's inner waters, it was utterly preposterous in nature. This private vessel—devoid of home nation political intent, having brazenly bypassed Nagasaki to reach Edo—audaciously declared its desire to trade with Japan's permission. I consider this moment to hold epochal significance in the history of foreign ship arrivals.

Of course, the Brothers was driven back. Records remain of how senior councilors and other officials handled this sixty-five-ton schooner, though Captain Gordon himself withdrew hastily in surprise. Yet during the single day and night it lay anchored at Uraga, nearby villagers and townspeople—eager to trade sundries—so filled the Brothers' deck that when combined with those encircling the ship, records state their numbers surpassed two thousand.

These "preposterous ships" gradually increased in number. From the Bunsei era through the Tenpō era, even just the American and British whaling ships that drifted ashore along Japan’s coasts were “countless.” As previously mentioned, from the end of the Bunka era (1804–1818) into the Bunsei era (1818–1830), this was the period when American fishermen shifted their bases from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Moreover, those who came chasing whales in the untamed Pacific were not limited to American fishermen alone. In Kōka 3rd Year (1846), the French warship *Cléopâtre* visited off Nagasaki port, and within their request seeking friendly relations with Japan, a phrase stating "should any French whaling ships drift ashore, we ask for lenient treatment" can be seen; thus, there must have been French fishermen as well. In any case, the Pacific was still a virgin. In Bunsei 8th Year (1825), the shogunate issued the "Edict to Repel Foreign Ships," but it was only natural that this was directly caused by the arrival of these "preposterous ships," and they must have been greatly troubled. In Bunsei 5th Year (1822)—though I do not know through what channels Japan lodged its protests—the U.S. government went so far as to pass a resolution in Congress warning its own whaling companies.

Regrettably, as I do not possess detailed records of American whaling ships’ landings, limiting this to British vessels alone: in Bunsei 5th Year (1822), one ship in Edo Bay; Bunsei 6th Year (1823), six or seven ships off Hitachi Province; Bunsei 7th Year (1824), two ships again off Hitachi Province; that same year, one ship along the Satsuma coast; Bunsei 8th Year (1825), three ships off the Nanbu domain coast; Bunsei 9th Year (1826), one ship off Kazusa Province’s Mōta; and Tenpō 2nd Year (1831), one ship off Ezo’s Etomo—such was the pattern. If we were to add America as the chief contributor along with France and others, the number of ships drifting ashore along Japan’s coasts would have reached several to dozens of cases annually.

Moreover, given the nature of these ships, they disregarded both Nagasaki in the south and Matsumae in the north. Nagasaki’s overseers? They were the sort that even the Dutch trading post could not have anticipated beforehand. To understand how they arrived, consider the whaling ships that appeared off Hitachi Province in Bunsei 6th and 7th Years (1823–1824). Six or seven foreign vessels, entirely lacking provisions and water, communicated through gestures and exchanged European sundries for rice and tobacco with Mito fishermen who were in nearby waters. The fishermen were cordially invited aboard the foreign ships and marveled at the exotic foreign customs and goods, but rumors swiftly spread from the fishing villages to the towns, prompting merchants seeking to trade through the fishermen to emerge one after another. The Mito domain authorities, alarmed, arrested over three hundred merchants and fishermen, but the foreign ships—having perhaps already obtained provisions and water—soon vanished from the offshore waters. However, the two whaling ships that drifted ashore the following year could no longer trade with Japanese fishermen to obtain provisions and water, so they landed at Ōtsuhama in four boats; though the sixteen men were armed, they were captured by Mito domain officials. Later, upon investigation, it was determined that they had no other intent beyond resupplying provisions, so they were released; however, there was a commotion when the main ship waiting offshore began firing cannons for a time, it is said. That same year at Takarajima in Satsuma domain, British fishermen who had come ashore showed liquor, bread, and coins while requesting cows from the fields, but when refused, twenty armed men landed in three boats and attempted to plunder the cattle under covering fire from their main ship. However, due to the counterattack by the Satsuma domain officials, they failed to achieve their objective, leaving behind one abandoned corpse before retreating.—

In other words, the purpose of their drifting ships was inherently simple. They would have been satisfied with just resupplying provisions and water; beyond that, at most, they likely would have been happy to give their own country’s sundries in exchange for some rare Japanese goods as souvenirs. Even if their hair and eye colors differed, even if they shared no common language, people without political intentions always found it easy to grow close to one another. Moreover, given that it is not hard to imagine there must have been many such unrecorded incidents along Japan’s coasts from Ezo in the north to Ryukyu in the south, the influence these ships exerted upon the people of a nation in isolation during this era could not have been insignificant.

In that sense as well, the Morrison Incident that subsequently occurred in Tenpō 8th Year (1837) held significant implications. This famous incident was led by Charles King, an executive of the American Oriental Company, with a party that included Gützlaff—a missionary and scholar of Japanese; Wells Williams, a naturalist; and Peter Parker, a physician and astronomer. Historians have stated that while the Morrison’s ostensible purpose was to gain Japan’s goodwill by repatriating castaways—including Owari sailors Iwakichi, Hisakichi, and Otokichi along with Higo’s Shōzō and Jūsaburō—its underlying motive lay in establishing trade relations. Had their sole objective been castaway repatriation, Nagasaki would have sufficed; their deliberate course toward Edo Bay instead reflected concerns about Dutch trading post interference—one reason among several.

However, in any case, this ship was exceptional. To demonstrate its peaceful mission, the Morrison had been completely disarmed; Parker carried various medical instruments, pharmaceuticals, astronomical equipment, and diagrams, while Williams was said to have prepared materials related to natural history. In other words, while the Morrison had been prepared by the commercial ambitions of the Oriental Company—which had only recently solidified its foundation in China at that time—on the surface it could be said to have been for repatriating castaways while simultaneously introducing and disseminating European academic knowledge. As for the contents of the Morrison’s mission, it was not until the following year—when a report from the Dutch trading post chief reached the Nagasaki Magistrate—that the shogunate council came to know anything about it. The Morrison, which had headed toward Edo Bay, withdrew after coming under fire from the Odawara and Kawagoe domains as soon as it approached the waters off Shirane in Miura District. The ship anchored again near Konamizono Village in Satsuma Province, but there too it came under fire, with one shot striking home and bringing it into peril; thus, it ultimately returned to Macau having gained nothing. A certain historian has stated that had the Morrison, lacking any commercial ambitions, entered Nagasaki Port, there would have been no issue. Of course, there is no disputing that point; however, regarding the imprudence of entering the forbidden waters of Edo Bay, I cannot help but think there was an air of naivety akin not only to avoiding interference from the Dutch trading post but also to how the sixty-five-ton Brothers had sauntered in—a naivety born from confidence in their own culture. By the mid-nineteenth century, European civilization had reached the coasts of India and China, using invasion and colonization as its foothold. It was distinctive in that the ship had been outfitted by a single company and its crew consisted solely of scholars and technicians; even superficially speaking, a vessel arriving from the West with such objectives was unprecedented.

Chief Senior Councilor Mizuno Echizen-no-kami learned of the Morrison’s purpose the following year through a report from the Dutch trading post chief via the Nagasaki Magistrate and reportedly consulted the shogunate council, asking, “Should foreign vessels approach Edo Bay under similar circumstances in the future, how should we handle them?” The arrival of ships repatriating castaways had been no rarity since Spangberg’s time; thus, in Mizuno’s inquiry, he must have been particularly troubled by the mention of “Edo Bay” and the Morrison’s ostensibly “peaceful” purpose. This secretly deliberated matter then leaked from within the shogunate council to Watanabe Noboru, elder of the Tahara domain. Thereafter, Watanabe Kazan wrote Shinki-ron (On Prudent Planning) and Takano Chōei authored Yume Monogatari (Tale of Dreams), culminating in the widely known Bansha Persecution Incident. In short, public reaction to the Morrison Incident produced unexpected repercussions; though the “Revised Edict for Repulsion” was issued the year after Kazan’s suicide, even this failed to alleviate the shogunate council’s burdens.

To open the country—right or wrong? The powers of various nations led by Britain advanced eastward to the Chinese mainland, their momentum threatening to reach the Japanese coast any day now. Moreover, domestic preparations were insufficient for opening the country autonomously, and above all, the tradition of national isolation since Iemitsu’s time was deeply entrenched. And a mere six years after driving back the *Morrison*, in June of Kōka 1st Year (1844), the Dutch warship *Palembang*—Japan’s first glimpse of a steam-powered warship—appeared in Nagasaki.

The *Palembang* carried a letter from the King of the Netherlands containing "advice to open the country." The true intent behind this Dutch counsel likely stemmed from their diminished capacity in Europe to maintain Japan as an exclusive client state against other nations; guided by the tides of the times, their advice to open Japan aimed to secure a favorable position—if not privileged status as before—through renewed friendly relations. Yet after anchoring in Nagasaki for five months, the steam-powered warship *Palembang* ultimately withdrew empty-handed. The "edict" arriving from Edo declared: "We request that such advice to open the country be deemed unnecessary." It continued: "We further ask there be no misunderstanding regarding our enduring policy of trading exclusively with Your Country—this commerce constituting trade relations rather than formal diplomacy."

It truly offered no foothold whatsoever. The *Palembang* had no choice but to leave behind gifts from the Dutch king at Dejima in Nagasaki and depart, but the course of events that led the shogunate council of the time to issue this response did not appear to have been so straightforward itself.

In his *Yoshida Shōin*, Tokutomi Sohō describes the circumstances of that time as follows: “Rather than being forced to open the country by others, we should take the initiative to restore the framework of the Keichō and Genna eras (1596–1624), bolster the already crumbling morale within, and adopt a proactive long-term strategy externally,” Senior Councilor Mizuno advocated. Thereupon, Mizuno convened a council meeting before Shōgun Ieyoshi and argued his proposal, but ultimately it was not accepted by Ieyoshi. Agitated, Mizuno shouted, “Since we have resolved upon national isolation, the very notion of ‘harmony’ must be sealed away in the Council Chamber for all eternity! Let it never be spoken of again! Do all present here truly possess the resolve for this?!” At this, Senior Councilor Abe—the second-highest councilor and Ieyoshi’s most trusted advisor—is said to have responded with tears welling in his eyes and hands pressed against his knees: “I understand in full detail.” ——

That was indeed a profoundly meaningful dramatic scene. In this terse exchange between Mizuno Echizen and Abe Ise—two leading statesmen representing the late Edo period from Tenpō to Ansei—the tribulations of that complex and tumultuous era seemed crystallized. The arrival of the *Palembang*, I believe, marked the culmination of the first phase in Japan's history of foreign ship visits since Spangberg's arrival. Yet the second phase soon commenced, with incoming waves growing ever larger and fiercer; at this very moment—when the steam-powered warship arrived in October of Kōka 1st Year (1844)—our Shōzō had already reached twenty-one years of age as a "junior interpreter trainee." What thoughts might this young Shōzō—tempered by his official duties and his family's Dutch books since childhood, said to have developed a "global perspective" even in his youth—have nurtured⁈

Movable Type and Ships

I

Now, amidst such an intensified international climate, the feat of Shōzō creating modern type began when he was twenty-five years old. Five years after the Dutch warship *Palembang*—which had come as an envoy to advise the shogunate to open the country—was driven away, the *Western Studies Chronology* records that “Nagasaki interpreters Motoki Shōzō, Kitamura Konojo, Shinagawa Tōbei, and Narabayashi Sadakichirō conferred and purchased lead type plates from Holland.” “—In the Narabayashi Family Records, there is an annotation stating: ‘Silver: 6 kan and 400 me; a full set of Dutch typesetting plates; the aforementioned four individuals requested to borrow [these]—and submitted [them] to the authorities on the 29th day of the 12th month of Kaei 1st Year (1848).’”

Even if the amount of silver—6 kan and 400 me—was known, the price of imported type at the time remained indeterminable due to missing details like quantity. From extant examples such as the Dutch grammar *Syntaxis*, we know there were two type sizes with italic letterforms in two pica measurements, yet the contents of the so-called “full typesetting set” stayed unclear. In modern terminology, “full typesetting set” would imply only type-casting tools without printing presses or accessories; however, consulting *History of Printing Civilization* leaves this achievement ambiguously documented. Though unstated explicitly, this ambiguity arises because only this purchased set enabled the Nagasaki Magistrate’s Office—under shogunate orders seven years later—to establish a printing facility, as evidenced by subsequent developments.

However, whether the so-called "full typesetting set" included a printing press was not particularly important. Within seven years, the shogunate could have placed additional orders for printing presses with the Dutch ships that arrived annually, and since there might have been at least one printing press at the Dejima trading post, they could have borrowed it. In any case, these facts remained: that modern lead type had been purchased through the ingenuity of a Japanese individual; that three or four years before the shogunate established a printing office, this acquired type had inspired the creation of "flow-cast type" for Japanese characters; and that using this Japanese-character type, one volume of *Ranwa Tsūben* had been printed.

In Japan's printing history—from the Dharani Sutra of Yamato's Hōryū-ji Temple onward through woodblock, copperplate (the original Dharani Sutra plates are said to have been copper), and carved copper or wood type—the "flow-cast lead type" of Kaei 4th Year (1851) marked nothing less than an epochal beginning. At this time, it remained unclear who among the four had been the primary advocate for the purchase, but Ōtsuki Joden wrote: "Shōzō—having read Dutch books and been impressed by the clarity of their letterforms and the ingenuity of their printing techniques—resolved to establish a movable-type printing enterprise; gathering like-minded colleagues, he officially procured Dutch type through proper procedures." And there was, of course, no room for doubt that it had been not the four men but Shōzō alone who, over several years following the purchase, created the flow-cast type and printed *Ranwa Tsūben*.

Furthermore, in *Honmoku, Hirano Shōden*, Mr. Miyata Kokichi records that Shōzō’s motivation for purchasing Dutch type was as follows: he once received and read a biography of Laurens Janszoon Coster—the Dutch inventor of movable type—from a Dutchman. Whether Mr. Miyata’s theory was mere hearsay or grounded in verifiable sources was something I lacked the ability to judge. However, even if that were merely a Nagasaki legend, it remained quite believable. Laurens Janszoon Coster of Holland—a man whom the Dutch proudly proclaimed to the world as the first to create lead type around 1440 CE, approximately fifteen years before Germany’s Gutenberg—was someone they boasted of overseas. Thus, it stood to reason that Coster’s name would have reached someone like Shōzō, an interpreter innately interested in science, through Holland—the sole European trading partner Japan maintained at the time.

Moreover, the following two anecdotes—one each from Coster and Shōzō—are intriguing in how they seem to elucidate the aforementioned relationship. One day, Coster picked up a wood chip that had fallen in his garden and idly carved his initials in relief, but finding it too regrettable to discard, he wrapped it in paper and left it in a corner of the room. Then, much later, when he casually touched and unwrapped that paper package, he was utterly astonished to find the characters on the wood chip clearly printed on the paper—so the story goes.—

Another anecdote, still famous today among Shōzō’s achievements, tells how one time he melted a small amount of purchased Dutch type in a pot, removed the ornamental hilt inlay from his waist sword, and poured the molten metal into its recess. After waiting for the lead to cool and flipping it over, he found that the ornamental hilt inlay had formed a concave mold, its design clearly transferred into the lead—whereupon Shōzō let out a loud cry and summoned his family members, or so the tale goes. These two anecdotes, separated by East and West, not only share certain commonalities but also reveal that the latter was far more deliberate compared to the former. In Coster’s case, it was an accidental beginning toward wooden type; in Shōzō’s case, there was anticipation of flow-cast type. Moreover, there is a sense that the latter anecdote was influenced by the former one.

However, anecdotes of this sort become legends with an artistic universality and value when a certain purity of scientific spirit coalesces with lived experience to shape chance occurrences; yet they do not necessarily explain the actual inventions of Coster or Shōzō. In Holland, wooden movable type existed even before Coster. Moreover, not a single piece of the definitive lead type said to have been created by Coster remains today. Since no printed books exist that can definitively be attributed to Coster, printing historians worldwide are said to have ultimately awarded the crown to Gutenberg. However, facts such as the existence of portions printed with movable type in Dutch antiquarian books from the early fifteenth century, legends of a worker who stole type from Coster’s workshop and settled in Mainz—Gutenberg’s birthplace in Germany—and the reality that Holland followed a separate lineage even within the path by which modern printing technology swept across Europe after Gutenberg’s invention all ensure that Laurens Janszoon Coster, though he may be a fictional figure, remains one who cannot be erased even five centuries later. Today’s printing historians are aware that Laurens Janszoon Coster is undoubtedly a creation of the Dutch people. Moreover, it is likely that several facts remaining in the Dutch printing world, along with unrecorded elements here and there, sustain and animate it. Moreover, this Coster biography—though itself a “fabrication”—not only influenced Shōzō (who was no fiction) but also marked the beginning of modern type arriving in a corner of Japan in the East.

Let us remember that this was the first year of Kaei—1848 in the Western calendar. And with this memory as our premise, when tracing back four centuries through Western printing history—knowing that Gutenberg’s invention dates to 1455—we realize that what is called the Western wooden movable type era prior to this lasted a mere twenty to thirty years. The creator of that wooden movable type was Italy’s Castaldi. Castaldi served as a scribe for a certain government in Turkey when, one day, he came across an Oriental woodblock-printed book among Marco Polo’s Chinese belongings and took inspiration from it to invent wooden movable type. That was 1426. In other words, there were only twenty-nine years until Gutenberg's 1455.

This was truly astonishing. In Japan, since the Dharani Sutra, the history of woodblock and copperplate printing spanned over a thousand years; that of wooden movable type extended over two hundred years from the Tokugawa period onward; and Shōzō’s era naturally followed suit. When it came to China and Korea, the history of woodblock printing grew even more ancient. Yet in the West, the era of wooden movable type had lasted a mere twenty-nine years. And Castaldi—astonished to learn that Marco Polo’s Chinese souvenir was a woodblock print—had bypassed woodblocks entirely to immediately craft wooden movable type. Was this not equally astonishing? The European alphabet consisted of twenty-six characters. Using wooden movable type had proven far more practical than woodblock printing.

Let us consider this fact alongside the history of Japan’s wooden movable type—inspired by the copper type brought back from Korea by Toyotomi Hideyoshi—which soon declined and reverted to woodblock printing. In Japan, by the mid-Tokugawa period, publications had flourished and print runs increased, but under such circumstances, woodblock printing became more convenient than wooden movable type. The first reason was that with woodblock printing, reprints were possible. At a time when the paper matrix technique did not exist, wooden movable type had to be newly set with each reprint. Does not Matsudaira Rakuō’s confiscation of the woodblocks for *Kaikoku Heidan* attest to these very circumstances? Secondly, woodblock printing was far easier and could produce more beautiful prints. The baren-rubbing printing technique was ill-suited for the partial protrusions of wooden movable type. Thirdly, Japanese characters with their complex strokes were prone to wear, and the sheer variety of characters—far exceeding ten thousand—necessitated producing vast quantities of new type with each fresh typesetting, nearly equivalent to carving new woodblocks every time. Moreover, both newly made and older wooden type inevitably developed uneven heights. In other words, the complexity of Japanese characters pulled them back into the realm of woodblock printing, yet the Italians who saw Chinese woodblock books immediately created wooden movable type. And just as Castaldi had created wooden movable type, twenty-nine years later, the Germans abruptly created lead-based "flow-cast type". Their alphabet consisted of twenty-six characters.

Europe’s printing civilization was influenced by Chinese civilization.

The method of papermaking was also taught by the Mongol soldiers who invaded Europe. Therefore, it is said that all old European books followed Chinese conventions. Though I have yet to see them myself, single-sided printing, bound-pocket binding, and the use of sumi ink are all cited as evidence of this influence. That Marco Polo sowed these seeds of Chinese culture remains common knowledge. It is equally well known that after returning home, this great traveler joined Venice's fleet against Genoa, was captured, and wrote *The Travels of Marco Polo* in prison. The *History of Printing Civilization* describes that era as "a frenzy as if Italy were buried under Polo's books," though being manuscripts from the late thirteenth century, their circulation remained limited. Not until a century and a half later—around 1470–1480—when Castaldi's wooden type and Coster and Gutenberg's lead type emerged, did *The Travels* itself become a printed book and Polo's tall tale sweep through Europe—his claim that "Japan lies an island nation in the eastern ocean, its gold inexhaustible"—electrifying minds across the Western Hemisphere.

When you consider it, Eastern woodblock printing went to the West and turned to gold, only to return to Japan five centuries later. And the primary reason wood transformed into gold was undoubtedly because European characters were simple. Gutenberg was a noble from Mainz and a merchant who dealt in rings and polished mirrors. Since ring engraving and mold-based casting were already well-developed in this era, today's printing historians judge that his inspiration must have come from there.

Even in the West, the manufacture of modern type matrices through the electrotyping method began in the nineteenth century. The electrolysis method—a feat that could not be achieved unless what was called “Faraday’s Law” had been established. Therefore, for four centuries since Gutenberg, the reason type production via the "flow-cast method" persisted could be attributed first and foremost to the alphabet consisting of twenty-six characters and their lack of complexity compared to Chinese characters. Therefore, even if the "Christian type" had remained in Nagasaki during the Keichō era, how much could it have developed?

I can't help but think that copperplate techniques like Rembrandt's were introduced from Holland through Shiba Kōkan in Tenmei 3 (1783). This was over sixty years prior to Shōzō's purchase of the "full set of typesetting tools." While Japan's copperplate printing had flourished since Kōkan's era through practitioners like Yōtei Tashian, Shōzō's "flow-cast type"—despite his strenuous efforts—still required more than twenty additional years to reach completion.

Reflecting on it all, Western printing technology's arrival seemed both paradoxically belated and prematurely early.

II

Shōzō’s first "flow-cast type" was tentatively completed in the fourth year of Kaei (1851), three years after purchasing the "full set of typesetting tools." And it is said that *Rangawa Tsūben* was printed using those Japanese characters in flow-cast type alongside imported Dutch type. The production method of “flow-cast type” in Shōzō’s case can be imagined to have followed the same approach as the “hand-casting devices” of Yonko Coster or Gutenberg. In essence, the method involved first carving a convex master type—called a punch or stamping tool—from metal, striking this into another metal to create a concave matrix, then pouring lead into the matrix to obtain a convex type again. However, traces suggest that due to either complex character strokes or deficient technical skills, they occasionally omitted creating the punch altogether, instead directly carving concave matrices to produce flow-cast type. According to Mr. Miyata’s *Detailed Biography*, it is explained roughly as follows: a two-part clasping mold with a hole in the center matching the size of the type. At the bottom of the mold lay a horizontally placed concave matrix—the female-type matrix. Molten lead was scooped with a ladle and poured in. After waiting for it to cool, the clasping mold was split open to remove the type. The bottom of the type was planed down to achieve uniform height—such was the process. These steps themselves were not particularly difficult, but what kind of metal could the matrix have been made of? Even Mr. Miyata’s explanation, as an expert, remains unclear on this point. It is recorded that wooden movable type was initially used as female matrices, but whether boxwood or cherry, neither could withstand the high temperatures of molten lead—and we already knew of this failure from Kimura Kahei’s earlier attempts. In another work, *The Struggles of Japan’s Printing Pioneers*, Mr. Miyata writes that Shōzō supposedly used carvings made from water buffalo horns at this time—and this is likely closest to the truth. The matrices created by Shōzō that are housed in the Imperial Household Museum today are carved in steel, but they were produced several years after this time, during the Ansei era. The “flow-cast molds” preserved at Nagasaki’s Suwa Shrine have also been judged by experts not to date from the Kaei era, and in any case, what material constituted the body of the matrices for Shōzō’s “flow-cast type” used during that period remains unclear.

The history of human scientific development, it is said, lay in the discovery of metals and the understanding of their properties.

In the third year of Kaei (1850), Egawa Tarozaemon, the magistrate of Izu, constructed a reverberatory furnace in Nirayama and attempted to melt iron requiring heat exceeding 1,300 degrees Celsius. The iron used in swords and blades since ancient times had been forged using bellows, but its principles had not yet been logically comprehended. The "blowing method" for copper and similar techniques arose quite spontaneously, while antimony—essential for lead type—still lay hidden in Japan's mountains during this era. In other words, under the conditions of that time, many metals remained untapped, and furthermore, their circulation under the feudal system was far from smooth. Though Shōzō and his peers may have possessed some theoretical understanding from Dutch texts, they likely harbored frustration at being unable to bridge this knowledge into practical application. Compounding this was the reality that Kabei of Edo—forced to conduct his research furtively behind lamps lit in broad daylight—faced circumstances that, while the Nagasaki interpreters enjoyed certain privileges, could hardly be considered lenient.

In any case, as printing historians had recounted, within an atmosphere of extraordinary difficulty when viewed from today’s perspective, some type had been produced, several copies of *Rangawa Tsūben* had been printed and sent to Holland itself—an endeavor that years later would motivate Shōzō to send a specimen book of Japanese characters to Holland. But what were the first Japanese characters that Shōzō created? None of the type from that time remained, and *Rangawa Tsūben* could no longer be seen today. Of course, it was said to be absent from libraries and did not even exist in Nagasaki today. Therefore, the sole resource I now relied upon was the following responses from those who once saw *Rangawa Tsūben*, which Mr. Miyata had been able to confirm regarding its whereabouts within his *Detailed Biography*.

Mr. Koga Jūniro “*Rangawa Tsūben* was a work in which Motoki Shōzō arranged imported Dutch typefaces on the left side and his own created katakana characters on the right to translate Dutch texts. Senka paper was used for the pages, and while I cannot clearly recall whether the cover was black paper or cloth, it was unquestionably bound in a black cover—a sloppily made book of about one hundred pages in Mino yotsuori format.”

Mr. Fukushima Eijirō (Owner of Nagasaki Kyōekikan Bookstore) “*Rangawa Tsūben*—unusually, I managed to obtain two volumes four or five years ago, but I sold them to several people.” “The book was bound in a black cover, with contents printed using English type and Japanese katakana type—a thin volume of about one hundred pages in Mino yotsuori format.”

Mr. Kiyoshichirō Konishi (Owner of Kikuzaka-chō Bookstore, Tokyo)

―“*Rangawa Tsūben* was in my store two or three years ago, but it’s no longer there.” “I distinctly remember selling it for two yen and sixty sen.” “The book was in Mino yotsuori format, with contents mixing crude typefaces and katakana.”

Mr. Waseda Yonejirō (Owner of Nagasaki Antique Store) “*Rangawa Tsūben* had a black cover and was what we now call B6 size.” “The contents were printed on ledger paper from old account books, with foreign characters and messy Japanese katakana—a shoddy book.” “Four or five years ago, I sold a copy to someone.” (—Others omitted—)

This investigation by Mr. Miyata was conducted in September of the seventh year of Shōwa (1932). Since this occurred exactly ten years prior, as long as we trust Mr. Miyata's account, many of the aforementioned individuals likely remained alive at that time. Furthermore, accepting these witnesses' testimonies as truthful, the precious book created with "flow-cast type"—Japan's very first such work—must still exist somewhere within this country. That shabby volume with its black cover and Mino yotsuori binding must linger somewhere in Japan, its pages being consumed by insects.

And judging from the consistency in these testimonies, it appears Shōzō's first created type was katakana. Kimura Kahei had produced twenty-six foreign characters under Shimazu Nariakira's orders. Shōzō devised his own fifty-character katakana syllabary through original ingenuity. While what exactly printed *Rangawa Tsūben* remains unclear beyond its typeface, when records later noted that "printing methods using presses spread through Nagasaki" after the Magistrate's Office established its printing facility, we can imagine young Shōzō at twenty-eight aligning imported alphabet type with his katakana pieces, operating the press single-handedly. Alone he trimmed paper and bound volumes, likely distributing these black-covered books discreetly among acquaintances.

*Rangawa Tsūben* had taken on a somewhat legendary quality. His katakana type had been “crude.” But even Shōzō—in that era of underdeveloped science—what clues could there have been for creating Japanese type? History, it was said, knew no miracles. Just as Gutenberg had involved a ring in his type design, so too had the wine presses of Germany’s Rhine region served as inspiration for the printing press’s invention—it was said that today’s hand-operated printing machines being called “presses” originated from this very connection. The tens of thousands of kanji matrices, with their complex strokes, would have been difficult to overcome within the limitations of “flow-cast” technology. In time, even Kitamura Konosuke, Shinagawa Tōbei, and Narabayashi Sadakazu—comrades from the days of acquiring the “complete set of type molds”—had faded from the history of this type.

However, by the second year of Ansei—three years after *Rangawa Tsūben*—the purchased type of Shōzō and his colleagues came to compile a record in its own right.

In June of the same year, Nagasaki Magistrate Arao Iwaminojo submitted a document titled "Proposal on Dutch Movable Type Printing Methods for Dutch Books" to Senior Councilor Abe Ise-no-kami. "1. In recent years, while the demand for Western books has been remarkable, the supply remains insufficient." "2. Though the Dutch interpreters diligently apply themselves to researching their hereditary craft, regrettably their training does not achieve full sufficiency due to the scarcity of Dutch texts." "3. Regarding the movable type brought by the Dutch in previous years, which the Dutch interpreters took custody of with permission from the former Nagasaki Magistrate: We have now purchased this using association funds, tested printing methods at the Magistrate’s Office, and propose that selling it to general volunteers through the Nagasaki Association would greatly benefit society." Such was the content of the proposal.

“The movable type brought by the Dutch” This referred to the movable type that Shōzō and his group had ordered. Judging from this document, one might interpret the aforementioned “complete set of type molds” as something that had fortuitously arrived and been accepted for purchase by Shōzō’s group—but given the era’s prohibition on private overseas trade, such an interpretation would likely be mistaken. In any case, based on the Nagasaki Magistrate’s proposal described above, Abe Ise-no-kami approved this measure in August of the same year. The Nagasaki Magistrate appointed Shōzō as supervisor of type printing and established a printing factory within the coastal-facing Nishi Government Office. Records further indicate that a Dutchman named Indermaur was present within the Nishi Government Office at this time, instructing others in Western printing techniques.

In June of Ansei 3 (1856), 528 copies of the Dutch grammar book *Syntaxis* were printed and published. One copy was submitted to the Shogunate's Astronomical Bureau, while the remaining copies were sold to the general public by the Nagasaki Association at a price of two bu in gold per copy. In the following year [Ansei 4, 1857], *Elementary English Grammar* was printed and published. In the first year of Bunkyū [1861], the printing factory was relocated to the trading house within Dejima, where works such as Siebold's *Open Brieven uit Japan* were published, followed in the next year [Bunkyū 2, 1862] by Pompe van Meerdervoort's *gencesmiddelleer*. These books are Western books that, even when viewed in photographs, use no Japanese type whatsoever. In other words, they were foreign books manufactured in Japan. While Siebold's so-called "Dejima edition" and Pompe's medical books represented rather impressive printing for their time, the fact that these Japan-made Western books contained not a single piece of Japanese type suggests that Shōzō's "flow-cast type" remained either too crude to withstand press printing or too scarce in quantity to be used in formal grammar books.

Whether Indermaur was a professional typesetter remains unknown to me. However, this supposed typesetter appears to have never engaged in type casting through electrotyping methods. This becomes evident from the circumstances surrounding the Nagasaki Magistrate's printing factory—forced to import all typefaces from Holland until its eventual closure due to financial impracticality. Yet it strikes one as odd that these alleged typesetters didn't even attempt recasting Western typefaces, a relatively straightforward process. Could their expertise have been merely superficial? Consequently, even Shōzō—who as printing supervisor must have worked closely with this Dutchman—likely gained little substantial knowledge from him, one imagines. The true contribution of this Nagasaki Magistrate's printing facility to Japanese typography lay principally in actualizing "press-style printing." As recorded in *Printing Civilization History*: "Even within private enterprises, Western-style movable type printing gradually took root, resulting in publications blending Western characters with kanji and kana. Works like Shioya Kōhachi's *Latest Japanese-English Common Phrase Collection* from Ansei 6 [1859] and Masunaga Bunji's *Primer of Foreign Languages* from Man'en 1 [1860] belong to this lineage of privately produced movable-type editions." Yet needless to say, the kanji and kana in these volumes employed either wood type or traditional woodblock methods. Essentially, they merely substituted baren rubbing with press operation—and even this press-based printing seems never to have spread beyond Nagasaki's immediate vicinity.

Yet even so, when we recall how Western printing techniques were expelled from this very land of Nagasaki over two hundred years ago, we cannot help but feel a renewed sense of emotion. The same shogunate that had expelled them along with the Kirishitan now found itself compelled to welcome them once more. "Japan-made Western books" had to be reprinted due to "remarkable demand yet insufficient supply." Siebold’s Dejima edition was prized not only by ambitious Japanese youths visiting Nagasaki but also by Edo students, while Pompe’s medical texts had to serve as textbooks for students at the shogunate-approved school Seitokukan, established within Nagasaki’s Daidokuji Temple.

Japan-made Western books. Edo’s movable type began with the alphabet. When one considers how students of that time would use brushes to add Japanese characters alongside Western type in their ledger-style textbooks—even if this seems as minor as legend—the importance and historical significance of Shōzō’s “flow-cast type” for Japanese katakana becomes apparent.

The Nagasaki Magistrate’s Office printing office pioneered Japan’s modern printing technology history, and “press printing” laid a modest foundation from this point onward. But why did the shogunate have to create even “Japan-made Western books” to adopt European civilization as swiftly as possible and prepare for all aspects, both civil and military? Needless to say, this was due to the truly urgent political circumstances of the time, stretching from the “Black Ships of Kaei” to the “Port Openings of Ansei.”

3 “The situation aboard the foreign vessels was marked by extraordinary tension. Not only the magistrates handling negotiations, but all assembled foreigners bore murderous countenances—I discerned their resolve to enforce demands contrary to their professed intentions.” “Moreover, given the inadequate state of Uraga’s honorable defenses, should we yield to their military intimidation and accept the state letter, it would constitute national disgrace. Thus, we must strive for peaceful resolution above all else—” This passage—reported by Uraga Magistrate Toda Izu-no-kami to Senior Councilor Abe Ise-no-kami on the third day of the sixth month of Kaei 6 (July 8, 1853), regarding four American warships—revealed, upon careful examination, the shogunate council’s intricate foreign policy challenges through its painstakingly constructed phrasing.

The appearance of American steam warships in Edo Bay was not without precedent. As previously noted, eight years after the American Oriental Company's chartered vessel Morrison had been bombarded in Edo and Kagoshima before retreating—in Kōka 2 (1845)—Commodore James Biddle of the U.S. East India Squadron, holding equivalent rank to Perry, arrived in Japan. Though his actions similarly followed orders from their nation's Secretary of the Navy, Biddle's mission focused solely on determining whether Japan harbored any intent to engage in trade; when met with shogunate refusal, he compliantly withdrew.

Therefore, the reason why the "Black Ships of Kaei" and "Perry’s arrival" came to be historically emphasized lay neither in the ships’ form nor in their entry into Edo Bay while bypassing Nagasaki—it resided in the American intent described in the Uraga Magistrate’s report as "murderous expressions apparent on their faces, their resolve to enforce demands against their original wishes." It differed from the sixty-ton British merchant ship *Brothers* that had slipped into the prohibited Edo Bay only to be driven back, from Russian envoys like Laxman and Rezanov whose missions resembled trade petitions, and from Palembang’s "advice urging the opening of the country." This was nothing less than a "trade demand" enforced through military might—one that disregarded both tradition and legal statutes.

It was truly a grave crisis for the homeland of Japan.

As for the detailed circumstances surrounding this matter, there were already numerous books by experts, and particularly regarding the complex domestic affairs of the time, it was not our place to intervene. To state only what was certain: Upon receiving the Uraga Magistrate’s report, they had immediately convened an extraordinary council attended by the Senior Councilors, Three Magistrates, and even the Senior and Junior Inspectors. However, even after five days, no resolution had been reached. Shogun Ieyoshi lay gravely ill, and Senior Councilor Abe could not contain his distress. Ultimately, he sent a letter to Mito Nariaki seeking his opinion, “setting the deadline for the sixth day at the hour of assembly.” Since this occurred on the afternoon of the fifth day, the urgency of the situation could be well imagined. Mito Nariaki’s hardline foreign policy stance was of course evident, but on the evening of the seventh day, Abe Ise-no-kami visited Nariaki at his Komagome residence. According to records, during this meeting “Nariaki too opened his heart and presented his views—such as seizing those four warships—but through Abe Ise-no-kami’s explanation, he appeared to realize the impossibility of such actions.” Regrettably, one could imagine the extent of our naval knowledge and coastal military preparedness at the time.

The shogunate reluctantly decided on a peaceful policy. On June 9, Perry landed at Uraga Port accompanied by a salute fired from his steam warship. Guarded by four hundred armed marines, he entered the hastily erected reception hall where he met with Uraga Magistrate Toda Izu-no-kami and formally delivered the President’s personal letter. On the 10th, the four warships advanced into Edo Bay, reached Kannonzaki Point to demonstrate intimidation through firing range measurements, and finally departed Japanese waters on the 12th.

Of course, what was referred to as the President’s personal letter and Perry’s “memorial” consisted of two main points: first, improvements in Japan’s treatment of whaling ships and other American castaways; and second, commerce—with the demand that a response be provided before his return the following year. Not only was the content of the shogunate’s edict that Toda Izu-no-kami read aloud to Perry on this occasion diplomatically ambiguous, but compared to previous such documents, it had become remarkably modernized with its abundant use of hiragana. “—This place is not designated for foreign intercourse; you have been repeatedly instructed to proceed to Nagasaki. Though you persist in your mission with unyielding resolve, thereby disgracing your charge, and though our national laws remain immutable—on this occasion alone, considering your hardships, we shall exceptionally accept this letter. However, as this is not a site for formal reception, no further response shall be given. You must comprehend this intent, fulfill your duty, and depart with all haste.”

The first arrival of the Black Ships lasted merely about ten days, but within the shogunate council, opinions were divided regarding Perry’s anticipated return. Mito Nariaki turned to Abe and declared, “Even if a thousand horsemen dwindle to one...” “Proclaim to the nation a grand decree to repel the barbarians!” The coastal defense officials Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami and Kawaji Saemon-no-jo stated: “When opening hostilities with foreign nations, it is customary that conflicts cannot be concluded within a short period. Thus, the quantities of artillery and ammunition required would be immense—hence, hastily issuing a grand decree now would be an ill-advised strategy.” They added: “Regarding Lord Mito’s intentions—none among us hold the slightest objection. However, after two hundred years of peace—particularly lacking any experience in naval warfare—even were we to commence hostilities now, there would be no prospect of certain victory.” Egawa Tarozaemon further proposed a “delaying tactic,” stating: “Given our honorable defenses being woefully inadequate—as the vulgar saying goes, ‘to stall’—we should neither formally accept nor reject their petitions for five or even ten years. During this interval, we must rigorously strengthen our preparations this time, and only then deliver our refusal upon that foundation.” As a result, the renowned statesman Abe Ise-no-kami issued a special order called Wasen—meaning “making peace while preparing for war.”

These records form the core material for all contemporary historians discussing the shogunate council's circumstances at that time. Even from these documents alone, several facts emerge clearly: First, that our maritime Japan faced threats from steam warships and long-barreled cannons; second, that Japan's military preparations were indeed woefully inadequate at the time; third, that while Nariaki, Kawaji, and Egawa naturally shared a commitment to prioritizing national prestige, they differed in their approaches; and fourth, that Kawaji and Egawa sought to complete modern military preparations capable of countering Perry during this stalling period. What we must now consider is this: Did Egawa and his colleagues truly believe they could produce steam warships and modern artillery sufficient to defeat Perry within such a brief stalling period? Did they genuinely think this "stalling" could be sustained for five or even ten years? No records clearly demonstrating these assumptions appear to have survived.

Mito Nariaki also stated: “As for this stalling matter—Your Excellency has clearly observed that if it were feasible, I would harbor no objections. Yet when foreign ships arrive, we descend into chaos, and once they depart, we forget military preparations entirely—in such circumstances, stalling becomes an unavoidable stratagem of the times.” However, even Nariaki himself evidently placed little genuine faith in this “stalling.” In other words, behind these records subtly underlay a divergence of opinions: those advocating for “opening the country” to expand national prestige and those seeking to achieve it through alternative means. Exactly ten years prior, when the *Palembang* arrived in Kōka 1st Year (1844), Senior Councilor Mizuno Echizen-no-kami had advocated “returning to the scale of the Keichō and Genna eras, actively expanding national prestige abroad while bolstering domestic morale,” only to ultimately fail. Yet this pro-opening argument may have gradually gained ground within the shogunate council thereafter—fueled by increasingly frequent foreign ship arrivals, the advancing tide of overseas civilization, and domestic pressures such as feudal economic strain. Even if we cannot trust this because it is a foreigner’s record, if we consider it as a reference point, Goncharov—secretary of the Russian diplomatic mission that arrived in Nagasaki in July of Kaei 6—wrote the following in his *Voyage to Japan*.

“—One of the interpreters—I forget who—let slip that when Rezanov came, only two out of seven or eight senior councilors had supported foreign trade, but this time only two were opposed.”

There remains no record confirming whether advocates for opening the country existed within the shogunate council when Rezanov arrived—an event dating back to Bunka 1 (1804), fully fifty years prior. There may have been pioneers preceding even Mizuno Echizen-no-kami. In any event, notions of "opening"—broadly conceived as "actively projecting national prestige abroad" and "assimilating overseas civilization"—appeared to have permeated not just shogunate circles but also motivated individuals across society. The term "opening of the country" proved notoriously slippery in political discourse, defying easy evaluation even by specialists, yet interest in foreign affairs undeniably ran deep. This intensity had been forged through cumulative exposure to foreign vessels over a century since Spangberg's time, as previously chronicled. That this "opening" formally commenced through the Black Ships' arrival remains historically significant in itself—yet for Japan, it constituted nothing less than a national crisis, an urgent convulsion rippling with complex ramifications.

At this time, Shōzō was exactly thirty years old. It was the year after he had printed *Ranwa Tsūben* and two years before his appointment as Type Printing Section Chief. Given their role as interpreters, Perry’s arrival must have delivered an extraordinary shock; yet he himself left behind not a single record from which we might discern his impressions or thoughts at the time. Setting aside "Perry's arrival," Mr. Miyata states that Shōzō was a "proponent of opening the country." In his *Detailed Biography*, he writes of him as "a radical yet moderate proponent of opening the country." “Mr. Motoki Shōzō was not a member of the pro-shogunate faction; however, because he was such an ardent proponent of opening the country, he temporarily became a prime target for isolationists. Ultimately, he was misunderstood by the pro-opening faction—mistakenly perceived as being aligned with the shogunate—and with activists frequently coming and going in Nagasaki at the time with the intent to assassinate him, he feared for his safety and journeyed to Kyoto, where he took refuge for a time under the protection of a certain court noble.” This passage has aspects that seem to directly transcribe Nagasaki oral traditions, but the description of him as "a radical yet moderate proponent of opening the country" is intriguing. Shōzō appears to have been misunderstood and ultimately rejected by both the imperial loyalists and the pro-shogunate faction. We shall now examine his achievements, but to put it succinctly: he was a “proponent of opening the country who did not advocate opening,” a man who lived out imperial loyalist opening ideology solely through his identity as a scientist—thus, even his sentiments at this time can be imagined in broad outline.

Within the interpreter hierarchy, he held the rank of "minor interpreter kajin," being the senior-most among the minor interpreters. Since becoming a trainee interpreter at fifteen years old, he had advanced steadily over fifteen years. Moreover, up until this time, his adoptive father Shozaemon had held the position of Great Interpreter Inspector—the highest rank among interpreters—so as part of this virtually hereditary interpreter system, his future was all but assured. Moreover, this year marked the first time he became a father, with his wife Nui giving birth to their eldest son Kotaro. Nui was the biological child of adoptive father Shōzaemon and, being fifteen years old at this time, was an exceptionally young mother; in any case, Shōzō was now in his prime working years.

And then, just one month after Perry had departed Edo Bay, on July 16—a day when even in Nagasaki, where news traveled fast, people were likely still consumed by rumors of Perry—the "Black Ships" appeared here as well. The third Russian diplomatic mission to Japan led by Putyatin consisted of the steam warship Pallada and three other vessels. Unlike Edo, this was the main site for foreign ships' arrivals, but it is said that the arrival of this Russian diplomatic mission became the next major commotion following Perry’s coming. Shōzō, an interpreter in his prime, could no longer remain solely devoted to type. From the Nagasaki negotiations onward until the spring of Ansei 2nd Year—two years after the conclusion of the Treaty of Shimoda—he had scarcely any time to attend to his family. Yet upon reflection, that his "complete set of type printing techniques" left its mark in Japan's printing history was a direct consequence of the political circumstances brought by the Black Ships' arrival. For this very reason, he had no choice but to temporarily set aside type and pursue the Black Ships' wake, dashing east and west.

IV

It remains unclear how much foreign knowledge Shōzō and others possessed at the time of Perry’s and Putyatin’s arrivals. As interpreters, they likely received rather general overseas news through the Dutch in Dejima, but since Dutch ships only arrived once a year, such information was naturally limited. When it came to academic knowledge, they probably had many books passed down since the time of the first Shōdayū, making Shōzō among the most enlightened Japanese of his era—though even that knowledge was confined to Dutch texts. Moreover, access to those Dutch books was restricted, and publications in any language other than Dutch were strictly prohibited. According to Kure Shūzō’s *Mitsukuri Genpo*, during discussions about the Japan-Russia border agreement at the “Nagasaki negotiations,” Chief Interpreter Morioka Einosuke translated and summarized information on northern affairs from English books confiscated by the Nagasaki Magistrate’s Office for Japanese plenipotentiary Kawaji Saemon-no-jo. When delegation member Genpo secretly learned of this and requested to read those English books himself, Kawaji refused, saying it would be too harsh on Einosuke. In other words, had this leaked, Einosuke would have faced punishment as someone who violated the ban.

*Printing Civilization History* presents the Motoki family’s collection preserved until the Meiji era, including works such as *Maritime Gunnery Manual*, *Dutch Geographic Atlas*, and *Atlas of All Nations*. There were works such as *Dutch Maritime Mirror*, *Dutch Materia Medica with Japanese Explanations*, *Illustrated Studies on Warships*, and *Japanese-French-Dutch Trilingual Lexicon*, and it appears Shōzō studied these texts from his family’s collection. When viewed in photographs, these books include those with Dutch printed text alongside brush-written Japanese annotations, those fully translated and styled in Japanese fashion, and those containing ink-drawn illustrated diagrams. Dutch studies also had periods of relative freedom—such as the several years following Siebold’s initial arrival and certain eras—but since the periods of backlash generally lasted longer, books that managed to survive through the role of interpreters must have held considerable value.

Shōzō had been able to become familiar with those books in his family’s collection since childhood. In Meiji 45th Year (1912), when the imperial decree posthumously honoring Shōzō was issued, the author of *Printing Civilization History* visited Nagasaki and wrote of Shōzō’s youth as follows, based on accounts gathered from his surviving friends and disciples. “When Mr. Shōzō underwent his coming-of-age ceremony, he married a woman from his household and soon succeeded to the family profession of interpreter. Yet by that time, the humble position of a mere interpreter no longer occupied his vision; his eyes were fixed on global trends, and he secretly awaited the arrival of the opportune moment.” During this period, Mr. Shōzō constantly delved into numerous texts, dedicating himself to researching a wide array of industrial techniques. Through the Dutch studies he had mastered, he immersed himself in examining Western artifacts and knowledge—yet even days felt insufficient for such pursuits.—At this time, our nation’s circumstances saw the doctrine of isolation reaching its zenith, with any foreign ship sighted met by indiscriminate bombardment. But Mr. Shōzō paid this no mind whatsoever—quietly continuing his studies of Western industrial technology.

It remains unclear where exactly in this text lie the views of the author of *Printing Civilization History* and where begin the nostalgic accounts of Shōzō’s friends and disciples. However, Shōzō, “privately in his heart,” had believed the opening of the country to be inevitable—it emphasized that he concluded their civilization must be adopted to prepare, and that his exclusive interest lay in industrial technology. This technical characteristic of Shōzō is also recorded in the *Western Studies Chronology* under the entry for Man’en 1st Year (1860): “Those who served as interpreters from the first voyages of the American and Russian ships through to the Five-Power Treaty were Hori Tatsunosuke, Moriyama Takichirō, and Motoki Shōzō.” It states: “Hori had scholarly aptitude as a professor at the Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books; Moriyama possessed talent as chief of foreign interpreters; and Motoki, rich in ingenuity, served as steelworks superintendent—each man demonstrated his abilities in fitting roles.” Yet from what we have seen thus far, despite Shōzō and others’ diligent studies, the foreign knowledge available at the time of Perry’s and Putyatin’s arrivals was inherently narrow due to various constraints.

However, the arrivals of Perry and Putyatin were an epoch-making event that exceeded the boundaries of the interpreters' existing knowledge. Neither Russia nor America were visiting for the first time, but this time their arrival differed entirely in character, both militarily and culturally. According to Tabohashi Kiyoshi’s *Bakumatsu Foreign Relations History*, for instance, Perry had landed at Futami Port on Chichijima in the Ogasawara Islands in mid-May to establish a naval base before appearing off Uraga; upon departing Uraga, he then landed at Naha Port in Ryukyu in July and built a naval base there as well. “—While remaining utterly indifferent to how global circumstances may develop—when negotiating with the Japanese government—designating several refuge harbors along Japan’s coast would constitute the most timely measure.” If the government of that country [Japan] were to obstinately refuse the opening of its harbors on the mainland, thereby risking the tragedy of bloodshed, [we] would alternatively designate islands in Japan’s southern regions possessing excellent harbors and convenient provisions for water and fuel as fleet anchorages. “For this purpose, the Ryukyu Islands are most suitable,” declared Perry with arrogance in a memorandum to the Secretary of the Navy when he led the East India Squadron from the Madeira Islands. “Though we observe the territories of Great Britain—the United States’ great rival on the seas—increasing daily in the Orient, the United States keenly feels the necessity to adopt swift measures as well.” Britain has already secured the two great gateways of Singapore and Hong Kong in the China Sea—and seeks to monopolize Chinese trade. “Fortunately, the Japanese archipelago has yet to be tainted by the hands of the 'Annexationist' government; moreover, as several of its islands lie along commercial thoroughfares most vital to the United States, it is imperative that we employ agile measures to avoid missing opportunities to secure as many harbors as possible—the very reason I lead this formidable fleet.――”

The "Annexationist" government was the epithet for Britain. Moreover, around the time Perry appeared off Uraga Bay, Russia’s third diplomatic mission to Japan—led by the flagship *Pallada* and accompanied by three other vessels—had already been stationed in Hong Kong, China. Though Admiral Putyatin’s approach was demonstrably less high-handed than Perry’s according to surviving records, it differed markedly from previous Russian diplomatic missions to Japan. In essence, he too came not with a "plea for trade," but with a "demand to open the country."

A passage from *Japan Travelogue* speaks as follows, representing the sentiments of Putyatin’s delegation at the time. “August 9th—as was typical, the day dawned clear and fine, yet regrettably too hot.” “On this day, we saw the ‘land of mystery’ for the first time.—Now, at last, we would achieve the purpose of our ten-month voyage of hardship.” “This was the locked jeweled box whose key had been lost.” “This was the nation that various countries had long eyed—attempting in vain to subjugate through wealth, military might, and cunning stratagems.” “This was the great collective of humanity that had skillfully avoided civilization’s points of entry, daring to live by its own intellect and its own laws.” “a country that stubbornly repels foreigners’ friendship, religion, and commerce, and mocks our attempts to civilize it—”

Could they remain like that forever? And thus we said while stroking our sixty-pound cannons. If only the Japanese would at least permit entry and allow the investigation of their natural wealth. "Is Japan not nearly the sole blank space remaining in all the regions of the globe where humans dwell and in their statistics?——" "August 9th" corresponded to the fifteenth day of the seventh month in the lunar calendar, and this passage left nothing unsaid in conveying Europeans' presumptuous sentiments at that time. The first was their conviction in European cultural advancement. The second was their aggressive presumption of viewing all beyond Europe as colonial possessions. These became inseparably fused into a single entity—a historical reality that even a writer of Goncharov's stature became inextricably bound to "sixty-pound cannons."

From the mid-eighteenth century onward, the Industrial Revolution led by Britain had now spanned a century, with all of Europe nearing its culmination. The invention of spinning machinery and steam-powered engines caused trains, steamships, and all manner of manufactured goods to overflow from the West, necessitating markets and outlets reaching every corner of the East. The fleets of nations became their vanguard, forced to traverse seas from the Red Sea and Indian Ocean across the entire Pacific—from southern islands to the Chinese mainland, even to the Far Eastern "land of mystery" and "jeweled box whose key had been lost." This was what Perry called the "great rivalry." Russia too, though belatedly alongside France, had joined European industrial civilization. This stood in stark contrast to the era of the Russian-American Company when figures like Rezanov—leader of the second diplomatic mission—had hunted tigers along Alaskan and Kamchatkan coasts to make Japan their market. By the eighteenth century's end, Russia had already secured a foothold in northern China earlier than Britain. One "stepping stone" had been laid. Just as Perry had done, they would have needed to seize "virgin Japan"—even by firing sixty-pound cannons—before the "Annexationist" government could claim it.

Putyatin’s delegation departed Hong Kong on June 1, Kaei 6 (1853), sailed eastward through the East China Sea amid typhoons to reach Futami Port on the Ogasawara Islands by June 28 of the same year, and made its appearance off Nagasaki on July 15. Previous Russian missions to Japan had customarily departed Kronstadt, sailed north across the Pacific to Alaska and Okhotsk, then turned south through the Kuril Islands. But Putyatin pioneered a route through the Indian Ocean and East China Sea—shortening the Japan-Russia voyage distance by one-third—a fact Japan at the time would have found noteworthy.

However, history keeps itself quite busy. Putyatin was supposed to take joint action toward Japan based on a mutual understanding between the American and Russian governments, awaiting Perry’s return to Hong Kong; however, during their ten-month voyage, the Crimean War between Russia and Britain, France, and Turkey had broken out in their homeland. Moreover, the entire China Sea area was within the sphere of influence of the British and French fleets. Upon learning this news in Hong Kong, Putyatin headed for Nagasaki without waiting for Perry’s return.

"—Nomozaki, serving as the landmark at the entrance to Nagasaki Bay, came into view." Everyone gathered on the deck, captivated by the green coastline bathed in vivid sunlight. "What could that toy boat be," they wondered, "drifting past the warship’s side on the water’s surface, adorned with five-colored windmills?"

“That is—a religious ceremony,” someone said.

“No—” one man interjected, “this is merely a superstitious custom.” “It’s divination—” “Now, if I may—but Kaempfer’s book states…” he began to argue.— In this manner, the Russian Black Ships entered Nagasaki Port on July 16th—just as the spirit boats of Obon were drifting across the waters—but the Kaempfer mentioned here referred to Engelbert Kaempfer, a German who had served as chief of Dejima’s trading post from Genroku 2 to 4 and was known in Europe as a Japanologist; it became clear that they had cultivated various preliminary understandings about this “land of mystery.” In contrast, Shōzō and his colleagues were in a position where even Western books were strictly prohibited. And yet, the turn of history’s events remains fascinating. Shōzō and Goncharov, author of *Oblomov*, met face-to-face.

“—On New Year’s Eve, after everyone aboard the ship had fallen asleep, they came bringing two officials and two second-class interpreters—Shōzō and Ryūta—as envoys of the plenipotentiary (Japan), bearing responses to two questions.” Mr. Possiet was sleeping. “I was walking on the deck when I met with them—”

V

The Russian warships that had entered Nagasaki Port remained anchored there from mid-July until the first days of the first month of Ansei 1 (1854), approximately half a year. The arrival in Nagasaki of the Bakufu's Russian reception officials—including Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami and Kawaji Saemon-no-jo—occurred on the 27th day of the 11th month of the 6th year, with formal Russo-Japanese negotiations commencing from the 15th day of the 12th month. The chief interpreter at this time was Chief Interpreter Nishikichibē, with Vice Chief Interpreter Kajin Moriyama Einosuke as second in command, followed by Chief Interpreter Shitsuki Ryūta, Junior Interpreter Kajin Motoki Shōzō, Junior Interpreter Narabayashi Ryōichirō, and Junior Assistant Interpreter Narabayashi Eishichirō among those active.

As is well known, these "Nagasaki negotiations" concluded unfavorably from the Russian perspective. Trade was rejected, the northern border issue remained unresolved, and Putyatin departed after pledging to return. Viewed in isolation, this third mission might appear identical in outcome to its two predecessors; however, on this occasion Russian gifts were accepted and Japan reciprocated with presents of its own. Moreover, having extracted a pledge that Japan would engage in trade with Russia as a neighborly courtesy should it ever open commerce with nations beyond Holland, this situation differed somewhat from Rezanov's case. Particularly regarding atmosphere, records indicate proceedings were markedly more relaxed compared to previous encounters.

It was customary for foreign envoys arriving in Nagasaki to wait nearly half a year for Edo’s reception officials to reach them, but this time the delay stemmed from more than just the distance between Edo and Nagasaki. As is well known, even on this occasion—until Mito Nariaki’s efforts secured the policy of “trade rejection”—theories like “using barbarians to control barbarians” emerged, prolonging the deliberations. This resembled a variation of the “burukashi plan,” proposing that rather than permit trade with the arrogant Perry, they should grant it to Russia—with whom rapport had been established since Spangberg’s time—to counter Perry. Nariaki declared decisively that Perry’s withdrawal on June 12th and Putyatin’s arrival on July 18th undeniably signaled a tacit understanding between the Ink Barbarians and Rus Barbarians, thereby shattering the dangerous “using barbarians” theory. This finally solidified the aforementioned policy, leading to Tsutsui and Kawaji’s departure from Edo in late October.

Tsutsui and Kawaji’s mission was also a great ordeal. During Rezanov’s time, it had been sufficient for Inspector Tōyama Kinzaburō to come alone and read out the edict, but now steam warships could reach Edo from Nagasaki in two days. The Rus barbarians’ disposition differed from Perry’s; above all, the tradition of their Japan policy since Peter the Great remained alive, appearing somewhat moderate, but ultimately there was no change in their point of caressing "sixty-pound cannons." Moreover, while having convinced them of the "rejection of trade," they had to ensure that their warships would not be sent to Edo. The severity of Tsutsui and Kawaji’s struggles has been vividly depicted in Kawaji’s own diary and in Goncharov’s *A Voyage to Japan* on the opposing side. The selection of figures like Tsutsui—a former Edo magistrate renowned among Bakufu officials for his modern knowledge, whom Mizuno Echizen had personally sought out as a confidant—and Kawaji, whom even Nariaki regarded with deference, speaks volumes about the arduous circumstances of that era.

*A Voyage to Japan* was written with a sense of European superiority. “—The Japanese can do nothing against warships.” “They have nothing but small boats.” “These small boats, like Chinese junks, were equipped with mat sails and, very rarely, hemp sails; moreover, with their sterns left open, they could only sail along the coast.” “Kaempfer states that during his time here, the shogun prohibited the construction of ships capable of sailing to foreign countries—.” “Nippon, beware!”

However, it has now been clarified that Putyatin’s *Diana*, which came to Nagasaki at that time, and Perry’s “Black Ships” that arrived in Edo were both steamers of no more than 400 to 500 tons. Moreover, even Kawaji—reputed as a man of new knowledge at the time—wrote in his diary when Putyatin came to Shimoda the following year and the tsunami-damaged *Diana* sank off Miyajima: "A black ship like a floating castle..." The contradictions of feudal governance—which veiled the sacred wisdom, locked the country, and confined every last ship to crawl solely along Japan’s coasts—manifested themselves in such ways. And that was by no means limited to ships alone.

In any case, the thoughtful Japanese of that time must have felt that no matter how rapidly they opened their eyes, they could not catch up. Under the system of that era, one can imagine that even outstanding figures like the Nagasaki interpreters—who served as the primary conduits of overseas knowledge—shared such feelings uniformly. Chief Interpreter Nishi Kichibei was the eleventh head of the Nishi family, one of those responsible for escorting the Dutch King’s personal letter to Edo when the mission advising national opening—the "Paleumbang"—had previously arrived; he was also the man under whom Takashima Shūhan studied artillery. Chief Interpreter Kajin Moriyama Einosuke—who later changed his name to Tajirō, became a direct shogunate retainer, and rose to head of foreign language interpretation—translated English texts for Kawaji to clarify northern affairs as noted earlier; his English was said to have been learned through daily and nightly visits to American whaling ship castaways detained in Sōfuku-ji’s prison compound. Moreover, even on diplomatic stages, these interpreters were accorded truly low status.

"The four plenipotentiaries were lined up in a row." "And both parties exchanged courtesies." "To the right of the plenipotentiaries sat two Nagasaki magistrates, while to the left were four more figures presumed to be high-ranking officials from Edo." "Behind the plenipotentiaries, a page sat holding a magnificent long sword." "The plenipotentiaries signaled their desire to speak." "Then suddenly, from out of nowhere, Einosuke and Kichibei slithered like snakes, crawling up to the plenipotentiaries’ feet from both sides.—" wrote Goncharov in astonishment.

However, even within such antiquated customs of feudal governance, there were indeed new sprouts of change. On the first day of that meeting, the greeting delivered by Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami proved truly dignified, astonishing the Russians—this undoubtedly surpassed in excellence even the later efforts of Japanese envoys who frequently visited foreign countries from the Man'en and Bunkyū eras onward. “—The old man began to speak.” We stared intently into his eyes. The old man had captivated us from the very outset. —The edges of his eyes and corners of his mouth were framed by ray-like wrinkles; in both his gaze and voice, in every aspect, shone the demeanor of a genial elder—understanding, amiable, and quintessentially venerable. It was the fruit of a life steeped in genuine hardship. Anyone seeing this old man would have wished to claim him as their own grandfather. “In this old man’s bearing lay traces of splendid erudition.—” Indeed, the writer Goncharov had captured Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami’s essence in a single penetrating glance.

——“We have come from hundreds of miles away,” said the old plenipotentiary, his face wearing a constant smile as he gazed at us warmly. “Your Excellencies have crossed thousands of miles to come here. “Though until now we had never met and our relations stood at such remove, here we find ourselves drawn close—sitting together in this very room to converse and share meals. “Is this not both wondrous and most gratifying!”—

The Russians, who were "stroking sixty-pound cannons," wrote: "—We felt profoundly grateful for this greeting that manifested our mutual sentiments at that time, yet found ourselves utterly at a loss for words to express our thanks." This magnificent international courtesy—alongside Goncharov's masterful portrayal of Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami—will likely endure eternally.

Kawaji was also admirable. The Russians were astonished by this intelligent Japanese man. The author of *A Voyage to Japan*, like Siebold, could not help but exclaim, “The Japanese are different from the Chinese!” And it was through the efforts of such splendid Japanese individuals that they were saved from the deadlock of three centuries of national isolation, prevented steam warships from being devoured in Nagasaki, and averted the reckless firing of "sixty-pound cannons"; yet the Russian writer keenly observed that there were many other splendid, new Japanese individuals.

“—Something caught my attention.—I do not know the man’s name.” Because he was a retainer, he did not enter together with the inspector. He was a tall, well-proportioned man who held his upper body perfectly straight. Was he feeling awkward because he couldn’t enter the ship’s interior, or did he, possessing something beyond the honor of being a Japanese official to rely on, comprehend his surroundings? That I could not discern. But the man stood proudly on the deck in a splendid, nonchalant pose.—In his facial expression—there was none of that obtuse self-satisfaction, none of the comical pretentiousness, none of the shallow, childish cheerfulness. No—rather, it seemed that an awareness of being Japanese—the consciousness of what was lacking and what was sought—faintly appeared in his eyes.—

I have drawn this from Mr. Mitsuru Inoue’s translation, but here Goncharov’s narrative is both severe and exquisitely subtle. The inspectors who visited the Russian envoys’ ships anchored offshore were officials from the Nagasaki Magistrate’s office at the rank of yoriki and below, and their attendants must have been samurai of exceedingly low status, but there remains no way to ascertain who exactly they were through Japanese records. In any case, there must have been many such new types of Japanese among the nameless masses, and we may well recall how around this time, young Yoshida Torajirō was hurrying from Edo to Nagasaki, determined to board a Russian ship and thoroughly explore worldly knowledge.

And naturally, among the interpreters too there existed this new type of Japanese. Just as Perry's *Narrative of the Expedition to Japan* had judged the Japanese people through the interpreters they encountered most frequently, Goncharov wrote that even Chief Interpreter Shiduki Ryūta belonged to the "old fossilized type of Japanese," while noting that "Kichibei has a somewhat fresher quality." Regarding Chief Interpreter Nishi Kichibei, he observed: "He harbored no obstinate hatred toward new things," but felt that "he lacked the vigor to pursue them." This Russian writer showed particular interest in three men—Moriyama, Motoki, and Narahashi's younger brother—writing: "—In pauses during conversation and—when encountering European things—Einosuke, Shōzō, and Narahashi's younger brother would perceive their own positions, become self-aware, and grow melancholic—." Of the shogunate officials' antiquated understanding, he wrote: "—they formed a submissive, silent opposition—."

I tried searching Japanese records to see how Shōzō and the others conducted themselves at this time, but they proved remarkably difficult to find. In works such as *The Kawaji Diary*, his trusted aide Einosuke received brief mention, though insufficiently. Moreover, even "second-tier" individuals like Shōzō did not appear at all in official records. *A Voyage to Japan* not only depicted Einosuke’s brilliant intellect and bold, enterprising character but also portrayed the intense nature of this young man—junior interpreter assistant Narahashi Eishichirō—who yearned to see European culture with his own eyes. So how did our Shōzō appear in Goncharov’s eyes? I noted this discrepancy, yet curiously, Shōzō alone remained undepicted with such characteristics.

It was recorded that Shōzō boarded the kaeribune to meet the Russians, transported provisions via the banbune, accompanied inspectors as an interpreter during minor administrative negotiations—though not entirely silent in this role—and worked diligently throughout. Goncharov, Putyatin’s secretary, mentioned the name “Shōzō” some five times in such contexts, yet this writer—who habitually ascribed distinctive traits to every individual—ultimately refrained from addressing Shōzō’s character.

However, in "Volume VII of Archival Documents on Bakumatsu-Era Foreign Relations," there existed a list of gifts from the Russian side that extended not only to Tsutsui, Kawaji, and other shogunate officials but also to the interpreters. Beginning with interpreter overseer Motoki Shōzaemon, gold watches and other items were presented to Nishi Kichibei and Moriyama Einosuke, while glass mirrors and similar gifts were given to Shiduki Ryūta, Motoki Shōzō, Narahashi Ryōichirō, and Narahashi Eishichirō. Several days later, there appeared entries for "one book each" to Motoki Shōzō and Narahashi Eishichirō, and after another few days passed, "five sheets of Russian text each" for the same Shōzō and Eishichirō.

What these "books" were, I could not know; as for the so-called "five sheets of Russian characters," I could only imagine they might have been a guide or something like a vocabulary list for deciphering those books—this too remained unclear. However, the "books" and "Russian characters" given exclusively to Shōzō and Eishichirō seemed to have involved not merely the will of those who gave them but also some initiative from those who received them.

Among items coming from foreign countries, books were the most strictly controlled. Goncharov also wrote *A Voyage to Japan*. One time—Ōi Saburōsuke brought Kichibei along.—Both the admiral (Putyatin) and I said we would give them books—but they flatly refused. Even Saburōsuke—one of the coastal defense officials and a direct retainer of the shogunate—was that underhanded and that fearful. The gifts from the Russian side were of course received only after obtaining approval from the Nagasaki Magistrate, but regardless of what official pretext they may have carried, must there not have been unrecorded will and efforts on the part of Shōzō and others behind them?

Regarding the characteristics and personality of Shōzō that had attracted Goncharov's attention yet remained unexplored in depth, I imagined a Japanese youth of that era—somehow introverted, sparing in expression, yet harboring a resolute core—a scientific-minded young man of Meiji's dawn.

Concerning the Opening of Ports

I

Around the end of summer in the 17th year of Shōwa, I was making regular trips to the S Library at the S Viscount’s residence near Azabu Nininobashi to examine books. As evening approached, I would return the volumes to their shelves and descend the gradual slope before the Viscount’s estate, though sometimes I found myself gripping Nininobashi Bridge’s railing to stare at the Mizoguchi River’s dark waters while sinking into vague reverie.

I was supposed to be researching the history of type, so why was I chasing after things like the "Black Ships of Kaei" and the "Ansei Opening of Ports"? A timid anxiety, akin to some sort of illusion, welled up within me. At the dimly lit desk in a corner of the S Library, I would begin by searching solely for mentions of "Shōzō" among the borrowed books. From what seemed to be official shogunate documents, I cross-referenced dates and events in my search. Lately, characters like "Motoki," "interpreter," and "type plates" had begun leaping into my eyes no matter how carelessly I turned the pages—yet simultaneously, my interest found itself irresistibly drawn to all manner of other writings that appeared utterly unrelated to type or even directly connected to Shōzō himself.

I wanted to understand the birth of Japan's modern type. Therefore I sought to know about the life and work of its representative figure Motoki. This Shōzō was by profession an interpreter involved with both the "Black Ships" and "Port Opening." Thus I found myself pursuing Putyatin and Perry, Mito Nariaki and Kawaji Toshiakira—yet could not easily sever the connections between them. Was I digressing? Was I clinging to a tree while seeking fish?

I recalled Mr. Mitani’s *Motoki, Hirano Detailed Biography* along with three or four other biographies of Motoki Shōzō. There too were accounts of the "Ansei Opening of Ports" and the "Black Ships of Kaei," though to put it plainly, these historical events had been cited merely as proofs extolling Shōzō’s greatness. Thus Japan’s movable type had come to be portrayed as something accidentally birthed through that individual Shōzō’s singular excellence. Therefore, when positioning Shōzō as the progenitor of Japanese movable type, one needed only to unearth passages within records of the Black Ships and port openings that corroborated his personal brilliance. For those who regarded Kimura Kahei as the originator, one needed only to excavate narratives of Kahei’s tribulations.

However, my true protagonist lay not in individuals like Shōzō or Kahei, but in the birth of "movable type"—a single tool of civilization, a material entity. This was by no means unrelated to the greatness of Shōzō and Kahei, but it had far surpassed their limitations. For instance, Kahei’s account of hardships could not have emerged without the will of his patron, Shimazu Nariakira, and such an unprecedented commission from Nariakira could not be properly understood without considering the domestic and foreign relations of that time. Therefore, no matter how much they praised Shōzō’s greatness or gathered accounts of Kahei’s hardships, Japanese movable type could not fully come to life through those efforts alone.

"No, no." Gazing at the methane gas bubbles rising one by one from the dark surface of the Mizoguchi River, I found myself reflecting. This was my confusion. Even if an amateur like myself were to immerse in the complex foreign affairs of that time for a year or two—though my understanding would remain limited—I had come to believe that unless we advanced with the full might of that Japan and its people who had brought forth the Meiji Restoration, no lifeblood would flow through Japanese movable type.

Now, when Putyatin’s Black Ships departed Nagasaki, a mere nine days later, Perry’s Black Ships—this time seven vessels strong—entered Edo Bay. The stage abruptly expanded from Nagasaki to Edo, but for Shōzō, this "Ansei Opening of Ports" was thought to have been the most significant event of his life. For our Japan, it was the greatest diplomatic event since the dawn of its history, but for Shōzō as well, it was like a tightly closed bud suddenly drenched by a downpour. Living in Nagasaki, interacting with foreigners was hardly unusual, but the grand stage of international negotiations with European nations was an unprecedented event even for someone in the interpreter’s role.

When recounting this chronologically, the Russian envoy’s squadron—comprising the warship *Pallada* and two other vessels—departed Nagasaki Port on the fifth day of the first month of Ansei 1 (1854), having pledged to return amidst delicate negotiations. The American envoy Perry and his party returned to Edo Bay on the fourteenth day of the same first month. And they forcibly concluded the Treaty of Amity and departed Shimoda Port on the same June 28. On the 18th day of the ninth month of that same year, Russian envoy ships appeared at Ajigawajiri, Osaka, and by order of the shogunate returned to Shimoda in October. Thereafter, they took until March of the following year to conclude the same Russo-Japanese Treaty of Amity as Perry and returned to their country. Then, in the seventh month of Ansei 2 (1855), British warships entered Nagasaki Port. At the time, in the midst of the Crimean War, they captured part of a Russian envoy group returning home, took over a hundred personnel as prisoners, and like a child who had missed out on snacks, hastily pressed for a treaty. Having obtained it, they departed within the same month. Thereafter, the shogunate extended its established policy to France and Holland as well, though the ratification of these agreements naturally required several years. However, when speaking of the "Ansei Opening of Ports," as many historical accounts indicate, they place the most crucial period between Kaei 6 (1853) and Ansei 2 (1855). Shōzō’s activities as an interpreter spanned precisely this period, and in terms of age, he was from thirty to thirty-two years old during this time.

As for how much Perry’s second visit shocked the shogunate, this was well-documented in numerous books, and there was no need to elaborate in detail. Since they had come to Uraga in July of the previous year, presented the President’s personal letter regarding the treatment of American castaways and diplomatic and trade relations between Japan and the United States, and then departed, their return had been anticipated—but it came far too soon. Perry, having returned to his base in Shanghai, learned that during his fleet’s absence in July of the previous year, a Russian envoy had come to Shanghai and, growing impatient, proceeded to Nagasaki; fearing that the Russians would gain the initiative, he advanced his schedule and made his return visit—circumstances of which the shogunate had no way of knowing.

The three steam warships and four sailing warships had passed through Uraga, their previous year’s anchorage, disregarded the countless guard boats’ attempts to halt them, and advanced all the way to Koshiba offshore near Yokohama. At that time, the shogunate still lacked any firm resolve since adopting the “procrastination plan,” and the atmosphere was as Mito Nariaki described in his journal: “On February 4th, when I met twice with senior councilors—Matsudaira Iga-no-kami solely advocated for peace—and also met with Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami and Ido Tsushima-no-kami, both men feared the American barbarians like tigers, showed not a shred of vigor, and though we remained in camp until the fifth hour of night, there was no progress in council deliberations—we could only grind our teeth in futility.” Iga-no-kami was one of the three magistrates; both Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami and Ido Tsushima-no-kami had already been appointed as Perry’s reception officers at that time. Three months prior, when dispatching Tsutsui and Kawaji as reception officers to Nagasaki for the Russian envoy as well, they had resolved to “reject trade” through the efforts of Nariaki, the central figure of the hardline faction; however, at that time, there still existed theories such as “using barbarians to control barbarians.” However, three months later, the argument that "trade could not be avoided" had apparently grown strong enough to be openly advocated. While terms like "procrastination" and "inadequate military preparations" were passive justifications, the argument that trade could not be avoided seems to have been in the majority. One of the American reception officers, Matsudaira Mimasaka-no-kami, was quite stylish, but during the first meeting, he could not keep his hands and feet still upon hearing the Western music played by the U.S. Navy band—this is recorded in Perry’s *Narrative of the Expedition to Japan*. Consequently, Vice-Shogun Nariaki found himself outnumbered, while Chief Senior Councilor Ise-no-kami remained indecisively silent throughout. Nariaki’s journal wrote: “February 5th: Yesterday’s council deliberations showed no progress whatsoever. From late last month until yesterday—with peace negotiations prioritized—the senior councilors and all involved pressed us relentlessly to consent to peace talks. Overwhelmed by indignation, I feared that attending court in this state would invite disaster. Thus, I claimed illness today and postponed my attendance.”

Of course, following the death of Shogun Ieyoshi, the Mito house had become the supreme decision-maker within the shogunate council; their hardline stance of "delaying court attendance" must have swayed even Ise-no-kami, and thus the matter of diplomatic relations and trade was finally resolved with complete rejection. "On February 6th, today at the fifth hour and half, His Lordship attended court with full retinue—having reported the senior councilors’ resolution that diplomatic relations and trade shall under no circumstances be permitted, and with this decision communicated to Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami and Ido Tsushima-no-kami as well, His Lordship was evidently most gratified," wrote Nariaki’s retainer Fujita in the *Tōko Diary*. As is well known, the security in Edo at the time had been heavily fortified. Since the first month, each domain had deployed troops accordingly: Fukui to Shinagawa Gotenyama, Tottori Domain to Honmoku in Yokohama, Kuwana Domain to Fukagawa Suzaki, Himeji Domain from Teppōzu to Tsukuda Island, and Kaga Domain to Shibaguchi—each making preparations for any contingency. The shogunate council had issued orders such as informing Edo citizens via wooden clappers in case of emergencies, only to be rebuked by Nariaki: "Even if American barbarians cause disturbances, there is no need to inform the townspeople of the capital—as long as the samurai are aware, that suffices. Rather than that, guarding against fires and thieves by having each household protect their own residences would be more appropriate."

However, on February 7th, when Uraga Magistrate Group Leader Kurokawa Kahei visited Staff Officer Adams aboard an American warship to inform him that a reception hall had been established in Yokohama, he was threatened with: “Understood—but should our current request not meet with your approval, we shall have no choice but to prepare for immediate war. If hostilities commence, fifty warships already stationed nearby will remain, and another fifty readied in California. Should we dispatch word at once, within twenty days a hundred great vessels will assemble here...” Utterly outrageous though it was, this threat would have carried considerable weight against Kurokawa Kahei—even if he were a man of martial valor—had he been entirely ignorant of European civilization.

“The sentiments of the barbarians are difficult to discern, and we have been exerting ourselves day and night—unlike the Dutch or Russians, who are not long-suffering but rather of an extremely short-tempered and violent disposition. Even if one attempts to reason with them through moral principles, they fundamentally lack comprehension of the ethics of benevolence, justice, loyalty, and filial piety—” wrote the American reception officers in their letter to the Senior Councilors. They also had to consider how to handle Russia, which had only just been made to withdraw from Nagasaki, and since “the sentiments of the barbarians are difficult to discern,” their efforts were no ordinary matter. Thus they wrote: “—At this present juncture, even should we tentatively permit trade with the Americans, unless we thereafter give identical responses to the Russians and others such as the British and French, negotiations cannot possibly be settled. Though we humbly consider this most regrettable, given that Your Honors’ military preparations remain incomplete, we must with trepidation—” It was dated January 27th and sent from their post, but as previously noted, during the deliberations of February 4th, 5th, and 6th, they resolved to “refuse to permit diplomatic relations and trade.” Chief Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami and the reception officers had likely withdrawn their own opinions and set their resolve. However, the “difficulty in discerning barbarian sentiments” remained unchanged, and these “short-tempered, violent” “American barbarians,” who knew nothing of the ethics of benevolence, justice, loyalty, and filial piety, might have lined up “a hundred great warships” in Edo Bay within twenty days. On the eve of the first meeting on February 10th, Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami and Ido Tsushima-no-kami jointly appealed about their hardships in a letter dated the 9th addressed to the Edo Magistrate. “When the Russians return, the manner of reception will likely prove extremely difficult—Einosuke and others are also exceptionally concerned.” “As Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami and Kawaji Saemon-no-jo will likely have returned to the capital by the end of the month—we humbly request that Your Honor instruct them to continue handling [the matter] henceforth—tomorrow marks the first meeting, which fills us with nothing but anxiety. Though those in the capital might deeply fathom our present state of mind, we believe it may yet be manifold times graver than imagined—”

The “Einosuke” mentioned in the text refers to Chief Interpreter Moriyama Einosuke, who—immediately after the conclusion of the “Nagasaki Negotiations”—had rushed from Nagasaki to Edo by fast palanquin and been dispatched to Kanagawa on February 1st. Yet even in this correspondence from Hayashi and Ido, the statement that “Einosuke and others were exceptionally concerned” about managing relations with Russia suggested that despite Nariaki’s formal policy of “refusing communication and trade,” the broader leadership had likely already prepared themselves to make some degree of concession beforehand.

February 10th was, as widely known, the historic day of the Japan-U.S. meeting. The primary agenda item that day was relaxing treatment protocols for American whaling ships and other castaways, with both sides raising no objections to the stated principle of "valuing human lives." To the trade proposal, they refused with: “While commercial exchange might indeed prove beneficial to national interests in some circumstances, Japan has always been self-sufficient through domestic products—even without foreign goods, no deficiency would arise—” However, the very act of formally agreeing to improve castaway treatment and supply provisions at designated ports itself constituted a groundbreaking new reality. There had been many instances in Nagasaki Port where provisions were provided to castaways and drifting ships in the past, but these were—as stated in the "Revised Order for the Repulsion of Foreign Ships" from Tenpō 13 (1842)—acts of imperial benevolence, and moreover unilateral in nature. Perry finally handed over the "Treaty of Amity between the United States and Qing China" for reference and declared: “Should you carefully examine the draft document now presented, there will be no need for repeated explanations. Let us meet here as two nations, mutually understand each other’s intentions, and conclude a treaty of friendship.” “If your country does not grant what we seek this time,” he concluded, “I shall never return to my homeland. With no means to deliver tribute to Edo, I will remain anchored here indefinitely awaiting your response.” With this, the meeting ended.

On February 13th, Perry emphasized in writing that “our nation’s mandate embraces broad intentions—we urge your government to recognize current realities and conclude negotiations for peaceful governance and amicable relations as I desire, establishing terms satisfactory to both nations’ peoples without delay—”, demanding port openings not only at Nagasaki but also Hakodate and Ryukyu. At the February 25th meeting, a provisional agreement was reached to open Shimoda and Hakodate ports, culminating in the formal conclusion of the Treaty of Kanagawa on March 3rd. The treaty began with the clause “Japan and the United States hereby establish perpetual peace and friendship between their peoples, without distinction of place or person.” Shimoda Port opened immediately upon ratification, while Hakodate commenced operations in March of the following year—the provision stating “American ships lacking water, foodstuffs, coal, or other necessities shall receive such provisions from Japan, and their arrival shall be permitted” being widely recognized. This marked an unprecedented shift. The fifth clause’s stipulation that “Americans shall not be confined like Chinese and Dutch nationals in Nagasaki nor subjected to restrictive treatment; they may freely wander within approximately seven *ri* around Shimoda Port’s small islands” proved astonishing when contrasted with recent history: even when Russian envoys’ warships had anchored off Nagasaki for over half a year or Dutch envoys’ warship *Palembang* remained moored offshore for five months, no landings beyond magistrate office meetings had ever been permitted. Fukuchi Gen’ichirō’s characterization of this moment in *The Decline and Fall of the Bakufu* as “the fundamental decision to open the country” was only natural—for even without formally “permitting diplomatic relations and trade,” by “allowing their arrival” and “supplying whatever they required in Japan,” this arrangement had already approximated full commercial exchange.

Perry’s steam warships had proceeded from Koshiba offshore in Edo Bay to Shimoda on April 18 and anchored there for twenty-five days while conducting inspections. On May 13, they went to Hakodate for further inspections. During this period, gifts were exchanged between both parties—it being well known that America presented items including a small steam locomotive and Whitworth artillery. Yet why did this American diplomatic engagement conclude so unexpectedly peacefully, unlike the crisis-laden storm clouds that had initially loomed? What lay at its root? As many historical records relate, this stemmed from the shogunate’s “inadequacy of military preparations” at that time. We must reluctantly acknowledge they were somewhat intimidated by those long-barreled cannons and smoke-belching Black Ships racing through the waters. Even setting aside Mito Nariaki’s stance, Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami himself had declared “though it was most regrettable,” while the shogunate itself showed not the slightest proactive inclination. In other words, Perry’s success—Perry having been appointed envoy to Japan and Commander-in-Chief of the East India Squadron during the Republican era—was likely achieved by doggedly maintaining Republican-era policies to the bitter end, even after Democrats assumed power and sought to revise Japan strategies.

However, one cannot simply conclude that Japanese statesmen of that era yielded solely to Perry’s intimidation. When many in the shogunate council framed their “unavoidable trade” argument by citing inadequate military defenses, might there not have been multiple dimensions to how this position was articulated? When the Dutch warship Palembang arrived in Kōka 1 (1844), the shogunate had sternly repelled it; at that time, Mizuno Echizen had proclaimed in the shogun’s council, “Let us restore the Keichō and Genna frameworks—bolster domestic morale and actively engage externally!” Yet nine years later in Kaei 6 (1853), as seen in Goncharov’s Japan Diary—“Back then only two senior councilors supported [opening], but now only two oppose it”—we may discern that opposition to national isolation, though complex and subtle in nature, had grown remarkably potent even if not explicitly recorded.

There must have been various aspects to this opening of the country and pursuit of progress. There were likely those who sought mere profit amid the exhausted economic conditions of the time, and perhaps others who—as Nariaki lamented—chose the path of least resistance due to weakened morale. Simultaneously, there existed at least those with a "progressive spirit," such as Yoshida Torajirō and his companions who visited American warships under cover of night, attempted secret voyages abroad, and were captured. This was an "enlightened opening" that sought to master universal knowledge—even at the cost of violating national laws—to thereby ensure the empire's security. While the term "opening the country" would later acquire complex political connotations during the decade following the Ansei era's end, defying simple categorization, it still retained during this period a certain purity—a sense that aspirations for imperial stability and the desire to assimilate not just weaponry but all facets of civilization flowed unimpeded like a gentle current. Goncharov recorded with astonishment how Japanese guests aboard Russian steam warships burned with intellectual curiosity and brimmed with progressive energy, while Perry's *Narrative of the Expedition to Japan* similarly documented: "Though no printing offices were seen in Shimoda or Hakodate, books lined shopfronts—for the people were generally literate and zealous in acquiring reading material. The Japanese upper classes who engaged with Americans demonstrated thorough knowledge of their own land alongside some understanding of foreign geography, material advancements, and contemporary history—remarkable considering their isolation. They conversed knowledgeably about railways, telegraphs, daguerreotypes, Paixhans guns, and steamships."

This was likely nurtured primarily through Dutch studies—the tireless efforts of numerous scholars spanning over a hundred years since *Rangaku Kotohajime* (The Beginnings of Dutch Learning). And even amidst national isolation, it was precisely this progressive spirit—one that retained its enterprising vigor and sought to safeguard Japan's stability through mastery of global knowledge—that partly enabled the autonomous success of the Treaty of Kanagawa. This stands as one reason why it cannot be dismissed as mere capitulation to Perry's military intimidation.

II

Now, in what manner did our Shōzō work at that time? Unfortunately, among the materials I have sought out, there is truly very little. The first was the translation of the treaty’s main text dated March 3, and the second was the translation of a protest document from Perry’s side regarding the exchange of Japanese goods as agreed on May 25—each bearing signatures and seals: the former jointly with Hori Tatsunosuke, and the latter with Moriyama Einosuke. The other is a passage concerning Shōzō found within a private letter dated July 29th from Portman, Perry’s interpreter, addressed to Moriyama Einosuke, which includes a translation. With my current capabilities, I cannot ascertain anything beyond this.

It was certain that Shōzō had arrived in Yokohama Village, Kanagawa from Nagasaki between the fifth day of the first month—when official duties related to the "Nagasaki Negotiations" concluded—and the third day of the third month, when he translated the Treaty of Kanagawa text. However, as *Meiji Restoration Historical Materials, Part 2, Volume 3* includes an entry dated February 1st from the *Muragaki Official Diary* stating, "1. Nagasaki interpreter Moriyama Einosuke arrived last evening and was dispatched to Kanagawa today," it could be surmised that he likely traveled with them or arrived around that time. How long did he remain in Yokohama Village after that? Given the existence of a translated document dated May 25th, it was likely until around June 28th—when Perry’s party returned from Hakodate to Shimoda and set course for Naha Port in Ryukyu. By early July, as seen in Terazaki Shisai’s diary within the *Biography of Yoshida Tōyō*, it became evident that he was at the Tosa Domain Shipyard in Edo Tsukiji.

Incidentally, to recount Shōzō’s movements up through Ansei 2 (1855): in September of Ansei 1 (1854), he served as interpreter for a Russian warship that appeared at Ajigawajiri; accompanying the warship’s return voyage to Shimoda, he remained in the Izu region from October of that year until the conclusion of the Japan-Russia Treaty of Amity in March of the following year; and from that summer onward, when the shogunate’s Naval Training Institute was established in Nagasaki, he became a training officer interpreter. Regarding his role as interpreter for the Russian warship at Ajigawajiri, as I currently lack primary materials, I will temporarily rely on Mr. Mitani’s *The Detailed Biographies of Honmoku and Hirano*, which states: “During negotiations with Russia in Osaka in Ansei 1 (1854), Mr. Shōzō served as interpreter alongside individuals such as Godai Tomoatsu and Katsura Kogorō.” As for his role as a naval training interpreter, in *The Bakufu Era and Nagasaki* (compiled by Nagasaki City Hall), there is an entry stating: “Naval training interpreters Iwase Yashichirō, Motoki Shōzō, and fourteen others…”. Moreover, his name is recorded in Katsu Rintarō’s *Naval History*, leaving no room for doubt. In other words, from this period onward, his life became one of constant rushing about.

At the time of Perry’s arrival, the Nagasaki interpreters included senior active-duty officials such as Hori Tatsunosuke and Tateishi Tokujūrō along with the aforementioned Einosuke, Shitsuki Tatsuichirō, and Namura Gohachirō. The chief interpreter was Moriyama Einosuke, a senior Dutch interpreter; judging by the signing order on translated documents, Shōzō held a higher position than Hori Tatsunosuke, the second-ranking interpreter. Hori was a junior interpreter at that time while Shōzō was a junior interpreter with senior standing. Yet for reasons unclear even in third-ranking interpreters recorded as “Tokujūrō,” Shōzō scarcely appears in prominence across both Japanese records and Perry’s documentation. Perry’s *Narrative of the Expedition to Japan*, like Goncharov’s *Japan Diary*, describes these interpreters with greater familiarity than Japanese accounts—mentioning “Einosuke” alongside “Gohachirō” and “Tokujūrō,” while “Tatsunosuke” too—like “Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami” and “Ido Tsushima-no-kami”—had splendid portraits displayed in identical fashion.

Each wore hakama tied at the front with slightly baggy legs and straw sandals with thick cords. Chief Interpreter Einosuke, in his prime under forty, bore a broad receding shaven pate, a thick nose with peculiar contours, and a faint smile playing at lips framed by a slightly dropped left shoulder—every aspect exuding confidence. As Goncharov described: “Since he was the interpreter attached to Kawaji, he handled translations for the most critical portions of the negotiations.” He grew conceited and hardly listened to what the other plenipotentiaries were saying. “He was not one to shy away from debauchery either—on one occasion, he drank four glasses of champagne in front of Nakamura, became thoroughly intoxicated, and attempted to unilaterally settle matters without interpreting others’ words—” Such a portrayal appeared alongside sections where Goncharov, enamored with his bold progressive spirit and talent, depicted him elsewhere. Tatsunosuke and others carried themselves with greater solemnity, wearing haori and standing with hands resting on the shoulders of young trainee interpreters like pages—overall, the interpreters’ dignified bearing made them appear comparable to samurai with two to three hundred koku stipends.

In truth, their work in shogunate diplomacy far surpassed that of samurai with two or three hundred koku stipends. As Chief Plenipotentiary Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami had noted in an official document shared even with senior councilors—writing that “Einosuke and others have shown extraordinary dedication”—their role in foreign affairs extended far beyond mere interpretation. Both sides’ records show Chief Interpreter Einosuke visiting Perry alone aboard his flagship *Powhatan* to conduct preliminary treaty negotiations, with Einosuke and other interpreters frequently taking charge during Perry’s landing operations. Yet despite their substantive contributions and dignified bearing as depicted in the *Narrative of the Expedition to Japan*, their official status remained incongruously low. Their samurai-like demeanor—akin to sumo referees donning eboshi hats in the ring—proved merely ceremonial. Even Einosuke’s post-treaty commendation on April 29th by Edo magistrates—documented as *Matters Concerning Senior Dutch Interpreter Moriyama Einosuke’s Service*—merely granted him ten stipends and sword-wearing privileges during his Edo assignment. This speaks volumes. His reward for exceptional service during this unprecedented diplomatic feat amounted to temporary stipends and ceremonial blade rights under Edo’s jurisdiction. Perry’s delegation found the interpreters’ status baffling despite their poise. When treaty prospects solidified on February 28th and Perry invited Hayashi’s delegation aboard his flagship, American interpreters sat equally with diplomats while Japanese counterparts required balancing acts. Hayashi’s staff summoned Einosuke to a side table—a gesture Perry misinterpreted as special favor. “The Japanese interpreter Einosuke,” wrote the *Narrative*, “retained composure and appetite despite his humble seat.” But this reflected Perry’s misunderstanding—for Einosuke, sharing space with magistrates and inspectors constituted historic honor among Nagasaki interpreters.

The interpreters were of low social status. Therefore, they did not appear as principal subjects in the records. Even Chief Interpreter Einosuke—who had previously served as the trusted aide of Kawaji Saemon-no-jō, the finance magistrate in charge of Russian relations, and now acted as an advisor to Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami, the shogunate’s plenipotentiary—appeared in official records merely as someone to be summoned for trivial administrative negotiations, akin to a low-ranking officer under the Uraga magistrate with a modest stipend of ten koku and five fuchi. While avoiding detailed discussion here, there were the activities of Einosuke—who had previously visited Perry’s flagship to probe his intentions before the treaty’s conclusion—alongside incidents such as retrieving Japanese currency taken by American missionaries, his handling of castaways transported on an American warship who prostrated themselves on deck upon seeing officials, and above all, his negotiations with Portman, Perry’s interpreter, through which he mediated matters of considerable gravity from their shared professional standpoint to ensure the situation progressed smoothly—all spearheaded by Einosuke and his fellow interpreters. There existed a contradiction in which such matters barely appeared in official records. For instance, compared to Perry’s records—the *Narrative of the Expedition to Japan*—where numerous interpreters are prominently recorded with portraits alongside figures like Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami and Ido Tsushima-no-kami, there was a marked difference; it would be misguided to attribute this disparity solely to foreigners’ familiarity with those closest to them.

However, despite all this, the critical importance of the shogunate’s diplomacy was already reaching its zenith. Though separated by a mere three months, even looking at Einosuke alone, the scope of his authority during the “Nagasaki Negotiations” and that during the “Treaty of Kanagawa” had become incomparably broader. One reason for this was likely that in the latter case a treaty had been concluded, and unlike in Nagasaki, this was an unprecedented experience in Yokohama—but it was certainly not limited to those factors alone. The new cause was, above all else, that it had become impossible to manage the situation merely by having some shogunate official come down as before and read out an “advisory document.” The interpreter-officials of the opposing side also served as diplomats, equipped with authority and functions incomparable to those of the Nagasaki interpreters—doubtless serving as a stimulus to them. Due to his meritorious service since the “Nagasaki Negotiations,” Einosuke, who had been granted the privilege of wearing swords only while in Edo, was appointed as recorder under the name Takichirō for the “Treaty of Shimoda” that commenced from the end of that same year, later becoming chief of foreign interpreters. Meanwhile, Hori Tatsunosuke, then a junior interpreter, was elevated to samurai status and became a professor at the Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books.

These were evidence of how crucially important the interpreters' duties had become amid the Ansei Opening of ports. Moreover, when considering these interpreters not merely through their official capacities but as *individuals* versed in foreign languages and partially acquainted with Western civilization, their sphere of influence expanded even further. Einosuke—now bearing the name Takichirō—as "Chief of Foreign Interpreters" might be considered a form of diplomat, while Hori Tatsunosuke's role as "Professor at the Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books" took on a more scholarly character. Later, with Shōzō's appointment as "Director of the Nagasaki Ironworks," their domains broadened still more. Though unified under the interpreter profession—all fluent in Dutch and variably competent in English or French—they likely drew upon their individual traits when engaging in this unprecedented initiation of diplomatic relations with Europe, traits that were fated to diverge. Yet regrettably, I remain unable to uncover nearly any details about how Shōzō comported himself during Perry's arrival.

However, there was just one unexpected discovery that I stumbled upon. In *Dai-Nihon Komonjo Bakumatsu Gaikō Kankei Shokan Vol. 7*, there existed a July 29th-translated letter from Portman—Perry’s interpreter—addressed to Moriyama Einosuke, within whose text Shōzō appeared. The document was titled *Correspondence from American Interpreter Portman: Greetings Regarding Return Home Addressed to Senior Dutch Interpreter Moriyama Einosuke* and opened familiarly with “Dear Mr. Einosuke.”

“We arrived here by ship this afternoon around half past eight [2 PM], and having loaded the coal brought by the Southampton, we shall depart this place with all possible haste, round Cape Horn, and return to New York.” On that occasion, we will call at Honolulu, San Francisco, Panama, Callao, Valparaíso, and Rio de Janeiro. Though it is regrettable that I have been unable to meet with your esteemed self, should you kindly send word of your well-being from time to time as previously agreed upon, I would be most delighted. Furthermore, if you require any reputation records or other items from me, I shall promptly send such articles without fail. As I am sending a few sheets of letter paper this time, I humbly request that when sending me a letter, you kindly write on the aforementioned paper; that you also send some of the stone paper to Mr. Motoki Shōzō; and that I may be informed directly of your esteemed colleague’s activities—I earnestly ask you to convey this message.—Written here.

As a reward for having diligently fulfilled important official duties, I pray that an advancement befitting your great talents may be granted to you. Your good friend,　　　　 Portman P.S. When sending me letters, please address them as follows on the left. A.L.C. Portman, Esq., New York, United States of America, Hell Gate Mail Ferry, Marseilles. The aforementioned letter will certainly be delivered if you kindly entrust it to American ships arriving at Shimoda or Dutch ships in Nagasaki, or even if you send it via English or French ships.

“…and so forth,” with several more lines continuing below.

From this, one realizes with surprise that Portman was not only personally acquainted with Einosuke but shared a relationship of mutual trust with Shōzō as well. There existed other letters sent by Portman—who served as an interpreter for Perry’s side—to Einosuke beyond this one; for example, they are also recorded in Tokutomi Sohō’s *Modern Japanese National History, Volume 32*. The letter dated April 16th had requested that authorities ease restrictions on trading Japanese goods prior to Perry’s party’s journey to Hakodate; however, this correspondence—translated on July 29th under the joint signatures of Hori Tatsunosuke and Shizuki Tatsuichirō—was intensely private in nature, as its text indicates. The American envoy party departed Japan and arrived at Naha in Ryukyu on July 11th before setting sail from there on the 19th of the same month; passing through Shanghai—the base of the American East India Fleet—and Hong Kong, they rounded Cape Horn (rendered as Kaap Hoorn) and returned to their homeland. The absence of any mention of Ryukyu or Hong Kong in this letter can likely be surmised as resulting from restrictions imposed by political intentions; however, given the factual record referenced in the phrase “loading of coal brought by the *Southampton*”—which documents coal transported from Muroran in Hokkaido being replenished immediately before departure—it can be deduced that this letter was issued shortly prior to setting sail from Shimoda. As they had departed Shimoda on June 28th, over a month passed before the translation could be completed; thus, even in how this single private letter was handled, one senses circumstances of that time that invite speculation.

Did Einosuke read the letter addressed to himself before it was translated by someone else? Did the separately sent "letter paper" reach Einosuke's hands? Also, did Einosuke convey the message to Shōzō as per Portman’s written instructions? Moreover, was the “letter paper” also distributed to Shōzō? I have no idea at all. The term "letter paper" undoubtedly refers to Western stationery suitable for writing European texts; as previously mentioned, Einosuke was proficient not only in Dutch but also in English and French, and Shōzō, coming from a family line of Nagasaki interpreters specializing in English since his grandfather Shōzaemon's time, must have possessed at least some knowledge of these languages.

However, this letter was likely retained by the authorities as an official document, and neither Einosuke nor Shōzō probably engaged in correspondence with Portman using that "letter paper." The treaty had been concluded, but as we had seen earlier, the atmosphere remained far from permitting such exchanges. "As previously agreed upon, kindly send word of your well-being from time to time." Even this "as previously agreed upon"—when considering the interpreters' precarious position within those diplomatic circumstances—must have been a promise layered with unspoken complexities. It might have been precisely such. "However, despite all this—'should you require any reputation ledgers or other items from me—I shall dispatch them without delay.'" In such passages, one discerns the urgent desire our side harbored—even toward those formidable adversaries called "American barbarians"—to grasp every means of understanding them.

Particularly striking in the text was the abrupt inclusion of: “please send some [stationery] to Mr. Motoki Shōzō as well, and that I may be directly informed of your esteemed colleague’s activities.” These words seemed to carry a harsher undercurrent, did they not? This differed from mere camaraderie cultivated through months of interaction. That among all interpreters, only Shōzō had left Portman with such distinct impressions—this attention and affinity—suggested he possessed qualities setting him apart from Nagasaki interpreters at large: likely both a piercing comprehension of some facet of European civilization and an unrelenting intensity of inquiry.

III

“—With today’s duties in the western seas smoothly concluded, return quickly—” wrote Kawaji Saemonnojo, architect of the Ansei Opening, in his January 16th diary. Having seen off the Putyatin mission without disgracing Japan’s honor, he departed Nagasaki that same day—only to learn of Edo’s turmoil by the 27th and could not help but be deeply troubled. “—Arrived at Nagato Shimonoseki—Since the day before yesterday, rumors of foreign ships approaching Uraga have circulated widely—The vessel anchored near that island is likely an American ship of Perry’s party; last night, I could scarcely sleep, worrying about how matters stood in Edo.” Considering Kawaji’s diary—since Einosuke had come to pay his respects immediately before departing Nagasaki—cross-referencing this with the aforementioned *Murakaki Diary* entry stating their arrival in Edo by January’s end, it follows that Einosuke and the Nagasaki interpreters either overtook Tsutsui and Kawaji’s procession via fast palanquin within about ten days or sailed to Edo aboard a special ship; however, one suspects they likely chose the former method, given its greater reliability.

In any case, it became clear that even in those days, news from Edo took about ten-odd days to reach the vicinity of Shimonoseki—but Coastal Defense Officer Kawaji’s distress must have been immense. In a letter to the senior councilors, Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami had written that the “American barbarians” and “Russian barbarians” were colluding—a scheme to let the Americans strike first while the Russians stalled in Nagasaki. Yet when they returned within less than half a year, it must have felt precisely like a surprise attack. Given their demeanor during the previous year’s visit, they likely concluded that employing delaying tactics would prove far from straightforward; moreover, they must have contemplated the complex situation arising from whether the shogunate council—deliberating in their absence—would choose expulsion or conciliation. Though his diary does not clarify whether he desired expulsion or conciliation, Kawaji—ever the pragmatist—likely recognized that opening the country was inevitable. He now pondered how to act autonomously while preserving both national security and dignity. Kawaji was regarded alongside Egawa and Tsutsui as part of a new breed of politicians among officials of the time—though he could hardly be called fashionably modern. He might best be described as a samurai of unwavering loyalty: deeply resourceful and talented. He had already incorporated thermometers and pocket watches into his daily life—apparently for their practical convenience. In December of that year during Japan-Russia Shimoda negotiations—when a Russian warship sank after encountering a typhoon while returning for repairs—he wrote in his diary: “16th. Cloudy. Nowadays, our treaty with these Russian barbarians should mostly be settled—their unexpected compliance owes nothing to minor efforts by Left Guards Lieutenant or others but stands as proof of one marvel: namely, the sinking of their foreign ship.—Until morning, calm weather prevailed; boatmen declared conditions favorable. About a hundred towboats were attached and hauled us several miles—then one ominous cloud emerged. As boatmen eyed it warily, sudden western gales arose with mountain-like waves that whirled our vessel like a frigate’s fortress submerged in water—truly fearsome in its ferocity—”

Egawa was still young, Tsutsui was elderly, and Kawaji—who had gathered high expectations within the shogunate as a coastal defense official—but even had Kawaji, present in Edo, replaced Hayashi, it was unthinkable that the "Kanagawa Treaty" would have turned out any differently. By the time Tsutsui and Kawaji returned to Edo, the shogunate’s policy had already been decisively oriented toward "conciliation" and a "peaceful settlement." Dated February 25th—written amid their hurried return—the letter from Tsutsui and Kawaji addressed to Lord Abe Ise-no-kami stated: “Regarding the recent arrival of Americans, we earnestly request that the formal greetings and unified intent expressed in our written communications to the Russians remain consistent in substance, so there be no discrepancies.” “—For if Your Lordship were to deem the formal greetings extended to America as tantamount to those toward the Russians, they were gravely concerned this might lead to significant complications in the future”—it was only natural they wrote thus. However, while Hayashi’s negotiations with Perry managed to preserve a shred of dignity through the “refusal of commerce,” the issue of castaway treatment developed into a full-fledged Treaty of Amity. Hayashi also took preemptive measures, writing to the Edo senior councilors: “Regarding the Russians—the manner of reception when they return will prove exceedingly difficult—but as Lord Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami and Lord Kawaji Saemonnojo are scheduled to return to the capital by the end of the month—we humbly request that Your Honors instruct them to continue handling [the matter] jointly hereafter, as we have previously petitioned—”

Therefore, even after Perry departed Japan on June 28th, the coastal defense officials’ tribulations did not come to an end. And indeed, Admiral Putyatin’s warship unexpectedly appeared in the waters off Hyōgo on September 18th. In Osaka City, an emergency notice from the castle deputy was issued, and with due reverence, on the twenty-third of the same month, prayers were conducted at seven shrines and seven temples. Furthermore, there was such commotion surrounding the ships of the party that had advanced to the mouth of the Ajigawa River that one could recount various anecdotes about it. As mentioned in Mr. Mitani’s aforementioned text, it was during this time that Shōzō acted as an interpreter between the Russian warships and individuals such as Kogorō Katsura and Tomoatsu Godai; however, I will refrain from discussing it here as I currently lack definitive source materials. However, despite the commotion in Osaka City, the records of the Osaka castle deputy note that the Russian warships offshore remained extremely calm.

On September 29th, an edict from the senior councilors reached the Russian warship and was immediately handed over by the Osaka castle deputy to Putyatin offshore that same day. "The letters in Western script and Chinese submitted at Hakodate have arrived in Edo and been reviewed by the senior councilors. As Osaka Port is not designated for foreign reception, all negotiations here shall prove untenable. You are to proceed to Shimoda Port in Izu. Since Lord Tsutsui Hizen-no-kami and Lord Kawaji Saemonnojo will also hasten to Shimoda without delay, apprehending this intent, await their swift arrival at Shimoda Port." Such was its content. The letter referenced in the text—the one sent by Putyatin from Hakodate to the Edo senior councilors—had been translated by Moriyama Einosuke and Motoki Shōzō, both still on official duty while residing in Edo. It began with "To the Ruler of Great Japan We Present This Letter"—a translation that stood out as strikingly modern compared to previous works by Nagasaki interpreters. "When we arrived at Nagasaki Port, I informed Your Excellencies of the Japanese government that we would proceed to Aniwa Port after two months had elapsed." "However, discord having arisen between Russia, England, and France, it became difficult for our nation to depart your coastal waters." "Having now concluded that matter, we came to Hakodate, sent this letter to Edo, and proceeded to store water and provisions aboard the frigate." "To conduct negotiations for finalizing terms with Your Excellencies of the Japanese government, we shall proceed directly from here to Osaka." "If it be the Japanese government's wish to hold negotiations for finalizing terms in Edo, we humbly request such intent be announced in Osaka; you must come posthaste to Edo."

Furthermore, upon examining the date of this letter signed by Putyatin, it was August 31st and had been presented to the Hakodate Magistrate. I do not clarify through what means of transportation this urgent and crucial letter was transported from Ezo to Edo, nor when it arrived; however, I speculate it was probably overtaken by the fast-sailing Russian warship that departed several days after storing water, fuel, and provisions. In other words, had Putyatin’s letter arrived in Edo without delay from his ship, the identity of the “foreign ships that appeared in Hyōgo Bay” would have been quickly ascertained, and Osaka City could have maintained greater tranquility.

Not to speak of times before Keichō and Genwa, it must be remembered that for over two hundred years since Iemitsu, no shipworthy ships had been built in maritime Japan. The ships that had made Goncharov wonder—"Why do your country's vessels have such wave-catching notches at the stern and awkwardly tall rudders?"—were only crawling along Japan's coasts. The hardships endured by the intrepid mariner Takadaya Kahei in pioneering the sea route between Kunashiri and Etorofu remain a proud maritime legend of Japan. Yet deep-drafted, wave-resistant foreign ships—even without possessing Kahei’s courage or seasoned skill—had already crossed the equator, traversed the Pacific, and sailed south from the Arctic Ocean to the Kuril Islands a full century prior. The shogunate’s “Large Ship Construction Prohibition Law” was first broken through the advocacy of Mito Nariaki; however, unless this vast gap in shipbuilding technology and navigational expertise was rapidly bridged, all manner of foreign vessels would continue to menace Japan’s shores. From the Kōka and Kaei eras onward, and particularly after the Ansei opening of ports, one can perceive that for Japan at the time, more than anything else, it was ships.

On October 14, Admiral Putyatin’s warship *Diana* and three accompanying vessels returned to Shimoda. Tsutsui, Kawaji, and others were reappointed on the seventeenth of the same month and dispatched to Shimoda. The "Shimoda Negotiations" began on November 1. On the 4th of the same month, a great tsunami struck Shimoda, causing extensive damage throughout the area; a Russian warship sustained severe damage and later sank while being towed outside the harbor for repairs. Amid these events, the talks continued until December 21 when the "Japan-Russia Treaty of Amity" was concluded. The three ports of Hakodate, Shimoda, and Nagasaki were opened for Russian ships and their castaways. The Japan-Russia border was established between Etorofu and Urup Islands, while Karafuto Island remained undivided, maintaining the status quo as had been traditionally observed. A century after Spanberg, Russia finally achieved half of its objective.

When one reads the text of this well-known Japan-Russia Treaty of Amity, it proves striking in comparison to that of the Japan-US Treaty of Amity. Setting aside territorial disputes, both treaties share nearly identical substance at their core. Yet when compared to the American-style language of Article I in the Japan-US Treaty of Amity—"Japan and the United States shall establish perpetual amity between their peoples, without distinction of place or person"—the corresponding article in the Japan-Russia Treaty of Amity proves remarkably understated. “Henceforth, the two nations shall remain sincerely and earnestly bound, protecting one another within their respective territories and ensuring that no harm befalls human life or property whatsoever”—this constitutes Article I of the treaty. In other words, the latter bears more of a bakufu-like autonomous flavor compared to the former. It refers not to the content but to aspects such as the tone of the text—here too lies an apparent difference between Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami’s approach toward Perry and Kawaji’s toward Putyatin.

In the case of the Japan-Russia Treaty of Amity as well, one had to consider the behind-the-scenes activities of Nagasaki interpreters. On April 29th—shortly after concluding the Japan-US Treaty of Amity—Kawaji notified Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami, responsible for American affairs: “Regarding Moriyama Einosuke, an exceptional Dutch chief interpreter—Lord Abe Ise-no-kami has directed he remain temporarily attached to our group. As previously communicated, until Russian arrival, he shall attend to Shimoda matters without hindrance on our part. This is for your acknowledgment and dissemination.” In essence, since Lord Abe Ise-no-kami was already informed, Kawaji requested Hayashi note that Einosuke remained under their charge. There was no predicting when the Russian barbarians might arrive. Moreover, with outstanding interpreters being indispensable, competition for figures like Einosuke must have ensued. Renamed Takajirō and elevated to samurai rank, Einosuke proved more active during the Shimoda Negotiations than in Yokohama’s proceedings. Though unrecorded, other Nagasaki-dispatched interpreters—each doubtlessly exceptional—undoubtedly supported coastal defense officials through diverse means.

Kawaji Toshiakira was a statesman of considerable ability and talent. Today's historians even assert that among the shogunate officials of that era, there likely existed no other diplomat aside from Kawaji capable of holding his own against Putyatin—a man said to surpass Perry in stature. Putyatin himself stood as a remarkable figure when compared to Russia's two previous envoys to Japan. At that time, Putyatin's position was one of being completely encircled on all fronts—a situation bearing no comparison to Perry's circumstances.

“Nagasaki Negotiations” The Crimean War, which had begun earlier, had by then extended to Japan’s coastal waters. In their bid to seize Admiral Putyatin’s *Diana* and its crew, the British and French fleets deployed forces—the French warship *Poitou*, armed with six cannons, appeared off Shimoda on March 5th and 11th of Ansei 2 (1855), while three British warships materialized at Hakodate on the twelfth of the same month, arraying forty cannons to ambush Putyatin’s returning fleet. Having abandoned his homeland years earlier to dwell in a foreign realm thousands of miles distant, he remained there as an “uninvited guest.” Records including Mito Nariaki’s particular views on the Russian mission and Abe’s formal reply attested to this reality; further compounding matters was the disaster that struck one of Putyatin’s warships—damaged by a tsunami, it sank while under tow for repairs off Miyajima, forcing even Putyatin himself to swim ashore through sheer exertion. Moreover, Putyatin proved himself a man who, while launching counterattacks against French vessels in attempts to capture them, revealed not the slightest vulnerability to Japanese negotiators until the treaty’s final ratification.

Kawaji wrote in his *Shimoda Diary* on December 8th: “Reflect upon Admiral Putyatin of the Russian barbarians—eleven years departed from his homeland, over ten thousand *ri* from his family, dwelling upon the bay as he strives to expand his nation’s domain and enrich its wealth. Since last year, he has fought against the navies of Britain and France; he too must have clashed upon the seas. Having lost ships once seen in Nagasaki, he now relies solely on a single warship, returning three or four times to Japan to contest borders—once struck by a tsunami, his vessel sank beneath the waves. Yet undaunted, he rebuilt small boats there. Though men daily revile him as ‘Futeiyatsu,’ consider well: his labors surpass tenfold—nay, a hundredfold—the toils of Saemonnojo and others engaged in such service. Truly… he is a hero among heroes.”

Kawaji had also come to understand his adversary. The term "Futeiyatsu" contained a linguistic play, deriving from rendering Putyatin’s name into Japanese characters as "布恬廷." Elsewhere in his diary, he reflected: “Were I to traverse the world like Putyatin and endure fourfold or fivefold adversities, I too might attain his stature—yet how could one forge oneself into a true hero while confined within an era of peace and national seclusion?” For that age, such musings alone must have carried significant weight.

Even if their coats and eyes differed in color, a hero could recognize a hero. Just as one discerned a difference in tone between the Japan-US and Japan-Russia Treaties of Amity, it might be thought that Kawaji's negotiations had succeeded in fully preserving autonomy; yet even that Kawaji could not escape far from the isolationist constraints of his era. Even those among the bakufu officials who possessed “new knowledge” found themselves afflicted by this and thrust into an unforeseen predicament. Article 6 of the same treaty text stated: “When unavoidable circumstances arise, the Russian government may station officials at one of the ports, Hakodate or Shimoda.” Appendix Article 6 further stipulated: “Russian officials shall be appointed from Ansei 3 onward; however, their housing and locations shall be left to the discretion of the Japanese government—” These provisions became the cause of Lord Ise-no-kami’s fury. "The Japan-US Treaty similarly contained nearly identical content in Article Eleven, stipulating that after eighteen months had passed since signing, etc.; however, Abe declared: 'The Convention of Kanagawa was already a mistake." However, he had left matters ambiguous, not entirely closing off room for future negotiations. This explicitly permitted the stationing of officials. "Even among those involved in the negotiations, someone like Saemonnojo is a man of exceptional talent and ability—is this not the height of regret?" Whether Kawaji’s actions constituted mere procedural overreach strictly adhering to prior treaties or arose from progressive convictions that port-opening necessitated such measures remained unclear even from his diary; however, it seemed evident that they were not a result of being intimidated by factors like the Russian envoys’ military pressure. Mr. Tokutomi Sohō also stated: “If a treaty of amity is concluded, stationing consuls in open ports becomes an inevitable matter. "When even Abe Masahiro was exposing such unwise actions—it was only natural that the shogunate’s grand external policies and strategies never came to be settled." As written in Volume 33 of *Kinsei Nihon Kokuminshi* (Modern Japanese National History), the conservative climate of national isolation must have loomed over those active on the front lines, both overtly and covertly, even during that storm-like period of reform in foreign relations. The conversation record from Kawaji Saemonnojo’s negotiations with Admiral Putyatin at Hōsenji Temple in Toda Village, Izu, dated February 24 of the second year of Ansei (1855), regarding the annulment of this Article Six, leaves nothing wanting in conveying Kawaji’s predicament.

Saemonnojo “Despite our earnest efforts since Nagasaki being disregarded, should these matters we have discussed at length still find no hearing, I would lack any justification before my government. This indeed places me in mortal peril.” “Therefore, I shall transfer these affairs to Lord Chikugo-no-kami and henceforth withdraw from all dealings regarding them.” Putyatin “While we deeply value your dedicated negotiations, compliance with your government’s stated demands proves unfeasible. Nevertheless, considering your arduous journey these past years and the sincerity of our discussions, we shall endeavor to accommodate your proposals. However, an immediate resolution being impossible, we must humbly request your forbearance as we deliberate further.”

“I am most gratified; our present circumstances bear no comparison to the distress we experienced when your mission’s vessel met misfortune off Miyajima.”

“Regarding the treaty matter—since last year there had been earnest consideration and an agreement reached—I naturally assumed there would be no objection from the government. Yet unexpectedly hearing of these developments now leaves me utterly astonished.” Saemonnojo

“As it has now come time, a simple repast has been prepared; may it please you to partake.” There could be no doubt that when Kawaji declared “This concerns life and death,” his countenance already bore the resolve to commit seppuku. “While we deeply appreciate your earnest efforts in these discussions,” Putyatin had rebuffed him, “complying with your government’s directive as presented proves difficult”—a testament to the admiral’s boldness. These few lines revealed a contest of wills between the two men—Saemonnojo’s declaration about the meal serving as the dramatic conclusion to this grand stage. Yet the contrast between Kawaji’s ultimatum to transfer matters to Chikugo-no-kami (the former Nagasaki Magistrate and secondary negotiator), thereby washing his hands of all dealings and reverting everything to a blank slate, versus Putyatin’s astonished response of “Regarding the concluded agreement—unexpectedly hearing such circumstances—” likely represented more than merely Kawaji’s personal grievance.

IV

Even during the Russo-Japanese Shimoda negotiations, Interpreter Shōzō's activities remained poorly documented. Einosuke—now renamed Takajirō and though still junior in rank at this time—had his efforts primarily recorded due to his status as a direct shogunate retainer; yet even when compared to fellow interpreter Horita Tatsunosuke working during the same period, Shōzō left conspicuously fewer prominent records. While Perry’s *Narrative of the Expedition of an American Squadron to the China Seas and Japan* documented nearly all Nagasaki interpreters of that era, Shōzō alone was omitted. This absence grows more intriguing considering Portman—Perry’s most active interpreter—had shown particular interest in Shōzō through his aforementioned letter to Einosuke, suggesting some distinctive facet of Shōzō’s character lingered beneath official accounts. Though later chapters will elaborate, he never advanced beyond the rank of “junior interpreter-expert” throughout his career—a puzzling fact given his lineage as hereditary “interpreter overseer,” a position marking Nagasaki interpreters’ most prestigious lineage since the first Shōdayu. That one of such pedigree remained perpetually junior defies conventional understanding. His continuous selection for major diplomatic events since the Nagasaki Negotiations indicates no deficiency in linguistic skill; rather, this paradox hints at a resolute streak where he quietly cultivated scientific talents—a quality distinguishing him from typical Nagasaki interpreters.

It became clear from the records of *Kobunsho Bakumatsu Gaikō Kankei Shokan no Hachi* that since November of the first year of Ansei [1854]—midway through the Shimoda negotiations—he had been staying in Toda Village, Izu, alongside the Russians. "On the 14th of last month, having arrived at Toda Village in Tōtōmi Province—upon learning of the Russian envoy's arrival and desiring an urgent meeting—we relayed our request through interpreter Motoki Shōzō and immediately proceeded to Hōsenji Temple where the envoys resided, accompanied by the Official Recorder and Junior Inspector to conduct discussions—" ... This excerpt came from a report dated February 15 of the following year, submitted by Nakamura Tameya—a member of the Russian reception committee and Finance Group Leader—to Kawaji. The Russians had been constructing ships along Toda Village's coast. Due to the tsunami on November 4 of the previous year and the frigate's sinking off Miyajima, the Russian delegation lacked sufficient vessels to repatriate hundreds of crew members. Though they borrowed American whaling ships, difficulties arose in finding landing sites for the American crews during this interim period, leading to several amusing episodes recorded between them and shogunate officials. Admiral Putyatin initially petitioned to build warships, but fearing potential naval clashes with British and French fleets in neutral waters offshore, the shogunate refused permission. Instead, a single transport schooner began construction through Russo-Japanese collaboration.

On February 16 as well, there was a report from Moriyama Takajirō submitted to Kawaji, stating: “On this 16th day, having expressed through interpreter Motoki Shōzō our intention to meet with the Russian Envoy Takajirō, we proceeded to Hōsenji Temple in Toda Village with Yukizō and others for discussions—” ... Since beginning construction of the schooner, Putyatin had been lodging at Hōsenji Temple in Toda Village while serving as supervisor. Therefore, Shōzō—being attached to both the shipyard and Hōsenji Temple—was among contemporary interpreters the one who maintained closest contact with the Russians at that time.

Toda Village was located in the inner reaches of Suruga Bay, over ten ri from Shimoda, and from this time onward became a historic site where Japan’s first Western-style modern ship was constructed. The construction of the schooner was of course designed by the Russians, with Russian shipbuilders undertaking the work, but a great many Japanese shipbuilders also participated in this. Admiral Putyatin’s sentiment of gratitude—for Japan’s understanding of his dire circumstances in losing numerous ships in a foreign land thousands of miles away and their assistance in construction—was evident both in his own records and in the letter of thanks sent the following year in the name of the Russian government. However, the shogunate itself seized this rare opportunity to master Western-style shipbuilding techniques, and it is said that the shipbuilders who participated at the time were gathered exclusively from among the most skilled shipbuilders across the Kantō region.

The Russians, too, were not reluctant to pass on their technology. On February 29, at Hōsenji Temple, Putyatin, who had convened discussions there, spoke to Nakamura Tameya as follows. “Regarding the new schooner’s blueprints and all other particulars, they must be reported to Lord Kawaji. However, I have but two or three days remaining before my departure—when you employ the schooner in Japan, it will cover the voyage to Nagasaki in about three days, proving quite serviceable for your needs. If the cargo loaded onto the schooner is too light, it would be inadvisable; thus, even stones should be loaded as ballast. As for the specifics of cargo quantity, further details shall be provided.” The notion that stones could serve as ballast due to the deep hull design, or that the vessel could traverse between Edo and Nagasaki in three days, would have been astonishing by contemporary standards.

Of course, Kawaji was deeply invested in this newly built ship as well. In his diary entry from February 24th, he wrote: “Clear skies. At five and a half o’clock, summoned Admiral Putyatin of the Russian mission to Daikōji Temple in Toda Village and received him. Then proceeded to the Russian shipyard. Japanese and foreign shipwrights gathered and were working together. It appears our Japanese side has now become quite skilled—” All schooner blueprints presented by Putyatin were sent by Kawaji to the Senior Councilors. Abe then commanded: “Having shown these to Lord Ise-no-kami, though it does not constitute a warship, we have ascertained it to be an exceedingly convenient vessel. Therefore, construct a single one with all haste.” Thereby, a portion of Western shipbuilding techniques became our own.

This schooner was recorded as being twelve ken in length and three ken in width, costing over three thousand ryō at the time, and at the beginning of the aforementioned *Kobunsho—Volume 9*, there was an illustration depicting its launching ceremony. The artist was likely an unknown painter who had become a retainer in the household of Egawa, the magistrate of Izu. The painting vividly captured the scene of that era. The copper-sheathed ship, flying a blue Russian national flag, had just slid onto the water's surface, surrounded by Russian carpenters in sailor-like attire raising their hands high and Japanese carpenters in topknots, headbands, work pants, and straw sandals standing with arms folded as they watched. Amidst the crowd, a tall Russian figure—likely a missionary appearing to offer a prayer—stood side by side with a Japanese samurai who had smartly pinned up the hem of his haori with his sword, creating a tableau steeped in historical significance.

Putyatin returned home aboard this newly built ship. On March 21, they set sail once but turned back upon discovering French warships lying in wait offshore; departing again on the 22nd, they soon vanished from view beyond the horizon. The fact that this schooner was copper-sheathed was likely due to our country’s still being inexperienced in iron plate manufacturing. Since the time of Spangberg, the Russians had always maintained the practice of constructing iron-sheathed new ships at Okhotsk Port; there can be no doubt that Putyatin never imagined he would be forced into the predicament of having to build a ship in Shimoda, Japan. “Among the Russian subordinate officers, there exist three or four shipbuilders, with others possessing knowledge of carpentry and smithing—Admiral Putyatin and three or four officers themselves oversaw blueprint measurements using ink markings, frequently citing British publications as reference,” reads a passage from Kawaji’s report to the Senior Councilors. Even this suggests they were likely technicians barely sufficient for emergency repairs. Vice Admiral Putyatin and his group of semi-amateurs collectively constructed a single schooner, which conversely must have made it easier for the Japanese shipbuilders who participated to learn. The phrase “the interpreter” in the text almost certainly refers to Shōzō attached to the shipyard; he was involved from the very beginning—accompanying the Russians throughout Izu to procure lumber—all the way through to the launch ceremony. According to Mr. Miyata’s *Detailed Biography*, the Russian government presented Shōzō with a gold watch the following year in gratitude for his labors during this period. However, records indicate that when Putyatin bestowed gifts upon the Japanese committee members prior to his return home, Shōzō received “one samovar and two paintings.” The term *yuwakashi* is inferred to refer to the Russian specialty *samovar*. When compared to Kawaji’s gift of “one boxed sextant, one thermometer, and five paintings,” Moriyama’s “one thermometer and one woolen rug,” or Horita Tatsunosuke and other interpreters’ “several pieces of cloth,” it may seem a modest token. Yet it reveals that Shōzō was relatively deeply appreciated by the Russians.

However, Shōzō and the interpreters had rapidly become busy since the final years of the Kaei era. They had to station permanent interpreters in Hakodate in Ezo, which had been newly opened as a port, while Nagasaki itself had newly opened to Britain as well. In Shimoda, from the very day the treaty was signed, whaling ships began arriving and Americans started coming ashore to wander about—thus the Nagasaki interpreters could no longer confine their duties to Nagasaki alone. "Regarding the Dutch interpreters currently stationed in Shimoda—there being only two thus far—when foreign ships arrive, their duties encompass managing receptions and translations, arranging deliveries of water and provisions during shortages, and moreover monitoring foreigners who may wander into unauthorized areas or land en masse. Should disturbances occur, having so few interpreters would prove gravely insufficient, inevitably complicating oversight efforts. Furthermore, vessels arriving here are not limited to those requiring prepared provisions; it remains unpredictable which nation's ships might come and when. As duties will only multiply hereafter, two interpreters are utterly overwhelmed—thus we have petitioned for five additional personnel. However, considering Nagasaki's current personnel shortage—particularly if key figures were transferred here and disrupted local operations—we have instructed the Nagasaki Magistrate to dispatch three junior interpreter assistants to this area without delay." This referred to a report Kawaji submitted to the Senior Councilors on February 25th, with an attached petition from Horita Tatsunosuke and Shizuki Tatsuichirō—the two Dutch interpreters stationed in Shimoda—requesting personnel reinforcements from the Shimoda Magistrate.

With only two interpreters stationed in Shimoda, it would have been impossible. Scholars and samurai proficient in Dutch were likely scarce across Japan at that time, but interpreting constituted an entirely different matter. Moreover, as interpreters were treated as a type of artisan—as evident from previous passages—they fell under the jurisdiction of the Nagasaki Magistrate; thus, even scholars or samurai capable of speaking Dutch would not have willingly sought to become interpreters. Furthermore, while the Nagasaki interpreters primarily handled Dutch, their treaty partners were America, Russia, and others. In a letter dated March 1st from the Shimoda Magistrate to Kawaji, it was stated: "The Americans currently residing here include none who understand Dutch. As for our interpreters, though they have since last year grasped fragments of English through self-study, when matters grow complex, they cannot adequately convey—"

Even those interpreters who "could not fully communicate" were described thus: "Interpreter Horita Tatsunosuke—who had been handling matters for several years since last year—is currently confined due to illness. As negotiations cannot proceed under these circumstances, causing significant hindrance, we presume your office must also be burdened with duties. However, if arrangements can be made, we humbly request that Official Recorder Moriyama Takajirō be dispatched until these negotiations are concluded—should this prove difficult, we ask that Interpreter Motoki Shōzō be sent without delay—" ... The negotiations mentioned in this document concerned discussions with the Americans regarding the handling of dozens of American men and women from a whaling ship—whose vessel had been borrowed by Putyatin—who were staying at Gyokusen-ji Temple in Kakiizaki Village, Shimoda. However, judging from Kawaji's reply to the Shimoda Magistrate, Motoki Shōzō had fallen ill due to his strenuous duties, and Moriyama—serving as Kawaji's right-hand man—was occupied with handling the aftermath of the Treaty of Shimoda, thus neither could be spared. That said, the Americans at Gyokusen-ji Temple could not be left to wander about freely. "Although Shōzō is currently ill, given the exigent circumstances of this period, he shall be compelled to attend to his duties even if by palanquin—thus we have instructed him accordingly. As he will assuredly arrive at your location by the morning after tomorrow—Moreover, barbarian ships have now been sighted offshore around seven bells—" Kawaji wrote to the Shimoda Magistrate, "... and so forth."

It was an utterly critical time, and the interpreters stood at the forefront. This document was dated March 4 from Toda Village. The phrase “barbarian ships sighted offshore” likely referred to the French warship that first appeared off Shimoda on the following day, the 5th. Yet the interpreters had to board each of those warships one by one to ascertain their intentions and manage their reception. That Shōzō—despite his ailing body—had no choice but to endure being jostled in a palanquin while crossing ten ri of mountain roads to Shimoda was deemed “inevitable.” It was not only the Americans from Gyokusen-ji Temple who roamed through Shimoda’s streets. Even after Putyatin’s return home—with ships still insufficient—around one hundred Russians remained. To this were added newly arriving American whaling ships, driving the unprepared authorities to extreme busyness with regulation. The shogunate had to enforce its longstanding suppression of Christianity, issuing an edict: “As foreigners’ free movement in this port has been permitted, the Christian faith must be increasingly eradicated. Should any unnatural [practices] be discovered, informants shall receive rewards; however, if concealment is uncovered, offenders will face due punishment—” Another edict prohibited “town residents from engaging in direct trade with foreigners,” while a third declared: “Even townspeople must not accept gifts from foreigners whatsoever. Should children innocently receive such items, they must immediately report to the magistrate’s office—if hidden, [consequences] will follow—”

Even so, the foreigners roamed through the towns daily in search of provisions. The merchants at the government-approved Japanese goods store for foreigners—the Ketsubusho—had to abandon communicating through broken foreign phrases and gestures, but the unlettered American sailors could read neither Japanese characters nor Dutch script. “Regarding the provisioning office: Following recent negotiations, to prevent direct interactions between townspeople and barbarians, we had them write Dutch characters alongside Japanese characters for prices, thereby ensuring no inconvenience would arise from this arrangement. However, when it came to sailors—illiterate individuals—though we followed established practice by having them ask the townspeople present about prices, they could not alter their speech. In the end, they grew angry, waving their hands or pinching their mouths—” Such being the case, Hirayama Kenjirō under Shimoda’s oversight petitioned Kawaji that interpreters were urgently needed there as well.

The Nagasaki interpreters had not only ceased to be “interpreters of Nagasaki” but were even becoming unable to remain “interpreters of Dutch.” They now had to serve as interpreters for all ports across Japan and—while Dutch remained essential—were required to handle English, Russian, and French as well. What proved more consequential still was that these interpreters could no longer confine themselves to mere linguistic mediation. Having mastered foreign tongues and comprehended alien cultures—and with their homeland plunged into crisis because of this—they found themselves compelled to channel their individual capabilities into diverse fields and implement them through practical action.

The First Printing Plant

1 The third Russian mission came to Nagasaki in Kaei 6 (1853), when Shōzō was thirty years old; it was in this year that he first became a father. By the customs of the time, this would have been considered late, but his wife Nui gave birth to their first son Shōtarō at age fifteen. According to the family tree in Mr. Miyata’s *Detailed Biography*, Nui had been born in April of Tenpō 5 (1834) to her adoptive father Shōzaemon and his second wife Kura—making her precisely fourteen years and several months old at the time, a remarkably young mother. Thus Shōzō and Nui likely married when he was twenty-eight or twenty-nine and she thirteen or fourteen years old.

Nui and Shōzō were cousins bound by familial duty. The author of *Printing Civilization History* writes: "When he underwent genpuku [coming-of-age ceremony], he married a woman of his household and soon inherited the family profession of interpreter." However, since Shōzō's genpuku occurred at age fifteen while Nui had just been born that year, this likely meant their families conducted an infant betrothal ritual.

Of course, such marriage customs were deeply intertwined with the hereditary system of the Edo period. The interpreters had long maintained a form of examination system, and during the Bakumatsu period, the explosive expansion of foreign relations necessitated many newly recruited interpreters; however, barring exceptional deficiencies, the hereditary system remained powerfully intact, much like that governing the samurai class. This reality stands evident in Japanese documents and appears likewise in the memoirs of Siebold and Goncharov. When Shōzō became father to Shōtarō, his adoptive father Shōzaemon still wielded considerable authority as "Chief Interpreter and Interpreter Inspector." This is further substantiated by records in *Ancient Documents—Volume 7*, which note that during the "Nagasaki Negotiations," when gifts were presented by the Russian mission to shogunate commissioners and attending interpreters, Shōzaemon—though uninvolved in direct talks—was listed as head interpreter with an entry stating: "To Interpreter Inspector Motoki Shōzaemon: one silver watch." The Interpreter Inspector served as overseer of interpreters. An entry in the *Chronology of Western Studies* for Genroku 8 (1695) records: "In November, Nagasaki established Dutch Interpreter Inspectors to supervise all members, with Motoki Shōdayū first appointed." Through hereditary succession, Shōzō was thus fated to become its sixth holder.

Nui gave birth to Kotarō following Shōtarō in the fourth year of Ansei (1857) and died in July of the following year. The eldest son, Shōtarō, had preceded Nui by four months in death, but Kotarō became president of Tokyo Tsukiji Type Foundry—the first privately established type-manufacturing company in the Meiji era. Later, Shōzō took Tane as his second wife, with whom he had Seijirō and Shōsaburō; he also had a daughter named Matsu with a concubine and kept another concubine named Taki in his later years despite having no further children. The concubine who bore Matsu was a woman he met when stranded on Hachijōjima in Genji 1 (1864)—even amid such chaotic circumstances, his marital life seemed far from happy. Though Tane’s exact death date remains unknown, her bearing Seijirō in Genji 1 and Shōsaburō in Keiō 3 (1867) in quick succession before ceasing childbearing suggests she too may have predeceased him. He was, in short, a man ill-fated in marriage—a misfortune I cannot disentangle from the unnaturalness of his first wife Nui marrying at thirteen or fourteen only to die at nineteen, or of Shōzō being compelled to wed a newborn infant.

As for Shōzō himself, what views he held regarding the marital customs of that era remain unknown, for his extant writings show no indication. Even had he held any novel perspective, such matters of custom and convention would have proven more intractable than the transitional politics or scientific challenges of the time; without the Meiji Restoration, their reform would have been unthinkable. He is generally regarded solely as a scientist, and his writings too appear to offer nothing beyond that. When the imperial bestowal of a posthumous court rank upon Shōzō occurred in Meiji 45 (1912), the author of *Printing Civilization History* visited Shōzō’s friends and disciples who were still living at the time—including Tatewaki Teruo, chief priest of Suwa Shrine, and Kenji Sakai, a disciple—in Nagasaki to gather their recollections of Shōzō, writing as follows: “—At that time, he no longer saw the role of a mere interpreter as significant in his eyes; instead, he turned his attention to global trends, secretly awaiting the arrival of the opportune moment. During this period, he constantly perused numerous books, devoting himself to researching a wide range of industrial techniques; through the Dutch studies he had mastered, he studied Western civilization and artifacts with such intensity that even days seemed insufficient. At this time, our nation’s affairs were dominated by an isolationist doctrine at its peak, reaching a state where even the sighting of foreign ships would prompt indiscriminate cannon fire. Yet Motoki Shōzō paid this no heed, privately maintaining his belief that the time for open trade would come. And so, anticipating that a commercial treaty would inevitably be concluded sooner or later, he first thoroughly investigated and studied foreign customs, arts, and technologies to preemptively devise strategies for engaging with foreign nations; yet even as the entire nation remained fervently engrossed in isolationist doctrine, he calmly continued his research into Western industrial techniques.”

The recollections of Shōzō’s friends and disciples from his lifetime—now over thirty years past—are irreplaceably precious, yet I cannot help but feel regret at how abstractly their accounts were written. The era was that of the Tenpō 13 (1842) revision of the "Order to Repel Foreign Ships." This period could be perceived as resembling either the time before this revision or the years following the Treaties of Kanagawa and Shimoda—that is, the Man’en and Bunkyū eras marked by fervent Expel the Barbarians debates over implementing the Five-Power Treaties—making it profoundly ambiguous. Nevertheless, descriptions such as “he no longer regarded the trifling role of an interpreter as significant, instead fixing his gaze on global trends while secretly awaiting the opportune moment,” “he paid them no heed whatsoever,” or “he calmly devoted himself to studying Western industrial techniques” may be accepted at face value as aspects of Shōzō’s character, as relayed by his former friends and disciples. In other words, Shōzō was likely devoting himself entirely to what was then the great task facing the Japanese people: absorbing foreign science and making it their own.

And this characteristic trait of his was evident in such matters as the “one book each” and “five sheets of Russian text” that Putyatin had presented solely to him and Narabayashi Eishichirō during the Nagasaki Negotiations, as well as in the message for Shōzō found within a letter that Portman—Perry’s interpreter—gave to Moriyama Einosuke. Particularly during the Shimoda negotiations, the fact that Shōzō alone served as interpreter at Toda Village’s schooner shipyard—a position he seemed to have sought out himself in a location of little shogunate prominence—when considered alongside these other instances, aligned perfectly with the image of a scientist whose gaze transcended his era, peering into distant horizons.

The exact month in the second year of Ansei (1855) when Shōzō returned to Nagasaki from Shimoda remains unknown to me now. Putyatin’s departure from Shimoda occurred on March 23, and since some crew members still remained with various matters likely requiring resolution, the completion of official duties probably concluded somewhat later. Moreover, during intervals between official duties, he—being a pioneer in shipbuilding and steam engines for his time—found himself invited by daimyo whose shipbuilding fervor had reached its peak following the recent lifting of the Prohibition on Large Ship Construction; thus, it remains unclear whether he returned directly to Nagasaki. However, as previously noted, by July of that year he had become an instructor-interpreter at the newly established Naval Training Institute in Nagasaki under Nagai Genbanokami and Katsu Rintarō—confirming his return by summer. For three full years since July of Kaei 6 (1853), Shōzō had been constantly on the move—a period corresponding to the four years between Kaei 6 and Ansei 4 (1857) during which Nui bore their first son Shōtarō and later their second son Kotarō.

In July of Ansei 1st Year [1854], it was previously stated that Shōzō had been at the Tsukiji shipyard of the Tosa domain lord. In quoted passages from *Yoshida Tōyō Den*, Shōzō's name appears through early September; however, it is thought he likely remained in Edo until mid-September working for the shogunate's Astronomy Bureau. This period spanned from after the Convention of Kanagawa's conclusion—marked by Perry's withdrawal in June—until late September, when the shogunate's official letter was delivered to Admiral Putyatin's ship appearing at the mouth of Osaka's Aji River. Given his joint translation with Moriyama (then Einosuke) of a letter from Putyatin routed through the Hakodate magistrate, we may surmise he also performed Astronomy Bureau duties. Yet according to *Tōyō Den*, Shōzō stands credited as Edo's first successful constructor of Western-style ships.

In July of Ansei 1st Year [1854], Motoki Shōzō, an interpreter from Nagasaki en route to Shimoda on official business, diverted to enter Edo. On August 29, Matsudaira Yoshinaga (Lord Yōdō) summoned Motoki Shōzō to hear reports on overseas affairs, inspected the steamship model he had brought with him, ordered his accompanying craftsman Kōhachi to construct another model, and petitioned the shogunate to conduct a trial operation. "This marked the dawn of Western-style shipbuilding in Edo—" Yoshida Tōyō was the Tosa Domain's ship magistrate and an advocate of opening the country—he would later be assassinated by anti-foreign loyalists in Bunkyū 2 [1862]. While this account's description of Shōzō "diverting to enter Edo while en route to Shimoda" appears inconsistent with his previously documented movements, it nevertheless confirms that his expertise in shipbuilding and other Western sciences had become recognized among relevant circles. The recommendation document for his posthumous court rank in Meiji 45 [1912] listed not only *Dutch-Japanese Dialogues* but also works like *Draft Manuscript on Naval Engineering*—just as pioneers of printing technology excelled in multiple fields, Shōzō too became an indispensable figure in Japan's naval development history. "In the following year [1855], when Yoshinaga's sankin-kōtai rotation arrived, he had it transported to Kōchi after returning to his domain, launched it in Urado Port, and exhibited it for Toyosuke [Yamauchi Toyosuke], other relatives, and retainers—thereby introducing physical specimens demonstrating Western innovations that greatly roused them from their obstinate slumber."

Of course, when it speaks of someone having “greatly—awakened” the Tosa samurai, this refers to Yoshida Tōyō; but if the Western-style shipbuilding in the Tosa Domain was indeed initiated by Tōyō, then it stands to reason that he was also the one who recommended Shōzō—and it’s possible that Tōyō and Shōzō were acquaintances. However, whether the Tosa Domain’s Western-style ships were truly Japan’s first remains doubtful. The Tosa Domain’s ship was completed in Tsukiji and began operations in Tosa’s port in August of the following year, but the Satsuma Domain’s Shōheimaru had already returned to Edo in April of that same year. According to Mr. Tsuchiya Takao’s *The Process of the Collapse of Feudal Society*, the Satsuma Domain constructed a steamship model based on Dutch books in the fifth year of Kaei (1852). On the surface, they had obtained shogunate approval under the pretext of defending Ryukyu; however, when Mito Nariaki’s advocacy led to the abolition of the "Prohibition on Large Ship Construction," they donated one of the ships already under construction to the shogunate. Thus, according to *Tōyō Den*, this placed them a step behind.

Be that as it may, Tosa had long been a domain renowned for its ships, and as they say, Tosa and Satsuma were engaged in a shipbuilding rivalry. There is no doubt that Tosa took the initiative after the lifting of the Prohibition on Large Ship Construction, and this must have been one of the great honors of Shōzō’s career. What exactly Shōzō’s steamship model was like remains unknown today, as no records of it survive, but it appears he demonstrated its operation in a large water tank or similar setting. In *Tōyō Den*, the quoted diary of Terada Shisai records that he was astonished upon viewing it.

July 1st (Ansei 1 [1854]), clear skies; I withdrew after nine o'clock. Due to Lord Tōtōmi-no-kami's arrival, I went out again around eight [2 PM] and withdrew immediately. Shiota Kōhachi of Nagasaki brought out a steamship model for viewing at the riding ground—truly a marvel to behold. As the text notes they "went out before dusk to view it and withdrew at sunset," that riding ground must have been crowded with Tosa samurai spectators. The "Shiota Kōhachi" mentioned here refers to the carpenter Kōhachi whom Motoki had brought from Nagasaki; Terada's diary makes clear that under Motoki's supervision, Kōhachi was the actual shipbuilder. On the fourth day of the same month, Shōzō himself operated a demonstration. Clear skies; I went out at four [10 AM]. That day, Nagasaki interpreter Motoki Shōzō presented a steamship model for inspection—significantly larger and more mechanically precise than the one shown on the first day—before withdrawing past seven [4 PM]. In the evening, I visited Mr. Den's residence in Shibuya alongside Konan, Asahina, and Izuma, returning at four o'clock [10 PM]. Shisai recorded: "In Shōzō's account: 'This time Russia battles Turkey, with Britain and France aiding Turkey—ten Russian warships captured by British forces.'" The fourth-day model was likely one Shōzō personally operated—larger and more refined than its predecessor. From this passage and subsequent diary entries, it appears Shōzō stayed at the residence of Shibuya Den, a Tosa samurai. Though unclear if Konan, Asahina, and Izuma were fellow domain retainers, they evidently gathered to hear Shōzō relay news of the Crimean War. While we cannot know his exact manner of speech, one imagines his discussions—linking overseas politics with Western scientific advancements and Japan's urgent maritime defense needs—left lasting impressions on Terada and others present. Terada Shisai participated in Tosa domain governance like Yoshida Tōyō and once served as Yōdō's chamberlain. Given his connections to figures like Kawaji Saemonnojo—setting aside later political complexities—he undoubtedly possessed sufficient insight to engage deeply with Shōzō's foreign news analyses.

On July 16, he went to Shibuya again to consult with Motoki Shōzō regarding the steamship order, and on the 24th, conducted an on-site inspection of the Tsukiji shipyard together with other domain samurai. The record states, "Finally, sake was bestowed upon Motoki Shōzō," which suggests he had already been overseeing operations at that shipyard. On August 1st, it is recorded that "Motoki Shōzō returned with the promised item," though the item’s name remains concealed; in my estimation, it was likely Dutch books or similar materials. Dutch books were coveted by many ambitious samurai of that era, yet remained unobtainable except by those of special standing—particularly certain restricted volumes. On August 5th, he discussed matters concerning the ship under construction with Motoki Shōzō, and on September 7th wrote: "Rain. Visited the steamship workshop. The vessel’s form has markedly taken shape."

Shо̄zо̄’s exertions for the Tosa Domain were not limited to model-making on multiple occasions; he also appeared to have applied ingenuity repeatedly. According to Lord Yо̄dо̄’s diary entry for August 4th: “The retinue assembled; ordered accompanying members to mount horses; proceeded to Sunamura residence; summoned Nagasaki interpreter; viewed steamship.” Then on August 8th after inviting Uwajima Domain’s Lord Date: “In evening hours—interpreter Motoki Shо̄zо̄ presented steamship; at riding ground—viewed together with Lord Date Tо̄tо̄mi-no-kami; on said occasion—summoned Nakahama Manjirо̄—” Thus did Shо̄zо̄ meet John Manjirо̄—returned from America—at this time. Nakahama Manjirо̄ had returned to Japan as a castaway in Kaei 3 [1850], remaining unfree for two subsequent years until Ansei’s port openings saw his linguistic skills and foreign knowledge valued—later becoming famed as Naval Training Institute professor under shogunate. Since Tosa Domain had preemptively employed Manjirо̄ as domain samurai ahead of shogunate authorities—they likely summoned him here too—to critique Shо̄zо̄’s model through lens of his expertise.

Following the conclusion of the Convention of Kanagawa, all levels of Japanese society became consumed by fervor for constructing modern large ships. The Tosa Domain records state: "On Intercalary July 24 [1854], retainers submitted a petition as follows to Lord Kuze Yamato-no-kami, who received and retained it. On August 23 of the same year, said retainers were summoned to his office, where the petition was returned with an appended document as follows." The shogunate granted permission within one month's brief span, noting: "As authorization for large ship construction has now been proclaimed, this is approved for trial purposes." Since Shōzō's model presentation had commenced on July 1st as previously described, the Tosa Domain's petition submission was likely determined accordingly. What manner of steamship was this first vessel built in Edo under Shōzō's model and supervision? The same Tosa Domain records document the petition's contents as follows: "'One steamship measuring 6 ken [approx. 10.9 meters] in length, 9 shaku [2.7 meters] in width, 5 shaku 4 sun [1.65 meters] in depth, equipped with two cannons'—though small, this constituted a type of warship." "We hereby request permission to proceed as follows regarding the aforementioned model: At our Tsukiji workshop, craftsmen shall be ordered to construct [the steamship]. Notably, as Carpenter Kōhachi of Nagasaki is currently residing in Edo, he shall be summoned to the workshop for adjustments. Once completed, trial operations shall be conducted in the inland sea. Furthermore, when navigational proficiency is sufficiently achieved, [the ship] shall be dispatched via sea routes to our domain for crew training. Subsequently, voyages between Edo and Osaka shall be undertaken. We humbly await your esteemed directives on this matter. Respectfully submitted on Intercalary July 24th by Matsudaira Tosa-no-kami."

The intent [of the petition] was that once completed, the ship would first be operated in Edo's inland sea, then sent to their home domain of Tosa to train the domain's sailors; once their skills improved, it would make round trips between Edo and Osaka. However, while Kōhachi's name appeared in the document, Motoki Shōzō's did not—likely because Shōzō, being under the Nagasaki Magistrate's authority and currently on official assignment in Edo, was someone whose involvement needed discretion before the shogunate.

Did that ship succeed exactly as per the model? When was it completed, and how was its trial run conducted in Edo's inland sea? That remains unclear, but in August of the following year, the ship’s safe return voyage to Tosa had been recorded in the diary of Terada Shisai, who had already returned to his domain. On the 4th, [I] passed through Yui Inai.

From there, I went to work. Today, due to early closing, I withdrew at nine o'clock. "The steamship returned from Edo." And on the same August 23rd: "I went out at four o'clock [10 AM] and withdrew at eight o'clock [2 PM]." Today, Lord Gagakusuke (Yōdō’s younger brother) went to view the steamship. I too had been ordered to go and first arrived at Sando. Major General Lord departed; after a short while, he returned to his seat and finally boarded that ship. I too followed. This was the ship I had been deeply involved with during my previous official duties in Edo. Though I had feared it would not be swift, indeed it proceeded slowly—

*Tōyō Den* notes that this steamship was far slower than the guard boats, leaving people perplexed; yet it also describes how they marveled at seeing a vessel propelled by machinery. In any case, the early steamship created by Japanese hands under Motoki Shōzō and Kōhachi, though slow, plied Japan's seas.

But by what means had Shōzō learned the actual construction of steamships? Since the Dutch warship Palembang's arrival in the first year of Kōka (1844), he must have seen several steamships; however, even as an interpreter, inspections of foreign warships' engine rooms would not have been freely permitted. During that same Kōka era when the shogunate had commissioned a small steam engine from the Netherlands, Shōzō had been merely a junior apprentice interpreter—he could not have obtained privileged access to such resources. Through documents or perhaps by secretly constructing models—likely the culmination of his prior endeavors—the fact that a steamship built solely by Japanese people was launched, albeit slow, must be considered a remarkable achievement for that era. When one considers that Toda Village's schooner—not a steamship but preserved as Japan's first Western-style vessel in shipbuilding history—dates to Ansei 2 (1855), it seems only natural that this ship equipped with two cannons and measuring six ken in length had a depth of merely five shaku four sun. This very fact makes one imagine the struggles Shōzō and Kōhachi must have endured.

II The fact that Motoki Shōzō's steamship model was a type of warship equipped with two cannons is said to have been commissioned by the Tosa Domain under the rationale of "strict coastal defense"—a detail that resonates profoundly when considered alongside contemporaneous events like Perry and Putyatin's arrivals in Kaei 6 (1853) and the ratification of the two treaties of Kanagawa and Shimoda in Ansei 1 (1854). In Ansei 2 (1855), immediately after returning from Edo, he was appointed translator at the Naval Training Institute under Nagai, Katsu, and others—a development undoubtedly dictated by the era's tides. His colleague Moriyama Einosuke, having changed his name to Takajirō, became head of the Foreign Interpretation Bureau, while fellow interpreter Hori Tatsunosuke was appointed professor at the Institute for the Investigation of Foreign Books. Had circumstances continued unchanged, Shōzō would likely have swiftly attained some prominent official position within the shogunate's hierarchy. Yet in that same year, he was charged with a crime by the shogunate and cast into prison.

"In that year, he returned to Nagasaki; however, Mizuno Chikugo-no-kami, the Nagasaki Magistrate, acting on orders from the shogunate, suddenly commanded him to enter confinement in the town jail." Thus he became a prisoner. *The History of Printing Civilization* writes that "the reason was that during his stay in Edo, Mr. Motoki had accepted a request from various officials of the Astronomical Bureau to handle the procurement of Dutch books on astronomy."

With the exception of Mr. Mitani’s *Motoki and Hirano: Detailed Biographies*, Fukuchi Gen’ichirō’s *Biography of Motoki*, the *Japanese Volume of the World History of Printing*, and many other Motoki biographies supported the theory of his imprisonment. Moreover, all sources consistently reported his imprisonment period as lasting from Ansei 2 (1855) to the eleventh month of Ansei 5 (1858)—an extended duration. This was likely not merely a "stumbling block" in Motoki Shōzō's life. As previously noted, penalties for interpreters were generally severe; however, even taking *The History of Printing Civilization* at its word, one cannot help but feel that punishment for merely acting as an intermediary in purchasing Dutch books would be excessively harsh.

"The 'officials of the Astronomy Bureau' belonged to the shogunate's foreign relations office." Moreover, in Ansei 2 (1855), when Dutch book imports could not meet demand, they went so far as to establish a printing office within the Nagasaki Magistrate's West Office to produce 'Western-style books made in Japan.' Mizuno Chikugo-no-kami, who interrogated Shōzō, had served as deputy reception officer during the Shimoda negotiations, with Shōzō being his subordinate. Shōzō's adoptive father Shōzaemon, an active inspector of interpreters at the time, would have wielded considerable influence had personal considerations carried any weight. Moreover, Shōzō had been among the Nagasaki interpreters who rendered distinguished service since the Nagasaki Negotiations. One cannot help but wonder why acting as an intermediary for Dutch book purchases—which should have been at least superficially more lenient compared to the early Kaei era—warranted such severe criminal charges.

Many biographies of Motoki tended to portray his imprisonment as merely a minor stumble. Fukuchi Gen'ichirō wrote: "In that same year, Mr. Motoki Shōzō was imprisoned for reasons unknown in detail. According to popular accounts, he - driven by chivalrous spirit - shouldered false charges unrelated to himself to rescue others from culpability." The Japanese Volume of the World History of Printing avoided specifics with its terse "due to circumstances," while Motoki and Hirano: Detailed Biographies stood out through its exhaustive documentation of the incident - yet consistently denied the imprisonment theory, deeming it "a stain upon the name of the great man Motoki Shōzō." Whether affirming or denying, these accounts remained united in their strenuous efforts to dissociate Shōzō from the disgrace implied by "imprisonment."

However, this major incident in Motoki Shōzō's life also relates to the history of movable type in Japan. While I do not possess any particularly new materials on the matter, I would like to consider it as thoroughly as possible. *The History of Printing Civilization* expands upon Fukuchi’s theory that "he shouldered false charges to save others from their crimes," elaborating: "—However, Shinagawa Umejirō, who was his actual elder brother, secretly sold the Western books that Mr. Motoki Shōzō had procured to samurai in Edo due to his dissolute nature. "The samurai, who had no interest in Western books, sold these Dutch books to Western scholars at high prices and used the proceeds for their leisure activities—a series of such incidents led to Motoki Shōzō being confined in prison," it writes, attributing the cause affirmed by the 'pro-imprisonment faction' solely to the "intermediation of Dutch books."

In contrast, *Motoki and Hirano: Detailed Biographies*, which advocates the "imprisonment denial theory," presents compelling counter-evidence as follows: First, from Ansei 2 to Ansei 3 (1855-1856), Shōzō supervised movable type technician Inder Mouru at Dejima's Dutch factory and printed the *Ranwa Jiten* (Dutch-Japanese Dictionary). Second, in Ansei 2 (1855), he was appointed Type Printing Office Supervisor. Third, in Ansei 2 (1855), he submitted a "historical petition" on shipbuilding and maritime transport through Magistrate Arao Iwanokami to Nagai Genbanokami. Fourth, in Ansei 3 (1856), he authored *Dutch Grammar and Composition*. Fifth, he had sent Japanese movable type specimens for *Japanese Grammar*, published in the Netherlands in Ansei 4 (1857). Sixth, he had published *Japanese-English Commercial Handbook* in Ansei 4 (1857). Seventh, he had published *A Book of Physics* in Ansei 5 (1858). Eighth, his second son Kotarō had been born in Ansei 4 (1857). Ninth, no records existed in the Nagasaki Magistrate's Office's "Prisoner Registers and Criminal Ledgers"—though the undated Type Printing Office Supervisor appointment made unclear whether this preceded or followed the incident, and the shipbuilding petition likely predated it given its timing with the Naval Training Institute's establishment—while other counter-evidence remained indisputable based on extant documents and family records. Nevertheless, the author of *Motoki and Hirano: Detailed Biographies* cited Mr. Koga Jūniro's account, stating "However, he did face censure regarding Dutch book imports," while noting that "in Ansei 2 [1855], under shogunate orders, he underwent investigation by Magistrate Mizuno Chikugo-no-kami." While agreeing this constituted "unauthorized purchase of Dutch books"—thereby aligning with the "Dutch book intermediation cause theory"—the author maintained denial, asserting that "the matter was too trivial to imagine resulting in confinement."

Therefore, what we can ascertain through both affirmation and denial of his imprisonment is that in Ansei 2 (1855), Shōzō was indeed charged by the shogunate with "intermediation of Dutch books" or "purchase." While it may not have been the "imprisonment format" of being ordered into confinement in the town jail as *The History of Printing Civilization* states, it cannot be definitively denied—based on what the author of *Motoki and Hirano: Detailed Biographies* asserts—that other forms of punishment were entirely absent. Conversely, why did Shōzō’s public life as an interpreter—which had been extraordinarily busy and ostensibly successful since Kaei 6 (1853)—virtually cease after Ansei 2 (1855), only resuming when he became an official at the Akuragaura Ironworks by Man’en 1 (1860)? Why did he never advance beyond the junior interpreter rank he had held since the Shimoda negotiations throughout his entire career? These questions remain unanswered.

In other words, neither the affirmative nor negative theories could be fully trusted; however, if we were to imaginatively extend our judgment, we would have to seek the common cause in "Dutch book purchase." As the author of the *Detailed Biographies* states, the question remained whether it truly had been a "minor" crime. As previously mentioned, from the latter half of Ansei 2 (1855), it was an era when—at least superficially—"the import of Dutch books could not keep up." For this reason, it became the era when Japan’s first officially authorized "printing factory" was established. When compared to the Kaei 2 (1849) period that saw an official edict stating, "It has come to our attention that Dutch-style physicians have recently proliferated and gained considerable public trust; however, given differences in climate and customs, all court physicians are hereby prohibited from employing Dutch methods," there appeared to have been a marked shift. Yet paradoxically, even by the end of Kaei 6 (1853), practical realities persisted—such as Mitsukuri Genpō, a fellow reception officer during the Nagasaki Negotiations, being unable to read the English books that Moriyama Einosuke had translated for official use. Regarding an anecdote about Mitsukuri Genpō—who similarly participated in the "Shimoda negotiations" under Kawaji Saemonnojo from Ansei 1 to Ansei 2—Mr. Kure Hidezō also wrote as follows: "Therefore, at the beginning of the Ansei era, when Shimizu Usaburō went to where Genpō was in Shimoda to request becoming his disciple, Genpō apparently suspected him of being a spy and did not readily grant permission. After repeated entreaties, they reached an agreement that he would teach him once they went to Edo, and Shimizu subsequently became a disciple at Genpō’s school in Edo." Moreover, "the translation and publication of Western books gradually became more lenient—this was much later—[for] Mitsukuri Genpō had long served as a translator at the Astronomy Bureau, belonging solely under its authority and translating Western books strictly as ordered."

However, while Mitsukuri Genpō remained constrained within the shogunate's political sphere, contemporaries like Sugita Seikei in Edo and Ogata Kōan in Osaka were running large private academies in their respective regions that thrived remarkably. According to what appears in the *Biography of Ogata Kōan* (by Mr. Ogata Tomio), in Ansei 1 (1854), he wrote resolutely in a letter: "At present, I have resolved to reduce medical practice and devote myself solely to instructing students, intending to cultivate the Western scholars urgently needed today." Given that he had numerous disciples such as Ōmura Masujirō and Ōtori Keisuke, the environment appears to have been rather lenient. Fukuzawa Yukichi went to Nagasaki to study at age twenty-one in Ansei 1 (1854) and entered the Kōan School in Osaka in Ansei 2 (1855). At that time, there were already fifty to sixty resident students alone, and with commuting students included, the total likely exceeded one hundred. To be called "a student of Ogata" was considered prestigious in Osaka. As seen in works like *The Autobiography of Yukichi Fukuzawa*, there are accounts of how Yukichi and his fellow students stayed up all night copying by hand a certain Dutch book that a daimyo had lent to Kōan before returning it. In this case too, the emphasis lay in how the original book was expensive and difficult to obtain; the matter itself does not appear to have been particularly secret or in violation of regulations.

Kōan wrote, "cultivating the Western scholars urgently needed today"—a statement that, as the author notes, was of course not intended to mean "producing Westernized scholars," but rather arose from the necessity following the initial arrival of the Black Ships to assimilate Western civilization and prepare against foreign threats. However, Ogata Kōan—save for his brief final years when he became director of the Western Medical Institute in Bunkyū 2 (1862)—spent his entire life as a civilian physician and Dutch studies scholar who made significant contributions while remaining almost entirely absent from political affairs. Similarly, the Biography of Mitsukuri Genpō records that though Sugita Seikei was also a Dutch studies scholar, he advocated no position on opening the country.

In short, when synthesizing these factors, one could see that issues surrounding the purchasing and studying of Dutch books were truly delicate matters. Even though assimilating Western civilization to prepare against foreign barbarians had been the prevailing trend of the time, in practical political terms, the nation became divided between "isolation" and "opening the country." Just as there were pro-shogunate factions within isolationism, imperial loyalists existed among open-country advocates—Shōzō being naturally one of these "imperial loyalist open-country faction" members. Yet with each political upheaval, these factions became intricately entangled, creating circumstances where even fellow Dutch scholars involved in politics—like Genpō—found themselves forced to suspect that new disciples might be spies.

By around Ansei 2 (1855), regulations on both the import and study of Dutch books were gradually becoming more lenient. At the very least, interest in Dutch studies was rapidly rising among the general public alongside the Ansei Opening, and even the shogunate had no choice but to produce "Japanese-made Western books" out of sheer necessity for national defense. However, while the regulations concerning the purchasing and studying of Dutch books had not been revised—and regardless of whether they were revised or not—depending on the nature and circumstances of the purchasers and students themselves, they inevitably had to endure strong pressure from either the shogunate or other quarters. Comparing Mitsukuri Genpō and Ogata Kōan makes this clear in many ways. In Shōzō’s case, beyond that, his position as an interpreter—which afforded him special privileges in purchasing Dutch books—posed yet another danger. This danger included cases stemming from base personalities driven purely by “profit-making,” but there could also be instances arising from those not base in character who utilized it for academic purposes; indeed, scholars of Western studies since *The Beginnings of Dutch Studies* may have been few indeed who could pursue their scholarship entirely unrelated to these “side-cargo” import methods. As for which side Shōzō belonged to—whether base profiteering or academic pursuit—this has already become evident from what we have seen thus far and will further clarify itself in due course, so I shall not elaborate here. In any case, this danger was one of his inescapable destinies as a man born in Nagasaki and raised in an interpreter’s household; moreover, they—lacking even samurai rank—possessed no protective backing such as “clan influence” whatsoever.

However, had that been all, the charges brought against Shōzō would have been straightforward. As mentioned earlier, his grandfather Shōzaemon—the fourth-generation interpreter inspector—had been reported by Kapitan Dufu to the Nagasaki magistrate of the time for a similar matter; however, this did not hinder Shōzaemon’s position as an interpreter. Moreover, since certain profits from "side cargo" had long been regarded as "supplementary income" not only by ordinary interpreters but even by magistrate officials, it is difficult to imagine that this alone would have resulted in Shōzō effectively withdrawing from his official interpreter position, even if he was unable to assume the role of sixth-generation interpreter inspector. Moreover, regardless of the precise form taken by his “confinement in a town jail,” the prolonged punitive measures spanning from Ansei 2 to the end of Ansei 5—though undeniably linked to the stated cause of “Dutch book intermediation”—likely concealed deeper circumstances.

"—Being in the position of an interpreter, Mr. [Shōzō] had particular advantages in acquiring Western books," wrote *The History of Printing Civilization*. "Given his longstanding dedication to importing Western cultural artifacts, he seized opportunities through procuring astronomical texts to covertly advance enlightenment thought." Mr. Mitani’s *Detailed Biography* similarly recorded: "The theory regarding Old Man Motoki’s imprisonment stemmed from reports about his publication of the *Dutch Conversation Manual*, plans to compile a *Japanese-English Dictionary* using Dutch sources, and his notorious reputation as an open-country advocate." Both pro-imprisonment and denial factions concurred in viewing these circumstances through the lens of Shōzō’s identity as a Dutch scholar—the foundation of the 'Dutch book intermediation' theory. However, the *Detailed Biography* further accentuated his stance: "Though never aligned with the pro-shogunate faction, his vehement advocacy for opening Japan made him a marked man among isolationists—so much that loyalists swarmed Nagasaki seeking to assassinate him. Fearing for his life, he withdrew to the capital Kyoto, taking temporary shelter with an unnamed court noble." The exact timing of this episode and the noble’s identity remained unclear, with elements suggesting mere recording of Nagasaki rumors. Nevertheless, these accounts collectively illuminated—however faintly—the true nature of the charges leveled against Shōzō for 'Dutch book intermediation.'

I too consider that while the "confinement in a town jail" mentioned in *The History of Printing Civilization* may not be entirely mistaken, it remains an exaggeration. And as Mr. Koga Jūniro stated, “it is a fact that [he] underwent interrogation by Mizuno Chikugo-no-kami,” I think that even if it did not constitute formal confinement in a town jail, it would have carried significant implications. This prolonged state of restricted movement continued until his appointment as an official at the Akuragaura Ironworks in Man’en 1 (1860). “At the time, Mr. Aoki Kyūshichirō—purveyor to the Kishū Domain lord—learned of these circumstances. On the night of August 15, Ansei 5 (1858), he discreetly visited newly appointed Magistrate Okabe Suruganokami’s residence. There he argued that confining Mr. Motoki Shōzō—a man of indispensable talent—indefinitely in a town jail constituted a grave national loss, petitioning for his release.” Suruganokami appeared convinced by this reasoning, for on November 21’s night he dispatched a retainer named Kobayashi to Mr. Kyūshichirō’s residence to announce Shōzō’s impending release on the 28th of that month. Thus did he gain freedom from prolonged detention—an account from *The History of Printing Civilization* that cannot be dismissed outright despite lingering doubts about the “town jail” specifics. Aoki Kyūshichirō—Shōzō’s close friend who reappears later—features in this narrative that reveals how Shōzō’s alleged crime bore not mercenary motives like “Dutch book smuggling,” but rather delicate political dimensions.

III In Ansei 2 (1855), when Shōzō was confined in a town jail, he was thirty-two years old, and in Ansei 5 (1858), when released on bail, thirty-five. *The History of Printing Civilization, Volume IV* includes a rare photograph believed to date from around Man'en 1 (1860) or Bunkyū 1-2 (1861-62), when Shōzō was thirty-seven or thirty-eight. A marginal note identifying it as "Mr. Motoki during his ironworks era" informs this dating, but what astonishes is how starkly its atmosphere differs from late-life photographs—presumed taken in early Meiji—featured in most Motoki biographies. The image shows five figures: three seated officials in front labeled merely as "ironworks bureaucrats," their identities unknown. Aoki Kyūshichirō stands at rear right, Shōzō at rear left. Likely photographed by a foreigner, it captures the stiff poses characteristic of Bakumatsu through early Meiji portraiture—awkward adoptions of Western conventions. Though Shōzō's position as chief seems confirmed by Aoki's deputy status at right, the three junior officials in front—all wearing topknots and bearing no notable titles—reveal how far his technical team's status fell below modern expectations of authority.

In any case, this photograph of Shōzō in his prime differed entirely from his later years—where his white-haired topknot harmonized with serene eyes and a gaunt, gentle face. Here, his right shoulder stood raised high, his slightly turned face still full and angular, brows furrowed as he stared intently at a single point. An air of haughty defiance and brimming combativeness overflowed from the image to such a degree that one might doubt it was the same person. The three young officials in front sat with dignified ease, bearing the authority of either the shogunate or their domains as men of established samurai lineage. Yet when compared to Aoki on the right—whose slightly modernized, calm merchant-like demeanor mirrored his later career as a trader—it became clear this was no mere accident of photographic posing. In contrast [to both], there emanated a sense of austerity and unyielding resolve that even carried an air of ferocity.

Now, while Motoki Shōzō’s later years as a technician at Japan’s first Nagasaki Akuragaura Ironworks from Man’en 1 (1860) onward would be discussed in the latter part of this work, the prolonged period of confinement from Ansei 2 (1855) to Ansei 5 (1858) marked his second phase of dedicated efforts toward Japanese movable type and printing techniques. He was likely appointed as Type Printing Office Supervisor in the latter half of Ansei 2 [1855], following his role as an interpreter at the Naval Training Institute. While it remained unclear whether his confinement in a town jail preceded or followed this appointment, we had already gained a general understanding of the first half of the period prior to his Naval Training Institute service through earlier accounts. The specific nature of terms like "confinement in a town jail" or "house arrest" remained unclear, making judgment difficult, but I speculated that after having undergone interrogation by Mizuno Chikugo-no-kami, he—regardless of formal designations—had withdrawn from political interpretation duties in practice. Though not strictly forbidden from leaving, he likely remained confined to his home to such an extent. Even if his appointment as Type Printing Office Supervisor had preceded the “confinement in a town jail,” that relatively purely technical role might have continued in some subtle form. This became all the more conceivable when considering the true nature of the charges brought against him as previously described.

"I do not know whether the title 'Type Printing Office Supervisor' had previously existed in the shogunate." Publications by the shogunate itself were originally called "kanpan" (officially published editions). It appears that each time scholarly shoguns like Ietsuna, Tsunayoshi, Yoshimune, and Ieyoshi undertook publishing projects, they would gather craftsmen to establish temporary printing offices. Though many works were published using copper movable type during Ieyasu's era, no such official designation existed at that time either. While books were treasured, the labor of producing them was deeply disparaged. Records show that when Konchi-in Temple in Edo printed Sūden's *Daizō Ichiran-shū* with copper movable type in Keichō 20 (1615), monks primarily handled the task. "—As the publication of *Daizō Ichiran* has been ordered, six or seven scribes have been assigned. Your esteemed Rinzai Temple was instructed to provide personnel, but as they currently have none available, only one attendant has been dispatched. We request five or six monks from your temple be sent forthwith—22nd day of the third month, Konchi-in, respectfully addressed to Seikenji attendants." This document reveals that "scribes" (*monogakari-shū*) included those who engraved master characters for copper type. "Proofreading" The proofreading role—a prominent position at the time—was also handled by monks. According to accompanying records, those involved in printing were vaguely termed "hangi no shū" (printing craftsmen). Though *Daizō Ichiran-shū* used copper movable type, it likely retained its traditional name. "Received stipend ledger entry: 1 koku 8 to total. This constitutes the stipend for eighteen *Daizō Ichiran* printing craftsmen from the 21st to month's end, allocated as 1 to 8 shō daily." Listed recipients included nine names: "Proofreader: Jukan," "Type Engraver: Han'emon," "Typesetter: Nihei," "Printer: Seibei," etc., dated "26th day of third month, Keichō 20 (Year of the Hare)." Thus these craftsmen received two shō of rice daily (approx. 3.6 liters). The *surite* handled presswork, *uhete* managed typesetting and plate-making, while *jihori* oversaw type-casting—roles corresponding to modern processes. Yet these records confirm that "printing" never became an established bureaucratic post in the shogunate. Even by mid-Edo when private publications flourished, while censorship records abound, no evidence exists of permanent shogunal printing offices.

According to Mr. Kawata Hisanaga’s “Nagasaki Movable-Type Editions of Dutch Book Reprints” (published in the September 1942 issue of *Gakuto*), during this period, Akanuma Shōzō was appointed Director of the Type Printing Office, with Yasuda Shinsaku and Imai Senzaburō as Supervisors, and it states that “even Motoki Shōzō was among those commissioned as Type Printing Office Supervisors.” The very fact that a director and others were newly appointed—something unprecedented in itself—combined with its implementation of Western-style printing, marked a watershed moment in the history of Japanese printing. While I have no knowledge of Akanuma, Yasuda, or Imai—who were likely direct retainers of the shogunate or samurai under the Nagasaki Magistrate’s Office—it stands to reason that Shōzō would have held a lowly position. Yet this fact does not diminish in the slightest the significance of his place in Japanese printing history. Moreover, when one considers that—as records indicate—one of the concrete motives for establishing the Type Printing Office lay in the type purchased by Shōzō and others, and when one further reflects on Shōzō’s status as the publisher of the *Dutch Conversation Manual* and the creator of Japan’s first “flow-cast type,” it becomes clear that in printing history, the inherent significance must lie not with Akanuma’s directorship but with Shōzō’s role as supervisor.

As Mr. Mitani’s *Detailed Biography* presented as evidence denying [Shōzō’s] imprisonment states, Shōzō produced three written works during his tenure as Type Printing Office Supervisor. In Ansei 3 (1856), he published *Dutch Grammar and Composition*; in the same year [Ansei 3], *Japanese-English Commercial Handbook*; and in Ansei 5 (1858), *The Book of Physics*. In Shōtoku 4 [1714], it is said that Shōzō sent Japanese characters to serve as master copies for *Japanese Grammar*, which was published in Holland. It is said that one copy of *Japanese Grammar* still exists in Nagasaki. As I have not yet seen it myself, I hope to have the opportunity later in this work to discuss what Japanese character matrices Shōzō actually wrote. For now, however, I imagine they were likely either kana or katakana. Of the three aforementioned works, *Japanese-English Commercial Handbook* also survives in one extant copy. It is said to have been a pioneering effort—created either for Nagasaki’s commercial transactions following the port’s opening to British ships in Ansei 1 (1854), or as a vanguard of the era when influence was shifting from Dutch to English. It was a Japanese translation of very common words, but among interpreters, one could say it spoke to the family’s English heritage dating back to his grandfather Shōzaemon.

However, regarding the remaining two works—*Dutch Grammar and Composition* and *The Book of Physics*—*Nagasaki Movable-Type Editions of Dutch Book Reprints* presented detailed descriptions that refuted Mitani’s theory. Mr. Mitani’s so-called *Dutch Grammar and Composition* The plausibility that *Sintaxis*—the “grammar book” mentioned in *The History of Printing Civilization*—was identical to what Mr. Kawata Hisanaga referred to as *Seitankishisu* in his earlier text became evident from their shared publication date of June 1856 (Ansei 3). Furthermore, photographs of the work clearly showed it to be a reprint of the 1846 (Kōka 3) Leiden edition as posited by Kawata. Similarly, what was called *The Book of Physics* could be seen in photographs under its original Dutch title *Voorloper der Natuurkunde*, translated into Japanese as *Primer of Natural Philosophy*—a finding that decisively validated Kawata’s argument that this was not Shōzō’s original work. In other words, if Mitani’s *Detailed Biography* had claimed that Shōzō possessed draft manuscripts of the same titles, that would have been a separate matter; however, insofar as the Type Printing Office’s publications were concerned, there remained undeniable evidence of conflating books he printed with those he authored.

Now, Motoki Shōzō's efforts toward "flow-cast type" during this second phase of Japanese movable type creation could be understood through the provenance of his steel Japanese type matrices—housed today at the Imperial Household Museum—which were produced during the Ansei era. Furthermore, there were indications that during his tenure as Type Printing Office Supervisor, he had also engaged in casting Western type alongside the typographic technician Inder Mouru. The photographic plates included in the aforementioned *Nagasaki Movable-Type Editions of Dutch Book Reprints*—*Seitankishisu* and the cover and title page of *Supurāku Kiyunsuto*, also published in September—along with *Rigaku Kunmō* from Kawata Hisanaga’s collection. Examining the title page photograph revealed numerous Western typefaces—clearly of Japanese manufacture—intermingled with Dutch type. *Primer of Natural Philosophy* Part of the title page bore the inscription "TE NACASAKI IN HET 5de IAAR VAN ANSEI (1858)," where the mismatched Western numerals appeared unmistakably Japanese-made, while other features—such as the N resembling the clock numeral IV—remained evident even to printing laymen at first glance. The Western type in Mr. Kawata’s ledger-style *Dutch Vocabulary Book* clearly differed in typography from both what was believed to be Kahē’s [type] and the “Edo type.” Consequently, even if the Western type judged to have been produced by the Type Printing Office had received Inder Mouru’s guidance, Shōzō—an experienced practitioner of flow-cast type—could not have been unrelated to it.

In the June edition of *Seitankishisu* from Ansei 3 (1856), when it became the September edition of *Supurāku Kiyunsuto*, the degree of mixing with Japanese-made Western type increased, and by the fifth year’s *Rigaku Kunmō* (Primer of Natural Philosophy), this became even more pronounced. Needless to say, the type from the original plates had become severely worn and unusable, and moreover, replacements had to be sought from overseas thousands of miles away. One could imagine the hardships Shōzō and his colleagues endured, but even this artisanal “flow-casting” must have required its own corresponding history and tradition. The Western type imported by Shōzō and his colleagues already possessed four centuries of history, having grown intricate, precise, and compact. Given that Western typefaces had a maximum size of around twelve-point pica, it must have been profoundly difficult—when considered alongside how Gutenberg and other early practitioners of flow-casting used exceptionally large type—for Japanese-made Western typefaces to emulate these dimensions for resupply purposes. Yet when one reflects that Motoki Shōzō’s surviving steel type matrices from the Ansei era were crafted for Japanese characters, specifically kanji, it becomes understandable that Western typography was never his primary intent.

We can only imagine Shōzō’s state of mind during this period through scant records and surviving works. Yet when we see that the *Japanese-English Commercial Handbook* was merely a single woodblock print with crudely added Japanese-made Western-style page numbers, one cannot help but think that he must have been struck by profound despair at times. Just as the shogunate’s printing factory—amidst the unprecedented upheaval of the “Ansei Opening”—had to shutter after a mere seven years, leaving behind only the brief legacy of “press printing,” so too did Motoki Shōzō’s “flow-cast type” for Japanese characters ultimately fail to achieve development substantial enough to leave enduring printed works.

To reiterate: how immense was the destiny imposed by a nation’s writing system upon the history of movable type! The Western-style type of Edo’s Kahē and that from Nagasaki’s Type Printing Office—crude as they were—could be produced with relative ease and proved serviceable for printing. Yet when it came to Japanese flow-cast type, apart from Shōzō’s *Dutch Conversation Manual*—considered utterly rudimentary—not a single artifact worth preserving remains today despite the desperate efforts of Edo’s Kahē and Nagasaki’s Shōzō. Consider that Gutenberg’s people—as noted earlier—had maintained a four-century tradition of flow-cast type from the fifteenth to nineteenth centuries, following a mere half-century history of woodblock and wooden movable type. In stark contrast, our Japan possessed a millennium-long heritage of woodblock printing and wooden type from the Tenpyō-era Dharani Sutra through the Tokugawa shogunate’s final years—yet entirely lacked any era of flow-cast type. As for Shōzō—while his first phase producing the *Dutch Conversation Manual* might be excused—by his second period he already seemed gripped by despair. This stems from our inability to find any evidence of renewed attempts at flow-cast type from the Keiō era through early Meiji—the third phase.

Japanese characters—with their infinite variety and strokes of utmost complexity—could only be produced either through entirely manual craftsmanship like woodblock printing or by employing several stages of scientific methods. In this regard, when Motoki Shōzō became the first in Japan to learn the electrotyping method from Gamble in Nagasaki in 1869 (Meiji 2), it was truly an epoch-making event. The monumental significance of this was likely beyond the imagination of Gamble, the American who had imparted the technique. For in Gutenberg’s tradition, electrotyping played no significant role in type manufacturing. For example, Oswald’s *History of Western Printing Civilization* does not record the history of manufacturing type using the electrotyping method, but instead gives significant coverage to photogravure and letterpress techniques completed after 1840. These included the Russian Jacobi, the Englishman Jordain, the American Adams, and the Austrian Pretzsche. While electrotyping plates were certainly important in Japanese printing history, the manufacturing of type matrices through the electrotyping method held even greater significance.

For Japanese movable type to be created, an additional leap in modern science was still required; yet considering that Faraday’s law had been established in 1833 and the Type Printing Office was founded in 1855, we can discern the painful period during which Motoki Shōzō—agonizing over his “flow-cast type”—found himself unable to readily transition toward the next breakthrough. The interval between 1833 and 1855 spanned twenty-two years; if we accept that Faraday’s law began seeing practical application in electrotyping after 1840, this amounts to roughly a decade. And when recalling East-West exchanges and reflecting on the nation’s circumstances at that time, that duration was by no means lengthy.

However, the scientists of the late Edo period were forging an arduous path. When one considers that Kawamoto Kōmin’s exposition of the electrotyping method in *Enseikiki Jutsu* dated to Kaei 6 (1853), while experiments with electrostatic generators—conducted by Hiraga Gennai, Hashimoto Donsai, Motoki Dōhei, and others—reached even further back to the Tenpō era of the 1830s, then indeed, as Perry wrote, as Goncharov wrote, as Siebold wrote, the Japanese people were remarkable. I know nothing about the developmental history of electrical studies in Japan, but it seemed that from the so-called "Erekiteru era" of Hiraga, Hashimoto, Motoki, and others during the Tenpō period [1830–1844], Kawamoto Kōmin and his contemporaries marked a distinct era. The people of the *Erekiteru* era had been simply astonished by the invisible electromagnetic forces existing in space, whereas Kawamoto Kōmin and his contemporaries marked a time when they ventured into electrolysis—that is, began probing the intrinsic properties of electricity. As I had previously speculated that Kōmin’s electrotyping method (Galvani) likely influenced the “Edo type,” there must have been other Dutch scholars at the time who possessed research or knowledge concerning electrolysis. From the Kōka era through the early years of Kaei and Ansei—following the publication of *Rangaku Kotohajime* (*The Dawn of Dutch Studies*)—this period was said to have been the most fruitful for Dutch scholars. And I—quite by chance—discovered within Mitsukuri Genpō’s *Shansei Kikō Nagasaki Nikki* a passage where Yoshino Keisai demonstrated an electrolysis experiment, and was astonished. It was the first month of Ansei 1 (1854), and the location was at the Dutch trading house on Dejima in Nagasaki.

"During an inspection tour, Mr. Kawaji accompanied Ōsawa, the garrison commander—electrical equipment lay upon a desk." An earthen pot was placed inside a tin cylinder, within which another tin cylinder was inserted, both filled with chemical solution. Six jar-cylinders stood arranged in two rows, each connected to its outer cylinder by flat copper strips to generate galvanic electricity. Before these stood a glass bottle—its base pierced with two small holes, mouth sealed tight with a glass stopper—that when filled halfway with water became subjected to the two poles of galvanic electricity and underwent decomposition. Separately, upon a panel inscribed with characters resembling a clock face, two silk-wrapped copper wires extended from copper cylinders: one connected to the panel's leg, the other to its base. When activated, the needle on this electrical panel would respond along the wires; by observing where it pointed and reading the corresponding character, one could discern the phenomenon's nature—a mechanism of astonishing ingenuity. “Yoshino Keisai, a physician who had thoroughly learned this method from Juan Delberg, later came to Sanpōji Temple and explained its configuration”—this account, so unlike his typically meandering diary entries, stands as remarkably precise documentation.

This was a simple analysis of water through electrolysis. Though differing from modern methods of type matrix production, one could discern that the principle of utilizing galvanic electricity to transfer material between positive and negative poles had already been achieved here. "This technique deposits one metal onto another, applicable to gold, silver, copper, iron, stone, or wood—by coating engraved surfaces with copper and peeling it off to capture their form," wrote Kōmin in *Enseikiki Jutsu* regarding the electrotyping machine, whose principle originated from Keisai's experiments. The method addressed how "woodblocks would gradually lose sharp edges through repeated use until becoming unusable—here employed to spare re-engraving labor. It allows producing quantities as needed while maintaining plate sharpness identical to the original." Though perfected after 1840 by Professor Jacobi and other Russian researchers, in Japan over a decade later these pioneers had already established its foundations. For instance, the testing methods for the electrotyping machine described in *Enseikiki Jutsu* were exhaustively detailed, and its application scope—extending to distinctly Japanese techniques like woodblock printing—demonstrated this was no mere Dutch text translation.

As for Juan Delberg, I do not yet know, but Yoshino Keisai was a Nagasaki native—a surgeon of the Yoshino school and son of Kōsai, whose uncle Yoshino Kōgyū became the founder of the Yoshino school. The Yoshino family had served as hereditary Nagasaki interpreters for generations. According to *Nihon Igakushi* (*History of Japanese Medicine*), Kōgyū not only pioneered the Yoshino school of surgery but was also credited as the first in Japan to incorporate urine analysis into diagnostic practice. Maeno Ryōtaku and Sugita Genpaku studied under him, and he was said to have contributed significantly to the success of *Kaitai Shinsho* (*New Book of Anatomy*). Keisai, effectively the third-generation descendant of this lineage, was recorded in the *Chronology of Japanese Scientific History* as having conducted Japan’s earliest documented smallpox vaccination trials on his three children in Kaei 2 (1852).

The temple mentioned in Mitsukuri Genpō’s text as “later coming to Sanpōji” served as his lodgings when he accompanied Tsutsui and Kawaji for the “Nagasaki negotiations.” The diary entry was dated January 13th—after Putyatin’s warships had departed—and referenced “Kawaji-kun.” This passage described their inspection of the Dutch trading house on Dejima alongside Saemon no Jō [Kawaji Toshiakira] and others. Though unclear whether this involved the same electrolysis experiment or another conducted that day, Kawaji had written in his diary: “This is a method combining Erekiteru [electrostatic generator] and jishaku [magnet].” When contrasted with Kawaji’s fascination—evident in his account that “gripping the tip makes one’s hand tremble violently; even ten or twenty men holding it would all shake, and ninety-nine men together would collapse shouting ‘Agh!’ when strongly pressed”—the modernity and scientific precision of Mitsukuri Genpō’s prose became strikingly apparent.

Mitsukuri Genpō was a medical scholar, a natural historian, a military strategist, and a scientist. He authored medical texts, historical records, geographical studies, geological treatises, mineralogical works, applied craft manuals, military writings, travelogues, poetry collections, and more—totaling 160 volumes—but on that same fifteenth day, when viewing the new Western-style battery that the Saga Domain (one of the few in Japan at the time with an ironworks) took such pride in, alongside Kawaji and others, he admonished: "The evils of national isolation know no bounds." “Kanzaki’s new battery, recently constructed by Lord Nabeshima, was equipped with two 150-pound cannons, several 24-pound cannons, and a considerable number of other artillery pieces of varying sizes. Takeda Hizaburō remarked: ‘Many of the cannons are incompatible with Western artillery systems. The coastal gun carriages are all crudely made, the emplacements shoddily built, and the breastworks incomplete.’ Though people had earlier boasted that even Westerners marveled at the battery’s use of foreign cannons, none could have imagined such slipshod workmanship. The powder magazines were perilously exposed, the cannons left uncovered on the shorelines, and no bombproof shelters had been constructed. To pride oneself on such a fortress—it might as well be called a ‘Liaodong pig.’ With a single exasperated breath, they sighed: ‘The evils of national isolation know no bounds.’—”

In its dawn period, Japan’s modern medical science was said to be a major pillar of Japan’s modern science. Medical science proved most capable of overcoming political influences, and through the medium of written language, this same medical science likely served as one reason why it could readily guide other sciences as well. As had already been demonstrated by Mitsukuri Genpō, it came as no surprise that Yoshino Keisai—a surgeon of the Yoshino school—conducted experiments in electrolysis. Yoshino Keisai would later pioneer the Meiji medical world alongside Nagayo Sensai and others. *Printing Civilization History* recorded the relationship between Keisai and Shōzō as follows: “Mr. Motoki [Shōzō] was his childhood friend, often serving as both his advisor and attending physician to great effect—and so on.” However, since Shōzō was born in Bunsei 7 (1824) while Keisai was born in Bunka 10 (1813), making Keisai ten years his senior, describing them as “childhood friends” seemed slightly incongruous.

And two or three years after Keisai, Fukuzawa Yukichi and others too came to study what followed from “Faraday’s Law”—a development recounted in *The Autobiography of Fukuzawa Yukichi*. “It must have been around Ansei 3 or 4 [1856/1857],” he wrote. “The teacher had gone as usual to the Nakajima residence. Upon returning home, he immediately called for me. Wondering what it was about, I went to see him. He produced a foreign book and said: ‘When I visited the Chikuzen residence today, they showed me this original work that had come into Lord Kuroda’s possession—so I borrowed it for a while.’ “Looking through it, this book titled *Wandāberuto* was a physics text translated into Dutch from the latest English publication. Its contents were filled with entirely new knowledge—the section on electricity especially seemed remarkably detailed. “What I knew of electricity from my studies in Osaka amounted to little more than scattered mentions in Dutch primers. But this newly imported work—grounded in the electrical theories of Faraday, that great British scholar—contained such precise descriptions of battery construction that I could only marvel at its novelty. At first glance, it utterly captivated my spirit.”

(90–91) "The 'teacher' referred to Ogata Kōan, who served as Lord Chikuzen's personal physician." "*Wandāberuto* was likely Dutch, but when I asked a friend about it, he mentioned there being a German term '*Wunda Vu~eruto*' (Wunder Welt), which probably meant something like 'Land of Wonders' or 'World of Marvels.'" "I myself have never seen this original text, but judging from Yukichi's account, might it not have been a compilation of works on Europe's rapidly advancing sciences—astronomy, natural history, medicine, and such—from the early to mid-nineteenth century?"

“—When I addressed the Professor, saying, ‘This is truly a rare original book you have here—how much longer may I keep it on loan?’ he replied, ‘That’s right.” “In any case, Lord Kuroda is said to be staying in Osaka for something like two nights.” “He won’t need it there until his departure.” “Is that so? I should like to show it briefly to the students at the school,” I said. When he brought it to the school and declared, “Well now—what do you make of this original book?” the students swarmed like clouds to examine the single volume. After consulting with two or three seniors, I resolved: “Merely looking at this original book will serve no purpose.” “Let’s stop looking and start copying!” “However, copying all thousand pages of this massive book is simply impossible, so let’s just transcribe the section on electricity in the final part.” “‘Everyone prepared brushes, paper, and ink—all hands on deck!’” (op. cit., pp. 91–92). Now, even with this “all hands on deck” approach, they could not risk damaging Lord Chikuzen’s precious book, so one person read aloud while another transcribed. If a reader showed even the slightest fatigue, the next would take their place; if a writer’s brush slowed by a fraction, those waiting in reserve would immediately relieve them. Those who grew tired would sleep, and those who awoke would take their place—this two-day ordeal without distinction between day or night is recounted in *The Autobiography of Fukuzawa Yukichi* as one of its most moving episodes. Yet when the students heard from their teacher that Lord Kuroda had purchased this single volume for eighty ryō, all they could do was marvel in astonishment. Of course, the thought of purchasing it themselves never even arose. “At last, this evening—with the Lord’s departure now decided—we stroked and turned the pages of that original book one last time and reluctantly returned it, truly as though bidding farewell to a parent.” The price of eighty ryō was likely not the initial amount at which Dutch ships sold [such books] to Japanese buyers, yet even here lay evidence of the hardships endured by these “impoverished students.” Nevertheless, it was precisely these students who did not hesitate to declare that “from then on, theories of Erekitoru [electricity] within our academy were revitalized, reaching the highest standard in all of Japan at that time.”

When one considers this, it was during the era when Shōzō—the typeplate printer in charge—was struggling with “flow-cast type” that the foundations of scientific leaps were gradually being born, not only in Nagasaki but also in Osaka and Edo. From today’s perspective, the “manufacturing of type matrices via electrotyping” arising from Keisai’s experiments was just one step away. Yet how circuitous human thought could be at times. Kōmin’s “electrotyping machine” did state that “woodblocks would gradually lose their sharp edges through repeated printing,” yet he never used the term “wooden type.” Though it seems inconceivable that Shōzō—residing in the same Nagasaki and likely a friend of Keisai’s—could have remained entirely unaware of those experiments, his thoughts, preoccupied solely with Gutenberg-style “hand-casting devices,” would have found it impossible to advance to a method of type matrix production where copper particles were bonded through electrolysis and transferred alternately between male and female molds. Nor can we imagine Keisai himself, as the experimenter, having directed his mind toward such possibilities. Scientists of the Bakumatsu period were each grappling with their own challenges. And the field of science was too vast. Moreover, the various fields of science—rapidly and irregularly washed ashore like surging waves—lacked both unity and foundational principles. People had no choice but to press onward through the dawning era of Japan’s modern science—a time when darkness and light intermingled as each saw fit.

IV Nimbly picking and placing into the stick The typesetter before the case His eye was quick, his hand swifter still— He deftly plucked up the type

Forming word by word. Slow but steady, slow but steadfast, word by word they piled them up.

And still it was continued. Words of fire transformed into scorching heat. The silent, mysterious words circulated throughout the entire world, caused a fearsome trembling to arise, and shattered the suppressed fetters.

In the righteous struggle, words—

Words shatter a sword's might thrice their own.

People regarded movable type as merely an aggregate of lead. Even if one were to handle this with their fingertips, the printer, with a smile, picked up one character after another— as if guided by a precise clock, he picked them up. While humming a tune, he set the type.

He was immersed in his work.

With such simple tools as mine— Who else could rule the world?

A humble printing press and an iron stick And just a small amount of flower-shaped lead type

White paper and black ink. That was all there was. Support justice and shatter injustice. Who would dare oppose this printer’s power? As for this poem, "Song of Movable Type," I do not know its original text. It may not be an exceptional translation, but it appears in the *World Printing Chronology* and is said to have been composed in 1855 by Thomas MacKeller (an American), editor of the world’s first printing magazine. Yet even from the tone of this “Song of Movable Type,” one could discern that in Europe—and particularly in America—movable type was becoming central to modern culture. By this period, Western movable type had moved beyond "flow-casting." They now employed types made through electrotyping matrices and those produced via modern "Bruce-style casting" invented by David Bruce. Moreover, movable type’s role had transcended merely printing church-affiliated religious texts, reproducing histories owned by lords and feudal magnates, or reissuing classical manuscripts—it had become a tool that permeated the daily lives of ordinary people as ubiquitously as air itself.

According to Western printing histories, Gutenberg’s mid-fifteenth-century “flow-casting” movable type had reached its second flowering by the eighteenth century. In other words, it was after movable type crossed from the European continent to the American continent that this second great leap occurred. Of course, while this temporal coincidence between geographical circumstances and printing’s development was likely connected to global industrial progress, it remained profoundly intriguing that printing technology—imported two centuries later than in Europe—achieved its second great leap in America.

The "flow-cast type" invented in Germany in 1455 CE spread in the following manner according to the *History of Printing Civilization*: 1465 Italy; 1466 Greece; 1468 Switzerland; 1470 France; 1473 Netherlands; 1473 Belgium; 1473 Austria-Hungary; 1474 Spain; 1477 England; 1482 Denmark; 1483 Sweden, Norway; 1487 Portugal; 1533 Russia; and the United States of America in 1638. Admittedly, such chronological classifications resist strict definition, with slight discrepancies among scholars. Yet viewing Mainz, Germany as the birthplace makes this geographical spread comprehensible. The Rhine River transported the movable type of Gutenberg and his collaborators Fust and Schöffer across borders. Its downstream carried it to the Netherlands, Denmark, and Sweden; its upstream to Switzerland and France—and most notably to Rome and Venice. Venice became Europe's undisputed center of printing culture from the fifteenth through sixteenth centuries. This city birthed so-called "Italic type," while reportedly hosting four hundred thirty-six printing workshops across Italy by the early sixteenth century. The Manutius father and son of Venice, Caxton of Westminster, Robert of Paris, and others gained renown as cultivators of Western movable type culture's splendid first flowering. They designed original type matrices and poured lead into them. Using wooden hand presses, they printed works adorned with wood-carved initials alongside movable type, even applying polychrome techniques. Simultaneously they authored texts and distributed books. Many received Papal honors for their printing skills, secured municipal titles, and emerged as regional cultural leaders. Yet this first printing epoch primarily concerned Bibles and doctrinal texts. Caxton of Westminster alone translated twenty-two works from Latin manuscripts through classical reprints. Thus Gutenberg's inaugural printed work—the *Thirty-Two-Line Bible*—epitomizes this period's printing culture. Indeed, one might argue these printers couldn't have thrived without patronage from churches, seminaries, and ultimately the Roman Papacy. This reality grows more intriguing considering their output: though reliant on "flow-cast type," they produced exquisitely crafted works featuring intricate woodblock borders, hand-drawn designs, and chromatic printing.

The fact that the earliest stages of printing had a close relationship with religious culture was no exception even in the West, and it is said that some of Gutenberg and Schöffer’s printed works were deliberately made to resemble manuscripts. On one hand, they preserved their value by mimicking manuscripts; on the other hand, they elevated religious dignity through exquisitely crafted printed materials—a dynamic that paralleled the early history of printing in the East. Yet it was Benjamin Franklin, widely hailed as the restorer of global printing techniques, who became the foremost figure to guide movable type from the realms of religion and classical tradition into the modern, popular, and scientific world.

From when Franklin became a printing apprentice at thirteen until he moved to Philadelphia at seventeen in 1723 and started publishing a weekly newspaper, those two or three cases of type he brought from England played as significant a role as—his *Autobiography* recounts with no less emotion than when drafting the U.S. Constitution—one might expect from such foundational tools. Philadelphia was entirely new and in its infancy. The migrants arriving on this continent—whose discovery by Columbus remained recent history—carried eighteen centuries of cultural tradition yet burned with zeal to build a new world through their own efforts. Franklin’s meager type had to forge order within these lives and become the focal point of public opinion shaping the town’s growth and policies. The old type cases left no room for wood-carved initials or hand-colored embellishments. What mattered was the precision of each character cast in metal. Movable type gave form to words and thought. This was not the ornate *Italic* or *Roman* of old, but the crisp *New Style*—direct and unadorned. It needed to convey abundant ideas swiftly while reaching the broadest audience. Franklin’s worn type soon deteriorated, and Europe’s antiquated hand presses proved both obsolete and impractical. Moreover, America lacked type foundries entirely—not just in Philadelphia but nationwide. He crossed the Atlantic again to England for supplies, later writing in his *Autobiography* that at nineteen, he devised his own casting method: “America had no type foundries... Yet I contrived molds, using existing type as punches to strike lead matrices—thus skillfully compensating for shortages.” He added that he occasionally carved other items and made ink himself—here “punches” likely meaning master matrices. Western histories note his observations at London foundries, but his memoir’s brevity obscures how much he improved upon Gutenberg’s methods. We might speculate that his scientific genius brought refinements, though Oswald’s *History of Western Printing Culture* offers no details. The surviving Franklin press—featured in *History of Printing Civilization*—shows modest innovations: a massive wooden hand press resembling Leonardo da Vinci’s early designs. On its base marked “Benjamin Frankrin [sic], printing press,” five figures appear minuscule beside it—surely requiring multiple hands to operate the lever.

However, in my view, what truly earned Franklin the title of "reviver of global printing techniques" was not his minor improvements to type and presses, but rather how he integrated movable type and printing into people’s daily lives. For instance, in Philadelphia, this young clerk would immediately print and distribute records of civic meetings—enabling all participants by dawn’s light to fully grasp both the progression and outcomes of their previous night’s heated debates—thus creating materials that allowed each person to refine their ideas for subsequent gatherings. In essence, his achievement lay in pioneering new purposes for movable type itself. Franklin established libraries, founded newspapers, and supported aspiring individuals while working tirelessly to spread printing offices across America. Yet neither Manutius of Venice nor Caxton of Westminster fell short of Franklin in founding book guilds or building printing houses. Rather, Franklin’s true distinction emerged through differences: his library construction methods; his writings’ substantive focus; newspapers’ novel formats and content; and his printing houses’ operational rigor and managerial innovations. This accomplishment sprang from collectives and lifestyles unseen in old Europe—propelling Gutenberg’s movable type beyond three centuries confined to faiths, antiquated knowledge, and ornamentation into commoners’ vibrant daily existence: an endless oceanic expanse for present needs and future aspirations.

And it was precisely there that lay the elements allowing movable type of the second period to flourish. In 1796, Adam Ramage of Philadelphia created the world's first iron hand press, while in London, mathematician Stanhope perfected the "Stanhope-style hand press" and was granted an earldom. In 1813, George Clymer of Philadelphia produced the "Columbia Press"; in 1821, Rast and Smith of New York crafted the "Washington Press"; and in 1820, Daniel Treadwell of Boston invented the world's first foot-operated printing machine. Though the shift from wood to iron and manual to pedal power might appear superficial, it concealed within it the evolution of an entirely new conception of human motive force. By this time, Englishman William Nicholson and German Friedrich Koenig had already perfected the "cylinder-style printing machine"—this cylinder mechanism being what we now call the "roll."

The German Koenig’s invention was said to be the most outstanding, upholding Germany’s glorious printing tradition since Gutenberg without disgrace; however, Koenig’s completed "cylinder-style printing machine" had to make its debut in England’s *The London Times*. Koenig’s itinerant invention had to make its debut in England’s *The London Times* because no one on the senescent European continent of that time would give it any heed.

The invention of the "cylinder-style printing machine," which shattered the traditions of Western printing techniques—how revolutionary it was can still be imagined even today. Printed materials came flying out solely through the force of driving wheels rotating in the same direction. It was said to have a capacity of one thousand sheets per hour, and British printers were reportedly thrown into collective turmoil by the news that Koenig’s massive printing machine was coming across from the continent. John Walter, president of *The London Times* at the time, recorded the atmosphere of those days in his biography: “—At nightfall, [he] attempted to secretly print newspapers using a new-style printing machine within a separately established building, but fearing unrest among the workers and unable to endure the anxiety, [he] heightened vigilance severely—[he] placated the workers by stating that ‘this machine prints 1,100 sheets per hour with remarkable speed, and even with the installation of new machinery, none shall be dismissed’—and thus resolved to employ this machine.”

However, Koenig’s "cylinder-style" was still hand-cranked. That machine which can still be faintly observed today in rural Japan—operated by human hands—would, over a dozen years later, have its cylinder-style mechanism set into rotation through steam power by the New York newspaper Temperance Record. Then in 1838, New York's David Bruce invented "Bruce-style Casting," which plunged the global printing world into greater turmoil than Koenig's cylinder-style machine had, and in that same New York, the world's first rotary press—the "Hoe-style Rotary Printing Machine"—was born. That was in 1846, and by 1860, the rotary press used by the New York Tribune had achieved a speed of 20,000 sheets per hour.

The first period of Western printing culture, which had blossomed in Venice during the early sixteenth century, saw its second flowering in America two centuries later. One cause lay in that very spirit which enabled Franklin to become what we call "the reviver of global printing techniques"—the same spirit that would inspire Thomas Matsukeller to compose *The Song of Movable Type* a century thereafter. Here we recognize that 1855—the year when *The Song of Movable Type* was created—marked both the 2,515th year of our imperial calendar and precisely Ansei 2 (1855), when Shōzō assumed his post as type printing officer. In Japan's two historical encounters with Western movable type—the first arriving with Christian missionaries during the Genki and Tenshō eras, the second ushered in by Shōzō and others from the Kaei era onward—though both were lead typefaces bearing no material difference, their social significance diverged profoundly. Yet whether these types came via Dutch traders or American vessels, they remained fundamentally nineteenth-century artifacts.

One of the world's earliest all-iron hand presses, the "Stanhope Press"—the so-called "Daruma-style"—was offered from the Netherlands to the shogunate in the third year of Kaei (1850). In the Western calendar, this was 1850—fifty years after its invention by mathematician and newly appointed Earl Stanhope. If we provisionally accept Mr. Hisanaga Kawata’s theory that the “Washington Press” might have been used at the Nagasaki Magistrate’s Office printing factory after arriving via Shanghai, this would place it within the Ansei era. Even setting that aside, there were ample traces of such presses being imported through Shanghai after the ports opened. When considered alongside the hand press Shōzō acquired from the Shimazu workshop in Satsuma during the Keiō era and the unidentified-shape hand press—a cast-off item from some daimyō—that Tomiji Hirano discovered at a Ginza antique shop in early Meiji, these machines must predate the Meiji period by at least thirty to forty years following their invention. It was in Meiji 10 (1877) that the German Koenig’s "cylinder-style printing machine" was first used by the Tokyo Asahi Shimbun. In the Western calendar, this was 1877—sixty years after its invention. The "Marinoni-style rotary press," invented in France, was the first newspaper printing machine to enter Japan, and this occurred in Meiji 30 (1897). The Marinoni-style was completed in the 1870s—approximately twenty years after its invention.

From the Ansei Opening (1854–1860) through the Meiji Restoration (1868), exporting countries as well as import methods and routes underwent complex changes due to intricate domestic circumstances and foreign relations; however, it became evident that printing machines arrived relatively quickly and easily following their invention. In other words, printing machines differed significantly from movable type. The "Stanhope-style," "Washington-style," and "Marinoni-style" presses could operate in Japan just as they were. However, movable type—the characters themselves—simply could not be used in Japan as they were.

Moreover, movable type was the core of printing techniques. Even when the Stanhope-style press was introduced in the third year of Kaei (1850), it was only natural that it ended up rusting away in a shogunate storage shed. The tribulations of Shōzō and his colleagues had yet to cease. It was a time when Kahei of Edo, too, had to toil in secret chambers lit by hand-held candles, evading the shogunate’s watchful eyes. And it was also a time when scientists across Japan had to devote themselves to relentless effort. Japan’s modern movable type was not born on its own. It was born interconnected with the emergence of various other modern sciences. It could not come into being unless interconnected with ships, cannons, steam locomotives, electricity, modern medicine, the solar calendar, and the abolition of the topknot hairstyle. In other words, it could not have come into being without the Meiji Restoration.

Japanese movable type had origins entirely different from those of Western movable type. As previously noted, it bore within itself the inherent fate of being created either through entirely manual craftsmanship like woodblock printing or through advanced chemical processes like electrotyping, while simultaneously possessing a world-unparalleled characteristic of having been born amidst the Bakumatsu period's brief span of years and political maelstrom.

Therefore, my protagonist was not Shōzō alone. The whereabouts of "Edo's movable type" still remained unknown. We also had to discuss Tomiji Hirano, who spread Shōzō's movable type from Osaka to Tokyo and became the first in Japan to manufacture printing machinery. We needed to investigate how the hiragana in the "Hepburn Dictionary"—said to have been written by Kishida Ginkō, Japan’s first journalist—were produced in Shanghai, and we also had to explain how Japan’s paper manufacturing industry laid the foundation for what it became today. The endeavors of early Meiji Western scholars represented by Fukuzawa Yukichi, along with the transportation circumstances between Nagasaki and Shanghai—then cultural capitals of the East—were indispensable to understanding Japan's movable type birth. Together with my readers, I intended to examine these in the latter half [of this work], alongside Shōzō's achievements from Man'en 1 (1860) onward.

Author's Note

As for the feelings with which I came to write this novel, I believe I have already addressed them within the work itself.

However, to be frank—both before I began writing and for some time after starting—everything remained chaotic. I vacillated between making this solely Motoki Shōzō’s biography or centering it on movable type and printing history—ultimately settling on the latter. Though I believe this orientation manifests in the work itself—what confounded me most was my own profound lack of preparatory knowledge across countless details. For any cultural artifact’s creation or development rests upon vast histories spanning both temporal depth and geographic breadth—transcending East-West divides—so whenever inexplicable matters arose—each time—this author found himself floundering helplessly.

For instance, one might have thought it simple to consider the lead type that arrived in Nagasaki as separate from those across the sea, but when it was not a person but an instrument, for some reason, it became impossible to delineate. Tools and materials, unlike humans, do not experience "death," and thus their lives are exceedingly long. Tools and machines are constrained by the limitations of their era, social circumstances, their relationships with other tools and machines, and even transportation; yet compared to humans, their limitations remain far broader. Moreover, within the history of a single cultural artifact—spanning vast stretches of time and the entire breadth of the globe—were etched the individual histories of countless people: those with black eyes, brown eyes, blue eyes, and more.

In other words, the author had to acquire some degree of specialized knowledge. The author had to become a scholar. This was what perplexed the author. It was one of the causes that threw him into disarray. To put it grandly, one would need to thoroughly understand not only Eastern and Western history but also the history of global transportation and scientific development—and of course, know both Oriental and Occidental languages. In the specialized books from which he borrowed various knowledge this time, the author was deeply impressed by how historians in each field could read and interpret original texts spanning from Eastern scripts such as Chinese, Korean, and Indian languages to Western scripts like Dutch and Latin. However, for someone like him—who had but a vague grasp of even Eastern history, let alone Western—it became immensely time-consuming even at the general level, to say nothing of the specialized. Not only that, but there were also cases where general interest and specialized interest became entangled.

To tell the truth, such knowledge likely required immersing oneself entirely for about a decade. Upon that foundation, it would have taken shape naturally over time—but pursuing this course raised doubts about whether I would even live that long. Therefore, though broaching such a subject might itself be questionable, I believed that a novelistic perspective on movable type's history inherently differed from specialists' approaches. If pressed to explain how they differed, I found myself at a momentary loss; yet in fiction's realm, much weight lay in clarifying both my own interest in typographic history and how that interest took form. Now, regardless of what others might say, I resolved not to chase after explanations.

It was as if a cargo barge had ventured out into the Pacific. Even when I thought I was gripping the helm tightly, the moment a wave struck, I lost all sense of which direction I had come from or which way I was meant to be heading. In truth, what had initially been intended as a single volume became a full book before even reaching the halfway point, so an unexpected second book had to follow this one.

However, in any case, the cargo barge will press onward. I intend in my next volume to trace the path of the electrotyping-based movable type that arrived in Nagasaki—from Japan back to Shanghai—and to examine even the Anglo-Americans’ “creation of Chinese character movable type” within the historical context of their incursions into China (Shina), Burma, and India.

Due to the author’s disarray, he caused great inconvenience to many people. Books were lent to me, book collections were gifted to me, collected materials were shown to me—there were many such instances. As for the late Mr. Mitsui Kōkichi, I have written about him in the work itself. I have been assisted by Mr. Hirano Yoshitarō, Mr. Kawata Hisanaga, Mr. Kōriyama Yukio, Mr. Mawataru Chikara, Mr. Kawabata Yasunari, Mr. Tsuchiya Takao, Mr. Tezuka Hidetaka, Mr. Iwasaki Katsumi, Mr. Abe Makoto, and many other friends and acquaintances; however, I intend to list all their names in the next volume to express my gratitude. As for the titles of cited works, since I have noted them on each occasion, I will not write them here. As for the printing of this book as well, because I liked Seikōsha’s typeface design, I had Mr. Sumikawa Minoru of Kawade Shobō arrange it by imposing on him. I wish to express my gratitude to Mr. Shirai Kakutarō, owner of Seikōsha, and all those who worked on the plate-making, printing, and bookbinding of this book.

May 1943 (Showa 18) Tokunaga Sunao